Left Coast Cowboys

It's been said before: On the Internet, no one knows you're a dog.

There was a recent dust-up over here involving The Pioneer Woman, the enormously successful cookin’, photographin’, homeschoolin’ Oklahoma blogger who’s built her brand as an Aw-Shucks country girl wife of a cattle rancher. I’m not going to weigh in on the controversy. Enough’s been said about that. But what struck me, in the course of the fall-out, was that the usual criticism of successful bloggers was thrown out on the table — “Her life isn’t really the way she portrays it. She’s not exactly the person she projects herself to be.”

My response? Of course not! It’s the InterWebs. The late great Quentin Crisp once said, “Movies are life with the boring bits taken out.” I’d say that goes double for a blog where you are trying to feed the damn thing nearly every day, hold on to readers and maybe attract some new ones. If Pioneer Woman or Dooce or any other successful blogger detailed their lives in excruciatingly mundane detail — who would read? Okay, some would say PW and Dooce do just that. But I’d wager they actually cherrypick just one or two things that happened to them in the course of a day. Those things that have the ability — maybe with some embellishment and a little Photoshopping — to serve up some entertainment value. That’s life with the boring bits taken out.

I readily accept that the Internet Pioneer Woman and the Internet Dooce might not be the same people recognizable to their closest friends. Same way I accept that the “character” of Ben Franklin in The Autobiography of Ben Franklin was the wiley old Founding Father’s created public persona, the one he wanted posterity to remember. Winston Churchill got it when he said, “History will treat me kindly. For I shall write it.”

Okay, I’m drawing the line at outright fraud and lies such as the whole A Million Little Pieces debacle. I’m with Oprah on that. And I certainly wouldn’t want any bloggers to check their ethics, morals and responsibilities at the door when putting on their “Internet faces”. But hey, it’s Show Biz! That’s the land where serial killer Aileen Wuronos, who looked like 20,000 miles of bad road, is played by Glamazon Charlize Theron. You see where I stand. I’m not one of those people who devour those glossy magazine photo spreads with “Stars. They’re just like us” articles. I don’t want to see my stars spilling lattes on themselves, looking frumpy at Trader Joe’s or splitting the seams of their ill-fitting sweatpants. I can see that in my own life, thank you. Nope, I want entertainment. And if they, or a blogger, stops providing it, I tune out.

For example, one of my favorite bloggers, Mrs. G over at The Women’s Colony, recently told a great story about a near smackdown she had at Starbucks with a rude and abusive woman. It was a great catharsis for those of us who have been on the receiving end of public bad behavior, yet have been too taken aback for action. However, the genius detail that had me on the floor was that Mrs. G perpetrated this smackdown wearing an I [heart] Books T-shirt. Okay, what if that was an embellishment? What if she wasn’t wearing that T-shirt on that particular day? What if, in fact, she doesn’t even own such a T-shirt? Heck, what if the scene was only played out in her mind as what she should have done in hindsight and if she’d not been so nonplussed? I say “no harm, no foul”. No names were mentioned, no descriptions were given. If it was fiction or part fiction or just “enhanced”, it was a heck of a story, great writing and gave me my laugh of the day.

John the Baptist (l) and Jesus (real name) don't mind being characters on my blog. Maybe because I portray them as superheroes. Which they are.

Isak Dineson, she of Out of Africa fame, wrote how the Kikuyu tribespeople on her farm were culturally uncomfortable with the direct questions of Europeans. If Dineson said, “How many cows do you have?”, they’d most likely look away and say something to the tune of “As many as I told you yesterday.” Her conclusion: “They were not strictly truthful, but, in a grand manner, sincere.” That’s all I’m asking of the bloggers I read.

So now I’ve probably cast doubt on the goings on here at Two Terrier Vineyards. I believe I’ve openly stated my position in my How Did We Get Back to the Land page. I quoted the words of fictional Huckleberry Finn when Mark Twain “asked” him to review the book named after him: “Most of it were true, but some of it were stretched.”

Or as John the Baptist — our most excellent trails builder, protector of local flora and forest spirit — says “I like being a character on your blog.”

See, he gets it.

Oscar, on the other hand, says he don't need no steenkin' enhancement.

