Santa Fe Mother Blogger

Stuff Saturation. It's the Kid's Fault!

2008-08-01T12:41:00.000-07:00

It’s been more than a week now since I started gathering my extraneous stuff to sell tomorrow. I’m having a garage sale. Today, I’m shocked and awed at the stuff saturation stuffing my garage and front yard. OMG!

But what really caught my attention are the boxes and trunks of stuff that I can’t let go. And it’s all my kids’ fault. Oh yeah, I can hear them now, “MOTHER!”

Before giving birth, my possessions were books, clothing and a cadre of animals (horses, goats, etc.). Then in 1974 came my first daughter and subsequent reels of 8mm film, boxes of Polaroids, mementos and more. 1976 brought my second daughter. By 1980 memory lane started to become a memory vault. The vault was fed with kindergarten art projects, YMCA crafts, school certificates, programs of school plays, piano certificates (“Dakota successfully completed Primary Piano,” meaning she could play the C scale), news clippings, scrap books, and more Polaroids and photos.

When the girls’ birth-father died, I saved his stuff for them. His stuff? He was a geologist, so ask me about moving, and moving, and moving his boxes of rocks. I’ve done some editing, but I’m still saving the really good rocks for my grandson.

Then I have all the gifts given to me by the girls for over 30+ years. I fear bad mamma-jamma if I rid myself of those.

Grandson Quinlan will be a year-old next week. I’ve off-loaded boxes to his mother. Pretty soon she’ll be wondering how this stuff began accumulating to the point of ridiculous.

Gotta run, calls are coming in about the advertised sale. Wish me luck, and if you are in the neighborhood, stop by and continue the process of your own stuff saturation.

A Christmas Tree for the Holiday Season

2007-12-22T10:58:00.001-08:00

December is one of my favorite months. Humankind devised ways to make this dark and usually cold month light-filled and festive. Our agrarian roots found joy in the Winter Solstice and celebrated the day the sun returns. The ancient classical world crafted tales of the mystical birth of a Midwinter King that took place on or near the Winter Solstice. Tammuz, Attis, Apollo and Dionysus, Mithras and Baal were all divine mid-winter births.

These celebrations included evergreens that represented life during winter's death sleep. As Christianity spread, the ancient tradition of evergreens followed.

So 2007 years later (give or take a few years either way) there is an alleged war against Christmas because some inclusive persons decided that instead of calling a decorated mid-winter evergreen a Christmas Tree, they called it a Holiday Tree.

My Christian education taught that one of the foremost elements of Christianity is inclusiveness. We are all God's children. Call the tree anything you like, but don't condemn those who don't celebrate Christmas and don't declare war on those who believe this is a time to celebrate all of us. I can't believe that the Good God of this universe would choose a naughty Christian over a loving and kind Muslim, Jew, Buddhist, or whatever.

I don't understand why fanatic Christians, Muslims, Jews, etc., believe that it is ONLY their God, their beliefs or the highway to hell. I want to ask, "What part of God do you not understand?"

We have a Christmas tree in our home. I host holiday parties that include a wide range of people and their belief systems. We will celebrate Christmas Eve and share a Merry Christmas Day with our family, and we wish happy holidays to all of those who celebrate other December events. Is this not the Christian way? There is no attack against Christmas. It is the exact opposite: honoring all that the Christmas miracle teaches.

Now, only one Christmas miracle remains. How do I eat all that grand food and not gain an inth of a pound?

Merry Christmas, a belated Hanukkah, Season's Greetings, and Happy New Year to everyone from the snowed-in Santa Fe Mother Blogger.

Happy Holidays With Chef Dakota's Sweet Onion Bisque

2007-11-19T07:24:00.000-08:00

Several blogs ago I promised that I’d send out Chef Dakota’s tasty Sweet Onion Bisque recipe. It should have been in my loose-recipes file. Wasn’t. Four or more months later, with my house up for sale and my clearing of my wonderful clutter, I FOUND THE RECIPE. And just in time for the holidays. This is a big batch of bisque that Dakota created for a cooking class. Enjoy.

Sweet Onion Bisque

2# Sweet Onion (diced large)
1 Ea. Celery Root (diced large)
1# Button Mushrooms (washed well)
2 Stocks Leek (whites only)
4 Cloves Garlic
½ Cup Olive Oil
1 Cup White Wine
1 Liter Whole Milk
1 Liter Vegetable Stock
1# Butter (Browed)
TT Salt
TT White Pepper

Method:
1. Sweat onions, garlic, mushrooms, celery and leeks
2. Deglaze with white wine
3. Add milk and stock
4. Simmer for 30 minutes
5. Puree with brown butter and strain in a china cap
6. Season to taste.

For extra pizzazz add the following at serving:

Tobacco Onions & Flash Fried Rock Shrimp

1# Red Onions, (peeled and shaved thin)
1# All Purpose Flour
1 Cup Red Chile Powder
¼ Cup Cumin Powder
¼ Cup Garlic Powder
¼ Cup Onion Powder
Method:

1. Add all dry ingredients together and mix well
2. Toss shaved onion in the mixture.
3. Fry until crispy
4. Season with salt.

Garnish with Flash Fried Rock Shrimp

1. Sauté rock shrimp in very hot olive oil and garlic until cooked.
2. Season to taste.

The Wierd World Of Hugs

2007-11-08T14:22:00.000-08:00

When I hold and hug our new grandchild, Quinlan, all the joy in the world surges through me. This is a new kind of hug for me.

Isn't hugging wonderful? But in today's weird world of hugs, kids can be sent to detention for a casual, friendly hug, like the 13-year-old Illinois girl.

Thank goodness that my daughters have passed the middle-school hug years. I recall Clif and I laughing at the hug-fest following Ocean's 8th grade graduation. Everyone hugged, hugged, hugged, and then hugged some more. But this was in 1988 when hugging was okay.

Sure, there are and always have been, those folks who can't hug without some inappropriateness, and kids can fall victim to these creeps. However, have we become so fearful (and FEARFUL is the key word here) of pervs, lawsuits, terror, disease, the devil and everything else outside of our happy place, that loving kids are punished for being kind?

When Quinlan begins school and I get to drop him off, give him a great big hug before he enters the halls of academe, will the hug-police site me for hugging my grandson?

Will they water board me to force some fake confession of secret thoughts of child abuse? Will I be on the list of dangerous people because I hug?

This place we call earth is so far out of whack that I wonder if sanity and common sense will ever return?

Quinlan is here. Moire turns a page.

2007-08-14T11:20:00.001-07:00

Quinlan, our little Leo, arrived Thursday, Aug. 9, 2007. This mom was on site, along with Quinlan’s dad, Randy, g-pops Clif, Ocean’s doula, the doctor and assorted nurses and technicians, all celebrating Quinlan’s first breath.

Besides birth’s beauty, it was my daughter who bannered the word beauty throughout her entire labor. Not an easy labor, she found her grace and her dignity and bore her baby boy without any drugs to numb her laboring body. Not a scream left her lips, just the natural and primordial sounds of birthing.

Meanwhile in West Hollywood, Dakota was beside herself in worry about her sister and her future nephew. She rang our assorted cell phones about every 20 minutes. Sometimes we could pick up and sometimes we were in the throws of labor.

Around noon, LA Times food critic, S. Irene Virbila, appeared for lunch on The Terrace at Sunset Tower Hotel. LA Times photographers also arrived to shoot some of Dakota’s dishes for an August 15th review. Clif called Dakota to give her an update. She was in her own kind of labor pains!

Sidebar: A long time ago I carpeted my entire home in pale peach carpeting. Ocean and Dakota were still youngsters. Clif and I were getting to know each other. I made a blackberry pie. Toting the hot pie across the newly carpeted family room I tripped. In slow motion I could see that pie start to fly out of my hands. I screamed, “The pie! The carpet! The pie! The carpet!” End of sidebar.

Now Dakota is mentally screaming, “The review! The baby! The review! The baby!”

Concurrently, Ocean’s labor was powerful now and her doula and I breathed in with our mom-to-be, exhaled, breathed in, exhaled, panted, panted, and panted. Rest. Visualize. Focus. Breathe in. Exhale. I hope I’ve painted the picture.

At 4 p.m. Quinlan took his first view of the world outside of his mother’s womb. In California, lunch was over at The Terrace.

Life changed at that moment. I became a moiré (Celtic for grandmother), Clif was now a real g-pops, Dakota an auntie, and of course the new parents, Ocean and Randy.

With this alteration, I turn the page to a new focus on life. Please visit Sixohdear.blogspot.com.

Quinlan, Where Are You?

2007-08-01T16:08:00.000-07:00

Now that our grandson has decided to roll around inside his mama a tad bit longer than predicted, I have discovered several things.

1) No one in my family is patient. But then, we’ve been trying to get this offspring into our family for a lot more than a simple nine-months.

2) Maybe the stork, or egret, or heron are really going to be the baby’s delivery method. Maybe the stork is lost while crossing the Atlantic, the egret is still chillin’ in California, and if it is a New Mexican heron, it is definitely on manana time, as are all true New Mexicans.

3) I just recalled how I got eyes in the back of my head when I became a mother. It was those last few weeks of pregnancy. With nothin’ but belly showing, but no real stomach (think envelope) and a bladder under constant attack by rollicking baby, no sleep, the wonder, the worry, I believe those extra set of eyes just naturally popped out of the back of my head. You know, the pressure and all.

4) My family is running out of good betting material. Everyone has lost--thus far. Well, except the easy one: the child’s sex. Chef daughter, Dakota, was sure we would decorate the nursery in pink. Soon-to-be g-pops, AKA Clif, was willing to bet the world’s best wine on Ocean giving birth to a boy. Dakota is saving her dollars to buy that wine someday.

5) Pops-to-be, Randy, keeps wiggling the womb. It just makes Ocean mad.

6) I thought we’d surely be rushing into the hospital when Ocean opened a beer for g-pops and the beer exploded all over her clothes—making her smell like a total lush. Ixnay on that twist of fate.

7) Forgetta’bout the full moon business. That was last Sunday. This morning, Aug. 1, Ocean threw on a maternity t-shirt that no longer fits. Where once an inny-belly button stood, this morning all I could see was one naked, swollen, and itchy blimp busting out of her clothes.

8) Pre-natal acupuncture is a bomb. Did that yesterday. The acupuncturist said, “It could happen today, tomorrow or next week.” Duh!

We’re going to spend some mother and daughters time tomorrow. I’m okay if it gets interrupted by some certain little guy ready to make his entrance to the world.

Great Blue Heron Delivery? Storks Part 2.

2007-07-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

Debating Dr. Frank, this just came in from Bob:

In our zeal to unearth the most suitable delivery bird for Ocean and Randy's little one, I chose to disregard Dr. Frank's slings and arrows directed at our Southern California renewing wetlands and the noble egret. I fully agree that Frank's saddle-billed stork is a splendid bird. My only caution is that glaring "saddle" on the proboscis of the South African species. Jimmy Durante would, no doubt, be very proud of that bird's wondrous beak.

After diligent research (and the neglect of my legal duties of the day) I have a suggested alternative: The Great Blue Heron, Ardea herodias. (This is an archival photo and not my own work, as the migratory season for the Great Blue is later this year.) I might also note that the GB Heron's natural habitat is the shoreline or fresh and saltwater wetlands. This seems particularly apt for "Ocean's child". The red, white and blue plumage of the GB Heron is an obvious plus.

