Saturday, June 30, 2012

Kitchen (mis)Adventure: Magical Basil Gazpacho

Here it is, my first batch of magical basil gazpacho. OH YEAH. I decided to err on the side of caution this go around, and only made half the quantity of gazpacho as last time. It took me over a week to drink the whole pitcher, after all.  You may or may not be able to tell that I puréed the crap out of it in hopes that the smoother texture would be more pleasing to Jason, but alas, I just don't think he's much of a fan of the idea of cold soups.*
Apart from the magical midsummer basil (both Genovese and spicy Cuban), I gazpacho'd with what I had on hand: sweet baby bell peppers, jarred fire-roasted red pepper, a yellow onion (if I could, I would have used a red onion, a la Sarah T), garlic, Roma tomatoes, and an enormous cucumber (I only used half). I threw in a generous handful of toasted almonds for a little protein, something my mother does because she's a genius, and blended away with slightly less sherry vinegar and olive oil than last time and double the water. Tasty.
I think the gazpacho turned out great. But as I drank it, I suddenly had a craving for cheese. Fresh mozzarella cheese. IT TASTED JUST A LITTLE TOO MUCH LIKE CAPRESE SALAD WHAT HAVE I DONE.


Summer: caprese salads, gazpacho, soda water (yes, I made some after finally potting my magical herbs and feeding the citrus trees this morning), postcards, and the list goes on.
* Speaking of cold soups, TheKitchn highlighted a Mark Bittman New York Times article on cold soup recipes and they look really, really super. Check out the recipes here

Friday, June 29, 2012

Summertime is for Postcards

The first postcard of the summer:
It makes me really happy that Sarah T would go to tour an old 19th century operating theater in London, think of me, remember how much I love receiving postcards, and send me one showcasing said operating theater as a surprise.
Is that a sneaky Roscoe photo bomb?
Gothic operating theater hidden in a church tower. Sarah T knows me all too well. Remember that, when I linked to her travel blog, I expressly mentioned how much I enjoyed her post on that operating theater tour! You've already received an email, but, again, thank you, Sarah T.

I love, love, love postcards. I think they're a terrific medium of communication, especially for summertime travels. They're short and sweet and wonderful. A couple of years ago, after moving back to California from NYC, I started carrying around a roll of postcard stamps in my purse. Since then, if I'm out and about, and find a postcard that reminds me of someone I know and love, I can jot down a couple of lines and send it off on any old moment's whim.
Must remember to feed the citrus trees.
I started collecting Santa Cruz/Central Coast postcards a couple of weeks ago for a little postcard/diary/writing project collaboration I'm doing with my super friend Emily C.* She left Santa Cruz for Europe about a month ago and won't be back until September. I'm missing her tons, not only because she's my closest friend in town but because she's also been my most immediate sounding board for books I'm reading, research I'm doing, DEEP THOUGHTS I'm having, etc. This is a nice way to keep a log of the things we're reading/thinking/writing that we want to bookmark for discussion when she gets back into town at the end of the summer. It's kind of like having a phantom dialogue. Spooky and I like it.
BOOM, is that a SodaStream next to my decorative bat house? Yes, I have a decorative bat house.
I got Sarah T's postcard in the mail before leaving the house to run errands with Jason in town. I must have had her subconsciously on the brain when we arrived at Costco and I spied a mondo stack of pleasantly marked-down SodaStream soda makers and lost my miiiind. I shrieked "Sarah T and DB have one! Sarah T and DB have one!"** and started pawing at a box. Jason asked me if I wanted one for my birthday (which is still two months away), and I said "no, no, no, no...", and then he took the box and put it in our cart, and I said something to the effect of "we can just keep it in the cart and wait until we're in line to pay to decide..."***, and next thing we know I've completely rationalized buying the soda maker. For my birthday. In two months.

We immediately set it up upon returning home and indulged in some home-made Dr. Pepper rip-off and it was diviiiiine. I'm going to use it all the time to make lemon juice soda water and it's going to be even betterrrrr.


Summer: postcards, soda water, and gazpacho. Expect a post on magical basil gazpacho soon. Tomorrow?

***


* Check out Emily's fantastic website, If She Draws a Doorhere.
** They use their soda maker to carbonate water for dinner, and I'm so impressed every time I stay with them and we have home-made soda water with our meals. Or have soda water by itself. Who needs an excuse for drinking fizzy water?
*** I do this often in places like Costco or Target. It actually works surprisingly well to counteract impulse shopping (except for this time).

