The Grocer's Daughter

Tested

2011-01-01T23:11:00.000-08:00

Hi, my name is Allen, what's yours?

With this simple question, I am redeemed. Years earlier I watched from my kitchen window as Allen was taunted by a teenage boy. Even though Allen is mentally disabled, I did nothing to help him. I did not dart out of my apartment to defend someone who was weaker than myself. I did not call the police or ask my neighbor for help. I simply watched and waited and eventually the teenager went away. For years, I felt guilt.

There are moments in life when we are tested. I admit that I haven't always shown as well as I would like. Parts of me are fearful, selfish and small. I am not part of the bone marrow registry. I do not have a donor sticker on my ID. It is not something that I've neglected or never thought about. It is something I decided not to do. I am left neither here nor there. Not comfortable being a donor. Not comfortable opting out. Is not helping the same as harming?

One afternoon, Allen came up to me as I was sitting on my porch and asked me my name. With this simple introduction, I felt I was given a second chance. Forgive me Allen. I should have helped you. I looked at Allen, shook his hand, and told him my name.

Umm...no excuse really

2006-01-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

There is no new post. You haven't written anything in a month. You haven't written anything in two months. Are you ever going to write anything again? Umm...well... I don't have an excuse really. There have been things to write about. For Little Red Apron there was a rabbit gumbo and svinina v kislo-sladkom souse (pork stew with dried fruit). For the Ox and the Scorpion there were relationship bumps and a recent first date. For Adventures of a Shopgirl there was a shirt to improve you sex life. I just haven't felt like writing (or staring at a blank Blogger window as the case may be). But it's a new year, and here we are. Perhaps you'll hear about all the things that went unwritten or maybe we'll move on. Welcome back everyone...if you're still out there.

Click: Bonifacio

2005-09-26T07:20:00.000-07:00

Mon baggage...perdu...il n' est pas ici.... After 30 hours of travel, I find myself at the Air France counter in Figari, Corsica trying to explain in very bad and very broken French that my bag didn't make it with me. Finally I find my baggage claim ticket, and the woman helping me understands. As she's processing my lost baggage form, she tells me that it is going to rain for the next 3 days. This is not how anyone wants to start off their vacation.

My friend and I finally manage to find a taxi and we begin the last leg of our journey to Bonifacio, Corsica. The taxi rounds a corner, and the driver points in the distance. "Bonifacio!" our driver exclaims. I look out in the distance and spot the city on a hill. Suddenly it seems all worthwhile. Bonifacio is absolutely beautiful.

Be Back Soon

2005-09-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

Once again I'm off exploring! This time the destinations are Bonifacio, Corsica and Toulouse, France. The Grocer's Daughter will resume on Sept. 21st...

The Ox and The Scorpion: Internet Dating

2005-09-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

I confess to trolling Craigslist personals lately. It amazes me what you'll find on a given night. Posts range from upfront and honest to detailed and amusing to gimmicky but cute. I will spare you the ones that we can only hope is some sort of social experiment. (Note to the boys out there: the word "obedient" and pictures of penises generally do not encourage response.)

Writing a personals ad is an art in itself, especially on Craigslist. Just writing the subject line is enough to make one break out in a sweat. Each page consists of a hundred posts, and if you post on "men seeking women," you get maybe an hour on the first page. In one line, you have to write something that will distinguish you.

So what makes you click? According to Levitt and Dubner's Freakonomics, women are looking for men who want long-term relationship, have high incomes, and are military men, lawyers or financial executives. They do not want men who are short, have red or curly hair, are balding (shaved is okay), who are laborers or work in the food service industry. Men want women who are blond, are looking for occasional lovers, are good looking, have middle of the road incomes (not too low, but not too high), and who are students, artists or veterinarians. The do not want women who are in the military, are overweight, or have salt and pepper hair. Apparently not posting a photo is death to both men and women.

And while these things are interesting (you will notice how closely they follow the stereotype), they are not really helpful for those of us seeking response. Of course you can leave out what you feel is unappealing, but the facts remain. If you are a laborer, you are a laborer. If you are overweight, you are overweight. I wonder how much these things matter in real life.

If a woman meets a man and finds him charming, does she really care that he has red hair? If a man turns his head to take a second look at a woman and finds out later she's army, does that kill the deal? There are so many factors, and they are all subconsciously balanced and weighed. Is what makes us click what we really want?

And if you were to write an ad for yourself...what would it say? How do you distill yourself into a single post? Female, 32, seeks male, 29-42. Must enjoy food. Boys who read, always a plus. I am not outdoorsy so you better not want me to come camping with you...

Little Red Apron: Guinness and Chocolate Ice Cream Floats

2005-08-23T19:05:00.000-07:00

I had the most perfect high recently. I held my friends' newborn daughter in my arms. I was holding her awkwardly at first. She squinched up her face in protest. My friend adjusted my hold and immediately she burrowed into me. She rooted around trying to find my nipple and then gave up and fell asleep. We all just stared at her for over an hour...and she doesn't even do much yet.

This may seem a strange way to start off a post about Guinness and chocolate ice cream floats. But when I think of pregnancies, I think of ice cream floats -- root beer with vanilla ice cream to be exact. When my mother was pregnant with my sister, we had a lot of root beer floats together. During the first months of her pregnancy, my mother often invited her best friend and her daughter over. While my mother and her friend talked out on the front lawn, my friend and I poked at the rolypolys with blades of grass. Great amusement for three-year-olds. Everyone had root beer floats in hand. Even now when I drink root beer floats, it reminds me of sun, hot concrete, and the smell of grass.

Thoughts of ice cream floats are out there. Maybe it's because the summer's almost to an end. When I read a recent post on Orangette, I was reminded of a float my friend introduced me to, Guinness with chocolate ice cream. At first I was a bit horrified by the thought. Mess with a Guinness? Leave well enough alone. I'm the type of girl who likes to drink her coffee black. But then I thought of all the chocolate-y flavors in Guinness, and I had to give it a go. And my friend is right, it's really very good.

Needless to say, there's not a complicated recipe for this. Put one or two scoops of chocolate ice cream in a glass (I use Haagen Dazs, but it would be better to use a brand that freezes harder). Pop open a can of Guinness, tilt the glass, and pour.

The Ox and The Scorpion: Communication

2005-08-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

Thomas? Thomas. Clarabel. Clarabel. Henry. Henry. I am at work and having a conversation with a two-year-old boy that consists entirely of first names. The two-year-old says a name, and I repeat it. If I don't hear him correctly, he says the name again. His father explains that they are names from the Thomas the Tank Engine series. Harold. Harold. Cranky. Cranky. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. The two-year-old and I are both having a very good time. I leave to help someone and when I come back, he smiles and says, "Thomas?"

As I tell the new boy I want to be friends, I realize that I am not communicating everything that I mean. I don't have the words to express this self-preservation instinct that has kicked in. I can't explain the confusion and the unfamiliarity of the terrain. I just know that somehow this is what I need. He is holding me and talking to me, but I know that I can't really hear. I am reminded of my conversation with the two-year-old. It would be so much easier....Thomas? Thomas.

Little Red Apron: Blueberry Pancakes

2005-08-17T18:45:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, I suggested to a friend that we make waffles for dinner. Waffles for dinner? He was stunned. Waffles were not dinner food. (Clearly he had never had the strange but yummy fried chicken and waffle combination.) Eventually he came around and soon he was even planning waffle dinner parties.

I was never one to limit food to a particular dining time. When I was a child, my mother hardly ever served breakfast food in the morning. It was not uncommon to find quesadillas, bowls of soup, or heated leftovers waiting for my sister and me when we woke up. If you can have dinner food for breakfast, breakfast for dinner wasn't a leap.

During our first date, I discovered the new boy had fond memories of eating pancakes for dinner growing up. And thus our third date came to be. In the smallest kitchen I have ever cooked in, we made blueberry pancakes with sides of organic strawberries and bacon from the Fatted Calf.

He didn't mind that my pancakes failed to turn golden brown. And I didn't mind that he only had one fork. We spread everything out and ate with our fingers. And while everything was very good, I suspect the company made it better.

Blueberry Pancakes
Makes about sixteen 4-inch pancakes, serving 4 to 6

1 tablespoon juice from 1 lemon
2 cups milk (if desired, buttermilk can be substituted for the milk if you omit the lemon juice)
2 cups (10 ounces) unbleached all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 large egg
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
1 to 2 teaspoons vegetable oil
1 cup fresh or frozen blueberries, preferably wild, rinsed and dried (I use Wyman's brand)

1. Whisk the lemon juice and milk in a medium bowl or large measuring cup; set aside to thicken while preparing the other ingredients. Whisk the flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a medium bowl to combine.

2. Whisk the egg and melted butter into the milk until combined. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients in the bowl; pour in the milk mixture and whisk very gently until just combined (a few lumps should remain). Do not overmix.

3. Heat a 12-inch nonstick skillet over medium heat for 3 to 5 minutes; add 1 teaspoon oil and brush to coat the skillet bottom evenly. Pour ¼ cup batter onto three spots on the skillet; sprinkle 1 tablespoon blueberries over each pancake. Cook the pancakes until large bubbles begin to appear, 1 ½ to 2 minutes. Using a thin, wide spatula, flip the pancakes and cook until golden brown on second side, 1 to 1 ½ minutes longer. Serve immediately, and repeat with the remaining batter, using the remaining vegetable oil only if necessary.

Lemon-Cornmeal Blueberry Pancakes: Follow the recipe for Blueberry Pancakes, adding 2 teaspoons grated lemon zest to the milk along with the lemon juice and substituting 1 ½ cups stone-ground yellow cornmeal for 1 cup flour.

Source: America's Test Kitchen, season 4
Also in: The New Best Recipe by The Editors of Cook's Illustrated, p. 648-649

The Ox and The Scorpion: The Clinch

2005-08-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

A friend and I are discussing our perspective first dinner dates. Do they like us? Do we like them? My friend is a bit worried; his date hasn't called him yet. He talks of his dinner at Aqua. (And let me tell you, that's one heck of a place to take a girl on your first dinner date.) "How did your date end?" I ask, "Did you kiss?" "She might have made some vague kissing motion by my ear," he says, "Who knows what goes down in the clinch."

Yes, who does know? "You can't just go around kissing people," my mother once admonished me over the phone. I had called to tell her about a date and how I thought I accidentally kissed the boy when he saw me to my door. I found out later I was not the kisser; I was the kiss-ee. "How come you couldn't tell who kissed who?" a friend asked incredulously. "I don't know. Sometimes you can't tell. I thought I was the more aggressive one," I replied weakly.

We all know that moment, when you decide to make your move. Do you opt for the more daring kiss or the safer embrace? You've read the signals all night long. Are you in the clear? Do you lean towards her? Do you pull him in? Maybe if you just stare at her lips, she'll come to you. Some hands travel along the spine, others across the face. Maybe you hold them at the nape of the neck. Maybe you just trust they won't move away.

If I opt for the kiss, I tend to dart and peck. This technique requires good aim. It's never good if you end up kissing their chin. But the dart and peck has its advantages. It's like putting your foot in the water before you dive in. It gives my partner a chance to move away. If I suddenly change my mind, I can laugh it off and say good night. No, not particularly sexy. Kissing was never one of my strong points.

There was no question about the clinch during my dinner date. I gave off some pretty clear vibes (as you all might expect). The boy reached over and pulled me in part way. He paused and looked at me. I leaned forward and we kissed.

Adventures of a Shopgirl: Lessons in Compassion

2005-08-09T22:45:00.000-07:00

I live in a city where it's easy to become hardened. We pass by people living on the street daily. When asked for money, we breeze by, mumbling a quick, "Sorry." That is not to say that we are completely heartless. We support our free clinics. We buy the street sheets. We know that homelessness is a social problem, and unlike some cities, do not consider it criminal.

I found myself dragging a shopping cart yesterday. On my way to work, a woman stopped me and asked me if I was going her way. I told her I was going about two blocks to wait at the bus stop. She asked if I would help her with her cart. It seemed like a reasonable request, and I agreed. The cart was amazingly heavy. She talked to me along the way. I'm not sure what she said, I couldn't completely understand her.

We reached my stop and I expected her to continue up the street. Suddenly she was crying into my sweater and I had my arms wrapped around her. She wouldn't take the tissue I had dug out of my purse. So I wiped away her tears and she thanked me. She was crying about her mama, her father, and her baby. The words spilled out of her and she buried herself into me. She said she was a good person and I agreed.

Many people walked by us. Only one person stopped, a psychologist who worked across the street. He gave her a huge hug and told her he had to be going. Everyone else looked carefully the other way.

I had no idea what to say. Everything that came out of my mouth was trite and worn and not particularly helpful. You'll get through this. You're having a tough time right now. Sit down; it'll make you feel a little better. There were more tears, and again I wiped them away.

And then my bus came. I had to leave. She asked for my number and I wouldn't give it to her. I pretended I didn't hear her plea. I pressed the packet of tissue into her hand and again told her she was a good person and that she'd get through this.

Sitting on the bus, I'm not sure what I felt. Helpless, sad, a little bit mean. I thought of all my friends who have always been there for me -- who have pulled me through the tough places in my life. And this women... she had no one. She finds herself sniffling in the arms of a complete stranger who helped her drag her cart up the street.

The Ox and The Scorpion: The Ex

2005-08-07T23:45:00.000-07:00

There was a message on the machine when I got home from work. It was from a boy I broke up with about a year ago. He had made a few attempts at contact after the initial break up (a break up box and a cd), but I hadn't heard anything from him since. His voice on the machine seemed practiced and breezy. He said he was curious to know how I was doing and suggested getting together to meet. An hour at a public place was all he was asking.

I didn't execute the break up well. It was clean but not particularly neat. I waited too long, somewhat dreading the moment. By the time that we sat down to talk, I think he had an idea of what was coming. I explained briefly and quickly that it wasn't working for me. When he flatly stated that I didn't want to be friends. I told him I didn't think we could be. I could have been more kind. You see, this was the second time we had been through this.

It's dangerous to resurrect a relationship that ended poorly the first time around, especially if there are six years in between. After six years, the annoyance fades and you begin to think of the ex more charitably. What was attractive about him was still attractive, but it also worked the other way. It didn't take long for those same problems to emerge. And soon I was thinking about leaving.

I have to admit there is a part of me that wants to call him back. To give him the contact that he desires. I have been in his position myself...wondering after an ex...wanting contact... just wanting to know. But ultimately I know that it's a bad idea. The more kind thing is to let the message go.

So if you happen to stumble across this post one day (as I once stumbled upon a post written by an ex of mine), know that I did think about calling. But trust me, it's better this way. And in another five years, I will go back to remembering you as endearing.

Little Red Apron: Cactus Soup

2005-08-02T23:55:00.000-07:00

Like most kids, both my parents worked. Unlike most kids, I was lucky enough to have a sitter. I would walk to her house after school, she would feed me a snack, we would watch soaps, and she would keep an eye on me until my mother arrived at the door.

My sitter's husband worked on the roads. I don't know exactly what he did, but I remember him stopping by in his "don't run me over" orange vest. Occasionally, my sitter would get an excited call: The crew had found cactus! And the flurry in the kitchen began. Out came peppers, onions, and cilantro. The homemade tortillas were taken out of the freezer to defrost. The next day, my snack was served: cactus soup with buttered tortillas (warmed directly over the flame).

At the farmer's market the other day, I found a table with a basket of nopales (already prickle free!!!) which inspired me to try to make the soup on my own. I searched around and found some useful recipes and went from there. It turned out more chicken-y than I would have liked, but it is close to the soup I remember. I think more cactus, less broth (using water instead), and one more jalapeno might do the trick. If anyone has a recipe for cactus soup, please share.

For those of you who have never eaten cactus, I've heard it described as being close to green bean. I would say that's only if your green bean is sour. Nopales (roasted in the oven or boiled) are also good in salads. Be warned, the raw paddles give up a slick goo when you slice into them.

Cactus (Nopales) Soup

4-5 cactus paddles (about 10 oz), cleaned (instructions) and diced (1/4")
2-3 Tbsp vegetable oil
1 med onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 tsp dried oregano, crushed (use epazote if you have it)
1 pasilla pepper, chopped
1 jalapeno pepper, seeded, finely chopped
2 quarts chicken broth (I used Imagine Brand Organic Free Range)
1 lb pork shoulder cut into large chunks
1 can (1lb 13 oz) hominy, drained
Salt, if needed

Optional garnishes:
Chopped cilantro
Chopped white onion
Chopped or thinly sliced radish
Shredded lettuce

In a medium pot bring lightly salted water to a boil. Add cactus and cook until tender, about 10 minutes. Drain off water and set aside.

Heat oil in a large pot over medium-high heat. Add onion and saute for about two minutes. Add garlic and saute for another 2-3 minutes. Add both peppers and the oregano. Continue to cook until vegetables begin to soften, about 5 minutes more. Add chicken broth and pork. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer until pork is cooked through, about an hour. Occasionally skim off any foam that develops on the top.

Remove pork pieces from soup (chopsticks are useful here). When pork is cool enough to handle, shred and return to soup. Add hominy and cactus. Cook for 10-15 minutes until warmed through and flavors meld together. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed.

Serve in bowls and pass around garnishes.

The Ox and The Scorpion: Cheating

2005-07-30T11:15:00.000-07:00

I met a boy for coffee the other day. We are at that get-to-know-each-other-do-we-like-each-other? stage. I am sort of rambling...all this nervous energy to expend. The herbal infusion called "calm" that I'm drinking is not doing a darn thing. (For all you coupled folks out there, I would like to remind you that dating his not easy. You have to be "on" and present one of your better selves but not your best.)

In typical blunt fashion, I look at him and ask, "Are you married?" He laughs and shakes his head. Of course he could be lying, but somehow it's better if you make them lie directly to your face. There is no "it never came up" or "there was never a good time" to deal with in the end.

Almost all of us have done it, at least at one point in our lives. It's just so hard to stay faithful. Temptations abound, the grass looks greener, we say we will only look but then....

I am guilty of cheating. I have been on all sides. I've stepped out; I've been stepped out on; and I've been stepped out with. With cell phones, e-mail, and our hectic lives, cheating is easier than it's ever been. We have direct ways to communicate these days. There is no going up stairs to take the call or hang ups in the night.

As cheating has gotten easier, people have resorted to more desperate measures to ensure their partners are true. One friend's girlfriend hacked into his e-mail account and another friend admits to checking the messages on her boyfriend's cell.

And of course, most of us get caught. It's only a matter of time. We humans are more transparent than we would like to believe. Maybe there is no lipstick on the collar or someone else's scent, but there are other signs. We see new interests, new tricks in bed, or familiarity with a place you don't think they've ever been. And if your affair ends badly...well, let's just say it's not a pretty sight. What's that saying? Hell hath no fury...

Click: Mini Barn Bakery

2005-07-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

I was quite smitten with honor system businesses during my trip to Oregon. Amused, my friends indulged me and took me to another place just outside of town, the Mini Barn Bakery. It's an adorable spot that looks (obviously) like a little red barn. (Red barns are always photogenic)

Like Granny's Garden, the store is self-serve. You select your items and put the appropriate amount in the cash box. Unfortunately not all Oregonians are as noble as I was first led to believe. In the corner, there was a small yellow sign that read, "Smile! You are on camera. We have had a freeloader [underlined] recently."

The owner, Ms. Charlene Hill, puts out quite a spread. The red checkered tables hold an inviting selection of cookies, brownies, pies and quickbreads. The oldest girl eyed the frosted banana bread, and I was quick to select a (still warm!) mixed berry pie. We didn't even wait until we were back in the car to open up the bread. My friend pulled out his pocket knife and I have to admit, we devoured well over half.

Adventures of a Bridesmaid: The Wedding

2005-07-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

My little sister just got married. For those of you who are unfamiliar with wedding planning, let me give you a little peek. My sister sent this out two months after her engagement:

...nothing is scarier than an industry intent on manufacturing love and happiness. It’s Valentine’s Day times ten. Million. Photographers, florists, and bridal dress consultants insist that the wedding will be "the happiest day of my life," while bawdier people slyly add "night" (*wink, wink*). The pressure is enormous for everything to be perfect, and the pricy wares presented dazzle you into thinking they are essential for making it happen. Hence, bride-zilla emerges along with an empathetic ache for women who have totally lost it when the slightest detail becomes marred on The Day. When you invest so much personal and financial resources into six to eight hours, it damn well go without a hitch. Of course, that’s impossible, but the fantasy still persists beyond all logic and reason. This is, after all, a billion-dollar business that ruthlessly capitalizes on fairytales.

For my sister, The Day arrived and almost everything went without a hitch. After a year of planning, she threw an awesome party. The weather was perfect for the outdoor ceremony. The reception venue was amazing, the food was tasty, and people were dancing until the end. As her new husband put it, once my sister got into her dress, you had the feeling the wedding could go up in flames around her and as long as her dress wasn't singed, she'd still be happy.

The Ox and The Scorpion: Flirting

2005-07-22T21:35:00.000-07:00

Flirting is a funny thing. My friend sent me the Social Issues Research Center Guide to Flirting recently. We are both single and could use a brush up in the art. The article breaks things down quite nicely. It talks about flirting for fun and flirting with intent. It talks about who and how and where. And despite having read this piece, in real life it's not so clear.

A customer gave me his business card at work the other day. Does he want me to call him? Does he just really like his cards? Does he think I'm in the market for a school psychologist? His intent is unclear. And of course, there is always the possibility that there is no intent at all.

I think we were flirting...well, maybe that was just me. Shopgirls are tricky. My shopgirl self is happier, friendly, more helpful than my day to day self. My friends would be amazed. But I think I was flirting, above and beyond the normal shopgirl thing. Was he flirting with me? Hmmm.... There was eye contact and smiling. There were names being exchanged. But it's a fine line between friendly and flirting. It's hard to say.

I would have said we were just being friendly if he hadn't handed me his card. I set it down next to his wallet, giving him the opportunity to take it back. But when I handed him his new shirt, the card was still there. So after giving him his package, I tucked his card into my hand.

So what do I do? Should I call or should I let it go? He's attractive. He has a great voice. He's always seemed nice. The other shopgirls are sighing. Reminding me of what I said, that I was never going to date a customer again. But did I mention that he seemed quite nice? Maybe I should just step up to bat. The worst that can happen is he meant nothing by the card, and I will be a bit embarrassed.

Catching My Breath

2005-07-21T22:20:00.000-07:00

...it takes your sleeping self years to catch up to where you really are. Pay attention to your dreams: when you go on a trip, in your dreams you will still be home. Then after you've come home you'll dream of where you were. It's a kind of jet lag of the conciousness.

-Barbara Kingsolver, Animal Dreams

This is how I feel about writing. You are always a bit behind...running after your experience. This is the first chance I've had to unpack my bags and actually put them away (instead of getting ready to pack again). From here to Southern California to Oregon to the Baltic and then to San Diego.... I've had a whirlwind couple months. I need a moment to settle in.

Click: Watch Your Head

2005-07-09T18:55:00.000-07:00

Siskin, siskin, where were you?
On the Fontanka, had a few
Vodka, vodka, one drink more
Now my head is really sore

Sometimes memories are not about the snapshots you take but about the snapshots you miss.

St Petersburg is sometimes referred to as "Venice of the North." Like Venice, St. Petersburg is a beautiful city full of canals and bridges. We started our second day in St. Petersburg with a canal tour, traveling through four water ways: the Fontanka River, the Kryukov Canal, the Moika River, and the Neva River. Bundled up again the cold (our guide told us they have two ways of thinking about the weather in St. Petersburg: 9 months of anticipation and 3 months of disappointment), we boarded our open air boat and were handed glasses of champagne... at 8 o'clock in the morning.

Along the Fontanka River perches the Chizhik Pyzhik, the smallest monument in St. Petersburg. Chizhik Pyzhik is a small bronze statue of a siskin bird. The statue was inspired by a Russian folk song created by students at a nearby school who wore uniforms the color of siskins. Our guide taught us the translated version above. Chizhik Pyzhik has quite a history. It has been stolen more than a few times. And there are many folk customs associated with the little bird including sharing a drink with the bronze statue which involves being dangled over the Fontanka River and the easier custom of tossing coins onto its base for luck.

I was poised and ready to take a snapshot of the little bird. As the statue came into view, my sister frantically pulled at my shoulder. I suddenly realized everyone around me was crouched or hunched over. I quickly crouched down myself. My sister made me miss the picture but saved my head. Did I mention the statue is perched right next to a bridge?

Adventures of a Tourist: Baltic Cruise

2005-07-06T15:45:00.000-07:00

And to your right is Sweden, to your left is Finland, coming up is Estonia...okay everyone back on the bus and to the boat...

-overheard at the Copenhagen airport

Hallo. Hej. Hei. Zdravstvuite. Tere. Dzien Dobry. Goddag. As I've mentioned before, my mother's side takes a family trip almost every year. This year's destination was the Baltic. 18 of us (grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins) board the Star Princess in Copenhagen to join 3000 other passengers (and about 1000 crew members) for a 10 day cruise. This trip promised an excellent itinerary. We only had 2 "at sea" days, and we stopped in Stockholm, Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Tallinn, Gdansk and Oslo before returning to Copenhagen.

This is the family's 10th trip together and our sixth cruise. There was a leisurely cruise of Alaska -- lots of family time on that trip. We had a memorable cruise on the Big Red Boat that included malfunctioning toilets, raw sewage on the some of the decks, and a small fire on the port side. There were two sweltering cruises to the Caribbean and an equally warm (but quite nice) cruise on the Mediterranean. We are a family of seasoned cruise goers. Cruising may not be my first choice in traveling, but it’s an easy way to organize 17 or so people spanning 3 generations. We fearlessly order at least 3 courses at every meal. We know there is always more lobster on formal nights. We've learned the accepted cruise small talk (So, what other boats have you been on? Any tours planned for today?). We make reservations with photographers and breeze through family pictures while other passengers wait in long lines. Yes, we have the cruise thing down.

But even for us, visiting 7 countries in 10 days is hectic. You have to constantly remind yourself what country you're touring. Yesterday I was in Sweden. Today I am in Finland. Tomorrow I will be in Russia. Figure out the currency. Kronor? Euro? Ruble? Zloty? And plan out what sights you can see in the 4-6 hours the ship allows you to be on shore.

The itinerary may say 10 hours but don't be fooled. You may only get 5 1/2 hours in town. Remember that you are 1 of 3000 trying to get off the ship out of two doors and sometimes onto a tender (a small boat that take you to shore if the ship is too big to dock at the port). It takes time to find a way into the main part of town and sometimes the main part of town is an hour away. (In Sweden, the ship actually docked at Nynashamn. Stockholm is an hour away. To get there, you get to buy a $72 bus ride from Princess Cruises). To have an enjoyable cruise vacation, you have to think of the ports as activities and not as destination.

The Star Princess

Be back soon...

2005-06-21T23:21:00.000-07:00

I haven't even finished my posts about Oregon and already I'm off again! Baltic cruise, here I come...

The Grocer's Daughter will resume on July 5th.

Adventures of a Housewife: Murder and Mayhem

2005-06-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

Who knew the country was so exciting? I wake to a flurry of activity. The chickens are squawking, the dog is barking, and the girls are twittering excitedly from below. I hear the door open and close, the oldest girl and her dad head outside to investigate. I have awakened to a murder.

Wandering downstairs, I ask the youngest child what happened. She tells me a dog stole a chicken. "He killed it," she says. She was witness to the crime. When her mother calls from work, she describes the suspect, "He was white with gray and a little black. He had curly hair and a mustache, with a chicken in his mouth. And he went that way!" She points for her mother on the phone. There's a pause. "That way!" she points again for the receiver.

Out in the yard, there are feathers everywhere: two different colored piles in the back, tufts of gray off to the side, and a white feathery trail leading towards the front. Murder and mayhem indeed. Gluttony too. The dog absconded with not one but four feathered friends.

"If you see the dog, catch him and tie him up," my friend instructs over the phone. "Catch him?" I ask. I envision myself running after the dog. I think about the dog attacking the chickens. I begin to hope we don't cross paths. "He'll probably come to you," she says. Sure, easy for her to say. I'm talking to a woman who raises horses, can mange a St Bernard, and has slaughtered her own chickens. She could probably catch the dog in one hand and carry in the CostCo run in the other, with a child balanced on her hip. Me, I couldn't even get the garage door closed during my last visit (I was actually hanging off the door). I fold sweaters in my everyday life.

When I signed on to play housewife, I was thinking cooking, cleaning, laundry and childcare. No one said anything about kitten nursing, grave digging, or apprehending a chicken thief.

Click: The Never Ending Toy Story

2005-06-17T23:25:00.000-07:00

When my friend asked if I would help sort toys during my visit, I breezily said the girls and I could do it while she was at work. Little did I know what I was getting into. When I got there, all the bins looked so innocent and benign. And then I had the bright idea of dumping one onto the floor, and I knew I was doomed. Clearly when the girls clean up, the bin opens and everything (and I mean everything) goes in. There were Easter chocolate, stray socks, My Little Pony brushes, half-drunk bottles of water, plastic sushi, hair ties, pennies, and Christmas cards from 3 years ago to start.

