Weekly Jack

What's Jack up to this week?


Jack is shedding. Malamutes shed their undercoat in spring, and Jack is no exception.

The hair just comes off him in clumps. I take him out on the deck and brush him, and the hair floats away on the wind. The birds in Topanga are going to have very warm and fluffy nests this spring.

Jack's hair comes off in clumps if you pull gently at the tufts around his neck and shoulders. He likes the brush, but the pulling sometimes makes him turn and give you a look.

Mother's Day

This is my mom in 1964 or 1965 or thereabouts. While I was growing up, I knew my mom was beautiful. It was just a fact - obvious. But it wasn't something anyone talked about, least of all her. In fact, she was so shy about herself that she seldom agreed to have her picture taken. This is one of the few pictures I could find of that era.

She wasn't much for girl-talk. Her shyness kept her somewhat aloof from other mothers - no neighborhood kaffee-klatches or gab-fests at our house.

My education as a girl was not what you might call comprehensive. She didn't teach me how to curl my hair or put on makeup. She didn't really practice those arts herself - she had her hair done once a week at the "beauty parlor" and as for makeup, she'd slick on a lipstick quickly with only a glance in a mirror, blot her lips and forget about it.

She did enjoy style, and I was her willing pupil in those arts. When we had drapes and slip-covers made, she shared swatches with me to compare together. She decorated my bedroom - helping me choose cotton chintz printed with Degas' ballerinas in gold.

She had a classic sense of fashion, and enjoyed clothes that fit well and flattered. I remember trips to town for school clothes, where she showed me how to match patterns and colors - the plaid skirt that could be paired with a blue top or a red top.

Above all, she loved to garden. Whether it was petunias in the dooryard of our small Pennsylvania house, the ambitious rose garden in Illinois, or the wildflower woods at our New Jersey home, she had to have a garden. Even during the last years she lived in her Texas home, she loved her garden, and made sure the winter pansies were set in before she left it.

She's almost 85 now, and lives in a small apartment in an assisted living facility near family. When she left her home last autumn, she didn't look back.

She and my father, who died in 2002, kept and carried along with them almost every material possession they gained during over 50 years of marriage. They even took in possessions left by other family members as they passed away. But when Mom decided to move, she let go of all that. She took a suitcase, some treasured trinkets and photos, and little else.

Along with the house, she left behind the furniture, the piano, the records, her books, the waste baskets, the lawn mower, the dishes, old letters and photographs. Each of her children kept something to remember, but the rest was sold by estate-sale liquidators.

I have the photographs - where I found this picture of her - slim and elegant in this simple linen dress. She was probably 38 or 40 years old here.

When I packed Mom's suitcase for the trip north, I went through her dresser and her closet. She didn't need the Ferragamo pumps or the silk blouses or the skirt suit anymore. They would fetch a good price in the sale. But I took a couple of scarves she used to wear - and I wear them to remind me of her sense of style. Today I'm wearing a '60's era silk square, fresh green and aqua by the designer Vera.

Thanks, Mom.

A garden welcome

This morning as I came home from walking the dog, I was just so pleased at how the front garden looks I had to take some photos and share them with you.

Our front yard is on a slope that drops away from the street. Several large coast live oaks grow there, their wide-spread branches shading the hillside. From our gate at the street, graceful steps and a broad stone path lead to our door. This entryway was designed by our good friends John and Anthea at Native Designs Landscape in Topanga.


Here a Japanese maple grows by the path. This is the only time of the year this maple looks good - it's really not suited for our climate. Beyond it, several acanthus send up their flower spikes, and clumps of Pacific Coast hybrid iris are in bloom under the large oak.

Once down the path, turn and look up the hill back to the gate. The yellow blooms of Western columbine and the white flowers of Carpenteria Californica, the native tree-anemone of California, shine in the dappled shade beneath the oaks.

It's a beautiful spring day, isn't it?

Happy Cinco de Mayo!

