Wrapping it up with Uncle Jay

Many thanks to an old friend I recently reconnected with on Facebook after nearly thirty years for bringing this to my attention.



What a year it was. We end it happy, healthy, and wealthy in the things that matter most. We think being considered wise is seriously overrated.

We'll be unplugged for the next couple of days as we head up to the mountains for our first ski trip. Back Monday with a report on whether I get to use my new powder skis! Have a good weekend!

Caroline Kennedy: You know, no

That's right. No. There are so many things wrong Caroline Kennedy's quest for Hillary's Senate seat, but the you knows (130 of them in her interview with the New York Times) was the nail in the coffin for me. And the ums. Let's not forget those. 

How important is it for politicians to be articulate? To what extent does clarity of speech reflect clarity of mind? Do Kennedy's stylistic lapses represent anything more than a bad habit and nervousness in front of the camera?

Here's a quote from the infamous interview in response as to whether Bush's tax cuts on the wealthy should be repealed immediately:

Well, you know, that's something, obviously, that, you know, in principle and in the campaign, you know, I think that, um, the tax cuts, you know, were expiring and needed to be repealed.

Let's remove the you knows and ums and see if she makes any more sense. 

Well, that's something, obviously, that in principle and in the campaign I think that the tax cuts were expiring and needed to be repealed.

Shit sakes alive—she sounds like Sarah Palin! And all so unnecessarily given that what I hope she meant to say in answer to the question was "YES." Although what she thinks is far from clear. 

Not that Sophie will ever seek a Senate seat, but I will continue my campaign of terror to ensure that she not clutter her speech with such garbage. Once on the way to an extremely important event in Sophie's view (probably a birthday party) I pulled the car to the side of the road in an abrupt screech and refused to drive any further until Sophie discontinued excessive use of the work like. If only Jackie had just pulled over the car ordered the driver to pull over the car and shrieked "Enough with the goddamed you knows!!!"

In which I am surprised bygetting exactly what I want

Because what I thought I was getting was . . . nothing. Which would have been fine. Really. Husband and I have a big blow-out ski trip to Alta planned for the end of January. Given the expense of that, along with the rest of our crack ski habit and the dismal economy, we reasoned that we would skip giving presents to each other. And isn't every day we spend together a gift in itself? Well, maybe not, but we wanted to save money and hassle. The presents would be for Sophie, and our gift would be watching her open them.

So on the way drive down to my parents' house the day of Christmas Eve, we had the following conversation:

HUSBAND: So you wrapped up that book you ordered me as my present. [Something he heard about on NPR about the building of the Giza pyramids. Yawn.]

FIGS: Yes. If you can't wait for the paperback to come out, you're going to have to wait for Christmas to open it. And there might be something else for you to open as well.

HUSBAND: So we're going to have another Christmas where I have all these things to open from you and your family and you have nothing to open from me.

FIGS: I included your name on all the gifts to my family. And no one will notice that you didn't get me any gifts.

HUSBAND: Your sister will notice.

FIGS: Yes, she will. But she's long since ceased to be amazed by this.

HUSBAND: Well, if you had wanted something, I would have bought it for you.

FIGS: Oh, there are always things I want.

HUSBAND: Really? Such as?

FIGS: I really liked that pancake pan that Pam had at the beach house last fall. The one that makes the round pancakes. You can put jam in the middle of them.

HUSBAND: Oh, I didn't know you wanted one.

FIGS: That's ok. It's not an emergency, and my birthday is in June.

HUSBAND: Where does one buy such a thing?

FIGS: Williams-Sonoma. They have it in the catalog. You don't have to go to the mall.

HUSBAND: Anything else?

FIGS: Well, you can never go wrong with cashmere sweaters.

And so several hours later, what did I open FROM HUSBAND?

Yahoo!!

One of Husband's most amazing qualities is to slyly observe my interest in certain objects and then squirrel away that piece of information until a gift opportunity arises. I think I'll keep him.

If you do not have one of these pans, you should race out immediately and purchase one. They're very easy to use, and the array of fillings you can use is endless. I used a mixed berry jam I made last summer, but in the summer fresh berries would be nice. So would lemon curd, chocolate ganache, a cooked apple filling . . . The recipe for the pancake is a fairly standard one, except that you separate the eggs and whip the whites until stiff and then fold them in. The result is a very light and airy little puff of a thing.

The leftovers were even good cold later in the afternoon.

And my gift from my mom? A cashmere sweater. Black. Turtleneck. Perfect.

Adventures behind the Orange Curtain

For Christmas I almost always return to the home in which I grew up in Newport Beach, CA—the most conservative city in the very conservative Orange County. When Arnold Schwarzenegger defeated Gray Davis in the gubernatorial recall, the Republican side held their election night party in Newport Beach. I was horrified but unsurprised.

My parents, very possibly the most liberal household in Newport Beach, still live in the same house, have the same phone number, have the same popcorn ceilings, and almost nothing else is the same. Houses that go on the market are almost immediately torn down to be replaced with McMansions that extend to within six inches of their property line on each side. Their street is lit in a riot of color and light that rivals Disneyland's Electric Parade if only because most neighbors hire companies to design and engineer their holiday lighting installments. It is impressive if not bizarre. Conservation is not a factor here, and if there's a recession, these people are not talking.

Christmas morning was grey and drizzly but looked perfect to me for a good wog, a fast walk combined with a slow jog—the best I can do on the concrete that was once a perfect surface for roller skating but now wreaks havoc on my aging knees and joints.

I traveled up the greenbelt, a park that runs through the center of my parents' housing development and is so large that it includes not only children's' parks, soccer fields, and a community pool but an elementary school. Leaving our development, I decided that some hill would be good to warm up my hamstrings. But the road up led through the gates of the neighboring gated community. To drive through, you must use a card or be on the list of people residents have called in. This policy was very inconvenient when we were high school children trying to organize raging house parties, but somehow we always managed. If one is on foot, I wondered, can one just walk in? Without a card? Without being on the list? I turned on a street labeled Yacht Coquette to find out. Turns out in a neighborhood where a person with dark skin standing on corner has a lot of 'splainin' to do to a police cruiser on its patrol, the answer is yes, provided you look like me. The guard at the gate stepped out of his post to wish me a merry Christmas and wave me through.

Did you know that all the streets are named after some yacht? Maybe America's Cup contenders—I don't know. I turned right onto Yacht Coquette, then left onto Yacht Truant. Then Yacht Defender, Yacht Enchantress, Yacht Grayling, Yacht Maria, . . . you get the picture. Can you imagine giving directions to a house here?? "Take a right on Yacht Coquette, the left on Yacht Grayling, right on Yacht Truant, and we're the third yacht house on the left." Aren't these people embarrassed?? I'm embarrassed just jogging there.

But things got really crazy when I tried to leave the gated community. I turned a corner, jogged down a hill, and was met by an iron fence that extended not only across the street but across the sidewalk as well. And that was locked. I was locked in a gated community. Go figure. Refusing to submit to such an indignity, I decided my 46-year-old body was as capable as ever of hopping a fence. I pulled away wet shrubbery and destroyed a spider wed (sorry) to make my way up an embankment where the fence was at its lowest point . . . just as a car pulled up. The driver of course had a card, and waved me down from the embankment and through the gate ahead of him, laughing the entire time. He was older, certainly old enough to remember a life without gates.

Blogging has caused me to want to take everyday experiences and put them into words to communicate what I see, think, and feel. But it has also pushed me to go beyond this to reach for what it all means. But today I'm not sure what this all meant. Other than this is how it is here, and I live somewhere else. It must be almost time to go home to Berkeley, that often unreasonably liberal ungated place with soft dirt trails.

Pssst, Sophie!

Hi Honey.

I know how much you love our Christmas village,

so when the collection went on sale today I couldn't help adding another building,

the Apple Farm!! What do you think? It's much cuter in real life.

I'll let you decide where to put it in the neighborhood when you get home.

Maybe on the lower level between the windmill and the chicken house? Your call.

Don't tell Daddy though because you know how crazed he gets about all the Christmas stuff, especially when we have to repack it and fit it all back in the closet. We'll just slip it in, and he probably won't even notice.

But that's not all! I also gotsome fencing (two packages),

street lamps that really light up (!),

some shrubs,

and a Santa! 

We miss you very much. Our house is sad and lonely, and even our Christmas tree doesn't sparkle as brightly.

Be a good girl: say please and thank you, practice your violin, mind your grandparents. Daddy and I will see you tomorrow.

Love,

Mama

A Liza Minnelli load of emotions

The holidays can do that to a person, no?

Yesterday afternoon I put my precious daughter on a plane for her grandparents'. Without her our house is quiet in a way that we do not enjoy. I am sad. I watched the plane taxi down the runway and finally lift into the air. I then raced across the concourse to catch site of it out the opposite windows as it banked a turn and vanished to a tiny dot. Wandering to my car I felt adrift.

 
But then I look at her most recent school picture, and how can I not be happy? She is happy and confident and loves to explain to people in line at the airport that she is flying as an unaccompanied minor, which—she hastens to add—she has done many times before.  

