Campari girl

I love bitter things, Angostura, Cynar,Pimms Cup, the bitter taste of herbs, astringency of grapefruit in the morning and now Campari. As with all things, too much is too much, and this is the zen karma balance of food. ( Mixing religious metaphors aside) Too sweet and it is cloying. Too sour and pucker up. Too chared and the free radicals of carbon will date you. And, too bitter will deny any nuance.

However, this holds true with my sensibility of things; when wildly sentimental, I am also slightly cryptic, when wearing bright colors I tend to add a neutral, when in a wild no holds barred full on romance there is a part of me which is cynical. So also my perfumes. Not for me the cloying scent of insence, amber, rose or lily. No girly things like that. Black bra under the pink top, Leather with lace, and my perfumes tend to the androgynous. I used to wear 4711, herbaceous, with lime, now a scent developed in the 1920's for the jet set marketed as "worn by Cary Grant AND Ava Gardner". It is tart, herbal, slighly floral, and crisp.

Maybe I protest too much and it will take the right guy to find that inner rose. None have gotton it yet, and tough gal that I try to be, the military kid, I keep a stiff upper lip and put on the scent, the careful balance of clothes and crispness. I put on internal chain mail with the crisp smoke of sandlewood perfume, and go into the kitchen. It would be nice to discover that rose, damask'd and subtle. But, I wait.

So I have discovered Campari. I like Scotch, neat, with the layered flavors of smoke, maple and wood. Campari works in the same way. It is terrifically astringent, tight, bitter, and on the tongue very light. Paired with soda water, or Pelegrino over ice it is much better to me than a cold beer on a hot day. And, it appeals to my snobby food side, just like my perfumes. Mixed with other liqueur it becomes the Negroni, the Italian cocktail. Mixed with grapefruit juice it is a double whammy of sharpness, a two punck kick of tart and tight, just right.

I detest the drinks that have things in them. Small umbrellas, cherries, whole spears of fruit or celery, ice that bangs against my teeth, none of these have a place in my glass. I do not want to collect charms, play with the umbrella or eat the lime. I don't want to circumnavigate my glass following the salt. Although, I do like salt on my wrist, a lime and tequilla. I do like a martini if it is sharp, say made with cucumber or pomegranete. See, again no sugar.

When I was painting murals, in college I had a job creating whole walls in the bar. I would go in during the day, lights up and paint the alpine village. And, raid the olives and martini onions. These are ok, not in drinks but by them, along with Kalmata olives and almonds toasted with rosemary and salt. As for the maraschino cherries, only with stems. I can, with my tongue, tie the stem into a knot in under a minute, less if not laughing. A talent for another time, my whole family can do this, something about genes and tongue rolling.

Campari to me also creates in my imagination a drive down the hills to Monaco, in a Ferrari, red of course, and a light chiffon scarf around my Princess Grace hair, pulling into the casino where James Bond will order his martini before saving the world from thugs. I can dream. It reminds me of horizontal striped black and white fisherman's tops, black crops and espadrilles. It makes me want a scooter to run up to Triest on. I dream of 1935 and want to meet Ava Gardner. We wear the same scent.

So, in the middle age of summer, at the height of the day waiting for friends from the Eastern Mediterranean, I am chilling the glasses and getting ready. The olives are out, the almonds are toasting, and my bitter is on the way to a sweet afternoon.

Sam I am

I do not like my eggs with ham, I do not like my ham with Sam, I do not like Sam.
I don't like eggs.

I am in egg hell. I work for the summers in a restaurant and eggs rule. I mix eggs with cream, whisk the hell out of the yolks with a blender and scrambled eggs they are. But over easy, sunny side up. poached, all these ova are sightly squishy, gooey, and icky. Coagulated on the spoon, sticking to the pan, shells in the garbage reeking of discarded calcium, I don't like eggs.


Childhood traumas. Humpty Dumpty eggs. According to the rhyme H.D. had a big fall, the fall, and the king's horses ( who must have had thumbs and tools) and the king's men (who were not guarding H.D.) couldn't put him together again.

Sounds like a political strategy. In my day though Humpty Dumpty eggs meant break eggs over toast and let the icky, yellow yolk goo and glue all over the little toast soldiers. We were not fooled. It is icky, it is sticky, and eggs suck; or you can suck eggs.

So I am not a fan, of the ova, the pre-baby bird, the chicken-interuptus, the DNA that wasn't. And salmonella, Caesar's dressing, the whisking into carbonarra, all are not my choice.

It is not about raw. I can gleefully scarf down sashimi tuna, yellow tail, beef carpaccio which still says moo, and beef which ran by the grill. Eggs just remind me as they coagulate of yellow blood, of Elmer's glue gone bad, and cement.

So what am I doing this summer? eggs. That's right, I get to cook them for those who still think that undeveloped chicken proteins are just dandy.

My friend once married to a Russian tells me that his ex-wife and daughter, children of Stalin's privations, would eat the soft boiled eggs, sucking them, and then in a crackling, crunching display of carnivorous delight, crunch the eggshells for the calcium. Here cowboys use eggs to settle the grounds. Stalin to home on the range, but not on my range.

How to close? No eggs, thank you Sam. Not for eggs Sam I am, I will not have them cold, I will not have them boiled, I will not have them scrambled, I will not have them trampled. You go for it, I will rather have a steak. Raw.

Wine tasting in airports

Ok, this is not about wine. It is about the chance to taste wine in a new setting. It is about eating alone, or drinking alone and feeling ok about it. A recurring theme of my postings is doing things on my own. I would prefer, social and sexual creature that I am, to do things with someone. Eating, sex, shopping, cooking, you name it, all are better to me, with someone else, although each and every activity could be accomplished alone.

But here I was, in a hotel room getting ready to travel the next god-awful early morning to Montana. The room: cheap; the restaurant nearby: with karaoke, and I am sure god awful clams, after all it was names Steamers. The environs: near the airport, not a place to walk.

So I had a bright, no, nifty idea. I would have the hotel take me with their free van to the airport. Why not? Airports are full of shopping, and good food and interesting people to look at. Who in the world travels like this, I would ask, and watch the crowds. The alternative, a granola bar and the hotel TV. No contest.

I called the van and headed over to Portland International Airport. fun. sushi bar, Powell's books, travel store, chi chi stationery stores, and if I only could with a visa, the tempting wish to line up and book a trip to Istanbul. right now, here, with just what I have on. I would love it.

but I didn't.
damn.

What I did to is look at the stores. And because book buying money does not count, got a book at Powell's, the largest independent bookstore in the free world. It was all about the palest rose' and I could vicariously imagine a world where I could roam free for a year looking for a wine. Yeah right.

From there I went to the wine bar. Wine bars are sissy saloons. A woman in a bar bellying up to a Glenlivet looks like a drunk, or a harlot, or out of place. A woman in a wine bar looks like a cognoscenti, a gourmand, or a mini drunk. I asked for the pinot flight, and forgot that it was red. I hate red. I meant pinot blanc. But snobby gal that I am, plus mixed with not admitting a mistake, sipped the four reds for a while. At least since I don't like reds I sipped, I would probably be done with whites in four gulps. I looked at the Wine Spectator and wondered why I couldn't have a column in it l Ike the man I know who does. I showed my Rose' book to the steward.

It was cool, slightly Parisian as far as a Parisian could be in the Portland airport and time for dinner.

New venue, a potato with fixings at Wendy's. Right, just not up to the cost of the restaurant near wine bar guy.

Called the van, home again jiggity jig, and off to bed. The ether of alternative life, the life of an airport is odd, surreal, isolated, and still with potential. Like a time release drug, you can pretend you are traveling before you do, be safe in its federally protected walls, and get your chauffeur to pick you up. Not a bad deal in these Mad Max go to hell Peak Oil days.

company dinners

I am having company in two days. I love company. I like that I can pull out the dishes, cook all afternoon, which then means I play music of my choosing very loud and sing as I cook, sometimes barefoot Sometimes with fewer clothes, if I can't live alone and decide about clothing why the hell not?

I will play cowboy music. I just came back from Montana and have been playing music about dying cowboys, broke cowboys, starving cowboys and love sick cowboys. Great. The cowboys should suffer, and I like the music with all its Gene Autrey twang, no jails, jilting or joking, just the range, the cows, and the horse. Get along.

I am getting along although as per usual I am slightly cranky, this is a result of trying to line up evenings and here I am here, alone. No music, no people to cook for and I don't like it. Hell, I have to entice my daughter and her handsome boyfriend to come eat. Having the dogs to cook for thanks to Chinese polluted wheat is a poor excuse I gladly gather to my bosom. I get to cook for someone not me.

So, the Turkish man and his wife arrive in two days. My best friends. Turkish man means black tea, bread, cheese and olives. Best girlfriend means lots of coffee, creamer and Riesling. And making grandma's spaghetti, a tradition.

Wat is it about company dinners that I cook better for someone here than by myself? I want to celebrate them, enjoy and think about what they would like best. No pork for the Muslim, no wheat for the intolerant, and less spice. But this is not a discrepancy, it is not an injustice to the recipe. It is for friends, it is for those I love and even in a bad comparison about cooking fresh for my dogs, it is because I love them.

September looms, and I may be living off my freezer, but I don't want my friends to know a thing. When they are here all is for them, and I want to do my best. Someday if they live in town they can have the leftovers, the unmade beds, and the over cooked coffee. Right now, it is a privilege to have them in my home and my tent is theirs.

oysters

So, last Sunday, I went to an oyster fest.
It was after a packing frenzy of a friend's house, and I didn't want to do, but I did. In otehrwords, I wanted to go home, sweaty and tired after moving boxes, but hating to miss any sort of social event and go back home.

So I went.
And it got me thinking about oysters.

I first found out about oysters in Biloxi, Mississippi in 1962, one year before JFK. As a military kid, I measure my memories in bases, world events, and geography. Rarely personal, few life time friends, little tie in to holidays, mostly where we were and what grade we were in.

I was in 8th grade and Biloxi was segregated, Southern, and in the path of the tornadoes. We were on base, but on a military segregration the officers lived on one side and the enlisted on the other side. We went to school off base, on base we all mixed. Our own segregation was by rank. A bus took us from our school off base to the other. The white bus picked me up at my white school the black kids bus picked then up at theirs. And they dropped the kids off on the right side of the base.
One day, I was not paying attention and got on the bus. When I looked around, all the kids had been dropped off and I realized I had gotten on the enlisted white kids bus and they were all gone. The bus driver said no problem this coming bus will take you to your side of the base. It was all black kids. On base, no problem. BUt as I got off the white kids enlisted bus and got onto the black kids officer bus, the few remaining white kids who were going home off base jeered and chanted. I rode in the front of the bus until I got to my side of the base and got off. I was raised to not discriminate and knew that in Mississippi at 8th grade the integration was year by year, and had only worked to the 3rd grade that year. But this introduction to a glimpse of what it might feel like to be on the other side, the wrong color, the wrong bus was searing and affects me still.

what does this have to do with oysters?

Off base there were clubs and we would pass them with my parents. One officer, a favorite friend, and a southern boy, took my Dad to a club. You could join for $5 which really meant you could join if you were white. There, one could eat all the oysters they wanted for $5. I often felt that the piles of oysters around the tree trunks outside the restaurant were labels of whiteness and somewhat tainted.

From Biloxi we moved to West Germany and then for me, to California and college. Oysters disappeared until 1972 when I went to Seattle to apply to grad school. My future husband met me, took me to interviews and then we went out to eat. I was amazed that it was still light out at 9 pm. We ordered seafood and out came the Oysters Rockerfeller. All gushy, gray, and sliding in their shells, topped with chopped spinach. I gamely downed then and moved on. I moved into grad school, marriage, moving, and motherhood. shells inclucated, I became a pearl, immersed inthe life of my life, absent from any irritants until he wanted a home, child and divorce in that order.

Shells open, he left and I was a mom, a homesteader, an artist, and single in that order. Exposed in the hot sun of divorce, I lost my well, re drilled it, kept the home, kept my friends, raised my baby and moved on. I took care of it all building a nacre of a pearl around me to survive. I finally after one year, and the legal document felt I could date. I did, I have always pushed myself into new arenas as needed: advertising, new home, building, fertility clinics and childbirth, motherhood and well buidling...I am strong and can do it. so, it was time to date. And, that I pushed just like a job. So, here I was in the bar at the athletic club, and having champagne and sliding oysters down my throat and laughing and all of a momemt I realized, " I am having fun. I will survive." I did, the boyfriend ended, but I began to begin again. And I discovered I was good at, and loved cooking.

Oysters, more of them over the years then they dropped off. I must pay attention to these small symbolic gestures. The marriage was waning but I didn't realize it until the cul de sac of living was breached by non-ommittment and slovenly attitudes. My nice tight little shells, my oyster world was drying up, and I didn't realize it, like the shellfish happily in the pot, slowly dying as the water heated up, to burst their shells and die. LIke a knife jamming in the hinge, it pierced my small soft wet oyster heart and twisted upright, opening the shell to the elements. I was sliding off the shell into the heat, unto the mouth, into the gullet of dis-efranchisement. And died.

So, now what? Once again, though not in a bar, one year later, I was in Seattle with foodie friends and gathered around the oyster bar, We were happy, I was happy, we were cheerily slurping oysters into our own gullets and the briny softness was bracing, it was alive, it was food, it was sex. The lips of the oyster shells beckoned with hidden treasures. The folilate edges of the oysters glistened, moist with their own juices and salt, briny, fresh living tastes. They invoked life, sexuality, and freedom, not the death I remembered. They tasted like our own taste, we all came and come, from the sea. They slid down my throat like so many things, and we were happy. Oysters were back.

so, in the back yard of a friend, ex-lover and still friend, we both hid behind the grill making oysters for the non aware friends. He forgot it was the athletic club that we had had oysters 20 years ago. I didn't remind him. We passed oysters until all got thirds. I scavenged the mussles on the outside of the shells, and placing them on the open shells, grilled them also, a by product of the oysters. Once more we slurped and loved the chance to sieze the moment, find food, nurture ourselves and cut into the secret world of the sea.

Oyster like, I am choosing to open my own folliate shell and soft edges to those I would choose myself. No hard knife is needed, but the heat, the steam, to open the inner world. And, sliding down the gullet of life, of temporal love, into another stage of my life. No longer segregated, no price of admission but my own awareness and consent.