In which I let down my food-adventuring friends.

The spice of life is garlic, apparently.

Back in February, as we drove north up Hwy 101, Lady and I passed through a particularly pungent province.  Gilroy, California is a self-proclaimed garlic capital of the world, that member of the onion family being a large part of the local farming product.  Even in the chilly damp air of California's "winter" we could smell the garlic in the air.  Lady mentioned that every summer they held a festival celebrating the tangy condiment.  I was in.

You think I'm kidding, but for months I've been sporadically checking the dates, and this past weekend was it.  I popped into Genie (the Prius) and drove south for the annual Gilroy Garlic Festival (32 years and counting).  It was an amazing array of garlic bread, garlic fries, garlic sausage, pasta con garlic pesto, garlic shrimp scampi, garlic pepper steak sandwiches, garlic stuffed mushrooms, garlic calamari, garlic kettle corn, and ...

Garlic. Ice. Cream.

I won't hold you in suspense, I didn't try it.  If you know me, you know I meant to.  I was in such a tizzy about the impending spicy smorgasbord that I skipped breakfast in order to maximize my appetite.  And I was hungry.  I had a garlic sausage with peppers sauteed in garlic for brunch in the sunshine, and it was delicious.  And then I thought about garlic fries... and realized I was stuffed.  OK, ok, I thought, let's wander the vendor stalls, pop into the wine garden, try some local wines, wait for the hunger to return.

I wandered.  The wine garden promised shade, and - was that a breeze?  I was in.  I tried a mediocre champagne, a decent syrah, and then I made a friend, who recognized my final ticket punch and indecision.  He poured a sip of zinfandel and told me to down it so he could pour a sip of the cabernet.  Both were lovely, but I opted for the light and spicy zin, talked about where the grapes were grown, and by the time I left booth had a card and a plan to visit the tasting room in San Jose.  Soon.

I got in line for the garlic ice cream.  It was a long line.  I moved forwards the space of a few people, and my stomach whispered to me, "I'm still stuffed, and it's hot out - overeating in the heat isn't fun.  Or pretty."  Word.

The vendors were the usual faire fare - some interesting, some gaudy, some downright bizarre.  For the record, I don't understand the appeal of flat bottles.  I bought the ceramic garlic grater that I'd seen earlier this summer (at another festival, this time of the Sunset magazine variety) - I tried it this evening and it works a treat.  It ought to, because Giada De Laurentiis says so.  Seriously, go google it.  I listened to the blues rock band, and the country band on the other stage - I love watching people lose themselves in live music.  I picked bulbs of free garlic to fill a small sack, and received instructions on growing garlic myself (oh yes, I'm going to).

Again I got in line for the garlic ice cream - still long.  It was pretty hot out, and by now I was tired of the crush of people, and starting to ponder the longevity of my sunscreen.  I realized that more than garlic ice cream, which my stomach was still not convinced we had room for, I wanted water, and that hat I'd tried on a few rows back, because it looked more whimsical and fun than then hat I'd worn for solar protection.

Contemplating the glory of the spicy bulb, while wearing the hat I came with.  My head is blocking the giant oven shaped like a bulb of garlic.  I'm not entirely sure what the message was meant to be, but it was some big garlic.

I got out of line.  Again.  I bought the hat.  I bought the $3 water.  I headed for the shuttle back to the parking lot.  It was a good day, even without the garlic ice cream.  And if it makes you feel better, I did come away with garlic-roasted pistachios, and they were wonderful.

The new hat.  I'm a fickle girl.

Picture Me

Picture me sitting on my balcony, with a rum drink on the table next to me, with my knitting bag on the floor beside me, and the not-so-quiet sound of a train passing by.  That's how I spend my time immediately after coming home on a stressful day.  I can do this, because even if the temperature gets into the 80s during the day, it's not humid here, so the balcony isn't too hot to enjoy.  On the flipside, if I want to sit on the balcony in the morning, socks and a wool sweater are involved, but since I've resumed my knitting career, both of those are going to be replenishing resources.

Why is this peaceful spot so clutch?  I thought this week would be downright quiet when I went to organize myself Monday morning.  Note to self, the Universe likes to laugh at people who think they have things under control.  Let's all try to keep that in mind for the future, shall we?

Is the week over yet?

It's already tomorrow for most of the folks who will read this - I left the office after 9pm tonight.  I did sojourn out for dinner with an out-of-town colleague, but still.  I have to be back at the office by 8am for a conference call with the east coast.  So I've come into the house, bypassed the turning on of lights in the living room, and am sitting on the couch in the dark, making one last spin through email and internets before collapsing into sleep.  I'm already thinking about the special coffee I intend to stop for on the way to the office tomorrow...

Pleased as punch!

It worked!  I enter this last day of the holiday weekend extremely satisfied.  I have been extremely busy, but the end results will keep me happy for a long time to come.  See what I mean?

