A Concert, A Parade, And A Feast. A Fitting End To My Birthday Celebrations.

All good things must end, and so, on Saturday night, my month-long riot of birthday festivities came to a close.

 The last day of fiesta started with a special birthday performance by the lovely and talented
Mirabel Davidson;the premiere of a piece she composed specifically for the occasion.
We were all in awe of her mad, multi-rhythmic drumming skills.

 Next came The Parade of the Surviving Chickens, featuring Luciya, John, Heena, and Shybone. 

The poignant spectacle brought a tear to many an eye.

And then it was time for the feast. Beginning, of course, with a slow-roasted pork shoulder
stuffed with prunes, onions, garlic, walnuts, and sage, then covered with salt, pepper,
and fennel seeds.

Potatoes dug from Aston's garden (California potatoes smuggled into Idaho!) and roasted 

with garlic and rosemary.

My beloved pork-jowl bacon as a condiment.

Lightly-sauteed green beans with garlic, slivered almonds, and Parmesan cheese.

And family to share it all with. Life is sweet indeed.

Also, enough leftovers to keep us swimming in pork for most of the week!

P.

My Fourth, But Not Last, Birthday Dinner This Year.

Our family and friends do like to extend our birthday celebrations with multiple dinners and other excuses to have a good time. This year, my birthday celebration started in early August in Escondido, where Teresa and Matthew cooked me a fabulous feast. Our trip to the Bay Area had already included two wonderful meals alive with piggy goodness and Steve and Michele were planning another for Sunday evening.

 But first a smashing champagne brunch with Aston and Eileen.

Note that no pigs were harmed in the making of this meal. 

Other than the eggs and the idli, everything came from their garden, fresh and delicious.

We were sorry to say goodbye to their spectacular hospitality,
but O's birthday is less than two months away!

My fourth birthday dinner featured a smoky, slow-cooked pork roast.

 
Steve and Michele are both excellent cooks, so we enjoyed a delicious meal with them.
It is so lovely to reconnect with old friends. But all too soon we had to call it a night
so that we would be ready to face the long drive home.

We got up early and drove to San Francisco for breakfast, then hit the road. It took us almost twelve hours, thanks to an unplanned, but beautiful, detour through south Lake Tahoe. Along the way, we stopped at the gravesite of Jean Baptiste Charbonneau, Sacgewea's son, just off a lonely stretch of Highway 95 in Oregon. It was a very tranquil spot by the river, marked by a plaque and a tattered American flag.

Later, we were treated to a colorful, multilayered Idaho sunset. A spectacular end to a wonderful weekend.

My final birthday dinner of the year is scheduled for Saturday night, when John and Ophelia will prepare a feast involving, you guessed it, various porcine products.

P.

Hungover And Hanging Out In The Mission.

It turns out that with great birthdays come great suffering. So come Saturday morning, we knew we'd had too much wine Friday night. But, hey, there was a birthday weekend to celebrate--more wine to drink and more pig to eat!

 The logical place to start was the Food Fair in San Francisco's Mission District. Several blocks 

of Folsom Street were cordoned off and lined with mobile kitchens from some of the City's
hippest dining establishments. Needless to say, it was jammed, and getting a bite to eat
meant a long wait in line.

 Even if all you wanted was a big-ass sandwich.

Suffering from hangover-induced hunger pangs as we were, we gave up on the food fair and walked over to Mission Street to our favorite S.F. taqueria, the imaginatively-named La Taqueria. After a delightful lunch of savory tacos and various aguas frescas (their watermelon juice is delicious), we decided to soak up some big-city vibes.

Mission Street used to be the core of a vibrant shopping and entertainment district, 

with retail shops, restaurants and bars, and theaters. It still is vibrant in its wonderfully 

seedy way, packed with discount stores, taquerias, bodegas, and masses of people 

from all over Central America. 

 The shells of the once-grand movies palaces are still there, 

either vacant or turned into discount clothing stores or 

Pentecostal churches catering to Spanish-speaking worshippers.

