it's been a hard days night

“The guitar is all very well John, but you’ll never make a living out of it.”

—attributed to both his mother Julia and his aunt Mimi

You, 44 year old Nicholas, mourn John Lennon. You spoke to me, last week, surprised that he had been gone for 30 years. But, my dear, you were not there. It has been most of your lifetime since Lennon was murdered. I was there at the beginning of American Beatlemania and here is how it went. A Hard Days Night, was released in the US on August 11th, 1964. I was going into 4th grade, and we were living in Orange.

Orange California today is a sprawling mess, too big and way overdeveloped. When we lived on S. Orange St in ’63–’64, it was a very pretty old town. The streets were wide and very flat, a perfect place to learn how to ride a bike. Julie and I went to Palmyra Grammar School, where, in 6th grade, she first started to play the flute. We walked or rode everywhere, including to the old movie palace that was on the town square (which is actually a traffic circle with a tiny park at its center.) We saw all our movies there, including The Man with the X-ray Eyes, with dear old Ray Milland, that scared the bejeebies out of us. But what I can’t conjure is what the feature was when we saw the trailer for A Hard Days Night.

The trailer was in black and white. Nothing was black and white in 1964 in the US except t.v. It opened with the Lads running down an urban residential street, away from a pack of adoring fans. (What were all of those 15- and 16-year-old girls going to do with those four guys if they ever caught them?) And then there was that chord. It is dense and compelling, it wakes up the ears and says, “Listen, something good is coming.” (http://www.noiseaddicts.com/2008/11/beatles-hard-days-night-mystery-chord-solved/ And that good thing was running toward us, their gorgeous young selves in natty suits. There had never been anything like them. I was just out of third grade and fell, truly madly deeply in love with all four.

After that unremembered movie, I had enough left over ($1.35?) to buy an early ticket for A Hard Days Night that very afternoon; Julie went back a couple of days later and bought hers. This was good because when we went back, the next week, the lines were insane. Julie kept our place in the pre-sale line and I reconnoitered the just-trying-to-get-in line. Walking out from under the theatre porch, I turned left, walking down Glassell, and saw a line that turned the corner and wound down the long side of the theatre on Main. I was totally knocked out.

We settled down in orchestra section of the theatre to watch the movie. We expected to hear it also, but that was impossible. After that life changing chord, the screaming began. Most of the audience were screaming at the screen, at a movie that had been in the can for over two months. In the immortal words of Norm the road manager, “They’ve gone potty out there.” So my sister and I sat in pie-eyed wonder, watched the images on the screen and wondered what was being said. This all happened 37 years after Al Jolson brought sound to the silver screen.

With subsequent watchings, we finally heard A Hard Day’s Night. It was a treat: glib, hip and funny, shot in a dense black and white by a very young Richard Lester. In 1963 Britain was still in rebuild, with empty lots and strange open space. My younger self thought it was all true. That “clean old man” was Paul’s grandpa and they were just talking, naturally witty and fun. It took me years to appreciate the real work of the movie. But since I’ve seen it more than twenty times, I’ve figured some things out.

Let us start with the story arc. The lads arrive in an unnamed English city where they are to anchor a t.v. variety show being shot in an old music hall. Their handlers, Norm and Shake, try to keep them out of trouble and on time. Paul is shackled to a grandfather in need of a change of scenery and everything comes from that. Grandpa is “a real mixer … and he’ll cost you a fortune in breach of promise suits.” (See how easily the quotes fall out of me?) Paul is pretty and harried, John is sarcastic and in charge and Ringo is by the camera adored. And then there is George, always my favorite, with that low Scouse voice and dreamboat eyes.

This tale of unrecognized fame moves quickly because the movie has only an 87 minute running time. In a hallway, backstage at the theatre, John encounters the deeply delicious Anna Quale and, in less than a minute, the elusive nature of fame is examined. She almost recognizes him but doesn’t want to make of fool of herself. He counters like a nodding acquaintance who delivers the gossip that she knows Him (read: John Lennon), very well. This looking glass dance ends with her saying, “You know, I don’t think you look like him at all,” and flouncing off. John is left to remark to his own reflection, “She looks more like him than I do.”

Escape is an important sub-theme of the movie. They are always trying to get away. George opens a door and falls down his own rabbit hole. An oh-so-tightly-wound advertising exec, perfectly manifested by the uncredited Kenneth Haigh, is waiting for a type to be sent to him. Neither the secretary who ushers our lad into the office, nor the exec, see George Harrison. They only see the type. Not recognizing one of the four most famous men in world, this twit starts to map out a new advertising blitz for his hottest commodity, Susan (a very young Jean Shrimpton in photo only.) “Oh, that posh bird who always gets everything wrong …” The exec can’t handle any suggestion that he isn’t the hippest man on the planet and has George removed.

Goaded by Paul’s grandfather (brilliantly played by Wilfred Bramble), Ringo goes off parading. (Lester insists to this day that Bramble saved the whole production by keeping the non-actor Beatles in line and on mark.) In a cheap overcoat and cap, Ringo Starr walks the rain wet, working-class streets unseen. This vignette on unrecognized fame is both ironic and nostalgic. Ringo tries to find his own identity, separate from his group, but only looks in the places he’s already been. Even the police don’t know him.

Nick, this movie is in my DNA and I thank you for asking me to examine it. On that hot day in Orange, this movie was just a heady celebration of the men who made the music. As I run the film in my head I see what else is there. Early in their mad career, through the auspices of a great young director, John, Paul, George and Ringo held up the mirror to fame and saw some very interesting things. Take a look at A Hard Days Night, watch it carefully. It is great fun, great music and a great warning. Here is fame, here is glory, this is how it works.

RPH #16 “only two things that money can’t buy and that’s true love and homegrown tomatoes”

Some years ago, Colin and I were working the Cody’s 4th St. info desk together. He had been doing star charts for some of the other employees through a wonderful, fast free program on line. Now, the last time my chart had been read was when I was about 17 and it really made me angry. That chart claimed I was a Christian and described some other things I wasn’t, yet. But when Colin offered a fresh reading, I laughed and said “sure.” So the adept took my bona fides (place, time and date of birth) and put them into the program. What popped up was the same chart that I’d rejected so vehemently, so long ago. He warned me that the middle of my house (the kitchen) is a snare that can keep me from doing other, important things. Yes, dear man, I do understand, my kitchen can eat my life when all I do is ask for some unwanted tomatoes.

My darling friend Kathryn sits houses (she does a whole lot of other things that we won’t go into now), and at one of these, there is a gardener who can’t resist a tomato seed. According to my friend, this over-planting happens every year, and the provender is foisted on Kathryn. This year she passed some of this year’s bounty on to me. But what would you do with 40 pounds of fresh, homegrown Roma tomatoes? You can’t eat them all, no matter how hard you try (this includes you Mommy). What came kept me busy for a whole week. It was an avalanche and I got out my shovel. Tomatoes are food and wasting food is a sin. Homegrown tomatoes are a gift of this great state and her gardeners. So I had to preserve all those tomatoes. Not being a canner (it’s just too much work) I did what I can—I made sauce.

Marcella Hazan’s indispensable cookbook taught me just how easy it is to make marinara. But having a recipe does not make marinara. There are basic tools necessary and, primarily, you need a big pot, at least 2½ gallon. Yes, it can be aluminum, it doesn’t give you Alzheimer’s. It must have a heavy, thick bottom to heat the sauce evenly and avoid scorching. (If you don’t have a pot like this, go get one! It will be good for chowder, chili, stew, soup and any other single pot meals.) Once the tomatoes et al. are ready for pureeing, your best weapon is a hand blender, called by some a “boat motor.” This wonderful thing replaces food mills and sieves. The only thing it doesn’t do is remove the seeds, but, not being Martha Stewart, I don’t care. (Don’t get one with a plastic head, it will crack and you’ll just have to buy a new one. Put your money down, get a stainless-steel-headed blender and go to it.)

I was boiling my fourth pot of tomatoes, onions and garlic, when Kathryn suggested roasting these elements. She said this while bringing in four more bags of Romas and bag of cherry tomatoes. Here is what I’ve learned: roasting produces a darker, richer flavor and oregano can overpower the delicate fresh taste.

The other great lesson of this adventure is how fresh tomatoes cook down. I made one quart of paste, a gallon of just cooked tomatoes and a remoulade with a red bell pepper. When all the sauces went into gallon freezer bags, there was a total of eight gallons of tomatoes in the cold place, just waiting. We have already eaten and shared four of them and it’s only early November.

All of this cooking took about four days, four days in the middle of my house. Colin’s chart was right, the kitchen can eat my time. But, it’s only once a year, and in the words of Guy Clark, “Ain’t nothing in the world like homegrown tomatoes.”

Kittens

RPH #14

kittens

Long ago and about 400 miles away, I was standing in a tiny bathroom, putting on my face and listening to Morning Edition on KPCC. There was Bob Edwards, one of the great voices ever on radio, starting his weekly talk with Red (Walter Lanier) Barber. Now, you need to understand, cousins, I’d never heard of Red Barber, the original “voice of the Dodgers.” The voice of the Dodgers (LA that is) was and always will be Vin Scully. So who was this old guy?

That particular morning, with no baseball in sight, Mr. Barber did not want to talk about other sports. Bob kept on bringing the subject back to basketball or American Rules football and that old guy just wouldn’t bite. This Red Barber wanted to talk about the dogwood that was just starting to bloom in his garden and, especially, about his Abyssinian kittens. I was incensed, I mean, who was this old fart, to ignore Bob Edwards’ questions and go maundering on about kittens. That was BOB EDWARDS he was ignoring.

Well, my dears, I have learned some things since then. One is that the “old red head” taught Vin Scully everything he knows about baseball broadcasting. And, by the time I heard him, Red Barber had the right to talk about anything he wanted to, whenever he wanted. Kittens are a suitable subject; let me tell you about ours.

Big John and Percy Dovetonsils came to our household in a plastic milk crate, with their brothers and sisters, when they were about 9 weeks old. Their mother lived in the lovely little yellow house across Morada Place from us. She was a beautiful calico and their father was the neighborhood tough, a big, badass orange tom that we called Soldier of Orange. Percy was like a beautiful grey cloud, so pretty and so empty. Big John was a scrappy little short hair, white with grey spots, who was trying to dig his way out of the bottom of the crate. Philip was taken with this little miner and called him Big John, “… big, bad John.” The bond between man and cat was forged and it lasted for 17 years.

Last December they left us. First was Percy, the grey, the best party cat ever, the slightly dim. Percy got really sick very quickly and, when he was taken to the vet by my darling Philip, he was almost gone. Percy didn’t come home. John physically was fine but without his brother, he did not want to go on. John stopped eating and begged to be allowed out. We held off for 5 days and finally, with sorrow, gave in to the old cat’s desire. He loped off up the street and the last I saw of him was that high tail going into the bushes between the apartment house and house at the top of the street. John never came back, going to his chosen death like an old warrior and none knows his resting place. This is the deal we make when we take these small animal folk into our lives. We agree to feed and take care of them and they fill our lives with love. Thus our hearts break completely when they go to their final rests. We grieved, especially Himself, and we went for half a year with only Ramses in the house and Archie visiting now and then.

Finally, when we were ready for chaos, we headed back to the East Bay Humane Society’s place in Oakland. This facility is luxurious, a gift from PeopleSoft Inc. The rooms and cages are very clean and warm. Four years ago we went and found Ramses, who reached out of his cage to attract our attention. Fast-forward, now we were looking for siblings, another set of brothers. We came into one room and found a brown/tawny tabby kitten, in his beautiful air conditioned and padded cage. He was lively and perfect and adorable and slightly upset. In the interview room his brother being checked out by a father and five-year-old girl. It looked like the brothers were going to be separated. We asked our helper for other sibling teams and she brought us two perfect golden/orange kittens (all hail the workers at Oakland Humane). These kittens would be held and but would not purr. They didn’t like us and we were ok with that.

But, look, as the golden ones were being returned to their room, we saw that the daddy and little girl were leaving without the kitten. No promises were made and no money changed hands, no ups, no outs no errors. The black and white tabby, brother to the tawny, joined his sib for our interview.

The interview rooms are concrete, for cleanliness, with facing benches and a play area in between. Once reunited, the kittens put on their best show. They romped at each other, they romped at us (and untied one of Philip’s shoes), they got on laps and purrrrrrrred. SOLD!

And, since there is only you and me reading this, it’s time for a confession. The good folks at the Humane Society are very careful with their charges. We were questioned thoroughly about how we would care for our new kittens, and told to allow the youngsters lots of time to get used to their new home. Oh, we are such bad parents.

We got in the house, opened up the cat carrier, showed them the litter box and where the food lived, and just let them go. No confined room where they could acclimatize for a week or two; no separation from the older cat (that would be Ramses); just, here you go guys, this is your new home, let the wild rumpus begin. And so it did. If it can be knocked down, if it can be played with, if it can be addressed in any way, it is. Although they haven’t discovered the fun potential of kleenex boxes, they have knocked down the ten pound cast iron candelabrum. I came home from work one day and the front room looked like a scene from Poltergeist, with that big candelabrum upside down in the middle of the floor.

