Am republishing this story because my friend hadn’t read it yet.  Originally published 26 December 2006.

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My sister has been bugging me for over a year to post this story about hand sanitizer and outhouses. It is a fairly embarrassing story, but I thought–since it was on my list of things to do in 2006, I should at least make the attempt. In July 2005, my sister, my brother-in-law, my niece, and myself set out to climb the Chilkoot Trail. I posted my report here. At the end of it all, there were exciting things like bears, 3600 vertical feet, and eight very sore feet. We sang. We laughed. We swore at each other. I taught my niece how to pee in the woods. Jim was the hero of the day for carrying his pack on his back and throwing my sister’s up the Pass. In retrospect–it was a very good trip. It started out, though, with a bit of a surprise.

I grew up at Mile 906.84 Alaska Highway, which was right across from the Wolf Creek Campground just south of Whitehorse, Yukon. My sisters and I spent a lot of time each summer playing in that campground. When I grew up, outhouses were terrible, beastly things. They were completely disgusting holes in the ground with claustrophobic closets built precariously around them. In fact, I just googled outhouses and I found this site. Have a look at the type of outhouses I was used to. The doors rarely shut. You had to get your friend–or in my case, one of my sisters–to stand guard outside to make sure somebody didn’t walk in on you while you were in the middle of doing your business. You would have to prepare yourself outside: unbutton your pants, hook your thumbs and forefingers into your waistband for rapid decent, and take a deep breath outside, open the door, duck in, do your business without touching anything inside and finish while you were still holding your breath. Hopefully, you would finish before you had to take a breath. In the end, you would realize that you would have been way better off finding a tree or a secluded log. Terrible, beastly things those outhouses.

When we started our Chilkoot trip, we stayed the first night at Dyea Base Camp. Over the 18 or so odd years that I haven’t been living in the Yukon, outhouse technology has improved by leaps and bounds. Leaps and bounds! The outhouse I used that evening was wheelchair accessible, had a concrete foundation, and a stainless steel toilet–all-in-all–it was definitely a considerable improvement from what I was used to. In fact, it also had a hand sanitizer dispenser. Now, how can you top that in the middle of the Alaskan wilderness? A stainless steel toilet and hand sanitizer? I think it might have even had enzymes to facilitate decomposition and decrease the stench because I definitely don’t remember a stench.

Also, at this particular point in time, my sister, brother-in-law, and niece were outside the outhouse waiting for the Park Rangers to come and take care of the black bear that was rooting around our camp. I was fine. I was taking refuge in the outhouse. Well–not really. I was using the outhouse. Here is the picture.

I am hovering over the stainless steel toilet. Hover. Always hover–good for those thigh muscles. As I am doing my business and I was looking straight ahead and I notice the hand sanitizer. That’s where it was placed–by the way. Right at eye-level as you are hovering over the stainless steel toilet. In one microsecond (because I didn’t really think about it) I thought: “Hmmm. I am going to be on the Trail for the next four days. I will be sweating and stinky and I won’t be anywhere near a shower, bath, or anything that I may care to wash my private bits with.” The only thing I knew was available was glacier-fed streams. How enticing. In that microsecond, I rationalize that I could probably see how that hand sanitizer works on my nether regions. You don’t want to be stinky going out into the wilderness. That could result in other nasty things happening. Bears for example. Bears might be more attracted to something that smelled like it was dying. Imagine what I would smell like on Day 4? In that microsecond I decide that it would be a good idea to use the hand sanitizer not only for my hands, but well–for the potentially nasty stinky bits that could make me more desirable to a bear. I reach out and squirt some on some toilet paper. (Oh. Did I mention that my new-and-improved outhouse also had toilet paper?)

I wipe. From front to back. In one fell swoop. Before my hands finish the motion, the shock set in. It hit me right in the stomach. It knocked the breath right out of me. I stood there–well hovered there–completely breathless. I gasped for air like a guppy out of water. My eyes bugged out and started to water from the sting–like when you taste horseradish for the first time–but a million times worse. My sister knocks on the door: “Jen? You OK? You’re awfully quiet. What happened? Did you fall in?” Snicker, snicker. I still can’t breathe. I can’t say a word. I think I end up grunting something like: “Just a sec. I’ll…um…be just a minute.”

I finally got my breath back. I was no longer hovering. I was dancing. My pants were around my ankles, I was lightheaded from the pain and lack of oxygen, and I was dancing around the new-fangled outhouse with its wheelchair access, cement foundation, and stainless steel toilet with enzymes to facilitate decomposition and temper the stench. How the hell do you get rid of the sting of industrial-strength hand sanitizer from your nether regions?

So that’s it. That’s my outhouse story. The moral of my story is: Hand sanitizer is strictly for hands. I think it’s a pretty useful story because it may save some poor, unsuspecting, mindless soul from the pain and embarrassment of it all. Take it from me–you would rather read about it than experience it.

A few nights ago, I went out for After Hours at the Ravenous Restaurant here in Healdsburg. That is, I went just to hang out and get a bit of conversation and meet some interesting people before I turned in myself. Ravenous is a local restaurant in an old house on Center Street. The entire backyard is the backyard patio and bar. It’s a pretty cool atmosphere. I like showing up later–you meet more locals (everybody who’s getting off of their shifts from somewhere else).

I ended up talking to two out-of-town gentlemen who’d met one another at law school in London, England. One was living in Hong Kong now, the other–still in London. They were both here on holiday getting a bit of the California sun.

You couldn’t ask for a better outdoor evening than that night. It was warm enough to sit outside in sleeveless tops. (And I know you’re thinking: “Well it is California after all!”), but we often get fog here late at night, and it cools everything off and adds some humidity to the air–so bare arms are often chilly late at night. But, that night was a perfectly warm summer evening.

