Twice as Thankful

Two Thanksgiving dinners cooked in three days, one here in Northern California and one in Southern California.  Can you say food coma?  What happened to my Weight Watchers plan?  Pumpkin pie for breakfast, really?

Here is the tally for the two meals:

44 lbs of turkey, 7 lbs of ham, 36 rolls, 4 lbs of sausage, 10 cups of rice, 16 lbs of sweet and russet potatoes, 2 pkgs of marshmallows, 2 quarts of gravy, 6 pies; 4 pumpkin, one pecan and one sweet potato. Plus all the assorted accompaniments.

Thankfully, we left half of one meal in Southern California.  But here in the North, there are looming leftovers. 

 

This Thanksgiving there were changes. I made my first ham ever and with a little help with the glaze, it was delicious.  I made port cranberry sauce that brightened up the meal and got rave reviews. I am most thankful that I can cook a meal and share it with the people I love.  

Ho’omaika’i no ka’u ohana

 

The translation from Hawaiian is "grateful for my family".  My son gave me this on a note last night after dinner.  It prompted me to write this entry today.  I get so busy with life that I forget to stop in the moment and reflect on what matters. Family and love matter.

Thanksgiving. I remember those who are no longer with me and with whom I have wonderful memories of Thanksgivings. Shasta Lake with my Papa and Grandma. The year my Mom picked up a hitchhiker and brought him home for dinner because he was not going to make it to his home in time. Learning to BBQ a turkey from my Mother-in-Law as I have done for the past 36 years.  I miss my Mom’s smoked oyster stuffing and her plate of pickles, olives, wheat thins and more smoked oysters.  The yeasty rolls my Grandma in Shasta made. The pies GG made. The time we took her pecan pie and played Frisbee with it in the front yard because it was so hard!  The year we had three turkeys; smoked, fried and barbecued. The huge family Thanksgivings at GG's with 20-30 family and friends. Now, without her, we all celebrate the holidays separately.   

We let go of  the one thing that kept my GG alive 93 years, family gatherings.   

It is time for new traditions like ham, traveling between North and South and smaller tables.  I will welcome the day when my family grows and the Thanksgiving table gets bigger. I already miss the laughter and the company we shared this year. I count my blessings tonight by remembering my Thanksgivings past and look forward to my Thanksgivings to come.

Remembering Dillon

Black dog.  He had many names, Dillon the Villain, Dillon the tomato-stealing dog, Bud.  He was the best dog ever.  Even that isn’t enough.  He was ours for nine years.  Black as the night we lost him in.  The darkest evening of the year, December 21, 2011.  Six months later, we are still grieving. 

The tears flow easily.  Why did he run and not come back?  What lured him out onto a busy street?  He never wandered.  Who hit him and left him lying there?  It only took a few minutes for him to run off and never come back.

It was after midnight when I opened the door and there was his master, telling me the story, I heard the words, and wondered how we would get through this.  Him especially.  They were close this master and dog.  Shock set in.  The next day and everyday since, I feel the sting of tears.  I forget he’s gone and open the door expecting to see him.  When I see another black lab, I feel the pain of loss.  When I look into his master’s eyes and see the sadness still, I want to cry. 

A dog comes into your life and never ever leaves.  They become a part of you and your family.  We’ve had our share through the years.  Losing each one seemed harder.  We swore we would never love an animal so much that it hurts like this.  But we did.

I want to rush out and replace him.  His master doesn’t.  But his heart does.  Because all a dog can do is, love you back.  Who doesn’t need more love in their life? 

There will be another dog.  However, there will never be another big black, birdy, tomato stealing, biscuit begging, boat fishing, duck hunting, truck riding, and best friend like Dillon.  He was one of a kind.

Coffee and Company

Coffee.  My way.  Hot, strong brew, dark, served with half and half, raw sugar in a mug.

What makes a great cup of coffee is the company.  I have many combinations that make up my favorite cups of coffee.  Sharing coffee with someone or savoring one alone are two of my most loved experiences.  Coffee and company. 

It’s 5:30 am on a Saturday morning.  I have had two cups, my limit.  Manna, nirvana and comfort for my soul.

I have shared thousands of cups of coffee with people I love.  The act of sitting down, looking eye-to-eye, sipping hot soothing liquid while speaking life’s secrets, hopes and desires is how I like my coffee.

