Nature's perfect food

If you live anywhere near San Francisco, you know what I mean.

hint, hint

And today I found out about the best Bay Area burrito resource the world (at least the one I live in) has ever seen.

Local friends and frequent visitors, don't even pretend you're not excited to see how your favorite place ranks. My current number one choice and long-time faithful standby both did pretty well. Granted, they're basing their rankings on carne asada, for the most part. But they still know what's up.

Raise your mustaches in the air for the country's finest burritos! If you don't have a mustache, a tip of the hat will do just fine.

Stereotypes, shmereotypes

Yes, Virginia, good Jews really do go to the movies and eat Chinese food on Christmas. Especially when it happens to be the first night of Chanukah as well.

And somewhere in the Talmud—I think it comes after the section on ordering chow mein—we're also instructed to hightail it into the mountains to sit in some hot springs on Boxing Day.

Who am I to argue with thousands of years of tradition?

So, listen, about that weather report for Calistoga . . .

Paris pulse revisited

I spent about three hours making soup this morning. Kidney beans, butternut squash, basil, lots of garlic. There's enough to last for weeks.

Then I went to the bakery for walnut bread, brought it back, shared it and the soup and a wintery salad with my aunt. Then I went for a run.

Came home again and sorted through my Italy photos, a project that's been on the living room floor for months. Now I think I'll go to bed early and get up in time for yoga.

Tonight, someone asked me what day of the week it was, and I had no idea.

Vacation is especially satisfying when it takes so little time to sink in.

55 beats per minute

Warm fuzzies

Tomorrow morning, my department is going to the Alameda Food Bank's warehouse to help pack up food for distribution. I may work for a big semi-evil corporation, but it still fills me with softly lit holiday goodwill when they sponsor stuff like this.

Afterward, we're all going to lunch at the Fat Lady, a long-standing but kinda sketchy Oakland institution. Make of that what you will.

Then . . . no more offices until 2006! Well. Technically, there are two days next week we can either work or take off, and I think I may go in for one of them, since I'm trying to horde vacation time. But except for that, we're done until January 2. Done done done done done.

In honor of the one time each year when some American companies get civilised like their European counterparts and give us real time off, I plan to finally see the gay cowboy movie. I mean, the grand sweeping Western tale of Heath and Jake and their ridiculously handsome love.

Tried to go twice before, but it's been sold out each time—not a big shocker in San Francisco, but a little annoying all the same. So I bit the bullet and bought advance tickets online. But ticket fees have nothing to do with seasonal cheer, so let's not talk about them.

Things we can talk about instead: No work! Hot cowboys! Yes!

Happy holidays to you. I hope your vacation starts soon and ends a long time from now.

Mix it up

Mingus and I got into a rush hour scrape the other day. I came out unscathed, as did all the other humans involved, but the wagon didn't fare too well. So it's off to the car doctor he goes, my expensive silver date, and I arranged to tool around town in yet another rental.

I wasn't excited about it at first, but now I am. After years of passing by Rent-A-Relic, the West Coast sister of New England's venerable Rent-A-Wreck, I finally remembered the place existed when I actually need a car. In addition to being walkable from my house—very handy—turns out it's cheap, friendly, and old-school in the best possible way.

Meaning this: They gave me a brown 2002 Ford Escort with squeaky brakes and a tape player. Did you hear that? Do you need me to turn it up? A TAPE PLAYER. You may remember that I threw almost all of my tapes away when I moved into this lemon tree cabin, but you'll be none too shocked to learn that I did keep all the best tapes. The originals. The teen angst. The sorrow, the joy, the coming of age. The labors of love.

Yes, that's right. The mix tapes.

It sucks that I'm going to have the highest insurance rates in the universe soon, but it almost doesn't matter when you consider that I got to listen to But Anyway, Roadhouse Blues, and Walk of Life on the drive to work this morning. Then, on the way home, my favorite car song ever—the car song to rule all car songs—the crown jewel.

The best part is that I don't remember what's on most of these tapes I once slaved over, trying to fill those last 45 empty seconds with the perfect hidden track, so I just pop them in and get a full 1.5 hours of delicious surprises.

Ladies and gentlemen, the art of the mix tape lives on in my rental relic. Which is named Ferris, by the way. I just thought you should know.

Anyone? Anyone?

