Taster Spoon

Challah back!

This weekend went by way too fast.  Nevertheless, good times were had. 

Friday I got home from work to find Ace standing at the sink, filling a big pot of water. 

"What are you doing?"

"I bought eggs."

"You're boiling eggs?" 

Whereupon I launched into my recent scholarship on hard-boiling eggs to perfection.  (Start eggs in cold water, bring to boil, boil for 10 minutes, remove and shock immediately.)  Ace allowed me to push him aside, which in retrospect I regret, because how delightful is it to come home to someone boiling eggs for Easter?? - and then I had to go and take over his project.  (But the eggs were perfect.)

Our CSA started up again, have I mentioned?  And it's already strawberry time.  So we washed off a quart of berries and walked around the neighborhood like the old people do.  There was a guy with his garage door open with sheets of aluminum leaning up against the walls. 

"That looks like a wing," commented Ace.

So I shouted: "Are you building an airplane?"

And so we met the neighbor who is building a two seater airplane from a kit. 

The rest of the evening was a bust as Ace and I dithered about what fun thing we'd do that evening.  Would we crash the Tribe happy hour (soooo farrr awayyy)?  Would we go to the drive in (nothing good showing)?   What friends we'd go hang out with...  I went through the paper and announced that we would lace up our dancing shoes and go learn the Hustle...only to find he'd fallen asleep on the couch.   At least I got caught up on my 90210.   Silver is totally insane!  Then he woke up and we ate salad and watched Risky Business.  (He remembered all the plot points except for the prostitution ring; that's the only plot point I remembered.  I don't know why Tom Cruise ever got a nose job.)

Saturday started out cloudy with a chill breeze, so I skipped the pool and closed my ears to my bicycle and went to the gym and did a little pre-Easter laying in of foodstuffs.  Ace was thinking lamb for Easter, he who doesn't like mint, but they were out of legs so instead I got lamb leg "steaks."  I didn't really know what to do with lamb "steaks" but we recently went deluxey mid-week and had real steaks seared up in a skillet that were great - I figured we'd try the same thing.   Trader Joe's was giving out their little samples, like they do, and this time it was mashed potatoes and ham.  I don't even like ham, usually, because it's so salty, but this was so moist and mild I had to get one.   

Upon getting home Ace suggested we invite some people to join us for Easter dinner.  It's such a family occasion, plus it was so last minute - I was doubtful anyone wouldn't already be booked.  So I e-mailed probably 30 people we both really enjoy, figuring we'd be lucky if we got two takers.

Then we went to sit by the pool.  I'm reading Sally Quinn's The Party, a how-to guide for a life I'll  never lead, all about how to throw fabulous society functions among the famous and/or influential.  The implicit understanding throughout is that you have a ready supply of hired help.  She makes the point that you don't want to get a reputation as someone who just invites EVERYONE all the time, because then guests don't feel special for being invited.  Point well taken, and I felt bad about the long e-mail To: list I'd just sent.   

We jumped in the hot tub and met another neighbor who told a vivid tale of fortunes gained (Multiple homes!  World was my oyster!  Cheering throngs!) and lost (uncontested divorce).  (Message Ace took away from the encounter: I am defensive that I now live in this dump here with people like you.  My takeaway was more positive, possibly on account of the casual reference to Lionel Richie.  Oh!  What a feeling!)

We went to the Empire Tap Room for cocktails, oysters and onion rings, and then went to the Stanford Theater to see King Kong.  'Twas Beauty killed the Beast!  I persuaded Ace to stay on for the double feature, Tarzan the Ape Man, whereupon I fell asleep.  So instead of gritting it out till the end, we sneaked away for a slice. 

Sunday Ace woke up with a "Happy Easter," a glass of pink pomegranate limeade and some early morning seasonal reflection, gazing out the window and eventually turning to me to ask, "Wait.  Do bunnies lay eggs?"

Then there was a little swimming, a little tennis. 

A little egg dyeing.

I'll never buy an egg dyeing kit again.  A tablespoon of vinegar, a few squirts of food coloring, and boiling water to half-fill your little dye baths (those cheapie tea light holders from Ikea - I have a million - were the perfect size), done.  And the colors were so vivid!

Do you see these colors??

The only thing the kit is good for is the little wire dipper and the clear crayon.  Maybe you could sub with a white candle and a coat hanger.  Oh, and the drying rack.  I guess that was worth $0.99.

Ace made a variety of bunnies...

 

...one of which was anatomically correct.

