Questionable choices in children's literature

Because we're pretty seriously into limiting screen time for Sophie (very little television, a few movies, no Nintendo or any of those funny games I don't understand), I went to the local public library and checked out a stack of books on tape when we went on our long driving trip this summer. She got to watch a few dvds, but there's only so much Sponge Bob a mom can take. The tapes were a great alternative that we could all enjoy while watching the scenery at the same time. And I found them useful for filling in the cavernous gaps in Husband's childhood reading.

Here's what we listened to and I returned to the library the other day:

Because of Win-Dixie, Kate DiCamillo
Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt
The Hundred Dresses, Eleanor Estes
The Cricket in Times Square, George Selden
Misty of Chincoteague, Marguerite Henry

Remember those last two? They were two of my favorite books when I was a kid. Sophie loved them too, and they passed many hours on the road.

However, I have still to return this:

Did you ever read this?

It's quite a whopper: 12 disks, totally something like 40 hours of listening. Ok, maybe not quite that much, but we listened to this all the way through Nevada, and we still aren't done. We've got a weekend trip up to Mendocino coming up, and I've saved it for that.

But I have to admit, it's not quite what I thought it would be. I didn't read it as a child, but it's known to be a significant children's classic. It's about a boy and his pet deer. "Great!" I thought. "Sophie likes animals! We all like animals!" And there are a lot of animals in this book in addition to the deer. Thing is though that the humans occupying this story blast them away at a rate leaving a body count comparable to a Schwarzenegger movie. Context is important here: They live the Florida backwoods at the turn of the century and hunt (constantly) for what they eat (yum—bear!). Granted, the boy's father is quite clear that they don't kill for recreation. But when he need panther oil for his rheumatism he thinks "I'll go shoot me a panther!" When he requires grease for his boots, it's a gator he needs. And when they're not hunting, they're fishing. They take a little time out to plant a bit, but all in all, they spend most of their time killing shit.

Here's the funny part. Or really not so funny if you're me. Husband, a very sensitive guy, was disturbed by this story. All the killing upset him. I explained that it's how people lived their lives in that part of the country at that time. Realism, you know.

But now. We are going this weekend to a house party of friends up in Mendocino County. It's their weekend house, and every summer they invite everyone up to camp in their meadow, watch kids swim in the pond and coat themselves in mud, play and listen to music, and EAT. They usually have roast a pig or a lamb on a big spit, which turns all day and is a lot of fun for everyone to watch. But this year our friend informs us that someone is giving him a goat. LIVE. Recognizing that Sophie is a curious, adventurous girl, he wants to know if we would like to come up the night before when they will be BUTCHERING the goat. What I am unclear on is whether the goat will be dead when we arrive. Or will it be walking around being patted by the kids until . . . ? Husband is having the last laugh at how upset I am about this. Animals just don't appear on one's plate, he points out. They have to be killed. Just like in that really long book.


Maybe I can be off picking berries while this happens. And thank goodness there's always lots of vegetarian dishes at this party.

Well, heck: MRIs, knees,and Space Mountain

The week I left on vacation I distracted myself from packing gear, clothes, and nine days' worth of food by going to medical appointments. A WHOLE BUNCH OF THEM. I had a bone density scan, blood work, a breast MRI, and a knee MRI. The first three are courtesy of my oncologist, Dr. Alice, who is reviewing all my hormone-regulating meds. It's been a few years now, and it's time take assessment of things and plan what's up for the next few years. The bone scan was sort of amusing, the blood work no big deal (I'm so desensitized to needles, I could probably stick an IV in my own arm if I had to), but the breast MRI was a total bummer that reduced me from a cheerful enthusiastic patient ("No problem! I'm fine in here!") to a quivering mess (you lie on your front with your arms straight above you for HALF AN HOUR). Oh, and there's an IV pumping funny dye stuff into you. The knee MRI in comparison was a picnic. I laid comfortably on my back, planning menus and packing lists and finally dozing off in spite of the funny loud noises.

