WINTER IN L.A

We really only have two seasons here.  Moist and a little cooler, dry and a lot hotter.  Actually, since we live only a mile from the ocean, our range is even less.  We put Mom on her plane back to Indy, sub-freezing temperatures, snow, rain, and general gloom.  We then put on our bright colors, broke out the scoot, and headed for the mountains behind Malibu.  Life is tough.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING . . .

completely different.  Bagpipes.  Grown men in skirts.  Running with blunt logs.  Ah, yes, it must be the Queen Mary Scottish Festival.  Mom was keen to go, and the weather cooperated with one of those only-in-SoCal-in-February days.  Both the old girls looked mighty good:

They had both individual piper and band competitions.  We tried a couple of the former, but that’s a little too much torture, especially as they were being conducted on the inside promenade deck which was all hard wood and metal surfaces.  The ears said “run away, run away.”  The full band competitions were held outdoors on a lawn and were much easier on the psyche.  The judges were from Canada (2), Scotland, and Ireland, so I guess this was a pretty serious competition.  Our untrained ears thought they all sounded great. 

 

If hotdogs are an option for lunch, you-know-who will choose them every time:

We’re seated here while watching the Highland Games portion of the festival.  They threw the stone, pitched the bale over the bar, cast the weight backwards over the bar, heaved the hammer, and tossed the caber.  What is it with the Scots and moving big weights?  How many ways can you say “throw?” 

There was a sheep herding demonstration using a variety of border collies terrorizing a group of four sheep.  It was pretty cool how they responded to voice and whistle commands over great distances.  According to the trainer giving the demo, dogs either are born with the instinct to stalk sheep or they’re not, and he can tell at the very first encounter whether the dog can be trained or not to herd.  It’s useless to try to train one that lacks the desire.

In the afternoon there was a demonstration of Scottish Country Dancing (they disfavor terming it “folk” dancing since the dances are engaged in by nobility as well as common folk).  This certainly isn’t the most exciting thing to watch, but I will say that it was intricate and I doubt I could remember the steps to one dance let alone the variety they performed.

We managed to avoid the clutches of the many “craft” and Scottish-gear stalls, but no visit to the Queen Mary is complete without a souvenir pin for Mom to add to her hat, so it was off to the shops to hunt one down.

We just about wore Mom’s nearly 87-year-old legs off going around the venues and the ship, so we called it quits and headed back to West L.A. for an early Valentine’s dinner at Tlapazola.  A Cadillac marguerita and lobster enchiladas did the trick for me!  Just another winter’s day in L.A.

FRISCO FLING

Last weekend we did a whirlwind trip to S.F. to see the Boyos (and their Girlos?) and their respective new/remodeled digs.  We left early (well, 7:30) Friday morning and had pretty good traffic flow all the way there.  I hardly cursed anyone at all.  L.A. was having a Friday lite day, I-5 was barreling along, and even the Bay Area wasn’t bad getting to and across the San Mateo Bridge.  But why oh why can’t they post the fare so you can see it well before getting to the booth?  Got gas right after the 99 cutoff, and then we stopped for an hour or so at Harris Ranch where Loni and I indulged in a late breakfast (thick bacon, 3 eggs, and buttermilk biscuits – Lipitor, anyone?) and Mom went all out with a rootbeer float(!) and a chicken salad.  Harris isn’t cheap, but the food is top notch even if you don’t order their beef.  Good weather all the way up, with the rain holding off until after we got there.  Got to the hotel a little after 3:00, so about 6 1/4 hours driving time door to door (just shy of 400 miles).  We stayed at our usual place by the airport and got a good rate, avoided the $40 daily parking that the S.F. hotels charge, and enjoyed free full breakfasts each day.  What you can’t escape in the Bay Area are the ridiculous 14%(!!!) “tourist” and occupancy taxes.  The hotel (Best Western Grosvenor) is a decent tourist hotel, definitely not “luxury” as they boast on their site, but it’s been recently remodeled and was clean, quiet and functional.  Great freeway access and only minutes to the City.  Works for us.

Meghan and John hosted dinner Friday night in their new apartment (their first together), which sits high on a hill with a dynamite view of the entire San Francisco and East Bay skylines.  Wow!  The rain had started, so the picture of the view isn’t the greatest, but it was spectacular:

The living room and the kitchen/dining area both look out on this.  Not too shabby.  And neither was dinner.  Meghan’s mom, Janet, was there from Phoenix and Alia and Mike came over from their place not too far away.   Heart-stopping and mouth-watering cheeses to start.  A great salad.  Janet’s recipe and Meghan’s culinary skills produced a scrumptious stroganoff which we washed down with several bottles of syrah, zin, and cab.  And, of course, individual apple crumb tortes with ice cream.  Oh, nurse!  Excellent.

Saturday we (sans Janet, who had an early flight) went to the new California Academy of Arts and Sciences in Golden Gate Park.  This was very cool.  I didn’t even mind the $25/head admission (although $20 for parking was a bit of a gouge on top of that).  We gathered in front of TRex for a group shot:

Then it was off to the rain forest with butterflies galore, the planetarium for a trip to the cosmos, and the aquarium for the depths.  I won’t attempt to recount the zillion creatures we saw.  Suffice to say that this a must-see on a visit to S.F.  They even had great food in the cafeteria!

Back to John & Meghan’s where we killed the rest of the cheeses, along with a delicious fig compote.  Two large and one small pizzas from the local joint (all delicious), and Anchor Steam beer, finished us off.

We were heading home on Sunday, but not before brunch at Mike & Alia’s apartment.  Wow, what a transformation from the last time we were there (for the wedding last summer).  They’ve gone from early fraternity casual (sorry, but this Blog tells it like it is) to a real home!  Kudos on the new look.  And major kudos for the brunch.  The pastries, sausages and bacon all were outstanding, but the best was the asparagus frittata home-made by Alia.  Yum.  Could I actually drive 400 miles after all this?  Yup.  Other than a quick stop for gas in Gilroy, we drove straight through.  No need for a stop to eat.

Family and food.  It absolutely gets no better.  Thanks.

“THE DOCTORS”

Yesterday we went off to Paramount Studios where we were part of the audience for the back-to-back taping of two episodes of "The Doctors" t.v. show. That's one of Mom's favorite shows. We managed (wholly by luck,no pull) to get "VIP" tickets which entitled us to park on the Paramount lot (street parking around there is murder), to go to the head of the line for admission without waiting (enduring the glares or stares of awe, depending on your interpretation of those who had been waiting in the long line for some time), and to get seated down front where we might have a chance of being seen on t.v. Whoo hoo!  Celebs!  They didn't allow cameras (or even cell phones), so we had to leave those in the car. The only photo we got was of the Paramount water tower with it's logo:

Yes, that is the MORNING sun. We had to get up at 5:00 (well, Mom did) in order to ablute, dress, eat, and get on our way. Traffic was fairly forgiving for L.A. (Friday lite) so it wasn't too bad and we got there in plenty of time.

The taping itself was pretty interesting. Multiple cameras and booms, but a fairly simple set construction. All there was to it were the plastic backdrops and the table that the four docs sit at. That gets moved around, but there wasn't much else. The docs themselves look just like they do on t.v. No surprises. The "Bachelor" doc is pretty tall, the woman doc has r-e-a-l-l-y skinny legs and walks on what look like 5 inch stilettos, the plastic surgeon looks, well, plastic, and the pediatrician looks and acts like a friendly goof. They read just about everything off of teleprompters, only the banter is spontaneous. It was pretty fascinating to see the director work, giving cues, stopping the tape, redoing certain spots, etc. All in all we had a good time. We had to be there from 7:45 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., with a break at 10:30 for the loo. I liked the director. If he had been any more laid back he'd be comatose. But that kept things remarkably amiable and smooth. Absolutely no tension on the set, even when things went wrong.  I kept thinking that these guys get paid fortunes for this.  Sigh.

Panamint Valley Posse

There’s a lot of good things that have flown from our decision to buy our Lazy Daze RV.  We’ve had great adventures driving around the Southwest, rekindling our appreciation for the incredible diversity of landscape that this country offers.  But it also has fostered new friendships that we value more and more with every LD get-together that we have.  The latest was our trip to the Panamint Valley and Death Valley last week (12/26 to 12/30).