RMJ

The Great Stork Controversy. Stork vs Egret

2007-07-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

Little did I know that posting Frank Bonaccorso’s stork photo would raise the ire of the California-based contingency of storkish bird lovers and photographers.

As a California Girl I read both of the following arguments with an opened mind. Somewhat edited, they go like this:

From California based Bob Johnson, a fine photographer and attorney, my first email reads:

Don't let that ugly, goitered creature from Africa delay the arrival of your new little grandchild. I have dispatched a more comely animal from the restoring wetlands of Playa del Rey for "stork" duty. See attached snowy egret now winging its way to New Mexico.

Grampa Bob

A cyber-speed reply from Dr. Frank flashed on screen

FYI: Check out Frank’s book at: http://www.amazon.ca/Bats-Papua-Guinea-Frank-Bonaccorso/dp/1881173267/

Char:
Here are a few reasons not to let that egret deliver the baby:
1) Ocean and the new baby deserve a proper stork
2) That egret is roosting on a rusty old rail fence and probably has gotten tetanus not to mention cholera and dysentery from that scummy pond in the back-ground
3) True delivery storks only drink bottled-water.
4) Storks are good for the long haul, egrets stop off at every center of delinquency known to the modern world and the baby probably would be late.
5) Ocean and new baby deserve only the best -- so I am upping the ante with the psychedelic super stork, also known as the Saddle-bill Stork. As a child of the 60's...I know you can relate to the colorful red/black/yellow of the Saddlebill.

Dr. Frank

Oh dear! Such the dilemma. I forwarded the emails to the pregnant one. She replied with something like, “Didn’t know there were so many delivery options. However, I’m having a chat with the child inside and told him that he cannot arrive before the new Harry Potter book is released because I won’t have time to read it once baby is in my arms, he also needs several more pounds, and his aunt chef-Dakota has made her flight reservations for the designated due date. But the way I’m feeling right now: Stork? Egret? Just make sure the bird is not too early and right on target.”

The Stork A 'Comith

2007-07-10T13:16:00.001-07:00

"Mom,I think the stories you once told me about storks and babies is maybe not so much true," began very much pregnant daughter, Ocean. (Pictured with her hubby, Randy)

So I'm posting the following to prove that the stork with our future grandson's delivery is alive and well--and I think presently crossing the Atlantic heading west to New Mexico. How long will it take?

The good doctor of nature, Frank Bonaccorso, recently visited southern Africa. He writes in the Alemany66.blogspot.com, "If you are a bird fancier, there are over 700 kinds of birds in southern Africa. You never know what will turn up next. For example, there are some really big birds. Everyone is familiar with ostriches, but how about a semi-bald 5-foot high stork with a goiter problem. That is the marabou stork...That big sac hanging off the throat is a resonating chamber to enhance the mating call. If you were this ugly you would have to have an awesome mating call."

It was good to hear that the stork is out there and found Frank's lense...cuz I got a daughter and son-in-law waiting for that stork's call...soon.

Is My Revolutionary War Ancestor Rolling In His Grave?

2007-07-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

Because Independence Day is among my favorite holidays, I saved a wonderful Brut Rose´ sparkling wine for the celebratory time. I set an America table with red, white and blue flowers, sparklers, fireworks, and stars n’ stripes napkins over matching plates. The "National Anthem" just begged to be played—but I couldn’t find the sheet music within my myriad of songbooks.

In the distance, fireworks began to sparkle and color the darkened Los Alamos, NM sky. Spouse uncorked the bubbly, filled our champagne flutes, we raised the glasses to the distant fireworks and toasted to America.

“To freedom! Well, sort of, that is, if you’re privileged or Scooter Libby.”

“Well, then, here’s to the Constitution! Well, sort of, when it was a document honored and adhered to by the old-timey executive branches of government.”

“Remember when our government was forthright and most of the world wanted to be American instead of wanting to blow up Americans? Guess that ideal went the way of the hoola-hoops and sock hops."

Spouse and I realized we were getting depressed on a day of national celebration.

“Okay, let’s celebrate your family who fought in the Revolutionary War,” spouse suggested.

“I’d like to, but the ashes of my many-times-great grandfather, Drury Puckett, who marched with George Washington, are likely curdling and rolling in his Virginia grave.”

“Wanna finish off the fireworks show in the hot tub?” spouse asked.

“Bring the Rose´ with you. I’m off to get a towel!”

Jennifer Aniston's Tale Trumped by Compassion in Art

2007-06-27T07:27:00.000-07:00

Tuesday's work load exhausted me. But a days-end,laugh-filled telecon with mama-to-be-daughter, Ocean, refueled my energy. She retold chef daughter, Dakota's, recent conversation about the crazy weekend at Sunset Tower Hotel: Jennifer Aniston's (one of Dakota's fave regulars) paparazzi swarm (see TMZ.com, post June 21,2007); and a near riot Sunday afternoon because of rival rappers TI and Ludacris issues during a Power Brunch--LA event(http://www.essence.com/essence/themix/entertainment/0,16109,1636737,00.html).

I rushed home and drafted a gossipy celb-blog. This morning I opened the following e-mail, and its value out weighed the celebrity tales. Please read on.

The following link was sent to me by a friend who is a Special Forces operator with extensive GWOT deployment. Kaziah's story speaks for itself, I can only caution you to be prepared for some leakage. http://mfile.akamai.com/21772/wmv/gannett.download.akamai.com/21772/streaming/wmv/hancockportraits.asx

After receiving the forward I was compelled to do some additional research about this remarkable woman, her talents, and her compassion. I found an additional interview (be patient as you will first have to bear the KARE-NBC commercial), but Kaziah's remarks at the end make any wait worth the time. http://www.kare11.com/video/player.aspx?aid=37701&bw=

Kaziah Hancock's work has been endorsed by DOD and organized into Project Compassion.

Very respectfully, and with warm fraternal regard, I remain in your service...

sine pari,
George

George P. Farris
CPT, IN USAR
GFarris848@aol.com

It's well worth your time to follow the first link about Kaziah Hancock and her passion to paint portraits of fallen soldiers.

As a news addict, compassion seems trumped by aggression, but this story about compassion in art trumps celebrities and silly rappers with--what seems--little to offer folks who have lost their loved ones in this war.

Moosing Around

2007-06-24T06:56:00.000-07:00

Just got this hilarious photo of a moose in the wilds of Alaska. Cuzin Sue took this great shot while she was moosing around in that part of the world. Well, folks, looks like it's time to send me your photos since Dr. Car has given my computer its life back.

...and just in from Turkey, freelance writer, photographer, Paul Ross of Global Adventures, and a Santa Fe pal, we have the tired mule, and a likely member of WMUT (Workin' Mules Union of Turkey).

Keep these furballs comin in for Santa Fe Mother Blogger's amusement.

A Call To A Soldier's Patron Saint

2007-06-22T06:32:00.000-07:00

I am as guilty as the next American of not personally identifying dead troops in Iraq as real people with family and loved ones. The word troop is a plural, non-entity, noun to me. Yes, I understand that it is a long-standing military-use word. I've never been in the military.

Now that a young person in our family is military and a troop, my eyes have opened even wider. (That should help keep the plastic surgeon away another year or two.)

Tuesday I received the following email from Sgt. Jer's wife, Tara (slightly edited for privacy):

"Not to scare or alarm anyone. Our...meaning Jer's company, has taken a huge hit. I will forward you all any information I get, unfortunately this is the only way I probably will get information which really just sucks. Anyone wanting to send a prayer or donations would be appreciated. I can only imagine...no I really don't want to (imagine) but we can all understand what they might be going through right now.

Sitting on the edge of my seat-
Tara

All,
Bad times over the last few days and we’ve lost several men.
PFC Carriker from B Co died from a non-hostile injury last week. He was single with parents in the mainland...

SPC Roberts and SPC Borm from B Co were killed in action last Thursday...

1LT Walkup from A Company was killed in action Saturday morning. His wife is currently on island...

Most of this information has been in the paper for a while despite notification of next of kin not being complete. There were complications in all cases that delayed things for a variety of reasons. There was one additional soldier killed in the incident with SPC Roberts and SPC Borm who was attached to B Company from HHC BDE/BSTB (which means he worked with Bravo company but was technically assigned to HHC BDE/ BSTB), notification of his next of kin has been problematic and remains incomplete at this time...

> MAJ O’Brien
Rear Detachment Commander
Task Force 2-35"

Sgt. Jer is now in a part of Iraq where life is cheap and the thirst for blood reigns. Please join me in a call to the soldiers' patron saints and ask for their protection over each and every American volunteer in Iraq.

Chef Dakota Weiss #1 At LastChefStanding.com & Sgt. Jer Update

2007-06-07T10:48:00.000-07:00

We put out the vote yesterday and bumped Chef Doug Silberberg from the #1 position in the Last Chef Standing Los Angeles competition. Voters: Thanks from Dakota and the rest of us. But it ain’t over. So keep those votes coming. Go to www.LastChefStanding.com, click Vote, click Los Angeles, then vote for Dakota Weiss. I’m not sure what we will do should Dakota win the regional contest, and maybe even the national. Sounds like a humungo party will be in order.

Meanwhile, Dakota’s cousin, Sgt. Jeremy Munds (AKA Sgt. Jer) is another winner. He is in Iraq and we pray that he remains sheltered and blessed. I kind of know where he is in Iraq, and like he said in a recent e-mail, it’s all kinds of crazy there and we won’t hear from him for another week or so. Besides Dakota’s voting campaign, we (pregnant daughter Ocean and I) are on a goodie box-campaign for Sgt. Jer and his troops. We will send one out mid June. All happy donations are accepted. They mostly want munchies, smokes, and batteries.

Santa Feans can drop off goodies at my office in DeVargas Mall at Genesis Spas and Pool Supply

Santa Fe Mother Blogger Surfaces for Air

2007-05-31T11:12:00.000-07:00

I’m gasping for air today as if I’ve been swept under by some liquid deluge. Two appointments were unexpectedly cancelled this morning. That bobbed my head from the flood for a few seconds. It feels good to breathe.

It’s short-lived, however. In an hour or so I’ll have to take an enormous deep breath and prep for another dive. Meanwhile, when Hank (the pooch you’ll find on my assorted websites) and I take our daily walk through the Santa Fe foothills, he’s obsessed with the bunny and hare explosion and I’m amazed at the wildflowers that line our walking paths. For all the whining and complaining I did about the snow-plagued winter, the May pay off is spectacular.

Writer friend, Judith Fein (http://globaladventure.us/) recently sold an article to an in-flight magazine in which she interviewed Santa Fe locals—including myself--about what they love about this 7000 ft. high city. Truthfully, many things about Santa Fe annoy the living crap out of me. But one of the reasons spouse and I moved here 20 years ago, was for the spectacular scenery, the brilliant colors of nature that thrive in mountain air, the quiet spaces and remarkable evenings. I still love these elements and have developed a rather fond attachment to what each season creates.

So while I have been in the throws of keeping my domino house intact, these morning walks through the wildflower covered hillsides has kept me sane and focused. And I should mention that most of my former computer ailments have been rectified by a patient and brilliant young man, Carlos Gonzales. Just a few upgrades remain a work in progress.

That’s it for now. Several tons of rock is on its way to mi casa, and I must clear the driveway of cars and debris so that the violet stones can be spread over the dirt. It’s sooooo Santa Fe.

Golden, But Proud Even If A Sharpee Reference Bites

2007-05-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

After posting my blog about us “golden girls,” my email box filled with impassioned responses from other such goldens. One wrote, “I still feel young inside...And in my dreams I' m always mid-20's. There's a sense of dislocation sometimes when I see myself through others' eyes (old, fat, non-sexual come to mind)” *See writer’s note. Another woman of gold wrote, “I always thought the same about my own mother whenever I would hear her voice on the phone. It was the same voice I had heard at 3 and at 18 and at 40…It’s the sound that carries the timelessness, no matter how we’ve changed externally. It speaks our truth.”

And I promise after this blog, I’ll walk away (for just a bit) from this aging thing. Meanwhile, my aging generation took to the streets to protest a war gone wrong, sacrificed many of our best and brightest in that war, cracked glass ceilings that made it easier for our daughters to become lawyers and high-end chefs, questioned authority, and welcomed diversity.

“It speaks our truth,” rang true on May 1, 2007. Yesterday’s figurative May Pole was wrapped in bright and dreary ribbons of May Day demonstrators around the world; MSNBC political analyst Pat Buchanan blamed the VA Tech murders on an immigrant “invasion;” U.S. lawmakers vs. commander-in-chief battling over another war; a Kent State University survivor of the May 4, 1970 student killings who claimed the cause was a direct command; Joan Baez ixnayed from performing at Walter Reed Army Medical Center; and the four-year anniversary of the infamous Mission Accomplished performance.

If I took 1967 and placed it squarely on 2007, I would find the same players, the same schemes and same plume of darkness that eagerly wishes to snuff out whatever candles of light shine through.

One big exception to this moment--I’m not today’s youth. I dwell well within the golden zone and while I think my compatriots remain the beauties of our youth, one of them did quip, “Get us naked and you might think that you are in a room of sharpees.” Ouch!

* Writer’s note: The golden who referred to ‘fat’ from others eyes…Wrong. She’s no longer a size 4, but fat??? Hardly!

Age Reality Check—It All Began At the Sunset Tower Hotel

2007-04-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

In my previous posts about my 40th year high school reunion, it doesn’t take a genius to know that I’m closer to 60 than 21 years of age. Age—if you are lucky—happens.

The good things about age include encyclopedias of “been there, done that,” fabulous recollections of fun times, and the perspective to understand that the bad times added fuel to the ability to freaking percept. But old? Nah. Not even. My 91-year-old aunt is not that old. She’s just hearing and vision challenged. These things get in the way of the convenience of youth.

Me? Well after attending that reunion, I should get a grip on aging. I mean, dude, and if I weighed 106 pounds for my senior picture, I would have thought myself fat. Apparently I took those hippy years to heart. So, I wear several hip sizes more than I did in 1966 (or 1986 for that matter), but that didn’t age me. I’ve ignored the meeting of the kids I reunioned with who were once skinny, full headed young boys, and wispy, smooth skinned youthful girls. In my mind, they are still those people.

A BFF reached a special birthday that we recently celebrated at the Sunset Tower Hotel Bar and Restaurant. (Where else would we go?????) Chef-daughter Dakota did her usual best; hotel owner, Jeff Klein totally rocked as did his marvelous staff, Warren and his crew. Us ladies, all poodled up for dinner, were lookin’ good and feelin’ fine.

Afterwards, we crossed the Sunset Strip for some comedy entertainment. The comedy club, decored in black with hard and tacky chairs, a two-drink minimum, sold out. The funniest act was a Jewish gal raised in Oklahoma. She was the first to refer to us as “The Golden Girls.” Hah! I don’t think so, girlfriend. We might have had some gold draped around us…but, old, no way!

A mess of white comedians did their best black guy holding his business routine, followed by the black comedians who did their best white guy lamely holding his smaller business routine, to the Hispanic guy who slammed all of the above and reckoned speed to size. YAWN to all three! However, there were these constant “Golden Girls” sitting near the stage. What golden girls? Where? Can some one get original? (Kudos to the comedian, Sanchez, who did note that the golden girls were lookin' good.)

By midnight the mature girlfriends laughed enough and had to exit the black comedic hole. Yes, the echo as we left was, “The golden girls, the golden girls, the golden girls…..”

As we slinked thru the blackened space, I scanned the audience: Young women hopeful for a reasonable relationship with their date; recently single young women partying down, but wishing for more, and blah, blah, blah. Then I heard some words I once wrote from my heart when I turned 50. I AM FREE OF YOUTH! Golden? Absolutely!

Domino House

2007-04-18T15:53:00.000-07:00

Suddenly I dwell inside a house of dominoes. Just one small misstep and the entire house begins its collapse. Example: Both of my computers coughed, snorted and whined. I called a local repair shop. The guy said, “Yeah, I can have them up and running in two days from now.” Ten days later the computers are dust collectors in the back of a computer repair shop. I’ll bypass the excuses and drama, except to mention that the domino effect began.

Ugly crawled through my blood. Meanwhile the media and the alleged news-types were all aghast at the Imus affair, and I’m thinkin’ I really needed to cuss at somebody—loud and belligerence-filled cussing—but I couldn’t because political correctness went back on the table. Darn!

Here we were getting nasty with our talk about people with diseases, people of different cultures and races, people with different ideals, and one old worn radio talk show host blows it. So now I had to swallow my tendency to say things that should maybe not be said, smile, and thank the computer repair company for totally screwing up my immediate life.

Last week I ran out of breath chasing and fixing collapsing dominoes.

My computers remain in their limping state. I’m 0-2 on computer repair attempts (the first guy never returned my phone calls). Will attempt three be charmed? Will attempt three install bricks instead of dominoes as my immediate foundation? To be continued.

Will Spring Winds Blow the Bad Air Out?

2007-03-28T08:19:00.000-07:00

Like the springtime winds that blow across the Santa Fe landscape, I’m harried and distracted. So many issues are in the air and swirling in tornado-like fury that I find it challenging to place my thoughts into one basket.

I sketched a comedic blog about butt cracks just about the time American Idol zapped my Tuesday nights. (And I swore I would not get hooked into it this year.) Dakota fed me a blog idea about wine, babies and bets—which I have written—and then the right-wing pundit, Ann Coulter, called presidential candidate John Edwards a faggot. Well, that pushed all my buttons. Meanwhile both of my computers started coughing, wheezing and choking. Blowing my own nose and snorting Zicam like an addict, I blew off my computer issues to the pollen filled air. As my laptop limped to get on-line (while I cleaned my top desk drawer, dusted the filing cabinet and swept behind an ailing plant—yes, my computer is that slow) I sat down for my early a.m. dose of e-news and broke down in tears. “A press conference is slated for noon,” ended the report about candidate Edwards and his wife, Elizabeth.

Down the hall I ran. I flipped on CNN. Sadly, Elizabeth Edwards’ positive prognosis seems to shrink. She said that life goes on and this country needs her husband. I agree that we need a president with integrity and the will to serve the people. It is not for me to say how one must go through cancer survival/battle. However, the vile negativity that dwells within our political system and culture worries me. Perhaps Elizabeth Edwards has thicker skin than I, but I can not imagine that the constant poisoned arrows aimed at her husband’s candidacy will not affect her overall well-being.

While rowdy winds disrupt they also blow the bad air out. Me? I think I’ll walk directly into the source and see what happens.

Media Soup (Bisque?) For Chef Dakota

2007-03-07T09:12:00.000-08:00

One hopes that the restaurant reviewers and writers are visiting the Sunset Tower Hotel’s restaurants to view chef daughter, Dakota, and not the gaggle of celebrities that frequent the historical Hollywood establishment.

Dakota’s recent publicity is a media soup blending magazine features, news notes, and internet television.

Last week Calendarlive.com (http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/mood/cl-wk-dine1mar01,0,6195953.html) writer Leslee Komaiko, noted in her piece “Getting an Eyeful:”

When you're in the mood to celebrate, it's hard not to get into the spirit at these spots, where you get the action and a view.

The Terrace

It doesn't get much more L.A. than this casual poolside spot in the Sunset Tower Hotel, that Deco beauty on the strip. Chef Dakota Weiss' menu features big salads, such as a lobster Cobb, as well as steak frites. And you can't beat the view. That alone is worth the price of admission.

The March 2007 issue of "C Magazine" headlines Dakota as an ambitious and talented young chef. The full page feature is a tad fluffy, but just goes to show what California girls can do.

In February, Catherine Wiggington writing for "New York Resident," (http://70.47.124.114/node/500), listed Dakota exactly below world-famous chef Alain Ducasse. That was an OMG moment for me. Here’s the piece:

From Paris to Hollywood, Tangier to Honolulu, hotel dining has evolved into an art form with world-renowned chefs creating fusion menus for the jetset crowd at five-star hotels and resorts. While these restaurants can be a convenient choice for guests in their respective hotels, they are, in fact, destinations in their own right.

Alain Ducasse at Plaza Athénée
Paris, France
Alain Ducasse—the only chef within the Michelin Guide to hold three stars in three different countries—has created modern and authentic French dishes in one of the most prestigious hotels in Paris. Guests can put together their own menu, choosing from a range of dishes from different cultures, regions or based on different produce.

Terrace at Sunset Tower Hotel
Hollywood, California
Executive chef Dakota Weiss cooks up seasonal dishes like sauteed ruby red snapper with sweet potatoes and roasted rack of lamb with Tuscan beans and Tasso ham, while guests dine pool side under a canopy of trees and enjoy the view overlooking the Hollywood Hills.

In late January an internet television featured The Terrace and Dakota who sautéed her scallops dish during the interview. Once my Santa Fe readers got past the interviewer’s chest (Santa Feans are mostly modestly dressed), they ran out for scallops to duplicate Dakota’s dish. Check out LX.TV.com and scroll to The Terrace.

Dakota will present her absolutely fabulous Sweet Onion Bisque with Morel Mushrooms, Pancetta and Fried Parsley during the 18th Annual Culinary Evening with the California Winemasters event Saturday, May 5th, 2007 6PM at Paramount Pictures. (http://www.californiawinemasters.org/main_event.html)

This bisque is to die for. I have the recipe. Email if you would like a copy.

Grey Whales Pass My Window

2007-03-02T19:29:00.000-08:00

A pod of grey whales just passed my ocean side windows. As they migrate north I am assured that the grey days of winter will pass too.

Yes, I’ve retreated from the nasty and endless cold of a Santa Fe winter that seems to never end. It’s what California girls do. I have yet to mention to soon-to-be-mama-daughter, who complained about the windy 35 degree high in Santa Fe, that I planted pansies today.

My dull grey and brown winter ended when I hit Cambria, Ca. Color slipped from the storm that greeted me upon arrival. Green hills, blossoming fruit trees, brilliant calla lilies, and my neighbor’s rainbow house. In a neighborhood of grey and blue-grey houses, Natalia Calderon challenges anything bland. Her home is her canvas. I love it. During a chicken taco lunch she handed me an essay she wrote “The Last Comadre.”

“Would you look at it and tell me what you think?” she asked. I took it home, read it and cried.

