Driving to the memorial

Driving to the memorial

Street sign says Special 

Event Prepare to Stop, Too

Late, put on heart brake

This Moment

While I look out my window, I remember a few moments ago before class started, I sipped my green tea and brought a mug full of color sharpies to my to be my writing bouquet on the table. During today's class, a glimmer caught my eye and threw the pale lace that offers a modicum of privacy to my office. I saw an emerald-throated hummingbird dipping into the bright orange blossoms of the shrub whose name I do not know that was planted by the neighbor. It has taken over this space.

This plant provides a refreshing screen as we no longer have a fence between us. I come from the sprawling suburbs of Bethesda, were huge yards created all the social distancing needed of the day with their expenses of grass, borders of pink and red inpatients. Here in Santa Cruz where everyone is on top of each other. We have redwood, white, picket, rusted iron and hedges that would defy the middle ages in terms of barriers made of briars.

My neighbor was open to creating a virtual fence once the old fence had fallen over for the update time, rotted with termites and mold, but it took a while for the shrubs to grow in, to feel unexposed, to have good boundary. I see blue sky, a clean roof, healthy plants, a house with white and blue trim. I noticed what dangles in my window. The healing Hamsa hand from Charlie, cobalt blue bottles with crow, hawk, bluejay feathers popping out. rose quartz and purple fluorite, a bottle of holy water next to some sacred honey.

The cobalt bottles are from my parents, a fish and ink bottle, the head of George Washington, a cluster of grapes. There’s also a vial of kosher salt and a glass carving of an iris for my trip to Sweden with my mom ten years ago. My writer's talisman which I made in Lisa's class two years ago. Sage green curtains. All the elements, cozy and complete.

Slices of Life: Stories, Recipes, Kitchens, Lists, and Tidbits.

My Living Cook Book

It is entitled "Slices of Life: Stories, Recipes, Kitchens, Lists, and Tidbits." Dedicated to my hubby and all of our delicious adventures.

I used the plain white plastic binder my teacher, Lisa Garrigues, gave us for our handouts. Next, I flipped through Santa Cruz Waves magazine to created collages for the front and back, sprinkling in tiny dragonfly stickers and gold stars. Then, I found an unopened pack of kitschy floral tab dividers and rustled up the handy dandy labeler.

I dictate my notebook because it's faster than typing. However, then the editor set in, as much as I wanted to be on a raw diet and reveal the bare bones of my process, I stewed, I chewed, I eschewed.

I chose Courier as my font because it looks the most like a typewriter. I combed through my file cabinet and unearthed ancient college-ruled paper from my daughter's high school; three column accounting paper; pale green graph paper that once was a favorite journal, empty pages torn out, the rest burned. I mixy-matched with my supply of "pretty paper" I keep on hand for printing out various holistic hand-outs. I also took a few photos of journal pages and simply printed them out.

It is divided into five sections -  Her Story, Recipes, Kitchens, Lists, and Tidbits. The meat of the book is the stories, my "Thoughts on" meme. There were several hefty pieces that took me days to write, most notably the insemination story. The tarot reading and a "History of Eating" also took quite a chunk of time. 

Accompanied by Kitchens with a side of Recipes, these are tasty morsels, some saucy, some juicy, some just plain bitter. Always good to stir it up.

The Lists act as a menu of writing prompts: Foods, Restaurants, Words, each one is its own appetizer and desert. 

Garnishing the cookbook is The Tidbits section, a few haikus and ramblings, a spring of fresh parsley to cleanse the palate.

Enjoy!

Peyton Street Co-Op

 

Peyton Street Co-Op 

My first two weeks in Santa Cruz, way back in the summer of 1987, I sublet my friend's room at the Peyton Street Co-op. I have no idea how many people actually lived there, there were so many girlfriends,boyfriends, lovers, renters, sub-letters, sub-sub-sub-letters. All I knew was just how many bicycles could be jammed into one hallway.

It was a crash course. Everyone was experimenting - with drugs, bisexuality, polyamory, and being gluten free.

I learned all about about macrobiotic diets. Introduced to tofu, tempeh, satin, and mung beans. Bulk foods - whole wheat flour, brewers yeast, tamari, tabbouleh, tahini, soy sauce, peanut butter, almond butter, cashew butter, remember to bring your own containers. Vegetables like eggplants, bok choy, the purple heirloom tomatoes, golden beets and my first encounter with goat cheese.