How time do fly

Just realized I flew back from France a year ago today. That's wild. It feels like I was there last week.

But it was really a full 365 days ago that you could find me holed up in a dear, chilly apartment the size of a parking space, walking and eating and listening my way around the City of Light—so here's a little trip down memory lane for your entertainment and my nostalgia.

Disclaimer: I think the winter cold was affecting my brain a little. At least that might explain the part about Polish Film Month.

Dormez bien,
Le BCB

Maybe I get a stalker next

This week, my website received its first random fan letter ever. We here at The BCB are, as they say, pretty freaking psyched about this. In fact, we think it's cool enough to post the note in full on this here blog:

Date: Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Subject: i like your website

Hello.

I recently got back from a trip to Barcelona and I visited tons of museums including the Fundacio Joan Miro, the Museu d'Art Contemporani, and the Museu Picasso, just like you. I was particularly interested in the "Spice Cupboard" and when I googled it to get more information, your website popped up.

I just wanted to tell you that I enjoyed your website.

-[Mystery lady's name]

To celebrate these props, we will refer to ourselves in the third person for the rest of the day.

And in case anyone's wondering, here's what happens when you google barcelona spice cupboard. Lo, my rantings are there. Our rantings, I mean.

How does royalty keep that up? It's exhausting.

You like us, you really like us!

It's beginning to look a lot like...

I just found out about this magical store. Anyone who remembers this entry can imagine my excitement. Guess what everybody's getting for the holidays this year?

I'm kidding. You all get books and wine, of course. Why mess with tradition? But my oldest friend and I did work the thrift store circuit this weekend like pros, and we also found some killer glad rags at RAG's sidewalk sale. It's just that the stuff we picked up wasn't so much for, y'know, other people.

It's not that I don't want to share the love. It's just that every urban lady needs her fix sometimes, and the new San Francisco H&M doesn't have much to please the good people on my Chanukah list. But it does have so very much to offer moi.

Admit it—you're all really lit and liquor types at heart, anyway.

The other wing

A poem for fall,

Since it's never really winter in California.

At least not the way I knew it and didn't mind leaving it behind

In favor of a holiday party out on the bay. But layers will be in order.

Privacy

The animals are leaving
the safety of the trees

Light sensors respond
to the footfall of every guest

To retard the growth of algae

The fishes must be moved
from the window

Stiller than water she lay
As in a glass dress

As if all life might come to its end
within the radius of her bed

Beyond the reef of trees a beach cannot be seen
The bay itself barely breathing

In the other wing of the house
A small boat awaits elucidation

C.D. Wright

Humble pie

I usually stay away from bestsellers, since they tend to be bland enough to please everyone (Life of Pi, Cold Mountain) or "original" to the point of nonsense (Everything Is Illuminated, White Teeth), but a lady whose opinion I value recently proclaimed Ian McEwan's Atonement the best novel she's ever read. She insisted I read it also.

I was skeptical. But sometimes you know when it's not time to argue, so I picked up a copy at Powell's and enjoyed it very much. Beautifully written, with the kind of raw, tender battle descriptions that Hemingway could do—when he wanted—but often skipped in favor of bluntly sketched brutality. Even the overused conceit about the manuscript turning out to have been "written" by the protagonist was strangely moving in McEwan's hands. I haven't read much else by him save some excerpts from Saturday published in The NYer, but now I'll keep an eye out.

The moral of the tale: Kick your preconceived notions to the curb and heed the recommendations of the wise.

This review and a few more can be found on my recently updated Books list. For the uninitiated, I started keeping this list from birthday to birthday a few years ago. The current list pales painfully in comparison to 2004–2005, but hey...I was living a decadent European life then. Much more free time on my hands.

I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. Cousteau

Remember when I mentioned those diesel-sized sea lions that lurk under the Santa Cruz pier? Well, here they are. As you can see, these complex creatures displayed a thousand different states of mind in the space of the half hour or so I spent watching them.

Behold the majestic beasts lounging . . .

Napping . . .

Stretching . . .

Resting . . .

And getting all up in my face.

Wait, you're not a sea lion!

The end.

So where's my sidekick?

"Your life mostly resembles Pretty in Pink. You have some financial difficulties, but because of them you are more creative. You are prone to having a sidekick who follows you everywhere because you are so cool."

Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com