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Typical Espanish: Gazpachooo

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Claudia, for sending me this fabulous video Sunday. I've listened to it over and over and over. You've ensured that this innocent gazpacho kick explode into a full-blown gazpacho obsession. It's all I can think about, and now, it's all I hear. I sing the song's refrain in my dreams. Jason is living a nightmare.

La Ogra presents her summer hit: "Gazpacho".* It's a year old, but it's new to me, and it's become my summer anthem. Here's to the summer of gazpacho!
As soon as I've finished this first batch (I'm so close), I'm going to make a new, decidedly smaller, batch using some of that fancy Cuban Basil I got on St. John's Eve. Magical, basil gazpacho? Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!!!

* Did I buy the single on iTunes? You bet I did.

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Noche de San Juan

I've been looking at photographs from last night's celebrations in Spain on "El Huffington Post" (crazy that The Huffington Post is taking over the world... do check out the photos, though) and it sure looked like fun. I celebrated quietly here at home, lit a couple of candles and washed my face after midnight with ritualistic deliberation. Small stuff. 
     
Apart from the fire and water rituals, I did some "gathering of midsummer herbs". And rather than go tromping around in the surrounding hills and hollows up here in the mountains in the middle of the night, risking poison oak, mountain lion attack*, and wolf spider terrors**, just so I could come home with a handful of California sagebrush that, now that I think of it, grows in my own yard, I decided to plant my own batch of cooking herbs. I didn't get a chance to start up the veggie patch this spring, so this little herb collection will have to do for now. The symbolism isn't quite right, but we tend to have long Indian summers and annuals generally thrive with occasional bud pinching through the New Year, no need to start drying herbs now. 
Damn, I forgot to buy the sage!!!

I'm a lazy person, so I haven't transplanted them to the pots next to the kitchen door yet. Tomorrow. I've never grown/eaten/cooked with Cuban basil before; it's supposed to be similar to any sweet basil, but with a spicy flavor. Intriguing! Even better, it's a perennial.

And just in case you thought that I didn't end up having any St. John's magic come my way (or just a stroke of ordinary good luck), I stopped by my next door neighbors' yard sale on the way back from the farm & feed, and ended up leaving with a little treasure:
FANCYYY
Howard gave me a ridiculously good deal. As I gave him the cash for the typewriter, I blurted out, "Up in the Mission District in San Francisco, you wouldn't be able to find one of these for under $100!" SUCH A DUMB THING TO SAY. It needs a new ribbon, but all the keys and doodads seem to work, and it's really just beautiful. I'll post some proper photos once I'm finally able to test it out.

Addendum: 
I mixed up the two thymes in the photo identifying the midsummer herbs. The Orange Thyme is top center, and the French Thyme is bottom left. OOPSIES.



* There have been sightings of a lone adolescent mountain lion roaming around the neighborhood in the past week -- at dusk and at night, but sometimes during the day. We're hoping s/he's just passing through on the way to discovering new territories.
** Don't even dare do a Google image search -- DON'T YOU DO IT IT'S TOO TERRIBLE. 

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Midsummer Love Letter

The summer solstice came and went yesterday without me even stopping to acknowledge it. The day was filled with meetings on campus and long Skype dates with far-flung friends under the oak tree, and after having dinner later on in the evening, I immediately went to bed to snooze it all off.
I've been living here in Ben Lomond for over two years -- how is it that I'm only now taking advantage of the
electrical output under the oak tree? All I need out there now is a small table and I'm all set with a new summer office.
Though last night was officially Midsummer's Eve -- and today the first day of summer -- I'm holding off until Saturday night to celebrate the solstice. I'm celebrating the Spanish way, the witchy way, on St. John's Eve, what I've always known as la noche de San Juan. 

The Spanish version of the original Old Christian/Pagan tradition would call for a bonfire on a beach -- either on the ocean or river bank or lake -- and midnight bathing and bonfire jumping, as well as late night herb collecting, but I think I'll try a more quiet and cozy adaptation of the fire and water rituals from here at home. All my friends are away, and though my trusty Spaghetti Western side-kick Mr. Coe would love nothing more than a midnight adventure for two, lighting bonfires on the dog beach, I think we'll be better off at the house. BECAUSE IT'S GOING TO BE SPOOKY OUT THERE. This noche de San Juan is supposed to be extra special due to the fact that we're currently in a new moon -- the magic is said to be extra strong,  ooh la la! So, those of you looking to avoid witchy influences in your life, stay out of the dark and light a candle or three! And for those of you wanting to embrace the witchiness, take advantage of this most important Witches' Sabbath, your spells and incantations should be exponentially more powerful. I'll report back on my own shenanigans Saturday night.

