Okey dokey, dear blog readers: Has anyone noticed how much more impatient people get around the holidays? How much longer the lines? How dark it gets at 5 PM?
Anyhoo, self had a bunch of errands to run, and as usual she waited until 4 PM, because she was so engrossed in reading latest missive from brother in Manila, who said he’d somehow managed to get to see Ying, even though she is in deep deep quarantine for that virulent strain of TB she has somehow acquired, and he said this: She is thin.
Dear blog readers, here is a list of things self has to be grateful about today:
1. Self is nearly finished decorating the Christmas tree.
2. Self has just learned, via Dearest Mum’s call last night, (more…)
Self doesn’t know what happened: After years and years of denying himself all kinds of material pleasure, and turning up his nose at mail-order catalogues, hubby went nuts and ordered all sorts of gadgets from Hammacher Schlemmer, all of which arrived in three huge boxes a few days ago. One of these was the DeLonghi Indoor Smokeless Electric Grill, which now occupies pride of place on kitchen counter (next to Calphalon Non-Stick Roasting Pan w/ Rack and Turkey Injection tool, which self has already blogged about) because neither of these gorgeous kitchen items can fit in our kitchen cabinets (which are full of chipped and cracked plates, most remaindered from Macy’s, and even son’s baby dishes). Yesterday evening, hubby purchased a rib-eye from Safeway so he could test his new toy. And self decided to cook a pork loin roast on her new Calphalon non-stick roasting pan.
Talk about over-kill. After we’d figured out how to use each of the contraptions, we discovered a) that the De Longhi Indoor Grill is not smokeless — the smell of garlic-marinated steak permeated all rooms in the house. In fact, self could still smell the garlic in the bedroom this morning. Moreover, it took many minutes for hubby to get the grill cleaned to his satisfaction afterwards; and b) the Calphalon Non-Stick Roasting Pan produces a perfectly browned roast, even without use of a meat thermometer, and moreover is a cinch to clean.
After these mighty exertions, which turned Sunday evening (when normally the only thing we do is watch Eberts & Roeper and 60 Minutes) into a stressful and harried affair, self and hubby crashed into bed at 9:30 PM.
This evening, self decided to set out the Christmas decorations. First were the Martha Stewart fake greenery that self always drapes over the bookshelves and the mantelpiece over the fireplace. This time, self was all thumbs and found herself getting the tape (which she uses to stick the greenery in place) all snarled up. Aaargh, aaargh, aaargh, why — huf-puf — can’t — huf-puf — these branches stay in place (!!@@##) After many slip-ups, self got everything arranged to her satisfaction.
Then, self put out the three-foot Santa (arranged him on top of bookcase in living room). Then, she set out two small Christmas trees. Then, she took out the Christmas lights for the big tree in the living room. Then, she put out the wooden Nutcrackers. And after doing all that, she was really exhausted, for the second night in a row. (Self doesn’t even want to think of having to take all these decorations down, a month from now)
Yesterday, while hubby was transfixed by a football game, self sneaked off and got him a gift card from Peet’s. And she’s already decided that this year, she’s just going to give son cash. She ordered a humongous Harry & David gift basket for her brother-in-law in New York, and she’s trying to persuade M in Virginia to mail her some Food for the Gods that she can give to friends (M is such a fantastic cook, a skill she inherited from her mom, who for years and years ran the Cookie Monster Bakeshop across the street from Makati Medical). Self is also congratulating herself for having finished writing most of her Christmas cards during the Thanksgiving break. Because now there are 20 Christmas cards ready to be mailed tomorrow.
AND she even managed to finish reading Resurrection Men. And grade a few papers. And cover most of M. Butterfly, Act I in class this morning. And she started reading a new novel, Anne Tyler’s Ladder of Years, which has a very promising beginning (Middle-aged lady shopping in supermarket gets asked by attractive man to pretend she is his girlfriend, in order to make the man’s ex-wife, who is shopping a few feet away with her boyfriend, jealous).
