Happy Thanksgiving everybody. My good friend and erstwhile conscience, Nick Nardullo, told me today that I had a responsibility to let my friends know where I am on a regular basis.
I allowed as I hadn't had much to say in recent weeks, but he allowed as that was just a lame excuse for laziness and as long as I had started this blogging thing I had an obligation to keep it up. He, at least, was using it as a method for tracking my madness.
So here I am to fill you in on the meanderings of the two nutjobs living in a bus. We went from a Lake Tahoe vacation with Jeff in mid October and drove north as far as Sequim Washington. Stayed a couple of days in Portland, then Bend, Oregon, Shasta, California, and at some point stopped one night for dinner in SF with Jeff, then headed down to Pismo Beach in early November for a nice stay of a week, after which we took a second week in Pacific Dunes in Oceano, the town below Pismo. I did write a blog about Pismo and Dirty Ernie, and except for my brother Richard and my sister Sue, I don't think anyone else in the world has any idea what I was talking about. Ah well. You had to live in our house growing up to understand. We did "bits" at the dinner table -- everything from Dirty Ernie to Gabby Hayes to Uncle Miltie. No wonder half my family is in the theater -- and the rest of us wish we were.
On November 23 we headed north to Pacifica, the town just below SF, where we are in close proximity to Jeff and Keith, his roommate since college, who happens to be a major cook. We'll go to their house at 1:00 today and with 7 friends, partake of over 20 different dishes, then sit back with bursting stomachs and watch football, more football and more football. I may bring a book.
I promise to be better about locating myself. Nick said, "Just write a sentence. One sentence! Just let us know where you are."
Obviously, this is an impossibility for me. But I'll try. God knows, I'll try.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
There Ought To Be a Law
Pismo Beach, California
(Why are all California beaches foggy and rainy when I get there?)
We drove the 220 or so miles from San Francisco to Paso Robles today, planning to stop at Pismo Beach for the night. And if the phrase “Dirty Ernie” just popped into your head, you and I are the same age, and if you didn’t, then you missed one of the funnier bits in early television. Sid Miller was partners with Donald O’Connor, and earned himself several appearances on The Colgate Comedy Hour, where he did a drunken monologue about “Dirty Ernie” who never did show up at Pismo Beach. John remembers the one Dragnet show he was on, and neither of us knew that he directed a lot of the Mickey Mouse Club. But I digress.
After yesterday, a day of living Hell on the twisting, steep and narrow roads through the mountains and along the coast of Northern California –- which netted us a broken tree limb wrapped around a rear wheel, an exhaust pipe packed with fresh dirt, a car with a frozen steering wheel and a road of no return that twisted unceasingly up the side of a mountain and was all of one lane wide -- we opted for a nice, recently paved, wide road south. That put us on the 101, otherwise known as El Camino Real.
South of San Jose, the road takes up residence in the most beautiful valley in California, between the Coast Ranges on the left, and the Santa Lucia Mountains on the right. It is one of the most productive farming areas in the State and I couldn’t get over how big the farms were. There was a 20-mile stretch of beautiful brown dirt, nurtured, rich, and ready for planting. There were miles of vineyards, acres of avocados, and hectares of artichokes, in other words, lots of So-Cal produce. Not so many oranges; it isn’t all that southerly. We saw many more fruit trees around Los Angeles.
I saw big stretches of one type of plant ready for harvesting, a vegetable I presumed, with an abundance of raggedy-edged leaves. John guessed arugula, but I didn’t think so. Then we spied a group of farm workers standing around a makeshift table and lopping off the raggedy leaves to reveal – cauliflower. Had I not seen that tableau, I would never have known what it was. Which leads me to the point of this story, which is, I think they ought to make it a law that every farmer in America must plainly identify the crop being grown.
Think of how many accidents could be avoided if people like me didn’t have to go abruptly from 65 mph to 15 to get a better look at what’s peeking up from the ground.
Think of all the intellectual discussions that could go on as a result. Geez, Louise, I didn’t know artichokes grew like that! Or, say, Cornelius, how do they get those grapevines to twist around those little stakes? Or even, why the Hell are they growing so much damn cauliflower?
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate cauliflower. I like it raw, with globs of onion dip all over it, so you can’t taste it. Occasionally, I like it cooked, as long as it’s creamed, with lots of butter and cheese, so you can’t taste it.
Cauliflower goes into my reject bin along with those little cabbage thingies, what the heck are they called anyway? Brussels sprouts, that’s it. They don’t look like sprouting anything, and they don’t taste like schnitzel, so what’s up with that name. No wonder I can never remember it. And oh yes, Swiss chard is in there too.
