Showing posts with label incidents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label incidents. Show all posts

Friday, October 30, 2015

K's last day

Los Angeles, like many sprawling cities, has a lot of residential areas that run smack into major business thoroughfares.  Our house, for example, is on a quiet curving street without sidewalks, full of huge trees and long driveways, but it is also a block and a half from a busy car wash, a bus stop, my office building, and two grocery stores.  It is conveniently located for mass murderers and the dog park.

K's Donuts and Burgers | Cheesy Pennies

Right at the corner, tucked into the same parking lot as that car wash and an auto repair place, is K's Donuts and Burgers. I think we picked up doughnuts for the movers the day our van pulled into the driveway, and it's been a part of our lives ever since.


It's a total hole in the wall, with dingy formica counters and a brusque couple working the register. It's cash only. On weekdays, they make burgers and sandwiches, and the lunch special of a quarter-pound cheeseburger, fries and a soda for $6.50 is a steal. Can you get a grilled cheese sandwich? No. Is it the greatest burger ever? Nah. But it's grilled fresh, the fries are piping hot and perfectly salted, and it's $6.50 with a drink, for heaven's sake.

K's Lunch Special | Cheesy Pennies

When we first allowed the kids to leave the house on their own, it was to walk to K's with the dog and get their own lunch. They'd return home, clutching the brown paper bag, supremely proud of themselves not only for the solo outing, but for managing the wad of seven ones we'd given them so proficiently.  Later, when they were starving after school, it was always a rush to try and get there before the grill closed at 4 o'clock.

K's Glazed Old Fashioned | Cheesy Pennies

The lunch special is a deal, but the doughnuts are magic.  The glazed old fashioneds, shown here, are my gold standard for what that doughnut should be.  Slightly tangy from the buttermilk, tender on the inside, crispy on the outside.  Man! So great. Rumor has it they use the original Stan's recipe, which makes it even more of a miracle for us to have them here in this nondescript strip of Encino.

I've talked about K's doughnuts here on the blog more than once. Leaving early for Disneyland? Stop at K's. First day of a new school year? Stop at K's. My son even ran into the headmaster early one morning as they both lined up for fresh doughnuts.  Our office countertop was graced with a bright pink box on more mornings than I can count over the past four years, and we were all the happier (if a little heavier) for it.



About a month ago, the car wash suddenly closed, and a chain link fence appeared around the driveway.  The auto shop, never all that busy, shuttered.  A developer had purchased the lot, and was rapidly pushing the tenants out to make room for yet another cookie cutter apartment complex on a street already riddled with them.  The owners at K's vowed to stay put, and we cheered, hopeful and glad that the little guy was going to win the day.



But then they didn't. Today was K's last day.

The shop was packed. Firemen, employees from the grocery store, nurses and doctors, plumbers and practically our entire office all made the pilgrimage to grab a burger, a tuna sandwich, a box of fries, and the last maple bars.  Everyone shook hands with the owners, who were still hustling and frantically calling out numbers. "Number 2? Double burger with jalapenos? It's ready!" One woman pressed her card into the cashier's hand. "When you get a new place, you CALL me. I will tell EVERYONE. You hear me? I can't believe this."




I can't believe it either. Yes, it's LA. Change is part of the fabric of the city. There are many other great , great doughnut stores in town, some quite close by. But none of them are our doughnut store. None of them are K's.*


* Technically, there is actually another K's Donuts two miles away, but it's not the same K's.
All photos from this post were taken with my phone on my own last day pilgrimage.

Sunday, August 23, 2015

Growing Up

I am sitting in the airport in North Carolina, waiting for my solo flight home.  I check Facebook and my feed is filled with bittersweet photos of my friends, backseats full of suitcases and bedding, grinning, slightly anxious teenagers in front of brick buildings, or snapshots of dorm rooms neatly organized for perhaps the first and last time all year. People are reposting cartoons of mothers clinging to trees and wonderful articles about letting go of your orbiting little planets.

