A Little Potato with your Butter and Vodka?

Right out of culinary school I lived in Germany for three summers. Working and traveling in Europe opened my eyes to new culinary experiences, some which I had previously learned of through a Chef’s lecture.

The most vivid experience was also one of my earliest, combining two of my favorite things: fire and alcohol. I can’t really call it a meal. It was more of an alcoholic binge session with the occasional potato thrown in as an afterthought.

A few days before camp ended, a local bigwig held a traditional potato bake at his fish camp. The bigwig was the wealthiest man in the valley, so his fish camp was more of a miniture logcabin village, but we didn’t mind. A pattern of polished cobblestones began in the swept earth courtyard and spiraled towards the fire pit. The pit itself was at least ten feet in diameter. The fire had been going since noon – three truckloads of wood had burned, leaving a layer of ash and white hot coals a foot thick.

The potatoes were roasting in the coals as we arrived. We sat around the fire drinking beer and those little shot bottles of zitronen, pear brandy, plum brandy and vodka. The German mothers stood off to the side and whispered, watching us drink. The German kids ran around and taught us new words. The German Dads drank beer with us and occasionally poked sticks into the fire, apparently universal behavior in the human male. The local German guys were conspicuously absent.

One of the German men stuck a rake into the coals and lifted up potatoes and ashes. After sieving off the ashes, the potatoes were piled up on the side of the pit. The bigwig showed us how to split the potatoes open by squashing one flat on a cobblestone with the palm of his hand. Potatoes were handed around along with whole sticks of butter. We had more butter than potato. There were three choices of potato sauce — all of them sour, and all of them containing mayo.

Some of us were more drunk than others. Those with higher tolerance levels had started drinking in the early afternoon. The disapproving German mothers were serenaded with camp songs, “Dona Nobis” in three part harmony, and a tearful rendition of “Leaving on a Jet Plane.” A few of the local bigwigs sang American pop tunes. A great time was had by all, possibly excluding the mothers. I left while I could still walk.

Have You Ever Had A Perfect Day?

Have you ever had a perfect day?

Not a magic day — like winning the lottery, or meeting your soul mate — but an ordinary day that stands out from the rest for the sheer greatness of it?

When the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the breeze crisp enough to merit wearing your favorite sweater, the shoe store on the Plaza actually has two or three nice pairs of shoes, and there’s a ‘sales associate wanted’ sign hanging in the window, and kids are running around shrieking with ice cream cones, and parents are smiling, and the prospect of a full house makes you thrill to the challenge, rather than cringe? When not even the prospect of tomorrow’s inevitable slump effects your mood?

I had a perfect day today. Nothing spectacular; no life changing, magical events. Just warmth, and happiness, and a general feeling of well-being.

Wramble – No direction other than away from writer’s block

Call me Lil.

It’s not my given name, or even my only name. But it’s the one my inner voice responds to today.

I’m not crazy. At least, not yet.

I collect names and voices the way other women collect credit cards. You know the type of woman I mean. She owns a credit card for every store in the mall, plus a few for the gas stations along the way. She usually carries a huge black hole of a purse, from which she will withdraw a large wallet. The wallet is usually more of an organizer, with receipts, business cards, random dollar bills and ticket stubs all randomly shoved inside. The only thing organized about that wallet are the credit cards: by store or color or credit limit.

I never got around to organizing my wallet.

You ever been to a wedding or baby shower with the stupid “what’s in your purse” game? After the tea has been sipped and the dainty cookies and sandwiches finished, and before the “open the gifts and squeal” portion of the event is under way? It’s a favorite party game of women of a certain age – a feminine scavenger hunt. Each table recieves a scavenger hunt list, and up come the purses. Kleenex and tampons and keys and hershey bars all come tumbling out onto the table.

Breath freshener? Lighter? Tampax? Crayons? Emergency sewing kit? Condom? Stylus? Cell phone? Hair brush? Mace? OTC drug samples? Electrical Tape? Safety pins? CPR mask? Table center piece? (Oops, better put that back. The shower isn’t over yet.) And we haven’t even opened up our make up kits yet.

The hostess, if pressed, will tell you that the purpose of the “what’s in our collective purse” game is to build sisterhood by illustrating our similarities and congratulating womankind in general for being so prepared. In an emergency, the party reasoning says, women can dump out their purses, pool their resources, and save the day (or at least clean up afterwards.)

This is a lie. The hostess, like any good politician, knows it. So do the women who play the game. The hostess knows her guests know. But platitudes must be stated, rituals spoken, before the real fun begins.

Just what does your sister-in-law have in her purse? A ticket for the pawn shop? Ooh, what did she pawn? And why did she need the money? Obviously, she’s in need of it, she switched to a cheaper brand of lipstick.