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Oh, self does intend to have fun this morning. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. First of all, a number of anonymous women (and self does not know why men simply refuse to join in the fun) have sent Kanlaon messages while self was tucked in all snug in her bed with visions of sugarplums etc etc. This morning, upon perusing blog stats, self discovered that there are yet more demands — not requests, demands — for self to post the rest of the Carlos Bulosan story, “My Father Goes to Court.” The last one self received, she decided to post. And it is so amazing, people are actually furious, furious, because self, intrepid blogger that she is, is so lame that she has not realized people will want to know the ending of a story. But self, being a writer, is also a staunch believer in the concept of delayed gratification. Besides which, she loves that everyone is leaving comments. So, impatient Furies, you will just have to wait some more. (Note to teachers who are teaching Bulosan or any of the Filipino writers self has brought up in her posts: Do not refer your students to Kanlaon, for it will just drive them crraaaazy . . . )
OK, that’s the first reason why self intends to have fun this morning. The second is that she suspects hubby may be suffering the effects of a hangover from the Grey Goose martini he downed at Citizen Cake last night. All right, it wasn’t just the martini, he also had to down half of a generous serving of Calvados which self had ordered to go with her caramelized-apple-and-pecan-and-cheese tart, topped with cinnamon-chocolate ice cream. Self didn’t feel the Calvados hit until the concert at Davies started, and then she offered fervent thanks that she hadn’t downed the whole snifter, for she hasn’t felt a hit this hard since she played “Let’s do bottoms-up with tequila” in Mexico City, oh ages and ages ago in the days of her wild youth. So, first self began to feel herself going white. Then, her fingers became numb. Then, she began to feel woozy and light-headed. But, the concert (Shostakovich Symphony No. 5, conducted by Michael Tilson-Thomas) had already begun. So no one would actually have noticed if self had chosen to pass out in her seat. And hubby was too intent on looking at the members of the orchestra with his binoculars (At one point, just before self sank into Calvados-induced numbness, self asked to have a look through hubby’s binoculars, and this is what she discovered: many of the San Francisco Orchestra members are women, and many are also young). And self did not have to get up again until the end of the program (not even for the Intermission: she pretended she was busy reading up on the program notes), when people started leaping to their feet and yelling “Bravo!” So, self managed to retain most, if not all, of her dignity.
Ah, yes, and now we shall proceed to the Quotes, mentioned in the title to this post.
Self is reading the San Francisco Chronicle again: not the same issue as the last one she quoted (Monday, 26 November), but the one of Friday two days ago. And she has almost finished perusing the entire thing when she lands at Leah Garchik’s column (back page of the Datebook section). And dear Leah continues with the theme of “famous celebrity diss-es”, which she began on Monday with the story of the hapless fan with the plate, and how he was diss-ed by Al Gore. And here she follows up with more diss-es, to wit:
In 1992, during an hourlong interview with Bill Gates, journalist Paul Schindler recalls that Gates told him three times, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Or, how about this one, which took place in the late 70s, when famous author and playwright Lillian Hellman came to San Francisco to deliver a lecture:
Glenn Davis, who was writing a San Francisco mystery novel about whatever happened to Sam Spade’s murdered partner (a character in “The Maltese Falcon,” written by Hellman’s partner, Dashiell Hammett), went to the Huntington Hotel to see her. “The desk announced me, but somehow it gets gummed up and they say it is Peter, (Lillian’s) associate at that time. I go on up to her suite. She answers. ‘You’re not Peter. You are a precocious young man!’ and slams the door.
Self is sure dear blog readers are still in the mood for more, so here’s a third anecdote:
Steve Helig was introduced to Van Morrison when they were both guests at a dinner. After everyone got acquainted, Helig “ventured to tell him how much his music meant to me when I was growing up and traveling the world, always with tapes of his LPs in tow. He rolled his eyes and muttered, ‘I don’t know why people tell this kind of bull—-.’ ” Helig says he didn’t take the comment personally, especially after Morrison threw a plate of pasta across the room later in the evening.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
The son has arrived.
Yes, the one and only fruit of self’s loins is actually in the vicinity.
He is at this very moment with his dad indulging in the one must-do every time he visits: dinner at Colonel Lee’s Mongolian Barbecue in Mountain View.
This hallowed (if shabby) place was self’s first introduction to “cheap eats”, Stanford grad student style. And this place is still mobbed by Stanford students when in celebratory mood — like after winning the Big Game, for instance. Which, come to think of it, hasn’t happened in seven years. (But, once again, I digress)
But why is self not partaking of Colonel Lee’s fare with hubby and son? Why is she all alone in Redwood City, watching a Law & Order re-run (so delicious, Sam Waterston’s intelligent wrinkling of the brow– definitely no botox on that face) and sipping a glass of Chardonnay (She opened the bottle herself, one of those from hubby’s stash– she didn’t ask permission and she didn’t mangle the cork, hurrah!!!).
Son’s first question to self was what we were having for Thanksgiving dinner. To which self enthusiastically replied: Roast Prime Rib! Son’s only response was a frown and then silence. Which was deeply puzzling to self. Whereupon self inquired what was the matter, and son muttered something about “should have remembered we aren’t a traditional family.” @@!!##
Which remark had self sputtering and asking, “What do you mean? I mean, what exactly are you saying, son? I thought you loved prime rib!”
“Yeah, but it’s Thanksgiving,” son said. “Thanksgiving is for turkey.”
Good heavens! Son has been completely brainwashed by his Cal Poly evangelist friends! Help, help, help!
And then, after hubby has joined us, self suddenly remembers that Draeger’s is on her way home. And if she leaves Mountain View right this minute, she might even be able to snag the last cooked turkey in the deli. And so self rushes off without partaking of wondrous eat-all-you-can dinner at Colonel Lee’s. And she finds herself in absolute crush of people in Draeger’s. And all the deli plates are cleaned out (or almost all, self is rather prone to exaggeration). A homeless man is begging outside but self doesn’t even have time to pull a dollar from her wallet. And she decides to get the smallest uncooked turkey, and it’s a miracle that this turkey is so tiny it only costs $24 (The cooked version was $44). And she’ll have to figure out how to cook this darn thing tomorrow. But she is so happy that she quite enjoys looking at the Christmas lights they’ve already strung up on Santa Cruz Avenue.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Yesterday, after teaching class at xxxx community college, and after lugging home all of Voltaire Villanueva’s psychology books from his mailbox, self dropped by Bloomie’s and picked up Mother of All Roasting Pans.
This roasting pan (which self had “pre-paid” in a “pre-sale” three days ago) was so big that, after saleswoman handed the box to self, using the biggest brown shopping bag available at Bloomingdale’s, it kept dragging on the ground (despite self’s best efforts to heft the darn thing) while self walked to her car. Which is to say, box was almost as tall as self.
Interestingly enough, right after Bloomie’s self had to drop by the post office (to drop off another entry in yet another contest: Self is of the opinion that, as she seems to be in a zone with regards to contests, she might as well start sending out her work like crazy). And there self got into a conversation with a Filipina who’s been working at the Post Office for almost as long as self’s been living in Redwood City. The conversation revolved around — what else? — what we were going to cook for Thanksgiving (Self was not being obnoxious, dear blog readers. For some reason, yesterday post office was absolutely empty). My P.O. friend asked if self was going to cook a turkey, and self replied in the negative because, she explained to friend, it always ends up too dry.
And P.O. friend then asked self if she had ever tried deep fried turkey. And self thought (to herself): Only a Filipina could bring up the notion of deep-fried turkey. But aloud she said no, she had never tried such a fabulous dish. And P.O. friend recommended that self try Popeye’s, which was a brand self had never heard of (Self learns new things almost every day!), and so self had to come out with the notepad and pencil and write down: Popeye’s.
Then, P.O. friend went on to say that her brother makes the most delicious turkey, and what he does is inject it continuously while cooking. Oh! self said. So you’d need a special instrument? And P.O. friend said yes.
Anyhoo, last night, after fab dinner at newly discovered RWC restaurant, Pho Dong on Broadway, self was reclining on couch when out popped the idea to show off her fabulous new Calphalon roasting pan to hubby. And, even though he was watching a very exciting college football game, hubby expressed interest in seeing the marvel. So self dragged the box over from the kitchen (must have weighed about 15 lbs.), and inside, nestled lovingly in a veritable jigsaw of cardboard padding, was the thing itself, which was huge, and about five inches deep; and then, the rack, on which self could already imagine a juicy prime rib roast, dripping with fat; and then two evil-looking sharp-tipped prongs (for lifting, self supposed); and finally a baster with a needle-like steel insert that self deduced must be a stainless steel injection turkey baster (!!@@##)
Isn’t self’s life so full of such wonderful conundrums? She’ll be talking to her P.O. friend, that friend will bring up turkey basting, she’ll open up the box for the roasting pan she dragged home from Bloomie’s, and therein self will find a super-duper, huge turkey injection baster.
In the meantime, hard-anodized non-stick Calphalon mother of all roasting pans is sitting in all its glory on kitchen counter because, alas, it will not fit in any of self’s tiny kitchen cabinets.
