Wintertime is for Postcards, Too

Just the front of the postcard this time. 

I'm happy that we're receiving some much-needed rain after an incredibly dry year, but it's been non-stop mist, fog, rain, storm up here the past couple of weeks. Looking at this photo of the postcard I received from Sarah T last week -- and then comparing it to other photos of postcards received over the summer -- I note the paleness of my fingers, the (perpetual) sogginess of the lawn,* the morose grey sunlight. Winter is here in all of its central coast, Wuthering Heights, doom & gloom glory --and I love it!-- but boy do we have a long winter ahead of us.

Wintertime is wonderful for its storms and winds and cold and spookiness, the move to insularity, introspection, quiet, and aloneness. But, sometimes, it becomes lonely. In a Stephen King-protagonist-isolated-in-a-snowed-in-cabin/closed-mountain-resort** kind of way.

The academic quarter has come to an end. The past couple of weeks have been long, sleep-deprived, manic and exhausting. I found this postcard in the mailbox late Thursday evening of last week, and it's been brightening up the large pile of unattended mail ever since. Thanks, Sarah T.

* The lawn has become a perpetual mushroom pit of fungal despair. I'm pulling out handfuls of mushrooms on a daily basis.

** MADNESS.

Cuchi Time: Turkeys at Dusk

I've been waiting for weeks -- weeks! -- for the opportunity to photograph these local wild turkeys. I first heard about them in early July, when my visiting parents saw them walking up my street one morning. A couple of weeks later, Roscoe and I ran into them two blocks from the house on a walk around the neighborhood. It was creepy yet fascinating: when I first saw them, I thought they were plastic yard statues. Even though there were twenty of them. TWENTY. I stood staring for a couple of minutes before my neighbor cracked open her front door to warn me that yes, they were real, and, yes, they moved in unison like horrible feathered dinosaurs. Since then, I've occasionally glimpsed their ghostly, weird turkey silhouettes slowly passing just beyond the front yard fence, but never had enough time to grab the camera. 

Over the weekend, I finally had the opportunity to take some photos when they flew onto our roof and invaded our yard. Flew onto our roof and invaded our yard.

A few caveats:

These photos don't do the turkeys justice. One: they look a lot smaller than they really are. The males were pretty humongous, at least twenty pounds, the hens only a little smaller. Two: they blend in with the scenery all too well (I guess that's the point). Three: there were so many of them, it was impossible to capture them all in the same photograph frame.

Would you have noticed the two turkeys in the oak tree over the studio if I hadn't pointed them out?
I don't think I would have. 

Having these wild turkeys flock in the yard was simultaneously awesome -- cuchi! -- and actually kind of scary. We kept Roscoe inside the house as a precautionary measure, and tried to wait them out. They spent a good hour making their rounds through the front yard, scratching and pecking in the lawn and garden beds. I eventually started to get worried that they'd completely rip up the garden and stood at the front door clapping and yelling at them until they moseyed on over to the fence and flew over it.

I see nine turkeys in this photo. There were at least five more on the other side of the hammock.
(I took this photo through my bedroom window because I'm a SCAREDY CAT)

I would be lying if I said that were the only thing I was worried about. They made me nervous, duh. Don't laugh! If they were a hoard of raccoons or skunks, anyone would have freaked. Just because they're poultry doesn't mean they aren't a threat, especially in large numbers. Have you heard of the horrible Martha's Vineyard Tom Turkey case?* Don't you remember The Birds? (I'm only a little bit joking here) These two avian horror stories spliced and bounced around in my brain the entire time they were creepily pecking and scratching away in my yard. I was relieved that I didn't have to actually chase them out of the yard, though now I have to worry about whether or not my neighbors are feeding them -- one more thing to be a crazy old lady about!

Tippi Hedren in Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds (1963)

***
* The This American Life episode on which I originally heard the story, "Poultry Slam 2011", is fantastic and funny. Listen to it here.

Cuchi Time: Tiniest Spinner

The prettiest, finest, little spider webs have been popping up all around the yard this week. They're so fine, in fact, that I often don't notice them until I'm about to disrupt them somehow -- in the case of the so-fine-its-invisible-to-the-camera web in the above photo, I didn't see it until I was about to walk right through it. Good thing it's teeny tiny maker was there to catch my eye. 

I generally think that spiders are pretty horrible, but this micro-specimen seems harmless enough. It's made itself a pretty web, is staying outside, is too small to be scary... not much more I can ask for. Do your thing, sir. 

Let's see what else is going on in the garden:

 My one Lily of the Nile is about to flower, which is exciting. 

Even better, the spindly little peach tree in the front yard -- that was pretty sickly when we first moved in two years ago -- is gracing us with a mega-load of peaches this year. This is all thanks to my dad, I'm sure. He's like a fruit tree wizard; his pruning skills are magic. Whatever he prunes is super happy through the next year. The tree is so prolific, in fact, that I'm a little worried that all this extra weight is going to snap a limb or two.

The peaches are almost ripe enough to pick from the tree. Maybe in a couple of days. I'm being especially vigilant because I know that the blue jays (my arch nemesi) and squirrels (disgruntled tree nesters) have their eyes on them too. Last year, they got to the one peach the tree produced and I was dismayed. NOT THIS SUMMER, YARD DWELLERS. 

Point of Contention: Squirrel's Nest

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been forced into some unsavory "arguments" in my front yard with a squirrel. The scene is always set in the same way: I'm lying in my hammock (see photo here), enjoying the stupendous outdoors, and a squirrel comes and sits high up in one of the oak tree's trunks and starts barking at me. 

And barking. And barking. 

And I stare at it. And it barks some more. And I stare. And it eventually moves further up the oak tree trunk (as it continues to bark at me), and we stare at each other until it finally shoots up the tree and jumps across to another and leaves. 

And for the longest time I thought: "What an jerk." Because, really, what was I doing to him/her/it? I was just lying in my hammock, minding my own business, reading my books or perusing the web on my laptop. Innocuous, innocent, unobtrusive. 

Until the afternoon that I chanced to gaze straight up from my supine position in the hammock.

Take a look: 

 Look closer...

 Now look closest.

That tree trunk you see is directly next to my hammock (in fact, it is the very trunk from which one of my hammock's ends hangs). That tangled knot of twigs and leaves and who knows what else that you see in the background of the photo(s) is a squirrel's nest. And, gathering from all the barking and glaring and staring and "arguments", is the squirrel nest of my little rodent foe.

I feel bad.

Said trunk is the the one from which said squirrel must climb to reach it's home.

I feel bad, but clearly not so bad that I abandon the hammock. And that makes me feel worse -- like some kind of horrible stealer of territory, a colonialist of front yard space, a neighborhood conquistador... But, you know what?

Whatever. It's a squirrel. It's an oak tree. It's a hammock. Let's all just get along.

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. 

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. 

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. 

Kitchen (mis)Adventure: Fresh Hummus, Sad Carrots

There's nothing easier than whipping together a plate of hummus. Well, sure there is, but so it seems. I made the latest batch below late last week with my trusty Osterizer blender (it's older than I am!) and my also trusty copy of How To Cook Everything. I followed Mark Bittman's basic recipe and then added to it as I blended. I ended up using twice the prescribed amount of lemon juice, lots of pepper, and smoked paprika. It still turned out a little on the bland side (sad), but I prefer even bland hummus made fresh to the store-bought kind*. Next time I'll cut back on the tahini, which ended up being too overpowering, and try a couple other things to pack in the flavor -- pine nuts blended in as well? Vinegar? Can you add vinegar to hummus? Something was missing, but what I cannot say. 

We were super busy gallivanting around and adventuring last week, so I didn't get a chance to enjoy my hummus until yesterday afternoon. I pulled out a bag of carrots and started munching away as I worked at the computer. 

Something was off. I knew that the hummus wasn't the most exciting I'd ever made, but there was something... wrong. I chewed and chewed and chewed and frowned and started to feel something sinister and strange as I looked down at the bit of carrot in my hand. It was weathered and shriveled and unhappy. The carrots were stale. I couldn't even remember buying the bag, they'd been sitting in the back of the veggie crisper in the fridge for so long. They tasted like sad, little desiccated pieces of cardboard. There was no life left in those pale and dry roots. I threw them away. SO SAD. 

Speaking of gallivanting, here's a photo from last week. Carlos and Claudia came to visit, and we ended up putting over 150 miles on my car and over 450 miles on a friend's car with all our adventuring, seeing about a quarter of the California coast in the process. Super fun, super exhausting, and super sunburnt and happy. 

Savannah-Chanelle Vineyards, Santa Cruz Mountains, photo by Claudia

* Jason begs to differ. Next time, he can make the hummus.

Kitchen (mis)Adventure: Fracas de quiche

Oh man, it started out as such a good idea and ended up being such a goat-cheesy no-no. I made my first quiche this morning. Consulting Mark Bittman's How to Cook Everything (my favorite cooking "reference" and not "recipe book", this is relevant, just wait), I pulled out everything in my refrigerator that Mark Bittman told me would likely go well together in a quiche and got to it: steaming broccoli florets, "gently warming" milk on the stove-top, adding dried marjoram to my beaten and room-temperature eggs, chopping up a couple rounds of herbed goat cheese that had been hiding in the back of the fridge, bla bla bla. I was so proud of myself. And the quiche turned out looking pretty good, have a see for yourself down below: 

Pulling it out of the oven, it smelled good, too. Well, at first. And then, just as I put my nose to its surface to better savor the aroma, I was immediately overcome by the most horrendously vivid olfactory memory: 

I loathe foods cooked with goat cheese. Like, the smell/taste/texture of cooked goat cheese kind of makes me gag. Fresh goat cheese -- in a salad, on a cracker, by itself, whatever -- is fine and great and I love it. But all warmed up and cooked with other things and I just think it's really, really gross. 

