Recent Comments

I want to thank the good folks for their recent comments. They are very encouraging. Sometimes I feel like I'm posting out in the middle of nowhere and all I'm doing is some really boring navel gazing.

All comments made go directly to my gmail account so I get them right away.

Response to Mr. X: Yes, I think I know who you are. If I'm right, then you are the person with whom I first tried some of this experimental, cryptic writing in the form of emails. I've also been thinking about you lately for some reason. Years ago you made the following comment:

"Some lonely guy is sitting alone in his room wondering where the fuck you are."

You were talking about how you were certain I'd find the right guy for me. I have not, but when I'm thinking about how I'm doomed to remain single for the rest of my life, I think about that comment and it brings tears to my eyes. Where is that guy anyway?

Thanks for reading everyone.

Crank: Annotated

See original post "Crank." All of these strange, cryptic posts are either based on real incidents or contain obscure references to things in my life. After writing and then reading this post several times, I decided to annotate it because it's based on the scariest event in my teenage years. I got the idea for the language from watching the film "Brick" that neo-noir hardboiled detective teenage drama. The dialog in that film is both unnatural and great.

I spent the year between ages 17 and 18 experimenting with drugs. I managed to be sensible about it, but every once in a while I would find myself in scary situations like this one. In addition to smoking a lot pot (which I consider to be as harmful as getting your martini on with your friends on a Friday night), I snorted crank (methamphetamine in powdered form) and cocaine whenever possible. I had no idea that crank and cocaine were two different substances. All I knew was that crank was cheaper and harsher to snort. One night me and a few people (two were my friends) piled into some guy's Pontiac and went to this house I'd never been to before in a neighborhood I wasn't familiar with. Our mission: to score some good coke.

The colors only got brighter with that expensive stuff. No feeling like I'd take on the world. No staying up all night. Smooth sailing, though. No choke.

Snorting coke was strange for me. True, it was expensive and more difficult to come by, but oddly enough I never really got "high" from it. It would make the colors get brighter. I felt more energetic, but I didn't get that euphoric feeling or the feeling like I could have endless amounts of sex like most of my friends did. My best friend said it made her feel like she could take on the world. I never had that feeling. Coke was super easy to snort, though. Very smooth going up the nose and no harsh after burn. That's what I mean by "smooth sailing." I did like how it made my gums numb when I rubbed leftover powder on them after the snort.

"There's a limit," said the Cutter, "You can only get so tall before it bottoms out on you."

The Cutter was a real person. A nice, older guy (maybe in his early 20s). He was at the house when we arrived. They called him "Cutter" because he was good at cutting coke into a fine powder and preparing the lines for snorting. I'd never met him before and I never saw him again after that. He told us an anecdote about Sabrina the Princess (more on her below) who snorted tons of coke in one sitting, but stopped getting high after a couple of hours. She said you can only get so high. After that, your nose, face, neck and chest start to go numb. The Cutter proclaimed it a waste of money to keep snorting after reaching that point.

Who are these people, these Parents? At the time, the most frightening thing I'd ever seen were the scales all over the dining room table. The table was so large it could have been laid out for eight or even ten. I think about parents I know now, even knew then, and I'm convinced those people are all dead and buried. Crisp hundred dollar bills fluttered around the edges of the table in a gross parody of cliche.

Ah, the Parents. The Parents were the dealers. They were real Parents and it was their house we were at. It was a nice house, two stories. Brand new. The house was full of new furniture and the Parents looked respectable enough. They looked like they could work at any good company. Maybe they did. The only difference was they had a hard, wary look about them. Their faces were worn out and slightly saggy. They were both probably in their early 30s.

The TABLE. The dining room table was big as I described. The scales were weight scales and there were piles of cocaine all over the table. The coke was being weighed in scales and bagged up by the mother. There were baggies and twist ties all over the table as well as crisp $100 bills. The sight scared the hell out of me because I knew that with this much coke there had to be some scary people lurking around the corner or in the upstairs bedrooms. My friends thought it was all so "cool" but I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Parents. Almost as lethal as the ones who fed the kids almond flavored Kool-Aid. We were lucky. They left us alone. They had blue velvet drapes hanging loose in the living room. It's 3:15 in the morning. You don't know where your children are because I'm one of them. I don't even know where I am.

I called them Parents because they had a kid (the blond with the Moe haircut-see below). He was only 13 years old and hyperactive. Apparently, the kid had been snorting coke since he was around eight years old. We were lucky the Parents just wanted our money and for us to stay out of their way. I remember nervously looking out of the living room windows. The curtains were drawn so no one would see the piles of coke on the table.

The reference to the Kool-Aid was to the powdered grape flavored drink laced with cyanide that the poor folks of The People's Temple not only drank themselves, but also fed their kids. The Jonestown massacre had created lasting, terrifying images in my mind as an impressionable middle-schooler. Cyanide, apparently, has a smell like burnt almonds. Also, just so we're clear, they did not use the name brand Kool-Aid during that tragedy. It was just a grape flavored powdered drink.

I digress.

Burning sharp, cheap. Eyes water. Some kind of lift going on up there. Nervously, I talk of elephant tranquilizers and bodies of water. It's like a bad dream. A kid with a blond Moe haircut, who has just gotten to his growth spurt, is rouncing around. Everybody wants to be his friend. Everybody wants a smooth sailing. A Parent, male, glowers at me. He's used to seeing the likes of us, so stupid and useless.

After negotiations and payment, the Cutter finally cut our coke for us. I insisted upon taking the first snort. I don't know why. I didn't know any of these people and everyone saw me as passive and meek. It was good coke: I felt a surge of energy after that snort. The elephant tranquilizers and bodies of water reference was to drug PCP or "Angel Dust" which I have never tried. There was a rumor that the drug was used to tranquilize large animals such as elephants. Also, I heard that in addition to some people experiencing rages so total that they can break the handcuffs the police have put on them, users are drawn to bodies of water, fall in and drown because they become disoriented and don't know which way is up.

The kid with the Moe haircut had a lots of friends because his parents were dealers. If you had drugs or access to them, everyone wanted to be your best friend. It's a user kind of culture.

A friend, one of the few I'm with, produces a Jay. I'm running wired and it's close to dawn now. I have to run down soon. Before we leave in a 70s crowded car, I catch a glimpse of Sabrina the Princess, her long dark hair and youth is waning at the tender age of 14. She's dead. It's only a matter of time. The Cutter glances over at her and shakes his head. It's a lost cause. Her big dark eyes see none of it.

