Having Fun in Sac

In Napa, I drink wine.

In Sonoma, I drink wine.

In the Central Coast, I drink wine.

But in Sacramento, I see the sights.

Wine country and I were made for each other: I love it for the wine, the vines, meeting like-minded vino aficionados and did I mention the wine? Wine Country is my DisneyLand: the happiest place on earth. 

On this particular trip to the land of the vine, I traveled by plane through Sacramento and got to spend some time in the capital city of California, or as the locals call it: “spending time in Sac”.  

Sacramento was named after the Sacramento River, which the Spanish explorer, Gabriel Moraga (1765-1823), called the Rio del Santissimo Sacramento. However the city of Sacramento should have been called “Gold Rush City” because that’s why it was developed in the first place, as a place where miners and get-rich quick adventurers went in 1849 to stock up on supplies before heading to the American River to pan for gold. 

To honor this historic element, the present-day city of Sacramento has preserved and developed a small area of town with wooden sidewalks, saloons and horse-drawn carriages. “Old Sacramento”, as it’s known, is popular among kids, western history buffs and people pretending to be cowboys. I didn’t see a single miner.

The city of Sac is found at the confluence of the Sacramento and America Rivers both of which have deltas that are rich for farming. This proximity to agriculture and organic farming has led to a farm-to-fork movement among Sacramentans, which we could partake in at the local Farmer’s Market (under the 80 freeway) and at some really delicious restaurants. I ate well in Sacramento including at the Magpie Cafe. Their baked goods are worth checking out as is their roasted chicken for two and espresso-infused cream brulé for one.  

Finally as the capital city of the Golden State, I had to see the Capitol Building. Built in the 1860s and retrofitted in the 1950s, I relished walking the marbled halls and seeing the old-style Assembly and Senate Chambers. In addition the hallway walls are lined with portraits of California governors including Ronald Reagan (one term 1967-1975) and Jerry Brown (two terms 1975-1983). I especially liked comparing the official portraits. Reagan’s looked like a photograph while Jerry Brown’s, painted by artist Don Bachardy, resembled a modern, expressionistic work. Hanging next to each other, Jerry Brown’s portrait really popped. Not only was it a portrait it was a work of pop art.  

Now that Jerry Brown is finishing a third term as California governor and likely will get a fourth, the question is, will the famously frugal Brown have a second portrait painted of himself for the Capitol. Or not?

As for the answer to that question, I’ll mull it over while drinking a glass of wine, in Wine Country.

Magic Carpet

It was old.
It was classy.
It was mine.
And I couldn't wait to use it in The House!

The HGTV application had advised mentioning one item in my possession that—if I were picked—I would like the HGTV professionals to decorate my new and improved room around. I had indicated my Persian rug.

Before we bought The House Mr. Wonderful and I lived in a rented apartment with a balcony, and before that we rented one with two balconies, and before that something with three balconies, and before that I lived in a rented apartment on a square, and before that a rental with a gas stove, and before that one with two roommates, and before that a rental on the ground floor, and before that a place on the second floor, and before that two on the fourth and one on the 14th. 

And before them all, I bought a Persian rug.

I remember finding the rug in an antique store. “Antique” is just another word for “secondhand”, which I don’t mind because I love the look and well-made quality of so many secondhand things. I also appreciate that antique things had a whole life, or six, before I bought them, before I thought of them, heck, before I was born. I especially like wooden tables, stuffed armchairs and Persian rugs. Maybe it’s my DIY nature but I like turning something that says “ow” into something that says “Kapow!”. Wooden tables can be polished, armchairs restuffed and recovered and Persian rugs can be cleaned. In fact the only antiques I don’t like are old bras, used handkerchiefs and wigs filled with Cracker Jacks. But that’s just me.  

Back in that New England antique store, the antique dealer told me that this particular Persian rug had laid on the dining room floor of a wealthy Boston family’s home for decades. When the homeowners’ great-grandkids sold the house and its contents, the rug made its way to this shop with a “for sale” sign. The rug had a beautiful red diamond shape in the middle with blue and salmon accents surrounding it. The pattern was called a Herati after the town in Persia that first popularized it a gazillion years ago back when the country of Iran was still called the kingdom of Persia. 

“It’s gorgeous,” I said running my hand over the wool pattern. 

“Buying it you’d be making an investment,” the antique dealer said in a hard Boston accent that sounded like she’d had a bit part in the movie Good Will Hunting. She went on to explain how the traditional craftspeople making the rugs took pride in their rug-making to transform simple floor coverings into marvelous works of art, that they “pahked they ca in Hahvard Yahd”, and since rugs have been made for centuries in that part of the world, some of them have become über valuable, as in worth beaucoup bucks.

“So you’re saying this rug is like a 401k plan,” I said fingering the cotton fringe.

“No, it’s a different sort of invest—”

“It’s like a Roth IRA?”

“No.”

“It’s like owning real estate?”

“No!”

“I’ll take it!”

She had uttered the magic words: buy a piece of art now that would keep my floors warm and that I could sell for a profit later. Bingo! I paid, rolled it up and put it in my moving van. But it didn’t go to any of my apartments because all of them had wall-to-wall carpeting, the kind that is made in a factory, cut to fit a room’s dimensions and hammered into the floor. So my gorgeous investment spent time at my parents’ place, my sister’s house, then my other sister’s house.

Those lovely people got to enjoy my piece of art and investment for years while I toiled way to get a home of my own with wood floors where I could lay out my non-401k plan and enjoy my non-real estate-Roth IRA. After years of keeping others’ feet warm, I had the rug cleaned, rolled up in plastic and placed in my storage locker to wait for U-Day, that is “Unfurling Day”. 

Finally The House was purchased and we moved in! Finally we unpacked! Finally I had completed an HGTV application where I said this rug would be the centerpiece of any HGTV-redone room.   

“What does the rug look like?” Mr. Wonderful said tapping the plastic wrapped around what looked to be a burrito fit for Paul Bunyan.

