Coming on Christmas

Christmas trees for sale on Cambridge Heath Road, Bethnal Green, London

I first heard Joni Mitchell's song "River" when I was a lonely high school girl, listening to the radio in my bedroom at night. It was the early days of "album-oriented-rock" radio, and sets of songs were played in succession, blending into one another. I heard a mournful song sung in the high, reedy voice of a girl, about Christmas and frozen rivers and sadness and loss - and then I heard another song in a woman's voice, and yet another, and the next day I went to buy an album I thought the song was on, but that turned out to be Carole King's "Tapestry." Which was OK, but not what I wanted.

 It took me a while to find out who the singer was that had so struck my heart. By the time I found out it was Joni Mitchell, Christmas was long over.

No matter. "River" is still one of my favorite Christmas songs.  What's one of yours?



It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on

Thematic Photographic - Dawn to Dusk

Carmi at the blog "Written, Inc." posts a photographic challenge each week at Thematic Photographic. This week, the theme is "Dawn and Dusk."

I take so many pictures of the view across the canyon where I live, but that's because it's so beautiful, and, indeed, the play of light and sky make it look different all the time. Here's an early morning photo, as the sun colors the hills on the other side, while our eastern side of the canyon is still dark, and the roof of my neighbor's house still wet with dew. The setting moon is in the west, and a trailing wisp of fog floats in the air.

At dusk, the sun drops behind the western hills, and low clouds behind the saddle of the mountain flush ruddy.

A life too short

Over the weekend I attended a memorial gathering for a woman who died too young. Accomplished, funny, beautiful, and in love with her husband of over twenty years, she was remembered in story after story told by friends who struggled to contain their grief as they spoke. She was a person who lived her life with gusto, who never hesitated to explore what interested her, and, who, generous with her enthusiasm and joy, shared it all with her friends.

I listened to the stories and each person told of how by a casual connection, an invitation for coffee after class, or a successful work assignment blossomed into a deep and lasting friendship that enriched their lives. I had met her, but I did not know her well - our connection was that our husbands are colleagues. At one point, perhaps, someone suggested we ask contact her about a mutual interest, but we never got around to it.

I am struck by how hit-and-miss it all is. How many wonderful people do we pass everyday, and miss connecting with them? What would your life be like if you hadn't taken that phone call, accepted that invitation, gone to that dinner party? How many friendships and enriching experiences are passing you by, right now, today?

 She lived her life being open to what came. Her optimism, curiosity, and joy sustained her and those who loved her, even to the end. How did I manage to meet her, and yet miss knowing her? Who else am I - are you? - missing? It's a lesson to remember.

A city where no city should be

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 When Edward Abbey wrote:

"There is no shortage of water in the desert but exactly the right amount, a perfect ratio of water to rock, of water to sand, insuring that wide, free open generous spacing between plants and animals, homes and towns and cities, which makes the arid West so different from any other part of the nation. There is no lack of water here, unless you try to establish a city where no city should be."

He was writing about greedy cities that hog for themselves the water of rivers and streams that nature would share with the land.

Finding Salvation

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We knew we'd find Salvation eventually, but driving through the low, dry desert between the Salton Sea and the Chocolate Mountains, there were times when it seemed to elude us.

Then, through the small town of Niland, past the electrical transfer station, around the bend, we could see it rise up before us, the rays of the low afternoon sun making its color blaze against the amber hills.

Mellow yellow

The post office may tell you that the International Banana Museum is in Mecca, CA, but to the traveller, it's south of that small date-growing town, along the North Shore of the Salton Sea. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere.

From the 111 highway, the clean, bright yellow, white and blue painting building with the jaunty yellow Volkswagen beetle out front catches your eye with enough time to slow down and turn into the parking lot.

The sign on the door says the suggested $3.50 admission fee is credited to your first purchase, but when you step inside the screen door, there are no uniformed museum guards there to collect. Instead, we encountered a child wearing a banana suit. It just seemed normal, given that the entire room was filled with banana-like objects in all sizes and guises.

Display cases were crammed with banana memorabilia, artifacts of banana-flavored processed food and candy, stuffed banana toys, and plastic bananas. Kitschy banana dishware and objets d'art, banana-themed lamps, banana themed books, magazines and LP covers were arrayed all over the room.

I loved these unusual banana salt-and-pepper shakers - unusual because they were PEELED bananas.

A lovely Carmen Miranda - er, Banana - like ceramic décor piece on the bar.

I love this little boudoir lamp, with a bronze monkey holding a bunch of bananas. Note, too, the variety of banana wall décor.

The banana-girl's parents and siblings were seated at the glass-topped bar or at the small tea-tables, while behind the counter an industrial-size milkshake machine whirred away, where Fred, the museum's owner, artistic director, CEO and most devoted docent, was making banana shakes.

When it was our turn, I ordered a banana-strawberry shake, while [The Man I Love] asked Fred for his recommendation for banana-flavored soda.

Photo from HERE

Fred recommended Empire Banana-flavored soda, a classic dating back to the 1930s. Fred has owned the museum since 2010, having bought the collection from the man who founded it in 1972.  Here's an article on Gawker about Fred and his mom saving the museum.