Here are some of my favorite cups of coffee

My Mother-in-law’s coffee

My Mother’s coffee

Starbuck’s

Café Luxxe Café Nico

Bayside Church Granite Bay

Duncans Mills Award Winning Iced Coffee

Java City Mocha

Bella Bru Special

Kitchen Beautician Percolated Coffee

Blackwater Chocolate Cappuccino

My Grandma’s coffee

My Mother-in-law poured hers into a saucer to cool.  She drank from a cup with a saucer.  Sometimes instead of cream and sugar, she would put a spoonful of vanilla ice cream in.  I remember the cream and sugar set she used.  Sitting at the padded dining room table, looking out onto her lush landscape she tended, listening to stories of growing up in Hawaii. Coffee after one of her delicious meals.  Family. Laughing.  Singing.  I miss her.

My mother’s coffee.  Strong and hot. Always paper filtered Melitta style, made to order with freshly ground beans.  Usually French roast.  The only downfall was her skim milk.  The conversation centered on what books we had read, movies, music.  Since she moved out of state, I miss her and her coffee. 

Starbuck’s. Coffee with my girls.  Lattes, mochas, grande or venti.  On the go. When they built the first Starbuck’s in Sacramento, Town and Country Village, I remember thinking this would be our place.  And it was. Is. My fondest Starbuck’s memories?  Running through the streets of Nassau headed to Starbuck’s.  Going through the drive through on trips to the beach.  My best friend calling me every year when she has her first pumpkin spice latte.  I remember particularly the first day both of her boys were in school.  She called me from Starbuck’s.  Alone.  Joy.  I took her two boys when they were younger to the drive-through and bought cups of whipped cream with spoons.  Peace in the mini-van.

Café Luxxe in Santa Monica, totally trendy and decadent.  My new favorite cup is a Café Nico, a shot of espresso infused with candied orange and cinnamon. Coffee as an art.  The rosetta, milk foam art. Outrageously expensive but a truly artful cup.  You have to have it once.  I wish I had one right now!

Coffee at Bayside Granite Bay.  Hot and strong.  Starbuck’s brew.  A fitting prelude to the grace I leave with every Sunday. 

Iced coffee.  My Mom always drank iced coffee when I was growing up.  The best iced coffee is at Gold Coast Coffee in Duncans Mills.  Award winning.  They take a tall glass and put whipped cream and raw sugar in the bottom, spreading some up the side of the glass, add ice, pour over hot espresso then fill with half-and-half. 

It is so good.  Perfect.  I remember being there, reaching into a basket thinking it was sugar, and it was condoms.  I laughed all the way to Guerneville.

The first espresso coffee I ever bought came from Java City at 18^th and Capitol.  Driving downtown for mochas.  The old silver van full of kids, others and mine.  The bump on 16^th going out of town.  Summer nights.  The laughter.

With the “Ladies”, we used to go for coffee after dinner.  We tried to stay out long enough for the kids to be in bed by the time we got home.  Though that often meant, “paying the babysitter”.  One night at Bella Bru, someone ordered the Bella Bru Special made with chocolate milk, almond syrup, slivered almonds on top, whipped cream and served in a giant blue coffee cup with a saucer.  I remember how we laughed at the presentation!  It was the largest cup of coffee we had ever seen!  Now, we are home early and most of us can’t drink caffeinated coffee after noon!  But we still laugh when we are together.

I have a friend who calls herself the “Kitchen Beautician”.  She gives perms, dyes and cuts hair at her kitchen table.  She makes coffee in an electric percolator.  You hear it first, and then smell the coffee.  Sitting there with a towel wrapped around your neck, sipping hot coffee and the entertainment, the comedy, the stories, and the laughter.  She is the funniest woman I know and she truly missed her calling when she didn’t try standup comedy.  She is a great friend and all of us who know her count ourselves the lucky ones.  I love you Betty!

The chocolate cappuccino at Blackwater Coffee on Watt Avenue.  Small but so powerful.  Taking one to Mrs. Jenkins at Del Paso Manor was an excuse for me to stop and get one myself.  So chocolate and rich.

Last but not least, my Grandma’s coffee.  Weak, bland, lukewarm.  Flavored water really.  She never liked my coffee nor I hers.  But I drank it because I wanted to be at her kitchen table, by the pool, on the porch, anywhere, with her.  It was never about the coffee for me.  It was always about her.  She was a coffee hoarder too.  She always had extra cans on her shelf.  I used to tease her about her anticipation of a coffee shortage but I appreciated she always bought extra.  She never wanted to run out. Coffee was important to her.  No matter what time of day, she would offer you coffee with a piece of pie, cake, a donut, cookies.  Never just coffee.  I miss coffee with her the most.

Downtown – K St. for Pizza and a Dive

 

            We headed downtown minus two this month to Pizza Rock and Dive Bar.  They sit next door to each other on the K Street Mall.  Everyone and their brother has thrown money at the mall since they cemented the street and stopped cruising in the 70's.  It has never thrived and the attempts to clean it up are not usually successful.  I pass these places twice a day on my light rail commute.  In the morning, they are being power washed to remove the night.  In the evening, couples sit outside and wish they weren’t so close to the sidewalk, light rail and street people.  It doesn’t seem to be a comfortable patio dining experience. 

            How trendy is a bar where a Mermaid swims in a giant aquarium, blowing kisses to the 20-30 something guys holding up their IPhones to take her picture?  I loved it!  Really.  I liked the cave like atmosphere mixed with the Disneyesque background including a pirate’s chest and real tropical fish.  It all works when you are looking in a giant aquarium. The building is long and narrow, dark and cool, divided into three areas; an entry with comfy casual seating, the bar and aquarium with mirrors so you have a view of the swim show no matter where you sit, and the back area where you can plug in your IPod and play your tunes.  It was loud, but good music.

            We ordered cocktails, served with goldfish crackers, cute touch.  We asked when the Mermaid would make an appearance and were told that there is no set schedule to keep it spontaneous.  Then, she appeared.  Haltingly pretty with a killer body. It was hard not to think that she needed a good meal, as her ribs were visible.  She swam, like a Mermaid, turning and waving to the crowd.  Smiling.  In a purple Mermaid costume. It was dramatic and whimsical all at once.  I liked it a lot.  I would certainly go back for the show.   There is something so magical about it.  Remember, I cry at Hallmark commercials. 

            We left and went next door for pizza.  Louder music there.  It was crowded but we were seated quickly.  We had another Mayor sighting.  We laughed that he was following us around town.  He came in with an entourage and was seated at a large table in the middle of the restaurant.  He left before we did.

            With a perfect view of the pizza oven, a Cirigliano imported from Italy, we were primed for pizza.  The pizza oven fire can be seen from outside on the patio.  Inside, the truck hanging out of the wall is impressive.  Also, note the mural by Carlos Lopez on the ceiling.  Pretty cool.  Not a dark restaurant but a bright, lively, loud fun place. I really like the liveliness of this place although it makes conversation a challenge.

            The service, not so great.  One of us ordered a thin crust and got a thick crust and the waiter discouraged her from re-ordering because it would take too long.  To me, that was his problem not hers.  He should have fixed it.  I had the Margherita, which won Tony Gemignani the Pizza World Cup in Italy in 2007.  He won on 6-13-07.  They have a rule that they only make 73 per day using the formula.  6 + 1 = 7 and kept the 3 for 73.  New math.  I don’t care how they figure it, the pizza was so good.  Just San Marzano tomatoes, mozzarella, basil, evoo and sea salt.  So simple, pure and delish.  I would go back and try some of the others.  We all liked the pizza. And the place.  And the Mermaid.

Church Lady

             Yesterday,  I became a Church Lady, the kind that bakes and carries her goods to people who are sick or shut in. But let me give you some background before you think I have really lost it for good.

            I go to church on Sunday, alone.  Not a conventional church, but one for people who don’t like church.  I take from it what I need for the week.  I sit in the bleachers with a few hundred other people, all kinds of people.  Dressed in jeans, shorts, sundresses, flip-flops in casual California beach style.  I go to Bayside of Granite Bay and it has been church to me for the past five years.  It feeds me and lifts me up when I need it the most.  The music rocks me and reminds me that I am alive and that Jesus is too.  I like the anonymity of worshiping with hundreds of people.  It just fits.

            I got up Sunday morning, early.  I can’t help my internal alarm clock. Made coffee, read the paper and baked coffee cakes.   I planned to visit a friend, recently diagnosed with breast cancer and decided to take something baked with me, hence the Church Lady imagery.   I pulled out a package of Bisquick and made coffee cake.  I think this is one of the first recipes I ever made.  I made two, one for home and one to go.

