Tag: learned

What I wish I’d known before I had to learn it.

Aged I

LET’S SHIFT GEARS for a second and talk about something that’s been on my mind for a long but indeterminate while: in a word, aging.

Later this month, may the Force so will it, I’ll celebrate my 64th birthday. While momentous enough in itself, what’s even more of the moment is the matter of perspective this milestone brings.

I have now outlived several dear (and once-dear) friends and family members.

Many of the Hebrew-school children I taught when we first came to Sonoma are now out of college or vocational school and pursuing their own successful careers – some with children of their own.

I have seen my beloved hometown change from a quaint and sleepy rural community to a quaint and world-famous tourist playground. (Don’t get me wrong – it’s still by far the best place on Earth in which to live, filled with the best people to live with. It’s just … different, that’s all.)

And I have matured from a depressive but charmingly self-aggrandizing hophead to a joyful and sober social asset. (For some values of the term “social asset.”)

All these changes – particularly the sobriety – have helped me realize the fragility, continuity and inevitability of time and its cycles; it’s the sort of realization one can only derive from direct experience, and has also given me an appreciation of depth and focus. (And rocket-fueled my innate and sardonic sense of the absurd.) Most valuable of all is what the kids today call “radical acceptance” – a healthier byproduct than cynicism of struggling against the unchangeable – as well as a fierce love of life and its many inhabitants.

Wisdom? Enlightenment? Inner peace? I wouldn’t go that far, because I don’t know how to define or even recognize any of those. Let’s just call it a grateful and quiet delight in the simple, in the small, in the deep happiness of becoming and belonging. And we’ll leave it at that.

Cat Whispering

IT’S NOT ACTUALLY hard to become a Cat Whisperer, if you just follow these field-tested and foolproof steps:

1. When you first behold the cat, sweet-talk it: e.g., “Who’s the nice cat?” or “Hey, beautiful boy/girl!” or simply, “KITTY!”

2. Let the cat approach you instead of vice-versa, lest it bolt. (The first Rule of Thumb in any feline encounter: NEVER MAKE A CAT AFRAID OF YOU.)

3. Present to the cat the back of your motionless hand, without trying to reach out for it. (See Rule of Thumb above.)

4. Should you be blessed by having the cat rub its face on your hand, keep your hand motionless and enjoy its warm attentions for the duration.

5. When the cat, sensing your good intentions, rubs its side against your hand, shift your hand to its rump to give a few experimental skritches. Let the cat’s tail slide (loosely!) between your thumb and forefinger as it passes.

6. If the cat turns and makes a beeline for your hand, repeat steps 3-6 until your new friend tires of these familiarities and leaves.

7. If, when you next see the cat, it runs to greet you, congratulations.

8. See?

Instant Equilibrium

A BIT PRICEY, BUT O! so worth it.

Occasionally, and despite my usual decent breakfast (homebaked bran-ginger-date-pecan muffin, high-protein yogurt, and coffee), I am apt to suffer hypoglycemia while perambulating about Sonoma. (There was even the time a few months ago when I approached some firefighter trainees to ask for a therapeutic granola bar and wound up riding an ambulance back to my house. Great story, too little time/space to tell it further.)

As proof against these attacks, I used to carry pitted dates in my EDC for gobbling to raise my blood-sugar. However, I recently hit on the following mixture which, in addition to being tasty, serves its purpose more admirably because of added protein:

Blend equal parts (say, at least a half-cup each) whole candied pecans, chopped candied pecans, chopped dates, roasted and salted pistachio kernels, dried cranberries, and goji berries. Portion out into a plastic sandwich or snack-size bag, seal, and tuck into EDC. (Try hard not to nibble on it unless needed.)

False Economy

SO THERE I WAS, PEEPING through the window of the Eureka, California post office, waiting for my elusive boss to enter her across-the-street cafe.

The year was 1988 – a time of great personal upheaval, both good and bad. Through a combination of circumstances, my then-new girlfriend and I were trying to make a go of it in that sleepy, downbeat North Coast city. Jobs were hard to come by, at least for a journeyman printer like me, and when I saw a newspaper ad promising to train someone as a coffeehouse clerk I sprang into delighted and determined action.

At first, things were pleasant. The cafe’s owner, who I’ll call Simone, was friendly and easygoing, as were the customers, and once I had figured out the espresso machine and sandwich-making regimens I felt reasonably financially secure (and competently useful) for the first time in weeks.

Then “Dave” walked in, an itinerant handyman who lived in a big blue van well-stocked with tools of every description.

“You’re new here, huh?” he said as I handed him a double espresso and a roast beef on rye. “Simone paid you yet?”

“I’ve only been here a couple days,” I replied. “Payday’s Friday.”

“Yeah? Right. Good luck.”

Friday arrived, and at closing time, I asked Simone for my wages.

“I’m a little short right now,” she said wistfully, “and I have to move some things around at the bank. Can you wait until tomorrow?”

“Well …. I suppose so.”

Tomorrow became today, and Simone appeared late that afternoon as I was building a turkey croissant.

“I’m SO sorry,” “she said wistfully. “I just missed the bank’s hours. Can I pay you Monday?”

“I don’t know, Simone…”

“I promise. Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”

Monday’s dawn broke, typically foggy and grey, with me outside the cafe waiting for Simone to arrive.

She didn’t.

Neither did she on Tuesday.

Nor Wednesday.

Meanwhile, my daily phone messages went unanswered, both at the cafe and at the number purporting to be Simone’s home.

Hence, my Thursday-morning stakeout.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought with one of many impatient sighs. Who am I, James Bond? But I also can’t believe I’m not going to make rent or buy groceries this week.

Suddenly, Simone’s red Gremlin pulled up across the street. As she exited her car, I exited the post office.

“Simone!” I called, breaking into a fast trot. “Hey! Simone!”

Her beseeching eyes reflected helpless and apologetic dread, but before she could say anything, I spoke with uncharacteristic bluntness.

“Look here, Simone,” I said. “I like you, and I like working here, but I need to get paid – like right now!”

Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to pay you. All I have is this cafe and what’s in it. I owe so many people so much money; my life is in shambles, and I’m just as much a victim as you are…”

“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Simone, but frankly, that’s not my concern. I’m not going to leave this place without your paying me.”

And that was how, and why, my girlfriend and I feasted that week on thick sandwiches of roast beef and turkey breast. Victory is indeed sweet – and sometimes, savory.

I’m In (Finally)

IT HAPPENED AS AN ALL-AT-ONCE thunderbolt moment that I wasn’t expecting, but it’s here and I can’t go back: I am now an enthusiastic and sincere convert.

Yes, it’s true. Despite my longtime denials and aspersions, the undeniable fact has overtaken me – and now, I fully, unreservedly, and happily love mayonnaise.

For years, I had a bad attitude when it came to the white stuff. “Slimy,” I called it. “Blandly WASPish,” I pooh-poohed. “That disgusting goo which defiles all that it touches,” I complained to anyone who would listen. It was in the house, yes, but used only by my copilot. I even avoided even touching the hefty glass jar with the familiar blue label, lest it somehow give me cooties.

But last month, curiosity (largely from watching Julia Child prepare her own from scratch) overcame aversion and I reached for That Condiment. I unscrewed the lid, scooped the tiniest bit on the tip of a teaspoon, brought it to my open lips, and licked experimentally.

WOW, I thought. Tangy. Salty. Rich. Flavorful. DELICIOUS! How could I have been so wrong for so long?

They say that if you try something and hate it, it’s because it wasn’t prepared properly. Mayonnaise preparation is simple: beat the dickens out of some eggs, then s-l-o-w-l-y add oil in a thin stream while you continue beating. Sprinkle a tot of mustard powder and a drizzle of vinegar (for stabilization, it’s said) and you’re prepared for feasting.

Since my conversion, I have been using it for a pre-breadcrumbing slather on Petrale sole, and as a binder in the best tuna salad I’ve ever eaten (along with anchovy paste, ground Dijon mustard, sweet relish, capers, black pepper, and a dash of thyme; an adapted recipe also courtesy of Julia Child) – and am eager for more.

So now, the question is: What are your favorite uses for this heavenly substance? Drop a comment in the space below!

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