 Or parking lots. 

A sad fate for these lovely old structures. I only wish I could have explored the inside.

 The Mission (or La Mission) is also known for its murals. Almost every street has a few, 

and though they are decidedly variable in quality, their cheerful colors delight the eye

at every turn. 

 When we lived in S.F., our house was at the edge of the Mission, so walking around these
neighborhoods is like coming home.

 And speaking of coming home, here's where so many things started: 909 Montgomery.
Definitely not in the Mission. RWD, the agency where O and I met, had their northern 

California office on the second floor of this building. I was the creative director, 

O was the office manager, and she hired Aston to design our offices. 

That was the start of a beautiful friendship. 

Aston and Eileen still have their offices here. First door on the right.

 The Mission is still home to some great restaurants and bars, too. Lung Shan the disguise for

of Mission Chinese Food, which Bon Appetit just named one of the ten best new restaurants in
the country. You wouldn't think so to look at the place, inside or out, but the food was stellar.
They don't take reservations, so we arrived at 5:30 and put our name on the list.

 After an hour, we were ushered into the crowded dining room 

and wedged into a table with two other couples. It was hot and dim, 

and the air was thick with smoke redolent of chiles 

and roasted pork fat. My kind of place.

We ordered a lot of food because everything sounded so good. Our favorites were the mussels steamed in a a spicy sauce enriched with chunks of caramelized pork belly, slow-roasted char siu pork belly, and thrice-cooked bacon. Notice a pattern? Also good were the cold Dan Dan noodles and the Westlake rice porridge with oxtails and Dungeness crab. A memorable meal.

And by the time we came out, 50 to 75 people were standing outside on the sidewalk waiting to get in.

Afterwards, we went to Hayes Street Grill, one of our old haunts, for drinks and a creme brulee. They make the best creme brulee in S.F. One of the waiters still remembered us, and we talked with him for a while before heading back to Belmont for some much-needed recuperative sleep.

P.

A Birthday To Remember.

We have known our friends Aston and Eileen for more than 25 years. For almost all of those years, we have celebrated our birthdays together. That gives us at least four opportunities every year to eat and drink to excess and generally carry on. This past weekend it was my turn, and O and I turned it into a road trip to San Francisco. That's about a ten-and-a-half hour drive from Boise. We left at about 7:00 am and got to their house in Belmont, just south of S.F., about 6:30 pm.

The table was set with huge dahlias from their garden when we arrived. 

I knew that my sister, Catherine, and her husband were going to join us,

as well as our friends Steve and Michele. Had I thought to count the place settings,

I might have suspected a birthday surprise.

Aston had grown a huge crop of Austrian potatoes which he prepared with salt and oil.

The first of the weekends many pig-themed meals featured a pork shoulder 

slow-cooked in a spicy tamarind/fish sauce marinade. 

Falling-apart tender and utterly delicious.

There was also a fresh-caught trout baked in a delicious chile sauce.

The guest list included three surprises: our friends Howard and Beth, as well as our buddy Doug.

L to R: David, Howard, my sister. Doug, me, Michele, O, Aston, Steve, and Beth. 

Eileen, who took the picture, can be seen in the following shot.

 

The cake.

We ate, we drank, we laughed, we all talked at once, ever louder as the evening progressed. It was a real treat to be around such a group of dear friends and family. 

All in all, it was a most satisfying birthday.

P.

One Year In Boise.

Today is the first anniversary of our move to Boise.

It's remarkable how much we've come to enjoy life in a city we once swore we'd never live in. Sure, I miss the beach, the great restaurants, the ethnic diversity, and the breadth of musical and artistic experiences in California.

What I don't miss is the traffic and general overcrowding. And I enjoy the friendly people, the wide open spaces, family ties, and the growing community we're slowly building up here. Now if we could only find steady jobs all would be well.

P.

John Loses His Head.

