This dinner was a turkey
It looks great. Looks can be deceiving.
I’ve been excited for 2 weeks about the turducken I ordered for Thanksgiving Dinner.
This silly dish is apparently a Southern idea, popularized by John Madden as he called football games. Stuff a duck into a chicken, stuff that into a turkey, fill all the nooks and crannies with stuffing, and you’ve got a meal fit for a football announcer.
We saw this one in the Neiman Marcus catalog, and decided to splurge. Fed-Ex brings it to the front door, frozen and packed in dry ice. A couple of days of careful thawing and we were ready to go.
The instructions are clear–cook covered in foil at 375º for 4 hours, then uncover and cook for another hour. Into the oven it went, and then at 4 hours, as I uncovered it, I decided to insert a thermometer to get everything just right. To my great surprise, the damn thing was already more than sufficiently cooked–the thermometer read 170, a solid hour earlier than expected. I took it out, pushed the cooking of all the side dishes forward a bit, and we had dinner.
Overcooked turducken is not a good meal. It was dry and hard, didn’t stay together well, didn’t cut into beautiful slices, didn’t have some really wonderful dressing (we had the dirty rice and cornbread stuffing), just wasn’t good at all.
The side dishes everyone contributed were excellent. Susan Rowley made the cranberry sauce and the sweet potato casserole. Karl Rowley made the carrots. Daughter Kate made the butternut squash and the brussels sprouts. I made the bread and the mashed spuds. Dinner was a fantastic celebration of family with a variety of good things and one miserable, dry centerpiece.
Kate brought a pumpkin cheesecake. Julie brought a pumpkin pie. I whipped the cream. Dessert was just a few thousand calories more than any of us needed, but what is need when it comes to dessert?
If I ever have a turducken again, I’ll get it from the local grocery. I think Neiman Marcus just doesn’t know how to make food for the proletariat.
These boots are made for partying
I’ve never seen boots quite like this before
Gail’s older son, Ross, is married to the astoundingly beautiful Julie Benayan Blackburn. She is always a fashion plate, but she outdid herself today with these boots. I just had to share them with you.
The Art of the Pastel
Ruth in her studio, surrounded by the portraits she makes
You go to charity galas, you end up buying things. Gail tends to buy admission to wine tasting parties she isn’t really interested in because she doesn’t drink red wine. I buy classes for things I don’t know much about. Today, I went to the home of Ruth Hussey, a nationally noted pastel painter, for a class on pastels. I”m still not an artist, but it was fun.
Pastels are sticks of solid pigment you apply like chalk or crayons. Some of them are very hard, so you can draw thin lines. Some are as soft as butter, spreading pigment smoothly over the paper in broad swaths. The colors are not necessarily the soft, desaturated tones of the easter bunny; they can be as intense as you want, if you have good technique.
Technique is what we were there to learn. There were 4 of us. Me, BJ Ledgerwood, Lassie and Loretta. The latter two are already awfully talented artists, BJ and I are learners. We all learned how to use, apply, blend, smooth, smudge and fix this interesting art medium.
Just one of Ruth’s boxes of pastels.
BJ pastelling away.
It isn’t just the pastels, the paper itself is critical. Too smooth, and the pastels won’t spread or cover. Too rough and you can’t get the smoothness you want. The amount of roughness in any particular paper is called the ‘tooth’. I was particularly interested in the ‘sanded’ papers, which are actually like 300 grit sandpaper. You can put a lot of pigment on those papers, and get some really deep effects in the color.
Lassie working in front of yet more of Ruth’s work.
Ruth talked for about 90 minutes, laying out the basics of pastels, then we drew. She set up a small still life and everyone else began making a drawing. I was working on copying one of the portraits from the walls, and just kept playing with it. The draftsmanship is ghastly, no I won’t show you, but I did finally manage to get some of the colors the way I wanted them. The secret to this medium is to layer colors over each other, building up the depth and variation that really exist in nature. Nothing is really just one color, look closely and you will see a myriad of colors, shades, tones and hues. How does the light hit the object? What is the color of the light? It goes on and on, and the great artists know how to recreate this.
Ruth teaching. The drawing on the easel is the still life she drew, while talking and helping the rest of us.
The three hours flew by, we all learned a huge amount and yet barely scratched the surface of how to create beautiful pastels. Ruth is a better teacher than I am a student, and still I thought the class was wonderful, entertaining and educational. This won’t make me a pastel artist, but perhaps it will help me get more and better color into my photographs. BJ will use her new skills to create better landscape design drawings. The Ruth Bancroft Garden will use the money to continue to be a world class succulent garden right here in Walnut Creek. Pretty much a perfect day all around.
Staff Meeting
It’s always interesting when Susan and Karl Rowley come to town and this week is no exception! We always have staff meetings in the morning to make important decisions like, What are we going to have for dinner? What are the days activities going to be? Who has to do the chores that no one else will do? You know, important stuff like that!
This morning I had a committment to take a four hour “Pastel” art class. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever missed a Staff Meeting! But, guess what? The Staff Meeting went on without me! You can clearly see me sitting in a chair attending. I’m told I made many important decisions and everyone voted in favor of them! We decided to give Susan all my beloved camera equipment! Gail gets to clean out the office and my desk and can throw away anything she deems not necessary! And Karl, my good friend Karl made a motion that I may not retaliate in any way!
You just never know what’s going to happen when you leave these three alone! I will not miss the next meeting!
Rajah
First thing in the morning, buying his eye-opener
I was at Fatslice first thing this morning, and couldn’t resist taking a portrait of our best customer.
This is Rajah, or at least that’s what he says his name is. We open at 10:30. Every morning, he is in front of the store by 10, begging passersby for change. The moment we open, he’s the first customer.
He has a slice of veggie pizza and a beer. Another beer. And a third beer, to get himself ready to face the day.
He’ll be back a couple of times during the day, depending on his success at cadging quarters from the locals. He likes our pizza and loves his Budweiser.
Rajah is from Bombay. He came here in 1981, and used to have a job as a waiter. Or bus boy. The story changes. He tells me that he is going back to India next year, but I don’t think I’ll hold my breath.
Besides alcoholism, I think Rajah has some other problems. I’ve seen him sitting and tapping his nails at a table for a very long time. Other times he is picking at his hands. He often will have a $10 or $20 bill, so perhaps there is another source of meager income besides begging, but I don’t think he has enough to pay rent; he appears to be homeless.
Although he says he has been here over 30 years, his accent is exceedingly thick. We don’t exactly discuss the events of the day, but I don’t get the impression that he’s too bright–he has just enough smarts to survive, but not to prevail.
This isn’t going anywhere, I don’t have some great moral point to make. Life is good for many of us, but even those at the bottom seem to find a way to have a life and a routine. I just wanted to share his story with you, and I liked the photo.
Lincoln
Daniel Day Lewis in the Steven Spielberg epic, Lincoln
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We tried to go to the movies on Saturday, to see Lincoln, but were unable to even find a parking space in the big garage next to the Century theater in Walnut Creek. Moving swiftly to Plan B, we went shopping in Sonoma and out to dinner at Lalimes in Berkeley.
Trying again, we left early for the 3:45 showing this afternoon. Got lucky and found a parking space. Buying our tickets 30 minutes before the show, the clerk told us they were mostly sold out and we might not get to sit together. Once inside the theater, though, the upper section was full and the lower section was empty, so we grabbed 4 of the best and waited.
And waited. At 3:45 the previews started, but it was almost 4:05 before the movie came on. Twenty minutes of previews, along with 3 separate notices to turn off your phone, is too damned much.
Finally the movie started, with a huge battle scene that set a tone for the movie but really was incidental to the plot. Lincoln is directed by Steven Spielberg, and there will be a couple of big, epic scenes no matter what.
The story of Lincoln is about his brilliant politicking to get the 13th Amendment, abolishing slavery, through the House of Representatives. The Republicans, Lincoln’s party, will vote in favor while the Democrats are opposed. The Constitution calls for a 2/3 vote to pass an Amendment, and Lincoln must garner 20 votes from the Democrat side of the aisle. He uses flattery, persuasion and patronage bribery to accomplish his aims.