“It’s not a rug but our investment,” I said correcting him. “And you’re going to love it.” 

Finally U-day had come! Armed with a pair of scissors, Mr. Wonderful cut through the plastic and together we unrolled my valuable work of art and as we did a tan cloud arose from the rug. And another tan cloud fluttered up to meet the first one and another one. On closer inspection the “cloud” was moths, hundreds of them, that released from the cocoon of the rug, had flown free.

“What color did you say it was?” Mr. Wonderful said looking at my  über valuable investment.

“Red, blue and salmon.”

“I guess moths like those colors.” Sure enough, the moths had eaten holes in my rug precisely through those color patches. To be fair, they also ate through the other colors too, as well as through the backing, the fringe and the whole kit and kaboodle. The moths were voracious and more than my family members, Mr. Wonderful or I, they had enjoyed my investment the most because they had devoured 96% of it. 

My heart sank. My rug was ruined, beyond repair. In a pouff of tan moths, my investment was gone. Sniff.

My rug. It was old.

It was classy.

It was everyone’s but mine.

The HGTV Application

“I finished the HGTV application,” I said clicking through the photos on my computer.

“I didn’t know they were hiring,” Mr. Wonderful said chomping on a carrot stick.

“I don’t want to work for them.”

“Oh?”

“I want them to work for me.”

“Oh.”

There comes a point in every DIY, fixer-upper’s life when she gets tired of DIY-ing, fixing-upping and having construction dust in her clothes, hair and nasal duct conduits. In short, there comes a time when she wants some professional help so she can put her feet up and drink a glass of Rosé by the pool. As for this DIY, fixer-upper, I had reached that point. Yesterday.

So when I saw an advertisement about HGTV looking for Los Angeles homeowners looking to renovate a room in their house I pounced on the opportunity. Ah-ha! I could have someone else schlep to the home improvement store 16 times in one day, do all the backbreaking labor and get sawdust up their nasal passages, all while improving my house free of charge. What a brilliant plan!  I was a mastermind!

For them to do this, all I needed was to: describe the room to be renovated; include pictures of said room; describe what I wanted for the room.

Easy-peasy. 

Here was my application in three easy steps: 1) The room I wanted renovated was the studio, which needed HGTV or a miracle. 2) The picture I included told the sorry story in a thousand words, as pictures are known to do. And 3) I wanted the space to continue being a place for my mother-in-law to stay, as mothers-in-law are wont to do.

Ta-da! 

“Is that all you had to write for the application?” Mr. Wonderful said nibbling on a celery stick.

“They also wanted to know about us.” 

What I told them about us boiled down to three points: 1) We were recent homeowners in L.A.. 2) So far we had fixed everything up in the house by ourselves. And 3) We liked to laugh.

“Once they realize we’ve done the renovations ourselves,” my spouse said “they’ll know we aren’t laughers but masochists.”

Boy, Mr. Wonderful is hilarious.

“Anything else on the application?” he said chewing on a sliced cucumber.

“I have to tell them what our style is.”

“When you know what our style is, tell me,” he said returning to his vegetable dip.

Boy, Mr. Wonderful was on a roll! Of course we had a style, which I shared with him and the nice folks at HGTV. 

Here’s how I described our style on the application: We weren’t picky although we loved the mid-century modern style mixed with the Mediterranean style to reflect the climate of Southern California, augmented by contemporary leather furniture, mashed up with traditional pieces to anchor us to the past.

“Mid-century modern, Mediterranean, contemporary, traditional?” he said. “That’s not one style but four.”

“We’re eclectic.” 

“They’ll never accept your application.” 

“The key to my application is I say I want them to work in The House for me.”

“Wow. I’m sure they’ll want to do it now,” he said rolling his eyes.

Boy, that Mr. Wonderful. He’s a laugh a minute! 

NEXT: The HGTV Application Decision

The Blackout

“I need to schedule a dinner with the neighbors,” I said checking email on my desktop computer.

“Speaking of dinner, you hungry?” Mr. Wonderful said walking toward the kitchen

“First look at this crazy cat,” I said clicking on a feline .GIF video.

“We need to eat dinner.”

“Just watch it,” I said clicking the ‘play’ button.

ZIP! My computer and every light in The House went dark.

“The power just went out.”

“So... I guess we won’t be eating dinner.”

It had been hot in the City of the Steaming Angels, which is the name L.A. has earned this summer thanks to the punishing Heat Miser weather. Every day temperature records were broken with temps hitting triple digits in Fahrenheit and Celsius. Needless to say, it was hot.

But when it's that unbearable I have my methods of coping with the heat: 1) Swim in the pool. 2) Go the mall (not to shop but to avoid the relentless sun). 3) Run the air conditioner 24/27. Because 24/7 is not long enough.

Unfortunately I was not the only one with this strategy of high-heat coping. Every single person in the City of the Steaming Angels was doing exactly the same thing, which is why at 9 PM on a weeknight, a ZIP! sounded and plunged us into darkness. And Mr. Wonderful didn’t even get to see that crazy cat video.

“I’ll check online to see what’s happening,” I said digging in my purse. With my desktop computer dark, I grabbed my mobile phone. Unfortunately I hadn’t recharged it in days so it was flat and dark.
“Good plan,” Mr. Wonderful said eyeing my useless phone. I hate making a fool out of myself in front of him.

“Okay. I’ll just check the local news on TV—” I stopped before making a complete and utter fool of myself. Although being married to me this long, I’m sure my spouse is onto me being a tad foolish.

No internet, no computers, no TV, no crazy cat videos? This blackout was the worst.

“Okay. I’ll go check on things,” I said marching outside through the front door. For miles around every house and street lamp was obscure, but in the sky overhead the night was clear and bright with stars. It was beautiful.

“You going for a drive in this blackout, Harold?” I said noticing our 86 year-old neighbor standing on his driveway before his closed garage door.
“I’m not going anywhere since this electric garage door won’t open.” So, the blackout had not affected Harold’s orneriness.
“Maybe you should stick close to home.” Harold lifted his eyebrows and without saying a word, said I was a fool.
“What if my heart and I need to go to the hospital? I can’t even get my car out of the garage.” The blackout prevented me from watching a crazy cat video, but it brought this 86 year-old man’s thoughts to life, death and speeding tickets.
“If you ever need to go, we’ll drive you,” I said pointing to our car parked in the driveway.
That seemed to settle Harold down. Or maybe his complaining was just on the blink.

“This is some blackout,” Jerry said passing his rose bushes to meet me on the street.
“No kidding. Do you know who’s affected?”
Jerry looked at me turning his head like a parrot. “We are.” Great, now my husband, Harold and Jerry think I’m an idiot.
“Right.”
“By the way, here’s your bowl back,” he said passing me an empty stainless steel bowl. “Your tomatoes were delicious.”

“Hi, neighbors!” Charles called out as he met Harold, Jerry and me in the street.
“Long time no see!” I said giving him a hug.
“All work and no fun makes Charles a dull boy.”
“Hey, we’ve been meaning to invite you to dinner.”
“Tell us when and we’ll be there!”

I gave him a date, he wrote it on his hand in ink, and we told jokes for a while, the four of us just standing to the side of the street during a blackout. It wasn’t bad being forced to hang with the neighbors because we had a wonderful group of neighbors. It took a blackout to remind me how great everyone was.

This blackout was pretty good.

Just then ZIP! The lights in all the houses and street lamps turned back on. The blackout was over! I hugged Harold, Jerry and Charles then returned to The House.

Inside Mr. Wonderful had illuminated the living room with a dozen tea light candles, turning the space into a romantic island in our life’s voyage.

“The blackout’s over,” Mr. Wonderful said looking at the illuminated electrical lamps and blowing out a candle.

“Let’s make the blackout last a little while longer,” I said turning off the electric lights and re-lighting the candles.

Mr. Wonderful didn’t think I was a fool now.

This blackout was the best.

Good News x2 and Bad News

“Here’s an after-dinner espresso,” I said setting a small cup and saucer on the table. 

“Good idea,” Mr. Wonderful said rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“To go with it I made biscotti.”

“Great idea.”

“And homemade tiramisu.”

“… What’s wrong?”

Mr. Wonderful is very astute. He tells me things about me that I can’t even tell how he could tell them because they are so telling. One time he came home from the studio after 10 PM and said, “Has your sister called?”

“No. Why?”

“She’s going to call you tonight.”

“If she hasn’t called by now, she won’t call at all.”

At 10:45 PM she called. How Mr. Wonderful knew she would call,  I have no idea. In fact Mr. Wonderful didn’t know how he knew it either. He called it a premonition. I called him lucky.

This time he didn’t get lucky with a premonition of a phone call, he just saw me piling on the good Italian sweetness and figured: I was in the dumps; I was planning a Godfather movie viewing marathon; I wanted to eat my way to happiness. He is so lucky at guessing what is up with me.

“What’s going on,” he asked dunking a biscotti into the cup of espresso.

“I have good news, bad news and more good news.”

“Well lay it on me.”

I started with good news #1: a TV sitcom I wrote made the Semi-Finals of the PAGE Awards, a very prestigious screenplay writing competition in Hollywood.

Mr. Wonderful looked at me blankly.

“I means my sitcom was one of the top 25 written sitcoms of the year.”

“That’s great!” Mr. Wonderful said high-fiving me.

Then I progressed to the bad news, which was that this same TV sitcom did not make the cut to be among the Finalists.

He smiled and nodded dumbly.

“It means my sitcom was not one of the top 10 sitcoms of the year.”

“I still liked it,” Mr. Wonderful said giving me a fist bump.

It was nice that he liked it but I would have been stoked if more PAGE judges had liked it enough to make it a Finalist.   

Sigh.

A long time ago I learned to end on a high note, so I reminded my spouse and biggest cheerleader that I had one more piece of good news. 

“Guess what the good news is,” I said biting into the tiramisu.

“I have no idea,” he shrugged.

“Don’t you have a premonition or feel lucky about guessing it?”

“Nope.”

So I told him: My book Evolution of a Wine Drinker was reviewed by Big Al's Books and Pals, the respected book review website, and received its highest marks—5 Stars!

“That’s awesome!” Mr. Wonderful said picking me up and swinging me around the kitchen. I couldn’t stop laughing. Nor could he. 

Sometimes it’s good to forget premonitions and live in the moment with great book reviews and delicious tiramisu with the man of The House. Here’s to good news!

A Pool in a Drought

“It’s been so hot lately,” I said sipping a glass of white wine during a night out with the girls.

“That shouldn’t bother you,” my friend Jeannie said. “You have a gorgeous pool to cool off in.”

“A pool? Oh my god.” Domino said. “How irresponsible. I mean like, there’s a drought and everything… You know?”

Yes. Like. I know.

It had been a while since I’d gone for drinks with the girls and in the meantime new girls had been added to the group. My dear friend Jeannie was present and she had invited a work colleague of hers named Domino, which wasn’t her real name, of course. Her mother had christened her “Mavis” but finding it too common, she chose her own unique name; one that happened to be synonymous with one of the most popular kid’s games of all time. 

Knowing Domino—the game—but not the person, and realizing that she and Jeannie had a connection, I refrained from responding with anything more than a tight smile and nod, which was the right thing to do since as the night wore on I noticed Domino had many opinions about many things, such as: “Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have ruined marriage for everyone.”; “Animals should rule the world.”; and “We vegetarians make the best lovers.”

It seems to me that if two consenting adults want to marry, they should be able to do so. And Animals do rule the world if you consider politicians as pigs. And as far as vegetarians being the best lovers? How would Domino know when she was sporting leather shoes and a Coach leather handbag? As they say, let the person without sin cast the first ostrich-skin Jimmy Choo shoe.

