It's going to leave a mark

I went to the dermatologist on Monday. Partly because I needed some refills, and partly because our insurance is changing on October 1, and specialist visits will now be $$$$.

While there, I indicated a mark on my temple. I've had it for a while, and I couldn't be sure, but I think it had gotten bigger. Or darker. Either way, different.

"It's probably nothing," she said, "but let's send it in and make sure." And with that, her nurse whipped a hypodermic needle out of a drawer. I am not good with needles, so I immediately closed my eyes. "Oh, don't go to the bad place," she said.

Too late.

I kept my eyes shut until she was completely done with whatever it was she did, and I was sporting a small round band aid on my left temple. Luckily, my hair usually flops that way, so it's covered. Unless I have a bad hair day, and have to pull it back in a ponytail. Which is pretty much everyday.

Regardless, I got a list of wound care instructions about keeping a band aid on it for 5-10 days, use peroxide and POLYSPORIN (all in caps, that's how important it is.) I had polysporin from the last time she scrapped something off me, but it expired in February. Not that I think it would hurt to still used it, but it might not be as effective. My dad would beg to differ. I guarantee you that right now, in his toiletry man-bag, Dickie has a tube of first aid cream that expired in the mid-90s.

"I need to stop at the store for peroxide (also expired), polysporin and little band-aids," I said to Jan.

"Why don't you have band-aids?" she asked.

"I do have band-aids, I just don't have little round ones."

"Why not?"

"Um... I just don't." (Sometimes, I just don't know.)

So, yes. 5-10 days. Sigh. Well, it's been three and I figured, three days, five days, what is the difference? I look like an idiot with a band-aid stuck halfway into my hair. I took it off and was ready to face the world.



And then the air hit it. YEEE-OUCH! And I think it's bleeding. It's definitely going to leave a mark. You win doc, I'll be re-bandaged. For two more days. Maybe three. Just to be on the safe side.

Don't Stop Believing I Hate Journey

I love concerts. LOVE them. I love to hear the live music and, of course, to see my favorite bands in person. I cried when I was in the same room (okay, stadium) with Paul McCartney, Sting and the reunited Duran Duran. Since moving to South Florida, I have not been to many concerts. Because no good bands come here. It's rare. Like Haley's Comet. Yes, they go to Miami and Fort Liquordale (seriously, there are liquor stores everywhere), but those cities are an hour to an hour a half away. It's like being in Binghamton all over again, and all the good bands went through Syracuse, leaving Bingo-town to Ratt and Cinderella. Granted Cinderella's drummer is from there, and my mom was his math teacher. I just wanted to see Prince. And Duran Duran...

I digress.

My friend Leslie is amazing, and she asked me to join her at the Night Ranger, Foreigner and Journey concert this past weekend. I went for the Night Ranger. They were my first concert in the 9th grade, so they are a bit of a sentimental favorite.

Now, usually, when you go to a show, the ticket says 7, but it doesn't start until 8, 7:30 at the earliest. Night Ranger came out at 6:50. It was still light out. People were nowhere near their seats. Well, we were. We're geeks.

Anyway, they rocked it. They were having fun, and sounded great. I wished our seats were closer so I could be on my feet right in front of them. I actually debated getting a T-shirt. I had the most awesome gray baseball shirt with black sleeves that I got from that first show. 7 Wishes tour… soooo fabulous. My inner 14 year old was wearing it. If I still had it, my outer 40 year old might have tried to pull it off. They can still rock in America, but I wished their set was longer. I am slightly suspicious they might have been wearing the same jeans from back then. Jack Blades, still with the hair, helped by the fan on the stage, blowing it back. It was a nice effect.

