Maybe we should've gone to Curley's.....

Twelve gallons is a lot of blood. That's how much Mark (the boyfriend formerly known as Big Hands) donated over the last few years to receive a gift certificate for dinner at his choice of several local restaurants. He chose Moonstone Grill and invited me to go with him. Actually, I chose Moonstone Grill and invited myself if you want to get technical, but that's not important.

We arrived in the parking lot yesterday evening just in time to see a young woman dressed in white walking into the restaurant. I tried to replace the good luck with that that was forming inside my jaded mind with beautiful day for a wedding. It was so gorgeous on Moonstone Beach that I almost succeeded.


Inside we enjoyed the view as we began our meal with oysters and smoked albacore wontons. At the table directly across from us, a couple in their fifties was sitting with a couple in their seventies. As the older woman raised a glass of water to her lips, her hand shook badly, and a small stream spilled down her sleeve.

Imagining the blood bank issuing a Hometown Buffet gift certificate next time for ordering too lavishly, I went with the bigeye tuna instead of the abalone I really wanted. Mark had the filet mignon. We passed the time waiting for our food by checking everyone else's out.

The meal arrived at the table across from us. The older woman had ordered my second choice, the pasta with asparagus and mushrooms. The dish was served with, not a fork, but a gigantic spoon, and as soon as she started trying to eat with it, she began to have trouble. The spoon was too big for her mouth as well as her hand which was shaking so badly she couldn't hold the spoon steady. She couldn't get the slippery food to stay on it, and it kept sliding off onto the tablecloth. Soon there was a pile of mushrooms and noodles on the table beside her plate. She then began using the fingers of her left hand to try to pick up the food on the table and put it back on the spoon, which more often than not resulted in it falling right back off.

My throat ached as I sat there conflicted, trying not to stare. Should I walk over quietly and help cut her dinner? Should I slip her a fork? Should I say something to the waitress? In the end, I couldn't decide whether taking action would help or embarrass her further. I cowardly remained silent and cheered inside every time she succeeded in getting a tiny bit of mushroom or a small piece of noodle into her mouth.

The others at her table were either completely oblivious, wrapped up in their own food and conversation, or were avoiding the fact that perhaps their own frightening future was sitting before them, until suddenly the older woman's husband glanced over and saw the food that had accumulated on the tablecloth. He pulled her plate away from her and scowled. "Just look at the mess you've made." He pushed her plate back while shaking his head in disgust.

The younger woman looked up. "Maybe we should get her a fork." But nobody did. Eventually the older woman just stopped eating, although I was happy to note that even though she had to hold the glass with two hands, she continued to drink wine. She certainly needed alcohol with such assholes for dinner companions.

After a finish of cheesecake and creme brulee, we went for a much needed walk. Moonstone Beach was alive with energy. Laughter tumbled from one end of the beach to the other, and the sweet smell of pot smoke wafted from the bushes. As the sun started to set, we saw a large group of people, most of whom held cameras.

A stunning dark skinned woman in a silk wedding gown stood with her husband on top of a small sand dune. A bagpipe player stood a few feet away. Around them danced several women and one small girl wearing dresses of magenta. The vibrant hue against the dull gray of the sand made for a shocking, albeit quite lovely, contrast.

The newly wedded couple put their arms around each other. They smiled as the cameras erupted in loud manic clicks. And then they kissed. Surrounded by hot pink hope.

What will happen to them? I wondered.

Will their marriage be like mine, which would have been two years old this very weekend, but instead failed miserably nearly out of the gate?

Or will they stay together long after their laughter has disappeared, and his kindness is replaced by disgust because her hands have become weak and her dinner has turned wayward?

Or will they, sixty years from now, find themselves standing on a small sand dune on Moonstone Beach one evening while the sky turns pink above them? "I remember how beautiful you looked 60 years ago," he'll say. She'll look at him and grab his hand. "And I remember how awful those bagpipes your mother insisted on sounded, " she'll say. And then they'll laugh until the sky turns dark.

As if he could read my mind, Mark leaned over from behind me and pressed his warm cheek to mine. "Maybe they'll make it," he whispered. I leaned back against him and closed my eyes.

Indeed. Maybe they will.

Wondrous and amazing photo of Moonstone Beach at sunset is by Rambling Jack.

Champipple Therapy

My friend Renee is a licensed therapist. She spends her days listening to all kinds of people and helping them to fix their lives. She is also one of the most practical, down-to-earth and calm people I know. Nothing seems to faze her. If there's ever a gigantic code red disaster near me, I hope Renee's there too. All of these qualities make her really good at listening to her friends and giving them helpful advice.

A couple of days ago she and I were talking on the phone. I was rambling on about an influx from out-of-town family members this week and all of my concerns and anxieties revolving around the visits. The feelings of inadequacy. The apprehension about past transgressions. The embarrassment of now being twice divorced. Renee listened patiently to my stream of pure melodramatic angst, and then she gave her best therapeutic advice.

"Oh, just drink a lot. It's not like they'll think any less of you."

Genius. My worries dissolved, I decided to start right then. This recipe is brought to you thanks to Renee and her very wise counsel.

I give you: Champipple.



Champipple was a drink favored by Fred Sanford from the t.v. show Sanford and Son. He loved to mix his Ripple, which is super cheap fortified wine like Thunderbird, with various other drinks. Mix it with Cream Soda? You get Cripple. Mix it with Beaujolais? You get Beaujolipple. My favorite combination is a classy little number of Ripple mixed with Champagne, also known as Champipple.

These days I don't use Ripple anymore. That's just oh so there's-nothing-to-do-in-Fortuna-when-you're-a-teenager-so-let's-go-get-drunk-at-the-cemetery-and-make-out-with-boys-in-black-eyeliner, and I'm over those days. Mostly.

So instead I use a cheap red wine, usually leftover from a few nights ago and forgotten on the counter, and an even cheaper champagne.

First pour the champagne into a great big goblet, and then pour the wine on top. I like to use about 7/8 champagne and 1/8 red wine because I really just want a blush of color and a hint of merlot flavor. Big Hands prefers more of a half-and-half mixture because he's sophisticated that way.





Toast, sip, gulp. Gulp. Gulp. Repeat.

Proceed to making prank phone calls (Don't forget to hit *67 to block your number from caller i.d. first. It's not the 80's anymore, damn it.), doing the Thriller dance and making out at the cemetery of your choice. I highly recommend the one on Rohnerville Road.


Enjoy!

A nice girl in Blocksburg

Through the glory that is Facebook, I found out yesterday that my friend, Kristin Windbigler, is, among other wondrous and creative things, a filmmaker. Kristin is a Humboldt County girl who, like me, went off to other places as soon as she could, but was eventually lured back home by a force that can only be understood by those who've experienced it. She made this fantastic short film about returning to Blocksburg (that's a tiny little town southeast of Bridgeville, which is another tiny little town southeast of Fortuna) and its notorious reputation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.



Kristin also maintains a website about Blocksburg and helped to write a book about growing up there called Children From Our One-Room Schools.

Her films have been featured at the Western Folklife Center. You can also see more of them on her blog. I highly recommend Story Machines, which is a fascinating tale of her grandfather who was a logger and owned a machine called a Phonacord that created records, and how he used it to record her family's history. The film features old footage from Washington State and Mount Shasta, as well as from Humboldt County.

Like ice is cold, baby.

I've been getting my craft on like mad lately. My hair smells like hot metal, my fingers are blistered and my bottom lip has a bloody indentation in it from hard concentration. But it will all be worth it on Sunday because Arcata's hosting the first Humboldt County indie handmade market, the Snip and Stitch Craft Extravaganza, and I'll be there in full crafty glory.

There will be about thirty local artists, designers and crafters showing off their gorgeous wares, and the Monster Women and the Ian Fays are playing. It's going to be a great time, plus it's a wonderful opportunity to support local people making beautiful and uncommon goods instead of buying factory made crap from China.

So come to the plaza between 10 and 4 and visit me. I'll be the one in the Carnival Girl Designs booth smiling uncomfortably and looking like I need a drink because I'm an absolutely horrible salesperson.

Here's some of my latest adornments:

Bird pendants


Vintage sheet music pendants


Mexican loteria card pendants


Strange pictures from vintage dictionary pendants


and of course risque' French postcard pendants


Hope to see you there!

Blog Crush #562

You may remember my recent post about Humboldt County Bookmarks. It turns out that through the magical power of the interwebs, the owner of the bookstore, Steve, whose picture I shamelessly pilfered from a google image search, found out about the story.

And what do you know? Steve's got a blog too!


Last night I spent the best hour reading through the archives, and I can't wait to read more. There are posts about Bigfoot news, sightings and stories. There are posts about Steve's own Bigfoot travels and adventures. There are fabulous pictures of all kinds of things including black helicopters, giant salamanders, Bigfoot art like the picture above (also shamelessly pilfered. Sorry Steve.) and subway sandwiches. Plus there's enough dry wit and wonk talk to make me have to fan myself.

Check out my favorite post so far - you won't be sorry.

And if you're ever in the Crick, go visit Steve - and not just because you're hoping to find another Humboldt County bookmark.

the road to hell is paved with bad analogies

If you're a regular reader of this blog, then you know that I'm a big fan of a little spanking now and then. You know what I'm talking about. A swat on the behind just makes the day better. Those of you peeking through the fingers of your covered eyes and professing to yourself that you have no idea what I'm talking about...you're fooling no one.

So it was with glee that as I bent over to put some groceries in the refrigerator tonight, I felt a swat on the backside and turned around to see a familiar mischievous grin on Big Hands' face. I smiled at him then continued the kitchen chores.

Thwack!

Another one right when I least expected it. Then before I could even turn around, Thwack! Another rear end smack. I looked at him with surprise.

"I just can't help it," he grinned. "It's like my hand is a magnet, and your ass is a refrigerator."

That's right. Your ass is a refrigerator.

For a split second I thought about torturing him by pretending I was extremely offended, or worse yet, by bursting into tears and running into the bathroom. It might have been a good way to avoid dishes and get Indian food. But one glance at Big Hands' face, and I knew that with sheer terror, he also realized that he had just compared my ass to a gigantic appliance.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed until I cried for nearly 20 minutes.

Willa Crick Peaches

I love Tuesdays. Not only does Tuesday mean that it's not Monday anymore, but the Farmers' Market comes to Old Town. And not only does the Farmers' Market come to Old Town, but Los Bagels is now open on Tuesday so I can grab an egg salad on a salt bagel while trying to balance the plethora of multicolored veggies hanging off my arms because I've forgotten a basket to carry them in once again.

Yesterday I wandered up the alley toward F street in search of some big beautiful beets. I found them next to a big beautiful beet farmer and paid my $6 for a couple of bunches. Then I went looking for fava beans, but before I could find them I was distracted by a little table full of gorgeous ripe peaches. Could it really be? Yes, the first of the Willow Creek peaches have hit the market. Forgetting all about the fava beans, I spent the rest of my cash on heaven scented French white peaches.

I hurried back to my office and showed them off to my co-workers excitedly, who oohed and aahed in appropriate admiration. "What will you do with them?" one asked.

I paused as peach visions danced in my head. What would I do with them? Bake them in a pie? Slice them and eat them over ice cream? Leave them whole and eat them slowly with the juice running down my arms while sitting naked in the sun? I told them my plan.

"I'm going to make a peach arugula pizza for dinner."

They looked at me in silence as if I had said I was going to make stray kitten pizza. I didn't understand the horror. People put pineapple on pizzas, why not peaches?

So that's what I did. And it was delicious.



I used Tomaso's dough from the Co-op. I like to make dough from scratch, but sometimes I'm lazy, and Tomaso's is cheap and good. I sprinkled some cornmeal on the pizza stone, rolled out the dough and poked it all over with a fork. Then I put it in the oven at 450 degrees for about 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, I cut up three peaches, thinly sliced half a red onion and minced two cloves of garlic. I put these in a bowl with a handful of arugula and tossed them with olive oil, salt and freshly ground pepper.

After the crust came out of the oven I grated some fontina cheese on top then sprinkled on the peach mixture. I then crumbled some Cypress Grove chevre over the top. I can't think of anything that isn't made better with a sprinkling of CG chevre.

Then it went back into the oven for 10 minutes, until the cheese melted and it looked all toasty and golden brown.

It may sound a little strange, but the flavors taste really nice together. The sweet peaches pair well with the spicy arugula and tangy goat cheese. The recipe needs work, though. I think next time I would have doubled the arugula and used more salt and goat cheese. The peaches were really juicy, so the pizza dough needs to be pretty thick in order to not get soggy. I rolled the dough too thin.

I told Big Hands of my critique and asked him what he thought would make it better for next time. He sat in thought, slowly chewing his pizza for a few minutes before answering.

"I thought it was perfect. The only thing that would have been better is if you were topless while you made it."

He's a smart man with a lot of homemade pizza in his future.