Everybody contributed. We shopped together and divvied up the bills. We took turns cooking and cleaning, much like the Womanist House at Wesleyan. We took amazing walks around the neighborhood, a sense of being a part of a group, a sense of belonging.

Once, we cooked a huge stir fry and realized the pan had not been seasoned, so we had all just ingested engine oil. A quick call to poison control assured us we would not get sick, but might feel a little more lubricated. 

 

Clearing

Right now I am looking at the cutest baby.
Right now I am safe.
Right now I am the Queen,
Observing from her protected box.

Today I removed the dusty veils, old plastic ivy.
Changed the curtains,
Created more light, more space, more 

Breathing room.

I inspired another healer.
I mentored.
I created beauty. 

I will create peace.

Clearing, clear, clearing, clear
In this moment, there is no fear
I trust my heart, I trust my gut,
I know just how to get out of this rut.

False evidence appearing real
I know just what I feel
I doubt the doubts, I know my truth
I am present, sky to root

I am heart, I am compassion,
I know just what I am tested in,
Feels like patience, always waiting,
Wondering when is it my turn, anticipating.

Experiencing stillness, keeping the quiet,
Trying not to be silenced, not to buy it.
Staying balanced, in my form,
Not buying into the norm.

Thoughts on School Lunches

Elementary school, Kent Gardens, McLean, Virginia, 1972 maybe. I have no memory, maybe some tater tots?

Primary school, Luxembourg, I think we had a packed lunch, but there was also the cafeteria. Once I left my retainer on the tray that disappeared into the cleaning area, and my grandmother came to help me look through the garbage for it - we never found it, and my front teeth are crooked to this day.

In middle school, Dover, England they served cheesy-hammy-eggy sandwiches, but I would eschew the eggy. My roommate Sophie and I once had dinner at an Italian restaurant, but she forgot her purse. I waited forever, maybe forty-five minutes, for her to get back to school and retrieve it, the shame I felt in front of the waiters who were sure we were just trying to dine and dash.

I would always put notes in Amber's lunches - Mommy loves you, I am proud of you. I think mostly I made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

After this class I will go to Iveta on the west side for their diesel turkey and Havarti cheese sandwich.

Served on the softest whole wheat with just a smidge of mayo and mustard, the freshest crisp green lettuce, and the forbidden tomatoes that have the perfect sprinkle of freshly cracked black pepper.

 $12.50 is a lot for a sandwich, but I'll have the other half later and I'm guaranteed a good nap in between. I might add a bag of potato chips and most likely enjoy a zesty IPA to boot.

Thoughts on Eating: The Cafe Years

I've been cooking a lot more of these last two years during the pandemic - Lasagna, spanikopita, chicken cordon blue, bone broth, and of course ubiquitous quiche. 

I look up recipes online but fail to bookmark them, so each time I want to make a bechamel, I have to look it up again. Not that the trusty Joy of Cooking is moldering on the kitchen counter mere inches away, but it’s not the same joy.

In 1997 I bought out my business partner and took over the cafe. I'd make and serve at least fifty meals a day - five days a week - that's a thousand a month, over the next two years. That's 24,000 meals. Pretty much that's when I stopped cooking for myself.

"There's no romance in mopping a floor," my Dad would say. Owning the cafe was work. I had to get there by 6:00 a.m. to cook forty strips of tempeh for the ubiquitous Yukimochi sandwiches, our best seller. The tempeh was cold and slimy, a task I detested. 

I slashed the menu in half, got rid of all the single ingredient items, and reduced the staff. Finally the cafe started to break even, if not make money. Still it was endless runs to Costco for supplies, New Leaf for rice dream ice cream, Ledgers for a new appliance, usually a five thousand dollar espresso machine. I became friends with the drivers at Watsonville Coast Produce, the cooks at Aunt Nettie's Bakery, but never really got along with the health inspector, who would write us up if the fridge was off by half a degree, or the soap container in the bathroom was only three-quarters full.

My boyfriend (who used to be my girlfriend, that’s another story) did most of the cooking for the six years we were together, which I deeply appreciated. After we broke up, I lived a life between going out to eat and having Trader Joe's frozen lasagna. 

I'd pick my daughter up from Soquel High and we'd get lunch - Gayle's, The Bagelry, Carpo's - usually with enough leftovers for dinner. If I was alone, I'd graze - handfuls of sunflower seeds, raisins, almonds, dried apricots or simply cheese and crackers. It was years before I cooked anything more than the ubiquitous macaroni and cheese, chicken tenders, and the occasional steamed broccoli.

Vivid Verbs

Welcome mat, searing her feet. 

Grease trap, broiling over. 

Old faded couch, peeling like a bad tan. 

Mincing down the street, the cat looked smashing. 

Peeling off her mask was the first step.

My Kitchen

My kitchen is always clean. Clean and tidy. Every morning I put away last night’s dishes, fill or empty the dishwasher, the ice cube trays, the little trap inside the sink. I scrupulously wipe down the counters for fear of ants, which arrive with the rains anyway. I turn the toaster oven from the Toast setting to Off because it makes a humming noise which my husband either can't or chooses not to hear. I eradicate down the sticky mess from last night's Masala curry, hunt down the escaped couscous which has hidden behind the coffee jar, sweep the floor of renegade garlic peels and coffee grinds, dust down the trash can and the pet food dispensers, start thinking about tonight's dinner, look through the fridge, the freezer, choose something to thaw. Could be quiche.

We rarely sit at the kitchen table - a big glass affair made out of iron ivy which I painted a glittery purple with bronzed Raku leaves. There's a green spider plant suspended from where the legs meet, a bitch to water. When I was in high school, family conversations were strained, and became more stressful as my teenage years progressed, so by the time I was a senior I would do anything to get out of dinner. It's no wonder that now we never sit at the dining table to eat.

Sometimes we'll do a puzzle on the table, or I'll pop one of Chip’s photography lamps underneath and turn it into a lightbox for an art project. It belonged to his mother, and he used to eat breakfast at this table when he was a child. Now it's the space for painting watercolors, paying bills, or simply being a clear surface, a place for the ephemera of life to land, emptying grocery bags or opening packages from Amazon.

I remember this table in Helen's house after she passed, then it sat in our backyard for years, the pale green paint slowly flaking off and rusting. I worried the cats would eat the paint flex and be poisoned, so sometime during COVID I sanded and painted, brought it into my office, and used it as my desk for the  ubiquitous zoom meetings.

At some point, when I decided to start offering Reiki again and needed space for my massage table. I sold the blonde wood kitchen table that I had bought at Sweets-In-The-Nude when I first moved here in 1994, but kept the chairs. Usually we have only two at the table - one of the others is upstairs in the bedroom for me to fling my work clothes on, the last one sits in the back room, a makeshift shelf for the box of stuff that Chip is supposed to scan, file, and shred. That's another story.

Thoughts on Birthdays

 

Thoughts on Birthdays 

My hubby and I are born one day apart, and our birthdays also coincide with our wedding anniversary, which always brings up the question, where do we want to go and celebrate?

As a kid we would go to Pizza Hut, but I liked the Orange Bowl pizza better. Then we moved to Europe when I was seven. I remember eating chicken soup with little stars and a tiny restaurant in Milan. We had fondue for the first time when the parents came to rescue me up from ski camp in France. Then there was the tiny preserved violet on top of the chocolate ice cream when we went to the restaurant in Germany, it was on the Rhine and you actually fished for your own trout.

We moved back to America when I was fifteen. In high school the big fancy dinners took place at Dominique's in downtown Washington DC, now closed. They used to have a sister restaurant in Miami which I went to once. They are known for their exotic fare, such as alligator and wild boar. Alligators taste like chicken, by the way.

Avanti became my favorite birthday restaurant when I moved to Santa Cruz, then became the monthly lunch place with Dad, who thought their food was very authentic. Avanti split into the pizzeria and the restaurant, moving into a second location which happens to be at the top of my street. Pizzaria Avanti has nettle pizza. Restaurant Avanti has a full bar. We started going weekly to visit our favorite bartender, Katie, and feast on steak salad and chicken fusilli. The new owners have a fried cheese dish that I could bathe in.

Maybe we'll go to the French Laundry one year. I've not really intrigued by their menu posted online, but it sure does get rave reviews as a unique experience. My daughter loved to go to La Fondue over in Saratoga every birthday, which is where we also celebrated her recent bethrothal.