The cast of this fine movie is exceptional. Daniel Day Lewis as Lincoln brings a warm and humanizing side to a man often depicted as cold and aloof, although his prosthetic makeup caused me to think of Cosmo Kramer much of the time. Tommy Lee Jones is cast as Thaddeus Stevens, leader of the Republicans in the House and chair of the Ways and Means Committee. In the modern day we are accustomed to public figures with both makeup and plastic surgery to keep them youthful and attractive; not so in 1865. Jones sports a worn and tired face that looks like 30 miles of bad road, and a preposterous mahogany-colored wig. Of course, you can look up a photo of the original Thaddeus Stevens and see the identical hairpiece. Mr. Spielberg wouldn’t have it any other way.
Hal Holbrook, who I did not recognize at all, appears as Preston Blair, a behind-the-scenes powerhouse of the Republican Party (his home, Blair House, is the official residence of the Vice President). With his large head and silver mane, it was like he was channeling Teddy Kennedy for the role.
There was more Kennedy reference–JFK’s sister, Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith, has a small part as “shouting woman”.
Two more excellent actors suppressed their egos for the part well enough for me to not recognize them. James Spader as W.N. Bilbo, a shady political operator who assists in getting Democrats to switch their vote to “Aye”, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, portraying son Robert Lincoln.
Sally Field turns in another fine performance as Mary Todd Lincoln. Nowhere near as mad as usually portrayed, Mrs. Lincoln was keenly attuned to the political game, and always accompanied by her maid, Elizabeth Keckley, a black woman who had managed to purchase her own freedom and wrote a book, Thirty Years a Slave, and Four Years in the White House.
Spielberg has tried to make the film look like the paintings we see of the times–the lighting in particular is very painterly, not cinematic. The costumes are wonderful–Gail and I both noticed a coat worn by the Secretary of State Seward (the ever excellent David Strathairn), and Mary Lincoln’s dresses were wonderful.
I have one possible historical quibble–and maybe someone who knows about this sort of thing will set me right. In the scene where Robert E. Lee surrenders at Appomattox, he is shown leaving the ceremony still wearing his sword. I should think that he would have had to “lay down his arms”, most certainly including his sword. Or maybe I just like to quibble. Knowledgeable commentary is appreciated.
The screenplay is by Tony Kushner, the brilliant playwright of Angels in America. Starting with the text from Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln, Kushner has turned the cold facts of history into the story of a doting father trying to raise his sons and lead his country in a time of great difficulty.
The movie ends as you know it must, but then circles back to Lincoln’s second inaugural address and you leave the theater exhilarated, uplifted and pleased at the way you just spent 2 hours and 25 minutes. Plus 20 minutes of previews, but that’s Cinemark’s fault. Go see this movie. Get there late and avoid the commercials.
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Customer service, Citibank style
They make a pretty card. Too bad they can’t provide service with it.
It’s time for another chapter in the enduring saga, “What happened to customer service in America”. Today we’ll talk a bit about Citibank.
I have long ties to Citi–my mother was a teller at the Sutton Place branch of National City Bank in New York City before I was born. She quit because she was pregnant–women did that sort of thing in the old days.
For a time I had a checking account at the Citi branch in Orinda, until they kept putting 7 day holds on the checks I deposited and then bouncing the checks I wrote. They claimed they “had” to do that by federal regulation, but it was just a way to squeeze more ridiculous fees out of somebody who didn’t have any money in the first place. I moved my account to Bank of the West and somehow the government didn’t make them put holds on local check. You might say I have issues with Citi.
So here’s the latest. I see a voicemail on my phone, and it’s from the Fraud Early Warning department. They call me a lot. We use the above card for business, buying supplies to repair the houses Gail and her partner buy at foreclosure. You might thing that a company would identify its best customers and be extra nice to them, but you don’t know Citi. They call about once a week to make sure we really made the purchases they are looking at because they are incapable of recognizing a trend, even one that has been ongoing for over 20 years.