The piece is about her comadre (godmother), Blanca Rios, now in a Los Angeles retirement home. Natalia’s recollection of her time with Blanca made every memory of my godparents rise to the surface. Her tale begins in Mexico, winds its way to Roosevelt High School in Los Angeles, and defines the color of family.

Natalia writes, “We all have those we have chosen to be in our families. If we have these (people) in our lives, treasure them. Call, write, email, and most importantly see and hug this familia as often as you can.

“We humans are a unique complex individual creation…we all need to be loved…so keep your familia (and) cultivate your comadres and compadres.”

It’s like planting pansies in the warm California sun when my husband and home a thousand miles away still wallow in winter’s grey.

Weekend Transition at the Sunset Tower Hotel

2007-02-19T12:34:00.000-08:00

When my mom-to-be daughter, Ocean, her husband Randy, my spouse Clif, and I boarded our Southwest Airlines flight out to LA last Friday night, I was steamed. “….uh, sometimes…uh…money trumps peace,” echoed like some maniacal politico in my head. Nothing trumps peace, or so I was taught during twelve years of parochial education. And when our commander-in-chief reveals that his alleged Christianity values dollars over peace, I get fumed. But I’m off point.

The warm Los Angeles air was the first warm air to touch our flesh in months. Upon arrival at the Sunset Tower Hotel in West Hollywood, chef daughter, Dakota, greeted us in the lobby, along with the rest of hotelier Jeff Klein’s friendly staff. At a cozy table for four in the Sunset Tower Bar and Restaurant—which hummed with excitement and happy diners—my bad mood bubbled away with the first bottle of champagne, family and the excitement of celebrating our growing grandchild.

The weekend was designed to celebrate, shop for baby goodies, and maternity clothing suitable for Ocean’s office and the courtroom. From Friday night's lobster cobb salad to Sunday's corn dog at the Santa Monica Pier, I savored watching the soon-to-be grandpa, daddy and uncle share these special moments of our family’s future firstborn. Clif finally got his g-pop’s (that will be his new name) reality check at the first baby boutique and Pottery Barn Kids. Randy may have found the perfect name for his baby while us girls fussed over professional attire for the new mom in a Santa Monica mommy’s boutique. David was excited to explore the educational toys that he promises to share with the future little Einstein, as well as some great pastries for mom and growing baby.

Today, Monday, I’m wiped out and could care less about the evil faces and words of government. My family is intact and with that I understand that peace is never trumped by money.

Updating Wild Fibroids, Sgt. Jer, Daughter & Grandchild

2007-02-10T16:23:00.000-08:00

The good news: No call from the doctor saying, "We need to see you right away." Instead, the nurse called and reported that all is well inside my body, other than a fibroid gone wild--which we all suspected anyway.

Our nephew in Iraq, Sgt. Jer, is doing well. He said he just needs a few things like lithium batteries for his night vision goggles, coffee and creamer. Any readers have a good deal on the batteries? Let me know.

But I am curious why a soldier would be short such a basic item. God love these brave kids because I sure do.

(I know, they are not all kids...but at my age, I can say that!)

Our soon-to-be beautiful grandchild is doing well, reports our four-pounds-up-in weight daughter. YES!

Free At Last. Gay in Just 3-Weeks!

2007-02-07T08:18:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah. I'm a free of all heterosexual constraints. After three weeks of intensive counseling, I no longer desire to dress for my man or cook pot roasts and other man-foods. In just three weeks I discovered that I don't have to watch the Super Bowl, drink beer with my man, or wear flirtatious man-stimulating lingerie on Valentine's Day. In just three weeks I have become completely homosexual.

My hetero-mate has agreed to a sex change. So now, the bulky brown leather sofa is history and we're shopping for something in lavender tones. Imagine, all this in just three weeks!

No longer will I be a disgrace among my homosexual friends. I think we'll move to another town like Miami, New York or San Francisco. Oh, wait, I've been heterosexual for too long and forgot that Santa Fe is gay-friendly. Maybe we'll stay here after all.

Okay, I'm just kidding. Is Ted Haggard kidding?

Gurneys, Gowns and Clones

2007-02-03T11:26:00.000-08:00

Prior to 2004 the only hospital gurneys I ever saw rolled across a Thursday night television program.

I don’t like medical attention. But when I did not get enough of it in 2003, me, some doctors in a hospital area called nuclear medicine, a surgeon, then a radiologist and an oncologist (and the absolute best people behind a one-foot thick wall in a radiology treatment room—luv ya all still), kicked off 2004--my year of IVs, EKGs, CATs, gurneys and gowns.

While they killed the cancer, a red herring—as defined by the oncologist--remained. He didn’t like it and won’t like it. I love his candor and caution. So off to another specialist I went. Add DNC to the alphabetic procedures on my list. Nope, the girlfriend just has an errant fibroid, reported the pathology lab, which by now I have become a regular contributor to the lab’s bottom line. When an ugly little growth appeared on my skin, it was off with its head. Nope, the girlfriend just has an errant chunk of flesh. More funds sent to the pathologists, who I’m thinking should know me on a first name basis and appoint me to their board of directors with profit sharing privileges.

Ocean and I roasted a lovely rib roast for Christmas day. Also on Christmas day my inner red herring reappeared. I kept it to myself. The last red herring became such a drama--think DNC, followed by lots of B-L-O-O-D, and rushed to the ER where the doctors all rhymed hysterectomy—that I choose not to reenact that scenario. Body parts intact, I recently returned to my GYN.

Before the sun rose yesterday, and before our Santa Fe temperatures neared double-digits, I was barely cloaked in anti-fashion’s greatest foible ever,the hospital gown. I directed the nurses to take blood pressure from my right arm, along with the IV, greeted the always happy anesthesiologist, who said, “I know you,” and I bantered away in a parade of patients on gurneys rolling down surgery highway. My last recollections include asking what was the anesthesia of the day, heaving my body onto the surgical table, gazing at the ceiling and parting with, “Well, this time you won’t catch me saying something really stupid before I go ouuuuttttttttt………”

Pathology has collected enough of my tissue to build a whole new me. So when I begin my ride through eternity, just get me cloned and I’ll be back. That incarnation should have a lot less medical expenses and maybe return to just watching gurneys on HD TV.

Part 2. The Flags

2007-01-31T08:09:00.000-08:00

A bout of mother’s angst struck me to tears. ANYTHING awry with my children raises my personal worry level. So as the flags of my daughter and son-in-law’s pregnancy changed, I broke down. Unknowns still lingered.

I slid my way through the non-ending January ice and fishtailed up my driveway. An excellent California Central Coast syrah was still boxed in a cool room. Usually we save this cache for special moments. This was a special moment, but not of the positive variety. Corked and poured, the syrah and I went to my computer.

The evening email-check opened what I term as AHS 66 banter to those not of the AHS cyber world. alemany66.blogspot.com I’ve tried explaining this phenomenon to spouse, kids, and coworkers, but they give me that deer-in-the-headlight look. (Check out my 8/28/06 post, Maroon and Grey.)

This evening's banter was witty and funny. I laughed so hard that the day’s stress level took a dive. So I jetted out an email to the authors thanking them for being so amusing and breaking my woe-is-me-syndrome. BAM! In cyber seconds my in-box notice--Mick Jagger noting, “You’ve got lettas,” gasped the aging Brit’s recording. Thoughtful and kind words, even a link to the song, “Smile” cupped more pleasant after notes than the excellent syrah, now neglected on my desk.

Unintentionally, I waved a white flag. A surprise banner made by former Catholic school kids, albeit we are closer to 60 than 16, soared thru cyberspace and made me “…smile thro’ (my) fear and sorrow, Smile and maybe tomorrow, (I’ll) see the sun come shin-ing thru…”

Thanks Monarchs and “The Laughing Misfits.”

Part 1. The Flags

2007-01-27T13:53:00.000-08:00

Recently, a friend noted that I write more about one daughter (Chef Dakota) than the other. Well, yes, that is true. There’s a reason for it. My first born, Ocean, has been a busy wife, lawyer, and community volunteer. Her main project, however, has been to become a mother.

The moment her pregnancy was initiated flags were raised and lowered. I suspect this flag dance is something Ocean’s maternal instinct sensed and the reason why we kept news of her pregnancy within Santa Fe city limits.

The green flag rose when her doctor confirmed the nuances of stage one pregnancy. Shortly, a yellow flag arose. But we kept so positive and hopeful that we tossed pails of blue into that yellow flag to force it back to green. An unexpected red flag ripped our positive air away. Last week, a half-mast solemn black flag swayed in the frigid New Mexico air. It was a flag of loss and change.

A skilled specialist did save the pregnancy and told my daughter and son-in-law that they could reel the green flag back into the sky.

Now there are showers to plan and shopping to do while we anxiously await the unfurling of a mid-summer’s checkered flag announcing the birth of our first grandchild.

Part 2 of this news will follow soon.

Photo: Soon to be parents, Ocean & Randy.

Hot Flashes--Winter's Cure?

2007-01-19T07:28:00.000-08:00

Where are my hot flashes when I need them?

By late 2004 and into my second Tamoxifen refill Ms. Hot Flash began making her regular rounds of up to a dozen or more visits a day through my body. Hated it!

My income is basically from sales. Imagine standing across from a sales person who is giving you her best rap. You are sold on her product until her face flushes scarlet and sweat beads appear. As the sweat begins rolling down her back and chest the sales person looses focus. Her pitch collapses like falling dominoes, and you are quite convinced that you have just met the most fabricating sales person ever.

My oncologist recommended a light dose of anti-depressants. That failed on several plains. Now I push staff out into the sales floor while I quietly wipe sweat from the back of my neck and chug ice water.

Midway into January 2007 Santa Fe has become a southwestern-chic imitation of Siberia. How cold is it? Well, I’m brewing lots of soup stocks and these stock pots are too large for my refrigerator. No problem. I just open the back door and store them in my other refrigerator/freezer: The great outdoors! Today’s soup stock was frozen solid when I brought it in to mix it with left over squash.

Baby, it’s more than cold outside. And that rounds me back to the first sentence: Where are my hot flashes when I need them? Yesterday, from the moment I awoke, despite a hot bath, flannel-lined and layered attire, exercise, and finally succumbing to the warmest room in the house with the addition of a space heater cranked to “high,” and a wool blanket, I was like that frozen soup stock. Not until 4 p.m. did Ms. Hot Flash pay me a warming visit.

For the first time ever, I rejoiced in my red face and sweat-drenched body. I think this California Girl is not made for real winters and Ms. Hot Flash is my new BFF.

If Martin Luther King, Jr. Were Alive Today?

2007-01-15T07:45:00.000-08:00

Oft times I wonder how today’s social, political, and spiritual picture would look if Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had not been murdered. While King was not a saint, he was a man of elegant conviction who stood for peace and justice. For that he was hated and killed.

One of the conversations in our divisive society is that the liberals lost their way and that allowed the far-right to run amok. It was America’s way of finding a balance. And consider this: If you based your politics on the hope and inspiration of King, Sen. Robert Kennedy, and President John F. Kennedy then witnessed their assassinations, with your torchbearers publicly slayed because of their plea for peace (and their invoking of The Beatitudes), would you not possibly loose you way in a desperate attempt to recreate “the dream?”

It is a simplistic view of the progressive left’s social challenges, but I believe a strong element of how progressives became the party of those who ran amok. There is no one answer and there is no one political point of view. But tolerance and compassion must be the common foundation.

