It started after a lovely and very filling Thanksgiving dinner at our house. It was a cozy affair with my parents, who had driven all the way from Jacksonville, FL to share this yummy holiday with us, and our good friends Laura Kepner-Adney and Tom Moore. Of course there was food, food, and more FOOD. After the carnage, the folks were tired and had gone back to their hotel room, so the four of us were chillin’, listening to music and chatting while digesting the huge feast.

We were still living in our “old” house (ie, the tall concrete block house with the spiral staircase we’d rented for three years until 3 weeks ago). It was a radical structure for downtown Tucson – the ceilings in the main room were up to 30 feet high. Jamie and I would muse, wouldn’t it be cool to do some kind of video party here? Take advantage of the wild space, do something really different? But the years passed quickly and we never got around to it. The prospect would throw a spark but soon our attention would be drawn elsewhere (usually to rehearsal or recording) and the glow would die out.

Until that fateful early evening, the old idea popped out of  one of our mouths. Instead of the notion floating back out into the ether never to return, a lightbulb fired up over Tom’s head. We knew, but had forgotten, that Tom has an extensive background in film in Austin and Seattle, even working on Bill Nye, the Science Guy’s show . He, like, knew how to do stuff like this. Tryptophan be damned, soon we were all leaning towards each other, hatching a plan to actually throw this video party. We didn’t have any details yet, but Tom figured a date when we’d all be in town and available for whatever this turned out to be: December 20th.

I wrote the date on the calendar and in the back of my mind, my don’t-get-your-hopes-up-too-much voice drawled: yeah, we’ll see what happens. But then, we’d never worked with Tom before. After a couple of weeks, he brought up the party again and we started talking details. We wanted to keep it simple, it was an experiment, we’ll take it slow.

First, the bands – who would be in the show? Out of all the actual gigging  , experienced, long-lived bands we knew of, we ended up choosing two very young projects who were very different from each other: The Cordials (power americana pop rock w/ me, Laura and Courtney Robbins) and The Cleavers (massive stoner rock with two basses and no guitar w/ Jamie, Brian Green and Eric Schumeister). Then a synapse fired somewhere. Why not include a cooking segment for each band? Sure, that could be fun.  - we’d hosted and attended many a BBQ laden with creative culinary offerings from our friends. The first episode fell into place: The Cordials would play a song live and then Laura (an experienced bartender, among her many many talents) would walk you through a perfect Manhattan. The Cleavers would bang out a chaotic tune and then show us how they grill some steaks. Simple, easy, no big whoop.

We didn’t really put much thought and effort into it. The only thing left to figure out was a host – and because of his unpredictable but hilarious persona, we settled on [Bruce Halper (better known as one of Tucson's most experienced, happening drummers, but we had seen him as his alter ego, Phony Bennett.)] We had the date, we confirmed the people and that was about it.

The day of the shoot, Tom came over with some gear and set up lights around the house. Somehow various friends heard about this covert operation and showed up. Now we had a studio audience! Nobody had actually thought about having enough food for everyone to actually eat – but I’d picked up some veggies to grill and somehow there was enough for everyone.

And the day just flowed. It was long, it wasn’t perfect. Most segments had maybe one or two takes. We were definitely not going for perfection here. But Tom’s eagle directing eye and our joined forces created something. A few weeks later, he had edited the various pieces of footage (I even did some ‘filming’ with an 8mm iPhone app) and wanted to show us. It was quirky, it was rockin’ and rather delicious. We called it Rockin’ Gourmet, slapped it up on YouTube and here’s the first episode:

This is still a very young project but I couldn’t predict how much fun it would be. So among our already busy schedules, we’ve managed to put together some shorter music/food segments and another full episode since. The second episode was filmed during Rodeo Week so there’s a western theme throughout. So far I’ve been involved mostly as one of the producers (ie, I help organize and deal with obstacles if I can). It’s been enormously fun and fulfilling figuring these things out. Tom is the creative engine behind RG but it’s so cool how so many of us end up pulling together to raise that barn. We are part of one EFFIN’ cool community.

Here’s the second episode with Amy Rude and Loveland – a truly charming piece:

If you want to stay tuned to future offerings, go like our page and subscribe to our YouTube channels. There’s a lot more fun and yum around the corner!

http://www.facebook.com/rockingourmet

http://www.youtube.com/rockingourmet

Literally.

The coo of mourning doves, the shimmering shifting repertoire of the mockingbirds, the sweet tweets of finches all intersecting in the ancient Ent-like olive tree sprawled outside my (new) office window. The previous owners had hung grapevine balls wrapped in christmas lights from the branches and they are now home to the finches – making their twiggy nests within. I can’t even bear to turn those lights on in case I disturb their sleep!

Those round balls get a lot of finch traffic through the day!

We knew we would love this place when we went through the long arduous process of buying it (it was a short sale). But here we are in our second week of actually living here and I can’t believe we have this little oasis to ourselves. It even comes with turtles! I can’t quite tell if they’re stone or bronze – but there’s a big mama turtle and a wee baby turtle forever hanging out in the backyard, within sight of every northern window.

This isn't the view from my window, but it's a better way to capture their cute stolidness.

