The raccoons aren't the only problem

We have a few neighbors who feed raccoons -- intentionally, or through laziness about feeding their own pets outdoors -- and this summer we've battled a real bumper crop of raccoons: two moms, one with two babies and one with five. The babies have now grown into real bruisers, and I found one menacing our tabby Zoe outside the basement door a week ago. There was no food, or even water, at issue. I had to conclude the raccoon wanted access to the heated cat bed in that shelter area. The following day, we unplugged the heated pad, meaning that the cats won't have any warm place to hang out if we leave them outside for the day.

Some of the raccoons are living in the attic of the notorious ramshackled house across the alley. With the back yard overgrown, and the back porch roof and stairs collapsed, it looks abandoned. But an older woman, who works at a local bakery, lives there and is apparently unwilling to sell the valuable land. The speculation from people who have looked up city records on the property is that she doesn't want to sell because half of the proceeds would then go to her ex-husband.

Meanwhile, the raccoons have a base of operations from which to launch their nightly forays for fine dining.

We have a next door neighbor who has a cat door in the basement for his cat, but it's a cheap cat door and the raccoons get in the basement on a regular basis. They not only eat all the poor cat's food, but they tear the place apart. Two years ago, the neighbor had great success trapping the raccoons and relocating them. But this year the raccoons broke out of the borrowed cages, and he gave up the trapping effort.

(His cat uses its magnet to gain access to our house via our raccoon-proof cat door, and eats here. The neighbor has no intention of installing a raccoon-proof cat door because it costs $300. So, his cat has no food and his basement gets torn apart a couple of times a month. OK.)

The raccoon skirmishes got quite a bit weirder and more alarming Friday morning. I had let our deaf white cat Sheba outside, and was listening for trucks in case I needed to locate her and get her away from a FedEx or a contractor's vehicle. When I heard a truck in the alley, I dashed to the front porch and, to my horror, saw a large truck stopped with the engine running, and the driver out of the truck standing in the alley beside a white cat.

"What happened?" I yelled as I dashed down the porch steps.

"He's dead," said the driver, which struck me as odd because Sheba was standing up on all four feet. Her fur was puffed up as if she had been electrocuted, she was not moving, but she was definitely standing up.

And she and the driver were both staring at a gargantuan raccoon which was, clearly, dead and laying at the edge of the road. It didn't look squished, but neither did it look merely stunned. And, oddly, it had a streak of green glittery paint on its flank.

It required quite a bit of effort to haul Sheba away -- she kept going back to the raccoon -- and in the confusion I assumed that the truck had hit the raccoon while it was chasing Sheba (or vice versa) and Sheba had narrowly missed sharing its fate. This suspicion was reinforced when Sheba spent the rest of the morning sitting in the front window, staring at the raccoon carcass, visibly agitated.

I called animal control's number for disposing of dead animals, rejected their suggestion that I double-bag the 30-pound beast and put it in our trash can, and they came out and took the body away later in the afternoon.

The following day I saw our neighbor out in the yard and told him the story. He got an odd, sheepish grin on his face and said, "I killed it."

"You hit it with your car?" I asked.

No, he said, it had gotten in to their basement Thursday night, and he'd found it tearing the place up. It had even gotten into their five-year-old daughter's paint set (thus explaining the glittery green paint!) So he'd waded down into the basement, picked up a two-by-four, and clubbed it to death.

And then he'd dumped it in the alley in front of the abandoned house.

I don't often use the phrase "WTF?" but it came immediately to mind and wouldn't leave as I stood there and looked at him incredulously. He'd dumped a dead raccoon on a street where children and pets go back and forth every day? And he thought who was going to pick it up?

He doesn't take well to criticism, and, noting my expression, he shrugged and blustered "Yeah, and if another raccoon comes in, I'll do it again."

I had a friend with me, and Zorg was standing behind me on the steps, so I restrained my comments. But if he does it again, I think I will put on gloves and double-bag that raccoon. And stuff it in his trash can. Or maybe the front seat of his car.

Vodka and caviar

I attended a vodka and caviar tasting this evening at Tom Douglas' Palace Ballroom. Apparently these events are usually held at his Dahlia Lounge, but the sign-up for this event required a larger venue.

After a rather unnerving presentation on sturgeon (enormous prehistoric fish with big mouths) we were unleashed on the sample tables, each of us clutching a punch card ticket for samples of five liquors and five caviars.

I started with the liquors, which included a domestic corn vodka, a domestic rye vodka, aquavit, pear brandy, and Polish potato vodka. The rye vodka was spicy, complex, and interesting. The corn vodka was, to put it kindly, medicinal. The aquavit and pear eaux de vie were OK. But the Polish potato vodka lived up to its billing as "creamy." It's one of the most subtle vodkas I've ever tasted. The brand is Chopin.

Thus fortified, it was on to the caviars -- all domestic. These were served one little buckwheat blini the size of half dollars.

The standouts were Rainbow Trout caviar from North Carolina -- a translucent, large pearl caviar that tasted very light, fresh, and "spring water-y" -- and a Montana Golden Whitefish caviar -- tiny soft eggs that were rich, buttery, and surprisingly un-salty. A California White Sturgeon caviar provided the traditional caviar look and taste: dark gray, small-grained, and briney, with a pleasant, crunchy texture. Chum Salmon Ikura was a bit too delicate for me, and a Yellowstone River Paddlefish was unmemorable.

All of the caviars (except the Rainbow Trout) are available at the Seattle Caviar Company on Eastlake, which holds tastings on Saturdays. Seattle Caviar sells Iranian Osetra caviar for $185 an ounce -- but the Montana Golden Whitefish I found so delicious is a mere $13.50 for two ounces.

According to the Washington State Liquor Control board product search, most of the Seattle area stores have Chopin vodka (at $25 a half litre) in stock.

One last word on caviar: There is a wonderful vegetarian caviar called "Caviart" made in Denmark and distributed by an Edmonds, WA, importer. It's made of seaweed, and tastes, well, like fish roe! I've found it at a Seattle-area market, and it's definitely available online.

Time flies, but not that fast

If you think "annual" means "yearly," you probably share my annoyance with certain fundraising organizations that think if you put "giving" after "annual" it means not "yearly" but "continual."

We do a round of charitable donations in November and, as I wrote checks in response to pleas from the local food bank and a local animal rescue organization, I found in my bill-paying folder requests from the universities I attended for undergraduate and grad school. Both were asking me to make my "annual contribution."

Fortunately, I keep a list of charitable contributions in a tax folder. Consulting it, I saw that both schools received a donation to the "annual fund" from me during the summer. And yet, they were after me again. Perhaps I'll just skip them next year and double our household contributions to the food bank and animal rescue...

I thought it was a typo...

...when my cousin Michael referred to the "Rethuglicans" on his blog. It has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

The weekend is exceptionally busy...we had a friend in town from New York over to dinner Friday night, then we all went off to celebrate our friend Bradley's 50th at a large party. It featured an interesting mix of Scotch and ecstatic dancing.

This morning Kim and I drove up to an office park in Mukilteo for the Shoesonline.com annual warehouse sale. Danskos, Naots, Merrells, Keens, Asics and more for $15 - $60 a pair. No mirrors, so I had a woman use my iPhone to snap a photo of me in one pair of shoes, which I then scrutinized.

Got home just in time to stash the shoes, check phone and mail, then get into a outfit for the Folklife dinner and auction at Seattle Center. Just got home from that event a few minutes ago, toting a bowl carved from a Hawaiian Norfolk Pine and a wool rug made by Tibetan refugees in Nepal. As the dessert runner for our table, I snagged for us a tray of John Ullman's delectable pots au creme. Not sweet at all -- just rich, rich, rich. Zorg had a peaceful evening at home with the cats.

As the wait for the Honda Fit continues, I'm now driving my mom's car (she's gone off to Florida for the winter). It's nice to drive somewhere and not have to wonder if I'll make it back!

Happy Halloween

Now I remember what I didn't like about long hair. Bats and things get tangled up in it.

Pumpkin carving, ulterior motives department

I came home from yoga tonight to find a pumpkin lit and glaring at me on our front porch. And a bowl of pumpkin innards waiting for me in the kitchen.

Zorg had insisted last night on buying a big pumpkin at the Ballard Market and tonight he carved it, giving it a particularly crazed expression that I suspect had something to do with his day at work.

My job was to separate the seeds from the pulp and toast the seeds -- with a little olive oil and salt -- in the oven. Fortunately, pumpkin seeds float; I floated them out of the pulp, dried them with paper towels, and tossed them onto a foil-lined baking pan. Toasting them took about 45 minutes in a 375-degree oven, and the house smells great. (Particularly after I carted the pulp off to the compost bin.)

Happy Halloween!

(cross-posted on Food, Fitness, Fashion)

Shoe shopping in Mukilteo Saturday?

