Recently Karen and I took a day off and visited Union Square in San Francisco. It’s fun to play tourist even when you’re (sort of) local.

We went to Williams-Sonoma, one of our favorite stores in the Square, walked through Macy’s then a lovely dinner at The Cheesecake Factory on their top floor. (Yes, we realize that it is very touristy, but we were playing tourist.)

We’re planning to re-decorate Karen’s side of our home office in “Modern Diva,” so we visited Crate & Barrel where she tried out many of their Chaise Longues
.

After a pilgrimage to the Apple Store, we had had enough.

To finish the day took a drive to Vista Point and admired the Golden Gate Bridge, and then it was time to go home. It was a beautiful day, and we had a lovely time.

It’s springtime, and with springtime come singing birds. They like to start early, and we often wake up to their little morning concerts. We have a couple big trees in our yard, and the wee little birds seem to like them.

However, we have one bird that’s a little bit different: a parrot. It squawks. It clicks. It steals nuts from the squirrels. And people stop and stare at it, all day long. You can’t miss it: it’s big, with green feathers and a red beak.

We don’t know where it came from. Apparently it’s here in our neighborhood on some sort of political asylum visa.

A couple years ago someone made a movie, The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. I ordered it, for research.

I like having a parrot for a neighbor. I’d like it to stay around.

I wonder what you feed a parrot?

I asked her, “Was that Triple-Neigh?”

She laughed.

It was a low-hanging pun. I couldn’t resist.

Tonight I made White Bean and Pasta Soup. Karen chose the recipe, which is on Page 60 of The Best of Country Cooking 2003, published by Reiman Publications. I used our Le Creuset Oval French Oven, which is wonderful for this kind of cooking.

It turned out well. Preparation was speedy with minimal chopping. I substituted canned white beans for the dry great northern beans to speed up preparation. There were two mishaps: I accidentally added dried cranberries instead of dried currants so the soup ended up with both, and I completely forgot the Parmesan cheese before serving. Despite that, Karen liked it!

White Bean and Pasta Soup

Michelle Harbour, Lebanon, Tennessee

1-1/2 cups dry great northern beans

3/4 pound Italian sausage links, casings removed

1 large onion, chopped

1 large carrot, chopped

3 garlic cloves, minced

6 cups chicken broth

3 cups water

2 tablespoons dried currants

1 teaspoon dried basil

1 can (14-1/2 ounces) diced tomatoes, undrained

1 cup uncooked small shell pasta

Grated Parmesan cheese

Place beans in a Dutch oven or soup kettle; add water to cover by 2 in. Bring to a boil; boil for 2 minutes. Remove from the heat; cover and let stand for 1 hour. Drain and rinse beans, discarding liquid.

In the same pan, cook the sausage, onion, carrot and garlic over medium heat until the meat is no longer pink; drain. Add the broth, water, currants, basil and beans. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 1-1/2 to 2 hours or until the beans are tender, stirring occasionally.

Add the tomatoes and pasta; bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 15 minutes or until pasta is tender. Serve with Parmesan cheese.

Yield: 12 servings (3 quarts)

I never had occasion to meet Susan Butcher, but I always admired her for her single-mindedness. She embodied the true spirit of Alaska: she moved to the Interior from Outside to pursue a life of solitude and dedication to her passion — she wanted to win the Iditarod! After eight tries she did, in 1986. Then she went on to win three more times. Karen and I watched her start one year, and she was exactly what you’d expect: a red snowsuit full of energy and all business arranging her dogs. We’ll miss her now that she’s gone, but I expect to hear news of her daughters’ exploits soon enough. Her kind of spirit is too big for one generation.

As I drove past the last exit before the bridge entrance, I was dismayed to see the many prominent signs announcing the $3 fee. I scrambled to find the rest of the toll but scrounged only two quarters. When it was my turn at the gate I explained my predicament to the toll collector. She asked me when I’d be back. When I told her “next week,” she handed me a small envelope marked “IOU 50¢ #426″ and a brochure explaining the $25 ticket I’d normally get for not paying. “You can pay me back next week. This is so you know what you’re missing,” she told me. I thanked her and sheepishly drove on.

Last night as I once again crossed the bridge on my way home to West Sacramento from Palo Alto, I carefully chose the same gate. I recognized the toll collector and asked her, “do you know #426?” She paused and eyed me suspiciously. “That’s me,” she said. I smiled and handed her my $3 and the envelope with my 50¢ from the week before and said, “Remember me from last week?” “Yes I do,” she laughed. “Thank you very much,” I answered, and drove on my way.

Thanks, Toll Collector #426! I’ll always look for your gate!