Some people have already wondered aloud if it wouldn’t be terribly distracting all this nature hovering in front of my eyes while I work. I guess it should. But instead I find these sounds and views deeply restful and inspiring. My own kind of white noise that keeps my monkey mind engaged while the REAL part of me gets down to business. Life has been as hectic as it gets when you buy a house and move. Like, REALLY hectic for me because I’ve over-thought and obssessed on every detail, such as how to move our precious Massi without freaking him out (which he didn’t, he loves this place too), where to put every last little thing, OH all these things that sprouted up in drawers and corners, like mushrooms, over the last three years. Choosing the paint before we moved was a Byzantine process itself – good Lord, I never realized how many different shades of blue existed in this medium!

Today, I finally put my guitar in my lap and strummed. And the fragment of a tune that played through my mind some months ago popped out and grew. Hearing my sounds in this new space brought me home even more than the cooking and cleaning and all the other feathering-the-nest things I’ve been brooding over. Feels like this room wants to hear music. And so I shall comply. Jamie’s new studio/workspace is a delightful combination of orange and brown – like a seventies talk show! We can hear ourselves when we jam – the sound doesn’t rise up 30 feet and peer down like a ghost. It’s the new and improved Chamber of Sounds and crackling with possibilities.

I’ve wandered a bit since my late twenties – which is quite a while if you’re counting – from Florida to New York to Los Angeles to Tucson. And now that Jamie and I actually found a place we were willing to commit to and go into debt for (yes, yes, it’s a GOOD kind of debt, but I like to be dramatic), I feel a deep sense of happy and contented humming in the eye of all my adrenaline-fueled whirling about. I made myself take a nap and actually avoided unpacking for a day. Later I’ll plant the cherry tomato from our friend Cyril and make a meal that doesn’t require too many dishes. We’ll curl up on the couch with Massi asleep in the faux leather chair and nod off to The Office. And just be home.

Slither (hop) slither

rock (hop) tree bark (scurry up)

teal belly pushups (1, 2, 3, 4)

wherisshewherisshewherisshewherisshe?

FREEZE

Streak across brick like bullet through air!

Stop (safe?)

Sunbeam (mmmmmmmmmm)

Resting in blissful radiation

Fly! SNAP (yum)

Blink, blink

But

wherisshewherisshewherisshewherisshe?

more fetching teal belly pushups (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)

rustling around the corner of the rock bed

slither, slither (hop) slither

Playing bass was at first a practical matter: Jamie and I were playing in The Modeens in Los Angeles with our friend Phil on drums. Jamie was the bass player, but he’s a much more powerful and versatile guitar player than I am and we started thinking: what about changing roles? I’d admired the bass since my New York days – I’d played with some amazing bass players in New York, including Dan Green and Michael P Nordberg (though he’s gone over to the 6-string side these days to great effect). And Jamie himself is a rockin’ bass man (check him out singing and playing in his old band, Frankenorange!) They all had schooled me in blues and rock and the important role bass plays as part of the bedrock of those sounds. You gotta groove those lower notes in time with the beats to create the undeniable soul sensation that gets other people to move with you. So let’s say I was a little bit intimidated at first.

Then Jamie gave me my birthday present: a lesson with Carol Kaye. I freaked out. THE Carol Kaye! She was alive and living in Los Angeles and you could actually pay her for a lesson! Can you believe it? What? Carol who? C’mon, you’ve never heard of Carol Kaye? Well sit yerself down and I’ll tell you about the most badass of bass players whose funky fingers helped create almost all of your favorite sounds from the sixties and seventies.

Carol Kaye came from a musical family and had already started playing as a professional jazz guitarist (and teacher) in the fifties when she was just 14. At that time, a bass string sound only had one source: a giant standup double bass about six feet tall. Then somebody (Leo Fender) had the bright idea that if you could make guitars electric, why not make a bass version? So Fender became the enterprising company that produced these new fangled instruments, but nobody really knew how to play them yet. Carol recalls that she was at a Sam Cooke gig, getting ready to take out her guitar when the word came down that the only guy they knew who could play the studio’s Fender bass couldn’t make it. They asked Carol if she could give it a shot and she said, sure, why not?

That was the beginning of an amazing career. She became the top session player – any time a big studio needed players for a recording artist or TV show or soundtrack, Carol was the first on their list in Hollywood, recording over 10,000 sessions in her heydey. She was even part of the Wrecking Crew – a stable of top-notch musicians including Tommy Tedesco and Hal Blaine who did the actual performing of tunes you thought were played by The Beach Boys, The Mamas and The Papas, Derek and The Dominos, and the like.

And she was a single mother – yeah, she would work 13-16 hour days recording as many as 3 different songs while raising three young-uns of her own. In fly gogo boots to boot. So what did she play on? For starters, Good Vibrations, Feelin’ Alright, I’m A Believer, These Boots Are Made For Walkin, and thousands more. Heard any of those? Then you know who I’m talking about!

And I was going to meet her. And she was gonna teach me to play the bass! The day of our first lesson, Jamie was almost more nervous than I was – she was his bass hero! It was a bit of a drive from Venice (then again, this is Los Angeles where everything is a bit of a drive.) After some time on the 405, we finally found her house in a cluster of condos in a very suburban area. We collectively held our breath after ringing the doorbell. When the door opened, we met a mature, petite woman with short, frosted hair and large tinted glasses. She gave us a big smile and welcomed us inside. Carol had just moved from another home, so there were still unpacked boxes and the occasional coo from her covey of doves upstairs. In the living room, she had a very simple set up for lessons: small practice amp, a couple of stools and her Ibanez bass. She encouraged me to record the session and soon she was teaching me her technique for playing bass.

Now I wasn’t a total newbie – Jamie had taught me some things. But technique is totally different between four string and six string guitars. Not only do you have much thicker strings and a longer, heavier neck to contend with – you’re going for a different effect – holding down the root note of each chord (though there are expections to that rule), usually concentrating on single notes rather than chords (again there are exceptions) and making sure that you provide the harmonic foundation for the tune but while throwing in some riffs at the right times to add some interest. Carol would take it even further. With her jazz background, she knew how to improvise – and if a tune was too boring for her, she’d find a way to add a little sonic sparkle with a well-placed riff or new take on a line. You know that song “The Beat Goes On” by Sonny and Cher? That descending bass line in the verse? Before Carol came along, it was just a straight and steady single note. But the descending line totally makes the tune – and I can’t imagine it would have gotten very far on the charts without it.

Aside from her busy recording job, Carol had been not only teaching bass, but self-publishing her own manuals, then VHS tapes, then DVDs, since 1969. So part of getting a lesson from her is getting access to these time-tested copies of her books and pamphlets bursting with various riffs she had created and played throughout her career. She also threw in lots of copies of articles she’d written, material written about her and even some royalty stubs from La Bamba or That Lovin’ Feelin.

You can still get her manuals online, many with the slightly blurry and cramped Courier font from the days of mimeographs and Xerox,  and within you can find the technique she honed over many years that allowed her to play constantly for 16 hours a day and never suffer repetitive stress syndrome or other musician-related injuries. All while wearing her strappy Kinney sandals and cats eye glasses. Actually, one of the most valuable lessons on her DVD “Bass DVD Course with Manual“ is How To Groove where she clicks on her old metronome and instructs you to not only play in time with it, but to dance with it, to “groove” with it. And if you can groove with a metronome, you can groove to anything.

Some particulars of the Carol Kaye method: she uses flatwound strings and a pick (as opposed to her fingers like many other players do now), positioned in a certain way; on her left hand (her fretting hand), she uses her pinky finger instead of her ring finger to reach higher notes. And theory, lots of theory. Carol is first and foremost a jazz musician and her actual playing ability far exceeded the material she was paid to do. She thought rock was fun but kinda ‘kids stuff’. To this day, she’ll sit in with Plas Johnson (saxophone player on the Pink Panther theme) at a jazz cafe and run up and down that fretboard enough to make your head spin! So theory was very important to her (and new to me – I finally understood what a ‘fifth’ or a ‘third’ was!)

I’m not a jazzbo, but I picked up some of the basics and then she put me through my paces teaching me riffs she’d been paid to come up with throughout her career, including Wichita Lineman, Autumn Leaves,and Hikky Burr (theme from Bill Cosby’s show). Not that I could play them for you now (sad to say) but they did form a bedrock for bringing the bass to life for me on other tunes.

To our utter and sheer delight, she peppered her instructions with tales from her career. And there was some jaw-dropping stuff (at least to sixties music nerds like us). She worked with Brian Wilson (on many Beach Boys songs, but particularly on Pet Sounds) and told us how he already had everybody’s parts in his head and just dictated to each musician exactly what their lines were. Except for one part in Good Vibrations, where they needed a transition between parts. Carol had been experimenting with a fuzz-tone pedal and improvised a steadily repeated single note with the fuzz sound on the spot. Brian loved it and it’s a prominent part of one of the most classic rock songs of the sixties. Which she played for us on the spot and our hearts collectively skipped a beat hearing her do that live. She also worked with Phil Spector (and yes, he was a crazy asshole) and Quincy Jones (who she really dug).

Carol is a veritable treasure trove of music knowledge and LA stories and I got a lot from my three lessons. I don’t play nearly as well as her – or nearly as well as any of my other bass influences. But I did become a bass player. And getting to know a woman like Ms Kaye reminded me that it’s not about men vs women – it’s about working together to make amazing music happen.

I’ve barely scratched the surface of the Carol Kaye method, but if you’re interested in learning more, I highly recommend checking out her website (http://carolkaye.com/) and especially her materials here (http://www.carolkaye.com/catalog/index.php?cPath=21). You can even get a Skype lesson if you’re not close by! You’d be in the company of some other bass players who’ve been influenced by her books: Sting, John Paul Jones, Jaco Pastorius and Stu Hamm.

And this Saturday, Carol Kaye turns 77. Happy Birthday, Carol! You’re a huge inspiration to women everywhere – a fine example of being a total badass in a man’s world. People still don’t know your name but you are the unsung hero of 60′s and 70′s music in the Williams-Laboz household!

Here’s a trailer for a proposed documentary about this amazing woman and musician, “Her Name is Carol Kaye” – unfortunately they haven’t found funding but I really hope it still gets made someday. In the meantime, you can see (and hear) some of her magic:

My favorite quote: “When you hear somebody with balls, that’s me.” — Carol Kaye

That’s right, Carol – and may you keep bringin’ it on the bass for many more years to come.

