I have a guilty pleasure. I watch sensational trials on HLN TV on a marathon basis. Yes, 24/7 of Nancy Grace and Jane Velez Mitchell and Dr. Drew.
When Casey Anthony was on trial, I watched from Hawaii. I got up at 3 am so I wouldn't miss a minute. It's not just that I watched the actual trial, I watched all the commentary! So embarrassing.
So now I'm following the George Zimmerman trial. I catch an hour on TV before going to work, frequently causing my own lateness. Then I sign on to the internet when I get to work so I can follow the live blogs. The irony of following this at work is that I work as a trial attorney and am actually in court, ignoring my own calendar to do this. When I get home, I turn the TV on again and follow till I pass out or my daughter comes home and exclaims, "How can you watch this? This is such bad TV!"
Okay, here's what it is: I can't stand the defendant and I am fixated on the idea that he will be acquitted. Naturally, his guilt makes perfect sense to me and I believe that by staying glued to the set, my logic will somehow transmit itself to the prosecution and thereby make its way to the jury.
So the issues have come up that George is not a fighter. He is overweight, soft, and can't punch. So that's why he carries a gun. He's a soft coward! This is about as dangerous as a chicken hawk. This is the guy who packs a gun and uses it cause he can't punch his way out of a paper bag. Armed with his loaded gun, he stalked and killed a teenager armed with iced tea and skittles. What a loser.
He will probably be acquitted of 2nd degree murder. The Defense was able to create enough possibility of doubt. Now manslaughter, there's more of a chance for that. I won't be satisfied till this pudgy gun carrying bully is tarred, feathered, and paraded throughout the land. Hah!
Hmmmmm. I need to get back to my other guilty pleasure, politics. So, who thinks Rick Perry is going to make a 2016 presidential run?
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Happy Birthday, Lola Ipay
By the time I was 5 years old, I realized something that was so wonderfully special. I had the same birthday as my grandmother.
Lola Ipay (Grandma Felipa) had about 50 grandchildren and we all adored her.
On her birthdays, all my titas and titos (aunts and uncles) and all their spouses and all their children with their spouses and their children would attend. I grew up thinking they were there for my birthday too. Of course, I would have to remind them and so my titas and titos and cousins would feel bad that they had forgotten me and fish out anywhere from 5 to 20 pesos to give me. I made out with a lot of cash. This was way more fun than presents. It was way more fun because there was just so many of us.
My mother was the youngest of Lola's 8 children and Lolo's...... well, I never really got the final score of how many children he had..... but we'll save that for a later post. So the older cousins were almost as old as my mother and their children were my age. This made for generational stratification that had absolutely nothing to do with age. We were all acutely aware of how many degrees of generation each one of us was from Lola and I had to address my older cousins with the title of "manang" or "manong" which really just means "older person".
To the family, the generational thing was very important. Maybe this had something to do with how much a share of inheritance we would end up with? After all, Lolo had once been an owner of vast hectares of coconuts. He had been known as the "coconut king". But then he went into politics, and in those days if you went into politics, you lost a lot of money. Or so my mother said.
On the fiesta that was held every year to commemorate my dead Lolo's birthday, the entire family would gather to celebrate in the big, old house in Medina, Misamis Oriental. To get there from Manila, my mother, father, baby sister, yaya, and me would take three days by boat to Cagayan de Oro, and then 5 hours by car on concrete, asphalt, and dirt road. Bathroom stops were side-of-the-road, behind the bush adventures.
One particular birthday celebration stood out because it was the largest and another house down the street was rented to accommodate the overflow of cousins. The family had just built a gymnasium and dedicated it to the town in my grandfather's name. There were festivities culminating in a lavish program performed by all the cousins. One of my cousins was married to a beauty queen/actress who brought her celebrity friends, so the town was giddy with excitement. We performed skits and dances, and we sang. Although we generally danced better than we sang, our enthusiasm was spectacular. I performed as Gretel in "Hansel and Gretel". My cousins danced tinikling and sang pop hits.
In the spirit of family and festivity, we all wore large ribbons pinned to our chests. We looked like contest finalists as they were red, white, and blue. The fourth generation, my cousins' kids, all wore white ribbons. The third generation, my cousins, manangs and manongs, and I, wore blue ribbons. My parents, titas and titos wore red ribbons. And Lola wore a huge bouquet of ribbon in red, white, and blue. While feeling so proudly familial, I noticed that there were others at the celebration who were just as beribboned, but in green and orange. I could not get an explanation from my mother as to what generation they were or how we were related, but yes, these were my titas, titos, manangs, and manongs too.
It was 1966,I was 6 years old and loved them all. I held my Lola's hand because my birthday was the same as hers, and that was the most special thing of all. Today is my Lola's birthday. She died around 1970, I am not sure. After she died, we had one more large reunion, and slowly the cousins stopped making the long trip to Medina.
(This is written the eve of my Lola's birthday. Her birthday is on September 13.)
On her birthdays, all my titas and titos (aunts and uncles) and all their spouses and all their children with their spouses and their children would attend. I grew up thinking they were there for my birthday too. Of course, I would have to remind them and so my titas and titos and cousins would feel bad that they had forgotten me and fish out anywhere from 5 to 20 pesos to give me. I made out with a lot of cash. This was way more fun than presents. It was way more fun because there was just so many of us.
My mother was the youngest of Lola's 8 children and Lolo's...... well, I never really got the final score of how many children he had..... but we'll save that for a later post. So the older cousins were almost as old as my mother and their children were my age. This made for generational stratification that had absolutely nothing to do with age. We were all acutely aware of how many degrees of generation each one of us was from Lola and I had to address my older cousins with the title of "manang" or "manong" which really just means "older person".
To the family, the generational thing was very important. Maybe this had something to do with how much a share of inheritance we would end up with? After all, Lolo had once been an owner of vast hectares of coconuts. He had been known as the "coconut king". But then he went into politics, and in those days if you went into politics, you lost a lot of money. Or so my mother said.
On the fiesta that was held every year to commemorate my dead Lolo's birthday, the entire family would gather to celebrate in the big, old house in Medina, Misamis Oriental. To get there from Manila, my mother, father, baby sister, yaya, and me would take three days by boat to Cagayan de Oro, and then 5 hours by car on concrete, asphalt, and dirt road. Bathroom stops were side-of-the-road, behind the bush adventures.
One particular birthday celebration stood out because it was the largest and another house down the street was rented to accommodate the overflow of cousins. The family had just built a gymnasium and dedicated it to the town in my grandfather's name. There were festivities culminating in a lavish program performed by all the cousins. One of my cousins was married to a beauty queen/actress who brought her celebrity friends, so the town was giddy with excitement. We performed skits and dances, and we sang. Although we generally danced better than we sang, our enthusiasm was spectacular. I performed as Gretel in "Hansel and Gretel". My cousins danced tinikling and sang pop hits.
In the spirit of family and festivity, we all wore large ribbons pinned to our chests. We looked like contest finalists as they were red, white, and blue. The fourth generation, my cousins' kids, all wore white ribbons. The third generation, my cousins, manangs and manongs, and I, wore blue ribbons. My parents, titas and titos wore red ribbons. And Lola wore a huge bouquet of ribbon in red, white, and blue. While feeling so proudly familial, I noticed that there were others at the celebration who were just as beribboned, but in green and orange. I could not get an explanation from my mother as to what generation they were or how we were related, but yes, these were my titas, titos, manangs, and manongs too.
It was 1966,I was 6 years old and loved them all. I held my Lola's hand because my birthday was the same as hers, and that was the most special thing of all. Today is my Lola's birthday. She died around 1970, I am not sure. After she died, we had one more large reunion, and slowly the cousins stopped making the long trip to Medina.
(This is written the eve of my Lola's birthday. Her birthday is on September 13.)
Sunday, January 2, 2011
So Much for Good Intentions!
Well, here we are..... an entire year since my last blog, which announces my intention (AKA New Year's Resolution) to blog at least once a week. I don't think I ever blogged once the entire year after that.
This is the reason no one should ever take my advice on what to do. The corollary does not apply, however. I am still supremely qualified to give advice on what not to do.
"So, what happened?", many might ask. Life got in the way, and I became really distracted by dealing with it.
Let's see. Scott and I decided that the commute between East Hawaii and West Hawaii was too much so we rented a house on the west side to be closer to the store. We rented a series of three houses between January and May of 2010.
The first house was advertised as a "cute, little coffee shack, must be able to live off-grid, and have 4 wheel drive". As it happened, I can live off grid and we did have 4 wheel drive vehicles. This is all very warm and fuzzy for the wannabe greenies. Electricity was provided by one solar panel the size of a frying pan. Water was collected from our rooftop into a tank..... did I mention there were drought conditions in the area that year? And heating was provided by propane tank.
It was the water that did it. I just never felt clean enough knowing this water was collected from a rooftop that provided a playground for rodents. There was just too much nature scurrying about up there. I don't care how much bleach we put in the tank.
Oh, and the whole 4 wheel drive thing: Now there are people we all know, living and working in large metropolitan areas of the mainland United States, who drive gargantuan expeditions, suburbans, and armored trucks. I laugh at them all - you don't know 4 wheel drive until you have driven over lava rocks! Uphill! In a downpour! With 2 wet, panting dogs breathing down your neck and steaming up the windows!
From there, we moved to Kona Paradise. Should have been called Kona Slip n' Slide. This neighborhood was built onto the side of a 45 degree mountain. Nothing is freakier than feeling your car SLIDE down a mountain side. If there was even a hint of a drizzle, I was not getting into the car, jeep, or truck.
We lived in two houses in this neighborhood. The second one had 240 degree ocean views. From inside the house, it felt like you were on a ship. Unfortunately, you also felt like you were stranded at sea, afraid to get into your slippery car, and unable to get internet or cell phone connectivity from that side of the mountain.
It was on this landlocked ship that the marriage fell apart.
From there, we have moved on. The divorce finalized in October. I kept Tank, the australian shepherd who had been with me since he was 4 weeks old. He was just a nervous nelly, who liked to snap at ankles when insecure. It would not have been safe to place him with anyone but myself.
Buddy, our pit bull mix, was so lovable and mellow that he would have been happy with anyone who had a pat for his big, cow-sized head. He was adopted by our tenants in Mountain View. I miss that mutt.
I am still on the Big Island of Hawaii, Kona side. I am still in the coffee business. I live in a house like most houses in the United States - electricity, hot and cold running water, paved streets and sidewalks, internet and 24 hour cable TV. For this and so much more, I give thanks.
This is the reason no one should ever take my advice on what to do. The corollary does not apply, however. I am still supremely qualified to give advice on what not to do.
"So, what happened?", many might ask. Life got in the way, and I became really distracted by dealing with it.
Let's see. Scott and I decided that the commute between East Hawaii and West Hawaii was too much so we rented a house on the west side to be closer to the store. We rented a series of three houses between January and May of 2010.
The first house was advertised as a "cute, little coffee shack, must be able to live off-grid, and have 4 wheel drive". As it happened, I can live off grid and we did have 4 wheel drive vehicles. This is all very warm and fuzzy for the wannabe greenies. Electricity was provided by one solar panel the size of a frying pan. Water was collected from our rooftop into a tank..... did I mention there were drought conditions in the area that year? And heating was provided by propane tank.
It was the water that did it. I just never felt clean enough knowing this water was collected from a rooftop that provided a playground for rodents. There was just too much nature scurrying about up there. I don't care how much bleach we put in the tank.
Oh, and the whole 4 wheel drive thing: Now there are people we all know, living and working in large metropolitan areas of the mainland United States, who drive gargantuan expeditions, suburbans, and armored trucks. I laugh at them all - you don't know 4 wheel drive until you have driven over lava rocks! Uphill! In a downpour! With 2 wet, panting dogs breathing down your neck and steaming up the windows!
From there, we moved to Kona Paradise. Should have been called Kona Slip n' Slide. This neighborhood was built onto the side of a 45 degree mountain. Nothing is freakier than feeling your car SLIDE down a mountain side. If there was even a hint of a drizzle, I was not getting into the car, jeep, or truck.
We lived in two houses in this neighborhood. The second one had 240 degree ocean views. From inside the house, it felt like you were on a ship. Unfortunately, you also felt like you were stranded at sea, afraid to get into your slippery car, and unable to get internet or cell phone connectivity from that side of the mountain.
It was on this landlocked ship that the marriage fell apart.
From there, we have moved on. The divorce finalized in October. I kept Tank, the australian shepherd who had been with me since he was 4 weeks old. He was just a nervous nelly, who liked to snap at ankles when insecure. It would not have been safe to place him with anyone but myself.
Buddy, our pit bull mix, was so lovable and mellow that he would have been happy with anyone who had a pat for his big, cow-sized head. He was adopted by our tenants in Mountain View. I miss that mutt.
I am still on the Big Island of Hawaii, Kona side. I am still in the coffee business. I live in a house like most houses in the United States - electricity, hot and cold running water, paved streets and sidewalks, internet and 24 hour cable TV. For this and so much more, I give thanks.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
How to Make Chicken and Pork Adobo
Now my kids call me to ask for recipes of stuff I used to make when they lived at home. In some way I feel that I have reached some great milestone in life, and I am passing on the torch, or more specifically, a revered family secret.... my recipe for chicken and pork adobo.
Miguel, my oldest son, was the origin of this request. Every so often he fancies himself the family chef. He watches Alton Brown on Food TV and decides that if he approaches cooking from a science and chemistry perspective, it is a manly enough endeavor. One year, he decided to brine the thanksgiving turkey. He went through every pot, pan, bucket, and tub we had in the house mixing solutions and then getting a 20 pound bird to soak in it.
So here, Miguel, is how you make chicken and pork adobo. First of all, you get some chicken. Now I could never deal with cutting up an entire chicken and the pre-cut ones always had these extra "parts" that I was never sure of, not to mention all these little chicken bone chards and chips that come with mass chopped chickens. Thus, I would just buy legs and thighs. They come in nice packages of 6 so its all very balanced.
