Today

I am unable to comment on posts, at present, and that feels weird. Delighful-looking crab-apple jelly, beautiful Dahlias in NZ...all these lovely posts read that have brightened up my mood. Thank you, bloggers, for your thoughtful posts. 

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I spent two hours yesterday canvassing for No on G--save Sunset Dunes Park--at the old Great Highway. What never ceases to amaze me are those who would gladly use the new park while knowing that they will vote to dismantle it come November. It's not necessarily what they say, but how they say it. One younger fellow walking with out-of-town visitors said through clenched teeth that he had already 'made up his mind'. I had to fight the urge to say with a huge smile, 'Enjoy your park walk!' at him in response. Many who are in support of Sunset Dunes gave the pro-park signal of a thumbs up, a raised fist, or a peace sign while walking, biking and jogging by me. That felt good. One old coot on a bike bleated an anti-park slogan while tooling past me on Sunset Dunes. I wanted to tell him to go bike in the street with cars, if he didn't like the park, but thought better of it. While many are steaming mad that they cannot drive down ALL ROADS all over town, I can't mirror their anger when engaging with them, but I sure do want to. 

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The woman who designed this bad-ass symbol---

died a couple of days after the great Gloria Steinem. Her name was Robin Morgan. I grew up with Ms. magazine, and am, myself, a 'Ms.' I knew that Steinem created Ms. magazine, but what I did not know was that R. Morgan had been an editor at Ms. for many years until reading her obituary. She was a radical in the best sense and I am so glad that we had the pleasure of having her on the planet. 

Aug. 26, 2026

Everything makes me cry these days. I blame being a huge sack of walking hormones and mine are in meno-flux. 

Things that make me cry without fail: 

• how fucked our country is in so many various ways and I will not illustrate them here because it is such a fucking downer
• the loss of blogger friends
• any part of the UK suffering from wildfires right now
• the loss of long-term clients from the memory care center where I volunteer
• Dolly Parton's death

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School is back in session where I live. I can hear the school bell, the kids' voices and see the cars a-clogging the short block on which I live twice-a-day from my living room window. Well, I COULD see them if the window were not covered in a thick sheet of plastic. We are having the facade of the house spruced up. The cheap-o 70s siding has been removed and the old stucco struck off. The aluminum windows, another relic from the 70s, will be replaced with something a bit more modern and energy efficient. Underneath the old stucco is Douglas Fir framing. The boards are thick and rich in color. They've been put up in a diagonal design that almost looks to be a herringbone pattern. It's really rather attractive.

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To mangle B-rate movie actor Ronnie Reagan's jibe at Senator Cranston: Here we go again! The cranks who want to return car traffic to a two mile stretch of road along the ocean have managed to secure enough signatures to bring this issue back to the voting booth. If anyone cares to read about this latest development affecting the west side of San Francisco, here it is!

I will leave you with a bit of beauty from our garden. The mini passionflower plant has, after four years, finally produced one wee flower and it is spectacular. 

Late July

It's been a series of highs and lows of late, both literally and figuratively. There was my exceedingly warm birthday in the middle of July that, traditionally, was neither hot nor very blue-skied along this part of the California coast. Given the toasty forecast, I threw caution to the wind and held a BBQ in my backyard and it was glorious. -no long sleeves, no goosebumps. Last week, I had a serendipitous meeting in my hometown with a former colleague from 20 years' back. She happened to pop into a shop that a friend of mine runs while I was there making chit-chat. I should say that I bump into people from seemingly almost all decades of my life living very near where I grew up, but this particular former co-worker, originally from Minnesota, bounced around the country a bit before returning to California post-pandemic and landing in the small city in which I grew up. -kinda nifty! 

In May, my husband was laid-off from a job he'd held for more than a decade. He has since rediscovered his love of fishing. The hubs grew up fly-fishing in Colorado. We live near the Pacific Ocean. There was a slight adjustment to be made before he felt confident in his efforts surf-casting, but his near-tireless efforts have paid off--

Striper, approx. 26", caught 7/31/26

Yesterday was gorgeous, so we took a bike ride up and through Golden Gate Park en route to the Dahlia Garden as it is in the early stages of blooming. It's an annual must-see. Here is some of the bounty--

Cats and country

My husband took this picture yesterday afternoon and it makes me want to turn it into a 'Happy Summer from the Cats!' card to send out to friends and family. 

The below snap is one of the many pictures I take of Bartie in repose. I send these types of pictures to my sister and her response is ever thus: HE LOOKS LIKE HE'S DEAD!