What the hell is your cousin’s niece (the third bride’s maid) doing with a set of keys that small? Too little to be a house key or car key. Maybe a safe key? No, too flimsy. Wait a minute. Scoop them up, casually, for a casual second look. Handcuffs? Your cousin’s niece has the keys to a pair of handcuffs in her bag? That’s just too delicious for words. You’ll have to chat about the full ream of possibilities with your hairdresser…

May 28

So, here I am, celebrating life at a local bar. Now, I’ll admit, during the school year the only way to get me into this particular bar is to pour a couple of shots down my throat first, wait until I’m too buzzed to care about the direction we’re headed in, and then quickly install me at the bar once we’re inside so as to distract me from the sardines-in-a-can like quality of the crowd and canned pop music. The semester is over, however, and the majority of the crowd has flown South to partaketh in sun, smog and the thriving nightlife outside of the Redwood Curtain.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m entirely sympathetic with the general headlong rush for the countyline. Consider: one tavern row boasting an ancient logging bar, two pool halls, and a sports bar/dance club, or the million and one clubs and microbreweries alternating streetcorners in Southern California? Which would you choose? During the school year, the bulk of the over-21 single and searching crowd is forced to choose the sports/dance joint, which explains why I have to be well-juiced before I’ll even consider entering it. Been through that phase and finished with it long ago, sonny.

Graduation was last week, though. The sports/dance joint was actually looking a little forlorn. I almost found myself feeling sorry for the bouncer. Magnamiously, still flying from the departure of a truly disgusting couch, I agreed to share my joy and money with the sports/dance joint. The Giants were tied with the D-backs, and this is Northern Cali, after all, so it was more sports bar than dance club. I could handle a sports bar.

It’s rainy and misty and cold, but we’ve been moving furniture all day. My roomate is celebrating her last night but one before departing for a life of sobriety and sanity down South. No make up, no fuck me shoes, we’re in jeans and big jackets and little moving-furniture-is-hard-work-let’s-get-a-beer-afterwards shirts.

It’s a cold night, we’re wearing little shirts under big jackets, and the guy-girl ratio is about four to one. Once the Giants game ended, we’re attracting some good beer and interesting conversation. My roomate and I take our traditional shot. She gets led off, I accept another beer, the nice beer doner sits down to chat. Fine and dandy. My roomate comes back and accepts the stool offered to the left of the beer doner. We’re chatting, being friendly, appreciating a genuinely nice guy, not giving or sending any special signals other than appreciation for the beer, etcetera.

And what does he do? Strokes his hand up and down my thigh while playing footsie with my roomate on the other side. We call him on it, in a nice, easy, non-combative type way. He apologizes, asks us if we’ve ever shared a man, offers another round of beer, we thank him, decline, and leave around midnight, laughing at his absurdity

What’s wrong with this picture? Aside from the fact that we left the bar before last call, which in and of itself suggests we’re getting too old for this?

Two, maybe three years ago, it would have played out one of two ways. Option one, we would have been hunting for fresh meat anyway, so one of us would have wound up with him. If my roommate had shown any signs of interest in the guy, I would have backed off and found myself another, or if she was bored snagged him myself. I would not have left the bar alone. Or, option two, we would have been offended. Had my roomate been of similar evil feminist bent, we would have attacked, verbally shredding him to pieces if not physically.

We’ve outgrown the feminist outrage, the hunting, and the heavy drinking. We’ve matured to the point where we could laugh, diffuse the situation without offending or injuring him, and walk out without glancing back. We even fooled ourselves into feeling self-rightously proud of our growth and self control. But, damn, the old days were more fun.

Impulse

You know the cartoon cliche about the little angel and devil sitting on a character’s shoulders? My devil is impulsive. My angel has some control. Neither “talk” per se; they both get their points across with visualization.

No one paid much attention to my impulsiveness when I was little. My younger brother was diagnosed with ADD. No one can top a “hyperactive” kid in impulsiveness or grabbing attention. I was aware of my impulsiveness, but it flew under the family radar for years.

The first time my parents became really aware of my impulsiveness was a stormy day during high school. I had impulsively stopped at the drug store before school for some hair dye. My old car stalled. We flagged down a ride to school, which meant I had to walk back to my car that afternoon. We were in the middle of the California Monsoon season. Rain was pouring down, the river was high and gushing through town to the beach. I was carrying my carkeys in my waterproof lunchbag, splashing through puddles, generally enjoying myself (We don’t get all that much rain.)

The path ran along the riverbank for a bit. I became fascinated by the river. One of the morons in my German class had recently ridden his bodyboard down the floodwaters to the ocean and survived to brag about it, once he finished coughing up water. I stopped on the bridge crossing the river and looked down at the torrents of mud, water and trash.

One minute I stood on the bridge overlooking the river. And the next, my hand was actually raised, ready to drop the bag into the drink. I could picture my lunchbag tossed into river and floating away in a mad game of pooh sticks. I could also picture myself explaining why my expensive thermal lunchbag had gone for a ride.

