Some of the Things Self Did Today, the 6th of June 2008

Crossed the Jose P. Rizal bridge to downtown Seattle.

Visited Jose Rizal Park. Took many pictures of the bust of the great man himself. On plaque beneath his statue, a list of names of (presumably) the people who donated to the monument. Self spies mention of a Bacho family, asks her host if they could possibly be related to the writer Peter Bacho.  Host Maria B says yes.

Visited the Volunteer Park Conservatory and saw:

1. the most amazing plant: looked like a very deep pitcher, at least two feet long (Self took a picture but, alas, she still hasn’t figured out how to load images on to her blog, and she didn’t see a sign identifying the name of the plant) Self surmises that these plants must be carnivorous: that their shape makes it possible to trap insects who crawl down the sides of the pitcher, then get trapped in sticky glue (which self surmises must coat the insides of the jug-like forms), and then when the jugs fill up with water (from the rain) — Self, you realize, don’t you, that this is the most un-scientific plant description ever formulated — drown.
2. the largest, hungriest-looking Venus flytraps self has ever laid eyes on (Again, apologies for being unable to post the picture, dear blog readers will just have to take self’s word for it: these specimens were simply hu-mongous)
3. the hugest fuschias self has ever seen (hanging from enormous baskets suspended from the conservatory’s glass ceiling)

Self also posed in front of one of the large succulents in the cactus house. What is remarkable about this picture is that: a) Self’s shoulders are hunched up, almost touching her ears (ergo, she is cold). AND b) she is wearing a long, bright red coat that does not belong to her (Self arrived woefully ill-equipped for the rainy weather, so Maria had to lend self a coat)

Later, self met up with Vince R, who teaches at the University of Washington. Vince took her to Seattle’s famous Pike Place Market. There self saw the following:

1. the hugest razor clams self has ever seen ($6.99/ lb.)
2. Do-nut peaches (Self had never known such a thing existed; you’d have to see a picture to believe it)
3. piles and piles of “Boy” brand adobo-flavored bawang (Again, you’s have to see a picture etc etc)
4. a market that has been operated by the same Filipino family since the 1930s (There is a carinderia next to the market. Self took a picture of a sign that said: FILIPINO FOOD — MASARAP, “DELICIOUS”)

Self got to visit Vince’s home, where she managed to take a picture of Vince and his lovely wife, Carol.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Ten Ways to Help HYPHEN

Summer is here (though one wouldn’t know it from the weather in northern California — it’s been blustery and cold most of the week, boo!). The June HYPHEN newsletter has just appeared in self’s mailbox. And what do you read? The most amazing thing: HYPHEN is an all-volunteer operation. And it’s been going strong for five years.

What does that tell self? That it’s funded by love. L-O-V-E, people. And we all better make sure the love keeps going. Because it would be a sad day for our community if HYPHEN couldn’t survive.

So, here are 10 ways that the staff suggests you can help:

1. Subscribe. $18 for four issues? That’s — what — the price of two drinks at the Ritz-Carlton? Is this a no-brainer or what?
2. If you’re thinking of buying on Amazon or iGive, do it through HYPHEN. Part of the sales goes to HYPHEN.
3. Search for anything under “Hyphen Magazine” through Goodsearch.
4. Participate in any of the ongoing discussions on the HYPHEN blog.
5. Attend HYPHEN events or the events they sponsor. Current issue launch party is on July 12 !!
6. Sport HYPHEN apparel and show your pride.
7. Volunteer. HYPHEN is always looking for amazing artists and writers.
8. Join the Overachievers Club by donating. Any dollar helps.
9. Look into your company for possible sponsorship opportunities or donation match programs.
10. Tell your friends about HYPHEN, whether it’s the magazine or the website!

Ode to Summer II & A Poem by Jim Morrison

Oh Saturday, what a gorgeous day you turned out to be (although this morning was so cold, self nearly froze while walking around the Redwood City Farmers Market, because she forgot to bring her jacket)

How self adores the apricots and cherries she saw at the market, just bursting with sweetness.

Oh beagles, how self adores your barking friendliness, your wayward tangle of leashes, your swaybacked walks, and even the way your tongues hang out, the closer we get to home.