But then I shake myself. This isn’t a gloomy piece about a possible future apocalypse. I’m here to talk about spring in Tucson. A very unlikely paradise, but paradise nonetheless.

Yes, we live in a desert. But this is the Sonoran desert, one of the most biodiverse deserts in the world. Even in a desert, we are surrounded by a unique and fantastic array of flora and fauna. And spring is the brief, juicy season when Technicolor hues bursts forth from the usual gray, green and brown. Soon, those forbidding, spiny prickly pear cacti that provide a more muted, alien backdrop to our desert lives the rest of the year will suddenly be peppered with frilly crepe paper blooms. And these blossoms, little baby nodules just now studding the edges of the pads, will become as outrageously flamboyant and flirtatious as their backdrop is stern and monochromatic.

Looking inside the blossom of a prickly pear is like looking into a kaleidoscopic geode – with vivid complex arrangements of stamen in the center – a mini-bouquet unto themselves, jealously guarded by the mother spines. Look but don’t touch. We gaze upon them rapturously, greedily drinking in the fuchsias and yellows and scarlets bright enough to rival the ever-present sun. Later in the season, the stately, statuesque saguaros will turn into May Queens, crowned in puffy, fluffy white flowers with yellow centers like eggs sunny side up. Even the ocotillo, normally austere straight sticks spiking the air, become tufted in orange. An austere, elegant landscape turns blowsy with blooms.

And we Tucsonans follow suit. Women break out bright floral dresses and paint their toes to match the blossoms. Men dig out their shorts and Tevas and work on their farmer tans. Now is the time to take that extra midday bike ride, one more hike under a noon sun before the soft golden wash sharpens into laser rays. Now is the time to flaunt our flesh and forget the hat. We still know enough to bring our water and sunscreen – but without summer’s desperate urgency.

At least for now, this is the time to be Outside with friends and lovers, a flaming barbecue in the background. We no longer have to hide until May rolls around. Then while lilacs and peonies light up some alien land to the northeast, here the sun’s touch starts to bite our skin and soon we’ll be heading for cover again. The last gasp before the heat starts melting the asphalt.

But for now, let’s smile and promenade, admire the loveliness bursting around us and in each other. Like everything else, like each other, it will only last a little while. Let Sonora kiss our eyes and the yet-young sun stroke our shoulders for just a while longer and wallow in our own Garden of Eden. While we have it.

Image by azmichelle on flickr.

Credit: Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

He was a theater guy, too. He just had that ‘Broadway star’ kinda talent – such a show man, such an entertainer! He had just finished a stint in Oliver! before joining the show. And so self effacing in those weird interviews they sometimes tacked on to the end of a show. While the other Monkees were trying to emphasize their talents and prove to the world they were more than just a Monkee, Davy always seemed to own it. He was a Monkee and he was proud of it! He was there to entertain, did a damn good job, and he knew it. Even among the Monkees, it seemed that while other members might have friction with each other (*cough* Nesmith and Tork *cough*), Davy got along with everyone. *Sniff* excuse me, I’m gonna talk straight to the little guy himself:

Oh Davy, you carried the show’s heart. Your sense of humor and timing was always pitch perfect for the avante garde slapstick they threw at you. Joking about your shortness. Adorable English accent. I dunno, you were just so damn cute, but also seemed like a genuinely sweet guy. You gave many reasons for me to smile like a child when I watched/heard you do ‘Valeri’, ‘Daydream Believer’, ‘Here Comes Tomorrow’, and one of my favorites ‘Cuddly Toy’. Those songs were so YOU and no one else could give them that hip kinda razzle-dazzle that was your forte. Not that you were actually a hippie/hipster dude. Nope, even in your screen test, you maintained that you were a clean cut kinda guy and just grew your hair for the show. But The Monkees would never have been The Monkees without you. We’ll all miss your light and warmth and the way you snapped your fingers and did The Serpentine during the “Daydream Believer” video. Somewhere I hope you’re playing the drums (what you *really* wanted to do in the band) and doing the old soft shoe for Saint Peter.

*Snuffle* Ahem, ok I’m back.

It’s hard to believe they fit all those shows into two seasons. but if you’ve never checked out The Monkees, get thee to Netflix post haste! Jamie and I will be revisiting the show for sure. Even though it was panned by critics when it came out, there’s a lot of gold in these shows. A radical, mind-expanding cultural revolution was roiling that The Monkees introduced to the mainstream and parodied at the same time. Bob Rafelson and Bert Schneider, a couple of young hipsters, used techniques from the experimental cinema of the time (including Hard Day’s Night) and even slipped in some social commentary. Though some of the Monkees contributed great songs, much of the music was composed by the top writers of the day.

While you’re in your queue, go ahead and check out Head one of the most psychedelic movies ever – starring our boys. Head was a microcosm of the intellectual and avant garde curiosity in the arts that was rampant in that special time. Frank Zappa was in it for criminy’s sake. And you get to see a clean-shaven, short-haired Jack Nicholson (I always love seeing him in his sixties roles. He looked like a geeky science teacher with a rich inner life). The music was written by Carol King, Goffin, Henry Nielssen, Nesmith and Tork. And it’s gorgeous – check out Porpoise Song alone – written by King/Geffin. Very interesting things going on.

Oh but please skip 33 1/3 Revolutions Per Monkee *shudder*. A desperate last gasp that should have never happened.

But back to Davy. Oh, Davy, (here I go again) we’re so so sad you’re gone. But the one good thing that could come of it is more people realizing the brilliance of what you guys actually did and in particular the joy that you brought to the table.

I leave you with my personal favorite Davy moment, “Daddy’s Song” from Head (w/ Tony Basil and Franz Zappa, song by Harry Nilsson):

Sadly I just got more bad news, closer to home. A dear family member just passed away, Julian Parker, or as we called him, Uncle Dittles. Part of the greatest generation, a veteran with the limp to show for it, he was the epitome of the strong but kind man. He had a long, good life but will still be missed sorely by his loving wife, children and all those who knew him. I just wanted to send condolences to Aunt BeBe, Tommy, Gary and all the Parkers and Williams in Macon and Milledgeville Georgia. God bless all yall.

On top of that, she grew up with Mamacita, her grandmother, who had maids and owned the Vedado Hotel (now the Victoria Hotel) so they ate at the restaurant many days.  When she married, she had a cook and Ana, my mother and uncle’s “Tata” (or nanny), to prepare meals on the days off of the “real” cook. Which gave her time to look gorgeous on a Cuban beachside with my uncle : )

But Mami Joan wanted to cook. After she’d grown up and started a family of her own, she still had to sneak in to cook her favorite concoction until one of the staff shooed her back out. According to my mother:

Since her childhood, she never had to cook for herself or her family for she always had maids around her. She did, however, venture into the kitchen to make fudge (not part of the Cuban cuisine) since she adored chocolate.  One of my very favorite memories of being in the kitchen back then is when she would make this dish and let me watch her, maybe letting me stir every once in a while.

When she suddenly came as an exile to the U.S.(Nov. 1960)–she came with permission to visit me for a week and was supposed to return but I begged her to stay since I was living on a rented room of someone Abuelo knew while I attended 11th grade at South Miami High– she didn’t know how to cook.  Culture shock!

We moved to a one bedroom small apartment in Coral Gables and had to go by bus to get groceries. We ate lots of sandwiches but she got two cookbooks, one in English as well as the very well know “Cocinar con Nitza Villapol” and soon we were eating well.

Her specialties across the years were her fantastic Cuban Arroz con Pollo, warm sliced buttered bread, Boliche stuffed with chorizo, ropa vieja, palomilla, frijoles negros from scratch (no Cuban canned beans back then), and flan. Also, stuffed tomatoes, French onion soup, a tuna loaf in fish form (that’s the copper fish mold I have in the kitchen wall), out of this world Pineapple Upside down cake, and the best sandwiches.

And I’m so grateful for her fight! For her perseverance when her life was turned upside down, outside of her control. For her arroz con pollo, her amazing boliche. Oh my God, my mouth waters at the memories. She also extended her repertoire to Italian and French cooking and any tomato sauce she concocted or pork chops she sizzled were just scrumptious. But the one that has stuck in my gray matter all these years was her arroz con frijoles (black beans and rice), one of the most basic of Cuban dishes and my all time favorite comfort food.

I’m so grateful that years ago I’d asked Mami Joan to write down this recipe. I always loved it every time she made it - I would sit on the edge of my seat in their modest Florida apartment and salivate like a Pavlovian dog when I heard the bell of the rice cooker, which meant dinner was moments away. The velvet texture of the beans and tanginess of the cider vinegar and olive oil poured on at the end. ¡Ay, que rico! It’s also de riguer to throw some extra chopped onion on top! So here in her own words are the details of Mami Joan’s version of the most classic and perhaps beloved of Cuban dishes:

Wash and rinse 1 lb. black beans. Place in a large suacepan (at least 4 qts) and cover with water to at least 2 inches above beans. Soak overnight with 1 large green pepper cut in quarters and seeds taken out. (If you are going to cook them at night, soak them in the morning). If water has been absorbed before cooking, add more water so that beans will be covered – about 1 1/2″ to 2″ above beans. Cook covered, on low to moderate heat until beans are tender (about one hour).

Meanwhile, sautee the following in 2 tablespoons olive oil until tender: 1 large (not enormous) onion finely chopped, 2 large green bell peppers (seeds removed and finely chopped), 2 unpeeled garlic cloves (minced).

Add 1 bay leaf, 2 teaspoons salt, 1/4 teaspoon cumin, 1/2 teaspoon pepper, and 1 1/2 tablespoons sugar.

Add all this to the cooked beans, stir, cover and cook under low to medium heat until beans are of desired consistency (about 1 hour). Should be sort of thick but not too much. Taste and add more salt if necessary. Discard the bayleaf and large pieces of green pepper. Add 1 1/2 tablespoons cider vinegar and 2 tablespoons oil and serve*.

But what I love the most from this recipe is Mami Joan’s last line:

After all these instructions, might it not be easier to heat two cans of ready made “frijoles negros” of “Ebro” or “La Lechonera” adding some olive oil? : )

Ay, Mami Joan, it might be easier but in no way could it bring me back a bit of you to savor as the beans simmer.

* Usually this dish is served with basic white rice – and Mami Joan used an electric rice cooker to achieve Cuban nirvana.

It all started for me during the final days of my year-and-a-half in Miami, post-college. By this time, it was 1991, Armani had just moved to Miami Beach and the area was starting its evolution from sleepy retirement neighborhood to swanky celebrity hangout-by-the-sea. I had moved to the area six months before and was well into my decline from dewy-eyed theater hopeful to increasingly freaked-out bum-t0-be (long story). I was almost 22, and after some promising roles in regional theater, I’d been out of work for months and was trying to figure out my next step – though I’d been showing abysmal judgement since I’d left Jacksonville. Remember that phrase “Bangkok’s got him now.” from The Hangover 2? It kept reminding me of how I felt in the weirdest of the US metropolises. South Florida in particular is a maelstrom of cultures and vibes where events never seem to take their normal course but veer off into Twilight Zone territory with unnerving regularity. For example, the severed arm found in the washing machine of a laundromat. An actual news item from that time.

But I digress.

So I was looking for work, a gig, a casting for (almost) anything and doing the usual, combing the local casting papers for auditions and such, when a certain ad caught my eye. It was looking for young female singers to perform at convention centers and trade shows. Good money. No nudity or skimpy clothing required! This sounded right up my alley, so I made the call. The interview was in a hotel lobby further up in North Miami Beach. Which meant I could take the jitney bus, which was a relief since I’d had to sell my car to pay rent and avoid the toxic cloud of old parking tickets stuffed and ticking in the glove compartment. Yes, I was that girl.

But, again, I digress.

I dressed in my most demure business-y outfit, a modest black skirt, flats and patterned blouse with a high neck. It was cute but didn’t give the auditioner any ideas (if I was lucky.) In the lobby was someone who I’ll call Arnie. Arnie was a type you came across quite a bit in South Florida in the early nineties: liver spots, potbelly, skinny legs, balding, leisure suit, white shoes, gold watch, briefcase. He shook my hand with a nice-to-know-ya smile and an extra pat from his other bear hand. He showed me to a seat in the lounge and got right down to business. He asked if I knew anything about the group – of course I’d had, they played “Leader of the Pack” a bunch on the oldies station in Jacksonville. He explained that The Shangri-La’s were a manufactured group and had always hired new performers every few years for corporate events. And they were looking for the next batch of girls. They traveled to well-paying gigs in the region and there wasn’t much time for rehearsals, but if I was chosen it could be a great opportunity. That all sounded fine to me and he showed me into one of the conference rooms where a boombox waited on short table towards the back of the room. Some other girls were milling about, each scrutinizing a sheet of paper and moving her lips. Some glanced up at me as I passed, wary and wondering.

Arnie handed me the lyrics to “Leader of the Pack”, walked over to the boombox and pressed play. I sang along to the karaoke tape and easily handled this song that had apparently been tattooed on my brain via FM radio. Arnie beamed as I finished and said it was right on the money! He gave me another song that I wasn’t so familiar with, “Remember” – again I sang along to the tape and after faltering a bit at the beginning, I seemed to figure out the song and finished strong. Arnie had pulled in another associate whose name I never caught and they both nodded vigorously while muttering to each other. And it seemed like good muttering. I was so relieved, auditions almost always suck but when you get any kind of good response, it’s just so gratifying. Arnie sent me  home and said they’d call and let me know soon.

I didn’t have to wait long! They’d chosen the three girls and rehearsals would start next week. And it was fun! The other girls were very nice, though it seemed I was the only one who had a performing background. But still the songs were cool and there was a choreographer who coached us through some steps. It was like a grand game of make-believe, playing old pop stars and dreaming of the fame and glory sure to be hanging just around the corner. Arnie kept promoting me to the lead singing spot (formerly occupied brilliantly by Mary Weiss) and I had a blast with these cool bad-girl pop tunes.

But the bottom was rushing up to me. I wasn’t getting paid for any of these rehearsals and I didn’t know when I would be. My string of bad luck was going strong as I was evicted from my South Beach efficiency after a friend’s drunk ex-girlfriend beat down the front window with her hands (another long story.) And then the calls just stopped coming. I tried Arnie’s number but got no answer. Suddenly The Shangri-Las had shoop-ed right out of my life. It was the beginning of a denouement that led to my moving back home to Jacksonville. Ah what could have been, I’d thought. I was almost a Shangri-La.

Turns out these folks weren’t related to the original group at all. But the real Shangri-La’s had never registered their name. So a certain fella just went ahead and registered it for himself, then started putting together girl groups under “his” name. There had been a whole expose about it on Entertainment Tonight in 1989 but I hadn’t a clue. And I’m so glad that I didn’t make a career out of being a singer in a fraudulent girl group. Instead, before I finally tucked my tail between my legs and headed back upstate, I started writing my own songs and playing them out with my guitar. Which put me on a whole different route than I’d ever planned. Thank God for hard-left turns.

Still, whenever I hear “Leader of the Pack”, I sigh a little inside.

Image courtesy of mtarvainen on Flickr.

A couple of months ago, as I was grunting through the arduous task of tending to the compost bin I’d neglected for months – while our weather was still in the 90s – I got to thinking and cogitatin’ on how my approach was similar to many other things in my life. I’ve made a passing reference before to being slightly autistic. I actually don’t say that lightly or as a joke – when tested for autism, I rank high up there – but I function well enough that most people don’t notice (except for my reputation as a space cadet.)

It’s related to my learning disability (which I talk about here) but even though it’s made a lot of “easy” things hard (like social interaction – high school was not kind to me), over many years I’ve learned how to live with it. One of the ways I cope is by developing systems for even the tiniest things – where many people can just take common sense and apply it to a given situation, that’s never worked for me. For even the simplest things, like learning to talk, I’ve had to be taught systematically until my brain forms a sort of general map of the situation at hand and then I can take it from there. This is where age comes as an advantage – I’ve been around long enough practicing to be a relatively normal human that I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Working on a neglected pile of compost is no different. So here was my system in action, which is an example of how I get my strange brain to work in my favor. It’s not fast, it’s not perfect, but it generally gets the job done.

First, I analyze the way things are at present. I haven’t touched my compost bin in months except to add kitchen scraps, so via my research (Google is a godsend) I know that I need to mix it up again and add a little water to get those microbes making the compost I need for my winter garden. Outside it is hot – very hot. I’m a little tired. Can I postpone this? No, this is the only morning I have to do this or I’ll miss the ideal but brief planting window of a Tucson autumn. So I’ll be doing hard work in desert heat – ok, I’ll need water. I go back inside and grab a tall glass of water and set it outside on a table. Now what is the best tool I have on hand for dealing with the compost? Oh, right, my pitchfork! I know this because I bought it specifically for the compost bin but haven’t really used it much. So I go grab the pitchfork, open the top of the bin and then almost retch at the disgusting bouquet that arises. Note, a disgusting bouquet does not arise if you actually take care of your compost pile – ie, turn it over every one or two weeks – but I had forgotten to do this for six months, so it was a pile of plant matter in various stages of decomposition.

I look forlornly back and forth between the pitchfork and this creepy morass of sludge. Then I remember that I’m supposed to add “brown” matter. Brown matter, in compost terms, is anything like dried grass, leaves, straw that adds bulk and other nice things that mix with the kitchen scraps and make compost compost-y. Luckily, I have some hay from last year still lying on my neglected vegetable beds, so I take a bucket and go back and forth so that there’s a decent amount of brown in relation to the … well it’s called “green” matter – but it certainly ain’t green right now. I’m already feeling some sweat trickle down my neck and I haven’t even started the real work yet. But it’s time to take a drink of water!

Very good. Now it looks like I have what I need to get started. Um, can I take a break now? Heh, nice try, Cris. No! I must get this done so I have some time to rest before a gig tonight! I remember that using pitchforks and rakes can get my hands blistery so I slap on some gloves. Anything else I need to attend to so I can keep procrastinating? Need to go to the bathroom? No? Oh well, then here we go.

Now it’s time for further analysis. What’s the most efficient way for me to use the pitchfork to mix up this stolid matt of grossness? I futz around a bit with the fork until I figure something simple that would work: plunging the pitchfork in an out of the material, in various directions, back and forth, to and fro, using as few muscles as possible. Plunge, plunge, plunge – I feel some signs of lightheadness coming on so I stop, breathe a few breaths and drink some water. Then back at it: plunge, plunge, plunge – breathe and sip. I work out a criss-cross pattern – first in one direction, then another. So I continue plunging until I feel tired, then stop, stretch, drink water, then go back. Eventually it all starts to break down. Slow and steady. Tortoise, not the hare.

I then start twisting the pitchfork to churn it up a bit. I need to incorporate this into the older bits below, which churn up to the top – in more advanced states of decay. This is good (plus the older stuff doesn’t smell). I keep taking breaks when I feel tired – no need to be a hero, it’s just compost! (I do need to remind myself of things like this or I’ll keep plugging along until I’m all used up.)

Once I’m satisfied that all the materials are fairly mixed together (it doesn’t have to be perfect) I can stop. Yay! I turn on the hose to add a little more water because it still seems dry in spots. And that’s that. I’m a bit sweaty and dusty, but not gasping for breath or teetering on the edge of sunstroke, so all’s good.

Then, and this is the most important part, I go to the bathroom and before I even wash my hands, I look myself right in the eye and swear to myself that I won’t go another six months without turning the compost. Then I wash up and I’m done!

This pretty much sums up how I do things: fiddle about, analyze a little, fiddle about some more, analyze and then find a pattern that will get the most done in the shortest time possible. Oh, and I’ve found it really helps before starting major actions to check in with your body. Hungry? Grab a snack. Thirsty? Grab a glass of water. Need to pee? Get thee to the bathroom! And it’s these little things that may take a while but they help me wrap my brain around something that I’m not very familiar with. Afterwards, it’s even better if I actually write down what I did and how it worked and any lessons learned (um, which is what this blog post is really doing). But I usually forget that part. (Except for this time! Now next time I need to deal with compost I’ll just check my blog!)