A Jay is a joint. Since I had snorted good coke I was feeling pretty energetic. On the way home, my friends told me to take a few puffs to come down a little, so I did. Sabrina, the 14 year old, was also the daughter of Parents (different ones) who were dealers. She had a hard look about her and was obsessed about maintaining her high for as long as possible. When I say that she's dead, I'm not kidding. That girl, with her big dark dilated pupils and an unnatural hardness about her skin was completely lost to the world. The only place to go from there is to the harder drugs then to overdose.

Thankfully, I move on from all that. Thankfully, I only went with them to see the Parents and the Cutter once, my nerves having failed me. My best friend said I was unbrave, but at least I didn't make up imaginary boyfriends and tell elaborate tales about them.

I never went with my friends to look for coke again. I was too scared. I was a wimp. I used to think that these were undesirable traits, but now I can see they saved me because the fear was far more powerful that the pressure to conform to what my friends wanted me to do. My best friend at the time was a drama queen and always looking for attention. She did make up a boyfriend who was obsessed with her. He lived in a mansion in Hillsborough and drove a Porche. Their relationship was seriously screwed up, even in an imaginary way.

The Tylenol stopped her short. And I was luckier than Hell for it. I didn't want to see those scales on the family dining room table ever again.

A little while later, my best friend attempted suicide by taking a whole bottle of Tylenol (this was before the Tylenol scare where they pulled every bottle from the shelves in every store). I drifted apart from her after that and soon thereafter stopped my experimentation with drugs. I was very luck to have made that break

Writing Life: Revision is a Skill, Right?

We aren't born writers. Oh, it's true that some people seem to have an affinity for it. They seem to know what to say and how to say it. I'm not one of those people. I have to flail around and figure it out. I waste time. I cause myself a whole lot of pain and angst. It's an energy drain.

I have managed to make progress, however. One of my readers who is an English major told me I have my own style of writing. (!!) This is a huge compliment for me because I think my writing is just words on the screen. Of course, writing on this blog or writing cool emails to people I really like is completely different from writing a novel. Still, progress has been made because I now have a good sense of how to get a first draft of a novel done.

Yep, participate in the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). To recap: that's 50,000 words in 30 days and I did it.

Revision, now, that's whole other thing. How does one revise a novel, something that is living and breathing? The characters are doing their thing, the story hangs together reasonably well, there are plot twists and character development. And it all needs a ton of work.

The first thing I realized after I read the first draft is I had no idea what one of the major character's agenda was. He had an agenda, a huge one, but I didn't know what behind-the-scenes machinations he was orchestrating or putting into motion. I also didn't understand why the main character went along so easily with some questionable things that were being asked of him. Why was he being a wimp? He's supposed to be perceptive and smart, even honorable. Why was he caving in like that?

Those were some of the questions that have been floating through my mind as I hungrily devoured books on writing and articles on the web that might tell me how to revise this novel. I finally took three different techniques and mashed them together. I don't know if I'll continue using these techniques, but they are a good place to start.

Today I started the first step of actually revising, that is changing, the text of this rough draft.

Woo hoo!

I decided to start by answering some of my own questions about the story and characters, even some of the descriptions in the story. We'll see how it all goes. There will be other obstacles I'll encounter along the way, but I may end of learning something about revision after all. I might even end up with a finished novel. Wouldn't that be something?

Sunset at Parajo Dunes, California

I love how you can see the steady progress of the sun turning into a sliver. Taken the weekend after 4th of July while visiting some dear friends. Pajaro Dunes is less than two hours south of San Francisco.

Learning Life: How to Store Cheese

Since I've been eating artisan cheeses lately, I've learned some good tips for storing them.

1. Wrap soft, medium and hard cheeses loosely in waxed paper, then wrap loosely in good quality plastic wrap. Change the wrappings every couple of days.
2. Wrap blue cheeses loosely in plastic wrap and store in its own plastic container with some holes poked in the container. Change the wrappings every couple of days. Storing blues in this manner still allows them to breathe, but does not transfer mold to other cheeses.
   
3. Store all cheeses in the veggie bin in your fridge where the humidity is higher.

Wrapping cheeses loosely is very important as cheese needs to breathe. Take them out at least an hour before serving (I put them in a small glass dome, the cheese-putter-in) and serve on a cheese board. Each cheese should have its own knife/slicing tool. Keep all your tools clean: board, knives, slicers, plastic containers, veggie bin, etc.

Crank

The colors only got brighter with that expensive stuff. No feeling like I'd take on the world. No staying up all night. Smooth sailing, though. No choke.

"There's a limit," said the Cutter, "You can only get so tall before it bottoms out on you."

Who are these people, these Parents? At the time, the most frightening thing I'd ever seen were the scales all over the dining room table. The table was so large it could have been laid out for eight or even ten. I think about parents I know now, even knew then, and I'm convinced those people are all dead and buried. Crisp hundred dollar bills fluttered around the edges of the table in a gross parody of cliche.

Parents. Almost as lethal as the ones who fed the kids almond flavored Kool-Aid. We were lucky. They left us alone. They had blue velvet drapes hanging loose in the living room. It's 3:15 in the morning. You don't know where your children are because I'm one of them. I don't even know where I am.

I digress.

Burning sharp, cheap. Eyes water. Some kind of lift going on up there. Nervously, I talk of elephant tranquilizers and bodies of water. It's like a bad dream. A kid with a blond Moe haircut, who has just gotten to his growth spurt, is rouncing around. Everybody wants to be his friend. Everybody wants a smooth sailing. A Parent, male, glowers at me. He's used to seeing the likes of us, so stupid and useless.

A friend, one of the few I'm with, produces a Jay. I'm running wired and it's close to dawn now. I have to run down soon. Before we leave in a 70s crowded car, I catch a glimpse of Sabrina the Princess, her long dark hair and youth is waning at the tender age of 14. She's dead. It's only a matter of time. The Cutter glances over at her and shakes his head. It's a lost cause. Her big dark eyes see none of it.

Thankfully, I move on from all that. Thankfully, I only went with them to see the Parents and the Cutter once, my nerves having failed me. My best friend said I was unbrave, but at least I didn't make up imaginary boyfriends and tell elaborate tales about them.

The Tylenol stopped her short. And I was luckier than Hell for it. I didn't want to see those scales on the family dining room table ever again.