I said hello to KC Mosso, the bartender, and talked to him about sending me the listings for his events he books over there. And once I’m seated at the bar, I turned around and started talking to these two gentlemen.

They’d made it to Healdsburg after a few days in San Francisco. They were a bit tired, but they did ask where I could recommend they should go visit the next day. I asked KC for a piece of paper and a pen. He handed me an extra menu from behind the bar and took a pen from his pocket. Thanks KC!

They were only planning half a day or so in the area before they headed over to Carneros. I gave them a full day itinerary–just in case. There really is a lot to see here and it’s better to enjoy an entire day than just rush in and out. Anyway, I thought I would write up the route I gave them and post it here. It’s pretty useful information if you don’t really have much time to spend in the area and it’s got a bit of variety.

BREAKFAST and MORNING

Start early. It’s important to have breakfast. There’s a number of places you can have breakfast in town, it all depends on what you’d like to eat. If you’re on a time line, like these guys were, you probably want to grab a breakfast sandwich (or something). I know that the Costeaux Bakery Cafe and the Palette-Art Cafe both offer breakfast sandwiches. You can usually just ask for a recommendation at the counter. The servers really do know best.

Take your breakfast to go and head on up to Lake Sonoma. Lake Sonoma’s about 20 minutes from the town of Healdsburg (at the top end of Dry Creek Road) and you don’t want your breakfast to get cold.

Find the lookout and enjoy your breakfast in the fresh air. Depending on how much time you have, you can hike around up there or just take goofy pictures of you and your friends.

BY THIS TIME, IT MIGHT BE 11AM OR SO

On the way back down, you can visit any winery that’s open along the way. Here’s a link to an interactive map. But, there are a few I like to note from my own preference and experiences. My friend Shana Ray, who helped promote the Day-in-the-Life event last month and also contributes articles to this magazine works at Kokomo on Fridays. You could always stop in and say hello to her. If you twitter, let her know you are coming: @ShaRayRay.

One day this winter, I had the fortune to try Papapietro Perry’s 2005 Pinot Noir and it made and impression on me. I don’t know much about wine, but I do know what I like. And I liked their 2005 Pinot enough for me to recommend trying their other tastings.

There are a few other wineries clustered in and about Kokomo and Papapietro Perry: Amphora, Collier Falls, Forth, and Peterson. I’ve never tried any of these wines (but I’m sure I will–eventually). You could always try them and comment below. That would be great.

A bit further south and across the road from this cluster is a vineyard and tasting room called UNTI. They weren’t even on my radar until one day I started talking to Mick Unti himself (at an After Hours at the Ravenous). He was full of opinions about life, the universe, and everything. And it’s just refreshing to meet somebody local who has a few interesting things to say.

Also, I like the back label on the 2006 UNTI rose. It’s not listed on their website, so I guess you can’t get it anymore, but it was a story–about rose. I like stories. I like to connect with people over stories. That’s just the way I am. Actually, I like the rose too. So there. I guess I tried the 2007 though. It’s refreshing on a hot summer afternoon. Mick is going to admonish me for publishing all this, if he ever finds out. But–whatever, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You can just go in and try the wines yourself and see if you like them. That’s the best way.

BY THIS TIME, IT MIGHT BE 1:30 or 2:00PM

You’ll probably be hungry so stop for lunch out at the Dry Creek General Store (at the turn off for Lambert Bridge Road). Since Dry Creek Road and the Skaggs Springs Road are two of the most popular roads in the county for motorcycling, you’ll often see a gaggle of bikers stopped there too. Or–a gaggle of cyclists. And–most probably, a gaggle of other wine tasters. Stop and compare notes. It’s all about you experience. After lunch you can head across Lambert Bridge Road to West Dry Creek.

It’s probably best if you go on up to the north end of the road. You can wind your way back through any of the wineries. Everybody has an experience. Everybody has an opinion. You decide which ones you like.

Although, if you are out in Dry Creek, and it is a Friday afternoon, stop by Michel Schlumberger Winery or or Wilson Winery. They have a series of live music on Fridays. On Sunday afternoons, C. Donatiello Winery has music too. It’s nice just to hang out in the gardens and enjoy the afternoon. (Check the What’s Happening Healdsburg calendar for more details).

When you finally make your way back into Healdsburg and ask a local where they’d recommend you for dinner. AND don’t forget to ask what they like on the menu. There is a reason we live here. And we know what we like. And we’re definitely full of opinions!

I hear about Mateo Granados from a few people before I actually get to talk to him myself. David and Ondine mention him when they find out I’m looking for interesting perspectives. And I crosscheck the reference with Julie, my winemaker-foodie friend. She nods her head. Yes. Definitely.

And when I’m talking to Evie at the Tierra Vegetables Farm Stand, she says: “Oh. You HAVE to talk to Mateo.” And she calls him right there and leaves a message with my phone number.

Mateo calls me the next day. I’m driving home and don’t really get a chance to explain myself, but we agree to meet the following Wednesday, at 9:00 am at the Palette Art Café.

I arrive early to sort myself out before he arrives. He rushes in a few minutes late, dripping and sheepish. He’s been at his kitchen making tamales since 6:00 am. He wanted to shower and clean up before he met me. We order coffee and sit down to chat.

He’s animated. He’s not only explaining himself with words. He uses his face, his hands. He gestures. He just starts explaining.

“What I’m doing,” he says, “Is reproducing the food I grew up eating—but with the bounty of Sonoma County growers.” He smiles and nods his head, “Modern Yucatan Cuisine.”

He explains a bit about the Nuevo Latino cuisine movement and states: “But we’re taking it further. We’re making it regional: Flavors of the Yucatan—with Sonoma County flair.”

“I grew up in the breadbasket of Mexico. My father was a butcher and my mother—an artist. This is what I know. This is what I love. This”—he motions to the table in front of us as if there were a grandiose spread right there, “This is just what I do.”