Info just came in on a warehouse sale of Asics, Dr. Martens, Keen, Merrell, New Balance, Dansko, Rockport, and other shoe brands taking place in south Mukilteo (south of Paine Field) this weekend. And I have early bird tickets to get in at 10 a.m. (general public is admitted at 11).

I'm looking for one other intrepid shopper to set out from Seattle with me promptly at 9 a.m. -- or to meet me in Mukilteo a little before 10 a.m. If you are interested, click the "email the mysterious traveler" link (on the right) and let me know.

Please note: Having not been to one of these sales before, I can't make any promises about the prices or the selection -- I'm going out of pure curiousity.

Beyond Craig's List

When I want to get rid of something, the first place I consider is eBay -- for lightweight, brand-name items in near-fine condition.

The second place is Craig's List, for large items that I know will sell quickly (TVs, computers, dining room tables, sofas, lawnmowers, etc.).

The third place is a local consignment shop, Classic Consignment, for furniture, clothing items, and small household items in good shape and fairly trendy. The advantage to taking something to consignment is that you don't have to "babysit" the item or worry people coming to your house.

Items in decent-but-not-wonderful shape, or in good shape but out of fashion, go to Goodwill or another charity.

Recently I came across a fifth option for "giveaways" that are just too odd, or unwieldy, to take to Goodwill: The Freecycle Network -- specifically, the local Seattle chapter. What do I mean by "odd"? Check out Freecycle.

If someone likes something you have listed, they email you. You wait a few hours, sort through the emails, pick a likely recipient (someone who lives near you, or who wants to pick the item up at a time convenient to you), and email (or call) them to set up a time for pickup. Or list a want and see if someone responds.

It works.

Getting down with the raccoons

This summer we had a bumper crop of raccoons: Two moms, one with five babies and the other with two.

Two weeks ago, while we were on vacation, our catsitter reported seeing the five young raccoons sitting on our patio.

Tonite I followed Kaylee, our small tabby, to the back door and saw a young coon coming up the back porch. It hesitated when it saw me in the kitchen. Then I did what I do when I'm approaching a timid cat: I got down on my hands and knees.

Seeing me shrink down to its level certainly reassured the raccoon, which came right up to top step and peered at me. A moment later, it was joined by a sibling. They seemed to be doing little bows or push-ups on the top step. Then they went away.

We're getting a new cat!

On Friday. It's a big one.

Ballard and beyond - Oct. 19 update

Archie McPhee's annual Halloween blood drive is today, noon to 6. They vant your blood! Call to make an appointment: 206.297.0240.

After you've donated, you could get your energy back up with espresso at Cafe Fiore or dinner at the new Zayda Buddy's Pizza --- both in the refurbished historic building at 5405 Leary Avenue NW, across from the massive condo construction project.

Cafe Fiore is my favorite place to meet clients; Zayda Buddy's "pizza" identity is a bit puzzling to me, because much of their menu is comfort food (the Weekly dubbed it "enlightened cafeteria"). We had hot sandwiches there Wednesday, and my dining companion said their grilled cheesed -- puffy toasted bread, just oozing with melted Velveeta, is the best grilled cheese she's ever had. The Reuben sandwich was headed in the right direction, but not East Coast enough for me. But it's a friendly place, and I'll be back to try their thin-crust "Minnesota-style" pizza.

On the Ballard shopping front, I'm hearing about The Sneakery, a new shoe store on 65th, near Cafe Bambino. Anyone been there yet?

Finally, some news from slightly outside of the Ballard area: The wonderful Gypsy Trader Consignment, which had two incarnations on N 45th St. and two on Stone Way North, is closing. My informant tells me that a pool table has moved in, to be followed by other pub trappings.

Yes, I know they're just dishes

After dithering for a couple of years, I finally picked out some new dinnerware. It's Denby Fire and the coordinating Denby Fire Chilli, English stoneware. It isn't cheap, but it is extremely durable.

After examining the Denby at Macy's, I came home and created a spreadsheet of all the basic pieces and serving pieces, with color choices, and priced a bare minimum service for 8 -- dinner, salad, and dessert plates, cereal bowl, pasta bowl, and coffee mug. No serving pieces at all. Then I priced it.

The total was, well, shocking.

Macy's will have the Denby on sale this weekend, 25% off -- but of course, when you add in our local and state sales taxes, it's only 16% off.

Dismayed, I went online, where the picture changed completely. Chefs Corner was offering some of the basics at 35% off -- no sales tax, and free shipping. Shepherd Hills had "factory seconds" of the salad plates for 60% off (they also have firsts). And the mugs and cereal bowls I wanted were on eBay...brand new, from a highly rated shop in Maine. If I get them at the price I bid (and there were no other bidders) even with shipping they'll be close to 70% off retail.

It will take a few weeks to have all this stuff shipped from the various vendors (Chefs Corner has a three-week delay while they order from the Denby factory) but I'll be paying exactly half of the retail price. High quality stoneware, with only half the guilt. And I even bid on a serving dish! Whoo-hah.

One sentence

We're back from Kauai and I'm up to my ears in new projects. All the work I didn't have in August and September is here. Now.

But I couldn't resist applying for a blogging gig that asked applicants to write one sentence -- about their favorite food. I wrote:

"The aroma of warm olive oil and roasted chickpeas wafted through the air on the tightly packed commuter train, and suddenly I realized that everyone, from sleek businessmen in cashmere overcoats to elderly nonnas bundled in sturdy winter wools, was greedily eyeing the waxed-paper package of farinata I held on my lap."

Slideshow of photos from thousands of blogs

Goggle's Blogger site has just released an app they call Play Blogger. It's a slideshow of photos being uploaded to thousands of public Blogger blogs worldwide. And it's fascinating.

(Blogger users who don't want their photos to be part of the photostream can change their blog settings from public to private.)

Brutti ma buoni

There's a type of cookie in Italy called "brutti ma buoni" -- a plain cookie with nuts, dropped from a spoon and baked. It looks like a jumble -- hence the name, which translates as "ugly but good."

I'm doing a lot of "ugly but good" cooking today. We're going out of town next week, and I'm madly trying to use, or preserve, perishables in the refrigerator and the garden.

Right now, all the cherry and pear tomatoes are being cooked down to be frozen for use in soups this winter. Natalya, the four-year-old next door, commented that the kitchen "smells like Spaghetti-Os." Hmm...The tomatoes look a bit weird because the pot contains equal amounts red, yellow, and orange tomatoes.

Finally, I took the last of a batch of brown rice out of the fridge and turned it into a pudding with eggs, milk, rum, brown sugar, golden raisins, cinnamon and nutmeg. There was a lot of liquid in the mixture, so I have it cooking very slowly at 300 degrees, like an Indian pudding.

In and around the cooking, I climbed up on a ladder in the side yard and hunted through a great snarl of grape vines to pick the Candace grapes -- which Natalya was eating almost as fast as I could pick them. Last year was a bad year for grapes; this year, the grapes are good, but sparse. (August didn't get hot enough.) There are still ripening grapes on the vine, and they won't need to be picked until a freeze is imminent.

Although rain threatened all day, it didn't show up until dusk. The afternoon was all "oyster light" -- that luminous, mother-of-pearl light that makes green plants seem to glow all on their own. Many of my flowers are still blooming, so there's a mix of bright pinks and purples with the yellow and orange autumn leaves. The pleasure of working in all that beauty manages to balance out the experience when the patio cushions I was storing released a few gallons of water onto my sneakered feet.

Lost and found (unfortunately)

My friend Geoff Duncan has blogged most amusingly about the ugly brown station wagon that sits abandoned on his street. One of his latest posts documents its disturbing similarity to the Microsoft Zune music player.

Over dinner Sunday evening, our friend Barry told a story that holds out hope that the owner of the lost Zunemobile and its owner may eventually be reunited.

Stopping by a rental property he owns, Barry noted a strange car sitting in front of the house. He mentioned it to his tenant, who said it had been there for several weeks. Barry called the police to report it.

It turned out the car had been stolen three months earlier from the parking lot of a shopping center a few blocks away. The owner had reported it stolen immediately, but the police had been unable to locate it. (Hmm...)

After Barry called police, and the police called the owner, a locksmith was dispatched to open the vehicle. That's when things got very bad. The car had been stolen with the owner's groceries inside, including a large turkey. It had not aged well.

You had to hope that the insurance company had already paid the owner for the car and that the turkey now belonged to them.

Now I know why they call it a "Fit"

Still no sign of my new car; the old one is getting increasingly rebellious, though I never take it further than Fremont (or anywhere I could simply walk home from).

My mother took her 2005 Honda Civic in to the dealership for maintenance. The dealership called a few days later, wanted to make sure she was happy with the service (yeah, right) and (here we go) asked if anyone in her family might be interested in buying a new Honda.

Yes, my mom said, my daughter wants a Fit.

Pause on the other end of the line.

"Would she like a manual transmission?" the salesperson asked, hopefully.

No, an automatic, my mom replied.

Another pause. Then, cheerfully, "We could get her one in two or three months!"

Oy.

What's causing the shortage of this hot little station wagon? Apparently, it's that Honda is building the Fits in Japan and shipping them over. (Fits built at Honda's Chinese facility, are being shipped to Europe, where they are sold as the Honda Jazz.) An rumored Midwestern Fit plant won't come online for another year or two.

I just checked a town-talk forum at the consumer automotive site Edmunds.com and was amused to follow the stories of people who are ordering Fits, getting a VIN number, tracking it as their Fit is built in Japan and shipped to the US. It's like reading blog entries from grandparents expecting a new baby.

Now if only the interior of the Nissan Versa weren't so clunkily configured and so pseudo-luxury car tacky...

It was a dark and stormy night...

...when I emerged from a day-long training course clutching my official Washington State Private Investigator's certification.

But I'm not yet a licensed PI. That will require either starting my own agency or landing a gig with a recognized private investigation agency in the state. Stay tuned.

Ready for the rain (and snow)

For the past several years, I've been trying to find an attractive, comfortable pair of dressy winter boots.

The results of my unsuccessful experiments are about to be photographed and put on eBay (many have been worn only once or twice) or taken to Classic Consignment. The bottom line is that the ones that look good hurt like hell and the ones that don't hurt look like hell.

How long has this been going on? Well, there's a pair headed for eBay that my father bought me as a birthday gift. And he died three years ago.

This year I've mail ordered and returned three pairs of boots already. I've tried Nordstrom, J. Jill, Eddie Bauer, and Sierra Trading. In desperation, I occasionally pop into trendy little boutiques downtown and try on boots. God knows why. Even if I find a pair that don't have stiletto heels, bizarre elf-like toes, or jangling hardware, they don't fit.

I even wasted an entire Saturday at Bellevue Square Mall looking for boots.

A few weeks ago, on my way to the Seattle Art Museum, I spotted an intriguing boutique with boots on First Avenue next to the Lusty Lady (!). But I was late to meet someone at the museum, and when I got out I was rushing to meeting Zorg at REI. The next time I was downtown I was rushing yet again to get somewhere.

This evening I was downtown with my friend Ellen from D.C., who has the world's most impressive shopping karma. We'd already engaged in major retail therapy at Pike Place Market Tuesday, and this evening we were doing downtown. I told her about the little boutique I'd been wondering about (Nuvo Moda, it's called) and we headed for First Avenue.

When we stepped into Nuvo Moda, my first thought was that I was a bit north of their target demographic. But I went over and looked at the display of designer boots and was impressed to see quite a few that had relatively modest heels. And all of them were made of lovely high-quality leather. Then the saleswoman (wearing a stunning turquoise sundress, despite the fall weather) came over and suggested a pair of boots I hadn't noticed. I tried them on. And they were perfect.

No question, Ellen is going to have to move to Seattle. Or at least come out here and take me shopping with her a few times a year.

The boots, by the way, are made by Corso Como (a Brazilian brand named after a street in Milan). They are also available on the Nordstrom website.

So, now I have a rain-resistant winter coat and some boots. I declare my winter shopping season officially closed.

Dance - Level 70

Michael Flatley. Napoleon Dynamite. MC Hammer. Michael Jackson. Britney Spears. Chubby Checker. John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Now, imagine them dancing with scarily similar-looking World of Warcraft characters. Hilarious. (And, through this, I discovered Daler Mehndi.)

Tying up loose ends for September

In the past few weeks I've blogged about some unresolved situations; this blog post is devoted solely to updates.

First of all, if you've lost track of Zorg's blog, he's now settled in again at http://zzzorg.blogspot.com/
where he will regale you with tales of biking in Seattle -- or at least, attempting to. ("Another thing I noticed is that pedestrians are all drunk - they never walk in a straight line. Not one of them. Even the attentive ones weave back and forth.")

The pain in my neck is slowly abating, thanks to my new chiropractor. I have had to put an end to doing headstands at yoga for a while; instead, I'm practicing that weird pre-headstand pose where you balance with your shins on your upper arms and all your weight on your hands. It's probably a better workout, anyway. The new chiropractor has the most amazing tables in his office. You start out standing up like Frankenstein and then the table tilts down with you on it!

I am planning to revisit the Austin Cantina tonight with Rae to see how their menu is developing. They've apparently won a big following...some friends who swung by for dessert the other night said there was a line out the door.

We're all missing Betaille, though the household chores sure are a lot simpler now that we don't have a very sick cat to attend to. The other three cats are so low maintenance! Though, of course, we have a neighbor's cat trying to join the household -- she comes in the cat door at night and watches TV with Zorg. Betaille's ashes came back from the vet in a handsome little stone urn. I placed it on the sheepskin she liked to sleep on, and was alarmed when I walked by late that night and saw Zoe asleep the sheepskin and no sign of the urn. It wasn't on the floor, and I eventually spotted it: Zoe was curled around it, holding it in her paws as she slept. Betaille had always been less-than-appreciative of Zoe's cuddling, but now there's not much she can do about it!

My Honda Civic station wagon with the failing clutch is parked in front of the house while I wait (an estimated five weeks) for a Honda Fit automatic to turn up at a Western Washington dealership. Zorg and I have tried sharing his car (he's begun biking to work) and I'm considering trying one of the local Flex cars. Honda Fits are in such short supply that one local Honda dealership refused even to let me test drive the one they had unless I signed a commitment to buy. (So what would the point of a test drive be?) Needless to say, I went to a saner dealership in Edmonds and test drove a Fit there -- though I test drove a manual instead of an automatic.

A label a day...

My usual afternoon snack is an apple with peanut butter or cheese. Half the time I forget to remove the little sticky oval label that says "Fuji" or "organic" and end up chewing on it. Today I was eating the last quarter of the apple and my subconscious began saying "watch out for the label."

Then I realized there was no label. The apple, a bit on the bland side but very nice and crisp, is from our tree.

Geek concert

Jonathan Coulton's concert at the Triple Door Sunday night fell somewhere between a rock concert and a professional seminar.

It took place in the club's main performance hall, which is set up almost exactly like a seminar room, with tiers of long tables at which attendees sit facing the speaker -- er, performer. Of course, at the Triple Door the tables are curvy and black, and the attendees have candles and martinis in front of them instead of notebooks.

Well, actually, some of them had all three.

As Coulton noted from the stage, several people in the audience had game devices and smart phones with them. And I saw at least one woman with a Mac notebook open in front of her. Which might have seemed rude, except that Coulton, and the duo that opened for him and accompanied him on some songs, also had a Mac notebook on the stage. (Was it for the lightshow? a mixing board? not sure.)

I'm crazy over Coulton's online hit "Code Monkey" and all the animated versions it's spawned on You Tube. I had no idea if he could sustain an entire evening of solo entertainment, but it turned out that he could, firmly staking out a position in the pop music continuum somewhere between Warren Zevon ("All We Want to Do Is Eat Your Brains") and Tom Lehrer ("Mandelbrot Set").

The opening duo, Paul and Storm ("professional singing persons"), was screamingly hilarious, though I suspect their songs and performance are better live than on recording. Their opening number was jaw-droppingly funny, and their Borscht-belt stylings (including ad jingles and imitations of imagined Randy Newman film scores) help round out Coulton's solo performance, which can get very, very, very weird. (For a taste of Paul and Storm, scroll down this page and click to listen to "If Aaron Neville Were Waiting for a Parking Spot at the Mall, But Someone Else Snagged It." You'll find "The Opening Band" and "Randy Newman's 'Theme from The Lord of he Rings: The Return of the King'" there, too.)

The audience, 75 percent software engineers, loved it all. So did Zorg. We'll be there when Coulton is next in town, though we haven't decided if we are going to be in the Zombie contingent or the Pirate contingent.

And we'll order the Triple Split for dessert again, too. With rum raisins and brandied cherries, it was almost too entertaining to eat that while listening to Paul and Storm sing "The Easter Song." Come to think of it, it's probably too dangerous to eat anything while they're singing.

Coulton says he had a good time, too.

Patisserie Nilos

The Spies were slightly more interesting than the other apples, and the turnovers fell into three categories: delicious, amazingly delicious, and exquisitely delicious.

Less insanity

Today is my 1-year anniversary of working out with my friend (and Seattle neighbor) Susan Powter.

Here's a video of Susan (from 20 years ago) that will give you an idea of why working out with her is such a hoot.

Here's Susan's updated look (one of her promos for the free web-based fitness program she's experimenting with).

Crewcut or dreadlocks, she's fabulous. Thank you, Susan!

I hate shoes

Go ahead and tease me about all the shoes I have, but if you look at my shoe shelves what you'll find there are sandals and boots.

I love sandals -- strappy little flats, chunky platform sandals, and rustic-looking walking sandals.

I also love boots -- hiking boots, dressy ankle boots (especially those by Naot), lace-up dance boots, cowboy boots, Italian leather riding boots, and big fuzzy cozy Uggs and Merrells.

But I hate shoes. They are too warm in summer, and too complicated (what with bulky socks, uncomfortable pantyhose, etc.) in winter. This year I have nearly eliminated shoes from my wardrobe...just athletic shoes, a pair of dressy pumps, and a pair of Clarke's Privo "Leslie" slip-ons to wear with little toe socks.

Naot "Niagara" sandals, Merrell "Primo Stitch" boots, and Clarke's Privo "Leslie" shoes.

Changing gears

This morning I dropped off my 1990 Honda Civic station wagon at High Road Automotive for its routine quarterly oil change and checkup. I wandered home along Ballard Avenue; it was nearly 9 a.m. but only the old industrial buildings were open. Most of the trendy new shops don't wake up until 11.

I headed up 24th Avenue NW and had just stopped in at the java place on the corner of NW 59th Street for a latte when my cell phone rang. It was High Road. They said the car needed a new clutch, but the new clutch, with labor, would be quite a bit more than the book value of the 1990 Civic.

I asked them to give me half an hour to think about it. Then I walked out of the coffee shop, sat down on the curb, and burst into tears. I really like that car. In addition to having it thoroughly pampered at High Road, I get it detailed every spring, touch up scratches in the metallic paint, and, of course, have it decorated with custom bumper stickers.

I can make the case that it's worth installing a new clutch and keeping the car because it's in otherwise excellent condition (only 80,000 miles in 17 years) and likely to keep running to 200,000 miles. But it's also true that the car lacks airbags, and that Zorg dislikes driving it because it has a manual transmission.

For the past two years, I've been looking at the new Honda Fit, a very similar compact station wagon. It has great ratings from Consumer Reports, a more-than-reasonable price tag, all the safety features, and even a connection for my iPod.

So perhaps it's time to move into the 21st century.

But not until I find a good home for the Civic.

Betaille: October 1990 - Sept. 5, 2007

A.K.A. "Madame Fur Coat"

Austin comes to Ballard

Zorg and I strolled over to 24th Avenue NW tonight to try out the new Austin Cantina that just opened (in the spot where Dandelion used to be, just across the street and a block north of QFC).

It turns out to be a relaxing, friendly place where the emphasis is on fresh, high-quality ingredients at reasonable prices.

Our orders were taken quickly, and mojitos appeared moments later, followed by Zorg's cup of chili. The main courses took a bit longer (the kitchen is still experiencing some opening-week franticness). We sipped our drinks and listened to a mix of Willie Nelson and Tex-Mex tunes (at a pleasant volume that I hope the Cantina will maintain).

We both liked the rich, meaty, smoky chili (Texas style, no beans) though Zorg commented that it seemed to lack salt. Since he's more of a salt fan than I am, I shrugged this off. But when our main courses arrived -- enchiladas, his filled with a tender pot roast, mine with pulled pork with apples -- I had to agree that salt was definitely not figuring in the otherwise-interesting culinary equations. Zorg employed the salt shaker on the table; I mused about why the food was being cooked this way, because I sometimes cook without salt to try to adjust my palate to more natural tastes.

I was wondering if I'd be able to lure Zorg back the cantina when dessert arrived and completely won us over. The flan was delicate and not too sweet, and the big bowl of banana pudding with meringue was rich and fabulous. Zorg did not leave a molecule of pudding in that bowl. He swears he didn't actually lick the bowl, but I wasn't watching that closely.

Jefe Birkner, the chef and owner, came over to ask us how we liked our meal. I inquired about the salt (or lack of it). He admitted that he is making a concerted effort to serve interesting regional food that people can eat without freaking out about salt, grease, and calories. He said he is definitely using salt, though not much of it and not the usual type -- he brought us a sample of the special flaky sea salt he favors; it's definitely more subtle and complex than your basic shaker salt. He indicated that the banana pudding didn't exactly fall into the healthy food category, but I noticed that much of its richness came from the banana texture; it did not have too much sugar, and the gorgeous topping was a meringue, not whipped cream.

We're definitely going back to try the dishes we missed on the first go-round. According to Metroblogging Seattle, the chicken fried steak, made with a great local organic beef, is "amazing." And I want to check out the grilled-corn-with-lime-butter side dish.

A few notes about death

Many year ago, at the Northwest Folklife Festival, I had my palm read by a woman from the Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh community in Oregon (remember them?). She said that I "dance with death," not in the sense of inviting it, but in the sense of being comfortable around it.

In the past few days, I've certainly been around it too much.

Our ancient Himalayan-Abyssinian cat is slowly running out of steam, but determined to hang in there, eating and drinking and demanding attention. She has some sort of tumor that is affecting her ability to breathe, and may have some other issues as well. The vet prescribed pills to stimulate her appetite and help her lungs. So twice a day I get to wrestle with a skeletal but still quite feisty cat.

This makes life at home intense and tiring, although we love Betaille very much and are grateful for all the companionship and pleasure she has provided over the past 17 years.

Three weeks ago, one of my yoga-group friends found out that her husband had a very advanced cancer. It progressed rapidly, and he died at home Wednesday night. She had barely gotten her head around the idea he was sick! I can't imagine a more horrifying experience.

This morning (after I'd had a trying night with Betaille) my mother called with news of a death -- and a completely different perspective on the subject.

My mom lives in a four-unit condo, and for the past few years, she and two other unit owners have been trying to deal with a weird situation in the fourth unit. That unit has been occupied for many years by a reclusive elderly woman who never leaves (unless by ambulance), and who has breathing and mobility problems. She sits all day in her livingroom with an oxygen tank, watching TV, and refuses to consider moving to a retirement community or nursing home. A few years ago, her middle-aged son, who is a schizophrenic, came to live with her. He takes care of her shopping and cooking. Unfortunately, he also brings drunk friends over to stay in the condo's storage unit, and last year urinated repeatedly in the foyer, to the point that the Post Office refused to enter the building to deliver the mail. (He also urinates off the front balcony, to the consternation of the woman in the condo building next door.) The son is a heavy smoker, and often the building reeks of smoke (my mom had her unit sealed off with special paint and caulk) and the ventilation system for the building has had to be re-done a few times to prevent the smoke from getting into other units. A couple of years ago, this guy set the balcony on fire, resulting in so much damage to the stucco that the entire building had to be re-stuccoed. According to workmen and fire inspectors who have been in the unit, it's filthy.

The police have been called again and again, letters have been sent, but the condominium association has been unable to do much of anything about the situation; once they address one problem, another one appears. My mother, who is planning to move to a retirement community next year, has begun to worry that it will be very difficult for her to find a buyer for her unit with such a weird and possibly hazardous situation in the building.

So my mom wasn't exactly mournful when she called me this morning with the news that the elderly neighbor (let's call her Margo) had died during the neight. It seems that the retired gentleman who is the head of the condo association had just gotten a call from Margo's son, wanting to know what to do with the body.

"Did anyone call 911?" I asked.

"No, they don't want to cause a fuss," my mother explained.

I tried to point out that the death has to be reported and checked out by a medical examiner, so a death certificate can be issued. Since everyone was so resistant to the idea of bothering the folks at 911, I suggested as casually as possible that they just call over and ask 911 what they should do.

Now I am trying to let go of the vision of all of them wrapping Margo up in a tarp, putting her in a car, and driving over to the local funeral home...

Sigh.

Someone gets the big picture

I often wait for films to come out on DVD because movie theaters are, for the most part, disgusting, garish, uncomfortable environments with revoltingly unhealthy food, Neandertal staff, and boorish patrons. (There are, of course, a few that are merely tacky environments offering unhealthy food, with hip, vaguely apologetic staff and resigned patrons. But those are in the distinct minority.)

When my friend Eric blogged about going to an attractively furnished theater in Redmond, at which filmgoers can enjoy mixed drinks and are served popcorn in real bowls (not bags or boxes), I thought he was hallucinating. But, no. Apparently someone gets The Big Picture in Redmond, and in Seattle as well.

A cat winds things down

My yoga class is back from hiatus, and my neck is responding to chiropractic care, which means I was able to burn off some of my tension and worry about Betaille, our 17-year-old cat.

Betaille is old, and so frail that even a few days of ill health could spell the end. She had a secondary tumor removed a few weeks ago, but the vet is unsure where the primary cancer is located. All they can say is that since there was already a significant secondary tumor, her condition is likely to be inoperable. (Her kidney disease makes it impossible for her to handle most strong medications.)

