No Regrets

The New York Times: One Drink a Day Tied to Lower Death Risk

In an era of mostly awful current events, here's a bit of news in which we can all (well, maybe not those in rehab) rejoice—at last! A delightful article. I especially like this line: "...having one drink or less a week is no help at all." (The italics are mine.)

Answerjack, my in-house science consultant, informs me that it is a well-designed study. Thank heavens! I would not want to continue drinking under faulty data.

Here's Mr. Science himself, between Adrian and Natalia. They are enjoying health-enhancing Poire Martinis in a picture taken a couple of days ago. My family is so ahead of the curve!
Recipes for other healthy drinks—Sazeracs and Manhattans—can be found here. Za vashe zdorovye!

Springtime for Murphy

It is an exceptionally beautiful day in Marin County. Here on the frontier—beyond our back yard is 10 miles of open space, all the way to the Pacific—creatures of the earth and air are stirring to life in the mild spring sun. On the deck outside my study, a serial killer is waiting for them.
Murphy's count today, so far (the afternoon is still ahead of us):

• One very large irretrievably unattractive Norway rat, expired, left in the yard, discovered at dawn.
• One medium-large blue-bellied lizard, maimed and spitting mad. Rescued from inside the house. Did you know lizards bite? Hurts, too.
• One small-ish coral-bellied ring-necked snake, mildly venomous and mortally wounded, removed from my study with alacrity, under the adrenaline-spiking misapprehension that it was a baby rattlesnake. Click on the link to how it coils the very tip of its tail.
• One common finch. See below:

 


I can't open the doors without Murphy bringing prey inside; I am a prisoner in my own house. After I finish using my iPhone to take photos, I can use it to call for help!
I think fame has gone to Murphy's head. The cat's out of control. Murphy, Minx, and Jessica and John's cat Poo (who is truly famous) are all immortalized in a saucy about-to-be-released Adidas Slap Pals shoe:

Addendum, 5 p.m.-ish. Another bird:

Which brings the count to five: one mammal, two reptiles, two birds. All in all, quite a productive Wednesday for Mr. Murphy. Wish I could say the same for my day.

Robert and Alain, Part 3: Under The Bigtop

Image courtesy of flintweisser.com
Part 1 is here
Part 2 is here

1981, San Francisco
Robert spent a sunny Saturday clearing blackberry brambles from the badly overgrown yard of Alain's new rental, a wee one-bedroom house at the crest of a short steep hill off Monterey Boulevard. He came home sweaty, scratched, and very excited. Something big was happening with Alain. He could not tell me what, because he'd been instructed not to. It was a secret.

But not for long. Soon after settling in, Alain summoned the inner circle, now down to five people, including me. There was no outer circle. We gathered at his new house, where he unspooled a seamless, ornately detailed vision of something he called The Center For the Unity of All Mankind. Alain described* it as an epicenter for the expansion of human consciousness, a place where world leaders and thinkers would gather to learn for weeks at a time, where seminars would be conducted and publications produced. A creative nexus of musicians, writers and filmmakers would ply their arts under the guidance of the Center. It would be built on a substantial piece of land in the Napa Valley, and would include a well-appointed conference center, a performance venue, residential facilities, paths rambling through gardens, rustic outbuildings, and a goat named Archimedes.  Alain was at already at work on the maiden venture of The Center For the Unity of All Mankind:  a journal called All One, The Journal for the Unity of All Mankind.

In addition to being the founder and sole executive power of The Center For the Unity of All Mankind, Alain would also be editor of and sole contributor to All One. While there were no plans for a Board of Directors or other leadership positions, there would be plenty of work for all, and we were told to consider Wednesday evenings sacrosanct for meetings at the interim headquarters of The Center For the Advancement of All Mankind. That would be Alain's cottage, which we were directed to henceforth refer to as "The Center." Although the cosmos was clearly smiling upon this endeavor—an astrological chart had been cast for the date and time Alain conceived the idea, and it was reported that the planets could not be more positive—we were told not to talk about it until the publication of the first issue of All One.

It's quite possible that Alain was right, and that the world really was in desperate need of The Center For the Unity of All Mankind. That night, what I really needed, desperately, was a reality check. Wasn't this all just a bit...surreal? I tried to make eye contact with my fellow micro-cultists, but all eyes were trained on Alain, who had moved on to a lamentation about how George Lucas was squandering his skills on the Star Wars movies, and was outlining his ideas about what George should do instead: "Now, see here, George..."

Of the myriad practical questions that lay buried in an avalanche of inventive detail (like the soundtrack for the movie Alain was going to have George Lucas make) two big, basic ones burst out and fairly demanded answers:

(A): Who was going to be guiding and teaching those world leaders, thinkers, artists et al at The Center For the Unity of All Mankind? 