Used with permission from caglecartoons.com

The thing is, it doesn't get any easier the second time around. It's different, because they are rushing back to a known universe, without the t-shirted volunteers and established institutional agendas for entry. They have things in storage and roommates they chose. I was there almost strictly for logistical support...a last good meal, the Target run, the rental car with a big trunk.  The need for me clearly receded with every load hauled up the stairs*.



Yes, this is as it should be. Yes, I accept and understand and, in unselfish moments, rejoice in this grown person who does not look back when I drive away**.



But I should still have brought my dark sunglasses to wear on the flight home. Especially because this song was on the radio as I dropped him off.

I'll be patient, one more month 
You'll wrap your fingers round my thumb 
Times are changing, I know, but who am I if 
I'm the person you become 
If I'm still growing up, up, up, up 
I'm still growing up, up, up, up...



I still feel those tiny fingers, round my thumb.

* In case I missed any of his subtle exit cues, there were several actual glares yesterday before I left for my hotel.  This is why I should not be allowed to do this alone.  Last year my husband forcibly removed me from his room.  I did redeem myself today by singlehandedly setting up a dual band wireless networkin 15 minutes flat, and buying him a large Mighty Meat pizza for late night leftover purposes.


** Of course. parents' weekend is a month away, so I'll be right back, full of resolve to be mature and independent.  Like my kid.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Gruel Justice

Remember the time they shot the mass murderer on our roof?


He's going to jail for life.  Nine times over.

I know they have real food in prison, but for some reason, I'm picturing him piteously holding up his bowl, begging for gruel.


Of course, he's a psychopath, not an adorable British orphan, so the resulting institutional outrage will be completely justified.  Beg away, Mr. Stuff-your-roomates-in-the-garbage.

No more for you.

I, on the other hand, will be having a lot more of this in my bowl.

Restorative mineral broth | Cheesy Pennies

It's my take on Joy the Baker's version of the made-famous-by-Kobe-Bryant miracle broth.  Now that I'm crawling back onto the eating right bandwagon, having a steaming mug of this in the afternoons has been all kinds of comforting.

Almost as comforting as finally seeing justice done.*

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Always


We named ours Jasper.


18 years ago today.

He came home from a party last night, tall, late and unshaven, swinging his car keys around.

Me:  Happy birthday!!
Him:  I know! I was thinking while I was driving, if I were somehow arrested right now? I would have to go to JAIL! Can you believe it?

We laughed.  I hugged him, and he headed down the hall to bed.  My breath caught as his footsteps receded.

The answer is, No. 
I can't believe it.

Just look over your shoulder.
Just look over your shoulder.
Just look over your shoulder.
I'll be there, always*.


*  Except if you actually go to jail.  Then call your dad.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

In The Doghouse - Now Updated with a Happy Ending!!!!

Way back in January, 2011...

I called my dear friend a few days after Christmas to connect and swap family holiday stories. I told her what had happened when the kids tried to bring Christmas to my mom. Then she told me about a horrible client who made the days running up to and through the holiday a complete nightmare for her. We had a nice round of hearty commiseration and denigration of the misbehaving clients/mothers. Then I told her about the surprise present from my husband and kids that just blew me away, and how happy that had made me after everything that had been going on this year. There was a moment of silence on her end, and then:

Her: Well, that makes what I got even funnier.
Me: Oh no. No! What? He did get you something, right? Tell me he didn't forget to get you something for Christmas.
Her: Oh, he got me something alright.
Me: Well?
Her: He got me a jump rope.
Me: A what?
Her: A jump rope.
Me: Are you kidding me?
Her: I am not kidding you. A jump rope.
Me: [Stunned into silence by this]
Her: It's not just bad in general. It's specifically bad. I mean, you've had kids. I've had kids. I've had HIS KIDS! And I get a jump rope. Really? REALLY?!! There is NO WAY I can jump rope. If I even hop for a second I start to pee uncontrollably. It's just how our bodies work now, right? And he KNOWS THIS because he was in the car when I was crying like a baby after a particularly unfortunate aerobics class. He drove me home. Soaked in my own urine and CRY-ING!
Me: And yet he gave you...a jump rope.
Her: Yep.
Me: Oh, man.
Her: Oh, don't worry. I'm going downstairs right now to tell him all about your gift.   ALL about it.    That guy is never getting out of the doghouse.  EVER!