Recent years have seen a small portion of the parent Caravan Club get together for the week after Christmas in Death Valley to explore with Jeeps and commune with food and drink.  This has proved so popular that I’m told there were about 30 rigs at Furnace Creek this time.  The Death Valley Desperados.  However, we joined with a splinter group that wanted to avoid cumbersome “wagon-train” Jeep excursions.  We met up instead in the Panamint Valley, a beautiful area to the immediate west of Death Valley, separated by the Panamint Mountain range.  Here’s a shot of that range from our campsite the first evening, with Loni, Renee, and Barbara bundled against the chill:

The Panamint Valley has a very cool formation that looks for all the world like a giant shark facing right.  See it?  Our rigs are down in that Valley, but over to the left, out of the picture.

We initially were three rigs:  us, Larry & Renee, and Art & Barbara;  we were joined later by Terry and Elith.  We circled the wagons in the middle of nowhere:

Rig-to-rig progressive dinner night (we got the hors d’oeuvres):

This is Bill on the right, a local resident who’s carving his dreamscape 3,500 feet up the Argus Range that forms the west side of the Panamint Valley, alongside a huge hunk of gorgeous stone he hauled in to the site.  Art (L) and Larry (R) in the rear.

Our jeeping took us over the Slate Range that runs down the south portion of the Panamint Valley, where we are standing here.  Are these guys desert rats, or what?  (What.)

The next day, joined by Terry & Elith, we took the Wildrose road out of the Valley and climbed 4,000 feet into the Panamints, cutting over on the Emigrant Canyon Road and finally the Skidoo Trail to the ghost town site of Skidoo and its end-of-the-road rock mill (out of sight around that bend).

Skidoo flourished (700 souls) between 1906 and 1917, pumping in water from 23 miles away.  The phrase “23 Skidoo,” however (meaning “scram!”), preceded the naming of town.  I can’t imagine hauling materials into this remote area to build an entire town.

The night of the 28th, Loni cooked Chicken Dijon for the eight of us, with a nice green bean risotto and a big salad.  Renee helped put the salad together, Elith made a scrumptious dessert, and Art & Barbara supplied the wine.  Terry and Elith have a 27 ft rear bath model, so it had plenty of room for eight at the dinette and the lounge table.  We are camping in style!  We pulled up stakes on the 29th and moved on to Mesquite Springs campground in Death Valley, up near Scotty’s Castle.  This is an “improved” campground, with picnic tables and fire rings and bathrooms, but no hookups.  We were joined here by a couple more rigs from the DVD group, and are perched on the rim of a large ravine.

Scotty’s Castle may be touristy, but it’s still a must see.  I’d never seen it before, so we took off to take a tour.  Despite the name, this actually was the winter vacation residence of a Chicago insurance millionaire, Albert Johnson, who came here for his health.  Part of that health, he thought, was a steady dose of laughter provided by one Walter Scott, prospector, storyteller, and general prevaricator, who had duped Johnson into “investing” in his alleged gold mine.  Johnson caught on quickly, but retained “Scotty” until his death to keep him entertained.  Started in 1924, and never completely finished, the place is beautifully crafted, inside and out, and the Park Ranger gave an interesting tour, dressed in period costume.

While waiting for our tour to start, we drove over to check out the Ubehebe Crater about 8 miles away.  This baby is half a mile wide and 500 feet deep, formed by a volcanic explosion about 1,000 years ago. No, I wasn’t trying to throw her in as a sacrifice.  Honest.

We had a relaxing time around a campfire that evening, which was our last.  We left the next morning, but everyone else was staying through New Year’s.  If you look reeeel sharp you can see the little white blips of the rigs at the Mesquite Campground in this shot taken on the way out (click to enlarge):

We had to get home for New Year’s with Chuck and Alice and for our 42nd anniversary dinner out.  Here we are, ready to go.

It’s been a darn good year!  Happy 2010!