I ask him to explain more of his past. How did he come to Sonoma County? Believe it or not, he came to the US as a professional soccer player. It wasn’t long though, before he injured himself too much to continue to play. “My housemate at the time was Michael Bonaccorsi. We would spend all of our time together tasting. Tasting food. Tasting wine. And expressing ourselves. That is how I learned English: talking about food and wine with Michael Bonaccorsi.”

Michael went on to become one of the first twenty master sommeliers in the United States. Mateo went on to work his way up through some of the Bay Area’s top restaurants and is now a pedigree chef. He’s held positions such as Executive Sous Chef at Masa’s in San Francisco and Executive chef at Charlie Palmer’s Dry Creek Kitchen here in Healdsburg.

LOCAL FINE DINING

Now, Mateo’s goal is to start his own fine dining experience. He aims to bring his refined Mayan recipes to the same level as respected French, Italian, and Spanish cuisine.

He started small. In fact, he went back to square one. In 2004 he started selling his handmade tamales in the Farmer’s Markets all over Sonoma County. His philosophy: “Grow local. Know local. Buy local.”

His commitment to his customers is 100% locally grown and produced. He buys his ingredients from over 30 growers in Sonoma County. “If you love what you do, you have to do it right.” He’s a passionate proponent of not only knowing where his food comes from, but knowing the grower and how it was grown. The Local Harvest website defines community supported agriculture as “putting the farmers’ face on food.”

Mateo certainly puts a face on every ingredient he uses. He describes every dish with a list of identities. It wasn’t just queso fresco. It was Bodega Bay Queso Fresco. Black Sheep bacon. Pug’s Leap Goat Cheese. Black Beans from Tierra Vegetables. And so many more. I couldn’t keep track.

“You can’t beat it. The flavors. The smells. The textures. I get vegetables from Tierra—there’s still earth on them. And roots!” He cups his hands as if he’s holding a bulb of garlic or something and brings them towards his face. I can tell he can smell the earth.

The idea of fresh, local produce is to keep it alive until you use it to cook. He tells me: “Enjoy it while you can. Because the fresher it is, the more alive it is on your plate. The more flavor explodes in your mouth.”

Another part of Mateo’s philosophy is: Respect. Respect the land. Respect the food. Respect the growers. Respect the producers. He knows how much energy, time, and labor it takes to grow a tomato, an onion, a carrot, a pig. Because he knows his suppliers, he doesn’t waste. He creates his signature dishes around what’s available in the season and finds a use for everything. Everything. He doesn’t waste anything because he doesn’t want anything to go to waste. He’s very aware of what he’s throwing away.

He tells me all of this and I take notes. Finally, he takes a moment to sip his coffee and looks at me expectantly: “Do you have any questions?”

“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “Is it possible to have an experience?” He looks at me and thinks for a second and says: “Ok. You want an experience? Let’s go to my kitchen.”

FRESH FAST FABULOUS

We drive to the kitchen where he prepares his tamales. As we get out of his car, he points to two big trucks and adds with a grin: “Those. Those are complete mobile kitchens. I am so committed to local ingredients and the idea of fresh. I bring everything to your site and prepare it right there.”

He shows me around the kitchen and introduces me to his workers who are preparing tamales for his Farmer’s Markets. He makes me taste some of his garnishes: olives from Lou Preston, beets and cabbage cured with bay leaves, cinnamon sticks, and cloves.

I realize what he means by keeping the produce alive until it’s on your plate (or in this case—in my mouth). (A few weeks later as I’m writing this article and thinking about his cured beets and cabbage, I’m still salivating from the memory).

“OK,” he pulls a cast iron fry pan from the cupboard, “Let’s make a quesadilla.” He asks his helper to clean some cactus.

“Come over here,” he motions and makes me smell the olive oil. “Can you beat that?” He pours a dollop to the fry pan and turns up the heat. He adds the cactus pads for a few seconds on each side then removes them to a cutting board. Then, he goes into the other room to get out his knives and comes back sharpening one: “To make good food, you have to have good knives.” He’s cheeky.

He slices some onion and crystallizes it in the pan. Then dices the cactus pads, slices a bit of Pug’s Leap Cambremer goat cheese, and layers it all together on a soft tortilla. All of which, he now puts it back in the fry pan, fast. Both sides. Just enough to grill the tortilla and soften the cheese.

He whisks it out onto a cutting board, quarters the quesadilla and decorates the top with tomatilla salsa and his cured cabbage condiments. He tops it all off with a handful of sliced green onion. All the while, he’s lecturing about not wasting anything in his kitchen.

How can you beat that? 10 minutes or less. Fresh. Fast. Fabulous.

He smiles:“Pair it with a crisp Rose and you have yourself a succulent, fine-dining, regional experience.”

MORE ON MATEO

Flickr photo stream for this article MateoGranadosCatering.com Interested in attending a Missing Link diner?

PS: You can taste more than his tamales at the Healdsburg Farmer’s Markets on Tuesdays and Saturdays. You can also find a Mateo Granados menu at the Santa Rosa Farmer’s Market on Saturdays and in Sebastopol on Sundays.

I emailed Evie of Tierra Vegetables a few weeks ago to ask if I could write a feature article on their Farm Stand. I wasn’t sure if she’d remember me–because I’d met her through a friend. But of course she remembers and sure I can write an article. She tells me a good time to catch her (or anybody at Tierra Vegetables) is on Tuesdays or Thursday mornings–when they’re packing up the CSA boxes. “It’s pretty hectic and you’d have to be patient but you could get some good pictures and info.” I wonder what the CSA boxes are, but believe I’ll find out soon enough.

I find the Farm Stand off Highway 101 at the Fulton/Airport Boulevard exit and arrive on Tuesday morning around 9h30. Evie’s not there yet so I introduce myself and have a look around to get myself oriented. I offer to help get things ready for the CSA boxes.

Lee sets me up with a few bushels of garlic. She’s very efficient: “I need one hundred bulbs that weigh 3.2 ounces each.” Roxie shows me how to clean them and weigh them.

I start preparing the bulbs of garlic. Roxie is preparing chard and lettuce for the boxes. We start to chat. We talk about what Tierra Vegetables is doing with the Farm Stand and the CSA boxes. She says: “Well, for example, we grow everything that we sell. Or almost everything. If we don’t grow it, we know who does.”

She points to the field behind the Farm Stand: “Those are the strawberries that we’re selling today. We pick what’s ready and sell them as soon as they come in from the field.” Then she motions to the tractor that’s appeared behind me. “Those are the carrots that are going in the CSA boxes.” I grab my camera and take an action shot.

As I’m trying to finish prepping the garlic, a van rolls up and somebody shouts, “It’s the group from Santa Rosa.” Then, there’s hustle and bustle everywhere because the arrival signals the start of everybody else arriving to pick up their boxes.

Tierra Vegetables grows, harvests, and preps the produce. But you actually have to assemble your own box when you come to pick it up. Also, you provide your own “box”. It can be a paper bag, a cloth bag, a basket–whatever you want it to be. As long as you reuse it every week. Two guys get out of the van and start their assembly line.

I wait until it gets organized before I ask a fellow: “Where are you from?”

“Winzler and Kelly,” he replies.

“What’s that?”

“An engineering firm in Santa Rosa.”

“How come you have so many bags?” There seems to be about twenty different bags they need to fill.

“Well,” he explains. “There’s a group of us at work. Every Tuesday, somebody different has pick-up duty. We come out and fill up everybody’s bag and bring it back to the office.”

They’re on a timeline and by now, more and more people are arriving to pick up their CSA boxes. I wander out to the front of the Farm Stand to get out of the way and see what’s going on there. Evie’s chatting to everybody as she rings them up–she knows everybody’s names.

It finally occurs to me to ask: “What does CSA stand for?” As it comes out of my mouth, I remember reading about it on their website: “Community Supported Agriculture”.

COMMUNITY SUPPORTED AGRICULTURE

Evie explains that the idea of CSA is to connect the local community with local farmers. It’s about creating a relationship between the consumers of the food and the farmers growing the food and about knowing about how the food is grown.

I ask Evie, “How long have you been selling these boxes?

She thinks for a minute. “I think our CSA program started in 1992. We started with about 10 families. We’ve grown some every year and last year we topped around 200.”

A customer comes round front from assembly line out behind the Farm Stand. Evie introduces us, “Denise, meet Jennifer. She’s writing an article for a Healdsburg Magazine. Jennifer, why don’t you talk to Denise?”

I start talking to her. She’s been part of the Tierra Vegetables CSA program for over three years. “What do you like about it?” I ask.

“Well,” she ponders. “I really like that it’s fresh. I like that it’s fixed. I mean. I just arrive and my vegetables are already chosen for me.” She pauses, “I guess I like that I don’t really have to think about what I’m going to be eating this week. They’ve done it already.”

What do you mean? “, I prompt her to explain more.

“Not only is the produce grown and picked for me, Evie also emails recipes for what’s in the box that week. It just makes my life easier. And,” she perks up, “I never would have some of the vegetables if they hadn’t been in the box–like cactus!”

I nod my head. I know what she means. Having somebody else think about planning my meals every week would definitely make my life easier.

I ask Evie how to sign up for their CSA program? She tells me there is a waiting list of about 25 or so right now. But all the information is on their website: TierraVegetables.com. Or just email, call, or stop by the Farm Stand. She repeats with a laugh, “You can always just stop by the Farm Stand.”

SUSTAINABLE PRACTICES

I talk to Wayne as he finishes preparing the bushels of garlic. He’s set himself up in the shade and he stands with one leg up resting on the bench. I notice he doesn’t wear shoes. And I remember somebody telling me once that he never wears shoes. He’s always barefoot in the fields. I make a mental note to ask him about it.

Now, I ask about his history with farming and with farmer’s markets.

“We’ve been farming most of our lives. In the 70s, I was running a produce farm up in Potter Valley. Farming has been our way of life for over 25 years. CSA is only part of it.”

“Part of what?” I ask.

“Sustainability.” He states the obvious. “Everything we do here is environmentally, socially, and economically sustainable. It has to be all three.”

I email him later to ask him to elaborate on this explanation. He sends me his own words:

Sustainability is economically, socially, and environmentally friendly practices. To make it work, you have to have all three parts and all three parts must be as equal as possible.

• Economically means that the farm can support not only the farmers and the farmers families but also all the farm workers and their families.
• Socially means that it needs to support the local community and be part of the local community by supporting the local businesses, supporting the local residents (don’t spray, don’t disrupt the farm’s neighbors, etc, paying our workers living wages, and supporting them how we can).
• Environmentally means that we use practices that least impact the environment, from not using plastic for coverings in the beds, to not using pesticides, fungicides, herbicides, etc.

This is the balance we strive to achieve and it means keeping our money in the community. It’s very complex, and we have a long way to go. But every day, we are working towards this definition of sustainability.

FARMER’S MARKET vs FARM STAND

I ask Wayne about selling the produce. Do they only have this Farm Stand? Or do they sell at other Farmer’s Markets?

He sort of sighs and says, “We used to do Farmer’s Markets everyday around the Bay Area. At one point, we were travelling to Farmer’s Markets as far away as Danville.”

“But really, with the cost of everything–time and transport–it was soon not becoming worth it. When this land became available, I knew it was where we needed to set up and start the Farm Stand. “

“Now, our transportation costs consist of bringing the food from the field (he waves his hand behind him)—to the Farm Stand. And, we use those (he motions to the huge wheelbarrows) as transportation.”