Dear Ikea, I would like to amend all previous curses - you are not the most ridiculous do-it-yourself furniture in the world.  That honor goes to World Market.  I apologize for the slander, and will in future only curse you when you do not succeed in drilling holes of the proper length (I was absolutely correct in my curses that day). 

Note to self, apartment fire extinguishers are a must.

That's the only corner of the balcony that gets sun, and only for 3 hours in the morning during the summer months.

 Lest you think I'd only succeeded in creating a giant pile of cardboard in my living room, I spent time on my other weekend goal, as well:

You have no idea, do you?

It's a pair of socks!  Or it will be one day soon.  Do you see that?  (I hear Daddo saying, 'no, what is she talking about?')  And unless you really zoom in on the text above the chart, you won't see it.  It says "right chart" - or something like that.  Yes, indeed, not only am I knitting socks from the toe up for the first time (and that took some figuring out), I'm knitting socks toe up two at a time for the first time (again, a thinking job).  And it's worse than that, because not only am I knitting lace socks toe up two at a time, I'm knitting lace socks with a mirror pattern (different on left and right socks) toe up two at a time.  No simple stitch repetition lace for me, no sir.  I never was one for baby steps - or even a logical progression of complexity, apparently.  I'd curse myself and my own ambition, if I weren't so absolutely charmed with this:

Seriously, how wonderful is that?

I'm only five rows into the lace pattern, so it doesn't show up, yet, but it will.  The shade of purple convinced me by the time I'd finished (successfully) casting on the first toe that these babies were headed to my grandmother, who will wear purple every day till the end of time, just because she can.  So my plan to take a breather from all the baby knitting in order to make something for myself is a bust, but I'm tempted to wear flip-flops every day of the week here, anyway.

I know the cure...

I'm a little bit homesick lately.  Not for the humidity of DC - perish the thought!  But I miss having my folks and brothers so close.  On a long weekend I'd invite myself over to their house, make Bubba marinate some flank steak and open the good wine, and curl up in a giant chair and bask in their A/C.  Lady and I might venture out on a shopping excursion or disgust Bubba with some sort of glutinous t.v. marathon.  It was pretty wonderful.

With my friends out of town for the weekend, I find myself facing a three-day weekend on my lonesome.  And lonesome is an apt description.  I'm going through a little lonely spell, anyway, without friends who are free to join me for blues night, or grab a spontaneous drink.  So I've delved back into knitting, which I'd gotten back into last winter, but now I think I qualify as somewhat obsessed.  (Fortunate in timing, since the world is currently breeding.)  I haven't been to blues night lately, but I'm requiring my own attendance this week.

And this weekend?  The prescription is projects.  This morning I made a trip for outdoor furniture, and I'm about to pull the boxes in from the car for construction.  I'm creating a space that I'll actually use on the balcony, and since it stays light here past 8pm, odds are good that it will get used often.  Especially, since I intend to buy a neon orange grill.  Additionally, I'm teaching myself to knit socks from the toe up.  Two at a time.

If these two activities don't keep me content, I don't know what will.

A universal language

Friday was a beautiful day, and I was ... well, a little frazzled from the week.  So I played hooky.  I drove away to explore, and then I put on shorts (gasp! the girl's legs are white!) and took a walk around the neighborhood.  The walk included a stop by a nail salon that I'd gotten a recommendation for, and I sank into that massage chair with a sigh, since it's been entirely too long.  You know it's been too long when the girl looks at your toes and says, "you cut nails yourself?"  Yeah, so ignore the mangled mess.


I pulled out my knitting, which is infinitely preferable to the inane magazines that the woman next to me was analyzing in depth with her daughter.  I'm used to a few odd looks when I pull out knitting in public, but the nail stylist at the chair next to mine was out and out staring.  To the point I was uncomfortable.  To the point I was glad she wasn't doing my nails, she was so distracted.  She said a quiet, "me likey" when our eyes met, but didn't know much English, and that was the extent of the conversation.  Finally she finished the nails of the woman sitting next to me, smiled at me, and disappeared.  I heaved a sigh of relief, and settled into the pampering and the rhythm of the stitches.  A few minutes later, however, she reappeared, with a handful of yarn and a pair of knitting needles.  She came over to stand beside me and look over my shoulder, went away to sit and try a few stitches, and came back with her yarn and a pad of paper, on which I wrote the simple lace pattern I was working, and demonstrated a couple of iterations.  We didn't speak a common language, but we did - I finished the scarf this week, and will be mailing it to its recipient this week.  I'm curious to see if she's started something along those lines next time I go in for a pedicure.  It was a really magic pedicure.

The wispy scarf.

My first lace project.

Things that move...

Not quite a year later, and I find it incredibly ironic that my last post in DC was about an earthquake I didn't feel. In the time since, I've driven myself and that cat across country, to northern California, where I live on a fault line, and have felt quite a few earthquakes in the past four months.

The past year life has moved pretty fast.