Now you get the pork. In the Philippines, where this dish originates, pork fat is plentiful and cheap. Over there, the problem is trying to find some meat to go with the fat. In the U. S. we have the opposite problem, trying to find some fat to go with the meat. A safe bet is boneless pork spare ribs. Cut these up into one inch cubes (smaller cooks faster). Try to make sure each cube has some fat in it. This is the joyful part of the pork in the adobo. The grease from the fat has round molecules so they just burst with flavor as they roll around your taste buds.
Find a large enough pot and put the chicken and pork pieces in it. Now add about a half cup of soy sauce and a half cup of apple cider vinegar. Make sure all the meat is in the liquid, add more if you need it. Figure out if you prefer a soy saucy taste or a vinegary taste and add accordingly. Get a jar of minced garlic and add a teaspoon or two of it to the mixture. If you decide to use real garlic, you will need a whole head. This will be very messy and the smell of garlic will stick to your fingers for days. None of the helpful hints to remove the smell will work.
Add a little salt and a lot of black pepper. Once, one of our cooks asked me to get her a list of ingredients at the grocery. I couldn't figure out what she was going to make with black paper.... It is best if you have a grinder and can coarsely grind the pepper. One of my grandmother's cooks would use whole pepper seeds and whole garlic cloves. Eating her adobo, you had to be vigilant or find one of these "bombs" go off in your mouth. Of course there are those who believe this is the only way to eat it. It is up to you.
Okay, now take this whole pot and set in on the stove to cook at a medium heat. The chicken and pork juices should start to cook out and join with the soy sauce and vinegar mixture. When all is pretty well cooked, remove the pot from the fire. Use a big slotted spoon or some tongs to remove the meat from the mixture. Place the meat in a glass pyrex rectangular dish, the size we use to make brownies. Drizzle about a quarter cup of vegetable oil over the meat. Be sure to save the soy sauce/vinegar mixture. If you throw this away...... don't even think of it.
Heat the oven up to 375 degrees and place the meat in the pyrex dish in it uncovered. The meat will start to crisp. Keep checking it. When the entire top is crisped, remove the dish (don't forget to use oven mitts!) and use tongs to turn every piece of meat over so you can return it to the oven and crisp the bottom side. I learned this from your yaya, Maling. The traditional way, which Tita Flory used, was to fry the meat in oil in a saucepan on the stove top..... really messy, there will be oil all over the stove and kitchen. This is why many Filipino houses smell like adobo.
Any way, when the meat is crisped all over, turn off the oven and add the oily crispy meat back to the pot with the soy sauce/vinegar mixture and heat the whole thing up. Serve over white sticky rice. Feel free to play with the portions. I'm sorry that I never learned to cook with a set recipe. Besides, experimenting with the flavors is the fun part. If you try this often enough, you will eventually make a really yummy pot of adobo.
Miguel, my oldest son, was the origin of this request. Every so often he fancies himself the family chef. He watches Alton Brown on Food TV and decides that if he approaches cooking from a science and chemistry perspective, it is a manly enough endeavor. One year, he decided to brine the thanksgiving turkey. He went through every pot, pan, bucket, and tub we had in the house mixing solutions and then getting a 20 pound bird to soak in it.
So here, Miguel, is how you make chicken and pork adobo. First of all, you get some chicken. Now I could never deal with cutting up an entire chicken and the pre-cut ones always had these extra "parts" that I was never sure of, not to mention all these little chicken bone chards and chips that come with mass chopped chickens. Thus, I would just buy legs and thighs. They come in nice packages of 6 so its all very balanced.
Now you get the pork. In the Philippines, where this dish originates, pork fat is plentiful and cheap. Over there, the problem is trying to find some meat to go with the fat. In the U. S. we have the opposite problem, trying to find some fat to go with the meat. A safe bet is boneless pork spare ribs. Cut these up into one inch cubes (smaller cooks faster). Try to make sure each cube has some fat in it. This is the joyful part of the pork in the adobo. The grease from the fat has round molecules so they just burst with flavor as they roll around your taste buds.
Find a large enough pot and put the chicken and pork pieces in it. Now add about a half cup of soy sauce and a half cup of apple cider vinegar. Make sure all the meat is in the liquid, add more if you need it. Figure out if you prefer a soy saucy taste or a vinegary taste and add accordingly. Get a jar of minced garlic and add a teaspoon or two of it to the mixture. If you decide to use real garlic, you will need a whole head. This will be very messy and the smell of garlic will stick to your fingers for days. None of the helpful hints to remove the smell will work.
Add a little salt and a lot of black pepper. Once, one of our cooks asked me to get her a list of ingredients at the grocery. I couldn't figure out what she was going to make with black paper.... It is best if you have a grinder and can coarsely grind the pepper. One of my grandmother's cooks would use whole pepper seeds and whole garlic cloves. Eating her adobo, you had to be vigilant or find one of these "bombs" go off in your mouth. Of course there are those who believe this is the only way to eat it. It is up to you.
Okay, now take this whole pot and set in on the stove to cook at a medium heat. The chicken and pork juices should start to cook out and join with the soy sauce and vinegar mixture. When all is pretty well cooked, remove the pot from the fire. Use a big slotted spoon or some tongs to remove the meat from the mixture. Place the meat in a glass pyrex rectangular dish, the size we use to make brownies. Drizzle about a quarter cup of vegetable oil over the meat. Be sure to save the soy sauce/vinegar mixture. If you throw this away...... don't even think of it.
Heat the oven up to 375 degrees and place the meat in the pyrex dish in it uncovered. The meat will start to crisp. Keep checking it. When the entire top is crisped, remove the dish (don't forget to use oven mitts!) and use tongs to turn every piece of meat over so you can return it to the oven and crisp the bottom side. I learned this from your yaya, Maling. The traditional way, which Tita Flory used, was to fry the meat in oil in a saucepan on the stove top..... really messy, there will be oil all over the stove and kitchen. This is why many Filipino houses smell like adobo.
Any way, when the meat is crisped all over, turn off the oven and add the oily crispy meat back to the pot with the soy sauce/vinegar mixture and heat the whole thing up. Serve over white sticky rice. Feel free to play with the portions. I'm sorry that I never learned to cook with a set recipe. Besides, experimenting with the flavors is the fun part. If you try this often enough, you will eventually make a really yummy pot of adobo.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Mele Kalikimaka
Okay, so it's a few days after Christmas. But remember when it wasn't just Christmas Day that we celebrated but the whole season? It used to be at least a solid month of Christmas carols, shopping, partying and merrymaking. We used to also do stuff that would seem insanely inconvenient now. Remember the "Misa de Gallo"? Mass of the rooster? You went to mass before dawn, right when the roosters started crowing. Now for the most part, this was no fun, but when you got to a certain age and became interested in the opposite sex, this afforded great opportunity to make early social engagements while showing the adults your pious commitment to the season. By the time one was a young adult, this could be combined with late night partying for all night to dawn marathon of holiday celebration. The best was that it ended with the church's blessings and an all day nap.
Now this could only take place during that special time when you were young enough to be going to school but old enough to be allowed to stay up past midnight. The reality of jobs, children, and anything that smacked of responsibility meant that the all night merry making had to go and then you were stuck with merely rising to go to mass in the middle of the night.
Now, I find it difficulat to find the time to go to church on Sundays at the very reasonable time of 9 am. I confess that when Meet The Press started airing at 9 am, the same time as Sunday Mass in Mountain View, political discussions amongst the pundits and talking heads wins. When you become used to airing all sides of every issue, it becomes painful to sit through lectures that cannot be questioned. Faith is one of those things that has to be complete. Any little nagging doubts take over and you find yourself holding mental arguments with your parish priest while you pretend to be in submissive agreement.
My parents had faith. Many of my friends and former schoolmates have faith that strikes me as incredible in this day and age. I admire them and see that it brings great peace of mind. For the time being, I shall have to make do with honesty. The honesty of my doubts and the honesty of my desire to make sense out of a world of randomness and difficulties.
For the New Year, I am trying to have resolve so I can finally have some resolutions that I can keep. But instead of trying to change something about myself, I'll just try to do things differently. Like resolving to blog at least once a week. There you have it.
Oh, as an aside, I am watching CNN and the news reporter is at the Philippine Airlines check-in counter at LAX. She is astounded at the numbers and gargantuan sizes of all the LBC boxes going to Manila!
Now this could only take place during that special time when you were young enough to be going to school but old enough to be allowed to stay up past midnight. The reality of jobs, children, and anything that smacked of responsibility meant that the all night merry making had to go and then you were stuck with merely rising to go to mass in the middle of the night.
Now, I find it difficulat to find the time to go to church on Sundays at the very reasonable time of 9 am. I confess that when Meet The Press started airing at 9 am, the same time as Sunday Mass in Mountain View, political discussions amongst the pundits and talking heads wins. When you become used to airing all sides of every issue, it becomes painful to sit through lectures that cannot be questioned. Faith is one of those things that has to be complete. Any little nagging doubts take over and you find yourself holding mental arguments with your parish priest while you pretend to be in submissive agreement.
My parents had faith. Many of my friends and former schoolmates have faith that strikes me as incredible in this day and age. I admire them and see that it brings great peace of mind. For the time being, I shall have to make do with honesty. The honesty of my doubts and the honesty of my desire to make sense out of a world of randomness and difficulties.
