Now about cameras: The last time I tried to use my venerable Nikon FG, the shutter opened and never closed again. Toward the end of June, I finally got around to taking it to Calumet on my way home from work. I’ve been treated rudely in the past there, but hoped for the best. There were a couple of employees in sight, each talking to a customer. Across the big main room, there were two guys standing near each other, one behind a counter, one in front of it, neither saying a word.
I waited a few moments for one of them to say it would be his extreme pleasure to serve me, and then I walked over and said to the one behind the counter, “I have a camera that needs to be repaired and a question about buying a new camera.” There was a period of (more) dead silence, so then I waved my hand, as if to say, “Hello! Here I am—an actual human being—right in front of you!” Once you get to be a middle-aged lady, you have to wave your hands a lot so you don’t get ignored.
Then the fellow I was addressing looked at me with an expression that clearly said, “Is that ax still nearby, or did I leave it in the break room? Because I would really like to hack you to bits and see your blood running across the carpet.” It was an expression of pure malevolence, to the point that I felt a frisson of fear. Then he coldly informed me, “I’m with a customer.”
I had assumed the second person was a fellow employee, since neither was doing or saying anything, but I gather they were sharing some silent “together” time, and who am I to judge?
I went to the other side of the floor to wait for someone else, but was, unfortunately, joined by the same person, who gave me to understand that my camera is a piece of crap no one but an imbecile would bother repairing. He said at some point, “I don’t mean to be rude,” by which he meant, “I totally mean to be rude.”
It was an extremely unpleasant experience, and I went home with the intention of complaining to the store manager and also to corporate headquarters; to the latter, I was also going to suggest they put a bike rack in the parking lot.
But by the time I got home and took a shower, I didn’t feel like stewing about it anymore—I know, strange—and even decided I might go back there to shop for a camera, after telephoning the manager to find out who the nice people are, if any.
Meanwhile, my camera was still broken. I probably won’t ever use it again, but it has sentimental value, and I didn’t like to think of it sitting on the shelf with its eye perpetually stuck open, so I decided to take it to Gassers, where I have also been treated rudely in the past; one learns to enter both camera shops and bicycle shops with a degree of trepidation.
I figured I could tolerate a brief unpleasant interaction and maybe there would be the reward of having a fixed camera, and if not, I was going to let the camera just stay as it was.
Wonderfully, the guy at the repair counter at Gassers could not have been more sympathetic and helpful. Not only did he not roll his eyes over my camera, he said it was well worth fixing, because “this is going to last longer than anything they’re making these days.” So there, Calumet. He explained everything clearly, and we also bonded over the plight of Michael Jackson’s children.
Then I went upstairs and immediately caught the eye of a salesman, to whom I confided that I was now psychologically prepared to purchase a digital camera. He showed me the basic types of digital camera, recommended one that could be considered a hybrid between an SLR and a point-and-shoot, and gave me a brochure and his card. Thus Gassers surprised me pleasantly not once but twice.
However, in the end, while Gassers did fix the FG, I actually ended up buying a camera—my first digital camera—from Calumet, after all. Gassers didn’t have the desired item in stock, and would have charged $40 more for it. I took the precaution of calling ahead, speaking to a manager, and making a date to buy the camera from a Certified Nice Saleslady, which she was. Cathy is her name.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A Convivial Birthday Season
Yikes, how did it happen? I’m way behind again. Well, let’s get started. On June 20, I went to the Zen Center for a meeting of my class, which is called Establishing the Path of Practice. I left a tad early to walk over to the apartment of Tom’s niece Sarah, who is a very open-hearted and kind and lovely young lady who threw a dinner party to celebrate my birthday! That was extraordinarily sweet of her, and I know it was a lot of work.
I should say that a couple of months prior, I got a voice mail from her saying that she would like to do this, and suggesting we go out to eat (we went to Tsunami for sushi) so we could plan the dinner party. That was pretty much like getting a call from Benicio del Toro saying, “Let’s get together so I can give you a foot massage while we plan your upcoming date with Viggo Mortensen.” That is, it was very good.
Here’s who was at the dinner party: Sarah, Josh (Sarah’s partner), Steve (Sarah’s uncle), Julie (Steve’s wife), Paul (Sarah’s father), Dan (Sarah’s other uncle), Tom (Sarah’s other uncle), me (the birthday lady), my friend Carol Joy (usually of Novato), Dave (Paul’s friend), and Christine (Dave’s friend). I got a pile of presents, including something approximating a pith helmet, and a big bunch of flowers, and we communed and enjoyed Sarah’s wonderful dinner. It was a splendid party.
Eva was in Sweden, but she called us, and Chris had to work, but he later came to San Francisco and treated me to dinner at Ziryab on Divisadero (Kristin, Tom, and Sarah were there, too), which was another very congenial occasion, so, given that Amy had also made me birthday pizza and cake and invited people over when I was in Michigan, this was by far my best-celebrated birthday in 47 years. So that was extremely great.
A week later, on a splendid Saturday morning, I woke up with the strong feeling that it was intolerable that anything in my apartment should be stored in a paper bag whose contents I wasn’t sure of without digging through the bag, and leapt out of bed to rectify the situation.
In a couple of hours, matters were greatly improved, with things (even) better organized and fewer things that are out of sight or out of reach. New empty horizontal surfaces appeared, even though I didn’t discard anything to speak of.
Later on, I went to the dentist for approximately the twenty-fifth time in nine months. Since then, one of my new crowns fell off, so I’ll be going again soon.
The next day, I made chard lasagna and two-bean chili with bulgur, and ventured my third attempt at whole-wheat bread. This “kneading” suggested by my mother proved to be quite a good idea: this loaf was absolutely perfect, soft and chewy and with a fine flavor. (My mother adds some cracked wheat to her dough for a firmer texture.)
After that, I had more and less success, so I decided to take the bread website’s advice and start with white bread and work my way back to whole-wheat bread; I also got Beth Hensperger’s book The Bread Bible, 300 Favorite Recipes. I want to make olive bread.
This past weekend, I made two utterly gorgeous and delicious loaves of white bread, as you can see for yourself, the gorgeous part, anyway. It’s really good toasted with a bit of garlic olive oil drizzled on it.
In July, Tom suffered a double communications whammy: his PC died AND it turned out he hardly gets any TV stations in the digital TV era, even though he got the converter; he would be in better shape if he could speak Spanish or the language Chinese people speak. He also has a microwave he’s trying to get rid of, so far without success, so he noted, charmingly, that he was “rich in e-waste.” (As are most of us, I guess, sooner or later.)
For entertainment, he was forced to do puzzles, the kind that are made of little pieces of cardboard that can be fitted together.
