First Pumpkin Pie

the first pumpkin pie 10/01/12

It’s fall in the dear old Bay Area. The temperature is (briefly) high enough to please this old Sierra Madrean and the first pumpkin pie has been made at the Prancing Pony. Making this pie with fresh pumpkin is really easy and for all of you squash fans (the veg not the game) it will make you very happy.

You will need: a 3-5 lb. pumpkin

                        one 12 oz can of condensed milk

                        flour, salt, eggs, milk and spices.

Put the sweet little pumpkin in a 350 degree oven and bake until a thin knife comes out easily. Let cool.

While your pumpkin is baking make your pie dough. Most of you have your own dough recipes, but if you don’t, here is mine.

a.  In your food processor put

       2 cups of your favorite flour (cake flour does not work well for this application)

       1 cup of cubed butter

       1 tsp of salt

Pulse the mixture until it makes a grainy texture. Larger lumps (no bigger than baby peas) are very ok.

b.  Add one egg and pulse again to blend.

c.  Put the lid back on and add milk. (I eyeball the amount but I think it’s about 4-5 tablespoons.)

     Pulse again. (This is the tricky part. You want to blend the milk but the dough should still be kinda                           dry looking. You are NOT looking for a ball of dough.)

d.  Turn the dough onto a floured board and knead with the ball of your hand until it only just holds together. Cut the dough in half and freeze the half you don’t need. It will come in handy.

e.  Put the half you will use in a damp tea towel and put it in the fridge for at least an hour.

(If this entire dough making process takes longer than 5 minutes, you are working too hard.)

When your pretty little punky is cool enough, skin it. (A sharp paring or boning knife will make short work of the tough outer skin.) Then cut it in half and using your very clean hands, remove the seeds completely.

Cut the punky into large pieces and feed it to your food processor. You will need some liquid to smooth the pulp; I use bourbon, because that’s the way I roll. You can use milk or even water. What you want is a thick, smooth consistency. I have a regular processor and need to feed it the punky in 3rds.

(If you don’t have the time, you can stop the prep right here. Put the punky pulp into an airtight container and keep it in the fridge with the dough. Freeze any pulp you won’t need for this pie. Now you have about 24 hours to carve out the baking time.)

When you are ready to bake:

           preheat your oven to 450°

With your favorite mixer, hand or stand, combine

           the can of condensed milk

           2 eggs

           1 cup of brown sugar

Blend until the eggs are fully incorporated.

Add 2 cups of the punky and blend again. Now you have custard.

Add the spices: cinnamon, clove, allspice, nutmeg and ginger are all wonderful with punky. Start with a tsp of cinnamon and 1/2 tsp of any other that is to your taste. Adjust at will.

Roll out your dough and put it in a 9 inch pie pan. (Leave a nice edge over the pan; the dough shrinks in baking.)

Pour the custard into the pan. Put the pan on a baking sheet and into the preheated oven.

Bake at 450° for 15 minutes and then turn the oven down to 350° for the rest of the bake.

After about 35 to 40 minutes, you should start to smell the pie. Check it for doneness by inserting a knife in the middle. When it comes out clean, pull that pie from the oven, put it on a cooling rack and be happy.

This pie will keep in the fridge for at least a week.

Easter 2012


invasive, non native Bun-Buns
(buying lamb for Easter 2012)