So what did we learn from this? Number One, keep up with your compost-turning! Seriously. Every couple of weeks, take that pitchfork and give it a stir. Number Two, there’s lots of ways to do something and even if your brain is a bit different or “slow”, there’s a way to break things down so you can figure almost anything out if you have time (and Google.) Just be patient with yourself, don’t feel bad if others are looking at you like you’re an idiot (believe me, you get used to it) and write things down so you’ll have a reference later. Get it? Got it? Good. Class dismissed!

So, uh, what did you think about this post? Was it at all interesting? I have to say I’m ambivalent about posting this. Who knows, maybe everybody else’s brain works like this, too, and you’re all (all 5 of you)  going “duh, of course”! But we don’t really talk about our thought processes – or old compost – much, so maybe there’s still some value in looking behind the curtain…

UPDATE: I still haven’t turned my compost again in the 3 months since I first wrote this.

Here it is now a bit dogeared (with the beautiful latest edition of Zocalo peeking from behind as well as my new favorite Moleskine journal.) I highly recommend it – it’s packed with inspiration on so many facets of being an artist. After letting it sit for a long time, I closed my eyes, took a breath and opened a random page: Fascination.

That page reminds us to re-capture the sense of fascination we had as children. The fascination we used to have with the tiniest details – like watching the sun play through the willow branches in your backyard or watching a spider spin her web. Now, I happen to have maintained a very healthy relationship with my inner child over the years, so I don’t think I’ve ever really lost my fascination with the world. In New York, fascination was embedded in the sidewalks, the facades of myriad stores and cafes unspooling block after block, the wildly, vastly different kinds of people that would stream past you every second once you ventured outside your door.

But I guess the subject of my fascination is what changes with each move or change in direction (of which I’ve had many). And nowadays the prime subject of my fascination is Tucson and the Sonoran desert. It’s funny that when Jamie and I encourage out of town friends and family to come visit, they usually shrug their shoulders. Even after our rapturous descriptions, they seem to just register “desert” and immediately think of vast expanses of nothingness with the odd cactus for visual relief. But nothing could be further from the truth. Though, yes, it is very dry and can get very hot here. But when I step outside my door, I’m simply fascinated every single time by (and this is only a partial list in no particular order):

• Prickly pear cactus – These classic cacti are very familiar – but did you know in the springtime, they burst into glowing blooms that put roses to shame? The colors are luminescent lemon yellow, fuchsia or scarlet, the petals like crepe paper and the center of the flower a striking field of stamen. The fruit are shaped like pears (hence the name) and are edible – the local jams are so tasty!
  
• Saguaros – I think they’re alive – like sentient (and very patient) beings that stand guard over the park that surrounds the city in case we get too close. When you go down Gates Pass, the land is completely swathed in them. And they each have their own personalities and idiosyncrasies: most look like they have arms waving at you,  some are pointing in a particular direction,  some have short stubby “arms” on their “chests” really close together and they look like “boobs”. Some have a longer one lower down that looks like..well, you get the idea.
• Horny toads – named for the horny scales on their neck and backs – they’re small but look like miniature prehistoric dinosaurs. There aren’t many of them around anymore but we see them every now and then in the barrio. And watching them move is wild – they scurry along like the birds in the Partridge Family intro – but really fast! Oh and if you bother them, they squirt blood out of their eyes. Good to know.
• Ocotillo branch fences – many homes use ocotillo branches as fences – and even though the sticks have long been severed from the mother plant and no longer touch the soil, they still shoot out tender green leaves in the spring.
• People who smile and say hi to you on the street – It’s true! They do! And it still sometimes catches me off guard. I love it.
• Sunsets – They’re gorgeous. There’s so much sky to view them in that they fill up and saturate your vista from end to end with color. My favorite (so far) was soon after we moved here. I was driving down 6th Ave and getting ready to turn toward home when the windshield was suddenly filled with pink – from one end to the other the whole sky from A mountain to the top of my view was a glowing field of pink with wisps of raspberry and gold. I SO lucky I didn’t hit anybody when that happened!
  
• The cowboy who lives in the barrio who always wear a cowboy hat, boots and sometimes chaps, who drives a huge motorcycle with saddlebags and walks his tiny toy doberman.
• Geckos at night with their transparent skin – I watch mesmerized as they hang outside of our porch light, alert to the movements of the moths and lacewings who will become their dinner. And, yes, fascinated (morbidly so) when they catch a moth twice their size and still manage to stuff it inside their alarmingly expanding jaws. Eeeeeewwwww! Ooooooh!
• Monsoons – I’ve written a bit about them here already – but nothing makes you feel the power and wrath of Heaven like a good monsoon.
• Day of the Dead – Some folks are a bit unsettled with the Mexican fascination with skeletons and death. But the yearly parade here is our biggest community event and the creativity, humor and love that shines through various tributes to lost loved ones is absolutely breathtaking.
• Roadrunners – they do NOT look like the Warner Brothers’s depiction of the adorable tall-limbed version in the famous cartoons. they are low to the ground and much smaller than a coyote – but they have RED eyes, intensely striped plumage and the way they move is eerie, like watching the Skeksis in Dark Crystal.

  Oh, ewww, okay, not that weird. Never mind.