Generation Sasquatch

So the other day I was watching a baseball game (what a fucking end to the season it is!) and saw another one of the "Messin' with Sasquatch" commercials. I'm not going to name the product because I feel no need to shill for them, but I do really enjoy the commercials. They make me laugh. Poor goddamn beast.

But then something strange and wonderful happened. I had an epiphany. A fucking commercial gave me an epiphany! I turned to my BF and blurted, "We're not Generation X! We're Generation Sasquatch!"

It's true. Anyone who was a child in the 1970s (yes, I'm old) knows this. The heyday of Bigfoot, D.B. Cooper, the Loch Ness Monster, "In Search Of..."

I feel so nostalgic right now.

By the way -- there's a Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization. Yes, really.

Hungry Zombies

There's a new study out that shows people who more often use intuition, rather than "reflective" thinking (logic?), are more likely to be religious. Who's surprised?

On a related note, if the United States were taken over by zombies today, I think the zombies would starve.

That is all.

Carrot Soup

Apparently I am destined to be a food blogger, whether that was my original intention or not. It is what it is, as I am fond of saying. So...cold carrot soup.

I really wish I could find the recipe that inspired this soup, but it's mine now, so fuck it. So here's what I do. I sautee a couple chopped leeks in olive oil, with a bit of fresh-ground pepper and some curry powder. Meantime I prepare two-plus pounds of carrots and a few jalapenos. I throw these into the sautee with just enough water to cover all the veggies. After roughly twenty minutes of simmering (are the carrots soft enough?), I puree the soup, add a cup of orange juice (grapefruit juice might make an interesting alternative), and put the mix in the fridge. Hours later, I will put together some vegan sour cream (soft tofu, rice vinegar, canola oil, and jalapeno peppers) and serve this with the soup and fresh cilantro.

Carrots, curry, and orange juice? I thought it was bizarre too, when I read the recipe. It fucking rocks.

Morning Sun

I've been seeing a lot of sunrises over the past few months. Okay, not sunrises exactly, but early morning sun. For those who know me, that probably comes as a surprise. It goes like this...

Every year when I Amtrak back to New England, I have to readjust my schedule to that of a house with two small children -- no quiet late nights, and luxuriating in bed till ten a.m. I don't mind; I get to spend all the hours of the day with my sister and her family. Quiet reading time is still a must, so I snuggle in "Kiki's Room" with a book at night, switching off the light at midnight or so, and then my basic-five-years-ago cell phone rings annoyingly around seven, reminding me to get up, shove contacts into my swollen eyes, grab some coffee, and settle down on the couch with J and V and R for "Curious George" while we let my sister sleep in.

Early summer mornings have been the rule for seven years now, and I've discovered a small -- very small -- taste for the weak lemon light at the start of the day, and the odd feeling that I might actually get multiple things done before it's even noon. (A trip to the beach! Or maybe just the local market, library, and sundry errands, but still!)

And then every year when I return to New Mexico, it takes me a few weeks to get back to my normal schedule -- a few bizarre weeks of snapping awake in the dark at five a.m., perhaps even wondering where I am (and who the fuck is that naked man beside me?). A funny thing happened this year after my return, though. I kept getting up early.

I don't know why. I mean, it's partly on purpose; a job hovers in the near-future. But despite having been a night owl my whole life, I'm actually enjoying the mornings. The New Mexico summer sun isn't like New England's, obviously -- it's white-hot and bright from the second it rises over the Organ Mountains. But early morning has a quiet and peace that's not unlike late nights.

I miss the silent vampire dark. But sitting here with my coffee, listening to the chatter of birds, watching my cats prowl around the east-facing porch, I feel almost as if my sister is inside, in the kitchen, pouring her own coffee and getting ready to share another beautiful New England day with me. So close even though she's so far...that makes it totally worthwhile.

Triple Thai Hot

I feel kind of silly, posting about food again -- this isn't a food blog -- but so be it. It's a funny story, anyway.

So my totally fab friend Kate was in town for the weekend, and we decided to have an early Saturday lunch at one of our local Thai restaurants. I ordered the vegetarian version of Thai Basil and (not for the first time) had to reassure the waitress that yes, I really really really wanted it Thai hot. As a very fair-skinned person, I'm not unfamiliar with having to convince waitstaff that I'm certain about wanting a high spice level, but that almost never happens in southern New Mexico. Out here, spice is a given. But anyway, this lady wanted reassurance; I gave it; I thought that was it.

But no. Kate piped up. "She wants it crazy hot! That's what she likes! Trust me!"

The waitress paused. "You want double Thai hot? Triple?"

I was in ecstasy at the very concept. "You do triple? Yes, please! That!"

And so it went, and eventually they wanted me to go to the kitchen to reassure the chef himself. Which I did, and then they took a picture of me eating (heavenly -- the food, not the picture), and another picture of me and the chef.

Is there a moral to this story? Wait -- you thought I dealt in fucking morals? No. The point is -- you never know you can get triple Thai hot unless you ask. Thank you, Kate. Thank you, Thai Delight. Bring on the chiles!

Crazy Soup

No, not my brain, silly. It's another scorching summer day in southern New Mexico, so I decided to get cooking out of the way early, before my kitchen hits ninety degrees (one of the swamp coolers is out, but the pool is finally up and running, WOO HOO). I made a variation of one of my favorite soups. I'm a soup goddess -- I cook a lot, mostly vegan, but soups are where my creativity really comes out, and most of what I make is wholly invented from my own perfervid brain.

For this soup, which is kind of Asian and kind of southern and has no name, I start by cubing a block of extra firm tofu and stir-frying it in canola oil, Sriracha, and soy sauce. When the tofu starts to brown, I add a chopped white onion, the chopped stalks of a bunch of red Swiss chard, and some crushed red pepper. When this mixture starts to smell really good, I add water, the torn Swiss chard leaves, a bunch of chopped carrots, some minced jalapeno, a couple vegetarian bouillon cubes, cover it, and let it simmer for fifteen or twenty minutes. I serve it over a mix of brown and wild rice, with lots of extra Sriracha.

According to an online recipe calculator, this soup is incredibly fucking healthy. More importantly, it tastes great. I like to blow my mind with hot sauce, but I also appreciate the deep flavor of the Swiss chard, or any other type of greens. People tend to think of greens as a southern food, but I grew up with all types of greens in the northeast, and I crave them. It pisses me off that you rarely see a greens recipe that calls for any use of the stalks; they're usually discarded. I love their texture and flavor, and never throw them away.

So try my soup. And don't leave out the Sriracha and jalapenos, you pussies.

New Zealand Sangria

Yeah, I haven't posted in forever. Expecting any commentary on that? Fuck you.

Haha.

Last night was the MLB All Star Game. I watched with the BF and a good friend. We drank New Zealand Sangria with some added vodka (does that explain my fuzzy head this morning? Why yes, it does). It wasn't a great game, and the AL lost, but it was a really fun night. New Mexico, like much of the southwest and deep south, has been in terrible drought conditions for a while now, and we all cheered as the thunderstorms moved in. Terrifying, persistent lightning rent the sky and lit the thirsty desert; rain fell off and on for several hours. My hair curled up a couple inches shorter and got correspondingly wider and higher. It was fucking awesome.

I just got back from Maine, an earlier trip than usual, and while I'm happy to have gone, I'm also glad to be here during monsoon season for a change. There is nothing like rain in the desert, the cool wet wind when days have been over a hundred degrees and heated like an oven, the scent of creosote suddenly permeating everything. I scream with pleasure for nights like that.

So. Scattered. But I'm back.

You & Your Heart

I haven't posted in a while -- partly because I'm lazy, partly because I'm in my usual horratious November funk. I'm getting awfully tired of feeling sorry for myself, though. That takes a lot of energy, suprisingly, and surely I should put that energy to better use. Nonetheless I was being my usual useless November self when I decided to fire up YouTube and listen to some Jack Johnson. If you have perchance lived under a rock for the last few years, Jack is a cool, laid-back ex-surfer who did the soundtrack to the "Curious George" movie, and has multiple other, wicked awesome albums. (Albums? How fucking old am I?)

Anyway, Jack totally set me on fire, especially the video for "You and Your Heart." In case you didn't know (and if you didn't know, you either don't know me or ignored everything I've said in the last five months), I learned to surf this summer with my fabulous sister and multiple fabulous East Coast friends. So this video really hit me. Sure, I'm in New Mexico now, with no real hope of surfing till my next East Coast trip. But just seeing the gorgeous waves and water sent my heart soaring. I felt like a modern, bizarre surf-version of the fucking "Sound of Music" or something.

I love surfing. What really makes it amazing to me is that when I'm standing up on a wave, nothing else exists. Nothing. I can't emphasize that enough. I can't even really explain it. It' s just me on the wave.

Surely I can take this pure feeling and find other ways to experience it. It's not like November is good for anything else.

Hei Matau

In the spirit of surfing, and of my interest in all things Polynesian, I recently bought a Maori (New Zealand Polynesian) fish hook necklace. It is made of bone ("Human?" someone asked in horror, which made me laugh, and also made me realize that, vegetarian though I am, I didn't actually give a shit if it were human). According to the seller, the carving

signifies abundance and plenty, strength and determination. A good luck charm for catching good luck and positive energy, and safe journey over water.

It just seemed like a really nice necklace for a chick who digs water, and surfing, and Polynesia. I might even have to come up with a haiku...

Sad, Sad, Sad...

The happiest day of the year is when I arrive in New England to see my sister, her husband, and my nephew and niece. The second happiest day of the year is when I fill my pool.

The saddest day of the year is when I have to leave New England. The second saddest is when I empty my pool.

Today is the second saddest day of the year.

Superfly (Ball)

I'm a bitch in the fall -- October, anyway. You might have gotten a sense of that from my last post, but I'm actually deadly serious. The baseball postseason renders me useless, foul, and heinously cold to those who love me. I don't care. I mean, I don't care that I'm like that, and I don't care about you.

I don't know what that says about me. Normally I not only consider myself highly empathetic, I pride myself on that quality. The baseball playoffs send all that sensitive crap out the window. For one month, I don't give a shit. I just want to soak up all the baseball I can before winter arrives and there's no baseball and there's no swimming and I'd rather just hibernate, but no one gives me that fucking choice, now, do they?

I've said as much about the playoffs and about October, here and elsewhere. Andi astutely noted that I can also be useless during the major tennis tournaments but, trust me, it's not the same. I'm kinda sorta out-of-touch during the Grand Slams. Baseball? I'm another person.

I've made that absence plain over the years. Once, my BF told me we were hosting a party during a playoff night. I told him he could either reschedule or understand that I would not talk or mingle or even cook during the game. He didn't reschedule. I didn't acknowledge anyone's presence until the game was over.

Another time, the constant ringing of the phone drove me mad. So I recorded a new message for my voicemail. "Hi, this is Kelly. You didn't really think I'd answer the phone during baseball playoffs? Leave a message and I'll get back to you in November."

So...I don't know if I have a point. But that's how it is.

Bittersweet October

It rained tonight, the first real rain in nearly a month, and reminded me again that October is so fucking bittersweet. Not like bittersweet chocolate, an awful lie (that shit is mostly just sweet), but truly bittersweet, in a way that can close your throat with joy and tears at the same time.

Why must you do this to me, October? Let me count the ways...

Summer is over. Oh, it's still been pretty warm here, eighties and even ninety in the past week or so. But a chill creeps into the late night air and I know winter is around the corner. There is no exuberant display of autumn leaves, unlike my childhood home. It always looks the same in southern New Mexico. It's gorgeous desert. But there's not even that payoff. Fuck you, non-existent leaves.

The pool must be drained. I always put this off at least two weeks past a reasonable point. There's no way I'm going swimming again. But the water looks so lovely and inviting, shimmering under the brilliant sun. I mourn its absence even while it's still there. Don't leave me cold and dry!

Baseball -- the post-season -- so exciting! The White Sox didn't make it this year, but any baseball is good baseball. But after the World Series...nothing until spring training in March. Oh, fuck you, baseball, why must you go away every year and leave me all alone?

Halloween, my favorite holiday since I was old enough to grasp the concept. What could be more delightful than to cuddle in an old (or new) York Beach sweatshirt after the sun goes down and fall into the seductively evil embrace of a Christopher Lee Hammer films marathon? I love you, C-Lee Dracula!

Oh, October, my own secret abusive boyfriend. Fuck you, October. I love you so much.

Rain Dance

I haven't posted in a while -- not so much because I'm uninspired (although being unable to SURF in the desert is a problem) but because I've been so busy since I returned to New Mexico. It's mostly everyday life-type busy, and I'm job hunting as well.

Last night a storm rolled in close to midnight. It began with gusting winds. The smell of wet creosote began to crowd the humid air, telling me that the rain was nearby. Finally the storm broke, but not heavy -- soft little drops. I tossed my clothes and danced around the pool until the lightning strikes came too close.

Sleep was easy to achieve, but difficult to maintain -- the lightning was all around, illuminating the dark, crashing and reverberating, sounding as if the next strike might be my room. I was jumpy and excited and exhausted all at once. When morning came, and I heard a crowing quail and saw that the sun was out, I felt a crushing moment of depression.

Rain, come back! I love you!

Surfing Goat Haiku

Surfing goat on waves --
horizontal pupils glow.
My goat is gnar-gnar.

Random

Today I've been looking after Satan's minions, a.k.a. my sister's lovely children. Sis and BIL went to a wedding in Mass, will be back tomorrow early afternoon. The kids were great overall, and we had dinner with our friend Leila and her own little minions.

I'm going to try to surf a time or two again before I get on Amtrak this coming Tuesday. The surf report looks good for late Saturday and most of Sunday and Monday (i.e. waves we can probably handle -- between two and three feet -- I'm really not a fool; I just play one on this blog). My multiple surf bruises, elbows and knees, are even more spectacular than when I got them almost a week ago, incidentally. I love having surfing injuries. It makes me feel pathetically cool.

I'm suffering my usual ambivalence about the end of my summer trip. It's time to go home, to soak up the desert sun, hug my boyfriend, kiss my cats. It's time to stop freelancing and take a job that gets me out of the damned house. But it's always depressing to leave the lovely family embrace of J, R, and the kids. Why can't we have it all?

On a more positive note, I'm glad to see posts from my gorgeous and talented co-bloggers. Keep it up, ladies (and I do use the term loosely).

Finally, why blond, Bobby V? I'm shaking my head, totally perplexed. Still love you, though, and the fact that the baseball season is still going strong! Come on, White Sox!

Sisters

This picture is a perfect snapshot of me and my sister together. Always laughing!

Stoked

So here's the surf round-up.

My sister and I are going surfing Thursday evening. We also plan to spend some time in the morning at a surf shop, where she will price beginner boards and suits. She's even more into it than I am. Of course, the lucky bitch does actually live on a coast (fucking desert).

We're going to try to surf as much as possible before I leave at the end of the month. I'm going to need a lot of ocean water to get me through the next year.

We watched Blue Crush tonight. The movie is slight as hell, but it has some nice surfing sequences. And, you might have guessed, any surfing (any water) is better than none.

We read Greg Noll's "Da Bull" recently. Noll is one of the very earliest big wave surfers, and an even bigger personality. I discovered him in the documentary Riding Giants and totally fell in love. Need a granddaughter, Greg? Adopt me! And my sister!

I forgot a couple funny stories about our surf lesson at Rye. My sister's friend R came out of the shop wearing her wetsuit backward and unzipped. In case you don't know, they zip in the back. So R's extremely large chest was bursting out of the front. "Is this right?" she trilled. The South African instructor managed not to laugh as he said, "No, it's backward." An hour later, in the surf, she was paddling out to the break. "Are you trying to do tricks?" the instructor asked. Her board was pointed backward. R is such the good sport! Or perhaps such the sly cougar compared to the rest of us.

Okay, time to check the surf forecast. Again.

Why Not?

Another day, another surf session. My sister and I had planned on surfing this (Saturday) morning. I got up early and began to study surf reports for the area. It was discouraging -- almost flat seas. Honestly, though, I wasn't too depressed -- it was fucking cold here, not much over fifty degrees at seven a.m. So we pushed our plans back and set 6 p.m. as our goal.

We showed up at Long Sands, York Beach, Maine, just the two of us. I pulled on my new Roxy wetsuit, simultaneously shy and proud, and we hit the waves. It was a funny day: seaweed choked (how do those little red bastards get inside a wetsuit?), with relatively small, two-foot sets followed by vicious four-plus footers.

We were thrown around a lot when the sets alternated, and it took a while to get used to the smaller boards. We've only used the smaller boards once, and they were very tippy. This time I took a while to acclimate, but I quickly lost my fear that I would tip over to one side or the other. In fact, I lost most fear today. I'm not scared of the water, or even the waves -- I guess I am just afraid of not doing it right. That washed away, somehow, in the beauty of the steely, cold waves, and I just went with it.

As the four-plus footers rolled in, I turned my board around and yelled at my sister: "Why not?" I glimpsed her horrified face as I caught the wave and popped up on my board. And wiped out about two seconds later, max. Well, fuck; I wipe out all the time. No big deal. So we kept trying, even though the waves were mostly too big for us, and we were the only two newbies at that point, at the end of a line of experienced surfers.

We caught another Sister Wave -- a big one, and we just had time to smile at each other before we wiped out simultaneously. It was fucking awesome.

I don't measure my surfing success by the length of rides or the number of waves caught. I know I'm learning, and it's all good. Even if I don't catch a wave, I'm in the water. I'm salt-kissed. I'm bouncing off swells. I smell the iodine ocean and taste the breeze. I'm with my sister. There's no better time or place than now and here.

Mini Me

I've mentioned before that my three-year-old niece Vivian sometimes feels like my own daughter; my sister just happens to be the one who gave birth to Vivi.

Vivi adores me. I'm not totally sure why. I mean, yeah, I'm cool, I'm the crazy aunt Kiki. We sing and dance and embrace our silliness. We share a certain whimsy and a rock-bottom crass sense of humor. But it feels deeper than that.

At nap time, Vivi wants me to sleep in her room, or to sleep in mine. At night sometimes I will wake up and find her tucked in beside me with a sleepy smile.

Recently Vivi has started twirling her hair. The first time I saw this, I asked my sister if it was new behavior. My sister smiled at my obliviousness: "She does it because you do it." It's true. It doesn't matter to Vivi that she has a lovely, straight little bob of light brown hair and I have a fall of dark, messy curls. She looks very serious as she twists her hair around her finger.

She asks me to wear my pink flipflops because she has a pair too. She notes when we're wearing the same colors (although I was unaware of the critical distinction between light pink and regular pink). I got her a purse that looked like mine and she immediately began to fill it with little odds and ends, making sure that she had similar things in hers as I had in mine. She found an old cell phone and carefully put it into the same zippered compartment where I keep my own cell.

Today I asked her, "Vivi, why do you love Kiki so much?"

She looked at me like I was a fool. "You burp a lot!"

You can't make this shit up. And you can't help but appreciate having such an awesome little Mini Me.

Roxy Baby

This is the Roxy wetsuit that I bought. People have suggested I might have done better with a full suit, but I didn't really find the full suit comfortable. I can't even stand to fasten the neck; I was never a turtleneck type. I also find it irritating to not be able to push up the sleeves, and to have the tightness around the ankles. I don't think the lower limb coldness will be a problem. Also? This suit is wicked hot. I know I'll love it.

Yeah, I live in the desert ten-plus months of the year. But I hope to make some surf trips to California with my BF. And I have another use for this suit: it can extend my pool season! Why not swim in April and October, like a happy black-and-purple seal? This motherfucker is going to change my life.

On a totally different note, we've had a lovely rain in Durham this evening. I've missed the summer monsoon in New Mexico and, oddly, New England has been totally hot and dry during my trip, until tonight. I love the desert rain, but I love this rain and humidity too: my hair curls damply against the back of my neck; my skin is shiny but glowing and youthful; the air is impossibly dense and redolent of pine.

I love this place.