Food, Glorious Food

I have been happily eating my way through Portland. Breakfast has been high on my list, but there have been a couple of notable exceptions. To sum up my culinary delights.

On the first day back, I went to Toast (SE Steele and 52nd) for the pork belly. Oh, dear Lord, it is heaven in a slice of pork. This is nothing that could be described as "bacon". It makes me look back with even greater fondness on the Iron Chef Pork Belly Battle. I think I would have enjoyed that so much more if I had had some pork belly. Anyway, it's a thick-ol slice of, well, pork belly. Imagine a strip of pork roast surrounded on two sides by a strip of warm fat. Sounds gross if you aren't fond of things like homemade cracklins. If, however, you find fried chicken skin to be the best thing on the planet, well then, this meat is for you. As you bite into a piece, the warm grease explodes through your mouth with such an intense pork flavor, everything else on the plate pales in comparison. Mind you, the rest of the plate is tasty too. Comes with a couple of fried eggs and a homemade potato rosti (think hashbrown, but better), loving sprinkled with chopped, fresh parsley and served over a small puddle of balsamic reduction. Oh, with a bloody mary on the side that comes with homemade pickles (you know, cauliflower, okra). If you are, or are ever, in Portland: GO TO TOAST.

It started snowing, so then I opted for a walk to the Screen Door for some Saturday morning brunch. Screen Door (24th and E. Burnside) has the best biscuits and gravy in town. However, I opted for the special fried chicken cathead biscuit. The biscuit (as big as a cat's head) is split and topped with a spicy fried chicken breast, topped with sausage gravy, and served with potatoes or grits. I went grits. But I was sharing, so we also had a hash that was good -- there was horseradish in it -- and a smoked salmon omelet. Yum.

Once the snow cleared, it was off to Genie's (SE 11th and Division) for the eggs benedict. I've tried about all the benedicts in town, and Genie's wins. The Hollandaise tastes like butter. Seriously. It is velvety smooth, with a subtle lemon twist and the aforementioned butter. Ahhh. I can hear my arteries clogging from here. I forgot about the West Coast's penchant for undercooking eggs, so there were a couple of runny spots in the white of my eggs, but I decided to deal. I hadn't specified that I wanted runny yolks, but solid whites to the waiter. The potatoes are kinda whatever, and I got the end of a basket so they were all small and extra crispy, but it didn't matter. It was all about the muffin, locally made Canadian bacon, egg, and that sauce.

There was also a trip to Cricket Cafe at SE 32nd and Belmont. I didn't get the cricket omelet, that is hangover or trucker fare (a four-egg omelet with bacon, tomato, onion, cheese and the hashbrowns on the INSIDE, all covered with sausage gravy). I did have a delish sausage burrito, though. Nice interplay of eggs, sausage, and black beans. Good homemade salsa on top. Hashbrowns were a little greasy, but you can't always have it all.

This morning, after explaing to my dear friend CK that there is a Kettleman Bagels on this side of town -- just a few blocks from her house at SE 11th and Sherman, I had the best bagel in Portland. It might be the best bagel I've ever eaten. Now, I haven't been to New York on a bagel hunt, so I won't say that it's the best ever. But in Portland, they pass off anything round as a bagel, even if it's just floofy white bread, so these bagels really hit the spot. I have long said that Brueggar's sets the standard for all bagels: anything less than Brueggar's is NOT a bagel. Kettleman shows up Brueggar's. (The owner learned the trade in NYC, so don't fear, these are NYC bagels.) The only thing left to say is that in my Cali town, it's possible to go to a bagel shop that does not serve veggie, onion, OR herb cream cheese. I think that's against the bagel laws (although I haven't checked). So a crunchy on the outside, chewey in the middle everything bagel smeared with green onion cream cheese that hasn't had the life whipped out of it was very, very welcome.

Of course, I've been inhaling Stumptown coffee like it was going out of style, as well as any sort of micro IPA I can get my hands on. HUB (Hopworks Urban Brewery at SE 28th and Powell) definitely is good beer. Look for it. It packs a whallop, though, so beware.

Also on the list were the fish 'n chips at the Horsebrass (at SE 47th and Belmont). Everyone in there was smoking like it was going out of style (probably because as of January 1st, it will be out of style -- and against the law) which is a downer. I don't believe that anyone who say that the smoke is "part of the charm" of the Horsebrass is telling the truth; that lie gets passed around just to make you feel better for going. No, the smokers might appreciate the chance to smoke, but no one patronizes the establishment just so they can leave reeking like an old-timer at the Eagles Lodge. They go for the fish 'n chips. Solid cod, battered and fried served over homemade chips. Comes with slaw or a salad for a $1 more. And not so many chips, either. It's about the fish and the salad, with the chips just to make you feel good, but leaden with grease. Solid ranch (with the salad, of course -- but enough left over for the chips), too. Of course, sometimes the fry cook is off. It was pretty packed, so my fish were slightly overdone; but poorly cooked fish at the Horsebrass is well-cooked anywhere else. The fish was still hot and juicy, just a tad tough.

Tonight, though. Oh tonight. Going to Yoko's (SE 28th and Gladstone). Taka's tuna and the Poki roll. I might have to forgo my usual plain tuna roll in light of all that tuna. Tuna tuna tuna. Mmmmm.... Tuna. Yoko's is my favoritest sushi restaurant, ever. I do love some Sushi Blue in Raleigh, free birthay sushi is always welcome, and Mio Sushi is to raw fish what Brueggar's is to bagels, but nothing beats Yoko's. I love the tiny room with it's eclectic decor. I love the food. I love that you can wait at the bar next door and would call over the bar when your table was ready, but now they just call your cell phone.

And after the tuna feast of last night, I just want to say, "Yum". CK and I skipped the plain tuna roll for a spicy tuna roll, and added to the feast with some veggie tempura. (There is very little in this world that I do NOT like deep-fried.) We were sated, but not stuffed. It was about perfect. And Yoko's was playing Barry White on the stereo. Oh, my God. CK and I made some sweet raw tuna love at the sushi bar. Between the unfiltered saki, the interplay of tuna, rice, avocado, green onion, and soy, the hot, crispy fried veggies, and the sultry music, we were in heaven. And having considered it all, I think that while the pork belly delivers an immediate and gratifying taste sensation, tuna does that, but more. The pork will slow you down and put you to sleep; the tuna wakes up your brain and makes you feel alive.

For my last feat, I'll be doing a little happy hour at the Nite Lite tonight. (I think it'll still be happy hour.) It's been a favorite haunt of mine, and it'll be very comfortable to go back and hang there for an hour or so before heading out to a quality house party.

Happy New Years everyone!

Some How or Other, It Came, Just the Same

Most of you (all of you?) might not know this, but I have intentionally separated myself from my family at Christmas. Before you freak out, hear me out.

I was married. We had some issues with my in(out)laws. We managed to mostly keep to what we (I) wanted for a happy Christmas, but it involved a lot of drama. (Ask me if you want the deets.) But we never (ever) made it back to Maine to be with my family. So, when I was divorced, I found myself in a strange position. I was, by all accounts, a worldly, self-acualized, independent woman who had not taken money from my parents in two (three?) years. I hadn't spend a holiday with them in just as long. To go home as the Youngest Unmarried Daughter just seemed like a giant step backwards.

That was the first year I spent Christmas with B. And if the skiing has anything to do with it, I made the right decision. (Rach -- you have some awesome friends that I still remember fondly, but the snow calls.) The next year, I recall, I spent with none of you. I was Hell bent on NOT establishing a Christmas tradition. Perhaps it was just all part and parcel of the self-centeredness that was my 20's (to be torn asunder by CJ's death), but I was establisng my own adult persona; it was very important to me.

So now I find myself separated [Rachel is so right] from my family on Christmas, and frankly (no pun intended), I don't mind. I have tried to be less selfish with my time and spend more time with my friends and family since those jealous 20s. Sometimes, however, it doesn't work out.

I spent so much time worrying about my flight that I was having no fun. Forget fun, I had no relief from my very stressful job. However, when I stopped trying to get to Bozeman, my whole vacation opened up. I wasn't checking NOAA every five minutes. I wasn't cruising the Alaska Airlines site every 30 min. I didn't care what Tri-Met had to say.

What I did have was three (four) offers of Chrismas that grew to six (seven). Anyone who knew I was "stuck" in Portland for Christmas immediately offered up their Christmas options. M invited me to Eugene, but with the horrible snow in Portland, I decided to pass on the drive. My Original Portland Friend (seriously, dude was the person who introduced me to kickball) was also stranded at the airport, gave me a ride home, AND told me I was welcome at Christmas. Others random people have invited me over to make sure that I'm not "alone."

What can I say? A long time ago I gave up on "the tree" and "the family" and I realized that I can survive. But I spent this Christmas with two people who have never been away from their families at all. They didn't know this until now.

Y'all might have never heard it, but the thing that I have loved about Portland is the people I have met, from kickball to climbling. This Christmas has only proved my experience; we came together to make a wonderful celebration for everyone. "Christmas came without ribbons, tags, packages, boxes, or bags -- but somehow or other it came just the same." It WAS Christmas, regardless of who was or wasn't there.