I survived though and returned from vacation to find copies of reports from my bone density and and breast MRI in my mail pile. All clear, all good. Not a surprise really, but you never know. When I had breast cancer four years ago, I had never felt better.

I had to wait until today though to have my orthopedic doctor look at the knee MRI. I love looking at these images when someone can explain them to me. When I look at them at home, holding them up to the window, they look like slices of headcheese. This MRI is a very late follow-up to my scooter crash last winter where I skidded on some oil in the rain and dove head first down hill, landing on my knee and face shield. In a state of classic denial, I didn't want to go in during ski season because . . . well, you know. And then I didn't want to go in for any bad news that might effect my camping trip. So I figured between the camping trip and the next ski season was the perfect time to find out what is really going on in there.

The doctor said she saw something "very interesting!" For me, interesting good (sort of) because it's not all in my head and interesting bad because it's something that can't easily be fixed. I have a torn PCL. Where it's supposed to be in the MRI there is instead just black. Here's what it's supposed to look like:

Another nice view:

But this is what we've got going on:

The good news, the doctor said, is that I don't need surgery. This is apparently something they're not really good at fixing, and it can be mostly resolved with physical therapy and a brace for certain activities (read: skiing). A brace for how long? FOREVER. To keep it from coming apart.
The transformation is complete: I'm one of those "active seniors" I see in lift lines. Grim.

On another note, has anyone who has had an MRI noticed the resemblance of the entire experience to Disneyland's Space Mountain? You know, the tube, the noises. I lie in that thing just waiting for it to blast off. Is it just me? What I want to know is the next time I go on Space Mountain, will I be reminded of an MRI?

In which the Figs attend a luncheon

The Figs are not fancy folk. We don't get out a lot. This weekend is a typical one. I went to the gym, went to the produce market, pottered around the house, and cooked leisurely dinners.

But last weekend we did something very exciting. We went to a luncheon. Not a lunch, mind you, a luncheon. And it involved wine. Does it get any better than that?

We belong to to several wine subscription clubs (Husband, not being much of a joiner, has no problem at all joining wine clubs). Hendry distinguishes themselves every year by inviting all members to a luncheon and tasting event at the winery.

The food is fabulous and all, but we're also happy for the chance to check out what's on the vines, since the winemaking group Husband belongs to picks their grapes from these vineyards every fall.

George Hendry is the most amazing source on grapes and wine. Any time we have the opportunity to listen to him, we're grateful. Our winemaking group was originally a collective of retired physicists (Husband was brought into the group through a friend, we think because he is relatively young, strong, and has a big truck). George, also a physicist, has converted the ranch property he grew up on to all vineyards. We knew George before he received his commercial license, when he sold most of his grapes to larger neighboring wineries and his own small winemaking operation took place in an old barn. With the commercial license came professional success, financing, and a beautiful winemaking facility.

George approaches winemaking with the same scientific precision he approached building medical cyclotrons. Old habit die hard though: He still builds cyclotrons on the side in the old barn where he used to make wine.

We were greeted on arrival by one of the staff, who exclaimed "Why, here's Cindy and [Husband] from Berkeley!" What gives? Do these people sit around quizzing themselves with flashcards featuring our faces on one side and names on the other? However they do it, I'm impressed. It's not like we spend thousands of dollars on their wine.

The event starts off with tasty appetizers. My favorites were these chips, which were topped with a mixture of shrimp, halibut, and scallops. Amazing!

Then it's tour and tasting time. Tables are set with bottles to taste (the Pinot table, the Zin table, etc.), with guests free to pour their own.

All tables are staffed with someone to explain the selections. Husband, of course, spent most of his time at George's table.

Everyone is also handed an order form to record selections. Husband always swears not to buy a lot of wine and then always buys . . . well, quite a lot of wine.