For the New Year, I am trying to have resolve so I can finally have some resolutions that I can keep. But instead of trying to change something about myself, I'll just try to do things differently. Like resolving to blog at least once a week. There you have it.
Oh, as an aside, I am watching CNN and the news reporter is at the Philippine Airlines check-in counter at LAX. She is astounded at the numbers and gargantuan sizes of all the LBC boxes going to Manila!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hoy! .... Any New Blogs?
Just to let you all know where the hell I've been:
First, I live on the Big Island of Hawaii, with my husband and two dogs. Our business is on the Kona side, sunny and touristy. Our house is on the Hilo side, rainy and.... provincial.
1
We have, at this time, three (3!) vehicles. A Chevy Tahoe in reasonable condition, a Jeep Wrangler under the curse of an evil, evil (or maybe really just horribly incompetent) mechanic, and a GMC Jimmy held hostage by the Hawaiian DMV. In other words, we can only drive the Tahoe.
So, we don't just drive back and forth as we please. We have to make major plans that involve both of us going everywhere together. Last week, we were in Kona, taking care of business so no computer time. Then Scott's 85 year old mother went to the hospital with sepsis. He then went to see her for what might be the last time, and took the computer with the internet connection with him... to California.
So now, I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Pahoa, the Hawaiian wild, wild, west. The folks here are tattooed and dreadlocked. The hemp plant is the official flower. These are the inheritors of the hippie generation. Some of them appear to be original hippies. Seated next to me are a table of travelers with backpacks, from Europe, on their way to Tibet, discussing "society" as if it were a horrible boarding they had just escaped. I am feeling way too normal and suburban in my yoga pants and hoodie. Next time I come... I shall not bathe... or brush my hair... or shave. I'll wear long flowing skirts and a tank with no bra. I'll wear all my beads, bracelets, bangles, and earrings. I'll have to get a tattoo and some piercings.
Ah forget it.... I'll just look like some 50 year old time traveler. Besides, I'll never be able to decide on a tattoo.
Will be back on schedule and blogging again by weekend. Stay tuned.
First, I live on the Big Island of Hawaii, with my husband and two dogs. Our business is on the Kona side, sunny and touristy. Our house is on the Hilo side, rainy and.... provincial.
1
We have, at this time, three (3!) vehicles. A Chevy Tahoe in reasonable condition, a Jeep Wrangler under the curse of an evil, evil (or maybe really just horribly incompetent) mechanic, and a GMC Jimmy held hostage by the Hawaiian DMV. In other words, we can only drive the Tahoe.
So, we don't just drive back and forth as we please. We have to make major plans that involve both of us going everywhere together. Last week, we were in Kona, taking care of business so no computer time. Then Scott's 85 year old mother went to the hospital with sepsis. He then went to see her for what might be the last time, and took the computer with the internet connection with him... to California.
So now, I'm sitting in an internet cafe in Pahoa, the Hawaiian wild, wild, west. The folks here are tattooed and dreadlocked. The hemp plant is the official flower. These are the inheritors of the hippie generation. Some of them appear to be original hippies. Seated next to me are a table of travelers with backpacks, from Europe, on their way to Tibet, discussing "society" as if it were a horrible boarding they had just escaped. I am feeling way too normal and suburban in my yoga pants and hoodie. Next time I come... I shall not bathe... or brush my hair... or shave. I'll wear long flowing skirts and a tank with no bra. I'll wear all my beads, bracelets, bangles, and earrings. I'll have to get a tattoo and some piercings.
Ah forget it.... I'll just look like some 50 year old time traveler. Besides, I'll never be able to decide on a tattoo.
Will be back on schedule and blogging again by weekend. Stay tuned.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Barrister Barrista
2007 was not a good year. In February, my father was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. In October he was dead.
By December, I could not continue to function as an attorney. In between composing my letters and declarations, I found myself surfing the Internet. I became addicted to shopping for a business to buy: fast food, clothing, electronics store, sail boat rentals, arugula farm... Each one promised a fascinating, care free, new life.
By February, Scott and I began our move to Kona, Hawaii, where we had just bought a souvenir shop. Bad as 2007 was, 2008 was worse. The economic downturn went into a spiraling freefall and we lost the business. But, my coffee and chocolate supplier asked me to take over operation of his coffee shop in downtown Kailua-Kona, and all of a sudden I was a barrista.
I had never worked in a coffee shop before but had frequented many. My dad was an espresso addict so we had spent lots of time sipping cappuccinos and lattes in trendy upscale coffee spots. I knew what I liked and I liked good coffee.... with lots of cream and sugar.
Learning to operate a coffee shop has a quick but steep learning curve. The equipment was big, black, and imposing with shiny silver knobs and spouts. This was serious stuff. I learned to grind beans, measure the coffee, brew big pots of black gold. This was Kona, whose volcanic soils, cloud cover, altitude, and sunny days brought forth some of the most sought after and expensive coffee in the world.
