Cat does not live by breading alone.

Sometimes they need pita to get the job done…

Victoria's apartment cat, Sophia, makes a sacrifice for the sake of art.

Happy Monday!

One last pass at Pasadena

I know what you’re thinking.

“Three posts on one measly weekend in Pasadena? This woman has no life!”

True, so true, but I just can’t let Pasadena go until I fill you in on a few more reasons to visit there.

One of them would be Cheval Blanc Bistro, an Old Town Pasadena restaurant that should be replicated in your home town and mine.

Interior of Cheval Blanc Bistro (image from pasadenanow.com)

Like the Parkway Grill, Cheval Blanc is run by the Smith Brothers, one of whom was in-house on a busy Saturday evening (perhaps a reason why this corporate restaurant empire is so successful!)  and stopped by our table to chat. He seemed knowledgeable about the restaurant scene in our community – could we hope for a little Smith Brothers magic to come our way?

Duck confit at Cheval Blanc, Pasadena

In addition to the panoply of fine dining options in Pasadena, they have not neglected to provide food for the soul.

A clear stand out in a standout weekend was the Norton Simon Museum, where we feasted our eyes upon room after room of fine 19th and 20th century European paintings.

Worth the trip just to see Van Gogh's The Mulberry Tree. Photos don't begin to do it justice.

"Portrait of a Peasant" is another Van Gogh highlight at the Norton Simon

As I’ve mentioned before, I “take home” a painting to remember each time I visit a museum. This time, there were two that I locked into the memory vault:

"The Chestnut Gatherers" by Georges Lacombe is sizable and splendid!

No, it's not a Hopper. This is "The Butcher Shop" by Alexander Zerdin Kruse.

Mr. Simon, who parlayed an investment in canning equipment to become a food-branding genius (he put Hunts Foods on the map) applied many of his millions into the acquisition of art treasures from Europe and Asia.

Modigliani's "Portrait of the Artist's Wife, Jeanne Hebuterne". Tragically, she hurled herself out of a fifth-story window the day after Modigliani's death.

Fresh from our visits to the Musee de l’Orangerie and Musee d’Orsay, our impression was that the Norton Simon held its own. We especially appreciated the low-key architecture and the spaciousness of the galleries. I thought I detected a bit of a riff on the Guggenheim in the central stairway design, and the museum’s lovely pond is a heartfelt homage to Claude Monet’s famed lily pond at Giverny.

Pond at the Norton Simon Museum (image from latimesblogs.latimes.com)

We barely scratched the surface at this fine museum, since a pair of spoiled dogs were anxiously awaiting our return home that afternoon. Lucky for them, and us, the Norton Simon is conveniently located a stone’s throw off the intersection of the 134 and 210 freeways.

We hope to visit again soon!

"Art, shmart. Get back here and hand out the pizzles!"

Pasadena Weekend, Part Two: International Antiquarian Book Fair

Many California towns are strung by similar threads. There are your California beach towns and there is the undistinguished blending of the San Fernando Valley communities that spawned Valleyspeak. But Pasadena is different.  You’ll see street after manicured street of lovingly landscaped stucco mansions and Craftsman bungalows, all with putting-green quality lawns where weeds need not apply. And as soon as we arrived in the residential neighborhood surrounding our hotel, the CE and I had the same 1-2-3 jinx thought: THIS must be where they filmed Father of the Bride!

Yup. Sure enough. Here's the Pasadena house used as the exterior for FOTB. "Kek", anyone? (image from hookedonhouses.net)

I’m guessing that in Pasadena, you are nobody if you aren’t in the Garden Club. But two weekends ago, a different kind of club swept through town. It was the arcaniest of arcania, the esoteriest of esoteria: it was The 45th California International Antiquarian Book Fair, and, as card-carrying book nerds, we were in attendance.

(image from printmuseum.org)

Truthfully, I was relieved when the CE began collecting books awhile back. It made so much more sense than his saber-collecting hobby. So these days, when he’s not drinking tea with rug dealers, he’s page-turning with book collectors. The passion was kick-started when I showed him the weekly ad that Bauman Rare Books places on the back of the New York Times Book Review. Soon, the CE had made the acquaintance of knowledgeable Bauman staff member, Mazy, and suddenly we were the proud owners of a fine copy of The Old Man and the Sea.

