Category Archives: home life

The envy of Rose Street

Some of you may recall the air strike our landscape gardener called on our front yard. After several weeks of installing sprinklers, building a retaining wall and installing grass, we are now looking quite respectable.

We still haven’t finished putting plants in the front. I’m still researching drought-tolerant and shade-loving varieties. Stay tuned.

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Like an air strike

The wife and I returned from our anniversary dinner Saturday to our darkened home, as I forgot to turn off the front porch light. I had posted a message on freecycle about a small maple tree we wanted to donate.

As I pulled into our driveway, I noticed a pile of roots on the front yard.

“Hey, what’s that? Did someone come get the tree?”

“Looks like it, there’s a big pile of HEY! WHERE’S MY YARD!??!”

While we were having dessert in the garden of a bistro, under the shade of a pear tree, our gardener friend from church, Luis, was taking a backhoe to my front yard. He’s replacing the old, galvanized-pipe sprinkler system, after I ripped my heel on a sprinkler head that stuck out of the ground a few inches. Amelia shredded one of her toes on the same sprinkler head. We’ve named it “The Widowmaker”.

For the record, Amelia asked me to put on my shoes not 30 minutes before I tripped on my sandals and cut my heel. At least it didn’t happen on our anniversary weekend.

Hurt me, hurt my woman, you leave me no choice but to call in an air strike. At least that’s what it looked like afterward. If you look closely, you can see the twisted galvanized pipe.

After seeing the wreckage on his iPhone, my brother commented “Ay !  War torn Yugoslavia, reporting from the front lines.”

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The wife: Adventures in Ethnoculinary delights

One of my great joys in life is mocking my wife’s primitive ways in the kitchen. We live minutes away from several cooking stores that sell the latest in kitchen gadgetry, but no!, my wife is content, even joyful at the prospect of grinding pepper in late grandmother’s molcajete when she needs it.

I don’t have the patience for this anthropological field work. When I’m hungry, I grab and go. If there’s no pepper, I do without. Who am I kidding? I go to Noah’s on most mornings.

My wife’s a fabulous cook but I can’t help but mock her ethnic ways. We listen to too much NPR and drink too much coffee in our house, so in the morning, I walk around the kitchen and pretend I’m a field reporter in some remote Mexican village.

High in the mountains of central Mexico, Xochitl rises early in the morning to grind the fiery pepper that will season her family’s food, as her ancestors have done for centuries.

I never realized how Americanized my upbringing was until I married my wife. She cringes when I tell her I never knew tacos were actually made with finely chopped, seasoned meet cooked on a grill, not ground beef. Which goes to show you how sheltered my upbringing was in Salinas, or how underground authentic Mexican cuisine was in those days. These days, you can’t walk 100 feet, it would seem, without running into a neighborhood taqueria.

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In the midst of a wet, dreary winter

After enduring a flooded basement, lagoons of trapped water in front of my porch, clogged rain gutters and a limitless supply of caked mud tracked across our hardwood floors, our Camellia bush and winter Crocuses bloomed. A brief respite from a wet winter, and a reminder that better days lie ahead.

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Now I know why the previous owner wanted to move

Autumn Leaves

Autumn Leaves

One of the joys of living in a old neighborhood are the handsome old trees that line the streets. Their branches from opposite sides of the street interlock in a canopy, diffusing light to the passersby on the sidewalks and streets.

What are not diffused are the brood of feral leaves that find their way to my doorstep. I spent nearly an hour raking leaves in the dark. I couldn’t stand looking at them for another day. I didn’t even bother picking them up, I just raked them onto the street for the street sweeper to deal with. I pay my taxes. I’m entitled every now and again.

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An open letter to a thief

Dear Thief,

The chairs you stole from our front porch weren’t heirlooms. They were silly little canvas beach chairs purchased at Tarzhay for around $20 each. (see below)

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Monkeying around with the camera

The Missus has been after me to take some photos of the view from our front porch and dining room. My camera batteries (both sets) are losing their ability to charge and I’ve been busy taming The Paper That Ate Manhattan. Finally, today, after spending a half-hour in the yard and catching up with dear, dear friends who dropped in for a visit (with goose paté in hand, mind you, cuz my hi-dolla-dolla peeps just roll that way), I grabbed the camera and popped off a few shots.

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