The next day I tried to shake off Domino’s comment but in truth, I felt horrible about having a pool during this long California drought. I compensated for it by living with minimal water in other ways. Namely: 1) I converted my yard to a drought tolerant oasis; 2) I washed my produce over a big bowl to collect the water, which I reused to irrigate my herb garden; and 3) I took the fastest showers in the west. In fact, my showers were so fast, Mr. Wonderful questioned if I even got wet. Pssh. Men!    

But even though I was saving water in other ways and places, I still felt guilty about my pool. Call it Pool-Owner’s Guilt.

Then a European friend sent me an article from the British newspaper, The Guardian. Basically the article said because of the drought, L.A.’s backyard pools should go the way of the dinosaur: die leaving their remnants across the landscape while becoming popular with fourth graders nationwide. After reading The Guardian article, I felt even worse. Something had to change. I had to do more to conserve water.

“I’m forfeiting taking showers,” I told Mr. Wonderful.

“That won’t save any water. You barely use water now,” he said looking up from his cup of espresso.

He did have a point. 

“Alright then,” I said. “You can stop taking showers.” 

“Do you really want me to?” In our early days of owning The House, Mr. Wonderful installed a window on a 99 degree fahrenheit day. I could smell his sweat from here to the Venice Canals. And back.

I escaped outside to wrack my brain on how to alleviate my Pool-Owner’s Guilt. Maybe I could stop drinking green tea thereby saving the water for another purpose! But me operating without a cup of morning caffeine was not a pretty sight. I got it! Mr. Wonderful could stop drinking espresso! That’s it! But espresso already had so little water in it, would it even make a difference? 

“Morning,” my 86-year-old  neighbor said. “Something on your mind?”

“Hey, Harold,” I said picking up the LA Times newspaper from the driveway. “I just feel guilty for owning pool in a drought. It seems wasteful and irresponsible to have all that water. What will other people say?”

“You don’t fill your pool every day.”

“No.”

“You use it every day.”

“Yes.”

“You got rid of the grass in your yard.”

“Yes.”

“Well, when everyone else gets rid of their lawn, which they have to water all the time, then they can complain about your pool. Because their lawns drink up more water than your swimming hole.”

“Really?”

“It’s in the newspaper,” Harold said hoisting his flag and disappearing into his house.

I opened the LA Times and saw their front page story about how much water pools in L.A. “waste”. According to the article, pools use less water than lawns! And with pool covers, use less water than drought tolerant gardens! And Voilà! My Pool-Owner’s Guilt  vanished like water sprinkled on the street on a hot September day. 

Thank you, LA Times! Without further ado, it’s time for a swim in my gorgeous pool! 

Do-mi-no!

Men (Not) at Work

It's Labor Day and Mr. Wonderful and I are celebrating by not working, hammering or laboring anywhere. Especially not in The House!

Enjoy this beautiful work-less day!

A Murder in the Neighborhood

It was a hot and steamy night in the City of the Angels. But then, it’s frequently hot and steamy making every angel in this city sweat buckets. Take it from me, perspiring angels are not a pretty sight. Nor is murder. But murder is what I had on my hands. Again.

As the local gumshoe detective, I’d solved some pretty big crimes in the neighborhood. Tough cases attracted me like moths to a swimming pool. I’d solved the Mystery of Who Killed the Grass? and What Kind of Cat was Jackson? And the ultimate head scratcher: Who Cut the Internet Connection? But now I was faced with the biggest case of my detectiving career: Who Killed the Bush Mallow?

Bush Mallows are a native California shrub that go by the alias of Malacothamnus fasciclaris. They grow to be four to six feet tall and have little pink flowers that dames love. The victim of this particular murder fit the description of a young Bush Mallow: she was 3.5 feet tall with pink blossoms that had faded to a deadly brown. Unfortunately this murder hit close to home. The Bush Mallow I’d planted in my own garden a year ago was now the victim of this apparent homocide. It was Homocide: Life in the Garden.

Luckily for this case I had my trusty sidekick. Jackson had a feline cunning and an ability to see in the dark like a cat because my sidekick Jackson was a cat. As I marched out to the murder scene, Jackson followed.

“Who would want to kill the Bush Mallow?” I said gazing at the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off part of my front garden. Meanwhile Jackson stared at the fence and noticed my old nemesis perched atop it: the Squirrel.

Did the Squirrel kill Miss Mallow? Of course! It was common knowledge that the Squirrel had it out for me. But would he push himself to murder a young plant to hurt me? I looked at the Squirrel, he bared his teeth and clucked at me. I didn’t have any evidence of him being near Miss Mallow the night of the murder or ever, in fact. But in fulfilling a personal vendetta, the Squirrel would try to hurt me anyway his twisted peanut-sized mind could dream up. Ah-hah! The Squirrel did it! As I was about to declare “case closed” I turned back to the dead plant. As I touched its dry, brown body I noticed a footprint next to its trunk.

Ah, hah! Evidence! The footprint was large, like a men’s size 12 shoe, which meant the murderer couldn’t be the Squirrel unless he was sporting a disguise of Paul Bunyan or the Jolly Green Giant. Okay, if the Squirrel didn’t kill my Mallow, a man with a big foot did. But who had a big foot?

“Mail delivery!” the Postal Worker hollered as he rounded the Palm tree and stomped into my front garden. His size 12 black shoe missed my dead Mallow by an inch.
“Do you always cut through my garden?” I said pulling a cigarette from behind my ear. I didn’t light the cigarette I just pulled it out from behind my ear then returned it back to my ear, then pulled it out again.
“Sometimes,” he shrugged.
“Did you step on my Bush Mallow and kill her?”
“No,” he said retreating. “Besides, if I would have stepped on it, it would be flattened, and it’s not.” He handed me two bills and the PennySaver flyer and disappeared across the street.