We're sliding toward 250 years of being a country. I am not excited about this marker, to be honest. The usual BOOM! BOOM! fireworks will stress out the cats, of course, and we're in a shit spot (understatement of the year) as a nation. What's to celebrate? 

I have vague memories of our bicentennial. I was in kindergarten; red, white and blue streamers and liberty bell images figure in my mind when I think back to that time. The line: The spirit of '76! is also coming up for me. -must have been part and parcel of how we decorated store-fronts and the like. Although I think that it was also the tag-line of the gas station chain called '76. 

In other news, an active-duty serviceman recently protested on the Capitol steps against our current Oval Office occupier and his vice-president. He was then arrested by Capitol police. According to reports, Major Watkin would be the first-ever active-duty commissioned officer in the military to publicly protest for the impeachment, conviction and removal of Trump and Vance.

This and that

I was at work the day that these folks assembled at Ocean Beach in *ahem* honor of Drumpf's birthday (aka Flag Day here in the US). Two women came into the shop in the afternoon and shared that they had participated in the human lettering event (-don't know what else to call it). We high-fived at their beach action and then they purchased a French paring knife. 

In other news, big boy Bartie sat on my lap last night. He never does this, so I think he was desperate for some extra kibble after dinner. For the record, I am not starving him, but the vet did recently mention that Bart could stand to lose a wee bit of weight. We have been tightly monitoring his portions and Bartie is now a bit 'hangry' most evenings. 

'He doesn't know how to hold a knife!'

The title of this post refers to an expression used in Chinese culture that means, according the author of the cookbook below, that one does not know how to cook. 

I think most of us who didn't have professional cooks in the house growing up would know very little about knives. Looking back on my childhood, I can't recall any fancy blades in the drawer/knife holder. I can't even recall if said knives were ever truly sharpened. We had a sharpening steel, I think, at one point, but I don't recall ever using it myself. Maybe my Dad had used it? I have since learned that the steel or rod is actually more about maintaining a knife's edge than it is about sharpening a blade. And I have also learned that a sharp knife is truly a magic tool when chopping, dicing and mincing your fruits, veggies and proteins. And, most importantly, dull blades are dangerous. 

Back in the 70s, my Dad took a Chinese cooking class, so we had a few tools related to the course like a cleaver and a wok in the kitchen. Dad made stir-fries and other tasty dishes; the cleaver and wok got good use. I don't know to where the cleaver disappeared, but I do still have the wok. 

Recently, I was hired at a business that specializes in selling knives, principally from Japan and Western Europe, but also showcases great pantry goods and cookbooks. The job training is sort of on-the-go, if you will. Many clients are professional chefs and hardcore home-cook enthusiasts. I am nervous about suggesting a blade that would not suit them, to be honest. I am into my second week at the shop and it's A LOT to learn. Please, wish me luck! 

The author of this book, Gary Lee, taught the class my Dad took.

Sterbehospiz and sticky fingers

I learned the German word for hospice a few years' back and it's 'Sterbehospiz'. This translates into English as: death hospice. There is no beating around the bush with this term. We all know what's to come.

I just had my last ever visit with L. as she is now in hospice care at home. No longer conscious, I spent time at her bedside with her two daughters. It was a bittersweet visit, but I'm very glad that they let me come over. 

***

As I was leaving work two days ago, I walked past the man who, this past February, had attempted to steal a large box of chocolates while I stood not five feet from him. I remember that I watched somewhat dumbstruck as he walked, truffle box tucked under his jacket-covered arm, swiftly away from the store. I thought to myself: Don't I know that guy?! Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to follow after him and retrieve the box; he gave it up without a fuss. This guy was someone who had visited the store on-and-off for the better part of a year. I can't now recall if he ever made a purchase when at the shop, but he'd come in for a chin-wag and we would give him the occasional gratis chocolate. So imagine my surprise as I see this sticky-fingered mofo making chit-chat with one of the craft vendors who sets up shop along the Embarcadero at the weekend. She, along with a handful of others, are typically selling handmade jewelry, pottery, art prints, etc. to passersby. I sit off to the side of the market and just observe. She's breaking down her stall as it's end-of-day and I'm kind of marveling at their chummy rapport. Is he casing her business? Is he her friend? What gives? After about ten minutes, she's mostly packed up her gear and he's bid her farewell. Once he has gone, I amble over to her and share what I know about him. I'm also aware that she has no reason to believe anything I say, so I add the few bits of information that he gave me about himself which were his age and where he's from. She nods in recognition and then says that he's a friend of a friend. I was sorry to have to tell her what I knew, but I'm glad I did. I also took a sneaky snap of him to give to the manager of the Ferry Building, so that she would have his image on file.