Oh Stafford Park, this afternoon you are full of children and birthday parties, laughter and noise, and you remind self of the times when she celebrated son’s birthday here, and of all the memories the one that stands out is his sixth, because that was when self outdid herself by ordering a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cake from Goldilocks, and when she took it out of the box, all son’s classmates went “Ooooh” at the sight of the three buildings made out of hard candy, tiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles clambering down their sides.

Oh hubby, who refuses self’s invitation to take a stroll along Laurel Street (where self secretly hopes to stop by Chocolate Mousse and buy some slices of carrot cake) and all because Jason Bourne is on flat screen HDTV, and it’s coming close to the scene where Matt Damon and Franka Potente encounter punk-haired assassin in Bourne’s Paris apartment, and Matt achieves maximum lethal effect with a letter opener.

Now, both dogs are sprawled on hardwood floor, tongues hanging out. Breeze wafts through orange tree, laden with fruit. Student papers sit next to self’s laptop. The top one is a paper about a poem Jim Morrison wrote when he was in high school, “Horse Latitudes.” Self’s curiosity is aroused. She picks up the paper and reads:

“Horse Latitudes”

A poem by Jim Morrison

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted

Currents breed tiny monsters

True sailing is dead

Awkward instant

And the first animal is jettisoned

Legs furiously pumping

Their stiff green gallop

And heads bob up

Poise

Delicate

Pause

Consent

In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined

And sealed over

Hmm, self thinks: Not bad. Not bad at all.

A History of the Hamburger: As Told in (What Else?) The Economist Review of THE HAMBURGER: A HISTORY

(Gone: “Today, Friday, 16 May 2008”)

It is too hot, much much too hot. Self isn’t sure, but she thinks she heard a neighbor yell at hubby to stop blowering. Self held her breath, but this (perhaps imaginary) altercation was followed only by the dead-est silence, and then the sound of the lawn mower.

In the meantime, self is in the bedroom with the blinds closed. After a (lousy) breakfast at Breakers Cafe (chile omelet, with one thin slice of avocado on top, three dollops of sour cream), self fell into leaden sleep. When she awoke, the street outside was filled with the most intense, blinding heat, and all the hydrangeas’ leaves were curling.

Self opens The Economist of 26 April (still behind in her reading: yes, she knows) and finds this on p. 107:

“The Big Bite”: a review of The Hamburger: A History, by Josh Ozersky

This entertaining and informative book, which traces the burger’s evolution from working man’s snack during the Depression to symbol of American corporatism, is nothing less than a brief history of America in the 20th century.

Like many stories, this one starts long, long ago, with a castle. This castle had five-cent hamburgers instead of princesses, and rather than being in an enchanted forest, it was in Wichita, Kansas.

An ambitious fry-cook named Walter Anderson opened White Castle in 1921. He did not invent the hamburger (this book wisely steers around that controversy); he merely standardised its production, cooking dozens of pre-weighted, pre-shaped burgers at once on a dedicated griddle, and serving them on specially designed buns. The friendly grillman in a white paper hat, amicably chatting with customers as he formed meat into a patty and slapped it onto the grill next to cheese sandwiches and omelettes, gave way to the kitchen as assembly line, and the cook as infinitely replaceable technician.

The article goes on to describe with great exactitude the dimensions of a classic burger, as defined by yet another “genius” businessman, Ray Kroc: It must weigh 1.6 ounces and span 3 and 5/8 inches. It is “garnished with a quarter of an ounce of chopped onion, a teaspoon of mustard, a tablespoon of ketchup and a pickle slice” no larger than one inch in diameter.

Fascinating, simply fascinating.

Various Odes to Summer

Ode #1:
Oh, weather that is hitting 100 degrees (all over the San Francisco Bay Area) and adding to the misery of the $4/a gallon gasoline: How self wishes you had come just a week later, for yesterday self spent hours digging planting holes for the following: passiflora and two five-gallon loropetalum. And now the plants’ leaves have shriveled as if they’d just been passed through an oven.