Here they come, invading the semi rational space of the living and dining rooms. Emerging from their lurking place in the attic sometime during Holy Week, they spread furry cuteness all over the place and give Philip the willies. Invasive because they show up on formerly clear surfaces. Non Native because, to a bun, they were made in China, bought by my sister and mailed to Oakland from Sierra Madre. Bun-Buns is a technical term that covers all things fluffy and Easteratic. It covers duckies, bunnies and little bitty lambs.
Easter is the star of my year. The little Mother comes up from the above-mentioned Sierra Madre, the understanding boss gives me the week off and the games begin. The invitations go out about a month before and by the week in question I usually know how many hordes will descend. One horde in or out is not the problem; the problem is how many deviled eggs will be needed (more about that later.) There is time for lunches and visiting and slow, careful preparation.  
Besides its obvious theological enchantments, Easter means the biggest party of the year, it means lamb and that lamb is halal. We are honored, in the Oakland/Berkeley metro, to have a good sized Middle Eastern and South Asian population. The nexus of University Ave. and San Pablo Ave. boasts at least 3 places where one can get fresh, good lamb. I found this vortex of really good food when I was working at the late and still lamented Cody’s 4th St. The Indus Food Center at 1920 San Pablo Ave. Berkeley is a combination grocery and butcher where you can just about everything you might need. Even though it is way out of my way now, I still go up there when I need sour cherries for pie.
A year or so ago I read a good writeup of a big halal market just over the hill from us on Telegraph Ave. It’s convenient, but it’s not for me. No big jugs of sour cherries and terrible customer service. (If you are female, alone and not Arabic speaking, don’t ask for help.) But lo, sometime in January a customer of mine told me about a butcher shop just across that little spur of 32nd. She said the meat was wonderful and the folks really nice. So, sometime later, I checked out Oakland Halal Meat and Produce at 3101 Telegraph Ave where I found beautiful, very fresh meat and perfect service. They will cut it anyway you want and, if you tell them what you are cooking, what cut you need. This place is a real butcher shop.
Thus, mine mutter and I made our way to the little place to procure the leg ‘o lamb for the festal day. The sun was shining fitfully on Holy Saturday and I found a parking space within a half a block of our destination. Herself can still walk, at 87, but she is stately in her pace. As I helped her out of the car and up the street, we were greeted by a tall, noble man dressed in a long outer robe and skullcap. He looked like an imam and graciously asked if the lady was my mother. She sweetly acknowledged me as her daughter and the gentleman gave me a jewel I will keep: “A mother’s words go directly to God.” Folks like it when the mommy and I are out and about.
Oakland Halal Meat and Produce is a pristine butcher shop with a small veggie stall on the left. I believe the folks are from Yemen and they are very nice. We walked up and I discussed the number of meat eaters with the expert behind the counter. We agreed on 7lb and then the magic happened. He went to the cold room and came out with a whole cold fresh lamb. In moments, the whole was cut down to the leg we needed and put in the largest zip lock bag I’ve ever seen. As we paid for the meat we were presented with a bunch of ripe bananas. A gift from the shop. You gotta go to this place. When we brought our swag back to the house, I realized one more gift. That zip lock bag was big enough to hold the lamb and all of the onions for the marinade. Onions and lamb and lamb and onions, reach to the height of godliness.
On Easter morning after service and with all the linens ironed and the tables laid, the last moment work began. By the grace of Christ, I have a kitchen large enough that three adult women can work in it and enjoy each other’s company. Tonia was working under the altar, filling the best cannoli I’ve ever had. (Note: when choosing friends, try to include at least one Brooklyn-born, Italian-raised kick-ass soprano.) Kathryn, builder and sailor extraordinaire,  was addressing the largest collection of eggs for deviling that our house has ever seen.
You need to understand this about deviled eggs and Easter. There are those, notably my best friend Liz, who consider the perfect Easter dinner to be enough champagne and enough deviled eggs. Time consuming and finicky, deviled eggs with homemade mayonnaise are my signature dish. The whites get rubbery if they sit overnight in the fridge; the eggs have to be boiled, made and filled on the morning of the party. Oh, by the way, the eggs have to be very fresh. And there is no such thing as enough.
This is Easter in Oakland. I can get everything I need and dear men compliment my mother.  If you don’t do Easter, you might want to give it a try. There are deviled eggs, great music, love, friends and invasive, non-native Bun-Buns.

take me for a ride in the car

a ride in the car
The stars aligned so that Lizzye and Philip could take a ride in the car. After a lazy morning, we headed up the I-80 to Pinole and thus to the California 4. Stockton was our destination and good beer our desire. A ride in the car is a vacation for me. All we need is a destination, usually a late lunch somewhere. (Remind me to tell you about the Olema Inn!) New brewpubs are lovely but we had run out of them until two weeks ago. Our local started pulling ales from Valley Brewing Company and Philip was enticed. Since a ride across even part of this great state is my idea of a very good time, we took advantage of the MLK holiday and headed for Stockton.
We had wanted to come to her over the 4, my second favorite highway after 395, but missed our turn and ended up taking Vasco Road down to Livermore. Those are beautiful hills, very unstable and good only for cattle grazing and watershed. The brilliant winter green against the grey of winter rain made for a stunning drive.
We picked up the 580 East, toward Tracy and the 5. I-5 is the blood stream of California. Huge trucks filled with the bounty of of the state roar up and down this most important of roads. It took us directly to Stockton.  (What is the problem with Stockton? Why does everyone dismiss it automatically? In the history of this best of all states, Stockton is essential. A river and aggie town with a fine university, this dear old burg does not get the honor that she has earned.) Just north of Tracy,we came to her southern border and took Pershing into the city. What a sweet place—neat, medium sized houses on pretty streets. The campanile of the University of the Pacific rises above the flood plain, anachronistic but handsome. What with streets that change their names when crossing avenues, we got a little turned around but found our destination, the Valley Brew pub and sports bar.
We have some experience with pubs. We know them in Inverness, York and our dear Grosvenor in Pimlico, London. Our local is Barclays in Rockridge, Oakland where Philip had his first Valley Brewing ale. Valley Brew is by contrast a sports bar, with very high ceilings, brick walls and good sight lines. It is not a pub and certainly not a brew pub.  But Valley Brew is a good place to drink VERY good ale and beer. My crab cakes were crabby and held together with cornmeal, a delightful difference. Philip’s ribs were made with the house stout, that made a splendid sauce,  very dark with a hint of bitter. We bought three bottles of their varied best to take back to Oakland.
The ride home was just what I needed—the broad flood lands of the lower Sacramento. Large rivers frighten me; they are great powers I don’t understand. The Sacramento is the exception. With so many dams and diversions, she is much gentler, like a great cat who has been declawed.  I ride across her flat heart, watching the herons in the flooded fields and the black earth that feeds the world.  I’ve seen her magical headwater, coming out of a granite mouth in Redwood Park, Shasta City. Here on the flood plain, the Sacramento is a mighty water and the 12 from Stockton to Rio Vista is just the place to see her. Accompanying the white herons are assorted grebes and terns chasing each other across a classic valley cloud display. When the weather breaks in the San Joaquin/Sacramento delta, the effect is DRAMATIC! We are talking C.B. DeMille, with great rays of sun splitting thunderous clouds and Mount Diablo looking like the Hall of the Mountain King.
The 4 and the 12, the narrow highways that cross the middle of our state, are a perfect way to see the Great Central Valley. These are the pastures of plenty of which Woody Guthrie sang and they give us our peaches and radishes and kale and on forever. I love this drive even more than Sir Francis Drake Boulevard out to Pt. Reyes. I get a mini vacation and enough time to do political theory and moral philosophy with my favorite traveling companion. Take me for a ride in the car.

A Wrinkle in Time

A Wrinkle in Time
Joshu is the Zen master cat of this house. He is himself unto himself, unless he needs breakfast, belly rubs, out of the house or into it. Joshu has taken to crying his let-me-in cry to me from outside on the shed top while I’m on the computer. He is trying to drive me nuts. Last night he was doing his crying thing and making me feel guilty. Finally, I left the desk, walked down the hall, opened the front door and miaowed down the space between our house and Mr. H’s. As I turned in disappointment to go back in the house, there was Joshu. He tessered, because “there is such a thing as a Tesseract.”
In this year of my Lord 2012, we celebrate the 50th anniversary of A Wrinkle in Time by the great Madeline L’Engle. For most of us, this single slim volume is the door to all of science fiction. Before we read Heinlein or Bradbury or Asimov, let alone Gaiman or Jordan or Card, we read Wrinkle. How did the ALA give this book the Newberry Award in 1962? Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
  “It was a dark and stormy night.” With this hoary line L’Engle opens A Wrinkle in Time and weaves her web there from. In that storm, we find our main character, Meg, up in her attic bedroom, worrying about everything. In a few short sentences, L’Engle shows us the whole Murray family: scientist parents, the perfectly normal twins, the scary brilliant littlest brother, Charles Wallace, and especially Meg. She is everygirl, with a mouth full of braces, glaring at the world through glasses and always ready for a fight. Her old friends confuse her with their sudden sense of affected maturity and neighbors drop insults about her family. Meg is uncomfortable in middle school, bored and missing her father. I have never seen a better or more succinctly drawn image of early adolescent angst.
The hero’s journey into the darkness to retrieve knowledge or gift is one of the two or three primary tales of human mythology. Meg wants her daddy back and will face any danger and the turmoil of wisdom to get him. During her journey, Meg meets guides of great power, a Happy Medium, the loving Aunt Beast and, terrifyingly, IT. In the sweet arrogance of the very young, Charles Wallace gets caught by a terrible power. As our heroine moves through dimensions and planets, she slowly dons the armor necessary to save her brother Charles. Daddy can’t save his baby boy. It is the myopic and snaggletoothed Meg who does battle against ultimate order with the chaos of love. Oh, and she gets her first kiss from a boy.
Now we come to the primary criticism of Madeline L’Engle and of A Wrinkle in Time, that she is writing Christian apologetics disguised as children’s literature. It seems that every civilization but ours is allowed to reference its sacred texts in its literature. When one of us quotes our scripture, as L’Engle uses “the foolishness of God” from 1st Corinthians, we are suspected of ulterior motives. But this great book is not a stalking horse for the Spanish Inquisition; no one is trying to brainwash anyone. Mrs. Whatsit quotes St. Paul because it is the clearest way to make her point to Meg. If L’Engle had quoted the Dhammapada, her critics would have thought her hip and open-minded. Instead, they pick at her with suspicions of duplicity. Give the old girl a rest—it’s just a story.
But, of course, it is far more than just. A Wrinkle in Time has opened so many minds to science fiction that we still recommend it 50 years later. To celebrate this wonder, I put it on display at the cash wrap. A few days ago, a handsome young woman was gazing lovingly at the original cover art on the anniversary edition. Her swain asked, “What is that book? I never heard of it.” Well, now he has and he reminded me that I, as a bookseller, still have work to do. The Tesseract is out there to be understood and Madeline L’Engle will show us. Joshu knows how to tesser. Do you?

walking around

Ambulatory: the space behind

(A place for walking, esp. an aisle around the apse or a cloister in a church or monastery)

What do you do with extra space? You store stuff there. In your house or office, or even church. A living church has stuff and since we share our sanctuary with a school, there is even more stuff. There are chairs, old wedding candelabra, Mustard Seed banners and canned goods. Stuff needs to be put away where you can get to it and it won’t be in people’s way. I know this because we pass this stuff all of the time, getting to and from the choir stalls. We float by in our surplices and hope not to get caught on any stray edges. The lights turn on automatically and all is well, unless you are the church curmudgeon. The church curmudgeon is a good musician, a lovely man and an complete formalist. His church is so high I can’t see it. As such, the c. c. objects to the condition of the Ambulatory. “It is sacred space,” he says, and he is right.

In big old churches like York and Durham, the Ambulatory is a wide aisle that surrounds or cushions the high altar. In these great spaces there is room for shrines and altars and memorial windows. These are places of awe and contemplation. Tour groups address the shrine to St. Cuthbert at Durham or the various chapels, windows and gorgeous tapestries behind the high altar at York. These are Ambulatory with a capital A. We, at little bitty St. Paul’s, don’t have the beautiful space. There are no shrines or important windows. We have a hallway. Joshua and I walk sideways to get where we are going. When Philip is walking, just wait. But as small and plain as it is, our Ambulatory is blessed with functionality. It’s a place to put stuff.

Chairs, candelabra and canned goods all serve individually. The children sit on the chairs for Friday Chapel (listen, you little nits, that’s Carol Luther talking to you, sit up straight and pay attention). Orchestras also sit on those chairs; they can’t play if they can’t sit. The old chandeliers are messy but so dear. If I’d been married at St. Paul’s I would have wanted them. The food on the shelves of the ambulatory is a gift from those who have to those who don’t, manifesting “all that we have is Thine alone, a trust, dear Lord, from thee.”

Chalices and communion plates are obviously sacred, and have their own special cabinets. But we also need to store food, clothes and toiletries, things that are sacred because they serve Christ’s people. These gifts, on plain metal shelves, make the space sacred. It could not be more so even if it were perfectly empty, wet with holy water and reeking of incense.

I love my church curmudgeon. He’s a terrific musician and a dear friend and he keeps me thinking on higher things. But I think he is wrong about our Ambulatory. It is a sacred space because it is properly used.

infant baptism

At St. Paul’s we love the liturgy. From the glory of the Mass to the quietude of Compline, we enjoy worshiping together. We mourn together, and the service of the last rites gives the hearts ease. Weddings make us love-drunk and

lead us so often to dreams of babies. Squeaking and interrupting and looking like angels at the communion rail, the small ones are the life of our church. But they are also individuals and some things just can’t be decided for them. We can tell them when to go to bed and what to wear but we can’t tell them who they will love. We can’t make them love Jesus.

There are two sacraments in the Protestant Church: Baptism and Communion. They were instituted or participated in by Jesus. He participated in the baptisms His cousin was performing in the Jordan. For Jesus, baptism was the first manifestation of His godhead. For us, it is the first public statement of our faith. When we take baptism, we proclaim our faith before the entire congregation of the faithful. It is both intimate and communal; I know this because I was baptized when I was 21 years old. Baptism is the first statement of faith. How can we ask that of a baby?

St. Paul, in first Corinthians, describes love pretty comprehensively and it is dependent on free will. Some great marriages can be compelled, but they are the exception and they finally turn on the choice to love. The individual soul chooses between Christ and not-Christ. Because the name of our god is Love, that choice must be free. Love cannot be imposed or forced or compelled. No one, not even an adoring parent, can choose love for us and it cannot be confessed unless it is known. The soul either responds to the call of Christ or it does not. Choice cannot be impelled, or it is not choice.

Now here comes Matteo, Sarah’s great work. He is perfect, with a full head of black hair and long eyes, just like his daddy’s . On Easter Vigil this year, he will be baptized into the Episcopal Church. I can only ask, why? He, and all other babies so treated, are perfect. They cannot renounce Satan—they do not know him. They have no sinful desires, and they do not know Christ as separate from the love that surrounds them. That is the point: baptism is for those us us who must confess Christ as Lord and Savior; a perfect little baby cannot do that.

Let us celebrate these new lives. We can name them publicly (why isn’t christening still in the prayer book?). Mauricio can hold them up before the congregation, and ask us to help their parents in loving and raising them in our faith. These tiny ones are the future of our church. But my darlings , baptism is that first, hard, statement of the interior truth of faith in Jesus. This work is for adults only.

there was no blood

There was no blood.

or, teaching cooking on Christmas day.

Christmas starts on Christmas Eve. I walked out of the store at 2pm; this was not a miracle but the great gift of my boss. I got to See’s and Safeway and Smart & Final and walked in our front door at 3:30. That was a miracle. I did what prep I could and was in bed, after the best, most draining week of book-selling I’ve ever known, by 8:30.

This year Christmas fell on a Sunday, so Philip was supposed to have all Saturday to clean the house. But then there was the dishwasher problem and a desperate afternoon call from the choir director at St. Augustine’s who needed the all-reading basso, like, right then. One of the joys of being middle-aged is realizing that the beef is bought, the potatoes are boiled and sleep is better than obsessing about an unclean house.

The great day began very well with regular Sunday service and our church decked out in Christmas greenery. Most of the guests were arriving on or about 3pm. Joshua and Stacie came early, to decompress, eat pie, drink champagne and become my willing hands. I knew that Joshua could sweep and iron, so, for some reason, I thought that he could do food prep. He’s a smart guy, he sings killer Bach and likes to talk religion, so he should be safe with a sharp paring knife, right? “You believe that, Jane, if it brings you comfort.”

I set the dear man to peeling boiling onions. This pleased the Stacie no end because she loves them and knows that they take time to prep. I am not a good teacher. I took that paring knife and showed that smart man how to top, bottom and peel those little buggers. And every time I turned around I had a moment of heart-stopping terror, seeing him getting ready to open an important vein in his hand. On the third go round I finally realized that he was seeing things backward and then stood in front of him, exampled once again, and all was well. I told you he was smart.

Now, let’s talk about the oranges. Being a native Californian, I think that all people know how to address and dispatch oranges. My section leader and sous chef is not a native and what he did to those poor innocent oranges beggars belief. There was pulp, there were pieces of peel in strange shapes and there was pith everywhere. Oh, well, it’s still early in the citrus season and by the time we are done, the great tenor will be able to produce supremes worthy of any salad.

It must be said here that Stacie has good knife skills. She made quick work of the carrots and parsnips. I didn’t need to worry about her. She is threatening to get fish off the boat from Half Moon Bay and bring it over. I want to cook more with that girl.

Dinner itself was just what I wanted: spinach with the aforementioned onions, the carrots and parsnips, garlic mashed potatoes and the beef of Merrie Olde England. Because I had time to reduce the beef stock, the gravy was the best of my career. Christopher was very happy to dine, almost exclusively, on mash and gravy. Many wines flowed and all were very good but the best of all was the Norman Monster. (Go to the Paso Robles Appellation, just go.) The company was so convivial that the clock raced toward 7pm when Verah, Joshua and Philip all had to be back at church for Compline service (I do not understand why any service is necessary on Christmas Day.) Stacie went to hear her sweetie sing and the Kulas wended the way to their respective homes.

For a couple of hours I was alone in my home. Self-reflection on Christmas Day can be very dangerous. Old sorrows and fears can raise their ugly heads. But no ghosts came to darken my day. I petted my cats, enjoyed my tree (the Christmas curmudgeon thinks it’s too big but everyone else says it’s pretty) and relaxed.

After Compline the exhausted Larsons got themselves up the stairs, into the house and collapsed. But with a little pate, wine, chocolate and Scotch, life returned to our dear friends and they were ready for a story. Philip told the tale of Scapa and Highland Park while I got all dreamy-eyed about Orkney.

Of such things the perfect Christmas is made. We sang, we cooked and there was no blood. “Who could ask for anything more?”