The one good thing was that I got to tell Tom all the news for a while, until his mother very generously gave him a laptop she was no longer using. On one evening, for instance, he was the only person in San Francisco who didn’t know Palin had resigned the governorship of Alaska.
I should say that a couple of months prior, I got a voice mail from her saying that she would like to do this, and suggesting we go out to eat (we went to Tsunami for sushi) so we could plan the dinner party. That was pretty much like getting a call from Benicio del Toro saying, “Let’s get together so I can give you a foot massage while we plan your upcoming date with Viggo Mortensen.” That is, it was very good.
Here’s who was at the dinner party: Sarah, Josh (Sarah’s partner), Steve (Sarah’s uncle), Julie (Steve’s wife), Paul (Sarah’s father), Dan (Sarah’s other uncle), Tom (Sarah’s other uncle), me (the birthday lady), my friend Carol Joy (usually of Novato), Dave (Paul’s friend), and Christine (Dave’s friend). I got a pile of presents, including something approximating a pith helmet, and a big bunch of flowers, and we communed and enjoyed Sarah’s wonderful dinner. It was a splendid party.
Eva was in Sweden, but she called us, and Chris had to work, but he later came to San Francisco and treated me to dinner at Ziryab on Divisadero (Kristin, Tom, and Sarah were there, too), which was another very congenial occasion, so, given that Amy had also made me birthday pizza and cake and invited people over when I was in Michigan, this was by far my best-celebrated birthday in 47 years. So that was extremely great.
A week later, on a splendid Saturday morning, I woke up with the strong feeling that it was intolerable that anything in my apartment should be stored in a paper bag whose contents I wasn’t sure of without digging through the bag, and leapt out of bed to rectify the situation.
In a couple of hours, matters were greatly improved, with things (even) better organized and fewer things that are out of sight or out of reach. New empty horizontal surfaces appeared, even though I didn’t discard anything to speak of.
Later on, I went to the dentist for approximately the twenty-fifth time in nine months. Since then, one of my new crowns fell off, so I’ll be going again soon.
The next day, I made chard lasagna and two-bean chili with bulgur, and ventured my third attempt at whole-wheat bread. This “kneading” suggested by my mother proved to be quite a good idea: this loaf was absolutely perfect, soft and chewy and with a fine flavor. (My mother adds some cracked wheat to her dough for a firmer texture.)
After that, I had more and less success, so I decided to take the bread website’s advice and start with white bread and work my way back to whole-wheat bread; I also got Beth Hensperger’s book The Bread Bible, 300 Favorite Recipes. I want to make olive bread.
This past weekend, I made two utterly gorgeous and delicious loaves of white bread, as you can see for yourself, the gorgeous part, anyway. It’s really good toasted with a bit of garlic olive oil drizzled on it.
In July, Tom suffered a double communications whammy: his PC died AND it turned out he hardly gets any TV stations in the digital TV era, even though he got the converter; he would be in better shape if he could speak Spanish or the language Chinese people speak. He also has a microwave he’s trying to get rid of, so far without success, so he noted, charmingly, that he was “rich in e-waste.” (As are most of us, I guess, sooner or later.)
For entertainment, he was forced to do puzzles, the kind that are made of little pieces of cardboard that can be fitted together.
The one good thing was that I got to tell Tom all the news for a while, until his mother very generously gave him a laptop she was no longer using. On one evening, for instance, he was the only person in San Francisco who didn’t know Palin had resigned the governorship of Alaska.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Sacramento River Cruise
I'm big on the self-portrait, and I especially like this one, taken on a river cruise in Sacramento earlier today, because—LOOK!—there's a dude looking over my shoulder, who is actually Steve, which I could mainly tell because the eyepiece (earpiece?) of his sunglasses had broken just prior. I didn't realize that and thought they were some kind of newfangled sunglasses that were staying on his face through sheer willpower.
It was quite warm in Sacramento. I imagine it was 100 degrees, because right now, at nearly 9 p.m., it's still 94 degrees there. I had a very nice time indeed, but am not sorry to be back in the city air conditioned by God himself.
Now look at this: Is that a shadow? No! The water is two different colors! This is where the American River (clear, because it runs over rocks) and the Sacramento River (greener) meet. Isn't that cool?
(Yeah! I bought a camera of the digital variety, finally, and have felt a passionate love for it since I first laid eyes on it. It's very small! I like to tenderly wipe the smudges off its little silver face. I like its big square bright eye.)
Friday, June 26, 2009
A Bicycle Lane of One’s Own
I’m working on a new route home from work, to avoid being in the Valencia St. bike lanes during afternoon rush hour. It’s OK in the morning, but is too full of adventurers in the afternoon.
There is a rather alarming spot on Folsom with a bike lane that ends abruptly mid-block, leaving one BETWEEN two lanes that are potentially turning right to get onto the freeway. That was an exciting moment, particularly as the motorist to my right, in a freeway-only lane, decided she wasn’t in the mood to get on the freeway, after all, and went straight. I’m here telling the tale, and I might see if I can make that work—I see other cyclists there, a couple—but I’m exploring other options.
My new route goes past a very beautiful little marina I’d never seen before that is full of well-kept boats. It continues behind the ball park and goes near Potrero Hill, a neighborhood I’m especially fond of. There’s a nice view of big ships in the bay and some ancient dry docks, or wet docks? Big metal rusting things from long ago. A rather desolate and industrial route in general. It’s nice and atmospheric, and I have several stretches of it all to myself, bicycle-wise. It’s about 12 minutes longer than the old way, and has more hills, so it’s a bit more exercise.
Instead of taking Folsom to the Embarcadero, I tried Second St. yesterday and today and that was not bad. It was quite congested yesterday and therefore slow for the cyclist who eschews squeezing along between the moving cars and the parked cars, but I recalled afterwards that Second St. is due for a bike lane, one of the many projects held up in recent years by a lawsuit that has prevented us from striping a single bike lane or installing a single bike rack.
On August 20, 2008, an article by Phred Dvorak began this way in the online edition of the Wall Street Journal; maybe it was in the print edition, too:
“New York is wooing cyclists with chartreuse bike lanes. Chicago is spending nearly $1 million for double-decker bicycle parking.
“San Francisco can't even install new bike racks.”
How humiliating!
Today, I’m very happy to say, the bike plan was finally approved, with 45 of 46 planned projects given the green light. The one project that wasn’t approved was the Second St. bike lanes.
The fellow who filed the lawsuit in the first place is going to appeal this ruling, so it might still be a while before new bike lanes appear. It’s amazing to think how many good things this one person has held up.
