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.

Our car wasn’t quite up to snuff, so we rented this sweet ride. It’s a Nissan Cube – really funky and surprisingly room inside. But what I really dug was the panoramic view from inside.

We met up with our friends Laura Kepner-Adney (Silver Thread Trio, The Cordials) and Tom Moore (The Possibles) to caravan out. This is Laura looking smashing, all color-coordinated with her truck. They didn’t take the truck, but the photo was too cute to not post!

There’s just something about being on the road, isn’t there?

These are views from 80 East, which runs south from I-10. I actually took way more photos – but I’m not a photographer and just couldn’t capture the almost dizzyingly expansive view and peaceful beauty. This is in winter, but I’d love to take a ride out in the spring when everything is blooming and green.

This is a peek at Tombstone – a very famous Old West town and site of the gunfight at the OK Corral with Wyatt Earp. It’s a bit touristy but in a way I love: cowboys walking right out of a sepia toned photo, horse-drawn carriages and a recreation of the gunfight every day.

Bisbee itself started its existence as a copper mining town and you can still tour the old mines. The topsoil around here is red, like Georgia clay. And with its much higher elevation, it’s a big change in temperature from Tucson. Except this year – the warm wave that’s been sweeping the nation’s Christmas season hit Bisbee during our visit and it was more like Spring Break. But we were grateful because we just do much better in warm weather vs cold. Cuz it can get coooold in Bisbee.

But the shops are absolutely charming and there are levels and angles everywhere, little mountain ruins tucked between brownstones, a hodgepodge of multi-colored homes nestled in the side of the mountain overlooking Brewery Gulch – where the local drinkin’ goes down.

Our own hotel (the highly recommended El Dorado Suites) had its own perch and it was a great vantage point from the balcony as people in various degrees of drunkenness flowed below us. Which was perfect for New Year’s Eve! All the people-watching, none of the being crushed against a bar.

Here we are in Bisbee creeping up a typically narrow street to get to the hotel.

Here you can get a sense of the many levels to this small town. And a nice shot of Jamie’s oh-so-masculine-yet-sensitive hands. Mmmmm.

And here was our view from the balcony. I guess I could have taken pictures of the hotel facade, the rooms, the scene later on that night, our friends…but, um, I forgot. So just imagine this darker, with lights, lots of staggering people wandering around and fireworks going off here and there.

We were here with many good friends and new friends – including lots of musicians from Silver Thread Trio, Seashell Radio and The Possibles, Leila Lopez and Courtney Robbins, The Cordials and The Cleavers – but instead of jamming, we turned ON the jams and karaoke’d and danced our way into the new year. There is a video somewhere of Jamie, Tom, and Fen Ikner (Seashell Radio) doing MC Hammer proud.

Oh wait, here it is (thanks, Kate!):

I’m sure they’ll be very happy I posted this.

We didn’t even really venture far from our rooms – we had food, drink and friends and lotsa moves to throw down (apparently) so we ended up on the downstairs balcony at that crucial moment.

Woo hoo!

And so here we are in 2012. Despite worries of the apocalypse, the economy, the climate, I feel hopeful and happy about this next trip around the sun. As always, there’s lots of musical dreams and plans in the works for our various projects. And this blog continues to draw words out of me that I never anticipated writing. Seriously, I have so many posts already written that I’ve been a bit timid about showing you. They’re just, I dunno – weird? A bit self-involved (though I do realize this *is* a blog)? But one of my resolutions is to edit myself a bit less on this website. It may not make much sense (ie, a philosophical/psychological blog about compost or a post about my brief stint as a Shangri-La). But I guess I’ll just gather my courage and keep revealing a bit more – for better or worse. Oh and maybe even post some music (soon, soon!)

Hope your next solar trip is a happy, fun and fulfilling one! Glad you’re along for the ride.

Hey, since this is a blog by a musician, how about something music-related (for once)? Then I’ll try to wrap up with something seasonally-related so you can go about your holiday machinations in the proper spirit.