Fast forward to January 2014...

My friend has just launched an awesome company for women fitness fiends and now loves her jumprope. And the marriage was saved.  Learn more at JustGoGirl!

Sunday, October 20, 2013

I'll turn it in later for partial credit

I gave myself an assignment to post about this*:


But then I came home and found this:


Sigh.  The damn dog actually ate my homework.


* A gluten-free version of my Sugar and Spice Pumpkin Bread with a Pecan Glaze.  I'm pretty sure it was good, but only the furball can say for sure.  I'll have to make it again later this week, taste it real quick, then let you know.

Monday, June 24, 2013

World War Bunny

We saw this trailer last night before World War Z*:



My son:  Wait. Is that like, a joke? The rabbit kills them...



...AGAIN???

I love that kid.

* Which I thoroughly enjoyed.  Funny comic about the movie here.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

I forgot to make a plan

Me:  OK. We're going to back up, go down the driveway, and turn left.  So make a plan about that.
Him:  I don't do left very well.  Can we go right?

------------------------------------

Him:  Did you SEE me do that left? The wheel COMPLETELY just spun right back.  I am awesome at this.  And you can let go of the door handle anytime now.  I'm TOO good.
Me:  Don't get cocky young man.  I admit, you stayed in your lane, which is a major improvement.  Nicely done.  OK.  So, we're going to take Burbank to practice. You'll be turning right. Make a plan to change lanes sometime in the next ten or fifteen minutes.
Him:  Burbank?  That's my STREET!


-------------------------------------

Me:  It's dark out, so you'll need to plan ahead a little more than usual.
My husband, from the back seat: Pay attention! You're going way too fast! Did you SEE the parked cars on your right?  ON YOUR RIGHT!!
Me: Honey, he's fine on the right.  Honey...other honey...you should probably plan to get in the left lane.  I see a UPS truck six blocks ahead, and you know how that freaks you out.
My husband:  Brake! Brake! Red means brake! Jesus!
My daughter: I am SO walking home.
Me:  OK. The parking lot is going to be on your right soon. Get over, when you are ready. But soon.  But make a plan first. Then change lanes.
Him:  I hate ALL of you!

--------------------------------------

Me:  OK. Let's try the freeway.  Make a plan to get up to speed, and keep checking all around before you merge.
Him:  Mom, I GOT this.  Didn't you hear the instructor? I have NO problem with acceleration. That's my thing.
Me:  Oh...oh...oh...dear. OK. Now get off.


--------------------------------------

Him (after 20 minutes in gridlocked traffic, having moved exactly one block):  This is RIDICULOUS! Seriously!?! What the hell! Change the station. Change the station. Stop. I like this song. Louder. Change the station. Stop. Can I show you a FEW THINGS!?
Me (shouting over Justin Timberlake): OK, you're just going to have to cut in here if we are ever going to get anywhere.  Make a plan.  In front of the silver car, that's our plan.  Put on your signal.  Good.  Catch the guy's eye.  Good. Poke your nose in.  Good.  Give him a wave.  Say thanks.  Good.
Him:  That guy is my HOMIE!  Homie wave for you, dude. Nice one. Turn it up. OH...as long as I got my SUIT AND TIE!


