Sunday, May 31, 2009

Kitchen Upgrades and Diaspora Lentil Soup: Cooking with a Knowing Smirk

Don’t think I can’t hear you thinking out there, Mr and Ms Netsurfer, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.  I know I am.  I hear you asking yourself or -selves, hasn’t it been
long enough?  And with a knowing smirk, I agree - because I know you’re talking about cooking, in the most literal and mundane way.  Not “cookin’”.  Cooking. And yes, it has been long enough, so let me truncate things as I do so well.  I’ve got some kitchen mutterings to share and I think this is the night to share them.  Gather ‘round the sputtering remnants of the firepit I sank in the great room of this here Chuckle Hut, and I’ll extrude some lore, or something.  Probably “something.” Bring a smock. 

The thing is, I am just about finished with yet another (!) writing notebook - and now that I’m back on the ol’ 38 line twice a day most days, I am getting to do more writing again.  That meant I had to get meself a new notebook, and also that it was time to scan through the old one to see if I’d jotted anything ABSOLUTELY VITAL that I’d forgotten to do anything about.  Which, of course, I had.  I had given myself a note back in, oh, maybe last November, that my kitchen upgrades deserved a word or two.  Since then I’ve said nothing about them with one exception (noted below), though I continue to find satisfaction and gratification from my hardware de cuisine pretty much on a daily basis.  I’m going to address that failing right now.  And you get to be the beneficiary.  It’s a good day to be you. 

What I’ve already told you: the single most-visited post on this blog gets hit because I mention in it a famous hottie actress from the 1970s; god knows the disappointment those random surfers experience when they find out I was actually just talking about elk.  ANYway, that post goes on (and on) to mention how much I love my new veggie peeler.  Even though it’s not exactly new anymore, I still totally love it.  The ceramic blade cuts the heaviest husk and the finest membrane; I used it today to peel tomatoes that I’d otherwise have had to dunk in boiling water for twenty seconds and then pull out and manipulate, surely resulting in a nicely peeled tomato but second degree burns on my delicate paws.  The point is, freaking awesome peeler.  If any of you are apeeling, this is the way to go.  And no, I am not going to apologize for any lousy pun on this site. 

Other fabulous kitchen developments without knowing of which you will never reach true fulfillment as a person or as a reader of this site, as if those were different things:

Knives: our old knives were a sorry collection of busted handles, crude blades, and tangs that neither merit the name nor any of it’s slang attributes.  Some of those knives came from my childhood home and were correctly described as “not so much knives as triangular pieces of metal” by friends dear enough to be honest with me back in the early 90’s.  That I survived so long without serious injury from them is more testament to my caution than to their efficacy.  (As you know, a dull blade is much more dangerous than a sharp one because it takes more work to get through what you’re cutting, and the edge is more likely to slip and catch a fingertip unawares.) My point (heh) is that we now have a wooden block-full of new knives: chef’s blade, a santoku with hollows, a nice bread knife, a nice paring blade, kitchen shears, and a sharpening steel that’s handy and gets used a lot more because of it - as well as six sturdy serrated steak knives.  By keeping them clean, honed, and in their storage slots, I find I’m able to cut more stuff, faster, with greater precision.  I’m dicing, people, and slicing paper-thin, and carving hot meat and all the good things a serious blade can do.  Knives: who knew? 

Pans: It wasn’t like we didn’t have pans before, but they were getting pretty tired.  They were heavy anodized aluminum, nonstick (once), with steep edges that kept food from slopping out onto the stovetop when I got overenthusiastic.  But they were really pretty heavy, and tended to “eat” a lot of heat instead of conveying it to the food.  I didn’t realize how much I was missing with them till we got a new set.  Again, these are anodized aluminum, but these ones are lighter and easier to move and shake on the stove (and god knows I’m a big mover and shaker.  Just watch me move and shake my big.).  The really cool thing about the new pots is that the sides slope much more gradually.  Turns out I’m not so overenthusiastic as to spill the beans very often, but with the new pan design I’m actually able to mix ingredients or flip things over with a flick of my wrist instead of painstakingly using some implement like a spoon or spatula.  It’s very satisfying to mix up a bunch of ingredients just by flicking my wrist a few times.  There’s a joke in there but this is a family blog. 

Electric Skillet: when we were acquiring all this kitchen goodness I told Kel that I wanted one of those big rectangular pans that plug in and heat up all on their own.  She was unconvinced - why would we need such a thing?  Don’t we have enough gadgets and doodads in our gadget-and-doodad drawer?  Turns out the answer is, nuh-huh we don’t.  The electric skillet has been super effective for frying lots of fish, veggies, potatoes, and any number of other deliciousnesses.  Everything cooks at the same temperature; everything fits in one go.  Now when I’m ready to crank out some eggplant or salmon or something and I pull out the electric skillet, Kel still rolls her eyes - but now, in anticipation, not exasperation.  It’s a fine line but I walk it every day. 

Food Processor: We had a FP but it was sort of runty.  It only held a few cups of food, had rather flimsy construction, and a motor that wore out after just a couple carrots or potatoes.  It was hardly worth the effort of using it, but it was all we had so sometimes that was effort that had to be expended.  The new FP is about twice as big, twice as strong, and much quieter.  It doesn’t feel like I’m risking the whole thing blasting itself apart into shards of sharp plastic and jagged paper-thin steel blade bits when I use it.  It’s got more settings and it exudes a confidence the other one never pretended to have - “go on and fill me up; I’m ready for what you’ve got and I will cut it down to size in the blink of an eye.” When you need a food processor, they are tremendously handy.  This one does exactly what I need it to do, which is all I could ever ask for and much more than I’d ever gotten before. 

Blender: We didn’t even have a blender.  We just used that crappy old food processor whenever we needed to grind ice, blend soup, or puree anything.  There’s a lot that a FP can do, but there is a place for a blender and ours was empty.  Until recently.  The new blender is nothing fancy, but it does its job very well.  Tonight I used it to turn a huge mess of chunky soup into a huge mess of pureed soup.  It worked perfectly and the soup could now be passed through a sieve, if that’s your idea of a good time.  I’m not here to judge.  You freak. 

Plates and silverware: previously our plates were charmingly mismatched, by design.  Some were white, some were blue, and some - wait for it - were white and blue.  They came from different sets and had different patterns.  All that really linked them was roundness and consistently shared dissimilarity.  This was counterweighted by the cutlery we used, and which I’d been using since I had been in about the second grade - call it 35 years on the table every single day.  We had stopped noticing that the food looked different on different plates, and that it looked tired on the tired old forks.  And then we got new plates - aubergine-purple and blue on the outside and at the very edges, and a nice clean white on the interior.  They’re not the fanciest plates on the planet but the food looks good on them and looks the same no matter which one you use.  The coffee mugs match the cereal bowls; the dessert plates match the dinner plates.  It’s surprising how satisfying that kind of consistency in service has proven to be.  And at the same time, the new knives and forks and spoons make every mouthful seem a bit more appetizing - shiny steel, hammered handles, hefty and purposeful in the hand.  After cooking well with the new tools, it’s nice to eat well at new settings.  It brings closure to the process of cooking, which is itself so organic and creative when it’s done right, that to shovel the end product onto any old piece of crockery and hoist it to the piehole with some tired and dull implement felt almost to be a dishonor to the food itself, and to the diner for whom it was prepared.  Those days are behind us now.  If we want to dishonor the diner, we have to do it the old-fashioned way.  By kicking him. 

Teakettle: We had a nice teakettle - we thought.  It had a whistle that sounded disturbingly like a rapidly-approaching train, but it was a decent piece of equipment.  Then Kel went and cleaned it and invited all kinds of trouble.  Turns out the inside was all rusty, and likely to rust through pretty soon.  We hadn’t noticed, but once we realized what was going on with our coffee-n-tea water (we use a french press for coffee so the water is heated separately in the kettle), well, we kept drinking coffee-n-tea but we were less sanguine about it.  In fact, we eventually got rid of it before even finding a replacement, using instead a saucepan full of water on the stove.  We looked everywhere (Target) for a real replacement but didn’t care for our options - and then resorted to a cheap-ass stop-gap stand-in from Kamei Housewares: triangular in profile and cone-ular in overall shape, with a handle that’s a metal rod bent into an open spiral to dissipate heat.  The whistle has to be removed by hand, rather than automatically lifting out of the way with the push of a button, but
that’s okay.  And it doesn’t sound like a train - just like boiling water in a tea kettle.  It’s simple and effective and a very sophisticated friend specifically told us how much he liked it not too long ago.  Sometimes just getting back to the basics is a very good thing. 

Speaking of which, with all that kitchenosity I’ve dumped on you, let me tell you what to do with it: make soup.  I made some today for work-week lunches and it came out rawking.  Let me share the recipe, because like hell you’re getting the actual soup:

Diaspora Lentil Soup (so named because the recipe was developed out of two recipes from “The Soup Bible,” one from “Jewish Cooking,” and three from “The Africa News Cookbook"):

Chop two big leeks finely and sautee them in a few tablespoons of olive oil.  When their color has intensified, add some spices: garlic, bay leaves, marjoram, turmeric, cardamom, cumin, coriander, ginger (one teaspoon of each, except for 3 leaves of bay and seven smashed pods of cardamom).  After about five minutes, add 2 well-chopped carrots and one each, diced, of potato and celery root (I used a white potato with a nice waxy texture).  Dump in 1-1/2 cups of stock (I used ham stock because it was handy) and cook for ten minutes.  Add three cups of red lentils and three cups of stock (I used chicken because I was out of ham), cover, and cook for about 20 minutes.  Then add four tomatoes (peeled and roughly chopped) and two red peppers (diced).  Cover and simmer for about an hour.  Remove from heat and puree, then add the juice of two lemons and Tabasco to taste. 

This is a thick, hearty, flavorful, tangy, sweet, spicy crawful of goodness, and it’ll keep you going for as long as you need to go.  Anyway, that’s my theory.  If you’re curious how it works in practice, drop me a line.  I’ll be here all week, folks.  Me and my soup.  And if I leave, the soup will still be here.  Honestly, there’s like two gallons of it.  Not that I’m complaining.  With a kitchen like I’ve got now, I expect big things.  I say with a knowing smirk. 

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Weighing In: Today’s Two Biggest Legal Controversies, Unpacked and Put Away Neatly

As a card-carrying (albeit technically inactive) legal geeknerd, I am delighted whenever issues of jurisprudence wind up atop the newcasts.  This delight, though, is typically tempered by my recognition that the public at large is either being misinformed or underinformed by those newscasts. 

As Blogvar, God of Blog, has seen fit to bestow upon me this stentorian organ of communication with which to clarify the minds of humankind (that is, when I’m not using it for jokes about poop or pretty pictures of rust stains, or on a good day, both), I take up again today the mantle of legal righteousness - and leftousness as well.  There are two issues in the public eye these days that demand my unique wonkish perspective, and I’ma gonna clarificate them for y’all here and now.  Speaking law-wise, of course. 

Righteousness: Left-leaning readers may share my ongoing disappointment with the voters of this my once-golden-now-pyrite state for denying the sacrament of state-sanctioned marriage to same-sex couples.  Many of us think that mutual commitment between consenting adults is all it should take, but a majority of CA voters disagreed last November when we elected a man as president who at one time would have been forbidden from cohabitation with a whitewoman, but at the same time rejected the vows of loving union professed by thousands of G-L couples by enacting Proposition 8. 

I am not going to argue the wisdom - or lack thereof - of that result.  The voters spoke; the legislature and the courts, by constitutional mandate, must listen.  The CASC just reaffirmed that vote, and the nation - a nation increasingly moving toward legal recognition of the marriages prejudiced by Prop 8 - has renewed its outrage.  Didn’t the court have an obligation to recognize marriage as a fundamental right, and its denial to same-sex couples as a base violation of essential constitutional liberties?  Weren’t they just reaffirming bigotry when they let the will of the voters stand? 

Well, yes, that seems so.  But let’s keep in mind what the Cal Supremes were charged with doing: ensuring that the election was fair and constitutional.  There is not yet any federal constitutional protection for gay marriage, so the California constitution, which also provides far-reaching civil rights, controlled these deliberations.  Since Prop 8 was a referendum, it represents the most compelling form of democratic statement - the standards for overturning the direct statement of the will of the people is much higher than for a mere legislative enactment.  When it comes to restricting what is widely seen as a fundamental civil right - the right to marry (which is so recognized by the USSC) - the issue is whether the referendum creates new rights or restrictions, or just changes existing ones.  A referendum that imposed racial or religious restrictions on marriage, for example, would be considered completely new, since it’s been a very long time since any such restrictions had been in place.  A referendum that gave children the right to vote, similarly, creates a new right - not just a change or expansion of existing rights. 

But restrictions on gay marriage are not new.  It’s not like L-G couples have historically enjoyed the constitutional right to marry.  Though it’s a sad commentary on where we’ve been and how far we have or have not come, gay marriage has never been an enumerated constitional right in this state - so a referendum restricting it did not constitute a change in constitutional rights sufficient to mandate court nullification of the voters’ will.  It’s one of those instances where an “activist” court might have stepped in to establish a new right in response to the blatant discrimination evinced by the voting public, but that would have violated the balance of power and led to a precedent for courts making rules whenever they thought people didn’t know what was good for them. 

I think people usually *do* know what’s good for them, but too often don’t vote for it.  The ongoing brouhaha over this pathetic attempt to keep down the gai will lead inevitably to an expansion of acceptance of homosexuality, in marriage and all other social institutions.  But getting the court to exceed its own powers to achieve that end could only have backfired.  In my opinion, which on this blog reigns supreme, this was a very gutsy move by the Supremes - and one that hardly ends the battle, much less the war.  Lefties, listen: If you don’t like the way things are, fight for change.  Don’t ask a judge to do it for you. 

Leftousness: Sonia Sotomayor has been nominated for a seat on the USSC, and would be the third woman and first hispanic to be so seated (unless you count Cardozo, whose heritage was Portugese, possibly by way of spain via the converso exodus of the 15th century, but that’s sort of stretching things).  The right seems to be grasping for reasons to hate her.  I’m hearing “affirmative action baby,” “reverse racism,” and “leg looks like a potato in that photograph” (no, really, somebody said that).  The fear is that she’s going to use “empathy,” which is a buzzword for “forcing outcomes that satisfy her own prejudices regardless of facts.”

This doesn’t really jibe with her years working as a prosecutor or corporate attorney, but since she’s a latina it stands to reason that she’s got an agenda to ram down the throats of the hegemony.  The white man worked hard for centuries to achieve a place at the top of the food chain, and it’s a violation of the laws of nature - not to mention judicial ethics - to allow some entitlement queen to come in and make them treat others as well as they themselves have been treated for time immemorial.  She’s going to create a society distinguished by mandatory abortions, rampant public-school funding, and “reverse racism” as Rush Blimpass calls it.  (As some commentators note, racism is racism.  A white person who hates all people of color is a racist.  A jew who hates all arabs is a racist.  A latina who hates white people because they’re white is a racist.  “Reverse racism” implies the *opposite* of racism.  Does that mean that she loves all white people just because they’re white?  or is there a less nonsensical explanation for this inflammatory phrase?)

There’s not much in her opinions to support the anguished cries from the right that Sotomayor is likely to turn the USofA into a godless, socialist, color-driven state.  Most commentators I’ve read indicate that her writings from the bench have been pretty boring, frankly, but very much focused on the facts, the law, and the application of the former to the latter.  She’s avoided talking about historical sociology (the “Brandeis Brief” so despised by so many) or a vision for the future.  She’s all about the law, legal precedent, and the record on appeal.  Sexy?  No.  Substantial?  Like a nice baked potato - without chives.  So the angst has been focused on three primary objects of anxiety - empathy, appellate policy, and Ricci.  Let’s just debunk these, reveal them to be the hollow, vacuous nullities that they are, and move on with our lives.  Mmmmkay?

Obama referenced “empathy” as one of Sotomayor’s characteristics when he announced her nomination.  This is the same word that was used by George Bush (41) when he announced the nomination of Clarance Thomas.  If it’s code, it’s common code and already pre-approved by the right.  That they would latch onto it now indicates nothing more than that they have nothing else to complain about.  If we don’t want judges with empathy, what do we want?  Judges who don’t care? 

The rejoinder to that hypothetical question has been amply provided: we want judges who apply the Rule of Law.  Empathy leads one to ignore laws in favor of outcomes, and that’s an activist orientation that violates the balance of power and the rights of all Americans.  This is supported, ostensibly, by a comment Sotomayor made at a conference some years back, where she recognized that the Courts of Appeals create policy, and by other comments she’s made that her experience as a latina would, she hopes, allow her to reach better decisions than a white man who hasn’t had those experiences.  Let’s note first off that the assertion that appellate courts make policy is not controversial - it’s well-established.  The “rule of law” is not as obvious as some might wish it were.  If it were, judges would be able to enter facts into a computer program that would spit out legal conclusions for them.  In a sense, that’s the way that much European law and the Napoleonic Code works, but we have a different system, based on precedent and an accretive form legal evolution.  That’s why these appointments get congressional review.  Cases get to appellate courts because they pose tough questions that the law does not resolve in a totally obvious way, and there is always white space between the black letters of any law where interpretation and application can result in different kinds of results.  If any judge said that appellate courts did *not* make policy, I would seriously doubt that judge’s legal sophistication. 

As for the second comment, about using her experience to provide her with a more nuanced understanding of certain cases or situations, this is an assertion very similar to one made by Samuel Alito during his own confirmation hearings, for which he was lauded - that his immigrant grandfather’s experience would sensitize him to certain issues coming before the court.  But more importantly, it’s critical that Sotomayor’s statement be placed in context - a condition which many conservative Chickens Little find tragically anathema.  Sotomayor did not say that her experience would prejudice her in favor of the underdog, or the immigrant, or the masses yearning to breathe free, or any of that.  She spoke of perspective and prejudice very specifically and intentionally.  She said that she understands prejudice and perspective in a unique and conscious way, more so than most white hegemonists who fail to recognize the bias built into almost every level of the legal system.  Sotomayor said that her experience makes her aware of when she’s reacting to circumstances rather than to legal principles, and *that* makes her a better judge.  And the proof of that pudding is Frank Ricci.

The Ricci case is the biggie in this analysis because Sotomayor was on the three-judge panel that decided not to force New Haven to promote an unquestionably-qualified applicant for promotion, when the promotion test produced racially-disproportionate results.  Ricci worked his ass off to score well, putting in significant time and money of his own to win a captain’s rank.  Why shouldn’t that effort be rewarded?  Conservatives claim that the failure to do so, in favor of tossing out results that disfavored certain ethnic groups, is evidence of a race-based, affirmative-action policy that denies Americans the fruits of their labors and the entitlements they have earned.  To which the 2nd Circuit Court of Appeals panel, Sotomayor included, said, “are you asking me to *empathize* with this man?  I do.  He worked hard and I feel for him.  But that’s not the issue.”