The roadies slapped the Foreigner stage up lickity split. Music started...Mr. Roboto? Nope. It was Foreigner. Huh, their lead singer looked like a Ramone, with his floppy hair, dark sunglasses and skinny emo lady jeans. But, since there was not one single original member of Foreigner up there on stage, we technically saw some kind of sanctioned cover band. They sounded great. I was surprised I knew all the songs. The guy behind us and his lady friend were apparently huge fans, dancing up and down the aisle playing air guitar on a T-shirt. If there is a Foreigner version of the hippie shuffle, he was doing it. I predicted that Jukebox Hero might make both of his heads explode, and I am pretty sure I was right. Big finish... Mr. Roboto again? Nope. False alarm.

Journey. Sigh… I usually refer to them as "Fucking Journey," said with more than a little disdain. For awhile, there was an '80s station in Atlanta, and it seemed like every time they cut to commercial, they'd say, "when we come back, a hit from Journey."

Really?? I lived in the '80s. Journey was not as huge as people think they were. Were they? And "Don't Stop Believing,"sigh. So overplayed, so…. Fucking Journey.

BUT, I love concerts, so I was there. On my feet. And it's not like I don't know all the words to all the songs, because oddly enough, I do. Woo hooo…

And soooooo bored.

Yeah, their tiny little lead singer sounds just like Steve Perry, but did we need a prolonged guitar solo on every single song? I don't think so. And no one wants to hear your new song, Journey. Everyone here squeezed into too tight brand new Journey shirts just want to hear your shit back catalog.

We left a little early, and heard the dreaded "Don't Stop…" just beginning as we were walking to the car.

It's official. I do not like Journey.

And Skinny Emo Lady Jeans is the name of my new band.

Cheers!

Making your way in the world today takes every thing you got
Taking a break from all your worries sure would help a lot
Wouldn't you like to get away?
Sometimes you wanna go......

Here.



Beautiful, isn't it? If you can imagine the scent of flowers and nothing but the sounds of little birds singing... how could you not be totally relaxed. That is exactly what we had in mind when my friend Paige and I planned our trip to Sonoma. Wine, peace, beautiful views and great food. We were not disappointed.

We met up in San Francisco, and set out for our wine adventure with a first stop in the Enterprise office, where they were out of the sedans (which I had reserved), so I was offered a Jeep Patriot. It's not a big SUV, but bigger than the Civic I drive. Either way, I took a deep breath and we were off! We found the best radio station, too. I don't remember the call letters, but it's "The Bay's Old School" station. Prince, Madonna, all the dance songs we loved at the 18 and over nights at Eclipse. So we "Let the Music Play..."

(On a side note, as someone in the market for a new car, the Patriot is pretty easy to handle, but it has a lot of blind spots and not a lot of power.)

And then there came a gasp from the passenger seat. WHAT!?!??

This.



And this.



And so we had to do this.



Because we're on vacation! In California!

Back on the road to Sonoma, we finally came across our goal. Wineries. We passed a couple that came up on us quick, but then we saw one and said, we have to start somewhere, and pulled in.



Welcome to Viansa Winery & Marketplace. The name probably doesn't sound familiar, but that doesn't mean it's because their wines are bad. Exactly the opposite. They are fantastic. But this winery only sells their award-winning wines, which are produced with Italian varietals grown in California, on-site and on their website. It was hard to pick a favorite, but I did leave with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a membership to their wine club, because I find life is better when wine is just delivered to your door.

After a few more wineries, we found our hotel, the Sonoma Creek Inn, which says it's "close to the downtown area of Sonoma with it's historic plaza." Yeah, it's not really. Well, I guess three or four miles is "close," but not really within walking distance, which is what we had thought. Anyway, off to the plaza for a little exploring and dinner.

The downtown Sonoma area, with the plaza, is a cute little town, with mom and pop stores, cafes and tasting rooms, very arty and funky. One word drew us in... Cheese. The Sonoma Cheese Factory was like a cross between wine shop/gift shop/gourmet grocery/candy shop and cafe. There were samples of cheese all around. You would not think lavender cheese would be good. You'd be wrong. It's amazing!

Thanks to a recommendation from a photographer friend, we had reservations at The Girl + The Fig, a small restaurant serving farm-to-table dishes with a French flair. Who would have thought that something so simple as heirloom radishes would make such a delicious appetizer. Served with a side of anchovy butter and a sprinkle of grey sea salt, it was crisp, clean and plain yummy. For dinner, there was wild flounder meuniere with a Yukon potato puree and cello spinach—the lemon-caper brown butter soaked into the potatoes in such a sinfully wonderful way—and a shellfish and pork belly stew with scallops, clams, mussels, white beans, arugula and a saffron fume. Did I mention it had pork belly? Velvety yet crispy, wonderfully salty squares of pork belly?!? Yeah. It was goooooooooooood.

Saturday dawned rainy, but we were excited because we had booked a cooking class at Ramekins Culinary School & Inn. We were set to learn how to make Mexican appetizers with Chef Agustin Gaytan, who has been with Ramekins since it opened in 1998. We were broken up into groups, each group challenged with making one of the menu items completely from scratch, including roasting and grilling a lot of chiles, peppers, tomatillos... yeah, no jarred salsas here. Everything was fresh. I was on "Team Tamale," helping to make Tamalitos de Rajaas y Queso, which were mini tamales filled with roasted Chilaca chiles, Oaxaacan-style cheese and pickled jalapeno tomatillo salsa. A very nice team member, Bob, taught me how to peel away the skins from grilled chilies, as well as a very informative knife lesson that I am still practicing.

Here is the finished product in the front, along with the Jalapenos Rellenos de Atun, jalapeno chiles filled with grilled tuna, olives, capers, garlic and raisins. They were...interesting



Paige was on the team that created Sopesitos de Chorizo—griddled masa cakes topped with chorizo, queso fresco and purple tomatillo salsa. They were tasty!



In addition to, naturally, margaritas, there also were Tostaditas de Tinga—crispy corn tortillas with shredded pork, roasted tomato, chipotle chiles, grilled onion, crumbled cheese and avocado—on the menu. Also tasty!



Ramekins is definitely a place I want to go back to, but in the meantime, I am on the lookout for hands-on cooking classes here in West Palm. Any advice?

Back on the road to Santa Rosa. But first, there are wineries all along the road. Who are we not to stop and check things out? Kenwood Vineyards was rustic and beautiful. Flowers and olive trees all around, with a tasting room in a converted barn.

Then there was this. Wow.



This is Chateau St Jean. The wines were as good as the environment. They had a section of their beautiful garden devoted to grape varietals, which I thought was interesting.



And more flowers. Seriously, what is this??



Have I mentioned how fabulous the views are in Wine Country? Seriously, everything is like a postcard, with the mountains and vineyards and flowers. Here is a view from St. Francis Winery & Vineyards. See what I mean?



We spent Saturday night at The Vintners Inn in Santa Rosa, which was wonderfully quaint and comfortable, with the kind of robes you actually think about putting in your suitcase and a bottle of wine. Although, there was a wedding there, and the bridal party was staying in our building, so that was probably a mistake.

We had dinner at the on-site restaurant, John Ashe & Co., which overlooked the vineyards, where we enjoyed Pacific Halibut a la Plancha with spring cassoulet, which was delightfully fresh, and Pan-seared Diver Scallops with Masami Pork Belly, served with potato rosti, aigre-douce and the most wonderful yellow cauliflower puree. Seriously, I need to learn how to make yellow cauliflower puree. The picture doesn't do it justice, but YUMMMMMMM.




Up and at 'em, it's off to Healdsburg, which was a town of delights. We possibly became the next reality TV stars at the Murphy-Goode tasting room. They have a new Rose called Gaga (no relation), that was delightful, and I am not a fan of "pink" wine.

