News from the road

It seems the familial tradition is to get, one way, or another, to Sebasatapol, and visit with Pat's brother, and his wife.

This works well enough because Willis and Jennifer are their kids, and Sola and Michael head up to Humbolt to visit his family, so this is a happy medium.

But it is internet hell. DSL is not to be had, the modem is 28.8 and the only option for fast internet is cable, which they don't want (it would be for nought but the net, and they don't use it enough to justify the $50 a month or so it would run. They can afford it, but why?).

So, through the miracles of technology, Willis' education, Gary's phone, and some smidgeon of expertise; in a limited way, with building networks; taught me by the Army so I could set things up in Iraq (information is what we do, and it's gotta flow), we have a fairly fast connection.

Really, Gary got a Sprint package (which they no longer offer) about three years ago which let him get internet (of a limited sort) on his phone. He's since upgraded the phone; and the internet it gets is the whole thing. So with a bit of fiddling, his phone is the connection, and his computer is the router. Yesterday we had four machines surfing along.

Maia and I had a god time at Dickens (zhaneel69 don't feel badly about missing it, the place was packed... knees and elbows to get anywhere). I like Christmas, the bonhomie, the hope, the Neverland aspect of it (because how many of us manage to be like Scrooge at the end of the story, and keep Christmas in our hearts all the year?... which is why that commercial this year, which had him being generous, and then stealing pennies irked me).

And Dickens captures that aspect of it. The clothes, the manners (a man in a tophat looks serene, and when he doffs it to make a greeting, he seems sincere, in a way that hearty claps on the back don't manage).

But what I really like is the songs. Maia hates them. She refuses to let me rehearse them before the first of December (though I insist I ought to be allowed, come the first Sunday in Advent). We were talking about it and she said something which set me to listening to them afresh. She said they were all depressing.

So I listened, as I played them, and heard what she was saying. Being reared a Catholic (and holding to much of it; it's dyed in the wool, and some of it, even were I to become an atheist, would linger to my grave) I don't think I'd taken real notice of it (though I do wonder, when "What child it this" starts, "Will they sing the fourth verse?", they never do).

And all of the songs I really like, have an air of melancholy. Easter, and the whiff of the grave is in them.

Which seems fitting, to a festival about surviving the dark of the year.

Dickens closes with carols. As the customers file out, a host is lining the streets, singing. I revelled in it. Carols I like, which suffer when I play them to myself, or listen to an album, are alive. One of my favorites, "Good King Wencelas" is only worth doing in a choir. We did it. The men reachhing as far down as they can manage to get the warm power of the King's part, the women, and boys, trilling to the page, and the unisons ringing the rafters.

"Silent Night" brings tears to my eyes.

And then we went to supper in SF, Sam Wo's in Chinatown. The food was good, the company fine (we live too far away to see many of our friends). Maia had her corchet, and the woman who ran the dumbwaiter, and took orders came to look at it. She spoke very little english, but she took the work out of Maia's hands, and tried it, getting most of the stitch right (it's Maia's favorite, single double... "moss stitch" I think. I could never figure crochet out, all I got was hideous tangles. I used to be able to knit), so Maia showed her the bits she wasn't seeing.

For the whimsical note of dinner: Maia ordered the vegetarian chow-fun. I ordered a roast pork with noodles. I had more, and a greater variety of vegetables.

Christmas Eve we opened presents (not my tradition, but what has grown up here) after we had sushi for breakfast, and ham for supper. No one was abed before midnight. Maia gave me two books, one of which I already have... so I looked about, and with great fanfare, put it back in the bag from whence it came (not much for fancy wrapping are we) and delivered it to her mother. I knew Pat didn't have a copy of Coming into the Country by John McPhee.

The re-gifting was greeted with glee, all around, and Pat was glad of it.

The other book in my bag was all about christmas, Norman Rockwell illustrations (he is much underappreciated, and not all of the pictures were sacharine) and stories (inlcuding Gift of the Magi which I greatly dislike) and music to Christmas carols.

I gave out strawberry jam, and we delivered wines we got from Web, for the express purpose of gifting to people, we left with a case, and are going homw with three bottles.

Then came the rain, and Maia and Pat went down the road a piece and collected some manure from a woman who'd forgotten to order a tractor to come get it. This was doable because Pat bought a hinged skip-loader (of the smallish sort, it weighs about a ton, and has a vertical hinge right below the seat) up to level, and grade, some of Glenn's yard.

Today we went and got some more, and I spent time side-dressing some of Glenn's vines (he has about 2/3rd of an acre in Zin, and about 30 P. Syrah vines, which aren't bearing yet). So I shoveled about 2 cu. yards of wet horse shit, into and out of, a wheel-barrow. When that started to raise blisters, I stopped.

Tonight we go to Santa Rosa to a party, and tomorrow we head to San Mateo to see a friend from SLO (she was in Maia's class). Then to SLO, where I'll visit the dojo, we'll sleep at Webs (and probably get more wine, delivering some of Glenn's to him. Glenn is getting the hang of it, the 2003 was in the barrel for 3 years, and is in the appassiamento style, not bad) and home to the dogs, the L.A. Christmas and New Year's parties.

This is what the world looked like out the north east of Glenn's place this morning.

For ***** and giggles

1. Think of a word you would use to describe me. What makes you think of me? What do I make you think of?
2. Go to Google Image Search and search for that word.
3. Select the picture you see as most fitting, and post it (or a link to it if it's not work safe) as a reply.

Fair(e)s

Thinking on Dickens, and this week, I realise part of what I like about fair(e)s.

It's the music. Billy Joel (and Sheryl Crow) have lauded the joys of living in an age where music is avaiable to all, anytime we want to spin a disk.

They are right, being able to hear Wynton Marsalis, and an orchestra, play Haydn's trumpet concerto, anytime I'm of a mind is glorius. It's wonderful that I can have whatever inspiration, comfort, amusement; or mere background noise, I want. Jug bands from the bayou, to choirs, to recordings of my performances in high school, all of them are available, anytime I want them.

Hank Willams isn't dead. Johnny Cash is still wearing black, Mozart survives his grave; all of it inspires, and none of it is gone.

But the sound of a single set of lungs bringing melody from a penny whistle, the thumping of a bodhran, half a dozen voices lifting a madrigal out of thin air, a chorus wishing all who hear to rest merry; it's precious.

This weekend at Dickens, I played the pennywhistle and chlidren looked on in wonder. Later I, in my meagre way joined, the crowded chorus singing carols and made it better.

Music... it makes the participant more than just himself, it lifts us from the everyday, and lets us rise, when we take part; even when the song is simple, to a place sublime.

Local eating

We went to dinner tonight. After a day of photographs, and shit-shovelling, not cooking (but eating our fill) was a consummation, devoutly to be wished.

Stella's Cafe is nice. If one makes a reservation the corkage is $5 the bottle. We took a merseault (very nice) and a zin, and a petite syrah (which were ok, but not to the level of the merseault).

The place is small, and the kitchen is open to the room. Sit at the counter and you know if the chegf uses his apron, or a towel, to wipe his hands.

The service is friendly, but slow (we were some 20-30 minutes waiting for a menu; though Glenn and Peggy being regulars, and we opening our own bottles may have had something to do with this; on the flip side, there was only one other party in need of real attention, and two waiters).

We ordered a puttanesca appetizer. This was a chopped olive and pear tomatoes bruschetta. The bread was a rosemary whole wheat pita. The topping had cheese and pignolia, tomatoes, olives (black and kalamata) and olive oil. It could have used more of the topping, but it was good nonetheles.

The salads, excellent, though the ceaser could have been made up of smaller pieces of lettuce. I think almost whole leaves (the only ones of less than three inches were small enough that cutting off the base was enough to reduce them to less than that). The mixed greens, with cranberries and hazelnuts, was well balanced. The vinaigrette was just right, and the bitter greens weren't lost oin the sweet, nor were they too assertive (Peggy says it was lacking in radicchio, so perhaps this wasn't quite as it per norm).

The last leg of lamb was gone, so I had the smoked steak. It was served just as I ordered it (I like a piece of meat to be just shy of medium, and this seems to be a hardship, it's either running red, or cooked to almost well). Maia ordered the vegitarian stir fry. The noodles were actuually cooked as a single lump. Browned, and crunchy, on the outside, and soft on the inside. She had peas (in the pod) green beans, asparagus, carrots, mushrooms and onions. I had potatoes (with a rich cheese, not a blue, but of that family; though milder. Maia, who dislikes, "mouldy cheese" didn't recoil, though she thought it too rich) and some asparagus.

Peggy ordered the Dungeness crabcakes. I had a bite... enh. I think crabcakes just aren't for me. They taste of tuna casserole.

We passed on desert, but I did get a taste of the Mirror Pond ale (the tap beer). It's from Oregon, and pleasant. No malt left over, but a pleasant hoppiness. It's not bitter. No, a beer ought to be slightly bitter, but not too much. This was just as that ought to be.

All in all, I can commend it, the prix fixe isn't cheap to look at (tonight it was Thai peanut soup, a goat cheese salad, and a bone-in rib eye, $44) but I suspect the totality is sufficient (the steak is $24, so the soup, and appetizer probably fill out the price, esp. when one figures the scale of purchase).