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 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. 

Human banner at Ocean Beach and a visit with L.

I don't know if I mentioned that I sometimes 'Oma-sit' a particular older woman from a part of Germany that now longer exists. If I haven't, then I'd like to share a bit about L. now. I met her last May when I began volunteering at a memory care center here in town. When we met, L. was a lively 98-year-old living with dementia yet still relatively physically robust. L. could walk herself around the care center, take herself to the toilet and express some simple thoughts that may or may not have seemed to be germane to the situation at hand. She was funny, lively and enjoyed people as I was later to learn she always had done in her long life.

A few weeks' back L. took a tumble and fractured her pelvis, among other injuries. The prognosis was this: a) send L. home to sort of rot away in bed or b) operate and shoot for the best. Her family chose the latter and I was able to visit with L. a bit yesterday post-op by about four days. At that point, she'd only been administered ibuprofen for pain. I saw her late afternoon (4p) and her daughter, who also happens to be a working nurse, determined that L. not had any ibuprofen since 8p the previous night despite her care notes stipulating that the pain med be given more frequently. L. has dementia and does not hit her call button at all. NOT AT ALL. I would imagine that this bit of salient information should also be in her notes. Apparently, the squeaky wheel gets the grease at the hospital and all others are left in the dust (until someone remembers, hopefully, to check on the quiet patient in room 301).

While at the hospital visiting L., I met a friend of hers. M., a robust 88-year-old, had just come from the No Kings event held at Ocean Beach. She was part of the of the first 'u' in the anti-drumpf message. M. said that it was good to get out to the beach and be a part of things. There were drones overhead capturing the action. I've seen images in the paper--Trump Must Go Now! I think it read. And, boy, ain't that the truth!

A semi-recent shot of City Hall awash in red.

Pro-Trump Persians

Since the bombing of Iran and the assassination of the Ayatollah, many Iranians of the diaspora have been celebrating by waving Iranian, Israeli and American flags along the Embarcadero plaza very near where I work. They have rented a sound system, a 'party bus' and have had many flags--half Iranian, half USA; double sided flags featuring Israeli and American flags, etc., and Pro-Trump signs made for the occasion. Their jubilance coupled with repeated chanting of 'thank you, Trump!' at passersby is a jarring sight to behold. This past weekend, saw the arrival of anti-war demonstrators to the plaza. Pro-Bibi-Trump Persians were directing their chants directly at the anti-war faction. It was mad. I was on a break from work taking it all in and my face likely betrayed my disgust at the messaging of many of the Iranian-Americans. This prompted some numpty to spell it out for me. Gesturing, he said, 'These are Iranians from Iran.' Um, no shit, buddy. He then went on to say something to the effect of: liberals like you wouldn't understand. I took the bait, folks, I did. Suffice to say, I ended our interaction by repeatedly calling the man a 'MAGA cunt' as he walked away while flipping me the bird. Fortunately, I was not wearing my work apron. 

Anti-war protestors this past weekend. (I did not take a photo of the pro-Trump Persians.)