And when I sat the girls down and started to go through it all, I heard the story of every broken piece on the floor. "This is from the barn; it's the door. I liked to play with it. I broke it off because I didn't like the glue. Isn't it pretty? We should keep!" (Have you ever heard a child summarize a story? You could read the story twice by the time they're through).

As the days went on, we trudged through, thoroughly disrupting whatever abstract organizational plan they formally had. Suddenly I was bombarded with "I can't find..." and "Do you know where...?" And in their hand is a tiny plastic shoe. I glance at the mountain of plastic and sigh. Never buy a child anything with a lot of small plastic parts, their parents will thank you.

Adventures of a Housewife: A Funeral and a Cover-Up

2005-06-16T23:35:00.000-07:00

As you already know, I'm up in Oregon playing housewife for some friends of mine. So "Adventures of a Shopgirl" are currently on hold. In the meanwhile, I present "Adventures of a Housewife":

There is nothing like starting off the day with a cup of hot coffee and a dead kitten. No, this is not one of those dead baby jokes (although I'm sure the girls will be into those soon). I am in the kitchen, enjoying my cup of coffee, when the oldest girl comes in, kitten in hand, to announce that the kitten is dead. As she tells me the story of the kitten, she's flopping the stiff body from hand to hand, occasionally stopping to smooth down the fur. I'm so transfixed I can barely concentrate on what she's saying. Right, left, right, left, pet, pet, flop, flop. She's absentmindedly handling the dead kitten while I'm frantically hoping that she won't suddenly put out her arms and hand him to me.

We've been expecting this. Mama cat has been pushing this kitten away for the past few days. The girls and their mom have tried to bottle feed the neglected kitten, but it was not meant to be. We decide to bury the kitten underneath the apple tree. I ineptly handle the shovel, and the oldest girl lays the kitten to rest. The younger one, worried the kitten won't be comfortable on his back, adjusts the body so that the kitten is on his side. "He should be comfortable," she says emphatically. I sprinkle the dirt over the grave, tamp it down, and we go inside. As we pass their dad, I tell him, "This was not in the job description." He laughs, "Welcome to the Addams Family." "Who's the Addam's Family?" the oldest one asks.

The girls are used to death. During my last visit the oldest girl dragged me (forcibly -- she is quite strong) to see the dead chicken. Its plump body was leaning up against a tree, legs up in the air, and stiff as a board. The younger one explained that they hadn't had time to bury it yet. Later the oldest girl had me close my eyes and put a skull in my hand. There was a gleam in her eye when she said, "Wait 'till I tell Mama you were afraid of the dead chicken."

It is difficult to teach children about death. It is hard to know when to be candid and when to protect. The girls' parents have done a good job finding a balance. The girls do not fear death or dead things. They understand it is a natural process. Sometimes mama cats can't take care of their kittens and they die. Sometimes chickens catch incurable disease. But sometimes the girls' parents protect the girls from sadness and grief.

The other day I was called into the kitchen. In a whisper, my friend says, "The goldfish is dead." I look in the bowl to suddenly realize there is no fish. "Don't say anything to the girls," he says, "I'm going to town to pick out a new fish. Maybe they won't notice." Later that day, the switch was complete. "Go feed the fish," my friend tells the girls. "How come the fish looks bigger?" the oldest one asks. "Your mom just cleaned the bowl," her dad replied. "Oh," she replied. The girls are none the wiser.

Little Red Apron: Jacqueline's Macaroni and Cheese

2005-06-15T09:25:00.000-07:00

What's for dinner? The question dreaded by the family cook. For a family of one, the answer is easy. I prepare whatever I feel like eating. If that's Nutella on bread and a side of Greek yogurt, so be it. But when you're cooking for a family of 4 in addition to yourself, the question takes on a whole new meaning.

Children eat differently than adults. It's not just the portions. Their taste buds are tuned differently, and the longing for familiar is stronger than adults. Some of the glitches I anticipated. You can't really expect a child to like mashed potatoes when you've added spinach. Some children don't like spicy. But I thought all children liked to eat with their hands. Imagine my surprise when the girls began to attack their ribs with their chopsticks (it's their new thing, eating everything with chopsticks).

Last night, I was sure I had a winner. Listening to the wisdom of a woman with two young sons, "Kids like anything with cheese on it," I made macaroni and cheese. Not just any macaroni and cheese but Jacqueline's Macaroni and Cheese, a recipe given to me by the owner of the shop where I work. It's a recipe with butter and cream and three types of cheese. How could anyone not like it?

I knew I was in trouble when the oldest child walked in while I was pulling it out of the oven. "It looks kind of strange," she remarked. I tried to explain it was made of three different white cheeses. Next, the younger one walked in and asked, "Why does it look like that? It doesn't look like macaroni and cheese." Again I explain the types of cheese. Unfortunately the kids didn't like the taste of it much more than they liked the looks of it. Questioning them after dinner, trying to figure out their taste buds, the younger one says, "I liked the beans you made last night." Her mom and I laugh. The beans were courtesy of Rosarita.

Jacqueline's Macaroni and Cheese may not be a recipe beloved by all children, but it is still quite tasty (and easy).

Jacqueline's Macaroni and Cheese

This macaroni and cheese is a far cry from the stuff in the blue box. The best part is it gets crunchy on both the top and the bottom. Those faint of heart may omit the butter, it's still quite good without it.

12 ounces elbow macaroni
1 cup heavy cream
4 tablespoons butter
1 cup parmesan cheese, grated
2/3 cup mozzarella cheese, grated (Polly-O brand recommended)
1/3 cup swiss cheese, grated
Salt and Pepper

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Butter a casserole dish and set aside. Cook macaroni according to package directions (do not undercook). Drain and rinse with cold water and set aside in large bowl.

In a small saucepan, melt butter in cream over low heat. In a medium bowl, combine the three cheeses. Mix half the cheese with the cooked macaroni. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer pasta mixture to buttered casserole dish. Pour cream mixture over the pasta. Sprinkle with remaining cheese.