Ode #2:
Oh, Tony Shalhoub: How self loves to watch you as Adrian Monk, especially on a hot day like today when self is supine on couch because it is too hot to be anywhere else (though self did make an attempt to locate a book called Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs at the Redwood City Main Library, a few hours ago)

Ode #3:
Oh, T. C. Boyle (and self learned just yesterday that the “T” stood for “Tom”, which was a name self thinks is altogether too pedestrian for you), you and your black suit and your large stone pendant and your pouff-y hair and your piercing (but also somewhat vacant) gaze: How self’s heart beat in her chest when she accosted you after your reading at xxxx community college, while her two English 1B students could do nothing but stammer out their admiration, and you revealed that you wrote the story about Pakistan although you know very little about Pakistan and in fact have never been there, which only tripled self’s admiration

Ode # 4:
Oh Kokomo Colada yogurt smoothie from Yumi Yogurt on El Camino Real: How self adores your lambent blend of banana, pineapple, and coconut — the perfect antidote to this scorching weather. How self dreamed about you for hours and finally relented and stood at the end of a line that was 10-deep (the first eight like escapees from some techno-geek convention, Asian-Am males with short short hair and polo shirts and khaki pants. The only thing missing were the pens in the shirt pockets, dear blog readers)

Ode # 5:
Oh son who bothered self exceedingly yesterday with your last-minute decision to enroll in a college-level course in Spain that is delivered in Spanish (knowing very well your last Spanish was in eighth grade, with Mrs. Teresa C, who wasn’t a teacher, just a member of the Mother’s Club, and not even, herself, Spanish), and who had to get thrown out of the program by irate Mr. Martinez, who argued with self and then with hubby before finally stamping “Denied” on your application: How self wishes you would go somewhere else, Tel Aviv or Hong Kong, where one of self’s Dear Bros has that fab three-bedroom apartment and you wouldn’t have to pay a thing, no not a thing, only for your airfare, and wouldn’t that be preferable to spending four hours M-F sweltering in a classroom in the University of Valladolid?

Ode # 6:
Oh, Orhan Pamuk, who writes altogether too much of snow in the book of the same name (and not enough about the virgin suicides, pace Jeffrey Eugenides): How self wishes the blizzard would be over already, so self could discover who killed Ka.

Ode # 7:
Oh, man who loves Thom McGuane who excoriated self for her “feminist” reading of the great man’s work on xxxxxxx.com: How humbled self is by the knowledge that no one will ever defend self’s work the way you have McGuane’s.

Ode # 8:
Oh, students, you who chat about all and sundry after class, who offer to walk self to her car so that she will not be harassed by J & J: How self adores you, how self truly adores all of you.

(Sweltering) Sunday Afternoon: Planning Dinner & The Return of The NYTBR

Be careful what you wish for. Just a week ago, self was complaining how cold it was in the Bay Area. The weather made her groggy and tired and self wanted to sleep all the time.

In contrast, yesterday and today were hot. This afternoon, self wheedled hubby into watching “Mrs. Pettigrew Lives for a Day,” showing downtown.

The streets felt empty. The two restaurants across the street from the Redwood City Main Library on Middlefield Road — A Tavola and Milagros — were shuttered and silent. Self used to love seeing the customers chatting at tables on the sidewalks, but A Tavola hasn’t been open for almost a year now — a sign says the restaurant is closed for re-modeling, but no work has been done. She hopes it hasn’t shut down.

There was a little more life in the theatre lobby. Self couldn’t help thinking: Is this what a recession feels like? Silent streets, and everyone moving sluggishly? Hubby declared the movie “sappy” (though self thought Lee Pace was dee-lightful!) He said he wished he’d spent the afternoon watching Tiger on TV.

Now, self is home. Ah, what to do, what to do? She watered, a few buckets. She continued digging a hole for the passiflora vine she’d bought from the Mountain View Farmers Market before going to Tel Aviv. The vine is so long now that its stems flop all over the place. But the ground is so hard and gravelly that self gives up after just a few minutes.

Self should probably plan dinner. In Cooking Thai Food in American Kitchens, Book 2, there’s a recipe for “Delicious Hamberger” (spelled exactly that way). Self thinks she can manage this: the photo shows a white serving plate, hamburger patties (in some kind of brown sauce) arranged around a centerpiece of pearl onions, cherry tomatoes, and chopped green beans.