Writing Life: My Old Writing Group

I used to have a writing group I put together after my writing class ended. There were four or five of us who got together a few times. We would all struggle to write something to bring to each meeting. Oftentimes, they would only have a page or half a page of materials. It seems I was the only one who would bring entire first draft stories. Then all those good intentions dried up and real life took over. All of these people kept saying they were interested in writing, but none really wanted to keep it up. That's because writing novels, short stories and plays requires an enormous amount of time and focus.

One interesting thing I noticed about the good folks in my writing group is how most of them would strive to be clever and funny. Now, it's true they sometimes wrote funny things, but such a thing is difficult to maintain unless it comes naturally. And I mean so naturally that when you write something down, you don't really notice it unless someone mentions it to you. When someone tells you how funny you are, you sort of shrug it off because it's just what "comes out" sometimes.

I am not like that. I know one guy who truly inhabits that place. Everyone else I've ever known who wants to be in that place is trying way too hard.

Lately, probably because of this book on writing, I've been thinking of finding another group to join. Shouldn't be too difficult here in San Francisco, right? There have to be would be, struggling writers crawling all over the place. I can see that I am doing almost everything in my life in isolation. I need to join a pack of like-minded people.

I have mixed feelings about someone "critiquing" my work. I used to have people do that in my writing class. My writing was different from the funny, clever things they would write and the subject matter of my stories was usually dark. I'm not sure why, but they would find all kinds of motivations and symbolism in my writing too. It was interesting and gave my stories a life outside of me, but at the same time it would seem like some people were trying to psychoanalyze my characters' motivations.

I'm curious to see what kind of groups are out there and finding one I feel productive and comfortable in. It's a strange business. You write completely alone and yet you need people all along the way: to read your rough drafts, to help you find a publisher or agent, to help you edit and prepare for publication. I think I've spent way too much time alone lately. Time to see what groups will have me.

Cryptic

"I believe you are in a better mood, Miss Turtle."

Mr. Gryphon is sitting on top of a high stone wall. I am leaning against the wall almost directly below him. The sky is bright blue with cottony white clouds. We are taking a break.

"It would seem so even with today's disturbing announcements," I say, "I read online that I'm just a little pipsqueak who can't possibly know the grand scheme of things so why worry? The article also said things never go the way you want them to because they can't. Things are simply the way they are. They aren't supposed to fit with your expectations."

"It is what it is." Mr. Gryphon echoes as he shades his eyes with his hand and looks around from his high perch.

I look up at him now and smile. He reminds me of the person whom he was originally supposed to represent. He seems to sense this, maybe, because he looks down at me and grins. We look at each other for a long time.

"Just get in the water and float," he says. We burst out laughing, then he goes back to looking around. A yellow meadowlark alights next to him on the wall and looks at him curiously before flying off again.

"Are you sure you want to continue as we are? I can fly us out of here in time to be home for dinner, " he says.

"Yes, I'm sure. I have cheese snacks here in my book bag in case we get hungry. Besides, aren't you having fun?"

"Sure, I'm having fun, but you've been in a dark state as of late."

"True, true." I can't deny this fact. My state has been so dark that I've actually been relishing a twisted exaggeration of it.

We are in a giant stone maze and have been for the last couple of days. I insisted upon this little adventure since finishing the last Harry Potter book. Mr. Gryphon hops down from the wall.

"I thought you liked hedge mazes best, Miss Turtle," he says as he fully opens his wings and stretches. His huge claws temporarily expand to their full intimidating length before retracting again.

"I do like hedge mazes, but I couldn't resist seeing you up on that wall. And don't tell me the way out, just point us in the general direction," I say. We start on our path again.

"I should talk to you more often, Mr. Gryphon, you know like in real life. Perhaps when I'm about to fall asleep."

"You do talk to me. Most of the time you're asking me questions about why this happened or what does that mean," he says. There is a pleasant breeze. The warm breeze and sunshine is a welcome change from the low, dripping fog in my real-life neighborhood.

"Must get tiresome," I say. He shrugs and we go round a bend in the maze. He reminds me of someone else and I burst out laughing again.

"What?" he says, but he knows anyway. He produces a paper airplane and flies it at me. It swoops around magically before I catch it. It says "Open Me."

I open the small airplane, read the message and laugh some more.

"I'm safe, Mr. Gryphon. And the reason why I'm safe is the person who might have an inkling about what's going on with the paper airplanes doesn't even know this blog exists. And even if he did, he still wouldn't know what to make of it all. So I'm safe."

"This post is far too cryptic, Miss Turtle. It's a disservice to whoever is reading it."

"Oh well. I guess I can afford to be a little cryptic now and then." We encounter a fork in the maze and I look left and right. I take aim and send the paper airplane off. It goes to the left. I pick it up and we move to the right fork. We round another bend and stop.

In front of us is the center of the maze, all lush green grass and hundreds of rose bushes all in bloom. The air is a riot of fragrance and color. We move forward slowly, taking it all in. Mr. Gryphon reaches out and plucks a snowy white rose and hands it to me.

"For your cryptic ways, Miss Turtle. And I might add that it would be fun to share some of your mysteries. There's plenty of roses to go around."

"I suppose you're right, Sir." Butterflies of all kinds are sailing by us in windy abandon. There's a luxuriously ornate white marble fountain with Posidon and his chariot, complete with diving dolphins, water nymphs, and flying fish in the center of the rose bushes. The water is not running now (to keep from harming the butterflies). We find a green painted iron bench on at the far side of the fountain and sit down.

"Things are never as bad as they seem especially if you focus on the good instead of the bad," muses Mr. Gryphon.

"Such as the paper airplanes?" I ask him.

"Well, they got us here, didn't they?" I smile at him. He produces a cold bottle of water, opens it and hands it to me. The butterflies seem to be flying around us in a bright dance, but that could just be my imagination.

The Color of the Sky

Sky and Macy's Sign

Street light a few feet to my right in the same parking lot

While in the parking lot at the mall I became enthralled with the color of the sky. The blue was nowhere near sunset color or summer sky. Just the deepening dark you see in the first picture. I took many pictures and although none captures the color correctly, it's still close. If I had Photoshop I might digitally enhance the color, but I'm glad I don't. I prefer to take my pictures in real time and to keep them as close to real as possible (except when I'm playing with turning them gritty black and white).

While photographing the sky I took a picture of the parking lot light and got a couple of small smears, much like I get when I take my phone pictures at a concert. Intrigued, I started playing around with deliberately moving the camera. I like the second image a lot. It's weird in a jellyfish kind of way.

Rockets Red Glare

"Watch your step."

