Wildfires

The Angora Fire in Tahoe jumped the fireline this evening, 3 days in and just when firefighters thought they’d seen the worst. Until last year, I always thought of Tahoe as some hideous frat boy puke fest tourist trap, and there are aspects of South Tahoe (like Harrah’s) that seem like a throw back to mid-70s Vegas, complete with rows of slot machines reeking of cigarette smoke and white trash desperation. Though to be fair, there is some great neon….

I realized how much I’d been missing all these years when I spent a week there last fall while on vacation with my family. We stayed in South Tahoe, and explored as much as we could in such a short period.

Lake Tahoe woke something up in me that had been dormant for a long time – a joy in nature that brought me back to myself after a long time spent adrift. I felt vigorous and free and a little bit wild. Most of all I loved the area around the Angora Lakes and the Desolation, in a way that almost didn’t make sense. It now ranks alongside Pura Ulun Danu Bratan temple in Bali as a favorite place on earth. Granted, we were there mid week and had the place largely to ourselves; I understand it gets pretty overrun during peak times. I vowed to be back soon to spend more time with that terrain. We’ll see what’s left after the fire.

Oddly enough, just last week I uploaded as my header a detail from a picture I took of the Upper Angora Lake. Tahoe had been on my mind a lot, and I like the kind of impressionistic ambiguity of the photograph.

A friend asked me why I was so upset by these fires. I suspect there is more than one answer. There are the obvious reasons: the footage of people and animals fleeing for their lives in the wake of destruction unleashed by careless (or vile) humans, and the sentimental sadness that comes with knowing that something you love is gone forever. But that isn’t really the truth about forest fires – the forest will renew itself, in a way that wouldn’t happen if, say, the land was commercially developed. Wildfires can be seen as an environmental correction. But I don’t suppose that offers much consolation to those who love that land so much that they built their homes and lives around there. Maybe my feelings are in part due to some deeper knowledge that I prefer not to acknowledge – that fire is beautiful in its own right, majestic and intoxicating. Wildfires involve a commingling of a sense of loss with a fear of being mezmerized by the agent of that loss.

Anyway, here are a few pictures from my visit last Fall.

 

 

 

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Longest day of the year…

I was useless at work, but so what? The air is clean and fragrant, the sky is cloudless and blue, and the breeze cools the hot sun. Drove home with my shoes off and the sunroof open.  It honestly doesn’t get much better than this, and it won’t last. The drive was so quick, I only had time to take one snapshot of my commute.

Those are some mighty dry hills out my car window….

 

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So long Tony, hello Tommy!

Just in time to save me from the gaping void left behind by the demise of Tony Soprano, FX has come along with Season 4 of Rescue Me. Tommy Gavin, my all time absolute favorite Irish, rage-aholic, 911-PTSD addled New York bad boy firefighter with the never ending stream of woman troubles, is the creation of one of my fave crushes, Denis Leary; of the wicked sense of humor and great taste in music. So even if the show wasn’t as brilliant as it is, I’d probably still tune in. As it is, the show is visceral and entertaining, an intelligent emotional rollercoaster that hones in on issues of the day like a heat seeking missle. I also appreciate the smart, strong, deeply flawed and funny women who populate this show; they are more consistently realized than any female characters I can think of on any screen, large or small, in recent memory. Last week’s show stopper was a cat rescue in a crumbling warehouse scene, in which the guys find themselves sliding to their certain deaths into a wall of fire. All of this while cats fall out of the ceiling to the tune of the B-52s “Dance This Mess Around.” The birds-eye view of a cat looking into the flaming abyss is priceless, and a good sign that Leary hasn’t lost his edge.

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Gotta love San Francisco…

Where else can you get slow, organic, artisanal ice cream with Rechutti fleur de sel chunks for just $8 a pint?

I was there to see the Vivienne Westwood exhibit at the DeYoung Museum before it came down,and to celebrate my friend Bruce’s birthday. I stayed at the Mosser downtown, did a bit of shopping, got completely exfoliated at the Kabuki Spa (nice spa, good prices, but the front office staff leave a lot to be desired) and squeezed in dinner at Delfina, one of my favorite restaurants anywhere. (hint: if you see seascape strawberries with red wine granita and basil zabaglioni on the menu, don’t hesitate).

Herewith, some reflections:

The Mosser: a serious deal in the heart of downtown SF. BART will take you there from SFO for $5.15 (though I took a cab back out to SFO out of pure exhaustion, which cost $40, including tip). Walking distance to Union Square shopping and in the other direction to Yerba Buena and SFMOMA. Lots of options for public transportation just about anywhere you want to go. I could definitely reduce my carbon foot print by moving back up there. Annabelle’s is next door and offers limited room service. I had great drinks and a perfectly good hamburger in the bar. The room is tiny, but it was super quiet and the custom made bed was incredibly comfortable. I shared a coed bathroom with tub with others on my hall, and a water closet for women only that was vacant every time I wanted to use it. There is a vanity sink, a hair dryer and an iron and ironing board in the room, along with robes. The amenities were decent. It’s like an upscale hostel, and very clean. It was inhabited mostly by musicians (there is an adjoining recording studio) and young European tourists. It worked for me, especially since I got my squeaky clean on at the Kabuki. The pipes groaned in the bathroom, but I’m the kind of girl who thinks that’s charming.

The Vivienne Westwood exhibit: I’d heard mixed reviews about this one, but I have to say I loved it. I wish I’d had time to go back. I’m a huge Vivienne Westwood fan, but even so, I was shocked by how much her aesthetic has influenced contemporary fashion. The BCBG shoes I own are a knock-off of her Gillies. Half the skirts I own reference her Nostalgia of Mud collection. Bubble hems, petticoats, tube skirts, the suit Carrie wore to her Vogue interview in Sex in the City, sky high platforms – tell me, who did it before she did?

I love the cheeky femininity of her models and the pure grace of movement her clothes have when they float down the runway (as seen on wall monitors scattered throughout the galleries.) I love that she shot her models sauntering around the galleries of the Wallace Collection, looking at the portraits they were incarnating.

I took the audio tour, which at first was awkward – something of a misguided attempt to recreate the anarchy of punk pulled together by grandiloquent museum curators more accustomed to Victoriana than modernity. But once the narration got past Viv’s early Sex Shop days and glided into the post-punk collections, they started to get it right, bringing in the experts from the V&A and other fashion historians to create a thoughtful context and to give the woman her due. Its not often that intellect and fashion walk so easily hand in hand these days.

Many of the people visiting the show seemed to be seeking a nostalgia buzz, and they must have stopped paying attention to Westwood after she broke off with Malcolm McLaren circa Bow Wow Wow and the Pirates era. “I had no idea she got into couture,” one woman said, whose multi-colored hair matched her rather unfortunate skirt. But it’s not particularly surprising, considering that at least in the U.S., fashion magazines have de-emphasized her collections in favor of those who design for adolescent archetypes just this side of kiddie porn. Women wearing Westwood’s clothing take up space, and that’s just not done. Anyway, I agree with one of the commentators on the audio tour who called her one of the great modern designers. I think she’s one of the great creative geniuses of the 20^th Century, right up there with Balanchine, Stravinsky and Prince. If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I would have grabbed the black stilettos with the silver spikes at the heels, along with the butter yellow rubber Bettina suit to go with, and oh, yes – the Jungle Dress, and the Nostalgia of Mud skirt with the Peruvian dancers at the hem. Also the bird’s nest hat with the stuffed pheasant, though it would probably just sit in my closet – no one wears hats in L.A.

The Farmer’s Market was just a glint in the eye of Alice Waters when I left San Francisco, or I probably would not have left. Now, if it’s Saturday morning and I’m in SF, I’m at Ferry Plaza with my friends who go to work with an admirable efficiency, collecting their week’s groceries from their favorite farmers in record time. This week, I had a mission,which was to forage for ingredients for that night’s birthday dinner for bff Mary’s husband Bruce. I collected pullet eggs, apricots and raspberries for a faithful version of the Pavlova dessert I wrote about a few weeks back. Again, sooo easy, and a real crowd pleaser.

The drink of the evening was the Sazerac, the famously sublime New Orleans potion of rye whiskey, herb saint / pernod and Peychaud bitters; I’d like one right now, please. Bff Mary is one of the best home cooks I know, and she started things off with these great little nibbles of chicken marinated in pomegranate molasses and cumin. Then a lentil salad with spinach, bacon, sour cherries and blue cheese. Then her wonderful “lamb pops,” served this time with couscous. The recipe for the couscous came from the Epicurious website, and called for chopping all the vegetables into uniform ½ inch bits, and then cook them with the couscous. I had the idea that it would be a more rustic accompaniment for the lamb to chop the veggies into randomly sized chunks and then roast them to bring out their sweetest and add a hint of smoke. Instead of just saying this, I made some snide comment to the effect that the Epicurious recipe was a little “too Nob Hill for me.” Not that I really even know what that means, but I agree it sounds pissy. I’m not a food snob. The cocktails made me say it.

Bff Mary’s lamb pops

3 racks of baby lamb, chined and frenched

Salt and pepper to taste

Several sprigs of rosemary

Olive oil

In a roasting pan, salt and pepper the racks of lamb and drizzle with olive oil

Tuck sprigs of rosemary here and there

Let sit for 6 hours at least, or overnight

Heat oven to 450, roast for 20 minutes. Let sit for about 15 minutes more.

To serve, cut the rack into individual “pops.” Mound the couscous in the center of a serving platter, and arrange the lamb pops around it.

 

You can use any couscous recipe you like, even the one from Epicurious. I like Paula Wolfert’s “Couscous with Seven Vegetables in the Fez Manner” from Couscous & Other Good Food From Morocco.

 

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Bada Bing, Bada Boom

One of the tensest scenes I’ve ever watched, and what really happened? Carmela walks in, sits down and starts looking at the menu. AJ walks in and flops down. A man walks through the door and sits at the counter. Meadow can’t parallel park her car to save her life. A couple more guys walk in and look at the jukebox. Meadow still can’t park her car. The guy at the counter walks into the bathroom. A basket of onion rings arrives at the table and the family starts popping them into their mouths. Last thing Tony sees is his daughter Meadow walking through the door. That infernal Journey song, “Don’t Stop Believing,” And then, darkness and silence.  And it wasn’t the cable, because finally, the credits roll.

 

Like Proust, like a baseball game, like life itself, the Sopranos gave us the hum and the mundanities of daily life punctuated with episodes of tragedy, horror, grief and pathos. And laughter, let’s not forget the laughter. You gotta focus on the good times, right?

 

If Meadow had walked in and taken her seat next to her father, the hit man might never have had his opportunity. As it is, he had a clean shot. Or not. We just don’t know. Unlike Proust or a baseball game, but just like life, you’ll never really know.

 

Unlike the FBI guys, I’ll never win or lose my bet.

RIP, T.

 

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Forget Omar Ahmed Khadr, Free Paris

 

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Peonies, Parsons, Springtime at the Sunday Market

 

 

 

 

 

It’s Sunday and spring has officially arrived at the market. Perhaps even more than for the cherries and apricots, I get there early to grab a few fragrant bunches of peonies from Ha’s Farm. Peonies are very expensive in Southern California. They require a hard freeze in the winter so they are scarce. I grew up with peonies; they became the Indiana state flower in 1957 (replacing the zinnia) and they used to carpet my grandmother’s back yard in the spring. But when I first moved to California I was shocked to find them wrapped in precious bundles of three at $10 a stem. David and Yeung Ha farm in the hills of Tehachapi, so they can grow tree peonies and bring them by the bucket full for three short weeks in the Spring(at $2 a stem). They are more famous for their Fuji apples that taste of honey, and also the delicious jams and delicious apple turnovers. But the peonies in the spring are my favorites. Peonies have a prolific but sort lived season, which make them all the more precious. As if they needed anything beyond their old fashioned beauty, they also open in stages, starting off as plump fluffy blossoms and metamorphizing into delicate lacy blooms. Every day, a new bouquet.

Also at the market this AM was Russ Parsons and his new book How To Pick a Peach. Now I can throw away a bunch of his clippings from The Los Angeles Times. I also have some good reading ahead of me. Parsons is a good home cook with lots of great chef friends, so if his recipes don’t always seem original, its not really the point. Every recipe I’ve ever tried of his works out perfectly – the scale and technique are designed with the home cook in mind. Parsons has dedicated this book to fruits and vegetables in season and divides the book accordingly. Each section includes essays on such topics as farming techniques of small and large scale farmers, kitcehn chemistry and what to look for and how to store (and cook) fresh fruits and vegetables If reading about the effects of global competition on American agricultural practices makes you feel tart to feel a bit disheartened, cheer yourself up with recipes like “tart of garlicky greens and black olives”, “overcooked green beans” and “strawberries and oranges in basil syrup” – all in season at the moment.

 

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NASA’s Exit Strategy

When I was little I had a disturbing recurring dream. I was with my parents, and my little sister and brother. Suddenly, the four of them broke away and started heading for a rocket ship. They were leaving me behind. I tried to catch up, but it was one of those situations where no matter how hard I ran, I wasn’t able to get anywhere. I was scared, but also, I was pissed.

Even though I now think the rocket ship is incidental to the fact that, due to the presence of my siblings I was no longer the center of my parental universe, I have transferred my feelings of fear and loathing onto NASA. Not rational I know, but these things seldom are.

After today though, I no longer feel I have anything to apologize for, having heard comments from NASA administrator (and Bush appointee) Michael Griffin in an interview with NPR’s Steve Inskeep this AM. His comments were in response to a scathing criticism of NASA’s culture delivered yesterday by Gregg Easterbrook, a former global warming skeptic who has seen the light. In a nutshell, Easterbrook feels that NASA is squandering taxpayer dollars and consuming massive amounts of the earth’s non renewable resources on programs that have little evident value. Easterbrook feels that NASA should spend some of the money it wants to spend on moon landings and takeoffs on the study of the earth and global warming instead. Sounds reasonable enough to me. But Mr.Griffin feels differently.

In an interview that had me hoping I was just having another bad dream, Griffin responded to Inskeep’s queries (this is lifted from NPR’s website, italics are mine).

Inskeep: It has been mentioned that NASA is not spending as much money as it could to study climate change — global warming — from space. Are you concerned about global warming?

Griffin: I’m aware that global warming exists. I understand that the bulk of scientific evidence accumulated supports the claim that we’ve had about a one degree centigrade rise in temperature over the last century to within accuracy of 20 percent. I’m also aware of recent findings that appear to have nailed down — pretty well nailed down the conclusion that much of that is manmade. Whether that is a longterm concern or not, I can’t say.

Inskeep: Do you have any doubt that this is a problem that mankind has to wrestle with?

Griffin: I have no doubt that … a trend of global warming exists. I am not sure that it is fair to say that it is a problem we must wrestle with. To assume that it is a problem is to assume that the state of Earth’s climate today is the optimal climate, the best climate that we could have or ever have had and that we need to take steps to make sure that it doesn’t change. First of all, I don’t think it’s within the power of human beings to assure that the climate does not change, as millions of years of history have shown. And second of all, I guess I would ask which human beings — where and when — are to be accorded the privilege of deciding that this particular climate that we have right here today, right now is the best climate for all other human beings. I think that’s a rather arrogant position for people to take.

Beyond the fact that his own point of view seems a wee bit arrogant, I don’t really think he’s expressing what he really feels. I think he’s one of those bloodless cyborgs who believes in using taxpayer money and NASA brain power to engineer an exit strategy once this planet stops being so hospitable. Those of us not fortunate (or powerful) enough to be part of the inner circle will be left behind left behind to choke on NASA’s non- renewable exhaust.

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