This is my favorite one that he made:

Ace and Chad and I went to Mass at Mem Church and because it was so crowded we sat way up in the rafters.  It was fascinating to see all those mosaics up close, some of which, I was surprised to see, were in disrepair.  I also decided there were several generations' stained glass iterations.  There were a couple that were more in line with the color scheme of the tiles around them, and I thought they were more beautiful.  (What do you think?  They're the two forward-most windows on the left of the nave).  I thought I was being irreverent by joking about how many guys were wearing their Easter uniform (blue shirts and khaki pants), but I guess I was outdone by the gals in front of us who were texting throughout the entire service.

Chad came over bearing challah and marzipan treats, and on account of their having grown up among the Chosen People, he and Ace actually knew the first line of how to bless it.  

I really thought it would be just me and Ace and Chad.  A couple of people had regretted that they were committed to the Big Wheel race, or, predictably, that they had prior plans.

But then Derek showed up with a good little boy (who was totally just enduring us for the evening) and an embarrassment of fresh strawberries and Christina brought exciting stories of her upcoming trip to Texarkana and MichMad came just in time for dessert with a very welcome dessert wine. 

We had curried pumpkin soup (success!), lamb (wasn't great), hamb (eh, not as good as the sample), quinoa-based pasta in pesto (don't recommend: quinoa pasta was mushy and pesto wasn't so hot either), plain steamed broccoli (yay!), fennel/green garlic/leeks in a cream sauce (all kinds of awesome) and a shiraz-based rose wine.  Finally, strawberries, apple pie and ice cream! 

We never got around to devilling the eggs, despite a specific trip to the store by Ace for Miracle Whip.  I kind of enjoyed looking at them too much.  

Speaking purely for myself, I really really enjoyed the evening.  We sure do know some great people.

Happy Easter! 

Keeping up my end(s)

I know, this isn't the post you were waiting for as I hereby break my month-long silence.  Lotta stuff going on, that's all.  But then - and we've talked about this before - you take a little break for one reason or another and it's so hard to get back in the groove, because why post at all if it's not going to be about something significant, and as time wears on the bar inches higher.  So I'm instead going to abide by one of my life rules that has served me reasonably well: Keep Expectations Low.  (See how I put the "reasonably" in there?  The rule in action!)

So what's new? 

1. We are having a plethora of rainbows today! 

2. Because of the holiday yesterday, today is Donut Day!  There is someone who always gets to the donuts before me, who has been cutting the best donut (raised glazed) in half and leaving half.  The Dieting Donut Dissector!  I have been loving the DDD, because I feel like by taking the remaining half I am doing a public service by preventing staleness but also feel like I am getting a whole serving, but it is only half the usual guilt!

In the beginning of January, though, DDD started cutting only about a third of the donut out...leaving two thirds.  This was awkward, but manageable.  I couldn't very well continue to take my usual half, leaving 1/6 of a donut on the tray - that's like leaving a couple of bites.  Not cool.  So I have to either cut the remainder into halves and take a donut third, leaving a third to turn stale even quicker, or simply take all 2/3 of the donut.  You can imagine what I chose.  What with work and all, I've stopped exercising in any regular way, and, let's just say, you can tell.

Recently, DDD showed even further restraint, and began taking just a quarter donut.   Having increased my own consumption from a half to two thirds, it was natural that I seized upon the 3/4 donut as Mine!  But there's no virtue in taking 3/4 of a donut, so my pleasure is substantially reduced.  It's really a net loss.  

Can you see where this is heading?  Today the DDD literally cut out and removed just a bite of the best donut.  A tray full of variety sprinkles, coconuts, cinnamon sugars, chocolate dipped...and 7/8 of a raised glazed with drying edges. 

Which makes me want to say, Come on, man, we had a deal.  You take half, I take half.  You take a little less than half, I do my best for the cause.  Now you take a bite and I have to be the jerk who leaves 3/8 of a donut on the tray?  What would you do in this situation?

3. Have you heard about my haircut?  There's a topic we can sink our teeth into! 

I cut my hair somewhat less frequently than I go to the dentist, but more frequently than I go to the doctor.  I think it's been about two years.  After Ace begged me to get a Real Haircut from a Real Salon for my birthday in September, I hied me over to Yelp - and spent hours weeding out all the reviews from Asians (different hair needs) and was left with very few data points.  I asked friends with good hair.  I cut pictures out of InStyle.  I signed up to be a Hair Model at Edge and waited by the phone.  I pored over the archives at Hair Thursday. 

