I signed up for National Blog Posting Month – NaBloPoMo, I think – because it might help me get back to blogging and, by extension, art journaling. I have no illusions that I will actually post every day, however, but they have this every month, so maybe something will click. And, I get to post my link on the NaBloPoMo website, so there’s a (slim) possibility that someone besides me will actually read this.
There are hundreds of blogs listed on their site, which is only a fraction of the bloggers out there in the general blogosphere. I clicked on some of the links. Some of the blogs are interesting, some not. For some reason I seem to always click on the ones that are about faith and daily affirmations, when I would really like to find the ones that are mean, nasty, and sarcastic – like me. Everyone thinks I am so sweet and nice, when at my core there is a block of ice.
I guess I am feeling icy right now because my mom (age 97) is failing on a daily basis and, according to Toasty, I am not facing it. I am in denial. He’s right, to a certain extent, but what I am really feeling is terrified. Watching someone you love fade away bit by bit is frightening. The person who was my mother is mostly gone, and it has happened so fast. It hasn’t been that long since she criticized something I was wearing. Now I’m just glad she recognizes me. She’s almost completely helpless and not eating much. I want my mother back! I want the mother who was brisk and competent and always made a pickled tongue when I came to visit.
It’s also terrifying because I see myself. Man, I do not want to become confused and helpless. I plan to live a long time AND go out on a high note. It can be done. My father, while failing physically, kept most of his wits and even cracked jokes just 2 weeks before he died – right before we put him under the care of hospice and let him slide away on a cloud of morphine. Mom doesn’t seem to be in pain, but that part of her that is still there is so miserable and unhappy. Such mixed emotions…
Monday, November 1, 2010
Friday, December 11, 2009
That Time of Year Again
I have always longed for Christmas, which is complicated because I’m Jewish. My family observed all the Jewish holidays, although we didn’t keep kosher, but in our small Illinois town we were more American than anything else. When my grandfather came over from Russia he understood right away that to get ahead he had to assimilate, at least in public. This means wishing everyone you meet “Merry Christmas” and then doing whatever you want at home.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
It’s hard for a child to understand this, especially in middle America where Christmas is ubiquitous. I have friends from New York who grew up within sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, in neighborhoods where schools closed on the Jewish holidays, celebrations such as Halloween were unknown, and Christmas was confined to Connecticut. But in the heartland the Christmas season starts in early November. Rosy-cheeked Santas and scarf-wearing snowmen decorate the stores. In school we made Christmas cards during art period and sang carols during music. I was often the only Jewish kid in my class, and sometimes the teacher would ask me to bring in my menorah and tell the story of Chanukah. My classmates were mainly interested in the fact that I got presents for 8 nights. I didn’t tell them that this was probably no better than what they got, considering one night was always underwear (who ever decided that cotton underpants was a good present?) and one night was my father’s invention, a money hunt: ten dimes, hidden around the house, that kept me searching for hours, an excellent return on his investment.
Eventually I understood why we didn’t celebrate Christmas, and I came to appreciate Judaism for its own wonders and mysteries. But still, Christmas holds particular appeal for me. My version, however, has nothing to do with religion. It’s totally superficial, a longing for a Yule log and egg nog and red velvet bows and a long plaid taffeta skirt in red and green. And the tree – especially the tree. Every year I have an imaginary tree, decorated according to the current fashion. I’ve done this since I was little, in the days when a pink flocked or aluminum tree with shiny pink balls was the height of sophistication. I’ve since done a homey tree with wooden ornaments, a Raggedy Ann tree with gingham and rick-rack, a hippie tree with bandana bows and popcorn garlands, and a Feliz Navidad tree with ornaments made of straw and unglazed pottery. This past year my tree would have been elegantly Victorian, with swags of white beads that look like pearls, white lace bows, white silk tassel ornaments and – guess what? – shiny balls in silver and gold.