Tierra Vegetables leases 17 acres of farmland from the Sonoma County Agricultural Preservation and Open Space District. And a few more acres out by their own home. Everything they sell they grow on the land they farm.

If they don’t sell it, it goes back to their licensed kitchen to become part of their prepared food offerings. If it doesn’t sell or get prepared in the kitchen, it’ll go back into the land or fed to the animals. They have chickens, sheep, and sometimes pigs at home on their farm.

I ask him if he knows how many people buy from Tierra Vegetables and he works out the figures right there.

“We have about 500 families who buy from the Farm Stand in peak season.

“We have about 200 families subscribing to the CSA program.”

“And Lee sells to about 100 different customers on Saturdays in San Fran (because they continue to sell at the Farmer’s Market at the Ferry Plaza on Saturdays). So—I guess roughly, that’s about 800 families who we supply from our land.” He looks satisfied as he realizes the numbers.

I say to Wayne: “Roxie said that you built everything here at the Farm Stand from recycled materials.” And I ask him to explain.

He laughs and says: “How do you want me to explain? What do you want me to explain?”

I think. “For example, where did you get the materials to build the stand?”

He shrugs and points to the wood framed boxes that display the produce. “That wood came from the old Frizelle-Enos feed store out in Sebastopol when they tore down the old building.”

He points his shears at the structure where he’s shucking garlic. “This wood is from when the fence out there (and he motions to the field) blew down and we had to replace it.”

“Those pipes (that hold the shade tarp over the actual stand itself), those pipes are from our old well out on the farm.”

“The shade tarp is actually an old billboard that you see out on the highway.” He smiles, “One of my friends got it for me.”

“And that’s an old shipping container.”

I get the idea. Everything. Everything to do with Tierra Vegetables –quite literally from soup to nuts—is either grown from seed, recycled, or re-used. They support their family, their worker’s families, and (in peak season) up to 800 other families.

And how can you not support that?

MORE INFORMATION

Before you go somewhere else on the internet, have a look at the photo album of this day on Flickr.
Visit the Tierra Vegetables Farm Stand (directions)
Open 11:00 am – 6:00 pm
Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday (Wednesday when tomato season starts)

LINKS

Tierra Vegetables CSA program
Tierra Vegetables website
Sonoma County Agricultural Preservation and Open Space District
More on CSA in general

I convinced Humberto to drive with me to LA last weekend. My sister was flying in from Fiji with her friend for a brief stop in the US before they continued to Santiago, Chile. They are going to spend a month or so backpacking in South America before they return to Canada for Christmas. My sister needed a backpack and she also needed to unload some stuff before going.

I was excited–as usual–to be able to see my sister. I hadn’t talked to her in months. And usually, especially the last few years, I talk to her quite frequently. I get excited and I talk a lot (if you know me, you now know that my nickname is Princess Donkey and why). Well. Actually, I should explain that too. One day, as I’m taking the dogs for a walk, the Humberto sees me coming over the hill. He decides to call me Princess (as in Princess Fiona from the movie Shrek). My family has already deemed Alan the Ogre (and he’s not–it’s just that at one time–he appeared to be a bit of an ogre). Me? I think. I’m no princess. At least, I don’t want to be a princess. So I laugh awkwardly and say that since I talk so much, I should be Donkey. He continues to call me Princess though. Later as I realized I really was talking too much, I said out loud: “Oh. I should just shut up. I talk too much.” He laughed and quoted: “Two words Donkey: Shut. Up.” Now, I have been christened Princess Donkey.

Anyway. All the way to LA–we just talk and laugh and talk and laugh. AND TALK. About the state of affairs in his home province, about religion and believing in something greater, about believing in yourself, about living in different cultures, religions, countries and how that experience makes you a richer person. About finding truth in life. About living in truth. About how Democracy is the new religion of the United States and it is still the opiate of the masses. And how I think that the Constitution was written over 200 years ago and that it needs to be updated. And the same for the Bible–it’s the simple fact that somebody wrote something down and over 2000 years later, people still believe in what is written. And there is something to be said for evolution and progress. At one point, he says: What can I say? I’ve spent six years working by myself on the mountain. I think. That is what I do. I work and I think. Sometimes, I think I am just crazy.”

We have to find LAX and my sister. All I know is that she’ll be arriving at 1h05 pm on Air Pacific. I was too busy to plan for this trip and I even forgot to look at maps.google.com before I left. I did, however, bring my laptop with my cellular internet connection. I figured if I got lost, I could just stop and look. I drive into LA on the I5. At the last moment, I decide to take the 405 south–just a hunch that LAX was in that direction. It is now 1h10 pm. Their flight has landed and I am still trying to find LAX. Scatty. That is what Alan tells me. Scatty, but happy. I call Sumeet (a former colleague from Turin who now lives in LA doing his MBA studies). I’m in luck because he answers the phone. “Hi Sumeet. It’s Jennifer. I know this is an odd question, but I’ve just got on the 405 and I need to find LAX.” He is good. He gave me exact directions and we arrived at the airport by about 1h30.

Except, now I must drive around the arrival circle looking for my sister–who I think should be waiting for me. We drove the arrival circle five times before we decide to park and find el banyo. I’m also making plans because my sister had emailed me the night before saying that she might not be able to leave Fiji due to a hiccup with the Ministry of Labour and the Canadian film crew. I’m thinking: What do I do if she’s not here? I guess I’ll just arrange to leave the backpack in a locker or something. At this point, I was standing just outside the washrooms in the terminal. I was also wearing my retro CBC t-shirt I’d splurged on last summer. All of a sudden, I hear: Jen!! I turned around, it was my sister. Her and her friend had noticed the CBC t-shirt in the airport and thought it was cool that they’d just arrived from Fiji and one of the first things they saw was the CBC logo standing around in LAX. Then, they noticed–it was me.