Happy Cinco de Mayo! The Fifth of May is the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla, in 1862 when the Mexican army defeated the occupying forces of France. While it is not the date celebrated as "Independence Day" in Mexico (that's in September) it is widely seen as a celebration of Mexican culture and heritage.

I think it's important to keep in mind that America is a nation of immigrants whose cultural contributions enrich our national character. Those who fear or shun art, music, dress, cuisine or culture of people from other nations are really missing out on something - the multi-faceted wonder of human expression and creativity.

Here in Santa Monica, we enjoyed a performance by the members of Mariachi Alta California - an ensemble of young musicians trained in the musical tradition of classic mariachi.

Typically a mariachi ensemble includes violins, trumpets, and two traditional instruments. One, a guitarrón, - a deep-bodied 6-stringed instrument similar to a bass. Two, a vihuela - a guitar-like instrument with 12 paired strings. Mariachi also includes vocal music - solos and singing in unison. You can see our friend Carlos in the photo below, playing the guitarrón.


All this at a great Oaxacan restaurant, El Texate. Have a margarita, some carnitas tacos, and celebrate!

Gulf Coast

This is the Gulf of Mexico off Tarpon Springs, Florida - taken during our March vacation. It's hard to believe that these waters are in danger from this horrible disaster. It's hard to accept it. Let's hope the oil leak can be capped and the clean-up succeeds.

Changes

I went into a meeting today where I learned that - at least for the summer - I will be spending some time at the beach.

I don't know any details yet, but I'm pretty excited by the idea. What do you think - wouldn't you like to spend your summer at the beach?

Kurly's adventure

The Lavra Gate, Kiev, Ukraine. Image from Library of Congress. Photo ca. 1890 - 1900

In March when my family gathered on the Gulf Coast of Florida for spring break, we focused on how great it was to spend time together. We came from distant places - Los Angeles, New York - to see [The Man I Love]'s mother and brother, and our visit was all about coming home and coming together.

Kurly smiling - surveillance photo taken in Ybor City, Tampa, FL

But at the same time, one of us was starting on a great adventure that will take her far from home. During our visit, my sister-in-law learned that she has been offered a job as a first-grade teacher at an international school in Kyiv in the former Soviet republic of Ukraine. She leaves in August, and between now and then there are many decisions and preparations to make.

Kurly checking her messages at the fabulous Skipperdome

I urged her to start a blog, and she has done so. Welcome to my blogroll: Kurly in Kyiv.

Go visit Kurly, and, as spring and summer progress, watch her prepare for her journey - and learn about the country that will be her new home for the next two years.

Weekly Jack

Here's Jack sitting here on the cool slate floor of our entry, with his back against the steps to the back of the house.

Our previous dog, Kotsie, used to sit in exactly the same place. Is there something about this arrangement that is particularly comfortable to dogs?

Hollywood history

Hollywood Boulevard is noisy, crowded and sun-drenched on a Saturday afternoon, the terrazzo sidewalk with its inset bronze stars crammed with people. You shoulder past Eastern European tourists wearing gold-printed fake-Armani tank-tops, bedraggled homeless people, and large pasty families with cameras, gawking at the costumed characters - Rambo, Darth Vader, Elvis, and Michael Jackson - as they dawdle past the tattoo and tee-shirt parlors. Harley motorcycles thunder past painted parked RVs that promote soft-drink challenge events.

When you step off the street into the dining room at Musso & Frank Grill, the first thing you notice is the hush. Especially on a weekend afternoon - after the matinee curtain has gone up a few blocks away at the Pantages, and before the dinner hour has begun. Unlike modern design restaurants, Musso's has no piped-in music, no hard surfaces designed to create an audible clatter. The lighting is soft, with wall sconces washing a mellow tone up the hand-painted wallpaper. Its padded, curved booths enclose diners intimately beneath high, beamed ceilings, so conversation can take place quietly, softly murmured contemplating the menu.


