she's just saying...

Why we love the high desert

This is a Friday frylet freezlet for sure.

Happy Memorial Day weekend! Looks like a great weekend to stay in and knit.

I has a spuragrus

Look, Mark! We finally made one!

(Mark was my gardening partner to whom I owe my many many garden beds of which I can't handle the upkeep.)

Just one. Not sure what happened to all the others. I can't bring myself to harvest it. I just go visit it now and then and feel very proud.

The whole garden has had a late start this year. I wonder why: could the snow this Saturday be one of the reasons? I think we hit 45 degrees as a high that day. That's all right - I'll be complaining about the heat in a few months.  I hope.  Happy Memorial Day!

End-ing Up

I was playing a game with a friend the other day, and he asked: "What was the most fun day of your life?" It wasn't a day, but an entire weekend, the one when I turned 50.

After the usual backing out, reconsidering and re-making of plans, Neighbor X and I flew to San Francisco. A friend of his ran a grand old hotel there and upgraded us into a lovely room with a stunning bath (the crucial part of any hotel room). We got there in the evening and got ready to hit the town.

Our destination was the legendary End Up, a dance club/bar/garden/lounge scene. It was Gay Night and we got there in time for a silly transvestite performance that set the tone. They were pumping fresh air into the dance floor filled with hot shirtless guys dancing to deep house thumps and disco remixes. The dance floor and lounge opened onto a garden patio with private areas, twinkly lights, tropical plants and fountains, very magical in the early morning hours.

We hung out for awhile with a bunch of little gay asian guys who were funny and sweet. Everyone kept asking us "Where are you from?" (I guess our fleece jackets gave us away)

and "Are you having fun?" Later on, the after-hours crowd started coming in, more hetero but still cool. The party went all night and picked up more steam early Saturday morning when a drummer came in to accompany the house d.j.  At one point they stopped serving alcohol for an hour or so with no visible decline in the happy level for reasons I needn't explain. It was a fun, friendly, exhilarating scene.

We danced, drank and visited til sometime the next morning, left the still-pumping party, took off with some new best friends and hung out at our hotel. We had plans that evening to go out for dinner, but never made it. We relaxed with room service, long baths and a movie.

The next day we drove to Calistoga, touring wineries along the way. Schramsberg had a champagne cave built into a hill, very romantic, where we toasted to my birthday with some other guests.

Opus One had all that is Opus One. Classic elegance and classic wine.

We ended the weekend in with mud baths, champagne, shopping, wonderful lunches and a picnic in the vineyards.

Once home, we went back to the frustrating dance of attraction and separation, never to change.

I've moved on from that relationship; still, I keep the memory of that wonderful weekend and take it out now and then to savor.

So, think about it -- what is your favorite weekend/day/night memory?  Is it one you can share?

hotel sinks - an occasional series

Second sink shot for a Friday frylet (that makes it a series, right?) First was the trendy one in Portland.

This one is from that moderne hotel in Tacoma that offered the spiritual room service menu. This hotel, the Murano, specializes in glass, as in glass art and decor. (It's a tie-in with the Tacoma Museum of Glass - arty.) This is a lovely sink that shares the same problem as the Nines sink of the previous post, which is that it's too chic to mess up. I kept wiping up after myself for fear I'd leave water stains. Kinda defeats the point, but that's what you gotta do for art, I guess. Anyway, happy Friday.

Ooh, glassy!

 

The War of the Hoses

If they can land a man on the moon, can't they invent a non-leaking hose?  Or, to be more timely: if they can stop an underwater well from gushing oil, why can't they stop hose nozzles from dripping?

I hate dealing with hoses. I'm always buying random parts, fittings, couplings, hose ends, plumber's tape, connectors, and nozzles. They always leak. And kink, and drip. A few years ago I was taken in by the coiled hose concept; I can't remember why. They're particularly annoying, tangling up like a telephone cord, only heavy and wet.

Here's this year's collection of hoses and parts. Notice how wet it all is. Has anyone found a leakless hose/nozzle?

Hosed.

Jicama days

First of all, it's pronounced hee'-ca-ma. Not hick-a-ma, like hiccup. Everyone corrects me but I'm right about this one. Irritating. It's Spanish, people!

Anyway, it's a big root.

I first encountered jicama when we lived in Mexico City during my sixth grade. The jicama man would push his cart down the street, and we'd run out and buy a slice with salt, lime juice and chili powder on it. Now that I think of it, that's a pretty odd thing to sell from a cart, as it's about the easiest thing possible to prepare other than peeling. 

