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.