Musso & Frank Grill claims to be Hollywood's oldest restaurant. It opened in 1919, and 'became popular with Hollywood's establishment, along with its competition Chasen's, Ciro's, and the Brown Derby. Because the Writer's Guild office was located nearby on Cherokee, it became a hangout for authors like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Dorothy Parker, John O'Hara, John Fante and Raymond Chandler - many of them East Coast literary elite lured by the sure money of Hollywood screenwriting contracts.

Actors, too, hung out here - Bogart, Mary Pickford, Charlie Chapin, Bette Davis. Later, in the '60s and into the '70s the Rat Pack, television stars, rockers like Tom Waits and that old barfly Charles Bukowski ate, drank, and staggered home from Musso's.

Today, after all the other restaurants of its era are gone, it's still here.


A red-jacketed waiter old enough to be your father shows you to a seat. We chose a curved booth along the wall. If you're dining alone, you can opt for the curved counter in front of the grill - you can watch the steaks broil and talk with your neighbors.

First a cocktail. I ordered a gimlet.

In "The Long Goodbye," Raymond Chandler's hero Phillip Marlowe befriends Terry Lennox, a troubled man with a drinking problem and a rich wife. Lennox drinks gimlets, and is particular about them, telling Marlowe, "They don't know how to make them here. What they call a gimlet is just some lime or lemon juice and gin with a dash of sugar and bitters. A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow."


Here at Musso's, the cocktails come with a small carafe on the side. The gimlet is vodka, and though it has Rose's Lime Juice, it's garnished with a maraschino cherry dyed a rather shockingly green - I wonder what Terry Lennox would have thought about that. [The Man I Love] ordered a gibson, a martini garnished with a pickled pearl onion instead of an olive.

The menu at Musso & Frank is the same as in its heyday - except for the prices, which have kept pace with modern times. Steaks, chops and fish. Daily specials like Chicken Pot Pie, Sauerbraten, Beef Stroganoff, and Corned Beef and Cabbage.


[The Man I Love] ordered a rib-eye steak with a baked potato and a side of creamed spinach. It came garnished with fresh watercress.

I ordered the special sauted liver and onions - I swear I haven't had liver and onions for over thirty years, but something about that environment made me crave it.


The food was served on old-fashioned red-and-white transferware crockery. My dish came with a scoop of mashed potatoes and green beans and carrots - the way they were cut they had to be frozen, but they were cooked fine, retained their color and flavor. The food is nothing to get excited about - it's a culinary throw-back to another era of unadventurous Americana. But everything was well-cooked, delicious and comforting.

As we ate, the waiters quietly and expertly passed, topping up water glasses and taking orders from the handful of patrons enjoying a late afternoon meal. The dining room was quiet, the only sound a low scraping and clinking as the grill-man cleaned and stoked the coals in preparation for the dinner rush.

Although we're not much for sweets, something about the setting made us decide to order dessert and coffee. The menu offered classics like rice pudding, black forest cake, and pies. We chose something called a "diplomat pudding" that turned out to be a scoop of egg custard studded with raisins, and drizzled with stewed strawberries.


As we sipped our coffee, a trio came in from the boulevard - a couple escorting an older man, his steps halting as they moved toward the back of the room. though short and frail, the older man was clearly in charge. He wore sunglasses and a straw trilby hat, his pale jacket flung casually over his shoulders. Bits of conversation floated in the air, something about a Maserati he gave away to a some woman. Some eccentric Hollywood royal, no doubt, from an earlier era.

I've learned a few things about Musso & Frank Grill since we went - first, it's "Musso & Frank" not "Frank's". Using the possessive with "Frank" immediately brands you as a tourist. If you really want to sound like you're in the know, you can call it "Musso's" - Raymond Chandler did - but never "Musso and Frank's."

And regulars enter from the rear parking lot. The parking lot attendant looked oddly at us when we turned down his direction to the green awning covered door, and said we wanted to enter off the boulevard.

Now I long to go back - on a Thursday, to try the daily special Chicken Pot Pie. Or in the evening, when the east room bar is hopping. Or early, when the famous flannel cakes are being served.

Musso & Frank Grill. A bit of historic Hollywood.