Here’s the issue: Federal law dictates that the city has to throw out civil employment tests that result in discriminatory impact, and that’s what happened.  The city was in a no-win situation, since they knew they’d get sued no matter which way they decided… but to their credit, they chose to take on the lawsuit that FEDERAL LAW SAID THEY MUST FIGHT AND WIN.  Even conservative blogs recognize that 2nd Circuit precedent obliges the court to uphold the district court’s ruling because in the 2nd Circuit, efforts to address hiring disparities are never treated as discrimination.  Had Sotomayor ruled in favor of this very sympathetic plaintiff, she’d be doing so in violation of law and precedent.  That’s activism, people.  Don’t we want to avoid that? 

The opinion (with dissents) upholding the decision not to overturn 2nd Circuit precedent is available for your reading pleasure here.  I’ve scanned through it a few times and I’m satisfied that the court fully explored the issues, took notice of the writ of cert that is sending the question to the USSC, and satisfied its obligation to engage in a robust analysis of both the facts, the controlling law, and the ethical significance of precedent.  They could have acted to change that precedent but this case did not support that kind of activism. 

The Ricci case, therefore, establishes Sotomayor as a judge who can rule on the law despite heartwrenching facts and powerful opposing equities.  That’s the kind of sophistication that I think we need on the court.  Every case has equities on both sides, and equities invoke empathies.  We need a judge who recognizes this dynamic, not one who thinks the answer to any question is in a book *unless* you personally identify with the other guy.  It is hypocritical for the right to say that they’re not empathic - they empathize with those seeking religious freedoms and public support for their parochial schools through vouchers; they empathized with Terry Schiavo’s parents when her legally-empowered husband sought to fulfill her expressed wishes not to vegetate; they empathize with government officials whose desire to ensure national security drove them to violate civil liberties and rules of engagement. 

After eight years of a blatantly activist agenda in the legislature and in the courts, “conservatives” are better denominated “reactionaries” and “zealots.” And if you understand why I say this, you understand why they’re actually so nervous about the nomination of a clear-eyed, unbiased judge.  She’s not going to let them get away with it anymore.  If the price of good jurisprudence is that the left is subjected to the same kind of piercing analysis and dispassionate justice as the right, well, that’s okay with me.  Now go on with your bad selves.  Wonknerd out. 

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Passing God’s Test: Two Sweet Slices of a Decent Weekend

Let’s start with a little list to get the juices flowing: WAYS GOD TESTS ME
* Short Answer
* Multiple Choice
* Flaming Lionpit

Okay good then, and now we can move on to a few notes to keep the golden moments from getting too far away from me:

FOOT MASSAGE: Several little rub-down joints have opened along my stretch of the Inner Richmond, and one is so near to my home that I couldn’t help but get hooked in for their advertised $25/hour foot massage.  I mean, for an Andy and and Abe, how can I go wrong?  Even if the place was a roach-ridden rathole with soggy linens and black mold that spelled out satanic curses, I’d at least get a blog post out of it.  And so I did, but not for that reason.  This place turns out to be nicely decorated with one of those “water-wall” waterfalls, a big-screen tv, and nice big comfy chairs.  Seems they’ve even got a steam sauna and full-on lie-down rooms in the back but I wasn’t ready for that much treatment.  Instead I just settled down with my feet in a bucket of hotsoak and “Joe” (I don’t think that was his name in the original Cantonese) started working on my back, neck, and arms - 20 minutes of accupressure and deep tissue manipulation.  He used his elbow, people.  He snapped my fingers for me.  He pushed his fingers right into my fontenelle, and I tell you what, that does not happen to Chuckles every day.  After a third of an hour of this I was pretty relaxed, except for the times he got right into a plexus and set me writhing with the effort of not pulling away, but he was just getting started.  The next step was 20 more minutes per foot (with “foot” defined as including the ankle and shin).  He ran his iron thumb down the muscles of my foreshank, worked the blood back into my toenails, and ground his knuckle so deep into my sole I could see it coming out through the top of my foot.  To those who think this sounds unpleasant, or who saw The Amazing Race and know it can hurt, well, sometimes it did.  But I have some troubled pods and I needed someone to FORCE the vital essence back where it belonged.  Joe had the goods and he gave them to me.  A powerful experience.  Powerful good. 

CROQUET: Friends invited us to a Memorial Day Croquet Picnic, which is sadly unacronymical because it was such a good time I wish I could reference it with fewer syllables.  Kel was stuck at home with a sleeping Jesse, so Zach and I made an appearance.  His good friend Eli was there and they played like maniacs, tag and rockets and tree-climbing and tag again and again and again, and at one point I caught them both sitting with their backs against a big shady eucalyptus tree on the far side of all of us, effectively hidden but still very much nearby, eating crackers and chatting quietly like good friends are supposed to do even when they’re not yet five years old.  But the best of all, I think, was when Michael broke out the mallets and wickets and started teaching them the fine art of ballwhacking.  Michael is a dandy - he dresses for every occasion and never a hair is out of place.  To balance this out, he’s one of the nicest, funniest, warmest people anybody has ever met, and he proved it by taking it upon himself to teach two four-year-olds how to play croquet, with infinite patience and generous flexibility.  He took it out on the grownups during a later match, where he wiped up the lawn with some of my other friends.  But with the kids, he was pure gentility - even when they all stripped the heads off the mallets and he taught them the fundamentals of swordplay-with-sticks.  Sure, the jug red wine was tasty, and the watermelon, and the korean veggie sushi and the potato snax.... but the sweetest of all was to witness the kids learning how to picnic like grownups.  Grownups with mallets and swords. 

There, that ought to commemorate that.  Or something.  It’s the little things that add texture, and that are so easily misplaced.  Speaking of which, if any of you have a spare Dr Manhattan watchcap, I’m willing to make a reasonable offer for it.  Yes, some things were gained this past weekend, and something was lost.  And even though the loss was difficult for me, the gains were so rich and resonant that I think I can still go forward with a stalwart heart.  And renewed arches in my feet.  And a wooden mallet.  Do NOT forget the mallet.  I already have the firey lionpit.  Liony firepit?  It’s all good.... 

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Where It’s a Beautiful Day

In keeping with last post’s theme, let’s have a bit of a visit around the ol’ neighborhood.

We can start with the new traffic lights.  All up and down Highway 1, which AS YOU KNOW is right outside my front door, they’ve replaced the traffic lights - again.  A few years ago they put in LED lights in place of old incandescent bulbs; now they’ve just finished replacing all the acutal traffic light posts (or “standards") and these ones have what I can only call super-ultra LED lights.  Maybe they’re supposed to be easier to see in the fog, which occasionally occurs hereabouts; maybe they’re supposed to get the attention of the kind of drivers who plowed into Kel last month and who continue to plow into each other nearly every day along our local roads.  Whatever the reason, these suckers are bright.  So bright, in fact, that they no longer mean exactly what the regular traffic lights meant.  As a public service I hereby indicate what the old colors said (which is well known to you already, I suspect) and their new meaning when amplified by seven billion candlefeet or photrons or however you measure light:

Red: old - stop.  new - STOP GODDAMN IT
Green: old - go.  new - GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE ALREADY
Yellow: old - caution.  new - YOU CRAZY BASTARD WHAT IN GODS NAME ARE YOU DOING

Relaxing additions to the locality, they’re not.  But if they keep down the number of tow truck/ambulance visits, it’ll be worth it.

Rounding out our little tour, some cellphone photos:

Seen after dropping Zach off a school recently, across the street from his alma mater:

(and for what it’s worth, this is a bird that easily stood four feet tall but I couldn’t get very close and who the hell has a zoom lens on their camera phone?)

Seen on Howard Street near my workplace this week:

(query: where did he take it?)

That’s all for now.  Quell your tears.  I’m sure I’ll have something else equally momentous eventually. 

new musics: Budos Band, Fountains of Wayne, and Dengue Fever.  Having trouble thinking of much else, actually!

Monday, May 18, 2009

Unspeakable Wonder

Now that I’m back off of family leave, I want to do my best to remember what it was like to be away.  Family leave is not vacation, by any stretch of the imagination - especially not when it involves Jesse, the child of powers that know neither surcease or limitation.  He’s a wonderful, sweet boy, and a double handful of tough.  He does what he does, and it’s up to us to keep up as best we can.  Four weeks of that, and no fooling - I’m ready to get back to the office. 

One of the most precious memories I will strive to cherish from the time with Jesse was when we got out to the Academy of Science for members’ hours a couple of times.  We had the place pretty much to ourselves - the African Hall, the swamps, the aquarium.... it’s a gorgeous building, especially when it’s almost empty.  But there was one morning in particular that stands out for me: the rainy morning.  It had been threatening since before dawn and I could feel the rain in my fillings, pendent and waiting.  We spent some good time in the museum, saw the sights, ran around like we owned the place, and then settled down under a huge glass dome for a bit of a snack.  And that’s when the deluge started.  We looked up - there was no way not to - and watched water come down on that dome in sheets, in blankets, in enormous transparent comforters stuffed with uncountable raindrops, fat and mad with gravity.  The water careened down the huge glass hemisphere overhead with the roar of oceans.  We sat beneath it as if it was an aquarium aloft and waited for the storm to pass. 

It took only five minutes or so before someone upstairs shut off the faucet.  Dilatory raindrops pattered their way down, playing catchup with their cousins running down the drainpipes.  It was time for us to toddle, so I wiped the yogurt off Jesse’s face and hands as best I could, piled him into the stroller, fixed the rainfly, and headed toward the exit door.  As we departed, they asked us if we needed a handstamp to return.  We didn’t.  We’d seen all the nature we needed to see - or so we thought.  But as it turns out, there was one more exhibit for us to enjoy: the post-diluvial walk home.  After a downpour like that, things all smell differently; the world had been transformed into a feast for the senses.  A park I knew intimately, a route that was second nature to me, revealed itself anew. 

You may ask, what I mean.  It is this:

A rush of coolness, outside air, soaked with rain and rich with ions
Hydroblasted concrete steps
The inky breath of wet macadam
Once-parched lawns, their grass reviving
Art museum’s stale sigh
Crackers&milk from a Tea Garden toddler
A tricklesniff beneath the shadetrees down beside Strawberry Hill
Rhodos perfumed like a gradeschool friend’s kind mother’s closets
Bamboo - tea-sweet and herbaceous
Rotting compost, stinking of the grave and nursery
Ornamental plumtree blossoms, redolent of imagined islands
Acrid tang of runner’s sweat
Roses burgeoning with nascent bloom
Dark beds thick with soil enhancers puckering the soggy air
Redwood grove erupting from its murky dingle: private breezes; gnarled bark on towering trunks that glisten in the faltering light; boughs heavy with needles, chartreuse-tipped and sharply pungent
Sour fists of car exhaust where traffic stops for a fender-bender
Multifarious flowers on tangled shrubs, medicinal and biologic
Fruit trees wafting candied scents
A drunken whiff of juniper
Turpentine pines and sawmill acacias
The hedge that smells of syruped pancakes
Construction trucks and asphalt stockpiles, unctuous, dirty, businesslike
A tremor in the very air as sunlight angles through the clouds

The smell of my child lifted high, clean and frank, the world respiring through his smallness, filling us both with unspeakable wonder

Yeah, that’s how I remember it.  I hope I always do. 

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Photos: Now More than Ever

so, you still want the photos, do ya?  DO YA?  Well sometimes we get what we want out of life, and sometimes we don’t.  However, this is probably one of the former rather than the latter, so here you go:

We’re going to break this down into themed sections.  They’re short.  Like my attention span.

At the Presidio - the Crissey Field Lagoon and Ft Point:

Golden Gate Park Tulip Garden:

Mother’s Day in West Marin:

General weirdness: Zach trying out a Fiat 500 at the repair shop, and a drop of water boiling on a skillet:

And finally, my humble woodgrained thanks:

Monday, May 11, 2009

A Mutha of a Day

I’ve struggled with this one, I really have.  Should I transcribe another long-ass longhand essay about, oh, a pair of pants or something?  Or should I force out a poem that’s sort of dawdling in the creative recesses of my mind?  I could always post a fat mess of photos, if I took the time to load them to a thumbdrive since the network connection to my laptop seems to have been lost and Kel’s sleeping whenever I get a chance to update this sorry excuse for a website, and the hard drive with all the photos is in the bedroom.  And that means I also can’t do a mother’s day post that shows off all the gorgeous photos I took yesterday. 

Well to hell with it, I’m doing the mother’s day post anyway, while it’s still topical.  Maybe later I’ll lard it up with visuals and you can experience the retina-searing beauty of that which I am about to discuss.  But really, there’s a lot about yesterday that I didn’t photograph, so maybe it’s just as well.  Which is to say, equally sucky.  Which is to say, suxqually.  Maybe I’d better move on. 

MOTHER’S DAY began this year with a 6:30 am wake-up call from Jesse, who cheerfully informed me from the confines of his crib that noxious waste had been extruded into his absorbent undergarments.  This time it was a 4-C on the Gag-Difficulty scale - rather seriously rude but relatively easy to clean.  This bode well for a good day.  I completed my task and headed out to the kitchen, where I put together truly gourmet eggels: first, bagels must be buttered and broiled till just brown at the edges; then, canadian bacon must be fried till mottled with pan-sear; then, the eggs must be cooked over-easy with the yolks still runny; then, flip the eggs and lay the bacon and a slice of cheese on top; fry briefly and then transfer the egg, meat and cheese to the bagels.  When you bite in, the yolk should burst in a fiesta of sunny cholesterol and deliciousness, which is exactly what happened.  I ate two, and so did Kel.  Kel also received a glossy, metal-tone card in which was a receipt for our purchase on her behalf of the eighth book of a certain trashy romance series to which we both are addicted - it won’t come out till her birthday but now she knows it’s on its way.  She was a happy, happy mom. 

Next on the agenda was a rousing game of dreydl, which Zach had been insisting be part of the festivities for nearly a week.  Kel played against him while I cleaned the kitchen, and by Z’s suggestion the stakes were Haw Flakes.  Because what says Mother’s Day better than channukah games played with disks of chinese hawthorne candy?  NOTHING, that’s what.  After ten or so rounds the lady of the hour pulled the plug on the game and we got our gear together for a day out and about. 

First stop was way the hell out in western Marin at Inverness, for a bite of lunch.  Anyway the boys got a bite of lunch, and we got a half-dozen truly exceptional oysters raw on the halfshell, tasting like they just leaped out of the crystal-clear waters across the street and onto our tray of icecubes mere moments previous to our enjoyment thereof.  Kel and I also ordered Fish and Chips, but somebody forgot to tell that to the kitchen so after 45 minutes we had to leave without them, but not before the boys dragged me across the parking lot for several forays into the gorgeous flowergarden adjacent to the outdoor dining area.  So the upshot here was, the boys ate well and had a good time, and we ate something delicious that just left us slavering for more but we wound up having to leave unsatisfied. 

Another half-hour on the road and we were at the Chimney Rock trailhead at Pt Reyes, and this is as good a place as any to say that the new car is driving like a dream.  Cruising out through the fields and past the 150-year-old ranches, the wind in our faces and the sun streaming down through the new sunroof (note: yay sunroof!), was an unadulterated pleasure.  At the trailhead we changed Jesse out of a crappie nappie and then loaded him (unloaded) into the backpack carrier, which I hoisted and bore along the 1.5 mile trail to the edge of the cliffs and the edge of the ocean.  This would also be a good place to mention that, per last week’s experiments on the bathroom scale, it appears that J is 4 pounds lighter than Z (and 33 months younger).  Nonetheless, the trail was easy, the wildflowers were abundant, and the views, as always, were spectacular, despite the vertebral impaction resulting from my hauling around little Leadbutt McScreamsalot.  Half the time he was screaming in delight at the vast vistas and lofty perspective; half the time he was screaming in misery at the blustery cold wind and frustration at being prohibited from running off the edge of the promontory.  But we did finally get back to the car and he seemed to have had a pretty good time, as did Zach. 

Next stop was the tiny hamlet of Marshall, right along Highway 1 (which paradoxically also runs right past our apartment), for some more fresh oysters from The Marshall Store.  We picked up a couple of beers, a cupcake for Zachary, and 15 raw on the halfshell, served to us as we sat at a weathered plank balanced on two big old wooden barrels right on the side of the highway, with traffic at our backs and Tomales Bay’s sparking clear waters at our feet.  It was a deeply fulfilling experience on just about every level.  The oysters were big and firm and clean, the shells full of oceanic nectar and perfectly set off by a touch of lemon juice and a splash of tabasco.  I could have plowed through those suckers all day long, and we plan to do just that sometime soon.  But as it happened, it was getting late and we needed to get back to our stomping grounds.  Both kids fell asleep on our way back after we’d gone through Taylor Park (with its towering wild redwoods growing right up into the roadbed, and the scent of open campfires wafting in through our open sunroof) but they woke up upon our arrival at In-n-Out Burgers in Mill Valley for a quick wad of meaty refreshment with fries and shakes.  We got home about 8 hours after we’d left, exhausted but elated.  Truly, a mutha of a day. 

Catchup Notes: today I went to the courthouse to file official adoption papers for Jesse.  I parked right outside the courthouse in an unbelievably convenient space, then spent 45 minutes at the self-help center waiting for a walk-in appointment and telling anyone who stood still for three seconds that I did not need help, I was all set, no questions to be answered, just wanted to file my forms.  I got the same story every time: you’ll have to wait and talk to the attorney.  When finally the atty called me in, she was mortified that I’d not been sent to the clerk’s office right away.  Once in the right room I filed expeditiously and headed back to where I’d parked.... in a tow-away zone.  Yes my friends, if the space is unbelievably great, DO NOT BELIEVE IT.  On the plus side, I was one block away from a bus that arrived within five minutes and took me pretty much directly to the impound yard, where I was able to retrieve my wheels within half an hour of realizing I’d lost them.  Then to Z’s school for a parents’ meeting at which I heard many very nice things about my very nice son, and finally home - where we’ve been moving furniture to consolidate the boys’ rooms.  It’s nearly to the point that Zach’s old room is ready to become a playroom/office.  And that’s a very exciting prospect, believe me.  For one thing, it’ll allow me to post photos to essays like this one but with plenty of delicious photos.  In the meantime, you’ll have to be satisfied with this one:
*
and, we’re.... out.  Don’t let the blog hit you on the ass on your way into the rest of the internet, okay? 

*Photo credit: Dave Paige.  Nice work old buddy.

Friday, May 08, 2009

Battlestar Rochambotica

Now that I’m all up to my ears watching Battlestar Galactica on DVD, everything seems to have a gritty trillium sheen of space opera subtext.  (Yes I know that sheens and subtexts represent a literary disconnect.  I’m wrestling two very active kids and that’s the best I can do right now.  I invite you to offer any improvements you consider worth the effort.) At the same time, Zach has learned how to play Rock-Paper-Scissors (or “Rochambo"), and he really loves robots.  So not long ago he asked to play “Robot-chambo.” I love his creativity, but I’m afraid of the implications of losing a game of Rock-Paper-Cylon.

O crap gotta go. 

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Linguistic Rant Trifecta

I just checked my ol’ notebook and OUCH, I have been neglecting my words.  Sure, I’ve been writing a lot of emails, doing a fair amount of technical computer work and an unfair amount of housework, and have not been on the bus much where I get much of my best writing done, but really, it’s looking pretty weak.  I’ll toss one up here now and see if I can get a few of my ideas down in longhand soon enough to keep my hit-counts from actually dipping into negative numbers. 

PETULANT NERD ALERT: here comes a linguistic rant trifecta.  If words aren’t your thing, move along.  Assuming you haven’t done so already. 

There are three things that I’ve been thinking about too much lately.  They all have to do with words, they’re all petty, and none of them make any real difference to this sad old world of ours.  This is probably why I find it so infuriating that I can’t NOT think about them.  In the past, writing such things up often rid me of these unhealthy little obsessions.  I’m willing to give it one more shot.  SO:

ITEM: I can’t cite a source for this, but at some point in my early years I got it into my head somehow that a class distinction resided in the ubiquitous parallel phrases “pardon me” and “excuse me.” These are word combinations that are in such common parlance that they each almost constitute a single word.  These two phrases often stand in for each other as perfect synonyms, in any situation where the polite thing is to utter some expression of recognition for imposing on others the minor inconveniences of the sort constituting the primary threads of our social fabric.  They are uttered so often that we often don’t really process them as a part of what we say or hear.  Of course, that just means I’m that much more compelled to hone in on them. 

The thing is, I’d somehow heard that it was “common” - unaristocratic - to say “pardon me,” and that a person of refinement would more likely say “excuse me.” It seemed odd to me, backwards - that the more polite-sounding language would indicate coarseness, and the cruder language, sophistication. On tihs point, I obsessed.  My working theory .is now this: a person of the lower classes would be obliged, if caught in a transgression, to ask for mercy and forgiveness - a “pardon.”

But a person of noble stock need apologize to no one for any inadvertent imposition, a stubbed toe or unplanned eructation or anything along such lines.  Forgiveness from the underclass is a contradiction in terms.  However, breeding does dictate that a response be given, albeit not an apology: a demand for dispensation.  You shall excuse me: You are to recognize that I am not subject to your judgment or condemnation and you will make allowance for my unaccountability.  It really is a high-handed, dehumanizing way to acknowledge those little faux pas. 

Given this context, when I hear “excuse me” - or, god forbid, say it, as I still too often do - instead of “pardon me,” it just makes me want to slap someone. And really, life’s too short to get all riled up about something like this. 

ITEM LE DEUXIEME:  I know, right?  OMG what an awful articulation.  People say it all the time now, as an assurance that the speaker is in agreement with a statement just made by another.  “Mindy’s totally chav.” “IK, R?” Hearing this reply sets my teeth on edge, but I hadn’t really stewed compulsively about why till recently.  And now I’m a-gonna share it with you! 

Of course it’s partly because it’s a phrase that invariably arises only in conversations of such thunderous stupidity as to render them infuriating , but that doesn’t address why hearing IKR in particular pushes my buttons.  My current theory as to why this is, is this: the first part, “I know,” tells the hearer that the knowledge being shared is already familiar to the speaker.  This kind of statement can be presented neutrally, or with inflection.  In this case, the followup “right?” supplies an ambiguous inflection of idiocy.  Is the implication that the hearer was already aware of the speaker’s foreknowledge of the relevant fact, and that the original speaker’s attempt to reiterate that information was effectively superfluous, since “you” already understood that “I” knew what “you” were telling me?  Here, “right” is ironic and cutting.  “Oh great.  You’re trying to tell me something I already totally know, and you know that I know it.  ‘RIGHT.’” Charming.  (Not.)

If, on the other hand, I wanted to be less cynical while simultaneously lowering my opinion of the speaker’s intellect (and it’s a tempting option), I could imagine that this “right” is actually an honest plea for affirmation.  “I know this - don’t I?“ Maybe the terms of communication have been so clumsy and vague that neither party has any real sense of what the other is actually talking about.  The speaker thinks he knows what’s being discussed; it rings a distant bell, something he might have seen on line or on the teevee or maybe someone said it in a book he’s seen somewhere, or something similar, or maybe not… The welter of pointless information and opinion that constitutes the lattice of data that defines the modern mediated world can be so overwhelming that it’s effectively impossible for some people to be sure what they themselves know or think.  For these
benighted info-foundlings, they need confirmation that they actually understand what the subject of their conversation is. 

It’s a poor reflection on somebody no matter which way I look at it.  And therefore I hope I never have to hear anyone ever say it again.  As if, right? 

FINAL ITEM: This one’s easy - so easy, I SHOULDN’T HAVE TO SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT.  But I find these errors everywhere, and there’s no excuse for it but ignorance so I guess it’s my job to shed a little light here too:

Assure: to bolster confidence.
Ensure: To take steps to improve the likelihood of a particular outcome.
Insure: To undertake a contractual relationship in which one party agrees to compensate or make whole the other upon the occurrence of a specified event.

Context:
* I assure you that this is easy.
* You can ensure that you never make these errors again.
* But no one will insure against some other bonehead getting it wrong anyway. 

It’s like “nucular:” smart folk get it wrong too.  I should just get over it.  It’s only language.  It’s only accuracy.  Well, as Steve Martin so presciently admonished us, Excuuuuuussssssse me. 

That is all.

Saturday, May 02, 2009

A Fistful of Doll Hairs - The Ramblings of a Man on Family Leave

As I struggle with balky blog templates and a new laptop that just doesn’t “do” firefox anymore and oh good Jesse’s crying again - how the hell did he gash his forehead while IN HIS CRIB?, it seemed to me that it’s been a while since I tried a good old-fashioned improvisational post about a bunch of crap that got stuck between my ears.  It’s been several days since I’ve even been able to update the blog, despite having actually written all this crap out quite a while ago.  Consider this, then, a vigorous application of mental floss. 

