there should be a space, but it's okay

Okay, so let's cue up our favorite old Van Halen song and talk about teachers. If you have the time, money, and inclination, I encourage you to take the twelve-week cooking class at Kitchen on Fire. My only complaint is that I don't understand why Chef MikeC. insists on writing his name with no spaces. Puzzler. Other than that, he and his class are perfect. I've had some engaging professors in my day, but this guy seems to love what he does and the class is hilarious, informative, safe, and so goddamned fun I can't even tell you. So go take it. With your Mom. Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

I've been a recipe slave for a long time. Yesterday got a pork tenderloin, roasted it with rosemary, farmers' mkt carrots and spring onions, and made a nice fruit jam, took care of some waxy potatoes in need of a good beating. I love a good beat down, don't you? This was what was in my fridge. It took no time and because I was cleaning as I went (mis en place, people!), I had nothing to clean up afterwards but my roasting pan. Oh my god, where did this guy come from and how did he teach the most inattentive student in the world to cook?!

in case you didn't notice . . .

Barbecue Season (BBQS) is upon us. Yes, you could argue that BBQS lasts all year in Northern California and I'd heartily second you, but it really starts to feel official when every weekend is preceded by an invitation that goes so far to the extreme into the inventory of the distasteful that it leaves one with no other choice but to get out the spice rub and prepare for gastronomical diversion:

"while the mission's fronting face may be all 99 cent stores, pigeons eating puke on the sidewalk, smells of urine, taquerias, and hipsters, the back side is a little oasis of calm green seldom seen. honestly, a beautiful bird nested right outside our back door and laid one quite beautiful, perfecto white egg! so don't stress. you don't need to get on your tight jeans, american apparel, or shag cuts for a garden party! just come kick it and bring a friend! there will be bbq'ing, drinking, hula hooping, and longboard skateboarding! hang out, say hi, have a beer, water a tree, eat something good!"

Time to officially shift the freelance hours to 12am to 4am. Sleep when you're dead. In the meantime, there are chimney starters to fire up! Are you grillmeister enough?

my life as an editor

"Cross out as many adjectives and adverbs as you can."—E. L. Doctorow

. . . and move on.

my house of cards: tantrum

Armed with cameras, friends can defect into the not-friend-at-all category without warning. At least temporarily. Until the camera is put down and stepped away from. At Supperbridge®, our small collective of bridge-playing amateur chefs, most recently hosted by the little self, I pitched a fit that was regrettably caught on film. I needed to stop with the learning of so many card-game rules. And I needed to stop immediately.

Given that, throwing myself onto the table seemed like just the ticket. What can I say? A girl can only handle so many trumps, rubbers, suits, and bids before she just needs to flip her hand and demand we all just move instantly and without argument on to dessert and coffee or continue playing over her dead body.

Hopefully the forced dessert made up for the antics: amaretto zabaglione with strawberries in a balsamic-black pepper sauce. Before that was herbed rack of lamb, tarragon mash, a now-standby beet salad with homemade almond butter, and finally a nice French rosé for the kids. Ply loved ones with liquor and they'll tolerate just about anything.

my new workout video

You should hop along with us. It's very good fun. (And by the way, it only counts as a complete routine if you last until the dog appears in the final scene.)

dinner new orleans style

It has been the Era of Freelancia lately, with work day and night, including weekends. So there's only been time to mist the orchids and use my new pull-up bar (yes, Fierce bought me one and I love it more than life itself) on the way to hitting the showers between the near-constant editing, writing, revising.

However, a girl's gotta eat. So Honky and I decided to pause the treadmill and cook it up BIG last night. We made alligator sausage cheesecake and chipotle shrimp with okra and black cherry tomatoes. No, I'm not kidding. I forgot to take pictures. I know! I'm really sorry! But it was hours in the making and by the time I finished the presentation on the plate, I was inches from eating my own arm. This was "nick of time" territory.

Was it good, you ask? Well it was kind of like when you're a kid and you insist you can eat the whole banana split and then get a few bites in and realize it's so big and you're so little and the victor in the battle will decidedly not be you. I admit it: we were defeated by the cheesecake. In fact, by the time I was done, I was on the floor beside my chair. It was all-caps rich. I'd intended for the okra and tomatoes to cut the sweet, cheesy goodness, but suffice to say its sauce, a roux involving bacon fat, may not have been the best device for cutting richness. Noted.