I headed for my car. It was only when I reached my car and dug out my keys that I realized just how close I had come to feeding my keys to the river. I laughed and used the story to distract my mother once I got home (considerably late, and even more wet.)

Once recognized, my impulsiveness came out into the open. It was a family joke. My parents compiled a list of my whims and impulses: the time I “rescued” my cat from the pound, the time I applied to a State College 16 hours and 4,000 miles from home, the time I drove to Oregon for Valentines Day.

My angel must have some pretty powerful connections, because I’ve never been seriously disadvantaged by following my impulses. I’d never been injured or attacked or arrested or locked out (for long.)

My angel must have gotten pretty tired of bailing me out of trouble, though. Or maybe he was just on a coffee break. Last summer I followed an impulse, and I broke my arm.

I was working in a camp kitchen. The workhours had been cut short, the rest of the kitchen personnel were new and non-trained. The stress level was high. I bit my tongue, and supervised and helped, and was as nice and supportive as I could possibly be. And one day, about six weeks into the summer, I lost it; there was no visualization this time, no whispered “wouldn’t it be cool if…”

Lacking in sleep, stressed, and seriously irritated, I wrestled with an industrial strength bread hook and lost. I heard the bone snap although I refused to recognize the sound. I merely pulled my arm out of the bowl, said “it’s still tacky; add some more flour,” and went to put ice on my arm.

I thought I had bruised the bone or maybe wrenched my wrist. The ice wasn’t helping so I went to the camp nurse, an EMT. She wrapped it for me and agreed I had bruised it pretty bad. I went back to my cabin, laid down with some melting ice, and tried to figure out how to explain my impulsiveness this time.

Cornerstones

My younger sister had a fight on her hands as a freshman trying to declare a music education major. Pippi loves music, but she hates to be confined to one instrument. She has, over the past ten years, played eight different instruments, including glass bottles filled with water for a wind symphany. Our parents weren’t happy about her plans. “What will you do besides teach? Focus on one instrument, or better yet, major in math.”

When she finally won the argument and declared her major, I teased her about becoming a kind of Mr. Opus. “You’ll inspire a student to new heights of musical talent and fame. You’ll end up being interviewed by Rolling Stone. They’ll ask you what your musical influence was as a child.”

Pippi didn’t laugh. She was quiet, tilting her head to one side as she seriously pondered my question. Finally, she shook her head. “Church music and the Beatles.”

Church music and the Beatles. Pippi is a musician. Music is a part of her personal makeup. So Church music and the Beatles were a profound influence on more than just her music. They formed a cornerstone of her life.

I got to thinking about my own profound influences. What are my cornerstones?

One of my cornerstones is the same hippy music that Pippy remembers. The music itself was Pippi’s cornerstone. But the old record albums meant more to me. I’m a social historian. They were a link to the social past. Moreover, I learned my politics from our parents’ old albums.

We were raised in a liberal but sheltered home. My father subscribed to Ms. in the Seventies, until my mother him stop because it was merely an excuse for upper class white advertisers exploiting middle class white women too busy proclaiming their independence to notice. My father is a minister of a liberal, inclusive Christian church. I learned feminism at my mother’s knee. I was taught to serve others. I was taught to uplift people, to tear down barriers, and to always, always be polite.

I gloried in all this, accepting goodness and idealism as the only possible way to live, let alone behave…

And then I hit freshman year of high school and discovered Florence King and MTV’s Daria almost simultaneously. Anyone who has ever picked up CONFESSIONS OF A FAILED SOUTHERN LADY will find something to laugh over, and something to cry over.

In her introduction to CONFESSIONS, Florence explains “The sweetening process that feminists call ‘socialization’ is simply a less intense version of what goes on in every Southern family. We call it ‘rearing.’ If the rearing is successful, it results in that perfection of femininity known as a lady. I was reared.”

Never mind that I was the product of a liberal, 1970s era, third generation Californian marriage. I was reared, too. The realization struck me at fourteen. Why did it take so long? I honestly didn’t know any better. I had never heard an opposing view.

High school is supposed to be a time of growth and rebellion, anyway. I was torn between my deeply rooted idealism and a growing sense of cynicism. Like a pendulum, I swung between outraged feminist temper and bitter, conservative humor.

It’s been twelve years since I discovered Florence King. I’m still gently teetering along a tightrope with Florence King on one end and Steve Lopez on the other. Both speak to me.

I’m learning to balance. I’m learning to hope for the best from people, but to expect the worst. And I’m learning to laugh at the absurdities, where once I would become sick at heart. I’ve learned to keep quiet during political and philosophical arguments; to sit back and study the situation before running off at the mouth. I attend history classes now and shake my head in wonder. Can anyone really be that simplistic? Well, yes. I was, once. It might be more fun to see only in shades of black and white. But I’d miss the nuances without the gray.

Pippi walks with the support of Church music and the Beatles. I teeter between Florence King and folk music.