Here comes the rain again

It was close to two in the afternoon on Saturday, and John Boutte was playing under the tent at the Satchmo Festival. The lawn beneath the tent - the lawns everywhere at the Old U.S. Mint - was thickly mulched with pine straw, although it failed to completely staunch the oozing black mud that had been generated by a torrential downpour yesterday. New Orleanians have learned that tall rubber boots are de rigueur festival footwear.

Still, the band was rocking. The canopied bar area was full of people drinking margaritas, bloody marys, and frozen daiquiris. You could smell the delicious aromas from the food tents - smoked sausage, meat pies, fried catfish.

He brought roses

I was sitting at the bar at Vaughan's Lounge, in anticipation of a musical set by Corey Henry and the Treme Funktet. I was with some girlfriends, C. and J., hanging out. The crowd was building, and the place was getting busy. The door buzzer rang, the bartender pressed the button, and someone came in. He was at my shoulder. A greeting kiss and hug - that's how they do it here in New Orleans.

And then he held out a rose to me.

A florist's rose, a large-flowered hybrid tea. The bud with petals still tightly furled, just beginning to open. Like a Valentine's Day tribute only this one was a subtle mauve tipped with crimson on the edge of the petals. Faded from use, but still lovely. The stem was cut short - maybe six inches at the most.

My friend works for a floral and special event company. They have been busy for the holiday season. He had just got off work and had salvaged some blooms from a display. He gave C. and J. rose blossoms as well (J.'s boyfriend filled an empty Abita bottle with water to serve as a vase), and there were still five or six clutched in his hand.

Wholesale roses at the L.A. Flower Market

My friend is a working man, serious and dark, and usually wearing a Saints jersey, jeans, and a pair of sunglasses pushed up on his head. Kind of a badass. The hand that clutched the bouquet was calloused from hard work. I said to him, "I love the way you look, holding a bouquet of roses in your hand."

He said, "There were more when I started. I was walking through the French Quarter and handing them out to people who looked like they should have one. You know - a lady here, a couple there."

Fading but still lovely

Who got the remaining roses that night, I don't know, although I am sure they were just as charmed as I was. I tucked my rose into my neck scarf, and put it in water when I got home.

I love this city.

Traveling

When I flew into Los Angeles last Tuesday, the region had been suffering from a heat wave, an unprecedented change-up from the usual June Gloom, at least that was how the mild, entitled dwellers of the Westside and beach communities felt about it.  But the heat broke that Tuesday. "Oh, look," said Dan my host, "we've been running the air conditioner all week. This is the first evening we can turn it off and open the windows."

And the evening was cool, just like I remember those Los Angeles summer nights, with a breeze lifting the curtains in the upstairs guest room. It was pleasant enough to eat outdoors in the patio, though I needed the light cotton sweater I'd brought.

Blue, blue, my world is blue

 Today my friend Krenkel took me blueberry picking out on her family property in Picayune, Mississippi. When we pulled up to the place, her beautiful blue-eyed white cat meowed to greet us. His name is Blue.

It was hot and sweaty, and we needed Cutters to ward off the mosquitoes. But we settled into our work, along with her smart little grandson, Jason.  The ripe berries just fall away from the stem right into your hand, leaving the beautiful rosy-pink unripe berries to ripen later.

I came home with enough blueberries to freeze 16 cups; along with two and a half pints in the fridge!!!  What to do with them? Berries with my breakfast; blueberry pies, blueberry scones, blue berry clafouti?

She also cut me some of her beautiful hydrangeas.

Blue, blue, my world is blue!

Big thunderstorm

The summer pattern seems to be that around 1 or 3 in the afternoon, storm clouds mass up in the west. The storm usually breaks around 4 o'clock, but sometimes later.

Today I was in the French Quarter; I went to an art exhibit. I took the number 5 bus uptown, which was easy and fast, but on my return trip the bus was a half hour late. I stood on Peters Street in front of the H&M clothing store, chatting with a young man who was also waiting for the bus.

While we waited, a gentle rain started to fall, but tapered off by the time the bus dropped me at Alvar Street at Chartres. So I decided to take Jack out for his evening outing, with a stop off at Vaughan's Lounge.

Jack and I were sitting out on the smoking bench with our friend LJ watching the sky grow darker and darker with thunderheads. I was 3/4 of the way through my glass of $3 chardonnay, and I had a decision to make. Should I hightail it the four blocks to home? Or get another drink and wait it out?

Fortunately, just at that moment two things happened to help me decide. 1) LJ's regularly scheduled taxi, driven by Jimmy, showed up. and 2) the skies opened up.