This could be fun. I learned to make cold coffee drinks: iced coffee, iced lattes (actually a misnomer but that's another story), and frappes. Unfortunately, the espresso machine was not operational. No problem, if anyone asked for an espresso drink, "Sorry, our machine is down". And customers took this well. No one was offended or threatened to report me to the state bar for sanctions.
Every October, Kona hosts the premiere Ironman event in the world. This one is the mecca for all serious tri-athletes. The course consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bicycle ride, and a 26.2 mile run through tough ocean waves and moon like lava-covered terrain. For one week,around ten thousand tri-athletes, trainers, sports media, and entourage descend upon this little town whose center, heart, and soul was our dinky little pier. All at once, our quiet streets were packed with bulging, biceps, quads, calves, and triceps. The Speedo clad strutted around next to the aloha shirt and Bermuda shorts crowd.
The night before the Ironman event, Fix-it Frank showed up with my new espresso machine. "Now you gonna be a real coffee shop", he announced. I didn't know I wasn't. He fiddled around with washers and hoses and birthed a steaming, spouting, machine that espressed, and frothed, and scalded. Very imposing, but he showed us how to press buttons, turn knobs, and make espresso. We stayed at the shop up to midnight, getting ready for the next day. Hans, our part time help, promised me he had worked in restaurants and coffee shops and knew everything to know about the barrista business. We would meet at the shop at 5:00 am the next day, to prepare for an onslaught of customers. Our shop was steps from the start and finish lines; we were practically ground zero.
At 3:00 am, my eyes flew open. A disturbing thought jolted me up. "Scott!" I poked my deeply snoring husband. "Do you know how to make cappuccino?!"
He grunted, peered at me through one bleary eye, "hrnnngmphno", he slurred, and rolled over back to sleep.
"We're screwed!", I thought, as I stumbled out of bed to the laptop where I entered, "How to make cappuccino". Angels sang as pages of coffee sites appeared. I began my predawn research. One part espresso, one part steamed milk, one part froth. We can do it. I went back to sleep.
Two hours later, I am perched behind Scott on our little red moped, clinging for my life as we wind through the traffic barriers into town. In the 5:00 am dark, we can make out crowds... throngs of people, carrying chairs and cameras, making their way to the start line. All in need of some kind of caffeine.
We snuck into the shop but people followed after us, tapping on the glass doors, "Coffee? Coffee?"
"Don't open yet", I told Scott. "We have to practice!"
We took turns steaming and frothing until we could hold our waiting, caffeine starved customers off no longer. Scott opened the doors, and the lines formed. "Double, half-caff, skinny caramel! Single cappuccino non-fat! Double Mocha latte!" I ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. Scott ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. We served espresso dairy mixtures. Lord knows what we were making, as we capped drink after drink. The lines were long and there was no time for complaints or even tasting their drinks as customers hurried out the doors to catch a good spot for the start of the swim event.
Then the lines disappeared. "Come up to the roof!" One of the other vendors shouted to us. "Everyone's watching the start! Just close up the shop and come up!"
So we locked the store and went up on the rooftop balcony of the Kona Inn Shopping Village and saw before us, one of the most glorious sights of Kailua-Kona. Thousands of swimmers were bobbing in the bay. Thousands of spectators were standing on the beach and sitting on the bay wall. Helicopters and emergency boats were hovering and floating nearby. The sky was blue and cloudless. The sun was warm and golden. The energy was electrifying. Then the loudspeakers quieted, the Hawaiian prayers were chanted, the conch was blown, and the race was on.
We reopened and actually had some time to think about what we were doing. Hans never showed up (I found out later he had determined I was too bossy). We made more cappuccinos, lattes, and mochas although I seriously suspect that every drink we made really was a latte, some indeterminate mixture of espresso, steamed milk, and froth. But the Ironman was on. Everyone cheered all day long as athletes clambered back onto shore, got on their bicycles to ride out towards wind-blown Kohala, and then tossed their bikes away to run down through Kona and past our shop to the finish line. The athletes continued past the shop till midnight, panting, sweating, some limping. One had a prosthetic leg. All who finished were victorious. We felt victorious too.
By December, I could not continue to function as an attorney. In between composing my letters and declarations, I found myself surfing the Internet. I became addicted to shopping for a business to buy: fast food, clothing, electronics store, sail boat rentals, arugula farm... Each one promised a fascinating, care free, new life.
By February, Scott and I began our move to Kona, Hawaii, where we had just bought a souvenir shop. Bad as 2007 was, 2008 was worse. The economic downturn went into a spiraling freefall and we lost the business. But, my coffee and chocolate supplier asked me to take over operation of his coffee shop in downtown Kailua-Kona, and all of a sudden I was a barrista.
