Mem-ennui

I was tagged for this meme by Lori, the fabby voice behind Do You Realize? As you know, I’m not a big meme fan, but when the well is dry at least they give me something to post.

I keep thinking one of these things will blast some creativity back into me.

Here are the rules:

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning of the post.

2. Players answer the questions about themselves in their posts.
3. At the end of the post, the players then tag 5-6 people, post their names, then go to their blogs and leave them comments, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read their site.
4. Finally, new players must let the person who tagged them know when they’ve posted their answers.

And Now, The Questions:

What was I doing ten years ago?
 Trying to get pregnant. And, no, it wasn’t particularly fun. A diagnosis of “unexplained infertility” (i.e. you’ve waited too damn long to breed) means tests. Lots of them. My favorite? The one designed to prove that The Man’s sperm could actually penetrate eggs. How do they determine this? Turn ‘em loose in a Petri dish with a mess ‘o hamster eggs. FYI: the boys performed with flying colors. That test is at least worth a giggle. Driving up I5 for an insemination with a specimen cup of jiz in your bra? Not so much.

What are five things on my to do list for today? 
 Take my mother to chemotherapy. De-clutter the downstairs (I can dream, right?). Cook real food for dinner. Maintain composure when Small Child complains of boredom. Be exceedingly firm with washing machine repair people about the new motor that should have been here by now.

Snacks I enjoy? 
Hummus. Donuts. Fresh berries, peaches, cherries, and pineapple. Sno-cones.

Things I would do if I were a billionaire? 
I know I should go all noble and say I’d save the world (and if I were going to do that I would do whatever it took to insure that the next six folks appointed to the Supreme Court would be chosen by Democratic presidents, but that might take a bit more cash). Since we’re indulging in total fantasy here I’m going to be selfish. Without a doubt, the first thing I would do would be dump my cursed minivan. I hate that thing. Ever practical, I’d also pay off debt, set aside college money, and hire a trainer and a cook. Then I’d buy a house in Ashland and a cottage in the San Juans. With the next billion (no one said how many, after all), I’d pick up something in New Mexico and in rural Scotland. Then I’d do some serious traveling.

Three of my bad habits? 
 I’m messy. I have little self-discipline. I bite my nails.

Five places I have lived? 
 In a Texas suburban 50s tract house; in a turn-of-the century parsonage that became a hay barn and then became our house for the first 11 years I was married; in a 3 BR 60s ranch-style attached to a very large house , both overlooking a beautiful Oregon lake; in a cabin at 11,000 feet in the Colorado Rockies; in a too-big colonial with a funky little basement and a gorgeous yard (except for the fire ants).

Five jobs I have had? Cashier at a T.G.& Y., cocktail waitress, public relations writer, literature and writing professor, student affairs administrator.

How did you name your blog? After a phrase in a Frank O’Hara poem I read for the first time on the day I decided to start a blog.

Okay. Tagging. Does it say how many we have to tag? I fail. I’m at a real disadvantage here, as two of the folks I’d normally tag have already posted this meme. I am far too shy to tag a stranger, and I hate to bother people when I’ve never seen memes on their blogs. So I’m backed into a corner. I’ll tag What I Saw Today and Old Roman Symbol. As always, I’d love to hear from anyone!

Porch Sitting

In honor of Independence Day, and all things possible, I give you the view from my porch:


Now that we have that out of the way, we can commence with some virtual porch-sitting. I'm going to step away from form and good writing and just ramble tonight. Small child is at camp, Large Dog is snoring, I've just poured a glass of Oregon red, and I've raised the shades and turned off the lamp in hopes of catching sight of the occasional Roman candle as it showers over the lake. Pull up a chair and let's just chat.

I am a fortunate individual. Every time I hear myself complain about something, I try to remember this. Much about my nation's government disgusts me. But today I am thankful that I am not living in a more oppressive society, that I had access to education and sanitary living conditions, that the streets I walk are, in comparison to most streets, safe. Yes, I wish America were better. Yes, I wish it had different leadership. Yes, I wish we were greener, more peaceful, less greedy, more tolerant, and the list goes on. Yes, I'm glad I live here.

This little town where I love to spend my summers, a rather liberal enclave, has the sweetest, old fashioned, 4th of July celebration. The parade, which draws crowds from all over, has retained its small town feel. I didn't go this year, so I don't know if perennial faves such as the wiener dog entry (scroll down a bit on this link to see Ashland photos) or Geppetto's dancing wontons returned, but it is worth getting up at the crack of dawn and staking out a spot. Afterwards there's food-n-stuff in Lithia Park. At night, there's a fab fireworks show at the high school stadium but you can watch it for free at Walker School playground, and "enjoy" your neighbor's fireworks while you wait for the big show to start. It's the closest I ever hope to be to simulated combat. The last time I went, I swear some incendiary device missed my head by an inch. I can hear the show booming in the distance as I type.

You've probably seen Sideways, and if so you know all about pinot noir. Oregon pinots are yummy. And all sorts of wonderful wines from California, Oregon, and Washington never make it over the borders. Tonight I meandered downtown to Liquid Assets and savored a flight of three 2004 American cabernets. I snacked on steamed asparagus with organic feta and chopped olives plus a wee portion of duck mousse.

This morning, as I was packing small child's camp bag, I kept smelling sausage. Breakfast sausage, a la Jimmy Dean. Could I be having an olfactory hallucination? A small cerebral event of some sort? I suspected a simpler explanation. I leaned over and took a whiff of Large Dog. He reeked of sage. There are three varieties out in the yard, and he had some telltale strands mixed in with the drool. Beats dog breath any day.

Tomorrow, if all goes according to plan, I'm going to buy a bike. I really like the one I found online, but I think I'd be better off buying something I've actually tried. Surely one of the five bike shops here in town will have something. I'll feel better supporting a local business, too. If I'm successful, expect either bike path adventures or ER chronicles in a future post.

Happy Independence Day, wherever you may be.

Sandwiches I Have Loved

I’m a dog with a bone when it comes to metaphor. I just can’t let it go; it’s the English major’s curse.

So, tonight, I’m thinking about sandwiches and their boundaries.

Last night, I played around with the conventional definition of “Sandwich Generation.” But what of other sandwiches?

I think several of you might find some resonance in the idea of a sandwich with mismatched bread. Mine looks a little like this: one piece of bread is rich, yeasty-sweet, earthy-dark whole grain…hearty but not dry, complex in its flavors and nutritive value. The other is that bastardization: “whole grain white.” Its essence – its breadness, if you will - is subservient to conventional tastes; its nutrients are masked, hidden, sneaky.

Another image that pops into my mind? One slice: the crust perfectly trimmed off, destined for a ladies’ luncheon, utterly controlled and presentable. The other? Ripped from a luscious baguette, with a light but crispy crust and a soft, airy center. One side came home in a luxury car, the other in a bicycle’s wicker pannier.

Or what about this? You sit in a restaurant and listen to two diners as they order. One chooses turkey on sourdough…or maybe roast beef on white. The other chooses hummus with pita chips, a sandwich that requires participation and effort. How can these people get along? Make a marriage? Sustain a friendship?

That’s all a bit grim, so let me tell you about a few of my favorite non-figurative sandwiches to lighten things up. Interestingly enough, I seldom order a sandwich anymore; what follows are the reasons why (and then, of course, there's the fear of a King's Death).

Geppetto’s, in Ashland, OR, does amazing things with bread and meat (or its substitutes). If I order a burger, I request fagazi (sic) rather that a traditional bun. Amazing results. The menu always has “sandwich on today’s special roll.” I yearn for sliced leg of lamb on a rosemary/olive oil roll. I wince at the memory of locally caught steelhead on whatever bread they chose to use.

In Hanover, NH, two sandwiches come to mind: anything with boursin at Peter Christian’s ("Peter’s Favorite Fantasy" is a good pick) and the burger at EBA (Everything But Anchovies); the latter makes its own buns…some kind of Portuguese thing that I’ve never seen replicated. It’s been 15 years since I’ve been in Hanover, but I can still taste this food somewhere deep in my brain. I’d mention the lobster and steamers at Blood’s, but this is about sandwiches, damn it!

Many people think you need to visit the East Coast to get a real deli corned beef or hot pastrami sandwich. I’m sure those sandwiches are wonderful, but I’ll always love Gilbert’s in Dallas (this review is based on the old location at Preston/Forest. I fear they did not survive the move to Addison.), where the thinly sliced cured meat came almost three inches thick.

I’ve obviously veered off course…classic defense mechanism.

Please share your sandwiches, be they reality or metaphor.

I’m hungry for both.