Perhaps that’s too simple. Here’s another dish: on a round serving platter, an arrangement of brussels sprouts, asparagus, and broccoli. The caption identifies the dish as “Asparagus, Broccoli and Brussels Sprouts in Oyster Sauce.” Self doesn’t have the asparagus or the broccoli, but she does have brussels sprouts. And, how silly, this morning self was in Costco and she forgot to get soy sauce. Also, hubby complains about the rice she bought a few days ago from Marina Mart, which is some fancy Japanese rice that he says is too sticky. But since self bought a 25-lb. bag, it will be several weeks yet before self can think of getting a different kind. She’ll just have to put up with hubby’s grumbling.

In the meantime, self has begun reading The New York Times Book Review again. Amazing that it’s been almost a month since she read the last one. This morning, she reads the March 9 issue. And here once again, dear blog readers, is the list of books self is interested in reading after perusing it:

(1) After reading Walter Kirn’s (in self’s opinion, somewhat digressive) review of Richard Price’s new novel, Lush Life:

Richard Price’s new novel, Lush Life

(2) After reading Thomas Mallon’s review of Joshua Kendall’s The Man Who Made Lists: Love, Death, Madness, and the Creation of Roget’s Thesaurus:

Joshua Kendall’s The Man Who Made Lists: Love, Death, Madness, and the Creation of Roget’s Thesaurus

(3) After reading Scott McLemee’s review of Eric Alterman’s Why We’re Liberals: A Political Handbook for Post-Bush America:

Eric Alterman’s Why We’re Liberals: A Political Handbook for Post-Bush America

(4) After reading David Rieff’s review of Michael Scheuer’s new book, Marching Toward Hell: America and Islam After Iraq:

Michael Scheuer’s earlier book, Imperial Hubris: Why the West Is Losing the War on Terror

(5) After reading Lorraine Adams’ review of Jenny Siler’s — aka Alex Carr’s — new spy novel, The Prince of Bagram Prison:

Jenny Siler/ Alex Carr’s first Stella Rimington spy novel, 2004’s At Risk

(6) After reading David Berreby’s review of Dan Ariely’s Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions:

Dan Ariely’s Predictably Irrational: The Hidden Forces That Shape Our Decisions

Self Asks, “Why?”

Blog views back to pre-Tel Aviv levels. Self watching glumly as the flag on the Carinis’ front lawn, across the street, snaps and crackles in blustery winds. This afternoon, students trudged around xxxx community college in parkas trimmed with fake fur. Only a few days ago, self was sweating while wandering the Neve Tzedek neighborhood of Tel Aviv with Dearest Mum. Why, oh why?

The Olympic Torch arrives in San Francisco tomorrow. Which should be extremely exciting, as protesters will be sure to try and grab/douse it. Did anyone see what happened to that poor woman who was holding the torch aloft in Paris? Why, she was practically clobbered by a group of very tall men in track suits. She momentarily disappeared from view and self was sure she had bought it. Also on the news last night was an extremely entertaining clip showing a daring Frenchman attempting to douse the torch by flinging a bucket of water over it. (Self, have you completely forgotten? Tomorrow, you will be in the City, specifically in the Ferry Building, where you and Nona will be reading and discussing the short story writing process. Let’s hope torch relay is over by then)

In the mail today, a furniture catalog, addressed to Dear Hubby. Now everyone wants to sell him stuff, ever since he ordered self-forgets-what from Hammacher Schlemmer last year. And self now recalls that almost the first thing she heard husband doing, the day after she got back, was placing a phone order with Hammacher Schlemmer for: a) Something that looked like a giant green Pogo stick, which hubby explained he would strap on his feet for the purpose of aerating the lawn. You see, one maneuvers on the thing by jumping, and so hubby will be jumping — hop, hop, hop — all over our front lawn, like a giant Easter rabbit, and b) a special rear view mirror that is so wide it successfully eliminates those blasted driver “blind spots” and c) an exceedingly interesting gadget which– self knows not what it does, but it did look interesting.

Also in today’s mail is the latest issue of Vanity Fair with — hallelujah — a person close to self’s age on the cover. This is none other than the Material Girl, looking very hip in black unitard and almost-thigh-high leather boots. The caption is: MADONNA: UNBOWED, UNCOWED, STILL TAKING ON THE WORLD.

Oooh, and here’s Condoleeza, popping up on the Ch. 2 news. She was in Tel Aviv last week, and that city’s Hotel Row, Hayarkon Boulevard, was crawling with cops and security details. Now it seems there is a rumor going around that she is interested in being McCain’s Vice President? But even more interesting is the gossip self heard that Oliver Stone is about to direct a Bush movie, with Josh Brolin to play Bush, Thandie Newton to play Condee and Welsh hottie Ioan Gruffud to play Tony Blair. Say what?