I had never worked in a coffee shop before but had frequented many. My dad was an espresso addict so we had spent lots of time sipping cappuccinos and lattes in trendy upscale coffee spots. I knew what I liked and I liked good coffee.... with lots of cream and sugar.
Learning to operate a coffee shop has a quick but steep learning curve. The equipment was big, black, and imposing with shiny silver knobs and spouts. This was serious stuff. I learned to grind beans, measure the coffee, brew big pots of black gold. This was Kona, whose volcanic soils, cloud cover, altitude, and sunny days brought forth some of the most sought after and expensive coffee in the world.
This could be fun. I learned to make cold coffee drinks: iced coffee, iced lattes (actually a misnomer but that's another story), and frappes. Unfortunately, the espresso machine was not operational. No problem, if anyone asked for an espresso drink, "Sorry, our machine is down". And customers took this well. No one was offended or threatened to report me to the state bar for sanctions.
Every October, Kona hosts the premiere Ironman event in the world. This one is the mecca for all serious tri-athletes. The course consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bicycle ride, and a 26.2 mile run through tough ocean waves and moon like lava-covered terrain. For one week,around ten thousand tri-athletes, trainers, sports media, and entourage descend upon this little town whose center, heart, and soul was our dinky little pier. All at once, our quiet streets were packed with bulging, biceps, quads, calves, and triceps. The Speedo clad strutted around next to the aloha shirt and Bermuda shorts crowd.
The night before the Ironman event, Fix-it Frank showed up with my new espresso machine. "Now you gonna be a real coffee shop", he announced. I didn't know I wasn't. He fiddled around with washers and hoses and birthed a steaming, spouting, machine that espressed, and frothed, and scalded. Very imposing, but he showed us how to press buttons, turn knobs, and make espresso. We stayed at the shop up to midnight, getting ready for the next day. Hans, our part time help, promised me he had worked in restaurants and coffee shops and knew everything to know about the barrista business. We would meet at the shop at 5:00 am the next day, to prepare for an onslaught of customers. Our shop was steps from the start and finish lines; we were practically ground zero.
At 3:00 am, my eyes flew open. A disturbing thought jolted me up. "Scott!" I poked my deeply snoring husband. "Do you know how to make cappuccino?!"
He grunted, peered at me through one bleary eye, "hrnnngmphno", he slurred, and rolled over back to sleep.
"We're screwed!", I thought, as I stumbled out of bed to the laptop where I entered, "How to make cappuccino". Angels sang as pages of coffee sites appeared. I began my predawn research. One part espresso, one part steamed milk, one part froth. We can do it. I went back to sleep.
Two hours later, I am perched behind Scott on our little red moped, clinging for my life as we wind through the traffic barriers into town. In the 5:00 am dark, we can make out crowds... throngs of people, carrying chairs and cameras, making their way to the start line. All in need of some kind of caffeine.
We snuck into the shop but people followed after us, tapping on the glass doors, "Coffee? Coffee?"
"Don't open yet", I told Scott. "We have to practice!"
We took turns steaming and frothing until we could hold our waiting, caffeine starved customers off no longer. Scott opened the doors, and the lines formed. "Double, half-caff, skinny caramel! Single cappuccino non-fat! Double Mocha latte!" I ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. Scott ground, espressed, steamed, and frothed. We served espresso dairy mixtures. Lord knows what we were making, as we capped drink after drink. The lines were long and there was no time for complaints or even tasting their drinks as customers hurried out the doors to catch a good spot for the start of the swim event.
Then the lines disappeared. "Come up to the roof!" One of the other vendors shouted to us. "Everyone's watching the start! Just close up the shop and come up!"
So we locked the store and went up on the rooftop balcony of the Kona Inn Shopping Village and saw before us, one of the most glorious sights of Kailua-Kona. Thousands of swimmers were bobbing in the bay. Thousands of spectators were standing on the beach and sitting on the bay wall. Helicopters and emergency boats were hovering and floating nearby. The sky was blue and cloudless. The sun was warm and golden. The energy was electrifying. Then the loudspeakers quieted, the Hawaiian prayers were chanted, the conch was blown, and the race was on.
We reopened and actually had some time to think about what we were doing. Hans never showed up (I found out later he had determined I was too bossy). We made more cappuccinos, lattes, and mochas although I seriously suspect that every drink we made really was a latte, some indeterminate mixture of espresso, steamed milk, and froth. But the Ironman was on. Everyone cheered all day long as athletes clambered back onto shore, got on their bicycles to ride out towards wind-blown Kohala, and then tossed their bikes away to run down through Kona and past our shop to the finish line. The athletes continued past the shop till midnight, panting, sweating, some limping. One had a prosthetic leg. All who finished were victorious. We felt victorious too.
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