I stumble and slide as I make my way up the path. The people behind me are hankering to get ahead so I step aside to let them pass. It's almost dark and the narrow path we're on has us knee deep in ivy.

I can see dark shapes of people all around me. For some reason many of them have blankets wrapped around themselves.

"Shall we?"

I look up at Mr. Gryphon and then keep moving, but I don't say anything.

It's the 4th of July and other than a 7 foot tall golden imaginary gryphon, I don't have any other companions with me. I'm feeling a little excitement as I make my way up the hill, but at the same time my insides are churning. All day long I've been brooding, vacillating between anger and sadness. It wasn't a good day for me.

I reach a small area where many people are standing and sitting around. It's now almost dark and I'm thankful I have the key chain flashlight my brother insisted upon buying me. I see the dark shapes of people making their way to a still higher hill and follow them up.

It's a cold night. The day was glorious, clear and warm around 80 degrees. Weather like that spells paradise here in SF and I spent most of it indoors with the shades drawn. The wind is really blowing and I'm climbing steadily up the hill, Mr. Gryphon behind me. I reach a small path that skirts a concrete observation area. There are many people there, standing and milling around.

I make it to the top of the hill and move easily, anonymously among everyone. People are talking to each other and into their cell phones. I briefly consider making a phone call, but decide against it.

The view of nighttime San Francisco is wonderful. I can see the Bay Bridge, the lights of downtown. In the distance fireworks are going off in Sausalito to the northwest and Alameda to the east. Here and there are the bursts of fireworks all over the City particularly near City Hall and in the Mission. We are waiting for the main event and it's just about 9:30 pm. To the west, I can see our famous fog starting to roll in. Cold gusts of wind blow through us and I wish I had a hoodie on to keep my hair from blowing into my eyes.

"This was a good idea, Miss Turtle," says Mr. Gryphon. He doesn't look at me while he says this and again, I don't answer. People don't notice him as they move around and he manages, somehow, not to block anyone's view. We wait.

I try not to think too much, focusing instead on what a good idea it was to come up here. Wisps of fog float by us, but nothing that will obscure the view.

"There we go," says a male voice somewhere behind me. The fireworks have begun at Aquatic Park in the Marina and they are impressive. They have two sets going off at the same time. We oooh and ahhhh. Multicolored bursts fill the air to be followed by flashes of white, red and green. Then there's a blue flash and one that looks like a blue planet surrounded by a red ring appears. Then there's one that looks like a smiley face, heart shaped ones and green cube shapes, like a pair of neon dice. My favorites are the kind that look like big dandelions. They hang in the air for a long time afterwards.

We watch the fireworks. Occasionally a gasp escapes me or a little laugh. And even though Mr. Gryphon is standing there with me, I'll still all alone.

People start leaving, climbing over the concrete barrier in front of me, clutching their cell phones, each other, their blankets as the fireworks finale goes off. Then it's all over. People and the sounds of starting cars dominate. I slowly make my way back to the path that skirts the observation area and turn on my little flashlight. I walk slowly down, sliding a little.

I reach the road, crossing it to the next dark path, the one with the knee deep ivy.

"Dating is a discouraging business, Mr. Gryhon," I finally say. He nods at me and we continue on. I shine the flashlight behind me so he can see the path.

Tea Leaf Green at 19 Broadway, Fairfax, California

Trevor Garrod, keyboard player for Tea Leaf Green
Sat., June 22, 2007

I had never heard of this band before, but was invited to this concert. Apparently, the band has quite the following and this show is considered a real treat because the venue is so small. Well, they were great all right. They're considered a "jam band" whatever that means. Their music is mostly rock-ish with elements of country, jazz and blues. The overall sound reminds of what I think of as train music, that is the rhythm and "movement" of the music reminds of songs like "Mystery Train."

I took this picture with my camera phone and I'm surprised it came out so clearly. Usually my concert pictures come out as nothing but bunch of smeary neon lights.

Water District Land

7th Avenue. The Water District's land is on the right.

I take a two minute bus ride to Forest Hills station to get onto the MUNI Metro K, L or M most mornings. As the bus growls down 7th Avenue, I watch the dappled green of the Water District's land. No condos, no apartments, no houses. Just a hill of trees and, a little ways down, a small reservoir. A friend of mine told me the reservoir had been there since the Civil War. The Water District's land starts at the end of the block near my apartment. Signs abound about how no one should trespass and yet intriguing trails wind around the small hill. There's a community garden with signs about not picking the flowers and the large lot/dog park/pumpkin patch/Christmas tree lot.

Here's the little reservoir. If it weren't so late, I'd check to see if it has a name

People are always surprised when I tell them I see skunks, huge raccoons and possums, but then I remind them my apartment building literally rests it's back against a hill. The animals are always coming down for a meal from the dumpsters.

I wonder if this sign is a good deterrent.

I've wanted to explore beyond the no trespassing signs with my dog, but I'm always worried about being yelled at by somebody, encountering a large dangerous animal, finding a homeless city, being stalked, finding Big Foot and otherwise putting myself in danger so I refrain from checking it out. I might go with a friend. I might even bring my deluxe picnic basket with us.

Dappled green leaves, bright shafts of sunlight, cool green shade, flowers and pretty paths. I see all this wonder as I ride by on my bus in the morning down 7th Avenue. It's amazing that I'm in the City and so lucky to be near so much little used greenery.

MUNI MetroLand

"That gentleman won't stop muttering."

I look up from the book I'm reading "Out" by Natsuo Kirino about a Japanese housewife who murders her abusive husband and then has to figure out how to dispose the body. I'm on the crowded L Taraval train (two cars). Mr. Gryphon, my imaginary friend, is looking at a large man wearing white star shaped sunglasses with rhinestones. His cowboy boots match the sunglasses. He appears to be speaking softly, incoherently, and I have not noticed at all because this type of thing happens all the time on San Francisco Public Transportation.

"He's probably got some super tiny headphones on and is listening to Donna Summer," I say.

"He is not, Miss Turtle. He's speaking in tongues." There is a loud screech, a jerk and then a flock of small grey owls fly by. We all duck to avoid them. Well, all of us except the class of fifth graders who jump and grab at them. I wonder what the owls are doing up at this hour of the morning.

"Great, I can't stand when people have religious experiences in the tunnel. Makes the lights all strange and twinkly," I say as I watch the last of the owls flutter away. I can hear the odd babbling the man is doing now that I'm paying attention. It's a low persistent sound underneath the babble of the school kids. I sigh and hold the bar a little tighter after putting my book away.

At the next stop, the fifth graders get off clearly on their way to City Hall for a government field trip. There is a visible sigh of relief among the remaining people on the train as more room is made available. Mr. Gryphon opens his wings a little and stretches his long legs. Then we see/hear running for the closing doors, a herd of buffalo. Damn! That means we'll have to stop in the tunnel now. They elbow their way onto the car, smashing me up against the bar. Everyone else on the train gets out of their ways since the bulls have horns. They have that buffalo-y, manure-y smell that is somewhat pleasant. When all of them are on the train, we pull away from the station, albeit slower than usual. Mr. Gryphon strikes up a conversation with one of them. I half listen. At least if we stop suddenly, I'll have something furry to land on.

"Where're you all off to," asks Mr. Gryphon easily. He enjoys being around other beings that aren't supposed to be there.

"Ah, well, ah we're off to the unused parts of the tunnel for a good long run, then we're off to the Wharf, the little one here wants some chocolate, then we'll take the scenic route home via the Marina," he says.

"Sounds like a pleasant outing," says Mr. Gryphon.

"Ah, well, ah you can't beat the weather today. Gotta take advantage while you can," he says. Two of the calves are giggling uncontrollably while they poke at each other with their hooves.

"I heard wandering through the Presidio is a nice thing to do," I say. The buffalo turns and looks me, his ears twitching, his huge black eyes glossy and wet. He behaves like I've just butted in on their conversation which I have, I suppose.

"Ah well ah, yes, it is. I recommend it," he says politely. The train screeches to a stop in the middle of the tunnel sending me face first into his fur. He barely notices because he is shouting at the others, "We're getting off here! Everyone crowd round. Yes! Ah, well, this is our stop now!" The doors open quickly and the herd goes out in single file. I can see them moving easily into a dark tunnel. There are feeble lights and I can see the old rail tracks glinting in the distance. When the entire herd has exited, the train moves on, slowly.

"This explains why there are so many delays in the tunnel, "observes Mr. Gryphon. He moves closer to me. "By the way, Miss Turtle, they are Bison, not buffalo."

"Well, I like the sound of the word buffalo better, Mr. Gryphon, although I like how Bison looks with a capital B."

"And what is the point of this post, Miss Turtle?" People have been claiming the open seats as the train has moved along. We have remained standing.

"I guess I'm feeling a little lonely. I have a crush on someone I shouldn't have a crush on so I wrote a Missed Connection for him on craigslist.org just now."

"Why are you saying this here on your blog?"

"Hell if I know." At the next stop the train really empties out. We sit down on the red seats. I always check to make sure it's safe to sit down first. Sometimes scorpions and venomous snakes are on the seats. "I got an email from some guy right after I posted it. He told me I sounded defeated/lost and that I should stay away from the Golden Gate Bridge. I don't feel suicidal. Not even close."

"I'm glad you're not feeling suicidal. What if the person sees the post, the person it was written for."

"He'll just think I'm a nut job. I better go back and delete it now while I have a chance," I get up from my seat, climb over Mr. Gryphon and open one of the Metro train windows as we are zooming down the tunnel. I pause, getting the timing right, then leap into the darkened concrete wall....

(Miss Turtle is now sitting in front of her 32" widescreen TV that doubles as her computer screen. She has looked at, edited and thought about that Missed Connection post, but can't bring herself to delete it)

...then there is a woosh and I'm climbing back through the train window. Mr. Gryphon helps me through. Absolutely none of the other passengers notice except the man speaking in tongues.

He approaches me. "Thought you could get away with it, eh?"

"No," I say looking directly at him. It bugs me that I can't see his eyes, but his big star shaped sunglasses are interesting.

"You should just delete that post and march into that guy's office," he says, his curly dark hair has been streaked with royal blue.

"I'd rather launch a paper airplane at him, aiming for his desk," I say, drawing back a little. I feel Mr. Gryphon's hand on my arm.

"Who do you think you are? Amelie?" He puts his hands on his hips.

"And who do you think YOU are? Aren't you supposed to be speaking in tongues in this scenario?" He shrugs and marches back to his seat. After settling in, the odd mutterings resume.

"I suppose I better delete that post, Mr. Gryphon, but perhaps I'll leave it up tonight and get rid of it in the morning," I say sitting down on the too warm red seat again.

"Do what you will, Miss Turtle, but haven't you been dating around lately?"

"Yes, but it's a discouraging business, Mr. Gryphon. Far easier to fantasize about someone you can't have because you like his glasses."

"At least you're not suicidal."

"Far from it, Mr. Gryphon. Far from it," I say as he puts his arm around me. The lights have taken on a dreamy twinkle as the speaking in tongues man has finally gotten his way. Thank goodness we're almost at our stop.

A Record of a Dry Year, Part 1

View of Grant Ranch, A County Park in San Jose, looking West

Back in April of this year, my brother and I went on one of our drivearounds where we drive from San Jose over Mt. Hamilton into Livermore in search of wildflowers. We picked a beautiful day as you can see. Although most everything was green, all the plants were curiously stunted in growth. A dry year. There hasn't been much rain this year.

Grant Ranch is the first major landmark on the way up to Mt. Hamilton. We usually stop for a looksee, but decided to press on since we got started late. It's a good place to watch birds.

My brother says this is Purple Chaia, as in the tea, but he doesn't think it should be drunk.

Our practice is to drive around and then pull over on the side of the road when we see something interesting. That being said, we've done this enough times to have our favorite spots where we know we're likely to see some good plant growth.

Try as I might, I can't figure out what this one is called. I'll have to ask my brother again.

As we drove up the Mountain, pulling over the side of the road, avoiding bicyclists and SUVs alike, we were struck by how small everything was. All the plants were either smaller than usual and/or very late in their development for that time of year.

Even the Poison Oak was having a bad time of it. Without a doubt, that's the smallest Poison Oak plant I've ever seen.

Unlike me, my brother actually has a college education. While his degree turned out to be in biology, he started out as a botany major with a special fascination for our wildflowers. I think next time we do this he's going to bring a GPS so we can make keep of record of where we found the flowers via coordinates.

Douglas Wallflower. During some years there are whole carpets on the hillsides.

We're always on the lookout for animals, but we didn't see very many at all this year. We always see something big like a deer or a skunk family, but we had no luck this time.

This little valley is enchanting, as you can see.