It’s been raining solidly for weeks now. Living in a semi-arid state at the end of a three year drought, most of us want that rain to keep on coming. But it was nice to have a two day break. Yesterday was sunny and warm, definitely Springlike. (In fact, the thousands of tree frogs around here suddenly decided Valentine’s Weekend was a good time to start the mating season.) The forecast said today would be another sunny one, so I was up early for a walk to see the sun break through the clouds. I forgot that the Sonoma sun doesn’t exactly “break out” in the Winter. We have several fog channels that affect Sonoma, the Petaluma Gap and the Carneros up from San Pablo Bay. And just to be different and “Californian”, our fog doesn’t predictably come in and burn off. It hovers, then recedes, then rolls back in again until you don’t know what kind of day it’s going to be.

When we started our walk at 8:00, it looked as if the fog was leaving. Within ten minutes, just a whisp of it could be seen off in the distance.

It looked as if it was going to be a great day for barking at the pond.

By the time we’d hiked up to the vineyards, the fog was a thick blanket.

So how does fog recede in the valleys but linger on the heights?

By the time we left the vineyards, the fog had pulled back down to the valleys and we were in sunshine.

What is this? Fog hide and seek?

We went to the top of a 200 foot cliff looking over the Western part of the property and watched the fog hugging the valleys.

Oscar, look in the other direction. We're observing fog.

Then, in a matter of minutes, we watched the fog recede again.

Leaving a lot of wet grass.

After a quick check on the wine cave, we headed back home through the vineyards.

And what?! The fog was back.

Until it decided to disappear for good. Or at least for the day.

Just in time for a serious session of barking at the pond.

Nice to see blue water again!

See more pictures here.

You might have caught the news about one of the world’s most ancient languages which just became extinct when the last native speaker died at 85. What went unreported was another event of at least the same cultural significance. Namely, the last household in the economically developed world without a microwave just succumbed. That would be my house. After decades of resisting one of the more evil forces of Westernization, I’ve purchased a microwave. It took the threat of imminent starvation to do it.

My problem with the microwave is not that I’m technology-averse. I’m an early adopter of all Apple products and I’m the Mechanical Gadget Queen: GPS devices, heart rate monitors, any number of MP3 players. I love ‘em all. My problem with the microwave, and my position against buying one lo these many years, is that they are essentially useless technology. By that, I mean that a microwave can’t do anything that another device can’t do better. Except the few things that it can do which are really not particularly needed.

Want to make a great meal fast? The pressure cooker can make a from-scratch meal just as fast and make it three times better. Microwaves seem to alter the texture of foods. And not for the better. By contrast, the pressure cooker infuses everything it cooks with concentrated flavor. My verdict: the ecological niche of “fast cooking” is more than adequately filled. No need for a microwave.

Microwave noodle meals. If they served this in Abu Graib, human rights groups would be screaming.

“But”, say the microwave groupies, “you can’t warm up last night’s left overs as well in a pressure cooker.” My retort, how about the barest minimum of preplanning. Is it really so onerous to turn on the stove or the toaster oven and warm something up? Especially when conventional cookers don’t change the food texture and, as a bonus, give you that nice brown crustiness on, say, a cheese topped meal?

This is the disaster area that is now my kitchen. Except the large appliances have been trucked off to various charities.

And really, how much do you want to build your diet around “warming up leftovers”? It seems to me, the things microwave fans point to as “better warmed up in the microwave”, like spaghetti, are things that should never be served as leftovers in the first place. Do you think any self-respecting Italian is eating warmed up spaghetti? I think they cook the pasta they plan to serve ten minutes before they serve it. Maybe I have too much time on my hands, but when something as fast and easy as pasta is too much to squeeze into my schedule, well, time to think about better time management. Oh, and boiling water? The British would have two words for you: Atomic Teapot. Faster than a microwave, thank you.

Then our current kitchen remodel left us with no refrigerator, sink, stove or dishwasher. Andy warned me that we’d have to get a microwave. Especially since now the only area with a sink, counter and refrigerator is the mini-bar in our bedroom. Somehow, the idea of cookery in the bedroom, including washing dishes there and trucking the garbage down the stairs, has not been appealing. Nope, the kind of cookery you want to do in these situations involves grabbing something shelf-stable, that can be eaten in what it’s cooked in — preferably something that can be chucked in the garbage immediately after consumption. Hello Microwave.

My Goddaughter demonstrates the face I make when eating microwaved foods. Come to think of it, commercial baby food is pretty shelf-stable. Hmmm.

Still, I didn’t go without a fight. But one week of subsisting on yogurt, fruit, trail mix and Whole Foods’ salad bar had me desperate for alternatives. I cadged a meal from friends, but with weeks more of kitchen remodel ahead of me, I’m not sure how much I can count on that option.

So now I have a microwave. I got a black one to reflect its Satanic properties. I haven’t gotten much beyond oatmeal. Which is as unevenly heated as I expected. And Annie Chun microwave soups meals. Which are as horrible and faux food as I knew they would be. I may microwave a sweet potato. I’m sure the texture will be strangely mealy and not as beautifully caramelized as if it were cooked in a proper oven. I probably won’t get beyond that. I can’t bear to. And when this remodel is done, some shelter in San Francisco may be recipient of an only slightly used microwave.

We always knew it would come to this. After 25 years of living in the same San Francisco Victorian and slowly redoing it room by room, we knew we’d eventually reach the point where we were back at the start, redoing the first room we redid. That would be the kitchen, which was barely functional when we moved in lo these many years ago.

We’d been in the place a month when we took sledge-hammers to the walls, gutted it and redid it. Not that we ended up with a dream kitchen. We were cash-strapped newlyweds, so we had one decorating mantra: “As Cheap As Possible.” Yes, our kitchen has long been the showroom for Home Depot’s cheapest assortment of everything circa 1985. Didn’t matter that it was a Victorian; Mexican tile was cheaper, so that’s what went on the floors. I would have liked white painted cabinets, but faux oak pressboard was on sale and the budget didn’t extend to paint. When we got a joblot of left-over tile, we thought we’d won the lottery. And Andy installed it all. The result: a somewhat functional kitchen, in theory, which was always, in reality, non-functional because of our enthusiastic, but uninformed do-it-yourself ethic. We know better now. And we have professional help in the form of our carpenter friend Dino, who will act as General Contractor. Andy is still Chief Architect, so I leave it to you, as the progress of our remodel unfolds on these electronic pages, if we’ve learned much of anything in the intervening decades.

So on The Eve of Destruction, I’ll go through what lessons we have taken to heart:

Be careful with tile. It seemed like a good (cheap) idea at the time. In reality, that grout got crusted with food and grunge immediately and was impossible to clean. There is a reason granite is popular.

That may have been because we mixed the grout ourselves and didn't know what we were doing. The new stovetop? That was purchased a few years ago and will remain in the new kitchen.

A center island with a faucet? Nice in theory. For us, it never really worked out well. Maybe because our kitchen is so small, the island caused us to scoot around the kitchen sideways and notice whenever we put on a few pounds.

I'll have one faucet and sink in the new kitchen. When I'm so decrepit that I can't walk across a small kitchen with a kettle of water, well, that's when I'll get Meals on Wheels.

The false beams? They were sourced from a scrap lumber yard and are not really structural.

File under: What Were We Thinking

The refrigerator is the real lesson learned. We bought a huge, deep one back in the day — because it was cheap and on sale. It only served to facilitate our “Condiment Alzheimers”. Either we truly have no short-term memory of condiment purchases or we live in fear that we will run out of salad dressing, cornichons, grated parmesan, jam and mustard. That’s why we have three containers of each at any one time lurking in the deep recesses of our refrigerator. Yes, we are hoarding condiments for the Apocalypse.

The new Fridge will be half the size and depth of this one. No more frightening "Condiment Graveyard".

You think I’m kidding about our Condiment Alzheimers? This is the refrigerator door AFTER a clean-out:

Calling all my friends? Need condiments? I'm having a "Going Out of Business Sale".

Here’s what I’ll be most glad to see the back of: those damned Mexican tiles. We couldn’t afford the sealant so they immediately sucked in all the dirt that we and pets tracked into the kitchen. It went downhill after that.

Here Lucy gratefully surveys the beginning of the removal of the tiles.

So let the Sledgehammering begin! And to all my friends and neighbors, I’m calling in all my dinner favors in the next months.