The problem is, just like this morning, I forget this all the time. I have made the mistake of cooking with goat cheese -- of finding a recipe and being honestly, earnestly, excited about cooking with goat cheese -- more than once. It probably happens every 12-18 months.* Just enough time goes by for me to completely forget about how revolting I find cooked goat cheese, and I don't remember how awful it is until I've used up all the ingredients and the food's been cooked. 6 local, free-range eggs; half a bag of organic broccoli florets; and the last of the also organic milk gone. Not to mention perfectly good goat cheese I would have enjoyed fresh and cold and un-cooked. 

Part of the horror is that I won't let it go to waste. I'll hate it -- and Jason, too, by the way, will hate it -- but we'll eat it all in the end. We'll smother it in hot sauce and hold our noses and agonize and torture ourselves, but I'll make sure we don't throw any of it away.**

Looks like we have just enough for two more servings each. 

In better news, I'm taking the rest of the afternoon to enjoy a couple new books I just bought. WHY NOT: Stephen T. Asma's On Monsters: An Unnatural History of Our Worst Fears was on sale, as was Judith Halberstam's Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. Some texts that you refer to again and again really are worth just investing in. The Halberstam I've had checked out and repeatedly renewed from the library for YEARS. I'm sure there must be some person part of the campus community who would like to stumble across it at the library again. The Asma I've been reading online through Amazon.com's "Look Inside!" (don't judge me) for quite some time as well. I'm looking forward to having them both to enjoy and reference at leisure, without feeling guilty. The final book is the latest Oxford edition of Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, collected with "Other Tales", which I purchased in order to read a collected short story in particular: "Olalla" (1885). The story was recommended by Carlos, and I aim to read it, contemplate it, and write on it soon. More on that to come. 

* Now that I think of it, the last instance was the "Summer Squash with Baked Eggs" fracas of summer '11. 

** Jason says, by the way, that he would have remembered. Not very helpful unless he's cooking, though.

Septic Woes

Oh, so sad. The house's septic system is troubled. There's a blockage between the septic tank and the leach fields, and we need to find it. Here's Jason digging a trench to nowhere. This picture was taken pretty early on. He dug another five feet after this was taken, which took another day and a half due to the insane network of ancient oak tree roots that he had to cut up and take out. All for nought, we subsequently learned that the pipe we were trying to expose had been abandoned nearly 20 years ago. We had to find the new pipe. So we started digging in the opposite direction. 

See that terrible cave underneath the concrete that we dug out? I had to crawl in there to search for the elusive new pipe. Just me, a trowel, and a tiny flashlight. And dirt and roots and dirt. But I found it. Guess which direction it was going in? 

That's right, it's going directly for the center of the cement patio, right where I've marked with blue chalk. A construction crew's coming tomorrow to cut a hole into the patio and search for the mythical distribution box that we think has been taken over by oak tree roots. Hopefully, everything will be fixed by tomorrow afternoon and we can get back to normal water/toilet/shower usage.

If you ever want to really come face-to-face with your finite resource consumption (specifically that of water for household use), try living in a mountain home with an out-of-commission septic system. We generally try to conserve water -- and gas, and electricity -- at home on a day-to-day basis, but this is ridiculous. Because we need for the pipe between the tank and the leach field to be empty in order to fix the system, we emptied the tank a week ago, and we need to keep it from filling up all the way to the pipe-line in the mean time. We're using as little water as possible when we do dishes, flushing infrequently (GROSS), and not using the shower at all. I've been showering at the gym, Jason's even resorted to "showering" in the yard with the garden house (don't laugh it wasn't funny yes it was okay I laughed). It's a good thing our washing machine is hooked up to a grey water system, if not I'd be washing laundry in a bucket in the yard. MOUNTAIN LIVING. 


If we're to look on the bright side, it's so far been an incredible learning experience. I know all kinds of things about double-chamber septic tanks and distribution boxes and leach fields and aerobic vs. anaerobic systems and etc. etc. etc. One evening, as I was gazing down on the sinister cement hatch covering the septic tank's output from the kitchen, I had a single, perfect Murder She Wrote realization:

The best place to rid oneself of a dead body? A septic tank. A terrible, stinky, watery grave, with loads of anaerobic bacteria to speedily reduce the corpse to sludge. You're welcome. And, of course, the best time to dump a body in a septic tank is when the outlet's already been dug up for maintenance reasons. It's the only way to not arouse suspicions. Jason is not amused.

Wish us luck.