Turkey dreams

I dreamed I was pounding turkey meat in the kitchen for dinner, standing at the counter with a wooden mallet in my hand. I was preparing tender turkey breast layered with herbs, sauce and cheese. I imagined the flavor, delicate and savory, and my mouth watered. I dreamed I was banging the meat with loud thumps and it was flattening out nicely. Wham, wham, wham! I was preparing a feast for many friends who would be arriving with expectant appetites, good humor, beautiful clothes worn in a casually chic way. They would be bringing bottles of delicious wines, stories of good times through the past season. Bon Appetit magazine editors would ask me for my recipes and wish to photograph the savory poultry I was creating. Wham, wham, wham!

The pounding was very loud and it sounded like someone knocking on my door.

I realized someone was knocking on my door, but...it couldn't be. No one I know knocks like that on my door. Wham, wham, wham! I floated up to awareness and realized I had been sprawled on the couch in deep sleep, imagining dinner. The unreality of loud turkey pounding traded places with the reality of a heavy hand knocking on my door. I wanted to dream of fixing dinner more than I wanted to see who was pounding on my door. The curiosity replaced the happiness of a dream well encountered, so I went to see who was intruding into my unconscious so vigorously.

A solicitor. "How are you tonight?"

"I'm asleep."

She wasn't very sorry for evaporating my dream. I was a little put out at that. I would have been satisfied with some regret and apology, maybe some sympathy and an offer to return at a better time. She just wanted my money. She expected me to sympathize with her. Me with her! She had banged on my door at dinner time and wanted me to feel for her, empathize with her predicament, develop actual happiness that she had come to my door and separated me from my dream world, a dream world that involved delicious turkey, herbs, sauce, all kinds of intertwining flavors and satisfying texture, tantalizing aroma, sensuality, all the memories of eating fine savory poultry with good friends, laughter around the table, wine splashing in slow motion into beautiful tall glasses, enormous bouquets of flowers on linen-covered tables and the clink of fine silver on bone china.

My mind wandered away and found itself considering options for dinner, the offerings at the local theater, my conversation with a colleague at work a few days ago. Then, it wandered sleepily back to the feast I was preparing in the dimming, retreating dream. My wandering mind peeked hopefully into the dream world, hoping to rejoin it, but now the scene was gone like a little puff of mist.

The solicitor was earnestly asking for money for her cause. I had missed the parts in between that had explained about the cause, but now I was being asked to give her money to help fund it. She was gathering a head of steam, by the look in her eye.

I was standing there with my eyes half closed, my hair sticking up all over, my clothes on sideways, thinking of making pounded turkey breast, wishing I had cranberries and more sleep, and she was asking for money for her cause. I sighed. I leaned on the door frame. I imagined myself starving to death, pitiful, unable to survive unless I had my last meal of turkey, my dear friends gathered around me, saddened to see me wasting away so pitiably. All for the lack of a satisfying last meal. I visualized the poverty of it all, hoped it would be visible all over my face and hoped the woman at the door would realize finally that she was depriving me of a truly fine culinary experience, possibly my last. I hoped she would hand me her money, speak words of remorse and sorrow, walk away.

She finished and stood expectantly, waiting for me to hand her money, sign her petition, applaud her courage for joining the political fray. I leaned ever more alarmingly on the door frame doing my best to look tired, interrupted, dream deprived, starved for a good turkey dinner. A clock ticked somewhere. Einstein explained relativity as the clock ticked. My mind wandered off again, this time to Einstein's hair, his intelligence, his dismay at contributing to nuclear weaponry. I stopped short then, feeling lost and alone in the world having wandered so far from dreaming of a fine meal well prepared. Returning to turkey, herbs and tantalizing aromas I felt some sense of resignation. My mind wailed sadly, knowing the dream was really now just a dim memory.

The solicitor cleared her throat expectantly. I began to see this solicitor meant business and was not impressed with my sad disheveled state of deprivation and certainly was not going to budge without a really good explanation for dismissing her cause. I considered asking her to re-explain the cause and its needs. I tried to focus intelligently but, truth be told, I failed pretty soundly. This was feeling a lot like having to stand up in front of the third-grade class with Mrs. Belleman waiting to hear my book report. "I didn't read the book. My dog ate it."

All my upbringing and all my internal conflicts began to swirl up like an enshrouding fog. Could I just say no and shut the door? Some people can actually do that. I knew I would feel rude and mean spirited if I did. Could I tell her to come back later? I really didn't want to ever see her again. I'd have to go through all of this again or go to great lengths to avoid her or invent a wild excuse to explain...what? I didn't know what the cause was I didn't want to join or pay for. The solicitor looked at me. She tilted her head slightly and began to look a bit sad and crestfallen. Now I was in trouble. She was winning the sad-look contest. She was more determined than I was. I knew I would have fared better if she had come when I was more alert, but, no, I had been dreaming a wonderful satisfying dinner into existence in the middle of deep sleep. Damn.

I don't think I ever really did look sad. I was just a rumpled woman with her clothes on sideways who wanted to pound the snarf out of some dinner meat and was now having a hot flash. I think I looked like a sucker who had no idea how to get rid of a professional solicitor who had banged on the door. Good Lord, all right. I relented and handed her my last $10 and said I was broke, couldn't contribute more, wished her luck and she went away. Just like that. She took my money, ruined my turkey dinner reverie and won the sad, poor-poor-pitiful-me drama.

I'm going to get a No Solicitors sign for the door, gonna have that turkey dinner and invite everyone over to share it with me. Maybe in the Fall when turkey dinners are a better idea than in the middle of summer. You can come on over and share it with me, but please don't tell me about your urgent causes because I just gave out my last $10 and my mouth is really watering for some fine food. And boy do I need some sleep.

kelp, rocks and a walk

The ocean has been lake-like lately. That sentence feels hairballish, but it's the actual look and feel of the sea we see out there. Truly, with such calm waters, the kelp's rapid growth is becoming very obvious. It grows - according to scientists who actually take the time to measure that - about 2-3 feet per day. It gets growing pains like my brother did when he was 14 and grew a foot one summer.

So, now's the time to come rent a kayak at Lover's Point and venture out to see what you can see in the sea. I'm having fun with that, like the Owl and the Pussycat.

On my walk today, I saw a few houses being remodeled, refurbished and even one being built from scratch, so the economy does still have a pulse and cannot yet be considered dead on arrival. On a day like this when it's so quiet and the doldrums are upon us, weather-wise, you have a good chance of actually enjoying a walk, not being blasted off the recreation trail by the cold north wind. I strolled and reveled in it, felt vigorous and full of vim and vigor. I have a pretty good idea about vigor, but vim is still a vague concept to me. I'll take it though.

Harbor seals and sea lions choose the most uncomfortable rock outcroppings to haul out on and rest. I guess I'm assuming they're resting because they close their eyes, but they hold their hind flippers up and balance on their side on the tiniest pinnacles of the rocks in the most rakish and jaunty way. It emphasizes to me how much I love a good well-made bed that definitely does not have a large rock in the middle of it for me to balance on as I sleep.

So, the day is mild, gray but strangely warm. She's out there, I know the sun is, and she's keeping the wind in a straightjacket for now, which accounts for the warmth. It's the best we can do here in the Groove with June all around us. Whatever form of comfort we take in this season's offerings, be it balancing on precipitous rocks, walking breathlessly out in the almost sun or hitting top speed (15 mph) on Lighthouse Avenue in our 8-cylinder 450 horsepower Buick LeSabres, we are not to be denied even the tiniest bit of summer ease and luxury.

Walk or Danish?

Faced with a blank page and a few unfocused thoughts, here I sit.

There is an uncertain light outside my window, pushing to get in out of the cold, slipping past the chair and onto the floor with a silent glance backward. It's like he's a harried tax man on April 14, doing what he can with the information given to him.

Clouds, with undulating patterns of blue and gray, shield the sun's brilliance from me. No fog today. He's lolling around somewhere else, probably eating a berry cheese danish from Pavel's Bakerei. If I were the fog, I sure would be eating one of those.

With all kinds of resolve, I strode out into the day, walked down to the water's edge and east to Hopkins Marine Station, the physical land form the denoting the edge of Pacific Grove's waterfront. 45 minutes of good intention rassled with an unruly impulse to head over to Pavel's for one of those cheese danishes. Good God, they are just delicious. But, intention is everything, and I can claim victory today, at least for now.

One day after a longer, even more brisk walk, I will go and sink my teeth into one of those and tell you all about it. Every crumb, every morsel, every single bit. For now, though, responsibility and prudence are calling, and I must prepare for work.

Fling it!

I'm just now awake, and there's not much going on. Feeling a bit bored, I consider dropping something off the balcony to see what happens. Nothing qualifies as smashable except the TV. This seems pretty tempting all right. Criteria include heft, ugliness, potential for dramatic impact and replacement with a flat-screen model.

The largest building in Pacific Grove by quite a wide margin is The Holman Building. It dominates the skyline. It's actually the only significant building in the skyline by city standards, depending on your vantage point. It's about six or seven stories high and all other buildings are two stories, maybe three, and they all stand shoulder to shoulder along Lighthouse or Forest avenues. The Holman Building - or Holman's as we call it, even though the store that gave it that name is long gone now - is a big ugly toad of a building that squats on half a city block bordered by Lighthouse, Grand, Fountain and Central avenues. A local self-described visionary bought it after Holman's and then Ford's department stores failed. He painted it mauve, a committee color that has gradually turned grayish pink over the years. You could argue that mauve actually is grayish pink, and I would agree. Certainly it's one of the most colorless of colors ever imagined.

So, the Holman Building is a big mauve toad. There you go.

Sitting here contemplating my TV and the Holman Building, I imagine the smithereens I could create by hauling my TV to the top of Holman's and dropping it off the rooftop. I think that would be something PG could attract visitors with. Not only could I and my friends fling offending machinery off the top, but we could sell souvenirs and award prizes, have a festival of flinging. We could build a trebouchet and send modern home appliances into the stratosphere. Oh, the possibilities: TVs flying uphill to the Middle School field, arcing high over the nursing homes and Victorians. Microwaves winging west to the golf course. "Fore!" Golfers running for cover. Even refrigerators soaring to Hopkins Marine Station. Biologists could find out what's actually within the Tupperware containers, take samples, measure the velocity and approach angles.

Pacific Grove is quiet, contained, reserved, peaceful. Boring. Dead. Bravely, an event literally rolls into town once a year - The Cherries Jubilee Classic Car Weekend rally. Cobras, Chevys, Skylarks, Mustangs and other cool cruisers line up, rev their engines a few times and drive off for a tour of the whole Peninsula. The organizers try to raise pulses with swing tunes played at twilight for couples to dance to. Old cranky citizens always call the police. "What's all that horrible racket? I can't hear my TV!"

The Groove has all this potential. Steinbeck wrote about a flagpole sitter who tried to set a record up on Holman's rooftop. Even then, the building inspired its citizens to scale its heights, challenge gravity, cure boredom. Tossing a TV is my version of that. Gulls strafe cars and streets for the same reason. So, we restless and bored stand ready to fling.

June fruit

The market came again to Lighthouse Avenue, and Pacific Grove residents responded in kind, assembling from side streets and avenues, carrying bright cloth bags that caught on the air like balloons. I strolled around again, listening to the murmuring voices of people discussing plans in twos and threes while they sampled this and that.

"Sample, ma'am!" Stone fruits are showing up more week by week, and cherries are glossy, bright and sweet. No tomatoes yet. Meyer lemons are hanging in there. Blueberries from Martinez looked too tempting to ignore, so I didn't. They joined strawberries, apricots, plums and raspberries. I passed up the fresh fish again - no chance to eat them and do them justice soon enough. I'll buy some at the market on Thursday over in Monterey. Baby spinach and Italian parsley finished off my healthy purchases, so I headed over to the cupcake lady for a sweet indulgence. Chocolate on chocolate this week, packed in a special box. "Just bring it back next week for a refill," says Mrs. Delish's. I'm hooked.

In comparison to last week, the light was brighter and I only had to wear one sweater instead of two. Businesses I took special note of this week included, to my happy surprise, Petra's Mediterranean Restaurant, who offer hummus, baba ganoush, pita and other delectable treats. Also, Dress For Change was represented in a small booth. They feature clothing that's recyclable and organic. Having a lot of determination, they just opened within the past year on Forest Avenue, and we all know how much they're up against in this tough economy.

I spent every last dollar I had and walked home wondering when I'll be able to prepare and eat all the freshness I was carrying. But, as you can see, just looking at it is half the fun.