Every Christmas Eve we would pile in the car and drive around and criticize everyone’s Christmas decorations. At least my father, the self-appointed arbiter of good taste, criticized. He was opposed to most lawn displays, Santas on the roof, and excessive lighting. I secretly drooled for trees and tinsel and lights. Sometimes, driving by, we could see people heavily involved in conviviality inside the houses, dining rooms with white linens, chandeliers shining, woodwork glowing. Such scenes always tore at my heart. There was festivity going on in those gleaming rooms. My family was rarely festive – our idea of a good time being community criticism. Most Jewish holidays are somber affairs more in tune with the original construction of the term “holy day,” celebrating some near-escape. In fact, there’s an old joke that says Jewish holidays can be summed up thusly: “They tried to kill us; we won; let’s eat.” Families celebrating Christmas in those houses seemed to be happier than mine. I guessed it had to do with the pine boughs draped over the mantle and the Christmas stockings hanging below. Now I’ve learned that pine boughs do not prevent dysfunction, but they do give the appearance of unity.
I made things worse, in a way, by going to boarding school for high school. Boarding school! The very bastion of preppy – and WASPy – sensibility. My classmates were the real thing, the old thing. Not just money, but pearls and houses and manners. I wanted to be one of them, to have a nickname like Muffie, to date a guy named Trip, to play tennis and ride horses. In the summer I wanted to be slender in a white bathing suit by the pool, graceful in the afore-mentioned taffeta skirt by the fireside in the winter. I decided I was a tall, slim woman with a sleek blonde pageboy trapped in the body of a short, pudgy, frizzy-haired woman. There is not enough surgery or peroxide in the world to effect that degree of bodily reassignment, however. My mother told me my hands are like my grandmother’s, stubby peasant hands good for kneading bread. As for tennis, forget it. My arms are too short. Besides, Jews don’t ride horses. Cossacks ride horses.
It took a while – years, in fact – for me to learn to accept myself for what I am: a zaftig, middle-aged Jewish woman with a good heart and a sarcastic sense of humor whose family has only been in this country since 1905. I still like Christmas, and I still decorate my imaginary tree every year. My friend Sally and I have continued the tradition of driving around on Christmas Eve to look at – and criticize – the decorations. Last year we passed a beautiful old house festooned with lights. Looking inside I saw a dining room with a burnished mahogany table set with white linen place mats, crystal goblets, and candles in silver holders. The room was empty except for a blonde woman standing by the table. I decided she was the hostess because she had a pageboy hairdo. She wasn’t wearing a plaid taffeta skirt; instead she had on black leggings and a red sweater, and I became conscious of how retro my fantasy attire had been and did a quick update. “Go slow!” I told Sally. I wanted to peer into those French windows as long as I could. As the car crept past the house the woman put her hands over her face. I don’t know if she was crying or stressed out from the holiday preparations, but it was if she couldn’t stand to look at one more red velvet bow. And suddenly, I couldn’t either.
Tadich Grill
Tadich Grill does not need me to review it. It’s an institution, the classic San Francisco restaurant experience. Think Sam Spade, 1920’s or earlier. Lots of dark wood surrounding individual booths that make you feel like you belong to the special club. Tiny white tiles on the floor. Waiters nearing or past retirement age. The best sourdough bread in the City. Those elements alone would qualify Tadich as THE San Francisco restaurant, but wait, they also serve seafood!
This is not a trendy place with fish cheeks poached in exotic mushroom foam. The food is straight up old school as the kids would say, if the kids went to Tadich. Mostly it’s business guys having a side of sand dabs with their martinis. I did have an octopus salad with an Asian-style gingery dressing when I ate there recently with my son, Crouton, and his wife, Cupcake. But the fare is mainly plain, with large portions. We shared the fried calamari appetizer, and I admit that I prefer the garlicky versions you find elsewhere, like Steamers in Los Gatos. Crouton had the Boston clam chowder that is thick enough to plaster walls, and the sand dabs. Cupcake had the cioppino which looked like the best deal on the table. I had a crab-shrimp casserole in a zesty tomato sauce. We were too full for dessert. Our waiter had a pleasant, witty attitude which is sometimes hard to come by among the cranky old men waiting tables there. I gave him a nice tip and then we sailed out to another SF tradition, the deYoung Museum.