“Where shall I put this thing?” self wonders aloud.
Hubby advises sticking it in the oven, which suggestion self deems to be a good one. So, after removing all the racks from inside the oven, self is finally able to put giant roaster away.
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Self, what’s with all the fa-la-la-la-las? Isn’t that from a Christmas carol? And here we are not even at Thanksgiving yet.
Yes, but yesterday self did not have to teach, and even though she has to work three hours today, in the NDNU Writing Center, it still feels like a holiday week. And besides, the Christmas tree vendors are already setting up on Woodside Road. And self can hardly wait to choose this year’s tree, which will fill the whole house with a fresh, pine-y scent, which always makes self feel mighty fine . . .
Anyhoo, preparatory to going to the Writing Center, self is reclining on sofa, watching old episodes of “Charmed” on flat-screen HDTV.
Whoaa, what’s this? Piper in an almost-kiss with that Chinese guy from Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle??? Well, why do they have to stop before actual contact? Jeez! Self was thinking this was going to be a Rubicon of sorts, especially since this Asian guy is definitely not Tony Leung (the only Asian guy allowed to ravish non-Asian women, apparently).
Since self has a little extra money left in her checking account (a very little, after all she also had to pay a dental bill and a moving violation ticket this week), she decides to hop on over to the Stanford Shopping Center and check out items in Bloomingdale’s, which is having a big sale this Thursday. Specifically, she wants to have a look at a Calphalon non-stick roasting pan and rack, which comes with a steel baster and two lovely steel prongs. Self has everything planned out : she’s going to get the biggest, juiciest Prime Rib Roast she can find, and she’s going to get lots and lots of sparkling cider, and she’s going to throw in all the sides she can think of, and then she will invite son’s friends — Kenny, Kramer, Alex, Aubert etc etc etc. — to come and partake.
And self is so overjoyed at this wonderful plan that, just as she passes Eileen Fisher, she stops, pulls out her cell phone, and decides to call son. At which point, son informs self that his friends will probably all be spending Thanksgiving with their own families. And self brushes that aside (Fie, fie, what’s a little glitch like that? She’s still going to get the roast and the Martinelli’s etc etc etc) and tells son excitedly that ever since she got the Handicapped Parking placard from the DMV, hubby is so eager to go to shopping malls, as he loves that we can get rock-star parking all the time, and so self can take son to Stanford Shopping Center and we can window-shop and then stop for a snack at the Peninsula Fountain & Grill or the new California Pizza Kitchen that just opened, across from the Williams-Sonoma. And we have to watch a movie, of course, that’s definitely got to be part of the Thanksgiving plans.
And then son says that he’ll probably be returning to San Luis Obispo on Friday.
“Everyone comes back on Sunday and the traffic’s horrible,” he explains.
“Okey-dokey,” self says. Inwardly, or perhaps stupidly, since it’s perfectly obvious to normal people that Wednesday to Friday is only two nights, self begins counting in her head: Wednesday night, Thursday night. No, that can’t be right. Ok, begin again: Wednesday night, Thursday night . . .
“Or maybe I’ll stay until Saturday morning,” son adds.
“OK,” self says, mood somewhat dampened.
But, anyhoo, roasting pan she just paid for at Bloomingdale’s is such a beaut (Bloomingdale’s has this fantastic plan where you can pay sale prices for items you know in advance are going to be on sale, but you can’t pick up said items until the day sale actually begins).
Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.
Do loyal blog readers find it disconcerting when self re-writes her posts? Because all of a sudden, self feels like she must re-write the last post she wrote, the one about all the Halloween excitement.
Self begs dear blog readers’ indulgence. What she really wanted to write about (though she only just discovered this) is what happened after hubby came home.
Sixty children had come trooping to the door. Half a bag of candy was gone. It was 8 PM.
Hubby grew very excited and said he wanted to put on a costume.
Self was in the middle of cooking Ervilhas Guisadas a Portuguesa, or Eggs with Peas, Sausages and Coriander. This was from a recipe self found in a Time/ Life cookbook called The Cooking of Spain and Portugal. Self did not purchase this cookbook. Dearest Mum “borrowed” it from home of Daly City aunt, about a decade ago. Do not feel bad for aunt, dear blog reader, for she has never cooked a thing in her life. She and her husband eat out every night, unless her daughter, who lives with them, cooks something.