At Christmas I finally got around to following up on a recommendation from a co-worker whose hair has been looking pretty great over the last year or so.  Mine was dragging me down.  Long.  Droopy.  Ragged rather than wavy.  Anyway, I went to this salon where the lady freelanced, and she was...fine.  The haircut wasn't bad - she cut long layers into it so the wiggles in my hair look like curls that are meant to be there rather than just a failure to blow-dry out the messiness.  Picture Rachel Geller's before she got The Rachel.  Ace agreed that maybe it didn't look particularly glamorous, but said that at least it looked like a Haircut.

So I have no complaints about the stylist - hairwise.  Here's the thing - she is a recently-immigrated middle aged woman with mediocre English, challenging pronunciation and few shared cultural reference points who went freelance only recently but maybe didn't have the book of business she thought she did and is now clearly trying to rally a loyal following, and she oohed and enthused over my hair! my long, wavy, light brown hair! to a degree that was a little overwhelming.  Don't get me wrong, I like the idea of being fussed over but her fussing just had an air of desperation, making me feel less like she uniquely could see my inner beauty and was determined to bring it out and more like she was just buttering me up.   It was a stressful hour.

This doesn't make me excited to go back.  And maybe the reason I get a haircut so seldom is because I have yet to have a fulfilling relationship with a hairdresser.  It's always strictly a business transaction.  You know, gesture at some pictures, read a magazine, look up, cry, pay, tip sheepishly while apologizing for the crying, go home. 

You know what I want?  I want a hairdresser who says, "OMG!  Look at this MOP on your head!  Sweetheart, your hair needs some CPR.  Look at your eyes!  We need to draw some attention to these eyes!! Why are you hiding these cheekbones, honey?  You know what would look so good with your cheekbones?  You just sit back and let me bring out the gorgeous.  You know what you have, you have Jennifer Aniston hair!  Can you believe Jon Mayer?  Srsly, good riddance to Brad if you ask me.  OMG, are you seriously wearing White Musk right now?"  Someone who will flutter around and make me feel like a million bucks for $80.

Okay, fine, I want a homosexual.  Is that homophobic?  Or homophilic?  Maybe I should clarify that I don't precisely want a hairstylist because he likes dudes, but rather that I am seeking a certain set of personality characteristics.  And of course for him to have hair talent.  There was just such a hairstylist at the salon shared by Madame X.  He was cooing over and gossiping up a storm with his client and I looked at them longingly.  But I can't just go to the salon one day and hope that she is busy and he is not.  The salon is like a freelance workspace where the stylists rent their stations but have all their own clients.  You make appointments via their personal cell phones.

What to do, what to do.  Perhaps I was taking the wrong route by focusing my research on the hair angle.  I thought about asking my neighbors whether they "knew any hair stylists."  But I have a hunch they'd take it the wrong way, besides which, they don't seem like they would know any hair stylists.  I considered asking another friend who, while also not the type in question, seems like he'd be a little more up on the Scene and in the past has been a straight (ha ha) shooter about, you know, at which clubs in the Castro girls are welcomed/tolerated/discouraged, that sort of thing, and would probably not get his nose out of joint from my wishful stereotyping.   But he's moved away.

So I am adrift.  On a sea of wavy hair.

4.  I'm about to start traveling for almost three solid weeks.  I'm pretty excited that I am so deeply involved with work at the mo, what with the economy and all, but I'm also looking forward to checking in on some of my favorite ladies, one of whom I haven't seen in, gosh, three years?  She's a trapeze artist/salsa dancer/world traveler who keeps her independence as a freelance software developer.  She cannot be contained.  When you ask her where she is from, she says "Manhattan."  Actually, she says, "Manha-N." She is the New Yorkiest person I know, and she is going to go country and hike around the Appalachian Trail with me this weekend!   I wonder if she owns boots.  We have one of those relationships where, as long as I've known her (college, freshman year), I've done all the pursuing, and I don't mind a bit.

RAW IS WAR

What do you do when all your girlfriends are on the verge of delightful motherhood?

You console yourself by doing all the things pregnant girls can't do!  Go wild!

Like, buy raw milk at the farmer's market.

Hippie? 

Even lowest-common-denominator RealAge published an article suggesting that if you are going to drink milk at all, at least some of its nutritional benefits are destroyed through pasteurization.  It may help with allergies.  On the flip side, the New York Times depicts devotees as death wishing crazies.  But I'm young, I'm single, I have life insurance!

A quart of skim and a quart of whole were both $4.25.  A pint of cream was $10.  Naturally I got the whole.  I figured I could separate my own cream, thanks anyway, nice try. 

I was kind of excited by the prospect of un-homogenized milk, ever since I went to the San Mateo country fair last summer.  I prefer skim anyway, but was completely converted when I looked at a homemade sign made by a little girl for a 4-H project, explaining how milk is obtained and prepared.  She described the milking process and the pasteurization process, and then, just as straightforwardly, explained the homogenization process, which distributes the cream and remaining white blood cells throughout the fluid.  White blood cells?  You mean pus?

If that doesn't turn you off milk, nothing will.  My solution was to stick to skim, in the hopes that nothing was distributed throughout the milk, no pus mixed in with the cream.

It was fun - so olde tymey! - to see the layer of yellowish cream on top of the whiter skim in my glass bottle of milk...only I had no idea how I was supposed to "skim" it off.  I don't have a cream skimmer.  I can't even do the butter churn on the dance floor.  And I've had enough experience pouring things to know that you don't always get the top layer, or the bottom layer, or whatever layer you're trying for.  And then I remembered - my gravy separator!

I poured about half the bottle into the separator, only couldn't see the clearly delineated cream layer anymore.  So I put it in the fridge, and lo, what was left in the bottle sure looked like skim milk.  I had a small glass.  Would it taste strange and funky like that time I got 16 ounces of goat milk yogurt?  Would it taste "ethereal" like the milk in that New York Times article?

I have to be honest with you.  It just tasted like milk.  Skim milk. 

Pregnant ladies can relax.  You're not missing anything over here. 

I think I'll go pour myself a cocktail, light a cigarette, have some sushi and dye my hair.

Christmas Cheer

We went to Symphony Hall again this year.  Last year it was to see a pipe organ; this year it was to see the Canadian Brass.  They put on a great show - lots of crowd-pleasing selections.  Plus Ace got tickets on the day for half price so I enjoyed it even more. 

Just as exciting was the annual christmas tree display they have there.  Each tree is sponsored by some benefactor, and decorated by some charity or school.  There were a few cool ornament treatments.

This one was figures made out of old CDs

 

Ha ha, remember when people used to listen to music on CDs?

For this next one, the kids made snowglobes and dioramas out of glass jars and plastic water bottles.

     
Then I took a picture of this next one just because I knew Kelli would like it.

My favorite every year, though, is the SPCA's, because their ornaments are photos of all the dogs and cats up for adoption.  It makes you want to give the whole tree a hug.

 

Merry Christmas, everybody!

Is it really stealthy if it's all over the Internet?

Man!  The holidays, right??

Last week was the annual Beer Mile.  Inexplicably, I was not last.  Then again, I thought there was a PowderPuff division (2 beers only) again this year, but was mistaken.  I actually got denied a high five.  I made up for it at the pizza party after, though.

Because it requires the organizer to borrow a school track, the Beer Mile is typically the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, when school is out, everything is deserted, and nobody gets in trouble.  This year the organizer responded to considerable grumbling from all those who had to travel elsewhere for the holiday and scheduled it the week following.  It was held at a high school track where the organizer was able to persuade someone to both shut off the lights and leave the gate open so we could be appropriately secretive.

Ace was under the impression that this is a costume-wearing event.  As the results will show, however, his understanding was not  universal. 

Clearly, some take the event more seriously than others.  The winner, who drank 4 beers and ran 1600 meters in 6:42, was wearing track spikes. 

As we were driving home, we spied, off the highway, through the trees, what looked like a regular Santa's Village - holiday lights and blinking sculptures.  So we exited and drove around trying to find it.  Finally, we found a Santa Clara Park District installation: Vasona Park's Fantasy of Lights!  Entry fee was $10, but we were having such a good time, we didn't balk.  As we were about to drive in, the guy in the ranger station handed us what looked like 3-D glasses. 

"These are for the lights?" I asked.

"Yes."

Ace and I each gamely put on a pair, and sure enough, the glasses had what I can only describe as prismatic lenses that shattered each point of light into a halo of figures.  Specifically, I saw circles of angels everywhere - thousands of them!  And as you nod your head up and down, the angels flap their wings.  It was strange and wonderful.  (Note to self: keep 3-D angel glasses near deathbed.)

See if you can find the flaw in this reasoning:

Children love Christmas.

Children love dinosaurs.

Therefore, dinosaurs wear Santa hats.

Ace's glasses did not offer him visions of a multitude of heavenly hosts.  He saw thousands of dinosaurs in Santa hats.