So to sum it up, it’s the whole package that makes Tadich special – the location, the ambiance, the sourdough bread, and the food. Take any one away and it would be just another place to eat.
Tadich Grill
240 California Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 391-1849
This is not a trendy place with fish cheeks poached in exotic mushroom foam. The food is straight up old school as the kids would say, if the kids went to Tadich. Mostly it’s business guys having a side of sand dabs with their martinis. I did have an octopus salad with an Asian-style gingery dressing when I ate there recently with my son, Crouton, and his wife, Cupcake. But the fare is mainly plain, with large portions. We shared the fried calamari appetizer, and I admit that I prefer the garlicky versions you find elsewhere, like Steamers in Los Gatos. Crouton had the Boston clam chowder that is thick enough to plaster walls, and the sand dabs. Cupcake had the cioppino which looked like the best deal on the table. I had a crab-shrimp casserole in a zesty tomato sauce. We were too full for dessert. Our waiter had a pleasant, witty attitude which is sometimes hard to come by among the cranky old men waiting tables there. I gave him a nice tip and then we sailed out to another SF tradition, the deYoung Museum.
So to sum it up, it’s the whole package that makes Tadich special – the location, the ambiance, the sourdough bread, and the food. Take any one away and it would be just another place to eat.
Tadich Grill
240 California Street
San Francisco, CA 94111
(415) 391-1849
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Chinese Food
When I was a kid in our small town in the 1950’s there was one Chinese restaurant. I think it was take out only -- I never heard of anyone actually eating there. They served Americanized Chinese food: chow mein, chop suey, chicken subgum, egg foo yung, but to us it was tres exotique. The little packets of soy sauce and the fortune cookies were utterly fascinating. We looked at the chopsticks but were afraid to use them. But the bags of food my father brought home never contained anything remotely spicy. The proprietors of that establishment probably assumed that Americans wouldn’t want anything too far out of their comfort zones. The Chinese take-out did a very good business and I’m sure the owners smiled at our xenophobia as they checked their bank accounts and then tucked into plates of spicy eggplant, shitake mushrooms in oyster sauce, and anything in garlic black bean sauce.
When I arrived in California in 1966 I was astonished by the Chinese food that I encountered. Such variety! Such taste! Spicy, salty, sweet, sour – it was an explosion on my taste buds. As the years passed I realized that we corn-fed rubes in the middle of the country had been fooled into thinking that Chinese food was bland and gloppy, when all along California and New York had been enjoying the real thing. Noodles were not just the skinny chow mein but also the chubby chow fun. There was a whole sub-genre of food that got wrapped up in other food, like mu shu pork wrapped in delicate little pancakes. There were amazing and unexpected combinations like honey-walnut shrimp. My first dim sum experience was a revelation.
Now, in 2009, those dishes that first burst into my consciousness have become mainstream. At the same time I have found that my aging taste buds need greater stimulation. I don’t want my food to be searingly hot, but I do want a bit of aggressive seasoning, whatever it is. I enjoy looking for unusual dishes on Chinese menus. Sometimes I really do want the items that are not translated into English, no matter what the waiter says. Bring me the chicken feet and jellyfish!
But when having Chinese food with my 96 year old mother, I do have to stick to the tried and true – nothing weird or spicy. So on our recent visit to Taiwan on Lincoln Avenue in San Jose’s Willow Glen neighborhood, we had the old standbys of cashew chicken, honey walnut shrimp, and mu shu pork. I like Taiwan, and the food is very good, but I looked longingly at the dishes identified as hot by a little red pepper on the menu. And afterwards Mom said she would have preferred broccoli beef to the mu shu, as there were too many green onions in the pork, and she likes the broccoli beef “gravy” on her rice.
Only one problem at Taiwan – instead of Chinese pancakes they gave us flour tortillas with the mu shu. Not an acceptable substitute! Not even the same hemisphere! Chinese pancakes are small and delicate, and tortillas are big and doughy. Tortillas are made to enclose a burrito, not a few spoonfuls of delicate stir-fry and plum sauce.
Taiwan
When I arrived in California in 1966 I was astonished by the Chinese food that I encountered. Such variety! Such taste! Spicy, salty, sweet, sour – it was an explosion on my taste buds. As the years passed I realized that we corn-fed rubes in the middle of the country had been fooled into thinking that Chinese food was bland and gloppy, when all along California and New York had been enjoying the real thing. Noodles were not just the skinny chow mein but also the chubby chow fun. There was a whole sub-genre of food that got wrapped up in other food, like mu shu pork wrapped in delicate little pancakes. There were amazing and unexpected combinations like honey-walnut shrimp. My first dim sum experience was a revelation.
Now, in 2009, those dishes that first burst into my consciousness have become mainstream. At the same time I have found that my aging taste buds need greater stimulation. I don’t want my food to be searingly hot, but I do want a bit of aggressive seasoning, whatever it is. I enjoy looking for unusual dishes on Chinese menus. Sometimes I really do want the items that are not translated into English, no matter what the waiter says. Bring me the chicken feet and jellyfish!
But when having Chinese food with my 96 year old mother, I do have to stick to the tried and true – nothing weird or spicy. So on our recent visit to Taiwan on Lincoln Avenue in San Jose’s Willow Glen neighborhood, we had the old standbys of cashew chicken, honey walnut shrimp, and mu shu pork. I like Taiwan, and the food is very good, but I looked longingly at the dishes identified as hot by a little red pepper on the menu. And afterwards Mom said she would have preferred broccoli beef to the mu shu, as there were too many green onions in the pork, and she likes the broccoli beef “gravy” on her rice.
Only one problem at Taiwan – instead of Chinese pancakes they gave us flour tortillas with the mu shu. Not an acceptable substitute! Not even the same hemisphere! Chinese pancakes are small and delicate, and tortillas are big and doughy. Tortillas are made to enclose a burrito, not a few spoonfuls of delicate stir-fry and plum sauce.
Taiwan
http://www.taiwanrestaurantsj.com/
1306 Lincoln Avenue, San Jose, CA 95125
1306 Lincoln Avenue, San Jose, CA 95125
phone: (408) 289-8800 or (408) 289-9328 fax: (408) 289-8924
Friday, October 30, 2009
Weird Cars
Yesterday was weird car day. In the parking lot at work I saw an orange Tango. It’s an electric car that is essentially a motorcycle with a shell. Check out the web page because my picture does not really show the thinness and strange shape. http://www.commutercars.com/ It’s said not to tip over because the batteries are on the bottom, giving it a low center of gravity, but I don’t know. Looks scary to me. Also it can split lanes – you know how motorcycles can (at least in CA) go between lanes of stalled traffic? That’s lane splitting. I have always thought that was dangerous – you never know when a car is going to suddenly make a move into your path. So I guess there’s a reason why I’m not a motorcycle enthusiast. (But I love watching “Sons of Anarchy.”)
On the way home I saw a hearse that had been converted for regular use. Every bit of chrome had been removed from the surface of the car – including the door handles. How entrance is achieved I can only guess – through the window, like NASCAR? Anyway, removing the metal must have left holes and depressions, but every such hollow had been filled in and then sanded absolutely smooth, so you would never know anything had been there. The vehicle was painted a dark matte grey – like primer, but I suspect that no top coat was planned. The tail lights were a narrow strip just above the rear bumper that reminded me of the Cylons from the original “Battlestar Gallactica.” The complete effect was total creepiness, compounded by the license plate: 1 WA RIDE. I wish I had a picture, but I was driving.
On the way home I saw a hearse that had been converted for regular use. Every bit of chrome had been removed from the surface of the car – including the door handles. How entrance is achieved I can only guess – through the window, like NASCAR? Anyway, removing the metal must have left holes and depressions, but every such hollow had been filled in and then sanded absolutely smooth, so you would never know anything had been there. The vehicle was painted a dark matte grey – like primer, but I suspect that no top coat was planned. The tail lights were a narrow strip just above the rear bumper that reminded me of the Cylons from the original “Battlestar Gallactica.” The complete effect was total creepiness, compounded by the license plate: 1 WA RIDE. I wish I had a picture, but I was driving.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Eating Out Once Again
Finally, a new restaurant to report on. Toasty is dealing well with his diabetes and is slowly learning to eat at restaurants once again. As long as he sticks to lean protein, plain veggies, and salads, he’s OK.
One of the reasons we eat out a lot is the nature of Toasty’s work. He has had an impressive array of embarrassing occupations. His first job after college and the Army was selling chemicals, degreasers for manufacturers of electronic components like printed circuit boards. When he began to work for this company he first had to spend a few months working in the warehouse so that he would have a feel for all aspects of the business. He would come home with horrible headaches, and one time he actually had an appalling bubble or blister on the surface of his eyeball. He said it was an allergic reaction to the weeds that grew next to the warehouse but I wonder. These chemicals were subsequently found to be quite toxic. Some – more than the average you’d expect in the general population – of the men who worked full time in the warehouse, filling the drums of chemicals and loading them onto trucks, later died of various dreadful cancers. That company is no longer in business. I don’t know what is now used to clean printed circuit boards.
His next job was selling “flexible packaging.” OK, plastic bags. Yeah, right, those things are biodegradable – maybe in a million years, after the sun explodes.
Next he sold cigar and smoking accessories – fancy holders and portable ashtrays and something called a CigarSavor that lets you smoke one of those delightful stogies half way and then save it and keep it fresh as a daisy for another pleasurable lung-blackening experience. Here in NorCal the anti-smoking laws are pretty stringent, but some restaurants and bars had set aside hermetically-sealed smoking rooms as private clubs to get around the restrictions. But the waiters who had to come into those rooms to serve drinks complained about inhaling the smoke, new laws went up, and the cigar-smoking culture around here died and the company was bought out.
Then he was a telemarketer. He sold products for calibrating spectrophotometers, so he wasn’t calling you at home just as you sat down to dinner, but he was cold-calling scientific labs, so maybe he got you at work. It was a tough sale, as a little bottle of this stuff cost hundreds of dollars. After a while the company decided to pay him commission only, which would have meant an annual salary of about ten dollars, so he quit.
After that he worked for me at the travel agency for a while. That almost resulted in simultaneous homicide. Then he did odd jobs – no job too big or too small, too dirty or degrading. He cleaned garages and gutters, weeded gardens, moved furniture, took loads of garbage to the dump, drove bratty kids to Hebrew school, and picked up dry-cleaning for women who were busy playing tennis. Actually, some of this was quite interesting, especially the garbage. You would never believe which sweet, mild-mannered lady puts down a six-pack every night! And, he picked up some odds and ends for me to use in my found-object collages. But that work is sporadic and back-breaking.
And finally, his current vocation: night watchman in a mortuary.
Traditional Judaism has lots of rules and rituals, some of which seem arbitrary and arcane. But the burial laws, or at least some of them, make a certain amount of sense. Jews are generally not embalmed, and hence are put in the ground as soon as possible, preferably within 24 hours after death. The body is not supposed to be left alone, as a gesture of respect and decency. Some families will pay to have a “watcher” sit with the body all night. The watcher is supposed to recite Psalms all night, and keep rodents away from the body, but the deceased are actually in the cooler, and while there is a resident mouse, he is more of a companion to Toasty than a threat.
Toasty’s shift is 8PM to 8AM. Due to the nature of death, he never knows when he is going to work. He’ll get a call in the afternoon and he has to get ready. My workday ends at 5PM, so unless I have leftovers in the house there’s usually not enough time for me to come home and cook something – he has to leave by 6:30 because of the awful traffic. But I can meet him somewhere along one of the freeways and he has plenty of time to eat and scoot.
One night we ended up at Café Grillades, located in Bayhill Shopping Center in San Bruno, a good location for us to meet for dinner. The food at Café Grillades is Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern. I had really tasty lamb chops that had been rubbed with a reddish color spice – not sure what it was, but it was very good. They came with salad and french fries. Toasty had lamb brochettes and asked for extra salad instead of potatoes. Most restaurants are happy to accommodate special requests. I don’t know if I’d try it in some chi-chi pretty food chef-driven place, but a strip mall restaurant needs to be flexible.