We were shocked when Luciya informed us that her dad was dead, given that we'd seen him just a few minutes before.

Of course, we asked what had happened, and the whole sad story came out. Apparently, John took her fishing and she fell out of the boat. Her dad jumped in to save her, and managed to throw her back into the boat. Unfortunately, before he could climb out of the water, a big shark came by and bit his head off.

Naturally, we expressed our deepest condolences, but L. assured us that everything was okay: John was in the hospital, and his head was growing back.

We were so relieved!

P.

Meanwhile, Back In Boise...

 The two remaining hens scurry for cover when released from their coop in the aftermath 

of the Great Chicken Massacre of '11.

 They quickly find cover and keep a wary eye on their suddenly-threatening surroundings.

It

 John repairs the damage where mindless killing machine 

that is Mila broke through the wire. He is using much 

stronger wire this time.

Said mindless killing machine licks her chops as she plans her next move.

The discovery of berries.

More?

Luciya strikes a yoga pose as she samples the fruits of the garden.

I am the Queen of Carrots!

P.

Life's A Beach, And Then You Fly.

It was great spending a few days in my home town. I have fond memories of growing up in Laguna when it was still a small beach town inhabited by starving artists, beach bums, Hollywood gays, and a few thousand other middle-class citizens. Now it has richified to an almost unrecognizable extent, though there are still a few reminders of the past.

Every morning, my brother walks five miles (at 76!) with his dog. We walked downtown, 

and then along Main Beach in the early morning overcast. The beach is empty until 

the sun comes out at about 10:30, and then the hordes descend. 

The house I grew up in overlooks the beach. 

You can see it on the hill just under the yellow arrow.

The coastline here is truly spectacular, with many small, rocky coves.

The tide was low, exposing the seaweed-covered base of the rocks.

We walked the entire length of the town on the beach, ending at Agate Street Beach 

where the rocks block further progress. This was one of my favorite beaches as a kid. 

When the tide is very low, you can walk through the arch to the tidepools and 

Wood's Cove just around the point.

My sister, Catherine, flew in later that morning, and after lunch we went back to Agate 

for an afternoon swim. The tide was up, and there was very little beach left to sit on. 

The surf was up, too, with sets of 5-6 foot waves breaking hard practically on the shore. 

We remembered then that Agate and many other of Laguna's beaches have a 

nasty shore break in heavy surf.

Not that that was going to stop us. Nor would the semi-frigid water temp: 61 degrees. Brrr! Catherine had a couple of boogie boards stashed at my mom's; we unlimbered them and waited for the relative calm between sets. When it came, we threw ourselves into the chop and paddled frantically for the flat water beyond the surf zone. We made it without incident, but were soon joined by a lifeguard who wanted us to return to the shore. We argued a bit, pointing out that we'd been cavorting in these waters since long before he was conceived, but he had no humor about the situation. So I dutifully started swimming back to the beach, while Catherine allowed herself to be rescued by the brawny youth. She had to leave her boogie board behind, letting the rip current push it north and out to sea. I made it back to the beach before the next big set, but Catherine and her gallant rescuer had to endure a minor pummeling before they emerged from the surf. When they came up together after the first dunking, the boy asked C. if she was all right. After the second, C. asked him very solicitously if he was all right. He was not amused.

Cheated of our swimming time, we resolved to check out the north-end beaches 

the following day. Looking out from Heisler Park, we saw that Fisherman's Cove, 

Diver's Cove, and Shaw's Cove looked pretty inviting.

Diver's Cove especially was a childhood favorite. We spent many a summer here 

frolicking in the surf and working on our beach-resident tans.

The palms have grown a bit since then.

Matthew and Teresa came up for lunch, and in the afternoon the four of us headed for the beach. We decided that Crescent Bay would be reasonably protected from the surge, providing the most auspicious swimming conditions. I had lived in a small apartment with wife #1 just blocks from this beach when I was just out of college, so I knew it well. Again the tide was up, leaving the mass of bathers huddled on a slim curve of dry sand. The surf was still high, but we were further from the lifeguards' watchful eyes, and determined to get some serious swim time in. 

