Food, and Dogs, and Food

This morning I woke up hungry, not having eaten supper the night before.

I thought of taters and eggs, which I had promised Alex I'd make before she and John had to go to the Bay Area. I thought of the soft and scrumptious loaf of Dutch crust French bread I bought at the store the other day. I thought of what to make for lunch with things on hand.

There was a container of egg whites, left over from making pumpkin custard the day before yesterday, so the taters and eggs made use of that. Delicious. Perfect. Hearty breakfast accompanied by tomato juice. Good start to a freezin' ass cold day.

Around 10 am, I opened the freezer to see what was available for lunch. I spotted a small container of onions and ground beef that I intended to make into some variant of minestrone -- but I knew Bernie wouldn't eat that as it would have too much tomato flavor to it. Aha! A bag of pre-cooked prawns (50 % off sale at the grocers one weekend) and a package of chopped broccoli. Got it, lunch is on the way!

The minestrone fixins I pulled out as well, just because I couldn't stop thinking about them.

Baby portobella mushrooms ... a package of them needed to be used up, so I cut each one into halves or quarters and tossed them into a frying pan with Saffola Margarine (good taste for sizzling) and cut up half a yellow onion into 3/4 inch chunks and began to cook them in extra virgin olive oil in a separate pan. The pot of white basmati rice began to cook.

Prawns thawed in a solution of sea salt and lemon juice and water; some of the mushrooms went into a pot with the minestrone stuff on a back burner, along with a hefty amount of "Italian Seasoning" by McCormick.

A can of chicken broth was mixed with 2 tablespoons of corn starch, some salt, and a heavy shaking of garlic powder, and added to the onion pieces when they were done, to slowly come to a boil. When the rice was nearly done, I put the frozen broccoli on to steam. A few minutes later, most of the mushrooms went into the thickening chicken broth, along with the cut up prawns. (Some of the mushrooms went into the minestrone pot.) When the broccoli was done, so was the rice, and with that, lunch was served. Delicious, nutritious, and satisfying.

The minestrone-to-be slowly thawed on its low setting, seemingly forgotten, but not.

I walked to the school to collect Lillian. We checked the mail, and then, ambling up the street came a man with his Great Dane bitch. She was beautiful, black with a white spot on her chest, and a hint of whitish toes. Maybe a third again bigger than our dog Sebastian, but looking like his auntie. Lil and I stopped to talk with the owner, who assured us that she didn't bite, and we petted the large, lovely lady, comparing her loopy ears to Sebastian's, and the breadth between her eyes, and the gentle eyes themselves. Yeah, I think Sebastian has some Great Dane in his ancestry.

Return to the minestrone variation. I dumped some leftover fried cabbage (don't knock it until you've tried it, cooked with onions in bacon fryings) into the pot, and a cup of tomato sauce. A little later, I tossed in about a quarter cup of nopalitos (cactus strips) and a handful of sliced black olives. I added more oregano, more garlic powder, and a cup of asparagus, cut into half-inch pieces. Dumping in maybe a cup to a cup and a half of Wolfgang Puck's beef broth (no MSG) and about the same amount of the water from the broccoli steaming, and a cup of pasta ...

When the pasta was done, I cut a couple pieces of the French bread, and slathered them with cream cheese. Serving the minestrone in a bowl, I sprinkled it with Parmesan cheese and ooohhh, perfect soup, perfect meal for a cold, cold winter evening.

An Object Lesson

Lillian was playing today with Sebastian, riding her scooter up and down the street, with Sebastian bounding ahead of her, and behind her, and around her in an excess of glee. Occasionally he would grab his favorite stick and carry it along.

Elena-From-Across-the-Street-Who-Was-Born-Two-Weeks-After-Lil joined them with her bike, and they zoomed up and down the sidewalks until Sebastian's tongue was hanging around his toes. Howie ignored them, as I was prepping the bread chunks for tomorrow's turkey stuffing, and he felt it more important to supervise me, in case I dropped a piece of bread. (I was doing the prep work out in the garage studio, so that I could keep an eye on the girls.)

An ideal afternoon.

As the sun was going down, the girls went inside for a snack; I did a few more chores so that I have less to do in the morning.

Then the girls decided to take their play over to Elena's house. I walked with them, so as to find out what time to retrieve Lillian.

Time stops.

A man with a fluffy little dog is walking down the street, and the girls coo over the sight and say how cute the dog is.

On the other side of the street, two houses away from Elena's, a woman walks with two white pit bulls, looking smug at her fine, clean, muscled animals. The girls look with awe on the pure white matched pair of dogs.

As we started across the street, I began to mutter to Lillian that she should never go up to a dog like that, because they are dangerous. The woman with her two white beasts walked past Elena's house and turned the corner. By that time we were on Elena's porch, and the girls were dithering because Elena's dogs were barking.

I heard a growl, and an exclamation, and pulled the door open and shouted for the girls to get inside, NOW! We left Elena's bike on the porch and I leaped in the door, too, absolutely uninvited.

Elena, shouting at her dogs, old Pokey, an arthritic beagle, and fierce Molly, barking like a vicious maniac, the growling and snarling intensifying outside. Confusion, clamor.

Poking my head back outside, I saw that the two white pit bulls had suddenly attacked each other. Blood was on their muzzles, so I ducked back into my neighbor's house, far more willing to risk a bite from cranky Molly than get involved in the mess outside. The neighbor pulled open her curtains to reveal the woman trying to separate the two big dogs unsuccessfully, and blood was all over the dogs' white faces, heads, and chests.

A car pulled up, and a man leaped out, grabbing the tail of one of the dogs and pulling it back away from the other. The dogs separated for a moment, then resumed their fight, spattering the woman's face, chest, and arms with blood. The man grabbed the leash of one of the dogs and pulled it away.

He took the dog across the street; the woman continued on Travaille Street and turned at the next corner. I don't know where she lived, or what she said to the man except for the words, "they're sisters" regarding the dogs. He kept the dog he was holding away from the other until the woman could get the dogs ... home?

When the woman and the dogs were out of sight, I headed back across the street to confer with my neighbors on either side who were out on the sidewalk; the snarling of the dogs had been loud enough to draw a lot of attention. The police arrived, asking us where the woman and dogs had gone.

One of the neighbors and I stood and talked about the incident until the police came back, shouting to us that "everyone is okay."

"Yes," I said to the neighbor, "except for those of us who will have nightmares about this tonight."

Yet it provided an opportunity to drive a lesson home to Lillian. While still in Elena's house, I made her look out the window at the bloody dogs, and reiterated my warning about the danger of such breeds. I know that this time, she learned the lesson to the depths of her soul.

Lil is a very trusting and loving little person. She loves animals and people, and wants to be affectionate. It was harsh of me to make her look at that horrible sight, but she has to know that she may NOT assume that other dogs are as mellow and people-friendly as Sebastian and Howie.

Part Two.

Anyone who could view those two white dogs could see by their square frames, with the legs set well apart for stability; their heavy musculature in shoulders and necks for shaking strength; and the thick, broad muscles of the top of their heads for jaw-lock power -- those dogs were bred to grab hold, thrash, and retain their balance. Umm. Gee, let's do Dogs for Dummies -- that means they were bred to fight and kill.

I've talked to pit bull owners who say that their dogs are sweet and lovey-dovey and beautiful and smart and totally safe, but what I saw this evening belies those statements. Those two white dogs were siblings, raised together, and without a cause, went at each other with death in mind.

No. Sorry. Not proper "dog" behavior.

When our German Shepherd, Babe was introduced to the new puppy in the house, my beloved Howie, he felt it necessary to thump the younger dog regularly. They would spar, teeth showing, flashing their faces around so quickly it was hard to follow the movement. They fenced, move and countermove, bodies posturing to present defensive maneuvers and dominance.

They never drew a drop of blood.

Howie does have to give Sebastian almost a daily beating for his impertinence, but again, for all Howie's snarling and snapping and biting of Seb's face and bony elbows, there is never blood, and all I have to say to them is "Enough" and they separate and go find something else to do. That's proper dog behavior.

Tussling, playing, respecting the Top Dog's order. That's "Good Dog."

The white pit bulls had no respect for each other, or their owner. All they wanted to do was kill. That they had no respect for their owner is what makes them really scary animals, though. With dogs, the pack leader HAS to be able to order the pack. Has to. No other choice. If you don't control your pack, the pack is uncontrollable. Duh. An uncontrolled pack (even if it is a pack of one) will ignore orders and do what it wants.

On a street with so many small children, my heart was chilled by what I saw today. The rivulets of blood flowing down the back of the white fur of a dog's head, the faces of the dogs red with blood, the woman vainly trying to separate the animals, with blood on her face and shirt -- no, I won't forget.

And alas, neither will Lillian.

NaNoWriMo 2009

The picture has no point to this blog, it was just prettty, and reminded me of the many times over the past 34 years that Bernie has brought me bundles of flowers to arrange.

I haven't blogged for a long time -- life has just been crazy-busy. I had convinced myself that I didn't have time to write 50,000 words in November, but there was this dream that I had, that sounded like it could be an interesting story ...

So I'm writing, and it feels good. Very, very good.

Storm in October

Yesterday this was a nicely-swept patio.