Since books are very much like potato chips, one was not nearly enough. The CE now has a bi-coastal team of favorite book dealers.  Jerry Jacob of Lost Horizon Bookstore in Santa Barbara is his go-to guy on the West coast.

Somehow, the CE once convinced Jerry, owner of Lost Horizon Bookstore, to pose with Autumn.

And in New York, the CE looks forward to visiting Jeremy at the Manhattan Rare Book Company and the adorable Sunday Steinkirchner and Joshua Mann at B&B Rare Books, Ltd.

Sunday and Josh of B&B Rare Books, Ltd. in Manhattan

It may have all begun with our shared appreciation for authors Willa Cather and Edith Wharton. That itch to hold a first edition in your hands, perhaps one even signed by the author, can be powerful.  Our friendly UPS guy, a collector himself – of old bicycles! – was soon showing up more and more frequently with  doorstop-sized parcels that arrived with postmarks from New York, London, and Paris – Paris, Tennessee, that is.

A shelf of our beloved Willa Cather

Why would anyone collect books at a time when the world has come to be ruled by the iPad and the Kindle?  Good question! No good answer. We often wonder if the books of yesteryear are destined to be the buggy whips of the future.

Perhaps it is the collector’s delight of inhabiting a world apart from the mainstream, full of Delphian allure and shop talk. Like any other subculture, book collecting has its own language: words like foxing, octavo, “tipped in” and topstain. A collector cannot judge a book by its cover because there is no such thing as a cover, only boards and a spine.

The CE treasures this copy of Mark Twain's The Prince and the Pauper that he purchased from Josh and Sunday.

Sometimes the the novelty of an exquisitely dressed-up novel is irresistible:

An unusual edition of "Breakfast at Tiffany's". Those are actual tiny diamond chips on Audrey's tiara!

Can you remember the first time a book really moved you?  I do. I have vivid memories of reading the poignant horse stories Blitz and Misty of Chincoteague and later being transported by Madeleine L’Engle’s Wrinkle in Time. While rummaging around the basement when I was a teen, I discovered a wood-cut-illustrated copy of Jane Eyre that I still treasure. Like multitudinous other adolescents, my childhood friend, Nancy, and I transcended our prosaic Midwestern existence when our high school librarian slipped us copies of Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged. This was not just about reading - it was cartharsis. And that experience, perhaps, is (along with the pleasures of commerce) what drew upwards of two hundred vendors and many book lovers like ourselves to wander the aisles at the fair.

I was amazed to find that Blitz is still in print (image from amazon.com)

From The Cat in the Hat or A Tale of Two Cities, it was on display at this book fair, which drew vendors from as far away as England, France, Germany and Denmark. The Convention Center took on the appearance of a sprawling bookstore, as each bookseller set up a booth with bookshelves and glass cases.

A typical booth at the book fair (image from glendalenewspress.com)

Certain books have a universal appeal. You’ll pay dearly for a first edition of Catcher in the Rye or Gone with the Wind. A fine first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird can cost as much as a car. For many, the Holy Grail of book collecting is  James Joyce’s Ulysses, a copy of which I saw at the book fair – priced at a hefty $425,000!

Expensive! (image from the guardian.co.uk)

It was a visit to book heaven for us. If it’s of interest to you, this insider’s guide is worth a read. And it’s none too soon to bookmark the date for next year’s confab. See you in San Francisco?

The CE outside the Convention Center with a souvenir from the Fair

Pasadena Weekend, Part One

Thirty-five years in southern California and I’d never been to Pasadena.  I’ve also never been to an international book fair.

We killed two birds (not chickens, of course!) with one stone and accomplished both last weekend.

We arrived late morning on Friday and pulled into a parking spot on Colorado Blvd. (of Rose Bowl fame) in Pasadena’s Old Town. The plan was to do a bit of window-shopping before lunch. Since we just happened to park in front of a hat shop, in we went, and a few minutes later we both emerged with new chapeaux.

Goorin Brothers has been selling hats since 1895

Thus nattily be-hatted, we drove a few blocks to our new favorite restaurant, the Parkway Grill. Don’t be fooled by the unassuming exterior – when you step inside, the place is warm and bustling and both the food and service are outstanding. Their Split Pea Soup is the best I’ve ever tasted. You know how pea soup is usually either baby-food textured or treacly gruel with hunks of ham tossed in to make it look like they cared? This was neither. The broth was stand-alone good and there were plenty of identifiable vegetables and split peas with just the right crunch to them. Yum!

Inside the Parkway Grill (image from opentable.com)

Sans hat, the CE enjoys a burger at the Parkway Grill

After lunch, we visited the delightful Huntington Library, although we were so enthralled with the gardens and the American Wing that we never actually made it into the Library building. Mid-winter is probably not the best time to go, as not much is in bloom, but it was still amazing. I’ll stop talking for a moment and share some pix:

They were having a camellia sale at the Huntington. We wanted them all!

Mad Hatter?

Lovely, but lethal. I've never seen such an extensive cactus garden.

How pretty is this?

The CE in his new hat

A guide at the gardens pointed out a noisy flock of parrots that have taken the area over as their playground. They flitted from tree to tree and it was hard to get a good look at them. I have a super zoom lens on my point-and-shoot camera so with a very steady hand and an obligingly still bird I was able to get this photo – I think it looks more like a parrotlet or a conyer than a parrot.

Pretty bird!

We decided to save the remainder of the Huntington’s treasures for a future visit, and headed over to check into our hotel. The Langham Huntington is a celebrated and stately Pasadena landmark, built in 1907 and painstakingly updated. I would hope to look that good at 105 years old.

The Langham Huntington Hotel (image from pasadena.langhamhotels.com)

I must confess, however, that the moment I set foot in an older hotel, my amygdala pulses Danger! Danger! signals to every synapse of my being and I can think of nothing but that image from The Shining. You know exactly what I mean, right?

Yes, this one! (image from vegancinegrub.blogspot.com)

It’s not as if I sleep at night anyway, so not a big deal that I lay awake in wait for the haunting to begin. Other than a few bumps in the night, all was well, of course. And really, the hotel is lovely. I’m just bringing the Ghostbusters team with me next time we visit.

Pay no attention to me. The rooms are beautiful. (image from pasadena.langhamhotels.com)

All this and I haven’t even gotten to the Book Fair. Looks like a two-post for today. More to come…

Separated at birth?

Congrats to Pekingese Malachy, the little “stump of a dog” who “wobbled” away with top honors at Westminster this year.

Someone compared him to an “alien footstool”, but I just see Cody the Shoo Bear when I look at him.

Malachy (image from B985.com)

Cody

Is it possible that the nation’s top dog is a dead ringer for a cat?

One less chicken; life goes on.

I was in LA one night recently and took Victoria out for a belated birthday dinner. Have you ever been to Mastro’s? It is probably not on Weight Watcher’s preferred list of restaurants, if they even have such a thing. Mastro’s would probably bill themselves as a steak and seafood restaurant, but in truth, they are a calorie restaurant. Calories, calories and more calories. If you’re in search of calories, Mastro’s is your place. I’m guessing even the ice water has a gazillion calories.

Is this what you think it is? YES!

We ordered steaks and then shared sides and the famous (infamous) Mastro’s Butter Cake, which is accompanied by a cast iron platter of whipped cream. Enough for a party of, say, twelve. We each took home lots of leftovers.

Happy caloric birthday, Victoria!

After that bacchanal, the wine-tasting excursion with Pollo Amiga and Alexandra last weekend seemed downright sedate.

Salud!

It could not have been a more beautiful day up in the Santa Ynez Valley, and we began our visit with a tasting at Zaca Mesa winery, where I picked up some very nice 2008 estate-grown Syrah. Then we had lunch at Los Olivos Cafe. which is always a treat, and stopped by another winery before heading home.

All of this is by way of NOT talking about chickens in the aftermath of losing Autumn. Thanks to all for the many kind expressions of sympathy over her loss. Cathy, who, along with Kirstie, is responsible for Soho and Chloe’s beautification rituals, surprised me one day with this little movie she took of Hope and Autumn in happier days. Such a nice memento to have, and you can see what I mean about Autumn being a “people person”.

_The_Chickens_Movie

►

I think of Autumn often, and especially when I do the head count, which is several times a day. Five, six…and then I am reminded there is no longer a seventh. The flock, however, seems to have adjusted to Autumn’s departure. Hope’s new right-hand hen is Tulip, and the two of them have taken a few walkabouts on their own, presumably to gossip about the shortcomings of the other four. One day I found them sun-bathing in a dirt patch near the pool; another day they were swapping secrets over on the courtyard. They have a lot to talk about!

Second in command?

And, wonder of wonders, Coco has decided to lay eggs again. After three months of nada, we are getting lovely light-green eggs from her again Maybe she has a Winter Break written into her contract?

With more laying activity, we get the occasional gridlock in the nesting box:

"But she's sitting on MY egg!"

Indeed she is. There's Lucy's egg, Coco's egg and a few golf balls for good measure.

The end justifies the means!

Everyone is now laying except for Hope and Luna. Hope gets a pass – she’s two-and-a-half, just finished molting and lost her sister. Luna, what in the name of all that fuzz between your ears is your excuse?

Uhhhhh, just a minute, I'm thinking of an answer...

Joni

There are worse things than lying in an MRI tube, I know, but while you’re frozen in place, forbidden to move, and your nose itches and your foot goes into a gnarled cramp, a dentist’s chair or an Indian sweat lodge or maybe even chewing your way through several layers of drywall start looking like better alternatives.

These people are smiling. Right, it's just a barrel of fun. Don't believe them. (image from unionhospital.org)

I was having not one, not two, but three separate scans, so I spent an hour + in the tube. If you’ve never had an MRI before, the thing you need to know (besides the fact that if you have a tattoo, I believe your skin may very well catch on fire from what the tech told me) is that the procedure is very, very, very LOUD. Clanging, jack-hammery and buzzing like a two-ton hornet loud. So, so loud.

Ouch! Loud! (image from elegantevententertainment.com)

The clinic where I had my MRI done has rigged up a system that allows you to listen to music through headphones during the procedure. Kind of. If you really want to hear the music over the clanging and buzzing and jack-hammering, you have to turn the volume up to an unsafe decibel level, but it’s a nice gesture on their part. The young tech told me that since they have the system hooked up to Pandora I could listen to anything I wanted. Who would you pick to be inside your head during the hour you spent inside that tube?

My spur-of-the-moment choice was the iconic Joni Mitchell, because really, in a crisis, who else is there?

Imagine my surprise – no, really, shock – when the tech furrowed her 20-something brow and said, “Who?”

SHE HAD NEVER HEARD OF JONI MITCHELL!

The young Joni (image from rollingstone.com)

Joni’s ”official” web site provides only a few terse lines about her, saying that she “has crafted an extraordinary body of work spanning more than 40 years and is widely regarded as one of the brightest musical lights of recent generations”. This description, in my opinion, is a gross understatement because it does not include the words “genius” or “astonishing” or even “awe-inspiring”. Yes, I know that there are people who liken the sound of Joni’s voice to that of a blade saw, but even they have to concede that she is one of the greatest lyricists of our time. (And yes, Young Radiology Tech, that’s YOUR time, too – look her up!)

I don’t even have to bring out the big guns of Both Sides Now or Blue or Woodstock . Just allow yourself to be blown away by the haunting beauty of Let the Wind Carry Me or For the Roses

"For the Roses" album cover (image from musicfootnotes.com)

The word is that Joni never cashed in the way other musicians did and that her earnings are modest compared to many of her peers. Joni has led a mostly private life for someone of her stature, and maybe that’s part of the trade-off. Rolling Stone has done a serviceable biography of her on their web site.

Did I mention that she also paints? She's done the artwork for her many album covers.'

If you order up the Joni channel on Pandora, you get a motley string of  other artists deemed to be “like” her. It’s important to realize that no one is “like” her, despite the occasional comparison of an emerging waifish singer who writes lyrics that don’t rhyme. Or with an oldster who happened to be penning songs during the height of her fame. James Taylor is not like Joni. Nor is Carol King. And, while I appreciate why some would try to connect the dots from the talented Tori Amos to Joni, it’s still not a match.

No one combines the sophistication of melody and lyrics as masterfully as she has. And no, not Bob Dylan, either. I give him his due, but some of his best lyrics and melodies were lifted rather conveniently from sources so obscure it took decades to figure out that it was not his own work. And he didn’t really have much success in his efforts to move beyond his folk roots. No one but Joni has moved as seamlessly from “folk” to jazz. A truly great recent tribute in the latter genre is Herbie Hancock’s Grammy-award-winning River: The Joni Letters. 

Here’s a luminous Joni from 1970:

When my boys were young, I sang them to sleep nearly every night with The Circle Game, one of the sweetest songs Joni ever penned. I seriously can’t listen to it now without tearing up, but it’s worth a good cry just to hear it:

I pity that poor radiology tech who has lived twenty-some years without Joni in her life, but hopefully the rest of you will go directly to iTunes and download a boatload of Joni. It will make me happy, and I’m guessing Joni wouldn’t mind, either.

And the seasons they go round and round

 And the painted ponies go up and down

We’re captive on the carousel of time

We can’t return we can only look

 Behind from where we came

And go round and round and round In the circle game

1,000 Days of Autumn

Do good hens go to Heaven? I hope so.

Autumn left us on Thursday morning, and strange as it may sound, we are grieving. For a chicken. I know what you’re thinking but please don’t say it.

It’s only a chicken.

Not quite true. Autumn was a horse of a different color when it came to being a chicken.

Autumn's baby photo:June, 2009

Even the most hard-bitten flock keeper will admit that at any given time, one or two hens wriggle their way into the humans’ hearts. In our case, Autumn made a bee-line for our affections; she was always underfoot, always looking for a cuddle (and, no doubt, a treat) and generally seemed to prefer human companionship to that of the other hens.

She loved to help!

She was a pretty girl. Her glossy, mahogany-colored feathers were tipped in caramel. If you held her close she would make soft little clucking sounds. I think that was her way of saying she was happy.

As many of you know, Autumn was stricken with internal laying and egg yolk peritonitis last spring. This condition is generally fatal, but we kept her going with frequent vet visits and Lupron shots to suppress egg production. But new problems emerged: a few weeks ago she began to favor one leg and then could not walk or even stand.

Chicken Emperor's best friend

We brought her inside and made her a little nest in the kitchen where she held forth for several days, enjoying hand-fed treats and lots of affection. She actually seemed to rally for a few days, relishing tidbits of oatmeal and cheese, and we wondered aloud how our house-sitters might react to being slaves to a house chicken.

It's always more fun to read with a chicken on your lap!

But sometime during the night on Wednesday, the pain and dysfunction became too much for her little body. The CE found her on the floor, unable to even right herself to a sitting position. He took her in to see the vet, who said it was obvious from the cast of Autumn’s eyes that she was in pain. It was time to say goodbye.

Her last days were good ones.

The vet prepared an injection and the CE held Autumn in his arms and rocked her for nearly half an hour until she was gone. The vet said to him “Thank you for taking such good care of this little chicken.”

She was only two-and-a-half years old, but those were pretty darned good years for a hen. Some may think it’s silly to care so much for a pet. For a mere chicken. I almost agree. But on another level, I think that any time we care for another creature, it makes us a little bit more human in the best possible sense of the word.

Autumn is buried in a very nice spot back under the oaks where she enjoyed searching for bugs and worms. She will be missed.

Meme Me

Polloplayer is right there with the hipsters this week. If you missed planking, you still have a chance to redeem yourself with breading. Although they’re saying it’s already passe after 24 hours, so grab that cat stat!

The cat in the bread hat?

His head is so big we couldn’t get his ears through so this is not an award-winning breading.

Yes, he will never speak to us again.

I’m worried that our relationship might be toast.