I'm all for tasting, but I also like wandering around, breathing in the cool damp rich air. It is seriously the best smell in the world to me. When I was a kid, I used to like to lie on our patio and lick the cement to get that earthy, wet cement smell. This smell is sort of like that. I behave myself though and don't lick anything.

Husband finally nails down his purchases,

and it's time for lunch!

Here's my neighbor's plate. I had already eaten half of mine before I came to my senses and realized a photograph was in order.

I am in hot pursuit of their eggplant recipe. The manager said the caterer would be happy to share it. I'm still waiting and hope I don't have to resort of a campaign of terror to get it. It was the best eggplant I've ever had in my life, and I will die without the recipe.

We'll be back in a month or so to pick grapes, although we're still unsure of what we'll be picking. A hard frost that hit this spring did considerable damage, and George will need all the first crop he can get for his market. Whatever we pick will have to be seconds, which means a long, hard, slow pick. Instead of fat clumps of grapes, it's little clumps of three grapes here, six grapes there. But we always make the best of it, with a potluck picnic, a visit with George, a look at the latest cyclotron, and a pat on the head of the vineyard dog, Buki.

Some of the very best news

We got it last night at my book group meeting: Two girlfriends of mine got married. They did a simple ceremony with close family at their house the other weekend, and a larger proper wedding and reception will take place in October. They wanted to be sure they got the legal part taken care of in case the good people of California do something really stupid in November; Jerry Brown, the state attorney general, has said that even if the amendment restricting marriage passes, he will not consider the marriages entered into before November invalidated.

This couple started dating before Husband and I, but I remember a party long ago where we were both the new couples, and one of my girlfriends and I were being introduced to a large, crazy group of long-established friends we now think of as family. It's always seemed wrong to me though that we're married and they're not. Not that over the years I've ever thought of them as less a couple than any of us who have been able to marry legally. In fact, they have always had what looked to me like one of the most supportive loving relationships among any of us.

But now, how awesome it is to see them with rings on their fingers. Glowing with happiness. Planning a celebration.

Sophie was so happy when I told her this morning. Her eyes flew open, and she dove beneath her covers to wiggle with delight. Whenever she sees something on the news about gay marriage, she asks "Does this mean that [our friends] will get married?" I've told her that it probably does and tried to explain that although this is the way it always should have been, it is not something that we can take for granted. Many people have worked tirelessly for this, and there is still a fight ahead in terms of legal challenges but also in terms of opening the minds and hearts that those who feel threatened. Threatened by love—go figure.

But they say that children see things most clearly, right? And I think Sophie does. In spite of what I've tried to teach her about how this applies to civil rights and larger issues, to her it's just a wedding, like any other. A wonderful, joyful celebration. An occasion to wear a pretty dress. But most importantly, just two people in love, forever. She's right.

Let's have lunch!

So the other day, look what showed up in me old mailbox:

A present from one of my favorite blog pals, the awesome Jen of use real butter. I already knew what was inside, but that didn't make it any less fun to open.


Look! I had to unwrap them. Can you smell?? I have all sorts of plans for them: First, I'll make some homemade vanilla extract (good timing: I just finished a bottle I started over a year ago, the beans finally having pooped out), then there's always ice cream, custards, creme brulee, and one of my favorite uses in the winter: in poaching liquid (like Madeira or Riesling) for pears. I'll toss one in my baking sugar too. And most of my infused wines have a bean in them as well. Whoohee!

My only disappointment is that when Jen visits California soon, she will not make it up to the bay area. She said if she were able to, she would say "Take me to your favorite taqueria!" Which I would be happy to do. Instead I'll have to thank her by taking her on a little virtual lunch expedition. Want to join us?

Cancun Taqueria is located in downtown Berkeley, conveniently between my office and my gym. I stop by to pick up my lunch every day I work out (most weekdays) and take it back to eat at my desk.