Throughout the day, we were also able to hit some tasting rooms that are familiar to everyone. Kendall-Jackson, La Crema and Toad Hollow Vineyards, all of which were delightful. Also, I'll add right now, we found that at every winery we visited throughout the weekend, we were offered tastes of wines beyond the tasting menus or number of wines you were allotted on a tasting flight. For the most part, every single tasting host was more than happy to let us taste pretty much whatever we wanted, and we received warm welcomes, without being faced with a "wine snob."

Highlights of our day in Healdsburg didn't just involve wine. We had lunch at Healdsburg Bar & Grill. I don't know if it's because I was slightly hungover, slightly buzzed or a combination of both, but their signature HBC Burger was one of the best burgers I have ever had. EVER! And with a side of truffle oil and Parmigiano-Reggiano fries, how could you go wrong?!?! Answer: You can't.

For a mid-afternoon pick-up, we also hit the Flying Goat for coffee, which was probably what Starbucks was before it became Starbucks. Good coffee in a big mug for $2. Perfect.

Our biggest discovery in Healdsburg, though, was wine related. The sign read "Cult Wines." What is a cult wine, we said. In a word, it's fabulous. It lead us to Kerry, who was the tasting host for Stephen & Walker Trust Winery Limited. Another winery that only sells through its tasting room and the web, it is the labor of love of Nancy Walker, who has been making wine for 22 years, and her husband Tony Stephen, who brings 20 years of experience. Their award-winning wines are so full of life. I am not a fan of port, but their Portentous was fantastic. I joined the wine club because, again, life is better when they deliver wine right to your door, and it's cheaper than flying back out there to load up on this wine.

Our trip ended too soon. There was so much we saw, but so much we didn't have time to see. I'm already planning a return trip.

Any takers?

Smashed and mashed

Rumor has it, when I was little, I did not like mashed potatoes. No matter what kind of "Here comes the airplane/train" game was played, I would not eat them. There is even talk of my parents making them with chocolate milk. And while that apparently didn't work either, it could have been the thing that set off my love of dipping french fries into a Frosty. Hmm....

I don't want to disparage Jan's cooking ability. She hates cooking to this day, don't get me wrong, but she is not bad at it. I don't know what made me turn up my button nose at mashed potatoes. Perhaps it was a texture thing. I do have texture issues: cottage cheese, grits, tapioca pudding, sometimes even scrambled eggs if they are runny will cause my throat to close up. Don't even get me started on that Aquafresh toothpaste that foams up in your mouth. UGH!!!

But then, I don't know how, I don't know where, maybe it was Thanksgiving, maybe it was a Wednesday, but one day, I started to like mashed potatoes. Not just like them. Love them. They are officially one of my favorite things. If they are done right, that is. You think they are easy to make, but they also are easy to screw up.

I will order something on a menu specifically if it comes with mashed potatoes. In Atlanta, I had my favorites. The Highland Tap (my favorite restaurant in the ATL!), they were quite good. At Digger's, the sports bar where I used to work, they were awesome. They made them from scratch in a mixer as big as a small horse. Dick & Harry's, I don't even know if that place is still open (it was on Holcomb Bridge), but ohhh.... I ordered a fish that was so delicate, it seemed to melt right in with the velvety mashed potatoes it was served on. Heaven on a plate! I found Houston's mashed potatoes too fussy, with lots of (I think) parsley and, if there is such a thing, too much butter. It just kind of sat there, almost like a puddle of oil. Mashed potatoes need to be kept simple. Some garlic or cheese is welcome, but please leave out the horseradish or wasabi.

And don't even come at me with instant mashed potatoes. Really?!!?!? Boxed instant mashed potatoes are to me what broccoli on pizza is to my Uncle Joe (Trust me on that one).

