So, as I was saying . . .

Sometimes I am just AMAZED at how tuned in to world events I am. Seriously. Just this weekend I was sitting in a camp chair in the mountains while my friend Matt dished me homemade pizza off the grill (he rolls out the dough and everything), and one of my friends who had got his mitts on a paper when he drove down to buy Benadryl for his son's mosquito bite that looked like a tumor emerging from his brain remarked

Look! Sarah Palin is resigning!

Sigh. Big news usually waits until I am on vacation to happen. It's so wrong: Something of this magnitude, and I am without Salon.com and HuffPo to explain it all to me. Not that I really need it. In fact, I have to say I nailed this one.

Huh. Bet she's headed down to South Carolina to see if she can be their governor.

And why not? It looks so much easier. Apparently you can leave the state to cry in Argentina for five days and for much of it get away with people thinking you are hiking the Appalachian Trail. Duh. Did anyone not notice he packed swimsuits instead of hiking boots, bug repellent, and duct tape? And the good state of South Carolina keeps chugging right along. 

Imagine my delight when my analysis was confirmed (almost) in this video by Sarah Palin herself, introduced by the lovely and talented Sara Benincasa. 

She says it's for a vacation, but I think she's just being coy. And do you think they will notice down there that she is not a citizen of South Carolina? I'm thinking not! At any rate, more Sarah Palin in the news is good news for me. And you know why.

Not necessarily in that order

We're going camping. I am packing. 

___  Tent            

___  Tarps 

___  Air mattress & pump   

___  Red blanket

___  Sleeping bags

___  Blue pads  

___  Pillows

___  Broom

 

___  Teak roll-up table 

___  Coleman stove            

___  Weber grill           

___  Propane           

___  Water bucket

___  Dish washing tubs (2)

___  Food box 

___  Dish towels 

___  Utensil box

___  Coolers

 

___  Canopy

___  Chairs

___  End table

 

___  Coleman lantern

___  Tent lantern

___  Headlamps

 

___  Solar shower

___  Bath towels

___  Line

___  Clothes pins

 

___  Sunscreen

___  Bug spray

___  Toiletries bag

 

___  Bikes

___  Receiver / bike rack

 

___  Camera

___  Radios

___  GPS

 ___  Maps and area books

___  Camelbacks

___  Day pack

  ___  Fanny pack

___  Water bottles

 ___  Fishing gear

 

___  Hiking boots

___  Ugg boots

___  Sandals

___  Food

___  Water

___  Wine

I will rest when I get there.

Heat wave menu

I admit it: I'm a heat wimp. Anything over 80 and I cannot exercise outside, cannot get anything done at home, and in general cannot think straight. I certainly cannot follow a recipe. If I'm lucky, I have done a good job of shopping and can get by with simply throwing together ingredients that seem compatible.

Here's my Sunday dinner line-up for this weekend's heat wave.

Fava beans (shelled, blanched, peeled), corn (roasted on the grill for a minute or two), diced prosciutto, shaved raw fennel, ricotta salata, olive oil, salt.

Potato salad. Yukon gold potatoes (peeled, diced, boiled), thinly sliced radishes, sliced green olives, onion, fresh dill, creme fraiche.

Grilled chicken breasts. My wonderful butcher (Magnani's on Hopkins) is happy to cut for me organic breasts, skin, no bones. And they're equally happy to wrap up the bones separately for stock making. I pound each breast to equal thickness, drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle with salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. The meat sits like this at room temperature for about an hour before I grill it, skin-side down for about eight minutes and then a few minutes on the other side. It's important to let it rest for a while, just like steak, to soak back up the juices before slicing. I make more than we can eat. Because who knows when the famous San Francisco fog will come rolling through The Gate to deliver me from my misery so I can think straight and turn on my oven once again.

We finished up with a green salad and for dessert a fruit salad of white nectarines and blueberries dressed in a melted and then cooled rose geranium jelly. Just because I'm making Sunday dinner doesn't mean I can't do a little refrigerator cleaning.

Off to take another shower. How do people in other parts of the country do this heat thing? Oh right—air conditioning.

Michael, Farrah, Sophie, and me

Apparently, I have LIMITS. Which is probably a surprise to those who know me and my parenting style. Whenever Sophie has asked questions, I answer with as much honesty as I can. She knows a quite a lot about quite a lot: sex, babies, homosexuality, religion, war, substance abuse. But I drew a line today. In my answers to her questions about Michael Jackson and his life, I stumbled into the observation that "Many people thought he was gay. Um . . . sort of." What did I mean by "sort of"? I didn't go there. For perhaps the first time. That's right: Me. A limit. Who knew?

I did try to explain to her what else Michael Jackson was: At one point perhaps the most famous man on earth. I was traveling abroad when Thriller was released, and people who could hardly speak English came up to me exclaiming "Michael Jackson! Thriller!!" Whatever, I thought at the time. His music was too pop for my taste. But in explaining to Sophie why he was so recognized, I remembered that he was the first who put together music, dance, and drama in the way we know it today. And when I played an old Jackson Five cd for her (the only good stuff in my mind), I was sad he was gone. We danced around the living room together, and I let go a tear. My reaction reminded me of my mom's when she heard Elvis had died. I remember sitting across the breakfast table from her next morning on a summer vacation when we heard the news and being amazed that she—hardly a hip-shaking rock and roller—cared so much. That was her king; for better or worse, this was ours.

Even thought I did not consider myself much of a fan, I was amazed at how much of his influence had infiltrated my life. All those high school dance class moves: Did they really come from him? I guess so; surely, he didn't lift them from us. And those Jackson Five songs? I knew all the words to most of them, strangely like the Pledge of Allegiance or the Lord's Prayer. Some things it's not necessary to memorize or believe: They're just there.

And it seems too much that Farrah Fawcett left the same day: Two icons from a single generation.
This is Sophie's favorite picture of her. I explained that once a long time ago I had the same hair, shoes, jeans, and unfortunately nothing else. And I could ride a skateboard like that (notice the old-school clay wheels!). I don't think she believed me, but I know the truth.

This afternoon at work I noticed myself pulling my hair out of its usual ponytail and reaching up from time to time to give it a little fluff. I guess she's there too.

Rest in peace, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and an era when we were young and stars were stars.

I would like to complain

Scratch that: I will complain. Right here.

As an employee of the distinguished University of California, I have already been informed by President Mark G. Yudof that I may expect a wage cut and/or work furlough resulting in an approximately 8% salary decrease. Sigh. It's not like I make a lot of money in the first place. My salary is one that can make cocktails come out the noses of my almost all better-paid friends. In the past years, we have either received no cost of living or merit increases or ones so tiny that they are immediately  gobbled up by increases in our part of health care insurance costs. In effect, I have already been making less money every year. But I've not complained. I love what I do, and in my mind there's no price tag you can put on that.  

And I've been working harder. There are no longer any editorial assistants in my department. And there are fewer editors.  But the same number of books. Contract positions (that took the place of once full-time positions) are not being renewed. People leaving or retiring are not being replaced. And people have been laid off. But still, I've not complained. It's frustrating and sad but unfortunately unavoidable. 

BUT NOW I AM COMPLAINING. They've messed with my salary and my workload, but now they're messing with my LUNCH. That's right: my goddamned lunch. Is nothing sacred?? Lunch time is supposed to be a BREAK for eating lunch or doing whatever else you want to do. Eating lunch with my colleagues ("brown bag lunch meetings") to hear about our upcoming switch to Gmail or how to handle diacritics and nonroman alphabets in electronic editing does not quality as a break. Of course, we're not required to attend these meetings, but missing them means you're out of the loop on important material that directly affects your job.

If I haven't ridden my bike to work (long grinding hill all the way home) or plan on running after work, I go to the gym for spin. On days I bike or run, I go to Pilates. Most of the time. I then eat while I work back in the office. Lunch meetings wreak havoc with this well-laid and compulsive plan.

What's next? The six-day work week? Count me crabby.

Camp lunch shutdown

Damn—we were on such a roll with the wraps.

Just look at this:

Pub cheese (something Trader Joe's makes; a little too processed for me, but Sophie loves it, and it spreads well), turkey, and avocado. A total hit! Until I received email from the director of Sophie's fiddle camp that not only may lunches not include peanuts (a pretty standard restriction these days) but they may not include meat. Or shellfish, I assume, since the edict comes from the school that houses the camp, which is a Hebrew day school. Does the fact that all the chicken we eat is kosher impress them? It does not. Seems they do not trust us enough and are loathe to police the poultry.

Fine (sort of), but do you think they might have told us this before Tuesday afternoon? It's not like I have time scheduled to go shopping for another batch of camp lunch ingredients, having a J-O-B and all. If I had known ahead of time I would have bought less lunch meat and more tofu.


Well, shit. She loved this wrap, and I was going to send pasta and pesto with grilled shrimp (what we're having for dinner tonight) with her tomorrow and barbecued chicken the next day. Instead I'm going to send . . . uh . . . I dunno. I guess just pasta and pesto. And the next day something else. Back to those lovely suggestions commenters sent me the other day.

What do you think if I were to send the kosher chicken label? No? OK . . . I just don't like people messing with me and my food.

Early summer appetizers

Because we turned the corner from spring this past weekend.

I've been so inspired by my new cookbook, A Platter of Figs, and of course by the new produce that marks this time of year.

Melon and prosciutto is a summer time appetizer staple at our house, but Figs included the great idea of adding a third flavor.

Melon, prosciutto, and mint.


Baguette topped with smoked trout pate and French radish.

SMOKED TROUT PATE

6 oz. smoked trout, skin removed
2 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon onion, finely diced
2 teaspoons chives
lemon juice to taste

Combine and pulse in a food processor.

For this appetizer, I used a thinly slice baguette and a French radish vertically sliced.

I'm still waiting for the dry-farmed organic tomatoes, but these make me happy in the meantime.