Clearing the Air

As I write, I am sitting in one of my favorite bars in San Diego: The Aero Club. I have been coming to this bar ever since I got my fake id in 1998 (actually, it wasn't fake. It belonged to another girl who sort of looked like me if I didn't wear glasses, were 6 inches taller, and about 15 pounds thinner. She had lost it, replaced it, and passed the now extraneous id on to me.). At first, I came because it was seedy and dark and the bartenders really didn't care whether I was 21 or not. Then my reasons for going morphed as my tasted for alcohol matured. I then started going because they served good beer and the crowd was an excellent mix of socially awkward college misfits like myself and aging locals.

Plus their jukebox freaking rocks!

Nine years later, not much has changed. The bar is cleaner and they have free wifi (two things I appreciate more and more as I get closer to thirty), but the beer is still good, the crowd still solid . . .

and their jukebox freaking rocks!

I am not kidding. This place is located on busy and awkward one-way India Street, so it's been able to maintain a sort of bar purity mostly because almost all who pass it are either whizzing their way to the 5 north or to Washington Street to get to Hillcrest. This is not the neighborhood for breezy tourists or uber-yuppies. This is an inbetweenplace. And like all inbetweenplaces, it remains a place of rejuvenation.

A place to celebrate the literal clearing of the air as the marine layer marches in and chases off the ash and smoke that have coated all San Diegans' lungs since Sunday night.

There's a feeling of celebration in the air as the fires start be more and more contained and the event that continues to dominate the TVs is the second game of the World Series rather than pictures of burning homes.

I'm not in any way stating that the fact that the fires still are burning--that people are still displaced, that many have lost homes and a few have lost loved ones--is trivial. But to have the oppressive air that has hung over this area of the city for fully five days to lift is a moment to celebrate.

We are emerging from our homes and shelters after days of avoiding "bad air," shaking our heads, wondering where we've been all week. And though for many this isn't the case, life is starting to "get back to normal" as businesses and schools talk about opening again.

I am blessed in that I don't know anyone who lost a home in the fire. All of my friends were merely displaced for a few short days and returned to their safe and whole houses. This situation is also a blessing in that all of us (me and my friends) were left free to help others who had suffered loss. To be able to cheerfully aid others is indeed a true blessing.

I truly mourn the losses of so much for so many people. Yet I also celebrate how we, as a city--a community, supported each other. Those who had shared with those who had lost. It kind of makes you think that maybe the human species isn't quite so bad as we usually seem.

And as I write this, I look up and see the local bartendress. She gives me a smile, sharing with me the relief of spirit at the cleared air and the joy that we can still be kind to each other.

Wedding in the Ashes

On Sunday, 21 October, I went to a wedding.

This wedding was interesting for two reasons.

a) It was my first wedding where kids aren't invited, and

b) I caused a glorious scene by coughing through the bride's maids' entrances.

I'm serious about a. I've never been invited to a wedding where my wonderful, so well-behaved, absolutelythecutestkidontheplanet son hasn't been welcomed with open arms. Apparently, childless weddings are all the rage. And who can blame people? I love dancing a sober jig with my darling boy, but I love dancing a slightly buzzed jig without him all the more. Leaving baby behind does have a touch of that date night, devil-may-care excitement--except I am still waking up at 6am to a whiny toddler.

What is so odd about this childless wedding is that apparently the bride and groom didn't realize they didn't want rug rats cutting capers until after the invitations had been sent and RSVPs had been returned. In short, we were given a two-week (Lynn Truss, eat your heart out) notice to find a sitter for this wedding via a slightly abashed call from the groom, clarifying that the RSVP was for two not three.

At first my motherly ire rose and I railed about how my gift to this blessed couple would be the $10-an-hour sitter I would have to find. However, I was quickly set straight by all of my more wedding savvy friends about the normality and propriety of this exclusion by my son. And more importantly, my grandparents came down that weekend and watched my sweetest one for a whopping free dollars.