I can not say it any better than this: "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more."

Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Well, it looks like I'll be spending Christmas in Portland. After a rather quixotic, and long, trip to the airport this morning, my flight to Seattle was cancelled. It looked like maybe my flight to Bozeman was still on, but there was no way to get to Seattle to catch it. Planes have been grounded in Portland off-and-on since Saturday, so everything is super-packed. And, rumor has it that PDX has run out of deicing fluid; without that, no one is going anywhere on any airline.

I've already heard of some orphan Christmases, so I won't be alone. And all of your presents will be late. I can barely get to a post office, let alone know if the mail is actually getting through.

Travel Update

So, for those of you who may not know, I had plans to drive to Portland on Monday to spend a week before flying out to see B&J. And then the weather hit. On Monday, I-5 was closed north of Yreka because Siskyou pass is at, oh, 4300 feet and it was a bit snowy. Up until I left on Tuesday morning (and so was unable to check CalTran info), chains were required on those last 10 miles of California. I hit the road anyway, prepared for the worst, but hoping I have a window of opportunity.

I make it though fine. No chains required. Roads clear. A little slush the last 10 miles, but soft, mostly-gone, and sand-filled slush. All fine. I think I've got smooth-sailing to Eugene. (Where I planned to spend the night, because even "clear" roads can develop black ice after sunset.) And then I hit the snow.

Ergh. Oregon did a bad job clearing sections of I-5. There was a good 10 miles worth of hardened ice about 30 miles south of Eugene (at Cottage Grove, if you're playing along on Google Maps). I was going a good 5mph. The last 30 miles, which should have been about 20-30 minutes worth of driving, turned into an hour and a half. And then Eugene roads weren't much better.

Now they're calling for more snow and rain today. I could probably make it through. Actually, I probably could have if I had left at 6am, but I was asleep at 6am. And the roads were crappy yesterday and it's been nothing but cold. The precip is due to start falling at any time, and I really don't want to get caught out in I-5 in nowhere-ville when it hits. Sure, I can drive in the stuff -- all those winters in Maine come in handy, but I also know enough to know that I don't have snow tires on my car, and that does make a difference. I also know that all the SUVers out there insist that they CAN drive in snow just because they have an SUV. I do have chains, and I do know how to use them, but they are a pain in the ass. And if I learned one thing from M&D (besides to watch out for the drunks and fools), it's that discretion is the better part of valor where snow is concerned; or, it doesn't take much to become a "fool" yourself.

So, I'm sitting in my friend's duplex in Eugene. (She is also a reader of this blog. Hey M! You're the best!) Gonna kick it here to today, see what tomorrow brings. NOAA is saying more snow, athough yesterday it was supposed to be clear tomorrow, so obviously the weather system is a bit fickle.

Well, at least I'm not sitting on my couch in Salinas. It's really boring there. And I am save and alive with no recent accidents to my credit. I'm just 100 miles from where I was planning on being.

Random Musings

Today, about half of my students weren't in class when the bell rang. And it was a late-start day. You tell me where they were, if not in class. Well, two days before break, I wans't about ready to go through some big teaching lesson that I would just have to repeat for everyone else anyway. A few students did trickle in, but there were still 8 students missing. So I did a listening comprehension activity.

It sounds pretty baby. I read a story. They listen and draw pictures. However, my education has told me that many students struggle with that part of reading. They don't know that good readers create pictures in their head as they read. Listening is a standard, too. It's actually a fairly complicated task, when you think about it. Listen to a story. Pick out key images. Imagine what they look like. Translate that to paper. Keep on listening to the story. It takes some mental gymnastics. Of course, it wasn't super planned, because I had to scrap my lesson when half the class was missing at 9am.'

Of course, today was the day when my New Teacher Support Liason (or whatever) decided to come visit. (My students had, of course, wanted to do "nothing" today. Thank God I always refuse that offer.) Later, when I saw her, she made a short comment about their age. Like the lesson was too baby. F you, woman. I have students reading at a 3rd - 5th grade level. (Not all of them, but more than one.) Most are below grade level. So you tell me that baby is baby for kids below grade level? They NEED to be met at their level. (Teaching English Learners Lesson #37.)

Anyway. End of class, kid who transferred in a few weeks ago (something wrong with one of his other classes) with a 26% was wondering about his grade. Yes, you are still failing. Yes, your grade comes with you. So, why was he not doing work. I get my favorite response, "Ms. XXXXX isn't a good teacher." Ugh. I hate that for a few reasons. 1) I know there are students who say that about me (of course, they don't tell you someone else is bad when they think YOU are bad); 2) It absolves the students of all personal responsibility; 3) It's not very polite, respectful, or empathetic. I know this teacher is an intern, a wonderful woman, and doing her absolute best. (I know the same thing about myself -- except for the intern part, and I know some students think I suck. I don't, it's just a reality of being a new teacher.)

Anyway, after sorting through how her teaching style doesn't matter and not doing the work really only hurts him, he (and another kid hanging around) told me I was a good teacher. It's nice to hear from time to time. They think I make things fun and class isn't boring. I think that they bring that with them. I feed off of their energy. But if they want to think it's me -- OK! (I know, where is my "personal responsibility" speech now? Well, it's all about me, right? Right.)

Oh, and about the story. I took time at the end of class to walk around the room. I made myself check in with students who don't talk in class. I made them describe their pictures to me. Especially students who are English learners. In general, EL students do not talk enough at school. And one of my brats actually drew a couple of pictures. He didn't draw much, but it's the most work he's done in quite some time. But the lesson is too baby. Heaven forbid I let my students succeed at something.

What's that saying? Oh yeah -- Nothing breeds success like success.

(If you couldn't hear it in my typing, I'm totally being sarcastic there. Not the quote, that part is true.)

I'm Jus' Sayin'

Ebenezer Scrooge is a cold-hearted bitch (in the parlance of our times) and makes a lot of money. But then he sees the error of his ways, and turns all good. So, he starts giving his money away.

Now, don't get me wrong. I think A Christmas Carol ("A Christmas Carol"?) is one of the greatest Christmas works in history. It's up there with "A Christmas Memory", "Santaland Diaries", and It's A Wonderful Life. I thinks it's even more impressive that Dickens wrote this before the whole Christmas genre thing took off. And I've read Christmas Stories, or whatever it's called. The others stories -- not as good. We know A Christmas Carol by name and not the other because A Christmas Carol is true genius. The rest? Sorta forced and lame. Sorry Charlie. There it is.

Anyway. Scrooge has his old change of heart and starts giving away the dough. Where does it end? This is a philosophical question: How much can he really change and still keep his dedication to humanity? If he reforms his business practices and starts being nice, well, he loses all his money. Without money, can he support Bob and Tiny Tim and the two men soliciting for money? So has his reformation done any good? Can he justify being stingy with others to make money to help those he knows? Or does he just have enough money that he can spend it all like crazy until he dies and not have to do anything but live off interest?

It's all Over but the Waiting

Today was one more day in my life in the state that has more bureaucracy than China. Today's bureaucratic moment was a standardized test proving that I am qualified to teach English Learners. Let's forget, for a moment, that I just finished a Master's program in education that prepared me for the realities of today's student population, including English Learners. Fine. Whatever. California will not believe it from the A's I received in "Strategies for Teaching Culturally and Liguistically Diverse Students", "Multicultural Education", and "Literacy Across the Curriculum". I have to take the test. Oh, and I'm also supposed to attend 10 DAYS at a district-sponsored seminar about all this stuff. Oh, the 10 days? Those are class days. Oh, and always Tuesday and Thursday, so with my school's block schedule, that's the equivalent of 20 instructional days with two of my classes and ALL MY PREP PERIODS (because I don't get a prep every day). All so I can take the test. The standardized test.

We're in education, right? So we understand assessment and the need for assessment and reliability and validity and test bias -- in fact, all of these concepts are tested on this test. This test, which I think *fingers crossed* I passed, asked a lot of tricky questions. This was not a straight-forward, "Do you know the information?", but "Do you know how to read this question closely enough to weed out the correct answer from the distractors?" Right. Because tricky multiple choice test questions are the best way to assess understanding and not to assess vocabulary or test-taking ability. Good luck to the English Learners in the crowd (yes, even teachers don't always speak English as their primary language -- which is a good thing).

Oh, and many of the people taking the test were old-skool teachers who hadn't mananged to take care of this requirement five years ago when it was first instituted and now the Williams Act requires them to do it and boy, are they grumpy. Grumpy McGrumpersons. They got all snarky about the requirements to keep the test site secure. Just shut up already and put your cell phone in the car and don't whine. They man told you to go downstairs because upstairs is off-limits until the test starts. Deal. Stop yammering about how stupid it all is. You're worse than my students who at least complain about things that generally are stupid (or that they're too stupid to know aren't actually stupid). You -- should be smart enough to know that people DO cheat on tests. Even teachers. Even teachers who don't especially want to take a test that they think is both insulting and difficult. Go figure the administrators are worried about cheating. (Not, I must add, did I actually witness any teacher who in any way seemed to be cheating on the test. They were all on the level, but God, get over it. People cheat. I see it in my room every day.)

No. I don't know when I get my scores. I'm not sure I really care. I've either passed, or I haven't. Judging from the number of repeat-takers in the room today, I would not be the first person to fail a test.

A Moment or Three

A couple of successes:

One student told me today (halfway through the book) that it was against her religion. (She gave me a note, and was fine when I told her we would discuss it after class. All totally appropriate and on the level.) Anyway, Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya, is, in many ways, about a witch. Actually a curandera: think medicine man or even a root worker, but still. I'd heard from other sophomore teachers that this might be an issue, but I haven't really confronted this sort of thing before. Anyway, end of class comes and I give my schpeel (sp?) about reading something doesn't mean you believe it and it helps to know how other people feel about the world, bla bla bla, but what do you think?

She thinks she would get in trouble. OK. I'll talk to the other sophomore teachers at lunch, come up with a suitable solution, and she can come back during homeroom and we'll figure it out. So, I talk at lunch and statement number 1 is this: talk to mom and make sure it's true, and if so, why not read Fahrenheit 451? We've already read some Ray Bradbury this year, so the pre-reading is already done. OK. I call mom. Sure enough, Mom would *not* like daughter reading the book. I say OK, we'll give her an alternative assignment. Mom (thank God -- pun intended, sorta) is not angry that I've assigned this book, but thrilled that I called to check with her and am being reasonable about it. "Commendable" is, I believe, the word she used to describe me. After a lot of crap from all angles, someone taking what could be a disaster and saying something nice to me feels really awesome. I also tell Mom what a pleasure it is to have her student in my room. (No kidding, she's a great student.)

Fast-forward to the end of the day. Student, who is a Hellstudent, although not one of the vicious ones, comes by to pick up his tiny footballs that he let other students have yesterday and they were flying about the room. Needless to say, he didn't get them back yesterday. Well, I channel my classroom management professor (for once) and get *him* to tell *me* what his behavior is like (instead of the other way around): he blurts things out, he's often inappropriate, he distracts others. Then, we talk about what he can do to improve. Well, we worked up that we'll make up a clipboard with a chart on it. He will track how well (or poorly) he's doing in class. If he's talking out of turn -- a checkmark. If he contributes to the conversation positively -- a checkmark in another column. And, if -- heaven forbid -- the checks in the good column outweigh the checks in the bad column, well, I'll call his mom and tell her. Now, this has yet to be put into practice, but the mere act of working out a potentially viable solution with a Hellstudent leaves me optimistic.

In other news, I had a long conversation about hospitality with all my sophomores today. They were ROTTEN for their substitute last Friday. So, first they wrote a journal about the rules of hospitality (because it's Thanksgiving). I started it, of course, with a reminder that the gods allowed Odysseus to kill Penelope's suitors because they had violated the rules of hospitality. Then, I compared their behavior on Friday with their role as host in the classroom. Some of them got it. But not the ones who think their job is to try to not work. You know the ones: they think it's my job to give them a grade, not theirs to earn it; it's the custodians's job to pick up their trash, not theirs to take care of their messes; it's the administration's job to catch them breaking the rules, not theirs to follow them. This is the best I can do to combat that thinking. It's their job to be a member of society, and even as students, they are members of society. Might not work. Might. ish. Let's just say I have a lot of phone calls to make and paperwork to fill out.

Then I made them do boring vocab. They were still rottenish. But less. And no one stole my tape today. And, for about 10 minutes at the end of each class, I forced them to be quiet by threatening to hold them in otherwise. The quiet was good for me, if not for them. Sometimes, it really is just about me.

P.S. I realize this is not that well written. But I have no energy for editing. Maybe, in awhile, I'll edit this for posterity -- but I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.

Manamana

Yes, the Dead Hensons, the Muppet cover band will be playing in San Francisco on Saturday night. Yes! It's an 8-piece funk band that plays only songs from Sesame Street. Nothing is happier than songs from childhood with beer and a bunch of other adults singing and dancing along. I am so finding my way there.

R&D, you are so jealous right now.

If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear to wear flowers in your hair

Finally made it up to SF yesterday. I only spent the day, so I certainly haven't done it up "right", but it was good to find my way there. The first time is always the hardest. Now I know how to get to downtown at least, even if I never knew where I was again after that.

I met up with an old friend from Chapel Hill. Reconnected on Facebook and he happened to be in town visiting friends, so we took a day. We had brunch at Luna Park on something and 18th (the old crack hood all gentrified) then drove around looking for his hotel then went down to the Ferry Building. We had an app at a wine bar and then ferried over to Sausolito. My, was that nice. It was late -- later than I had hoped seeing as I had to teach today -- but it was worth it. The sun was setting behind the Golden Gate Bridge as we chugged across the Bay. And the weather is unseasonably warm (to say the least) with clear blue skies. Just gorgeous. Had some clam chowder (still too much starch, not fully cooked potatoes, but not too salty and good clam heft to it) and a Crab Louis salad. Not too bad. Then back home.

It's a 2 hour drive, which is kinda annoying, but not impossible. I do need to go back and spend more time. But I need to plan it when I *have* the more time to spend. Maybe a long weekend or if Shells really comes to visit for spring break.

I'd make this a better-written post, but I'm too tired and cranky (meetings!) to do much more than a mind-dump. I've shared; I'm alive; I'm not just sitting on the couch every evening.

Done.

I Thought of a Good Title

But then I forgot. Maybe, if it comes back to me, I'll fix it.

Today I decided I needed to get out of Dodge. So I packed up my thick-ass stack of papers to grade, citysearched a place to eat, and drove to Santa Cruz. Of course, I forgot to bring the sticky note that had the addresses on it (it's still sitting right here at my elbow), but I sorta remembered the cross street of the breakfast place I was looking for. So, being in a winging it frame of mind, I took off in what I though was the right direction and lo and behold -- I found it!

Well, for a place that is supposed to have long lines, there weren't any at 9:30 on Veterans's Day. Fine with me. I ordered a cup of decaf (have to) and Mike's Mess. Mike's Mess is a scramble of eggs, bacon, mushrooms, and homefries topped with cheese, sour cream, tomatoes, and scallions. Sounded delicious.

The coffee arrived -- bleugh. They have an old-skool coffee pot system, and this decaf had definitely been sitting on the burner too long. Invest in some air pots people!

But then breakfast came. Glorious breakfast. It's been awhile since I've had a good breakfast, and this qualified. The plate was covered with a pile of food and two good scoops of sour cream. The only complaint I have about the Mess is that the taters were overseasoned (aka: too much salt) and also contained tumeric. Don't get me wrong, tumeric belongs in many, many things, just not in breakfast potatoes. It's a trend I've noticed out here: a curried potatoes for breakfast habit; I don't buy it. (Well, obviously I do since I paid for my breakfast, but you get my drift.)

Now, on the side of the plate was a piece of bread sliced in half. White sourdough, to be exact. It was lovingly toasted and sandwiched between the halves was a scoop of butter (yes, butter). I spread the butter over the toast (with plenty left over in case I really wanted to destroy my arteries), and took a bite -- and landed in heaven. The bread was dense and tender at the same time. The bread wasn't too sour, which is more to my liking than the inverse (converse? contrapositive? who remembers their geometry?). I could eat that bread forever. I do love white bread. Yes, I do.

The menu also boasted some sourdough pancakes that looked delish, as well as the usual eggs and bacon fare. I will definitely need to go back.

And to add to my pleasure was the crowd of eaters. There was an undergrad couple next to me (it was early on in their dating life) and an older professor (or math teacher) across the way. I watched in fascination as he ate a decidedly snotty egg. It was so slippery he could barely get it on his fork and stay there. He was not a break-the-yolk kind of man. I was impressed and slightly grossed out when he finally got it in his mouth. I think that egg whites should be cooked all the way through, although the yolk is allowed to remain runny. All in all, good people watching.

Then I went and say on the pier and graded a few papers. It was good.

Some Blocks are Good Blocks

I've been doing some lame teaching with my juniors. The "teaching" part is slim; we're reading The Crucible out loud. I do this not just because, but because I know that my students will not read it if we don't. It's in the textbook, and they will not take it home and read it and come back to school prepared to discuss it. It written well about their reading level AND with antiquated language, so even if they did read it on their own, they wouldn't understand it. The affective filter is too high. It is beyond their zone of proximal development (without my scaffolding).

(Yes, I understand that I'm making sweeping generalizations about my students. Some of them would read it. Some of them would understand it. But by and large, my population demonstrates low motivation and poor English skillz -- it's a cultural thing, dear. Hey, I'm not sure I'd be signing up to be a part of white culture if I weren't here already. And, well, they are far more bilingual than I -- tell me whose language skillz are more valuable in today's global economy.)

Back to this morning. In a stunning feat of actual teaching, I had planned to lead them in a book-making excercise where we could look at irony, mood, and tone and find some examples and then do a little evaluation. It would involve paper and crayons and all sorts of good things (don't let high school students fool you -- they love crayons as much as elementary students do). But they rebelled.