(B) Where was the money going to come from for this substantial piece of land, to say nothing of the buildings and the goat?  In 1981, undeveloped land in the Napa Valley was selling for between $11,000 and $24,000 an acre.

I knew that the bracing blast of reality brought by questioning any aspect of the plan would summon a killing freeze upon the querant. Why bother? What was one more evening sacrificed to keeping the peace? An impossibility, that's what. I’d just spent a couple of hours listening to a master piano teacher present an hallucinatory vision of spiritual and artistic world domination—a vision that would, not coincidentally, monopolize the attention of his aging, attenuated flock of followers and focus its energy under his complete control. It felt an awful lot like we were all being herded into a big bright tent pitched on the outskirts of Crazytown. I did not want to go there.

By the standards of the micro-cult, I had already moved beyond what Alain called "naughtiness" into outright sedition, and was corrupting my husband as well: "I know you're having sex," Alain had said accusatorily to Robert, just days before. I also refused to let Alain advance his learning curve about homeopathy on my children or me, and insisted that Robert not bring him to our house for dinner more than once a week. No more laundry or mending services, either, unless Robert wanted to add those chores to his list of duties for Alain. Well, in for a dime, in for a dollar. My hand fluttered up. “Has a source of funding been identified?” I asked, starting with the less combustible of the two questions.

Alain fixed me with a look that could have warped teak. When he spoke, his always-precise diction sharpened to an impossibly acute point, a symptom that signaled displeasure or stress. The answer sliced through the air like a hurled javelin: “ You. Need. Not. Concern. Yourself.”

P., resident astrologer and Alain's fellow amateur physician, vaulted gamely into the deep silence that followed: “Exciting things tend to happen around Alain,” he declared. He did not explain what those exciting things might be, and I knew better than to ask, just as I knew, all along, the answer to question (A).

Next: A slow virus and an invitation to tea. Part 4 is here

*Mnemosyne and the Minutes:
As Alain’s ipso facto secretary, Robert was responsible for taking detailed minutes of all meetings about The Center For the Unity of All Mankind. Alain impressed upon him the importance of getting the minutes exactly right, because they were historic records. Robert would type them up at work and bring them home for me to proofread before submitting them for Alain's approval. Alain would edit the record, often several times, each round requiring re-typing and re-proofing.
The words used to describe the plans for The Center For the Unity of All Mankind are exactly as was approved, but using quotation marks here made the post look like a Zagat review. So I dropped the marks, and you’ll just have to take my word.
A goat named Archimedes? I couldn't make this stuff up.

The former Center For the Unity of All Mankind today. Image from Google maps.

Winter Wrap-Up: Death, Taxes, and Cocktails

  My grandmothers, Lydia and Julia, at the bar at my parents wedding. They were survivors, both of 'em. That's vodka in their glasses. Za vashe zdorovye, Grannies!
We’re approaching the end of a notably down season. After eight years of magical-thinking Ponzi scheme-ish economic policies that have the entire world reeling, the collective is cranky. Everybody’s hurting—some folks more than others—and no one’s spending. The wheels of commerce have rusted to a near-dead halt.
It’s probably not a coincidence that old-school cocktails—complicated constructs of potent distilled spirits, obscure herbal tinctures and sparing squirts of citrus—are currently enjoying a renaissance. To the extent that people are partying at all, we’re partying like it’s, say, 1933. I am happy to fall into line with the Zeitgeist on this one; after a winter marked by a loved one’s death and its aftermath, I need all the help I can get for springtime tax season, which is shaping up to be a bloodbath for Answerjack and me.
Good thing I devoted a fair portion of the dreary winter to R & D on two classic cocktails. And to think I used to simply shoot vodka, in the manner of my peasant forebears! These drinks are a little more complicated, and all that measuring and obsessing over stirring vs. shaking is mildly meditative, gets you centered and in the mood to be rocked by a couple ounces of 100-proof rye.

The Authentic New Orleans Sazerac
1/2 teaspoon absinthe (yes, it’s legal now) or Herbsaint
1 teaspoon simple syrup (or 1 teaspoon granulated sugar)
4 dashes Peychaud’s bitters
1 drop Angostura bitters (traditionalists leave it out)
2 ounces rye whiskey
Strip of lemon peel

Pour the absinthe into a chilled cocktail glass, then swirl it around to coat the sides and bottom of the glass. Whatever is left stays in the bottom of the glass. Pour the sugar syrup, whiskey and bitters into a cocktail shaker filled with ice. Do not shake, please. Stir until the liquids are chilled, and strain into the absinthe-coated glass. Twist the lemon peel over the glass; a cascade of tiny lemon oil droplets should actually strike the surface of the drink. Rub the twist over the rim of the glass, then drop it in as garnish.
Taster’s notes:

• The anise flavor of the absinthe should be discernible, but in the background.
• Sazeracs are served up, not on the rocks.
• Traditionalists insist on Old Overholt rye whiskey, which is a bargain. I like Rittenhouse 100-proof rye.
• If you are a novice bartender, check the capacity of your shot glasses. The first time I made this at home I unknowingly used double shots, which made a pleasantly paralyzing drink, but speech was a problem.

The Really Quite Good Manhattan
My first husband’s mother and sister used to pound these down by the pitcher-full. Now I know why.

2 oz rye whiskey (original) or bourbon
1/2 oz sweet vermouth
2-3 dashes Angostura bitters
Maraschino cherry
Strip of orange peel
Pour the liquids into a cocktail shaker filled with ice, stir well to chill and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Garnish with cherry and orange peel.
Taster’s Notes:

• Rye used to be the default American whiskey, and was used for the deco-era Manhattan. Most bars use bourbon nowadays. Good both ways.
• Manhattans are served up, not on the rocks.

 
 

Natalia took this picture last Sunday, at family dinner for John's birthday.

The Things That Went With Her

The cove at Point Diablo

One of the saddest things about funerals is that the person for whom the occasion would have been most meaningful is not around to enjoy it. This applies to even low-key non-funerals, like the simple ceremony we had for my mother when we scattered her ashes at sea under an uncertain sky on what would have been her 80th birthday.

Absent religious and social imperatives, memorial observances can pretty much be whatever the living want them to be. We wanted Doris’ to be simple—she’d been anti-funeral her entire life—and authentic. I’ve been to funerals that were used as vehicles to settle scores, rewrite history and assuage guilt. I’ve been to services presided over by officiants who, never having met the decedent in life, resorted to plug-and-play platitudes that could just as easily been applied to the loss of a pet. We wanted to do better for our mother, and we did.

In 1992, we scattered my father's ashes from the shore near Fort Point, under the Golden Gate Bridge—an act which was then, as it is now, illegal, although in those days there was a tacit agreement that the statute was not enforced. Post 9/11, the entire area around the Golden Gate Bridge is closely monitored by Homeland Security, the Coast Guard and the National Park Service. You can’t get near the spot where we released Roman’s ashes. My mother did not know this when she stipulated, in her will, that her ashes be scattered in the same place.

So we compromised by chartering a sailboat large enough to carry our immediate family through the Golden Gate. Mum’s ashes had been flown from Florida, bearing special papers of transit but still subject to multiple x-rays. We had a tiny portion of my father’s ashes, saved 17 years ago to be mingled with hers when the time came. Boarding the boat, we also brought a basket of homegrown tulips planted in the weeks between her diagnosis and death last fall, along with a conch shell, my parents’ wedding rings, and, of course, our own specific sorrows.

From the boxes and boxes of mementi we found in her house, we pulled a few brittle love letters exchanged by our impossibly young parents (they married when she was 19 and he was 23.) These we tucked into the conch shell. We also found the gold ribbon that had been tied around the stems of the carnations we tossed into the Bay when we scattered my father’s ashes; we used it to knot together their wedding rings and put them inside the shell, too. My sister Chris figured out that if we put the shell in a bed of ice and tied it inside a square of silk, it would bob about for a bit before sinking.

Past the Golden Gate, at Diablo Cove, we tossed the shell in its shroud off the starboard. A pod of harbor seals watched with us as it floated, a ghostly golden jellyfish with tendrils of whisper-weight silk. We each took our turn going to the bow with a handful of ashes and a tulip: fine gray particulate and scarlet, yellow, and royal purple flowers.

Answerjack read aloud a poem from the back page of my parents’ wedding album, old school irony-free and perfectly appropriate:

“Now the rite is duly done,
Now the word is spoken,
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne’er be broken;
Rest we, dearest, in our home,
Roam we o’er the heather;
We shall rest and we shall roam,
Shall we not, together.

"From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us.
Fair or foul—on land or sea—
Came the wind or weather,
Best and worst, what e’er they be
We shall share together.”     

—Winthrop Praed

We could not satisfy, to the letter, our mother's wish to be at our father’s site. Fort Point is at the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge and sailors are loath to tempt the South Tower Demon of rocks and capricious winds. But my brother Dave scattered the rest of her ashes, mingled with our father’s, from the stern as we passed back beneath the center of the bridge. The conch shell drifted to the bottom of an alien ocean, the seals resumed their play, and the kids poured and passed Prosecco. We wiped our eyes and drank a toast to Doris, our mother and grandmother, who did enjoy a nice glass of bubbly on special occasions.