Before I declared this “case closed”, I now had something to consider. Hmmm. The Postal Worker did have a good point about the lack of trampling marks on the plant. I reexamined the victim’s body. The Bush Mallow was dead brown but stood tall, completely untrampled. Well if the Postal Worker didn’t do it, someone else must have. But who?

“Your plant looks dead,” my 86 year-old neighbor said from his yard.
“Because it is, Harold,” I said twirling the unlit cigarette in my hand. “The question now is: who killed it?” I stepped toward him trying to unsettle him and get to the truth.
“Not me if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then how did you know it was dead?”
“… It’s brown.” Clearly my technique for unsettling him was not working.
“Did you see any suspicious activity around the plant before its death?” I said circling Harold.
“The only person I saw near the plant was you.”
“Moi?”
“Yes, when the Santa Anas came.”

Hmmm. I remember the Santa Ana winds. They are strong, hot winds that blow into L.A. from inland desert areas and damage plants, destroy kites and decimate a woman’s hairdo. I also remember the latest Santa Anas that blew into town. They were so strong they were rocking my 3.5 foot tall Bush Mallow back and forth in its planted hole. Finally I remember fearing that the gale-like winds would knock the plant over so I ventured out into the winds and with a mallet hammered the five foot tall stakes into the ground on either side of the Mallow. Then I tied the plant to the two redwood stakes and called it a day.

It was just a two days later that I noticed the Bush Mallow was dead.

Now I tugged on the dead plant and lifted it off its base, it swung in my hand like a Christmas Tree that had been chopped clean of its roots.

Ah-hah! It was me. In my attempt to save the plant from the Santa Anas, I killed it by severing it from is roots. At last! The murderer was found!

Uh. Hmmm. Okay. So I was the one who killed the Bush Mallow. But does that make me a bad person or just an ignorant one? My sidekick sat on my foot and purred. Maybe the judge will let me off without doing any time. After all he is a pretty wonderful guy, that Mr. Wonderful.

“Case Closed”

Native Check Up

“It’s been a year since we planted the natives,” I said grabbing my hat and sunglasses.

“And they’re doing okay,” Mr. Wonderful said looking up from his comic book.

“Are they?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“What do you think?”

A year ago we ripped out the turf and in its place planted drought-tolerant and California native plants. And it wasn’t a day too soon since rain has skipped visiting the great state of California and instead soaked the Mid West, New York and London town. Last year Mr. Wonderful thought all we had to do was plunk the plants in the soil and PRESTO! they would take off, which is ridiculous. Meanwhile I held that the baby plants needed to be planted, monitored and watered (just a little) until they were established, then we could cut out the watering, which is realistic, savvy and just plain brilliant.

So on this summer day I traipsed out to the garden to check the status of the drought tolerants and California natives.

Last year we planted Buckwheat, a California native. It was scrawny in the ground.

But this year it grew and bloomed yellow flowers. They were funky and unusual and I liked them precisely because they were funky and unusual.

Last year we laid stepping stones sprinkled with Dymondia and Salvia.

This year the Dymondia and Salvia grew. Although the former needs to grow even more to live up to its nickname of “Silver Carpet”.

Last year I planted a Mallow with high hopes. The nurseywoman had told me it would grow into a large shrub with pink blossoms. A pretty native shrub with a pink blush? I was in! With this in mind I planted it near the street to block out said street and any cars. When I planted it, it was so small Mr. Wonderful pushed stakes around its perimeter to protect it. 

 

This year the good news is that the plant grew like Jack’s beanstalk! From that little wee-like plant grew a large shrub! The bad news is when it got to be a shrub, it died. I don’t know why it  died, but when it died, it did so magnificently, on a grand scale. The whole plant just shriveled up and croaked. What didn’t die were the Red Apple Succulents that grew toward it as well as a noxious weed at its base. Sigh.

“You think the Mallow is dead?” I said pointing at the brown skeleton of our plant.

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Gee, what do you think?”

Next: Who killed my Mallow? 

Color Me Mine

“What do you think of this one?” I said laying a paint sample card on the coffee table.

“Too tan,” Mr. Wonderful said pushing the card aside.

“How about this one?”

“Too red.”

“This one?”

“Too yellow.”

“And this?”

“Nah.”

When we bought The House we knew it needed work. It needed a kitchen update. Check! It needed a kitchen update of the kitchen update. Check! It needed new paint inside, outside and upside down. We started painting the interiors with a bedroom, then worked our way out in concentric circles to painting the other rooms. I picked the colors and Mr. Wonderful agreed on all my choices. Honey for the breakfast room; cream for the living room; and coffee for the den. I was careful to choose colors in the palate of the foods that Mr. Wonderful liked and—presto!—it worked. As they say the way to a man’s heart is through his color wheel. Or some such. Our complete color choice synchronicity made me develop a new tenet to relationship compatibility. Forget socioeconomic background, politics and religion, if you and your spouse can agree on the same colors to paint your house, you’re completely compatible.

Then we got to the exterior. We both agreed that the outside of The House needed new paint but that was the end of our synchronicity. In fact from then on it became a cacophony of colors, a visual dissonance, a major meltdown.

I wanted a white exterior and Mr. Wonderful wanted anything but a white exterior. 

My preferred color choice came from famous houses I’d seen countless times, like the White House in Washington D.C., the white house where the Ewings discussed JR and Bobby on the “Dallas” TV show, and the white house where the Bel Air Prince of “The Fresh Prince of Bel Air” lived freshly.

“I don’t like white,” Mr. Wonderful said pushing the white card aside. “White houses look too much like what a Greek fisherman would live in.”

“Greek fishermen don’t live in the White House.”

“How do you know?”

Realizing I could not reason with him, I abandoned white and looked for another color we could agree on. On a recent trip to Palm Springs, I had became enamored with the mid-century modern style, desert homes and the color brown.

“Paint our house brown?” Mr. Wonderful said wiggling the bark-colored paint card in his hand. “Why?”

“It has a Palm Springs vibe.”

“So does golf. Say maybe we should paint the house green.” He picked up another card. “I like this emerald color.”

“Green?” I scrunched up my nose as if I had just smelled Jackson’ s liter box after we’d returned from that Palm Springs weekend.  “No way.”

“Green is a welcoming color,” he handed me the emerald card.

“And it’s the color of the neighbors’ house.” I pushed it aside.

Realizing if I didn’t find a color we could agree upon soon, Mr. Wonderful would paint our house in the spitting image of Harold’s house and make us look like a single compound of houses, like the Kennedy’s compound at Hyannis, spruced up with Harold’s vinegar personality. I wracked my brain for new colors.

Escaping outside to the park for ideas, a few streets away I noticed a recently painted house in a rich cream with orange trim and accents. The color combination gave it a Palm Springs vide, a mid-century modern feel and clearly worked in our neighborhood. Just then a thin man with a goatee exited the house with a Scottish Terrier on a plaid leash. 

“Hello,” I called out to the stranger. “I live a few streets away and just wanted to compliment you on the colors you painted your house.

“Thank you,” he said opening the gate to the sidewalk giving me a smile.

“I’m looking for colors to paint our house’s exterior—” His smile faded. His Scottie turned to me and growled.

“Well, don’t use my colors.”

“I wouldn’t dream of—”

“I don’t want us to be twinsies or like the Kennedy’s compound at Hyannis.” Then he turned on his heel and headed to the park. As his Scottie passed, it growled again. 

Over olives and wine by the pool, Mr. Wonderful flashed me two cards.

“I’ve got it!” he said laying them down before me. “Cream and orange.” The colors were beautiful and exactly the same as the goatee neighbor’s house. 

“Nah,” I said sipping my wine.

So we still haven’t painted the exterior. But we will one day because as they say, the way to a man’s heart is through being compatible. Or some such.

Love through the Rear Window

She was sweet, naive and young.
He was older, wiser and twice her size.
It was a match made in Alfred Hitchcock heaven.

Having a pet expands your mind. It puts into action the concept of trans-species communication reminding us that the needs of people--and animals--are simple ones, specifically: To be fed; To be loved; and To play with catnip toys. So when I got the chance to adopt a feline and embrace trans-species communication, I said "yes". What I didn't do was ask questions such as: Was he an outdoor cat? Did he have claws?; and Was he a lover?

Instead Mr. Wonderful and I had to learn about Jackson the hard way: through experience. Once established in our home we saw that Jackson did not venture out of The House, ever. Hence he was an indoor cat. We also noted that Jackson made a shred-fest of my favorite chair. Hence Jackson had %&*# claws. Just last week I noticed Jackson spending even more time than usual in front of the rear windows watching a black female cat visit our backyard. Ah-ha! Jackson was a lover.

The female was thin, her coat was as dark as night and her eyes sparkled like peridots. Jackson also had good taste.

It started innocently enough with Jackson holding uninterrupted sessions peering out the rear windows at the female as she jumped the fence into our backyard, sipped from our swimming pool and lounged under the artichoke plants. He was mesmerized by her and what was happening on the other side of the glass windows. So much so that when I kneeled next to him and stroked his coat, he totally ignored me. It was reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock's 1954 suspense movie Rear Window where Jackson was the wheelchair-bound Jimmy Stewart character absorbed by the goings-on outside his apartment's rear window. The female cat was the murderous object of his fascination through the binoculars. And I was the Grace Kelly character, stopping by to say hi, give him meals and lounge next to him in gorgeous Edith Head dresses only to be ignored by him completely.

My life had become a movie and my cat had become one of the leading men of classic Hollywood.

If Jackson was so obsessed with the female cat, I thought, he should go meet her. So I opened the door wide obliterating the glass partition between them. Jackson did exactly what I thought he would do: he ran to the spare bedroom and hid.

If he wouldn't get closer to her, then it was up to me to approach her. The next time I saw the female sipping from the pool I snuck outside silently closing the door behind me. As I approached I saw her sinewy body, her sleek coat, those green eyes. Glancing behind me I noticed Jackson at the window staring at me pleading with me to be careful. It was like we were in that scene in Rear Window when Grace Kelly goes exploring in the suspicious neighbor's apartment all while Jimmy Stewart--paralyzed with fear and a broken leg--watches from the safety of his home. I took two steps toward the female before she got spooked and rushed the fence, clearing it in two bounds.

If he would not go to her, it was up to her to come to him. So I left the doors open to the backyard and Jackson sat in the doorway just on the inside watching the trees, herbs and pool. Suddenly the small female leaped into our yard and approached Jackson in the open doors. Something primeval must have awakened inside of Jackson for instead of retreating he stepped toward the female. As he did his massive girth rolled from a seated position onto all fours. He took a second step in her direction and she froze. With his third step an amazing thing happened: she turned and ran. To be blunt it was nothing like that scene in Rear Window when the bad guy comes to Jimmy Stewart's apartment to take him down and Jimmy saves himself with camera flashes. Nothing. Like. It.

But that's okay because he's back to watching out the rear window and I'm back to lounging around in a frothy Edith Head dress. Hollywood is so grand.

Hallelujah Tomatoes!

They're doing so well.
They're coming out of our ears.
They're overtaking our home!
It's the invasion of the tomatoes!

I'm not complaining. Before I've complained of poor tomatoes and lousy weather and not winning the lottery, the Mega Millions version. But not today! Oh, no, now I am rejoicing in the tomatoes we are harvesting from our tomato patch! They are beautiful, gorgeous and delicious. Hallelujah!

With them I've made garden salads, Greek salads and medium spicy tomato salsas.

I've made tomato pasta, tomato soup and--last night--tomato gazpacho. Although I don't know what other type of gazpacho one could make except a tomato gazpacho.

We've got so many tomatoes we could form a new country, if tomatoes could talk, walk or vote.

In the mean time I'll just enjoy this tomato time and declaim: Tomatoes, Hallelujah!

Tomato Town

"It's gone?" I said looking at the empty bowl.
"It was good," Mr. Wonderful said wiping his mouth.
"But you downed... all of them."
"Just the good ones."
"They're all good."
"Exactly."

One of the joys of living in a house is having a little bit of earth where I can plant tomatoes. Forget cucumbers, watermelons and squash. After living in an apartment ever since college, when we finally bought The House, the only vegetable I wanted to plant was red, seeded and a fruit. Technically.

Unfortunately in our family I was the only one who felt this way about tomatoes. Mr. Wonderful didn't care for them because whenever he got any at a restaurant he left them untouched and pushed to the side of his plate. Which meant: "They're tasteless." Jackson didn't like them either because whenever he smelled tomatoes he said, "Meow." Which means: "There's not enough fish on them." Meow also means, "Feed me"; "Pet me", "Brush me"; and "Stop touching me!"

But I digress.

While the ink of our signatures was still wet on The House's title, I rushed out to the nursery, bought 600 tomato plants and stuck them in the garden planter. I watered them, mulched them and 90 days later had gorgeous cherry tomatoes. I served them whole to Mr. Wonderful but he didn't care for them because when he sliced into one the seeds squirted across the room like a Jackson Pollack painting. Which meant: "These things are too small for a grown man to eat." Jackson didn't like the cherry tomatoes either because whenever he got his paws on a one that had fallen to the ground, he said "Meow". Which meant: "This is a boring toy." Meow also means, "Feed me"; and "You woke me up for this?"

But I digress.

As the summer lengthened the cherry tomatoes were getting dried out in the planter's raised bed. And soon the cherry tomatoes were poof! gone. So I bought tomatoes at the market and tossed them into a salad and served them to Mr. Wonderful but he didn't care for them for he pushed them onto my plate. Which meant: "They're too acidic." Jackson didn't like them either because whenever he even saw me slicing store-bought tomatoes, he said, "Meow." Which means: "Fur balls taste better than these." Meow also means, "Feed me"; and "Wake me when you have something good."

But I'm digressing from the point.

After removing enough concrete from the backyard to cover the 101 Freeway, I was able to plant tomatoes directly into the ground. Happily I abandoned the cherry tomatoes and planted Early Girl tomatoes and some yellow heirloom ones, which the label described as "mild in flavor." In the ground these plants grew tall and lush, like Jack's Beanstalk, or as I say, like nobody's business.

"What are those plants," Mr. Wonderful said a month ago as he lounged in the pool.
"Tomatoes," I said pausing from weeding to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
"But their fruits are big."
"They like being in the ground."
"The plants are falling over themselves."
"They need to be staked."

He leapt out of the pool, grabbed stakes and some green rubber ties. While still dripping with pool water he staked those plants better than any career farmer, or as I say like nobody's darn business. That evening he shared a secret with me.

"I don't like tomatoes but I'm excited about our plants." Needless to say the former information came as no surprise to me. But the latter revelation did. Technically.

When the first Early Girls were red and smelled like a tomato should I plucked several, washed them and set them on the table for sandwiches. When I told him the tomatoes were from our garden, like a master jeweler, he picked one up and examined it. Mr. Wonderful seemed to care for tomato plants when they were ours, big, and produced adult-sized fruit. But would he like eating them? I held my breath.

Mr. Wonderful cut into a crimson globe and laid a slice on his open-faced sandwich. Biting into it he said, "Mmm." Which meant: "This isn't bad." Showing me that quality tomatoes can change a man's opinion. Meanwhile Jackson held fast. He still didn't like for our home-grown treasures because after sniffing one and said, "Meow." Which meant: "Don't call me, I'll call you."

Which I will happily do because with Mr. Wonderful eating so many tomatoes they're aren't that many for me. Technically.

The Giving Vine

It gave me shade.
It gave me fruit.
It gave me something to talk about.
And still! My grape vines kept on giving!

In this world there are three types of plants: 1) The Takers—like Palm Trees and Venus Flytraps; 2) The Givers—like Citrus Trees and Fig Trees; and 3) The Super-Givers like Grape Vines and the Tree that Money Grows On. As a kid I read that book The Giving Tree by the talented Shel Silverstein, which tells the story of how an apple tree gave a boy apples to eat, branches to swing on, wood to sell and a stump to sit on. The apple tree did everything for this kid including letting the kid chop down the tree—his only friend!—to hawk the tree’s dead body to give the kid—now a man—money. Note to the kid/man: That tree was much nicer to you than you were to it. Second Note to the kid/man: If you have to cut down your friend for cash, clearly you haven’t managed your life finances well. Third Note to the kid/man: If you love something let it go, don’t chop it down!

Like this giving tree, my grape vines kept on giving. However unlike the kid, I tried to be respectful of my vines. Yes, my grape vines provided a shady spot under their leaves, offered me delicious fruit and gave me serious bragging rights. But in my summer of Greek cooking, they also presented me with stuffed grape leaves.

CORRECTION: It provided so many leaves I harvested some of them to make stuffed grape leaves.

I love stuffed grape leaves—the rice filling with dill and parsley, the rich extra virgin olive oil and the “This is good food!” taste! So I consulted my Greek cookbook of the summer, It's All Greek to Me by Debbie Matenopoulos, and followed her recipe. Other stuffed grape leaf recipes I had seen only explained how to make them with store-bought grape leaves. But Debbie’s recipe explained how to make them with your own vines, just like her family has done. And this recipe was a winner!

First I trimmed some leaves that were far from the main plant’s canes. Them I boiled the leaves for three minutes then let them sit in cold water.

I made the rice filling with dill, parsley and beef, wrapped the grape leaves around the rice filling and snuggled them into a pan. All lined up like that they looked like little pillows of gastronomical delights.

I filled the pan with olive oil and cooked them. Then I ate them! Voilà! They were delicious! Even Mr. Wonderful was a fan. In fact he would like me to make more stuffed grape leaves, which I still can because unlike the kid/man and his giving tree, I still have many, many more leaves to harvest because I didn’t chop down my Giving Grape Vines.

Here’s to homemade Stuffed Grape Leaves! Here's to my Grape Vines! And here's to high hopes that they keep on giving!

Vineland

“Your backyard is peaceful,” my friend Anne-Marie said dipping her toe in the swimming pool.

“Thanks,” I said floating on my back.

“It looks good with all the plants.”

“Thanks.”

“Wait—Are those grapes?!”

I’m not a show-off or a flashy person. I like simple things and minimal decorations. I relish practical items that serve a purpose. I prefer straightforward talk to lots of blah-blah-blah… blah. Which is another reason I like growing grapes in my backyard: they’re beautiful and highly functional. Plus they blow the socks of visitors! Not that I care about showing off or being flashy. 

The other day my friend visited for a pool day. Mr. Wonderful was working on yet another project in his studio, so rather than be a weekend widow I invited Anne-Marie over for a dip in the pool. Anne-Marie lives near the ocean, has a job and laughs at all my jokes. She’s a great friend. She also likes grapes and is a dramatic speaker.

“How did you get these grapes to grow in your backyard?!” she said leaping from the pool to the vines. 

“I put them in the ground,” I said twirling the beach ball on my index finger like Michael Jordan.

“But how did they get so huge?!”

“It’s the Valley.”

“They don’t grow in Santa Monica!”

I went on to explain that while the coastal areas of Los Angeles weren’t great for growing grapes because of their  sandy soil, frequent marine fog and gnarly surfer dudes, things were different in the San Fernando Valley. The Valley is surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains, the Angeles National Forest and a dozen freeways with rich soil and sun, sun, sun. All of which made it an ideal climate for growing produce. Before World War II The San Fernando Valley was known for producing quality fruits and vegetables on its farms and orchards.“In fact,” I said “There’s a major thoroughfare in the Valley called ‘Vineland’ which makes me think that back in the day, they were growing grapes near where that street is located.”

“Get out!” Anne-Marie said “I live off Vineland! Wow!” 

Her socks were blown off, which would have made me happy if I were the type of person who liked to be flashy or show-offy. 

The next day our subdued rose-growing neighbor stopped by.

“Jerry, Come in,” I said opening the gate. 

“I brought you the name of the pruning clippers I use,” he said handing me a yellow sticky note.

“Thank you.”

“Are those grapes you’re growing?”

“Yes.”

“They look real nice. What fertilizer are you using?”

“None.”

“But how did you get them to look so good?”

“It’s the soil.” 

I went on to explain how our neighborhood—before subdivision, pools and even before Harold—had been a large orchard which had orange, grapefruit and lemon trees. If those plants could grow in our area, grapes would grow well too. Jerry scratched his head and adjusted his 49ers baseball cap.

“Our neighborhood was an orchard? Grapes like orchard soil? Wow.”

He was a subdued man but I knew from his reactions that deep down his shorts had been blown off! I could tell he was amazed to learn some history of our little corner of the Valley, and I was happy to share it with him. All of this would have made me happy if I had been a show-off, flashy, braggy sort of person. 

After Jerry left with a bunch of our grapes, our 86 year-old neighbor appeared.

“What did Jerry want?”

“Hey Harold. He was just marveling at the grapes we have growing in our backyard.”

“I know. I can see them. They’re big.”

“They are, aren’t they?” I said tossing him a totally non-flashy, non-show-offy, humble smile. 

“You must have some serious green thumb to grow them so well.”

“You could say that.” 

“Well keep them on your side of the fence.”

Harold is a grump but I know deep, deep, a million miles down that he was really impressed with my grapes and that they had blown his mind to smithereens! But I don’t care about blowing people’s minds or being a braggy, grape-growing show-off. Thankfully.

Grape Expectations

“I love grapes,” I said sitting at the breakfast table. 

“Hmm,” Mr. Wonderful said sipping his morning espresso.

“Tomorrow we’re having fresh grapes for breakfast.” 

“Why tomorrow?” 

“They need one more day on the vine.”

“What’ll we eat for breakfast today?”

“… I have no idea.”

Ah, July. That glorious time of the year Charles Dickens wrote about in his novel, A Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of… grapes. 

I’m not going to delve into the whole David Copperfield saga of how my grapes came to be. But I will say that after planting the grape canes last year, cutting them back last fall and watching them grow like gangbusters this spring, the end was now near and I had high hopes of how delicious these grapes would be. Yes, I had Great Expectations. 

It is well known that I love grapes. In fact I wrote a whole book about my evolving affection for vino, Evolution of a Wine Drinker. What is less well known is that I am fond of many grape products, from red wine, to white wine, sparkling wine, champagne, brandy— But I digress. 

Let it be known that I am not a wine snob. Oh, no! my Vitis affection goes beyond the fruit’s liquid and tasty libations and extends to its edible form of table grapes. After planting a couple vines of table grapes in the old back 40, the fruits had grown so much they looked like pearls, rubies or the plastic fruit bunches hanging from a cheesy Italian restaurant in New Jersey. The vines have taken over the backyard in lush, leafy ropes making an oasis of my formerly Bleak House! 

The only problem with the fruits of my labor was that the grapes weren’t ready yet. Nope, they needed one more day under the sun, on the vine, in the garden patch duking it out with the tomatoes. Not being able to eat them today was going to be difficult for Mr. Wonderful and me. Actually it would be Hard Times: For These Times.

Oh! But tomorrow! How grand it will be to eat grapes from my own vines for breakfast! Receiving the gifts from the vine will be like Christmas day! Like A Christmas Carol!

Bless my Dickens! What Great Expectations!