So December became a time for two major music projects that added to my general busyness (actually three, but the third is a secret…for now). The first was a wonderful recording opportunity for a new project I’m involved with, The Cordials! As I think I’ve mentioned before, The Cordials were started by dear friend Laura Kepner-Adney (of Silver Thread Trio and Wingflash Design fame) who had some awesome songs that didn’t fit in with the beautiful folky Trio. So she asked me to come on board as bass player and Courtney Robbins – a wonderful singer/songwriter/guitar player to play drums (which she never had done before). The results are a funky mix of sweet and sour, americana and grunge, sugar and spice…it’s hard to describe. My favorite aspect of the band are our three-part harmonies – it’s a special blend. But sometime in the near future we’ll actually have some recorded evidence so you can judge for yourself! A couple of weeks ago we spent a day with Chris Schultz at Wavelab (which has recorded the likes of Calexico, Neko Case and Amos Lee) and it was a very long, very awesome time. Here are some pics from the day (most from co-conspirator and fantastic drummer, Winston Watson):

We still have some more details to add, fiddle and tweak but the rough mixes sound great – especially some new harmonies we crafted on the spot.

Then The Modeens and members of Seashell Radio (the amazing J Fen Ikner and the also amazing and aforementioned Courtney) teamed up for the Great Cover Up. This is a long-standing annual fundraising event in Tucson where local bands cover established bands in a multi-day music festival. Who’s covering whom is kept a deep, dark secret until show day. We covered The Beach Boys and it was my biggest musical challenge yet. Brian Wilson is a genius and the harmonies as well as instrument lines are arranged like mini pieces of Mozart of Beethoven. Ie, it’s farking hard! So we toiled and studied and wrassled for three weeks and loved (almost) every second of it. The results were very gratifying – once we figured what the individual pieces actually were, they fell in place like jigsaw puzzle pieces. To spice things up, we switched places so most of us had a lead singing spot and the bass and guitar were juggled betwixt and between Fen, Me and Jamie. The setlist was (in order): Wouldn’t It Be Nice, Don’t Worry, In My Room, I Get Around, God Only Knows and Good Vibrations.

To top it all off, my brother and sister-in-law came into town that weekend and were right up on the lip of the stage, cheering us on! I can’t even tell you how happy I was to see their faces while playing this music. The audience response was gratifying and it was over way too soon. Here are a few videos to give you an idea (I feel compelled to point out that Jamie is dressed as Mike Love (incl exotic baseball cap) and Fen is dressed as Brian Wilson with the bathrobe and shaggy hair – they don’t normally look like this):

Good Vibrations

In My Room

Wouldn’t It Be Nice

We’re still missing video from “Don’t Worry” where I sang the lead, without playing an instrument, which was oh so fun. So when something surfaces, I’ll let you know.

Now it’s time to get ready for a little holiday funmaking – been baking gingersnaps and double chocolates but will be putting on the brisket soon and will try my hand at latkes for the first time (wish me luck!) There’s no real tree this year so I just have my fond memories of many a green Christmas spent tramping through tree lots with the Williams clan. Each year we’d take turns on who got to make the final choice about which tree to take home. We’d groan when it was Daddy’s year, he’d always eagerly reach out for the scraggly, Charlie Brown trees while the rest of us begged and pleaded for the tall, bushy “normal” trees. But I had to admit that those slightly pitiful specimen always had the most character and charm. So Daddy, yes, you were right! I said it!

Hannukah/Christmas at our house pre-celebration

And to all of you, I wish you joy, merriment and enough peace to keep your sanity. Whatever your beliefs, this is a nice opportunity to cozy up with people you care for and enjoy life and each other with some lights and plenty of food during the darkest time of year. Thank you so much for reading this blog o’ mine that sprung up last March. It’s been teaching me a lot about myself and my family and I look forward to lots more in the new year.

Happy Holidays!
Cristina

by cherrypatter on Flickr

Hoo-boy – here we are in the thick of the holiday buying season – where emails and commercials urge us to buy, buy, buy at every corner, nook and cranny – while the Occupy protests are still calling on us to consider the gulf between 1% of the US population (mostly made of tycoons in banking and finance) and the rest of us – mutating our tradition of capitalism until its pretty much tuned strictly to their needs. But this isn’t a post about national politics and global economics, so just bear with me a sec.

Now global chains have their uses. Their goods and services are usually cheaper – even if the quality’s kinda ‘meh’ – and it allows people away from urban centers to get access to things, things and more things than they could before. Etc, etc, ad nauseum, yadda yadda.

But if you live in a town like Tucson – with lots of creative, entrepreneurial, independent folks – a whole heckuva lotta other options open up to you. You glimpse a bit of life before the Wal-Marts and Targets came to town (ah, though I do have a soft spot in my heart for Tar-Jay and its many cheap-but-cutes). Here, there’s a huge array of options – goods and services of high quality – offered by my own neighbors. Yes, they’re sometimes more expensive because they weren’t made by children in Asia – but if you have the means, I strongly recommend looking around your own city and checking out artisans, musicians, photographers, herbalists, carpenters and scores of other people who have lots of wonderful things to offer the folks on your holiday gift list.

The capitalist exchange is so pure – someone made something – many times lovingly or it has meaning for them – and you pay them. As simple as can be. You have a human face connected to this thing or service. And more of that money stays in your city to pay other folks for their goods and services. Local vendors have their reputations at stake and if their product or service is inferior, it hurts their business. So please at least check out your local, small businesses and give them a chance if they have something of value to offer. It might come with an extra bonus of a warm and fuzzy feeling – which is what we’re really looking for underneath all the holiday hype.

Here are some examples in Tucson I highly recommend (oh and many of these people are friends of mine – which both means I’m totally biased, but I also know first hand how great their products/services are!) And if you have a local business in your heart – feel free to shout it out loud in the comments (make sure to include the city – I have some readers from different areas and the last thing we need right now is more confusion and ambiguity!)

The following is no particular order…

Local farmer’s markets

Oh boy, I can’t believe how many more markets keep opening up in this small burg. I haven’t checked them all out but the one I’m most familiar with is the Santa Cruz market on Thursdays at the Mercado. You’re buying organic vegetables and fruits – in this case for CHEAP – directly from the farms. And there’s also Tucson Tamales, humanely raised meat from local ranches, crafts and, oh, oodles of gift ideas!

Find your local farmer’s markets (and farms, CSAs and more) here: http://www.localharvest.org/

Bohemia

This is a beautiful, warm shop to browse any time of the year. It’s funky and filled with amazing art work from local artists. The artwork is more expensive (as it should be, it’s amazing!) but there’s many other things to choose from: customized signs made from license plates, jewelry, clothing, soaps and lotions, totems for the garden. The proprietress, Tana Kelch, imbues the store with her sparkling warmth and energy.

http://www.bohemiatucson.com/

Yikes

Squee! This place just makes my inner kid clap with glee! It’s for “all ages, especially the young at heart” and is surprisingly grownup-friendly. There are toys that span the decades but they specialize in the unusual, eclectic and retro varieties (even Sea-Monkeys!). But there’s also wacky wrapping paper, books, amazing baby gifts and – well, you just have to see it to believe it. Luckily it’s on the same block as Bohemia, so make a day of it!

http://www.yikestoys.com

Folk Shop

Tucson is chock full of folk musicians (which I guess explains why they have a huge folk festival every May). This store is the perfect microcosm for this community: earthy, witty, and warm. But they not only have scads of guitars, banjos, mandolins, ukeleles, and autoharps – they also stock fascinating exotic instruments (that I can’t even name), toys for children (like thundermakers and slide whistles), sheet music and even a windup mouse! (Okay, I’m not sure why they’re selling a wind up mouse – but your cat would love it!)

http://www.thefolkshop.com/

Wingflash

Home girl Laura Kepner-Adney not only is a beautiful singer you can catch around town in Silver Thread Trio and The Cordials (oh, um, I’m in that last band too) but she designs an incredible line of jewelry. This ain’t no cheap stuff neither. This is where you go to knock out your girlfriend, wife, mother – whatever feminine presence you want to go “wow”! Okay, there’s actually stuff that men can wear, too, but I admit it, I look at the gorgeous array through girly glasses. What I love especially is the eclectic choices of materials – which Laura changes up from time to time – currently including sharks teeth, stunning drusy and even something called “sleeping beauty turquoise” from Arizona. Statement-making and just gorgeous. Check out her Etsy shop and get ready to drool.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/wingflash

feral girl

Ooooh, speaking of drool, you might as well break out the mop. feral girl has an etsy shop too, but it’s aaaall about leather, baby! Purses mostly, from hip wristlets to chic clutches to cowgirl-worthy field bags (pictured here – and yeah, that’s the one I got!) Believe me, they are devilishly delicious. The feral girl in question is Danielle Hawley and she crafts each bag by hand. Another gift-to-impress – or symbol of some serious self-care.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/feralgirl

