Stories

Yesterday, Shannon gave me a karmic, completely unintentional, gift. He got really, really sick.

And though I can think of eight bazillion things I’d rather do than listen to a man whine in bed, it was an opportunity for me to put a little something in the Bank of Caretaking. My surgery is tomorrow and I know I’ll be making quite a few withdrawals over the next couple of weeks. It’s important to be sure your credit is good before you complete a lot of transactions, you know?

In truth, he slept most of the day, so I got to focus my energy into healing from the kitchen – which is basically my favorite thing to do anyway. Winter has finally arrived in New York (it was in the 50’s last week but won’t get out of the 30’s this week) and I’ve had a taste for something spicy and Asian.

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.

I'm a rabid fan of elegant epicurean eateries and eating en masse with my hedonistic friends.  Seen at Spago and Drago in L.A., and most often at Orso in New York, lately, due to the economy, we've gone from a monthly to an every two monthly meet up.  

I love these diversions from the routine cuisine of my hood. I revel in the whole fine restaurant ritual: of dressing up in a decades old outfit and making it look like fresh kill with a couple baubles; entering, precariously poised on high heeled boots meant for posing, trying not to teeter as I thrust myself past the other tables following the maitre d' to our huge table; sitting and reacquainting with coteries of two, then three, then more friends in their staggered arrivals.  Then I love the gasping over the menu, watching the waiter recite the specials without salivating, negotiating our deals over who will order what meals and how we'll trade off tastings.  

The flatware, the aromas, our blatant voyeurism watching others eat at adjoining tables, and they show off their choices with lip-smacking 'mmm's,' add to the celebration.  In a later lull, I'll cogitate on memorable meals with poignant nostalgia for a special flavor, feeling, time and the fraternity in sharing it, seasoned with the joy of not cooking or cleaning up.

A hive has been part of my menagerie for almost a year now. Our bees were transferred from a friend’s chimney (where the bees had been pretty happy for a while) to a couple of bee boxes under an olive tree. Kirk Anderson, a.k.a Kirk O’bee, did the job, and has been our bee guide ever-since. Kirk leads the the Backwards Beekeepers, a group of Los Angeles area bee enthusiasts. Monthly meetings are open to the public and they’re quite informative. The last few meetings have been held at Farmlab, and that’s a place that is cool to see.

Since positioning the hive on the hill, we have basically let the bees be. We figured whatever honey the bees had made, we would let them keep it for their winter food supply (which is what honey is). Commercial bee keepers often harvest honey in the fall, and then feed their bees sugar water though the winter. We sort of ignored ours all winter, just checking for activity (flying in and out) occasionally. Ever since it got warmer there has been so much action! Busy, busy bees.