--------------------------------------

Me:  OK, I kind of forgot that you're going to need to do a bunch of lane changes at once up here, so get set.
Him: WHAT?
Me:  Yeah. What we're going to do is get into the next lane over.  Then, it's going to curve onto another freeway, and you'll need to get over three lanes, while other cars are trying to get over where we are. It goes super quick. Ready?
Him: WHAT? NO! WHAT?
Me: Go.
Him (after successfully navigating the four level 101-110 interchange at rush hour):  Most terrifying thing I've ever done in my life. You suck.

--------------------------------------

Him:  That guy right there?  Did not even give me the homie wave after I let him in. Seriously, dude. What is UP with that?

--------------------------------------

Me: OK. I'll wait over here. Don't be nervous. Listen to the person. Take your time. You'll be fine.


--------------------------------------

Him:  Bye, Mom.  I'll be home about 8:15.

Homie wave.
Door slams.

He's out there, driving my car*.
I let him go.

Most terrifying thing I've ever done in my life.


Don't worry, Mom.  I GOT this.

*"Drive my Car", with my six year old son on the drum track:  
 

Monday, April 15, 2013

Consider the non-sequitor

I've enrolled in a food writing class.  This strikes me as a fun and enriching thing to do.  I love to write about food (obviously), and lo and behold, along comes someone willing to take my money to teach me how to write about food, but better.  Also, there will be snacks that I can potentially both eat and write about*.  Win-win, redefined.

Class starts Tuesday night.

We are out to dinner as a family, and I begin discussing the first homework assignment.

Me:  We have to read the first chapter of a book called Consider the Oyster. Then, we are supposed write our own essay,  "Consider the...blank".  The blank can be anything food related.
My husband:  Wait a second. Consider the blank?  What does that even mean?**
Me:  Well, they did give us some examples.  Like, "Consider the raspberry" or "Consider the carrot". I suppose I could do "Consider the bacon" or "Consider the food truck."
My husband:  So, do you have any idea what you are going to consider?
Me:  No! It's so open ended!  I'm really struggling and class hasn't even started yet.
My son:  Wait.  Is this like some kind of Goblet of Fire thing?


My husband and I both turn to stare at him, well, blankly.
He continues.

Him: You know, where you have to go underwater and dive down and the mermaids are there, holding your friends prisoner?

[silence]

Him:  Hel-lo! Harry Potter? Anybody home?

[more silence]

Him:  The...the...thing!

[He makes a few exaggerated gestures with his hands that also are unintelligible, but could be interpreted as symbolizing the opening of a mollusk or wizards doing an odd form of the breast stroke.]

Him: Where they didn't know what their assignment was? And the other kid grew gills?
Like an OYSTER!?

Me: Oh.

[Pause.]

No. Not like that at all.

Now feel I have a potential topic:  Consider the Vodka.

* In an improved way.
** At least he wasn't completely dismissive anymore.  When I first told him about the class, he said, "Why are you taking a writing class?  That, you already know how to do.  Why don't you find a class that will teach you to go to bed on time or how to stop signing up for stuff?"

Friday, March 29, 2013

This more than qualifies as a cheesy penny

A man was recently caught with 21 tons of stolen cheese.

"There's a black market for everything," said Sissman. "We've seen everything stolen.  We've found stolen beer, stolen food, stolen machine parts, but this is the first time we've found stolen cheese.  When I looked inside and saw stolen cheese, I thought, of course it's from Wisconsin."

-- From the news story

It turns out that cheese is the most stolen food item on the planet.



A great post on this, with all kinds of links to other stories of stolen cheese, is over at kottke.org.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Gizoogle It

After seeing this post on The Bloggess*, I Gizoogled myself.


This is what came back:


Yep.  A shitload of chicken photos.  Fo' realz, chickenie hoes.

* One of the funniest blogs (and books), evah, muthaf&%#er.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Of my choosing


On Saturday morning, I wanted to be chosen.
Hundreds of other people wanted to be chosen, too.

As a group, we were given lengthy instructions about the process, our options, and how the day would unfold.  

We chanted and cheered while marching for the cameras, repeating our performance five or six times until we had mastered spontaneously swarming the building in boisterous good spirits.   