Betaille hasn't wanted to eat much for the past two days, and seemed clearly unhappy. She's not the kind of cat who goes off in a corner to suffer, either. She walks up to you and stares until you take action.

So we took Betaille over to the vet this afternoon, where x-rays indicated that there is something impairing her lung function -- possibly a tumor, but possibly fluid caused by a tumor. Betaille's still alert and energetic, so the vet prescribed prednisone pills to address the lung condition and stimulate her appetite.

Of course, when we got home Betaille promptly ate a bowl of cat food. She then took a nap on the sheepskin-covered hassock; Zoe, our big tabby, snuggled up against her. I sat next to them and read a book, because Betaille likes to be where she can see me. Eventually I went out to work in the back yard. When Betaille came out she did something very odd. Although I rarely see her leave the back yard, today she went slowly along the north side of the house, down the stairs to the driveway, around Zorg's car, and up the path in front. She left the path, circled the maple tree on the front lawn, and went back to the path and followed it along the south side of the house, ending up on her usual patio hangout in back.

What, I wondered, was the yard tour all about?

Home

Today my mom put down a deposit to get on the waiting list for an innovative retirement community under construction at South Lake Union in downtown Seattle. If all goes as expected, sometime in 2009 she'll move into Mirabella. The community, which provides all levels of care from independent condo-style living to skilled nursing in private rooms, is run by a well-regarded non-profit that created the Rogue Valley Manor in Medford, OR. My mom and I toured one of the model apartments today, and it was absolutely gorgeous.

So much for today's look into the future.

And now, for today's look into the past:

The date's been set for an unusual reunion at the high school I attended in Northern Virginia. The event is based not on graduation year, but on common interests. Students from nearly 30 graduating classes will be gathering Oct. 27 to honor one of our teachers, a rather colorful woman who taught advanced placement English and journalism, and who sponsored the school newspaper and the cheerleading squad. (It may surprise you to hear that, although I took the journalism class, I was not on the newspaper -- in part, because I'd thrown my lot in with the rabblerousers running the underground newspaper. However, I was on the JV cheerleading squad. At the same time.)

I've had some involvement with the folks organizing the reunion, and it's been fascinating to watch the generations in action. The women from the 1960s classes are very clear about email and conference calls, but are pretty much clueless about how they could have used things like Classmates and Evite to communicate. The folks from the 1970s classes are more digitally aware, but not as eager to take charge of anything. And the folks from the 1980s classes have initial energy, but don't have the patience to do the sleuthing and grunt work the 1960s organizers believe is the way to organize the event.

So be it.

At any rate, we've got a date, we've got a banquet hall, and we've got a invitation list. I've got a fabulous dress, and a plane reservation. This should be a hoot.

A pain in the neck

The good news is that I've found a great chiropractor (my longtime favorite chiropractor, Mike Fuhrman, moved back East a few months ago). The new doc, Lee Phelps, was recommended by an SEO college. He's up at Abrams Chiropractic in Greenwood, so after getting my neck fixed I was able to celebrate with an iced latte across the street at Diva on Greenwood.

The bad news, of course, was the I'd somehow done something awful to my neck -- which had never happened before. The massage therapist who worked on my muscles twice in the past week said they were tight because they were trying to cope with something terribly wrong at the top of my spine. She suggested I get an adjustment. She was right: The x-rays were ugly. I feel better now, but would be curious to know what happened that ended up rearranging three of my vertebrae.

Fortunately, my yoga classes are on hiatus this week, so my neck can rest up while I go walking. And there's a fitness class being taught by one of my fellow Biznik members Thursday night. I'll probably drive over to Kirkland to check this out, since he's a client.

We feel winter coming on

Much is made about the pull of "back to school" traditions, which have even those of us decades out of academia neatening our desks, buying new clothes and furniture, and signing up for self-improvement programs. Must be ready for September!

Surely the only way that the school calendar could continue to exert such a tug on our souls is because back-to-school preparations sit atop a far stronger instinct: The one that tells us to get ready for the coming of winter. (Or, in Seattle, the coming of rain. It's about six weeks until the nine-month rainy season begins.)

I've been washing, ironing, and sorting clothes, and boxing quite a bit of stuff to take to Goodwill. Zorg is reorganizing his home office. My friend Susan is blogging about cleaning rugs. Neighbors next door are rushing to complete a porch and second-floor balcony; across the alley from us, the roof is being replaced.

I feel particularly unhappy about the coming of fall this year. Our elderly cat Betaille, who loves to hang out in the warm, sunny back yard, is becoming increasing frail. The vet says her outlook is not good. I'm suspect the cold, rainy fall will mean the end for her. Though she comes in and hangs out in various cat beds upstairs and in the living room, she clearly prefers the outdoors. Short of relocating the entire household to Southern California, I can't think if anything we can do for her.

Tales of eBay

My first husband used to refer to me as a "world-class shopper." He meant it as a description, not a compliment.

Fortunately, he was long gone when on August 16, 1997 (10 years ago today) I discovered a whole new universe of shopping: eBay.

I can't remember what the first item was that I bid on. Most likely it was a piece of 1930s Stangl dinnerware. (That's because I was still painstakingly rebuilding the collection of family Stanglware that had been shattered in 1986 when a stag party hosted by my first husband got a bit out of hand.)

My memories of my early years on eBay include:

• Several nasty bidding wars with a fellow from Washington D.C. who collected green Stanglware. The "fellow" turned out to be a woman, and she turned out to be a friend of a friend from journalism school. We started buying large lots of china together and spitting them. When I visited D.C. in 1999 for business, she took me out to lunch.
• Running 10 blocks from Green Lake to our old house because I'd forgotten that an auction on a Stangl cigarette box was about to end. I didn't make it in time, and lost the item.
• Winning one of the few Stanglware pie plates still in existence. Unfortunately, our cat Sheba later used it as a toboggan in the kitchen; it didn't survive.
• Helping my mom, then in Cape Cod, sell my late Aunt Helen's frou-frou collection of antique European tea cups. My dad took, printed, and numbered the photos; I scanned them and uploaded them to eBay with coordinated descriptions. (This was before cheap digital cameras.) I had carefully impressed upon my parents the need to pack each teacup and saucer in oodles of bubble wrap for shipping long distances. So we were all surprised when the first sale was to a woman who turned out to live a mile away from them on Cape Cod. She drove over and picked it up.

My more recent sales on eBay have involved old technology (cameras, Treos, etc.) while my more recent purchases have been clothes. If I like an item I've purchased from Nordstrom, J. Jill, or Eddie Bauer, I find I can usually pick up a second item (new with tags, or in like-new condition) for less than half that price on eBay. This works particularly well for buying seasonal clothing off-season, for getting a style of jeans that has been discontinued in the stores, or for tracking down an obscure designer label. I conduct and refine a search, then save the search so eBay sends me email whenever the item appears in my size.

According to eBay, I've bought and sold 456 items in the past 10 years. Forty-five transactions a year is not much in the world of eBay power sellers, of course, but it's really worked for me. In that whole time, I've only had one "problem" transaction, and that was fairly easily resolved.

My favorite eBay purchase? That would have to be the electronic locator beeper systems we use on Sheba, our deaf cat. Discontinued by the manufacturer because they were so fragile, they turned up in a liquidator's shop on eBay. After a few bidding wars with some guy from Atlanta, I was able to snap up 44 of them. We figure those should last Sheba for a lifetime. But just in case, I still have an active eBay search for them.

10 seconds to noise-cancelling iPhone headphones!

Macworld's Rob Griffiths, who kindly posted the detailed photos and instructions for this hack, said he was able to convert his Bose noise-cancelling headphones to fit the iPhone's proprietary recessed jack in "less than a minute" using a box knife.

I did it in 10 seconds. The good news is that you're just cutting a very soft plastic ring off a hard metal plug that no box knife could possibly damage...

And now, for a delightful flight to Las Vegas Wednesday, watching a movie on the iPhone.

Red alert (no zombies) at Pacific Place

In the last few minutes of the space thriller Sunshine, a supernatural being is stalking the remaining crew members, threatening to sabotage the spaceship's mission to re-ignite a dying sun to save Earth. On the big screen, lights are flickering, alarms are blaring -- and thus it took us a moment or two to realize that some of the alarms were in the sixth-floor movie theater we were in and the whole Pacific Place mall was being evacuated. When the lights came on, we realized it was time to go.

Zorg and I headed down for the exit at the side of the screen, which brought us to a stairwell near the outside of the building. We found ourselves in the lead as the theater rapidly emptied and everyone trotted down six flights. (I wondered if already being in an "emergency" mindset from the film accounted for the smooth, rapid evacuation of the theater.) At the street level, we saw people crowding out of the mall shops, and they looked quite a bit more confused.