Lucky couple. They still got their gift certificate to Crate and Barrel (to which I had happily found out at the wedding they had actually registered at).

Now on to part b. As many of you already know, I am prone to ridiculous coughing fits. However, no matter how ridiculous they are, these fits are no laughing matter. These moments of extreme cough-dom can last for as long as 30 minutes, in which I am literally gasping and retching. I simply can't control them.

They've happen when I've been teaching. All I could do was wave a weak hand at my horrified students as they watch me hack up a lung with horrified expressions on their faces. Happily, they've all left the classroom with minimal fuss (since I am in no shape to argue with them), and I've recovered after agonizing minutes of searing explosions and possibly a little pee leakage (I'll never tell . . . but I did have a baby. Mommies everywhere can attest that your bladder is never the same).

They've also happened during important interviews. One of which I failed to mention was when I interviewed to be in the lab I currently am performing research in. Yes indeed, I did begin a coughing fit. For about five or six awful minutes, I frantically scanned my no PI's desk for any type of device to swab my watering eyes and running nose with. To no avail. He finally noticed my plight and gave me permission to flee to the ladies' room where I proceeded to streak my linen shirt with tears and snot. Oh yes, I walked back into my no PI's office to continue that interview, red nose, eyes, face, and all.

However, in both of the above situations, I have had the option to flee when such fits start. Not so with this wedding. The fit started when the ash from the then unremarkable southern fire (Harris for all of you in the know now) became lodged in my throat. The air was already bad because of the smoke, and this particular ash was merely the straw that broke my civilized throat's back.

I erupted into hacks and gasps . . . just as the bride's maids began their sssssssssssllllllllllllloooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww march down the aisle to Pachelbel's Canon. Now this bride and groom are very lovable which was evident by the mass of people who attended their wedding. Seating was at a premium and very cramped. I happened to be four rows from the front of the action and two seats from the center aisle, crammed in so tight that to exit right then would have entailed a mess of "excuse me's" and chair shifting (we were outdoors) and people standing and calling a lot of attention to myself.

I was faced with a quandary: which is the greater disturbance? Poorly suppressed coughs or clumsy evacuation of wedding. I choose the former as being the most discrete. My thoughts were that if I didn't breathe for a bit, I could refrain from coughing too loudly until people stood for the bride and then in the jubilant confusion I could make my escape.

Unfortunately for my plan, I didn't have enough breath for the bride's TEN FREAKING BRIDESMAIDS! All marching as slowing and inexorably as time does to tasteful classical music. These lovely ladies (and they were lovely) were followed by TWO ring bearers and a flower girl.

I was in agony. My breath-holding had turned into a sort of beached whale gasping, snot and tears soaking my newlypurchasedforthisevent sassy dress.

Finally, the bride appeared, and I booked it for the nearest watering hole. I ended up watching the wedding from a discreet distance. The bride was indeed beautiful. The wedding indeed touching. And ultimately, I am thankful for the kid ban. I don't know how I would have wrestled my kid along with my errant bronchi.

So, what do you serve grandparents (also great-grandparents) when they are watching your kid for free? Goat-cheese stuffed burgers.

hamburger meat
goat cheese
buns

lettuce
tomato
onion
pickle
avocado

Roll hamburger meat into small balls (about half the size you would for a regular patty). Pat the small balls flat (yes, I know how that sounds . . . you think of a better way to say it). Place goat cheese slices on top of one flat patty. Top with another. Seal. Repeat.

Grill.

Assemble a burger.

Enjoy a wedding without your kid.

An Eye for a Well-Turned Phrase

I know a person who can turn a perfect phrase. It’s an art really. One that so many of us have lost in this day and age of anticipatory texting, smileys, weird shorthand (e.g. “lol”), and “you know”’s.

Taylor Mali in “Totally like whatever, you know?” laments that “actually our disarticulation... ness/ is just a clever sort of... thing/ to disguise the fact that we've become/ the most aggressively inarticulate generation/ to come along since.../ you know, a long, long time ago!”