Anyhoo, shortly after hubby declared he would put on a costume, self observed him ransacking son’s closet. “What are you looking for?” self inquired.
Hubby replied: “Son’s graduation toga.”
Uh-huh, self thought. This should be interesting.
Pretty soon, hubby emerged from son’s room dressed in a black toga, and with a Scream mask. Gracie burst into hysterical and prolonged barking and self thought her eardrums would burst. More children came to the door, but instead of going forth to greet them in his costume, hubby suddenly ducked into the bedroom and self said, “Well, aren’t you going to hand out the candy?”
“No! You do it!” hubby whined from the bedroom.
Self became terribly confused, but she did as ordered.
To date, self had seen: many heads of wild hair; assorted angels; assorted ballerinas; assorted Princesses; one elephant; one Incredible Hulk; four Spidermen (on the tiniest toddlers); one lion from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe movie; assorted Grim Reapers; and one axe murderer. Among parents in costume, self observed a witch, and an Amelia Earhart impersonator with crazy goggles and an aviator jacket. This year, unlike in years past, there were no political figures (so, no “scary Hillary”, which self had heard was going to be the most popular costume this year), no vampires, and no bumblebees.
Afterwards, when self returned to the living room, she found hubby had changed out of his costume and was sitting on the couch.
“What happened?” she inquired.
“I changed my mind,” hubby said.
And with that, dear blog readers, good night.
First of all, dear blog readers, it was hot. Hot, hot: the kind of hot that only feels good when you don’t have to work, and you have the whole day to laze around and drink beer.
In truth, hubby and self had to rouse ourselves to see the parade. Because son was not with us and it felt a little stilted, a little forced. Hubby almost gave up and said, let’s just stay home. But lo and behold, self had a sudden whiff of energy and propelled us both out of the house. And is she glad she did. Because downtown Redwood City was absolutely humming and thrumming with music, not only from the marching bands, but from a stage set up right in front of City Hall. And there were so many dogs and little kids running around, and there were booths selling things like epiphytes and dog-leash holders and natural soaps and what-not, and we ended up forgoing the parade to sit in City Pub drinking beer and snacking on fried calamari, and afterwards we caught the first show of Live Free or Die Hard, and it was so good to see John McClane again after all these years even though self completely missed the one time he said “Yippee ki-yay” (a “PG” version, according to hubby), and afterwards we stopped for tiramisu at a new bakery whose name I think was Pumpelmousse, and what joy it was to be out in the hot hot sun, especially as we stumbled upon a kind of band competition between the Stanford Band and the UC Berkeley band, each band taking turns wowing the crowd (Sad to say, the UC Berkeley band was far more in tune).
Afterwards, rushed home to water, then self had to go to friend’s house in the San Carlos hills. This friend teaches dance at Foothill, and when she arrived self found a lot of people she didn’t know, but it was all right because his garden, on a terraced hillside, was beautiful, full of apple and pear trees and hybrid tea roses, and even a koi pond well stocked with black and gold fish, and the food was catered by Chef Chu’s, and self found herself seated next to a young high school student who expressed fervent desire to be accepted to Cal Poly, upon which self whipped out a pen and provided him with son’s e-mail. Afterwards, as if food from Chef Chu’s was not enough, friend provided chamber music by Peninsula Orchestra in a little pergola overlooking the valley. It was so peaceful and beautiful, and all too soon self had to rush back to have second dinner with hubby.
Then, self decided to start reading book by old Stanford classmate, Beth Alvarado, whose first book, Not A Matter of Love, has been garnering all kinds of rave reviews from the likes of Antonya Nelson. Self finds this wonderful quote on front page:
—- Adrienne Rich, “Nights and Days”
And when self opens the book to the first story, by some remarkable happenstance, the first story is called “Bastille Day”, which happens to be self’s very same birthday, and first paragraph goes like this:
Hector Henry sat in the sun on his tiny slab of a front porch and waited for the cops. Baked and baking. One hundred and fourteen degrees. Easy. It was Bastille Day — a day the family should have celebrated, his father had told him once, as their last name used to be Henri, Ahn-ree, French — but on this Bastille Day, as the French were breaking bread together all over Paris, Hector had come home to find a hole punched in his front door. The apartment he shared with his dad had been robbed. His stereo was gone. This created a dull ache, black and fuzzy as a tarantula, right in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes. He couldn’t see past it.
Stay tuned, dear blog reader. Stay tuned.
Kanlaon 