sparkler's notes

I have a thing for firemen; I know lots of women do. And the ones that don’t probably dig doctors, one could claim that I do too. My reaction to a man in scrubs is not, “Let me help you with that simple drawstring”, it is more like “Eewwee, take those germy things off and shower up”. All right, all right, so the end result is nakedness but the first reaction is still different. Back to the firemen. My fetish may have started in college, after getting stuck in the dorm elevator between floors 2 and 3. Handsome firemen were called to rescue us from our entrapped state. Or it may have started to with rather humorous blind date in high school with a future firefighter. However it began, I have become hooked on firemen and their communal cooking ways. Until last week.

It was a typical afternoon at work, then the fire alarm went off. This was the first time in over 2 years that I had heard this alarm. My boss, coworkers and I calmly evacuated, making our slow decent down a crowded staircase. We stood outside with the other people milling about. It was an awkward time; it wasn’t a drill, yet no one seemed to know what had caused the alarm to go off. Finally the fire truck arrived. I like fire trucks a lot too since they are big, red, shiny, and they bring firemen. Yes, it’s like the Pavlov's dogs thing. At this point I even turn to someone and say, “At least there will be cute firemen”. The next moment what emerges off the fire truck? Not at the young, tall, muscular, dark haired, chiseled face, first responder wearing the navy blue uniform; that I was anxiously anticipating. An old, short, slightly overweight balding man climbed down off the truck. I mean don’t you need to submit your headshots to get into the fire academy? What happened with this one? Did he not age well? That still didn’t account for the height. I rationalized that he was super-smart or someone related got him the job. In any case, in one afternoon, one man, has tainted my fantasies forever.

On Sunday morning before fall finally appeared in Los Angeles, M and I hiked in Malibu. On backbone trail we headed up to Saddle Peak to view the coast and canyon views. It was cool and windy; rain was approaching. The trail was peaceful we didn’t encounter any other hikers in the course of our journey. Having recently watched the last season of Six Feet Under, I had a bit of a freak-out that we could be attacked by a mountain lion. I shared my paranoia with M but his assurances only comforted me to a certain point. I am sure this new fear has made itself a nice little home in my head, to appear in upcoming dream.

The trail ground was different throughout the hike; pavement, gravel, bony like rock (hence the name backbone), but also it was this sand that seemed to have turned to bumpy, rough rock that looked like dinosaur skin. At one of the peaks we spent some time enjoying the urban art work. An old cement foundation had been painted Pepto-Bismol pink and decorated with pictures and words. A few of the obligatory S+C forever in hearts dotted the area, but the combined theme was a musical one.

On Friday I got my deli sandwich from the cafeteria (only day I didn't bring my lunch last week) cafeteria deli sandwiches made-to-order is one of the only things that don't scare me there. I didn't ask for tomatoes on my sandwich. Of course what does the guy go and have to ask? You don't like tomatoes? Which is like putting a step stool next to the soapbox. Some how I managed to keep it short and reply that I only liked homegrown tomatoes. Again the guy continues the conversation, why don't you bring in one of your homegrown tomatoes and we will slice it for your sandwich (like his sandwich is worthy of one of my home-grown tomatoes). Again I responded briefly, my plants are dead now. What was I going to do have a twenty-minute conversation with the deli sandwich guy about how his tomatoes have probably never seen real sunlight since they were picked when they were green? Or that they are tasteless and mealy? No he got off easy with a smile.

I started out on a run yesterday evening around my neighborhood iPod-less; to chase the sun down into the horizon. Not a fan of the upcoming daylight saving time. It means back to the inside of gyms with sweaty leering men, and stale air. I will miss the Rose Bowl, with its pack of bicyclists whirling past me creating a breeze that is a welcome respite to the warm Pasadena air. I will miss my chats with R during warm-up and cool down about our day, life and food. Usually we are plotting for our next food-centric party. My neighborhood run provides me with a different experience. There are more obstacles, no real sidewalk to speak of, which means parked cars to dart in and out of as cars pass, many hills of varying grades to jog up at a sometimes slower paces than I could walk, ladies watering their lawns and dogs guarding their yards.

One of the most interesting things about my run are the smells that waif from different areas. The first smell I encountered on my jog was of garlic. I imagined someone beginning their dinner with the familiar start of my own; sautéing garlic in some olive oil. This smell is about all I have to do in the kitchen to invoke a “Honey, it smells good in there what are you cooking?” Aah, simple pleasures.

As the garlic faded and I came to the top of the second small hill, I was hit with a wall of incense. Thick and perfumed, it was impossible to not drop back in time to college dorms, apartments; with burning intense, cloth tapestry wall hangings, loud music, and friends.

Unfortunately, the first two scents that tickled my nose were followed up by unpleasant ones. The ever-present skunk smell was stronger as I ran the downhill part of my journey. “Skunktastic” I thought and chuckled to myself. I was happy to have just run into the scent, not one of the members of the skunk families that reside in the area. As I made my way around the bend to the only true flat part of the route, rotting fish, and molting garbage rose up from a sewer grate.

Absent of scents, I began the final steep uphill journey. “Keep it up”, an older gentleman expressed encouragement as I started up the first climb. I used the energy from his words to help me up the whole hill. Once I reached the top, I walked around cooling off; I watched a cat stalk something in the ivy.

R and I were walking, now on downhill too steep to jog, when we heard wailing. I mean WAILING, it was loud, came from several people and could be heard clearly down to the street. We speculated that it was some sort of grieving session or an acting class; given that this is a hip part of Los Angeles, it was probably the latter. The last smell I noticed on our journey was wild fennel. R breathed deeply and sighed in appreciation. I thought of Ouzo the Greek alcohol I had only recently been introduced to.

The night sky almost upon us, I sprinted the last flat part towards home. Running so fast I could smell nothing at all.

On Saturday I received my haircut from Madonna. Well, not really, my hair salon decided to do an 80’s costume day and my stylist looked just like Madonna circa early 1980’s (when she was still blond and her hair was long). She even had the fake mole. I was a little alarmed at first. What female wouldn’t be? The eighties was a bad time for hair, thank goodness for Aquanet or we would have all been broke with the amount hair spray we were using.

Later, my hair cut and straightened, I visited my sister and brother-in law. They have two boys, one under six months and the other almost 4 years old. The five month old is an angel the kind of baby one prays for. He doesn’t cry unless extremely tired or hungry. According to his mother he sleeps through the night and in the morning she will find him awake in his crib amusing himself. The older one dealt me my disturbing blow for the weekend. As I was leaving he wouldn’t give me a hug. Not until his father bribed him with some goodie. I wasn’t prepared for this; having a male bribed to hug me is a not usual occurrence. Usually an opposite problem occurs, my hugs are coveted, and some males linger a bit too long. After the bribe I did get two hugs. Was the first hug great and he wanted another, or was the bribe really that good?

I enjoyed my first pomegranatini this weekend; vodka, orange liqueur, pomegranate juice and a squeeze of lime. Refreshing, tasty and expensive, perhaps I should be making these at home. Move over mojitos, it’s pomegrantatini party-time.

Last night R and I went to see Julie Powell read at Vroman's. I was really excited to see her after reading her blog about cooking her way through the Mastering the Art of French Cooking (MtAoFC) in one year (yes she cooked every butter-filled recipe) and also reading her recently released book Julie & Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. Book was good; it told the behind the blog story of the project and how doing the project really affected her life. I could go on how the book was not a repeat of the blog, funny, moving and inspiring all at the same time. For me the book was about identifying with an everyday woman who did embark upon something different and a little bit crazy to find her way in life.

It was her very first reading; she was cute and a little nervous. She sniffled a bit and one of her earrings came off during an animated reading passage. Her writing is funny and with her background in theater the humor really comes through as she reads. I loved the inflections in her voice as she read passages with dialogue of her and her mother.

She said she loved LA. Yeah, she said it. She even wrote it publicly in her new blog "What Could Happen" . Not sure when it got written into the city code that it was un-cool to utter those 3 little words, but you never hear a visitor after such a short time in LA decide they love it. Most of the natives/locals are too busy bemoaning about traffic to stop to say it. Hearing her say it was freeing to me. When moved I left San Francisco with resistance. I was under the ubiquitous influence of the northern Californian “LA sucks” mentality. In the last 2 years LA has crept into my heart like the smog slowly creeps west out to the ocean. LA is enchanting with it grandness, and its individuality of its small neighborhoods. You can’t find better weather. We have the ocean, the mountains, we have culture, and most important we have great food. I have friends here, a home here, I am happy here. I can make a bee-line for the beach on a sunny day or to the cool darkness of an air-conditioned movie theater in Hollywood. And sometimes I can just waste a day away knowing that tomorrow the sun with shine again. Thanks Julie for making me take a moment to appreciate where I live and realize I love here it.

Enjoying the bright sun and finishing off the book I am reading, I ate a Greek salad for lunch outside today. Before you go running to check the date, yes it is October, and there were no tomatoes in this Greek salad to speak of. This is what I loved about it. I realize this in not a “proper” Greek salad. There were all the other typical ingredients: red onion, olives (bit skimpy on these), red bell pepper, feta cheese and one addition shredded cabbage. People are so sneaky with cabbage; it gets thrown in for color all over the place. It is the decorative pillow of vegetables. All these ingredients and I didn’t have to endure out-of-season tomatoes. Crunchy romaine lettuce was the capable understudy to the missing starlet tomatoes. Hooray for Trader Joes for doing without as opposed to filling in with what some places try to pass off for tomatoes, but so clearly are not. When you can’t have the real thing, sometimes it is just best to do without.