RATIONAL RIOTING

RATIONAL RIOTING

I’m putting this up now unedited because it is now. I’ll fix it later.

In Santa Monica, which I think is the best place in the world to live, was the scene, today, along with a few other LA neighborhoods, of peaceful protests and looting. The intersection of Ocean and Montana Aves was the site of a protest about the death of George Floyd at the hands, or rather the feet of Minneapolis police. 

Three blocks away, at the 3^rd St. Promenade shopping area, 3 blocks of walk streets lined with boutiques and fancy national chains, looting occurred. The thieves attacked mainly corner stores, since 3^rd St. itself was cordoned off by police. Consequently Vans, on one corner, REI on another took most of the hit. Bloomies and Nordstrom, in Santa Monica Place were hit too, a couple blocks south.

It’s just past 4pm, the official start of the curfew. The crowd of protesters on Ocean had been divided into 2 or more smaller groups when police started firing tear gas and other non-lethal projectiles. When the 4 o’clock curfew was announced, around 3pm, superceding the 8PM one established by LA Mayor Garcetti, many in the crowd started leaving. Those remaining stayed and cops stayed, the lines established. Some protesters started setting off red powder bombs, and huge rocks, a few, were thrown at police.As I write this, the situation changes.

Our condo building has additional security and a police presence.

What I meant by rational rioting.

On May 4, 1992, I rode back from Studio City, where I had just done my live radio program, BENEATH THE SURFACE, a drive time call-in show on current events, that I did several weekdays at 5pm. The usual format was a half-hour chat with newsmakers and half-hour of call-ins. Pacifica Radio, the station owner, did not budget for call screeners, so it was always a free-for-all. My guest was Paxton Quigley, author of ARMED AND FEMALE, first published in 1989, but I think paper came out in ’92.

 AS one of my radio colleagues, Cindy Friedman, said at the time, you can have timely radio even when planned in advance. Paxton, a gorgeous blond, at that time (I’VE SINCE SEEN PHOTOS OF her as a red-head), worked public relations for Smith and Wesson, I think. She took me to the firing range a couple of times and is a serious advocate of women owning guns. Hey, she convinced me. This was all in the early days of the NRA vice-grip on legislation, but most liberals had knee-jerk reaction to gun ownership, from I HATE GUNS to fear of them. 

It’s good to fear a gun aimed at you. 

But knowing how to handle one is a useful 21^st century tool.

Some other time I’ll get into an analysis of the I HATE GUNS locution.

Just now, I went on line to find out who made the curfew (now LA County has changed its curfew to 6PM) but only find that it was done by Santa Monica Government. EG Mayor Garcetti did the LA one, and Sheriff’s Dept., the LA County one.

While I drove through the canyon that beautiful May evening in 1992,  I gradually became aware (radio on) that a few miles south, LA was ablaze. The verdict exonerating the cops who beat Rodney King had come in. They had gotten off,

 even thought there was full-on video of what had happened,

 and he was beaten for no reason by cops, with other cops standing by and looking on.

AS I say, riots. The city was aflame. Businesses in the black neighborhoods were looted and torched.

Very irrational, it seemed to me.

But who riots rationally? Oops. More about that in a minute. But my question really is why burn your own stuff? Why not attack the police, the establishment? The rich?

Well, they did. And I fear this is just the beginning. So far there is little damage and injury (the night is young) but there were clearly some who planned. Looters had hammers. Their cars had licenseplates covered up so they could make anonymous getaways with loot.

I saw a bicyclist tear off the covering of a looter’s license plate. The car owner came after him and socked him in the face, but he still rode away. I hope unhurt. Other protesters stood in front of stores trying to dissuade looters for the sake of the real cause.

At the same time, the police were monitoring the protesters and had no presence at the stores.

AS I said, rational. Or, less irrational.

I think this is more rational rioting. And I think it's coming soon to a neighborhood near me.

STONED—POSTPONED

I apologize if I left you fearing for my sanity.

Stuart Woods had the kindness to write 54 Stone Barrington novels, so what I fear most—running out of them while still quarantined, may not happen. But a discussion of that topic is for a different day.

Today,

Freakanomics, the podcast.

First, I loved the books. FREAKANOMICS (2005), and SUPERFREAKANOMICS (2009) were not only fun to read, they were intuitive even in their counterintuitivity. I also love that they apply statistical analysis and pattern study integrally in their work. There is no nonsense, of the sort that used to dominate the study of economics, that assumes people, groups, nations, classes, et al, decide on their behavior rationally. I refer you to the last presidential election which is an example that includes a tangential relationship to economics, plus more. When it comes to anything, but especially economics, reason does not reign.

I just discovered HOW TO THINK LIKE A FREAK, which I plan to immediately read. 

Meanwhile, the podcast.

Usually running between a half-hour and an hour, Stephen Dubner, the writer of the 2 authors, hosts a show, and Steven Levitt, Professor of Economics at the University of Chicago, with many many other credits, is an occasional contributor. Dubner will run an entire cast on one to three subjects, and the take is refreshing, entertaining, and sticks to fact.

They will also re-examine issues that have caused controversy, such as the analysis that discovered that the reduction in crime, that occurred in the 90s was a direct result of widely accessible legal abortion. As you may imagine, quite a hue and cry arose from many interested and agenda-ed parties. So, a few years later, the two Steves made a new analysis taking into account the criticism that the first printing, etc., engendered. And yup. The facts led to the same conclusion. Interesting, many women seem to know whether or not it is good for the world, for them to bring a child into it. Or perhaps a good world for the child.

STONED…in 2 or more parts

I AM LIVING IN TERROR

As I mentioned before, the corona quarantine plays to my strengths. I like nothing better that lazing around, wandering from one cozy place to another, drinking excellent coffee, until, of course, it is late enough to start drinking excellent Cabernet. I have a series of fluffy, faux fur blankies, and one actual cashmere one. I pile cushions and pillows as needed. I’ve even taken to using a pillow between my legs at night to alleviate a strange hip pain that I was seeing a therapist about before. That’s no longer happening.

 What do I do in these different places? I listen to podcasts, I nap, I read, I cook, I snack, I watch TV. For podcasts, my current favorites are still Freakanomics, Science Friday, Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History (when he’s not talking music, except the one about why country music makes you cry), TED Talks, Making Sense, with Sam Harris, Star Talk, with Neil deGrasse Tyson (when he’s not talking sports) and Gastropod. Now I have added Against the Rules, Michael Lewis’s podcast, and The Rabbit Hole, an amazing series about the Internet and how it influences.

The thing about podcasts is that I can listen in bed, set the timer, or not, and drift off to wise and funny words from some of my favorite geniuses. If I miss something, it’s easy to go back the next day or whenever, and there are a kajillion podcasts on every conceivable area of interest—and probably a kajillion more, after all this enforced staying at home. What better than prepare to verbally assault the world with your thoughts while lying around waiting to get sick?

But the thing that really is getting me through the pandemic, is Stone Barrington and his friends and colleagues. Stone Barrington, former NYPD detective turned lawyer solves crimes and lives an extremely entertaining life, based in an inherited townhouse in Turtle Bay.

  

But most of all, I read Stuart Woods’ Stone Barrington novels.

And my terror is that I will run out of them.

THE NEW REAL

The beaches are open again. Not for lounging or picnics, or biking, supposedly, ‘though I saw all of the above yesterday when I walked there in the late afternoon. It was really good to see people out enjoying the gorgeous weather. With the parks and the beaches closed, we were crowded together on the sidewalks trying to maintain distance.

Now, lots of little kids running around. It looked a little like the beach in Tel Aviv. No one had blankets, just a towel or two, ready in case rousted. In Tel Aviv, that’s what they do. Here, we go to the beach with umbrellas, coolers, beach balls, blankies and tents. In Israel, they are probably wearing their swimsuits under their everyday clothes. They carry nothing. Simply walk to the sand and sit on it. The sand, I must admit, is like velvet. So fine and soft.

Now, to avoid problems with whoever is charged with enforcing the new beach rules, we are ready to decamp at the sight of a police vehicle. I didn’t see any lifeguards in their little towers. Others were using them. The tide was nearly in. It truly was heaven in Santa Monica. Impossible to believe what is really going on for us.

Poor world.

I ALMOST ATE THE WHOLE THING

 or,

 ANOTHER USE FOR WHIPPED CREAM

Do you know how good whipped cream really is? I made some to use as lettering on a birthday cake. Then I added the rest to a bowl for strawberries for a small socially distant dinner party’s dessert. The strawberries are really good this time of year. 

But whipped cream is not just good. It’s useful.

I often whip a pint of cream, add some vanilla and powdered sugar, and use it for Bruce’s Key Lime Pie.I know I keep promising to tell you all about that, and I will. Just not now. In decaf after dinner it is really yummy floating seductively atop the dark French Roast. Eat it with a spoon. It’s almost as if the coffee is sauce for the cream, and its rich bitterness is exquisite in contrast. 

Obviously delicious over fresh fruit, especially peaches and strawberries. That was last night. This morning, I ate leftover strawberries and cream after breakfast. I had a lot of whipped cream left.

I thought I would have just another bite. Or Two. Hm.

Many years ago, husband and I were invited to a big multi-generational Thanksgiving dinner with the family of our oldest son's girlfriend. At the time, everything seemed wonderful. The girl was pretty and smart and her parents were famous songwriters and very rich. Then the earthquake hit. They had a huge house and our apartment building was red-tagged. That means we were not allowed into our place, and police were enforcing the ban.

During the earthquake, which happened around 4am, things were shaking and crashing all around us. Husband and I each leapt from opposite sides of the marital bed, and I ran for the doorway. The thinking then was that there would be significant support from the door jamb. I stopped there, looked back, and saw husband stop to pick up my clogs which were on his side of the bed. His slight, sweet, generous delay caused him to be caught when part of the ceiling fell. Something broke over his head. 

But we both made it out.

I grabbed my brand new Tony Lama cowboy boots and the hard drive part of my computer.

At any rate, homeless and without clothes or other stuff (we did have car with phone) we drove around checking on family and friends. We found one older friend ensconced in an encampment on the very wide green meridian in nearby San Vicente. Having determined our kids were in good hands and safe, we hit the road to Santa Barbara, where my brother lived. We knew that while he had felt the 7.1 quake, his place was fine and everything normal up there. He welcomed a visit.

We were tooling along Pacific Coast Highway at the start of the 90 minute drive when we had to stop because of something blocking the road.

It was a house.

Sitting right on the highway, having slid in its entirety down the bluff and into the street. There was no other way to get there at that time, so we headed back. But to where? 

My son called to say that his girlfriend’s parents were willing to put us up for a couple days. What a relief!

We headed over to Beverly Hills. They greeted us and showed us to a very nice guest room in their very beautiful large house. But the vibe was so so weird. When they spoke to us, it was as if they were talking to an especially aromatic pair of homeless, which I guess we were. But the other homeless. 

We had to get out of there.

Later. Because one of the couple was in AA, he apologized and said he wanted to make amends. But his idea was saying it, not doing it. But hey. We found a hotel and started looking for an apartment.

Later we heard that they had had a bad experience with some guest who overstayed. Whatever.

My son continued the relationship, hence the Thanksgiving invite.

I made a couple pumpkin pies to bring. The girlfriend told me, as we drove together to the aunt’s house where the dinner was, that she was not a pie person. I plan to do a whole monograph on that locution, "not a (fill in the blank) person." What does it mean? Anyone?

Okay.

We get to the dinner, and it was a huge potluck buffet with maybe a hundred dishes. At the dessert table, I placed the pies, cut them, and beside them placed a huge bowl of whipped cream I had made to go with. Same recipe as above. Nearby were other desserts, and three or four open containers of Cool Whip. Ingredients (partial list):  hydrogenated vegetable oil, high fructose corn syrup, various multi-syllabic chemicals, guar gum, and so on. Okay, fine. Some people can’t make real food.

Later, I went back to see what I might have missed, dessert-wise. All of the Cool Whip containers were nearly decimated, and NONE of the whipped cream was gone aside from what I had taken.

I knew then that this was not the family for us. 

Sure enough, the relationship was fraught, and finally ended. 

Had we been smarter, we would have used it as the diagnostic tool it really is.

So, do you know how good real whipped cream is? I nearly ate the whole bowl.

See's Candies Is Open

CALL WARDROBE

I DON’T KNOW how many of you suckled on Victoriana, those hot-blooded, heaving-bosomed romances of aristocrats and their lessers, or historic murder mysteries, even the venerable Sherlock Holmes may partly fall into this category. Dinner required black or white tie, silk gowns for the ladies.  Morning dresses for, well, morning. Then day dresses, possibly suited to going outdoors. Let’s not even get started on the hunt! Each activity called for a servant-assisted change of habiliment. I realize now that much of that was based in the need to while away the hours and give the servants something to do.

I DO NOT HAVE SERVANTS

 Time, yes. However I find myself in a furiously contradictory state when it comes to clothing. Sweats, all day every day. Of course. But minute differences in actions or locale require sartorial adjustments that the Empress of India herself could favor.

For example, I sleep in a tee shirt and panties. When I wake, I run to the kitchen to start Mr. Coffee, already set up the night before with coffee and water (Peets French Roast and Decal French Roast.) This makes me cold, so I grab my sweatshirt, a hooded one with pockets. Various ablutions ensue, and voila, in 6 minutes my coffee is ready. I heat the cup, pour in 1/3 cup of milk, then back to bed for a leisurely scroll through emails. But the hood of the sweatshirt bunches uncomfortably behind my neck. Not to worry. I have and ancient baggy cashmere cardigan too pilled to wear out and about. I switch the sweatshirt with the offending bulk for this yummy soft garment, and, heaven. I love these few moments with my coffee in bed.

Then it’s time for OFFICIAL WIFE DUTIES to start. Because of the roomy pockets, I switch back to the sweatshirt, put my phone, empty cup, whatever ice-pack I had used the night before for whatever reminder of my age was hurting the night before, in them and bustle off to the kitchen. The sleeves of the sweatshirt are long, so they double as potholders, taking heated blueberry syrup out of microwave, reheating my coffee, etc. Frying pan handle.

I make our “green” drink, curate our pills for the day, and finish making breakfast.

This is where I differ from the Victorians (in addition to no servants) because I do not change outfits to eat. I give husband his bacon and eggs and gluten-free whatever (pancakes on weekend, toast or bagel weekdays—yeah, yeah, what is a weekend? Believe me, he keeps track.)

WE discuss the news if we can bear to, and eat (hot buttered baguette for me!

Crossword finished, I gather up things, using roomy pockets and clean up. Back to bed for 2^nd coffee, so back to cashmere. I fear this is becoming monotonous. Only two outfits so far. I read part of a Stuart Woods novel, so I can vicariously live a wealthy life in Manhattan, and have oodles of climactic sex.

VARIOUS housekeeping chores occupy me, so I switch to sweat shorts and a tank top. I clean, wash, do laundry. Oops, is it noon? Time for my workout. I rush to the bathroom where my exercise togs closet is, switch to a leopard top with shelf bra and black spandex capris.

I roll out my yoga mat, choose a workout online, and force myself through 45 minutes of core barre. 

WIPE down mat, shower, and… tada...

Time for a NEW OUTFIT! Squeaky clean, I select a clean, similar-but-different hooded, long-sleeved sweatshirt, new sweatpants,  and face the afternoon, FaceTime with grandkids, usually, or husband plays online poker with his family in Colorado and New Jersey. It sounds riotously fun, so I plan to join one day soon.

Oh, and I bought a gorgeous tie-dyed mask from my friend Wendy’s online store, Polkadots and Moonbeams in case I need to go out. Last week I was dodging the cops down on the beach, kinda fun, but now they are opening it up for bikes and walkers again. Soon, I think.

Needless to say, going out requires different clothes. The mask is cute, but I don’t even try coordinating with the blue plastic gloves.

HABITS

A few years ago I read The Power of Habit, by Charles Duhigg, a wonderful book about how we form habits, how to unform them, and how powerful they are in our lives. In the intro to his book, the author tells a story I paraphrase here because it is an example of how habits run things that you'd never imagine they had anything to do with.  

A US Army Major used the power of habit (his book title) to stop dinner time riots in Kufa, Iraq. He observed that in late afternoon before the usual riot time, people gathered in the square and food vendors appeared. The crowd would grow restive until someone threw a bottle. Then all hell would break loose.

He asked to mayor to ban the food trucks. Gradually, as the crowd gathered, people looked around for food. Finding none, they gradually dispersed. No riot that night.

Keeping in mind how powerful, not to say insidious, habits are, I'm listing some of the habits I'm going to be struggling with after life returns to normal. Whatever that is.

HABITS I'LL HAVE TO BREAK

I used to do partial fasting a few days a week. This consisted of taking only coffee and various vitamins and supplements, essentially fasting until 1 or 2P.M. I did this 3 or 4 days a week. During the fast time I'd do a 50 minute core barre workout, or an hour of yoga, followed by 2 hours of Tennis live-ball. 

That's the habit I used to have. 

New habit: I've replaced this with slathering a hot baguette in sweet butter

and salt and dipping it unceremoniously into my large cup of French roast--one of as many as five I may have during the day. (See other habit about getting up time.) I cannot tell you how much I prefer this habit over the partial fast. 

I always woke up at 6:45 A.M. unless there was a reason to get up earlier--say a plane to catch.

New habit: I try to stay in bed until husband finishes his virtual workout, around 9:30 or 10 A.M.

I may get some coffee, but I drink it in bed and frequently fall back asleep.

Because I am, as the French coyly put it, of "a certain age" I must wear makeup. At least some eyeliner and lipstick so I don't look like an unpainted Kabuki mask. 

This has a dual effect of not scaring the grandkids and keeping me in a decent mood. Combined with fading vision, it helps me when I look in the mirror.

New habit: No makeup. Two things, I did try lipstick and when I put on my ONLY medical grade face mask, 

it got all lipsticky inside. 

Because I played tennis and worked out, I wore a bra to keep myself from flopping all over. (See earlier blog about other uses for bra elements.)

New habit: Because I no longer have an athletic life, I've abrogated bra use entirely.

As aforementioned, I am a certain age. I sometimes forget what day it is. In fact I once led a caravan of cars--all packed with edible delights-- to the Hollywood Bowl for a concert, on the wrong night. Come to think of it, I wasn't a certain age then, so this must be genetic. But that was only once in a while.

New habit: I have to ask husband what day it is--that is, if I care, which I don't.

I used to exercise some dietary restraint. I am a small person, and it would be easy to blimpify. Also, I prefer to be healthy. 

New Habit: bask in the glow of my refrigerator light for hours every day, pondering, choosing, daydreaming, and EATING. And let's not forget Godiva.

New habit: It is fantastic and wonderful and probably in a way lifesaving that there is so much free music and art online now. I listened to the Met Gala, especially Va, Pensiero, and I cried. I listened to New York, New York, and I cried. I saw French ballet dancers doing grandes battements in their apartments, and I cried. The new habit is I cry at everything including my grandson smearing himself with pea puree.

https://youtu.be/s7waGhujn44?list=RDCMUCYEMBG1B7K63_d_ZNwGzyzg

My sister lives in Paris. She was always very chic and much more sophisticated than I. But living there has liberated her to new heights and new joy. I visited in December, and it upped my game too. I composed my outfits more carefully. And never just dashed out for a random grocery item without some curation taking place. I brought the new style home and had fun with it even in Southern California where casual is a religion.

New habit: Sweats

I Know you shared my grief

when See's Candies closed just when I was at the end of my little bag of goodies. "Order online," they cruelly yelled at me through the locked glass doors of their Santa Monica store on that fateful day. I went online, looked up a few choice collections, but decided not to be so self indulgent so soon. After all, I wasn't totally out, and a few days off would do my avoirdupois some good.

Applauding myself, it turns out prematurely, for rare self-restraint, I closed the site, leaving some dark chocolate items tantalizingly in the basket, unpurchased.

I'm sure you know where this is going

Later that week I made do with a bag of dark Ghirardelli's I found early one morning at the supermarket--perfectly okay, delicious, in fact, but too many solids--I like soft centers the best. A few days ago, I say, I went back to the inviting website. 

No longer doing business.

Closed for the duration. 

Shopping cart empty!

Yikes!

You feel me, right? So, biting a lot of bullets these days, I bit.

I really bit!

I went to GODIVA.

Yes, Godiva.com. I messed around there for a few days, at first not wanting to spend so much money, working on various justifications, how little money I was otherwise spending, how chocolate is actually good for you, how keeping myself in good spirits was an important think to do in the Time of Corona. Yeah, right.

I selected a few items, and took the plunge. A few days later, this box arrived. Dimensions,
10x28x15 inches.

I let the carton sit by the door a couple days, just in case an infected person had sneezed on it. 

I opened it:

You see what's inside. An insulated Styrofoam cooler, same dimensions as above.

I opened it.

Inside, this gorgeous golden-lettered Godiva tissue paper floated up. I opened that. 

Underneath, bubble-wrapped boxes, carefully ensconced as if they were nuclear warheads. I lifted out my precious cargo. The carton was still heavy. Did they include gifts? So many? At least five pounds. I searched below the plastic to find...

Under the beautiful dark brown (for dark chocolate, my fave) boxes were six ice packs.

I opened it. Carefully removing the cardboard sleeve (they only do that for exquisite items) I lifted the cover. I slid away some delicate tissue paper.

Aah!

AT LAST!

A housekeeping note...

I do not yet understand all the subtleties of using blogger. A recurring issue is friends who comment whose comments do not appear. I have no idea what's going on.

I Fought the Law...

Social Distancing by Car

Today, husband and I thought we'd drive around and see our friends and family--from a safe distance, of course. We'd been stuck in for a long time and figured everyone could use a little socializing. It was a beautiful day, the first warm one in weeks and it felt good to be outside. We put the top down and basked in the sun. 

First stop, to drop off a book for someone. Husband dropped the book on his friend's doorstep. As we left, he came out of his house, and we waved. That errand took us to a very pretty, old neighborhood. Less than a mile from where I live, but I'd never been on those streets before. We had fun ending up in cul de sacs, enjoying the near-empty streets. Until we remembered why. I had made us some masks from scarves, oh, you know about that already. We had them ready in case we needed to go into a store or ran into a crowd.

We stopped by and saw our buddy on her balcony. She will be 96 in a month, still thrives, living alone. She could only give us 3 minutes.

After dropping off the book and some wandering, I called a friend so we could see her in her beautiful garden of a front lawn. I figured she'd be glad of a little company, from six feet away. 

She wasn't home, nor did she pick up the phone. I called another, figuring how could they also be busy in the time of Corona. No answer.

Then we went to our daughter's house. She was there with the two boys. But they were "in school" on their computers, and barely could wave to us. The youngest, 6, was even doing PE on Zoom.  Red Light/Green Light, or something. 

The older one was doing math. Then our daughter had to go because she had a conference call in a few minutes and had to gather her wits, or thoughts or something. It was very pleasant in her beautiful backyard, for the few minutes we were there.

Then we called our son. He was on an important call, but our daughter-in-law would come out with our littlest grandson. We got there and walked around their neighborhood for a bit. When she came out, alone, she waved apologetically and devoted herself to an obviously important and lengthy business call. 

After about 15 minutes, our son and the baby came out, and we chatted and watched Mr. Adorable coo and laugh and even try walk (he's 8 mo. old). Then Dad had to go back inside for 

another business call and Mom's phone rang. 

I was hungry. We'd pick up something from a local restaurant and sit on the grass somewhere. I was jonesin' for a salad. I looked at the online menus. No salads.

I was feeling quite a bit of social distance.

Is everyone busy but me?

NO WHINING ON THE YACHT

(thanks Al Franken via Jody)

I remember being in Miama, on the water by the Epic Hotel.

I was standing by a yacht with armed guards. The boat itself was several stories high and shiny black all over, at least as far as I could see. It was as big as an ocean liner, to my, admittedly, very short, perspective. Sometimes I wonder about these people, but not often. I figured that if I did anything the owners took exception to, I would disappear. I scurried on by.

At any rate, I have been having my groceries delivered. In the spirit of no whining, I have come to look at these deliveries as an adventure. I am always surprised. For my pot roast tonight, I got much less meat than I wanted and an odd cut, bottom round, acceptable but not optimal. We'll see how it is, but I must say its been smelling good all day. We got two packs of turkey bacon (is that an oxymoron?) instead of regular. One would have been more than enough. Accidentally we got two large bunches of celery the other day, so that has been a constant garnish, even at breakfast. I can barely zip my jeans (obviously not the fault of the celery), while husband is losing weight.

I didn't get milk, or any of a variety of cleaning products. And the delivery, supposed to come Sat., only came today after a lengthy "chat" with Jessica at Instacart.

I had to open a bottle of wine for the recipe. I didn't use too much because the rest will come in handy in  about an hour.

Please stay safe.

MOST FRIDAYS ARE GOOD FRIDAYS TO ME

Like the Dowager Countess in Dowwnton Abbey, I know not of weekends. As I mentioned before, this enforced idleness plays to my strengths. Yesterday I finished a new story for a murder mystery short story contest. I submitted it also for an anthology of New England short stories, since I set it in Boston, where I grew up. While the story is totally fiction, I used some characteristics of my parents and a house we all lived in. It totally freaked my siblings out.

I had the idea for an OUTRAGEOUS NECKLACE PARTY with wine and cheese, because Zoom, where the party would be, only gives a little square to each participant. Just enough of a view for some good lipstick and a necklace. 

We were supposed to have it, tonight right about now (6pm, Pacific) but Tuesday I whacked myself in the face on a metal chairback while organizing things for recycling. No good deed, right? When I Face Timed with one of my friends, she was so shocked. "I thought you were just vain," she said, admiring my racoonish visage. I had no idea that I bent over with such velocity. I have new respect for my own strength. 

A SOLUTION

OMG!

It is so easy!

I grew up in Boston, so that to say shellfish are my faves is to seriously underestimate how much I love them. 

In Martin Walker novels (start with Bruno, Chief of Police), murder and complicated financial crimes almost take a backseat to the loving devotion to food and wine typical of the Périgord. In one, his doctor tries to put him on a diet. Wait. Seriously. This is a diet I could get behind. As many of you know, oysters benefit as much from terroir, although of a watery kind, as wine. Ineffable yet definite characteristics bestowed upon the product by the land from where it grew. Or in this case water. Acres and acres of oyster beds are cultivated in a few cherished spots and the Dordogne is one of the finest. The diet the doctor prescribed to Bruno was to eat at least 3 dozen raw oysters a day to take care of an undefined malady of stomach or digestion

When once faced with the supreme healthfulness of oysters, I energetically put them back into my life. I started frequenting Happy Hour at Santa Monica Seafood Cafe (3-6 P.M. weekdays, oysters freshly shucked, $2 a pop). Then I discovered shucked oysters in their fish shop. Much cheaper. But they told me best not to eat those previously shucked oysters raw. What's a gal to do? Then I remembered a recipe I made up for 

OYSTER STEW

serves 4

2/3 lb. shucked oysters, dried off and chopped

1 smallish shallot, minced (or onion)

1 tbsp. butter

1/4 cup cream (optional)

3 to 3 1/2 cups milk

Cayenne pepper to taste (it also looks good, red in that bowl of creamy white)

Salt and pepper to taste

Melt butter in a thick-bottomed saucepan. 

Toss in shallots and sauté 1 min. 'til golden crispy.

Toss in oysters, stir one more minute at med. high, then reduce to Med. low. 

Add milk and cayenne.

Heat and serve.

So easy!

TROUBLE IN MIND

While my sister Janet said that we should look at it as if we were having 

the world's biggest slumber party, 

I must admit, it's not that festive to me.

This song, written by Richard M. Jones in the early 1920s was recorded by lots of great singers including Louis Armstrong, Nina Simone and Janis Joplin, among many others.

Trouble in mind, I'm blue
But I won't be blue always
'Cause that sun is gonna shine in my back door someday

I'm going down to the river
I'm going top take me a rocking chair
And if the blues don't leave me, I rock on away from here

Trouble in mind, I'm blue
But I won't be blue always
'Cause that sun is gonna shine in my back door someday

Trouble in mind, that's true
I have almost lost my mind
Life ain't worth living, I feel like I could die

Trouble in mind, I'm blue
My poor heart is healing slow
I've never had such trouble in my whole life before

I'm gonna lay my head on some lonesome railroad line
And let that two-nineteen special ease my troubled mind

Trouble in mind, I'm blue
But I won't be blue always
'Cause that sun is gonna shine in my back door someday

Husband and I have been watching the amazing 8-part documentary, COUNTRY MUSIC by the amazing Ken Burns.

Each part is 2 hours long and it starts in the hills in the earliest part of the last century. The series itself is particularly remarkable because of the visual as well as sound history of these earliest singers and musicians from parts of America that I knew little of, yet they had the most profound and far-reaching impact on me and the music I love today.

All American music.

I had been a folk music fan way back when, and this had led me to some of these artists, but the doc. series puts it together so movingly. We cry. I cry.

It sends me to my Home Pod to request Hank Williams and so on, but the deep deepest baritone of Hank Snow always gets me where I live. And since I've been wandering around on the verge of tears already, I thought I'd share. My trouble in mind.