Fortunately, America harbors fairness--regardless of the helm’s storm. This is our strength.

"Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force."

Cheering Soldiers--Two Soldiers' Points of View

2007-01-07T16:06:00.000-08:00

Jan. 5's blog bounced back other points of view. I want to share them.

Former Sacred Heart Catholic School and Alemany High School classmate, Jay, who served as an Air Force pilot in Viet Nam and post Viet Nam, and is now retired, wrote: (Slightly edited for content)

Ain't it great that the guys, like your nephew, can email home? I remember back when we had to actually "write home." Probably why my parents never knew what was going on in Viet Nam ... or 10 years later in the Mediterranean area.

The military guys and gals are not supposed to sound "cheery." Geeez From experience I can tell you that it is NOT cheery to be far from home while getting your ass shot at. (For that matter, getting your front shot at too.)

One thing I do know is that you, Charmaine, DO know how to cheer a soldier's heart. The stuff you and other AHS 66ers sent for John really cheered up him and his guys in Iraq. He says he will send pics as soon as he gets back from "properly handling illegal immigration" on his "classified" part of the Iraq border. ( Seems so strange that "getting back" means returning to the Baghdad area?).

The last paragraph of your blog, "Gifts? Cards? Emails? I don’t know. However, if a reader would like some mailing addresses of our volunteer soldiers in Iraq, email me and I’ll get that information out." Is sure a great way to cheer up the troops. Cards and emails cost little to send. Gifts, on the other hand, can be an expensive hassle. Customs forms, postage, etc., yuk. So, if you get enough people who want to send gifts, let me know. I'm sure that between the two of us, we can find a way to get the stuff shipped. (We can go into that later if needed.)

I'm sure there are a lot of your readers who would like to "get involved." But they just don't know how or what to send as gifts. Gotta give them some guidance. How many people know that a lot of the troops are getting snowed on right now? Not many. The military takes care of keeping their feet warm while on duty. But a lot of them would love to have a pair of those socks that skiers and hunters wear. Or a fleece-lined pair of slippers? Sounds silly, huh? That kind of thing, along with CD's, DVD's, jerky, whatever. The things we all take for granted are very special to the troops.

Officers, for the most part, have the finances and the means of getting such things. And so do a lot of the enlisteds and noncoms. But, you have the low-ranked, married with children enlisted guys. The good ones go without the "niceties" to make sure as much of their pay as possible gets home. The losers spend it on themselves and leave it to their spouses to cover the kids. I'm sure Sgt Jer knows, as does my son John, who those losers are. And who are the good ones. So, if we come up with "gifts" to send over there, we can let them decide who gets what.

Just want you to know that doing the "cheer a soldier" thing needs to be organized. My mom's friends have been paying as much to send things across town to me (to forward) as it costs to send them all the way to Iraq. Get your people organized, Char. They can mail direct. Or, they can accumulate it at your place or mine. We'll find a way to get it shipped by the military.

Another sugestion comes from my step brother, also a Viet Nam veteran who remains active with all military causes. He wrote: (Again, slightly edited for content)

I'm just spit-balling this since it has been a while since I've deployed, but most letters are welcome. Especially if you are trying to cheer him. I certainly would not talk policy, politics, or let him know that Jody's got his girl and gone. I understand from recent vets that AT&T calling cards are great gifts. Believe it, or not, most troops have the opportunity to watch DVD's, so a real current video of a good flick is nice. The mail system is good enough that cookies don't spoil...(I was )once sent me some avocados -- which turned-out to be a real problem by the time they arrived!

Readers, my email is ready to reply.

How to Cheer a Soldier's Heart?

2007-01-05T10:08:00.000-08:00

My Iraqi based nephew recently sent an email to let us all know that he remains a desert-sand sleuth for the US Army.

His tone was not cheery. And how can I not say, no surprise? Our soldiers over there know that as a country, we have demanded change in Iraq and that we want our soldiers home. I imagine that if one measured my daily dismay of going into work to shuffle paper and listen to well-heeled customers whine and demand the most silly of concerns, my distraught wouldn’t even measure to what our soldiers might reckon upon their daily awakening.

I don’t know how to make it better. The mother’s heart that pumps life-force through me is overwhelmed.

Gifts? Cards? Emails? I don’t know. However, if a reader would like some mailing addresses of our volunteer soldiers in Iraq, email me and I’ll get that information out.

As The Mother Blogger Thinketh

2006-12-06T15:15:00.000-08:00

Peace.
Frustration.
Action.
Time.
Exhaustion.
Work.
Decor.
Float.
Hurry.
Celebrate.
Family.
Entertain.
Flights.
Juries.
Fame.
Snow.
Homemade.
Purchased.
Friends.
Warmth.
Love.
Health.
Fools.
Music.
Tales.
Peace.

Peaceful wishes of all things good during this special season and throughout the New Year.

Mother Blogger.

I'll return to the blog in January.

Salutes. Losses. Changes. Hope.

2006-11-11T08:36:00.000-08:00

BOULDER CREEK, CA. 1970. My beloved friend, the late Stephen Crawford, finished his Army training and was scheduled to head out to Viet Nam. On his way to San Francisco he visited me in Boulder Creek--at the time a small, artist and hipster community in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

Stephen arrived in uniform. We hugged and kissed, then made fast tracks to the local grocer for beer, burgers and chips. The tiny grocery store was full of locals. Most took one look at my friend in uniform, scowled and harrumphed. Fury grew inside of me. What was wrong with these people? Steve Crawford was the coolest guy I ever knew. He wasn’t a war monger—just victim of circumstance. But this attitude was a signal of a sad change to follow.

Sgt. Crawford survived the war. Civilian Crawford did not. Demons, nightmares, drunks, and motorcycles ended his life much too early.

Today at http://alemany66.blogspot.com/ honor is given to classmates who served. Today I think about all the men and women who volunteer to serve. Today I have more faith that our future veterans will be served properly by our government and respected by society.

Last Tuesday we saw a switch from that earlier sad change that eventually trashed a progressive political party and handed power to a far right alternative. Today I pray that America keeps its head on, and that frustration disappears from people like "a submariner’s wife,” who recently wrote: “Did everyone hear that the White House just approved a 2.2% raise across the board for the military. For my husband’s check that will be about 15 cents an hour increase! Whoo hoo!!!! If we put it in a 401K we might get to go to a movie around the time we qualify for the Senior Discount! Thanks Mr. Bush! You really put a lot into the moral of the troops!!”

Patriotism runs deep in my blood. Perhaps, now, compassion will become patriotism's first cousin.

Wobbly Axis Steadied At Reunion

2006-11-01T14:53:00.000-08:00

"Overwhelmed" best defines last weekend. While the earth spins off its axis, I bravely cruised up the Sunset Strip to West Hollywood, entered a fantasy hotel (The Sunset Tower) and kick-started 48-hours of my own wobbly axis rotation.

I walked into a world where I was the 17-year-old waif, Char Haley. These people never met Char Munds and later Charmaine Coimbra.

So began a weekend of perspectives, renewals, and confessions of long-ago buddies and friends from Alemany High School's Class of 1966. Twenty-three girls sat in the warm sun at The Terrace Restaurant in the Sunset Tower Hotel, where chef daughter, Dakota and her staff showed us hospitality and fabulous food. From Alaska, Tennessee, Idaho, Arizona, New Mexico and all points south and north in California, the changes of age were visible, but the commonality remained the same. Amazing.

About midway through my senior year I mentally and emotionally left Alemany. There were new "outside" people in my life. Alemany--the establishment--began to represent a culmination of personal strife and frustration. But that never discounted my fellow classmates. I had some of the best friends ever. It was simply a structural representation of what I sought to escape.

Anyway, the reunion odyssey continued Saturday night. About 150 students showed. Entering a room stuffed with people I should instantly know zapped the air from my lungs. I wasn't the only victim of the whoa-syndrome. Uttered words around me were like a haiku: anticipation, emotional, first time, remember, forgot, and who. But quickly, hugs, kisses, and laughter changed the early haiku's tone. Groups moved like ocean tides and suddenly we may as well been back on the high school quad in those maroon and grey uniforms, but with much more wisdom, compassion and life experience.

Forty years ago I escaped into my autobiography with a preface I never thought would bring me back, or held relevance. Life has slapped me silly, made me hit the floor laughing, brought me such pain and gladness that I'm stunned at my own sobriety.

Still, I fear the world may spin off its axis. But for the discovered camaraderie of a this reunion, my wavering axis found its starting point and has stabilized.

Forget About A Steak & Chicken Banquet. Give Us A Bob's Big Boy Hamburger.

2006-10-17T08:42:00.000-07:00

A wonderful group of 50-somethings have worked hard to make the upcoming Alemany Class of 1966 40-year reunion special. They have put up a blog site http://alemany66.blogspot.com/and a web site of photos http://www.flickr.com/photos/alemany66/page5/. The cyber reconnection has brought us all up to date to the loss of classmates, the triumphs of those still here, the families and the adventures.

When I reach my pinnacle of patience at work, I flip over to these pages for ever-changing entertainment. One theme runs through the photo page: Bob. Big Boy Bob! He's driving cars, he's eyeballing women, he's standing alone. Bob is baaaack.

What's my take? Forgeta'bout the steak and chicken banquet. Give us Bob's Big Boy double decker cheeseburger on a sesame bun, a side of onion rings and a chocolate shake. Whaddya think? www.laokay.com/BobsBigBoy.htm.

Sgt. Jeremy and Kids

2006-10-12T13:30:00.000-07:00

The photo I could not upload with the blog "Iraq, It's All In The Family." Jer is fishing and the kids just could not be cuter. Bill Munds has been foolin' around with cameras ever since I've known him...and that's a long, long time ago. Bill was the official photographer for my marriage to his late brother.

Karl Rove Thinks I'm Stupid. But Fashionista Friend Resolves My Shoe Crisis.

2006-10-12T10:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was late for work. President George Bush gave his Rose Garden address. I learned that Karl Rove thinks S-T-U-P-I-D is emblazoned across my forehead. The speech reminded me of something L. Frank Baum would have written: Dorothy, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. I want to have faith in my government, but with the recent death of Habeas Corpus only the remnants of a democratic government remain.

But on the bright side, my fashionista friend, Diana, helped me resolve my shoe quandary. It's a mule--a very fancy schmanzy, coppery, glitzy mule that perfectly matches a similar kind of dress. So for my piano lesson today I will perform every piano student's syncopated practice song, Riding on a Mule.

KABOOM! Another big boom just exploded over Los Alamos. From my office I view the national laboratory city. We even watch their 4th of July fireworks from our back porch. Explosive noises carry well in New Mexico's rarified high-altitude air. There's no mushroom cloud over the labs, so I guess it's an in-house test that is performed somewhat regularly behind the top secret curtains of Los Alamos.

Maybe Baum is posthumously running this administration as if life was just one big fictional tale. Perhaps if I click my coppery mules together three times, we'll return to a government that is based on non-fiction.

Love Song. Letting an Old Love Go.

2006-09-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

It was Fall 1972. I took my second stab at college with a new major: Music. The local campus offered a course for students who were not interested in the classical study of music and wanted to find practical work in the business.

During those few years I fell passionately in love. The object of my love was unlike any love before because this object responded to my heart and soul. When my late husband would leave for work, I’d slip away with my new love and discovered a new element of my psyche.

Over the years my love met and accommodated my daughters, watched my new husband, Clif, followed me from California to New Mexico, and patiently waited for the touch of my fingers.

Change urged me to let this love go. Tears rolled down my cheeks when I gave it my final play then watched it roll into a mover's van for something more sophisticated.

Ah, don’t get your heart aflutter. I wasn’t having an illicit affair. In truth, no affair could compare to the passion I found on that rent-to-buy Story & Clark upright piano. And it was my thought that it would stay in the family, until... Recently, Clif wanted to give me something special for our twenty years of commitment. “Now, I’m not trying to say that you’re piano is not so hot,” Clif gingerly began, “but I know that you’ve been talking about the repair work it needs. I think I can swing a good deal on a baby grand.”

Viewing my music room, I envisioned how magestic a glossy black b-grand would look AND sound. But to let go of a love that has been with me for 34 years--I had to think about it. A visit to the piano shop clarified my thinking. The sound. The action. The response. All beyond my dreams. Yes, and when can you deliver, I asked.

My old love is getting refurbished now. I suspect that it will soon find a home with a music student and help that musician discover all the secrets that dwell within the song.

Oxymoronic Shoes! Sgt. Jer! Dakota, Executive Chef, Sunset Tower Hotel Restaurants!

2006-09-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

'Tis the season to shop for shoes. Both feet jumped in and took me to hell and back. Four hours on my already funky feet scored one pair of shoes, and they are not so pretty. Essentially, they are fancy Birkenstocks. An oxymoron at best.

After five shoe stores (and one was warehouse style), trying on dozens of fashionable, yet comfy shoes, which were not comfy on my feet, I'm horrified that the end result was Birkies-style with velvet toes!

Meanwhile Sgt. Jer emailed and clarified his Persian desert transportation. It is a humvee. Rats. He did note that he is not in the fray of the Iraqi squabbles and bombings.

I'm second to officially report that Chef Dakota leaves Jer-ne tomorrow. Jeff Klein of Sunset Tower Hotel http://www.sunsettowerhotel.com/
in West Hollywood has named Dakota as his executive chef for his Terrace Restaurant and Tower Bar. At http://www.fashionweekdaily.com/fashion/fullstory.sps?iNewsID=349565&itype=8487 the mood and feel of the newly opened Terrace Restaurant is chronicled.

While all this business was going on, LA.com broke the news when they pegged Dakota as the #2 Hot Restaurant Personality, 2006. (Ben Ford, son of actor Harrison, took the #1 hot spot.) http://www.la.com/dining/guideme/hotrestaurantpersonalities2006/48153

Soon, I will tell you how I traded in an old friend for a shiny new one.

Iraq: It's All in the Family

2006-09-18T06:45:00.000-07:00

My "family" references can be confusing. So, let me explain how my "nephew" is a soldier in Iraq. Bill Munds is my late husband's brother. Army Sgt. Jeremy Munds is Bill and his wife, Jeanne's, youngest son. Jer, as he is often called, has returned to Iraq for a second time.

This young man's bravery is worthy of bragging about as he serves his commitment to his uniform and now dwells in the Persian desert as his wife and two children await his safe return.

Jer is on an unusual mission this time around. His first round in Iraq was commandeering a tank after the US shocked and awed Baghdad. I hope he's not hanging around HUMVEES or tanks any longer. Those RPGs are nasty SOBs and the Army is reluctant to purchase insurance PDQ, opting to wait five-years for a Raytheon contract to protect soldiers from incoming RPGs. That makes me want to shout, "Hey, Mr. Military Big Shot! These soldiers are not fodder. They are brave Americans who have put themselves in harm's way for what we hope will be the greater good. Protect them at all costs!"

But my rage is not the point of this blog. Sgt. Jeremy Munds is a typical young American who volunteered to serve his country. For that he deserves all the honor due him. As Jer's second tour of duty in Iraq progresses, I'll report what I can.

About the photo which I'll have up soon: Bill Munds, the family photographer, took this shot of Jeremy and his two children last year.

Chefs Cook Up Funds For A Friend

2006-09-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

Another heartstring tug: A mother of four youngsters fights for her life, the family’s medical policies are defunct, and medical bills to battle the woman’s vicious cancer mound like the Great Pyramid.

Chef Daniel Porubiansky worked with my daughter Dakota at the Ritz-Carlton Buckhead (Atlanta) under the direction of Chef Bruno Menard. Recently Chef Porubiansky accepted a position at Seeger’s in Atlanta. His medical coverage was in transition. A wicked ovarian cancer was discovered in his wife, Andrea. Boom! Medical coverage declined.

Now a group of all-star chefs, Dakota included, are gathering this weekend to cook up funds for their colleague, Chef Porubiansky. Click on this link http://www.accessatlanta.com/blogs/content/shared-blogs/accessatlanta/peachbuzz/entries/2006/09/07/allstar_chefs_d.html for the full story.

Being blessed in so many ways is a gift of which I can never quit saying thank you. I know I can’t save the world, but I can gift back. It doesn’t kill me to give up shopping for the latest fashion that I may wear just once, and it surely doesn’t hurt to give up a good bottle of wine and let someone else drink from the fount.

For additional information about donation to the Porubiansky medical fund, contact Anne Quatrano, Bacchanalia, Floataway, CafeStar, Provisions, Quinones, 1198 Howell Mill RoadAtlanta, Georgia 30318404 365-0410 ext 101 aquatrano@eatoutoften.net

Glory at Seventeen

2006-09-06T08:54:00.000-07:00

This tale is a condensed version of an essay published in "Live From Santa Fe." A revised version will be part of "We Were The California Girls."

The summer of 1965. I’m seventeen. It’s my senior year. The Beach Boys rule! Hot cars. Drag strips. Glory days.

$250 waits in a shoebox--earmarked for a car. I wanted to pop a racing clutch and burn rubber at the stoplight. I wanted to take on that totally bitchin surfer dude in the hot Nomad and race him down the boulevard.

My buddy, Claudia scored her mom's car for Friday night. Tooling our way to the strip, the gleam of chrome rims flashed from inside a used car parking lot.

We whipped around the long rectangular block. Lustrous black paint reflected the parking lot lights. Chrome reverse rims were magic with sparkle. "Bitchin!" I exclaimed. "It even has chrome dual exhaust pipes.” The sales ticket was the price painted in bold white letters across the massive windshield -- Price Reduced to $250.

A honk blasted through the desert air. Full of ourselves, we assumed the blare was for us. "How friggin' bitchin. It's the surfer dude. Quick, Claud, let's go. Maybe tonight I'll meet him. I mean, wow, he honked." Curfew neared before we tagged the bitchin surfer dude. One of the kids at the A&W drive-in said his name was Mark Saxon.

Saturday morning I dragged my godfather to the used car lot. A salesman in a green plaid jacket and olive slacks vaulted the fence.

"Good morning, folks. This Bonneville Sport Coupe has it all. Why it was Motor Trend's 1959 Car of the Year. And this cream puff still has the original upholstery," he bragged as he opened the driver's door. It was garish--glossy red plastic three-color stripe.

"The previous owner added some extra features--an eight track tape with vibrasonic sound from the rear speakers, glass-packs, and let me show you the muscle on this car." He lifted the hood. More polished chrome glared in the morning sun. "This Tri-Power 389 pulls 345 horses. The tranny is a Super Hydra-Matic automatic. It'll do zero to 60 in about 10 seconds."

I drove home with KRLA radio rocking through vibrasonic rear speakers. It was Saturday night. Us girls piled into the car, hunted for the bitchin surfer dude, burned rubber at the first stop light, discovered the glass-pack muffler grumble of a hydra-matic transmission, and tempted fate along the two-mile boulevard. It was odd that there was no bitchen surfer dude cruising. By July he had disappeared. We heard that he joined the Marines was going to Vietnam.

Two weeks into July, I replaced the chrome covered Tri-Power carburetor. Sometime in August the Bonneville's rear end went south. Before my senior year began, my pride-of-the-road needed several hundred additional dollars in repair. My godfather asked how I could put so many miles on to that car in so few months. I denied that I ever took the car past the city limits. Nevermind the beach sand in the trunk and on the carpets.

The class of '66 was a force by October. Cruising was reduced to Saturday nights and I hit 60-miles per hour racing a guy in a '58 Chevy, dropped my transmission from high gear to low as we approached the next intersection, the glass-packs ripped through the night and something big hit the pavement. The guy in the '58 Chevy hollered out his window, "Your transmission hit the dirt, chick."

My mouth grew drier than the desert winds and my heart raced like that 389 did the first night I drove it. My beautiful 1959 Pontiac Bonneville was a goner.

Sunday morning, I scooped the local newspaper from the driveway. The rubber band freely slipped off to reveal a bold face bodoni 60-point headline, "Local soldier killed in Vietnam. Mark Saxon's family mourns."

Claudia picked me up that afternoon. Bob Dylan's sardonic lyrics wailed through the airwaves. She said that the neighbor kid next door had just been drafted into the army and she was afraid that he would die like the bitchen surfer dude. And she had been accepted to a university. I answered that I wasn’t sure what I would do now--maybe hitchhike across country.

Carefree tales of big waves, big cars, and the self-obsessed utopia of a post-war haze died that fall. A new direction was born.

Maroon and Grey

2006-08-28T08:39:00.000-07:00

In the proposed first chapter of We Were The California Girls, I write about a standard issue robe given to me during cancer treatment, "Grey and maroon—yuck! It was the color choice for my Catholic high school wool uniform, worn daily—even in the heat of the Southern California sun."

Forty years later grey and maroon remain in more ways than one can count. There is even a new blog site http://alemany66.blogspot.com/ bedecked in the school colors. Grey and its many shades color our coastal digs. Maroon--or as it is more fashionably called today--burgundy, merlot or cabernet--is the accent color I use in the Santa Fe casa.

Suddenly, one day last winter my hair turned a shade of maroon. I went wild for grey outfitting. And now I realize I've become a living tribute to the two colors I despised during my adolescent years. This is spooky.

Yellow and orange would have been my preference. That combo would have made cheerful plaid skirts. Hindsight and maturity, however, say ixnay of the cheery/happy colors. Alemany is a serious high school. Maroon and grey portrays a better image.

Givin' an Arm and a Leg

2006-08-22T15:18:00.000-07:00

I survived a recent flight without lotion and water. Queen Helene cocoa butter saved the day as lotion, and I didn’t have to make as many pit stops as if I had consumed my usual quarts of water.

Spouse and I ran off to California’s Central Coast for a four-day personal retreat. Perfect weather, perfect fresh fish, perfect Central Coast wines, no cell phones, no laptop, no news, no nuthin’ but hanging out on the beach, walking along the beach, and sleeping to the sounds of crashing waves. We disconnected.

All this peace and love faded away as we waited for our return flight out of San Luis Obispo. I realized how far out of the loop I really am when it comes to the gritty side of today’s world. When a bus dropped off a half-dozen injured military personnel—most of them amputees—my mother's heart broke. They were young, handsome, fit, and had given an arm or a leg in war or occupation of a hostile land. They were heading home or back to the Brooke Army Medical Center after a five day surf outing in Pismo Beach, Ca. http://msnbc.msn.com/id/14385821/

I can’t say what was in their hearts and minds, other than each amputee had to go through a complete pat-down in order to cross airport security. Some seemed adjusted to their fate. Some did not. With each humiliating security check I prayed that these young men lost their limbs or wear their disfiguring scars for a purpose that will benefit humankind.

To my way of thinking, not until one sees the severe wounds these soldiers have taken, do we get a sense of the horror experienced by the brave and the innocent. Fortunately there are programs like Operation Comfort (http://www.operationcomfort.org/) and the Amputee Surfers Alliance (http://www.ampsurf.org/).

Like 99% of Americans, I support our soldiers. I am not such a pacifist and dreamer that I don’t believe that we need these volunteers to fight for our country. While I may not agree with the political drive of war, I’m grateful that these soldiers took a brave step and volunteered.

And I will never again complain about the amputation of water and lotions from my carry-ons.

...one more thing...Operation Comfort is looking for donations. Let's keep the surf up for these young people.

Pissed Off. But the Zucchini Grows, and Grows...and...

2006-08-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

Talk about issues! I’m full of them today. Still, I’m freaked out about not having my lotion and chapstick at my immediate grasp during my next flight. I can pack them and send them off to never-never land and pray they may make it to my destination. But that will add to my aggravation. And then there’s this damned snakes on a plane issue. And, well, I’m just pissed off.

The terror-thinkers are frying my butt with their will to blow me up. I’m done with this incompetent administration that has fueled more hatred against Americans ever. And what about this disorganized Democratic party that can’t stick with a functional talking point? We go to the pumps and profit the oil industry. I am a capitalist, but for God’s sake, I’ve personally seen the unbelievable wealth that the oily-folks have to spend with absolute abandon, while the poor keep cutting back and clip coupons for white flour on sale.

I wonder if the Reverend Martin Luther King were alive today, how he would respond to this madness. Loosing his power to express peace, logic, clear and forward thinking was one of the greatest losses for America and all the good America has to offer.

Meanwhile, life goes on and my garden’s zucchini grow about a inch each hour. Hallelujah! Weeds are daring my patience. Stupid weeds. Today I ripped them out of the soil and imagined each weed as one today’s issues. Sweaty, tired of being stooped over, but relieved from destroying weeds, I decided an ice water and checking my email was a good idea. The following photo awaited me in response to Friday's blog.

Fly Naked

2006-08-10T08:59:00.000-07:00

You can't imagine the panic I'll suffer when I take my first flight without bottled water and hand lotion in my purse. Next to chapstick, water and hand lotion are my flight survival tools. Jewelry and accessories no longer adorn my pre-flight body, as well as, shoes that require futzing to remove.

Soon, we shall all fly naked.

Thinking about this concept, which is not out of reality's realm, I wondered if it wasn't the plan all along. When I imagine the mind of a fanatic, I wonder about their sexual repression. Sex is either number one to be had or the number one forbidden among fanatical tyrants. If some believe that virgins await them in a higher place after blowing themselves and others to smithereens, dude, these are not the kind of virgins you might have had in mind. They are either the wicked bitches from hell or so ethereal that they wouldn't touch a suicide bomber with even a glance.

Sex. There it is. So, while walking the pooch, Hank, this morning and pondering my next flight out of Albuquerque, I realized that soon enough one of these fanatics will figure out how to make cotton, polyester, silks and woolens into explosive devices. You know what that means. Fly naked. Airlines will likely provide a modesty robe then raise the cost of ticketing another 30-percent.

The idea of buying a boat for retirement has played in my head. The rules changed this morning. Perhaps flying lessons and researching Cessnas is more prudent. Understand, this body of mine does not bare its self in front of any one other than my plethora of physicians. The beauty factor is long gone. My vanity, however, remains intact. No naked.

About a block away from home, Hank and I sweltering in this morning's Rocky Mountain monsoon humidity, I also wondered if these new red alerts are not the result of Tuesday's primary elections in Connecticut. I'm not a conspiracy freak, I am just adding up what the neo-cons said yesterday about the primaries. Paraphrased, "Be afraid, be very afraid."

Why? We gonna be flying naked!

Best New Chef in Los Angeles: Dakota Weiss.

2006-08-07T07:03:00.000-07:00

With two more payments left for my daughter's culinary education at Scottsdale Culinary Institute, I'd almost be happy to make more. Angeleno Magazine's August 2006 edition, named Dakota as "Best New Chef "in Los Angeles.

I know she's talented. She has always had the mind (and temperament) of an artist. But to see her uniqueness qualified with a portrait and complimentary verbiage like "...in just a few short months, she's already pulling rabbits out of the hat...she's elevated it to the next level..." well, I'm wearing a hole in the tile from doing the happy dance.

Clif and I were thrilled when Dakota was asked to bring her toque and knives to Jer-ne in Marina del Rey. It's a quick and direct flight for us. When she was in Dallas, it was too muggy and hot, Atlanta was fun, but a bit of a trick for Albuquerque flights without hassle, and her stint in Sarasota was great, but the flight was too long for my antsy-legged husband.

Dakota has deep LA roots. Her great-great grandfather (Matthew E. Copeland) developed real estate above Echo Park (where I lived as a baby). He built a beautiful home for his artist wife, Rilda, and their daughter Osa who graduated from Los Angeles High School. Osa was a pianist who married a Georgetown University grad, Arthur Hughes, a practicing attorney. Osa and Arthur's son, Charles, was also an attorney of note, who was better known as "Cyanide Charlie" for his lack of mercy as a California Superior Court, Criminal Division judge.

And did I mention that Los Angeles Magazine this month has also named Dakota's Maine Lobster and Brie Grilled Cheese sandwich one of LA's top five sandwiches?

It sounds as though Los Angeles is glad for the return of a real California girl -- LA's Best New Chef.

A Metamorphosing Shell

2006-07-29T09:33:00.000-07:00

Since posting ‘Reality Check...’ I’ve received so many thoughtful and heartfelt emails from friends, family and former classmates. In my pseudo-cosmic way I held on to the hope that a call for peace for the gravely ill classmate would add to the volumes of prayer and kind thoughts that were sent to her from all around the world, as noted by her assistant.

Alas, Paula Carabelli will not be attending her 40th year high school reunion. This morning’s email reads,” She went peacefully, experienced no pain, and was surrounded by loved ones.”

So why did I take on this cause?

As noted in other writings, my first husband died young and unexpectedly. That loss fueled a survival-shell that grew and sheltered me for years. I was afraid if I reached outside of it that I would go into a free-fall and tailspin. So when a woman who I greatly admired was diagnosed with brain cancer several years after my husband’s death, I recoiled to the safety of my shell and stayed away. Soon the local newspaper announced her death and I, figuratively, beat myself up for not letting her know how much she had positively influenced the path I was taking.

When I had my own cancer bout I discovered another world. I save the details for my next book, We Were The California Girls. However, reaching out to the stricken is so very important, I learned.

My shell metamorphoses by the minute. Words and expression paint the change. If my Gathering Basket character, Rosemary Quintana, really did exist, she would be proud.

Reality Check Overtakes Whimsy

2006-07-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

I just returned from the Cancer Center in Santa Fe. It was my six-month check up and all systems are good. I’m healthy and remain cancer free. Spouse Clif and I celebrated with a Santa Fe style red-chili laden breakfast.

A visit to the cancer treatment center is one filled with mixed emotions. And Santa Fe is such a small town that often we see new patients who we know either socially or through business. Some are responding well and others not so well. Any person with a soul feels it twist when a patient is rushed out of chemo and jetted upstairs to the main hospital. This is a place where humans are all one of a kind – people undergoing treatment to save their lives. In the cancer center it doesn’t matter if one is Arab, Israeli, Christian, Asian, or what ever. It’s about the commonality of our human condition.

I realize I am blessed, lucky and grateful that the cancer that grew in me was caught early enough to snuff it out and that my survival odds are good. So for another good six-month check up, there’s nothing like a breakfast enchilada, smothered in Chimayo chili at Tecolote Cafe.

Dakota called for an update. We chatted about life and I begged for a zucchini recipe to put on this blog. It was a good day to blog about things like too many zucchinis in my garden.

Before I opened a website that Dakota sent me to, I checked my incoming email. Suddenly the whimsy of zucchini chat faded with this subject line “AHS-1966 Classmate Has Taken A Turn For the Worse.” This was sad news about the forgotten classmate I wrote about in my blog “Good Things We Can Do For Free.” Parts of the new email read, “…(she) was hospitalized again over the weekend in grave condition. The cancer has spread aggressively in her brain, and there is nothing that can be done at this time to save her… The medical team is giving her only a few days to perhaps two weeks.”

Cancer significantly changed my life and perspective. Judging by the earlier emails forwarded about this classmate’s condition, it seemed as though she would pull through. My vision was to share with her my joy in her health even though we’ve not conversed since high school graduation 40 years ago. But now her precious time must be filled with family, comfort and peace.

The sad email also noted that this classmate remained a "decent and kind" person. For that I pray that as she transitions, volumes of love and light will envelop her with dignity, kindness and love.

The Wild Hare of July

2006-07-18T12:47:00.000-07:00

The wild hare of July has taken residence in my garden.

Daughter Ocean and her hubby completed their house building project within the deadline. Mom's cleaning services AKA me, has been busy removing the endless construction dust and goo from corners, cabinets etc.

Meanwhile Israel and Hezbollah are trading war strikes. (If Hezbollah is God's army, then I am skinny.)

Ocean and I bought books about Japan and Tokyo. We're talking about a trip with the chef-daughter, Dakota, who would guest chef at L'osier.

I remain confused about the compassion of the far right attack machine. Just opened up a vitriolic e-mail spewing more hate toward two peacemakers: Sheehan and Jackson. It's like asking for peace and reasonable answers is a bad thing.

Even with July's apparent madness, spouse and I have set up our new business. Visit http://www.RiptideAlchemy.com and find out about making swimming pools really chlorine-free.

And will the heat never end?

The photo? Yes, it is a wild hare in my garden!

No Fireworks. Just a House to Build.

2006-07-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

I like to reflect on life's course. However, the only reflections in my recent life are brief moments in front of the mirror as I slam some make-up on my mug.

How July 4, 2006 could possibly be sporting its red, white and blue self in just a few days is beyond me. And, well, that's the challenge. The summer benchmark will announce itself in bright explosions against the night sky.

Maybe next year my family and I will spend the holiday at the beach. But this year Dakota might see some fireworks from Jer-ne's kitchen door, and the only fireworks Ocean will view will be sparks off a drill bit or misplaced hammer and nail strike. Ocean and her husband, Randy, HAVE to finish the house they are building in less than 2 weeks. Does this photo that I took yesterday look like they'll make it?

Fortunately, friends and family are doing whatever work we can to get this place to pass a Certificate of Occupancy inspection before the construction loan ends.

I may not blog much for the next few weeks. Daughter and son-in-law have a deadline to beat. I have casseroles to make and bags of rags to swipe against new windows, cupboards and ledges.

Friends pitch in and clean construction goo off new windows.

Good Things We Can Do For Free

2006-06-17T14:29:00.000-07:00

An email was just circulated among classmates from my high school. And I thought it so lovely to have this source to let others know when prayer, positive thought, and good will is essential.

The subject of this email is someone who slipped from my memory over the course of my life-rambunctious. She faded away like most of the students who wore maroon and grey caps and gowns on that windy June day in San Fernando Valley in 1966. When the Summer of Love struck one year later, I rambled through the Monterey Pop Festival and became far removed from twelve years of parochial education. Then there were marriages, relationships, kids, jobs, career, more education, and lots of over-the-top hoopla.

I'm discovering that those years of parochial education created some caring people who appear to live within the beatitudes from the Sermon on the Mount that we were forced to memorize and recite. And this is where I become perplexed: Who took those beautiful words away from the foundation of Christianity? Judging by the rants and raves I hear from the Christian Right, today's take on Christianity dumps the good and shouts for fear, racism and a true abortion of how I was taught.

Nonetheless, I will continue to seek peace and make time to see all the good that surrounds us. And, yes, I will pray and think good thoughts for my forgotten classmate who is now in need of these good things that we can do for free.

Girls in Body Bags & Fighting Cancer

2006-06-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

Such a weekend. I pushed that heavy closet door slightly open and admitted that I am a breast cancer survivor. It is two years since my treatments concluded.

I went on with life as though I had an inconvenience. But sometimes I bubble up like a pending volcanic explosion. “Charmaine, please come walk in the fight against breast cancer,” fellow survivors have invited. Sorry, I can’t put on that pink cap. It might make the volcano blow. That would be messy.

Diana, a fellow cancer survivor (she also lost her sister to cancer) said, “You must come to the Festival of Life at USC/Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center.” I said too busy. Spouse said, “No you’re not too busy. Go.” So I did. With three other women, one of whom lost her daughter to cancer, we piled in Diana’s Mercedes for the Festival of Life. I brought extra eye make up in case the pending eruption erupted. No full eruption, but I thought about how much my life has changed since the day a surgeon said my biopsy showed cancer.

Anyway, after some moving moments we piled back into Di’s Benz and dined at Jer-ne. Another longtime friend drove in. My darling Chef Dakota made all of us feel so special--and really full. Loved the oysters with shaved watermelon and rose jelly.

The evening’s news mentioned more soldiers killed in Iraq. I thought about all the girls (soldiers) coming home in body bags. And the dead boys (soldiers) too. For what? So now I’m pretty sure my emotional state has more to do with the helplessness I feel to change the moral and political cancer that has struck our country.

Thanks to Corinne for taking this photo of (left to right) Lois, June, Diana, me & Dakota at Jer-ne in the Marina del Rey Ritz-Carlton.

Buzz of Los Angeles: Chef Dakota Weiss. Whew!

2006-06-01T16:32:00.000-07:00

"If I asked what to expect of Jer-ne, I'd say set your highest expectations then double them.It was the most intimate, enjoyable and effortless culinary experience! Everyone was so friendly that by the end of the night we felt as if they were all part of the family. The Chef, Dakota Weiss, was the most amazing, talented, kind, and gorgeous chef we've ever met," begins yesterday's on-line review at BuzzofLa.com. http://buzzofla.com/

The rest of the review even went so far as to write, "Chef Dakota Weiss, she is a goddess in the kitchen and the most amazing talented chef I ever met." (Admittedly, I did raise a goddess. After all, her sister is a princess. Just ask anyone who knows them.)

Then we have last week's complimentary review in the LA Times. So Mom is so proud that she's probably annoying the world with letting them know HEY THAT'S MY KID.

I don't apologize because I remain amazed and short of breath when I look at both of my girls and realize that they have grown to be good people and good at what they do. You see, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing when I became a mother. My mother died early in my life. Some wonderful and some horrible women tried to take my mother's role. Consequently I grew rebellious, audacious and declined their maternal attempts. Then my daughters' father died early in their childhood and in our marriage. I was on my own. So I shot from the hip and applied cosmic theology to my mothering and hoped for the best. My lack of confidence, however, said this too would fail.

It didn't. So I will continue to stand on the roof, with megaphone in hand and blog until my computer fails me--which WILL most definitely happen at some point in time.

Meanwhile, my hippie-named daughters sweep me off my feet.

Winners and Chaos

2006-05-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

May 24, 2006. Santa Fe, NM. The LA Times food critic's review of my daughter and the restaurant Jer-ne. American Idol results.

My telephone rang so much in the early morning that I didn't have time to make lunch for my day's work. E-mails ran rampant over the LA Times headline: Jer-ne's new chef Dakota Weiss brings sparkle and a sense of fun to the Ritz-Carlton Marina del Rey.

http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/cl-fo-review24may24,1,6248839.story?coll=la-headlines-food

Thank you S. Irene Virbila of the LA Times for words in the review that referred to my daughter, "A fresh talent," "talent and taste intact," "a talented cook," "finesse," and "Very Versace."

So I could unload that stress puppy and wait for the American Idol finals even though I'm quite sure Taylor Hicks is the anointed. Heck, he makes me get up and boogie and I'm old enough to be his mother.

May 24, 2006 brought winners to my court. Life is good.

Well, life is good if one doesn't live/battle in Iraq, if one isn't dreaming of becoming an immigrant, if one speaks a different language than English in America, or if one's community isn't AIDS ridden.

Honoring Mary McGrath

2006-05-21T15:51:00.000-07:00

Many people have come and gone in my life. A few stayed for the ride. But one jumped the roller coaster too soon.

Two years ago Mary was unexpectedly yanked from this ride by death. Mary was genuine and the real deal. She left behind a memory that is hard to shake. She left an impression. She was one of the few good.

I first met her in 1955. We took our First Communion together, graduated from grade school and high school together, partook in each other's weddings, watched each other's kids grow, and shared the grief of doomed partnerships.

I'm writing a new book with the working title "We Were The California Girls." It's about my patchwork life and the girlfriends who were always there when the world crashed around me. Mary is one of those California girls. When I pulled her photo from an old trunk today, I sobbed like I did the moment I had to order flowers for her funeral.

Honoring Mary Dermody McGrath is the least I can do for all the presumptive moments of friendship.

Senator Hillary Has Nuthin' On Me!

2006-05-15T11:59:00.000-07:00

"NEW YORK (May 15) - After telling an audience that young people today "think work is a four-letter word," Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton said she apologized to her daughter."

THANK YOU HILLARY. I am in good company. As my daughters will testify, my mouth is often miles in front of my common sense. So many times have I had to utter "Whoops," and "That's not what I meant," that one would think that I would learn to put the brakes on the loose lips.

But such is not my reality. I rarely say things that are meant to hurt or be mean. When I do, there is no question about my intent. What I do is get so excited and so full of thoughts that my brain turns into a tumbler on crack and what rolls off my tongue can be random.

Two handwritten signs dominate my date book and kitchen wall: "mindfulness" and "unencumbered." They have been posted for so long that the corners of both signs are tattered and curled. Obviously these are two MORE rules I overlook.

Thankfully, I love you is said more than the rest of my babble.

Motherly Angst--Chef Weiss Gets LA Times Review

2006-05-11T07:18:00.000-07:00

This morning's email from my daughter, Dakota (AKA Chef Dakota Weiss), forwarded the announcement from the Ritz-Carlton media department that Jer-ne, will be reviewed in the LA Times later this May.

OWY-CWAP! For an up and coming chef it's a huge event. For her mom, YIKES! Dakota's culinary skills rock and her stellar career proves it. The media loves her for feature stories and her "Tuna carpaccio with shaved fennel and watermelon" recipe was featured in a recent LA Times piece and just showed up on DailyPress.com. (Refresh with raw tuna Daily Press - Newport News,VA) You go girl! But a review is a whole different creature.

I love reading restaurant reviews. Sometimes the reviewers are hysterical. (Go ahead and take 'hysterical' anyway you choose.) But just one tweak of the spatula can make a reviewer call it a four star or a one star dining experience.

Meanwhile Dakota's sister, Ocean (our family attorney) is on a big case and I pray she nails it. But I guess this is what mother's do.

Photo: Chef Weiss teaching a cooking class in Tampa, FL.

Repressed Mothers In America

2006-05-06T13:03:00.000-07:00

I'm confused. Mother's Day cards and flowers lined the grocery store aisles this morning. My daughter emailed me wanting to know what I would like for a Mother's Day gift. And on Sunday, May 14 we will celebrate my motherhood and honor all the other mothers in America.

Monday morning, us mothers and future mothers will crawl back into the repressive box that our new society seems to think is our proper place. Proper place? Yes. If you want to be a mommy, stay barefoot, stay home. If you want to have a life outside of the home, you are a bad mommy. You will be a punished mommy. So, don't mention to your future or present employer that you want or have children. If you do, plan for mediocrity in the workplace--if you get that much enthusiasm. And still, the pseudo-religious big mouths squawk "Family Values!"

Checking out of the grocery store this morning, the cashier held back tears. She told me that her mortgage lender just repossessed her home, and her sons had to move back with their father. "I don't feel like a very good mother," she confessed as she swiped my milk and eggs across the scanner. "I'm 40-years-old and I've lost my home and kids. I can't work any harder or get any more overtime than I already do. Listen, if you hear of an affordable apartment in a safe neighborhood, let me know." I remain confused.

What is motherhood in America?

Making Squares Into Circles As We Age

2006-04-29T09:07:00.000-07:00

Recently a high school classmate, Teri, sent me a surprise e-mail and mentioned that she found my contact info from a 40-year reunion list. I was moved. It had not occurred that my 1966 graduation from Alemany High School in Mission Hills, Ca., was actually 40 years ago. Impossible. Teri and I have continued our lifetime catch-ups, along with several other classmates who have connected through this electronic medium that did not exist in 1966.

Age and aging has come to my focus. Last week's venture in Marina del Rey at Jer-ne was centered around my longtime friend's 64th birthday. I saw acquaintances I haven't seen for almost 20 years. These women looked fabulous, but lamented their age. Girlfriends, don't ever lament your wisdom that age brings.

Turning 50 was a wonderful moment in my life--I BECAME FREE OF YOUTH. I don't need to list all the youthful agonies that many of us have survived. And I can tell you that I'm glad that part of my life is over. My vision and focus is clear and directed and without youthful indiscretionous-interruptus.

The jer-ne has just begun and each new square that I face I imagine how I can turn it into a new circle of growth. Photo: Alemany High School Drill Team from "Recuerdos '66."

If Not For Square One

2006-04-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

When I had to name a weekly column that I was to write for the Antelope Valley Press in Palmdale, Ca., the only name that made sense at the time was "Square One." The column's focus was about being a widowed mother of two daughters. Those daughters have grown beyond Tooth Fairy tales and Halloween pumpkin hunts. My oldest is now an attorney who practices law in Santa Fe, NM. The baby girl, now 30, is the chef de cuisine for Jer-ne in the Marina del Rey, Ca. Ritz-Carlton. My husband of 18 years and I just returned from a weekend there and my Weight Watchers points sailed out to sea with the yachts that grace the Marina del Rey harbor. When we entered the hotel with our chef daughter, I was floored by the greetings of "Good afternoon, Chef." I remember when the now Chef Dakota Weiss wouldn't touch a piece of meat or fresh veggies. How did she change? Was my astrologer correct when he said that she would be famous for her hat? Meanwhile, if you are in the area of Jer-ne, stop in and ask for Chef Weiss, then tell her that her mother sent you. A treat will be in your immediate culinary future. If not for "Square One" I would not be bumping into something like Square 100 -- but this time it's just a mother's perspective.