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.

Grandma's Got Tattoos

 

Grandma's Got Tattoos

Written and Illustrated by Nona Kayla

Ernesto has been bullied for having a large birthmark on his face. He goes to Grandma for some comfort and words of calm advice. Grandma tells him a story of her own adventures about being different. She sets off on an adventure one day, with her faithful companion, June E. Purr. They overcome storms, blockages, and unusual encounters. Along the way she meets a helpful pant, a special animal, and personal guide who all help to build feelings of confidence, resourcefulness, and self-esteem.

Eclipse

Breathing your essence, 

Missing your presence, 

Longing for our reunion soon. 

You are quintessence, 

Deeply luminescent, 

Both my shining sun and deepest moon.

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.

This Land is Her Land

I owned and operated the Herland Book Cafe from 1993-2004. Enjoy this little documentary!

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.