Thoughts on Toothbrushes

 

Thoughts on Toothbrushes

The first batch of toothbrushes, toothpicks, dental floss, mini sample toothpastes, mouth washes, whiteners, you name it, that I cleaned out from my husband's house before we lived together was staggering. I trucked this load to our neighbors down the street who were doing relief work for earthquake survivors in Haiti. 

The next batch of said dental paraphernalia built up quickly over the next few years. I'm talking about dozens of flossers, glossers, gels, etc. I walked over to what looks like a little free library, but instead it is a free food pantry. The friendly message says "Leave what you can, take what you need." I thought if you're eating food you want to take care of your teeth, so this would be an appropriate place to share these particular gems.

Fountain Street

In the sweaty June of 1986, after my first year at Wesleyan. I decided to spend the summer in Middletown, Connecticut. After yet another fight with my dad -a deadly combination of hormones, blossoming feminism, and current politics - mostly it was about money, and I wanted to prove to be independent.

Rent was a mere sixty dollars a month, which I had finagled through University housing. I lived with my former RA and my best friend. Her boyfriend was a constant feature, and the one who dubbed me, "The Macaroni and Cheese Queen." My boyfriend at the time was doing house painting with CollegePro and was crashing various floors unless I rescued him in my trusty Honda.

I scored a second job in short order as a cashier/deli girl at Sunshine Farms ($3.50 an hour plus tips), which was only four doors away from our house on Fountain Street. I would wake up fifteen minutes before my 6:30 am shift, pop in contacts, brush teeth, maybe hair, throw on t-shirt and jeans, and show up in time to make coffee for all of the summer construction crew. I also continued to do nude modelling for art classes, for a lofty five dollars an hour. The only time I felt ashamed or embarrassed was when those same workers walked by the studio when the blinds were not drawn, and I was clearly that nice girl who sold them lottery tickets every morning. Or so I imagined.

That summer, and quite a few times since, mostly I ate macaroni and cheese. There was a nominal employee discount, so a stick of butter, a lunchtime carton of milk, and the blue and white Kraft box with the perky yellow lettering, added up to all of 50 cents or so per serving.

I would start, of course, by boiling water with a little salt for the noodles. Meanwhile, I'd slice my butter into thin pats for easier melting. Once the noodles were done, tossed into the colander to lazily drain into the sink, I'd get to work - Popping the pads of butter to melt in the still hot noodle pan, ripping open the foil pouch to reveal the magic orange powder, whisking it in a fury with the now gently bubbling salty goodness, plus quite a heavy sprinkle of black pepper (which I'd always hated as a kid, when did my taste buds change? Die?) This created a roux that would make Julia Child's eyes roll to the back of her head. Next, folded in the tender noodles. Last, put one oven mitt on top, one on the bottom, then, stuffed the whole thing into my favorite canvas book bag.

I'd head on over to Olin library, flashing my student ID, jaunting downstairs to where my best friend had her job in the reserve room. She would have put up the ``out to lunch" sign, a bummer for the poor students taking summer classes trying to find their particular professor's particularly obscure articles.

We'd hide deep in the stacks, sitting cross-legged with the pot of macaroni and cheese between us, forks in hand, gossip filling us more than the carbs. I can still remember the taste of cheddar cheese, pepper, and that little spice that tingled our lips.

Thoughts on Hair

The most radical thing I have ever done was cut my hair. When I was a kid, my hair was sparse, thin,cut short like a boys. Often I was mistaken for one since I wore jeans and t-shirts instead of dresses. 

I always wanted long hair. My mother had hers down to her waist, as did both of my babysitters. This was in the early ages of Disney,  and all the princesses had long hair, long blonde hair. I remember crying at Woolworth's because the only princess mask was Cinderella and she had blonde hair when mine was brown. 

My hair finally started to grow in elementary school. This started long fights with my mother, fights with the tangles, let alone finding a freaking hair conditioner when we moved to Europe, our chant, “First the brush, then the comb, then the rubber band.” It became a constant chore. I would keep it contained in one or two braids. By the time I was in high school I could sit on it. I never got it cut. Occasionally my mother would trim the split ends. It was only in my 20's that I finally cut bangs. 