A bomb threat? A fire alarm? Fire trucks came. It couldn't have been very serious, though, because they allowed people into the bottom floor of the mall to pay for their parking (!) and then into the basement parking garage to get their cars.

The parking payment line we were in got clogged up by some nincompoop who was throwing a hissy fit with the clerk, insisting that he shouldn't have to pay for parking because he hadn't seen all of his film. Of course, the attendant who takes the payment had no authority to waive the fee. Fortunately for all of us stuck in the long line behind this nutcase, and somewhat anxious to get out of the building, the fellow standing behind him tossed $3 to the clerk and told the whiner to please consider all the people waiting in line and just leave. That cheered me up considerably.

I Twittered the evacuation. Someone else sent photos to Flickr. It turns out that by going down the outside stairs, we missed the mall's officious evacuation announcements, described here by a LiveJournal blogger. And not just any blogger, but fantasy author Cherie Priest, who briefly wondered if the emergency was a zombie invasion, and proceeded accordingly. She reports that, in the midst of flashing strobe lights and booming announcements, their waitress at a sixth-floor mall restaurant advised them to ignore it all. They ignored the waitress, headed directly for the parking garage, and discovered the exit barriers were up and they didn't have to pay. Oooh! I'll remember that, next time. (Leaving the clueless waitress to be mangled by the zombies, of course.)

Still no idea what was going on. I read in the Flickr comments that the theater provided free tickets; we still have our ticket stubs, so should be able to turn those in for freebies.

What do those sirens mean?

My neighborhood is in a flap about a break-in last Wednesday -- though once you get to the bottom of the hoo-hah, it seems there was no breaking and entering, just someone entering a home through an unlocked door. And the intruder left as soon as he heard someone moving about the house.

In the process of trying to figure out what really happened, I came across IncidentLog.com, where you can see up-to-the-minute fire dispatch reports for Seattle (and many other cities). It does not, however, show police incidents for Seattle unless there is also a fire/emergency dispatch.

Solo cat bathing

Having pretty much blogged myself silly yesterday for a client, I decided to take Friday off and make it a long weekend. Ballard shops are having sidewalk sales in anticipation of the weekend Ballard Seafood Fest, and I thought I'd get first shot at the discounted merchandise.

Someone forgot to tell Betaille, our elderly long-haired cat, about my plans. She had a horrible morning and wound up needing a bath. Things were so bad, she actually asked for a bath.

I had never washed her solo before -- usually I stand in the tub, bottle of cat shampoo in hand, and Zorg nabs and then hands over the struggling feline. But Betaille put up no resistance when she heard the tub being filled. I was able to hold her in one arm without being clawed too much, slather her with shampoo with the other hand, and proceed just by dunking her vigorously in and out of the bathwater. She squeaked perfunctorily with each dunk, and it was hard not to laugh. After I released her, I got to wash towels and a bathmat, wash the tub, and then take a shower. So I got a rather late start on the day.

Eventually, I was able to walk into town and get to a few sales. Collective, the retro furniture shop on Ballard Avenue had much of its vintage patio furniture on sale. I was disappointed to see that the curved metal bench (that matches some of our patio stuff) was not marked down. I'd been eyeing it all summer. I went in and asked why it wasn't on sale, and the manager said "Because I forgot to mark it down. What do you want to pay for it?" I offered half the marked price, and he said "Sold."

I drove back at the end of the day to pick it up, and it's now in the back yard. There are at least three places it could go, so I expect to get a lot of mileage out of it. And will probably paint it which to match the other pieces...though the black is rather nice...Photos to come.

Classic London Broil

Back in the early '80s, when my first husband and I were living the starving grad student lifestyle, his thesis advisor used to have the lab team over every few months for a feast: London Broil. It was fabulous.

There is an art to making London Broil that involves marinating the meat, turning it frequently while broiling over a high flame, and then allowing the meat to sit five minutes before slicing it diagonally (the knife is perpendicular, but the cut is across the grain).

I've essayed London Broil a few times in recent years and have always been disappointed by the results: tough, with a liver-y taste. Reading up on the recipe today at Cook's Illustrated website (subscription only) I discovered why.

Traditionally, London Broil was made with flavorful flank steak. However, in the past few years, use of the flank steak for popular dishes like fajitas has driven up the price, and supermarkets now sell their less-expensive steak cuts (chuck, and top and bottom round steaks) marked "for London Broil."

So, if I want London Broil to taste like real London Broil, I will have to ignore the store labels and and buy flank steak. Next time. Grrrrr.

Yes, we have no coyotes

Over here in Ballard we may be overrun with fearless raccoons, but, thankfully, we have no coyotes. Apparently there are a few up on Capitol Hill, snacking on cats. (Info courtesy of Metroblogging Seattle and the NW Coyote Tracker.)

iPhone anti-theft device

This Hide-a-pod idea is snarky, but amusing.

Probably someone's exercise in web page design.

Do you Twitter?

If you do, you'll find me on Twitter as "mystrev" (short for mystery reviewer).

(Yes, new glasses!)

Old-fashioned Montmorency cherry pie

When we moved here five years ago, one of the charming features of the neighborhood was a huge garden maintained by an elderly Italian neighbor who owns several adjoining properties. Mike grew squash, and tomatoes, and beans, and corn; you'd see him every afternoon in his overalls, toting tools, and heading off to work in the garden.

Sadly, Mike began to suffer from dementia two years ago, and could no longer maintain the garden. Mike's family has since sold some of their property, including the garden lot and an adjoining rental house. The garden's new owners are former neighbors who now live East of the mountains; they've invited a few other neighbors to use the garden. But this year no one is growing much in it, and the lower section has gone to seed.

My friend Nilos and I were out walking Thursday and spotted a small cherry tree in back of the garden, filled with ripe cherries. We asked some of the neighbors about it, and they said we were welcome to pick the cherries. They'd tried them and found them to be rather sour.

Of course they were sour! They're Montmorency cherries, also known as old-fashioned pie cherries, which are available at only one or two Seattle farmers' markets, one or two weeks of the year. They're incredibly fragile, losing their bright red, translucent color and turning to a darker shade just an hour or two after you pick them. They need to be cooked, brandied, or otherwise preserved immediately.

On Friday Nilos and I picked about 9 pounds of them. Then I scurried down to the basement pantry and rummaged in the box marked "kitchen gadgets" until I found the little vintage cherry pitter. Using the pitter, and a narrow-tipped wooden chopstick, Nilos and I pitted the first nine pounds of fruit; she took them to Anita's and today they produced three gorgeous cherry pies. They brought one by for me. (Zorg, having been traumatized in his youth by a seasonal job as a commercial cherry picker, has a permanent aversion to cherries.)

With a ratio of 4 cups cherries to 1 cup sugar, the pie is perfect. Anita tells me that the thickener is the pie filling enhancer from The Baker's Catalog. [CORRECTION: the filling is Signature Secrets] And she did a butter crust, far more delicate than anything I'd have been likely to attempt.

Cherry pie made with old-fashioned pie cherries was my dad's favorite dessert. He and my mom had difficulty finding canned sour cherries when they moved to Florida, so I'd ship them cans of Oregon pie cherries. Since "real cherry" pie is such a family tradition, I called my mom tonight and invited her over to enjoy some pie tomorrow afternoon.

And I'm taking some pie over to Mike and his wife. That cherry tree was the only fruit tree in his garden, so he must have planted it because he liked those particular cherries. I figure that even if he doesn't remember the tree, he'll still enjoy the pie.

[NOTE: We used one of Nilos' professional pie crusts, but here's a link to my "no-fail" recipe -- easy to make and easy to handle.]

The return of the turquoise moth

The turquoise moth I blogged about in July of 2004 was back last night. (Or, more likely, a relative of the original turquoise moth is putting in an appearance.) This year, I managed to get a picture of it.

Unfortunately, the cats were also trying to get it, and they were using claws rather than a camera. So I spent more time urging the moth to relocate than focusing the shot. It eventually moved to a wall over the bathtub -- an excellent choice. I'd just filled the tub with water for a bath, so any flying leap from a cat would have ended with a big splash.

I noted that first turquoise moth sightings were July 5 and 7 of 2004. This year I spotted it July 10. Obviously this is a seasonal visitation.

Can anyone identify this moth? The little guy has a wingspan of about 1 inch.

I've found a few other references to turquoise moths online, but they've all been like mine -- reports from non-moth people who found the moth in their house on a summer night.

Farewell, Lori

Early this morning our friend Lori Richey died.

She'd suffered a heart attack two weeks ago while attending a family reunion in Colorado, going into a coma from which she didn't emerge. Lori's family had her transported back to Seattle by special air taxi; she spent her final days at a nursing facility surrounded by family and friends. (A local Cajun band played music to her from the hospital courtyard).