You can probably get more authentic Mexican food in San Francisco's Mission district, but I'm happy with the lard-free organic Mex Cancun serves up.

Friends of mine remember when this business was a little take-out window across the street.I remember when salsa came in two squeeze bottles on the table: red and green. Over the years, it's grown and is now one of the most successful businesses in Berkeley. It couldn't have happened to a nicer group of people.

These lovely men make my lunch, which is the same thing every time: a soft veggie taco, no chips. (In proof that the acorn doesn't fall too fall from the tree, my father used to order the same thing every day at his work cafeteria, no fries. When Jen comes someday, I will have chips.) Surely because I am so pleasant and friendly, my order is usually sitting at the end of the counter by the time I pay and walk down there. Or maybe they just want to get me out of there sooner. Regardless, it's nice to bypass the line of people waiting for their food and be on my way.

And please notice the THREE salsa containers. Everyone else gets one, but I get three. Because I'm special. This is a really good thing because one of the main attractions of Cancun is this:

The salsa bar!! With FOURTEEN (go ahead, count 'em) kinds of salsa!!! My favorites are the tomatillo, the strawberry, and the mango.

When I'm having dinner there (it's a great place to grab a quick bite before a movie), I have something different, like a prawn burrito. Husband often has the special, which is displayed when you walk in the door.

We also get our Christmas tamales here. During the holiday season, they sell them by the dozen, and we've found that people are happier to see us over the holidays if we show up with tamales.

Thanks for the beans, Jen! Now, when are you coming???

Yellowstone: Alternativesto the geothermal whoopla

Yeah, we really did go there. It's just taken me a while to get through the heaps of digital photos we took. In that heap you'd think we'd have a picture of the Figs standing in front of Old Faithful. But, no. We arrived just after it had gone off and as hundreds of people were streaming through the parking lot to their cars because if it's not going off, there's nothing to see, right? And no, we didn't stay for the next blast off.

I have a very un-Yellowstone-like confession: Other than learning about how the park was formed and understanding the geological significance of the geothermal activity, I'm just not that interested in what are considered the big ticket items of Yellowstone. Don't get me wrong: It's some fun stuff.

We hopped out of the car to look at a few mudpots, steaming ponds, and the like and rode our bikes a few miles to see the Lonestar Geyser (which did go off when we were there—I explained to Sophie that Old Faithful is just like that, only bigger), but I have about half a day of tolerance for it all. Part of it's the crowds; part is the pavement paths you walk over to get to it all.

What we wanted was this:


However, we spent the first night camping at the ghastly Grant Village, which is pretty much like you're camping in a dirt parking lot with some trees. This is one of about half the campgrounds in the part operated by a private concession, where they assign you a site based on personal data entered into a computer (number in party; pet yes/no; size of tent; etc.). We settled for a night there so we could spend our first day seeing some sites without worrying about securing a place to sleep.

The next morning we hightailed it up to the campground I had selected through my exhaustive internet research: Slough Creek. It's off the beaten path, up a two-mile dirt road in the northeastern part of the park.

No electricity, no flushers, RVs ok but no generators. And my dad remembered backpacking there as a kid from their family summer cabin in Montana, due north of Slough Creek by not too much. All good reasons to make it our Yellowstone home.


Because it was off the beaten path, it did mean that we spent a little more time than we would have liked touring around in our car. We were particularly glad though to have our bikes with us, which allowed us to cover more ground.


In addition to our Lonestar Geyser ride, we also rode out to Artists Point for good views of the falls through the canyon known as the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone.




Back in our own neighborhood, we enjoyed a hike up the Slough Creek Trail,




where we saw many interesting things, including

a cabin in which we would like to live and

the remains of an elk who probably had a run-in with a grizzly or grey wolf (these things happen, you know).

Here's pictures of a few other things around the park we liked.

Did you know that twenty years ago the whole damned thing almost burned down? But that's sort of a good thing. We learned in one of the nature centers that the seeds in the cones of lodgepole pines can only be released by fire, since it takes lots of heat to melt the glue that holds them in there. Interesting, huh?