When I was fifteen, I went back to Europe to visit Julia. In London, I stopped at a hairdresser's to chop off my long locks. It was the early 80's and I was ready to pink out. The stylist convinced me I just needed coloring. Four painful hours later, my hair shoved through this bathing cap of tiny holes poke through with an embroidery needle to so that I had bleached highlights streaks in my hair was one of the most excruciating experiences of my life. Let alone the most expensive. After that  died my hair myself, I adding blonde streaks or stripes of black dye leftover from my brother's particular embellishments, and now and then a nice bright henna red. 

 

During my first marriage, things got a little bit rocky and I remember thinking,  if we broke up, what would I do? I knew instantly I would cut my hair and do a ritual with it. I became the butch babe I was always attracted to.

In 1994, At the American Booksellers Association convention in Los Angeles, I went to my brother's hairdresser, as my hairdresser was much too invested and literally would not chop off my hair. I made a thick braid which was deftly sliced off. That rope of hair lived above my altar for over a decade. One day I decided that as my hair contains my history, I should allow it to be free. I went down to Lighthouse Field and released the strands into the breeze so the birds could make their nests.

After the ABA, I walked into Herland and gave my wife a big hug from behind. She turned and put her hands on my head, stepped back, and said, "I thought you could never surprise me."

It served me well this butch cut. A classic flat top, a touch of  gel, I looked like a little spiky hedgehog. Being the queen Amazon at the lesbian bookstore, I needed to be tough, a warrior. Everyday I was baited by random men who had nothing to do but try to argue politics.

After Herland closed in 2004, I grew out my hair. I wanted to be the priestess with long hair again rather than the warrior. I exchanged my contact lenses for prescription glasses, bought a plethora of long flowy skirts and tunic tops, covered my tattoos and worked hard to embody the archetype of the healer.

Much too my surprise, my hair grew out thick and wave, when it has always been flat and straight. I keep it about shoulder length, my hairdresser, who really is my therapist and has known me for thirty years. She cuts layers upon layers to free me from the weight on my neck and still frame my face. She always cuts my bangs too long, but I love her anyways. I decided to stop dying my hair because of the amount of chemicals on my head, and switched back to using natural henna in a deep burgundy.

I walked over to my local coffee shop and ran into an old friend, who said, "Oh, you look so different!"

And I thought, yes, because I am not the same.

Transformation is a Way of Life, Not a Moment in Time

Clementine

Clementine 

The rind is firm, cool to the touch, and fits perfectly in the palm of my hand. I noticed the little pores are darker orange than the rest, the star-shaped green center where once it had been plucked from some faraway tree. There are small imperfections, soft white mottling. It has a shiny, almost greasy look. There's no smell until I dig my fingernails into the skin, releasing the essential oils as I leave little waxing moon craters on the rind.

 

Once we all began peeling, I could hear the rinds being separated from flesh. I took the time to peel mine in a lazy spiral, pulling off the long white strings. Now I can smell the fruit, different from the oily skin. I feel my mouth begin to water and I think about using zest versus juice and cooking or baking.

 

I'm reminded of living in Luxembourg during elementary school when we belonged to a fruit of the month club. Kiwis, grapes, and once a case of tangerines from the Canary Islands. Antonio ate so many that he got sick. Now as far as citrus goes, I rarely drink orange juice but occasionally I'll pick up a bag of cuties at Trader Joe's.

Thoughts on Writing

Thoughts on Writing

I love that word, Metacognition. Wikipedia defines it as “an awareness of one's thought processes and an understanding of the patterns behind them.” In taking a moment to be mindful about my own writing process and patterns, here’s what I discovered:

I love writing in my big book with my big handwriting. Two pages fill fast. Since sketchbooks are unlined, my handwriting tends to slope to the right as I move down the page. I used to hate my handwriting. It felt cramped and forced, just like having to learn cursive when we moved to tiny Luxembourg when I was seven. Later, when I went to boarding school in Dover, England, I created a secret code to write in my diary, which was mostly about crushes and middle school betrayals. I would get in trouble for my bad handwriting, especially in boarding school, where I was chastised for using a ballpoint pen. Now I see my handwriting as cryptic, magical, and tender, just like my heart. And, you know, witches spell it out.