They insisted that we read the play.

I'm serious, a good half of the class begged me to let them read. Nobody disagreed. (We assign parts and read it out-loud -- a little Reader's Theater for the Dramatically Challenged.) They want to know what happens. They want to get to the end. They don't want to forget what's going on. I (well -- I'm taking credit, but I don't think I really had much to do with it) have them hooked on the story. They've seen beyond the language to the meaty part -- the plot. And it is a gripping story: teen girl has affair with older man and schemes to kill his wife; the rest of the town is gripped with jealousy and rivalry and takes advantage of the situation to get retribution; murder, mayhem, frenzy, religious fervor, mistaken assumptions, a know-it-all judge, and a thoughtful minister. I think I'm going to have them script a Jerry Springer reunion when it's over.

So, I scrapped my lesson. We can get to it later. And we read. It was pretty sweet.

In Memorium

For KJG and CJC.

Suicide is Painless, Johnny Mandel and Mike Altman
Just Like Suicide (acoustic), Soundgarden
Suicide, T. Pain
The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage, Panic at the Disco
Beautiful Girls, Sean Kingston
Country Death Song, Violent Femmes
We Both Go Down Together, The Decembrists
John Allyn Smith Sails, Okkervil River
Into the Ocean, Blue October
Swandive, Ani DiFranco
Who's Afraid (Of the Art of Noise), The Art of Noise
Love is Suicide, Smashing Pumpkins
Suicide, Kamelancien
Suicides Underground, Air
Goodbye Baby Baby Goodbye, Van Morrison
The Will to Live, Ben Harper

Climbing

Went out to Pinnacles National Monument today. I went with a woman I met at my new teacher days earlier in the summer. She's not as strong a hiker as I am (which isn't saying much). Still, she's been dragging me out, so it's good.

Pinnacles is beautiful. And it was community day, so there were "tables", including a rock climbing group (they take school groups out). So I got some free rock climbing in. They only had a couple of pitches up, and I'm out of shape, but it was fun. I certainly could have used my rock shoes. But all my training came back. And the guides were both from Oregon, so I could wow them with my alpine experience.

I miss being on the rock.

I'm Getting Too Good at This

I have sent too many condolence letters in my still rather short life -- and far too many for people who passed away before they finished living a long, productive life. And it hasn't even been my association with mountain climbing that has precipitated my close association with death.

I found out that my mentor's wife died unexpectedly yesterday. I have no more information than that, but it makes me heartsick. I did not know her well at all, but I do know her husband rather well -- I spent a year in his classroom.

You might have heard me talk about him as The Three-Time Winner of the CT of the Year Award (all three awards were from the same year), the God of Social Studies, the God of all Things Teaching, or simply My Idol. When I subbed in his classroom last year and the students said I was just like him, I got all twitterpated. Ditto when my own students (at the same school, but different class) told me I was "too much" like him. In my book, there is no "too much" when it comes to this man. He is an excellent teacher, both to his high school students and his student teachers. He is patient, kind, thoughtful, and intelligent. He also plays a mean game of shuffleboard.

I know little of his personal life -- mostly just things that I've gleaned from being around his classroom. They had Frisbees printed up for their wedding favors (there is one hanging in his room). The top hat in his room is also from his wedding: he and his groomsmen found them at a store across the street and wore them to the reception (I overheard him tell the story to a student once). They would ride their bikes to Beaverton to see family. They have a daughter who is an adorable, vibrant -- her picture is always his desktop at work. And from those clues, I know that they had a wonderful, fun life together. I can tell how right they were for each other. It breaks my heart to think about him dealing with such a stupendous loss.

And I can't help but also think of the other people I know who have lost their spouses. Everybody dies. I know that. But that fact does little to ease the pain that comes from the separation of people who love each other.

It Was a Long Day...

...Living in the valley.

It's closer to the truth to say that it's been a long week (and I do realize it isn't even quite Friday yet). Fist-fights in class, candy theft, intolerant adults... Just part and parcel of my new life. Really, the adults in this community seem to be as closed-minded and bigoted as the children -- hmm, I wonder wehre the kids get it from. I guess I've spoiled myself by living in liberal centers of conservative states (the Chapel Hill Zoo, Weird Portland). I always thought Californians were liberal, but I am quickly learning that that is far from a true stereotype.

Also, my curriculum isn't what I would like it to be, so I'm having difficulty writing a good test that also tests only what I've taught. My own fault, this, but a problem none-the-less.

Setting the World on Fire ...

... One broken iron at a time.

Yup. Almost set fire to my house yesterday morning. I knew my iron was on the fritz because sometimes it wouldn't work. I meant to get a new one, but I kept on forgetting. Let's just say that after the sparking and burning smell, I got a new iron last night.

And it's a nice one. It has this super-steam setting thing that's pretty cool. I can't wait to iron some cotton for the next quilt!

Just Passing Through

I'm really only here to shut down my computer, but I'm doing so because my favoritest movie (of the past few years) in on HBO. Also happens to be my most-recently favorite book. OK, no more making you guess, it's Atonement. I read the book last summer when I begged the woman at Powell's to recommend a book that had plot and characters -- after 15 months of grad school, I needed a story already. She told me about Atonement, although feared it would be too depressing for me. I told her I didn't care as long as it had a plot.

I started reading the book, and at first I was a little ambivalent (it's a vocab word from last week), but after 50 pages I realized that I couldn't put it down. And by the end? I realized that it answered the question, "Why do we write?".

Although maybe it just answers the question, "Why do I wish I could write?"

Regardless, the book is excellent, as is the movie. I highly recommend either.

It Was Bound to Happen

I can find any network TV channel when I'm at my parents' house. I have them all memorized from childhood. (Yes, I do watch a lot of TV.) And in all the other places I've lived, I've had some issues remembering those network TV channels. Wait -- is NBC 8 or 7? CBS -- 2? No, 5. Wait, 3!!

But now, for the first time since I was a child, NBC is once again channel 6. No question which channel to turn to when I want to see The Office. Channel 6 it is. It's comforting.

Hall of Vanity

Speaking of banks, we all know how banks love to build testaments to their greatness. Back in Chapel Hill there is a bizarre "plaza" that housed the bank formerly known as NationsBank. It sits right there on Franklin Street and it is the craziest building in town (except for maybe Venable Hall). Although the layout is too crazy to even try to describe, there used to be a hall of mirrors (now renovated and missing). As you walked in the front door to get to the bank or any of the businesses on the Rosemary Street side, there was this long brick hallway that was lined, floor to ceiling, with mirrors. We called it (unoriginally) the Wall of Vanity.

While at Chapel Hill, I took an introduction to psychology course, and the professors described how Psych 10 students used to have to design and conduct their own experiments, not just participate in them. One study involved the Wall of Vanity. The students sat in the hall and watched people walking through the building. They ranked how often people looked in the mirror while rating their beauty. Wouldn't you know, the beautiful people looked in the mirror and the ugly people didn't. (The requirement was dropped because it meant that the subjects were participating in experiments without their knowledge or consent -- now a no-no in the medical world.)

So as I sit at my computer, I can't help but notice that my blog is up. I find myself looking at myself in its mirror (you know: going over old blogs, reading the comments, planning future posts). The Internet has become my own personal Wall of Vanity.

Rain

Yesterday was the first rain of the season. Those of you living in more climatically-balanced parts of the country might not understand what a wonderful thing that is.

I woke up early yesterday morning to the sound of rain. Not light, drizzly rain, but solid, heavy, pinging off the window rain. It was such a pleasant, calm, cozy sound, I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I woke up a few hours later the world was washed clean. Things here have been dusty. Poor Inky is constantly coated with a think later of dirt, although I live nowhere near a dirt pile. But not after the rain. The ground was damp and fresh, the air smelled clean, and my car was about as shiny as it ever gets.

I know this means it will start to rain more and more, and that can get depressing. But the first real rain after all this dry, hot sun is refreshing regardless of what I know is in store.

When I was Young, Prices Were Reasonable, Politicians Were Noble, and Children Respected Their Elders

Homecoming is coming up in a couple of weeks and my school's theme is ridiculous. No, the theme is not "act as outrageous as you can" (although it might as well be); it's something bizarre like Music in Las Vegas. What? What do Las Vegas or musical genres have to do with high school, football, or winning (and isn't that what Homecoming is about)? Oh yeah, I forgot; they have NOTHING to do with Homecoming.

In my day, the Homecoming theme was directly tied to our Homecoming rival. If we played Massabesic, the theme was Purple People Eaters (I forget their mascot, but it's purple). The theme related to our stated goal of winning, because "you've got to win! You've got to be number one!"

Maybe it's that my new football team doesn't win every game (unlike my high school team). Maybe they just do themes differently out here on the Wrong Coast. But I can't help but know that my way is better. Our skits, chants, cheers, and floats all tied directly to beating the crap out of the other team, not to some random travel brochure. Come on people, kick some rival team ass!

I also used to walk 10 miles to school, in the snow, uphill, both ways.

But trust me on the sunscreen.