So that's how I prepare it, accompanied by a cerveza, chips and salsa. Perfect on a hot summer night like tonight with the ballgame on.

S'mores

We've got a thing for s'mores around here. For those of you who never went to scout camp or just arrived on this planet, a s'more is a graham cracker sandwich made with a melting marshmallow and piece of Hershey's chocolate. You're supposed to toast the marshmallow on a stick over coals, but nuking the whole thing in the microwave works in a pinch.

Controversies surround the proper toasting technique. I prefer the perfect golden melting perfection achieved through careful patient toasting. Then there are those philistines who like to immolate their marshmallow into a flaming sugar inferno, which not only tastes burnt but causes cancer. Seriously.

I bought s'more makings for our family gathering last week and we enjoyed watching three 20-somethings turn into 11-yr-olds again along with the actual 11 yr-old in attendance. My cousin Rafe had the toasting technique down - I was quite impressed.

I also learned that it's really hard to shoot a pure white object next to a pure black object with a point-n-shoot camera.

artsy

Weeknight Caesar

One of my go-to meals is Caesar Salad.

(BTW, it's one of my pet irritations to see Caesar spelled wrong on menus. So annoying.)

I've made CS since I was in college and it's always a hit. It's a 10-minute recipe, perfect for the casual-but-impressive spontaneous entertainment meal you want to be known for. So, in the spirit of giving back to my wonderful supportive readers, I'm sharing it here.

(This is actually the classic Caesar recipe - I just explain how to cut corners and make it quick.)

Quick-but-Authentic Caesar Salad

all amounts are approximate - adjust to your taste

• 3-4 anchovies, smashed, or 2 tsp anchovy paste
• 1 coddled egg (see note below)
• 2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
• 1/2 cup olive oil
• juice of 1/2 lemon (or more - I like a lot of lemon)
• 1/2 tsp dijon mustard
• 1tbsp garlic (I use jarred minced)
• salt and pepper

• head of romaine, ripped into bite-size pieces
• 1/2 cup grated parmesan
• croutons (optional)

Place first eight ingredients into a jar and shake hard. Pour over lettuce, add cheese and croutons. Serve with more salt/pepper. Done!

You can top with chicken, shrimp or salmon. 

Note: to coddle an egg: tuck it into bed with a blankie and a cup of tea. Or alternately, boil it for about a minute. When you crack it open, it should be just starting to emulsify - you'll need to mash up the whites a little. If you don't like to eat raw eggs, you could chop a soft-boiled egg, but it won't be the same. Can't help you here.

Note #2: We keep a mouli grater pre-loaded with parmesan in the fridge in a plastic bag. It's always ready to go for fresh grated parmesan.

Family memory: When Doctor Sister was pregnant and living in Princeton and I was in NYC, she'd beg me to come down on the train on the weekend to make Caesar salad to satisfy her anchovy craving. Funny.

Loose morels

Morels are a type of wild mushroom that grow in the Northwest in the spring. Their flavor is deep and mysterious and substantial, and they look really cool too, like little alien coneheads.

There's an underground culture of mushroom pickers here in Central Oregon who jealously guard their picking spots, so really it's easier to pick them down at our local farmstand. Adam gets them from a picker on his way back into town every day, and sells them dirt cheap. 

For some odd reason most morel recipes online involve saltine crackers, bread crumbs, or even corn flakes. All you need to do is saute them in butter or olive oil. You can add some shallots, parsley, garlic and lemon juice, a splash of white wine, serve them on toast or whatever. Or eat them with a fork right out of the pan.

The morels of the story

(Puns: the last refuge of lame writers.)

I just got a lot more creative

I use Flickr to store and post my photos. Within Flickr there's an editing app called Picnik. It's a terrific, flexible editor that quickly crops, resizes, corrects color, red eye, exposure, etc.

Yesterday I clicked on another tab in Picnik titled "create." That function allows you to add text and images and effects to photos. So to play with my pictures, I don't have to open an involved photo editing program - it's all in one place, for free.

For example, it can do this:

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Produce and the City

[Note that I used the word "city" in the title of this post. I've been informed that Bend does indeed have an escalator; therefore by my own definition it is a city.]

I love farmers' markets. Who doesn't love farmers' markets?  However, I'm very happy these days that I don't need to go to the Bend Farmers' Market any more. (correct possessive apostrophe of a plural noun there.) There's the small matter of parking, for one thing; getting there on time, waiting in lines, dodging the shiny happy families and so forth. Just saying.

The reason I don't have to go you-know-where is that a farm stand has opened two blocks from the house.

And it's a great farm stand.

Tomatoes that taste like my dad's eaten right there in his garden.