I went a little crazy right after college, and moved to Idaho, where the rent for the Moravia schoolhouse was a mere $100 a month. I worked one day a week looking after eighty year old Betty Fox, while the rest of the time I worked on myself. Part of my healing was going through the Creative Journal by Lucia Capacchione. This is where I got the idea of starting in the middle of the journal and flipping back and forth with my entries, rather than starting at the beginning and marching through. This was pleasing after reading the French feminist Monique Wittig’s book, Les Guérillères, which is not written in linear time, but circular.

At different times I've had different notebooks - one is called “Love: A Field Notebook.” Then there are Amber's journals, which we kept in the diaper bag since Drama and I stopped talking to each other. We needed to communicate about naps, meals, and small day care events, and they now live in a tupperware box in the Tuff shed. In high school, my art teacher Mr.Bartman required us to fill a small, fat sketchbook with drawings at the end of each semester. I would fill the other half with poems, musings, lyrics, like any other high-schooler. And while this was supposed to be a daily practice, I would cram in a week's worth of drawings while waiting for my dad to pick me up after therapy on Wednesday afternoons.

I've kept various journals and diaries over my lifetime. At some point I burned seventeen volumes, ripping out the few poems I thought worthy. Amber was appalled as she had wanted to read them, but to me they were just a chronicle of pain and grief after the divorce, and I didn’t want her to read all of my scrumbly feelings towards her other parent. But I keep coming back to the big black sketchbooks. The first one spans a good decade, now this latest will be filled by the end of this class.

I use many different pens, but love thin Sharpies the most. They do tend to bleed, so pasting something every other page helps. When learning how to write cursive, we were forced to write in ink, either black, royal blue, or blue-black. I remember the stationary store, with the ultra expensive Cartier pens - the ones you got for graduation - under lock and key. My mom bought me a Happy Pen that was a sunny yellow. Recently one of my clients bought me a set of fountain pens in an array of pastel colors, and there was a certain satisfaction in popping the cartridge in and having the ink begin to flow across the page. 

I never learned to type, I learned to bake. Here I am at fifty-five and still hunt and peck with one finger, but it is fast. At the writer’s retreat I would use my iPad, but felt the tick, tick, tick sound more potentially distracting to my fellow retreatants than the scratching of my pen. Sometimes I dictate, which is great for thought process but editing all the punctuation and things made up by auto-correct is a chore of its own.

I tend to write in sprints, sometimes marathons, rather than a daily jog like Stephan King. Four day writers retreats, six or eight week classes, Write30. I'll do the work, I'll get the juice out of it, but once done I could easily be next engaged in en plein air watercolor or underwater basket weaving for the next few months. Often I'll add artwork after the fact - collages, collected ephemera that used to go into photo albums, but now get scrapped here, print outs of online inspiration, whether poems from Instagram or my own peculiar ramblings.

Usually I write my two pages, the raw stuff, around nine or ten in the morning, after I’ve finished my various crossword puzzles. Sometimes I write outside at the teak table under the Wisteria, or in my car before class, almost always afterwards when I take myself out to lunch at Burger and have my little cup of carbs -mac and cheese with bacon on top.

Right now I’m sitting in the backroom with both the black cat and the calico vying for space next to me, sketchbook cradled between my left arm and a pillow on my lap, as I baby the words forth. There’s the smell of ginger lemon tea and the occasional croak of crows or thrums of hummers. I used to time myself, but I tend to space out while writing, so two pages a day is reasonable. At some point in the week, usually if my husband is gone, I’ll dictate pieces into my phone and email them to myself for online editing. Depending on my schedule, I’ll spend some time polishing, editing, embellishing these nuggets, usually in secret pockets of time found when waiting for clients, waiting for my friend to arrive, or waiting for pasta to boil.

Thoughts on Tattoos

Thoughts on Tattoos

I am no longer afraid of mirrors where I see the sign of the amazon, the one who shoots arrows.

There was a fine red line across my chest where a knife entered,

but now a branch winds about the scar and travels from arm to heart.

Green leaves cover the branch, grapes hang there and a bird appears.

What grows in me now is vital and does not cause me harm. I think the bird is singing.

I have relinquished some of the scars.

I have designed my chest with the care given to an illuminated manuscript.

I am no longer ashamed to make love. Love is a battle I can win.

I have the body of a warrior who does not kill or wound.

On the book of my body, I have permanently inscribed a tree.