So, to make the perfect mashed potatoes at home takes a little elbow grease, but it's worth it. I used to like them all whipped up with the hand mixer, creamy and lump free. Probably a texture issue again. But my friend Chris taught me a different way. I start with just basic Idaho potatoes, peel them, rinse them, chop them into chunks. Good sized chunks, not quartered, but not a dice. Something you'd want in a good potato salad. Put them in a large saucepan or stockpot, cover them with water, salt the water and get it boiling. I also like to toss a heaping spoonful of minced garlic in to boil with the potatoes. Another flavor layer. If I am doing red potatoes, I don't peel them. The skins add flavor, color and (GASP!) texture.

While the potatoes are boiling, here is a fun fact. If you find a potato chip that is a bit green, it means the potato sat in the sun too long before it got to the Frito-Lay. Yep, it's a sunburn!

OK, now pour some milk into a coffee mug along with a good sized dollop (a tablespoon or two. Or three) of butter, and put it in the microwave for about a minute or so to warm it up. Check the potatoes to make sure they are soft. (This is why I am not really good at making potato salad. I overcook the potatoes for that. I'm wicked good at mashed potato salad.) Drain them and put them back in the hot pan. Now take a masher and smoosh them a bit to break them up. Pour in some of the heated milk and butter. Mash a little more, and then take out a whisk. Stir them up with the whisk, while adding the milk a little at a time, until they are the consistency you want, even if you don't use all the milk. Salt and pepper to taste! Aren't they gorgeous, lumps and all!?!?!?



Especially when served with a yummy London broil and spinach with fresh ground nutmeg. (I took out my hammer and tapped open a fresh nutmeg and grated it on that spinach. Oh yeah, I am that fancy.)


Here is my "Love you Lumps" playlist. Enjoy!

I'm So Tired The Beatles ("I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink." What do you think?)
You Oughta Know Alanis Morissette
Ice Sarah McLachlan ("The ice is thin, come on dive in...")
If Dirt Were Dollars Don Henley
This is the Last Time Keane
Shoo-Bee-Doo Madonna (Gotta love old school squeaky voiced Madonna!)
You Owe me an IOU Hot Hot Heat ("He was in the habit of taking things for granted.")
Other Voices The Cure
This Grudge Alanis Morissette ("Who's it hurting now? Who's the one that's stuck?")
Private Dancer Tina Turner ("Deutschmarks or dollars? American Express will do nicely, thank you.")
Not So Strong James (Have I mentioned I saw James in a club with about 150 other people. Yeah, I am that cool.)
Man Yeah Yeah Yeahs
You Don't Bring me Flowers Barbara Streisand and 2011 Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductee Neil Diamond
Down to Earth Barenaked Ladies ("Some people are all show. I don't mind that if the show is worth watching.")
I'm Shakin' Rooney (Not to be confused with the family that owns the 6-time Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers or the stinky hippie fest that used to be in Deposit, NY every summer.)
Waltz Away Dreaming George Michael and Toby Bourke (Probably not related to Ray.)
I'm Gonna Miss You Milli Vanilli (oh, you know it's true. I love my Milli Vannli!)
Those Were the Days My Friend Sandie Shaw ("Once upon a time there was a tavern..." Don't the best stories start like that??)
Not All Me Alanis Morissette ("It's not all me. It's not all my fault. I may remind you, but I won't take it all on.")
Hung Up Madonna
Lullabye Concrete Blonde ("When your breathing is the wind, and your crying is the rain, well I know you will remember because the music is forever.")

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

I have a huge box of Christmas decorations on the top shelf of my coat closet. I pull it down, balancing it on my head to get it off the shelf.

I pull out last year's cards (so I know who to send them to this year), my stockings and other holiday do-dads. Then there are all my smaller boxes full of ornaments. My tree does not have a "theme." I never could understand people who would just do a "red and white" tree or just gold. Please!! It's Christmas!! It's meant to be a mish-mash of fun!

