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?”

Lake Berryessa - June 20, 2011

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
 A stately pleasure-dome decree:


Where Alph, the sacred river, ran


Through caverns measureless to man


Down to a sunless sea. “Xanadu - Kubla Khan” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Where is your pleasure-dome, where do you find your ease? Is your sacred river the mighty Colorado, water source for the Southern West? The Sacramento, as she begins her journey from Redwood Park? Is your palace filled with luxury and every want fulfilled? Or is it a hot afternoon, in a dry place with enough water?

We sat in the scarce shade. Himself was washing his brain and, as I looked at the hot beauty of Lake Berryessa, Coleridge’s couplets came, unbidden, to my mind. We all name our own Xanadu.

Take me for a ride in the car. Take me away from home, if only for a few hours, and my batteries are recharged, my soul renewed. As the cheapest date on Monday, just a tank of gas and a destination, I chose vegetable shopping. We woke late after a lovely Sunday dinner with friends, slowly did our daily work, pulled ourselves together and didn’t leave the house till about 2:30. Our first stop was Larry’s Produce, a big truck farm just outside of Fairfield. My fantasies to the contrary, there were no worthwhile tomatoes, but beautiful peppers and even an edible cantaloupe were ours to be had.

From there, we headed up the lush and very leafy Wooden Valley. This is such a pretty drive, past low fields filled with grapes and those big fans that fight off the spring frost. The road is serpentine and the flora change as we climb, from the deep greens of irrigated farm land to the sparse scrub with narrow, tall pines natural to that place. And then, just before you wonder why you are doing this, Lake Berryessa appears on the right. This reservoir lake is a glorious sapphire set in the golden hills of east Napa County. It is a very democratic place, supporting many little private marinas and public lake-side parks equally. One of the public areas was our final destination, Spanish Flat public picnic area.

There is a concrete boat launch that stretches out into the lake, where the green, shallow water meets the blue, deep. When we first came picnicking at Berryessa, two years ago, the launch was dry all the way out. We sat in the clear heat and ate tomatoes and peaches. This year, the launch is underwater, the first fruits of this long, rainy, snowy winter. This water calls to everyone from the hot valley lands. From Dixon, Vacaville and Travis AFB, folks come with their food and children to frolic in the waters of their own Xanadu. Oh, and dogs. There was a blissed-out black Lab-mix, who desired nothing more than a stick thrown in the water. “Ok, guys, just somebody throw the stick.” Happy dogs are always good at a picnic. Even the very nice, hard working park ranger understood that a water dog wanted to be in the water. That’s hard to do on a leash.

The very best things at a lake picnic are water apes, especially the younger of the breed. They wear water wings of various kinds, they splash, they cry, they laugh and take care of each other. If you want a silent water experience, Lake Berryessa is not for you. But if you want to watch a mad young man (14 years?) try to swim after a dinghy that had escaped from a power boat, this is your place. After watching that boy test himself, a cooler head got in the boat and went after him. The afternoon current was strong, he couldn’t have caught the dinghy, but it was instructive to watch him try. Boys are strange and fascinating, I’ve thought so all my life.

We packed up our melon rinds, picked up some errant trash and headed home. On our way out, we saw three deer and two fawns, still with their white spots, heading up the narrow gullies. Birds sang and we got lost. We turned right rather than left on Highway 128 and headed over the hills to the Silverado Trail. It’s a beautiful drive, especially late on a summer afternoon. The light of the Napa Valley is very specific. On early foggy, spring mornings, it is pewter. And on early summer afternoons, it becomes golden. I appreciate the Napa Valley, it is deeply beautiful and a drive down its eastern side is a treat.

We all find our own pleasure domes. For my best friend, it lies in deep, drippy forests and cool ocean views. For me it is heat in the basin and range. Everyone knows about Lake Berryessa and many dismiss it as too common, too hot and too noisy. I just love it.

In Xanadu did Kubla-Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.