Happily, we'll have a chance to redeem ourselves with cooking in the weeks to come, as I'm enrolled with my bloodsister comrade BFF, the Spatula Maestro, in a cooking course called Kitchen on Fire.

Kennedy elves will also attempt to return with more dog news, shots of an orchid about to bloom, and book reports in time for your summer beach-reading shopping spree. So many books. I have read some greats. In the meantime, there's a pull-up record to beat.

facebook is watching you.

[Here's a kind of amazing addition to the Facebook fact sheet—the opt-in permits Blockbuster to notify friends and family of the videos you rent. Zoinks, glad I use Netflix.]

I blog. This is narcissism. No denying. I can defend myself and say my reviews and articles continue to travel farther—with more forthcoming in the Monthly, the Chronicle, and elsewhere around the webforest—and that this will serve as the single Kennedy depot, the ranger station.

But then there is the "proof of life" aspect, the indulgent stuff that has nothing to do with news you can use. It's instinct: we hang these shingles to advertise our well-lived, purposeful lives, posting pretty pix and declaring for all the world, "Look! My life is so great! My friends all have white teeth and every one of us has read Ulysses! We are very good on mountain bikes, we play instruments, and we cook better than your Nana."

So I thought for a moment that the solution to this staged self might be committing to posting unflattering pix, making a point of writing about the nights spent at home eating chips in my PJs instead of at the Ani D concert, at supper club, at comrades' art openings, and just generally resisting the egotistical temptation to inflate the illusion of my social network through dubious and vapid devices like Myspace and Facebook. But I don't think you care that I stay home and eat chips. Do you?

So instead, we will just keep doing what we're doing. And millions more of you will continue doing what you're doing, even if it's chatting on Myspace about the sexy beasts at the hellafierce beer bust you recently attended, pix with wagging tongues and rude gestures to boot. That's fine. Our lies and glorifications constitute our wabi-sabi and what matters is that we're honest with our inner circle and putting something, anything good out in the world aside from self-aggrandizing hot shots. We can all do that, right? Deal.

But one thing: before you tab over to a new window and update your profile with the pic that caught your good side, let me just share an interesting Guardian article that NT forwarded on the type of user data collection carried out by the upstanding folks over at Facebook. Anyone out there in legal? The last few paragraphs of this deft takedown address their privacy policy, well worth reading. If a company like Facebook states that—whether or not you opt out—they back up personal information, does this mean signing on to the user agreement necessarily discounts your right to write in and request your personal information not be sold, rented, or stored? In other words, by signing on to Facebook, are users signing away their privacy? Maybe this is an obvious "yes." Swoop in and tell if you know, legal eagles.

curse at the crybabies

Black, Alan. Kick the Balls: An Offensive Suburban Odyssey. June 2008. Hudson Street Press. 304p. ISBN: 978-1-59463-047-7. $23.95.

for Library Journal

Alan Black, who grew up in Glasgow but now runs a San Francisco bar and literary venue called the Edinburgh Pub Castle, spins this yarn of his spectacularly unsuccessful venture into coaching peewee soccer with a bartender’s irreverent style. Replete as it may be with heart, humor, and clever cynicism, the book—at 304 pages—reads like a drawn-out anecdote, with several narrative spin-offs distracting from the games themselves: fictitious “news articles” following each loss, sarcastic moral inquiries to a televangelist Black watches late at night, running conversation with Ben & Jerry whose ice cream he eats for comfort and consolation, and laments of the staid suburban life. The actual game commentary, on the other hand, is brisk, cruel, and hilarious, a play-by-play exhibition of the differences between today’s “everyone’s a winner” athletics and the antic traditions of Black's generation of players, bonded by their roguish will to take the game at any cost. While his team goes the entire season without winning a single game, Black pulls off enough laugh-out-loud insights to make this rough-and-tumble, often offensive cultural commentary a winner. Recommended for all public and private libraries. Elizabeth Kennedy, Oakland, CA

abandon all hope, ye who enter here

Nice is fine, but bitchy can be so much more fun. Behold the visceration! My comrade P shares his opinion of a certain little book forced upon him as part of his certification as a capital-E Editor. (His is the first comment, dated April 2, 2008 and attached to the one-star rating.) Am I the only one who loves to listen so closely as the searing brand of effete sadism touches its tender targets? Youch!

the shiny guy...