And while Mali focuses more on our lack of conviction in our speech, his poem (and poems) so nicely outline that we are continuing to raise generations of people who will never learn to truly express themselves. It’s sad really. Millions of people who are trapped inside themselves, frustrated they do not have the words to relate to others and unable to figure out how to change this sad state of affairs. Unable to communicate and unable to understand one another. For even though this or that smiley might adequately express a surface emotion (much like that pain chart at the doctor’s office where a 1 for pain is a happy face whose smile gets more and more linear until level 5 where it begins the downward slope to a full frown at 10), there really isn’t a yellow visage that can truly represent the soul.

Someone might argue with me that language is just as inadequate as a smiley. Language is just a continued and always delayed representation of the real thing—the real I. But I argue, try having a thought without language. Try to gauge how you feel, react, or interact in the world without some sort of symbolic representation. Impossible? Exactly.

Jacques Lacan calls this pursuit of language as a method of defining ourselves and the world around us the manifestation of the absence of the petit a. The little a (which is “autre” in French and “other” in English—so I guess it would translate the “little o”) is the center of ourselves we can never express or define. This inability to access our other makes us split souls (or subjects in Lacan’s speech). We are incomplete. We know this fact. We strive to pursue that which will make us complete—our petit a—and in that striving, create language. We can never actually access our other center-self, yet we can have terrifyingly beautiful moments when we come ever so close.

Why terrifyingly beautiful? Because to come so close to accessing our other leaves us terribly exposed, yet, at the same time, beautifully whole. We become intimate.

In Sex/God, Rob Bell writes about the human condition of lost intimacy with each other and the world itself. He discusses physical intimacy as an important component becoming whole. However, this intimacy is also couched in language. He distinguishes between animal sex, human sex, and angel non-sex. What is important to note is that humans, according to Bell, occupy a realm that is neither solely physical (animal) nor solely intellectual (angel). We occupy the middle realm. A space between pure physicality and transcendent ethereality. A space of spirituality that is mediated by language.

Because our entire perception of reality is based on our language system, to not have a grasp on said system is tantamount to putting oneself into solitary confinement and throwing away the key. Isolating. Destructive.

Someone else might argue that because language and meaning is so subjective, we can never truly have a grasp on it. Never truly master it. Never truly master ourselves. However, think of the time you’ve been struck by a poem or a story or a spoken phrase. One that slices through the meat of you to the core and leaves you exposed and gasping. In that moment, language was mastered.

For a person, like the one I know, who makes a point to master language—who more often than not refuses to just blather away as many of us do to fill that void of silence in our souls—there are amazing “aha” moments. But there is a darker side to these moments as well. With the ability to expose the soul with True words, comes the ability to wound as well as reveal the beauty within. With a mastery of language, one can build the soul up or break it down.

I have words that will reverberate forever through my being. Some leave me joy-full. Others continue to rend and tear through my heart until it weeps tears of blood. Both types, because they are True, establish intimacy even if painfully so.

This person I know knows that language is an art: the art of expressing exactly the way our souls feel at that moment. This person knows the importance and power of the-perfectly-right-grouping-of-sounds. The “aha” moment of “that’s just what I was feeling.” This person also knows seemingly smaller language details like the difference between “i.e.” and “e.g.” Yet in these details is also power.

In Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, Humpty Dumpty understood this power. He articulates that the real question in life is who is to be the master: the words or the speaker. Dumpty elaborates, “They’ve a temper some of them—particularly verbs: they’re the proudest—adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs—however, I can manage the whole lot of them! Impenetrability! That’s what I say!” I love how nicely (if a bit pompously and circumambagiously) Dumpty explains the problems with mastering language. Sure we can all come up with filler. But when we have to get concrete—depict actions, motivations, Truth—word-use gets tricky.

But we still have to try. We need to speak confidently but also Truly. We need to stop filling silence with talk. Rather, we need to construct intimacy with language. We must be brave enough like the person I know to be exposed and to expose. We must take the time to turn a perfect phrase. As Dumpty puts it, “When I use a word […] it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.”

Exactly so.

A Spoonful of Sugar. . .

At this moment, I am watching Mary Poppins for the fifth time in two days.

I do love this movie. The songs are like a magic ticket back to childhood for me; however, I am feeling that 5 times in two days is a bit excessive.

My son does not agree.

Now, I am not one of those moms who parks her kid in front of the TV for a few moments peace. I am not one for three primary reasons: a) my husband often takes the role of entertainer with our son; b) I have a gift for being able to tune out my son's whines for me to play with him, causing him to have learned to play by himself; and c) I regard movies as a secret weapon for when I really really really need him to be quiet and relax.

Because of his lack of TV viewing, my son thinks the television is truly magical. You can put on almost any movie, and he will be transfixed in front of the magic screen of color moving pictures. This power of fixation is key when I am in situations that my son has to be still and quiet (i.e. the airplane, meetings, a pub).

So I rarely indulge his pleas for movie time at our house let alone watching movies over and over again ad nauseum. However, my son has chosen to sport a fever of 104F as his newest accessory. And I have a rule about TV viewing and sickness: when you are sick, there are no rules (okay maybe a few little ones here and there but virtually no rules). If you want to eat cold mac and cheese nonstop throughout the day, you can. If you want to wear your pajamas all day, you may. If you want to watch Mary Poppins over and over and over again, be my guest.

There are worse movies he could be begging for. Trust me.

Besides Mary Poppins has the added benefit of the scene where Jane and Michael take their medicine and love it. Perfect for inducing a toddler to sip down some fever-relieving, candy-colored concoction. So now my son is not only begging for the movie, he wants to take his purple or orange medicine every few hours or so. Indeed, the problem is telling him he has to wait the prerequisite 4 hours or gnarly fever spike before he gets the "lime cordial delicious" as he calls it.

So right now, having just taken his medicine, he's sitting on the couch, mesmerized by the chimney scene in Mary Poppins, sippy cup of water in one hand, sippy cup of milk in the other, and a wet rag on his head that he insists is making his head feel better.

This is not my son's first fevered illness; however, it is his first illness where he can communicate his various ails and desires. I get to hear how his "tummy hurts," "head hurts," and how he "wants to talk to Dr. Rash" (our pediatrician--no joke, I promise).

In fact, my son has gotten so adamant about talking to Dr. Rash, that I had to pull the super-secret-suspect mom move of calling my dad (aka Papi) and asking him to impersonate said doctor. The conversation went roughly as follows:

Papi impersonating Dr. Rash: What do I ask him?
Me: Ask him how's he's feeling.
Papi: How are you feeling.
My son: Dr. Rash, I sick.
Papi: Oh, you're sick? What hurts?
My son: My tummy hurts, Dr. Rash. And my head.
Papi: I'm sorry to hear that.
My son: I have a fever.
Papi: Oh. . . .
..... awkward silence .....
Me: Tell him to take his purple and orange medicine to feel better.
Papi: Take your purple and orange medicine and you will feel better soon.
My son: Okay, Dr. Rash.
Papi: Okay, bye bye
My son: Bye, Dr. Rash. Thank you.

I don't even think my son noticed that the good doctor sounded so much like his Papi.

Because my baby is eating cold mac and cheese, I decided to unabashedly cook something full of green goodness he wouldn't touch if his life depended on it: Greens and Beans Ragout.

I got this recipe from my CSA newsletter and love it because it's quick and can be majorly tweaked. Tonight's incarnation is as follows:

Sweet Italian sausage, cut up into bite size chunks
1 onion, chopped
3 garlic, finely chopped
1 zucchini, chopped bite-sized
2 carrots, chopped bite-sized
1 turnip, chopped bite-sized
lots of misc greens (chard, dandelion, turnip), raggedly torn up
2-3 cans of beans (usually great northern, but tonight I did garbanzo, black, and pinto), drained
1 28-oz can of diced tomatoes
Salt
Herbs de Provence

Saute the sausage with the onions in a tiny bit of olive oil until sausage is browned (use a large pan over med/high heat).

Add the fresh vegetables and herbs de Provence. Saute until veggies are soft.

Add the beans, tomatoes, and greens. Bring to a boil. Cook about 5 more minutes or until greens begin to wilt.

Salt to taste.

Double Booking

There seems to be social trend going around my group of friends that we call double booking. What double booking entails is agreeing to attend multiple social engagements on the same day and sometime the very same evening. Actual attendance to the engagements appears to be optional.

I hate double booking.

Perhaps it is the fact that I have a toddler, so I don't have the prerequisite devil-may-care-go-where-the-wind-blows attitude you need to attend multiple events. Or perhaps because of said toddler, I don't have the luxury of moving about once I've made social camp. Or perhaps, I just feel that time spent with true friends shouldn't be rushed or an afterthought or plan b.

I'm all about letting an evening take shape with little to no agenda. If that shape takes the form of house hopping (or in my younger days, party hopping), then wonderful. But to plan truncated time with people you care for because you have also planned time with others shows these persons that you don't consider them a priority.

The above stated, I am about to finish a weekend of double booking not only on Saturday night, but on Sunday as well. I have become what I abhor, yet I seem to have an uncanny knack for pulling this feat off not only successfully but also with no stress or inconvenience to others.

Saturday, the family unit made the trek up to North County to visit two groups of friends who had the poor taste in making that area their homes. Both of these friend-groups have returned from far away places that I would most likely never ever go in my entire life (Idaho and Iceland) to San Diego county. And their presence here is a great joy; however, when I heard that they had decided to make their homes in hard core suburbia (topped only by Scripps Ranch), I told them that they might as well have stayed in their respective I-lands.

As you all know, I have some very strict boundaries that circumscribe where I spend my time. North County greatly exceeds these boundaries--and I can't even ride the trolley there. So, it seemed reasonable to combine two social events in the far north on the same night to prevent me from dying of asphyxia or something like that.

Fate also aided me in my plans of social hypocrasy: the female of the first friend-group who has boys my son's age and a little younger was running a triathlon on Sunday, so she didn't want a late evening. We agreed to a 4pm to 730pm social time. Fortuitously, the second friend-group called and asked us to meet them out for drinks around 8pm after their date night and oh-so-generously offered their babysitter to watch our (we hoped) sleeping son.

Excellent.

The evening went off without a hitch. Both times with the friend-groups proved satisfactory and fulfilling. Unfortunately, I think I am addicted now to this trend of double booking because not one day later, I not only double booked, but triple booked.

This time the family unit did lunch with a friend whose husband is in Iraq. I then went home to prepare for a later meeting with the Dinner Divas (of which I made cucumber salad cups), and followed that up with quiz night at the local British pub.

Again a success.

The salad cups are cool and crisp and perfect for the dog days of summer we are so definitely in.

I cribbed them from from Vegetarian Times and the dressing from Epicurious.com.

1 medium zucchini, finely chopped
1 bell pepper, finely chopped (I used red, but I think yellow would be better for the color)
1 carrot, grated
1 clove garlic, minced
1/4 cantaloupe, finely chopped
1 heirloom tomato, finely chopped
3/4 cup mix of herbs, dill, basil, parsley, mint, finely chopped
1/4 cup parmesian cheese, grated

1/4 cup balsamic dressing (I added about 2 tsp of honey)

3 cucumbers, striped peeled, sliced into about 1/2-inch thick rounds, and middle of rounds scooped out with sides and bottom in tact (harder than sounds)

Mix all the chopped stuff. Toss with the dressing. Scoop into the cucumber cups.
Quick. Easy. So good.

Just like double booking.

I am starting to wonder how many of these things I have in me before I encounter a spectacular failure. I'm already planning a double booking for this coming Friday . . . concert in the park followed by a movie, anyone?

Which of Course in German Means . . .

Seattle is the city of swine.

We've just returned from four rain-swept days in that lovely city where I took over 100 pictures of portly pigs, brilliantly-basted bacon. Apparently, there's a movement going on right now in Seattle called Pigs on Parade--sort of like San Diego's urban tree thing where various artists feature their works in strategically placed parts of the town, but in Seattle it's with snub-snouted mammals rather than bark-covered flora.

I did do the obligatory Pike's Place Market and first Starbucks (Seattle being the only town in the Western U.S. where you can go to Starbucks without feeling as if you should later be branded with a scarlet letter of infamy). But though I love this overgrown farmers' market as well as coffee, it's hard to go somewhere and be tempted by amazingly fresh seafood and vibrantly colored produce and not be able to buy or cook any because you don't freaking live there. Every time I go to Seattle, the market makes me want to stay forever. But, for now, that is an impossible dream, so I contented myself with a quick trip to Pike's and spent the rest of the time walking the city in the rain and photographing happy hogs.

I've been to Seattle once before almost exactly two years ago. I stayed a week during the fourth of July and learned in that time that California may not be the only amazing place to live in the United States (I qualify with "may" because I'll need to do some further field research (preferably sans toddler) in Seattle to confirm this possibility; though, like any good scientist, I know that I can do an infinite amount of research and never be proven right but a single experiment can instantly prove me wrong. So, I guess, I'll never know if California truly has a competitor in perfection.). I'll admit, I had a short and sordid affair with Seattle two years ago and since then--though living an apparently contented life in San Diego--have looked for ways to get back. When this weekend presented itself, I jumped at the chance to see if Seattle still lived up to the fantasies I've been having about it for the past two years. And with the addition of an army of pleasurable porkers, Seattle didn't fail to please the second time around.

Being from California, I rarely experience rain. In fact, when I go places that are known for their rain, it is often in the middle of an inexplicable drought. 2006: ten days in Ireland, not a drizzle. 2005: seven days in Seattle, not a drop. 1999: four weeks in Guam, barely a deluge. So I tend to plan my vacations around the fact that I can spend the majority of my time outdoors in very little clothing with no discomfort. Such was not the case this weekend.

Seattle decided for our second rendez-vous to show me her true nature: she rained like a fiend. I've got to hand it to her, it takes guts to let it all out on only the second date. To show Seattle that I love her just as she is, I continued my outdoor activities, regardless of rain. And like any relationship when people decide to get real, some moments were pure bliss while others a bit more challenging.

One particular moment of bliss was running (or some semblance thereof) through sleepy Seattle the first morning I was there. A good friend maintains that you can only truly know a city if you run/walk the streets. Something about the contact made when you are physically brushing past people, moving along store fronts, connected by smell, sound, and touch.

I agree. That first morning, I got up before everyone else in my travel entourage and sought out the Seattle I remembered from two years ago. With DJ Tiesto's Elements of Life playing softly in my ears (so as to accompany rather than drown out the sounds of the waking city) and a soft drizzle falling, I felt more alive than I've felt in months. The steady susurrate sound of the rain melted into the slightly blurred grey streets and sidewalks flecked with startling colors--green of trees, red of a door, blue of a sign, yellow of (of course) a pig.

I passed stores and restaurants I remembered from my previous trip on my route from the 6th Ave Hilton to Belltown and encountered new sights as well. I am amazed at how little has changed and wonder if the "new" stuff to me is really new or places I just didn't notice last time.

Everyone who knows me knows that I have a horrible memory. Events disappear, shift, blur into things I can't recall, remember differently, or relate to others in some sort of morphing tale. Initially, I found Seattle to have suffered from my poor ability to recollect things. While I had no problem finding places I love and associate specifically with Seattle--Macrina bakery, the market, The Bookstore bar--I kept looking for things I had experienced in other travels. That first morning, as I sorted out my location and sense of place, Seattle was a mix of itself, Dublin, and San Francisco. It was slightly unnerving to turn a corner, expecting a certain view or building and find it conspicuously absent, only to realize that what I expected didn't even belong here in the first place.

But part of returning to somewhere (or someone) after a prolonged absence is getting to know each other all over again. Every morning I was in Seattle, I made a point of walking the streets. A different neighborhood each day: Belltown, Pike's, old Seattle (Washington Square), Chinatown. It is amazing to watch a city's personality as it is expressed in the architecture and people who call it their home. I briefly followed a man who seemed to know everyone we passed, greeted them by name, and in turn was greeted by name back. I caught snippets of conversation (political, literary, local gossip) at the various coffee shops I popped into (because you can't travel in Seattle without a coffee in hand): Cherry Street, Pegasus, Zeitgeist, and (of course) Starbucks. I heard music bursting from the speakers placed above the sidewalk outside of the symphony hall. I was struck by the sudden salty sweet smell of fresh seafood, the sharp green scent of fresh herbs, the cacophonic color of cut flowers at the farmers' market.

Travelling with toddler and indulgent Nani (my mom) in an rainy city can produce its shares of challenges. First, we somehow managed to get everyone a rain-proof parka except my son. At first, I figured that he would be fine in a relatively thick sweater, but as we continued walking in the rain, my son continued to get wetter and wetter.

Still, it seemed manageable: a leisurely lunch at a little cafe would allow him plenty of time to dry and then we would head to the indoors part of Pike's to watch fish being thrown or whatever.

However, my son had other plans.

In one of the squares off of 4th, there's a water feature that creates a tunnel of water. My son just had to go through it. And Nani is incapable of saying "no." A few photographs later (yes, I did take pictures of their watery journey), my son emerged from his water tunnel.

Now, this feature is designed (I believe) to cool people off on a hot (and not rainy) day by soaking those who traverse this tunnel of water from the knees down. Pleasantly, I imagine if one is wearing a sun dress or shorts or something similar that leaves the legs bare. Also, pleasant if one is taller than knee-height, which is not my son.

He emerged soaked to the skin. So much for lunch . . .

With a wet and cold small child, our options disintegrated to two: a) go back the 15 blocks to our hotel where we will effectively end our day or b) find a nearby store that sells children's clothes and purchase my son a new (and weather appropriate) outfit. Option a was not an option.

Luckily, Patagonia happened to be a few blocks away on 1st, and for the paltry sum of $200 (if you are Donald Trump!!), we purchased my son shorts, shirts, and a parka. I have a hard time spending that kind of money on clothes for an individual who, for all of his small size, will really only be able to wear them for a few months. I tend to believe that if we must spend money on clothes, it is money better spent on someone who won't be changing body shape any time soon and also has an appreciation for all that is fashion, namely, me.

However, necessity can make even the most ardent believer changer his or her views. So my son got a new outfit. I did make sure his parka from Patagucci is three sizes too big, so he'll be able to wear it for at least two years.

My son then spent the rest of the day in happy as a pig in chocolate, looking like the Morton Salt girl with his ginormous parka and Nani's pink "brellela." And with happy toddler, we had a pretty good time too. Even when we found out that we weren't going to be allowed in The Bookstore (a fun little pub on 1st a few blocks past Pike's) because of the under 21 member of our party, our mood couldn't be dampened. We ducked into a little sushi place right behind the pub and enjoyed wine, edamame, miso soup, and relaxed conversation while my son played happily on the table with his little sand-stuffed animals Nani had bought for him at Pike's.

Camaraderie seemed to reign as the spirit of the weekend after that. I looked up my doctor friend who is doing her residency in Seattle and met her for dinner and drinks later that evening. We traveled to Whidbey Island for a wedding of old family friends, marveling at the scenery at Deception Pass. We spent a lazy Sunday morning at Pike's Place Market one last time where we finally go to see some fish thrown to my son's utter delight.

I left Seattle, happy to return to San Diego, but with full acknowledgment that Seattle will hold a place in my heart not to far below that of the self-proclaimed America's Finest City.

Spontaneous Generation

Today I made RNA. How many people do you know who can say that? Well, I guess depending on which circles you travel in, possibly a lot. But still, talk about freaking cool. I made the molecule responsible for communicating cellular instructions.

In all actuality, the making of the RNA is kind of anti-climatic. I didn't design and then produce something novel and ground-breaking in molecular biology. I just demonstrated that I could produce RNA from the control DNA template provided in a kit. Yes, that's right, a kit.

It seems that a lot of science is about following directions that outline the mixing of provided ingredients and then heating them up for a bit. Two people can follow the exact same protocol--literally, everything exactly the same--and get drastically different results. Because apparently science isn't really an exact . . . science.

Sound familiar? A bit like following a cooking recipe? It really is. There's a list of ingredients, an explanation about the order and amounts they should be mixed in, and a person to put them all together (scientists even get to wear the little white coats that chefs wear). Every person in the lab unwittingly adds his or her own touch so that one procedure done over and over again by one person with constant success can be mimicked by another to no avail. And there is always room for improvisation if a certain procedure doesn't work or deliver the desired results. Yes indeed, a lot like cooking.

Except science is cooking without all of the sensory experience that makes working in a kitchen so amazing--an experience unparalleled. Lab work is like cooking without all the wonderful odors and colors and tactile sensations. In the lab, there's no burst of green scent that fills the air when you chop parsley or cilantro. There's no melodic motley mix of orange carrots, green and white cucumbers, red tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, pink radishes, brown mushrooms, and emerald lettuce in a salad. There's no rhythmic pulse of the knife hitting a worn wood cutting board.

Granted, lab has its pleasures. There is nothing better than getting a result you thought you didn't have or solving various problems. My mind is never idle. Nor is it stirred to poetic heights from a contrast in texture or smell.

So, while I love my new job and am excited about continuing, I find my thoughts often turning to the pleasure of my kitchen with its tacky orange and black tiles and too little counter space. I look forward to the end of the day where I can hold my chef's knife in its comfortable groove in my right hand as I prepare yet another meal.

Mexican Lasagna (tweaked from Vegetarian Times October 1, 2006 p.72)

• 3 Tbs. olive oil, divided
• 1 big onion, diced and divided in half
  
• 2 tsp. ground cumin, divided
• 1 tsp. ground coriander
• 2 cups pinto beans, cooked
  
• 1/4 cup chopped cilantro
• 3 Tbs. lime juice
• 
  
• 4 grated carrots
• 4 grated zucchini
• 4 bulbs garlic, chopped
• 1 can Chipotle chiles in adobo, pureed and added to taste (this is super spicy. Add slowly and cut with some tomato)
  
• 
  
• corn tortillas
• 1 cup shredded Cheddar and jack cheese

1. Preheat oven to 350F. Coat 9x13-inch baking dish with cooking spray.
2. Heat 1 Tbs. oil in skillet over medium heat. Add 3/4 cup onion, and sauté 5 minutes. Add 1 tsp. cumin and coriander, and cook 5 minutes. Purée onions with beans, cilantro and lime juice in blender.
3. Heat 2 Tbs. oil in skillet over medium heat. Sauté remaining onion and garlic in oil 5 minutes. Add carrots and zucchini, and cook 5 minutes more. Stir in remaining cumin, and cook 3 minutes. Add pureed chiles, and simmer 2 minutes.
4. Layer tortillas, bean mixture and vegetable mixture in prepared pan. Repeat one or two times, and top with cheese. Bake 30 minutes, or until cheese has melted.

Serves 6