Bake (uncovered) at 400 degrees for 35-45 minutes. Macaroni should be golden brown and crunchy on top and bottom.

Serves 4

Click: Granny's Garden

2005-06-14T18:20:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a week off from the shop to play housewife for some friends in Oregon (I love playing housewife. It's a good gig. It's somehow more fun when the home isn't your own). Being a city girl, country life is always a bit of a shock. The roosters start crowing at 4 in the morning, and cats are having kittens under the table -- all very far removed from my normal city life.

On the way to town, my friend points out a flock of vultures on the side of the road. When I ask what they're doing, he tells me they're cleaning up the road kill. The girls in the back seat are completely unphased by the sight. They have no problems with the food chain. When I go to make dinner, the younger one wants to know not only what animal I am preparing but also exactly what part of the body am a sloshing around in the marinade. Seeing as I'm the type of girl who normally buys her meat already cut in pieces and neatly wrapped in paper, I was very lucky I was preparing Chinese-Hawaiian "Barbecue" Ribs and could provide her with an answer.

The other day we went to Granny's Garden to check the price on some petunias. The outdoor racks are filled with plants, but there is no shopkeeper in sight. I look around perplexed. "Are they open?" I ask. "It's an honor system," my friend replies, "You just put the money in the box." Ummm, okay. My friend explains that they are several small businesses that use the honor system up here. There are even places where you can go out into the field, pick your own fruit, weigh it, and put the required money in the box. I take a closer look at Granny's payment box and see a small sign tacked above telling the buyer to just pay a little more next time if they're a little short today. Hmmm, I wonder what our shoplifter would think about this

Granny's Garden

The Ox and The Scorpion: Preening

2005-06-09T22:10:00.000-07:00

A friend asked me if I would do his eyebrows recently. I shrugged, "Sure, but I don't even do my own. I have them done. You should just have someone do them for you." He looked at me and said, "That's so gay." Sigh. I have news for you friend, the unibrow does not discriminate on sexual orientation.

It is spring, and the single ones are preening. Since I've become single, I've changed my hair, updated my make-up, and began having my eyebrows done (I love the way it feels when they rip the wax off. I would probably have them done for that feeling alone). My mother marvels over my sudden interest in my looks. This from the daughter that ran around in her father's undershirts and ripped jeans? Even over the phone, I can tell my mother thinks I'm crazy. "I am hunting and being hunted," I explain, "I am trying to look my best."

Everyone says it's not about looks, but they lie. Of course it's about looks. What else do you have to go on when you first meet someone? At first glance, people don't know I make awesome shortbread cookies or that I have a strange fetish for new toothbrushes. At first glance, people know I'm on the shorter side of average, of slim build, and blind without my glasses. And people are either drawn to that or they're not.

So each morning, I wash (clean is important), I preen, I paint and choose my dress with care. Of course it's all cosmetic. You should see what I look like when I tumble out of bed. But I know, like it or not, the best bait gets the most nibbles.

Through our looks and posturing, we try to convey who we are. We've each developed our own styles. One of my friends just flirts with anyone, girl or boy, doesn't matter. He's fine tuned the goofy but charming flirty smile. Another friend utilizes the wink and an amazing collection of heels. Not my first choice, but it seems to work for her. And still another artfully conveys "I know the difference between a spread and a point collar, and if I take off this shirt, I'd be happy to help you fix your clutch." I've adapted "the mostly square, kind of geeky, with yet to be realized possibilities of cool" look myself. It's not a look that appeals to everyone, but here's hoping that it appeals to some.

So all you single folk, fluff up your feathers and flaunt what you got. It might not be enough for a capture, but it could inspire a hunt.

Adventures of a Shopgirl: Five Finger Discount

2005-06-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

I stole a hello kitty eraser once. It was blue and smelled like bubblegum. I carefully hid it under my bed (why children think under the bed is a good hiding place, we will never know). My mother found it while straightening up my room and asked me where came from. Clever child that I was, I told her my aunt gave it to me. Unfortunately, I was not as clever as I thought. My mother called my aunt, and I was swiftly caught. After a stern lecture, my mother packed me into the car and drove me back to the scene of the crime. I was told to return the eraser, explain what I had done, and apologize. I was mortified, my mother more so. I never shoplifted anything again.

We are having a string of theft at the store where I work. Each week, we discover something new is missing. And while we’ve had occasional problems with shoplifting in the past, it has never been like this. We have come to realize that it is someone we know, someone we probably like, and now everyone is suspect. Forget what I said about hovering. We are following customers around the store, peering into shopping bags, and scrutinizing each baby stroller as it comes out of the dressing room. We are especially suspicious of small women who are drawn to white colored clothing.

It’s sad that it had to come to this. It’s not pleasant for us, and it can’t be pleasant for the customers. A lot of the energy that was once devoted to being helpful is now being funneled into protecting our inventory. The constant suspicion wears us out. We are angry; we are tired; and we feel betrayed.

Yes, it feels personal. I work at a small, neighborhood store that has been in business for over 30 years. Many of our customers have been shopping at the store from the beginning. They were there for the hippie dresses, the corduroys, and the shoulder pads. They come in now for the soft clothing made out of tencel and those fabulous Nat Nast shirts. We shopgirls have been there for the important moments in our customers' lives. We've helped them find outfits for their children's bar mitzvahs and their children's weddings. We've offered advice on anniversary and birthday gifts. We've secretly wrapped up many a gift while the recipient was in the dressing room. Occasionally customers just drop in to chat. We've seen romance spring up between our customers (and sometimes between us and the customers). But now.... Well, there is someone that we can't trust. And because we don't know who it is, we can't really trust anyone. I just want things to go back to the way they were before -- when a customer finds something they like, they come to the counter, and we ring them up. Easy, simple. After all, we are a store.

So whoever you are, just cut it out. And if your mother brings you in, with everything that you have stolen, and you are properly mortified, you will be forgiven.