[This just in! ML from LA read this post and sent me something so much better, the merger of Darth and Hamuel Day Lewis's voice from There Will Be Blood. It's movie magic, people. I'm delighted.]

So we had a little Star Wars movie marathon this weekend. It needs to happen every so often. Only this time, I'd since watched a certain video of a certain critic's recap of the original movies. I challenge you to watch this video and then watch Star Wars and tell me that the girl's voice doesn't pop up in your mind every single time C-3PO is in the frame.

the latest in objectionables

I'm all for innovation and invention. Small discs that vacuum without the help of humans? Sure, why not? Laser tape measures? Neat. Zesters, pastry scrapers, ice cream scoops with the little dislodger arm, yes, I like all of these. But I think someone needs to tighten the belt on the buyers at Sur La Table and Crate & Barrel. Let's observe together.

If you cannot spare the energy to shake the shaker, you have not earned your martini.


These may be, as fixtures go, as old as the hills, but longevity does not justify ceramic eyesores. No more sculpted, painted fowl in our kitchens.


Let's spare our dishware the responsibility of communicating for us. If I want to say good morning to you, I'll do it myself.


Flashy mixers. I say no to pastel mixers, even if they are part of the assuredly moral "Do xx for the Cure" campaign that appears to be taking over the planet.


Can you see what that sign next to me says? Those are branches and they are for sale inside the store for $6.95 (they are, incidentally, also available just outside the store, the very same type of tree, for free if you bring a hacksaw).

now is the time to drink the coffee

"Instructions for a Journey"

Wear sneakers. Stuff a pocket
with tissues and treats for the dog.
Fill the other pocket with coins;
the ferryman won’t accept your
E-Zpass. Infrared binoculars
would be handy. Turn off
your cell phone. Do not annoy
the guards in any way and don’t
take the same path twice. Bring
a guidebook, compass, and map.
When you think you are lost,
you are lost. Someone may find
you but it may not be anyone you
are happy to see. Don’t complain
about it, or anything else. Be polite
and noncommittal. Do not form
attachments or enemies. When
invited anywhere, pretend you
can’t understand whatever language
the invitation is issued in. The hills
are steep but the flats are boring.
The composition of the soil is so
alkaline, it can put you to sleep.
Resist the urge. Now is the time to
drink the coffee. Don’t take Valium,
no matter how nervous this journey
makes you. When told to leave, go.
Do not wait for a signal or someone
to see you out. Do not feel you must
say good-bye. When the door slams
behind you, let it. Don’t look back.

—Susan Thomas

that Curry kid

Not that I'm bitter that my alma mater was defeated or anything, but is anyone else distracted by the presence of a nine-year-old boy in the Sweet Sixteen?

military contractors: watch this

comedy

tragedy

have your sushi and save it too

Those (six) of you who keep up with my fiction know one of my first (only) short stories involves a bumbling girl who, among her many gaffes, mocks a friend when he pulls out a list to determine what fish is safe—meaning sustainable—to eat at dinner. Such a list exists. Dunno if you knew that.

Well as fate would have it, it ends up I'm the very lucky editor of the one, the only definitive sushi guidebook to be published by—yes, it's true—the creator of said list. I didn't know him when I wrote the story. And you're right, he's not the only one that put the list together. As always with such efforts, it was the result of a whole motley crew of all-good, freebooting, seafaring, entirely overeducated, pointyheaded researchers. But of them all, Casson Trenor's the one who has made me an official acolyte and that's why I petitioned so hard to get his book on our list at North Atlantic.

Casson is like a handsome Paul Watson, or maybe a radical Bill McKibben. He's the all-around cool guy in the North Face jacket who talks like an encyclopedia and makes it all feel doable, whatever it all may be. You'd probably find yourself wishing you could keep him in your pocket anytime you needed to make an informed decision in a world at its environmental ends. He stops to talk with each of the youngsters waving clipboards and standing out on the streetcorners, demands they back up their arguments, laments when they fail. Because lives matter to him he puts in the effort to understand the complexity of a crisis. So step right up, first contestant. Today is your lucky day! Because believe it or not, now you actually can put Casson in your pocket...or at least a Zagat-sized guide he wrote anyway.

But you'd rather eat sashimi than save the planet, you say? That's the point. Casson's book (tucked neatly in your cargo-pants pocket) makes for a world in which you can gleefully indulge your selfish hedonist's impulses without scarfing up the last of our world's rare, wild creatures that really have no place being options at the sushi bar in the first place.

