A couple of weekends ago, I made pomegranate jelly.  My boss has a tree/bush and brought in a couple and gave them to me.  I’d never eaten one before, even though when I was growing up there was a tree/bush right outside the back door of our house.  I remembered the bloom but not ever seeing any fruit on it.  Then, she brought in a whole bag of them and so I had to do something with all that fruit.  I picked up 3 of the biggest ones I could find at the farmer’s market that Friday to be sure I had enough and vowed to make jelly on Saturday.  I had an even dozen pomegranates and armed with the printed results of an internet search on how to extract juice from the millions of tiny seeds, I set to work about 9:30am.  At precisely 11:50am (2 hrs and 20 min later), I had a scant 4 cups of juice.  And my kitchen sink and surrounding counter looked like something out of CSI.  Talk about directional splatter!  Yes, I opened the fruit in a bowl under water.  I have photographs and planned to document the project but I haven’t had the energy to upload, identify and post them.

Bottom line is the yield was 6 8oz jars of a really beautiful deep garnet jelly that set up perfectly!  The jelly has a slight astringent finish and is the perfect accompaniment to brie cheese and crackers.  Also delightful on pancakes, waffles and whole wheat toast.  And just right out of the jar on a spoon.

While describing in excruiating detail to Jen how much of a pain it was to extract the juice from the tiny seed sacs of literally thousands of seeds, Jen said, “Can’t you just buy the juice?”  Well. Yes.  Yes you can.  But that takes all the fun out of it!  Except I think I will buy some juice and make another batch for Christmas presents.  I’m going to be disappointed if it tastes as good or better than the hard way.

And, by the way, in case you are wondering how many seeds there are in a pomegranate, some sources say each one has exactly 613, which is, of course, mathematical nonsense.  If that were true, however I would have juiced 7,356 seeds to obtain a scant 4 cups of juice.  If you really care (and I so don’t), here’s a scientific examination of the question.

Oh, and I never did actually taste any of the seeds!

what time it is?  Does anybody really care?  For the oldies out there, you recognize lines from a popular Chicago tune.  Hell, you know who Chicago is/was.  The younger folk think Chicago is a town.  And it is.

I don’t know about you, but this time shifting is making me crazier and crazier every year.  I’ve never needed an alarm clock to wake up in the morning until recently.  And, really, I need one now because my eyesight is so bad I can’t see the digital clock on Husband’s side of the bed.  Don’t tell me to move it.  My bedside table is 2 ft tall stacked books……no room.  I bought a little bitty alarm clock with a little push button light.  Only the light doesn’t shine on the face of the clock so you can see the actual numbers, it just shines out the other way.  What the hell good is that? If I’d wanted a flashlight, I’d have bought one.  Actually, I do use a flashlight every morning to locate jewelry and shoes…..because Husband is fast asleep and I don’t want to wake him by turning on a light.  Once I got to work with different shoes on.  But that’s another story.

I should get up between 6:00 and 6:30 am, and leave the house by 7:30am.  I used to wake up at 5:00 am and sort of dither in bed waiting for the alarm to go off.  Only now, I wake up at 4:00 am because of the time change.  That’s way too long to dither.  I said this morning that I should get up and go to the gym.  Husband told me to just lay there and let that thought pass.  So I did.  But it was crazy-making.  I’m crazy enough, I don’t need more of that.  By the time there’s another time change, I’ll be waking up at 3:00 am and that’s when I usually get up to pee, because my kidneys are on the night shift.  Don’t ask.

I do appreciate being able to get up in the daylight, however, and don’t mind coming home in the dark so much.  It’s harder to get back out the door for pilates and yoga classes, but even harder to get up in the dark.  You can’t always get what you want……

 1000 WORDS.

Shot outside Camera Cinemas in Campbell – windshield of truck.  It reads:

GOP FAITH-BASED HEALTH CARE PLAN:

PRAY YOU DON’T GET SICK.

Or is it the other way around?  LIFE IMITATES ART?

After a quick trip to Whole Paycheck this afternoon, I thought I’d pop by J Crew in Los Gatos because Ashley said they had “better stuff than the one at Valley Fair.”   She also said they had a bigger selection of larger sizes, because, let’s face it, Crew styles are made for skinny little women.  I haven’t been a skinny little woman for 40 years, now.  But I have a genetic predisposition for fashion.  I get it from my maternal grandmother, I can’t help it.  Really.  I mean it.  So…..I had seen this blouse in the catalogue and just thought it was the cutest thing and I thought maybe they would have it at the store.  Clearly. were I to wear this confection, it would need a cardigan sweater………

I rushed to the dressing room holding the only double-digit size on the rack (10) and put it on.  It fit!  It buttoned all the way down – OK, the bottom is A line cut – but it did button!  Then, art imitated life:  the ruffles of the blouse were almost exactly replicated in the crepe paper folds of my neck!  All I needed for an exact duplicate were some assorted age spots to stand in for the pattern in the fabric.  I pulled at either side of my jaws to smooth out the skin.  Yes, that looked much better.  Could I navigate the world looking serenely up at the sky, this would work.  I can’t.  I didn’t buy it.  Phooey.