The next night was my firm's holiday party, held at what I can only describe as Jay Leno's garage.  It was like a big warehouse where private owners store their classic cars, but which one can rent out for parties.  I thought it was weird to pay for the privilege of looking at other people's stuff.  I guess that's not so different from the Art Institute, though. 

Then we were up early for the latter two thirds of the Stealthman.  A friend in the triathlon community - Lorraine - celebrated his 40th birthday by doing an entire Ironman (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, 26.2 mile run), in Hawaii, solo.  That is to say, he did it on his own time, self-supported, alone.  And called it LorraineMan.  (Except that Lorraine is obviously not his real name so it sounds better with his real name.)

So last year another triathlete friend celebrated turning 40 by having the Stealthman.  He and a group of friends showed up at a local pool and swam 40 x 100m.  Then they rode their bikes for 40 miles.  Then I think they ran for 40k.  Cities around here are very annoying about getting permits for organized events, charity bike rides and whatnot - hence, Stealthman. 

Doughnuts also figure heavily in the event, though I believe there already is a Tour de Donut out there. 

This year, because of the office party, Ace and I begged off on the 41 x 100 m swim at 6 am on Saturday, and instead joined the 40 k bike ride.  I've ridden my bike once this year, on Bike to Work Day, and as Rad observed on Saturday, I was ready to sell my bike by about mile 12.  I'll take his advice for next year: two pairs of padded shorts.  Then I joined the more-reasonable run, that was 41 x 400 m, or 10.1 miles up and down Black Mountain.  That part was really pleasant - Rancho San Antonio was beautiful, chilly and dry.  I had three doughnuts.

We went to the house of friends who made bacon and turned it into a BLT salad event that was ingenious and also delicious; then we went to the housewarming of a new friend who lives in one of those gorgeous apartments at 101 Alma; then we went to the almost-midnight Christmas mass for students at Stanford, because Ace likes to hear the Brassworks quintet and sing carols at the end.

Our sleep schedule, so helpfully set to Chicago time last week, has relapsed to a late night habit that makes me feel bad every morning.  Sometimes I wonder whether I should just give in.

How to take the train to downtown SF

As promised, here are my "don't ask me how I know" instructions for getting to the office from the Peninsula via Caltrain!

The Muni is located right next to the CalTrain station (i.e. East of the train station, on that 280 off-ramp that turns into the Embarcadero). The $1.50 (flat rate, exact change) Muni looks like a train, but then goes underground somewhere around the Ferry Building. You want the first stop after it goes underground, Embarcadero. It's a ten minute ride at most. Then it's about a two block walk (away from the water) to get to the office. You will encounter two Starbucks en route.

In the morning, there's a CalTrain that arrives around 8:15. At that time (i.e. rush hour), every Muni that leaves from 4th and King goes to Embarcadero Station, so you can just take the first one that comes.

When you're going back in the evening, you have to be a little more careful about a few things, and leave yourself more time, accordingly. First, you have to be sure to buy a Muni ticket rather than a Bart ticket - same station, different machines. You need exact change, and the Muni machine - a turnstile - doesn't take dollar bills. So you have to go to a machine to convert your dollar bill to a dollar coin, and a different machine to convert your other dollar bill to quarters (the change machine doesn't take dollar coins). And then you have to get on the right Muni line - T and K, I think, but you'd better look at the sign. If you are returning home much after rush hour, the correct Munis are few and far between and you can wait in the station for half an hour until you get anxious about missing your train and end up taking a cab anyway, which is $8. After rush hour, the trains depart every hour, so you don't want to miss yours.

This was all very confusing to me the first few times, but I think I've gotten the hang of it and now you can learn from all of my mistakes. Here are some other things I learned:

Depending on the day of the week, your local CalTrain station may not have enough parking, and you will have to try to find street parking that doesn't have a two hour limit. Also there may be varying ways to buy your parking spot, from remembering your slot number and typing it into a machine near the train, to buying a receipt from the machine and running back to your car to stick it on your dashboard. So far all the parking machines and CalTrain ticket machines I've seen take credit cards.

Also if you're in doubt about where to wait, remember that the trains run on the right-side track, and once the train is in the station, you may not be able to run to the other side.

Silver lining

Two things going on lately have been kind of a drag.

One, I've had meetings and work up in the city several times over the past few weeks.  This is a drag because getting to and from the city from Silicon Valley is a huge pain.  In normal weather without traffic, the city is about 50 minutes from home, but then parking is kind of a headache and costs $30, and at actual commute times driving takes much longer and more importantly puts me in a foul mood. 

