Halloween

Baleen and I gave a B- effort this Halloween, where we washed ashore as the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. It was an A- when you consider that we came up with it in the thirty minutes before Walker and Caitrin picked us up, a C- when you consider we live in San Francisco, the city where most Halloween costumes are started on November 1st.

It didn't matter so much as a B- was good enough to get us to The Cove, the horseshoe shaped beach of Paul and Alex's that you always want to go to, unless there happens to be a tsunami.

It's almost two hundred steps down and two hundred steps back up to your car, which means you're more likely to own a Kindle than a hardcover of the new Steve Jobs biography. But when you get down those stairs, this is what you get.

Photo by Alex Wang

Boxed Lunches

Baxter, I got a little preview of what's to come when mom makes your lunch. Good things, my son. Very good things.

She took what was left over from last night, Boursin cheese, some fresh greens and the loafy French bread, and put it all together while I showered. She had just barely finished when I was dressed, which either means that I take Navy showers or she takes a long time preparing your sandwich, and I found that she had treated it with the same care as if it were her own, making sure to spread an appropriate amount of Boursin on each side and over all the surface so that each bite was a Goldilocks one.

I'm guessing she'll make you PB&J with the crusts cut off if you want that, but that you won't, and that you'll find brown bags full of lamb bits and quiona, pumpkin tamales and little bits of green and red grapes, probably with notes hidden inside, not so often they lose their meaning and not so infrequently that you think she's forgotten about them, but just the right amount of time.

Stratagery

The view was my reward this morning which is what you say when you don't get what you want. It wasn't in the cards on Hawk Hill, it'd been too long since my last ride and Nick at Nite left us all behind, not even waiting for a pull on the flats, but I had a chance on the Presidio Sprint.

It was a big fast group with seven or eight real sprinters in there. Nick at Nite jumped early, either generously leading everybody else out or hoping for a solo break for the brace, and everybody stood up early to catch him. I was hanging back in sixth, trying to stay on the wheel in front of me while making sure that wheel wasn't getting dropped, and it got a little panicky with guys of one and two breaking away.

I was feeling good where I was with just a dozen yards to first. Coming into the final two turns I jumped off that wheel and was headed for first, which was just what Roger Rabbit back in seventh was doing, though a few seconds delayed as he waited for me to pull out. He was off, flying by me like a boomerang, and only Alex had the legs to stay with him, but only as far as his wheel, which meant that I came across the line third, wondering why I didn't have the awareness to look behind me before I made my move and wondering what I could have done differently if I'd known.

Fruhstuck

Guess who's fully back in town after a bunch of days away? Baleen. It's easy to be sure when she's right there in front of me asking what time it is when she's got a watch on her wrist that she's still not used to because three months with one doesn't yet trump four years without one or when she plugs her nose before coming up the stairs guarding against phantom fragrances that only she can smell, but how I really really know she's back is when I'm awoken by strange noises coming from other rooms.

At 3am this morning I woke up to hear a hammering from the other room. My goodness, I thought. Baleen's back in town and so excited for Baxter that she's putting together the crib. (Nevermind that we don't have a crib, it's 3am.) Stop that, I said, you'll wake the neighbors. It was quiet for a second before the hammering continued. Baleen, stop. I was out of bed by this point and headed for the second bedroom when I saw her in the kitchen. Well you open it then, she said, handing me the jar of sauerkraut. I tried to open it for a second, still not fully awake, and a few unsuccessful exertions later, now almost fully awake, found a rag to hold the jar in place. Which is how I found myself talking to Baleen at 3 in the morning about Chicago as she ate sauerkraut.

Then, when we finally made it back to bed, and just when I was getting under the covers, she came in unannounced for a sauerkraut smelling hug and, in the dark, took a real chunk out of my ear with her fingernail. That's when I really really knew that Baleen was back in town.

Division of Labor

To get ready for March I should be doing the things that Baleen's doing, reading books and worrying about cluster feeding and sleep training, which is worrisome enough to keep an adult up through the night in the last few months that she can sleep.

Instead, I've been doing my own little bit of preparation for March, but in a 2-quart gratin dish. Last night I cooked what we're eating tonight and tomorrow as it has been and will be a late week at work for both Baleen and me and, well, we'd like to eat well.

Which means Martha Rose Shulman and the NYTimes. She does what I wish Yotam had done, which is make wholesome, healthy and hearty foods that aren't too hard. Which means that for another night and then maybe a few more nights to come, before Baxter comes and Baleen stays at home, this is what I come home to.

Azores

Portuguese fishermen crossed the Atlantic and then the continent over a hundred years ago to pull sardines, albalone and other things from the Pacific. Then the Duarte family from the Azores followed them to feed the fisherman after long days in the cold fog. Now Baleen and I sometimes follow the new generation manning this stretch of the Pacific Coast, the motorcyclists, the bikers and the weekenders, into that restaurant started in Pescadero three generations ago.

But before we did, we cooked a dinner of our own on a grill in front of our yurt. It was pure glamping, with clean bathrooms a hundred yards from our door, and sockets for the iPad and iPhone, which was just the right pace for right now, the end of week 20.

We told the other couple with us about Baleen's last trip here, how she took a dive on her bike riding down the slick surface, and how we ended up at the Pescadero firehouse for some immediate first aid. But it had a good ending, we assured them, as over the advice of the firemen who told Baleen she probably should head to the ER to make sure everything was working, she instead insisted on Duarte's and some ollallieberry pie.

Technique, Technique, Technique

I got in some practice today while Baleen was off sampling the city's best pizza. Three eggs is the key, not the five I put in mine yesterday or the four Baleen tried. All the agitated eggs cook more evenly that way. But I've got forty years to go before I catch up with Jacques.

Then I moved onto something else that could use some improvement, my sewing. It's been a month since we returned from Istanbul and I have no idea how my very favorite Turkish team is doing in the Super Lig. Maybe now that I'll be wearing the shirt around town, some Carsi will recognize me and we can reminisce about the wonder team from 1963 and I can ask how they compare to this year's crop.

Birthday Bay, Beers and Bob's

What a 34th. It started with a twilight dip in the Bay, 62 degrees warm, then some meat and potatoes. And a little bit of beer. First Walker ordered a boot, then a second one appeared. And after Caitrin had picked up the check, and I was reaching for my bag, a third one appeared. Wade.

We finished it without letting it hit the ground, much like they do in Wisconsin according to Wade, which is probably like they do French in Quebec, far more French than the French, with the ARRêT octagonal signs outside of Montreal instead of STOP.

Then Jamie and I pulled into Bob's for a night-cap, just as Wade had insisted.

Fast Food

Technique, technique, technique. That's what Baleen and I are missing. We battled it out in the kitchen tonight, one non-stick pan against the other, as we made Jacques Pepin's perfect French omelet. We had the other things Jacques asked for, great eggs, great butter, great herbs, but not forty years of technique.

Our results looked a little sloppy but tasted divine. All because of the great eggs, great butter and great herbs. Thank goodness for California. And thank goodness for the New York Times and the visual aid of a 4 minute video of Jacques cooking an omelet from beginning to end. Seriously. 4 minutes for the best dinner we've made in weeks. But only because we had great eggs, great butter and great herbs.

We won't get to where Jacques is anytime soon, but we'll get close, one omelet at a time. Maybe again this Friday. Round two. Baleen, Baxter and me.

Shredded Parmesan

Baleen was laid low a bit today, but she still found the strength to text me at 3.01pm, How about that spiral pasta with broccoli, anchovies, and breadcrumbs? At 3.05pm it was, Or penne alla vodka! And at 3.11pm, Or grilled chicken with pasta.

We went with the last suggestion and cooked enough so that she'll have it tomorrow, too. I can head to work knowing that Baleen's normal midweek at home won't be like the others, where she works works works and then leaps on me in full Hobbes style when I return cause she hasn't eaten a bite.

But not tomorrow. I'll be back to find Baleen and Baxter well fed. And happy and content.

Kartoffelsalat

Around noon each day this week I'll be chipping away at twelve pounds of potato salad and a pan of peanut butter brownies. You see, I thought I was having a bbq for twenty sweaty soccer players after our last regular season soccer game on Sunday. That's what my Evite described, but not what the date said.

I had told Baleen about the bbq in the days leading up to it so when I brought her back from the airport and asked if she would like any potato salad, she almost cried when she heard the story. My poor lonesome husband, she said.

It wasn't that bad, I assured her. There was plenty of food for me to eat after my soccer game and I got dessert, too. Not to mention an extra few episodes of The Office.

JK

Well, that latent man crush on Josh Krasinski is fading a bit. It started a few months ago when Baleen came off some plane raving about It's Complicated where this great son-in-law was accepted by everybody and how Baleen loved the movie and Santa Barbara and fresh pastries. I saw it some time later with Baleen and liked it and liked when Baleen pointed out Meryl Streep whistling for the bartender's attention and how that's her mom's favorite part, and while I liked the guy she liked, he was surrounded by girls the whole time and what I really liked was Alex Baldwin boxing with himself.

Then she got off some other plane raving about Something Borrowed and then I got onto some other plane and saw it and watched it closely and saw that same Krasinski again. He stole the show. On my individual plane TV I kept rewinding the part where the girl whacks him with the badminton racket.