Yes, Red Barber was right, forgive me Bob Edwards, kitties are always a suitable subject. Small, manic and purry, Pink Nose and Tawny Toes have come to stay.

Take the kids to the museum

RPH #12

take your kids to see the pictures

“Oh, don’t take the baby (2 year old, 5 year old etc. etc.) to the big painting show. They will just cry and bother everyone else.” This, my dear cousins, is a lie. On Tuesday I walked by a dancing 2 1/2 year old standing in a line with her parents. She was letting off some of that endless steam and keeping the people around her entertained. When I saw her again, about an hour later, she had a tiny meltlet (that’s not a real meltdown, just a couple of little squeaks) because she was tired but her daddy held her and she fell asleep on his shoulder. She didn’t bother anyone, she didn’t stand in the way of any painting and she didn’t complain at the size of the crowd. She did manifest one of the important truths of my childhood: take your kid to the museum.

The De Young and the Legion of Honor were cheap days out in the late 1950’s. My father was a cub art teacher at Roosevelt Jr. High, and my mother was at home with two little girls starting elementary school. They had no money; thank God both of them loved to camp, or there wouldn’t have been any vacations. But they had two pretty fine museums and we went. First we went in strollers and then we toddled along with our parents, and we remembered. The first artist I remember liking is Henri Fantin-Latour, because he painted beautiful flowers. This is my point, take your children, grandchildren, cousins and young friends to the museum, they will remember.

This wild imperative is because of the current show at the De Young Museum in Golden Gate Park and that little girl. The Birth of Impressionism: Masterpieces from the Musée D’Orsay is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen and cousins, I’ve seen a lot. Tuesday at noon, our little party walked into the first room, with perfect examples of what the French Academy wanted in the middle of the 19th century. There was the luscious and perfectly composed “Birth of Venus.”— a large canvas (7’ x 3 1/2’?) on a classical (Greek or Roman) subject, perfectly rendered and very cool. (No matter how beautiful the nudes, male or female, they are removed from the observer.) These are the paintings that the Academy accepted. They honored, they celebrated but they did not move, not even the perfectly proportioned “Madonna of Solace” which shows a distraught mother draped over the lap of the Virgin and the baby, dead, at the feet of the Mother of God. The infant’s grayish, porcelain body is perfect in death and the mother’s aspect is genteel grief. This picture is what I don’t like about the French Academy of the middle 19th century.

The genius of this show is the time it takes to tell its story. We don’t leap from the cold perfection of the Academics to Cezane. The tale unfolds from Corot and Breton to James McNeill Whistler. You think you know “Arrangement #1 in Grey and Black: portrait of the artist’s mother” but it is a revelation. On the cusp between the formalism of the Academy and looking forward to what will come, Whistler’s “Mother” is totally involving and worth the whole price of admission.

take the kids to the museum

The “New”, as critic Robert Hughes calls it, comes in stages and each painter comes in his or her own way. Manet and Caillebotte are the true Januses, who look forward and back. “The Floor Scrapers” of Gustave Caillebotte and the “The Fife Player” by Édouard Manet are perfect examples of what happens when formalists look at real life.

But back to the question of small children looking at paintings. All of the images that we’ve reviewed are comprehensible to even the youngest viewers, if they aren’t asleep. They can appreciate the straight backed lady in the rocking chair and the boy in the baggy uniform playing a little flute. I’m not so foolish as to suggest that the Horrors of War by Goya is suitable for anyone under the age of 10. (It will give 10-year-olds nightmares, just like the rest of us.) But the minds of young children are fed by wonderful paintings. They will tell themselves stories for the pictures and so remember.

There were also middle and high school folks in this treasure trove. They were listening, almost to a person, to the gallery walk. Try as they might, they couldn’t keep up the bored, adolescent facade. They looked and could not stop looking—I do wish I could talk to them. Just as there is nothing like live theatre to open and fire the imagination, there is nothing like real paintings to do the same.