Hematite! It was just a few short months ago that I wound up taking Z to the new science museum for a very short visit - just to hit the gift shop to get a holiday present for a young friend, and then to expend what was left of about an hour in the myriad amazing museum exhibits.  So, once we finished shopping, did we hit the living roof?  The indoor rain forest?  The enormous aquariums?  The planetarium, the Galapagos exhibit, the Hall of Taxidermy (the meter’s still running on that one), or the living-scientists-doing-dissections-behind-glass?  You know as well as I that the answer was not so much “um, no” as “HELL no.” We just stayed in the gift shop, where Z had discovered JISHAKU!  This is a game featuring 18 highly-polished hematite magnets, which players take turns depositing into regular shallow indentations in a foam playing surface.  If the magnet attracts others, you pull them all off the board and play them again.  First one out of magnets, wins.  It’s a quick and fun game, and Z was entranced by it for as long as I let him stand in front of the display.  Of course, I had to get it for him.  And also of course, I waited several months before getting around to it - by which time the damn thing was no longer on the shelves.  I puffed up my manly courage as much as I could and confronted the teenage countermeister to demand (well, inquire) whether the game was available at all.  They had only one left, as it turns out, and it was “downstairs” (ominous, eh?) - apparently as a result of parents complaining after feeding 18 highly-polished hematite magnets to their tender offspring.  And who could blame them? They’re so tasty-looking, like little silver erasers or the eyes of evil aliens.  (Nice aliens have bronze-tone eyes.  Don’t you even pay attention to the news?) So here I am, bringing home the Jishaku (and don’t confuse it with Jinshaku, which apparently is actually an imaginary tiny pig that messes up your internal balance if you are a gullible 17th century japanese person).  And Zach could not care less, but anyway the game is a lot of fun for me and to hell with him if he won’t play along.  I’ll just sit in the dark by myself and study the official stragedy sheets, which include wisdom such as this: “A Player using this method will seek to methodically place their stone in multiple holes, rotating the stone as they do so.” Are you wondering which method they mean?  Like I’m even gonna tell you.  Just watch out for me rotating my stone in your multiple holes, buddy.  The best games basically replicate real life.

Birthday Presents! I’m not a big birthday present whore but this year I did get a handful of really thoughtful items that I will gladly share with you all.  (In writing, I mean.  The actual stuff is mine.) The nucular fam got me a spiffy baseball-type cap in classic SF brown, with orange stitched letters on the front that read “38 Geary.” A hat for my bus!  A bus hat!  Or “bushat!” But not a “bu shat.” That would be gross.  The only drawback is that it matches my beloved brown “Inner Richmond” hoodie, which would just be too much local color (brown) to wear all at once.  However, the hat does look great with my new t-shirt from Simon - a very classy high-quality casual garment with a graphic of a big grinning roundheaded doofus on the front, just like one Mick Jagger wore in the early seventies.  It’s very much the nicest T I’ve ever owned - silky fabric, great fit, and understated off-brown color.  It’s a pleasure to wear.  Which puts me in mind of Night Owl, who had to get into his super-duds (in The Watchmen) to feel like a “real man” - and my very dear friend LL sent me a fully articulated (well, mostly fully articulated) action figure of him for home display and roleplaying purposes.  The boys love him, and so do I!  Yay Night Owl!  Yay funky “Crazy World Ain’t It” t-shirt!  Yay Geary 38 hat!  Upon special application, a photograph may be obtained of me with these three items.  Whether I am wearing anything else will depend on the particulars of the request and requester, but let’s not rule anything out prematurely.

Eggplant? Yes, for some it’s nothing more than a gluey purple mess, but for others, it’s a delightful gourmet treat.  I fall somewhere in the middle, for which I need to see an inner-ear specialist.  Meantime, Kel did bring some of that good auberginey goodness home a while ago and I had no idea what to do with it, so I invented a delicious meal I will now describe to you in paltry detail.  I cooked up some ground turkey, taking care to ensure it was properly spiced and didn’t fry up into big chewy chunks.  Thereto, I added frozen spinach.  Separately, I diced up the “plant d’eouf” in little teeny dice and tossed it in a beaten egg (okay, egg beaters, but they worked fine anyway) and then in bread crumbs.  These I then fried up in hot oil till crispy but not till they fell the hell apart like eggplant so often does, and mixed it all together.  It freaking ROCKED, especially with my favorite Mae Ploy Thai Sweet Chili Sauce.  In fact, I’ve generally been rocking the kitchen action lately, but I’m keeping the rest of it to myself.  I just found out that an old friend from grade school is the Director of Hell’s Kitchen and I need to keep something in reserve for when Gordon Ramsey shows up here to berate me.

Nightlight: After years - yes, years! - of saying that we needed nightlights but being rebuffed by the domestic powerstructure, Zach mentioned that he didn’t like using the bathroom at night because he can’t reach the light and it’s too dark in there to see if he’s watering the floortiles and within two days Kel had ordered and received a little lamp to redress that problem.  It’s a clear plastic rod that lights up in a rotating series of colors when plugged in and left in the dark.  I really enjoy watching it illuminate - the cheerful teal, the verdant green, the infernal red, the jaundiced yellow.  Only complaint: No blacklight function!.  What good is a nightlight that won’t make my psychadelic posters leap right off the flocked cardstock into the depths of my visual cortex?  Oh and Z still doesn’t use the bathroom at night.  I’m considering installing a hallway catheter (for the whole family, and guests as they might desire), but I do have to keep in mind, he’s got a lot on his mind and he’s barely 4 years old.  There’s only so much you can ask a nightlight to do for a fellow, and I think “mind-bending visuals” is about the limit.  Z has a damn good grip on plenty of stuff without pressuring him into nocturnal continence with some flashy electric plinth.

Family Leave: I just want to say that this has been a really freaking intense process, having been off work for two weeks already just to “be there” for the kids.  Mostly it’s been a fairly full house - Kel was home the first week; Zach has been here for most of the second - but there has actually been one day when it was just Jesse and me.  I went into his room that morning to get him out of the crib and discovered that the poop fairy had frolicked in his undergarments.  Up till then that had always meant that the diaper had to get changed ASAP so we could get on with the rest of a busy daily agenda, but this day there was no daily agenda beyond helping my boy feel happy and secure.  I took my time, not rushing, keeping things quiet, being careful and thorough and communicative.  It took just a little longer than usual, but the satisfaction and gratification of being there in that moment, that diaper-changing, crap-stained moment, was startlingly fulfilling.  It was one of those “be here now” moments.  But with poo.

I think that’s probably all I need to say about that, and all I’m going to say about anything else right now.  I’ll try to keep writing and posting as opportunities arise, but things have been sketchy and hectic (skechtic, I guess), so no promises.  Except that I’ll be changing more diapers soon.  Watch for the You Tube featurette!