From Knotty to Nice

You don’t always have to give stuff, though. When it comes to thoughtful presents, consider the gift of massage. Because seriously, who wouldn’t appreciate a therapeutic unraveling of everything that tenses you up in modern living? Mel Mason is not only seriously talented at straightening out those kinks – she’s also a seriously cool person who knows how to bring you some calm when you come in from the crazy. On top of that her rates are actually affordable. Give a gift certificate for a loved one – or just get one for yourself (I promise I won’t tell…)

http://www.fromknottytonice.com/

Pure Aesthetics Skincare

Another gift of an experience. And also the best kept skincare secret around! Facials, body wraps, lovely skincare and makeup lines – and everything made from pure organic good-for-you ingredients. In a soothing, peaceful environment with lovely people taking care of you. The owner, Kaelen Johnson, is an absolute living doll. And it’s a school. Hold your horses, don’t let that put you off, let that entice you further. Because the fact that it’s a school means all those yummy, soul-enriching facials and wraps are SUPER affordable! I go there myself and can attest that the students only work on paying clients when they actually know what they’re doing. In fact as I’m writing this I realize it’s been way too long – I know what I’m getting myself this year! Tip: if you get on their mailing list, you’ll get even more discounts and heads up on sales.

http://pureaestheticstucson.com/

Sigh, I could go on and on and on but my todo list is streaming down the floor and across the room by now. Whatever you do this holiday, try to slow down and not get too crazy. Ever since I made it a point to try to shop local during the holidays, it’s really helped add a more human element to the hubbub. Again, let’s hear about other local businesses you know about (wherever local is to you!)

Thankfully I’m not out of the loop completely – my friend, Molly (who among many other things writes the delicious blog pie for breakfast that I highly recommend), gifted me one half of a giant Kabocha squash.

CSAs are great for teaching you to roll with what life gives you. It’s also a lesson in dealing with abundance! So when Molly got a giant, Japanese winter squash that was almost 10 pounds, she went the time-honored route of passing on the excess. I’ve never tried Kabocha squash put absolutely wanted to give it a go. And when you check the Wikipedia link, you see a cute round green pumpkin-like lil’ critter. Awwww! But when I showed up at her house and walked out schlepping a giant punch bowl with both arms, I had second thoughts. But after tucking it under the seat belt and taking a deep breath or two, I just switched to a CSA frame of mind, saved the big baby for an upcoming uneventful Sunday and went to town.

Oh, just so you really get the scale of what we’re talking about, here’s one view of the squash, held by my handsome assistant, Jamie:

And here’s the open half – looks like a diorama of a subterranean city on Mars – or some peachy, fleshy geode:

So once I’d cleared the space and made sure the big knife was cleaned and sharpened, I attacked the poor thing. If I was more of a photographer, I would have captured the gore and mayhem. Suffice it to say it wasn’t pretty. BUT I felt like I’d brought home the fatted calf!

Here’s what I ended up doing:

• Scooped out the pulp and seeds but saved them for later (you’ll see).
• Cut the half in half.
• With the first half, I cut it into wedges and roasted it in a 350 degree oven for about an hour – no olive oil or seasonings, just pure squash, which I then mashed up with a potato masher and pureed in a blender (because I have no food processor *sniff*). It wasn’t as smooth as I’d like but it’ll do. I stored the amber goop in a freezer bag for a future Thanksgiving dish!
• With the second half, I cut it into 2-inch dice and used half of that half (oof, tricky to manage all these halves – good thing I won’t be talking about half-and-half or we’ll REALLY be confused) in a winter squash soup I made that night with local golden potatoes, rosemary and cream – delish!
• I popped the rest of the diced squash into another freezer bag for another rainy soup day.
• THEN I washed the seeds from the pulp, toweled them off and let them dry over night on a baking sheet. The next day, I salted, peppered and roasted the lil buggers for an hour in a 250 degree oven.

Whew!

So far the only bits we’ve eaten were the soup and the seeds. The soup tasted delicious, not too sweet – it’s a milder, more neutral flavor, probably because it’s so damn big. I believe smaller Kobucha has more sweetness in it. But we prefer more savory dishes so it served as a great backdrop to the rosemary and cream I’d used.

The seeds were good too but in a bizarre way: they tasted like leftover popcorn kernels that are cooked just enough to gnaw on. Now for me and Jamie that’s a GOOD thing – and probably another side effect of how big the monster was. So your mileage may vary – but we enjoyed ‘em.

Now I’ve just got to come up with a couple more dishes that will feature this strange new squash in my life! What would you try them in?

First, let me introduce the cast of characters. This is a picture of my grandmother from the forties by a Cuban beach:

That’s my uncle next to her (hola, Tio!) I always thought she looked like a movie star in this photo. Joan Whitehouse (or Mami Joan, as I always called her) was actually from an old money family in New York and had moved to Havana when she was just four years old. She was a statuesque blonde with green eyes, towering at 5’9″, who got considerable attention from the local hombres.

This is my grandfather:

His name was Gustavo Halley, or Abuelo (as I called him) and he was born and raised in Santiago de Cuba – a city by the sea in the southeast part of the island (as Mami puts it “nestled among mountains on the back and the sea on the front”). He was locally known as the “Cuban Clark Gable” and in fact Mami found an old newspaper clipping with a poem someone had written about him and his dreamy eyes. He must have been quite the playboy in an era of glamor and sophistication that made Cuba the Riviera of the Caribbean.

One day in 1939, Joan was visiting Santiago on a beach trip with girlfriends and went to a local seaside resort called Ciudamar (which loosely translates to Sea City). The ocean was below street level, and one had to walk down dark, narrow stone steps to enter. On this fateful day, Gustavo was milling around with some of his friends at the lobby bar, smoking cigarettes, drinking scotch and laughing as the jukebox played “Perfidia“. Suddenly his eye caught a gorgeous pair of legs in espadrille heels descending the stairs. The rest of the crowd in the smoky bar blurred into the background as he turned to discover the owner of these amazing appendages. His eyes traveled up the demure but smart sleeveless sky blue sundress until they rested on the blonde hair and exotic green eyes of his future wife.

By the time Joan had reached the floor, Gustavo sidled up to her, took out a fresh cigarette and held it up to her arm, indicating how ‘hot’ she was. My grandmother, a very proper young woman, immediately took offense. She snubbed him with nose firmly in air and declared to her friends that she never wanted to see that vulgar young man again! She sauntered through the lobby towards the ocean and out of his life.

But, as Fate would have it, Joan’s grandmother was good friends with Gustavo’s parents. So they inevitably had a proper introduction and fell passionately in love. But alas, my grandmother had to go back home to Havana, Gustavo’s required him to travel the island and they had to carry on their courtship over the long distances, subsisting on passionate love letters. The postal service being what it was, Joan’s letters sometimes took a long while to make their destination. Gustavo would brood in local bars and play “Aquellos Ojos Verdes (Those Green Eyes)” over and over on the jukebox, pining for the day when they would be reunited, willing Joan to feel the love from his heart and devastated at the thought that she might no longer love him.

But indeed he was finally able to come to Havana and they married soon after. Sadly, their marriage only lasted long enough to produce my beloved mother and uncle, their early passion turning into heated arguments that tore them apart. But the story of their romance still wafts through my dreams, filled with humid longing and sultry sea breezes.

To be honest, there are some details that I’m totally fabricating. Unfortunately, both of them have passed into that long blue tunnel and I can’t ask them details like what they were wearing. But a Cuban imagination is fertile enough to grow any images it needs to paint a picture of romance enough to sustain an adolescent girl’s rich inner life.

And so, dear reader, what are your juicy “how they met” stories?

I was 13 when he was born. Mami got sick after having him and I had to learn how to take care of a newborn baby very quickly (hint: it was really really hard!) So in high school I didn’t get to do a lot of things I wanted to. Like join clubs, do after school activities, hang out with friends (well, not that I actually had many friends back then – being of the bookworm, lone wolf variety). Even after Mami got better, both of my parents were working so they needed as much of my help as possible. So Hal and I were always really close. I was more than a big sister to him – I was one of his parents.

But Hal never made it easy on us. Unlike my other brother, Buck, and me, he never swallowed the little stories Mami and Daddy would use to persuade us to do something. Even when he was a toddler, he thought like a lawyer. Never going along with anything anyone else said until he confirmed it for himself.

Now this kind of attitude can get you into a lot of trouble in school. And he did have issues. But even though he wasn’t the best student in the world, he taught us all so many things.

How to do things your own way. How to question authority. How to be incredibly loyal to those you love, even if you don’t always see things the same way. How to be beautifully generous and thoughtful even when you don’t have a cent to your name. How to be a warrior angel even when you had the devil in yer eye. Basically: How To Kick Ass On A Daily Basis.

Happy Birthday, Hal! You would have been 30 today if a stupid motorcycle hadn’t take you away from us almost 6 years ago. But you’re the kind of spirit that just shines brighter with each year of your physical absence. I still give you a little wave at the end of my daily meditations and I still invite you onstage with me whenever it’s time to rock out a crowd. So you’re never really, really gone.

So know that even though we’ve learned to live different lives without you, you’ll always be in our hearts. Oh, and say hey to John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain next time yall jam!

All my love,

Sis