  Big fat and little donut peaches.

 

Local berries, herbs, beans, potatoes, onions, beets, corn delivered daily right from the field. etc. It's thrilling.

And it's really local.

The best part? I can send Henry down with a backpack and a grocery list. I'm telling you, after nine years of doing it all myself, I'm finally reaping some payback. And it's character-building too.

This is Adam from Richard's. Tell him Melissa sent you.

Torn cheese is feeling torn...

Screwy

Back in the wonderful state of Oregon, but not much else to say. I can't face recounting our endless travel saga, and vacation was vacationy: eating, drinking, reading, family and hanging around the pool. Very pleasant -- too bad we have to travel two days to experience it.

The X-man dropped by for a visit yesterday and was pressed into fixing stuff. It's so nice to have a man around the house and all that. This photo is from that effort.

And the day got screwier from there.

Of Mice and Monkeys

Now this is impressive:
 

Remember that little blogoversary contest I ran? Probably not. Well, I was very cleverly guilted in my last post into actually delivering the prize to the local winner, Chris K., a blog buddy. (I'd call him a bluddy, but that's not so cool, actually. That's his photo montage above, and I even stole his post title.)

For his patience, I tucked in a little surprise with the catnip mouse he won.

Its use temporarily stumped him, but he quickly figured out what it must be...

...a monkey poncho.

So now it appears that in addition to the whippet sweater and the poultrywear, I'm into simian wraps.

And you have another must-read blog to visit!

Confessions of a fangirl

LeBron was spectacular in the 4th quarter last night.

"You never want to disappoint the home crowd. It was win or go home,'' James said. "You have to do everything sometimes.''

I can relate.

But seriously...

It's weird to me that I'm so into watching professional sports. Not just watching, but following. I read Sports Illustrated. I stay up for Sports Center. I even listen to sports talk radio. Really.

Weird because I never played team sports growing up. NEVER, unless I was forced to in gym class. Always last to be picked (btw, how come everyone says they're the last? That's not statistically possible). I always swam, skied and took ballet, but never competed. Physical competition made me anxious. I think it still does; I don't know because I avoid it. It's not about fitness; I was a scuba divemaster and an aerobics instructor. But I won't even play volleyball at a beach picnic.

So why am I glued to the baseball game streaming on the computer, the basketball finals on TV and reading about the football draft? Where could this have come from? I was always the arts & crafts type (still am).

Watching the girls at Henry's meets and games, I'm envious of their unself-consciousness and their team camaraderie. I realize I missed out on an experience that would have been confidence-building and valuable. Maybe that's why I'm drawn to the culture of professional sports. Or maybe this is why:

crabapple

Not bad for a point and shoot.

Amaryllis of the day

striped amaryllis, originally uploaded by Meltrier.

This is probably the most spectacular one yet.

Though it's labeled "Ludwig Dazzler, a brilliant white," it clearly isn't. I'll have to do some research.

Update: it's "United Nations" if anyone out there is interested...

Old relationships never die...

Maybe the best way to end something is to not end it at all, but just let it fade away, as the old song goes.

We so much want "closure" in this world. The last scene, a final act, the curtain drops, the lights go out, it's over now. But maybe that's not the way the natural world works. Instead, that "finality" is actually an artificial construct, a directed vision of how we think things should end.

Often when we speak of closure, we really mean another chance to interact. Often, closure just gives us the opportunity to open things again. We're still feeding the beast.

To allow things to just wind down and peter out seems weak, indecisive. But it is an action, and possibly the most final one you can make.

I'm not sure. I'm just saying.

Just sit. And pet me.

I'm guessing the Buddha didn't have pets.

Fundamental to Buddhist practice is sitting meditation. I practice somewhat sporadically these days, but it's an important, meaningful and refreshing activity for me (more like non-activity, really). However, it's a little hard to do with lovey, hungry, furry beings climbing all over me.

I like to sit just after I wake up. My pets like to eat just after I wake up.

They remind me of this by rubbing up against me, purring, grunting, dropping balls by my feet, scratching at the door,  barking, meowing loudly, and just generally bugging me. Especially when I'm sitting on my cushion on the floor.

They're my little Bodhisattvas, enlightened beings who stay among us to help us reach nirvana ourselves. I'm guessing their message to me is to stay in the present and take care of others' needs first.

It's a frustrating but loving lesson.

Bob hogging the cushion, deep in thought.

carrot art

carrot art, originally uploaded by Meltrier.

Seen at a market in Portland. A very fancy market.

This spoke to me in a profound way, though I'm unable to articulate why.

Anyone?