Click: Murtle and Smurtle

2005-06-02T21:25:00.000-07:00

I took care of two water turtles recently, Murtle and Smurtle (named by a 7 and a 9-year-old). For the first two days, they refused to eat anything. I tried the turtle pellet food they came with (freeze dried meal worms, yum!). Apparently it was as appetizing to them as it was to me. After reading their handout, I tried broccoli. Not a nibble. I floated little pieces of chard left over from the Italian vegetable soup I had for dinner. Still no luck. I set them up in a little turtle oasis, complete with plastic island (with ramp!) and artificial leafy things. The improved surroundings did not improve their appetite. Finally I took a little trip to the pet store. And voila! My cousin shot the following photo the next day. Clearly Murtle and Smurtle are not vegetarians.

The Ox and The Scorpion: Opposites Attract

2005-05-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

Hey Baby, what's your sign? Sad to say, I still get asked that question on occasion. And while I'm not much for the zodiac stuff, its framework may explain a lot. I am a Scorpio and a Water Ox. Those of you who know about these things may already see what's coming. Scorpios are passionate and intuitive. Water Oxen are governed by reason. Scorpios are deviant. Water Oxen are law and order. Scorpios are sexy and water oxen.... Well, have you seen a water ox? Both signs are stubborn.

Every year my mother's side of the family takes a trip. All of us -- grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Last summer's destination was China, and our national guide taught all the cousins how to play mahjong. After a long day of touring, we would stay up nights to play, exchange stories, and ask each other about our respective countries. Midway through the trip, our guide looks at me and says, "You are a bad girl. And you look so traditional! I do not understand how you can do these things. You are not French."

I had to laugh. I am by no means a "bad girl." I am bookish and slightly geeky. I am quiet and, as one friend put it, "half-heartedly social." And yet I often find myself in strange circumstances. I have been known to date a professor (not my professor -- that's the ox thinking) and then turn around and date his student (the scorpio just goes for it, without thinking). Looking back, I guess you can say I have a thing for pairings.

I find myself single once more, and the ox and the scorpio are on the loose. Who knows where I’ll end up this time. But I will try to keep the guide’s words in mind. I am not French, and I should act accordingly.

Little Red Apron: Coconut Cupcakes

2005-05-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

I've caught cupcake fever. For the past few years, posts have been flying around about cupcakes. "Cupcakeries" have opened in major cities. Someone has even created the perfect cupcake container, the cup-a-cake, designed to protect the integrity (read: frosting) of your cupcake. Remember those plastic wrapped cupcakes that we used to take to school? By the time you opened your lunch box, the frosting would be all squished down and seeping around the edges. Sigh. Poor frosting.

I traded in my humble 6-muffin tin for not just one but two 12-muffin tins, surfed around for recipes, and stumbled upon Ina's coconut cupcakes with cream cheese frosting from Martha Stewart online. Say what you will about Martha, but the cupcake recipe has some very good qualities. It provides a use for a whole pound of Plugra butter. Due to the amount of eggs and butter, it’s a very forgiving recipe. The flake coconut topping hides any frosting skills one may be lacking. And in my case, it also hid the lumpy cream cheese bits in the frosting which I obviously did not mix enough. They were cute, they were yummy, and I packaged them up to give away.

Out into the world the little snowball-like cupcakes went only to find a lot of the world (or at least my little smidge of it) doesn't like coconut. I offered the little cakes to my fellow shopgirls who politely replied, “Umm, I don’t like coconut.” I offered them to our UPS guy. In desperation, I began to offer them to customers. I called friends. I inquired about the tastes of their significant others. I forced the one co-worker who did like coconut to eat three of them.

Gradually (very gradually) they dwindled away. I did find some coconut lovers out in the world (including one customer who called me for the recipe), but I discovered they are few and far between.

Adventures of a shopgirl: What a little moonlight can do...

2005-05-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

I was helping a customer at work the other day. Okay, okay, I wasn’t exactly helping, I was offering unsolicited opinions and advice. And to make it even worse, I was doing it based on the image I saw in the security mirror. You see, I was offering opinions because I didn’t want him to feel ignored (men are often lonely shopping on the men’s side) and I was doing it based on the security mirror because I didn’t want to be hovering (I hate it when shopkeepers hover over me. Plus it was a very warm day, and I have to admit I was too lazy to walk over to the men’s side in the heat). So what he heard was this voice, floating over from the women’s side saying, “I like the light shirt better” and “maybe you should try a smaller size.”

He was good natured about it. He’s a semi-regular and seems to find me amusing, if a bit odd. Like when I walked over to the men’s side, realized that his dressing room door was open, caught sight of him shirtless, and said, “Oops! Naked!” and walked back to the women’s side (Men seem to like undressing out in the open, especially in front of the mirror where their bare bodies can be reflected all over the store).

Okay, hold on, I’m getting to the good part.

He brings his shirt to the counter (the light one that I liked better) and starts talking about what he can wear with it: linen pants, khakis, soft brown leather shoes. He’s really getting into it and getting this far off look in his eyes. Then he looks and me and says, “Yup, this shirt has romance written all over it.”

And I am charmed, completely charmed. My fingers stumble a bit over the register keys. Romance? How many people think about romance anymore? Sex, sure. But romance? We talk about who’s hot (or when I was younger, who was babe). We talk about the hunt (the capture is not so exciting). We know our way around Good Vibrations and watch “Sex and the City.” We rarely give compliments that produce a surge of giddiness in the recipient. I can’t remember the last time I’ve given or received “just because” flowers. Romance for us requires planning. It is not part of our everyday lives.

There was a time when you had to romance a person to advance the relationship. Now you just have to really get along. And while there’s a lot to be said for getting along, I think we’ve missed out. So take your honey out a little moonlight walk after dinner. Or tuck a little note into their pocket. Give them a compliment that’ll make them look at you and cock their head to one side. Amazing what a little moonlight can do…

Everybody's Doing It

2005-05-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

This is it folks. I'm hopping on board. After reading blogs of friends and blogs of perfect strangers, I too have finally given in.

Every girl needs a place to ramble, welcome to mine...