So I've been taking the train.  Each time I've take the train I've made a different assortment of mistakes, and so when a colleague asked me what the protocol was for taking the train to our SF office, I was able to respond with a two-page e-mail of do's and don'ts.  I will provide you my Caltrain instructions as a bonus post!

Commuting by train takes about an hour and a half. 

The silver lining is that with the enforced downtime, I emerge at either end of the commute rather serene.  I've also steadily been making progress on a handful of my needlework crafts.  I'll send you pictures closer to the holiday, but suffice it to say that a handsome stranger with a South African accent on the Muni called one of my projects "beautiful" and that lit me up for the rest of the day.

The other thing that's a drag is that Autumn has officially arrived, and in Northern California that means rain.  Rain, rain, rain until next May.  Every year I find myself thinking about that Ray Bradbury short story about (I think her name was) Margot and the other kids who live on Venus and the sun comes out only once every ten years or something?  I won't spoil the plot for you, but it's a great story. 

So we've been drenched.  But the upside of that is that we're getting amazing clouds.  I went over to Shoreline this weekend for a jog, hoping to see the zeppelin at Moffett.  It was not there, but I was treated to an incredible landscape and cloudscape that made me feel like I was on an alien planet.   

Another upside is that there's apparently snow in Tahoe!

To combine these two drags into something really special, I've had the good fortune of witnessing conversation-stopping sunsets.

 

Bonus photo:

During a meeting in the city on Tuesday I totally snapped a picture of the blimp!

 

I had to do it stealthily, under a conference table.

Out of My League

 I never would have imagined I'd ever become jaded about awards ceremonies. 

   

Early on in Ace's and my relationship, I was startled to discover that a triathlon takes a whole lot more time out of the weekend for speedy people than for the rest of us - because they must wait around until the whole thing wraps up so they can get their medal or plaque.  And in the beginning, I was tickled. 

  

I felt like a special person just attending the awards ceremonies, and paid careful attention to looking casual and comfortable there, lolling around on the grass, so bored, like, of course, this is totally my crowd, when in fact it is nothing like my crowd.  I have hierarchy issues and am not one to so much as make eye contact with my betters. 

 

It's a funny thing, sport, the way it puts the talent and the wanna-bes into separate social spheres for what are mainly practical reasons.  For instance, I may get along well with a fast cyclist, but I'd never meet them, because we ride at different speeds and would have no opportunity to talk.  Whereas I think Ace conducts a lot of his socializing with certain people over the course of long bike rides and runs, and develops a set of fast friends through proximity as much as anything.

 

When I swam with the Masters set at Stanford, those of us in the slow lanes used to joke that the fast people had no idea who we were because they never looked South.  This is mainly because the whiteboard on which the workout was posted (and the coach) were positioned next to Lane 1 (on the North side of the pool) so the 1:25 people had no reason to ever look down across the rest of us, bobbing and straining to hear the joke.  We knew who THEY were, but they had no idea who we were.

There's also the factor that there's probably a lot more attrition among slower people, perhaps less dedication (maybe it's less inherently rewarding to consistently bring up the rear, maybe they have too much else going on in their life), a lot more people coming and going, and so the community of the slow is necessarily less tightly knit. 

So I don't mean to suggest that fast people are snobs (which, no question, some are), but only to say that there is clearly an 'in' group, and that dating Ace has, for me, been an odd experiment in athletic social climbing.  Suddenly I found myself sharing the joke (I had thought it was a joke but it actually wasn't) that someone had signed up for San Jose mainly because they were out of olive oil.  And as pleased with myself as I was to do Boston and those national and world championships last year - they had the important secondary effect of making me feel a lot more comfortable around Ace's peers, like I was good enough in my own right to talk to them - to make eye contact.   

And there's some chicken-and-egg aspect to it, as well.  I got that roll-down spot to Clearwater in 2006 because I had tagged along to an awards ceremony with Ace - I got it just because nobody better qualified in my age group was there to claim it.

 

I took a step back from triathlon this year for a couple of reasons, one, I really wasn't enjoying it as much as I had.  The looming events that had once provided really helpful and positive motivation to exercise had morphed into pressure that made me feel constantly inadequate.   And two, let's face it, I wanted to go out on a high note, and 2007 was really an amazing year for me.  (On paper, anyway.  In terms of accomplishment and self-discipline I'm more proud of my first Ironman.)

I've discovered this year that I've lost my sense of awe with respect to the fast people.  I've learned that being fast is a product of both natural aptitude and hard work, and that one can make up for a lack of the other to a surprising degree.  So people's finishing times doesn't actually tell you that much about them, about how well-rounded they are, or about how full their lives are.