Then came Hulu Plus. And The Office. Done. But it's in a lull right now, somewhere toward the beginning of season 3. It feels like a 50 mile bike ride when I'm on mile 20 right now, heading into the wind, and I'm riding next to JayBird and Merlin's Beard and know I won't win, but I've still got to keep going cause the ride's worth it. That's because I saw some episode on a plane somewhere where Jim and Pam were baptizing their baby so I know that's coming and everybody else probably knew it was coming for months and months and then maybe years and years while the producers dragged it out. But they're throwing diversions now and my interest is waning. And not just because I think I know the result. I'll probably keep going but skip a few episodes as Baleen will be back soon and when she is, my marathon TV watching will be over. No more cauliflower either.

Defrost

Oh, the things I do when Baleen's not here. I prepare meals that require no preparation. I eat whole cucumbers. I swim after work. I bring Audrey to the dealership to service what I can't. I sleep in the middle of the bed.

What I'm trying especially hard not to do is watch The Office. The US version. I tried the British version, but I can't hear all of it. I have to strain to listen and turn my head to the side a little and then look at the TV a little slanted which just isn't worth it. It's not just that though. I work in a US office. I know what it's like to bring Cup O'Noodles to work. I've played basketball at lunch before. And while it's nice to know that their Lucozade is our Gatorade or they go to the toilet instead of the bathroom, I choose Scranton.

Forced imposition. If I didn't, I just might watch The Office until midnight, getting up a little bit later tomorrow that I otherwise would have, just as, each winter back in high school, I'd watch way too much Big Ten basketball on the 13-incher in my room, the one with the knobs instead of a remote control. So tomorrow night, while Baleen's walking up and down Bourbon Street with the sister and S2B, Baxter inside, I'll be tuned into Season 2 of The Office. Just like it's 2008.

2006

The evening started a little like it was 2006, me heading from downtown toward the ocean, mostly uphill and entirely into the wind, arriving at USF for some afternoon soccer practice before heading back down the hill for quick calorie replacements, pasta, butter, Parmesan and black pepper. Followed by Trader Joe's chocolate, the best deal in the city.

But it didn't end like 2006, not just because I classed it up by putting the pasta in a plate, but because Baleen called me from Boston. Baxter's moving, she said. It feels like a tickle. I think Baxter wants Baleen to know that there's still a man with her, even though I'm 3,000 miles away. Sunday night I'll get to see if Baxter rests upon his return to San Francisco or if he'll move for me, too.

Lobster Roll

Carole and Mike put together a little pre-wedding ride for me this past weekend while Baleen and the other bridesmaids were getting air brushed. I brought my shoes and spandex, they provided the helmet and bike. It was a fixie, which meant that my legs never stopped spinning for 50 miles.

Or rather, they pedals never stopped spinning. Twice my legs popped out, both times going down gentle slopes when my legs thought to rest. To the guy in the big truck with two kayaks on top, it looked "Totally awesome!" while to Carole behind me it probably looked like I was at the Topsfield Fair riding a pony way too small, my legs spread wide trying to find something to do while the pedals spun like mad.

It was a mostly flat course with unbelievable views of the ocean. Some spots were new to me, Rockport, while others I knew, like Latitude 43 in Gloucester, the town I told most of my friends we were getting married in, to Baleen's annoyance, as I figured they'd know it from The Perfect Storm if they hadn't heard of Ipswich. Too bad there'll be a foot of snow next time I'm there.

Wide Open Spaces

There was a Montana crowd at our North Shore Wedding. Somebody even took the train, 48 hours from Billings to Back Bay. He's on it now, probably just outside Akron. But outside of that half, it felt like the New England to me, with soccer fields bordered by field stone and Red Sox caps all over town, defiant once again. Even the hosting house on Friday had huge stones where other houses have yards or trees, steps that I scrambled up and then used the flash from my camera to find my way down.

The Sunday night wedding made yesterday feel like Saturday and today like Sunday night as I didn't make it to work today. So tomorrow's my mental Monday and I'll finish a Chipotle lunch with the last of the Walgreen's 69c M&Ms, missing not just Baleen, who stuck around in Boston to see her family for a week while she works from home, but also the buffet of wedding desserts, including real miniature ice cream cones that a 14 year old girl assured me were the best items on offer.

A Little Boy!!

Baleen and I got the good news that we'll be having a little boy in March. We're celebrating with an overnight trip to Boston where we'll sit next to each other, snooze, and hopefully wake up in the airport for some Dunkin Donuts. What we won't be doing is Hangman or homemade Ad-Libs like we have in the past. This is the one we put together after retuning from S2B and Margarine's engagement party in Austin. I wrote the Ad-Lib, Baleen filled in the adjective, noun, type of food, gender or whatever else that's in CAPS below. Here goes.

Poppy came one HAIRY morning. SHE popped out with a full head of AQUA MARINE hair and said "WOWZERS, mom. It's good to meet you." SHE turned to Hopalong. "You must be mom's ABS. Now that we're all here, I have a few requests. One, a HALTER TOP, please. Everybody's staring at me, naked as the day I was born. Two, how about some SALAMI SANDWICHES. I've been drinking mother's milk for nine months now. Third, I'd like to go to OKLAHOMA CITY. I've been to Austin, China, Boston, New Mexico, Athens, Ios, Istanbul, and London without anybody asking me where I'd like to go. Lastly, am I called JARED or what. I've been called Poppy, Prunie, Penelope, Baxter, Cleo and Beatrix. It's time I got to know myself."

Haystack Pizza

We got a little glimpse of the future, Baleen and I, with a take-out pizza from Haystack on 24th. Two late nights at work that didn't end there meant neither of us had time to prepare or clean so we went with the Wagon Wheel sized ricotta and spinach pizza. There were still a few kids there when we got there a little after 8, but mostly older families in the pizza joint that could have been anywhere, but was still in our city by the Bay. 

Hearty Whole Foods

It's been a week of home cooked meals, some in front of others and some just the two of us. It started with Baleen cooking a lasagna on Sunday night for our Ottoman Empire guests, W & C, who went to that part of the world with us, and Joshua and Z, half of whom were born and raised in Ankara. She did what she doesn't always do, which is follow the directions, probably because she trusted the source, Lorna, who had merged three of four recipes like Wood Duck used to merge Margarine's summer internships, how's Williams & Giuliani?, except with much better results. It was excellent, which you can't see from the picture of me mixing her roux with the spinach and mushrooms. But it was. Thanks Lorna.

There were also quiet meals of good quality, more veggie delights by Yotam and thankfully, more Williams & Sonoma, a fava bean and cooked prosciutto recipe. That last one had me peeling fava beans with the wonder of an urban anthropologist that would have made Mama Edie and Pop, my Alabama grandparents, shake their heads at us city folk (first I take the beans from their shell, then I take blanch them for a minute and remove the skin from the bean?).

And though I'm sure I'd soon tire of the fava bean process in the way that Mr Combover's dad told him he'd soon tire of getting up to flip that record to the B side, I'd make it again, soon, even, and I'd also make that tapenade again, the one that included these anchovies, Walker. Sorry, I meant to tell you about them, I did, but I forgot about it.

Just Another Tuesday

Well, Tuesday morning came and went and ended like a lot of others, me biking up Hawk Hill with my head down, following somebody for a bit, then leading others out until two passed me, me trying to respond but unable to, lacking either will or fitness or the right strategy, before finally arriving at the place where we all stopped and looked toward that Bridge that we can't see for having poked through the fog just a quarter mile before.

On the sprint, I had a real chance, the Hawk Hill champ gracefully winnowing the pack with a fast lead out, then falling away to leave a bunched sprint of four. Yet pending patenity did even more than marriage has, as a car in our way, combined with a semi-slick road from the season's first bit of rain, civilzed me, a man, and I dropped back, leaving the others to pass on the right into the last turn where the three of them, tired but whole, crossed the line a good ten seconds before I did.

My restraint means that I don't have a jersey, but also that I don't have skinned knees and elbows to hide from Baleen which would have meant the removal of my morning ritual, much the same way the Wood Duck forbade me from biking to Oakwood Elementary after I beat her home all those years ago with Margarine and Shrimp Jr in the back seat.



Look closer: Bridge just barely visible

 

We've Got News...

Telling friends and family that you're pregnant is one of those gifts you don't get that often, usually twice, first when you're engaged and now this, so Baleen and I have absolutely treasured telling people. Our telling hasn't changed much, and we haven't done anything cute or surprising, we've just told people, and what's surprised us is the range of responses. Everybody's been excited, of course, but for some it was a real surprise. Not that it happened, just that it did when it did. After all, Baleen and I had talked about our Five Year Plan around our wedding last August with kids toward the tail end. Plans change.

See if you can match the reponse to the responder. First person to get them all right gets a modest prize in the mail. Something valued between banana bread and an IKEA coupon. Guessed answers in the comment section, please, with the winner announced a week from today.

1. Grizzly (Hopalong's dad)      
2. Team Kamvar (the elder)     
3. Walker W.                               
4. Margarine (Hopalong's brother) 
5. Team Kamvar (the younger) 
6. Mr. Combover (jdk)            
7. Hopalong
8. Amanda L.                               

a. Why'd you let me go on and on with my boring story?
b. I knew it!
c. Now you can move to Minnesota.
d. You're joking. You're joking. You're joking.
e. I'm sorry, the baby was crying. What'd you say?
f. totltaly amamzing (via email)
g. Was this planned?
h. [chin near the ground for three seconds] What? You're pregnant?