Catching Up: The House

It’s been almost four months now since we started this project.  That’s about as long as it took to build a complete second story back in 1984.  We’re almost done.  All the woodwork --- facia and windows – was repaired from 25 years of neglect; primer and at least two coats were applied;  all stucco was painted.  The eaves were closed in all around.  A dropped ceiling was installed on the porch, together with new arches and enlarged columns.  The porch was closed off at the old steps, filled in over them, and new steps were made down the front.  New walks in front and along the side of the drive and garage were poured.  New gutters all around, and an underground pipe drain takes most of it away (wish I’d done the same with the rest).  The porch, stairs, and part of the walks were tiled with slate (that’s not done yet). New balustrades were installed around the porch and stairs. The rock facing is about half done.  A new side window was cut into the den-cave above the garage.  And, we had the roof patched and repaired.  I made new shutters for the upper windows, and need to make a final one for the lower bedroom.    Once the final rock and tile work is completed, we can start landscaping.  Oye. 

Here’s the before and present (click to enlarge):

Catching Up: Thanksgiving In Indy

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year.  Yeah, Christmas is nice – who doesn’t like presents?  But the feeling of a house at Thanksgiving is unique.  The smells from the kitchen, the football from the t.v., the family and friends gathered in anticipation of that second-favorite of all sensual experiences:  pigging out!  Last year was the first time we had not been the hosts, when we went up to S.F. and had the feast at Mike and Alia’s.  Felt very strange not to have OUR home be the center of this day, and we realized that a new chapter was opening in our family’s life.  Needless to say, we had a grand time in a new setting, with an expanded family and different friends.  This year was even stranger.  Our nuclear family was nuked.  Loni and I went off to Indianapolis for the holidays with my relatives, and the boys hosted a grand fest at John and Meghan’s new apartment in S.F., which we haven’t yet seen.  2,200 miles apart.  Where’s nuclear fusion when you need it?

We had an uneventful flight (thank you, SWA) and arrived to temps about 25 degrees cooler than L.A.  Not too bad, and certainly better than the week of below zero that we spent there many years ago.  Mom had homemade vegetable-beef soup ready, which was the perfect post-travel meal.  I won’t blow-by-blow the trip, but we had great meals:  the Belgian bistro-brewpub with Susy (aviso:  don’t get the sour beer) – great garlic fries and mussels;  outstanding casserole at Jack and Rose’s;  top-notch northern Italian with Wayne and Tina in the funky Broad Ripple neighborhood of the City; and, of course, the centerpiece, Thanksgiving at Susy’s.

We did not want for food!  That’s Mom’s silver head in the foreground, and great-grandson Tyler on Elaissa’s lap.  There are great-great’s out there, but not present here.  Four generations was cool enough.

We spent the rest of the week helping out at the church (yes, heathens were welcome to lend a hand), buying Mom a DVD player to match her 50” LCD, showing her how to work it and to check out movies at the library, getting her some infrared headphones to help with hearing her shows, and going to see “Blind Side” at the flics, which we all enjoyed very much, nose-high critics be damned.

Ten days is long enough for Midwest fall gloom, and the last-day drizzle didn’t tempt us to extend our stay.  We’ll be seeing Mom in about six weeks when she flees the heart of winter to come stay with us for a while. 

The flight back was interesting.  I completely forgot to go online 24 hours ahead and secure our boarding passes.  We had to get them at the airport.  It would appear that everyone now takes advantage of the online check-in.  The flight was full, and only two other people had numbers higher than ours, so we had our “choice” of four seats when we finally boarded.  We glommed onto two center seats in rows 7 and 8, across the aisle from each other.  My row had two women, who turned out to be mother (late 60’s, window) and daughter (indeterminate, aisle), with a mound of bags and garments piled on the center seat (despite, as we learned later, repeated admonishments on the speaker from the captain as the boarding progressed that it would be a full flight).  I asked them to move the stuff.  The daughter started stuffing everything under the seat in front of where I would be sitting.  Ah, no.  She finally caught a clue, and starting trying to hoist everything into an already stuffed bin overhead.  Ah, no.  The flight attendant finally hove to and distributed things into other bins.  I got to sit down (and the two other long-standing passengers finally got to pass by to find their own seats).  The ladies didn’t offer to sit next to each other.  OK, my bad for being a dope with the check-in, penance in the center seat.  Then I noticed the Book.

Both mother and daughter had retained enough junk to cover their food trays several times over.  But the daughter’s Book stood out.  Coverless.  Battered.  Five inches thick with dictionary-type indents.  As soon as we were airborne she started in on it.  I glanced.  Every single word on what looked like a thousand pages was either highlighted, underlined, or circled, sometimes with combinations of each.  Different colored inks.  Notations covered the margins, top, bottom, and sides.  What the???  Then I got it.  Heathens are slow.  It was a Bible.  Uh oh.

All right.  Just keep quiet and read your own book, self.  My fears were not realized, however.  No proselytizing.  The only irritation was that they kept talking to each other by leaning forward towards me and chatting across as if I was part of their piled goods.  But sit next to each other?  Nooooooo.  Then, the syncro splash. 

This was a smooth flight.  Nary a bump.  The drink service was effortless.  The ladies both ordered coffee, and Mom ordered a Bloody Mary for good measure at the same time.  Each pushed her debris around on the trays to make space for the drinks.  And then . . . without so much as a shudder from the plane, they simultaneously moved their arms forward and, in a synchronicity worthy of Chinese tandem diving, knocked over their drink (drinks, in Mom’s case).  Daughter took most of hers on her pantlegs.  I took about half of Mom’s mixture on my leg and she got the rest.  Napkin brigade!  The attendant kept them coming.  Mom’s tray was like a muddy-red swimming pool.  Sincere apologies in stereo.  It’s a long flight.

We start descending into Phoenix.  Mom’s gazing out the window and says that she could never live here.  I ask where they’re from (Columbus) and if they’re going on to L.A.  “Oh no.  We’re here to see Joel Osteen,” she says.  I look blank.  “Joel Osteen.”  Blanker.  “You don’t know Joel Osteen?”  Uh, nope, sorry.  “You’ve never heard of him?”  More blank, now wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.  “Why, he’s one of the biggest ministries on T.V.  He has a huge congregation.  We’ve come to Phoenix just to hear him.  I can’t believe you’ve never heard of him.”  Guess I live in a cave.  She gave me a strange, appraising look.  Probably trying to figure whether I was Jewish, Muslim, or just slow.  Clearly no right-thnking Christian person could not have heard of Joel Osteen   Thank goodness for noisy flaps and wheels lowering.  This conversation is aborted. 

Virtually the entire plane gets off in Phoenix, and Loni and I get to sit together the rest of the way to L.A.  She says she could hardly keep a straight face when the flood hit, and that her seatmate had had a hissy fit of self-righteous comments about how “those women” had just ignored the captain’s warnings of a full plane and kept their junk on the center seat.  Fun and games in the air.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

We just got back from a four day jaunt to San Luis Obispo and Paso Robles to attend the 2009 Paderewski Festival.

Say, what?

Yep, we got kultcha.  Although, I have to say, if this hadn’t been connected to wine tasting I might not have opted in.  Wine or not, I was glad we did.  The inspirations were my fraternity bros, Paul and Chuck.   Paul lives in SLO and provided the B&B base of operations.  Chuck provided the connection to the festival as he takes piano lessons from the principal organizer.  We provided the lasagna and comic relief.

Having Paul’s house as a home port, we left the rig here and saved the $135 in gas it would have eaten.  We went instead in the very versatile VW van that Chuck had loaned us last summer to go to Stanford Camp, complete with canine companion, Axel:

We had a beautiful drive up the Malibu coast on Hwy 1, joining the US 101 in Oxnard.  The ocean views sure beat the traffic on the freeway route through the Valley.  We got there around 2:30 and set to getting in an early dinner as we had to get to Paso for the first wine reception and event by 6:00.  Paul popped a couple of very nice bottles, Loni’s lasagna got reheated, good crunchy bread and salad, and we were mellow in no time.  Fortunately, Chuck is not into the drink, so we could waft our way to Paso in (relative) safety.

The first event was at the Vina Robles Winery for a performance by the Denali String Quartet , a Los-Angeles-based superb group.

The winery has a new tasting facility which has an outstanding concert room, very tastefully decorated.  Alas, I left my camera at Paul’s so no photos.  They give a series of concerts there, and it is a great venue.  Not so great was their cheapo approach to the wine reception.  One small taste of a new rose’, which actually was pretty good, given I’m not big on rose’s.  But thereafter everything was on a pay-per-glass basis.  And no munchies.  Boooo.  The concert, however, more than made up for it.  They were excellent.  We heard

Villa-Lobos: String Quartet No. 5

Gorecki: String Quartet No. 1, "Already It Is Evening"

Brahms: String Quartet in A Minor

I won’t pretend to be familiar with any of it, but it sure was good.  Our resident music expert, Chuck, agreed.

Next day we took off for a bit of wine tasting, heading first for Chateau Margene, getting there before the gates opened at noon.

This is a beautiful property, as are nearly all the vineyards in this area.  We were after some more of the Sangiovese that Paul had poured on Thursday, and they didn’t disappoint.  We tried about eight wines, including some very-very-reserve stuff that went for $150 per bottle.  The guy pouring, nephew of the owner, said he goofed and opened that by mistake.  Actually, it wasn’t much different from the ones we liked at one-fifth the price.  We got a bottle of the 06 Cab, and one of the 06 “Cielo Rosso” which is 73% Sangiovese and the rest Cab.  These are great now, but will age for another few years.  They won’t last that long around here.

Next stop was one of our favorites, the Cass Winery. 

We’d been there before, and had a great lunch, so we were after the same.  They didn’t disappoint.  Along with tastes of about seven wines, we had splendid crab cakes, a yummy smoked chicken salad, Italian roast beef sandwich with creamy horseradish sauce, and a seven-course cheese sampler:

Rinconada Dairy Chapparral / Central Coast California / Raw sheep & goat's milk
Cypress Grove Midnight Moon / Netherlands / Pasteurized goat's milk
Bravo Farms Western Sage Cheddar / Central California / Raw cow's milk
Beemsters X - O Gouda / Netherlands / Pasteurized cow's milk
Paso Robles Cheese Co. Truffled Goat Cheese / Paso Robles / Pasteurized goat's milk
Rogue River Smokey Blue / Oregon / Raw cow's milk

Oh, yes, it was alllll goooood. 

We picked up two bottles of their 08 “Rockin One, a scrumptious blend of 80% Roussanne and 20% Marsanne.  I love trying grapes that I haven’t had before.  Actually, given what the radiation did to my taste buds, I’m ecstatic to be able to taste wine again at all!

One of the highlights of this trip to Cass was a visit with Anita, the men’s bathroom hostess:

Paul (in the hat in the picture above) is on a first-name basis with nearly every winery in the area, so we got the “Paul Discount” wherever we went.  He also belongs to various wine clubs, and had to pick up an order from one, so we swayed our way to Pipestone Vineyards .  No pictures from there, but but we came away with a bottle each of their 06 Grenache and Zinfandel.  Lip smacking yum, as Robert Parker probably wouldn’t say out loud.

After all this, it was back to Cass for the second concert.  Unlike Vina Robles, Cass had an open tasting and was pouring generously.  They also had some terrific hors d’oeuvres.  The concert this evening was held in the barrel room, which was pretty dark, so my flashless (required) photos didn’t come out.  Instead, here’s a shot of Chuck’s teacher giving a performance in the main room, with the barrel room in the background.

After the concert, which featured a pianist with a pounding left hand which drowned everything out, we went back to Paso in search of a later dinner.  We lucked out and found “Chico’s.”  This is literally a hole-in-the-wall, wedged almost invisibly between a Coldstone Creamery and Lombardi’s, an Italian place, all on the square; but do yourself a favor and eat there when you are in Paso.  The owner is the chef, a relative is the waitress, and the food is delicious.  The owner is a former cook at a seafood restaurant on the beach in Cambria, up the coast.  This is his first place of his own, and I hope he makes it.  I had fat, juicy, tender scallops in a garlic and caper sauce.  Oooooooohhhhmmmmm.

Saturday we stuck around the house and watched the Stanford – USC slaughter.  We were bouncing off the walls.  55-21!  Revenge for decades of being squashed by the pros from SC. 

We giggled our way off to an entirely forgettable early dinner at “Matthews” in Paso.  In a word, don’t.  I even sent my “Caesar” salad back with instructions to take it off my bill.  You don’t have to be a connoisseur to know that Caesars don’t come with:  tomato slices, greek olives, and red onion slices.  And, if you’re going to boast on the menu that it is prepared in a wood bowl rubbed with garlic (it wasn’t, admitted the hostess), then don’t serve wilted greens with fake bottled goop and call it a Caesar.  The less said the better about the rest of this turkey.  The main event of the festival was held in the 100+ year-old hall at the Paso Robles Inn.  This is a venue that Paderewski himself actually played in back in the early 1900s.  For those, like me, without a clue, Ignacy Jan Paderewski (b 1860, d 1941) was a virtuoso pianist, composer, politician (first Prime Ministers of independent Poland after WWI), and orator, who visited Paso Robles many times between 1914 and 1939, buying tracts of land and starting one of the earliest vineyards in the area.  The Festival was started in 1993 to commemorate his association with the area.  At the final event, the Poland Consul General from Los Angeles attended.  We had more good wine to taste, and this time had a top-notch performance by Polish pianist Hubert Rutkowski.

If you’ll indulge me, I was transfixed by this recital.  I had a great view of his hands.  My best description would be that he caressed the keys into submission.  I can appreciate, but not comprehend, talent like his.

OK, we return you now to the usual boorish reporting.  We had a grand time.  We made our way safely back to Paul’s (about 25 miles), tuned and retuned every sports recap we could find on the satellite about the Stanford win, and went to bed with Gerhart  pounding runs and Love pinpoint passes dancing in our heads.  Life is good.

Sunday morning it was blueberry waffles, thick-cut bacon, fresh ground coffee and oranges picked from Paul’s tree.  Thus endeth the Central Coast sojourn.

 

 

CALLING DADDY WARBUCKS

One month, nineteen checks, and still counting.  Yikes this remodel stuff is expensive.  We have made progress.  Hand made shutters by yours truly:

No place to clamp while gluing the crosspieces, so bricks and blocks it is.

 

New aluminum gutters from the mobile extruder truck;  good riddance to our previous seams ‘n sags setup.

New steps and walkways poured:

 

  

The old steps were filled in and the porch extended:

Meanwhile, there being no rest for the weary, Miss House & Garden TV of 2009 takes a breather in the finished dining room

before moving on to stripping the 80’s (what were we thinking?) paper out of the kitchen (yes, that plaid was everywhere)

and then sanding, washing, and priming everything in sight

Yes, I AM doing my share, but somebody’s got to be behind the camera, right?  Only seventeen cabinet doors to go.  Thank goodness we’re not hosting Thanksgiving this year!

CALLING BOB VILLA

It didn’t take a close examination to figure out that we shouldn’t try to make it through another winter (well, what passes for winter in SoCal) with our 25 year-old paint peeling to bare wood all over the house, windows falling apart, and the sotto voce mutterings of the neighbors.  So, our grand RV trip to the Pacific NW was postponed for the second time, the bank account pillaged, contracts signed, and we’re off on the grand adventure.  Remodeling.  Of course, paint leads to grander considerations in the distaff mind, and the house is getting a porch ceiling, new entry stairs, enlarged porch floor area, new front walks, new side walk, new window in the cave-den, and closing in all of the eave overhangs.  Yikes.

Up went the scaffolding (that’s Mom supervising from the porch):

Out came the shrubs:

And on went the first coat of “Restful Green:”

The color’s a little hard to make out, but it looks great in the flesh.  Pulling off the old siding to the right of the porch revealed decades-long-covered vents, one in front and one around the edge towards the garage door. 

Up went the rafters for the porch ceiling:

And then the tongue-in-groove planks:

Meanwhile, now that we have all this “time on our hands, wouldn’t it be great to redo the interior as well?  Hmmmmm?  Let’s start with the dining room.”  Start?

Let’s see.  Strip the wallpaper.  Sand the walls down.  Wash the walls.  Wash the ceiling.  Prime the ceiling and all the walls.  Ain’t this fun?  Not.

Well, one of us is having a good time.

The colors were a little shocking at first for Loni.  I loved them, but she took a while to warm up.  That wall on the left doesn’t really look that pink in real life; it’s more of a salmon.  The lines where they meet the ceiling will be covered with crown molding. 

The new window in the den has eliminated the cave.  As a bonus, it looks straight across the 12 feet to the window in the house next door, right down their hallway to their bedroom door.  Well, alrighty!

The new front path has been staked and scraped.  We might see cement this week.  We will of course have to deface it with names and date for posterity.  Or until the next owner bulldozes the place and builds a manse.

More to come!