29 January 2006

Tamara writes:

greetings readers—

I would love to continue the baseball metaphor, but all I know of baseball is that it features Big Men in Tight Pants. Not really applicable here.

Another foggy/rainy day in San Fran [ed note: Santa Cruz]. Karine and I began our day with bad coffee in our cute hotel, and good coffee in Java Junction on the way to Zora’s Spa Retreat House. She was sleeping when we arrived, so we made breakfast and drank some more good coffee and perused the Times. (Nothing like being New Yorkers in exile— there is always the Times no matter how bad the rest of it is.)

We quickly decided to consult the internet to determine once and for all which foods are iron rich, so we could cook our remaining meals with that in mind. As all good internets research goes, we were given severely conflicting information. We ended up going with the one that told us what we already knew. Sort of like asking a friend for advice. You don’t really want it if it differs from your impending action. As for iron: meat, fish, and LOTS of leafy greens. Oh, and vitamin C and things like citrus and molasses are facilitators for faster/more efficient absorption of iron. Who knew?? After much discussion, our list was made and we were off for yet another trip to the Promised Land, aka The Shopper’s Corner.

Today there was no Long-John-Silver dressed homeless man doing whippets in the dairy aisle with the Redi Whip, but there was a very nice butcher and MORE nice people offering to help us seemingly every 8 feet. [ed note: what is it with that? It’s like every store is Bed Bath & Beyond. Drives me batty. Christ, I’m a big boy and can take the initiative and ask if need help. How helpless and soft can Californians be? And while I’m at it, stranger, stop asking “how are you?” like you care. You don’t care. And it’s not polite. Has it ever occurred to you that I might not be well? Times have been tough. See, my wife just had heart surgery and lost her eye. So what do you want me to say? Because I hate smiling saccharinely and saying, “fine.” By the time 10 people in the same store ask how am I and if they can help—folks, how much help can you possibly need in a grocery store?—I want to unload real problems: “Oh, thanks for asking. I hope you can help. See, ever since my father bad-touched me when I was a kid, I’ve been having dreams of sleeping with my mom and now the voices are telling me to hurt people and I have this horrible burning sensation when I pee... could you recommend a nice chardonnay that would go well with that?” …But I digest.]

We basically bought out the entire produce section and some other stuff for lentil soup, molasses gingerbread, and staples for when we are gone. And zippy bags for freezing leftovers— (thanks, Victoria!). And wine. Is there really ever enough wine?

We arrived back at the house, unloaded, and Karine got down to business making a kick ass molasses gingerbread (Good vitamin C in there). Zora, Beverly, and I walked slowly down to the boat docks at the end of the block where we intended to eat fish tacos for lunch, and did. Not only that but we ate them RIGHT ON THE BEACH. For some reason, I was not prepared to be eating on the beach, so it was a bit confusing. That, and maybe because my head was swimming with logistical thoughts of cooking braised pork shoulder with tomatillo sauce, sautéed kale and chard, rice, and lentil soup for 8 people with only about 4 pans at my disposal. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Zora was feeling pretty good and ordered 6 oysters on the 1/2 shell to prove it. Unfortunately, our waitress forgot them, so we settled for our spectacular fish tacos instead. DEEEELISH. Then it was a slow walk back and the beginning of dinner preparation.

I will spare you all of the gruesome details, but let me just say that when you are cooking in an unfamiliar kitchen, it behooves you to check the oven after you have put your pork shoulder in. Perhaps, PERHAPS say,… 20 minutes max. Do not wait 2 hours to check, lest you find yourself with an oven that is NOT ON. Because that, my little aspiring cook friends, can make you a little bit mental (Rhymes with Yentel).

Other than that, it went pretty well. I realized early on that lentil soup would have to be jettisoned to tomorrow morning, simply because we did not have the stovetop space, but that was fine. Zora can have some for lunch and then freeze the rest for the week. We are now very conscious of trying to stock the freezer with things she can have to eat that are good and cooked with love.

Guests arrived promptly at 6pm [ed note: clearly not Astoria] bearing the BEST CAKE EVER from a SF bakery called, “Just Desserts,” and wine. We love everyone who made that cake possible. I will be dreaming about it for the rest of my days, and I am not alone in that. It was a cream cheese frosted lemon/butter cake with blueberries in the middle of the layers.

Dinner began with artichokes, and then moved to a fennel/blood orange/pomegranate salad, sautéed kale and rainbow chard, red rice, braised pork shoulder and tomatillo sauce. I think it was pretty good. It was preceded, accompanied, and followed by a marvelously amusing Princeton Reunion that you did not have to go to Princeton to appreciate. Hugh, Rachel, Jim, and Kevin are charming and hilarious, and Zora seemed to really enjoy the walk down memory lane (Scabies, Peter?). Note to others who did not go to Princeton: Do not ever lick a raw pig snout, lest you break out in sores in your mouth. [ed note: this was really a Terrace Club reunion. Where Barton taught us that food really does equal love.]

Dinner ended, there was the lovely cake (did I mention the cake???), and after coffee the guests left [ed note: again, clearly not Astoria] . Zora headed for the computer and Karine and I for the kitchen cleanup. We have made our final shopping list for the Corner, and are due there in about 8 hours, so I think it is time to sign off. Tomorrow morning brings the making of lentil soup, and goodbyes, which I am not really ready for.

I worry about leaving—not because I think anyone will starve, but because as well as she is doing, she is still in pain and really knows it when she does not take her Vicodin exactly on time. Her back hurts, her scar pulls, and it is hard to read for very long. She doesn’t complain, but it makes my heart weep when I see her hug a friend with her arms tied to her side lest she try to raise them, which she cannot. She is an amazingly strong woman whom I am lucky and proud to know. And this is a very difficult process.

Tamara