-Deena Metzger, Tree

Lori Anderson calls the body, The Nerve Bible. I see my body as an illuminated manuscript. 

Today we received luxurious couples massages at our timeshare in Carmel Highlands. As the therapist unveiled me, I thought about each of my tattoos, each of their stories. Our scars are our stories. Some people wear theirs on the inside. I wear mine on the outside, and they're pretty.

I endured my first tattoo when I was 18 years old, after a vacation in Key West, Florida.My boyfriend and I just saw the play, Talking With, Eleven Monologues with Extraordinary Women. The protagonist was covered in tattoos and told us each of the stories. I was entranced. The next day there was a bright yellowy orange sun inscribed on my left hip. Many, many years later it was joined by a blue crescent moon .

Now I am fifty-five, and have over three dozen. Usually I get about one a year but it just depends, notwithstanding COVID. My last tattoo was a mother-daughter bonding ritual when Amber came to Santa Cruz this February to get married. We both got inscribed one of our favorite quotes from the Talking Heads “Once in a lifetime. Same as it ever was.” 

I have mermaids, fairies, butterflies, dragonflies, Amber’s initials, pentagrams, hummingbirds, cats, the four directions, the red Chinese symbol for double happiness. There are black roses, pink roses, crimson passion flower, purple morning glories, pale green rosemary for remembrance, and my absolute favorite, bright orange California poppies. I have a huge back piece of an art deco woman by Mucha with a spray of olive green marijuana leaves behind her. 

I balance my tattoos between blackwork and color, neo-primitive and modern,  Celtic knotwork contrasting abstracts. Left and right, small and large, I've mapped out my body several times and choose carefully. I'll find an image or symbol  that I fall in love with, and pop it into my “Folder of Desire.” Minimally a year, but often many more will pass before I decide to permanently carve this particular totem on my body. 

For my 50th birthday, I chose  twin spirals with three dots (maiden, mother, and crone) on the inside of each of my wrists. Spiral in, spiral out. What is most significant is that they are the only ones that are always visible. I tend to cover my tattoos, and not just when I’m around my mother, who is appalled that I still “scribble on myself.” While tattoos are way more commonplace than thirty years ago, especially here in California, I think they are distracting. And they are so personal for me. Well, and for my lover, who else will see the way these particular vines twine around my breasts, connect with my spine, embrace my hip, grace my thigh, adorn my calves. Besides for the massage therapist.

My favorite tattoo is the roundabout sign when you go down to the wharf. I would walk by this every Wednesday when volunteering at the Monterey Bay Marine Sanctuary Exploration Center. I just knew this would be my next tattoo, because you know, in Santa Cruz, there is always a roundabout way.

The Red Still Life

I posted a recipe for Four of Quiche recently, with a photograph of, as one one would expect, four beautifully baked quiches. There’s also four knobs on the stove, beautifully aligned. The quiches are subtle shades of ocher curry, yellow turmeric, burnt paprika and dusted cumin, atop a bland cook top with a speckled black counter top. On one side you can see part of an enamel green kettle, which I know longer have, but was part of a set with a turquoise kettle, Two of Kettles, that’s another story. There is also a rather sad looking pot holder, not sure just yet if it needs washing or replacing.

Dominating the scene is a still life. A red still life The infamous Red Still Life in Mr. Bartman's senior year art class at Walt Whitman High School, Bethesda, Maryland, 1985. We started the first semester with a white still life. I remember a candlestick, a set of goggles not much else. We played with shadows and light, complements and contrasts, created psychedelic paintings fit for a tea part with Alice from Wonderland. The year went on, and right after Christmas break we discovered just how devious Mr. B was in his set up.

There were bright red, rooster red, cast iron camping red. Shiny objects, cherry. A proud water jug, crowing coffee pot, vermilion soup bowl, crimson funnel, versatile lid - all with a gleaming white enamel interior and a severe black rim. Two mottled apples and a purple onion. Along with highly polished steel, both the pestle and mortar and the meat grinder, which reflected in more ways than one our thoughts as high-schoolers in the eighties. We had two months to complete this painting before the annual student art fair, let alone graduation. Day after day, tube after tube of Liqitex’s Naphthol Crimson acrylic paint splooged onto a random magazine page that will be ripped off for tomorrow's palette, we learn how to make a layer upon layer upon layer. How to contrast the saturated red with a soft, complementary background made of soothing dark greens, and what happened to apples as they turned to mush over two months, as well as the fact that the onion sprouted and then grew every day.