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.

Quotes of the Day: from Anna Johnson’s THE POWER OF THE PURSE

This noon, were treated to brunch at Crepes Café by a couple of Dearest Mum’s second cousins (residing in Los Angeles). Were briefly joined by son, and then he took off for the drive back to SLO.

Walked to Kepler’s afterwards. It was a gorgeous day! If self were not so sleepy and, yes, tired, she would have called this “the eighteenth most gorgeous day so far in 2007.”

While hubby browsed in the military histories, self wandered over to the gardening books but somehow found herself distracted by a section that had books like How to Be A Goddess.

Also in this section was a book with a title self found most interesting: Handbags: The Power of the Purse. Flipping the book over, self reads, on the back: KNOW YOUR GUCCI FROM YOUR PUCCI! Opening to a random page, self’s eyes then land on these words: Accessory as armor, handbag as fetish (!!@@##) Now in the throes of a strange kind of excitement, self reads a little further, and shortly encounters a quote by mistress of fashion Vivienne Westwood: When in doubt, overdress.

Self finds this pronouncement so interesting that she is compelled to read even further, whereupon she uncovers this interesting nugget of information: “The bag began as a pocket, an object of secret pride . . . worn beneath petticoats.”

In a section called “Bags and the Body,” self finds pictures of a wide array of colorful (red and orange) bags and there reads:

There is something stiffly self-conscious about carrying a structured handbag with a little top handle. Like the affectation of gloves or a fan, the gesture of carrying a bag at a dainty distance from the body deems it ladylike by virtue of its old-fashioned discomfort.

Self cannot post anything further, dear blog reader, as she is just so exceedingly sleepy. Will attempt further additions to the post after self has taken a (brief) nap.

Harney & Sons Pomegranate Oolong Tea

It comes in a red brick tin. I saw it while standing in line at my local Barnes & Noble, beneath a sign that said $3.95. The side of the tin said: “Hand Picked Full Leaf Ti Quan Yin oolong, hand-blended with Pomegranate Flavor.”

EFFECTS: Inspiring.

For days, since coming back from Hong Kong, I’d been a little feverish. Yes, the temperature in the Bay Area was a brutal 105 degrees and all around me people were having conversations like this: “Where’d you go to get away yesterday? Moss Beach? It was actually SCORCHING in the City…”

In Hong Kong, I’d stayed at my brother’s vast and pristine apartment overlooking the busy ships of Victoria Harbor. To my left was the Bank of China Tower, all bad feng-shui angles. Directly across my window were the Lippo Towers, two knobby fingers thrusting into the Hong Kong sky, whose previous two owners had committed suicide. I thought of such things all the time in Hong Kong: whether it was bad luck to pick up an umbrella that someone had abandoned on the street (VERY bad luck, my friend Maloy told me) or to drink the red tea that was served in the little sidewalk restaurants (even worse bad luck: you might get dysentery).

In my brother’s apartment was a cabinet that was filled with nothing but tea: Chinese and Japanese tea. I examined these colorful packets every morning: Bojamine, Tenren. Even a few packets of Japanese green tea. I poured myself a cup every morning and night and the steam rising from the hot liquid was unfamiliar and exotic and also bracing.

So, I was back in the Bay Area– or, to be specific, in REDWOOD CITY— and I was standing in the Barnes & Noble, and the sign that said $3.95 (I was almost broke) convinced me that the tea was a good deal.

I grabbed a tin and the check-out girl said: $7.95. Oh. Too exhausted–by heat/ confusion/ jet lag–to argue, I forked over my debit card.

When I got home, I pried open the lid of the little red tin. Inside were gauzy triangles, soft as silk, with little black nubs of indeterminate shape nestled quietly in the corners. The effect was like looking at little clouds.

I lifted each silky triangle and sniffed. A sweet scent, like licorice. Oh.

Every day since then, I take one bag out of the tin. Each time I look and look at the little clouds. It’s always very early in the morning, 5 or 6 AM. I put a cloud in my old chipped ceramic mug. I boil water. I drink essence of Asia.