But maybe it’s just as well. From an SF Weekly story of 5/26/09 by Matt Smith:
“Bureaucrats, advocates, and local policy wonks say bicyclists' rights have progressed more thanks to [Rob] Anderson's suit than they would have without it.
“Anderson's lawsuit ‘increased the resources the MTA [Municipal Transportation Agency] put into the bike plan, the traffic analysis, and the outreach, by a factor of three at least,’ said Dave Snyder, transportation policy coordinator at San Francisco Planning and Urban Research, a private smart-growth think tank. ‘It encouraged them to consider all of the bike lanes as a package, and introduce them and get them approved as a package, which is way more efficient than what they planned to do’ before Anderson's lawsuit.
“Under California environmental law, projects must be studied and approved in their entirety. But under the original 2005 plan, city leaders had intended to add individual bike lanes incrementally, striping a bike lane here, adding a few racks there, until a network fell into place. That's an impractical way to construct a transportation system: Imagine the chaos that would ensue if the street changes needed to accommodate a light-rail line were added piecemeal.
“But Anderson's lawsuit has fixed that. It has forced the city to make a detailed, highly engineered project out of a bike plan that five years ago was, comparatively speaking at least, more of an empty political gesture.”
OK, then! Thanks, Rob Anderson.
There is a rather alarming spot on Folsom with a bike lane that ends abruptly mid-block, leaving one BETWEEN two lanes that are potentially turning right to get onto the freeway. That was an exciting moment, particularly as the motorist to my right, in a freeway-only lane, decided she wasn’t in the mood to get on the freeway, after all, and went straight. I’m here telling the tale, and I might see if I can make that work—I see other cyclists there, a couple—but I’m exploring other options.
My new route goes past a very beautiful little marina I’d never seen before that is full of well-kept boats. It continues behind the ball park and goes near Potrero Hill, a neighborhood I’m especially fond of. There’s a nice view of big ships in the bay and some ancient dry docks, or wet docks? Big metal rusting things from long ago. A rather desolate and industrial route in general. It’s nice and atmospheric, and I have several stretches of it all to myself, bicycle-wise. It’s about 12 minutes longer than the old way, and has more hills, so it’s a bit more exercise.
Instead of taking Folsom to the Embarcadero, I tried Second St. yesterday and today and that was not bad. It was quite congested yesterday and therefore slow for the cyclist who eschews squeezing along between the moving cars and the parked cars, but I recalled afterwards that Second St. is due for a bike lane, one of the many projects held up in recent years by a lawsuit that has prevented us from striping a single bike lane or installing a single bike rack.
On August 20, 2008, an article by Phred Dvorak began this way in the online edition of the Wall Street Journal; maybe it was in the print edition, too:
“New York is wooing cyclists with chartreuse bike lanes. Chicago is spending nearly $1 million for double-decker bicycle parking.
“San Francisco can't even install new bike racks.”
How humiliating!
Today, I’m very happy to say, the bike plan was finally approved, with 45 of 46 planned projects given the green light. The one project that wasn’t approved was the Second St. bike lanes.
The fellow who filed the lawsuit in the first place is going to appeal this ruling, so it might still be a while before new bike lanes appear. It’s amazing to think how many good things this one person has held up.
But maybe it’s just as well. From an SF Weekly story of 5/26/09 by Matt Smith:
“Bureaucrats, advocates, and local policy wonks say bicyclists' rights have progressed more thanks to [Rob] Anderson's suit than they would have without it.
“Anderson's lawsuit ‘increased the resources the MTA [Municipal Transportation Agency] put into the bike plan, the traffic analysis, and the outreach, by a factor of three at least,’ said Dave Snyder, transportation policy coordinator at San Francisco Planning and Urban Research, a private smart-growth think tank. ‘It encouraged them to consider all of the bike lanes as a package, and introduce them and get them approved as a package, which is way more efficient than what they planned to do’ before Anderson's lawsuit.
“Under California environmental law, projects must be studied and approved in their entirety. But under the original 2005 plan, city leaders had intended to add individual bike lanes incrementally, striping a bike lane here, adding a few racks there, until a network fell into place. That's an impractical way to construct a transportation system: Imagine the chaos that would ensue if the street changes needed to accommodate a light-rail line were added piecemeal.
“But Anderson's lawsuit has fixed that. It has forced the city to make a detailed, highly engineered project out of a bike plan that five years ago was, comparatively speaking at least, more of an empty political gesture.”
OK, then! Thanks, Rob Anderson.
I'll Grant You the "New" Part
I’ve been using Lubriderm lotion on my hands and forearms when I go to sleep for many years, the fragrance-free edition, and was startled lately to find a noxious smell wafting toward me after my nightly ritual. Can Lubriderm lotion spoil?, I wondered. A dark suspicion grew in my mind. I turned on the light, fearing the worst, and sure enough, there on the container were the highly unwelcome words “new and improved.” Those scoundrels.
I had to dump it all down the drain (and recycle the container, of course) and start a search for a new emollient. Eucerin’s Original Moisturizing Lotion actually seems a bit drying, and has a slightly animal smell, but their Original Moisturizing Creme might be a winner. For starters, it’s the most unscented skin care product I’ve ever encountered—it smells like nothing. It’s a thick white paste that rubs in and becomes transparent nearly instantly, and while it can be felt on my skin for some time, it doesn’t seem to get on the sheets. Those people at Eucerin are geniuses, like Heidi Julavits (more on her later). By morning, the Eucerin has absorbed completely.
The global flow of information is so swift these days, I got to break the news about Michael Jackson dying to only two people, my parents. What a day that was: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson gone within hours of each other.
I said to Tom later, “Poor Farrah Fawcett—what bad luck to die the same day as Michael Jackson. She was completely overshadowed.” Tom said, “Farrah Fawcett is dead?”
When I called my mother after seeing the news on TMZ (they knew it before anyone else; from now on, that’s my main news source), I asked, “Guess who died?”
“Farrah Fawcett.”
“Michael Jackson.”
“No kidding!”
She turned to my father and asked him in turn, “Guess who died?”
“Who?”
“Michael Jackson.”
“No kidding!”
“Did you know Farrah Fawcett had died?”
“No; when did Farrah Fawcett die?”
“Today.”
I added that I was waiting for a reputable news source to confirm that Michael Jackson was dead. To my mother, this meant he was alive and well; my father joked, “I hope Linda knows she’s putting me on an emotional roller coaster.”
After that my mother and I discussed a subject that is classified, as so many are; lest I was having a lapse of good judgment, she added, “If this goes in your blog, I’m going to pound you to a jelly.”
I told my mother I was still waiting for The New York Times or the San Francisco Chronicle to confirm that Michael Jackson was dead. My mother said, “It’s too late: Your father has already run down the street in his socks to tell everyone.” (There’s nothing on earth my father would be less likely to do.)