I found this painting in my parents house when they decided to move from Seaside to Santa Barbara, about five years ago. It was with a bunch of other paintings from my high school. Purple Tony, a sad looking merry-go-round, the back of a VW bug. I gave away all the paintings to Project Purr figuring someone would just paint over the canvases and use it for their own art. This one I kept because it was a good reminder of how many layers it takes sometimes to complete a particular vision.

Thoughts on Bagels

Thoughts on Bagels

I was only introduced to my first bagel when I was nineteen, a frosh at Wesleyan in Connecticut. I had gotten off the required meal plan as I had lost fifteen pounds my first semester, and gained one doctor's note, though I doubt they thought bagels would be my prescription.

My roommate Ilana and I would go to the University Cafe and split a plate. Plain, lightly toasted, served with cream cheese, I would place the thinly sliced red onions, capers and tomatoes on her half, while I enjoyed the generous portion of lox. Soon it became as addictive as my daily coffee and camel lights.

During my junior year, when I was an exchange student at UCSC, I had a brief fling with my dealer, who worked the graveyard shift at the Bagelry. I remember the burns on her wrists, our sleepless nights when we drove across the country, the incessant east coast joke, "time to make the donuts," another carb with a hole.

After my senior year, my next girlfriend and I crossed the country, stopping at her grandmother's house in Kansas City, Kansas. I pulled my Honda into the long driveway and Herb, Grandma Kay's second husband, came rushing out, yelling, "Haven't you ever heard of Pearl Harbor?" and made me park out on the street. Later, we all went to the grocery store for breakfast items. I picked up a pack of bagels, and again Herb confronted me, "What, you eat that Jew food?"

When we moved back to Santa Cruz, I rediscovered the joys of the Bagelry, including their fabulous Pink Flamingo smear. Cheaper than lox but packed with flavor, that and a can of coke became a lunch staple. However, I was only making minimum wage at Aries Arts in Capitola, a hippy store that sold tons of tie-dye, incense, and tarot cards. Money was tight, and I realized that for the same price I could get a six pack of Lenders onion bagels, a tub of cream cheese, a pack of sliced lox, and a six pack of coke. Lenders bagels were small, dense, and compact, but I didn't complain. 

Eventually I opened the Herland Women's Book-Cafe at 902 Center Street. We had the most amazing vegan ricotta basil tofu spread. I’ll find the recipe. I'd eat this daily on whole wheat bagel, which are even denser than the Lenders, but they burned nicely. I do like my bagels well done. After our four year agreement was up, I bought out my business partner. On my first day running the cafe by myself, a regular customer yelled at me for toasting her bagel. I burst into tears as she stormed out, never to be seen again.

Two years later, we lost our lease and I closed the cafe. The bookstore moved over to Cedar street, and I would hop on over to Noah's, where I would indulge in garlic cheddar bagels, toasted dark, with just butter. If I felt particularly flush, I'd add sliced smoked salmon. At some point I lost my taste for cream cheese.

Six years later, between Borders Books opening in Santa Cruz and  the recession after 9/11, I realized I was not making it as a single mom. I decided to close the bookstore and went back to school, exchanging retail therapy for hypnotherapy. During that time, my daughter only ate about five foods, all either white or yellow, and bagels became a manna of its own. I was always more tolerant than her other parent since I'd been such a fussy eater as a kid. 

Now, Chip and I tend to go to CostCo and get the two pack of bagels - one "Everything" and one Asiago. We slice them in two as soon as we get home, then freeze half of them. Pre Slicing has made a world of difference, because slicing a frozen bagel sucks, and they get doughy and weird in the microwave. 

I'm not a huge fan of the "Everything" bagel because I'm not fond of fennel, but these are the little compromises in a marriage. I'll cut the slices in half again, so that when we split the bagel we each get both a bottom and top. I'll butter up each piece, add freshly shmooshed avocado, a squirt of Meyer lemon from the neighbor’s tree, and a dash of celery salt. I pop these onto our favorite cobalt blue ceramic plates, grab the red poppy floral napkins, and present with a flourish.