Last January I went to NY and stayed with my French chef/poet/fellow cheese freak friend Robin. To show me world class fromage as well as poetry, Robin gave me a tour of Murray's Cheese's underground cheese caves, and we went to a reading at the KGB Bar. Back in her Brooklyn neighborhood, I walked her senior greyhound around the brownstoned streets, we ate delicious food a block from her house (arugula with thinly sliced pears and gorgonzola, a couple of blood orange cosmos, kale-stuffed ravioli served in a broth made of the rind of parmesan), got bagels delivered to her third story walk-up--that lovely apartment filled with light, books, and edible delights. Her apartment was a block from the subway where I had easy access to the likes of the Museum of Art and Design, where I saw a wickedly smart exhibit on embroidery (who knew it could be so cool?), as well as the delicious and famous St. Mark's Bookshop. In the city, we ate chocolate bread pudding in a store that only sold that dessert. I was too full to go to the pommes frites place (dammit! www.pommesfrites.ws), so sad, the two times we walked by. I was awed and addicted to Pinkberry frozen yogurt--tart, light, mine ordered: vanilla with chestnuts and monstrous blackberries, me wanting to order it all over again even as I finished the dish in front of me, me gasping that NY and CA are the only places one can get the stuff. I saw Paul Giamatti, scowling about the Village. I even met a cartooniologist--really! (www.tmotley.com) Ah NY, ah Brooklyn--
I went home after five days, not wanting to go, but Robin and her dog Hazel walked me with my rolly suitcase two blocks from her apartment to a busier road, I hailed a cab, and like that, I was gone.
While I was there, I started to exclaim in front of my hosts, I'm moving to Brooklyn! In my heart's core, however, I knew this to be a lie. Jonesy would never move there--she wants out of cities, not towards. Sometimes I do, too. I have a fear aggressive pup who would be impossible to walk nicely along the sidewalks of the burrough. And her barking tendencies would not make her a good apartment dweller.
And then there is the bird. Oh, loud-mouthed one. He would not make a very good neighbor.
I was implored on my visit by Robin to not talk about how cute SSW was, for her husband Evan needed the littlest of coaxing to begin bringing up again we should get a bird. Robin is wise and knows that a parrot's shrieking goes right through the walls of an apartment. A canary, a cockatiel, but, no no no, do not bring home a conure, dear.
I can hear my own SSW in the summer a block away when the window is open and he sees me leaving with the dogs in the morning. He has ears like a mother listening to her teen sneaking in after curfew (his acute hearing is due, of course, to him being a prey species protecting his feathery bum). Does he hear the dog tags jingling as we return? Does he know which car is mine as I pull up in front of the house? Or does he alarm at any random car door, any person talking/walking by?
So Lulu will live another 10 years probably. And SSW another 30. By then, I'll be 67 and my student loans will be paid off, but by then, the groovy brownstones of Brooklyn will probably be renting for a sum I can't even fathom could be real. And to be the rain on the picnic I am known to be, isn't vacation always so much more fantastic than the actual day-to-day, plod to work, go buy groceries, pay yer bills, that drags any good fun down, no matter where you live?
I could go for some Pinkberry and pommes frites right this minute.
26 July 2008
The Moe Dilemma
A few years ago I went to a wedding breakfast and sat next to a woman, who at first, appeared quite adjusted, normal, happy, just a friend of the bride. Then I heard her say she had nine children because she just loved babies so much. A random assortment of her kids rambled quietly by the restaurant. I wasn't sure which kids were hers--all of the them?
Now, babies are fine and all, but I don't seek them out. I am the type of person to go down another aisle in the grocery store if I come across children acting too loudly. I seem to only love the babies that I know, especially ones directly related to me. This, I suppose, has something to do with Darwin, how we protect those related to us, so that our gene pool can be passed downward. Regardless, I am 37 and have never felt the twinge of baby madness, that is ever-rampant in one of my friends to the point she will get up and leave a conversation/coffee/food eating with you to rush after some small pupa-to-toddler aged child. I find this perplexing and a little vexing. (E if you are reading this, you know it's true.)
Through my twenties, I told my mother how I didn't really care for the children out there randomly in the world, and she said to me more than once that I would feel differently about my own. I am sure she is right. She kept me around, even though I cried for the two first years of my life. There is a family rumor that my first word was dammit, as in quietly whispered, Dammit, Sara, can you please stop crying?
Anyhow, my dogs, my cats, and even my parrot were adopted, as strays or from humane societies.
I fight the urge every week when I come across some delectable dog/cat that is need of a home. Most recently, I turned away this magnificent pup, Moe. Click here--you know you want to take him home. http://www.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=11086180
I don't think he is part saluki, fanstastic as that would be. Once you adopt him, you can send in a small blood sample to get his DNA breed profile.