But at the airport I was also worried about the future of our country after meeting numerous college students who were standing in line to reschedule flights after having missed their scheduled flights because they did not arrive at the airport on time. WTF? Do they show up to exams late too? Will they show up to job interviews late? As one young man exclaimed as he insisted we go ahead of him in line, "I miss my plane all the time!!" If these young people know the meaning of anxiety, it surely has no connection to punctuality. What will happen as they enter the adult world? Will they adjust to the world, or will the world adjust to them? I hope the former. Being on time makes me feel smug and accomplished.

Later that night I was also feeling peevish, cross, and exhausted as Husband and I worked at the MIL's until nearly midnight last night, Husband doing electrical work and I installing miles of shelving paper to the newly repainted kitchen cupboards. I put shelving paper in a few of my drawers that were all rough and splintery; the MIL just had all her drawers and shelves painted in semi-gloss paint. Isn't the fact that you can wipe this clean the point of semi-gloss paint?! "Oh, no!" says the MIL. "We need to protect the paint!"  Sort of like my great aunts who covered all their upholstered furniture in plastic sheeting (seriously—your ass stuck to it) and had plastic runners on all the wall-to-wall carpet thoroughfares of their house. There is something about that generation that does not think things are protected unless they are sealed in plastic. So now the MIL has plastic shelving paper lining every shelf and drawer in her kitchen. "Did we have to do this now?" the MIL wondered (wringing hands). YES, goddamn it! We did! When the hell else would we I do this? I have a JOB. I have Christmas shopping left to do, nothing wrapped, twenty loads of laundry, a trip to pack for, Sophie's skis to be taken into the shop, and the MIL's drapes to be taken to the cleaners. And did I mention I have a job? I did. I AM FUCKING BUSY. So let's add exasperated and just plain pissed.

But then I did experience a moment of blissful joy when these arrived at my door from genius baker and blogger extraordinaire, Laura at adonzeneggs. She generously offered those of us who yack it up on her comments sections a discount of $5 on each tin of holiday cookies. Whoohoo! Who says I can't delegate? This year, Laura was in charge of my cookies.




She was also kind enough to send along a few treats for Sophie, one of which I tucked into her knapsack to take on the plane, and a few nekkid cookies. Sometimes the best way to appreciate a truly good cookie or cake is without the frosting.

Thank you, sweetie!

And the cookie tin just may be the perfect house for the Fleur de Sel Caramels that she has on her blog today and that I want to make when I recover from the holidays. Note that it's when, not if. There's a whole season of skiing ahead of us. Crazy joy.

What's cooking: Fennel leek potato soup

It is my enormous fortune to have a kid who likes fennel. She is no doubt influenced by that fact that it is one of her dad's favorite vegetables. When she sees a large display of fennel at the produce market, she always suggests we buy him some.

Husband think sliced raw fennel drizzled with olive oil is a perfect way to enjoy this vegetable, but the cold weather we have been having has had me thinking SOUP.

This recipe has two great things going for it that really give it a rich full fennel taste:

Steeping fennel seeds and dried tarragon in the cream added at the end of the soup (fine to use half and half or whole milk)

Sauteing the fennel and leeks until they are slightly caramelized.

Along with pannini grilled sandwiches (goat brie, havarti, and prosciutto) and a green salad, this made a perfect chilly weekday night dinner. 

CREAMY FENNEL, LEEK, POTATO SOUP

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
6 cups sliced cored fresh fennel bulbs (from about 4 large)
4 medium leeks, sliced using white parts only (save green tops for the stockpot)

8 ounces white-skinned potatoes, peeled, diced
4 cups (or more) canned low-salt chicken broth

2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

1 cup cream, half and half, or whole milk
1 teaspoon fennel seeds, crushed
3/4 teaspoon dried tarragon

Heat oil and butter in heavy large pot over medium heat. Add fennel and leeks. Saute until softened, then reduce heat and continue cooking, stirring often, until vegetables are slightly browned and caramelized. 

Add broth, lemon juice, and potatoes; bring to boil. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer until potatoes are very tender, about 30 minutes. Cool slightly.

Meanwhile, bring cream, fennel seeds, and tarragon to boil in heavy small saucepan. Reduce heat and simmer 5 minutes. Remove from heat; cover and let stand 20 minutes so that flavors blend. Pour through sieve to remove herbs.

Working in batches, puree soup in blender until smooth. Return soup to same pot. Stir in cream mixture. Simmer until flavors blend, about 5 minutes, thinning with more broth if desired. Season to taste with salt and pepper and more lemon juice to taste.