Now we enter into the first real flower of Impressionism and all bets are off. Alfred Sisley has three paintings, in three different styles, painted within 2 years of each other and that, my dears, is why a show of this size is so exciting. To watch a painter experiment and change is such a thrill. In the middle rooms we come to the man who brought me to Impressionism long before I knew the word, August Renoir. Yes, he could paint junk, but when he was good, he was so good. The little girl got tired in the room with a very large portrait of a very grand lady by our own August. I think it frightened our small art lover because it was so big. Very large (6’6” X 3’?) it represents a handsome, full figured lady whose hair is up in lustrous braids and she stands in a ruffled satin afternoon gown. Any fairy lover will love this picture.

But look, over on the right hand wall, there is a small perfection by the same guy. Sketched with a very fast hand is the image of a little gully in springtime in Algeria. It might not interest the child but will feed the soul of the parent. For here is light and shadow and grass and heat and all in little space. Breathe deep, and look, it will give you strength for the journey.

Manet and Caillebotte have another thing in common: they both supported other painters. Gustave Caillebotte (1848-1894) had a lot of private money from textiles, and he spent a little of it on his friend’s paintings. When he died, far too young, he left his collection of over 500 pieces to the nation of France. They didn’t want them all. Don’t get me started! Édouard Manet is the patron saint of this entire show. In fact there is an apotheosis painting by Fantin-Latour of Manet and his circle. There is the saintly Manet (he really was a good guy, who supported his friends) with Zola and Renoir (very young) and a whole bunch of other luminaries. I could go on and on about Pissaro and Monet and Morisot and I can’t truly describe what I saw.

This particular show is short lived, as all the great ones are. Because the D’Orsay is doing a full refit, we luxuriate in their treasures. But, cousins, our own collections are like Ali Baba’s cave, filled with unknown jewels. The De Young, the Legion of Honor, the SF MOMA, the Asian Art and our own Oakland Museum of Art, all polished up and pretty. Take those babies and children and sullen teenagers to museums and show them the pictures. You will have a good afternoon and they will remember.

why go to Provence?

RPH #13

Why Go to Provence?

Why do folks go to Provence if they haven’t been to Murphys, or Paso Robles or Sonoma or Lodi? I sell travel books about France all the time and the travelers gush about the scenery and wine and little old towns. Well, cousins, this golden state, your home, has scenery and wine and little old towns that you don’t need to go thru TSA and 13 hours on a plane to get to. Just point your car in any direction but true west and drive. At the risk of sounding like Dorothy Gale, there is no place like home. California is the most beautiful place on earth and any one who says different is just itching for a fight.

What do you do for your anniversary? Do you go out to dinner, does your sweetie send flowers to the office? Or, do you make your hardworking spouse pack up a bag and choose traveling music and take you away? We weren’t low on good wine but both of us needed a ride in the car. Our destination was the Gold Country and our desire was a good time. After taking our time getting up, packing and getting out, we joined the throng on the 580 headed for the Altamont Pass. For those lucky enough never to have taken this road, it is God’s own bottleneck. There is rarely a reason and always frustrated drivers but it is the only direct way to Manteca, the 120 and across the great Valley. Highway 120 is the southern route to the Gold Country and the straight route to Groveland and the front door of Yosemite. Take that right turn and you could be on the Valley Floor in an hour. But cooler heads prevailed and we headed toward Tuolumne County.

To get to the old towns and gorgeous scenery of Calaveras and Amador counties, take the 120 to the 49, the mother road of the Gold Country. Murphys, our normal haunt, was booked solid because the Doobie Brothers and Chicago were playing Ironstone Winery. Thus I found the tiny, perfect hamlet of Jamestown. Our digs were at the Royal Carriage on Main street, a very old hotel with small, spotless rooms, great wifi and firm beds. Nice restaurants in original buildings, a pretty little park with band stand and friendly cat—Jamestown is the perfect base of operations. It even offers a local tasting room for Gianelli vineyards, who specialize in Italian varietals. They named a complex and clear blend after their papa Nino. After a tasting there and then dinner at the highly recommended National Hotel, we fell into bed to dream of wine and World Cup football.

Part of the nature of a real vacation doing what you want and one of us wanted to watch some football. Having suffered many years as the wife of a Cubs fan, football, whether Mexican League, English Premier League or World Cup, is much more fun. It’s fast, the sleek young men are so beautiful and it’s under 2 hours per game. On Saturday morning we lazed, watched a game and still got to Murphys before anyone was open. We took the long way, along Parrots Ferry Road, through the narrow gullys and rolling pastures between Sonora and Columbia. These old gold towns have taken a real hit during this Great Recession; we saw plenty of empty store fronts in all the neat little towns we passed. For most of them, construction and tourism were the biggest employers and both have dried up. Even Murphys has some places for rent on Main St. but somehow that fair city found its source of steady work, wine. There are at least 14 tasting rooms in and around “the Queen of the Sierra.”