Speaking of witchy, spooky things, check out my afternoon reading:  
Marina Warner's Phantasmagoria (2006) is of special interest these days.
More on those later. 

Heaven is a hammock and stack of spooky reading on a summer afternoon, indeed. And gazpacho. I still have so, so, so much gazpacho. 

Monday, June 18, 2012

Enriqueta Martí Part III: Her Time and Place

1/24/2013 Editor's Note: A comment left on this post last week brought to my attention further sources that I would like acknowledge. 

But before I do, I would like to share a brief reflection in relation to sources generally and the overall character of this blog. This personal blog is an eclectic space for personal reflection and sharing of current interests (academic or otherwise); it isn't formatted with a formal bibliography, nor does it attempt to be or simulate a peer-reviewed journal. It is my hope that readers who are especially interested in any given post subject do investigative research of their own. The links I do provide to my sources are only an initial lily pad jump in the direction of that exciting work -- they are often secondary sources that lead back to primary sources, opening doors to new and diverse scholarship, references, sources, citations. All-inclusivity is an impossibility, especially in an informal blog space such as this one, and I do not pretend otherwise. 

That said, there is quite a difference between not referencing and inadvertently misattributing a source, as is the case here. An interview with historian and novelist Elsa Plaza was the primary source of the historical background and social critique for Catalina Gayá's journalistic piece on el Raval, and Plaza is the true source of some statements and statistics I inadvertently attributed to Gayá in this post originally. I've made edits in the body of this post in order to correct these misattributions. 

I'm a historicist at heart -- all stories (and this is a "story," after all) have a time and place. No story has ever been created/told/perpetuated in a socio-historical vacuum. Stories live and breath, they grow and redirect themselves. They fill in gaps, grow up and over themselves and others. They feed off of their environments. Their environments feed off of them. I had a professor in undergrad who would correct me when I would argue that stories -- that literature -- acted as a mirror for any given culture: literature does not mirror, he would state, it creates culture and culture begets it in return.

Somewhere between yellow journalism and prensa rosa. "Crónica gráfica", publisher unknown. 1912.
Enriqueta Martí's story is no different. It was no coincidence that Enriqueta Martí devastated Barcelona's cultural imaginary at the time of her arrest in 1912. It means something that her case made big news in international newspapers, that she skyrocketed to a level of infamy that put her face on the front pages of both la prensa rosa* and seedy tabloids alike. The two girls rescued from her apartment became instant media darlings, their families enjoying certain celebrity (albeit briefly) as well.  It is important to note that this macabre spectacle occurred in Barcelona in the early teens. It's important to understand that Martí's time and place matter(ed).

Victim Teresita Guitart posing for the press with her family and the policemen who rescued her. 1912. 
Census figures show that, in 1912, Barcelona's population pushed over 587,000; in 1860, there were 140,000. The population practically tripled in 40 years, the majority of these new Barcelonans finding themselves in el Chino, the Fifth District. Waves of immigration brought peasants and proles to "The Pearl of the Mediterranean", but what many of them found, as Catalina Gayá writes in her 2012 article on el Chino, now el Raval**, was "The City of Death": the average life expectancy in Barcelona was 41 years; the infant mortality rate topped 17%. Mothers would frequently hide their sons' births from city authorities; if typhus or tuberculosis didn't finish them off as children, they would only be sent to fight for a foreign occupation in Morocco.

This city saw the worst of the War (Disaster) of 1898***, being the Spanish port that sent -- and later received -- the most Spanish soldiers called to war. As already mentioned, after the turn of the century, Barcelona sent even more young men to fight and die in Morocco. In the summer of 1909, the city suffered through an explosive, week-long, episode of civil unrest --La setmana trágica started out as a general strike of the city proletariat, and later spiraled out of control, resulting in free-for-all street fights with city police and the eventual occupation of the port city by national troops.

General Strike, Setmana Tragica July 1909

According to Gayá's article, of the 6,000+ homes found in Barcelona at the time, a little over 2,000 were in the Fifth District. Journalist Josep Maria Huertas wrote that "it was common for forty to fifty people to live in one house." Due to the district's close proximity to the port, hostels and boarding houses abounded, seedy taverns were converted into flophouses and bordellos to better serve those coming through. Morphine use was rampant in the district, as was alcohol abuse. There were frequent knife fights, a large population of teenaged prostitutes, and an estimated 8,000-10,000 street urchins and child thieves in the streets.

