Laughing with—not at—figs

Being the blogger sometimes known as Figs, you can imagine my delight at being forwarded by several people this important article concerning, among other things, figs. And the First Citizen of the People's Republic of Berkeley, Alice Waters, whom bad boy Anthony Bourdain calls "Pol Pot in a muumuu." Sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than a little old-fashioned name calling. And she does sort of ask for it. The woman is simply not funny. At all. Which makes her a perfect and hilarious target for Bourdain.

And where do figs come in? When New York chef David Chang remarks that "fucking every restaurant in San Francisco is serving figs on a plate with nothing on it." Which is really not too far from the truth. If it's not figs, it's tangerines or persimmons. Sort of way of smugly showing off that we have nearly perfect weather and wonderful local produce all year round.

And what is wrong with a menu offering of figs on a plate? It is silly. Here is where I draw the line:

Figs on a plate at home is fine. It is actually very nice.

In a restaurant? That is just silly. Is it anything other than pretentious to imply that a diner is incapable of purchasing, washing, and slicing his or her own figs? Figs with a nice slice of cheese (St. Andre, maybe?) and a drizzle of lavender syrup over the figs, that's more like it. Show some effort, and not by just harboring deep thoughts about produce.

Chang got in all sorts of trouble over his remark concerning the emperor's clothes (I bet Bourdain is happy Alice has on that muumuu), and a promotional event for his book was cancelled to show him his place. But I haven't heard that anyone was upset with his suggestion that bay area folks just need to mellow out and smoke more weed. After all, we grow that too.

File this under Only in Berkeley

Where else can you find a car that matches your daughter's psychedelic dress?

And no, we don't know him, but he was kind enough to pose for a picture. And yes, he is wearing hot pink shorts. I know.

Snow in Berkeley!

It's lovely and all, but part of me wonders if this is leading to a scenario like the one in the movie The Day After Tomorrow where a Russian tanker cruises through a Manhattan entombed in ice.

This is the view east from my front yard, and in the evening there's nothing more beautiful as the colors from the setting sun reflect on the golden hill. But you have to admit, it looks nice with a dusting of snow as well.

Just up the road there was even more. My neighbor took this picture on his way to work this morning.

No, that's not the Sierras—it's Tilden Park!

Cody's closes its doors, and a bit of Berkeley is gone

Does it ever seem like you blink and you miss something really important? Last week I did. I had a doctor appointment on Friday and so didn't go to the gym at lunch. And didn't walk past Cody's, a bookstore that has been a Berkeley institution for over fifty years, weathering the tear gas of the free speech movement, surviving being fire bombed for carrying Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses, and providing the unique service and service that only a local independent bookstore can.

Cody's is in the background of this shot of the National Guard marching on People's Park during the 1969 riots.

And so I didn't know that on Friday Cody's closed their last store for the last time.

When I read of Cody's demise in the weekend San Francisco Chronicle, I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. I had bought a book there last month (The Little Prince for Sophie), and I had planned a spree to stock up on books for my upcoming vacation. I had a list, but I was too late.

The corny Tony Bennett song tells of leaving one's heart in San Francisco, but I left mine in Berkeley, over a decade ago when I lived in Washington, D.C. and took a trip down the California coast with a girlfriend from college and her husband. I spent my first evening in Berkeley at Cody's listening to Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest; thrower of parties that provided literary inspiration for Allen Ginsburg and Hunter S. Thompson; and the leader of the Merry Pranksters, whose cross country bus trip Tom Wolfe memorialized in The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.


Kesey was reading from his book Sailor Song, slugging what was rumored to be peppermint schnapps from a thermos. He was absolutely lit an hour into the reading. And while I'm not one to extol the virtues of substance abuse, it was impossible not to notice that the creative juices were roiling. This was clearly a man on the path of his own destruction, but what a time he was having on the way. He finished his selection from the book (which no one really wanted to hear anyway) and quickly departed to stories of the Pranksters, the bus, old friends, and old times (which everyone wanted to hear). I was just discovering the Beat writers, having spent an afternoon in the City Lights bookstore in San Francisco and leaving with a stack of titles including Ginsberg's Howl, Kerouac's On the Road, and a biography of Neal Cassady. Seeing one of their gang in the flesh was an amazing cap. I came back to pick up my heart several months later after securing the job I had interviewed for the day of that reading and then driving myself across the country to settle in a place I could finally call home.


In the first years I lived in Berkeley, a boyfriend and I would spend an evening wandering down Telegraph Avenue from bookstore to bookstore: Cody's, Moe's, Shakespeare. We would stop for a latte and later a taco and consider it a perfect evening. Over the years, my book buying habits changed. I was no longer willing to battle for parking, step over the homeless, and hold my breath through a cloud of patchouli to shop at the Telegraph Avenue location. I patronized their store on the posh, upscale Fourth Street, where I could park next to the building and combine a trip with stops at Benefits to buy fancy cosmetics and the gourmet shop to pick up my favorite black flaked salt and expensive cheese.

The death march was slow: First the Telegraph flagship store, then the Fourth Street store, and finally the much-reduced and only briefly existing Shattuck Avenue store. There are still independent bookstores with selections chosen by an actual person rather than a corporate office and staff who can recommend books and talk with you about them rather than an indifferent teenager who knows only how to work a cash register, but there are fewer all the time. And with the Big Kahuna of our area gone, how long will the others last?

Over the years, everyone who was anyone read at Cody's. The portraits exhibited of authors who passed through included all the greats. Where do those voices go when the independent bookstores are all gone? There are quotes and reviews on amazon.com, but there are no voices of writers reading their works, just the clacking of keys and click of the mouse as people navigate through screens in isolation. That direct connection between writers and readers is gone. Berkeley has gained another empty storefront, with only echoes of those voices that a decade ago read to crowds pushed up against the walls and spilling into the street. With chain retailers and internet sites like amazon.com we've gained cheaper books and free shipping, but look what we've lost.

Thank you Fred Cody, Andy Ross, and Hiroshi Kagawa for fifty-two good years.

Rain for the sake of rain

Last night we had what I consider our first spring rain. Gentle and soft. You could only hear it if you were still and listened carefully. 

When it rains in the winter, I'm usually focused elsewhere: It's snowing in the mountains. How soon can I get there?? Logistics, logistics. Gotta go!

But I know it's the end of one season and the beginning of another because last night I loved the rain just for being rain, right here at home. Where it keeps the hills bright green a little longer before they turn to gold for the summer.

And it makes the flowers grow.

When I looked at pictures my brother emailed of his family skiing this past weekend, my feet still itched to feel the snow beneath them, but my mind is sort of looking forward to letting go of the constant jonesing for the white stuff. Racks are off the car, skis are in the closet. There's hiking, camping, gardening, and work on the house to be done. 

But, you know, we really should be booking our Alta reservations for next year about now. . . .

Sophie grows up; I grow a little too

The most annoying and disturbing thing happened yesterday. I tried to encourage compassion in my child and almost ended up throttling a homeless person.

Here's what happened. Sophie and I were walking out of a neighborhood bookstore we frequent and passed a homeless older woman sitting on the sidewalk collecting coins in a plastic cup. I usually give Sophie a little money to give to homeless people, especially those we see regularly around town (there are quite a few; Berkeley has good weather and a liberal temperament). I've tried to teach her that not everyone is as fortunate as we are and that it's good to share what you have. But as I fished in my purse, Sophie beat me to it and produced a few coins from her jacket pocket, which she placed in the woman's cup. The woman glared at Sophie, and I wasn't sure if she said anything. When Sophie came over to me I asked her if the woman had thanked her. The woman heard this, threw the coins from her cup and started hurling what I'm sure were obscenities in some other language at Sophie. I quickly placed myself between the two of them and hustled Sophie off.

Sophie was frightened and confused about what had happened. We then had one of those conversations where I know she is asking really important questions but I'm totally making it up as I go and mostly talking out my ass. I tried to explain that she did not do anything wrong and that some people are sort of crazy in the head and do and say things that don't always make sense [at least to us]. Maybe she wanted more money and was offended by the few coins [although Sophie didn't consider the amount meager at all]. Sophie wanted to know why people are poor. I told her that many people are born poor, that some [like this woman] come from other countries that they had to leave because there was nothing to eat or a war [probably sponsored by us]. But many homeless people start off just like us but then go to fight in a war and see and experience things so horrible that they are never the same and can't get or hold down a job. Like what things? she asked. Like people [maybe your family, your children] being killed, like being driven from your home. Too much information for a child? Maybe, but it's true and a reality for children all over the world.

I was trying to model compassion and understanding. I was happy when Sophie said that what happened wouldn't stop her from giving money to other homeless people because she said she knows not all people are the same. But she wished she could have her coins the woman threw on the ground back. And she had bad dreams last night about this woman coming to hurt us. I pointed out that the woman doesn't know where we live and that her daddy and I were there to protect her.

But while I was espousing compassion, I was boiling. I wanted to kick that woman off her grubby spot of pavement, smack her across the face, make her apologize to my daughter, say thank you. And how reasonable is that? I want a homeless beggar to be well-mannered even though she is treated with contempt and indifference, grateful for charity I can't imagine what it must be like to depend on. And I have to admit, when I'm alone, I often walk past these people as if they don't exist. It's only with my child that I feel pulled into their proximity and am asked to consider their existence.

Sophie will be eight tomorrow. She is growing by leaps and bounds, in both body and spirit. I try to teach her, but I'm continually amazed by what she teaches me. Eight years: What a long, strange [but good] trip it's been.

Afternoon tea at Masse's

After her violin lesson, Sophie and I often like to walk down the street to Masse's Pastries for a spot of tea.

We've been stopping in here for years and always enjoy ourselves. When Sophie was younger, they used to serve her hot cocoa in a tiny pitcher and what looked like a doll's tea cup—and at a temperature suitable for children instead of scalding hot. And they thoughtfully included a little saucer of freshly whipped cream. Their pastries look almost too good to eat, but they are every bit as good as they look.

Today we were heartbroken that they had sold out of their heavenly French macarons.

But we rallied and settled for this chocolate raspberry torte. That's it there on the right.


We shared one, along with a pot of peppermint tea.


It was time to celebrate the fact that Sophie had progressed in violin from the Twinkle, Twinkle variations to Lightly Row. And time to just enjoy ourselves.


I hope this lovely place is here when Sophie is a grown lady, guiding me and my walker to a seat for a cuppa.