After a walk around the neighborhood we were the first customers at one of our favorite wineries in the world, Milliaire. The wines of Calaveras County are singular, the beautiful and varied children of copper infused dirt, months of dry heat, complete sunshine and even a little snow. Zinfandel, Tempranillo, Granache and all the other heat loving grapes are very happy in the land of the Skull.

why go to Provence?

Some of you cousins might feel a little intimidated by tasting rooms. Perhaps you don’t know what you like and don’t want to sound foolish. Don’t worry, just walk right into that old yellow filling station and talk to the beautiful blue eyed lady behind the bar at Milliaire. She will walk you gently through their wines and remember you when you come back. From their Simply Red to the old vine Zins and finishing with the Clockspring port, Milliaire makes wonderful wines. Now, Twisted Oak is different. In the largest and best looking property on the block, the old tasting room is a low ceilinged room, the girls behind the bar know their stuff and have a certain amount of attitude. They have too many piercings and the music is too loud but I don’t care. They make the biggest Spanish wines anywhere in the country. We had their Grenache last night with enchiladas verdes and ranch beans, viva Calaveras. The Twisted Ones call this wine Torcido which means “twisted.” They love names like this. Their greatest wine is called “the Spaniard”, as in “my name is Iñigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.” This wine is huge, structured and balanced, it dyes my teeth purple and it’s made by authentic smart asses. Just go to Murphys, park your car, get a room and taste wine.

Having busted our budget to high heaven, we went back to Jamestown and retired to the back porch of the hotel. With its wooden swings and chairs, it is perfect for late afternoon relaxation. One thing about our hotel, there were folks who weren’t speaking English. Whether it was Dutch or Danish or even Afrikaans, I never got to ask them where they came from and why they came to the Gold Country. Dinner was at the Willows, another old place recommended by three separate locals in Murphys. High ceilings, wooden booths and good food made the wandering winos very happy.

Amador County is different from Calaveras. We climbed slowly out of Angels Camp, heading up and a little west through the glacial valleys and rolling hills of gold and black green. This is the scenery I’m talking about, horse and cattle country dotted with big old live oaks. Winter stayed late in these hills and the purple and yellow wild flowers were still shimmering on the roadsides. I was sorry to see the condition of Mokulumne Hill, a sweet little cow town that deserves more attention than it is getting. We pulled into the great metropolitan center of Plymouth, searched for “Main St.” and found the Plymouth Hotel and its bar, a beautiful big old high ceiling room that has been recently redone. The bar itself is straight out of the Old West and fully restored. The rest of the room is airy and family friendly with a pizza oven in one corner. Our aim was a midday respite of football and lunch. We found good food (especially the brisket), a nice wine list (most by the glass) and a big screen t.v. filled with World Cup.

Nosey Parker, that’s me and chatting people up while on vacation is my game. Like the lovely couple who teach kindergarten in Sacramento. He played football in his home of Brazil as a youth and she is being kicked up to 1st/2nd grade. I have to email them! After Brazil cleaned Cote D’Ivoire’s clock, we were headed for the Shenandoah Valley and the Zinfandels made by an old Croatian brigand at Dobra Zemlja (good land). To my mouth the wines of the Amador are smoother with more berry than those of Calaveras—different dirt makes different wine. In this place of hot weather grapes we searched in vain for a Cabernet Franc. Our newlyweds (see RPH #10) requested a Cab Franc for a present and we need to find a good one. The search goes on.

Slowly, the arc of vacation bends towards home. We left early Monday morning hoping to be home and in front of the t.v., for the Argentina vs. Mexico game at 11 am. After stopping at one of the numerous local veggie stalls (dirt to plate) on the 120, we got back to Adams Point, Oakland, with half an hour to spare.

The glories of the Loire Valley cannot be overstated, neither the beauty of Chenanceaux and the other chateaus. France is wonderful as are Spain and Italy and all the rest of this beautiful globe. But, cousins, see California. She is the glowing jewel above rubies, from the young power of the Sierras to the misty ocean forests of Big Sur. Our deserts and valleys and vineyards are equal to any in the world. We grow the food and make the wine. Get out there and eat.