So I have to call them back to verify something, same as always. I hit the redial button on the phone, thinking that was a logical course of action, but was connected to some office in Hagerstown, Maryland with EIGHT separate choices on the voicemail tree, none of which would connect me to a human who could respond to the issue at hand.
Now I had to go back, listen to the message and get the number they suggested–which they promised was a direct line. Not surprisingly, that was a lie.
Dial the 800 number. Enter my card number. Enter my password. Get a person who asks, “What can I do for you?” “You called me”, I say. “What do you need?” The drone on the phone decided this might be a good time to look at the account, and said “Oh, you need fraud early warning! I”ll connect you.” You remember that this was supposed to be a direct line to the fraud people. Too bad Citi didn’t remember that.
Now I’m connected to another person, who needs to know who I am and what it says on my card. The she asks me the same question, “What can I do for you?” Again, I suggested that they had called me, which shouldn’t be a surprise because I doubt that anyone ever called Fraud Early Warning of their own accord.
This seemed like a new, strange, surreal idea–Citi should have some idea of why I might be calling. I don’t think she could really understand it. Still, she decided to look up my account (what a concept) and then needed to know if we had really spent money at Home Depot the day before. To which I always say yes, because 1) our guys go to Home Depot every single day, often more than once and 2) they don’t report to me, so I really have no idea of specific purchases.
Not that any of this matters. Citi just wants to hear me say yes and they will leave us alone for a couple of days. We have tried mightily to explain to them how we operate but they can’t or won’t listen. They have policies and procedures that are more important than customers.
We would get a credit card from another company, but this is the one that gives us miles on American Air, and that’s worth the incessant and interminable hassles of dealing with Citi and their no-customer service attitudes. For anyone not tied in to the AA mileage program, I recommend Chase.
The circle keeps turning
I remember an entertainer from the days of watching Ed Sullivan on Sunday nights—Senor Wences. A ventriloquist who made his hand into a character right in front of you and then brought it to life.
Señor Wences and Johnny
Hold that thought.
Now remember the restaurant we loved so much in Pleasant Hill, Nibblers. The owners moved on, but kept the old place, renaming it the Fig Tree.
Then they closed, sadly, their new restaurant in Berkeley, and sold the Fig Tree. To a chef from Walnut Creek who named the place after himself.
So now it is Wences, and we’re back to where I started this. The Señor Wences of my youth amused me, and Chef Wences amuses my palate today.
Wences is a decent, local family kind of place. No haute cuisine, no molecular gastronomy, no 15 course tasting menu with three amuse bouches. Solid, steady food like mother didn’t make, reasonable service, fair prices. It’s our new go-to place when we just want a meal.
Grilled Artichoke, Gail’s favorite
Wences has a large, perhaps too large, menu. I always wonder if a small place can carry off that many different dishes, if they can inventory that much fresh food and turn it over quickly enough to keep it fresh and still pay the bills. Perhaps I’m prejudiced because we own a place that makes only one thing, pizza, but smaller is better when it comes to menus—-do a couple of things, do them well, and then change them when you and your customers are bored.
Nonetheless, large is what they have. Which doesn’t mean we have to try everything. Gail and I have eaten there 4 or 5 times now, and keep having the same things. Gail is ecstatic over their artichokes. Steamed, cored and then grilled, they are always cooked to perfection and accompanied by two kinds of sauce, aioli and chipotle.
Wences has some pretty interesting tacos, which are presented in a special plate/holder that is really attractive. Gail, who is picky about these things, thinks the chicken gets overcooked, though the total experience is still pretty good.
A quesadilla seems like a simple, standard item, but Wences does an extra-good job on them.
Thick, cheesa quesadillas, accompanied by a Mexican flag of condiments
There is enough here to make both dinner and breakfast. Genius in the kitchen is often in perfecting the commonplace just as much as creating the novel and outré.
Pappardelle. The dish looks better before I dive in–but I couldn’t wait and the photo came after I started.
There are two pastas on the menu, and having tried both I’ve settled on the pappardelle with fresh tomatoes and basil, please hold the roasted eggplant. Aubergines aren’t as bad as mushrooms, but I still avoid them wherever possible. The pasta is very good, and you can have it with chicken or shrimp if you want.
The service is friendly. Not always the most professional, but friendly and helpful as all get out. Mostly, that’s because cousin Rosa is the head waitress. Family restaurants rely on family help, and everyone is motivated in their collective goal.
Wences won’t ever get a Michelin star, but we’re likely to eat there 2 or 3 times a month forever. Great artichokes for Gail and pasta for me is a winning combination.
As Senor Wences character, Johnny, would say “s’allright!” And the circle is closed once again.
Hanging with the stars
It’s good to be in the in crowd.
Exciting doings tonight. We were out with Margaret, and ended up at Club Anton in Jack London Square, for a CD release party. Our friend John Harrington (married to the beautimous Becky Rice), along with his band, Stop Time, were announcing the release of their new jazz CD, Stop Time Generations.
Club Anton was a revelation to me–a very nice facility, serving a full menu along with the drinks. They bill themselves as Oaklands Premier Latin Club, and showcase Latin and Jazz music. There is a definite New Orleans flavor to the establishment with which we were quite impressed.
Stop-time is a musical term, and I was going to explain it and make you think I was smart, but I looked it up and still don’t understand it. From Wikipedia:
In tap dancing, jazz, and blues, stop-time is an accompaniment pattern interrupting, or stopping, the normal time and featuring regular accented attacks on the first beat of each or every other measure alternating with silence or solos.[2]Stop-time appears infrequently in ragtime music.[3] The characteristics of stop-time are heavy accents, frequent rests, and a stereotyped cadential pattern.[1] Stop-timing may create the impression that the tempo has changed though it has not,[4] Stop-time is, according to Samuel A. Floyd Jr., “a musical device in which the forward flow of the music stops, or seems to stop, suspended in a rhythmic unison, while in some cases an improvising instrumentalist or singer continuessolo with the forward flow of the meter and tempo. Such stop-time moments are sometimes repeated, creating an illusion of starting and stopping, as, for example, in Scott Joplin’s ‘The Ragtime Dance‘ and Jelly Roll Morton’s ‘King Porter Stomp‘.
Got that? Me neither.
Suit and tie–John is professional in every way.
Fortunately, you don’t have to understand the musicology to like the music. John got the band back together for the party, and the music was wailing. That sounds like a Blues Brothers movie, but the truth is that the other 3 band members live in Fullerton, where they met and formed the group.
His 5th grade students might not think of him quite this way.
John has been a professional musician since he was 12, but he’s smart enough to know it’s a precarious life, and so he makes his primary living as a music teacher in the Oakland School District. He is brilliant at being the buttoned down, rule following school teacher in the day and the long haired (metaphorically these days) free spirit creating jazz on the fly at night.
Dusty Haner, the drummer
I always get a kick out of the drummer, Dusty. A few years ago this group played at a function at the Ruth Bancroft Garden; Dusty and his brother Bob (the guitar player) stayed at our house. They are great guys who make music at night and pour concrete in the family business by day. Thus avoiding being the punchline in the old joke “What do you call a drummer without a girlfriend?” The answer is “homeless”.
Henry “Skipper” Franklin
The band played 2 sets tonight; we loved them both then listened to the CD in the car on the way home. The genre is jazz, of the smooth variety, not the New Orleans variety. This is music I can live with.
Bob Haner on guitar.
The party was fun, the music was excellent, there we lots of friends there and Margaret had a good time. What more could you ask from a Tuesday night?
Fun in Times Square
Reputedly, over 3 million people a day pass through Times Square. It sure looked that way to me.
I couldn’t spend a few days there without taking some photos, so here they are:
A panorama of the Square
Inside the new Microsoft store. At 12:30 am. In the morning. After midnight. This place never sleeps.
A bachelorette party
“Planking” hasn’t gone completely out of style, I guess.
The most colorful group of people I saw who weren’t in Elmo costumes.
A row of hansom cabs waiting for fares
Totally Unauthorized 