remnants

from this year's Dia de los Muertos, a decisive day, and also as weird a mix of legitimate ritual and weird, privileged white-person appropriation as you'll find anywhere, I imagine. I observed and purchased food.

This is Esmerelda. She is made of sugar. (All of this, of course, was at the beginning of November. But she's still here. I quite like her.)

grasses

I don't have a lot to say to flatter my hometown, but I do enjoy the train ride from San Francisco (really, from Richmond) up to Sacramento, along the bay and through the marshlands. 

The marsh grasses are unreal. I have seen the colors in all seasons. This being fall, there are tall and short grasses in colors ranging from lime and sage green to cranberry, burgundy, and lilac, and matte silver, and lion's mane gold. And pampas grass with creamy, feathery tufts that wave in the breeze. (This is all just before Fairfield, if you're heading northeast.) All set off by pools and slow, winding streams, slate blue. I'm not making this stuff up. Fairfield itself, of course, a terror of a town. Telephone wires and concrete block buildings and housing developments. Gas stations and storage units. But those fields, marshes, somehow unsung.

it's so nice

when someone comes along and reminds me I'm not the only one:

"I am actually almost completely anti-wedding and not so keen on the 'institution' of marriage either. I did get married, at City Hall no less, and I only got married because my then-boyfriend kept asking me and I thought it would be easier to get a mortgage if we were married, but I was perfectly happy and fully committed just living with him (I am still perfectly happy and fully committed). What I hate about weddings is the patriarchalism. I hate the surprise proposal. Why does the man get to decide when the couple marries? Shouldn't marriage be something that both adults discuss together? I hate the getting down on one knee. The idea that it is the woman who has to be wooed and it is the man's responsibility to do so. I hate the engagement ring. Aside from the fact that buying diamonds supports an evil, destructive 'business,' I hate the idea that the woman needs to be 'bought' with a diamond and that putting a diamond on her finger suggests some sort of ownership on the man's part. I hate that the father walks the bride down the  aisle and 'gives her away.' I find the whole thing to be sexist pageantry and a needless expense. I hate the conformity of the whole thing. I think the best reason to get married is if you are gay. Then it really means something valuable."

                 – Ellen Tarlin on Slate.com's DoubleX, a project with which I do not always find myself in such perfect sympathy as I did upon reading this (full discussion on weddings here)

oh by gosh

All truly good holidays are centered around food.  I predict that this thesis will be difficult to disprove.  (I am way behind in posting these, I know.) 

Above, Christmas dinner (crown roast of pork), below, Christmas Eve Eve wildly delicious buffet.  Mmm...

 

why can't every day be like

Friday morning my boss took us all ice skating at Union Square.  I like this rather too immensely. 

home away from

I hadn't had an American Thanksgiving in two years.  Last year in Munich, I succeeded in putting on a pretty decent dinner, turkey and all.  Sure, I mucked up the gravy, but everything else was good, and I introduced some Germans to the wonders of stuffing. Easily one of the more grown-up and adult accomplishments of my life to date.  Much more preferable, however, to throw it all out the window and down the drain and revert wonderfully to childhood where my mother cooks fiendishly and won't let anyone step in the kitchen.  (I've extracted a promise that I'll be allowed to help out next year).  I got fed endlessly for four days and was reminded of all I loathe and dread about the suburbs.  At about 11pm, with my dad in the living room watching Fox, the dog snoring on the floor, the rest of the house in bed and me lying on the couch in the front room, reading a novel and day-dreaming with the other half of my brain I thought this could have happened a decade ago.  And did. 

Still, it's not all housing developments and quiet desperation.  On Saturday I went for an outing with my Mom; we started at  Snow's Citrus Court, a small family orchard in Newcastle (a neighboring suburb to the one I was raised in, Orangevale, no longer a vale particularly noted for its oranges) where we bought Satsuma mandarins and some mandarin-based marinades.

persimmons out to dry 

Then, we went for a stroll through some recently reclaimed open space. 

We ended with wine tasting at Mt. Vernon Winery, which had been wildly successful (especially relative to it size) at the most recent California State Fair, and makes, among other whimsical blends, a "Girly Man" Syrah.  I'm not a fan of the governator but it's a tasty red.  You can keep your Napa and your Sonoma.  At the little wineries in Placer and Amador counties, tasting is free and refreshingly devoid of snobbery. 

I returned to my apartment to find my housemate John making pizzas from scratch.  I know, you're sick of hearing it: I love my home.

noche de los muertos vivientes

I've been wanting to check this out since Spanish 1 in the 8th grade.  Finally!   Several of my housemates and I wandered out into the Día de lo Muertos parade, joined up, drifted around, caught up with it again, and eventually circled back home. A warm night and burning incense and herbs made for air so thick you could swim in it.  Some shops in the neighborhood had alters out front or even inside:

I offer you a rather clumsy montage I put together:

noche de los muertos vivientes from unruly idiom on Vimeo.

And today, I popped into Panaderia La Mejor on 24th and Mission and my undying optimism was rewarded. Por fin: ¡Pan de Muerto!

un sabor simple y exquisito

My only regret?  I wasn't able to get my hands on a candy skull.  Until next year, festival!

all hallowed out

My feet ache, my ears are ringing, and my fingertips are covered in superglue.  Yesterday must have been Halloween.  
Last week I made a truly excellent kite costume:

but by the time Halloween rolled around I'd worn it twice and was bored with it.  So I decided to be a dead princess.  I bought a child's princess dress at a thrift store, cut it up, and gave myself sunken-in dead eyes, black lips, and  judiciously applied pink glitter.  I tried to make myself a tiara but it wouldn't stay, so I improvised one out of headbands and a fake pearl hair clip.  Before that, though, we carved pumpkins:

and in the evening, we went to Zambaleta's Halloween Hullabaloo.  Such a fabulous party!  Zambaleta is a new project conceived and run by my downstairs neighbor, he whose wonderful friends created the fabulous music in my backyard a bit back, so my expectations were high.  I was not disappointed.  I was on the dance floor all night, or at least until they turned all the lights on and made everybody go home.  At one point I was in a can-can line and someone kicked one of my shoes off and I had to go chase after it.  I danced so much I tore up my shoes, look:

I always did have a Cinderella complex.  Mostly because I have such hard-to-fit feet.  I was never going to be the glass slipper girl.

O, Tannenbaum

When I was in the third grade I went on a field trip to North Star Tree Farm, a Christmas tree farm in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.  Every year since then my family has there to get our Christmas tree.  It's a charmingly low-key place.  In October they invite their regular customers to come early and 'reserve' a tree.  This, quite simply, is fun.  You tramp around the forest until you find a tree you like and then you get one of the employees to put a special tag on it.  The best part, however, is in December, when you have to come back and scratch your head over where the heck you found that perfect tree (luckily, the employees write it down for you, so if you really can't do it on your own, they can locate it quickly).


Some highlights from tramping around: