Off Broad
The Zoom life, my gig driving Juber, and moonlighting as a construction manager and short order cook have left little room for creative writing. A few weeks into my new job I realized if I didn’t block my calendar, I’d never get to eat.
That said, my lunchtimes are too quiet. I’ve always called James at lunchtime. Every day. Or, over the last handful of years, gotten to eat lunch with him. I always appreciated that midday check-in and knew how precious it was. This is a friendly public service announcement to take this midday moment, every day, with your significant other. Soak it up. Call them to ask how their day is going. Or eat your lunch together at the kitchen table. A lifetime of lunch chats and yet what I wouldn’t give for just one more.
So this week I was driving along the interstate of San Luis Obispo that we call Broad. When we first moved here, everybody referred to everything as “off Broad.” I’m driving along when I pass San Luis Kitchen and am hit with a memory.
Just after we’d moved to SLO, James and I were out and about looking for lunch. “Why don’t we try that place near Black Horse Coffee?”
“Off Broad?”
“Of course.”
We park the car and head for the glass front door. I swing it open and am instantly greeted by a middle-aged blond woman. I immediately realize we’ve made a mistake. We’re surrounded by show kitchen vignettes. The place is empty. The blond lady is working the floor. This isn’t a lunch place, it’s a kitchen showroom.
Do we turn around and bolt back to the car? Of course not. We pretend this is exactly what we had in mind. As luck would have it, I find myself in the market for a new kitchen almost every other year of my life. It’s a thing. So I immediately kick into Kitchen Cabinetry Me. A half hour later we escape amidst conspiratorial giggles… a cabinetry quote on its way to my inbox.
I don’t even know where we ended up for lunch that day. But my guess is somewhere off Broad.
The Veto List
I have this memory of sitting across the table from James at Cindy’s Backstreet Kitchen in Saint Helena. And he’s about to take his first bite of this mile high piece of s’mores pie. Some google sleuthing has uncovered that despite having eaten this pie more than fifteen years ago, and without the other half of my brain I call James… I’ve still got it. Cindy Pawlcyn’s Campfire Pie is what after dinner Napa Valley dessert dreams are made of.
So James takes one bite of this pie and then tells me we could have weekends like this at least twice a month… for the price of daycare.
I’m fairly sure I was already very pregnant, so this was kind of just mean.
Needless to say, James appreciates the finer things in life. Particularly food. And so do our boys.
They’re adventurous eaters. Generally up for trying anything. Nate is especially interested in exotic cuisine. The crazier the better. Especially if it’s spicy. Jacob’s two favorite things are eating and sleeping. So I spend the majority of my free time bonding with Nate over soccer, and bonding with Jake over food.
As a solo working parent, I’m developing a new habit of meal planning Saturday mornings while watching the Premier League. There is absolutely zero time to swing by the store anymore. This newfound habit has resulted in me acing dinnertime. Fire. 9+ ratings from Jacob. He’s picked-up right where Papa left off. He literally just called down from upstairs to find out what’s on tonight’s menu because it smells so good. One night Jacob told me my dinner had just propelled me from “mom cook” to “chef.” But of course creative risk taking is not without its pitfalls.
And so, while the boys have generally applauded my culinary pursuits, one recent meal created a new framework for family feedback. One evening I made zucchini noodles, or as Jacob calls ’em, “noods.” Inspired by a recent Colorado lunch with Alesia and our two middle schoolers. It was delicious. The boys did not agree. And so, you get five food vetoes. That’s it. If you’re adding zucchini noods to your list, you’ve gotta put something back into rotation.
JAKE’s LIST
- lasagna: a strange lifelong veto with no clear origin story
- olives: recently replaced “bad steak fries”
- pork chops: regrettably constant
- asparagus: I’m kinda sympathetic
- zucchini noods with sauce: unjustifiably added after one creative dinner
NATE’s LIST
- all the peas: (green, English, snap, snow…) appears to be passed down genetically through the Terra family tree
- poke bowls: shocking given sushi is top of the favorites list
- zucchini noods with sauce: it was one dinner… sheesh
- two open spots that can’t be gifted to your brother
Farewell zucchini noods. Until we meet again.
Poppies
I was three years old when I met Jamie. Of my closest friends, I have exactly zero memories of meeting any of them. But Jamie? I’ll never forget.
I’m outside in the yard at Kathy Brown’s Preschool. The swing set is nearby, and kids are playing and shouting. I’m standing near the fence on a bit of a slope, and I have a handful of flowers. I notice an irresistible clump of orange blooms when a confident, authoritative voice declares, “It’s illegal to pick California poppies. The police will put you in jail.” I turn to face a little girl with perfectly straight hair, big blue eyes, and freckles. Someone else is with her and they’re nodding appreciatively. The warmth rushes up my face as I pretend this isn’t exactly what I’m planning. I quickly scan the parking lot for cruisers… she’s read my mind.
And that’s the day I met Jamie A.
Turns out, Jamie and I have a lot in common– besides our name. We both live in the mountains. We both have a younger sibling whose name starts with G. And at one point, our parents drive identical Volkswagen vans. People genuinely believe us when we tell them we’re twins with the same name. She is one of my lifelong best friends and I love her to pieces.
So when her dad passed away on January 7th, my heart broke again.
Jamie’s dad, Jim, was the very first James in my life. He is a man of countless interests and talents. He is an inventor, an entrepreneur, a vintner, a devoted husband, partner, and dad. He’s deeply proud of his Italian heritage. When he laughs, his cheeks turn pink and his eyes sparkle, just like his daughter, Gabrielle. Many hours of my childhood are spent at “the shop” while he partners with his spouse, overseeing the artistic side of design and the technical side of printing. And countless more constructing make-believe worlds under his redwoods. Years later, as newlyweds, we spent a magical evening with Jim and Peggy at the Moulin de la Galette in Paris. We always vowed to go back.
This past year has surfaced many childhood memories, both big and small. And Jim was an important presence during two of the most formative.
The first was when I was four years old. It was just after Christmas. It had been raining for weeks. That night, my dad comes through the kitchen door wearing a bright yellow rain slicker. He might have been wearing matching pants. He tells my mom that mud has come down into the back of the garage. We need to leave. Now.
The four of us pile into the little blue LUV truck. Tense voices. Darkness. Rain. We drive down Jarvis, but it’s blocked. I imagine Upper Jarvis is also blocked. We spend the night at our neighbors. The next morning, Jamie and I eat breakfast on the kitchen floor. It’s a picnic. The grownups talk above us. It’s warm and safe by the wood stove with her dog… wait for it… Poppy. Life went on, though we never did go home.
Nine years later, we encounter a similarly perilous night. After the Loma Prieta earthquake, Jim and Peggy, discover me standing in a field as they navigate the back roads home. Actually, it was in front of Kathy Brown’s house, of poppy-filled preschool fame. They swoop me up, put me in the backseat with the girls, and we start for home. We slowly drive past rocks and debris. We talk to neighbors. And when we can’t go any further, Jim leads us on foot, by moonlight, past landslides and fallen trees to a car waiting on the other side. He turns off the gas at my house, and with both of my parents unable to get home, makes sure my brother and I have a safe place to sleep.
After the mudslide, when I was four years old, I remember riding home in the backseat with Jamie. We can’t see out the windows. Our legs stick straight out over the edge of the seat. Jim’s driving and he says, “We found some of your toys in the creek today!” My heart soars. Toys?? Oh the possibilities!
I will always cherish Jim’s steady, thoughtful presence. His vast interests and intellect across almost any subject. His mirthful laugh and his sense of ease. And above all, that feeling he gave me of safety, and possibility.
Sock Pillow
When we were in college, I gave James a lot of grief about his pillow. It was so bad. I called it his Sock Pillow.
Imagine a pillowcase with a sock in it. Flat. Kind of lumpy. Perfectly sized if you’re a Barbie. He’d ball up that bag of parakeet feathers, rest his head, and declare it perfect. We spent our entire relationship debating the merits of his Sock Pillow, even bringing little Jacob into it.
Earlier this week, I’m putting the new flannel sheets on the boys’ beds that Nonna gave them for Christmas. The sheets are unbelievably soft and cozy and appear to be keeping the boys asleep until noon. As I’m doing the pillowcases on Nate’s bed, I come across a sad excuse for a pillow. A Sock Pillow that has mysteriously escaped my notice.
I hold it up to Jacob, “Whatdoyouthink? Time for this one to go in the trash, yeah?”
“What? No! Yellow pillows are the best.”