"LJ, do you think Jimmy would mind giving me and Jack a ride home?"

He did not. I am grateful for that. The rain was so fierce that just stepping from the overhang of Vaughan's gallery to the door of the cab - a mere one foot distance - soaked me so thoroughly my hair streamed with water.

Jimmy and LJ dropped me off at the house and Jack and I ran up the front stairs. He got into the house and shook mightily. We are now sitting cozily inside, me in my dry pajamas and he curled up beside me. Outside, the lightning flashes and the thunder roars - hardly any time between them, so it's clear that the storm is right overhead.

Another summer day in New Orleans.

Sparkle!

Olive trees on the hillside

Last night, as for many July 4th evenings, we celebrated the holiday high on hilltop in Malibu, with a view of the Southern California Coast stretching from Broad Beach to the Palo Verde Peninsula.

We sat beneath pepper trees, feasting on delicious food, including our hostess's famous dessert, Pavlova, a treat from her native New Zealand.

The remains of the Pavlova

From our viewpoint, we could see three fireworks shows - a show at Broad Beach, one at Malibu Colony, and one directly before us, off the eastern edge of Point Dume. These are "private" fireworks shows, commissioned by the wealthy celebrities that live in those places. We felt we had a front row seat!

There was just a touch of fog along the coast, a haze in the air that dampened the sounds of the fireworks. The party included several small girls who shrieked and ooohed and aahhhhed with every starburst.

We've been celebrating the 4th here for at least ten years. Our hosts' son was our son's classmate and best friend in 5th grade, and it was bittersweet to reminisce with them, as our days in Los Angeles wind down.

NIght out in Koreatown

Since our son is visiting us for a week or so, we'd planned a weekend trip to Jun Won, a great home-style restaurant in Koreatown that I wanted to explore. They're famous for spicy steamed casseroles of fish, recipes the owner's grandmother taught him, and for the good panchan, or complimentary side dishes his mother makes.

Saturday we went to the movies and had pizza on the Westside,  so we figured we'd go to Koreatown on Sunday night.

But I guess I got my wires crossed. We arrived at the parking lot only to find the place closed. We quickly consulted Yelp on our smartphones.  There was a nearby place that specialized in smoked duck, how about that?

Closed.

"It's kind of a change-up," our son said, "but what about El Parian? It's not far, and on weekends they have birria."

Guadalajara stewed goat isn't exactly Korean steamed cod, but we're nothing if not flexible when it comes to exploring LA's diverse food feasts. We piled into the car and headed off to Pico and Union.

Closed, the accordion gate locked over a dark storefront.

Where to go? What was nearby, and open on a Sunday night?

Let there be pie

Pumpkin Pie with Ginger Streusel.

Cranberry Walnut Tart.

We're spending Thanksgiving with our friends Jill and Sparky Greene, on their hilltop in Malibu. I'm bringing these.

Full House

We're having visitors! Friends from the UK and also family. Many adventures on tap for the weekend!

Disconnect

I am sick with a bad cold, but this morning the sun is bright and feels warm and good on my skin as I sit in a rattan chair on the deck and look out over the beautiful canyon, hazed with ocean mist.

I am reading "Vanity Fair" - a 500 page magazine my husband bought from the supermarket a couple weeks ago, because it's the pre-Oscars edition. I haven't had time to read it until now, four days after the Oscars. But now I can, because I'm home sick from work and have finished my library books.

I'm reading the editor's letter, penned by Graydon Carter, a man with an extraordinary hair-do that includes both a pompadour and a flip. In the photo, he leans his chin on his hand and smiles cunningly at the reader - it's like we're sharing our little secrets.

In the letter he discusses what he calls a "brouhhaha" that has arisen between his magazine and a Hollywood star. I had no idea such turmoil existed, but according to Graydon, it has taken the world of Hollywood and celebrity publishing by storm.  He describes the germ of an idea that began the conflict - curiosity that "people" seem to hate such a beautiful and accomplished celebrity.  Was it envy?  Did people think she was flaunting her wealth and privilege?

Then he tells how he went online and visited the star's website. "To be frank," he writes, I found it no more elitist or out of touch than many women's magazines."

I sit there in my day-old pajama pants on my Topanga deck, sucking cough drops. I have waded through 128 pages of ads for Gucci, Calvin Klein, and Chopard jewelry before getting to Mr. Carter's message to his readers. The page it is printed on faces an ad for a Louis Vuitton bag, one that, according to the Louis Vuitton website, is priced at $5,200.00.

Mr. Carter goes on, "the thing is, because [the star's website] reflects the vision of a single woman, and one with a privileged upbringing, a close family, an Oscar.....I realize that it might be a bit much for most working moms, no matter how content they are or successful at making their lives work."

Behind me, in my house, two Latina women are at work cleaning the kitchen. Our regular cleaner has been in an automobile accident, and her sister and her friend are taking care of her clients while she's recovering.  Rosa needs to keep her business going, even laid up. My Spanish is not good enough to ask Rosa's sister about insurance coverage, and even if she wanted to share these private details with me, her English is not adequate.

I speak to Rosa on the phone, and she's a little groggy from pain medications. She can't walk for another two weeks, and her car was totalled.  She doesn't say it, but I can only think with such leg injuries she will need physical therapy. It will be hard to start cleaning houses again, especially in hilly Topanga, and in a house like ours with many stairs.

It wouldn't be fair for me write this without visiting the movie star's website, so I do. She has great style. No Vuitton bags, but there's a Fendi bag I admire, for about the same price. She lists some favorite restaurants of hers, including some I've been to - some I've featured on this blog.

I have a job that allows me to stay home with a cold, with paid sick leave. So I can sit on a sun-washed deck and read about a personal cat-fight between a movie star and a glossy magazine editor. And read him concede that ordinary working moms might find a blog written by a privileged woman to be "out of touch."

And then I give that a second thought.

There are people like Rosa who can only depend on her family network to carry her through a time of medical crisis.  A simple accident can mean disaster to people who struggle to make their lives work.

I'm not sure what to do. I add another twenty dollars to the customary check to pay her, but it doesn't seem like much.

Just think what the price of a Louis Vuitton bag would mean.

Courage

I am proud to know the woman in this article. I've known her as a colleague for a couple of years. I was not aware of this part of her life until I read it today.

The choice this couple made is not what I might have done, but I'm glad I live in a city where they can live their lives as they wish.  I'm delighted they are happy, and brave enough  to tell the world!

He says she's a hero. I think they both are.

What do you think? What would you bravely tell the world about yourself?

Cat women

This Sunday, we attended the Cat Art Show LA, in Hollywood. Benefitting the Stray Cat Alliance, the show features cat-themed art by a host of accomplished artists, including heavy hitters like Shepard Fairey and Buff Monster. You can read more about the show and its curator HERE.

Shepard Fairey cat print

Joining us was my good internet friend, Heidi of Smalltown Me, the proprietor of the Online Gallery of American Vernacular Cat Art, and her husband.  Before the show, we met for brunch at the Hollywood branch of The Hungry Cat restaurant, and supped upon delicious seafood, as properly fits discerning felines.

[The Man I Love] took a photo of us two Cat Women. I think I must have been talking when he clicked the shutter. I look silly, Heidi looks great!!

Rowr!

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.

Toast

At work, my office is across the hall from the copier room, and just down the hall from the department's kitchenette and bathrooms.  Each day, everybody in the building passes by my door at least once.

There aren't many convenient places to eat nearby, so most people bring lunch from home. With a microwave, a coffee maker, a toaster oven and a full-size refrigerator, our well-equipped kitchenette allows for food preparation that goes beyond the usual office lunch. But whatever someone decides to cook back there, I'm always the first one to get a whiff of it.

Throughout the day, I get to share in the experience of everyone's breakfast, lunch, and afternoon snack, whether it's Pop-Tarts, Lean Cuisine, chow mein or garlic bread. I love it when someone brews a fresh pot of strong coffee. One of my co-workers is Punjabi - her lunches are redolent with spices so powerful I often wonder if the memo I fold into an envelope will carry the scent of garam masala to the distant addressee.

My co-worker Susan has a long commute, and to save time, she makes her breakfast on her morning break. She's on an earlier shift than I am, so just about the time I arrive and log into my computer, she's in the back, making toast.

There's nothing like the smell of toast first thing in the morning to make your mouth water, even if you did have breakfast at home. I couldn't help saying, "Wow, that smells good!" the first couple of weeks I started working here.

Now sometimes Susan offers, before she starts her breakfast, "Would you like a piece of toast?" and then she'll bring me a slice, spread with good butter.

"I feel bad," she says, "if I'm making you hungry, I feel I should share." One lunchtime she shared sweet potato Tater Tots she crisped up in the toaster oven.

I try to reciprocate. The last time I made fresh bread at home, I brought in a few slices for her. "Oh, you're such a good cook!" she said. "I wish I could cook, but I can't. I just make easy things."

This morning, she asked me, "Do you like sunflower seed butter?" I'd never had it before, so as I checked my morning email, she brought me two slices of wholegrain toast, slathered with creamy sunflower seed butter.