P.S. 5 points for each pop cultural reference you correctly cite. I admit that I found one on a re-read I didn't intentionally include.

I'm Still Here

Just busy and super-duper sleepy. If it weren't new-House-night, I'd be in bed already.

In my most recent testing news, my district has some f'd up standards (yes, I think my nod to profanity is warranted). And I don't mean content standards. Let me explain.

On Monday I administered my district's writing benchmark test. I get some leeway with it, so I wanted to front-load the rubric and all that. I copied the rubrics from the front cover and transferred them to overheads all in the 10 minutes before class (because the tests are kept under lock-and-key beforehand) because as a new teacher, I don't have a filing cabinet of all this stuff. So, there I am in front of my juniors and I unveil the rubric scale. It's a 6 level scale with some usual headings: Advanced, Proficient, Beginner -- I don't remember what-all -- oh, and Incompetent. Yes, the district is calling students who score a 1 "Incompetent". Not Emerging or Basic or even Below Basic. No. Incompetent.

Google "incompetent" (define: incompetent) and see what you find. I found definitions like "not qualified", "bungling", "unskilled" and my personal favorite, "not capable". Right, because we want to tell students that they are NOT CAPABLE of completing the assignments we give them. Not that they have a long way to go to become proficient (a reeeeeaaaaally long way, granted), but that they just can't do it.

Of course, the "Incompetent" students probably don't know what "incompetent" means, nor do they understand the finer points of language: like connotation. So, maybe it's OK. Except that in a district that is somewhere between 50% and 75% English Learners (many have been "exited" but will always carry an EL designation), many of my students are trying to succeed, but struggle with academic writing tasks. Should we berate our students for their faults, or bolster them in their attempts at growth? Hmmmm. I think I need to think on that one for a bit.

In my meeting today with other English teachers and my district's ELA support administrative whatever, I asked about this label. She was (rightfully) dismayed by the designation and went to check on it. Of course, neither she (nor the other English teachers) had ever, oh, NOTICED the use of the word on the FRONT PAGE of the test booklet. But, whatever. We're only English teachers. We don't need to do a close reading of anything.

Turns out, this rubric was taken DIRECTLY FROM THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA. Yup. Cali is labeling its lowest level students as incompetent. Something about that strikes me as, oh, classist? Racist? Prejudicist? Someist. Or maybe I don't need to coin a new word because "rude" works just fine. (I strive to make William Strunk, Jr. proud.)

One of these days, when I get a spare moment (maybe over Christmas break), I'm writing a letter to the peeps up in Sacramento. Because this s is totally f'd.

Ants and Light Summer Reading

Last summer I went on a bit of a rehab binge. Maybe it was all the Amy Winehouse on the radio or maybe it was just luck, but it seemed like every time I turned around, I was learning about extreme drug and alcohol abuse and what it's like to stop it. Well, all with a fairly good dose of fiction, because well, because. Who needs facts?

By far my favorite was Augusten Burroughs's Dry (which also happens to be my favorite Augusten Burroughs book; it's good; and hilarious). I also read A Million Little Pieces AGES after Oprah got mad at dude for lying (I forget his name and the book isn't around). Whatever. It was a pretty interetsting read. (I got it for cheap at the thrift store right before a plane flight.) And I also saw an MTV Real Life about drunk twenty-somethings. You know, while I was kwilting. I think there was other stuff in there, little hints and stuff, but those were the big three.

So, during all this reading I learned that one of the last stages of alcoholism is hallucinations, often of tiny, creepy-crawly things. I think Augusten (sure, we're on a first-name basis) said spiders were common, but I think ants would work to.

So last night, when I came home, I was hoping it was just late-stage alcoholism. (Well, not really *hoping*, but you know.) But no, it was actually ants. Everywhere. Especially on the walls around my ceiling. "Why," you ask? "What food do you keep along the edges of your ceiling?" "Why," I reply, "I didn't know I kept any up there."

Ugh. I didn't have ants (or roaches, or grasshoppers, or mice, or rats) in Oregon. And neither I nor my roommates were spontaneously clean or anything. But here? Leave out that empty pan of macaroni and cheese one night... So now my kitchen is covered with ant traps. They're working OK, but I forget which brand is better. I know one rocks -- either Raid or Combat -- but it's been so long. If anyone has any good intel, I'm all ears.

The Nature of Competition

I had a rather successful lesson with my students this morning. (Actually, I don't know if it was successful in driving their learning, but it was successful for getting them involved and thinking.)

We played Analogy Relay Races. I put two posters with identical (fairly easy) analogies on the board and divided the class into two groups. Each group had to answer all the questions by taking turns. (No skipping people.) They could help each other, but they had to all participate.

And they did!

And the hilarious thing? One of the students, early on, said something to the effect of, "Why are we so worried about this?" And there was no reason for them to get excited about winning. I mean, the prize of one small piece of candy? Negligiable. The brag factor? Are you serious? Bragging about winning an analogy game in English class? Yeah, right.

But even knowing it was sorta silly didn't change their desire to win. The competition worked. They took turns. They helped each other out. They wanted to win (so they tried). I bet they at least had more fun than if they just worked on a worksheet. And maybe, because they were moving, a few of the kinesthetic learners got a shout-out. (I feel for the kinesthetic learners, being one myself. I think it's a shame it's considered rude to knit while sitting in boring meetings -- it actually helps me concetrate and remember information.)

I will admit, however, it wasn't quite as successful during the later class. It wasn't horrible, just not as wonderful. Still, it was pretty fun and not too hard on me (yay! student-centered) so it will probably make reappearances throughout the year.

TPS Reports

The other week I saw a snipet from Office Space and it is, along with The Wire, the kinematic masterpiece that most closes matches my current life. I'm still not sure if art is imitating life or the other way around, but let's just say I could be shrunk, zapped into HBO, and my life wouldn't seem much different.

Let's forget for a moment that I found myself jealous of Milton's pretty red stapler last week as I was attempting to fill my own sad, plastic, no-good, lame-ass stapler with it's sad, metal, no-good, lame-ass staples. I have three staplers -- they cost a combined total of $10 -- and they suck. Not one will staple more than 5 pages together let alone staple into my walls. The staples always end up falling sideways and getting jammed. They are mostly useless. Everyone knows that a good stapler is expensive -- and heavy enough to inflict bodily injury on intruders to your home, office, cubicle, or classroom. (Just a note for any of you thinking about Christmas presents already. Actually, a gift certificate to Office Max, Office Depot, or Staples would work. I'm sure I'll be out of paper by Christmas.)

But no, this evening I just completed what I will choose to call my TPS Reports. Everyday, after taking attendance on my seating chart and transferring it to my gradebook, I then go "online" to the 20-yr-old DOS program and input attendance there. THEN, after four weeks, the school sends me a print-out of what I input and asks me to verify it. Theoretically, everything matches perfectly. In actuality -- not so much. Or at leat not this time for me. I'm still learning EVERYTHING, so there were some corrections to make. Some stump me (I have no idea where I went wrong). Some I can tell were where I clicked on the wrong line. Some I thought were mistakes but really weren't because I was looking at the wrong line in my gradebook compared with the line on the print-out -- a hazard of working with 36 kids in a class. I know one was from when I forgot to click the super-secret date that actually *records* the information that I input into said DOS program.

And all of this just seems, so, well, like a waste of my time. Sure, I should get attendance right every time. I should. But I don't. And I'm sure I'm not alone in that. I know I'm not as bad as this person I heard about who just didn't take attendance for a month and a half -- this person is no longer employed at the school. But how do I know that what I put in my book is really any more accurate than what I typed in the computer (especially four weeks later)? I am so frantic during every class (what with the 35-37 students that I am trying to wrangle, teach, and talk to) that who knows if I put it on the correct line in my gradebook or in the computer. In a perfect world, I would have fewer students and more time to spend double-checking my work. But I don't. And I end up opting for spending more time monitoring my students than staring at a computer screen. I'm not saying it's the right choice, just my choice.

I guess I'll find out sooner (or later) if my attendance problems are enough to warrant administrative action.

But at lesat, as far as I know, my reports do not currently need a cover sheet. But I'm not holding my breath that that won't change.

Baby's New Knits

My friend M just had a baby. Well, two months ago, but still. And while I started a blanket for him back in June, I waited (of course) until yesterday morning to finish it. Yesterday morning as in an hour and a half before the baby shower. That is, after staying up until 1am working on it on Friday.

And because I'm me, I adapted the pattern from one I found online. So my gauge was a bit off. It's really hard to tell these things when the yarn is on the needles. And it's really hard to tell when you've only got one row cast on. Knit fabric stretches and it always seems much smaller with one row than with 150 rows. So... I ended up making it a bit too wide.

But, as I mentioned, I was running out of time. When it looked like I'd gotten it to an appropriate length, I finished up the border and cast off. And when it was off the needles, it became very apparent that the blanket was far more rectangular than square. Of course, had I just made it narrower by 30-40 stitches, that extra would have gone into the length and it would have been damn-near perfect. Drat. And I take such bad notes I don't even remember how many stitches I cast on in the first place. So the next blanket is likely to look the same (or too narrow for its long length).

However, J (the baby) doesn't seem to mind and M doesn't seem to mind, either. I am not-so-secretly hoping that this turns into a blankie (my blankie was one knit for me by my mother) and at that point, the size won't matter at all. A blankie can be any size; it's about the comfort, not the coverage (or the komfort, not the koverage). Of course, kids (cids?) will latch onto whatever they please, and the blanket might just get relegated to the bottom of the toy box -- and it won't even be personal.



Also, M's family is awesome. They invited me over for dinner after the shower, forced me to stay the night, then fed me breakfast. They also insist that I join them for Thanksgiving, even though M will be back in Utah by then. They are friendly, supportive, and offer everything one could hope for in a surrogate family including food, wine, and teaching materials. (Just in case any of you were worrying about my support structures out here in the valley.)

For those of you who have ever put me up for a holiday, know that the tradition of my crashing your family events survives.

Inky's New Klothes

Inky got some new clothes this week. I finally got my sh*t together and got her her Cali plates. Sadly, they are much less pretty than her Oregon ones. Oregon's plates are blue and purple and green, with mountains and trees and a beautiful sunset. Cali plates, on the other hand, are very functional. The plate is a shimmery white with blue letters and a red "California" scribbled across the top. It gets the job done, with just the "appropriate" amount of patriotic coloring. ho-hum.

But that's not the good part.

Most of you know about my abiding love for UNC (go Heels!). Before I left the state, I stocked up on all sorts of Carolina paraphernalia -- sweatshirts and pants and t-shirts and hats and window decals -- and a license plate holder. I was all set to put it on the car in Oregon, but while North Carolina's stickers go on the top corners of the plate, Oregon's stickers go on the bottom. Thus, the license plate holder would have covered the very important stickers and might result in a traffic stop. :-( So, I just put the thing in the trunk and there it stayed.

Until Thursday.

Upon the sticking of the stickers in the upper corners of my new license plate, I realized that Inky could finally wear her Carolina gear. Worried that I had misplaced the cover during those five years (me? lose something? nawwww), I went straight to the box of junk in my trunk. (No, that is not a reference to my butt, but the actual box of random items in my car's trunk.) And there, under a pile of old wedding negatives (don't ask), was the "platinum" plate holder.

I must say, I had a very exciting evening on Thursday installing my license plate with my Carolina Alumni license plate holder (thereby defining me as a Tar Heel born and bred, and not just some fly-by-night bandwagon follower). I have been looking forward to this day for five years.

Inky looks just darling in her new outfit. Now if Michael will just buy me a new window decal to replace the one that's falling off and almost totally gone. I mean, he's working there now, how hard is it to walk across the Pit or over to Shrunken Head?

P.S. Go to Hell, State!

Adorable

It was a long day at school today. So long, in fact, that this morning seems like yesterday. But no, it was just this morning.

A brief word about why today was so long. It was Back to School Night! Actually, besides the whole "super long" thing, it wasn't too bad. The parents rotated through their child's schedule and spent 10 minutes in each class. I got to give my spiel about learning and policies, except instead of the blank stares of my students, I was met with the appreciative nods of my parents. I also got some phone numbers and emails, and they got mine. One mom was also very interested in volunteering in my class -- her son was not. But that's OK, because he's a Hellstudent. That would be at least one class where he wouldn't be Hellstudent. MWA-HA-HA-Ha-haaaaaaaaaaa.

Anyway, this morning we had a "William Inspection". Since I am now living in THE most litigious state in the Union, everything is controlled by one lawsuit or another. Sure, the intention is to give every citizen equal rights, but it's quickly becoming old. Sorta like getting transported back to the height of the PC movement.

ANYWAY. Back to Williams. This guy sued Cali because he (or his son) wasn't getting appropriate services. The school was rundown and the students didn't have their own textbooks. A deplorable situation, and one that should be remedied across this nation. (We called them "low-wealth schools" in NC, in Oregon they were just "failing".) But somehow, the solution is these inspections which make sure I don't have cords running across the floor and that all my students have textbooks to call their own.

What this means in practice is that I can't have a class set of books (regardless of whether or not my students can keep their books at home). So, I have to harass, cajole, threaten, and punish my students into bringing their heavy-ass (the technical term) books to class just to prove that we are not lying and they do indeed have them. It also means I have to spend two hours on a Saturday dressing cables in my classroom. Good thing I have all that TV experience, eh?

When they come to inspect the schools, they are supposed to do so quietly. But they didn't. A gaggle of inspectors (three inspectors and a school VP) burst into my classroom and actually took over. One lady was giving a pep talk while one dude was sitting at a desk taking notes and a third was harassing my students asking about their books. All of them had checked out books (thank God), but not all brought them. I've done my best, though; I have the consequences for not bringing a book posted on the wall and I write which book (big-ass text or kid-friendly soft-cover workbook) the student need on any given day. So, I probably won't get fired for the 5-6 kids who left their books at home (grrr).

But this is the adorable part. When the inspectors burst in my room and took over the show, I was desperately trying to figure out what was going on while the Hatchet Woman asked how many studnets I had in my class and I overhead the Ringleader asking my student about their teacher (me). The angels (ANGELS!) said I was a great teacher. Awesome. The best. I didn't even coach them on this. (I had no idea it would come up.) They didn't blink. Didn't miss a beat.

You don't even know how glad I am that the Big Show arrived during first period, and not fourth. Of course, they came back during second. Once is just not enough! And it seems they targeted the first-year teachers. Because I don't have enough to do or think about.

Truckin'

I was driving back from visiting M this morning, and I realized I was once again feeling like my old car-driving self. Back when I was living on the East Coast, I used to drive everywhere. Of course, when you live on the I-95 corridor, major cities that involve drives are still within easy reach (even if "easy" means 15 hours). Cities stack up on top of cities, at least if you're heading along a north-south axis. And I had people to see in all those places: mostly friends from home and college, with the occasional family member tossed in for good luck.

Then I moved west and I started slowing on the driving. After I stopped heading up to Seattle monthly, my travels slowed tremendously. I could carpool on hikes and climbs, so besides a yearly trip to Northern Cali for Christmas, I didn't drive very far. And then my Cali connection dried up, too. It didn't help that I took very poor care of my car during my Portland years. I wasn't that comfortable taking my un-maintained car on long trips for fear of catastrophic car failure.

So what's changed? First, I finally took my Ink Spot (so named because the mechanic called her a Crayola, so she needed a name befitting a crayon -- I find cars can really only be named by mechanics) in for repairs. I was leaving my Last Known Good Mechanic, and there's no telling how long it would take me to find another one I could trust. So, I put LKGM to work and got her all fixed up. Now I can feel comfortable driving Inky around again.

And then things are further apart here. In Portland, I didn't have to go far to see anyone I knew. I could shun an entire half of a city and still have friends to see and places to go. And there were many days that I did shun half of the city. At all times I shunned a good quarter of it. (There's nothing so important in the SW that I ever needed to go there.)

But here? You have to drive to get anywhere. Ikea? More than an hour away. The "discount" teacher-store? An hour away. Trader Joe's? Half an hour away. Cool, hip coastal towns? Forty-five minutes away. And I now have friends that live some distance away. I can't shun my far-away friends for my near-by friends because I have no near-by friends. (I'm sure that will change, it's already starting to, but I'm sure you get my drift.)

I never had to leave Portland, so I didn't. But now I have to leave home again. And it's kind of nice. I hate driving around town; I wish I could just get there already. But I do miss that time alone in the car on longer trips. The drive is part of the experience. I can listen to the radio and catch up on my music, plan my week, think about life. I have no responsibilities (except to not hit anyone or cause them to hit me). I can't do the dishes or laundry, I can't read a book, I can't get sucked into the TV. I can only drive.

How fitting that I'm re-bonding with my car here in Cali. Maybe I'll post one of my car-themed song lists one of these days.

While Everyone Else is Crying Today ...

... I am celebrating.

Yes, because it is September 11. But not because of September 11, 2001. No, you see, on September 11, 2000, I was divorced. A full 365 before September 11 took on much of any significance for anyone (well, unless you care about Chilean politics and the assassination of Salvador Allende), the best day of my life occurred.

Eight years ago, I became legally free of the Asshole. Sure, it was partly my fault: I shouldn't have married him. I was impetuous. But mostly, the man was a jerk. (Keep that in mind, all those of you who find it hard to break up with your whatever. It's not that hard. You just do it. I got a lawyer. I fought for two years. I lost a house and money. I got in knock-down, drag-out fights. I had all my wedding pictures broken on my bed -- you try to sleep on a bed of broken glass. And it was still the best thing I did. And it was still not that hard. I haven't run a marathon, but I got a divorce.)

Not only was it my anniversary, but I also got paid today! For the first time a couple of months, I got a paycheck! And, since I've been working at this district since early August (yes, it's now mid September), a paycheck is a good thing. (It's amazing that schools think it's OK to start the school-year in August but not pay new teachers until the END of September. If I hadn't done my extra (stupid) five days of meetings, I wouldn't have gotten this paycheck at all.)

So, I went out to dinner. Mich reminded me of the brewpub in town. (How can I --I-- forget about a brewpub? Well, I don't get out much anymore.) So I went and bought the steak special. It had everything a girl could want: sauteed spinach, mashed potatoes, bacon-wrapped steak, onion rings. Mmmmm.... Onion rings.... gleuuuuuuu. (That's the sound drool makes, if you don't know.) And, they were out of the IPA *sob* so I had the Pale. Still not bad. The food had oo much salt, too much oil, and not enough pepper (of course, I think that about just about everything I eat). I'll even go so far to say the potatoes had too much garlic -- I believe mashed potatoes should always retain some potato flavor, not be a mere vehicle for aromatics. But the onion rings (which should be salty and fatty) were almost perfect. I could have eaten an entire basket, and not just the handful on the plate (which I could do anyway, even with the bad ones). They were thin-cut, like the shoestring fries of the onion ring world, but with a well-seasoned, flaky batter. Not stupid, thick batter. They tasted like onion. (To be perfect, they would not be shoe-string, they'd be fat.)

And I chatted with the folks at the bar. Man, can I pick up an old man, or what? (Not to take home, ewww.) But me and old men? We can have some conversations. These particular barmates were supportive of my career. It's fun to toss out the teacher-card, you know?

As if this evening weren't enough. When I got home, there was a note from UPS. They'd left me a package. Me? A package? From whom? Why? Mr. Maybe sent me a present! It's now my favorite t-shirt: English doesn't borrow from other languages. English follows other languages down dark alley, knocks them over and goes through their pockets for loose grammar. It's hanging on my chair so I can look at it and giggle.

Sorry this blog is a bit parenthetical. I blame the beer.

(P.S. Why are divorces so expensive?


-- scroll down for answer --















Because they're worth it!

Thanks to Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me: The NPR News Quiz for the joke.)

Door Prizes

The library at my school had an open house on Monday. Yes, an open house. You know, come on by the library and see all the new books and resources, have some snacks, and chat up the librarians. My librarian is pretty tight. Woman knows her shiznit and is very helpful and friendly. And she's always getting supplies for use newbies. She's the school's new teacher resource/liason/leader whatever. Whatever you call her, she rocks.

Well, at said open house, I put my name in the hat for the door prizes. They had some really cool, useful prizes -- like the 16-pack of multi-colored Sharpies or the 8-pack of dry erase markers. Since I'm always up for a prize, I folded the corner of my slip of paper -- to make it easier to grab, right? That's a trick I learned at some conference once, not that I've found it all that successful.

Anyway, I hang out in the library at lunch, then run back to my 5th period class. No word on when the prizes will be handed out. The next morning, a student wanders into my room, looking a bit like Banquo hiding behind vegetation. Well, vegetables, to be honest. Glass vegetables, actually.

Yes, my door prize was a giant bowl of glass fruit -- just what every new teacher wants and needs. Especially a new teacher who doesn't even have enough desk space for all her pieces of paper. I couldn't stop laughing. My students thought it was a bit strange, too. Oh, and I really need fist-sized glass objects around my Hellclasses, right? Just in case they feel the need to start throwing things.

Anyway, I left one apple at school -- I figure I can be a cliche and have an apple on my desk, and took the rest home (for lack of a better storage space -- not that I have any storage space at home, either). Don't believe me? Check it out.

Sunday Dinner

I'm gonna back-date this to Sunday, since that's when I made the food. And oh, was it oh-so-good.

For those of you who don't know, Hoppin' John is a Southern dish that in its most basic form is black-eyed peas with rice. I made the Crook's Corner version, myself. Having dated a former Crook's cook, he filled me in on the secret of this tasty dish. Black-eyed peas and rice (of course) but topped with shredded cheddar cheese and a "salsa" of tomatos and green onions. The green onions are key. Not red or yellow or white, but green. I put a little red pepper and cider vinegar in with the tomatoes and green onions, for an extra Southern kick. (I don't know if Bill Neal -- the founder of Crook's and a Southern food expert for those of you who aren't up on your Chapel Hill school of cooking -- would insist on going that far, but I do.)

I know that Hoppin' John is a New Year's tradition, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy it whenever possible. This time, it was a farmer's market inspired meal. I found (joy!) black-eyed peas at the market last week. I also found a bunch of other stuff, so it took me a week to cook them. They were so good, they're already gone. (Although I'm posting this as if it were Sunday, it's really Tuesday.)

Anyway. Yummy. Yummy. Yummy. I sauteed some onions in happy bacon grease, then added the peas and some chicken stock and water. And because I also make a mean veggie version (and this only had fat, not a ham shank or hock), I tossed in a piece of kombu (which adds many of the same flavonoids you get from ham). Just remember to take out the kombu after about 20 minutes, or it starts disintegrating and then it's really annoying. I was out of bay leaf, so I had to skip that. Then, a big tablespoon of miso (another veggie trick to add the flavonoids). So good.

Here's a picture. It makes me drool.

What Did I Get For My Troubes? A Case of the Clams

I had to go to Trader Joe's, and in this town, that means a trip to Monterey. Since it was a lovely afternoon, I decided I might as well do what normal adults do and have dinner as well. This town doesn't have a slew of dining options, so going to Monterey is my big chance for dinner-time treats.

I did a cursory online search and decided I'd hit up the Fisherman's Wharf for some seafood. What the hey? I grew up in tourist trap, I know what's what. And I also know that you can find some good chowdah in a tourist trap.

So I trip-trapped, trip-trapped across the bridge to see what goodies I could find. All the restaurants along the wharf (picture Kennebunk Port -- complete with Saxony Imports -- but jammed onto one pier) had out samples of their chowder. "Yee-haw!" I thought to myself, "Now I'll know which chowder is good."

The answer is none of them.

I don't know what it is about the West Coast, but you can not find good chowder out here. Maybe I haven't found that one perfect place yet, but I've been to Seattle, Seaside and Cannon Beach and Pacific City and Portland, Oregon, and now California, and the chowder is crap.

Let me explain. The best chowder in the word is found at a place called Chowderheads in Scarborough, Maine. It's a small place, tucked off the side of a strip mall along Route 1. It's a random place to find such good chowder, but good it is. I guess it's technically a fish chowder, but it's creamy and succulent with a rich, seafood flavor with a colorful, and tasty, dash of paprika across the top. I've also had good, brothy, creamy chowder at the Clam Shack in Kennebunk -- but I haven't been there since the Jacques let it go. In short, chowder should be milky -- creamy, not thick and starchy. It should not taste like flour and potato starch. It should taste like seafood, cream, fresh potatoes, and pepper. It should not be thick. It should be a soup, not a gravy.

The chowders at the Fisherman's Wharf were all starch. The first one tasted like a bag of flour. Ugh. The second one tasted like a bag of flour mixed with clam broth. (Very clammy, although I didn't see any clams.) The third one (which passed for edible) was still thick, but there was a hint of cream and some visible clam chunks. It was alright. Alright in a sort of a limited way for an off night.

I guess I just have to make my own. I make a mean clam chowder. And I've got to get back to Scarborough. Chowderheads is closed on Sundays so I missed it the last time I was in town.

The Look

We all know someone with "the Look", right? Our Moms all had the Look. The Look will stop you in your tracks. Even if you've done nothing wrong, the Look will make you think you have.

I have spent years perfecting the Look, and I don't even have kids. I have, however, spent far too many days and nights in the company of children masquerading as adults. From high school on, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the company of the male of the species. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy my time with boys: they're silly and funny and exuberant. But they have warranted quite a few Looks -- making me an expert.

So today, at the end of a less horrible time with my Hellclass, I was looking over at Spike. Spike has been a bane of my existence (I have more than one, if that's possible) since Day One. And there he is, making some bizarre face at me. So, I turn up the Look and remind him that he's got to spend some time with me after class. (Which I did en Espanol -- well, a little bit en Espanol.)

After class he tells me that I have this really "hard" look, like I'm "007" or something (his words, not mine). He was trying to imitate me.

He's actually pretty cute when he's not making my life a living Hell. Trying to imitate my Look. He obviously doesn't understand that men have a difficult giving the Look and he does not have enough experience to do it properly anyway. Poor baby.

Literature Lessons

"'...My ass is tough and quarters is scarce." (Black Boy, Richard Wright).

In this quote, Wright is relating the story of a coworker who puts on an embarassing and masochistic act to get a quarter for lunch. The show involves bending over to pick up the quarter so the white man can kick the guy in the butt.

I feel like it's my personal motto.

The Wire

I'm watching The Wire right now. Well, not *right now*, but on the weekends. If I had episodes in the house during the week, I'd never get anything done. I did the same thing with Six Feet Under a year or so ago, but then I had three roommates watching with me (actually, it was Scott's fault that we even started). At least I'm in better control of the rentals this time.

Anyway, for those of you who haven't let The Wire take over your life yet, it's the story of cops and thugs and other nefarious types in Baltimore. In later seasons (I've caught a couple of eps on TBS -- not the best way to watch an HBO show), a school gets involved in the plot, too. Anyway, the cops follow big cases against the drug dealers and smugglers and get in each others' way. And a lot of what you see is shot from the perspective of surveillance cameras.