The reason that I did not take Moe home is that my house is too full. That I cannot care for another animal in the manner that they deserve due to the saturation of small beasts in my 1060 sq ft home. That a parrot takes hours of attention each day so that he doesn't turn into a self-multilating-->bald boy. That I only have two arms, one for each of the dogs, to best walk them. This doesn't take into consideration the 6+ meals/day the old cat requires, or the fact that Lulu might turn soft-spoken, polite Moe into a barking, fear-propelled monster. I love Lulu to pieces, but she does cut down on friendly dog-to-dog interactions.
So my point here is if you love babies, with those big eyes and round faces programmed to demand your protection, and if you have the space/love/time/money, then, For god's sake, adopt! But nine children? Come, on, people.
Now, babies are fine and all, but I don't seek them out. I am the type of person to go down another aisle in the grocery store if I come across children acting too loudly. I seem to only love the babies that I know, especially ones directly related to me. This, I suppose, has something to do with Darwin, how we protect those related to us, so that our gene pool can be passed downward. Regardless, I am 37 and have never felt the twinge of baby madness, that is ever-rampant in one of my friends to the point she will get up and leave a conversation/coffee/food eating with you to rush after some small pupa-to-toddler aged child. I find this perplexing and a little vexing. (E if you are reading this, you know it's true.)
Through my twenties, I told my mother how I didn't really care for the children out there randomly in the world, and she said to me more than once that I would feel differently about my own. I am sure she is right. She kept me around, even though I cried for the two first years of my life. There is a family rumor that my first word was dammit, as in quietly whispered, Dammit, Sara, can you please stop crying?
Anyhow, my dogs, my cats, and even my parrot were adopted, as strays or from humane societies.
I fight the urge every week when I come across some delectable dog/cat that is need of a home. Most recently, I turned away this magnificent pup, Moe. Click here--you know you want to take him home. http://www.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=11086180
I don't think he is part saluki, fanstastic as that would be. Once you adopt him, you can send in a small blood sample to get his DNA breed profile.
The reason that I did not take Moe home is that my house is too full. That I cannot care for another animal in the manner that they deserve due to the saturation of small beasts in my 1060 sq ft home. That a parrot takes hours of attention each day so that he doesn't turn into a self-multilating-->bald boy. That I only have two arms, one for each of the dogs, to best walk them. This doesn't take into consideration the 6+ meals/day the old cat requires, or the fact that Lulu might turn soft-spoken, polite Moe into a barking, fear-propelled monster. I love Lulu to pieces, but she does cut down on friendly dog-to-dog interactions.
So my point here is if you love babies, with those big eyes and round faces programmed to demand your protection, and if you have the space/love/time/money, then, For god's sake, adopt! But nine children? Come, on, people.
22 July 2008
The Cheaper the Better
Forget the $15 brightly colored wood, plastic, metal, rubber toys made for our psittacine friends. Instead, make sure you keep the junk mail, the catalogs and phonebooks, the shoe boxes, the empty prescription bottles now filled with screws, the paper bags, and the newspapers. If you want him to have it, he will not love it. He will fly to the kitchen shelf instead, and proceed to eat the spines of your cookbooks.
And it's all the better if it can be thrown onto the floor.
I am trying to get a picture of SSW disregarding the proper use of metal measuring spoons.
He, however, will not cooperate. He's a parrot, for god's sake.
He likes to grab the hole in the end of the spoon and throw it onto the counter, screaming each time it bangs down.
Here is the spoon, up close. You can see the appealing hole for grabbing.
These are good quality spoons that I like. So they aren't the cheapest toy he could've picked. The plastic spoons just don't make the same tantalizing sound when you fling them, gravity obliging, when they hit the floor.
And he loves the banging. Unloading the dishwasher should be done with protective ear gear. He tries to get on the top rack and peck at the clean glassware. But some things are off-limits, even to the tyrant.
And it's all the better if it can be thrown onto the floor.
I am trying to get a picture of SSW disregarding the proper use of metal measuring spoons.
He, however, will not cooperate. He's a parrot, for god's sake.He likes to grab the hole in the end of the spoon and throw it onto the counter, screaming each time it bangs down.
Here is the spoon, up close. You can see the appealing hole for grabbing.
These are good quality spoons that I like. So they aren't the cheapest toy he could've picked. The plastic spoons just don't make the same tantalizing sound when you fling them, gravity obliging, when they hit the floor.
And he loves the banging. Unloading the dishwasher should be done with protective ear gear. He tries to get on the top rack and peck at the clean glassware. But some things are off-limits, even to the tyrant.