Lori worked for many years in health research laboratories, but her true love was playing Cajun music (accordion). Back in the day when I was involved in the Seattle Cajun scene and threw some big parties at the old Shady Rest, I recall Lori coming over and bringing her favorite potluck dish, Chinese barbecue pork with dipping sauce and sesame seeds. (Oddly, I was eating that for dinner the night I heard the news about Lori's heart attack.)

Lori was way out ahead of the current crafts trend. She was beading elaborate jackets, crafting clothing, and designing greeting cards more than a dozen years ago. If you knew her, visit the beautiful website her family put up for her (with photos, music, and Lori's gorgeous artwork) and leave a message.

It's hard to believe she's gone.

Greet the heat

I was out soaking the flower beds tonight in preparation for Wednesday's predicted 94-degree heat wave. There's one last soaker hose to activate tomorrow, and then the garden will be as ready as it can be -- unless I buy dozens of beach umbrellas to shade the plants. That would be quite the sight, but not as far-fetched as it would have seemed 10 or 12 years ago.

In those days, my garden had dozens of mid-size terracotta pots. This year, I sold all the mid-size pots, since they dry out way too quickly in the burning hot sun. Now I use immense glazed planters and plastic planters that can hold moisture better, and I line the one or two remaining terracotta pots with plastic to reduce the rate of water loss. But I've also minimized the total number of pots, moving most of the plants into the ground, where they stay damper and cooler. And, finally, on the south and west sides of the house, I've moved away from fragile flowering plants and am planting small hardy shrubs and grasses, sages, lavenders, groundcovers, and succulents that can survive dry periods.

Still, it's alarming to see that the sedum "Autumn Joy" is flowering -- in early July. The pear and apple trees already have sizeable fruit. And, in spite of my tenacious watering, all the hardy geraniums have pretty much flowered themselves out already.

Perhaps we should just go out and get some Saguaro cactii and have done with it.

Fireworks Over Lake Union

Why I may have to vote for Hillary

For "best dressed," that is.

I'm loving the way Hillary Clinton dresses. I realized it today when I saw the Salon.com newsletter photo of her in a red dress and jacket with a chunky red necklace and some cleavage showing. At a political event, mind you. She looks happy, and energetic, and vibrant.

Turns out Hillary's unusual willingness to step away from the stuck-in-the-80's business lady suits favored by most female politicians has been commented on before.

By contrast, Nancy Pelosi has a slightly updated look, but only slightly. Her hair color's dull brown (of course both of these women color over the gray) and the hairstyle is a bit stiff. Her suits are often Armani pantsuits (as a recent MSNBC caption noted), but the colors are bland. As the Washington Post pointed out, all of this is an improvement over the Madeleine Albright look. The Post went on to laud Condolezza Rice for mixing "professorial reserve with a hint of confident sex appeal" in her wardrobe choices.

There's something about the expression on Rice's face that would seem to negate any suggestion of sex appeal, but that's just my opinion. Comments?

Summer at the Mysterious Traveler blog

I'm sitting here damp and exhausted from yoga (tonight was a slow session in a super-heated room) but wanted to write a bit about seasonal blog traffic.

According to StatCounter, this blog got a record 169 hits today. At this time of the year, the most popular pages on the site (after the home page) are the ones with the Waring Ice Cream parlor instructions and the ice cream recipe. The second-most popular pages are the ones with the directions for caulking tubs and showers.

Having already caulked the tub this year, I guess it's time to get out our own Waring Ice Cream Parlor and make something. Perhaps I should start freezing what I harvest from the slowly ripening strawberry crop until there's enough for a batch of strawberry ice cream.

It is frightening how quickly the summer calendar is filling up. Seattle has only 9 or 10 real weeks of summer, and people seem determined to pack all the events into it that they can.

We've been invited to two Fourth of July parties; I'm headed up to La Conner later this week to play tourist with a friend from Bellingham. There are some going-away events for a friend who is moving to Oregon this month, and we've been invited to a preview showing of the new Harry Potter film on the 10th. Zorg and my Mom both celebrate birthdays this month, a gourmet friend is in town for July, and Wayne Hancock will be playing at the Tractor Tavern July 13. My yoga class is on vacation all next week, so I'm going to be trying out three different African dance-based classes for alternative workouts.

Retail done right in upper Fremont

The bad news is that the center of the universe (downtown Fremont) is going the way of Belltown and Ballard: no parking, obnoxious tourists, and the intrusion of Starbucks and Taco del Mar type places that try to look hip while sucking business from the stores owned by locals.

The good news is that just a few blocks north on Fremont Avenue, you can enjoy a vibrant little commercial district.

I was there because one of the lens gurus at Eyes on Fremont is helping me recover from my humiliating glasses disaster (at another optical store). We looked at the problem lenses and frames, played around with some new frames, and he put a pair of frames on me that brought a smile to my face instantly.

After visiting Eyes on Fremont, I stopped in at Wit's End bookstore (under new management) and browsed their inventory, which includes a lot of very classic science fiction. Just across the street is the sleek Icon coffeehouse. I noticed that Fremont Auto Detail has moved to the west side of the street, and its old space is now occupied by the new (it opened yesterday) Urbanweeds ("florus metropolitus"), a store that appears to be for people furnishing and decorating small patios -- lots of grasses and succulents in large, dramatic planters. Plus black garden furniture made of recycled plastic. And gourmet chocolate.

There are little restaurants all over the place (Persimmon, Paseo, Fremont Pizza) and also a solid core of essential places -- a laundromat, Marketime Foods, a dry cleaner and a video store. What a fabulous little scene. I'd love it if our little crossroads on 32nd Avenue NW developed into something like this.

posted from my iPhone

This is a phone, not a word processor!

iPhone report

After spending 12 hours in a folding chair outside the AT&T Store at the Northgate Mall, I'm not in the best shape to report on my new iPhone. However, it took only 3 minutes to actually buy it, and it activated itself so quickly via iTunes that I was receiving calls from people within 30 minute of getting home. I've explored a few of its features; it found my contacts and Safari bookmarks and synced them. My mom called while I was downloading a movie and it handled the two tasks without a hitch. I've been web browsing, played with the camera, and added some events to my calendar (which the iPhone then synced back to my iMac as soon as I put it into the dock).

Whenever I touch the screen, it automatically manifests exactly the set of controls (volume for the movie, details for a contact name) I was about to look for. How easy is the iPhone to use? If you gave these things to gorillas in the zoo, they'd probably be composing and sending emails in a matter if minutes.

Folk music on the Internet

My friend Roger turned me on to a website on which a Virginia musician, Patrick Costello, and his dad teach a folk song a day. It's banjo and guitar, and lots of advice on playing in a jam situation. Even if you aren't learning folk music, it's an extraordinarily good site for watching a gifted teacher in action.

This is the sort of Internet content that, had it been around when I was a teenager, would have changed my life.

Check out Tangier Sound. And, if you're in the Chesapeake Bay area, the Costellos are hosting a weekend musicians' retreat in Crisfield, Maryland, in late August.

iPhone Friday

I'm planning to spend next Friday in line at a nearby AT&T store to purchase an iPhone. I'm looking for another aspiring iPhone owner who'd like to join me, so we can save each other's places for breaks during the day. Email me if you are interested.

Phones go on sale at 6 p.m. There are rumors that all stores will have very limited supplies of the phones. I'm planning to scope out the situation at the AT&T store I've chosen early in the morning. (Hanging out at an Apple Store might be more fun, but I suspect the lines there will be longer.)

Don't know if I'll manage to get a phone, but I certainly ought to come away with something to blog about.

Uphill battles

The past two weeks have been a real scramble -- moving steadily along, but up hill and over a lot of obstacles.

It started with the realization early last week that our new accountant was really out to lunch. I had to sic Zorg on him, which means I'm at the end of my rope. Zorg, of course, got results. The guy finally did our taxes, and now we're going to switch to a more reliable accountant I've already lined up. But anything that involves the IRS (which had sent us some ominous letters) makes me queasy.

Smokey, our cat who likes to live with elderly neighbors, went in for his annual checkup and turned out to have an abscessed tooth. Smokey is the only one of our cats who had not gone in for expensive tooth cleaning procedures ever other year -- and he's the first one to have a serious dental problem. Well, he'll be going in next week, getting the tooth removed, and getting the cleaning. He currently lives with an elderly woman five blocks north of us; we'll be kidnapping him and keeping him in our basement the night before the surgery to make sure the doesn't eat or drink anything after midnight.

Zorg and I both worked as volunteers at the Fremont Solstice Parade over the weekend. I did "traffic control" at a major intersection, keeping the parade route clear. Have been a spectator in previous years, it had never occured to me that 95 percent of the people at the parade want to see the parade, but the other 5 percent want to barge across the road right through the parade to see if there's something interesting on the other side. I must have body checked one guy ten times ("I'm sorry, sir, please clear the parade route and step back to the sidewalk"). It was discouraging.