I got to shake Gordon Ramsey's hand.


Then everyone waited in an orderly mass on the sidewalk, passing the time with chit chat and texting and reading the paper and comparing notes on our food.  Periodically, a cluster of people, containers in hand, would be called to report for their tryout.

After several hours, my group filed into a room with an assigned place to set out our dish.  Each of us had to say really brightly on camera, "Am I the next Master Chef?"*  The (extremely gracious and kind) casting team came around, tasting and testing, asking questions, and making notes on clipboards.

My challah bread and homemade butter had devoted fans among the crew and my fellow aspirants.  But I talked a little too much about my job, my family and our pets, and not enough about what I would do if given a sheep's heart to make dinner with**.

I was not chosen.
I felt a little disappointed, but not surprised.  I also felt hungry***. 

When the giant cardboard judge bobble heads came out, I realized definitively that I was completely out of my comfort zone.  I literally ran and hid.

On Tuesday morning, I wanted not to be chosen.
Hundreds of other people wanted not to be chosen, either.

As a group, we passed through the metal detectors, found chairs in the jury assembly room, and were given lengthy instructions about the process, our options, and how the day would unfold.

Then everyone waited in an orderly mass on the 11th floor of the Superior Court building, passing the time with chit chat and texting, reading the paper and comparing notes on the inconvenience of being in here.  Periodically, a group would be called to report for a trial.

I got lots of work done because they had free wi-fi.  I walked to lunch a a cool restaurant and ate outside at the bar.
I didn't shake anyone's hand.

After several hours, a voice came on the PA system, not to enpanel another group, but to tell us we were done for the day.

I was not chosen.
I felt lucky, and a little surprised****.


On Tuesday evening, I did the choosing.
Millions of other people were choosing, too.

Right after leaving the courthouse, I got in my car and drove 45 minutes through traffic to my polling place.  It was growing dark outside, and my heart was thumping as I inked my ballot.


I put on my sticker, and hoped.

Then I waited at home in a state of nervous anxiety, passing the time by making fried chicken, homemade applesauce and cheesy scallion bread for dinner, obsessively checking returns online and watching NBC news with the kind of rapt attention usually demonstrated by my dog when we pick up his leash*****.

After several hours, the state of Ohio turned blue.

He was chosen.  
We, collectively, had done it.

I felt elated and shocked and relieved and grateful and awed and amazed, all at once. It was incredible.

My kids then elected not to enjoy the chicken, because I had chosen to fry wings instead of boneless chicken tenders.

People make choices all the time.  Sometimes, having the power to choose seems inconsequential.  But this week, choosing made all the difference.  


* I knew right then that I wasn't the next Master Chef, but I said it anyway.  If I learned nothing else that day, I learned that I am definitively NOT an on-camera person.
** I should have replied:  "I'd cut it into cubes, marinate in garlic, olive oil, rosemary, and a splash of balsamic, then grill it on rosemary skewers and serve as an appetizer." What I actually said: "I'd put in into a ragu and hide it. Otherwise no one in my family would touch it."
*** We waited straight through lunch, and there was a lot of amazing looking food around that audition table.  
**** Well over two-thirds of the people who'd started the day with me had been called into courtrooms before lunch.
***** There I go again with the irrelevant pet references!

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Facebook Official

Apparently this is a thing now, going "Facebook Official":


Putting it out into the world that you're with someone and it's real. A milestone of note, etched wide across two timelines, open for comments and likes and discussion.

Except, of course, from your parents*.
They should just calm down and stop being so nosy all the time.
What's for dinner anyway?