An older guy on a bike wearing a bright yellow jacket (going downhill) stopped us on this ridge overlooking the little valley above and asked us what we were looking for since we were moving slowly along the side of the road and looking at the ground. When we told him we were looking at the flowers, he seemed mystified. As we moved away from him, he took out his cell phone, turned on his phone camcorder and recorded a little blurb about the valley. I wondered who he was going to send it to.

The sky was such a perfect color. I couldn't resist leaning against side of the mountain to take this shot.

When you're walking on the side of the road, the shoulder disappears so you have to lean against the side of the mountain when the cars go by. The rocks are plentiful, sharp, and in loose piles (easy to slip on). I spend too much time worrying about my brother when the cars go by because some of them are barreling down the mountain at high speeds, especially people who are driving SUVs and trucks. I used to try to hide that I was looking out for him, but then I realized he was doing the same thing for me.

Next up: even more wildflowers.

City Life: Heron

I was walking my dog in Golden Gate Park this past Sunday evening when I noticed a small family staring at something. As I got closer I saw just a few feet away, a Great Blue Heron. Great Blue Herons are impressive birds. Large and leggy, they stand up to four feet tall.

Oddly enough the heron was standing in part of a field, a part of the baseball field to be exact. Most of the time it seems that herons stick close to the water.

I shorted my dog's leash so we could walk past the bird without scaring it. As I moved past with my dog, the mother turned and looked at me.

"He just ate a gopher."

"What?"

"He just ate a gopher. We saw him do it. He's still trying to swallow it down. You can see the lump in his throat." She was blonde and grinning broadly with lovely crinkles around her eyes, obviously amazed. The entire family was transfixed. They were a friendly family, all wearing blue high-end fleece jackets.

I stopped and stared at the big bird, "Was it a big gopher?" She nodded.

Gophers in Golden Gate Park tend to be huge and fat. I wondered how the heron was able to get a hold of it. I know their beaks are formidable. A few years ago, there was a news report that a heron had stabbed a man in the heart with his beak, killing him, when the man got too close trying while trying to take a close up picture of the bird.

"Why don't I have my camera with me?" I wondered aloud in frustration. I would have liked to share that picture with all of you. A Great Blue Heron standing on the grass with a baseball game going on in the background. I watched him for a little while longer, but my dog was pulling me along so we moved on.

When I looked back the family was still standing there.

To the Border, Part 2 of 2

My adventure to the border continues...as I mentioned in Part 1, I had a serious problem to deal with because I had no idea how to get into Vancouver or the layout of the city or a map or guidebook or anything. While wondering what I was going to do, I took a turnoff and found myself at the airport. It was easy enough to find my way out again and it bought me some time to think about it.

As I got back on the road I saw a very small blue sign that proved to be my salvation:

CRUISE SHIP TERMINAL

It was such a small sign, very easy to disregard. There was a simple line drawing of a ship with some waves underneath in that road-signy style. Since I knew Vancouver was a waterfront city, I figured following the sign would at least get me to the water so I took the exit.

I found myself on a big wide street about six lanes wide. It was like a big expressway with traffic lights. No matter how much I looked around, I couldn't figure out the name of the street. I kept looking around at everything, then I noticed that at some intersections the stoplights were flashing yellow all the time. I had no idea what that means and I still don't. I know what the red flashing stoplights mean (treat this intersection like a four way stop sign - some of the lights here in SF flash that way late at night). Not knowing what else to do, I just kept barreling right through the lights along with everyone else. As I drove, I wondered if I would get stopped by the police. I wondered if I would get a ticket. I wondered if the officer would tell me where the city was. I wondered how I was going to attend traffic court in Canada.

I was on this wide expressway-type street for a long time. The little blue cruise ship terminal sign never failed me. Just when I would start looking around and wondering where I was I would see the sign again. I drove through a pretty part of the city. The trees were lit up with white holiday lights, there appeared to be many restaurants, and many people wandered to and fro. I thought about stopping, but pressed on.

Then at some point, there was a curve in the road and a slight rise...

and there it was, Vancouver! I was on a big bridge going straight into the city! It was lit up like grand magic. I could see the water and the huge buildings. It was so beautiful that I started screaming inside my car. I was so excited that I missed the turnoff to the Cruise Ship Terminal. No matter. I had made it to my destination! It was around 8:15 p.m. or so.

The bridge was quite long, so long that I was a little calmer when I got onto the island. At first I thought about trying to find my way to the Cruise Ship Terminal, but decided to make a right turn as soon as possible. I didn't know where I was going to end up, but somehow it didn't matter. I drove along the road, the buildings tall and twinkling around me. There was some major construction going on and I had to make several turns onto smaller streets. Since I had to use the loo, I resolved to find a place to park. This proved difficult as there seemed to be cars everywhere. Finally, I found a small parking lot that had a space and got out the the car. It was a fairly warm night and the cars were parked at an odd angle on the narrow street. Then I looked around and I was in the middle of a huge area full of restaurants, bars, sushi bars, Starbucks and pool halls. People were out walking their dogs. I found a bar and used the loo, and although I wanted to try one of the restaurants, I was too full still from eating that the Twin Peaks diner earlier that day.

Jeez. Seeing the waterfalls and that diner seemed like half a world away, but it was only a few hours earlier!

I wandered around some more and found the waterfront. It was dark, but I could see I was in a nice park. I kept to the streets in case it was a little unsafe there. The streets were very wide. I took a couple of pictures to prove I was there:

Okay, so it doesn't show the location, but I couldn't help but snap this sign that shows kilometers. We don't have signs like that here.

Yes, the proof that I was there. It was so dark that I couldn't see the park at all, but I have a feeling it's a pretty place.

Believe it or not, I was only in Vancouver for a couple of hours wandering around before I decided to get back into my car and make my way back to Seattle. I was worried I would have trouble crossing the border. As I drove back over the bridge towards the freeway (if that's what you want to call it), I resolved to visit this beautiful city for a long weekend.

The 30 or so miles back seemed to go very quickly. I was getting really worried as I got closer to the border. I kept wondering what would happen if they wouldn't let me back across. I took several deep breaths as I waited in the long line of cars. I thought about what I'd say to the border guard.

When it was my turn, the guard expressed dismay that I only had a driver's license. I kept apologizing. He was a middle aged Asian man with a slightly thick accent.

"How am I supposed to know this is really you?" he asked me, holding up my driver's license. "People make fake ones all the time and the fake ones are good."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn't plan to make this trip. I don't even have a map," I said.