12 July 2008
Bird as Foodie
Since winter I have realized a few things about food:
1. Arugula, as a salad green, is good.
2. Coarse salt, with olive oil and fresh cracked pepper, on arugula is fantastic.
3. The world is full of magnificent cheeses, and I try to buy a new fancy cheese once a week--the current cheeses in my fridge are the deliciously crumbly English Stilton with dried apricots; a creamy yogurt cheese, like a gouda; a yet to be opened medium, yellow cheddar; and the remnants of a hard goat cheese dusted with cocoa. (I have a shirt from Murray's Cheeses in NYC; the front says: You have a friend in cheeses.)
4. I almost fell off the couch eating a chocolate bread pudding, warm, with peanut butter creme anglais, which had been delivered to my house, along with a sweet potato quesadilla, full of carmelized onions and feta and a cucumber yogurt sauce.
Are you not drooling?
And SSW realized this month:
1. Dipping your bird pellets in your water bowl is very satisfying.
He leaves a sludge of cracker in the bottom of his bowl every day, that I imagine in the summer heat if I let go too long, might evolve from bacterial soup to land crawling mammals.
I give Bug little treats of my own food, which he sees me eat and so then he enthusiastically eats too, his pupils dilating and constricting with excitement. I realize his gut does not process dairy very well, but he does love a nibble of cheese. And I smile a little at the cannibalistic whiff when he eats scrambled eggs.
Put walnuts on your salad, though, and he is utterly impolite, and will land on your arugula with coarse salt, cracked pepper, and olive oil, rules be damned.
He cares not that walnuts on his cage are different than walnuts on my salad. He thinks arugula is terrible boring, phooey!, and deserves to be flung onto the floor.
Dried cranberries, on the other hand, are perfection. And half of grape is a dream, intact, to be devoured.
1. Arugula, as a salad green, is good.
2. Coarse salt, with olive oil and fresh cracked pepper, on arugula is fantastic.
3. The world is full of magnificent cheeses, and I try to buy a new fancy cheese once a week--the current cheeses in my fridge are the deliciously crumbly English Stilton with dried apricots; a creamy yogurt cheese, like a gouda; a yet to be opened medium, yellow cheddar; and the remnants of a hard goat cheese dusted with cocoa. (I have a shirt from Murray's Cheeses in NYC; the front says: You have a friend in cheeses.)
4. I almost fell off the couch eating a chocolate bread pudding, warm, with peanut butter creme anglais, which had been delivered to my house, along with a sweet potato quesadilla, full of carmelized onions and feta and a cucumber yogurt sauce.
Are you not drooling?
And SSW realized this month:
1. Dipping your bird pellets in your water bowl is very satisfying.
He leaves a sludge of cracker in the bottom of his bowl every day, that I imagine in the summer heat if I let go too long, might evolve from bacterial soup to land crawling mammals.
I give Bug little treats of my own food, which he sees me eat and so then he enthusiastically eats too, his pupils dilating and constricting with excitement. I realize his gut does not process dairy very well, but he does love a nibble of cheese. And I smile a little at the cannibalistic whiff when he eats scrambled eggs.
Put walnuts on your salad, though, and he is utterly impolite, and will land on your arugula with coarse salt, cracked pepper, and olive oil, rules be damned.
He cares not that walnuts on his cage are different than walnuts on my salad. He thinks arugula is terrible boring, phooey!, and deserves to be flung onto the floor.
Dried cranberries, on the other hand, are perfection. And half of grape is a dream, intact, to be devoured.
05 July 2008
Deep Spiritual Lesson, or Wanton Destruction?
I have a favorite shirt. I bought it while on holiday in the Caribbean and it immediately became my favorite shirt. Each time I put it on (or I should say both times - I only wore the damn thing twice) I swear I could smell salt, feel the soft grit of sand behind my knees and taste the vague linger of some froofy rum drink rolling around in my mouth. Yes, I drank girly cocktails, concoctions of rum (and rum and rum) with a splash of fruit juice, the sort of silly drink that I wouldn't even consider ordering while locked in the center of this vast beer guzzling continent, but so easily became a part of the afternoon routine during our ridiculously brief respite on St. John. I tried to bring the "no problem" attitude of the island home with me by buying a bottle of Cruzan rum, but the little umbrella here in the heartland was like Christmas in July--all wrong.
The shirt, however, transcended attitude and distance. Soft cotton the color of faded blue jeans with a Jolly Dog logo creating the fabulous image of dog as pirate--my little scrap of the island and it made me happy.
Now comes the unfortunate incident.
Last Saturday Bubby got a pedicure. Much to my dismay the nails sometimes bleed after being clipped, but not much and a little styptic powder usually solves the problem. The clipping routine is a traumatic event for both of us, but Sara is calm, grasping him in a towel, pinning his head between thumb and forefinger, leaving him desperate to bite the crap out of anybody, but completely unable. I peel his little toes out of his tight fighter's fist and hold them steady for the toenail guillotine Sara wields so confidently. I flinch feeling it all as I imagine he does. But I know, no matter how unpleasant, it has to be done or his nails grow back into his feet (yet another reason birds shouldn't be captive - but that's a topic for another day). The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds. With a chunk of walnut in his beak Bubby forgets all about the trauma. I need a beer to repair my nerves.
Once we'd both returned to normal, Bubby flew to my shoulder, as is his habit. We both enjoy the game: I say "Garr! Ye be me parrot!" and he bobs his head, imitates my laugh and plays along. This time, however, he landed on my shoulder and his toe immediately erupted in blood, a shockingly large bright red circle spreading out over my shirt making it look like I'd just been tragically shot by a hidden assassin. (Yes, I watch too many bad movies.)
After helping Sara control the bleeding I took off my favorite shirt to hit it with the stain stick. Right on the damn package was the claim that it could remove blood stains. I won't tell you what brand it was, but it certainly did remove the stain, along with the jolly blue jean color, leaving a large bleached out spot in a pattern that I think looks like Africa. Or Martha Washington's profile. Hard to tell which. At any rate the shirt is ruined. I draped it over the upstairs railing to dry and tried not to look at it.
Later that afternoon Bubby followed me upstairs and while I thought he was playing in one of his many boxes filled with shredded bedding of junk mail and LL Bean catalogues, I looked around to find him ripping holes in my formerly favorite shirt. Just for good measure, I suppose. I watched him having a grand time, shaking the cloth in his beak and making his happy sounds. It's just a shirt, I thought. Just a thing. Maybe he's come into my life to teach me lessons that I should have learned by now: to let go of the material and embrace the spiritual; to celebrated joy wherever I find it--a piece of cloth to shred or a flower to rip the petals off of. I learn so much from such a tiny creature.
But, a part of me resists enlightenment and hopes that Sara will read this and order another really cool Jolly Dog shirt for me.
The shirt, however, transcended attitude and distance. Soft cotton the color of faded blue jeans with a Jolly Dog logo creating the fabulous image of dog as pirate--my little scrap of the island and it made me happy.
Now comes the unfortunate incident.
Last Saturday Bubby got a pedicure. Much to my dismay the nails sometimes bleed after being clipped, but not much and a little styptic powder usually solves the problem. The clipping routine is a traumatic event for both of us, but Sara is calm, grasping him in a towel, pinning his head between thumb and forefinger, leaving him desperate to bite the crap out of anybody, but completely unable. I peel his little toes out of his tight fighter's fist and hold them steady for the toenail guillotine Sara wields so confidently. I flinch feeling it all as I imagine he does. But I know, no matter how unpleasant, it has to be done or his nails grow back into his feet (yet another reason birds shouldn't be captive - but that's a topic for another day). The whole thing is over in a matter of seconds. With a chunk of walnut in his beak Bubby forgets all about the trauma. I need a beer to repair my nerves.
Once we'd both returned to normal, Bubby flew to my shoulder, as is his habit. We both enjoy the game: I say "Garr! Ye be me parrot!" and he bobs his head, imitates my laugh and plays along. This time, however, he landed on my shoulder and his toe immediately erupted in blood, a shockingly large bright red circle spreading out over my shirt making it look like I'd just been tragically shot by a hidden assassin. (Yes, I watch too many bad movies.)
After helping Sara control the bleeding I took off my favorite shirt to hit it with the stain stick. Right on the damn package was the claim that it could remove blood stains. I won't tell you what brand it was, but it certainly did remove the stain, along with the jolly blue jean color, leaving a large bleached out spot in a pattern that I think looks like Africa. Or Martha Washington's profile. Hard to tell which. At any rate the shirt is ruined. I draped it over the upstairs railing to dry and tried not to look at it.
Later that afternoon Bubby followed me upstairs and while I thought he was playing in one of his many boxes filled with shredded bedding of junk mail and LL Bean catalogues, I looked around to find him ripping holes in my formerly favorite shirt. Just for good measure, I suppose. I watched him having a grand time, shaking the cloth in his beak and making his happy sounds. It's just a shirt, I thought. Just a thing. Maybe he's come into my life to teach me lessons that I should have learned by now: to let go of the material and embrace the spiritual; to celebrated joy wherever I find it--a piece of cloth to shred or a flower to rip the petals off of. I learn so much from such a tiny creature.
But, a part of me resists enlightenment and hopes that Sara will read this and order another really cool Jolly Dog shirt for me.
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