Tengo Familia

She's at least half a foot shorter than I am, slim and wiry. As I follow her through the empty, dim restaurant, I find myself tripping over my own feet as I attempt to keep up with her. As with every Italian I've ever met, her hands dart about as she speaks. Overall, I have the impression that I am following a bird as she flies about the restaurant.

She flips on lights, straightens table linens, tweaks a flower arrangement. She is excited, and I cannot help but catch her enthusiasm.

Breathlessly, she fills me in on the history of this old place - the brick walls, the well-worn floor boards, the panes of glass wavy with age. There are additions, of course - ninety-one years don't leave anything unchanged. There's a modern, slightly sterile banquet room ("People don't want your family photos and your decorations in their photos," she admonishes me). There's a new brick pizza oven, operated her nephew.

But there's so much more to this restaurant. So much more.

She darts to the fireplace, massive and hewn out of stone blocks the size of my head. The battered mantle bears tiny brass plaques, dedicated to the longtime patrons.

"So many marriages here - one couple came to our Memorial Day picnic, and the judge was here, and just like that, they decided to get married that day! With all of us as witnesses!" She crows with laughter.

Another jaunt across the restaurant, another memory.

"Table fourteen had an engagement here last night," she says as naturally as she might say that they had ordered a pizza bianca and a bottle of pinot grigio.

Two steps, and another memory.

"This was my grandmother's bedroom. There was a wall here, and my father slept in the next room," she says, straddling the invisible divide where her ancestry lies sleeping in some distant past.

The memories pile on, one on top of the next. It's a miracle that there is room for tables and chairs with all the memories jostling for space. I trip over my feet once more and land on another one.

"He slid the ring on a breadstick - we had hard ones then, in jars on the table, called crostini - because he knew that the first thing she did when she sat down at the table was reach for them," she laughs, "We were all crowded in the kitchen at the window in the door, watching!"

There have to be more marriage proposals, more romances, more love stories here per square foot than anywhere else for fifty miles. Whatever they're putting in the sauce, it must be working.

We talk for an hour, reliving the life, love and laughter that still echoes in these walls. She peppers me with questions too - where I grew up, how our families are connected (being here, of course they are), if I'm married myself, how long I've been writing. She tells me, in perfect Italian, what my family name means, asks me if I've ever been back to my ancestor's birthplace. She's been back to Tuscany many times, and when she and the family cannot go, the Tuscan relatives come here.

It's so much more than a restaurant - it's a way of life, a family legacy.

"More than any other business, dining is a celebration," she says, before landing me with such truly Italian wisdom that it might as well be the nation's motto.

"When the lord God himself, Jesus Christ, was alive, how did he decide to spend his last night on earth?" she asks, turning to me with a smile and spread hands, "He went out to dinner."

Her logic is irrefutable.

"There has been a lot of love that's come through those doors and into these walls over the past ninety-one years," she says. I'd say that's an understatement.

She calls me several days later, to check in and see if there's anything else I need for the story. She's talked with her brothers and sisters, scouring the family memory bank for any forgotten anecdotes. She invites me to come back again someday, not for reportage, but for dinner.

Usually I get irritated when someone calls me Annie - too many bad musical jokes, too much teasing as a kid. I can count on one had the number of people I allow to call me Annie, and at least three fingers are related to me.

By the time she hangs up, I'm Annie to her. And I find it doesn't bother me at all.

Updates from RedDeb Country

I am told that it common courtesy to update one's blog more than, say, every six months, especially if there are people who read it. As I am told there are some out there who do occasionally tune into my ramblings, then it behooves me to post this, an update.

Since August...

1) I still hate cleaning my kitchen. Some things never change, and my utter loathing of doing dishes is one of them. Consider it a constant.

2) I lost my job in the great Demand Media Downsizing of October 2011. I cried hysterically, panicked, and was unemployed for about an hour and a half. The same day, the local newspaper asked me to come on board as a contributor. I may be the luckiest son of a soda jerk the world has ever known.

3) I started building my website, which should go live before the end of the month. Don't expect anything fancy; I just wanted to register my own name as a domain in order to avoid pulling a Gingrich down the road.

4) Speaking of Gingrich, the Republican Presidential Primary season has to be one of the greatest forms of entertainment I've ever seen in my life. How they feel right now is how I felt in 2004, when out of God-knows how many Democrats in the United States, the best we could come up with was John Kerry. Man, that burned.

5) The Niners are playing right now, and as a lifer, I must cheer for them. However, my love must be earned, and their previous record of suckiness has left me wary, like an lover who has been spurned too many times by an impetuous former flame. I'm not entirely sure who is who in this situation at this point.

6) Is it clear that I haven't had my coffee yet? I haven't had my coffee yet. I should probably fix that.

More to follow of a less-inane (HA!) variety in the near future.

-Ann

It's a Dark and Daunting Day, Friends

The madre is going out of town for two weeks, enjoying a divine and well-earned vacation in New Orleans and Southern California. Because she has mercy on poor broke college grads who make their living writing for ranch dressing websites, mom and I went grocery shopping for the next two weeks last night. Combined with vegetables picked earlier this week, I am well stocked for two weeks.

But there is one small problem.

I'm not sure if anyone has ever told you this, but food tends to spoil. I know, imagine my shock! Who knew yogurt from 2008 would eventually turn on you?

(And when I say turn, I don't mean it curdled. I mean it developed legs, arms and a nasty snarl, and started stabbing at me with a toothpick it pilfered from a leftover club sandwich. THAT is yogurt that has turned on you.)

In order to prolong the life of my supplies, today is dedicated to cooking loads of make-ahead meals that can be frozen and popped in the oven when the need arises. Our menu today includes but is not limited to...

-Stuffed manicotti

-Tortilla soup

-Quiche fillings

-Chili

-And so forth

While this is not terribly laborious, it does involve cleaning my kitchen, and if you have spent more than five seconds in my house, you will know that I *HATE* cleaning the kitchen. I bought a ninety-six pack of paper plates and plastic silverware just to avoid doing dishes for the next month. Once I was so desperate to get the dishes done at once that I trucked them over to my sister's house and whimpered on the doorstep until she let me use the dishwasher.

I am just now realizing how completely pathetic I am. But here I go, off to attempt domesticity. Maybe if I'm nice, the yogurt will help me once I get the toothpick away from him.

A Day in the Life of a Writer

7:00 AM: Wake up early to chirping birds and sunny skies.  Today will be productive, yessiree bob!
7:30 AM: Errands and such in Blanche, the trusty steed (re: white Chevy pick-up truck) of Red Deb Manor.
11:30 AM: Home, lunch, and ready to write!
11:31: Quick facebook check.
12:45 ...and ready to write!
12:46: ...
12:47: ...
12:48: ...uh oh.
1:00: Okay, maybe the titles just aren't inspiring you right now.  Let's find some fresh ones!
1:11: Oh Jesus. 
1:17: Well, I have notes ready for that article on "Differences Between Grasslands and Savannas," let's start there.
1:24: Do you know how much I care about the difference between grasslands and savannas? If you answered, "Not a damn bit," you are correct. Prizes are in the mail.
1:44: Maybe a different article.  How about a different title?
1:47: Why does someone need teaching activities that are themed around "Field of Dreams?" What is this, 1989?  Is there going to be a sudden upswing in scrunchies and over-sized t-shirts over stirrup pants? Because I will NOT put up with that, I swear to God.
2:00: And back to the all-important savanna vs grassland debate.
2:15 Clearly, this is not going to work.  Let's try that old college procrastination technique - cleaning the house!
4:00: I don't think this house was this clean when I moved in.
4:15 Okay, I can focus now.  Focus. Focus focus focus...
4:16 If 1989 is coming back, there needs to be a ritual burning of all teasing combs.  Kind of like the spinning wheels in Sleeping Beauty. 
4:45: FOCUS! WRITE!
5:00: Oooh, laundry needs to get handled.
5:33 Edits needed...okay...waitasec.  Did you really just send my article back to me because I didn't say whether or nor Elizabeth Taylor still owns the Krupp Diamond now that she's dead? Nope, you bet, she still owns it - Zombie Elizabeth Taylor is running around wearing a thirty-three carat diamond ring screaming for canapes and chamBRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINS.
6:00 Okay, dinner. Sandwich, or something requiring a bit of prep?
6:01 How about a lot of prep? EXCELLENT. 
6:15 Why is curry so damn good?  1989 can't have my curry. Take my natural fibers and well-blended make up, but you cannot have my curry.
7:00 Food. Jon Stewart. Writing.
7:29 Oh hells bells.  Why the hell would anyone want to make clear nail polish appear matte?  What's is the look you are going for there?  "I'd like my nails to look as dull and lifeless as possible." Shoot, Zombie Elizabeth Taylor would snatch you bald-headed.  Even in the next life, you know her french-tips are FLAWLESS.
8:00 American Idol is great background white noise, except for when the contestants sound like cats going through a meat grinder.  This is one of those nights.
8:42 "Leiber and Stoller! Lady Gaga! American Idol!" None of these things belong in the same sentence. EVER.
8:47 I give up. This day is just not happening.  These articles can kiss my grassland, and so can Impeccably Groomed Late 1980s Zombie Elizabeth Taylor.

Updates! And Freelance Rantings

Sorry I've disappeared for awhile, folks, life got a little crazy there for awhile. I'm no longer working for International Monolithic Coffee R Us, and have instead focused on freelancing full-time.  It's working pretty well so far - looks like I'll be able to pay all of my bills this month on writing alone, though granted I live on a pretty small scale.  But still, I can now say I'm a professional writer, and damn if it doesn't feel good.

In fact, it's this very writing gig that brings me to this blog entry.  As I've mentioned before, I choose my assignments from a database of article titles, which have been compiled by title-makers, who base their creations off of search-engine queeries.  This has led me to believe that A) title-makers have a pretty loose grasp on what makes a feasible article and B) if this is really what people are searching for, then civilization is screwed.

I mean...who really needed to know "How to Tame a Wild Emu?" What the hell is the story behind that?  All I can picture is two yuppies, vacationing along the vast plains of Australia, looking for kangaroos and what have you, when suddenly their car breaks down and they find themselves surrounded by a flock of angry wild emus.  Turning frantically to each other, the man in this coupling (we'll call him Kevan, as both the ubiquity of the name and the pretention of the spelling suits our tale) whips out his iPad, praying to God for a signal as he Googles, "How to Tame a Wild Emu."  But, alas, while the signal held out, Google will have failed him, because myself and 12,000 other freelancers couldn't tell you how to tame a squirrel, let alone an emu.  And so, as his girlfriend Chantelle (again, fitting, n'est-ce pas?) hisses "I TOLD YOU TO USE BING" Kevan will offer his soul to God, resigning himself to the failure of the interwebs and, more specifically, me.  Sorry Kevan.  Maybe if they paid me $30 an article instead of $15, I could have made something work there.  But alas, I leave you to the deadly wild emu.

Deadly Emus.  There's a punk-rock band name there, methinks.

What about the yutz who asked for "Funnel Cake Games?" Umm...really? It's a funnel cake.  You don't play games with it, you douse it in powdered sugar and inhale that sucker.  I suppose you could stretch it and make a game up by detecting shapes and images in your funnel cake (bonus points if you find Jesus or the Virgin Mary), though I'm not sure what the prize would be (half the proceeds from horking the holy funnel cake on eBay?).  And is it just me, or do I see funnel cake games not ending well at, say, a child's birthday party? "Okay kids, whoever makes the largest funnel cake by pouring a stream of batter into molten-hot vegetable oil wins a case of third degree burns!" It's the gift that keeps on giving. 

"Dangers of Rice Cake Machines" is another one that inspired a hearty giggling fit during an otherwise mundane work day.  I don't know what a rice cake machine even looks like, but I can guarantee you that any minute all of us disgruntled dieters, sick to death of those carbohydrate abominations, are going to weaponize them.  The biggest danger of a rice cake machine? A dieter who has been told by one-too-many diet experts that rice cakes are great hunger suppressants because, after all, they expand and make you feel full!

"Coming Soon to a theatre near you, 'RICE CAKE REVOLUTION.' Get ready to meet your Quaker...Oats Man."

At the same time, the title-writers themselves need to spruce up their spelling.  I understand that they're working with search engine questions, but still, a little common sense never hurt anybody.  "Passion Poll Assembly Instructions" was a favorite at Casa RedDeb.  A five-second Google search for "Passion POLE" and "Passion POLL" leads to two different results, only one of which can be assembled in the privacy of your own home.  And both of these are very different from what happens if you assemble a Passion Pol, which if memory serves, did not work out so well for Cambodia. Spelling and context, folks.  They matter.

"Taylor-Made" is another frequent offender.  Unless a certain country music songbird is extending her empire to auto parts, I don't think you can find a Taylor-made exhaust pipe. Though it certainly wouldn't surprise me.

Winning, and failing, at the same time.

BEHOLD!  The newest Starbucks whole-bean anthem, by way of myself and my good friend (and fellow Latte-land indentured servant) Angie.  Yeah, so we don't actually work at a mythical place called Latte-land, but you knew that already.  And if you didn't before, you will now.  So!  Slap on your green apron, raise your Trenta high, and sing along to the tune of "It's a Small World After All!"

It's a cup of laughter, a cup of tears
This addictive crack's been around for years
They don't pay me enough
But I still drink this stuff
It is Starbucks after all!

It's a Starbucks after all! (x4)

There's Sumatra blend,
Our best-seller yet!
And Caffe Verona
For Juliet
There's Komodo, and Yu-
Kon and Kenya's there too!
This is Starbucks after all!

(Chorus)

There's Estima, House Blend
So raise a toast!
Guatemala Antigua
And then Gold Coast
Don't forget good ol' Pike!
It's the one that we like!
And we brew it all day long...

(New chorus!)
Italian Blend's bellisimo
French Roast makes your chest hair grow
Espresso revs your engine - GO!
These are dark, dark roasts!

Mild coffee drinkers like Breakfast Blend
And our Bono fans like their Starbucks (RED)
Costs an arm and a leg,
Then agian, it's Fair Trade!
And it's Starbucks after all!!!!!

-------

No, we are not including the seasonal beans.  They adjusted our meds just in time. 

Because You Can't Make This Up if You Try...

Overheard in My Hometown...

(Regarding our county in Northern California)
"You know what they say...come on vacation, leave on probation."


(About the drug counselor for their group sessions)
"Why the HELL does a counselor need to go see a therapist? God damn!"
"Maybe she goes to him and takes notes..."

(At work, regarding superhero names)
"If you want to be a superhero, you have to have a name that rhymes.  You know, something like Captain Carrots."
"Captain Carrots doesn't rhyme.  It's alliterative."
"...Did you just tell me that I can't read?"


(At work, regarding a co-worker's 21st birthday)
"I wanna go somewhere cool, like Amsterdam!"
"Where is Amsterdam?"
"I dunno, Germany I think."
"It's in the Netherlands, guys."
"How am I supposed to know that? I'm not a geologist!"