Stories

Summer is my least favorite season. I am a ghostly pale person, I sweat easily, and I do not garden successfully. I am allergic to chlorine and can’t spend days by the pool without breaking out in hives, and I am not generally given to hiking, camping, kayaking or doing any of those other things that involve being outside, sweating, and getting burned. I complain a lot about the heat, which may explain why I often find myself alone in my air conditioned house drinking iced tea and reading.

Today, though, today it was 80 degrees after an interminable and bitterly cold winter. Stepping outside tentatively in my cotton skirt and flip flops, I was overwhelmed by sense memories, good ones, the kind that made me sit down on the peeling porch steps and savor them. As the hair at the back of my neck coiled inexorably into ringlets, and the warm air extended its seductive fingers to touch parts of me that have not been unwrapped in public for five months, it seemed that maybe I didn’t hate summer any more.

I remembered all of the Only Summer things, the Farmer’s Market on Sunday morning, bags full of vegetable love in the form of tiny Patty Pan squash, gritty zucchini, scallions with shining white bulbs, garlic scapes, baby eggplants, tiny and fiery Hmong peppers, and the tomatoes, oh Lord the tomatoes in their juicy, flashy glory.

My mom went to San Francisco to visit my brother last week, and she brought home some amaaaazing fresh pasta that she got in the Ferry Building. When I get my hands on really nice pasta, I like to do something simple with it, usually just olive oil and parmesan.

Last night, I decided to step outside of my comfort zone and try a brown butter sage sauce…and it came out beautifully!

I didn’t really get this recipe from any one place, I’ve just read about how to make it many times. It’s simple; just brown the butter and add the sage!

It seems a little scary, because everyone’s like, “Don’t burn the butter!!!” As long as you keep your flame low, you should be fine….and if you do burn it, it’s just a few tablespoons of butter and you can start over!

If indeed the Mayan belief is correct and December 20th was guaranteed to be my final supper, I would choose my menu with great excitement and freedom.

Just the thought of the world coming to an end, generates a tantalizing excitement in my belly, the mere fact, that I could devour my most favorite delicacies without consequence, guilt or social shame!

Most of my favorite foods, or “Treats” as we call them at home, are all either endangered, illegal, incredibly expensive, or so fattening, that the pleasure of eating is ruined by the consequence.

Here is my menu –

Russian Beluga caviar, straight up – great big spoonful’s please!

Hot seared Fois Gras on a slice of toasted brioche.

Fresh orecchiette with soft poached quail eggs and lots of shaved white truffle.

There are so many things wrong with Meg Whitman’s story that it’s difficult to know where to start. Meg Whitman was paying Nicky Diaz Santillan, her housekeeper, $23.00 an hour for 15 hours a week. Who pays their housekeeper $23.00 an hour. Answer (and I’ve researched this): Nobody. But wait, Nicky was, also her nanny. Assuming it was Monday to Friday, who has a nanny three hours a day?!! Answer: Nobody. Add into that, in addition to being a housekeeper/nanny, (i.e. domestic hyphenate), it was, also, part of Nicky’s job to sort the mail which clearly implies, she showed up, at least, five days a week.

Was the “fifteen hours” a way to avoid paying withholding tax, social security tax, unemployment tax, and, additionally, maintaining a worker’s compensation policy? Was it a ploy to pretend that Diaz Santillan was an independent contractor who “set her own hours”? A nanny doesn’t get to set their own hours and it’s very unusual that a housekeeper could do the same. But we don’t know. The facts aren’t out yet as to whether Ms. Whitman reported on a 1099 form or a W4 for Diaz Santillan. Although Meg Whitman has stated in many subsequent interviews, that she had a 1099 on file for Diaz Santillan (leading me to believe that my conjecture may be right.)

It doesn’t bother me that Meg Whitman hired a woman who had a problem with her immigration status. It bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t do anything to help her. The same way it bothers me that Meg Whitman didn’t bother to even register to vote until she decided to run for office.