Then, as if talking to herself, she added, “I hate all this misinformation.”
Then, to me, “You got it from TMZ, I got it from LWA [that’s me], which is known for being early out of the box, but there might be a correction later.”
That’s a polite way of saying I’ve developed a reputation for incessant exaggeration.
In the evening, I listened to Triumph—that is a great album—and to my favorite songs on Thriller, nice and loud. My favorite song from Thriller is “P. Y. T. (Pretty Young Thing),” so I turned it up extra loud for that, and then the phone rang. It was the crank who lives upstairs, Tom something or other, asking if I could turn the freaking music down so he could get some freaking sleep.
I called him back and said, “I can’t believe you interrupted the Michael Jackson Tribute with that petty complaint.” Tom does hate what he calls “disco,” which to him means pretty much everything other than the Grateful Dead and Tom Petty, so he probably had had enough by that point, to be sure.
It was kind of refreshing to be the annoying neighbor instead of the annoyed neighbor for once.
I had to dump it all down the drain (and recycle the container, of course) and start a search for a new emollient. Eucerin’s Original Moisturizing Lotion actually seems a bit drying, and has a slightly animal smell, but their Original Moisturizing Creme might be a winner. For starters, it’s the most unscented skin care product I’ve ever encountered—it smells like nothing. It’s a thick white paste that rubs in and becomes transparent nearly instantly, and while it can be felt on my skin for some time, it doesn’t seem to get on the sheets. Those people at Eucerin are geniuses, like Heidi Julavits (more on her later). By morning, the Eucerin has absorbed completely.
The global flow of information is so swift these days, I got to break the news about Michael Jackson dying to only two people, my parents. What a day that was: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson gone within hours of each other.
I said to Tom later, “Poor Farrah Fawcett—what bad luck to die the same day as Michael Jackson. She was completely overshadowed.” Tom said, “Farrah Fawcett is dead?”
When I called my mother after seeing the news on TMZ (they knew it before anyone else; from now on, that’s my main news source), I asked, “Guess who died?”
“Farrah Fawcett.”
“Michael Jackson.”
“No kidding!”
She turned to my father and asked him in turn, “Guess who died?”
“Who?”
“Michael Jackson.”
“No kidding!”
“Did you know Farrah Fawcett had died?”
“No; when did Farrah Fawcett die?”
“Today.”
I added that I was waiting for a reputable news source to confirm that Michael Jackson was dead. To my mother, this meant he was alive and well; my father joked, “I hope Linda knows she’s putting me on an emotional roller coaster.”
After that my mother and I discussed a subject that is classified, as so many are; lest I was having a lapse of good judgment, she added, “If this goes in your blog, I’m going to pound you to a jelly.”
I told my mother I was still waiting for The New York Times or the San Francisco Chronicle to confirm that Michael Jackson was dead. My mother said, “It’s too late: Your father has already run down the street in his socks to tell everyone.” (There’s nothing on earth my father would be less likely to do.)
Then, as if talking to herself, she added, “I hate all this misinformation.”
Then, to me, “You got it from TMZ, I got it from LWA [that’s me], which is known for being early out of the box, but there might be a correction later.”
That’s a polite way of saying I’ve developed a reputation for incessant exaggeration.
In the evening, I listened to Triumph—that is a great album—and to my favorite songs on Thriller, nice and loud. My favorite song from Thriller is “P. Y. T. (Pretty Young Thing),” so I turned it up extra loud for that, and then the phone rang. It was the crank who lives upstairs, Tom something or other, asking if I could turn the freaking music down so he could get some freaking sleep.
I called him back and said, “I can’t believe you interrupted the Michael Jackson Tribute with that petty complaint.” Tom does hate what he calls “disco,” which to him means pretty much everything other than the Grateful Dead and Tom Petty, so he probably had had enough by that point, to be sure.
It was kind of refreshing to be the annoying neighbor instead of the annoyed neighbor for once.
For the King
Here are the instructions for how to play Sneaky Pete:
2 decks, 12 cards to each person. Can use 3 decks if more people.
Aces are high/low/both. Joker = wild. (It’s optional to play with jokers.) After deal cards, put remainder of cards in a stack face down, turning one up.
Seven hands are played. Requirement to meld for each hand:
1: 1 set, 1 run
2: 2 sets
3: 2 runs
4: 2 sets, 1 run
5: 1 set, 2 runs
6: 3 sets
7: 3 runs—no discard—basically, 2 runs of four cards and 1 run of five cards
Set = three of a kind (e.g., three eights).
Run = four in a row, same suit (e.g., 4-5-6-7 of hearts).
Play: Each time a player has a turn, she/he chooses either the top card from the face-down stack of cards, or the top card from the discard pile. Each player tries to meld as soon as possible (see “Melding,” below) and, generally, to get rid of all the cards she/he holds. A given hand is over when one player is out of cards, through melding, adding to the sets or runs of other players, and/or discarding.
Melding: “Melding” means to lay down the set and/or run requirements for the hand. Can only meld when have entire requirement for that round. After a player melds, he/she can add cards to other players’ melded runs or sets, but not before. After a player melds, she/he cannot put down any additional runs or sets; that player can only add to any run or set on the table. At the end of any hand, players can discard or not, with the exception of the seventh hand, where having no discard is required.
Melding restriction: If another player puts down a set consisting of three jacks, I can’t myself put down a set consisting of three jacks, because I could add my three jacks to the three already melded. Similarly, if another player has put down a run 4-5-6-7 of hearts, I can’t put down a run that is 8-9-10-J of hearts, because I could add that to the run already melded. However, if the other player later adds the 9 of hearts (or 9 plus 10, etc.), I can then play the 8-9-10-J of hearts as a run of my own because it would no longer be possible to add that to the other player’s run. If another player has put down a run 4-5-6-7 of hearts, I can still put down a set that contains the eight of hearts; there’s nothing wrong with that.
Runs: A player can’t put down, for instance, 4-5-6-7 of hearts as a run plus 8-9-10-J of hearts as another run—there has to be a break. The player could put down 4-5-6-7 of hearts as a run plus 9-10-J-Q of hearts as another run, even if he/she has the 8 of hearts. On a subsequent play, he/she can add the 8 of hearts to either run.
Jokers: Jokers may be used in order to meld, and may be used as needed after melding. If another player melds using a joker, I can replace that joker with the card it represents and use the joker myself to meld, or to make a play after melding; can’t do this before I meld. I can also replace a joker I have played formerly myself and put the joker to new use.
Boinging: If person whose turn it is doesn’t want face up card (person whose turn it is has dibs), someone else can take it; if two other people want it, the person closest to the person whose turn it is, per the direction of play, has priority. This is calling “boinging” and requires the person to also take a penalty card from the face-down pile of cards.
Penalties: A player who accidentally discards a card that could have been added to a previously melded set or run or that could have been used to replace a joker must take the card back plus take a penalty card; on a subsequent turn, the player can add the card to the melded set or run. A player might choose to do this on purpose, as well, as a strategy.
Scoring: Once any player is out of cards for a given hand, the points for the cards still held by other players are totaled.
Points:
Joker = 50 (if jokers have been used)
Ace = 20
9-K = 10
2-8 = 5
Winning: At the end of the game (seven hands), the player with the most points loses.
2 decks, 12 cards to each person. Can use 3 decks if more people.
Aces are high/low/both. Joker = wild. (It’s optional to play with jokers.) After deal cards, put remainder of cards in a stack face down, turning one up.
Seven hands are played. Requirement to meld for each hand:
1: 1 set, 1 run
2: 2 sets
3: 2 runs
4: 2 sets, 1 run
5: 1 set, 2 runs
6: 3 sets
7: 3 runs—no discard—basically, 2 runs of four cards and 1 run of five cards
Set = three of a kind (e.g., three eights).
Run = four in a row, same suit (e.g., 4-5-6-7 of hearts).
Play: Each time a player has a turn, she/he chooses either the top card from the face-down stack of cards, or the top card from the discard pile. Each player tries to meld as soon as possible (see “Melding,” below) and, generally, to get rid of all the cards she/he holds. A given hand is over when one player is out of cards, through melding, adding to the sets or runs of other players, and/or discarding.
Melding: “Melding” means to lay down the set and/or run requirements for the hand. Can only meld when have entire requirement for that round. After a player melds, he/she can add cards to other players’ melded runs or sets, but not before. After a player melds, she/he cannot put down any additional runs or sets; that player can only add to any run or set on the table. At the end of any hand, players can discard or not, with the exception of the seventh hand, where having no discard is required.
Melding restriction: If another player puts down a set consisting of three jacks, I can’t myself put down a set consisting of three jacks, because I could add my three jacks to the three already melded. Similarly, if another player has put down a run 4-5-6-7 of hearts, I can’t put down a run that is 8-9-10-J of hearts, because I could add that to the run already melded. However, if the other player later adds the 9 of hearts (or 9 plus 10, etc.), I can then play the 8-9-10-J of hearts as a run of my own because it would no longer be possible to add that to the other player’s run. If another player has put down a run 4-5-6-7 of hearts, I can still put down a set that contains the eight of hearts; there’s nothing wrong with that.
Runs: A player can’t put down, for instance, 4-5-6-7 of hearts as a run plus 8-9-10-J of hearts as another run—there has to be a break. The player could put down 4-5-6-7 of hearts as a run plus 9-10-J-Q of hearts as another run, even if he/she has the 8 of hearts. On a subsequent play, he/she can add the 8 of hearts to either run.
Jokers: Jokers may be used in order to meld, and may be used as needed after melding. If another player melds using a joker, I can replace that joker with the card it represents and use the joker myself to meld, or to make a play after melding; can’t do this before I meld. I can also replace a joker I have played formerly myself and put the joker to new use.
Boinging: If person whose turn it is doesn’t want face up card (person whose turn it is has dibs), someone else can take it; if two other people want it, the person closest to the person whose turn it is, per the direction of play, has priority. This is calling “boinging” and requires the person to also take a penalty card from the face-down pile of cards.
Penalties: A player who accidentally discards a card that could have been added to a previously melded set or run or that could have been used to replace a joker must take the card back plus take a penalty card; on a subsequent turn, the player can add the card to the melded set or run. A player might choose to do this on purpose, as well, as a strategy.
Scoring: Once any player is out of cards for a given hand, the points for the cards still held by other players are totaled.
Points:
Joker = 50 (if jokers have been used)
Ace = 20
9-K = 10
2-8 = 5
Winning: At the end of the game (seven hands), the player with the most points loses.
A Morbid Dread of Kneading
I have probably mentioned that my mother makes delicious homemade bread, which had belatedly—35 years after she started, give or take—inspired me to try making a loaf or two myself. I got the book Kneadlessly Simple, but concluded that it was going to be much more trouble to avoid kneading than simply to go ahead and knead. Why, after all, this morbid dread of kneading?
I consulted my mother, who pointed me to a recipe or two, and I wrote down the ingredients in my favorite Vital Vittles bread (tsk; it contained sunflower oil, which does not have a favorable Omega 6:3 ratio), and then I mentally prepared for a few more months.
Meanwhile, I started looking for a grain mill. Some months ago, Darryl S. brought homemade chocolate-chip cookies made with whole-wheat flour he’d ground himself to dinner at Terry and Nancy’s, and I had ever since wanted to grind my own whole-wheat flour and make chocolate-chip cookies with it. When I decided to attempt the baking of bread, I figured I might also want to grind my own flour for that.
I called Darryl to see what kind of grinder he uses and he said that, by chance, he had spotted the same thing in a store near his place. Tom happened to be going near there in the course of his workday, so he went and bought one—it was only about $20—and left it on Darryl’s porch for a modification Darryl thought it would need. Darryl is a master metal fabricator who once made something for Tom’s bike that Tom raved about for months.
A couple of weeks passed, and then Darryl came over with the grinder and the extra parts he’d made for it, which were beautifully created. Alas, the test wheat came out very coarse. It turns out that a really good grain mill can cost four or five hundred dollars, so it’s little wonder the $20 grinder didn’t provide satisfaction.
Darryl said he could see what the grinder needed and that he would tackle it anew. I was pretty sure nothing was going to help this particular grinder, and I hated to have Darryl spend any more time on it. I consulted Tom—I didn’t want to hurt Darryl’s feelings by suggesting he wasn’t going to succeed, but I also didn’t want him to engage in further fruitless efforts.
Tom said Darryl knows a piece of junk when he sees one, so I called Darryl and said his work is gorgeous, but I didn’t want him to spend any more time on the grinder and that I was prepared to buy a better one, but he said he was sure he could fix it and to hold off on purchasing.
I agreed not to—this was about two months ago—and there the matter stood until this morning, because I couldn’t exactly buy a grinder after I said I wouldn’t. Or at least, I couldn’t have done it right after I said I wouldn’t. (Tom said to just buy a grinder right away and fib if necessary, but one’s better relationships don’t rest on a tissue of lies, though I know Tom, ever the peacemaker, just wanted me to have my grinder and also didn’t want Darryl’s feelings to be hurt.)
In any event, probably I should confirm that I can produce a pleasing loaf of bread with Rainbow’s bulk whole-wheat bread flour before I make a substantial investment in a grinder.
As for the $20 grinder, I did throw it away just this morning. I thought of trying to find a new home for it, but since it’s clear the world is going to piddly-pot on a pumpstick, in the precise and accurate phrase of my old friend Marie, what’s one more $20 grinder in the trash? I’m not saying I’m going to go out and buy a Hummer, but I guess I concede at this point that, given the overall state of affairs, a grinder in the trash probably isn’t going to hasten the end of the world appreciably.
My friend Amy in Michigan (my friend I’ve been friends with for FORTY years) is an expert bread baker for Zingerman’s Bakehouse and gave me some tips while she was making pizza. For instance, she explained that an instruction to “punch” the dough is not referring to a right hook.
My first attempt was moderately successful. My oven more or less cooperated (it waited until I was baking cookies later to unleash its full malevolence) and the result was edible and tasted fine, but was short in stature. Either it didn’t rise enough, or it rose and then it unrose, but it was a thrill to eat toast made with bread I made myself, short or tall.
After that, I took my mother’s advice and acquired an instant-read thermometer; I had probably killed the yeast the first time with too-hot water. The hot water out of my tap is fairly reliably rusty, so I had to heat the water on my gas stove and I’m sure I overshot.
By this time, I had many pages of recipes and instructions culled from various sources. My second loaf came out almost exactly the same as the first, only half an inch taller, though both had pleasing flavor, as anything with a quarter cup of butter spread on it tends to have.
In despair, I appealed again to my mother, who persuaded me that you do have to knead the dough. Here I had bravely resolved to knead, and then not kneaded, this because I was extrapolating from a recipe designed for someone using a food processor, and hadn't realized that the 10-12 seconds of processing equated to some minutes of kneading.
Oh, it’s also not good to mash the dough into the loaf pan so it forms a perfect rectangle, which is what I thought was meant by "shape the loaf" until the Internet clued me in.
So my hopes for my next loaf of bread are high.
I consulted my mother, who pointed me to a recipe or two, and I wrote down the ingredients in my favorite Vital Vittles bread (tsk; it contained sunflower oil, which does not have a favorable Omega 6:3 ratio), and then I mentally prepared for a few more months.
Meanwhile, I started looking for a grain mill. Some months ago, Darryl S. brought homemade chocolate-chip cookies made with whole-wheat flour he’d ground himself to dinner at Terry and Nancy’s, and I had ever since wanted to grind my own whole-wheat flour and make chocolate-chip cookies with it. When I decided to attempt the baking of bread, I figured I might also want to grind my own flour for that.
I called Darryl to see what kind of grinder he uses and he said that, by chance, he had spotted the same thing in a store near his place. Tom happened to be going near there in the course of his workday, so he went and bought one—it was only about $20—and left it on Darryl’s porch for a modification Darryl thought it would need. Darryl is a master metal fabricator who once made something for Tom’s bike that Tom raved about for months.
A couple of weeks passed, and then Darryl came over with the grinder and the extra parts he’d made for it, which were beautifully created. Alas, the test wheat came out very coarse. It turns out that a really good grain mill can cost four or five hundred dollars, so it’s little wonder the $20 grinder didn’t provide satisfaction.
Darryl said he could see what the grinder needed and that he would tackle it anew. I was pretty sure nothing was going to help this particular grinder, and I hated to have Darryl spend any more time on it. I consulted Tom—I didn’t want to hurt Darryl’s feelings by suggesting he wasn’t going to succeed, but I also didn’t want him to engage in further fruitless efforts.
Tom said Darryl knows a piece of junk when he sees one, so I called Darryl and said his work is gorgeous, but I didn’t want him to spend any more time on the grinder and that I was prepared to buy a better one, but he said he was sure he could fix it and to hold off on purchasing.
I agreed not to—this was about two months ago—and there the matter stood until this morning, because I couldn’t exactly buy a grinder after I said I wouldn’t. Or at least, I couldn’t have done it right after I said I wouldn’t. (Tom said to just buy a grinder right away and fib if necessary, but one’s better relationships don’t rest on a tissue of lies, though I know Tom, ever the peacemaker, just wanted me to have my grinder and also didn’t want Darryl’s feelings to be hurt.)
In any event, probably I should confirm that I can produce a pleasing loaf of bread with Rainbow’s bulk whole-wheat bread flour before I make a substantial investment in a grinder.
As for the $20 grinder, I did throw it away just this morning. I thought of trying to find a new home for it, but since it’s clear the world is going to piddly-pot on a pumpstick, in the precise and accurate phrase of my old friend Marie, what’s one more $20 grinder in the trash? I’m not saying I’m going to go out and buy a Hummer, but I guess I concede at this point that, given the overall state of affairs, a grinder in the trash probably isn’t going to hasten the end of the world appreciably.
My friend Amy in Michigan (my friend I’ve been friends with for FORTY years) is an expert bread baker for Zingerman’s Bakehouse and gave me some tips while she was making pizza. For instance, she explained that an instruction to “punch” the dough is not referring to a right hook.
My first attempt was moderately successful. My oven more or less cooperated (it waited until I was baking cookies later to unleash its full malevolence) and the result was edible and tasted fine, but was short in stature. Either it didn’t rise enough, or it rose and then it unrose, but it was a thrill to eat toast made with bread I made myself, short or tall.
After that, I took my mother’s advice and acquired an instant-read thermometer; I had probably killed the yeast the first time with too-hot water. The hot water out of my tap is fairly reliably rusty, so I had to heat the water on my gas stove and I’m sure I overshot.
By this time, I had many pages of recipes and instructions culled from various sources. My second loaf came out almost exactly the same as the first, only half an inch taller, though both had pleasing flavor, as anything with a quarter cup of butter spread on it tends to have.
In despair, I appealed again to my mother, who persuaded me that you do have to knead the dough. Here I had bravely resolved to knead, and then not kneaded, this because I was extrapolating from a recipe designed for someone using a food processor, and hadn't realized that the 10-12 seconds of processing equated to some minutes of kneading.
Oh, it’s also not good to mash the dough into the loaf pan so it forms a perfect rectangle, which is what I thought was meant by "shape the loaf" until the Internet clued me in.
So my hopes for my next loaf of bread are high.
The Word “Shoot” Means Something Entirely Different Here
Friday of my week in Michigan, the day after I said goodbye to our old house, was the one really pretty day of my visit. I listened to the Beach Boys while I stretched, and then meditated on the deck off the kitchen, the first time I’ve ever meditated outside. It was nice—warm, with the sound of the wind in the treetops and a nearby bell tower chiming twelve chimes at noon.