Urban warfare, Setmana Tragica July 1909

This is the neighborhood in which Enriqueta Martí operated. This is the neighborhood from which she stole away the two girls found in her apartment in the winter of 1912.

Barcelona burning, Setmana Tragica July 1909
Barcelona was a city filled with illiterate and poor immigrants, and -- much like 1920's Berlin -- disfigured and unemployed war veterans and military deserters: invisible people circulating in a city filled with what Gayá calls "la misma miseria de siempre".****

Barcelona was/is an international port city. Anything could/can (and did/does) happen. Barcelona is said to have been, at the time, the pornography capitol of Europe, exporting pornographic films and postcards to foreign capitols throughout Europe and the New World. It was also the European port most frequently used to traffic underaged prostitutes to major American capitols such as New York, Sao Paulo, and Buenos Aires. Children of the Fifth District who evaded forced prostitution and sex trafficking were often kidnapped and enslaved in sweatshops and ramshackle factories located within the district itself. Let us not forget that this was the city lauded as "The Pearl of the Mediterranean"; the city enjoys a very similar reputation today. One has to wonder how much has changed. 

This was (is?) Enriqueta Martí's world. For an angry, disempowered, politicized (and, in some cases, militarized) proletariat, she represented a very real boogie monster: a vampiress/witch preying on her own people -- operating in the margins, a direct threat to them and their families.

Catalina Gayá's article on Enriqueta Martí dares to posit a very different thesis from what we see so often in the annals of cyber space. Gayá interviews historian Elsa Plaza for her piece, who argues that Martí was set up, that she was a "straw (wo)man" -- representative of decades of misery and abuse in the eyes of the proletariat suffering in the Fifth District, just the last straw to break the long-suffering camel's back, and demonized by the city government and print media as well. Martí took the fall for so many others.***** Plaza reminds Gayá's readers that Martí never confessed to murdering those many children she kidnapped, nor did she ever confess to selling their bodily parts as potions and elixirs. According to Plaza, Martí was never formally accused of murder, nor was any child's cadaver actually found in her home. The second child found in her home with Teresita -- a girl named Angela -- was proven to really, actually, truly be her neice, as Martí always claimed the girl to be.

Elsa Plaza argues that Martí wasn't a vampire at all. She was just another pimp, another Sack Lady/Man in a city filled with many. If she were a monster, she would have been in good company -- living in a monstrous place, as Giorgio Agamben would say, operating in a state of exception, the abnormal made normal. 

She also argues that Martí, rather than being brutally killed by her fellow inmates, died of uterine cancer after eight months of waiting for her trial date, that the other women in the jail insisted on washing her body, holding a vigil, and giving her a proper funeral. 

She argues that Martí's story has always been told by men. This blogger argues that it has always been told for men as well. 

One of the final photographs taken of Martí after her arrest. 1912.
Hauntingly familiar, we all recognize the iconic image of the
celebrity shielding their face from the cameras. 

What does this mean for us, devotees of the urban legend of the Vampiress of the Carrer Ponent? Does any of this really matter? That she may not have been a vampire, a serial killer, after all? Does that really matter? Does it change the story? Are we disappointed (in ourselves)? Do we feel sheepish? I could spell it out for you, but I won't. We're all thinking the same thing. Though, this is only a story after all. 

Remember, monsters operate as meaningful signs. Ghosts do, too.

In his 1993 text The Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, & the New International, Jacques Derrida reminds us that:

"The specter, as its name indicates, is the frequency of a certain visibility. But the visibility of the invisible. And visibility, but its essence, is not seen, which is why it remains epekeina tes ousias, beyond the phenomenon or beyond being. The specter is also, among other things, what one imagines, what one thinks one sees and which one projects—on an imaginary screen where there is nothing to see. Not even the screen sometimes, and a screen always has, at bottom, in the bottom or background that it is, a structure of disappearing apparition."******

***

Further reading:
       Read the first installment, "Enriqueta Martí: Vampire, Serial Killer, Sack Lady", here.
       Read the second installment, "Enriqueta Martí Part II: The Nature of the Monster", here.
       Read the Sack Man post that started it all here.  

