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Posts Tagged ‘food’

I like this shot. It just speaks to me about good food, time gone by & basic living.

I suppose it’s really a strainer. Too me, it’s a good-food spoon: big, green, enamel, meant to serve up stew or steamed vegetables.

Plus, I love old utensils. They were made to serve the whole life of your family, and in avocado green, it just feels priceless. 🙂

d, xo

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People in California tend to take fruit for granted & we really shouldn’t. Eatable fruit grows everywhere–mostly in our own backyards. There are surely thousands of orange, grapefruit & lemon trees right here in Sacramento.

 Please, If you own a fruit tree, don’t let the fruit hang there and rot; box it up and donate it  to a shelter or nearby school. Share them with your neighbors. Put a big box of oranges on your sidewalk with a sign: FREE Oranges. Merry Christmas! Bag up lemons, pass them around at the office. Everyone uses lemons in tea, juice, on pasta, on salads, in lemon tarts! 

The point is to share and not waste. We are blessed to have so much fruit. Let’s spread it around.

Thank you, d. xo

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Recently I was talking to someone about finding blue potatoes, then right away I found this mix at the store–not blue, but purple!  

I cut the purple tubers open & couldn’t believe the color! They were dripping purple!

Am cooking them now. Will I have purple mashed potatoes? It feels a little like food from Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.  Now I want to plant some. Will they grow purple plants too? Wonders.

d.

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As you can tell from my lovely demeanor last week I am not someone who always plays well with others.  But my knees are feeling stable today, although last week I was benched AGAIN after my grand ONE night return to tango lessons. Yes, I know, weights. . .

Anyway, I’m feeling more human today, shot some new photos for Dahlila Found and was just writing up details when the doorbell rang. I rarely answer the doorbell. Welcome friends use the side door. The front door seems reserved for annoying folk selling God in an array of faiths; lost drunks from the liquor store down the street; people with BIG stories about cars out of gas, kids at home, lost husbands, wives, girlfriends, if only I’d donate $1. 67 all would be well–back down at the liquor store.

This time, however, it was the kid who is selling tamales. He came ringing last week after dark and I shooed him away through the peep hole, not kindly. And yet he’s back. What? Didn’t get the hint the first time? But for whatever reason, daylight hours, hunger, family on the street, I started w/no and then said yes. What the hell. If you’re going to eat tamales, wouldn’t you rather eat them from grandma’s kitchen? Grandma looked very grandma like, hair tied back in a scarf, very round and bosomy as I imagine friendly grandmothers to be. She waved. She even had business cards–I don’t even have business cards–“Homemade Tamales: All Kind, Everyday” w/a logo of an Italian chef holding a pizza.    

So, I bought six chicken tamales for $8. They were $7.50 but the kid was looking more miserable than what I saw in the dark last week so I’ll call it a cheap tip. When grandma handed me the tin foil wrapped package it was hot, not microwave hot, or reheated hot, but just-out-of-the-tamale-pot hot. They were individually wrapped in paper over corn husks, folded, not tied.

There really isn’t much to say about a chicken tamale. It just is. Whatever you cover it w/is what flavor it takes on and all I had was cold pineapple salsa from Trader Joes. Not my first choice. I ate more than half, gave Zephyr a piece of chicken and declared myself done. I actually had eaten earlier, so I wasn’t famished, more curious. I’ll share the other five. Five is a lot of tamales. If they come again I’ll try the chili, I think he said. Now, that should have a flavor all its own. Suddenly, my neighborhood feels just a tad bit better. Just a little! So, now the only people I will answer the door for are Grandma’s tamale posse and the girl scouts wheeling cookies. That’s it. Everyone else, keep on walkin’, there’s sympathy down thata’ way. 

d.  

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I missed yesterday. I can be bad that way, about things I should do, even when self-imposed. Anyway, it’s beautiful outside, a day to be walking at the river, not sitting before a computer.

I see the state workers wisking down the street to eat. They’ve been inside for hours. It’s sunny outside, lovely, really, but they crowd inside the cafe, like the change from pressurized temperature control to thin, true, chilled air is just too shocking: Plato and the Allegory of the Cave. . . it was the first thing that came to mind.

So, I need a camera. Not the way one needs food or shelter, not in the “I-need-a-cute-pair-of-shoes” way either. It’s somewhere in between, yet I can’t seem to buy one. It’s the big purchases that stump me. I might drop over at my accumulated coffee bill–$1.50 here or there. It would be staggering, but there is necessity there albeit, more social. That’s worth a buck or two.

I’ve got a camera needs list: photos for here and Etsy. Now, I borrow one. It works fine, but it’s as old as a digital camera can get and it lives across town. (I’m justifying, doing my pros and cons, leave me alone. )

It’s interesting what gets us all up in a snit. I do nothing but sigh when the vet hands me a hundred dollar bill. (Honestly, they should just hold my Visa.)  But for me. . . well, that’ll take some self-coaxing. I’m from a thrifty family, no wild spenders here.

When the church (pick a church) comes to clean out my nook when I die, they’ll find baskets of shells, stones, beach wood, trinkets, books, yarn, photo albums, memorabilia, but little monetary worth. I’m a sentimentalist, what can I say.

And with that, I’m off to the thrift store. I’ve started a pciture frame collection collaged w/old Harlequin novels–you can’t find those at Target or Nordies. It’s been fun reading. I’ve never read a Harlequin (although I’d LOVE to write one). Maybe, I should start at page one and see where it takes me. 😉

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