Today I’m writing about Fred. He died last year, and today was his memorial, in Florida. His wife picked a date near his birthday, telling us it was a party to celebrate his life, because that’s what he wanted. We would have attended, but couldn’t, so I’m writing this instead.

I didn’t really know him very well, but he knew me all my life, which is both weird, and normal, I guess, in extended relationships between families. Relationships that go back so far there may as well be a blood connection.

When I moved back to California in 1998, after three years in South Dakota, it was to work for my mother again, but in the process I was re-introduced to life-long family friends Cheryl and Fred (to me they were a unit), and got to meet them as a grown up. (I know Cheryl better, of course, because I SAW her every day for a year, at work. But this is about Fred.)

He was a large man, with a personality that was at once forceful and gentle. His opinions were always offered laced with sardonic humour. His voice reminded me of the baker from the old Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood show, sort of phlegmy and creamy: New Jersey mixed with the filling of a chocolate eclair. And really, since he was a cook, it was the perfect sort of voice to have.

He spoke the language of food as casually as the rest of us chat about last night’s episode of The West Wing, but he produced culinary wonders, running the gamut from braised lamb chops and garlic mashed potatoes, to barbecued ribs and cole slaw. (In fact, I, who detest cole slaw, LOVED his version.)

He was more than just a chef, though. He spoke two other languages that I responded to: geek, and music. It’s the latter that floored me more than the former, however, because he got me hooked on music I’d never expected someone of my parents’ generation to appreciate. Specifically, he introduced me to Enigma, music I’d previously only heard at a few skating shows. Clubby, dark, sensuous music with an almost tribal pulse running through it, married to Gregorian chant, of all things.

I never knew much about him, and for most of my life he was little more than a name, and a presence at the periphery of my world, but the presence became a person, someone I could listen to forever, just because I liked his voice, and someone I’ll always remember with fondness and respect.

I’m sitting here now, listening to Enigma, and drinking strong coffee, toasting to Fred. I’m pretty sure that he’s someplace where the cheesecake is the perfect texture, the espresso is divine, the net never lags, and the music never stops.

Last night, I posted a ‘bits and pieces’ entry that amounted to post-it note-sized blurbs. One of them mentioned the dish that I grew up calling “Basta Fazool” (and note – the b in basta is barely a b – it’s not quite a p, though…if you haven’t heard Southern Italian accents filtered through New Jersey, you will NOT understand this sound. But there it is.) Progresso makes a canned version, but it’s so salty it’s really scary (this is a problem with MOST canned soups, actually). If you want to be all proper, the correct name of the dish is ‘paste e fagioli,’ where really just means ‘noodles and beans’.

I don’t usually surf the net looking for recipes when I’m making something I grew up with, but I did last night, and found that the version of Basta Fazool that I grew up with, which is meatless, is not the standard version. Apparently it’s much more common to use chicken stock as a base, and include bacon or pancetta in the soup. I don’t do this, but Laura who has a groovous blog called Cucina Testa Rossa does, and the recipe she uses can be found in this entry.

My own recipe is in the extended entry.
Continue reading →

The email I use for NetFlix is:
melissa AT missmeliss DOT com
Feel free to add me as a friend, just comment or leave me a note so I know who you are.

I still can’t connect to the part of my brain that knows how to put words together in a readable fashion. This is extremely frustrating. Meanwhile, I let the ideas burble and bubble and brew.

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I popped into the local Curves the other night and started the paperwork to transfer my membership from San Jose to here – it’s only been forever – and am both nervous and excited about hitting the gym tomorrow morning.

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I considered giving up cheese for Lent, but I’m not sure I could stick to that while still limiting carbs. Cheese, nuts, and olives are my life these days. Oh, and yogurt. Fuzzy agrees that if I give up caffeine it would be hazardous to his health.

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Someone needs to remind me to post about my favorite tea shop, ever.

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Project Runway SPOILERS:
Oh god, they kept Wendy IN?!!! I’m not sure how I feel about that. I WANT to like her because she does have talent, even if her choices aren’t always the most glamorous, and because she’s a working mother and not 23, but I have a problem with her utter bitchiness, and I mean, not in an amusing way. (Her website, btw, reveals that she actually has more talent than was seen in the competition)

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Desperate for a taste of tradition, and needing some good comfort food, I made meatless pasta e fagioli (which, in the dialect of Italian I grew up hearing, was always ‘basta fazool’). It wasn’t garlicky enough, but I found another blogger who not only grew up hearing a similar pronunciation, but ALSO has a great (not meatless) recipe posted, which I will try next week or the week after.

I think it’s never garlicky enough, really.

I made a personal resolution to try and post something to my blog every day. Note that I’m just saying ‘something’ and not ‘something substantial’.

The thing is, there are only ten minutes left in the day, and I’ve just finished stapling and labelling 830 flyers, and my shoulders are killing me, and I’m tired. Too tired for coherence.

But I have entries buzzing in my brain. And if I don’t post something, I’m likely to forget about them.

So these are coming attractions, of a sort. I’ve been musing about staplers all day, a friend asked a question about one’s online space (and changes made thereto), and if he approves, I’ll be answering it here, and then, I’m toying with this month’s Blogging for Books challenge (link to be edited in later).

Also, I have to update my reading blog as it hasn’t been, since mid-January, and then there’s the rant about why inviting a person trying to reduce the amount of processed food and simple carbs in her diet to a Shrove Tuesday pancake supper is tantamount to cruelty.

And of course, anyone reading this is welcome to suggest topics as well.

My friend Clay compared it to a cross between Friendster and Google, but I think it’s more like TiVo for the web.

What is it?

It’s Stumble Upon – a rating and referral site for anywhere on the web. There’s a special extension for Firefox users, which is just nifty.

Do sign up. :)

I’m in the middle of a mailing for work. I’ve reorganized the database, designed the item being mailed, and set up the file from which I will print labels. Today, we stopped at the local Kinkos and dropped off the flyer, because even though it’s $20 less expensive for me to stand there and run the copies, it’s better for my sanity if they do it.

Our next stop was at Office Max, where I found labels (Buy 2, get one free, yay house brands), and Fuzzy spent fifteen minutes drooling over the LCD monitors. ViewSonic’s 17″ model is down to $299 after rebates and such, and we really need two of them – one to replace the monitor that was lost in our move, and the other for a server we’re planning to set up in the garage.

He was standing there, slack-jawed, staring at the images, and nodding mutely while a salesperson with too little to occupy his time chatted amiably, apparently not noticing the total lack of response.

“Fuzzy, are you having monitor lust?” I asked as I entered the aisle, showing off my yellow-packaged labels. “Or do you need some more alone time with the techy toys before we go.”

He didn’t answer, except to shrug, and the salesperson made a few jokes, then wandered off to actually make money from another customer. “The prices have dropped,” I was told.

I glanced at the tags under each monitor. “The ViewSonic has the nicest color saturation of all of these,” I said. “That one,” and I pointed at some other, somewhat more expensive brand, “looks washed out.”

He nodded, and I smiled, and said, “It’s time to go now, dear.” But by the time I’d paid for the labels and left the store, he’d disappeard again, only to emerge a few minutes later, announcing, “I was looking at the clearance display. There were cd’s.”

But we didn’t buy any.

Later, he escorted me to Starbucks, where I watched a woman in a cowboy hat fondling a pair of mugs. As mugs go, they were kind of nice, really, white, with a red line around the inner rim. Vaguely heart-shaped, they would fit nicely into the curve of your hand, if you’re like me, and wrap your fingers through the handle of a mug, instead of around it. The handle was a decent shape as well – and large enough for three fingers – which is my personal requirement for cafe-ware.

“Those have a nice shape,” I observed aloud, as I waited for the purchase to be completed so that I could place my order.

Cowboy-hat woman grinned at me. “They do,” she said. And she picked one up, wrapping her hand through the handle. “And they’re not too heavy, but they’re solid. And kind of pretty.”

I smiled and nodded.

“They’re also on sale,” she pointed out. “Only $5 each.”

“Tempting,” I said. “But I don’t need any more mugs.”

“I just got rid of all my old broken ones,” she told me. “I do that sometimes. If the glaze gets too badly scratched inside, if I get bored, if my mood changes.”

I grinned, and nodded again. And even though I said nothing else, the two of us had a moment in which we were connected by our mutual appreciation of the Perfect Mug. The mood was broken when the barista handed Cowboy Hat Woman’s caramel frapp across the bar, smiled, and asked me what I wanted.

But I’ve been thinking about those mugs ever since. Not really lusting after them, just thinking. Envy maybe. But not lust.

For the first time since the end of November, I’m not in the mood to write ANYTHING. I’m not blocked – there are ideas brewing – but I’m not in an actual writing mood.

So today was a blah day.

I worked on a loan, I baked oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (froze half the dough for use later), and took my dogs for an abbreviated walk because they were so bratty that it wasn’t fun for any of us.

I’m alternately too hot and too cold, and feel kind of dehydrated, even though I’ve had more than a gallon of water today, and am mid-way through yet another 16-ounce bottle of the stuff.

I’m in the mood to play in TNG’s fanfic sandbox. A fanfic writer whose work I really admire, wrote in a mailing list (a few years ago) that she didn’t see any way that even EmotionChip!Data could ever have a real romance, and suddenly I want to write a story that both a) gives a reason for the absence of his chip in Nemesis and b)addresses the issue in a non episode sort of way. I think it might BEGIN with someone divorcing him/ending a relationship because of it. Definitely AU…but something to play with, because writing fanfic is better than nothing at all, and it keeps the juices flowing.

But not tonight.
Tonight I’m not writing.

No, really, I’m not.

I am faded, baggy, v-neck sweatshirts over lacy tank tops, and comfortable sneakers. I am strong coffee, dark chocolate and red wine. I am bagels with cream cheese, and I am croissants with bitter dark marmalade. I am funky hats and dangly earrings and hair color subject to change without notice. I am pen and ink and 0’s and 1’s and words and music and rhythm. I am jazz and blues, old standards and folk music – music of conscious, they call it now – a cup of classical, a peck of pop and rock, a glimmer of gospel, and just enough country to make things interesting. I am purple and faded black and forest green, alternating with fiery orange and red. I am eggplant and tomatoes and garlic and olives. And I am also grilled cheese sandwiches and bowls of chili. I am the scent of damp earth, and I am the essence of freshly -cut flowers: irises, calla lilies, and sunflowers. I am books and quilts, cuddly dogs and mugs of tea. I am a little bit techie and a little bit traditional. I am good grammar, mostly, and proper table manners. I am coppery lip gloss and fuchsia toenails. I am dark eyes, and a light heart. I am a daughter, a friend, a lover, a woman, someone’s muse. I am the darkest hour of the night, and the first ray of morning sunshine. I walk in the moonlight and dance in the rain. I am shy in large groups, with bouts of situational extroversion. In my head I visit other worlds, but in my heart I am always home. I am funny, caustic, sarcastic, and snide. I tease with affection, not malice. I am water and fire. I love and I am loved, and I am both yearning and happy. I am verbal snapshots and mental images. But most of all, I’m just Melissa.