I realized I was in a different place when we were talking to a friend after the race and he remarked that he came in second.  I had no idea whether he was looking for congratulation or commiseration.  And I was neither impressed nor sympathetic, because I realized that the statement contained no meaningful information.

Anyway, I watched Ace finish up his "season" (he had done two races this year) by competing at Treasure Island Saturday.  It was an entertaining race to watch, because, I don't mind telling you, he trained very little.  He runs about 5-10 miles a week with Run Club, he rides his bike for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings if it's not raining, and he joins me at the pool on Sunday mornings if we manage to wake up in time.  The big joke this past week was that he was 'tapering,' because he missed one of the runs.  

On race morning, we nearly overslept as Ace hit his snooze button in his sleep until at one point I groggily said, "Don't you have a race today?"  He raced his car up against surprisingly dense traffic for a Saturday morning, and fifteen minutes before his group was set to be in the water he had yet to register. 

The announcer called out his name a few time at the start of his wave as a force to be reckoned with (because he had won last year) and Ace had the grace to wave sheepishly.  I watched the first lap of the swim, saw him round the buoy and pause to sit up and look around in surprise that he was in the lead.  As I angled the camera for his first lap of the bike, I chuckled as he passed me, asking, "how many laps?"  Of course I told him the wrong number (thankfully he clarified with someone better informed).  And then I was looking the wrong way when he ran past me on the final lap of the run.  The announcer called him out again, because, to both our surprise, he won. 

The organizers set the awards ceremony for some five hours after he finished.  We killed time as much as we could - snacking and napping and getting free ten minute massages, but come on.  After a couple hours Ace said we could skip it.  I felt bad.  I didn't have big plans, I could nap some more, it seemed ungrateful to bail on receiving a medal.  But I was also irritated by the inconsiderate planning.   Making people give up their entire day?   To wait three hours in the rain?

Supposedly he'll get it in the mail.

How is an airship different from a blimp?

No, seriously - I don't know.  But apparently it's causing lots of excitement among the nerd herd.

We're estimating "the first zeppelin in U.S. skies for more than 70 years" to land at Moffet this evening.  I guess enthusiasts have been tracking it.  I'm sure we'll go over and look at it.  They're offering balloon rides, oops, I mean airship tours, for $500 an hour.  Worth it?

My window looks south, but I don't see anything yet.  We've had summer-hot weather all week, and it's hazy.

Also this weekend, I hope to hit the haunted Toys R Us.

And the house of that guy in Redwood City. 

Ace got himself a costume yesterday.  It's so him.  But he tells me mine is so me, so that's cool.  WB had the great idea to recycle the chicken once again and go as Yes on Prop 2, but I felt it was time to change it up. 

Really, I was just walking through Wal-Mart (I literally went in to buy just a spool of white thread!) when it totally jumped out at me.  It's the first time either of us has outright bought a costume in at least four years, but boy what a load off.  Remember when I was sewing a stingray on that flight to Hawaii?  Talk about a vacation killer. 

I'm falling way behind in my crafting.  I tried making the most of a car trip to Yoshi's on Monday by getting my embroidery on in the back seat, but all I got was carsick.   I'm going to have to reel my gifting plans way back in.  Sorry!

Last night I made those savory leaf pastries everyone is talking about, only my bucket of 100 cookie cutters didn't include any leaves (!) so I made them pumpkin and moon shaped.  They could have been anything.  (Seriously - no leaves, but you do include a football helmet?  What kind of shape is that?  Are football players really into decorated cookies?)  The pastries, though, were kind of awesome, mainly just in that they worked out as filled pastries.  They weren't bricks, and they didn't leak too badly.

I used this recipe for pastry, switching out some of the white flour for whole wheat, and switching out the water for vodka.  (I keep hearing about the Cook's Illustrated obsession with vodka pie dough, and I don't really know their recipe, so I guessed.) 

What I think really worked well was cutting the butter into quarter inch squares before freezing it.  Making pastry after that, even by hand, took no more than three minutes.  Genius!

They had good flavor and were flakey, but they were sturdy enough that the health conscious among us could roll them quite thin.

I made up a batch of sweet pastry too, but I'm reluctant to turn one of the many pumpkins scattered throughout our living room (I think we're up to about 24) into a pie yet.  Need something to throw at the sixteen year old punks in sweatshirts pretending to be trick or treaters.

Do you have plans for the holiday?  What are you going as?

What's new?

I dunno, what's new with you?

An old friend e-mailed this morning, asking what I've been up to, and I was about to wave him towards the blog - "Oh, it's all on there if you really want to know" - and then I remembered that weak post below about the lady with the sign has been floating there for more than two weeks now.   Really, that's the best I can do?  So then I had to actually write up a real reply.  Heaven forbid that I should actually correspond!

So what is new?  Ooh, lots of things.  None captured on film, unfortunately.

I've been getting into Fall in a big way.  The ladies at my firm had a leadership networky thing up in Napa a couple of weeks ago, and traffic was bad on the return, so I stopped off at a farm stand and bought fifteen pumpkins and some candy corn.  I had plans to carve, but the opportunity keeps slipping away, so I think I'll wait and we can do them right before Halloween.

Martha Stewart's October issue had the most hideous pumpkin I've ever seen, so I want to do one like that.  (These look beautiful for a dinner party, no?)

We decided to spend Halloween at home this year, to see what kind of neighborhood candy beggars we get.  I was inspired by this local house (which I very much want to visit), and want to do it up right with some tombstones in the yard or something.  As you are well aware, we don't have a great entryway, but perhaps the dishevelledness will add to the ambiance.  I picked up some spiderwebs yesterday.  (If you'd like to join us for H-Day, drop me a line!  There will be games and spooky foods!) 

I don't think we're dressing up this year, I usually like to go as something scary, but I'm sure there will be enough Sarah Palins already (cheap shot!) and am not sure how to dress up as a deficit.

I have big plans to make crafty Christmas presents this fall. 

My family made a pact last year that we would no longer exchange gifts but would instead contribute to a charity, and I can't tell you how pleased I am.  On a deep level it seems more satisfyingly in line with the virtues of the holiday, but on a superficial level, my family is notoriously bad - all of us - at gift selection.  We don't even remember each other's birthdays.  I don't mean we fail to send something (which is also true), I mean we forget when they are, usually until after they've passed. 

So anyway my family is covered, and I don't feel obligated to wrap up anything for anyone else, but I have some keen ideas in my head for a couple of friends.  I've been feeling compelled to be more creative in my downtime, and by calling things "presents" I'll feel less like I'm just wasting time.  They may end up too ugly to actually send, but will keep my fingers busy while I watch Pushing Daisies and consider folding false eyelashes into my own makeup routine.

The Fleet Week air show last weekend was exceptional as always.  For the first time we actually walked all the way over to Marina Green and listened to the narration over loudspeakers - it was a nice supplement to the show.  I teared up at one point, those things can be really moving.  Ace and I then went for a run over the bridge, from which we caught a rare San Francisco sunset that was unobscured by fog or anything.  My favorite part of it is always when the sinking light reflects off the buildings in Berkeley.  They sparkle and glow orange, like flakes of gold in a pan of mud.  How California!  Then we joined Scooter and Wendy B in front of the fireplace at the Cliff House (where I had never been - very romantic) for a drink, after which we all trooped over to New Eritrea for Ethiopian food.  (Note to VU: their Shiro doesn't hold a candle to that place in Morningside Heights.)  It was a great day in the city.

I quit my Japanese class.  I hope my teacher doesn't take it personally.  I like her a lot - both as a teacher, and as a person - she's really interesting and very entertaining.  But I found myself leaving my homework till the last minute, and scrambling to coast through the class, and feeling bad that I was wasting my time and hers.  Since it's purely a personal pursuit, it finally felt strange to spend $25 a week to feel bad about myself.  She was really understanding.  And I really hope to pick it up again, perhaps after the holidays are over.  It feels nice to focus on something that has nothing to do with your current life every now and again.

I also stopped going to ballet.  Similar reason - I just felt like such an inflexible klutz.  I still want to be a dancer someday, so I'll stretch and maybe find a community-level ballet class to ease myself in before going back. 

But we are thinking of taking the next step in sailing.  Our last class qualified us to take out a boat anywhere - that is, anywhere except the San Francisco Bay.  This next class will make us universally certified.  It's a pain in the butt to get to, honestly, more than an hour drive at the crack of dawn, and takes the whole weekend.  Also, it's a pain to schedule, because classes fill up way in advance - and then cancellation requires eight days' notice.  So we've scheduled and cancelled this class at least four times.  It's very frustrating.  Part of us wants to just get it done (it's $60/month for each of us just to keep our memberships in the club), and part of us is concerned that blocking off entire weekends through this holiday season is going to be rough.

Well, that's the news.  We really should keep in better touch.  We should have coffee sometime!  Oh, I don't know.  Why don't you call me.