I’m gagging as I write those words. Why do pillows turn yellow? Don’t answer that.
I swear I can hear James enjoying the win.
Expertise
Pajama pants are all the rage. And white Crocs. Half the kids at our schools look like Papa Smurf after a long winter’s nap…
The boys have always shunned “Pajama Day.” Until this year. The last day of school before break was crowned “Pajama Day,” or just Normal Day for most. Jacob decided to try it it out. He wore his black and white plaid flannels, Vans, and a hoodie.
As we’re headed out the front door to school, Nate throws out a, “You definitely want to wear underwear under those… you could really get pantsed.”
Solid advice, Nate. Spoken like someone with genuine expertise.
OH
On Saturday, the boys and I went downtown for a little wandering. And tacos.
We brought a small glass milk bottle, signed and tied a special little note to it, and piled into my car. For a few minutes we were afraid our downtown flower shop had gone under. Fortunately, it just moved to the corner. A lady and her baby showed us the small selection of roses. We found one stem with three red blooms… one for each of us.
We walked the back way to the shop. Through the Christmas crowds and past the carousel. The creek was clean and clear. We made our way down the corridor where we’d spent countless afternoons, pausing in front of the shop. We left our token in the little tiled angle to the right of the front door. Just under where James keeps the letter board in the window. Dad, We love and miss you forever.
I remember last December visiting the new store that had just gone in. James had been coaching his buddy on the pros and cons of the space. His friend had just opened Larder Market, a bricks-and-mortar version of their local meat subscription service. I was so grateful to see this beautiful retail space. The cabinetry had been painted a mossy green. And the shelves were filled with all manner of culinary indulgences.
A few months ago, I found myself in the same corridor on a particularly emotional morning. The space was empty, filled with the dribs and drabs of a fallen business. Open and shut in less than a year. And while I’m sad to see it abandoned, it made me proud. Proud of James and his vision. Proud of the friends he made and the impact he has. Proud of the beautiful business he ran for four years.
On the last day of November, Andre texted me. Some may remember that Andre took James to the beach during his last week, and sent him his last text message. Andre was asking if he could name his new business Office Hours.
How fast can I type ‘yes’ through tears?
On December first I found myself at a coffee shop on the same street and asked if I could stop by for a tour. It’s a beautiful new co-working space, filled with local businesses. There is coffee in the entry and plants on the wall. The open areas are filled with big wooden tables and sunshine. And in the center of the building, Andre is building out his dream cafe. The glass door already has Office Hours in new gold lettering.
Established
August 1, 2018
OFFICE HOURS
Reestablished
December 1, 2023
James Day
Years ago we coined the term: A James Day. For a hot second I lobbied for A Jaimie Day, but it never caught on. What constitutes a James Day you ask? It’s a bit loosey goosey. Maybe that’s the point.
It usually involves a drive somewhere. Combined with a lot of walking and exploring. Ideally it has both cappuccinos with latte art and a tasty lunch. It might include a salvage yard or an antique faire, and most certainly a bookshop. Recently it’s included a garden and a nursery.
I’ve noticed friends and family perplexed by our mastery of places and spaces in Los Gatos, Saratoga, Campbell, downtown San Jose, Santa Clara, Mountain View, Los Altos, Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Redwood City, San Carlos, Burlingame, Half Moon Bay, and Pescadero. And that’s just when we headed north. All James Days.
So yesterday, the boys and I had ourselves a James Day.
It started with Daddy Brekkie Sammies. James invented these back when Jacob was about seven and careening his way in and out of extreme hanger à la NASCAR. Every day we stretched our culinary talents in an effort to pump that kid full of protein. And so, Daddy Brekkie Sammies were born. After eating my version yesterday, which included a fried egg and cheese, the boys confirmed authentic Daddy Brekkie Sammies are on brioche with a sausage patty. No egg. “The whole reason he made it was because we were sick of eggs, Mom.” Like duh, rolling eye emoji.
Bruh.
It rains all morning. I find poor Chicken Perfect lying in the rain and move her to the comfort of a warm, dry nesting box. Post breakfast, I announce the tree planting ceremony will take place at 1:30pm, rain or shine.
Fortunately, the rain stops just before and a bit of sun breaks through. Jacob and I look out the window and a baby deer is nibbling right where I’ve started digging the hole– a well-timed reminder our tree requires protection. The deer has two little horns and is joined by his two mommies. I’ve noticed all mama deer are single moms. They make it work.
Last year James planted two trees between the house and the barn– one was a Chinese pistache and the other, a Japanese maple. Unfortunately, the maple was hammered by atmospheric rivers last winter and never came back. Jacob and I have decided Japanese maples don’t like it at our house. Or they only like James. In any case, we had a pre-dug hole with irrigation ready and waiting.
So the boys and I plant a second Chinese pistache. Jacob is in charge of watering and somehow gets both me and his brother wet. Nate’s wearing two shoes for the first time in awhile. We share some heartfelt thoughts and a hawk declares the ceremony complete from the oak above our heads.
Then we pile into Dad’s car for Jacob’s haircut at Colin’s, James’ barber. Unfortunately, the cut isn’t as good as last time. Every boy we know hates their haircuts. It’s a thing.
We end the evening at the Cambria Christmas Market. We time it perfectly, discovering a mountainside staircase that allows us to cut our shuttle ride down to one-way. The grilled onions and french fries carry dinner. The brats and cocoa are mid. As we make our way through the lights, we remember the year Nate slipped in the mud and walked the entire light show with a racing stripe. We look for my favorite booth selling hand-carved driftwood Santas to no avail. The boys remember a previous magic show and sitting with their dad, listening to a guitarist under the night sky. Jacob’s not up for our Airstream photo booth tradition. I understand.
The lights are magical. And a special ending to a special James Day.
Start Again
Forever floating
Around a distant sun
This old circle holds the dreams
Of the fortunate ones
And some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again
Consciousness lifted
When we gather around
It’s got us flying with the birds
To never return to ground
And some say life
Is where it begins
And straght to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again
Different dimensions
Dance the same old song
Interconnected
Is just what we are
And some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again
We all come from the same damn thing
Whether the big bang or Adam and Eve
Like stars paint the sky for as long as they shine
We’re floating together
And this is our time
When we can start again
Let’s start again
Cause some say life
Is where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
To start again
Yeah some say life
Is just where it begins
And straight to the stars is where it ends
Only to start again
Let’s start again
We’ll start again
Let’s start again
Castaway
My dearest Nate,
It’s time for your annual birthday letter… nine months late but who’s keeping score? Well, you probably. You’re very good with points. But it’s my blog. I’m the head ref. And you know better than to argue with the ref.
Your twelfth year is a bit of a blur. Possibly because you were flying past me on your knee scooter at breakneck speed. Last Wednesday evening, we sped to Pismo to have your cast cut off. The cast cutter then used his saw to make you a festive red cast star for our Christmas tree. The next evening we drove back for an x-ray, and Friday we got the all clear that you could start “walking” in your boot. You asked if you could take Dad’s phone to school so I could text you after my call with Raquel the physician’s assistant. It was a disorienting jolt when the response text came in from James Fucillo. It read “Let’s go.” I sure miss texts from Dad.
This weekend you thump dragged your way across the Hayward soccer fields to support your team in the last tournament of the year. I’d call this phase Robot Scarecrow. I’ve been coaching you on a more natural gait. It’s getting slightly better each day. You’re allowed to walk without your boot at home and this morning you’re like, “Look Mom, I can walk again!” It was better, but still reminiscent of your very first steps. Like your knees don’t bend. Sunday, we took home first place, and while you missed playing through the end of the season, you still managed to score the most goals.
In addition to mobility, you’ve taken on some big challenges as a seventh grader. You’re powering through advanced math, advanced English, and taking both history and science in Spanish. Your natural studying instincts are spot on. And while I’m not sure you’ve internalized the stretch goal I set for proper paper management, you’ve gained a strong sense of points, percentages, and proportions. You’re mathematically talented at knowing how your latest scores will affect your grades. I’m not sure why your friends have given you the passwords to their grades, but it has created ample opportunity for conversations on security and benchmarking your performance to yourself, not your buddies.
Speaking of your buddies… you’re blessed to have an entire team of friends. And they’re almost all eighth graders. I’ll never forget Halloween morning at school drop-off. The second I pull up, Alexis, our team captain, is there to greet you. You’re dressed as the rapper, Nate Dogg, with a gold hat and plenty of bling, though your grillz and Invisalign aren’t exactly compatible. Apparently some people thought your knee scooter was part of your costume. Alexis takes your hundred pound backpack and promises me he’ll take good care of you. I know he will.
You’re currently selling tickets for our annual team “Booze Wagon” raffle to raise funds for next year’s tournaments. While I wouldn’t say you’re drawn to sales, your pitch skills are improving. Your teammates are whispering that you’re playing the injured striker card and that’s why you’re exceeding your sales targets. I can confidently refute this rumor as regrettably, you haven’t used it to your advantage at all. My coaching has been squarely focused on more eye contact and less “likes.” Verbal crutches are outpacing physical crutches. I’m proud of you rising to the challenge of your first Zoom sales call to Alesia. It boosted both your confidence and your interest in sales.
In May, Alesia generously gifted us a fancy lunch outing for Bell’s in Los Alamos. Prior to your injury, we experienced a new personality in our midst: Hungry Nate. I mean, you’ve always been a good eater. But this year, You. Are. Hungry. We finally had a free weekend and drove down on a rainy Saturday afternoon. You openly laughed when the waiter asked if we wanted the kids menu. You took one look at that Michelin starred menu and confidently declared your vote for wild Burgundy snails and moules frites. It was a memorable lunch of chatting and eating and trying new things. We especially enjoyed the cheesy Gruyere brioche and vanilla ice cream with olive oil and sea salt. Who knew? You are a fun lunch companion that holds-up your third of the conversation. This can’t be said about most tweenage boys. And as Arlene points out, most men well into their forties….
Your newfound hunger has also paired with your newfound interest in fashion. Dad’s so proud. I could hardly comprehend your graduation present request for Nike Air Jordans and a red Nike Tech sweatshirt. You were very drippy in your new fit with a fresh cut. Cringe, Mom… At least I didn’t say “Skibidi toilet Sigma Ohio Rizz.” A few weeks ago, at your request, we actually went shopping for corduroy Empyre pants at a place called Zumiez. They’re like today’s Z Cavaricci’s, only more skatery. At one point I was afraid I might have to cut them off you when they got stuck on your cast in the dressing room. Fortunately, we made it out with two pairs of pants without any rips or tears.
Whether we’re talking tears, or tears, you are the most intuitive person I know. I can be upstairs in my room with the door closed and you can be playing Fortnite with your headset on and somehow you know I’m sad. You’ve always known how to be with big emotions. You’re my weighted baby blanket. No words. Just love.
Lightning McQueen’s mom recently texted me that she often uses you as an example of field etiquette and presence. “He carries himself with such grace and quiet confidence.” And while twelve-year-old you probably can’t appreciate this compliment, it captures everything I want for you. You are a gift, Nate. A precious gift. I love you. Dad loves you. Jacob loves you. Stay true to yourself. Like Ben says, “Just do your thing, Nate.” There is only one you and I love you so much my heart bursts.
Love,
m.
Pro
On November third, Nate had his third x-ray. After several ambiguous days filled with mysterious computer imaging problems and consecutive telehealth appointments with nothing to report, I demanded a disk, picked it up, and FedEx’d it overnight to Santa Barbara. Our PA, Raquel, calls me on Thursday and cheerfully reports that Nate doesn’t need surgery, and the gap she’s been concerned about is at least 75% better than when she’d x-rayed it. She starts talking dates and they’re better than originally anticipated. To say I felt immense relief would be an understatement.
Meanwhile, Nate’s figured out how to navigate our visually impressive yet dangerous staircase. He hot dogs it on his knee scooter, despite my warnings. After school I see him flying down the sidewalk as he makes it to the golf course parking lot in record time. Fortunately, our new rules and routine are working. Tonight I noticed him dancing on his one good leg after dinner. Normal Nate.
The other day I’m asking him how he gets around class, particularly when he has to present and he says, “Mom, I’m a professional hopper.” I’m not sure where he received accreditation, but he does hop a lot. We all know when he’s awake as he stomp-stomp-stomps his way to the bathroom.
Everyone keeps asking about Nate’s spirits and whether he’s down in the dumps. When I ask him how he’s doing and whether he feels sad, he just laughs. He has no idea why the situation would make him feel sad or cry. With a mirthful spark in his eye, all he says is, “I wish I’d broken my left arm.”
As Granddad pointed out, spoken like a true footballer.