I swept it clean of the piles of hopseed seeds (I suppose they look like hops) because I had this idea that if it rained on the drifts, they would become like cement. There was a fair amount of effort involved, because at this time of year the hopseeds let loose their branches and flutter to the ground. Knowing that there were heavy rains involved as well as high winds, I'm not sure why I thought I should make the effort.

As you can tell, that effort was pointless. The sparrows could not find their birdseed under the hopseeds, the bluejay was damp and disconsolate that there were no peanuts to be had, and there will be no less work for me in cleanup than had I not bothered to sweep the patio before.

It's a fine example of a storm out there, with high winds (gusting to 40 mph, they say) and a substantial amount of rain. The nice thing is that it's not a COLD storm, so Lillian and Sebastian and Howie -- and a little later -- her friend Megan from up the street were able to play in the gutters and the rain until they were soaked and chilled. (Outside temp about 60 degrees.) Since the winds were out of the south, our garage was sheltered, so Bernie and I watched the storm (and the girls and dogs) after lunch until he had to get ready for work.

I came into the house and made a fire, which is taking that clammy edge off the house, and providing a comforting focal point.
Bernie, driving through weather-crazed traffic on his way to work (his commute took a half-hour extra because of all the accidents), suggested I go out and net up all the stuff that blew off the neighbor's sequoias into our pool.

Can you guess what I told him in reply?

I'm looking forward to Thursday or Friday's horse ride to see what happened to the orchards in this mess. The air will be CLEAN, though I suspect a lot of trees will be down due to recent shaking and the wet and the wind.

The Dirty Air of Harvest

Almond blossoms. They scent the air with perfume in February, turning Winter's bare branches into pale pink and snowy bouquets.

Yes. That was then, and this is now. Most of the blossoms, having matured into tasty nuts, have been shaken from the trees by a machine with a giant claw, blown or swept across the bare and dry soil by sweepers and blowers, sucked up off the dirt by gigantic vacuum cleaners, and shot into trailers to go to the hulling mill.

The very fine dust that was shaken from the trees as well, blown and swept across the orchards, sucked up and thrown into the air ... has stayed there. Well, for the most part. Some of it has dropped onto houses and shrubbery and sidewalks and sinuses.

I rode through the orchards today, noting which quadrants were done, which were still to be shaken or swept or hoovered up, hoping that I'd be able to avoid a thick cloud of dust. Fortunately we did, or the wind was blowing in an auspicious direction. Although by the time I was home I felt caked with dust on my skin, I had experienced the sweet, delicious scent of kiwi fruit wafting from their little orchard.

A Week Later

Today I needed no painkillers to ease the ache in my jaw, because it's finally gone.

What a week! Sore, swollen, stuttering, biting my tongue over and over again ... ow. But today it is better. I've still got a sore spot on my tongue from pinching it, but otherwise, I'm ready to tackle a steak or a crunchy salad. Thank Heaven.

With the cessation of pain, I threw myself into the work of the Piker Press, and did some uploading of articles and correspondence that has been waiting for my attention. I got a lot done, actually, and that felt good.

The Piker Press, as I have said before, exists for no other reason than to keep writers writing. We're getting some good distribution, but more importantly, the writers are getting published in such a way that allows them all the good aspects that their writing deserves: audience and (I hope) good editing.

The Fame and Fortune Thing for the Press is just going to be dependent upon Fate throwing some marketing genius at us who can work for zero dollars until we can turn a profit.

But I'm not waiting for profit, I just love to see new work, love to hear people's stories.

Gotta love writers who write because they love writing.

Under the Porch

I don't do dentistry well.

Tantamount phobia, dentistry is my least favorite activity in the world. I hate the sound of drills, the echo of drills in my head, the injection of Novocaine, (or whatever the hell it is), the clatter of instruments on trays, the touching of my teeth and face.

I elected to have two crowns put in today, because the time is coming when we'll have no dental insurance. When that ends, well, we're on our own, and that means "screw you, live with pain and teeth needing care."

At least now I will be able to chew on the right side of my mouth until the end of my life. The aging fillings in the two back teeth are gone. The new crowns will last me until the end of my life.

I made it through the appointment without shedding a tear; indeed, most of time I was marveling at how incredibly stoned I was from the nitrous oxide. For two hours, the most coherent thought I had was, "Wow, I am really fucked up."

Nevertheless, I repeatedly tried to relax my shoulders and arms, and tried to send my mind away to other thoughts -- but I can tell from the aches in my body that I will be sore tomorrow just from the tension stress.

It's only 4:30 in the afternoon, but I want to crawl under the figurative porch and be left alone, like a sick dog.

Note: When I came back from the dentist, both dogs climbed into my lap, sniffed my face and hair, and kissed me gently in concern. What good boys!