Matthew was the first in the water and out beyond the waves. Just as I was wading in, I saw a head bob up next to his. It was a friendly seal. A large wave lifted both Matthew and the seal skyward and we could all see their bodies side by side through the clear face of the wave. Then Matthew was over the wave, and the seal continued its way south to investigate the other swimmers. I had forgotten that just around the point from Crescent Bay is Seal Rock where lots of sea lions live. I used to take an inflatable row boat to the beach, paddle around the point, and visit with the seals. They are very curious creatures and would often swim with me for a while before getting bored with my lumberingly clumsy way of swimming.

The four of us enjoyed a wonderful few hours at the beach, once our bodies adjusted to the chill water. Swimming in surf is far more fun than swimming in a pool. I'd forgotten how much I missed the ocean--the smell, the taste, the feeling of exhilaration that comes from playing in the waves.

The next day I visited T&M in Escondido, where they cooked me a delicious pre-birthday dinner. Unfortunately, Syona and Devon were in LA for the weekend visiting their cousin Eryn, so I didn't get my granddaughter fix, but we had a great time anyway.

And then I got on a plane and flew home.

P.

Mila The Killer.

Dear Mila, the world's best dog, has suddenly revealed her darker nature: chicken killer. A couple days ago she ripped Pokey's head off while the girls were free-ranging in the backyard. John and Emily were beside themselves and vowed to keep more vigilant watch on the pup.

Luciya was upset because Pokey was the chicken that she named. "Why did Mila have to kill my chicken," she wondered. It is interesting, in a bleakly ironic way, that many of the stories Luciya makes up end with "and then they ripped his head off!"

A friend of John and Emily's gave them her favorite chicken since she was having issues with her landlord about keeping chickens.The deal was that If the new chicken got along with Heena and Shybone, she might become a permanent addition to the flock.

Alas, that was not to be. This morning, Mila tore out the chicken wire in the coop, ripped the new chicken's neck open and was forcing her way into the nesting loft to kill the other two when John and Emily, alerted by the commotion, managed to stop her.

John has an article on how to train dogs not to kill chickens. So Mila's stint in rehab begins.

We all hope it will be successful.

P.

Bun Cha At The Beach!

Last weekend I flew to Southern California for my mother's 96th birthday. She still lives in Laguna Beach in the house where I grew up. She's getting frail, but is still sharp mentally. My brother Burt, who lives with her and takes care of her (at 76!) had requested Vietnamese food, so of course I thought bun cha. My sister, Catherine, flew down from Oakland to join us, bravely packing a bottle of precious Three Crabs brand fish sauce in the same bag as her clothes.

I wanted to try some modifications to the bun cha recipe I've evolved, since I get bored cooking the same thing the same way. I decided that I would add some Boise flavor to it by substituting Idaho's wonderful pork jowl bacon for the traditional slices of pork belly.

Pork jowl bacon is a pig's cheek that has been cured and smoked. It comes in a big chunk that still looks just like a cheek and is fattier and richer in flavor than regular bacon. It's not something you'd want to eat every day, but on those occasions you don't mind shortening your life by a year or two, it's a delicious treat.

I have become a big fan of cooking bacon in the oven. The pieces stay flat, the splatter factor 

is negligible, and more of the fat renders out of the finished product.

Said finished product in all its smoky, crispy, fatty glory.

The delightful by-product of the baking process is a bowlful of salty, smoky fat that I save 

for cooking potatoes, eggs, pork chops, chicken, just about anything that might be improved 

by the addition of bacon flavor. Which is just about everything, right?

In this case, I used some of it to fry a couple of chopped leeks whose crispy goodness 

I sprinkled over the top of each bowl.

The result was pretty to look at as well as incredibly flavorful. 

My mom ate every bit of hers and pronounced it a delicious birthday dinner.

P.