The Museum shares an attractive Mid-Century Modern concrete block building with Skip's Liquor Store.  There's a large parking lot, to accommodate hordes of visitors, and out back there's a tiny concrete shed with a clean and serviceable restroom.  I took the opportunity to check it out, and take Jack for a little walk.

Beyond the museum and Skip's,  there's nothing to see but flat open desert. Shimmering far on the horizon, you can see the silvery water of the Salton Sea.

The strawberry-banana shake was delicious, sweet, and almost too thick to get through a straw.  The taste of banana soda was like a blast from the past - like any banana-flavored candy, popsicle, or pudding from childhood. If you like that kind of thing.

The vast, unpopulated reaches of southwestern Imperial County seem an unlikely spot for a tourist attraction, but Fred's enthusiasm seems to attract plenty of visitors who are delighted to Go Bananas!

Don't miss it if you're passing through!

Gibson girl

A gibson is a profoundly grown-up cocktail. Gin, a whiff of dry vermouth, and a pickled pearl onion. That's all it is. No fancy stuff.

Recipes for the gibson go back to the turn of the 20th century. Some say that gibsons were drier than ordinary martinis, so the onion garnish helped their afficianados distinguish them. Other stories claim that the gibson was actually a trickery practiced by canny bar schmoozers hoping not to get drunk - it was mere water, and the onion garnish marked it out.

No matter; today a gibson is a sophisticated take on a classic martini. This is not your sweet and fruity cosmopolitan, or a vodka charade. It's even more hard-core than the pure, bright and citrusy chemical classic gimlet. It's unconditionally gin, and when you have one, you know you're having a goddam drink.

For the home cocktail lover, the only trouble is finding the pickled onions. Supermarket pickled onions vary in flavor and quality, and - let's face it - they look a little creepy in those teensy dusty jars that stay neglected on the shelf for ever.

This Sunday, at our local farmers' market, I noticed one stall that had baskets of assorted pearl onions for sale. White, yellow, and red baby onions, the perfect size to garnish a cocktail. What if I tried to make my own?

I make some pretty good pickled red onions for enjoying with meats, but I thought that a cocktail onion called for a little less sweetness.

Pearl onions are tricky - you have to peel off the papery outside, and preserve the whole, round shape of it. The trick is to blanch them in boiling water for a minute or two. After draining, you cut off top and bottom ends and squeeze - the center sphere of the onion pops free from the outer skin. (one internet tipster says you can buy frozen peeled pearl onions in the supermarket. You don't have to peel them. Sounds like a good thing to try.)

Wash a jar in hot water. If you want to make a batch of onions, then you'll need to process them in a water bath, but I think this is a recipe you can make in small batches and keep in the fridge.

Make a brine, and put it on the stove to boil. You  want to have a 2:1 ratio of vinegar to water - so 2 cups of vinegar to one cup of water. A light vinegar is best - I used champagne vinegar because I found an old bottle in my cupboard, but you could use white vinegar, or white wine vinegar, or even rice vinegar.

Add some flavorings. You can put these in the jar before your fill it, or you can put them in the boiling brine. You might want bay leaves, peppercorns, or pickling spices. Herbs are good; so are red pepper flakes or little dried cayenne peppers. If you like gin, you might want to enhance the taste by using juniper berries. Or lemon peel, for a citrusy taste. For my onions, I used peppercorns, a sprig of rosemary, and red pepper flakes.

The red onions turn a lovely pink!

 The critical issue is how much salt and how much sugar to add. Do you like a sweeter pickle, or one that's more tart, or even sourly puckery? The recipes I've seen vary greatly - some add equal amounts of salt and sugar; some have a lot of each, and others have only a little of each.  I think for a small batch, a couple of tablespoons of sugar and salt work well without being too strong. Start out conservatively, and TASTE. If you are not processing them to keep on the self, but keeping small batches in the fridge, you can safely experiment.

Boil the brine, add the peeled onions, and boil for another minute or two before taking it off the heat. Then ladle into the clean jars, fill with the hot brine, cap and cool, and put in the fridge. Wait a day or so before you try.

Your pickled onions will be crisp, delicious, and oh, so sophisticated! You'll feel just like Roger Sterling is buying you a drink!

Desert scenes

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 Scenes from the desert along the eastern shore of the Salton Sea.

Skies and landscapes that draw the eye.

A sere and desolate beauty.

Traces of human habitation, now gone.

Or remaining, and lonely.

Or on another plane altogether.

Introducing the oyster

This post has been cross-posted at Derfwad Manor. Go visit and read more writers, brought to you by the incomparable Mrs. G!

My introduction to oysters was not a promising one. My father liked oyster stew. He was the only one in my family who did. I don’t remember what occasion sparked his appetite, but often on weekend afternoons he would eat things that he enjoyed in solitary pleasure. Like sardines, spread on saltine crackers. Peanut brittle. Canned tamales from Old El Paso. Or oyster stew.

It came in a can; it was cream colored and had a rich smell, but I thought it was gross, how the grey shapeless oysters swam and bobbed, hidden in the milky broth.