(What I immensely enjoyed about volunteering was assisting with the midnight procession that moves the floats from the Powerhouse on Fremont Avenue to the area near Lucca Statuary where the parade begins the following morning. The floats move out into the roadway, we put down flares and stop traffic, music and drumming starts up, and dancers roll the floats through the night. It was beautiful!)

My yoga teacher has been out of town this week, and one of the women in the class has been leading our sessions. I have a whole new set of sore muscles from her new routines!

Another bit of fallout from last week was the new glasses. I ordered some that were supposed to be "just like" a pair I'd admired; they're done, and I don't like them. Oh well, I have my old ones. My expensive attempt to look more fashionable flopped.

Finally, we've been coming to grips with the consequences of firing the lawn service with the noisy, smelly gas-powered mowers and edgers. Zorg is mowing with a push mower, and I'm edging with an electric trimmer. He's discovering that our itty bitty sections of lawn with pavers and benches aren't easy to mow, and I'm discovering that lots of pieces of lawn mean lots and lots of edges! My guess is we'll be hiring a new lawn service (a better one) in September when the rains come and the grass starts growing again.

Hi-ho, Silver!

Me: Tomorrow is the Fremont Solstice Parade.

Friend: With the nu--

Me: Don't say it!

Many years ago Mad magazine had a cartoon of two earnest young kids watching public television, listening to a Leonard Bernstein-type conductor introducing a pops performance of the William Tell overture. The conductor is assuring the children that as mature young people they will be able to listen to the famous piece without thinking of The Lone Ranger TV show.

The symphony begins, the kids scrunch up their shoulders with the effort of connecting to the music sans pop culture references, and then their dad strolls by, beer can in hand, and bellows "Hi-ho, Silver!"

I'm going to be a parade traffic monitor at the Fremont Solstice Parade tomorrow. So do me a favor -- scrunch up your shoulders, think of clowns, belly dancers, mimes, drummers, stilt walkers (whatever it takes) and don't say "with the nude bicyclists!"

Fashion notes from all over (Ballard)

Last year I wrote about American Apparel tees. But fashion is fickle. My new find is Alternative Apparel. Independent designers are decorating Alternative Apparel's plain tees (aka "blanks"), and today I purchased one of the "vintage soft" long-sleeve boatneck tees, decorated with a line drawing of a typewriter, at a vintage-inspired boutique on Ballard Avenue.

The model I got is similar to the longsleeve crewneck shown on the manufacturer's website, but with more of a scoopneck and an unfinished hem. (Probably last year's style.) Very attractive and incredibly soft. I did not try on any of the short sleeve tees, so can't report on the sleeve fit. And I noticed that many of the short-sleeve tees at the boutique had ran long, long, long -- way over hips. Trendy, but not my style. (Sorry not to name the vintage/boutique, but there wasn't even a name on the receipt! Is it, perhaps, 20Twenty? At any rate, it's next door to Elephants Gerald, and across from the Tractor Tavern and Bop Street.)

I also stopped in at Merge, the high-end European clothing store on Ballard Avenue at the intersection of 20th Ave. NW. Absolutely lovely clothes, well-made, mixing classic styles with updated details. Expensive. Having spent some time in the high-end departments at Nordstrom last week, I have to say that I liked the thoughtfully selected offerings at Merge much better.

Over at Re-Soul, they're carrying Mandarina Duck fabric/leather bags from Italy. I had a Mandarina Duck when I lived in Genoa in the 1980s, and it was pretty wonderful. The current model I was admiring is the Reverse (K3TO2), which goes from large messenger bag to mid-size purse with a flip of the fabric. There's apparently also a Reverse backpack, though not at Re-Soul. Hmmm!

A happy blogiversary

The Mysterious Traveler Sets Out is four years old today.

I was wondering how to celebrate, but a web designer from New York took care of that for me. He emailed to say that a MTSO blog entry about my father's beautiful matchbook collection contains one of the few references on the web to a Washington, DC, restaurant owned by his late grandfather in the 1960s. I emailed back a photograph of that specific matchbook.

This is good. This is what it's all about.

Little surprises

The day was full of rather unpleasant little surprises:

• Shopping for a new pair of glasses frames, I found myself at a high-end optician's in which every pair of frames on display looked like something designed to wear as part of a Halloween costume.

• Yelling for the cats on the back porch tonight, I attracted a young raccoon who scampered eagerly up the stairs as if planning to come in for a midnight snack.

• Our dining room was once painted a bright Cheese Puff orange. (Discovered this when I started removing the hardware that had supported the old dining room curtains. Now our off-white walls have bright orange patches above the windows.)

Summer wardrobe

When dressing for summer evenings in Seattle, I need to keep in mind: There is no such thing as "balmy" — only barmy. As in "nuts." Because everyone out here suffers from a communal delusion that because it's "summer" it must be "warm."

You think we'd catch on, when, as the second weekend of June approaches, evening temperatures are still dipping into the high 40s. Women are nevertheless going out at night wearing strappy summer sandals and sleeveless sundresses.

I looked at my summer party clothes today and tried tell myself that I could wear them to evening events in July and August. You know, when it's really hot.

But after 22 years in Seattle, I should know better. I once attended an evening Fourth of July party in Port Townsend wrapped in an elegant down sleeping bag. Last August I put a pair of shearling-lined Ugg boots in my husband's car so I could thaw out a bit on my way back from an evening event in Bellingham.

But every year, before this reality sinks in, I dress up in a sleeveless sundress and sandals and trot off to dinner at someone's house, where the hosts, too, are in the grips of the annual hallucination. They have set a large festive table out on the deck, and clearly expect us to eat there — all evening. Like something out of Sunset magazine.

Sunset, I'll remind you, is published in California.

Guests sit down, oohing and ahhing over the summery decor. Initially, half of the table is blinded by the glare of the setting sun. When it finally sets, there are sighs of relief, quickly followed by a round of shivers as the 80-degree temperature plummets to 60 degrees in a matter of minutes. And a frigid breeze springs up from the direction of the nearest body of water. Perhaps the Bering Sea?

Someone mutters something about having forgotten her sweater. I realize that I've forgotten mittens, mukluks and a down parka. A dessert of chilled fruit and ice cream gets a noticeably cool reception, though the offer of coffee is greeted with great enthusiasm, and several people crowd inside and into the warm kitchen under the pretense of "helping" to serve it.

At this critical point, you discover the extent of your hosts' delusions: Will they keep everyone shivering out on the deck because "it's summer!," or will they come to their senses and let the guests into the house before frostbite sets in?

The suspense, I'm afraid, is too much for me. My summer wardrobe this year features an immense woven purse. Inside it? Big fuzzy socks, a nice fleece jacket, and a can of windshield defroster for my glasses.

Brrrr.

Meow

I took the "what kind of pet would you be?" quiz and turned out to be...a cat! (Big surprise.)

Well, I'd have been extremely disturbed if I'd turned out to be somebody's pet bunny rabbit. Or a canary.

Summer starts with a cookout

Summer is here, and the weekends are filling up with events.

Last night we enjoyed a spur-of-the-moment neighborhood cookout organized by Zorg and our friend Jeff across the street. The guys dragged our gas grill over to Jeff's driveway and six households contributed grillables ranging from lamb sausages and hot dogs to steak, garden burgers, and corn on the cob. Paper plates, plastic forks, plastic cups, and napkins materialized. There were two tossed salads, potato chips, cheese and crackers, plus a great variety of beers and white wines (and juice for the three little kids), followed by watermelon and ice cream sandwiches and popsicles. Ages of the attendees ranged from 4 (next week!) to 87.

Sunset found us gathered around a picnic table in the driveway, sipping our drinks, and discussing lightning bugs, June bugs, and remodeling contractors while the neighborhood pre-teens played basketball just down the street.

The calendar for the rest of the summer shows a lot of birthday parties, concerts, baseball outings, and dinners -- and even a trip to Vegas -- but I hope we've left room for a few more cookouts with the neighbors.

Sheba is famous

Our deaf white cat, Sheba, is one of the cats of the day at the LOLcat (laugh-out-loud cat) site, I Can Haz Cheesburger?

I wasn't sure they'd be interested in this Mac-oriented photo and caption, but...here's the perma-link:

http://icanhascheezburger.com/2007/05/31/maccat/

Many thanks to the folks at Lolcat Buildr, who have a web-based app for quickly creating LOLcat captions and submitting them directly to I Can Haz Cheesburger? (However, be aware that sometimes not all the photos you'lll see at the Lolcat Buildr home page are "workplace safe." Too bad they can't move the one or two questionable thumbnails to a separate area...)