Beets are another polarizing vegetable, as is broccoli, isn’t it, Mr. Bush. I love both, but my son Jeff knows that my worst attempt at parenting happened because of beets. I actually made him sit in front of a plate with two tiny slices of beet for over 45 minutes one night just because he wouldn’t put even one half a slice in his mouth. Why winning that test of wills was so important to me, I can’t say.
But I was paid back in spades last night, when Jeff – who never ate anything green, crunchy or for that matter, healthy, when he was growing up – took us out for sushi and insisted on ordering. I ended up eating the “Two Spoons” appetizer, one of which held a glob of uni – horrid yellow stuff – and a raw quail egg. Payback is wonderful isn’t it, son? To be truthful, it was delicious.
I just smothered it in butter and cheese, added a dash of onion dip, held my nose, and swallowed the thing whole.
Betty
(Why are all California beaches foggy and rainy when I get there?)
We drove the 220 or so miles from San Francisco to Paso Robles today, planning to stop at Pismo Beach for the night. And if the phrase “Dirty Ernie” just popped into your head, you and I are the same age, and if you didn’t, then you missed one of the funnier bits in early television. Sid Miller was partners with Donald O’Connor, and earned himself several appearances on The Colgate Comedy Hour, where he did a drunken monologue about “Dirty Ernie” who never did show up at Pismo Beach. John remembers the one Dragnet show he was on, and neither of us knew that he directed a lot of the Mickey Mouse Club. But I digress.
After yesterday, a day of living Hell on the twisting, steep and narrow roads through the mountains and along the coast of Northern California –- which netted us a broken tree limb wrapped around a rear wheel, an exhaust pipe packed with fresh dirt, a car with a frozen steering wheel and a road of no return that twisted unceasingly up the side of a mountain and was all of one lane wide -- we opted for a nice, recently paved, wide road south. That put us on the 101, otherwise known as El Camino Real.
South of San Jose, the road takes up residence in the most beautiful valley in California, between the Coast Ranges on the left, and the Santa Lucia Mountains on the right. It is one of the most productive farming areas in the State and I couldn’t get over how big the farms were. There was a 20-mile stretch of beautiful brown dirt, nurtured, rich, and ready for planting. There were miles of vineyards, acres of avocados, and hectares of artichokes, in other words, lots of So-Cal produce. Not so many oranges; it isn’t all that southerly. We saw many more fruit trees around Los Angeles.
I saw big stretches of one type of plant ready for harvesting, a vegetable I presumed, with an abundance of raggedy-edged leaves. John guessed arugula, but I didn’t think so. Then we spied a group of farm workers standing around a makeshift table and lopping off the raggedy leaves to reveal – cauliflower. Had I not seen that tableau, I would never have known what it was. Which leads me to the point of this story, which is, I think they ought to make it a law that every farmer in America must plainly identify the crop being grown.
Think of how many accidents could be avoided if people like me didn’t have to go abruptly from 65 mph to 15 to get a better look at what’s peeking up from the ground.
Think of all the intellectual discussions that could go on as a result. Geez, Louise, I didn’t know artichokes grew like that! Or, say, Cornelius, how do they get those grapevines to twist around those little stakes? Or even, why the Hell are they growing so much damn cauliflower?
Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate cauliflower. I like it raw, with globs of onion dip all over it, so you can’t taste it. Occasionally, I like it cooked, as long as it’s creamed, with lots of butter and cheese, so you can’t taste it.
Cauliflower goes into my reject bin along with those little cabbage thingies, what the heck are they called anyway? Brussels sprouts, that’s it. They don’t look like sprouting anything, and they don’t taste like schnitzel, so what’s up with that name. No wonder I can never remember it. And oh yes, Swiss chard is in there too.
Beets are another polarizing vegetable, as is broccoli, isn’t it, Mr. Bush. I love both, but my son Jeff knows that my worst attempt at parenting happened because of beets. I actually made him sit in front of a plate with two tiny slices of beet for over 45 minutes one night just because he wouldn’t put even one half a slice in his mouth. Why winning that test of wills was so important to me, I can’t say.
But I was paid back in spades last night, when Jeff – who never ate anything green, crunchy or for that matter, healthy, when he was growing up – took us out for sushi and insisted on ordering. I ended up eating the “Two Spoons” appetizer, one of which held a glob of uni – horrid yellow stuff – and a raw quail egg. Payback is wonderful isn’t it, son? To be truthful, it was delicious.
I just smothered it in butter and cheese, added a dash of onion dip, held my nose, and swallowed the thing whole.
Betty
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