Parting shot: I know mixing a kitchen remodel with one of the great protest songs of the Sixties is going from the ridiculous to the sublime, but, for no other reason than I think Barry McGuire should get more airplay, here’s The Eve of Destruction.

?

One of my measures for a great writer, speaker and human is how well their words stand up to rereading over years and decades. Do you find something new every time you revisit them? Do they stand up in meaning as times change? By this measure, Martin Luther King Jr. keeps becoming greater and greater as the decades pass.

My first encounter with his words was in 1968 in my Southern segregated-in-all-but-name elementary school. And I don’t mean the Deep South. This school was in the leafy suburbs outside Washington, D.C. populated by Pentagon officials, diplomats and professionals. There were no “Colored Only” signs on the restrooms and drinking fountains, but you never saw two races using the same facilities. We had Blacks in our school — five of them — they had a separate classroom, a separate teacher and they ate at a separate table in the lunchroom. I don’t remember seeing them on the playground. They must have had a separate recess. Years later, I realized the School Board had figured out a way to meet the letter of the law of desegregation without giving an inch to the spirit of that law.

Collage portrait of MLK Jr. by 4-year-old Anna, niece of a Flickr friend, Leigh Graves Wolf (who took this picture). For the story on how this remarkable portrait was made, read on.

In this atmosphere, I had a teacher — not my regular teacher, but what they used to call the “Special Projects Teacher” who went from classroom to classroom presenting current events with the one precious AV set-up available in the school. He was a glamorous figure to us because he came to the education system straight from a stint in the Peace Corps. As Special Projects Teacher, he regularly combined all three third-grade classrooms and screened news footage, documentaries and other subject matter not in our regular curriculum. In between the documentaries on Papua New Guinea and the Space program, he liberally sprinkled his programs with footage of Dr. King’s full length speeches and CBS news programs on the Civil Rights Movement. It was a bold move in a school where the majority of kids came to school wearing Wallace for President buttons and stuck Wallace bumper stickers to their book bags. He probably only got away with this because the regular teachers found his sessions a great excuse to take a long smoking break in the Teacher’s Lounge. They had no idea what he was up to.

I’m not sure what my teacher hoped to do by screening those speeches (and, to be fair, he also screened Kennedy’s speeches and one film of an actor reading Abraham Lincoln’s speeches). I’m sure neither I or any of my third grade classmates understood a bit of what we heard. I do remember being impressed by the music of Dr. King’s cadences. It wasn’t until years later that I really listened to the words. I’ve been listening to them ever since and, every time I hear them, I find a new level of meaning.

Even today, I’m finding out more about Dr. King. I’d always thought his beautiful rhetoric came from the music of Gospels and the cadences of traditional Black Baptist Church preaching. Now, I find out from NPR this morning that King received a Doctorate in Philosophy from Boston University and was deeply informed on the words and thoughts of great thinkers such as Plato, Aristotle, Rousseau, Hobbes, Bentham, Mill, and Locke. His Letter from the Birmingham Jail, NPR pointed out, is impressive, not just for the way it weaves so many references from poetry, philosophy and the Bible, but because King, at the time, had no library and was quoting from a prodigious memory.

While news outlets are playing and replaying King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, I’m going to refer you to to his acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize. The former speech is a wonderful call to Civil Rights, but his acceptance speech is even more all encompassing. It lays out a roadmap of hope for humanity and an affirmation that we all can shape a better destiny for the world. (It’s also notable how many times he uses the word “audacity”. The President is not quoting Reverend Wright when he co-opts the word, he’s referring back to Dr. King.)

Are King’s words still resonating? Look no further than the collage of him made by the niece of a Flickr Friend. Her aunt explains how the picture came about:

“It is a wonderful story — after Christmas, Anna asked me what the next holiday was. I told her MLK Jr. day, She asked who MLK Jr was and we researched his life and legacy.  She fell in love with him and was not prompted/coached to create the portrait. She did it all on her own. Her mom just helped her cut/paste the bio at the bottom.”

Like me back in 1968, she’s probably just responding to the music of his words. But once she’s older, she’ll have years and years to discover new meaning and new hope in Dr. King’s life, actions and speeches.

Because you probably can’t hear it too many times, here’s the I Have a Dream speech: