Author: Admin

The Lorax and The Alpacas

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You never know what will show up in my ‘hood. Sometimes what happens is magical.  Lately, it was a sign with a big black question mark perched on a rock at the corner of Arroyo and Canyon Acres. That was two months ago. And then it disappeared.

And then two weeks ago, the Lorax appeared on a tree stump not far from the first sign, a cheery two-foot tall greeter that faced Canyon Acres and  drivers entering Arroyo, his unsightly pole and duct-taped back invisible until you passed him.

On Saturday, two alpacas showed up in a make-shift pen on Chris’s vacant lot where he’s building a straw bale house. I was on my way to Susan’s for our Ladies of Arroyo potluck, when I learned that he’d taken in the two alpacas from a guy who had hoped to raise twelve of the animals for their valuable fleece, but it hadn’t worked out. Chris is always taking in animals other people don’t want—he’s that kind of guy. Luckily he’d found homes for these two at the Annaliese School up the canyon.

I made a detour and took these two shots. I don’t know if you can tell, but the brown one has a serious under-bite, very cute. Actually the expressions on their faces, so soft and sweet and vulnerable, melted my heart. Tearing myself away, I headed back toward the road and stopped. Instead of facing Canyon Acres like he was before, the Lorax now faced me and the alpacas. I swear. He obviously had to see what all the fuss was about. I took the photo below from my house the day the Lorax appeared on his stump. Proof that he’d shifted around to see the alpacas.

Old Post Resurrection Hop–Be Silly

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As part of Old Post Resurrection Hop,  here’s a blog I wrote in February of this year. (I made some changes)

“Be Silly.” That’s what was imprinted on a license plate in front of me today, as I drove up Laguna Canyon Road to a yoga class in Irvine. I couldn’t help smiling. Instant love for the driver, an older man from what I could see. There were two women and another man in the car. Four heads in an old beige Mercedes tootling up the road.

No doubt they were all wearing Groucho Marx clip-on noses with attached black eyeglass rims and eyebrow tufts. Perhaps the driver was shirtless, his hairy chest covered with a spangly Madonna-like pointy bra, his legs in red striped tights. Maybe the women were dressed as Tweedle dee and Tweedle dum, the other man in a mauve tu-tu that frothed up around him.

I just knew if I pulled up alongside them at the stop sign at El Toro Road, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen would burst from the windows and all four heads would jerk back and forth in time, with the foursome singing at the top of their lungs along with the group. If I continued alongside the rocking car up the canyon, I would see them lift their chins and sing the final chorus, “Nothing really matters, nothing really matters to me,” lips stretched to the sky. And I would sing along with them.

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Six Sentence Sunday–Turu

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Welcome to my next offering on “Six Sentence Sunday”. It’s from the first chapter of my almost-published paranormal YA novel, Monkey’s Wedding.

Elizabeth was surprised to see her friend Turu emerging from the servant’s quarters he shared with his father behind their garage. He was usually gone by dawn on Saturday mornings to help his grandmother with her witch doctoring. She was godobori, Turu had told her, more important than a regular old witch doctor. All Elizabeth knew about witch doctors was that they made special muti for people suffering anything from leprosy to a broken heart. They also cast spells and threw animal bones to see into the future. She’d once seen an old man with a couple of feathers stuck in his crinkly graying hair and a ragged cape, do this in a village when they lived up north.

Nights on Arrroyo–Fuyu Persimmon Salad

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At 5 pm today, a number of the ladies from Arroyo Drive gathered for potluck and wine at Susan’s house, halfway down our half-a-block-long funky almost rural street with its two street lights to take advantage of the late afternoon light before daylight savings time goes into effect next Sunday. The last gathering was at my house a month ago and before that it was at Jan’s. These gatherings have become a great little habit.

Tonight we danced to Van Morrison, the Rolling Stones, Dylan, The Band, and Bob Marley on Susan’s deck halfway up the side of the hill with an almost full moon above, me and Laural, Susan and Laural, Jan and me. It’s a free feeling this dancing, no self-conscious bullshit. The food was fabulous as usual, never planned who brings what, it always just works out. My contribution was the following recipe which everyone went nuts over. It’s modified from a Los Angeles Times Recipe, photo from the site. I wish I’d taken a photo myself, my version has a lot more cilantro and pomegranate seeds, but I was too busy having fun.

Fuyu Persimmon Salad with Cumin-Lime Vinaigrette

8 servings

  • 2 lbs Fuyu persimmons
  • Juice of 2 limes
  • 1/2 tsp ground cumin
  • 1/2 serrano chile, seeded and minced
  • salt
  • 1 tablespoon walnut oil (I improvised with olive oil and a smidge of sesame oil)
  • 1/4 cup pomegranate seeds
  • 3 tablespoons chopped walnuts, toasted
  • 4 tablespoons chopped cilantro

Cut off the tough green calyxes and slice each persimmon in 10 to 12 wedges

In a small lidded jar, combine the lime juice, cumin, about half of the chile, a dash of salt and the oil. Tightly cover and shake hard to mix well. Taste the dressing. There should be just enough chile to add a suggestions of heat. If you’d like it hotter, add more and shake again.

Combine the persimmons and the dressing in a work bowl and toss to coat well. Turn the salad out into a decorative bowl and sprinkle with the pomegranate seeds, walnuts and cilantro. Taste and add more salt or lime juice if necessary.

 

Potions

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#FiveSentenceFiction is a flash-fiction event hosted by Lillie McFerrin.  She provides a prompt and participants post five-sentence stories—inspired by the prompt in some way—on their blogs.  This week’s prompt is “potions.”

With a grunt the old wise woman reached up and snapped off a piece of the dried rosela plant hanging above her head, the final ingredient for the last potion she and her grandson apprentice would mix together.

He had learned all he needed to know from her, and now he must learn the most important lesson of all if he was to be the leader of their tribe.

“Tonight, she will be mine,” he said, eyes shining.

She forced a smile, wishing it could be different, wishing he weren’t so prone to attachments, wishing the young woman didn’t have to die.

But he had to learn detachment.

Directionally Challenged

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On Lynn Dorman’s blog “Do You Have a Sense of Direction” Yes? No? I answered NO! reminded me of my days as a letter carrier. Yes. I delivered mail for The United States Postal Service. For six years they actually let me drive one of those wobbly little jeeps, and then one of those whopping big trucks out onto the streets of Newport Beach, never quite able to tell north from south, east from west. And then sometimes while “looping” a street on foot, getting so turned around I couldn’t remember where I parked my vehicle.

But I looked the part in my regulation blue uniform, complete with eagle insignia on my shirt sleeve. In summer I wore culottes (knee-length split skirt—no shorter than two inches from the knee, if you please), and in our so-called winter, long, very badly designed pants. Oh, and black regulation shoes that were even clunkier than those I was required to wear at St. John’s Convent School in Kitwe, Zambia. At least we didn’t have to wear white socks like I did then, just these little socklets or whatever they’re called. Oh, and get this, we had pith helmets! Blue of course. Shades (excuse the pun) of those days when my family took overnight trips up to the Congo, that time crossing the Kafue on a pontoon when my dad snapped a photo me as a five-year-old clad in my underwear and a pith helmet (beige, of course), standing beside our old Ford while the Africans chanted and pulled us across the river.

To this day, I still have dreams of being late delivering mail and I still get lost whenever I venture out of my familiar terrain which I often do. But now I don’t panic. I’ve got GPS.

Not Your Usual Gaggle of Geese

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The Karell Travel Group had a wonderful post on the collective names of different species of African Wildlife. (They always have the most unique photos on their Facebook page.)

Bask of Crocodiles           Clan of Hyenas              Cloud of Bats        Coalition of Cheetahs

Crash of Rhinos            Dazzle of Zebras        Journey of Giraffes      A Leap Of Leopards

Parliament of Owls    Prickle of Porcupines      Pride of Lions          Pod or raft of hippos

        Shrewdness of Monkeys  Troop of Baboons  Obstinacy of Buffalo    Herd of Elephants

I’m pleased to say I have seen all of these animals and more that aren’t shown here, in abundance, thanks to my dad for dragging us around Africa when I was growing up. At the time, though, I would rather have been lying on the beach in Durban, checking out the boys, being as how we lived in the middle of the continent with rare visits to the ocean, instead of locked in a small Ford Popular with my little brother, my parents, and Corky the parrot (who had it in for me).  I wonder if some of these collective names are a new development. Quite appropriate don’t you think?

 

Crock-Pot Spinach and Mushroom Lasagna

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I adapted this recipe from a number of different ones, but the main inspiration was from Leah’s Thought’s back in September 2011 (the picture below is from her blog), a wonderful blog about “musings, essays, life lessons, recipes and whatever else comes to mind.” It is soo easy, and absolutely delicious. I made it a little more difficult by boiling the no-boil lasagna, can’t quite bring myself to trust that it will be soft enough. A fabulous fall dish.

Crock-Pot Mushroom and Spinach Lasagna

  • 1 tablespoon olive oil
  • 1/2 cup chopped onion
  • 2 tsp. garlic
  • ½ lbs. sliced crimini or portabello mushrooms
  • 20 ozs frozen spinach, thawed, squeezed dry and chopped coarse
  • *3 Tbsp. butter
  • *3 Tbsp. flour
  • *3 cups of whole milk
  • 1/4 tsp. nutmeg
  • Salt and Pepper
  • 1 cup Parmesan cheese
  • 10 (approximately) no-bake lasagna noodles broken into halves (I boil these for six minutes)

In a saute pan, heat the olive oil. Add the onions and cook about two minutes. Add the garlic, and then the mushrooms. Cook until the mushrooms are tender and reduced in size. Sprinkle salt and pepper onto the mushroom and onion mix. Add the chopped spinach.

*Meanwhile, melt the butter in a small saucepan. Add flour and cook for about one minute. Turn the heat up to medium-high and add the milk at once. Bring to a simmer, and let the mixture simmer until it thickens (enough to coat a wooden spoon). Add nutmeg, salt and pepper.

Spray crock-pot with non-stick cooking spray. Place approximately one cup of the white mixture (or Alfredo sauce) on the bottom of the crock-pot. Then place a layer of lasagna noodles. Place half the mushroom mixture over the noodles. Then add another cup of white sauce and 1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese. Repeat this process until you are left with the top layer, which is noodles, the remaining white sauce and Parmesan cheese.

Cover the crockpot and cook on low for about four hours.

Note: you can use 1 (15 oz) can of Alfredo sauce instead.

Old Post Resurrection Hop: Letting Go One Hole at a Time

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As part of Old Post Resurrection Hop, I’m re-posting this blog I wrote in January, 2012.

Yesterday, while I was at yoga, Fergie ripped yet another hole in one of the two cottonwool-filled pads in the “donut” doggy bed she and Jake share in my writing studio. I stopped by the market on my way home which gave the little precious more than enough time to do her job.  Both pads are dotted with patches, mostly iron-ons from the supermarket, except for the embroidered ones my surfer ex-husband used to collect.  Just below Fergie’s butt in the photo below you can see two identical overlapping specimens—an embroidered Santa-like surfer with a long flowing beard and exaggerated feet ala Robert Crumb planted on the surfboard with the words,  “Keep on Surfin’ Hawaii.” I finally found a use for those bits of the past I’ve been hanging on to.

Seeing the dismayed expression on my face as I walked into a cloud of cottonwool, Jake offered me his ball and a look that said, I would never do anything like that.  He wouldn’t: Jake is all about balls, Frisbees and me. At fifteen months old, The Ferg is still making her mark on the world.

I gathered and stuffed all the matted cottonwool back into the pad, but instead of whisking it into the house for immediate repair, as I usually do, I left it there with the torn side tucked under.  A first for me.  Could it be that my Type-A ways are a-changing?

Day two, and Fergie hasn’t noticed all that lovely unfettered cottonwool beneath her, despite the fact that’s she’s bored. It’s raining outside and she’s already worked Jake over a couple of times and pawed my computer off my lap. How long will it take?  Who will be first to work on the blue pad?  Fergie or me?

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Six Sentence Sunday–Pookie

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Welcome to my next offering on “Six Sentence Sunday”. It’s from the first chapter of my almost-published YA paranormal YA novel, Monkey’s Wedding.

Pookie, Elizabeth’s pet bantam chicken, appeared from behind an overturned wheelbarrow a few yards away, pecking at the ground. Elizabeth grinned, like she always did at the sight of the funny looking little chicken. Some kind of runt, Pookie had never grown all her feathers, except for those on her legs, which looked like miniature flared brown skirts. Pookie stopped, mid-peck, and then with her eyes trained on the sweet pea seeds, she shot toward the flowerbed like a shuttlecock whacked across a badminton net.

“No!” Elizabeth cried, shoveling mud over the seeds. She jammed the chicken wire over the bed just in time.