"You know," he said leaning a little closer, "People complain to us that our borders are porous, that we could have prevented the 9/11 attacks if we had been tougher on everyone who crosses into our country. Do you have any idea how that makes us feel? And then nice people like you show up with just your driver's license."

I looked at him without saying anything. I got tears in my eyes. I felt his frustration. Then I apologized again in a soft voice. We looked at each other without speaking and then he waved me on.

"Have a nice evening and don't forget to bring your passport next time," he said.

"I won't. I won't."

"And don't forget to tell everyone you know how important it is to have proper identification so we can protect our borders," he said.

"I will. I promise." I waved at him and drove on into the black night.

The drive back to Seattle and the hotel didn't seem to take that long. All along with way, the road was dark with some street lights there and there. I stopped for gas. Everything seemed friendly. The road and I had gotten to know each other well.

I got to the hotel after midnight. I had an early morning flight later that morning and I was going from SFO straight to work. As I lay in my hotel bed nodding off to sleep, I wondered if I'd really gone to Pike's Place Market in the morning to buy my Dad some smoked salmon, seen the Twin Peaks waterfalls and diner and then drove to Vancouver and back. It was all vivid and real, but seemed so unlikely.

Epilogue

Soon after my trip, the laws were changed. A passport or birth certificate is now required to cross the border from Canada to here. At least I'm keeping my promise to that border guard now.

When I got to work the first thing I did was Google "Vancouver." It was there that I saw my first pictures of the city in the daylight. I had no idea Vancouver was an island. I couldn't really tell in the dark.

Wheels Turn Slowly, But It's Good News Anyway

A short post tonight.

There's a crap load of stuff going on in my life right now.

I'm just emerging from coming face to face with my biggest (and long forgotten) childhood fear. A very close member of my family was in the hospital for a few weeks, and it was looking like they might not be coming home.

Plus work is kicking my ass.

What's the good news? (as my manager always asks me)

1. My close family member is going to be all right and is coming home tomorrow! I found out this critical information yesterday morning. I closed the door to my office and cried. Then I called a very good friend to tell her about it.
2. Work might be kicking my ass, but it's a good thing. My workload got moved around and I now have a renewed appreciation for my working life. My new work motto is "Get out from under the FUCKING radar and step up the plate!" Too many people are hiding and avoiding and pissing and moaning. I'm sick of it. Shut up and be grateful you have a good job for crying out loud!

I survived these last six weeks or so by cutting out some unnecessary stuff (like a he's-not-into-me dating situation and too many social invitations) and stepping up the stress relievers. I've been spending time at my family's and the hospital, something like three or four times a week, and doing a hell of a lot of driving along the way. One thing about a crisis is it makes you take a good hard look at how you spend your time.

Now I can breathe a sigh of relief and slowly start to add some of my creative pursuits. Plus I need to do my laundry in a big way. At least I remembered to pay my bills.

The next post will be Part 2 of To the Border. Thanks for reading.

City Life: Today's Lunchtime Photo

View of the TransAmerica Pyramid from Embarcadero 2

I see people taking pictures of this shot all time while wandering around on my lunch hour or during a break. People often ask me if I sneak out during work hours to catch a movie at the Cinema there. I would never do that. I'd be so busy checking my Crackberry that I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself. It is fun to go there right after work, though.

To the Border, Part 1 of 2

Last summer I took a spur-of-the-moment trip weekend trip to Seattle. In addition to wandering around and doing everything on the fly, I took some "Mascot" pictures of the trip. You can see them here from a previous post.

I arrived on Saturday and wandered around downtown. I saw Pike's Place Market (wonderful!), the Seattle Aquarium and took a locks cruise. I had a great time on the cruise. They talked about everything: the boating communities, the locks, neighborhoods we were floating past, the bridges we went under, the salmon running, the seals we saw, traffic laws on all the bodies of water we were on, the fishing industry, Puget Sound, the weather in Seattle, tugboats, the traffic in Seattle, the grain silos and the shipping industry.

Sunday, I drove out of Seattle for a look at Snoqualmie Falls and wound up on an impromptu Twin Peaks tour. The Falls are featured in the opening credits of Twin Peaks and I ate lunch at the diner featured in the TV show. I didn't realize it was the same diner until I went to the restroom in the back and saw all the newspaper articles and photos.

Here's a picture of the Falls. Aren't they amazing?

On the way back to Seattle, I missed a turn and ended up going in the wrong direction. I was going to find a place to turn around, but the traffic was so awful going in the other direction that I decided to keep driving for a while. It was Sunday afternoon around 5:00pm. I wasn't due to fly back home until early Monday morning. I kept driving, thinking I would find a mall or a place to hang out.

Then I saw a sign, a sign that beckoned me, a sign that shone with the lights of opportunity and curiosity. The sign said:

INTERSTATE 5 NORTH
VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA

The sign didn't say how far it was to Vancouver, a place I had never been to, but the seed was planted and I kept wondering about it. Then another sign said it was only 140 miles to Vancouver. It was around 5:25 pm. I figured I'd get there by 8:15 pm. I could either go to the world famous jazz club that night in Seattle and see Manhattan Transfer or I could run to the border.

I ran to the border.

As I drove north in my rent-a-car, I experienced that giddy feeling of pushing the limits, of doing something so completely unplanned in a weekend full of spontaneity. I bought a guidebook just to get a layout of Seattle then I left it in my hotel room. I wandered and did everything completely on a whim including booking this trip only a day and a half before the weekend.

It was a good drive.

One of many pictures of the road signs I took. This is one of the few that you can actually read.

As I kept on driving, I became excited about crossing the border. I have never crossed the border in a car (not counting the time I was a toddler and my family drove to Mexico) so this was going to be a new experience for me.

I was counting down the miles as I went along and listening to the car radio. Seattle radio is much better than Bay Area radio, by the way. For all the diversity in this area, especially in San Francisco, the radio is so lousy that it's embarassing.

Here's a road sign showing "Customs and Immigration 1/2 Mile"

I got to the border in Blaine, WA right around sunset. As I waited in line with the other cars, I took in the site. The Freedom Bridge is located there which allows visitors to stroll back and forth between the two countries. It's a pretty little park.

When I finally got my turn, I handed the lady in the booth my driver's license. She stared at it, then looked at me.

"Is this all you have?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Well, we prefer you have a U.S. Passport with you," she said.

"Really?" I seemed to recall something along those lines, but didn't say anything about it. She asked me where I was going and what I was going to do. Then she said I could go.