We all get organized and back to the car–talking all the time about getting out of Fiji, about driving around in circles five times before deciding to park, about time zones, about the luck of wearing my CBC t-shirt. We get to the car (2005 Honda Civic hatchback) and we look at four people and all the luggage and Catherine says: Great. Is this some kind of clown car? As in how many people and bags can you actually get in a Honda Civic hatchback? I say: Not a problem. Hondas are awesome. I tell them that I once got three 17-foot sea kayaks, three people, and enough gear for a three-day weekend in a Honda Civic. Just watch. Four people, backpacks, suitcases, bags, laptops, gear. Phshaw. I have roof racks.

Catherine was right about the clown car. I probably could have done a better job too. I should have put the large suitcase on the roof rack. But whatever-we fit. Everything fit. We drive out of the airport. What’s next? I think we are going to find accommodation–but Catherine and my sister need to find a bank to change their per-diem monies into traveller’s cheques. I decide to head down to Venice Beach area (the only place I know in LA). I start to ask people who look like locals where we can find a Wells Fargo bank. Catherine and Redd are having a fit in the back seat because I just stick my head out my window and ask questions. It’s the fastest way to find information. Really. I don’t know what Humberto is thinking other than: “Muchacha loca–muy loca.”

This is when the elements of my good fortune of randomness and lack of planning for the road trip start to collapse around me. I’m wired from the no sleep the night before. I’m wired from the trip down. I’m wired from being able to meet my sister and her friend before they go off on an exciting backpacking adventure to South America. I’m wired and I’m talking a mile a minute about finding the Wells Fargo and I’m looking one way to do a U-Turn and not looking in the direction that the car is going and–you guessed it–BANG–right into a telephone pole that is sticking out into the parking lot.

Not exactly what I need right now–but there is nothing I can do about it. It’s already done. We get out to examine the damage. I can’t get out my door–it really is a clown car now–everybody piles out the passenger door. To top it off, the bank is closed. We have to pile back into the car and find the next bank–which we do, but the whole tone is subdued because I’ve banged my car. Nothing that stops us though. I’ll deal with it when I get home. Now we have to find a place to eat and a place to sleep. I drive down the main street and we all agree to find a Mexican restaurant. Catherine and my sister have been eating a whole lot of Indian food and craved nachos. We find a cantina place down by the beach. I drop them off and go find a hotel to stay for the night.

Over dinner, the evening gets even more subdued as time zones catch up with us and as the realization of the damage to my car sinks in. When we get back to the hotel I put my head in my hands and say: Ugh. I can’t believe I banged my car. Humberto starts to say something in English, then he finishes in Spanish. I ask him what he just said. He repeats: “Calladito me veo mas bonito.” Then he laughs and shakes his head and translates: “I look better quiet.”

Here is something from my archives of blog starts. I think I wrote it last October before Zebulon’s turned to SoHo. My friend and former neigbour Carol would point out that I haven’t really gotten anywhere in a year.

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Livewire is a literary salon hosted every Tuesday night at Zebulon’s Lounge in Petaluma, California. I go sometimes, hoping to become part of a greater community of writers. I end up just being part of the greater community of drinkers. I arrive around 7h30. The first person I see is the contractor who thought it was totally appropriate to take over one month to do a three day job at our rental and at the end of it all, wash his underwear in the washer and dryer AFTER the new tenants had started moving in. What am I supposed to say to him? I move on.

Talk a bit to Jake, the bartender. He is doing a Masters in Psychology at SSU. Also, he is collaborating on a screenplay with various other Zebulon contributors. I ask him how that is going. He says nothing happened over the summer.

The fellow sitting next to me is introduced at the mic. He reads a story about wanking off to bare breasts in the movie Leprechaun II. How personal. How universal at the same time. What heterosexual male wouldn’t wank off to a free pair of bare breasts?

End up talking to Leprechaun-movie guy. During his reading of wanking off to whoever’s bare-breasts appear in the Leprechaun movie, he mentioned that he is working on his Masters of Philosophy. We talk about post modernism philosophy. When it started. What are the significant historic events that define the period? What period are we living in today? Who’s defining it? From which perspective do you define it? I tell him what my friend (in a pub in Ireland) once said about the USA and what a photojournalist from Southern France said about the USA. How these totally separate and different people essentially said the same thing: That the US (as a nation) acts like a rich, spoiled, insolent teenager. Somehow the US believes that “they really can change the world, and they believe in the life force of the planet, and admit that somebody’s killing it–but it isn’t them.”

The photojournalist guy in Southern France said that the rest of Western Civilization is simply waiting for the US to grow up realize that it needs to help itself first. I added that I believe the social fabric of the US is so deteriorated and frayed that it is almost beyond repair. How can you not see that by denying basic levels of public education, you are essentially inbreeding stupidity? I end up convincing myself that they can’t see it because they choose not to see it. Because they somehow think they it is their job to save the world and that it is their responsibility to take care of other nations without first taking care of themselves. And–as much as I could blog about how the entire nation of Canada doesn’t want to deal with its own insecurities caused by its Leviathan neighbour (and I will another time), I could blog that the US–as a nation–is simply one, big, codependent entity.

It’s the same old story–just on a grander scale. Focus on larger, external issues so you don’t have to face the real pain of identifying and dealing with internal issues. In fact, run around denying that you even have issues. It’s easier to just blame other nations or other groups or other people for everything that appears to be wrong instead of simply doing your own personal, introspective homework.

I am sorry Leprechaun-movie guy. I really enjoyed our conversation. It turns out though–for me–it is easier to identify with an entire nation denying codependent behaviour than it is to identify with wanking off. How sad it that?