Even my fictional cynic has to admit it is a fun read, teaching you how to talk up your sushi chef (it's an art, in fact), what you can eat into eternity, how to tell fresh food, where it all comes from, and the questions you have a right—an obligation—to be asking.

And did I mention color photos of every fish (both the fish and the sushi, actually), along with killer illustrations? Say hello, for example, to my friend the monkfish.



Now that's an animal. I'm telling you. Coming to an aquarium, bookstore, and amazon.com near you January 2009. Don't wait! Order today, wasabi tomorrow. Sustainable Sushi: A Guide for a Changing Planet. Make a note of it.

these mean everything

Just learned an old friend has died. The rest of us are still here, making adjustments on our knees before the mighty grief of everyday life. We're here! It's an insult to whoever has gone before not to appreciate being here. She'd have said it herself: today is the most beautiful day in the history of days. Now is all we have.

"Dear One, How Many Years Is It"

Dear one, how many years is it—I forget—
Since this luminous evening when you joined us
In the celebration of whatever it was that we were celebrating—I forget—
It is a mark of a successful celebration
That one should have little recollection of the cause;
As long as the happiness itself remains a memory.
Our tiny planet, viewed from afar, is a place of swirling clouds
And dimmish blue; Scotland, though lodged large in all our hearts
Is invisible at that distance, not much perhaps,
But to us it is our all, our place, the opposite of nowhere;
Nowhere can be seen by looking up
And realizing, with shock, that we really are very small;
You would say, yes, we are, but never overcompensate,
Be content with small places, the local, the short story
Rather than the saga; take pleasure in private jokes,
In expressions that cannot be translated,
In references that can be understood by only two or three,
But which speak with such eloquence for small places
And the fellowship of those whom we know so well
And whose sayings and moods are as familiar
As the weather; these mean everything,
They mean the world, they mean the world.

—Alexander McCall Smith

worn boots: my life

This is about my shoes. How will I ever get my aging boots resoled, a comrade asked this morning over poached eggs and bacon, when I wear them every day? I wear no other shoes. I'm holding out on giving them over, particularly since some poets suggest shoes are like the mortal coil itself. They are skins.

You may be fine just going and buying new Adidas. But understand: abandoning my worn, beaten, bent old boots now seems unnatural to me. They have lasted this last decade along with me. It would be like shipping off my toes, my fingers, my nose for a touch-up. You just live with what you have as it endures.

Mr. Simic, that great and reliable poet laureate, instructs us thus:

My Shoes

Shoes, secret face of my inner life:
Two gaping toothless mouths,
Two partly decomposed animal skins
Smelling of mice nests.

My brother and sister who died at birth
Continuing their existence in you,
Guiding my life
Toward their incomprehensible innocence.

What use are books to me
When in you it is possible to read
The Gospel of my life on earth
And still beyond, of things to come?

I want to proclaim the religion
I have devised for your perfect humility
And the strange church I am building
With you as the altar.

Ascetic and maternal, you endure:
Kin to oxen, to Saints, to condemned men,
With your mute patience, forming
The only true likeness of myself.

not that i'm counting

Observation One: photo paper costs about $19.99 a ream, or roughly nineteen cents a page.

Observation Two: let's estimate the average cost of a color printer ink cartridge at $25.99—and figure that the Wikipedia ink cost analysis stands correct with the claim that tells us that even the highest priced ink ends up costing approximately three and a half cents a page.

Observation Three: the good folks at marathonfoto.com just sent me a kind offer to reproduce the laughably unflattering photos below at a cost of only $16.95 per photo.

Conclusion: if I bought all four of the photos below, just one each, not including six bucks in tax and nine bucks in shipping, I'd be paying $66.66 above cost to see these regrettable photos that I have presented here in merciful miniature in even brighter, bigger saturations of sweaty pink splendor. Now if for all the various reasons above you are not able to see this represents a deal with the devil, I don't know how else to explain it to you. Just say no to Marathonfoto!

i = loops for hoops

If you have not been to the land of Jesca Hoop, you simply have not been. I've just returned. She opened for the Ditty Bops. Dreamy songs in mixed up keys slipping through the woods behind lyrics in which owls and raccoons wear flowers in their feathers and furs and know precisely the thing you need to know about love. I say too much. Really. Just go listen to this pretty thing: