Portokyo
We had a terrific Saturday in Portland today. Started with a breakfast feast at a diner-like joint up the street coincidentally called The Feast. Nate didn’t have Japanese pancakes, but it was definitely a plate of pancakes the size of Okinawa.
Then we headed to the Japanese garden and it was truly stunning. The bonsai alone were unforgettable. A darling docent told us the story of Jizo the road guardian, and we bought four pairs of chopsticks for our at-home Party Girl rolls. James and I did a quick visit to the Rose Garden and serendipitously smelled a patch of peach roses, out of hundreds. Then we saw the Just Joey sign—the name of our very first rose bush at Baby Jacob’s house. I couldn’t believe it. Followed by a short stop for ice cream at Salt and Straw before we loaded up on Manga at the Japanese bookstore.
Somehow Pokémon is making a comeback in our house. After a short break, we headed over the river to Game Guardians where Nate picked his Pokémon souvenir and was thrilled to get some kind of rainbow Cheryl. He can’t wait to sell poor Rainbow Cheryl. The boys were perfectly trained to find the kid playhouse at Rejuvenation under the stairs. It only took $80 in Japanese products to buy myself uninterrupted time to look around at lighting, hardware, and furniture. Then a short walk to Afuri for a truly memorable meal of gyoza, sushi and a bite of asparagus that was outstanding. We loved our special drinks and tried all of the desserts.
Finishing off the day with Tokyo Olympics. Such a great day. Omayawa mu shindu.
Independents
On Sunday, May 23rd we trooped down to the Tractor Supply and picked out four baby chicks to replenish our aging flock. We chose two black and white baby Sandos, a little Rhode Island Red, and an even littler golden one with feathered feet.
We brought the girls home and set-up a new chicken nursery in the hot water closet. And I say girls because we were extra discerning. Requesting the ugliest, littlest ones we could see. We’ve learned the hard way that the prettiest babies are boys in Chickenland. The two Sandos came from a galvanized water trough that advertised its contents as pure pullets. Apparently a fancy old-timey french word for girl.
The two Sandos grew quickly and it’s been clear by their bully behavior that it was time for them to grow up and move out. Independence– here you come. Poor Taki Nitro and little Mini Featherfeet were constantly running scared. Then this weekend James comes running and says, “Did you hear that? Are you hearing it? One of the black and white ones is cocka-doodle-doing.” I did not see it, but I’m certainly on high alert for even the smallest sign of one vocalizing misstep.
It’s probably a good thing these two don’t yet have permanent names. Because Bait and Switch may be returning to the Tractor Supply. They have a policy that you have to buy at least four chicks to deter college kids from abandoning poultry around town. And I have a policy that if you advertise pullets and send me home with roosters then you accept returns.
So last night Jacob and I were in charge of the independent chicken relocation project. The boys and the Corcorans are taking Animal Science at College for Kids this week and apparently there hasn’t been one single mention of the first rule of Animal Science: No hesitation! None. You grab that chicken with authority kid.
Jake and I successfully introduce the Sandos into the coop in the evening. Grandma tells us this is how it’s done. All I can remember is the last time we did this and we could see, as the sun set, the chicks jumping around in the coop like a slumber party and the older girls outside looking evicted and terrified.
This time around, the babies ventured outside and one of them proceeded to chase Spaz (Pipsqueak?) around, despite her being about one tenth the size. Suspicious rooster behavior?
Once it was dark we sent Jake and James back out to make sure the little girls went back into the coop, which of course they hadn’t. Suspiciously dumb rooster behavior?
A few minutes later, Jake comes back to his bed and I ask him how they decided to keep the babies in the coop. “We blocked the door with a Biden Harris sign. And a rock.”
I really did not see that coming.
Coronavirus Day 468 — The Endish…
Jake’s convinced he’s smarter than me. (He literally just read this first line over my shoulder and said, “Well that’s true.”) Which shouldn’t be surprising given 1. I’m pretty sure he’s the original Boss Baby and 2. He’s a twelve-year-old boy. The thing he texts me most is some kind of Beautiful Mind giphy signifying “he’s a genius.”
Meanwhile, I’m excited to report the pandemic is finally lifting. It’s particularly anticlimactic given it started so abruptly and is ending in dribs and drabs. Fingers crossed, this will be my last blog with a numbered Coronavirus title.
It started with a mask-free baseball playoff game.
Then it was Trader Joe’s. Arlene came to visit and I thought we’d hit the TJ outdoor waiting line jackpot. I was so disoriented when the gal at the front door said the line was a thing of the past and we were back to the crowded aisles of yore. Really? I’m not prepared.
I noticed the Whole Paycheck stopped disinfecting their carts. But they still made me bag my own groceries if I wanted to use reusable bags. Every week has been a reenactment of that Supermarket Sweep show that I’m not old enough to have watched. So many scientific studies on the dangers of Coronavirus outbreaks via earth-friendly totes.
We even had our first indoor meal at the Thai place downtown to celebrate James’ birthday.
Then yesterday there was an actual bag boy, bag man (?) at the grocery store who loaded up my groceries in my personal bags. And there it is. The final unquestionable truth that the pandemic is finally over. At least for us.
And Jacob pipes-up in his infinite wisdom, “Mom, the pandemic isn’t over. Lockdown is over.”
Touché Genius. Touché.
Coronavirus Day 447 — Our Dearest Papa
We had our final baseball game this past week. While the boys sat lined-up on the concrete wall behind the dugout, inhaling pizza and cookies, Coach Gillett gave a sincere and spot-on little speech of recognition for each player. As might be expected from an attorney coach who directed the late weeknight game in a suit and tie, he had three rules for the season. Rule #1: Listen. Rule #2: Be kind. Rule #3: Work hard. And a mid-season contractual amendment offered up an ice cream novelty to any player that caught a fly ball during a game. My son Nate ate a lot of after-practice, ice cream Drumsticks.
At lunchtime on Wednesday the second, the following day, we lost you. Our biggest baseball fan and dearest Papa. I’m told you were at peace, both physically and mentally and I hope, deep in your heart.
I must have been nineteen when we met. Sometimes they called you Skinny Vinny. I still love that. You have big blue eyes that crinkle at the corners, a wiry build, and a gentle and generous way about you. You drive a big truck with your wrist draped over the wheel, just like your son, James. You hate red pens. You like to tease me and chuckle. Your Spanish is terrible.
My earliest memories are of sheep in your backyard, Mickey Mouse accent tiles in the guest bathroom, and a raucous game of Monopoly at the kitchen table. Years later I’d find out that all of us who have married into your family have a Monopoly story… naively wandering into the competitive world of gaming where you handily dominate the table, no matter the game. I’m quite certain your grandson, Jacob, has been chosen to carry-on your legacy.
After a lifetime of working in the Central Valley heat, you revel in the coastal fog. You enjoy taking your dog, River, to the beach. You like coffee. Thanksgiving. And Motown. And showering your family in donuts. We both are partial to La Nita’s caldo. At restaurants you always give your meal a score between one and ten. You’re a discerning grader. I can’t remember a single score above eight. You love seafood and pasta and sushi and ice cream. When we lived on Shasta, one of our favorite nights of the year was when you’d come to visit on Halloween. We’d hastily eat a big Door Dash sushi feast. Then you’d man the porch while we walked the little Sock Monkey and Lilon around the neighborhood before it got too dark. You’re deeply loyal, a provider, and a protective husband and dad.
We both collect succulents. We love fishing. Some of our best conversations are over concrete quotes, or the years I spent in an engineering department where they built big, expensive things. You can spend hours walking paths and patios telling me about concrete. You have mad math skills.
You’re up for anything. We faced the killer whales of Marine World. We wrestled marlin in Cabo. We sipped piña coladas on the high seas and walked the Vegas strip in August. We sauntered into a cantina and drank blue cocktails on the planet of Tatooine. We napped through Incredibles 2 at the Downtown Centre Cinema.
I’ll never forget the spark in your eye when Nate was just about two. Still unsteady on his feet with the weight of his baby belly in front, and his diaper in back. You two were playing catch in your kitchen. The kid guns that ball at your head like a third baseman throwing an out at first. And your eyes lit up as your heart leapt, revealing your secret inner talent scout.
It seems fitting that you headed home just as our baseball season came to a close. We love you Papa. We miss you so much. I know you and Coach never crossed paths, but you both live by the same rules: Listen. Be kind. Work hard. And most importantly… save room for ice cream.
Coronavirus Day 426 — Backseat Drivers
Today as we drove to baseball practice, I marveled quietly at Bruno Mars’, Leave the Door Open, being sung word-for-word in the backseat, especially when it got to:
Cuddling
Rose petals in the bathtub, girl, lets jump in
It’s bubblin’
Neither of them missed a beat. I’m not sure they were really absorbing the lyrics, thankfully, but boy did they sing them with feeling. We’re going down Tank Farm Road when I think I hear, “Uterus” blurted into the world.
Over the music I ask the question that must be asked, “Uh, did someone just say uterus?”
Jacob replies, “Yeah– It’s a word I heard during class today that I remember, but I don’t know what it means.”
There’s some giggling as I explain the basics of the female reproductive system and their personal experiences in utero.
Looks like sixth grade health class has finally started.
Coronavirus Day 423 — Vaxx
Yesterday I crossed that Coronavirus milestone from a half vaxxer to a full vaxxer, right there near the tortilla aisle in the Nipomo Vons. And then I spent all day today with a case of the aches and chills. Nothing a bit of Eureka Lemon Marionberry couldn’t help.
Coronavirus Day 413 — Triple
Today the Tigers were up against the Padres for a late afternoon game. I love that the boys were questioning this team name on our drive home– “Kind of a weird name for a team, isn’t it?” Well, yeah. The San Diego Dads? Good point.
Nate started at first base and had a good out and a strong throw to second. The weather was brisk and windy with a lot of dust clouds to the face. These pandemic masks just continue to prove themselves useful.
A few innings later, Nate caught himself a pop fly at short stop. He made it on base during every at bat. He’s also risen to the ranks of closing pitcher, finishing off our last two innings today. He got two outs at first base plus a strike out or two. The game ended when the final batter hit a fly ball way out to left field and Daxton caught it– you could see his grin from a mile away, even through the dust cloud.
Even with all that, Nate’s biggest thrill today was a huge hit straight over second base and into center field. He ran like he can run– rounding third and only stopping because his coach told him to. It was a big confidence booster leading into his last inning as pitcher. After the game, Coach Gillett awarded him one of the game balls, which has become a Saturday tradition. Tigers had our second win with a score of 7 to 5.
As we’re walking back to the car reliving the highlights, Nate asks me, “I could’ve made it home, don’t you think? Could’ve been a homer.”
That’s what fourth grade is all about. Go big and go home.
Coronavirus Day 405 — Bok Choy
This week we had a bit of a seafood extravaganza. Apparently the three meals a day habit we’ve developed has no end in sight and we’ve grown tired of our local monthly delivery of steaks and ground pork. This month we had Larder Meat Company switch to their new seafood box. Jackpot. We’ve had miso-glazed white sea bass and fish tacos with sriracha mayo and homemade poke bowls. The poke bowls were pretty impressive if I do say so myself. And this is my blog where basically everything I say so myself. Nate is keeping a watchful eye on the two bags of crab in the freezer.
On sea bass night we served the fillets with rice and baby bok choy. Now, bok choy isn’t really in our usual veggie rotation. Salad certainly, peas please, broccoli but of course. Nate becomes obsessed with needing to show me a YouTube video of a Corgi eating bok choy because “It’s so satisfying.” This is one of his fave phrases.
Meanwhile Jake’s like, “Mom, is this bok choy?”
And I’m like, “Yeah, how’d you know? A meme?”
“No.”
“An emoji?”
“No.”
“A new Pokémon character?”
“No!”
“Animé?”
“No. C’mon Mom. Plants versus Zombies.”
I can’t believe I didn’t guess that.
Coronavirus Day 401 — Progress
Today, after 401 days since that Friday the thirteenth when I was sent home from work, I got my first vaccination shot. Pfizer. It’s weird to sit in an upholstered oak chair in front of the aisle end-cap of tortillas in a Vons in Nipomo.
Weirder yet was when I approached the plexiglass DJ booth, but apparently Big Pharma wasn’t taking song requests…
Shots shots shots shots shots
Shots shots shots shots shots
Shots shots shots shots shots
Shots, everybody!
Coronavirus Day 400 — Pitch
On Saturday, Nate’s baseball team had our third game of the pandemic ten-game season. Which based on my year’s of Snack Shack expertise is exactly the perfect ratio of chips to cheese in Little League scheduling. Unfortunately, the Tigers may need less chips and more days of baseball if we’re going to change the trajectory. It seems fielding isn’t really our thing. And hitting isn’t really our thing. But we’re still having a good time.
James noticed Coach playing catch with Nate during warm-ups. As we neared the end of the game, Coach asked Nate if he wanted to try pitching. He’s been pretty adamant that he’ll pass. I overheard Coach digging for the root cause, “Is it just the pressure?” A slight nod from masked Nate. Coach is a lawyer and clearly trained in the art of persuasion– Nate starts to warm-up, prepping to take the mound.
First batter up knocks it back at him, Nate catches it and makes the play at first. It’s a major confidence booster, but now he’s hopped up on adrenaline. A few more pitches and Coach coaches him to slow down and take some breaths. The other team gets a few strong hits, including a beauty to left field by their biggest guy. On the flip side, their hits could partly be credited to Nate throwing down the middle, and if it comes in fast, it goes back out fast.
It was an exciting end to a pretty slow game. Nate took a risk and put himself out there. And when we got home, Coach texted me: Please tell Nate how proud of him I am for pitching today. He did an outstanding job!
It definitely sparked a little something in Nate. Today he asked me about baseball camp this summer.