Café Grillades has an eclectic menu. Other offerings included couscous plates, paninis, and crepes, both savory and sweet. I couldn’t help myself – I ordered a strawberry crepe brule – with a crunchy top of caramelized sugar. I felt momentary guilt eating this in front of Toasty, but he asked for and received a dish of plain strawberries.
Something about crepes causes me to go weak in the knees. I don’t know what it is. They are sublime. I once made crepes suzettes for a dinner party, and while they were a lot of work they were the star of the evening, by far. The ultimate comfort food, unctuous, rich, buttery. So I am anxious to go back to Café Grillades to try their other dishes – and to have some more crepes.
One of the reasons we eat out a lot is the nature of Toasty’s work. He has had an impressive array of embarrassing occupations. His first job after college and the Army was selling chemicals, degreasers for manufacturers of electronic components like printed circuit boards. When he began to work for this company he first had to spend a few months working in the warehouse so that he would have a feel for all aspects of the business. He would come home with horrible headaches, and one time he actually had an appalling bubble or blister on the surface of his eyeball. He said it was an allergic reaction to the weeds that grew next to the warehouse but I wonder. These chemicals were subsequently found to be quite toxic. Some – more than the average you’d expect in the general population – of the men who worked full time in the warehouse, filling the drums of chemicals and loading them onto trucks, later died of various dreadful cancers. That company is no longer in business. I don’t know what is now used to clean printed circuit boards.
His next job was selling “flexible packaging.” OK, plastic bags. Yeah, right, those things are biodegradable – maybe in a million years, after the sun explodes.
Next he sold cigar and smoking accessories – fancy holders and portable ashtrays and something called a CigarSavor that lets you smoke one of those delightful stogies half way and then save it and keep it fresh as a daisy for another pleasurable lung-blackening experience. Here in NorCal the anti-smoking laws are pretty stringent, but some restaurants and bars had set aside hermetically-sealed smoking rooms as private clubs to get around the restrictions. But the waiters who had to come into those rooms to serve drinks complained about inhaling the smoke, new laws went up, and the cigar-smoking culture around here died and the company was bought out.
Then he was a telemarketer. He sold products for calibrating spectrophotometers, so he wasn’t calling you at home just as you sat down to dinner, but he was cold-calling scientific labs, so maybe he got you at work. It was a tough sale, as a little bottle of this stuff cost hundreds of dollars. After a while the company decided to pay him commission only, which would have meant an annual salary of about ten dollars, so he quit.
After that he worked for me at the travel agency for a while. That almost resulted in simultaneous homicide. Then he did odd jobs – no job too big or too small, too dirty or degrading. He cleaned garages and gutters, weeded gardens, moved furniture, took loads of garbage to the dump, drove bratty kids to Hebrew school, and picked up dry-cleaning for women who were busy playing tennis. Actually, some of this was quite interesting, especially the garbage. You would never believe which sweet, mild-mannered lady puts down a six-pack every night! And, he picked up some odds and ends for me to use in my found-object collages. But that work is sporadic and back-breaking.
And finally, his current vocation: night watchman in a mortuary.
Traditional Judaism has lots of rules and rituals, some of which seem arbitrary and arcane. But the burial laws, or at least some of them, make a certain amount of sense. Jews are generally not embalmed, and hence are put in the ground as soon as possible, preferably within 24 hours after death. The body is not supposed to be left alone, as a gesture of respect and decency. Some families will pay to have a “watcher” sit with the body all night. The watcher is supposed to recite Psalms all night, and keep rodents away from the body, but the deceased are actually in the cooler, and while there is a resident mouse, he is more of a companion to Toasty than a threat.
Toasty’s shift is 8PM to 8AM. Due to the nature of death, he never knows when he is going to work. He’ll get a call in the afternoon and he has to get ready. My workday ends at 5PM, so unless I have leftovers in the house there’s usually not enough time for me to come home and cook something – he has to leave by 6:30 because of the awful traffic. But I can meet him somewhere along one of the freeways and he has plenty of time to eat and scoot.
One night we ended up at Café Grillades, located in Bayhill Shopping Center in San Bruno, a good location for us to meet for dinner. The food at Café Grillades is Mediterranean/North African/Middle Eastern. I had really tasty lamb chops that had been rubbed with a reddish color spice – not sure what it was, but it was very good. They came with salad and french fries. Toasty had lamb brochettes and asked for extra salad instead of potatoes. Most restaurants are happy to accommodate special requests. I don’t know if I’d try it in some chi-chi pretty food chef-driven place, but a strip mall restaurant needs to be flexible.
Café Grillades has an eclectic menu. Other offerings included couscous plates, paninis, and crepes, both savory and sweet. I couldn’t help myself – I ordered a strawberry crepe brule – with a crunchy top of caramelized sugar. I felt momentary guilt eating this in front of Toasty, but he asked for and received a dish of plain strawberries.
Something about crepes causes me to go weak in the knees. I don’t know what it is. They are sublime. I once made crepes suzettes for a dinner party, and while they were a lot of work they were the star of the evening, by far. The ultimate comfort food, unctuous, rich, buttery. So I am anxious to go back to Café Grillades to try their other dishes – and to have some more crepes.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Sugar Blues
It’s been a while since I’ve written. Toasticles found out that he has type 2 diabetes. Tough diagnosis for a guy whose favorite food is, well, toast. I feel so sorry for him. He’s having a hard time dealing with it and he can’t seem to settle down and follow a food plan. Plus the medication gives him diarrhea, so he’s been playing around with the dosages. He has lowered his sugar, but he’s miserable. So we haven’t eaten out much. Our mainstays of Chinese, Japanese and Vietnamese are full of rice and noodles, and sugar in the sauces, which he can’t have. We went to (gasp) Red Lobster, which wasn’t that bad. At least he could get plain fish and veggies. And I scarfed their yummy cheese biscuits.
What he’s looking for is the old-fashioned coffee shop. We were raised in the 1950’s, when you could go into a coffee shop that had a Formica counter and red leatherette booths, and on the menu would be something called a “diet plate,” consisting of a plain hamburger patty and a scoop of cottage cheese on top of a lettuce leaf, with maybe a tomato slice alongside. Even back then carbs were the enemy, although we called them “starches.” Try and find that today! We’ve been to a few of the dinosaur coffee shops that still exist, but those experiences are too horrifying to describe here. BJ’s actually came through, with a plain hamburger patty and a green salad (dressing on the side) for under ten bucks. It’s still a chain, however, and that stings.
I bought a George Foreman grill with the idea that Toasty can make his own food, grill a hamburger or a chicken breast. So far he hasn’t. I’ve made salmon that was surprisingly good, and I even grilled baby bok choy after sprinkling it with soy sauce and a drop or two of sesame oil. That was great! I love bok choy – it’s a very juicy vegetable.
The main premise of “Eating El Camino” will therefore have to wait for a bit because the majority of those restaurants won’t fit into Toasty’s diet. But I still have lots of stuff to blog about, so stay tuned!
What he’s looking for is the old-fashioned coffee shop. We were raised in the 1950’s, when you could go into a coffee shop that had a Formica counter and red leatherette booths, and on the menu would be something called a “diet plate,” consisting of a plain hamburger patty and a scoop of cottage cheese on top of a lettuce leaf, with maybe a tomato slice alongside. Even back then carbs were the enemy, although we called them “starches.” Try and find that today! We’ve been to a few of the dinosaur coffee shops that still exist, but those experiences are too horrifying to describe here. BJ’s actually came through, with a plain hamburger patty and a green salad (dressing on the side) for under ten bucks. It’s still a chain, however, and that stings.
I bought a George Foreman grill with the idea that Toasty can make his own food, grill a hamburger or a chicken breast. So far he hasn’t. I’ve made salmon that was surprisingly good, and I even grilled baby bok choy after sprinkling it with soy sauce and a drop or two of sesame oil. That was great! I love bok choy – it’s a very juicy vegetable.
The main premise of “Eating El Camino” will therefore have to wait for a bit because the majority of those restaurants won’t fit into Toasty’s diet. But I still have lots of stuff to blog about, so stay tuned!
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