On WRIF, while I showered, the DJ said, “Note to movie people who are new to Detroit: The word ‘shoot’ means something entirely different here.”
I set out to walk around Mom and Dad’s new block, but it’s not a square block you can easily walk around, so instead I went to read the plaque at the historical Ypsilanti Water Tower and gaze somberly upon the bust of Demetrius Ypsilanti, a hero of the Greek War of Independence.
I made my way past the compound of another relative and to the main thoroughfare, two sleepy blocks of Michigan Avenue, plus there is a block or two of historical Depot Town not far off. I went into the district library, and into the convention and visitors’ bureau, where I was directed to the Ypsilanti Historical Museum, on N. Huron St.
At the historical museum, which is housed in a private home built in 1860 and restored to that era, I received a lengthy and detailed tour from the knowledgeable historian on duty. I liked that contributions of non-white persons were highlighted at every turn, including those of Elijah McCoy, an African-Canadian inventor who, in his Ypsilanti machine shop, “invented an automatic lubricator for oiling the steam engines of locomotives and boats” (that’s from Wikipedia).
This meant that trains no longer had to stop periodically to be lubricated, and is one possible origin of the phrase “the real McCoy.”
The white couple who originally built the house supported the Underground Railroad; their son was an attorney who was obliged by his employer, against his own sentiments, to argue for the continuation of slavery in the Dred Scott v. Sandford case.
Right across from the museum is the Towner House, the oldest house in Ypsilanti on its original foundation. It dates to 1837; my great aunt and uncle lived in it from 1951 to 1968, the first people to occupy it after members of the Towner family.
After the museum, I went to Depot Town and had lunch at Café Luwak (42 E. Cross St.), sitting out front at a metal table, and purchased a scoop of ice cream for the walk home.
In the evening, my sister and I walked downtown again and had dinner at Haab’s, Ypsi’s (“ip-sees”) best-known restaurant.
I returned home on Saturday so I’d have Sunday for cooking: lentils, brown rice, kale-potato soup, chocolate-chip cookies and whole-wheat bread.
On WRIF, while I showered, the DJ said, “Note to movie people who are new to Detroit: The word ‘shoot’ means something entirely different here.”
I set out to walk around Mom and Dad’s new block, but it’s not a square block you can easily walk around, so instead I went to read the plaque at the historical Ypsilanti Water Tower and gaze somberly upon the bust of Demetrius Ypsilanti, a hero of the Greek War of Independence.
I made my way past the compound of another relative and to the main thoroughfare, two sleepy blocks of Michigan Avenue, plus there is a block or two of historical Depot Town not far off. I went into the district library, and into the convention and visitors’ bureau, where I was directed to the Ypsilanti Historical Museum, on N. Huron St.
At the historical museum, which is housed in a private home built in 1860 and restored to that era, I received a lengthy and detailed tour from the knowledgeable historian on duty. I liked that contributions of non-white persons were highlighted at every turn, including those of Elijah McCoy, an African-Canadian inventor who, in his Ypsilanti machine shop, “invented an automatic lubricator for oiling the steam engines of locomotives and boats” (that’s from Wikipedia).
This meant that trains no longer had to stop periodically to be lubricated, and is one possible origin of the phrase “the real McCoy.”
The white couple who originally built the house supported the Underground Railroad; their son was an attorney who was obliged by his employer, against his own sentiments, to argue for the continuation of slavery in the Dred Scott v. Sandford case.
Right across from the museum is the Towner House, the oldest house in Ypsilanti on its original foundation. It dates to 1837; my great aunt and uncle lived in it from 1951 to 1968, the first people to occupy it after members of the Towner family.
After the museum, I went to Depot Town and had lunch at Café Luwak (42 E. Cross St.), sitting out front at a metal table, and purchased a scoop of ice cream for the walk home.
In the evening, my sister and I walked downtown again and had dinner at Haab’s, Ypsi’s (“ip-sees”) best-known restaurant.
I returned home on Saturday so I’d have Sunday for cooking: lentils, brown rice, kale-potato soup, chocolate-chip cookies and whole-wheat bread.
Ypsi Facto
On Saturday, June 6, my 47th birthday, I flew to Michigan for a visit, my first time staying at my parents’ new house in Ypsilanti, just east of Ann Arbor. (Ypsilanti is pronounced ip-sil-AN-tee, if you must know.)
On Sunday, we went to my parents’ old house in Ann Arbor and did some gardening, along with my sister. It was wet and grey; most of the week it was at least overcast. It was startling to see the house in such disarray, most of the familiar objects gone and tarps spread here and there, but that was probably useful for the separation process.
On Monday, my mother and I argued about CFLs and then about 9/11. There aren’t as many places to sit in the new house so far, so instead of everyone having a wing of the house in which to sulk privately, we all sit in the same cozy little room, which naturally leads to bitter recriminations, proximity being a chief cause of discord.
My father made special birthday cookies, based on a recipe I found on the Internet and sent him months ago for chocolate-chip cookies made with oil instead of butter. It sounds not that great, but these cookies are extremely good, as good as cookies made with butter, in my opinion. My father, typically, has modified and improved the recipe. Among other things, he replaced some of the flour with cornstarch, and he put in a subtle hint of orange extract for an outstanding—I had 12 at a sitting—result.
I tried to make his recipe after I got home and the result was pretty good, but my oven changes temperature at random, which makes baking anything a hit-or-miss operation. Also, it appears I had at some point gotten rid of almost all of my 1/3 cup measuring cups—after all, how often does a recipe call for 1/3 of a cup of anything? Well, this recipe of my father’s calls for 1/3 or 2/3 of a cup of three different things. Fortunately, I do have one such measuring cup, because that happens to be the amount of water that gets added to Hammett’s food each day.
On Tuesday of my week in Michigan I went to Chelsea for a delicious birthday dinner at Amy’s house. She made pizza from scratch, crust and all, and a beautiful white cake with white frosting. We were joined by her boyfriend (Mark), her two sons (Mike and Chris), and the newish girlfriend of Chris. Now that I’m 47, I can say that Amy and I have been friends for FORTY YEARS, and we have never had the merest fight. She is an excellent, fabulous friend. My oldest friend.
On Wednesday, my Uncle Rick and my parents and I had lunch at Café Zola on W. Washington in Ann Arbor. (Streets to the west of Main are called West whatever, and streets to the east are called East whatever; similar arrangement for north and south of some other street. I lived in this town for 20 years, have been visiting it for 27 years since, and never noticed this until this visit.)
I had the roasted vegetable salad, which has lots of yummy eggplant in it and is studded with tangy feta and drenched in thick Turkish vinaigrette (if you upend your whole container of dressing over it).
After lunch, we went across the street to Sweetwaters Café for post-lunch refreshments, where it was quieter.
On Thursday, a very wet day, I took Amy out to lunch at Seva. I had a salad somewhat similar to the one I’d had at Café Zola, and orange cake with buttercream frosting for dessert, plus a scoop of green tea ice cream, a perfect combination.
After lunch, I went to say goodbye to the old house, starting my farewell tour in the garage, amid the safety flags Dad bought us long ago for our bikes, the orange life vests for sailing, an old Bell bike helmet with a rearview mirror, the ancient filing cabinet that once held various kinds of balls.
Before I went inside, I circumambulated the house; when I got to the front porch, Melvin, the very friendly lead painter of three, was on the porch, smoking. After he went inside, I sat down on the top step, one of my favorite things to do, even just for a moment now and then. It’s a nice place to observe the weather and get some fresh air. When I stood up and brushed off the seat of the raincoat Mom had lent me, there was grey goop on my hand—Melvin’s dampened cigarette ashes. I wouldn’t be sitting on those steps again, and so that was goodbye.
I went inside, into the little bathroom of the study, and heard the click of the door lock for the last time, reminding me of little girls chasing each other around the house decades ago and that feeling of relief when the lock clicked into place. From the bathroom, I could just hear Mom mock-berating Melvin about the carpeting, which saw its best days some decades ago: “You’ve ruined my lovely carpet!”
When I’d said I was planning to say farewell to the old house that day, my mother had politely inquired, “Are you going to keen?”
I was certainly planning to keen, and had brought my keening supplies: a fresh cloth handkerchief. I’d also decided to take one mindful breath in each room/area of the house, which turned out to be functionally incompatible with crying and thus cut down on the anticipated keening quite a bit, as did my mother standing behind me pretending to bawl loudly and uncontrollably while I reviewed my memories associated with the southwest bedroom.
The final phase of leavetaking was to lie in the side yard, erstwhile and occasional badminton court, on my back—happily, the sky was dull grey and it was pouring rain—to offer my thanks for the foliage that so sheltered me, the earth, the trees, the rain, the wind, the sun.
On Sunday, we went to my parents’ old house in Ann Arbor and did some gardening, along with my sister. It was wet and grey; most of the week it was at least overcast. It was startling to see the house in such disarray, most of the familiar objects gone and tarps spread here and there, but that was probably useful for the separation process.
On Monday, my mother and I argued about CFLs and then about 9/11. There aren’t as many places to sit in the new house so far, so instead of everyone having a wing of the house in which to sulk privately, we all sit in the same cozy little room, which naturally leads to bitter recriminations, proximity being a chief cause of discord.
My father made special birthday cookies, based on a recipe I found on the Internet and sent him months ago for chocolate-chip cookies made with oil instead of butter. It sounds not that great, but these cookies are extremely good, as good as cookies made with butter, in my opinion. My father, typically, has modified and improved the recipe. Among other things, he replaced some of the flour with cornstarch, and he put in a subtle hint of orange extract for an outstanding—I had 12 at a sitting—result.
I tried to make his recipe after I got home and the result was pretty good, but my oven changes temperature at random, which makes baking anything a hit-or-miss operation. Also, it appears I had at some point gotten rid of almost all of my 1/3 cup measuring cups—after all, how often does a recipe call for 1/3 of a cup of anything? Well, this recipe of my father’s calls for 1/3 or 2/3 of a cup of three different things. Fortunately, I do have one such measuring cup, because that happens to be the amount of water that gets added to Hammett’s food each day.
On Tuesday of my week in Michigan I went to Chelsea for a delicious birthday dinner at Amy’s house. She made pizza from scratch, crust and all, and a beautiful white cake with white frosting. We were joined by her boyfriend (Mark), her two sons (Mike and Chris), and the newish girlfriend of Chris. Now that I’m 47, I can say that Amy and I have been friends for FORTY YEARS, and we have never had the merest fight. She is an excellent, fabulous friend. My oldest friend.
On Wednesday, my Uncle Rick and my parents and I had lunch at Café Zola on W. Washington in Ann Arbor. (Streets to the west of Main are called West whatever, and streets to the east are called East whatever; similar arrangement for north and south of some other street. I lived in this town for 20 years, have been visiting it for 27 years since, and never noticed this until this visit.)
I had the roasted vegetable salad, which has lots of yummy eggplant in it and is studded with tangy feta and drenched in thick Turkish vinaigrette (if you upend your whole container of dressing over it).
After lunch, we went across the street to Sweetwaters Café for post-lunch refreshments, where it was quieter.
On Thursday, a very wet day, I took Amy out to lunch at Seva. I had a salad somewhat similar to the one I’d had at Café Zola, and orange cake with buttercream frosting for dessert, plus a scoop of green tea ice cream, a perfect combination.
After lunch, I went to say goodbye to the old house, starting my farewell tour in the garage, amid the safety flags Dad bought us long ago for our bikes, the orange life vests for sailing, an old Bell bike helmet with a rearview mirror, the ancient filing cabinet that once held various kinds of balls.
Before I went inside, I circumambulated the house; when I got to the front porch, Melvin, the very friendly lead painter of three, was on the porch, smoking. After he went inside, I sat down on the top step, one of my favorite things to do, even just for a moment now and then. It’s a nice place to observe the weather and get some fresh air. When I stood up and brushed off the seat of the raincoat Mom had lent me, there was grey goop on my hand—Melvin’s dampened cigarette ashes. I wouldn’t be sitting on those steps again, and so that was goodbye.
I went inside, into the little bathroom of the study, and heard the click of the door lock for the last time, reminding me of little girls chasing each other around the house decades ago and that feeling of relief when the lock clicked into place. From the bathroom, I could just hear Mom mock-berating Melvin about the carpeting, which saw its best days some decades ago: “You’ve ruined my lovely carpet!”
When I’d said I was planning to say farewell to the old house that day, my mother had politely inquired, “Are you going to keen?”
I was certainly planning to keen, and had brought my keening supplies: a fresh cloth handkerchief. I’d also decided to take one mindful breath in each room/area of the house, which turned out to be functionally incompatible with crying and thus cut down on the anticipated keening quite a bit, as did my mother standing behind me pretending to bawl loudly and uncontrollably while I reviewed my memories associated with the southwest bedroom.
The final phase of leavetaking was to lie in the side yard, erstwhile and occasional badminton court, on my back—happily, the sky was dull grey and it was pouring rain—to offer my thanks for the foliage that so sheltered me, the earth, the trees, the rain, the wind, the sun.
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