I just dug this entry out of my collection of starts for blog entries. I’d started this story sometime last year when I was still living in Healdsburg. I used to walk around Fitch Mountain every Sunday morning with my neighbours. We called ourselves Fitch Mountain Fitness. I haven’t seen my neighbours for awhile, let alone walk around the mountain. Carol broke her leg in the winter (skiing) and she’s just started being able to walk. I miss those walks with my neighbours. I miss my neighbours. Oh well. I can’t really complain about where I’m at. My neighbours are further away but they are still my friends.

I wrote this the day that our walk was spoiled by some self-appointed asshole acting as a self-appointed policeman. We were some pissed off–well, for a while anyway.

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Yesterday, on our regular walk around the Fitch Mountain with my group of neighbours (Fitch Mountain Fitness), we decided to take a road less travelled. Christine showed us that we could take Scenic Lane, cut across a field and pop out on the other side. However, this time, there was a big gate and a NO TRESPASSING sign. So, we just continued on the way of Scenic Lane.

At the end of Scenic Lane, there was what looked like a well-worn path to the other side (or so we believed). We started in. On the way, we paused to take in the visuals of Geyser Peak and Alexander Valley. Pretty spectacular. We are very lucky to live in Sonoma County. We ended up at a dirt road. We turned left onto the dirt road and started up to where we might find the road to take us home. As we just started in one direction, a big old Cadillac SUV turned the corner and approached us. We could hear the yappy dog before it stopped. The driver was as intense, but silent. He rolled down the passenger window.

“You are trespassing.” Yap. Yap. Yap. The yappy dog is a Jack Russell terrier.

“Oh. We’re sorry. We’re just trying to get to Powell. Does this road join Powell?”

“You are trespassing.” Yap. Yap. Yap. Paws on the window, right in our faces.

“Well. We are trying to find our way out. We just want to get to Powell Street.”

“Go back the way you came.” Yap. Yap. He pushed the dog out of his way so he could glare at us.

Three of us started explaining all at once. “We took the path at the end of Scenic Lane. There weren’t any NO TRESPASSING signs. How were we supposed to know? We’re not bad people. We’re just out for a walk.”

“Get off this property.”

Now we are getting annoyed. We were just out for a pleasant walk. “Who are you? Do you own this property? We didn’t see any NO TRESPASSING signs. What if we just walk up this hill? Can we get out? What’s the fastest way off the property?”

“Get off this property. Now.” He rolls up the window and continues on down the hill in the opposite direction in which we were headed.

Half of us decide to go back the way we came. Half of us decide to keep challenging him. Carol starts up the hill to see if there is a locked gate or something at the top. Mela starts back the way we came. Christine keeps yelling at the insolent man about how he needs to get a life and how, if he did, he wouldn’t have to ruin our pleasant Sunday hike. Who pissed in his cornflakes that morning? Why does he feel the need to police this bit of road? Was he hiding something? Maybe he had a crop of pot or something.

I was torn: challenge the impudence or retreat? I didn’t know if we were trespassing. But, there weren’t any signs. The man had pulled out of sight just around the corner and had gotten out of his car to make sure we went back the way we came!!! Eventually, all of us followed Mela. Carol was fuming. She does not like to retreat nor retrace her steps. She is refreshing that way. Christine and Carol ended up shouting comments over their shoulders while following Mela’s and my retreat. The best comment came from Christine. She was so mad she could hardly speak. She belligerently sputtered: “You! You! You are just a fat bastard with a limp dick and a dog that needs therapy!”

We all started to laugh. It was enough to lighten the mood. We went back the way we came, back round the mountain, and back home. Laughing. Laughing and shouting: “You are just a fat bastard with a limp dick and a dog that needs therapy!” Then laughing some more.

The other day, I was eating dinner with my friends Katie and Sean. They were making wine in their garage and I wanted to take pictures. Originally, I thought this blog entry would be about how Californian’s make home-made wine, but then, when we sat down to dinner, Sean said: I’m so hungry, I could eat the crotch out of a rag doll!

I laughed and said: Hmm. My Dad would say: I’m so hungry I could eat the asshole out of a skunk and come back for the ears! Sean loved that saying. Then I thought that I would make a blog about my Dad’s sayings becasue they are pretty colourful.

Here are some more Dad-isms:

• “If clues were shoes, you’d be walking on the cheeks of your ass!!” For when you do something stupid.
• “If conceit were consumptious, you’d be consuminated.” For when you might think it appropriate to congratulate yourself a bit too much.
• “Cuttin’ hair and building igloos.” For when somebody asks what you are doing and you think it is fairly obvious exactly what you are doing–nothing!
• “It’s so cold out there, you could freeze the balls off a brass monkey in mating season.” For whenever it’s below -30 degrees Centigrade AND there is a wind chill factor.
• “My back teeth are floating and my front teeth are singin’ Anchor’s Away.” For when you have to piss so badly, you can’t even see!.
• “Up and down more times than a whore’s pair of drawers!” For when you are running up and down the stairs by the side of the house because you’re working on the deck at the back, but all the tools and wee things you need are up at the front.
• “As ugly as the second coming of Christ.” Usually used to describe people that you don’t particularly like.
• “As useless as tits on a boar.” Use this phrase to describe what you really think of something, some person, or some idea.
• “Have to use a shingle to scrape my leg.” For when you are in San Francisco and you are driving with your daughter and she goes through a red light because she’s pointing out all the sites and simply doesn’t see the red light.
• “Skunk hungry.” Derived from the quote: I’m so hungry….(above). You can use this phrase to describe how hungry you are.
• “Skunk dinner.” Again, derived from the quote: I’m so hungry…(above). Use this phrase to describe the dinner you just ate because you were skunk hungry. Also, if it so happens that you had liver and onions for your skunk dinner, you can use this phrase to describe how you smell because you ate a skunk dinner!!!
• “So hungry, my spine is talking to my belly button!” Again, you can use this phrase in reference to food and how hungry you are. (Hmmm….food seems to be a dominant theme with my Dad!)
• “Well, you know what thought did!” When you try to explain something with what you thought was a pretty reasonable explanation–but is actually pretty lame. If somebody says this to you, you have to sheepishly admit: “He thought he farted and he shit himself!”.
• “Being a dumbass isn’t covered under the warranty!” A new quote for my Dad, but I think he might use it. Derived from a recent episode where HE filled my tank on my 2005 Honda Civic with diesel fuel.
• “Covered in {tar | paint | glue } from asshole to breakfast.” For when you are taring, painting, or glueing and you get the stuff all over yourself, the wall, the trinket, the roof–whatever project you are trying to complete.
• Added because Jorden said it to Chantel the other day, but we all know where he got it!!: You can shit in the middle of the table and say you’re sorry…” For when you do something and say you are sorry but it doesn’t change the fact that there is a big, stinkin’ pile of crap in the middle of the table.
• Not necessarily a saying from Dad, but from my sister Nat and along the same lines: “Who pissed in your corn flakes this morning??” You ask this question indignantly when somebody seems to be pissed off at you for now apparent reason. And you let them think about it.
• Added 25 April 2006 “Suckin’ the hind tit!” For when you’re feeling behind the game and like you’ll never catch up. Derived from the fact that the runt of the litter always gets the last tit available–not to mention that it’s also the closest one to all the shit.
• Added 18 April 2008 “Slower than molasses in January!” For when you’re trying to do something and it needs to be done really fast and there’s someone or something who’s holding you up. You’d say: “Come on, let’s get going. You’re slower than molasses in January. My Mum would say to me: “Come on Miss Jibbs. You’re slower than molasses running uphill in January!” Apparently, I always took my time when I was young. I geuss I had the time when I was young.

Redd, Nat, do you have anymore? I know you do. Save them in the comments and I’ll update this entry.

The other day, I opened a magazine and found myself staring at the words: My Butt is Big. Not the normal words you would find in a fitness magazine. It turns out that this ad is part of the Nike real woman ad campaign. I love it. I went to nikewomen.nike.com to find out more. If you click on the words: “What story does your body tell?” (top right-hand corner of the screen, under the search field) you get little video snippets of women’s stories about their body parts. I thought: Hey, I have a story about my butt.

I used to hate my butt. In fact, I once had the nickname ButterBall Buttocks (Triple B). Not the nicest nickname, I know. But, when I was thirteen, I fell 30 feet out of a tree. My family was on holiday in Alberta and we were visiting some friend’s farm. I think my Dad was visiting with Wayne and Mum was admiring Shirley’s garden. My sister wasn’t anywhere about. I had to entertain myself and decided to climb a tree. I got up quite a ways, I think, before a branch broke and I fell to the ground. It was quite a distance because I remember thinking: Holy shit! This is gonna hurt.

In the hospital we discovered that I had crushed the two bottom vertebrae on my spine and cracked my pelvic bone. And the doctor said to me: Good thing you have extra padding there. You could have done more damage. You fell 30 feet from a tree and you got up and walked away. Basically, though, all I heard was: You have a big, cushy butt. And that was just the start of my complex. And then my Dad gave me the nickname Triple B.

That’s not the end of the story though! I was in another province, another city, and it was quite a few years later. When I was 21, I was riding a bike and I got hit by a Ford Tempo. Both the Ford Tempo and I decided to make the yellow light. I was turning left and he was coming straight through. Smack! He hit me side on. I fell onto the hood of the car and dented the hood into the engine. I rolled and smashed the windscreen onto the occupants of the car. I hit the roof of the car and did some damage there, the finally fell onto the road.

I don’t remember the actual accident. I woke up in the hospital a day later and was told what had happened. I suffered a major concussion and my bike helmet was broken into five pieces. Again, though, the doctors told me: You are really lucky you have that extra padding. You could have done more damage.

So, the short story is: I fell 30 feet out of a tree AND I totalled a Ford Tempo with my body. Both times, the doctors said I am lucky to have such a big, cushy, butt.

I now appreciate my butt. I call it my Life-Saving Butt. So when I read this Nike Ad about big butts, I laugh and love it and love my butt! “And those who scorn it, are invited to kiss it!”

I’m not a great photographer and don’t normally take snapshots on holidays just to say later on: Been there. Done that—the I-was-here-but-now-I’m-gone thing. However, on my recent trip North, I used some plastic figurines (Homies™, I discovered later) that I had aquired to take the touristy photos. It ended up being a lot of fun. These three Homies have been unofficially christened: The Little People.

Meet Hector (pants), Juan (chains), and Angelina Lopez (the “slightly fawning ‘Noma Countyite who appears somewhat imbalanced” just standing around with her hands in her pockets). She really was imbalanced. I spent most of the time trying to get her to stand up!

Here are my five favourite shots:

Having a coffee at Tim Horton’s in Whitehorse, Yukon. Tim Horton’s is Canada’s signature fast food coffee and donut shop. Learn about the history of Tim Horton’s on the web.

The second day on the Chilkoot Trail. We were hiking through northern coastal rain forest and my niece spotted this mushroom on the side of the trail. All that’s missing is the hookah and the catapillar!

The fourth day on the Chilkoot Trail. 8 kms of track to go. These guys were just along for the ride.

Jack London’s cabin in Dawson City, Yukon. Fireweed in the foreground. Fireweed is the floral emblem of the Yukon Territory. I’ll have to make sure that I take pictures of them in Jack London’s cabin in Oakland.

On the paddle wheel of the KENO in Dawson City. The Keno travelled the Yukon River between Whitehorse and Dawson City from 1922 to 1960.

Here is a link to all the pictures: Little People Gallery.