We were really excited to see this handsome bison. Can you imagine how excited we were the next day to see a herd of over a hundred of them?

And there were flowers. Not everywhere since many parts of the park are fairly arid. But there were lots right where I wanted them most: outside the door of my tent.


And of course we were very excited when Sophie earned her second junior ranger patch of the summer, making her a triple-threat ranger (Denali, Tetons, Yellowstone).


But a post on Yellowstone would be incomplete without mention of bears. Leading up to this trip I had spent months worrying about bears. So I bought some of this:


Husband thought I was a complete idiot, but I felt better rolling over in my sleeping bag in the middle of the night and seeing its little glow-in-the-dark release tab. I explained to Sophie that it is something you hope you never need to use because if you find yourself in the position where it looks like a good idea, you're already pretty fucked.

Slough Creek is known as the grizzly area of the park, and a few weeks before there had been a grizzly who tore open a couple of tents when people were out of camp. We didn't see any there but were plenty of motivated to follow the guidelines for camping with bears, which included putting away everything—food, cosmetics, dishes (even clean ones), water buckets, stoves, etc.—in a bear box or locked car every time you went to bed or left camp. We had had to do the same thing in Tetons, so after a week and a half I was more annoyed with bears than afraid of them. Other wild life was a evidence though. We had coyotes run across the road in front of our car a few times, and we listened to the wolves howling at dawn, Slough Creek being the only place in the park where you can hear them.

Husband and I tried to explain to Sophie that when we were kids there was a cartoon show based on Yellowstone and the bears. Yogi Bear and his sidekick BooBoo, inhabitants of Jellystone Park, spent their days in search of picinick baskets, with that poor outsmarted Mr. Ranger hot on their heels. She asked "Well, what else happened in the show?" "Nothing!" we explained. "Just picnic baskets?" "Yes! With BooBoo! And Mr. Ranger!" It's hard to explain.

Time out for some cookies

Nah—it's not time for Yellowstone pics. We need to take a break to make COOKIES.

Husband will be working over at at the MIL's this weekend with the BIL cleaning out a basement so some seismic work can be done (this is earthquake country, ya know), and I thought what could be more helpful than cookies and lemonade. Aside from my actually showing up and doing some work. Which is out of the question because and I have plans for a girl day.

I've been craving these cookies since we returned from our Montana ranch ranch vacation, where the excellent cookies tucked these into our bag lunches whenever we went on day trips. The crafty woman took advantage of the fact I wanted this recipe and the one for the outrageous bread pudding she made and sold me one of her cookbooks. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I share a bit, given that you would only have to opportunity to buy this cookbook if you visited the ranch (not that I don't recommend you do so).


What I love about this recipe is that there are only THREE INGREDIENTS. I added a fourth and a fifth (the last two), but you can really make the best peanut butter cookies I have ever had with THREE INGREDIENTS. Here we go.

PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES

1 cup peanut butter
1 cup sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
pinch of salt (especially if you're using unsalted peanut butter)

Mix ingredients.

Form into little balls. Roll balls in sugar.

Flatten with a fork (peanut butter cookies wouldn't be peanut butter cookies without this little fork design, would they?).


Bake at 350 degrees for about 10 minutes on a lightly greased or Silpat sheet. Allow too cool for a minute or so before removing from baking sheet to parchment paper cool completely.

These also came in handy for an emergency gift for Sophie to take to a birthday party this afternoon. Sophie doesn't know the girl terribly well and the invitation was fairly last-minute, so we're giving her a Target gift card. But we're tucking it into a little box of cookies to avoid the gift card envelope getting lost in the paper.


And because I think it's important to carry something other than a card to a party. Like this lovely little box.

Sophie thinks I'm a little nuts, but I think she's becoming used to it and realizing it's not such a terrible thing.