Monday, August 20, 2012

Busted

Our annual visit to camp is in full swing.  The lake is crystal clear and the sky is impossibly wide and blue.  The fountain is cranking out mint chip milkshakes.  We've walked for miles with old friends, getting caught up as we tramped along pine covered trails.  We glimpse the kids from a distance, screaming and laughing and splashing around the place in packs.  Every child has a plastic cabin key hanging around their neck, symbolizing their new-found freedom to roam at will, and to pull every crawdad they can find onto the dock for closer examination.  The air is fresh and just exactly warm enough for reading the Sunday NY Times on the porch after breakfast.  There's ping pong and hat making, chanting and silly counselors and funyaks to paddle to the beach.  Soon there will be bingo and inner tubing and outings with lemonade and ice cream at the end.  Not to mention campfires with s'mores and guitars and singing with our whole family together as the sun goes down and thousands of stars come out in the sky.  


And yet, when my sister asked my niece what her favorite part of camp was, none of this came up.

My niece:  I like when we drive up there in Auntie Shar's car*.
My sister:  Really? Is it because you are with your cousins and you love them?
My niece:  No.  I like the part where we stop at the gas station.
My sister:  The gas station?
My niece:  Yes. When we stop at the gas station, everybody gets candy**.

Busted.


* She has clearly forgotten about this drive.  But then again, I'm trying to forget about last year.
** What my son said (after he stopped laughing):
"Completely true! If we drove to Burbank and I asked if I could get an Icee and a pack of Skittles, you would be like, um, NO. But if it's on I5 somewhere outside of Bakersfield...? No problem. Have two."

Yep. So busted. 

Thursday, July 26, 2012

A good day at camp

When she got in the car, we asked my daughter how her day was.

Her:  I am NEVER going back to regular balsamic vinegar.  EVER!

We are all cracking up, but I am secretly thrilled.
Then, a few minutes later.

Her: Olive oil?  I just don't get it.

Baby steps.

photo credit: my daughter's phone
Note:  She is doing a teen cooking camp with Little Feet in the Kitchen.  Yesterday was a field trip to Ferrari Olive Oil Co. for a tasting lesson. Today is Iron Chef day, and tomorrow they go behind the scenes at Porto's Bakery.  Not only am I wildly jealous personally, I'm beyond impressed with what she gets the kids to eat.  This was another "is this really my child?" quote from yesterday:

Her: We made the most AMAZING risotto for lunch.  There were shallots and garlic and this mushroom broth...oh my god it was SO GOOD!

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

That's not the Titanic

Four memorable quotes from my Memorial Day weekend.

Quote #1:

A mom to her daughter, in the buffet line in front of me:

"No, honey. That's not the Titanic.  It's the Queen Mary."


Quote #2:

My son, standing in front of the open refrigerator door, to everyone in the house:

"Something is seriously wrong here.  We are completely out of water, but we have two cartons of milk in the fridge....and they are both GOOD."



Quote #3:

My husband, upon seeing what I was cooking.

"If I ever saw kale in the wild, I would mow it."



Quote #4:

My niece, after my sister had described this incredible "Junior Dolphin Trainer" adventure that she would be doing this summer in Florida, where you swim with dolphins and learn all about them and go behind the scenes and feed them and pet them and basically live every eight year old girl's fantasy for a day, with free snacks and all the soda you can drink.   I said, "Wow. That sounds like the best vacation ever!"

"No, Auntie Shar.  Coming to California is the best vacation ever.  Then dolphins."



* The mom followed up with: "Don't you remember the end of the movie?"

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

The definition of irony

My daughter (to my husband):  I don't think Anne Frank was a very nice person.  She was really moody and mean to her mom.

I can't has cheeseburger

I'm on a juice cleanse.
It's horrible.
Not because this is my breakfast, lunch and dinner.


Or because I can't have Diet Coke.
Those are hard, hard things.
But I can bear them.

On the other hand, opening a message from my husband* to find this?


Just plain cruel.  He's an evil man**.

* Via text, accompanied by the phrase (and I quote here) "MMMMM!"
Just to rub it in, this arrived 30 seconds later:

 
** Of course, according to him, I'm a fad-following ditz who should just bake a few less cookies and exercise more.

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