I do have my traditional Hallmark ornaments—some Scarletts, a Marilyn, a Rhett, Pooh and Tigger, Dorothy and the Scarecrow, the Grinch and Max, Santa playing Trivial Pursuit. I even have a dill pickle that my friend Matt gave me. And this one:



Then I have a lot of ornaments with tags. Not store tags. Tiny little handmade tags in my mom's super neat handwriting. "Shell 92," "Shell 85," "Mich 94." Jan made the tags to mark the ornaments that my Grandma gave me. Each year at Thanksgiving, my cousins, Jenny and I all got an ornament from her. Some were store bought. Some are crafty. I don't know if she made them all, or got them at a craft show, but Margaret has been known to whip up some crafts.

We all ended up with so many ornaments, I think when we all moved away from home, our parents had to buy some to fill all the empty spaces. Then my cousins started having kids, and then the ornaments were for them. I'm not going to lie. I was jealous. I missed getting those ornaments, even though I have so many, I can't fit them all on my tree. Actually, I had so many, I didn't even realize until this year that I had two tarnished silver angels. On further investigation, I found a tag. "Jen 94."

Oops.

I'll leave the tags on them all, and make new ones when they fall off or fade, so I'll always know when I got them, and so they stand out. Because they are special, just like the lady who gave them to me.

Here's some of Margaret's greatest hits!

This angel doesn't have a tag, but until I bought the glittery disco star, it was on the top of my tree.



"Shell 85" It's a bee. In a dice that only has four dots on each side. She made it.



"Shelly 84"



"Shell 90" I know she probably made this one. My grandfather collected sand dollars all the time. There is another one without a tag that has a plastic toy soldier glued to it, which you can see in the above picture of the angel.


"Shell 89" Of course. 1989 just screams mirrored disco drum!!!


"Shell 92" This one is the best. She made it, and if you squeeze it, it plays a tinny version of Rudolph and the nose lights up. Love it! The day I press it and nothing happens is the day I lose it at Michael's trying to figure out how to get a new one in there.



MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!

Picking up the pieces

The most precious gift you have to offer someone is your heart.

This is true. It's pretty and red and full of love and hope. And when you actually offer it to someone, you do it with both hands, holding it carefully. Because although it's bright red and full of hope and all that, it's still like glass.

Inevitably, you'll end up giving it to someone clumsy. They might bobble your heart, or drop it. It might crack. They are quick to apologize, though, helping you to pick up any pieces, and fixing the cracks. And you go on, fixed and happy, all is well.

Or.... they will take it and actually shatter it into pieces, like they threw it down on the ground, breaking it into more pieces than you thought it could have, leaving you to try to collect the bits alone and put them back together.

And you do. Because you can't breathe with your heart in all these pieces. You slowly put it back together with the glue of friendship, work, cat kisses (or dog kisses, either way, they make amazing glue!), and the strength you pull from the pieces that are left.

But, like a broken cup, you never find all the pieces. Not without help. Sometimes a friend will stumble across a random chip that you can tuck back in, getting you back together.

Or, you'll discover that the person who took the most precious thing you owned and shattered it like a bar glass has kept a piece of it. They'll stand before you, dangling it between their fingers like a treat, trying to coax you to them, offering your whole heart back.

That's when you have to decide what to do.

Do you reach for that missing piece, or do you realize that sometimes the greatest works of art are missing a piece or two.

Random Thoughts

Person I want to punch: Keenan the weatherman. He’s far too perky about the heat.

Damn, that woman is sitting way to far forward. If the airbag were to go off, her head would explode like an over-ripe cantaloupe.

CNN is reporting that for every 100 single women, there are 88 single men. What they don’t say is that of those 88, 10% are decent, 20% are gay, 15% actually have a girlfriend and 55% are total douche bags, because they know the odds are in their favor.

When I ask for a picture of candy bars, don’t send me a picture of cupcakes. It’s not the same, and no it’s not okay.

Like my friend Stanchez, I too am tired of hoes.

My cat uses her litter box every single time she needs to go, and always has. Trust me when I say that’s awesome, but not awesome enough to ever be my Facebook status.