I’ve been working on a post about our new house, thinking that this woefully neglected blog would be a great place to chronicle the adventure of home ownership. Granted, it’s not a very original idea. The ubiquitous “Our House” blog is something I want to avoid yet can’t resist. And so, gentle readers, I shall attempt to share with you some of the highlights of our adventures so far. Until I finish writing the story of how we came to own “The Ugliest House on the Block” (entry by that name coming soon) I leave you with this nugget about Tyler and I’s adventure outing to Sears Outlet: San Leandro.

Went to the Sears Outlet in San Leandro late last night to pick up a pedestal for the dryer. It was… I don’t know how best to describe it. Imagine, if you will, the warehouse from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom after having been hit by a hurricane and then thoroughly looted. Said warehouse is staffed by functionally retarded versions of Redman and Method man and the boss of them all is Kathy Geiss (Don Geiss’ daughter on 30 Rock: Read crazy cat lady) who’s happy to tell us all about her diet (while gobbling M&M’s) but can’t seem to find any record of our order. This is all set to the concert video of Celine Dion which is being played at top volume on the three working TV sets. My favorite part is the hand made sign that graces the bathroom door which says “In It To Win It”. On the upside, the crew has gone 23 days with out an accident! Oh, and we eventually got our pedestal, hope it fits!

Fittingly, It’s All Coming Back To Me: Still stuck in my head

This week has been a boon for me. Not 0nly was I able to co-host a BBQ (without puking from nerves), but I got a new job! After just three weeks of searching, the right company wanted me, ‘lil ole me! And I wanted them. It’s a good match. Good guys, short commute (in Berkeley!), acceptable salary (considering “these tough economic times”) and fantastic benefits!

Perhaps though, an even more nuanced achievement than getting hired was the meal I cooked on Tyler’s birthday. I went old school. I went Julia Child. I went (for the most part) BY THE BOOK (which I rarely do unless baking) and produced a boeuf bourbinoin that was sublime and I mean 18th century romanticism sublime.

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Last night I made three quiches for a baby shower. The first quiche was a classic Quiche Lorraine. Julia Child says to K.I.S.S. and so I did. It was made with just well rendered bacon and a basic quiche base made from eggs, heavy cream, freshly grated nutmeg, salt and black pepper. Voila!

For the next one I started by sauteing some mushrooms and shallots in butter. I got some good caramelization on then and deglazed with a bit of sherry. Then I added some spinach, cooked it down and finished it with a wee bit-o-cream. That quiche got the same base but I added some grated Gruyere on top. Presto!

The last quiche was highly experimental. I took pop rocks and added them to a beaker with some vinegar and a dram of goats blood. Well, that’s not true. I cored a bunch of Brussels spouts, sauteed the leaves in some rendered bacon fat until they browned a bit then added some fresh sweet corn, thyme and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Finally I mixed in a little bit of the left over cooked bacon from the first quiche.  Aberacadabra!

P.S. Yesterday the quiches were eaten. Surprisingly the Brussels sprout one went first. It was delicious! The others also turned out great.

Dear Gentle Reader,

All three of you will be glad to know that, since I have no job or other discernible occupation at this time, I’ve decided to cut back on my daily ration of  House Hunters/HH International and write a bit here on ye olde blog. Since it’s been a while here’s the fast and dirty of the last year or so.

• mom died
• quit job
• went to Egypt and Greece, got ripped off, spread some ashes
• moved into the hippie house of doom (aka The Walker Ranch, more on this later)
• went back to school full time, English Lit, SF State
• wrote a lot of papers
• decided on graduate school (MLIS, SJSU)
• finished school save one class (more on this later)
• embarked on a soul crushing job search

It’s been the worst of times, it’s been the OKest of times. A time of desperate grief,  challenges,  responsibility, lawyers, dog poo, group projects, guilt, beauty, social anxiety, Dickins/Dickinson, sad songs, ephipanies, haut cuisine, Victorian novels, changing personal relationships, inaccurately labeled boxes, pharmaceuticals, direct sunlight, BART, dread and The Housewives of Atlanta.  Sounds a lot like life, don’t it?

Blake street has been the scene of some pretty fruity activity of late. A while back Tyler and I came home from somewhere and there was an old couple in the yard, dressed in bathrobes, beating a tree with a broom. I believe they may have been South Asian, Indian or something. They saw us looking at them but this did not bother them one bit. They continued to abuse the tree, the old man up top, shaking the shit out of the branches while Mrs. Bath Robe stood below collecting what was loosed. They stayed doing this for sometime, unhindered by either their attire or knowledge of their trespass. It’s pretty cool when you think about it, them feeding off the land in such an urban environment. I would not have guessed that hunting and gathering would be a viable option a block from San Pablo but these two geezers obviously knew what they were doing. I bet they make the rounds of the neighborhood, figs here, plums there. I noticed after this, that there are a lot of fruit trees in my neighborhood, a whole lot, with most of the fruit ripening and dropping to the ground, getting squished and making a mess about town. What a waste! Go, go granny gatherer! Go, go pappy peaches! Bless them in their quest for free, local produce. The fucking Farmer’s Market can suck it! Am I right oldies? Can I get a cane shake? 

Around the same time, I hosted a Garden Party in my side yard. The Incredible Creeping Vine that was choking and swallowing everything in sight perplexed us all. It’s a beautiful plant, with vibrant purplle flowers turning to strange, bulbous yellow, teardrop like fruits.

 So voracious is this plant that it made its way into my closet and killed my water heater! My guest, Christopher was the first to open one up and have a peek inside. Well, inside looked like a fishy egg sag. But the smell was intoxicating. It emanated just the most fragrant, floral-tropical aroma. It tasted not nearly as good as it smelled, bitter and quite sour. We guessed it was a passion fruit. There was a similar but not identical creeper on the fence. That flower was one of those crazy alien looking things you see sometimes. The fruit on this vine was hard and green. We guessed a different kind of passion fruit. Well, we are a smart bunch because I looked that shit up online and we were right! One is a Yellow Passion Fruit and the other is a Purple Passion Fruit. Last week, inspired by the robed oldies, it checked the YPF and noticed that there were many fully ripe looking fruits so I picked them. A few had fallen to the ground and were completely hollowed out. Some neighborhood critter must eat them. It’s like a little Wild Kingdom right out my window! I tasted one and it was still too bitter to eat but the flavor and smell were too fresh and pleasing to waste. I decided to make Passion Fruit syrup. I have NO idea what made me think to do this. I have a secret desire to be like Julia fucking Child I guess. I really had no clue how one goes about making this but I took a chance and winged it (wung it?). I opened the fruits and scraped out the pulp into a saucepan. I added some water, sugar, and a little vanilla. I brought it to a boil and then added some vermouth, because Julia always seems to add some kind of booze to everything and its what I had on hand. I lowered the temp and simmered it for a while. Then I strained it. It tasted damn good! A bit tart, very aromatic and passion fruity! I didn’t know what to do with it then so I put it in the fridge. Later in the week I used it on vanilla ice cream, made an Italian soda with San Pellegrino, and made a vodka cocktail. All were delish!

In fruity continuance, I think it is generally agreed that tomatoes are fruit, right? Well in the front of the house, in a scabby looking bit of dirt next to the driveway, there is a tomato plant and it is encased in chicken wire and there is a sign on it that says “WARNING (skull like this one) : Toxic soil test in progress, do not eat, may be harmful to humans and animals” or something like that. It is a very professional sign, its dated, has the intersection written in, and is all governmental in looks and attitude. I’m like what gives? Why there? Is there something the city needs to let us know? Is this really how they test the soil, with tomaters? The maters are big and lovely looking. I had my suspicions. THEN, yesterday I see my neighbor picking some and I’m like, AHA, I knew it. Nicely played Elmo, nicely played. His name is Elmo, by the way, how cute is that? I remembered that once when collectively, we as neighbors sharing recycle bins were remiss in our sorting diligence. There was paper in the glass bin, glass in the plastic bin, it was a mess. The city wouldn’t collect our recycling for almost a month. Then Elmo took it upon himself to go out and resort everybody’s stuff. After, we were all presented with printouts detailing the RIGHT way to recycle and gently reprimanding us. For the record, I was not the one mixing; it was the hippies next door. Anyhow, it makes perfect sense now. Elmo must know about the hunter/gatherers, the oldies and whoever else might want to steal his lovely tomatoes.

 So there you have it, fruits abound in the urban jungle. Whether carefully cultivated in a tiny spit of dirt in a driveway or wild and feral, mother earth; she will provide if you care to partake. I for one will no longer take gifts of this nature for granted.  I’m going to try some basil again. My coworker inspired me by binging me a nearly hefty-sized bag of the stuff. He said he planted just a little plant and it went bananas and he had it coming out of his ears. Pesto I say, pesto!

With the recent opening of the dismally reviewed Daddy Day Camp (2% on the tomato meter. If you don’t know what that is, it’s this (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/daddy_day_camp/?critic=columns), Cuba Gooding Jr., in my opinion, has become America’s Bravest Actor. In a show of complete disregard for his reputation as a serious actor (please lets not forget that he is an Academy Award winner) Cuba has forged a career by picking what are surely some of THE WORST scripts being green-lit from an increasingly asinine pool of bullshit constituting a show of courage befitting a true visionary. Remember a time when Cuba was a fresh face and a real talent, beginning with Boyz N The Hood and A Few Good Men? No? Have your memories of the man who stole our hearts with the catchphrase of the 90’s “Show me the money” faded and been replaced by shuttering thoughts of farting dogs and minstrel shows? You are not alone, yet Cuba forges on. Damn the critics, damn the movie going public, damn self respect and damn logic, Cuba Gooding Jr. is a shining beacon of mediocrity, heralding an era of profound apathy, pandering and banality! And to this, I say, congratulations Mr. Gooding. You have verily solidified yourself as America’s Bravest Actor. If you doubt my assertion, I submit the following as evidence. Here is The Best of The Worst:

Daddy Day Camp, a remake of the ok Daddy Day Care

In which: Cuba plays Eddie Murphy, gets puked on and presumably receives multiple tiny footed kicks to the groin. Costars: A guy who is not Jeff Garlin and a troupe of atrocious child actors.

Norbit, an Eddie Murphy Extravaganza

In which: Cuba is one of the few characters not playing Eddie Murphy. This one features fat suits, misogyny and the most offensive “oriental” characature since Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Radio, “special needs” tearjerker

In which: Cuba’s portrays Radio, a mentally challenged man who overcomes some odds and tugs on some heartstrings. You know, Rudy, but more retarded. I have only seen the trailer for this and when I did, the theater broke out into spontanious laughter in all the wrong (right?) places.

Boat Trip, a “drag” on the high seas

In which: Cuba goes on a gay cruise and pretends to love cock in order to get laid by a woman. Three’s Company type high jinks ensue.  Features: a lot of snapping and “you go girl” and “oh no he didn’t”. I ask, when did the gays start acting like sassy black TV neighbors?

Snow Dogs, a fish out of water “tail”

In which: Cuba, a Miami dentist, is the reluctant inheritor of a sled dog team. The dogs feature weird CGI faces so they can wink and give knowing, conspiratorial looks to one another as they teach this city slicker a lesson or two. Features: lots of yellow snow and shots to the groin.

Chill Factor, you know, like Speed but different!

In which: Cuba teams up with a Johnny Depp impersonator doing a Keanu Reeves impersonation to save the world from rogue military officer with a vaporizing bomb. Instead of a bus our buddies get an ice cream truck and they must keep the bomb under 50 degrees, OR ELSE.

One can only wonder what he’s do next. I really don’t know how much lower a man can sink without having the taint of scandal to excuse his downward spiral. I’d understand perhaps if he had been caught with his proverbial pants down in some splashy media frenzy, but no, he seems like a decent enough guy. No drugs, no hookers, not even a hint of scandal. Yet our brave soldier keeps saying yes! Yes to it all! He can’t even be getting paid that much, can he? I don’t think any of his recent outings can be considered hits.  I have presumed a lot about the preceding movies, having only actually seen one of them (can you guess which?). I don’t beleive I am alone in this. So, in the face of ridicule and marginal profitability, Cuba continues his valiant shock and awe campaign and takes it in the nuts as America’s Bravest Actor.

Would you look at that cutie pie! Several months ago; I predicted a shift in America’s hot animal obsession of the moment. When I saw the trailer for Surfs Up, I said to myself, “Penguins have officially jumped the shark”. Funny because I bet they literally did in that movie about a penguin surfing contest. I thought to myself then, that otters, (which I’ve always had a deep fondness for, ever since I was 8 and my uncle bought me a stuffed otter who held a real live clam shell on his belly. His name was Clam) would soon eclipse the clumbsy birds as the new hotness. Now it seems my prediction is gathering steam and a blossoming otter frenzy is afoot.

First this video started making the rounds:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epUk3T2Kfno

What kind of heartless monster would you have to be to not become verklempt by this?  Listen to the crowd going nuts! C’mon!

Then, the other night I saw a TV spot for the Monterey Bay Aquarium’s new otter exhibit. I bet the other Aquariums of the nation will soon follow suit. They better start ordering their otters PDQ!

Following is my top 5 list of reasons otters are superior to penguins, in every way.

CASE IN POINT!

1. Fur Not Feathers! Otters are mammals for Christ’s sake! With eyelashes! Penguins stink and have poopy bottoms.

2. There’s a much higher possibility that you might actually get a chance to see an Otter in the real world. Otters live among us, in our oceans, rivers and lakes on our very own continent. Penguins are elusive and snobby.

3. The word Otter lends itself to puns quite easily. They are otterly perfect in this respect! I mean, you otter know. Odd you ask? No otter than trying to say penguin five times fast!

4. Otters are the puppies of the sea! They play and romp and lick your face! I bet they would even let you put an outfit on them. How about a little otter swimsuit! ADORABLE!

5. OTTER POPS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!