            My friend was happy to see me and I her.  We worked together 8 years ago keeping in touch sporadically through the years. She knows my husband and knew my Grandma.  She is a beautiful woman, inside and out, a supportive wife and loving mother and grandmother.  And she is fun.  One of our most memorable experiences together was a Jimmy Buffett Concert in Mountain View where we wore Bikini T-Shirts that she sewed belly button rings on.  What a blast that entire day and night was! I will never forget sitting in the car in the venue parking lot, eating our Togo’s sandwiches before walking around, when a young man approached the car wearing a grass skirt and a coconut bikini top, carrying an ice chest and a sign that said, “Beer for Boobs”.  His gig was, show me your boobs, take a picture, and you get a beer, Corona.  We just laughed him off but she called her husband and told him we weren’t even out of the car and someone wanted to see our breasts!  Good times. 

            Now she has already had one surgery and is going to have another.  She is dealing with it just the way I knew she would, with humor and the support of her loving husband, family and friends.  We drank tea, ate coffee cake, told stories and listened with our hearts.  She radiated beauty as she sat on the couch telling me about her cancer.  I thought of all the women I know and have met who have battled and won this fight.  My mother of course and just recently the young mothers’ I met fundraising for Komen Race for the Cure.  I told my friend about the 100-year-old woman, a 20-year breast cancer survivor who spoke at the Survivor Ceremony at the Race.  She had some great advice on how to live.  I can’t remember exactly to quote her but I recall she said to use olive oil when you cook.  Have a drink, but not too much.  Eat your vegetables.  Surround yourself with people you love.

Good advice for all of us.

            I left there glad that I had made the trip and happy to see that she is in survivor mode and supported by people who love and care about her.  She did share with me that her mother used to make this coffee cake without the streusel, slice it horizontally, fill it with strawberries and top it with whipped cream.  Sounds yummy.  I wonder if I have two cups left…

Bisquick Coffee Cake - Taken from the back of the box

Cinnamon Struesel

1/3 cup Original Bisquick® mix

1/3 cup packed brown sugar

½ teaspoon firm butter

Coffee Cake

2 cups Original Bisquick® mix

2/3 cup milk or water

2 tablespoons sugar

1 egg

1. Heat oven to 375°F. Grease 9-inch round pan. In small bowl, stir streusel ingredients until crumbly; set aside.
2. In medium bowl, mix coffee cake ingredients until blended. Spread in pan. Sprinkle with streusel.
3. Bake 18 to 22 minutes or until golden brown.

 Did you know that Bisquick has been around since 1931?

Decoration Day

May 28, 2011

            I spent many a Memorial Day weekend visiting the cemetery.  My Grandma called it  “Decoration Day”.  We never bought flowers instead; we went into our own yards and cut whatever was blooming, roses, irises, hydrangea, and greenery.  We filled old coffee cans, mason jars or galvanized buckets with blooms.  My Grandma and I would load the car and go to the cemetery.  We were pricked by thorns and rewarded with the flower scent filling the car. 

            My Pop, Papa and Grandma Coote were there.  Now I add to the list my Grandma.  She and I usually went alone for years before I had children.  Then occasionally my kids would go, under protest.  I gained a respect and a lifelong habit of decorating in the cemetery.

            I do some of my best thinking there.  I’ve had family tell me that the dead people I mourn are not there so why do I go?  Sitting on the bench placed there when my Grandma died, under the ancient oak tree, in the breeze where it is cool even on the hottest Sacramento summer day, I am at peace.  I look to the west and see the graves and to the east, the field often changing my position on the bench as I ponder my worldly problems.

            But back to my visits with my Grandma.  My maternal Grandma Coote was buried in 1968 followed by my Pop in 1976, my Papa in 1986 and the hardest loss for me, my Grandma in 2008.  It still feels raw and emotional.  I had her 22 years longer than any other Grandparent.  Today, May 28th, she would have been 97 years young. She and I went regularly to the cemetery after my Pop died, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, whenever she wanted to go.

            I go now when I am lost and lonely.  Alone.  I pray, I talk, and I always leave in a better frame of mind than when I first sit on the bench.  I’m not sure if it is the cathartic flow of tears or the heartfelt conversation and prayers but it works.

            I have a job to do there. I clean up when I go.  You could say I have a cemetery routine.  I bring flowers, a broom, a bucket, a couple of towels and a washcloth.  I sweep first and not just my Grandparents markers but also my cousin’s grandparents and my aunt’s.  Then I take the washcloth and wipe things off.  Sometimes I take clippers and a shovel to clean up the edges.  This Decoration Day I walked from the car carrying a broom, a bucket filled with roses and hydrangeas from my yard and some towels.  I was quite a sight.  And this day, I had company.