Such a simple thing, a piece of toast, warm and fragrant, slathered with nut butter. Smooth and salty, it has an herbal nut-like taste and an unctuous mouthfeel with just a little fine grit. I licked the oil off my fingers when I finished, and I felt good about starting my day.

Susan says she's not a cook, but she has mastered the art that all good cooks aspire to - the gift of sustenance.

Attack of the Giant Zucchini Monster.

There's a joke told in musician circles, about an accordion player who was driving back home from a gig, and had to stop off in a bad part of town. He'd put his ax in the back of the hatchback, and when he got back to the car, his worst fears were realized. The back window of the hatchback was broken, and when he looked inside, he realized that .... someone had put three more accordions into his car.

Just as unwanted and maligned as accordions - the joke works for bassoons, saxophones, and violas, too  - are zucchini squash, especially giant overgrown ones. Neighborhood vandals (you know who you are!) dropped one on our front porch the other night, so I decided to beat them at their own game.

Home invasion terrorism!

We're really lucky that we have a fierce watchdog to protect us.

Actually, the weird thing is that Jack NEVER barks, but this evening at about 8:45 suddenly he came to attention from his position sleeping on the living room rug, and advanced vigilantly into our entry hall, facing our closed front door.

He huffed through his nose menacingly, and then - very unusual for him - he barked, a deep warning, again and again. We wondered - what could it be? A coyote, a mountain lion in our driveway?

I got up, held his collar, and, checking to see the porch light was on, ventured to open the front door.

 OH MY GOD!!

Someone left a giant zucchini on our porch!

A sense of the scale of this sucker. This thing is h-u-u-u-u-ge! Call Homeland Security!

Violets and roses

Rosa glauca, from Wiki-commons

 It's been a year since my friend Laurie slipped away from the world, despite her brave fight.
 
When I visited her in Seattle, just a few weeks before she died, I remember walking into the little bungalow house she shared with her husband, my dear friend John, and their two grown daughters. The front walk passed beneath a wooden arbor that John had built for her, twined with a species rose just burgeoning with red new growth, and there were violets blooming in the small garden bed just inside the yard.

I told her how beautiful I thought they were, and John quite proudly told me about the rose. It was special, he told me, a rare and special rose that Laurie had planted years ago.

During that visit, she was still strong and we all thought she would stay with us longer. I went back to the hotel I was staying in during that visit, and thought about the rose, and how even in her illness Laurie was still surrounded by beauty and love. Then it came to me. The rose was rosa glauca. I had given Laurie a rooted slip from the plant that grew in my own garden, over fifteen years before - when our children were still babies.

What lasts are memories and love. Violets and roses.

Dancing with coyotes

Right in the heart of Coyoacan, two playful bronze coyotes crown a fountain in the Jardin Centenario. Coyoacan's name comes from the Nahuatl language and may mean "place of the coyotes" - but no one's quite sure. The park is at the heart of this historic and beautiful neighborhood, once a village but now absorbed into the urban sprawl of Mexico City.

Coyoacan's shady streets lined with historic buildings, its plazas with street cafes and shops,  naturally attracted artists, actors and writers. Diego Rivera, the famed muralist, and his artist wife Frida Kahlo lived in Coyoacan, as did Mexican movie star Dolores del Rio and filmmaker Luis Bunuel. Much like other similar charming artsy neighborhoods throughout the world, it has become a tourist attraction, and the streets are crowded on weekends and holidays, the sidewalks jammed with vendors and sightseers.

The beauty of a barter economy

Our neighbor, Sean, is an expert mushroom forager, and we've benefited from his generosity before, when he showed us how to forage for chanterelles in an undisclosed Topanga location. But how to pay him back?

When I read Sean's blog post about a bumper crop of wild mushrooms he gathered in Northern California, I made what I hoped would be an offer he couldn't refuse - trade some wild mushrooms for an assortment of weird British snack food and candy. Irresistible!

Blow-out birthday!

Masks, Olvera Street

October 31 is my friend Marvin's 65th birthday. Last year, he and Karen were in L.A. and we all went to the Dia de Los Muertos celebration at El Pueblo de Los Angeles at Olvera Street.

He and Karen were planning to fly west to celebrate - and get away from New York and Hurricane Sandy. But as it turns out, flights out of NYC are cancelled, and they are hunkering down in their house on the Hudson River.

After laying in a good supply of batteries, candles, chain saws and booze, there's nothing left to do but party.

"I was born in a cross-fire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the driving rain,
But it's all right now, in fact, it's a gas!
But it's all right. I'm Jumpin Jack Flash,
Its a gas! gas! gas!"

Wishing Marvin a happy birthday. Have a real blow-out!