"Do you think this will be problem when I come back," I asked, getting nervous for the first time.

"I don't know," she shrugged. Deciding not to let this put a damper on my enthusiasm I pressed on. Only 30 something miles to go!

As soon as I got on the freeway there was an immediate problem. Everything is in kilometers, not miles. I have no idea how to convert miles to kilometers and as long time readers of this blog know, I'm lousy at math. No problem. I checked the car's speedometer and...it was only in miles. This is very odd because even my little Hyundai Accent has kilometers. Then I remembered I was driving a CHEVY and I guess American Car Makers are so egocentric that they can't be bothered with putting kilometers on their cars!

As I wondered how much 100 kilometers an hour translates into miles (60 miles an hour, by the way), I set my car to go with the flow of traffic.

The sun had set and the road was flat. I worried briefly about whether I would have a problem getting back into the U.S., but decided to cross that bridge when I find it. As I drove along, I realized Canadian radio is GREAT! It's even better than Seattle area radio.

Then as I got closer to Vancouver, there was another problem. A serious problem. I had no map of the city, I had no idea how large it is, I had no guidebook. I don't even know what the city looks like. I only knew that it's a waterfront city and very beautiful.

Hm. How to solve this problem? I'll let you know in Part 2.

Food at Family Gatherings, Part 2 (Mexican)

Food at family gatherings on my mother's side usually meant going to my grandma's house. During holidays someone would bring turkey or ham (most likely that person would be my Dad). We would have refried beans, homemade tortillas, spanish rice and tamales. To this day, Mexican food is still my overall cuisine of choice.

The center of all this food prep, of course, is my Gram. First off, no one makes refried beans like she does. Her beans are a little less "mashed" and more whole than some of the others I've seen. My Dad makes great refried beans, but they aren't like hers. Secondly, there's nothing like real homemade, still hot tortillas, and we had lots of homemade tortillas for holiday dinners.

A large cast iron skillet of spanish rice would sit on the table, Dad would be standing at the head of the table carving up the main event meat and I would have to sit in the kitchen with the rest of the little kids, being too small to join the adults. As a child, I was very small so even my younger cousins insisted upon cutting my meat into small pieces for me.

The real centerpiece of the meal, though, were the tamales. Now I can safely say that my Gram makes the best tamales on the planet, but everyone says that about their grandmother's tamales. Gram spends days making tamales for her church and for family and friends. I've spent my fair share of time helping out with the cause. Both times I was given the task of husking the corn wrappers. That is, taking the dried wrappers and soaking them in a bowl of water and pulling all of the remaining residual corn silk out of the wrapper. After about an hour of doing this, your hands start to turn red. After three hours, your hands start to swell a little and sting from irritation. After three days of doing this task with very few breaks, I was howling. It seems Gram makes hundreds of tamales in this manner. My mother and aunts would be doing other parts of the prep: cooking the pork, making masa, smearing the masa on the soaked corn husks and assembly.

They taste sooo wonderful. My parents make good tamales too, but not like hers.

Every once in a while, Gram would make a really special soup for everyone: Menudo. I've tried it many times, but simply could not get past the fact that it's made out of tripe. Gram makes the red (rojo) version and it's smells really good. It's somewhat spicy. I'm told the preparation for this dish can take quite a while which explains why we didn't have it each holiday.

When I was a little girl (probably around 8 years old) sitting at Gram's kitchen table one day, she told me she was making a special sauce for the holiday meal. Then she told me there was a special ingredient: chocolate. I didn't believe her at all and told her so, thinking she was teasing me. My uncles and cousins confirmed this odd truth and I had my first taste of mole. I recall being surprised that it didn't taste at all like chocolate and it wasn't sweet. I thought I was going to be eating the equivalent of chocolate sauce. Since growing up, I have learned there are many different kinds of moles available, and it comes in a wide variety of colors. Gram's mole was a deep dark red. It tastes so rich and substantial. Difficult to describe. A cooking project I want to try is learning how to make mole which apparently takes many hours of prep and more hours of simmering.

I'm also quite fond of Mexican pastries. My uncles would bring them for us, usually for the next morning's meal. They all have a similar taste that I find comforting.

My parents make enchiladas regularly, but they don't make it like most people. No wrapping the corn tortillas up in rolls and putting it in the baking pan. They make the sauce, a deep rich red sauce, and then we soak the corn tortillas in the sauce for a short time then put them on each plate. After that, we put in meat, cheese, tomatoes, sour cream, etc. in an assembly line fashion. My brother is particularly adept at making enchilada sauce. Each time it's slightly different, but always wonderful.

Another family recipe that we make is Albondigas, a meatball soup. My Dad added the touch of mixing the meatballs with white rice (of course). It's one of my favorite soups to make myself and is great when it's cold outside. I've asked my mother a few times and she said the recipe came from my Gram, but I don't remember her making this dish.

Some memories for me relating to Mexican food or rather food at mom's side of the family:

• One of my most vivid memories is of being a small child sitting in my Gram's kitchen after the holiday meal. I would sit quietly, sometimes drinking a Shasta soda, listening to my mother, my aunts and my Gram all talking in Spanish while cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes. The men, of course, were all sitting in the living room watching TV along with my cousins. I don't speak Spanish at all, but I can understand it a little. Most likely, this little understanding of the language comes from listening to all the women talking in the kitchen year after year.
  
• My uncles would make marvelous floats for us on hot summer nights: 7 Up and pineapple sherbet. God! Just thinking of that combination of tastes makes my mouth water and takes me back to standing in Gram's kitchen while waiting for my uncle to scoop mine for me.
• A favorite luxury food of mine are what my Mom calls "Gorditas." Us kids would sit in the kitchen making thick patties out of masa and water, and then Gram would dip them in more masa before frying them in a cast iron skillet (in lard, no less). They would come out golden brown and lovely. We would pile on cheese, tomatoes, cilantro, sour cream, etc. tostada style. HEAVEN!!! I call this a luxury food because it's rarely made in my family although if I beg and plead, my parents will make it for me when I go over there for dinner.
• I have an deep fondness for Taco Bell although I hardly eat there anymore. Even though my well educated palate can tell the difference between homemade and canned refried beans (or worse, their spanish rice), I still enjoy eating there every once in a while. The first time I went there, I was astounded that food similar to Gram's would sold in a place that was a lot like McDonald's.

Too bad I don't have more food stories to post. It's been a fun topic to write about. The memories have been vivid and I am reminded that a lot people didn't grow up this way. I guess I'm lucky.