So, there I was today, sitting in an expulsion hearing. Oh yes. And yes, it is only the third week of school. And not only were probation, gangs, and contraband the subject of the hearing, but then my administrator pulls out a reference to the school's surveillance footage. Right then, I realized I was living an episode of The Wire.

Now, if only I could find McNulty...

P.S. One of my students left me a nice note telling me that s/he didn't like my voice. Nice.

BLTs

Today, in celebration of summer, farm workers, and the land of milk and honey, I will eat nothing but BLTs.

The BLT is my favorite sandwich of all times. As a child, I mastered the art of the BLT. My family, loving as they are, took advantage of my youth and got me to make them thousands of BLTs. "Carrie," they'd say sweetly, "You make the BEST BLTs." And I, obliging youngster flattered by their praise, would promptly march to the fridge and begin the long process of constructing a towering, tasty treat. My Dad and my second oldest sister used that line the most -- and it worked for a long, long time -- until Beth ruined it for everyone by telling me one day that "I made the best glasses of water." The jig was up. I stopped falling for flattery and made my BLTs only for myself.

Years later my father confided that they did indeed flatter me into making them sandwiches, but that did not change the truth: I made the best BLTs.

Here are my tips for making "the best BLTs":

1. Use only red, vine-ripened, flavorful tomatoes. The tomato is the key to the entire flavor of the sandwich. This means you can only eat BLTs in mid-to-late summer, when your garden or farmer's market is overflowing with tomatoes. Anything less will result in a sub-par sandwich.
2. Use a lot of tomatoes. Slice those bad boys at least 3/8 of an inch thick and make sure you cover the entire bread. Cut the slices in half to fill in the corners if you need to. Every bite should be full of juicy, sweet tomato.
3. Avoid iceberg lettuce. You should avoid iceberg anyway, but especially in a BLT. I prefer romaine for its crunch and ability to stand up to the other flavors. Red or green leaf is fine, but it makes for a girlier sandwich.
4. This might go without saying, but don't scrimp on the bacon and make sure it's got some crisp. It doesn't need to be falling apart burned, but you don't want limp, flaccid bacon. Three to four strips should be plenty, depending on their thickness and how much fat they lose. I prefer Nieman Ranch bacon. They raise happy pigs. And happy pigs make for happy bacon.
5. I am a sucker for white bread. A good, heavy white sandwich bread is my favorite, however, in this era of whole grains and heart disease and what not, I usually use wheat. It breaks my heart a little, but the sandwich is still good.
6. Toast the bread. 'Nuff said.
7. Hellman's (Best Foods) mayo ONLY. All other mayonnaise is sub-par and will ruin your sandwich. Ruin. Forever. Don't do it.

Is it any wonder my family tried so hard to get me to make them sandwiches?

So, for breakfast today, I had an open-faced BLET. That's a bacon, lettuce, egg, and tomato sandwich. I got the tomatoes and lettuce yesterday from the farmer's market. Oh, heaven in a piece of food. Nieman ranch bacon. And a light wheat, thick sliced bread from TJ's. It was the best BLET.



Lunch was sublime. Truly.



BLTs don't have to be sandwiches, you know. The homemade ranch-like dressing was my nod to mayo. I skipped the bread though. Crutons would have been a welcome addition, but I didn't plan well enough ahead. And it's Labor Day, so nothing is open. And if something is open, it shouldn't be. It's freakin' Labor Day!

Welcome to Krazy Karoline's Kozy Korner

Yes, the long awaited Krazy Karoline Kblog (the "k" is silent) is here. Visit this page for Krazy Karoline's Kulinary Kreations, Krazy Kwilts, Krafts, and Knits (the "k" is NOT silent), and Kantankerous Kurriculum. Maybe you'll even see some Kool Klothes and Kicking Keds.

Amazing, isn't it, how useful the letter "k" is?

The whole "Krazy Karoline" thang started, oh, 5 years ago while I was still living in the Bull City. I am a horrible packrat, especially where stashes are concerned (fabric, yarn, paper, drywall screws -- I horde it all). I had finally started making a crazy quilt to use up my fabric scraps. I figured I could justify holding onto all those useful (yet so useless) ends of fabric if I made a crazy quilt. Deep down I knew it would take me at least 10 years to finish the quilt, meaning I was forcing myself into a decade-long relationship with four plastic tubs of fabric scraps. Meanwhile, I joined a stitch and bitch group. In a stunning coup, I was hosted stitch and bitch one night (oh, was Michael jealous -- it meant I was "in" you see). And, inviting them over to see Krazy Karoline's Krazy Kwilt seemed so much more fun than just "having some friends over for desert and knitting". And I thought the fame would keep me on track.

Well, it's been five years and I'm a good 12 squares in. Yes. 12. I've moved the darned (ha ha) thing four times -- once across the entire country. In that time I've finished three other quilts -- all for other people. One was hand quilted. Yeah. Do you see where I'm going with this krazy theme?

The moral of the story? Get married and I'll make you a quilt. Maybe I should take my own advice?

Nah.

That's krazy talk.

Near the In and Out Burger

Hello. My name is Caroline. I’m 32 years old, and until today, I had never eaten at an In and Out Burger.

I was at a teacher workshop, and when my compatriots, partners-in-crime as it were, heard that I had never had “In and Out” (as they call it), then our choice for lunch was immediately decided.

I have, of course, heard of In and Out Burger. Jeffrey Steingarten mentions it in his food columns for Vogue Magazine (collected in the two stellar novels The Man Who Ate Everything and It Must’ve Been Something I Ate), as do the Cohen brothers in their cinemagraphic classic The Big Lebowski. The restaurant also gets a rather sizeable shout-out in the critical Fast Food Nation as an example of a fast food chain that manages to churn out inexpensive food without completely destroying the lives of the people who eat the food or serve the food. I’d need an actual working Internet connection to find the exact geographic locations of the In and Out Burgers, but I do know that they are scattered across southern California.

Salinas (on the edge of Norther California) does boast an In and Out Burger, so that’s where I ate lunch today. For a whopping $6.00 and some change, I got a cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, onion (which you must request separately), and a very thousand-island-esque sauce, a large "small fry", and a chocolate shake. After about an 8 minute wait (it was noon and the place was packed), my food arrived. Your number is called out and the food comes delivered on a little red try with high, slightly sloping sides. The food tucks in nicely on the try. There is no excess space to get in the way or take up room on the table. It’s more like a bowl or a plate than a tray.

The first thing I noticed about the actual burger is that while the size of the entire setup is pretty good, the actual burger is tiny. It is dwarfed by the vegetables on the bun. Now, I’m a big fan of the vegetable, but I do love a good, juicy burger. “Juicy” is not what I would use to describe the very fast-food shaped burger on my red tray. This is no small problem, because what I love about burgers is the interplay between the savory, meaty, slightly greasy, and juicy burger with the soft, toasty bun, the drippy cheese, tangy onion, sweet tomato, crunchy lettuce, and creamy mayo. Each ingredient has a critical part to play in the creation of the cheeseburger experience. The whole is certainly greater than the sum of the parts.

So, the burger’s a little lame. Of course, I only paid a couple of bucks for it, and with rising gas prices, can you be surprised that the burger is small? No. Which doesn’t make it any less disappointing. A lot about the current state of the world leaves me disappointed.

The fries were pretty good. I got a nice paper bin of shoestring fries. They tasted mostly like potatoes and were hot and not overly crispy in a super-saturated with oil kind of way. After a restrained sprinkle with salt and pepper (my preferred method), I dipped them in catsup (or more likely ketchup) from the pump bottle near the beverage station. Good.

All the while I was trying to suck on my shake. It was a difficult process. It was, hands down, the best chocolate shake I have had at a fast-food joint in a long time. It was so thick, I practically imploded the straw trying to drink it. I had to set the shake down and wait for it to melt a little bit on top, just so I could have some. It had a nice chocolate taste, too. And none of that plastic taste you get from a Frostie. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t an extra-thick chocolate/chocolate frappe from Shane’s of Maine — but then again, I haven’t found a shake that good since. (For those of you who don’t know, a frappe is a shake in Maine. Shane’s of Maine is a really good ice cream company — their ice cream puts Ben & Jerry’s to shame. An extra-thick frappe has three scoops of ice cream blended in the shake, and then an extra scoop of ice cream floating in the mix. And chocolate/chocolate refers to chocolate ice cream with chocolate syrup.) In high school, I worked in a tourist trap that was across the courtyard from a Shane’s. It was heaven.

Would I go back to an In and Out Burger? Certainly. Was it the best fast-food cheeseburger I’ve ever had? Probably so. Was it the best burger ever? No. But then again, I’m still searching for the best burger. Wimpy’s Grill in Durham, NC comes the closest (grinding your meat fresh every morning goes a LONG way with me). But has the experience forever changed my life? No. It’s a good fast food burger. It’s loaded with a salad’s worth of veggies. But in the end, you’re still eating an extra-small, fast-food burger patty.