Island Playground

Today I came across the picture below while I was cleaning out stuff in my studio.  It's part of an advertisement sponsored by the Hawaii Tourist Bureau in the April 1929 issue of House and Gardens.    The caption reads, "HAWAII, The World's Enchanted Island Playground."  I love the colors of it, although I'm puzzled by the geisha serving drinks and by men wearing ties at the beach.   I found this magazine among my dad's things after he died; he would have been only 14 when it was published, so perhaps it belonged to his mother.

"HAWAII The World's Enchanted Island Playground"

My friend Debbie and I went to Hawaii in 1976, when we were in our twenties.  We didn't see a single geisha. We were served drinks, so many that Debbie wrote this memorable line on a postcard: "Bombed, we walked the beach at night."  That would be Waikiki Beach.  Here we are at Waimea Canyon on the island of Kauai:

On Kauai in 1976

Another Voice Heard From

My sister dropped by yesterday, and we agreed that these are scary, scary times.  The Republicans have lost their minds.  I, for one, am convinced they'd take away women's right to vote if they could.  It's just shocking that women want to decide how many children they have. The gall of it!

And then there was Maureen Dowd, with her column in yesterday's New York Times.  She says many delicious and accurate things ("Santorum, whose name aptly comes from the same Latin root as sanctimonious..."), beginning with this:

"Republicans being against sex is not good," the GOP strategist Alex Castellanos told me mournfully this morning.  "Sex is popular."

Later that evening, I got to the chapter in my iPhone manual about Siri, the voice-activated feature.  I experimented.  I talked to her, and the text of what I said appeared on the screen.  I showed it to Jerry.

Then we lost our minds.  We spoke to Siri, said anything we liked, which turned out to be a lot of pent-up hostility against Republicans.  We got, as my English friend Val would say, "vulga."  And Siri, bless her heart, must be a Democrat.  She got every cuss word, every obscenity, absolutely right, perfectly spelled.  Except ca-ca.  She spelled that with a "k."

Aquatic Community

                  The new Albany Pool with people in it, February 16

This water exercise class has been together for ten years, first at the old Albany Pool and then at the Richmond Swim Center for two years while the new Albany Pool was being built.  This was our first day back at the Albany Pool.  Our teacher, the fabulous Kate, has gone back to school to become a nutritionist, but we continue to meet twice a week without her.  I can't imagine my life without this class and the wonderful group of people in it.

Succulent Angel

Aeonium haworthia

What secret friend left this by my front door?  It appeared after the post about succulents.  Thank you, whoever you are!  I will definitely go to Succulents and Cacti on Delaware Street in Berkeley.  In the meantime, it's sunning itself on my kitchen windowsill.

Starter House

In  2012

This was our first house, which we bought in 1976.  The selling price was $42,000 for three bedrooms and one bath in El Cerrito.  We looked at many houses in our price range before settling on this one, and we spent a lot of time in Spenger's bar drinking Manhattans AFTER looking at, say, ten houses on a Sunday afternoon.  It was a depressing business.  There were some really dreary houses,  including one on Hopkins Street in Berkeley where the dining room and living room floors  had simply rotted away.

This house, which Jerry referred to as "the box," was clean and well-cared for, but  tarted-up in a style that wasn't ours.  The kitchen had white plastic brick on one wall, the master bedroom was intensely blue, and my study had fake white wood halfway up the walls and then bright pink plaid wallpaper to the ceiling.  Jerry's study was baby-blue and white.  The lawn was so miniscule that I'd mow it by using hand clippers.  We lived there 18 months and used the equity to leap to Berkeley, closer to our jobs.

But before we moved, we spent numerous evenings sitting on our St. Vincent de Paul sofa bed thingie (not the typical type) drinking Manhattans and coming up with ideas on how to improve this house.  Oh, we thought about removing the linen closet and replacing it with French doors leading to a backyard deck.  We'd take down the wall between the dining area and the kitchen and have an open plan.  And we'd definitely add a dishwasher.  The next morning we'd come to our senses. We never even got rid of the plastic brick.

About 15 years later, when the house was on the market yet again (no one stayed very long), we went to look at it.  We were amazed to see that someone had drunk enough Manhattans to actually DO some of the remodeling we'd talked  about.  They'd taken out the linen closet and replaced it with French doors to a deck, and they'd taken down the wall between dining area and kitchen.  They must have gotten even drunker than we did because they'd turned the tiny room with the water heater into a half-bath.  Plus put up a white picket fence and a very short but slightly winding brick path to the front door.  Then they'd run out of money and been foreclosed on.  There was a spot for the dishwasher, but it had never been installed.

The other day I drove out The Arlington to take at look at the place.  I wish I'd had the courage to knock on the front door to hear what the new plans are.

Addendum:  According to Zillow, this house last sold in September 2008 for $477,000.  It's now valued at $388,000.

Playing, with Money

Earlier this week, I went to the doctor for a complete physical exam.  She read my lab report to me: everything normal.  She seemed happier and happier as she went down the list, almost like she'd known I'd been rumaging around on the Mayo Clinic website.  No, no, and no!  None of those scary diseases!  That was a relief and also permission to drive directly to Walgreen's and buy a Snicker's bar.

The doctor's office and the nearby Walgreen's are on Pill Hill in Oakland, and there's a largely poor African-American neighborhood to the west.  Most of my fellow customers bought no more than few things and quickly, as though they knew exactly how much money was in their pocket, and it wasn't going to finance any extras. 

They didn't dawdle in the eyeliner department wondering which kind works best on old-lady eyes.  They did not buy three pairs of rubber gloves because, what the hell, who wants to go back for more any time soon?  They were in a brightly lit, well-stocked store, but the abundance was not available to them.  That was my sense of it.  People seemed preocupied and pinched.

Last night, I was reading the travel section of the Sunday New York Times, and I came across an article on page 2 entitled, "On Vacation, and Playing Chef for a Day."  People who love to cook (this would not be me) can pay to help the chef  of  Blackberry Farm hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. The article says,

"The day begins with several tasks on the property, including helping pick seasonal produce and herbs and selecting cheese.  Then it's on to the kitchen to help prepare dishes for the hotel's restaurant.  The price is $2,000 a day."

Are they serious?  Pay $2,000 per day to cook?  I went on a cruise that cost considerably less than that  per day, and I was served every meal. I was amazed. Jerry was incredulous.  It would be our idea of hell.

But much worse was thinking about the people in the Walgreen's.   Would they be incredulous at the idea of anyone having that kind of disposable income, mine and the vacation-chefs? Or maybe they'd be resigned, which is much sadder.  Today I signed a petition to put The Millionaire's Tax on the California ballot, but I don't think it will fix it.  Not really.

The Not-So-Smart Owner

Claudia and I set off at 1 pm today to buy smart phones.  I was going to  buy my first smart phone; she was upgrading from a Blackberry.  We drove directly to Best Buy, where they sell every smart phone you could possibly want.

Very soon I was in the hands of a Verizon rep who looked amazingly like Luci Johnson.  Didn't catch her name; I just thought of her as "Luci." (Claudia agreed, she looked very Luci-like).   In no time, I'd decided on an iPhone 4S which, for those of you who don't know, means that I have a tiny person named Siri inside my phone who is now my slave. I'm very excited about that aspect. I can boss her around, tell her to e-mail people, have her take down a shopping list as I wander around my kitchen. All by speaking into this magical instrument.

Luci-Lookalike turned us over to a Best Buy employee named Virgil, who was a doll. Efficient, smiley, utterly lacking in condescension.   Still, it  took at least 45 minutes to sell us two phones (Claudia got a Windows phone). The line of people waiting for help was long, but Virgil was methodical and fully attentive.  He transferred our phone numbers.  He offered service contracts.  Finally, as the last step, he took our credit cards.  I felt as though we were carrying the crown jewels out of the store.

We and our phones repaired to Saul's in North Berkeley for a late lunch.   Since the place was nearly deserted and we had a very accommodating waiter, we sat and fiddled with our phones after we'd finished eating, passing them back and forth to each other when we got stuck.  Which was often. I  did manage to take an iPhone photo of Claudia:

Claudia mulling her new smart phone

Finally, we managed to call each other FROM ACROSS THE TABLE.  Yes, we did!  We had failed at downloading apps, getting our e-mail accounts on the phones, and other challenges, but, by God, we called each other at Saul's.  Then I called my house and got the answering machine.  Then I called my sister's cell and got a strange woman on voicemail.  Three calls!

I came home and put out an SOS to Annika.  She came over, reassuring and patient, and showed me some basics. Without her, there would be no picture in this post.  In the meantime, I got to look at her iPhone and see guys who are approaching her on Ok Cupid.  I learned that some are douche-y.  All in all, I feel a little more hip than I did this morning.

And Leah, if you're reading this, I no longer have that embarrassing flip phone.

A Day in San Francisco

Vintage 1999

I went to San Francisco today to get my bangs trimmed (could barely see) and to return an expensive handbag I bought in a mad, bad moment.  Today was the last day I could return it. I found a bag in my closet that I like better, a now-vintage Coach bag my sister gave me about 12 years ago.  See left.

Before and after the bang trim, I stopped by the restaurant in downtown SF where Annika's working as a cashier.  With her new glasses, she looks especially intelligent and efficient.  She comped me a hot chocolate, and I sat and watched her wait on tourists and business people.

Annika at work

Then I went to Britex to spend some of the money I saved by returning the handbag.  A saleswoman named Melody, who's helped me many times , told me that  she's worked there for more than 30 years. She's feisty, opinionated, and thoughtful.  I've seen her take brides to task for unrealistic choices.   And, today, a mother who was planning to make a dress that's too sophisticated for her twelve-year old daughter.

Melody, who loves her job at Britex.  She shoots from the hip.

Marching scissors in a window on Grant Avenue

Mural or graffiti?  In a Chinatown alley

Back to Berkeley with some promising fabric

The Problem with Pints

The real thing, too,  not fro-yo. 

We bought it for dessert on Valentine's Day.  Jerry ate some and left town. ("You're leaving me!  With ice cream!  Fine!")   I waited until yesterday to eat some because first I  had  to have blood drawn for a routine cholesterol test.  I came home from LabCorp, circled the freezer for a few hours, and ate some.  It was delicious, with crunchy bits of macaroon.  Today I ate the rest of it.  Might as well, I thought.  There's so little left. 

The new indoor Albany pool

Also today, my water exercise class moved back  to the Albany Pool, which was rebuilt over the past two years. ( We've been refugees at the Richmond Swim Center.)  The lane configuration isn't right for us yet; we're stuck in the shallow, where we can't do vigorous exercise. So we all stood around in the water and chatted. Didn't do much to counteract the effects of full-fat ice cream. 

It's spring in Berkeley, and when I picked up my friend Anne this morning to go to the pool, there were plum trees in full flower up and down her street. We used to live on that street, and the flowering plum trees always meant Valentine's Day.

Flowering plum trees along Capistrano Avenue

Got Empathy?

Sometimes I wish people would go out on a limb and be nicer.  This morning's paper had two stern letters to the editor about Whitney Houston.  One writer said, "She overindulged herself like all the others before her and paid the price."  Another wrote, "Unfortunately, she was another drug addict who made some poor decisions." 

I don't think she overindulged herself.  I think she was driven to self-destruction by a disease, and I'm learning more about it in a book  I'm reading, "The Tennis Partner," by Abraham Verghese.  He's a doctor who played tennis with a medical student who'd been through drug rehab several times.  When this student arrived at a clinic in Atlanta especially for doctor-users,  another doctor told him, "you have a disease, a  disorder in your forebrain, a genetic defect that makes you so susceptible [to using drugs]."  Ultimately, the disease killed him.

Almost certainly Whitney Houston, who struggled for more than a decade with drug abuse,  suffered from this disease.  And,  as columnist Caille Millner pointed out,  Houston was also "an untouchable princess...representative of black female dignity," a role model for a generation of middle-class black women.   Now there's some pressure.

So why not give poor Whitney a break, letter-writers?   Is it my imagination or are there more harsh, dismissive judgments floating around these days, especially in the political sphere?  And to me, there seems to be a correlation between people who hate the "nanny state" interfering in our lives, and people who act like  nannies themselves and not very nice ones. 

But I'll try to be charitable.

Tulips and Frozen Quiche

Happy Valentine's Day.  At our house we exchanged cards and gifts (bar of dark chocolate, pot of tulips) at breakfast.  Tonight we're eating a romantic dinner of Costco frozen quiche. 

When I was a kid, like everyone else I gave every kid in my class a cheap packaged valentine card by dropping them in decorated brown bags taped to desks or pinned to bulletin boards.  Doilies were big in the way of bag decorations.  Everyone followed this protocol. No favorites.

When I first met Jerry, he had no concept of Valentine's Day. It was a holiday that passed him by.  Now he's onboard, even enjoys it.  He's already hidden the chocolate bar.

Earth to Catholic Bishops: Get Real!

That's about all I have to say.  Jon Carroll has an eloquent column on this topic in today's SF Chronicle.

Quilt Inspirations

Most of the quilts I've made were inspired by pictures of quilts I found in books.  I'd leaf through book after book, marking favorites with post-its, and then narrow down the field to one I could modify to suit my taste.

Some quilts, though, have been inspired by environments.   In 2010, I came across this picture of the lobby of the Eco H2 Hotel in Healdsburg:

The colors and patterns inspired a quilt I made for our bed:

Circles and Squares, 2011

When I started quiltmaking, I was hellbent on doing quilts about the backyard of the house in San Jose where I grew up. Over the years, I made three on this theme. The first, "Backyard Orchard," is a scramble of pattern in nine-patch squares, with a dominating leafy pattern.  The second, "Backyard Pool," (see below)  gives a sense of the small wading pool my sister and I shared; she has this quilt on her bed.  The third, "Backyard Garden" is a one-patch of flower and fruit prints, alternating with plain or leaf-prints.  These were made over a nine-year period, and during that time I also made lots of quilts based on patterns I found in books.

Right now, though, the books aren't doing it for me.  Maybe I'll buy some shelter magazines and find another hotel lobby. Or I'll rummage around again in family photo albums.

My sister and me in our backyard pool, c. 1958

Backyard Pool, 2002

Cars and Water

Flipping through this morning's SF Chronicle,  I came across this photo.

"My God," I said to Jerry.  "What happened?"

"Some woman drove a car into the ocean," he said. I flinched at "some woman"--sexist overtones, etc.,--but it WAS a woman who gunned it through the sand at Ocean Beach and ended up in the waves.  Who knows why.  She got out,  but who knows the fate of the Lexus. 

I did a number on a car around 1980 that also involved water.  We had a Datsun 510 stationwagon, which I found described online this morning as "the poor man's BMW."  Which is odd,  since Jerry refers to any Mercedes/Audi/BMW as "some overpriced German car."  Here's a photo of a twin to our car, courtesy of jalopnik.com:

A twin to our 1970 Datsun 510, photographed on the streets of Alameda in 2008

Our car, a pale yellow number, developed a leak in the radiator, so we were keeping an eye on the water.  Jerry went off on a field trip, and my friend Claudia and I were out and about in the car.  We pulled up in front of my house, and it occurred to me that I should put some water in the car.  Got the hose, dragged it over to the car, unscrewed what I thought was the radiator cap, and filled 'er up.  Filled and filled and FILLED.

"It sure is taking a lot of water," Claudia said, afterwhile.

I agreed. A bad leak.

Eventually, I decided I'd put in enough water, so I turned off the hose and we got back in the car.  I turned the key. 

A deep gurgle, then nothing.

I ran inside, called a friend of Jerry's,  and told him what happened. 

Silence.

"You'll have to have it towed," he said kindly.  "You've filled the crankcase instead of the radiator."

Shit.

The car was towed, the water drained, the engine flushed.  By the time Jerry got home, the problem was solved.  Just to be on the safe side, though,  from then on I kept a turkey baster in the car so I could take water out in case I put too much in the radiator.  Jerry found that very touching.

Succulents

The "Before" picture.  Note the oak leaves, which stain the surface.  And one lone succulent.

We have a new deck surface that's water-tight,  but the pale gray is turning out to show the dirt.  Jerry had suggested brown --always his favorite because it IS the color of dirt--but, no.  My sister-the-designer said it "would look like Bakersfield."  Also, none of the possible browns went with the house color.  Time to introduce some plants of the the lowest maintenance  possible variety.

TC Donovan, the landscape designer who works with us, suggested we try succulents in containers. NEW containers, she stressed.   Not the old, salt-stained pots abandoned down the side of  the house. Today was my day to research all that.

Step 1:  Went online.   Got a  30% off coupon for Pottery & Beyond in Emeryville.  Will drag Jerry there tomorrow.

Step 2: Googled  "succulents in containers."  Came up with Succulent Container Gardens, by Debra Lee Baldwin.  Ran down to Fourth Street  to Builders Booksource and bought it.  Marveled at the plentiful parking there on a weekday morning.

Step 3: Studied the book.  Stuck many Post-its to pages with photos of things I like.   Here are some of them, starting with a Sedum sieboldii:

a

The purple sheen of an aeonium

Sea lavender with Echeveria agavoides and trailing Lotus berthelotii

A palette of succulents

Happiness Fruit

This is a Buddha Hand Fingered Citron, which I discovered today at the North Berkeley Farmer's Market.  I think they look like chicken feet, only prettier.

I came home and read up.  The  BHF Citron was introduced into California from Asia in the late 19th century, and in Japan it's known as a "bushukan."  Pulpless, juice-less, and seedless, it's inedible, but people use the zest in recipes.  You can infuse vodka with it, and you can candy it.  In Asia, it's a symbol of happiness.  At the Farmer's Market you can buy one for $3.00.

Menu Suggestions?

Here's what a pal's been told by prospective dinner guests:

Guest 1: Can eat anything

Guest 2: No dairy, no red/green/yellow/orange peppers; no raw garlic or or onion.  Can eat blue cheese, parmesan, and yogurt
.
Guest 3: No gluten or meat

Guest 4:  No eggs or meat

Hurray! And yet...

I heard on the car radio this morning that a panel of federal judges upheld a lower court's ruling that Proposition 8 is unconstitutional.  My friend Anne and I just about did high-fives in the car (a new trend: old ladies doing high-fives). Oh, hurray!  Sanity reigns!  Justice! 

Except.

Gay people in California still can't marry. The decision will be appealed by fanatic, blindered people who want to meddle in other people's lives.  Not to editorialize.

My dear friend Rob, who died last fall, told me while he was ill that if Judge Walker's decision lifted the ban on gay marriage, he and his partner of 30 years, Emanuel, would marry. That would make inheriting easier for Emanuel. Well, Judge Walker did rule against Proposition 8, saying it was unconstitutional, but the decision didn't open a window during which gay marriages could take place.  Rob died unmarried.  Legally, anyway.

In September when I flew to Los Angeles to say good-by to Rob,  there was no mention of marriage.  The focus was on coping with his condition.  Emanuel was up every two hours in the night to check on Rob, even though an attendant slept in Rob's room.  Emanuel carried him up and down the stairs.

When it was time for me to leave for the airport, I called a cab, and the driver turned out to be an efficient driver, but a horrible man.  We passed a poster advertising Ellen DeGeneres's TV show, and he said, "She looks like a man."  I said, "She's wearing a suit."  "She is a lesbian, I think," he said.

Not now, I thought. Please, not now.  I've just said good-by to a friend of forty years who has a devastated and devoted partner.  Just get me to LAX and then go away somewhere and evaporate.

"She's married to a woman," I said, evenly.

"Next thing, people will be marrying animals," he answered.

"No!" I said. 

He shut up.  I was so upset, I miscalculated the fare and gave him a tip.  I grabbed my totebag, and he drove off with his ugly baggage.

Speaking Up

On Saturday, my friend Lin and I went out to lunch.  We were seduced by the description of a Brussels sprout salad with caramelized onion and bacon.  The waitress brought two bowls mounded high with shredded Brussels sprouts, not very appealing to look at,  no focal point, and so much of it.  We each took a forkful. 

There was a strong, undefinable bitterness.  Not the Brussels sprouts, but something weirder than that.  We tried to eat it, we picked away at the hard-boiled egg and the bacon for a little protein.  The waitress came by to ask how we were doing, but  we were in the middle of conversation about how life is too short to put up with social situations you don't want to go to  ("I think I'll pass," was an excellent response of Lin's, I thought), and I waved off the waitress because I didn't want us to be interrupted.

When we were ready to go, the waitress gazed at our still-full plates and asked if we wanted boxes to take home the salad.  No, we said.

"What's in that salad?" I asked.  "It's very bitter."

The waitress said she didn't know, that other people had liked it, but there was another cook today.  She whisked away the plates and returned with the check.  Lin's eyes widened.  She turned the bill so I could see:  We'd been comped the lunch.  The only charge was for my Diet Coke. 

We paid, we tipped, we went outside and did high fives.  At 61, we were finally figuring it out--why make nice when you can't stomach it?   Literally, in this case.  And it was so on topic.

After that, we went to the San Jose Art Museum, where there's a show of Joan Brown's work, which I love.

Self-Portrait at Age 42, Joan Brown, 1980

I'm pretty sure Joan Brown would have sent that salad back right away.  After all, she swam to Alcatraz, for God's sake.

After the Alcatraz Swim #3, Joan Brown, 1976.

Getting Away from the Airwaves

My house seemed full of bad news yesterday.  In my studio, where I listen to NPR, it was all about the Susan G. Komen Foundation, which was  cutting up very badly,  aided in full by the Republicans, who, as Jerry says, are never satisfied just to let people be.

I switched to TV, and there was Leon Panetta speculating that Israel may attack Iran in the spring, very scary.  After lunch, I got in my car and sped away from it all. 

First, I drove to Office Depot, where I bought a package of ten lanyards.  This didn't do much for my spirits, but it got me out of the house, and I learned what lanyards are (cords you wear around your neck attached to a plastic nametag).   Then I went to North Berkeley farmer's market where  I bought two bunches of calendulas for $5.00.  The woman who wrapped them up assured me that I could put them in salads. Instead, they're on the kitchen windowsill.  Thanks to Susan G., I am now boycotting pink. 

Freezer Camp

One night Jerry and I were having dinner with one of his graduate students,  who had just moved with his wife to a house they'd bought.  The move had been a nightmare.  Everything went wrong, truck late,  things broken,  and then, in the midst of it all,  their much-loved, elderly cat died.

"Oh, no!"  I said.  "What did  you do?"  I'd heard about this cat for years.

"We put him in the freezer,"  the wife said.  "We couldn't deal with it."

Jerry lit up. He finds all cats smug, manipulative,  and pretty much useless.  Ever since that dinner,  he's suggested throwing bothersome neighborhood cats in the freezer; also,  elderly ones that cost a lot of money in vet bills, or really just about any cat that happens on to his radar. 

Yesterday over breakfast,  I read in the SF Chronicle about a cat coach named Marilyn Krieger, who charges $250 per house call to advise owners on cat behavior issues.  ("Laughing all the way to the bank," Jerry snorted.)  A reporter followed Ms. Krieger on a house call to consult on a cat named Harvey who was "doing his business"  under the dining table rather than in a $300 self-flushing cat box.

It turns out that not only is it poor form to put a cat box next to a feed bowl,  but the owners had just moved in together, each bringing two cats.  There was resentment.  Harvey did not like being a step-cat.

Ms. Krieger's solution?  A program that involved re-introducing the cats, using  clickers and rewards,  rubbing cats with old socks treated with cat scent, and--I kid you not--the owners moving to separate beds.  And for some time.

"What?" said Jerry, cereal spoon motionless. "Why?"

"So the cat won't think the owners are playing favorites," I read.

"The people can't like each other better than  a cat?

I knew what was coming.

 "Throw it in the freezer!" he said.  "Right away!"

He resumed eating his cereal, shaking his head.  And,  reader, I have to admit, I was shaking mine.

Cooking Is Not Simple

Last night Jerry and I went to Berkeley Bowl supermarket (named after the  former bowling alley where the first store opened.  I've lived in Berkeley so long that I actually remember that bowling alley and in fact lived so close to it the summer after I graduated that I could lie in bed and hear the balls strike the pins.)  Our cupboard was bare, and we'd run through all the take-out options we could think of: soup, tostadas, pizza.   We had no choice but to go buy some raw ingredients.

Berkeley Bowl has a marvelous array of vegetables, many of them unrecognizable to me.  It has a complete fish and meat market.  Everything is fresh. Jerry maintains that the temperature of the store is only a few degrees higher than at Everest Base Camp. He wears a down vest and wipes his eyes.  The aisles are crowded. 

We'd made a  detailed shopping list, starting with ingredients for something we call "Mexican Muck," which is actually Mexican lasagna--I know, I know--from the South Beach Diet Cookbook.  It can be stretched to four nights, which is ideal.  We bought a ton of stuff, almost $200 worth, packed our recycled grocery bags, lugged them to the car, and bleated all the way home about how the ultimate indignity lay ahead:  after we put away all the stuff, we'd have to cook.

After a thrown-together dinner,  I collapsed with a book, "My Life in France" by Julia Child.  I came across this paragraph on page 74:

"One of the best things I absorbed [from the Cordon Bleu] was how to do things simply.  Take roast veal, for example.  Under the tutelage of Chef Bugnard, I simply salt-and-peppered the veal, wrapped it in a thin salt-pork blanket, added julienned carrots and onions to the pan with a tablespoon of butter on top, and basted it as it roasted in the oven.  It couldn't have been simpler.  When the veal was done, I'd degrease the juices, add a bit of stock, a dollop of butter, and a tiny bit of water, and reduce for a few minutes; then I'd strain the sauce and pour it over the meat.  The result: an absolutely sublime meal."

Simple?  A thin salt-pork blanket?  Julienned carrots?  Degreasing and straining?

I've noticed this about many people who write cookbooks:  They moan about the lost American home-cooked meal and the nightly gathering of family around the dining table.  It's not that much work, they maintain.  It's homey, it's the soul of family life, blah, blah, blah.  They have not visited chez nous, where dinner is cooked in a resigned silence, dutifully eaten--admittedly with sometimes lively conversation-- and cleaned up with more resignation.  We are not Paul and Julia absorbing the essence of France.  We don't even absorb the essence of  California produce, which is available at Berkeley Bowl.  We cook it,  and we eat.