* "Periodismo del corazón", journalism dedicated to high society, lifestyles of the rich and famous, media and entertainment. 
** Read Catalina Gayá's excellent 2011 article for elPeriódico.com -- that so informed this post -- here
*** Known in the United States as the Spanish American War. 
****Anyone who has seen Alejandro González Iñárritu's devastating 2010 film Biutiful -- or has had direct access to the most marginalized communities throughout Barcelona -- would recognize that very little has changed in the port city in the past 100 years. 
***** Remember: if Enriqueta Martí is the urban witch from "Hansel and Gretel", who play the roles of the mother and father who abandoned their children in woods at the beginning of the fairy tale? How many parents in Barcelona sold their children into slavery, sexual and otherwise? Many, unfortunately, tragically, horrifically.
****** Derrida, Jacques. Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning, & the New International. 1993. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. New York: Routledge, 1994. 101.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Kitchen (mis)Adventure: Spicy Gazpacho

It's really hot here. Like, so hot that I'm completely useless. Yesterday was up in the 90's, today should be too, and we should be seeing high 80's/low 90's through the rest of the week. Looks like it's going to be a long, hot, and dry summer.
Here's a nice photo of my current laptop workspace in the living room, taken from my seat.
Observe piles of books and papers and knittings. 
In a fit of rage, I made 5 million gallons of gazpacho this morning. I just went whole hog with the Osterizer, making one batch and then two, using up as many veggies as I could. As you can see in the photo above, I pulled out my copy of Teresa Barrenechea's The Cuisines of Spain: Exploring Regional Home Cooking when I started, but only used it to cross reference Sarah T's* tried-and-true gazpacho recipe. Barrenechea tends to over-do it with the olive oil in my opinion, so I generally use her recipes as a starting reference. Here's something interesting: neither Sarah T. nor Barrenechea had any onion in their gazpacho recipes! I know! They only included garlic. Correction: Barrenechea doesn't have any onion in her recipe, only garlic, but Sarah T does include a whole red onion in hers! I've set the record straight! (6/25/2012) I put both into mine (and plenty of it). Because I'm a crazy person, apparently. I like my gazpacho spicy! (I may have also added too liberal a splash [SLOSH] of vinegar... burp.)

I'm drinking a tall glassful of it right now. Jason is so repulsed by the gazpacho that he can't even watch me drink it. I poured him a tiny amount in our little Garfield mug, but I don't think he'll be able to drink it all... Nope, he just gagged trying to get the first mouthful down. MORE FOR MEEEE!!!

* Check out Sarah T's super travel blog, Someday on the Avenue, here. I especially love her latest post on the old operating theater she visited recently. Creepy, gothic, Victoriana, yessss. 


Sunday, June 10, 2012

Travels with Mr. Coe: Carmel-By-The-Sea

Have you ever visited a place so ridiculously over-the-top fancy that it doesn't seem like real life? A place where nobody seems to work and everybody drives really, really slowly in expensive cars, and buys exorbitantly over-priced foodstuffs just because they can? A place where you ask for "inexpensive lunch options" and are recommended a Michelin-starred restaurant that only has a three-course prix fixes menu? Welcome to Carmel-By-The-Sea, a "seaside village" that operates in its own dimension of reality.
Source
I had a couple of errands to run down in the Monterey area this weekend, so I decided to bring Mr. Coe along and make a real outing of it. Part of Carmel's charm -- and what makes it so attractive to me, at least -- is that it's outrageously dog-friendly. Dogs are allowed at most restaurants/cafés/wineries with outdoor seating, the Carmel Valley hosts a couple of awesome dog-friendly hiking/outdoor recreation spots, and Carmel Beach is dog-friendly as well. Off-leash dog-friendly. You have to deal with ridiculous WASP-y rich people in sweater sets and khaki shorts and that horrible feeling that everybody's secretly judging your junky old Toyota Tercel and half-feral dog, but you know what? SO WHAT. Off-leash dog-friendly.
Excitable labradoodle, Carmel Highlands in the background.
It was a beautiful day down on the shore, as you can see. Carmel's beach really is breathtaking; you come out of the pine grove and are met with beautiful white sands and turquoise surf. Can you imagine what it must have been like for Junipero de la Serra to sail into this shallow little bay in the mid 1700s? It's no wonder the Jesuits established one of the first California missions here; the site is gorgeous.*
Asilomar State Park at the point, über-fancy Pebble Beach golf course further inland.
The beach was jam-packed with families. Roscoe and I must been a weird and wonderful sight to behold; Roscoe whining and crying and running in circles out of sheer ecstasy, me tromping with my beach chair (from REI! super light-weight, with a shoulder strap! I keep it in the trunk of my car!), wearing my big white sun hat and my finest "weekend wear"**, jacket and long pants. Everybody was wearing bathing suits; the only parts of my body getting sun were my feet and wrists. VICTORIAN CHIC. We sat alone and I read a book and Roscoe guarded me. The only other person I spied who wasn't part of a group or (human) couple was this shirtless dude wandering around the beach with a poofy lap-dog in his arms, drinking a bottled beer and singing to himself. I wish I'd taken a picture, what a weirdo.
Roscoe asking me "CAN I GO. CAN I GO CHASE THE DOGS. CAN I GO." and me responding
"WHAT HAVE I BEEN TELLING YOU TO GO AHEAD AND DO FOR THE PAST TWO HOURS.
GO AND LET ME READ MY PERIOD PIECE MURDER MYSTERY/POLITICAL INTRIGUE
AND CRIME THRILLER PLEASE."
After hanging out down at the beach, Roscoe and I walked around the downtown shopping district for a bit. Let me tell you: Roscoe was the BELLE BEAU OF THE BALL of downtown Carmel that afternoon. Everybody commented on how pretty handsome he was, and how well behaved he was, and how cute he was, and how all-around super great he was. And it was true, he was wonderful. He heeled as we walked along the sidewalks and sat at every intersection before we crossed. He was very polite with the old rich people who stopped to pet and talk to him, and didn't even freak when a baby grabbed his tail (I did stink eye the parent, though)

Roscoe really does feel right at home in Carmel. He's most comfortable in either wild and desolate landscapes or laps of luxury and comfort. Go figure. 

* Though I have a heart-felt love and appreciation for the California missions and their history, I respect and honor that these are also sites of mourning for the indigenous peoples of California, representative of centuries of enslavement, suffering, trauma, and (arguably) genocide. A subject of interest for another blog post, another day.
** Yes, I'm self-conscious when I go to Carmel. Yes, I was wearing my best "casual" clothes. Yes, I applied makeup before leaving the house. Yes, it all ran down my face once sunscreen got in my eyes at the beach.

Friday, June 8, 2012

Sun Moon Waning

Quiet evening at home. I'm finishing my final Enriqueta Martí post and it's exhausting. I'll be happy to let this one go, the sign of a successful exorcism. Roscoe's extra spooky tonight and doesn't want to go outside. Strong winds and a big moon, witching weather. I lit a candle for a friend's grandmother, it's burning strong. 

Monday, June 4, 2012

Cuchi Time: Little Stinker

What should I spy with my little eye in the backyard this morning? 
A skunk baby. 

An adorable little skunk baby, sniffing around my backyard. Look at how super cuchi that little guy is. I couldn't get a clear shot because it was raining and I was simultaneously trying to photograph it from far away,* using my camera's digital zoom, and keep the dog Mr. Coe from seeing it and barking and spooking it.

It's a case of the cuchi tinged with the bittersweet though: where there's a skunk baby there's a skunk mama, and that's the last thing we need around here.** I'm going to have to throw a handful of mothballs under the deck and the shed at the bottom of the driveway (the last places skunks have tried nesting in). The babies are adorable, but I'd rather they be raised in somebody else's yard. 

* Skunks, apparently, are not born with stinking capabilities, but I wasn't about to take any chances. 
** It took over a month for the smell of burning rubber and household electronics to dissipate from Mr. Coe's coat after the great skunking of the winter of 2010. We tried the tomato juice, the vinegar, and even the expensive Nature's Miracle, nothing stopped Roscoe from smelling like a chemical-ly garbage can.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Weekend Update(s)

Love Creek Road, downtown Ben Lomond
It's another beautiful weekend in the Santa Cruz Mountains. We've dedicated the last couple of days to home improvements, and this afternoon we're going to relax and enjoy the fruits of our labors.

New and improved bathroom sink drain: CHECK.
Re-caulk shower stall: CHECK
Build two gates: CHECK.
Clean out miniature green house: CHECK.
Prune ferns under oak tree in the front yard: CHECK.
Plant four new plants and a handful of transplants in the apple tree plant bed: CHECK

There's still a lot of work to be done, but we'll leave that for future weekend projects. This afternoon belongs to the hammock and the barbeque.