            I immediately noticed when driving through the iron gate that there were people there.  Many people, in cars, trucks with trailers and uniformed soldiers in white,  walking up and down the rows. I usually only have turkeys as companions, the feathered kind.  A rafter of turkeys live there protected from dogs and man.  I have had to chase them away from “my spot” with a towel so I could sit without them sneaking up on me.  They are creepy looking. Prehistoric.  Somehow they seem at home in the cemetery.

            After cleaning and placing the flowers, I took my seat on the bench.  I watched the people placing white crosses with American flags on the graves of all the veterans, remembering them for Monday’s Memorial Day Services.  It was a beautiful serene sight, in Technicolor, with white uniforms, white crosses, white clouds in the blue sky, green grass and the flags unfurling in the breeze.

 

            I sat there taking in all the movement in a place usually so still.  I saw a truck and trailer pull up.  There were two men riding on the trailer and two in the cab of the truck.  A man got out of the cab, grabbed a cross and a flag and started walking towards me.  I thought they must have checked on their map and forgot someone.  As he approached me, he held out the flag and cross.

            I took it from him and tried to say thank you without choking up but it was not possible.  I told him through tears that it meant a lot to me since my Papa was a veteran but never recognized on Decoration Day.  I told him, he would have been honored.  But it was I who was so touched in the moment, sobbing as he walked away.

            A total stranger, an act of kindness and recognition 25 years overdue.  I sat under the ancient oak, tears falling and memories flooding in.  Maybe that’s why I go. For the memories of the grandparents who adored and treasured me all of my life.  The love and the loss fill me until my tears spill out on the granite and brass.  Another Decoration Day is done.

Not Impressed by The Press

             Some of you will not like what I have to say about The Press.  Those who dined with me agreed it was not the experience expected.  Dining out for me is for a special night or a celebration, not just dining out of the house.  I am an observer of people and places.  When I walk into a restaurant, my senses go into overload.  What do I smell, garlic or fresh baked bread?  Can I see or is it dark like a cavern?  What do I hear, dishes rattling or laughter from diners? How is the greeting, friendly or nonchalant?  From all of those questions, I formulate an overall ambience within minutes, usually before being seated.  Wrong or right, that’s how I do it. 

            When I chose The Press, it was highly recommended.  Everyone I talked to told me I had to go there.  I chose it for our Ladies Night monthly dinner out. Prior to showing up for dinner, I emailed the restaurant and received confirmation of my reservation.  They were very accommodating and welcoming.  When I walked in the door, my first impression was another nearly comatose atmosphere set in under performing lighting, similar to many trendy downtown dining establishments.  Not welcoming or comforting but stating matter-of -fact, “Here we are, like us or not, this is the ambience we have chosen to feed you in.”

            I look at eating as a sensory experience as well.  How does it look, smell, taste?  We decided to order six of the small plates, reasonably priced at 3 for $10.  We were not wowed by flavor or appearance.  The dishes were underserved with no garnish or sauce and looked lonely in their little white plates.     We ordered the focacia and found it odd that they charge $1 for aged balsamic vinegar.  The focaccia was served warm and inviting.  However, the olive oil tasted musty and when I asked the server where it was from, she said it was local.  Not the best we’ve tasted.  I have better olive oil in my cupboard.

            The tzatziki chips were too hard and the dip uneventful.  The octopus salad was good but had too many peppers and onions and not enough octopus.  The piquillo peppers looked bright and inviting on the plate and were yummy, sweet and salty with just the right flavor.  The best of the six we decided.  The onion and bacon crostini was good. Although the potato croquettes had a tasty crunch and soft centered bite, they needed a dipping sauce or more flavor.  They were perfectly cooked.  The celery, blue cheese, dates, and almonds sounded like an exploding taste bite that would scream out yum but they carried a more ho hum flavor.  We ordered a soup and two entrees.  The garlic soup was without cream, yet creamy and full of garlic goodness.  We all laughed at the presentation.  The soup came in an over-sized bowl and seriously could not have had more than a ladle measure in volume for $6.  Very disappointing.  The two pasta’s were a carbonara fettuccine and a shellfish pappardelle.  No whining here.  They were delicate and delish. Overall, the company far exceeded the fare.

            What is it I desire from a restaurant meal?  Trendy, fun, new dining experiences?   I am tired of the same old dinner in the same tired décor with overpriced beverages and under performing food.  Our dinner for four exceeded $80.  Do I expect too much for that price?  Maybe.  But I do expect to be wowed.  Either by the food, the service or the atmosphere.  I wasn’t this time.  I doubt there will be a next time for The Press.