A couple of weeks ago, I replanted the porch pots – good size dark green ceramic pots that sit at either end of the wooden bench, obviously on the porch.  They might more correctly be called porch coffins as I typically forget to water whatever is in them regularly and, well, you know what happens to plants that do not receive sufficient water for their needs.  My kids call any plants I bring home, “new victims.”  Although, in my defense, the last set of victims actually survived for several months until it was just time to pull them up and send them to the compost pile.  They were finished blooming and getting leggy and weird and it was time for fall mums and ivy to take their place.

At Summer Winds I found lovely copper colored mums and both green and varigated ivy for the pots.  As I was pulling out the summer plants and straggly bacopia, I noticed a plant that looked odd.  It was tall and gangly and not like anything I recalled planting.  Ever.   When I pulled it out, there were PEANUTS in the roots!  What a funny surprise.  Then I remembered the lady next door (who hates me) telling me with way too much satisfaction that the peonies I was planting at the time were only going to be eaten by the squirrels.  She also mentioned that someone in the neighborhood was feeding them peanuts that they buried all over the place.  As I had paid about $70 for the plants, I was none to happy to hear that.  I just told her I guessed they would have a very expensive meal, then, because I was going to plant them anyway.  And I did.  And they did.  That little area under the birches was the squirrels’ French Laundry for a short time.

I laughed out loud when I pulled up the peanuts, tossed them in the compost pile and planted the mums.  Then, a couple of days ago, I noticed dirt on the porch and small holes around the edges of the pots .  I guess the squirrels are back busily planting nuts for the winter.  It occurred to me that life is very like those pots.  There’s frequently a surprise or two cooked up by unnamed and unseen critters that pop out when you aren’t expecting them.

We just had the first good rainstorm of the season.  Very welcome, despite the high winds that accompanied it because, believe me, it’s been DRY around here.

I walked into the building where I work on Tuesday having been buffeted by wind and rain walking from the parking garage across the street and pushed the button for the elevator.  I was happy because it was on the ground floor.  Our building has the s l o w e s t elevator in the free world.  If there were more than 4 floors in the building, you’d have to take your lunch along if you were going any higher.

So, stepped into the elevator and noticed a quite large wet spot on the carpet.  Huh.  I’m one of the first people to arrive at work and I thought it was odd that so many people had come before me that their dripping umbrellas had made such a spot.  I pushed the button for the 3rd floor and heard what sounded like rain drops on the roof of the elevator car.  Looking up, I saw that it was raining.  In.the.elevator.  This elevator is out of service a lot, the doors close several times before they really finally close more times than not and, as I said, it is incredibly s l o w.  So, why was I surprised it was raining inside?

As it turns out, the high wind blew a panel off the roof and the rain was falling into the open atrium in the building and into the elevator shaft.  Just a little while after I got off – it quit working altogether.  And, it’s still not working and won’t be repaired until Friday.  We can’t get our mail because the postperson won’t drag her bag up the stairs – can’t say as I blame her – but it’s hard for a law firm to have no mail service.

I’m leaving for Texas tomorrow to see my mother.  Back on Monday night.  Perhaps on Tuesday, we’ll have snow!  In the elevator.

I can’t believe it, but I’ve been told Gourmet magazine has folded.  I should have guessed something was up when I got an email from Gourmet yesterday announcing the rather sudden end of the surveys they emailed out.

I’ve subscribed to Gourmet and Bon Appetit for years.  Every year I think it’s silly to get both but I could never decide which one I liked best, so I just kept getting both.  The decision has been made for me.  I am certain that Gourmet was expensive to produce but with the current food climate, I’m surprised there weren’t enough subscribers to keep it afloat.  Maybe the advertisers were the problem.  Whatever, I will miss it.  And, I’ll be interested to see how the TV show fares.  Although I confess that I won’t miss having stacks of back issues pile up because I can’t bear to toss them.  We won’t discuss the old issues of Bon Appetit………ahem.

Here’s a link to a short interview with Ruth.  And another one from the Miami Examiner. I guess there will be a book in the works.  I enjoyed her previous ones, although the more recent one (about her mother), not so much.

There’s been so much change lately.  Can’t say as I like it.

Husband emailed me yesterday that the end of the book we were listening to on our trip to Cambria showed up on a different location on his IPod; i.e., the last chapters weren’t immediately following the previous ones.  So, he’s listening and I’m just getting updates from him.  Apparently, there is an ending after all.  Whether I approve remains to be seen.  I don’t like having main characters die at the end, so I’m thinking from what Husband has told me so far, I’m not going to approve.

Husband and I made a getaway this last weekend to Cambria, a little town in the central coast of California, population 6500.  We left Friday afternoon about 1:30 and after spending about an hour creeping along at a snail’s pace because of a grass fire just south of Gilroy, we finally arrived in Cambria around 5:30.  Cambria is a just a few miles south of Hearst Castle, so lots of people stay there when they come to visit the Castle.  There are dozens of restaurants (Husband made a list of them so we could be sure to choose carefully) and motels, inns and B&Bs scattered around.  We chose Bluebird Inn because it was cheap and centrally located in the little town.  The parking lot was full of “Woodies” when we drove in – there was a convention in the nearby town of Morrow Bay the next day.  Husband spent a few days in Cambria in March of this year for his Cousin Reunion, so he was familiar with the “hot spots!”  Read:  ice cream, pie, candy and fudge stores.    Of course, I was working so hard and fast right up until we left that I didn’t once think of my camera and arrived with a dead battery.  Typical.

We took in the movie at Hearst Castle and drove along the beach, walked some in the little town and ate well, slept in and generally lollygagged around.  I shopped.  I do that.  Bought a new wrap – because I really needed this one.  right.  Bought a new Green Woman for my collection that is so heavy she’s still in Husband’s trunk.  But she is very beautiful, if green.  My office has a collection of little women’s faces fashioned after the order of the Green Man – only these are Green Women.  There are 8 of them on the wall peeking out from behind the assorted plants.  This one is much larger than the others and, truth be told, I’m not quite sure where she will fit.  She may have to prop against the wall between pots.

We had a great dinner at Black Cat Bistro.  Service left a little to be desired but the food didn’t.  The fig mascarpone bruchetta was unbelievable.  We enjoyed brunch both mornings at Cambria Cafe – a little family owned place that specialized in Mexican fare.  Delicious huevos rancheros and really good orange juice, of all things!  Husband likes Linn’s – we had dinner there and ice cream and bought a lot of stuff to bring home.  Husband got a piece of raspberry rhubarb pie that was killer, along with the vanilla ice cream.

On the way home I wanted to stop at Cafe Kevah – my second favorite place in the world, so we came up the coast.  A demanding but beautiful drive.  All along we listened to a Stephen King book called One After Midnight that James had put on Husband’s IPod and will play through his car radio/stereo system.  It kept us riveted right to the end which we sat in our home driveway and listened to.  The ending was something of a disappointment because I kept thinking, “how will he possibly end this crazy situation?”  Yeah.  Apparently he didn’t know either because he didn’t – he just left you to your own imagination.  Phooey.  After all the build up, I was ready for something incredibly inventive but it was not forthcoming.  I guess he just imagined himself into a box from which he found no exit.

Back to the real world now.  Pilates tonight to work off some of the extra calories from the weekend.  Would take a full week probably to make any difference.  These kinds of weekends are life savers.

The small package arrived in the mail.  Inside was an envelope and a couple of little swabs that looked like tiny bottle brushes – one for each cheek.  The ones in your mouth.  You scrub them around the side of your mouth – one for each side – let them dry for 30 minutes and put them in the mailing envelope.  Off they go to a lab that tests the mitochondrial DNA (from your mom) for thousands of years back and tells you where you came from on your mother’s side, about 50,000 years ago.  Here’s what mine says about my ancient mother:

Time: Emerged approx 50,000 years ago
Place: Near East
Facts: The woman who founded Haplogroup J lived approximately 50,000 years ago in the Near East (Mesopotamia). Descendents of the Haplogroup J line moved north and west into Eastern Europe approximately 10,000 years ago. Today, descendents of this line can be found throughout Europe, but are most commonly associated with individuals from Russia and Eastern Europe.

I knew my father’s ancestry to be primarily English and then more recently, Native American.  His family arrived on the east coast in the early 1800s or late 1700s and settled in Virginia.  Then, 2 brothers and their mother moved south and west and eventually settled in south Texas.  One of the sons had a son he named Napoleon and the other brother had a son he named Bonaparte.  Bonaparte’s brother was a direct descendant of my father’s father.  I would like to know why the brothers named their sons after a French Emperor, but that is a story I may never hear.  From his grandmother, my father inherited the bronze complexion and raven black hair common to the Native Americans.  At that time, however, it was not politically correct to associated with such, and my great grandmother declared herself to be “Black Dutch” rather than the Cherokee that we believe her to have been.  We may never know her actual tribal ancestry, but the photographs are unmistakable in her high cheekbones and blue black hair.  When my father died, I had more gray hair at 55 than he did at 82.

It never occurred to me that I would have any eastern European or Russian ancestry.  I’ll have to quiz my mother when I go to Texas in a few weeks to see what she knows of her mother’s ancestry.  Once when in Texas on a summer visit, I dragged my family to see the Catherine the Great exhibit and was fascinated.  But I tend to be fascinated with art of any ilk, including that of the Northwestern Indian.  I’m not sure what all this new information means to me.  I guess that remains to be seen.