Another 'Best Day Ever'

Classes ended yesterday, the birthday is less than two weeks away, and the guitar store was advertising a MEGA-SALE this weekend. Matt dragged himself away from studying for his Algebra II final exam and drove over to Arlington with his roadie, er, father. Once you plug a set of earphones into that amplifier the neighbors and parental units can't hear a thing. I can't help wondering if Jimi Hendrix' mother had it this good.Matt will, of course, be setting the guitar aside until his birthday and concentrating on those final exams.

Color Her a Winner

Longtime readers might recognize Niki. We tried to help ease her transition from Japan to South Carolina two years ago by cooking up all the Southern recipes we could find. The cheese grits casserole is lodged in my memory.

Niki's stepfather Kevin tells us Niki is thriving in Beaufort. In fact, she recently won a national art contest sponsored by the Armed Forces YMCA and was recognized at an award ceremony on Capitol Hill.

The Master Chief Petty Officer of the Navy (left) thanked Niki for being such a wonderful ambassador for Navy families. Also in the picture are her mother, Yuko, and her stepfather, Kevin. They are going to be stationed in South Carolina for another year but will be visiting Niki's grandparents in Japan this July so we're hoping to see them then, and maybe -- get this -- catch a Notre Dame football game at the Tokyo Dome. Yes, that's right. The All Japan football team will be taking on Notre Dame in the Tokyo Dome on July 25.

Congratulations to Niki!

Oregon Reunion

Memorial Day was special this year. Lisa (left) and Jewls (right) hadn't seen their father since he flew back from Japan in July 2007 when Lisa married Tim. Jewls and her children live in Beaverton, a Portland suburb. Lisa and Tim live in Eugene, a couple of hours inland.

Mike rented a charmingly rustic beach cottage. That's Noah croaching in front of his Aunt Lisa, his mother, and his sister Moriah.

Doesn't this picture make you want to call your travel agent? We will be discussing that backpack belt and other fashion don'ts when he rolls in from the airport late tonight.

The Puzzled Packrat

Mike is stretching his Memorial Day weekend into five days and spending some long-overdue quality time on the Oregon coast with Lisa, Jewls, and grandchildren Noah (15) and Moriah (12), allowing me to begin the tedious pre-move sorting process (take, store, freecycle, toss, or mail to an unsuspecting relative/friend) free of his apprehensive, hovering presence. This is the guy you want with you on a dangerous recon mission. He's had lots of practice throwing his body on fake grenades in the form of mounds of baseball caps, aviation books and magazines, and enough blank CDs to back up the Library of Congress computer system.

He has no need to worry. I started with my righthand desk drawer and even if I work my way around the room counterclockwise rather than clockwise there's still no way I'll get anywhere near his desk before sometime in late 2014.

In my righthand desk drawer I found my backup, rainy day, emergency supply of math, logic, and Sunday crossword puzzles.

The Sunday puzzles, oddly enough, appear every Saturday morning on the third to the last page of the weekly newspaper supplement which I immediately toss in the aforementioned drawer. Although I'm not one to toot my own horn, it bears mentioning that I managed to cull through the accumulated puzzles in just under three hours, recycling a half ton of newsprint, solving a particularly thorny 5-star logic problem involving Chinese food with five main ingredients, six sauce options, three kinds of rice, three varienties of roll, and four different soups, and finally zipped the remaining essential puzzles along with a Pentel R.S.V.P. fine black pen into a handy plastic case from a Japanese 100 Yen store. It's my last plastic case, so it's a good thing we're moving back to Japan.
Can anyone explain why these picture insist on displaying sideways? It's a puzzle to me. I am completely clueless.

Umbratelism Was Invented Tuesday

A week ago I was someone who owns three umbrellas. This week I have five so I've decided to call myself an umbratelist, someone who collects umbrellas and parasols. When you see my collection and learn about my metamorphosis from humble umbrella owner to The World's First Self-Proclaimed Umbratelist, you might very well decide to take shelter in this hobby.

Last year at about this time I decided an umbrella would be the ideal souvenir to remind me of the two years we lived in Japan. So I went to an umbrella store in Kamakura and feasted my eyes on hundreds of beautiful umbrellas. Usually I'm quite decisive (mean people might say 'impulsive') but selecting the single most perfect souvenir umbrella was very hard, the kind of hard that can make you hyperventilate. Mr. Dream Date, fortunately, started experiencing hunger pains right about then and offered the perfect solution, one that won't come as a huge surprise to most of you. "Buy more than one. Do you want to have lunch at the gratin place?"

So I bought this one. It lets me present a conservative face to the outside world while I'm daydreaming in my secret garden underneath. I refer to it as my Spring and Fall Umbrella, a handy organizational trick when you need to rationalize greed.













And I bought this one: The Winter and Gift-Giving Umbrella. It's in my "signature houndstooth pattern" but you are just going to have to imagine the shoes and jacket because Mike, while a saint, has his limits (and could really use a replacement College of William and Mary t-shirt for Father's Day/Christmas).


And I bought this Sunbrella, or Summer Umbrella, to protect my delicate skin from the sun's harmful rays. This idea might have made more sense about 40 years ago and, no, I have not yet worked up the nerve to walk around the National Mall twirling a parasol but I figure I can talk Jill into using it when she visits in July. She used to stroll around East Lansing walking an imaginary dog on one of those stiff leashes. . .





Q: Um, excuse me, but you seem to be digressing a bit. What about your metamorphosis from umbrella owner to umbratelist?
A:Ah, yes. Please read on.

Last Saturday, during Phase I of "The Best Day Ever" (just ask Will if you don't believe me), I stumbled into the gift shop at the Detroit Institute of Arts and decided "The Best Day Ever" rated a commemorative souvenir. What to buy, what to buy? Oh, gee, look at those pretty folding umbrellas in the William Morris prints. I could really use a pretty umbrella that fits in my purse. Gosh, I'm starting to feel like an umbrella collector . . .


Then Mike came home from work Tuesday night. "I come bearing gift. Yuko-san sent you a present." (We really talk to each other like this.) "Oh, God, no! I just mailed the thank you note for the stained glass oak leaf thing she gave me last week." (One of us needs a brush up course on social graces.)

"Allow me to demonstrate. The SG took a break from battling H1N1 this afternoon to make sure I knew how to pass along the finer points of the SafetyBrite Umbrella Corporation's 'Drip-Free' model."

"Note the bright color and highly reflective band around the umbrella's tip. Note that one panel is made of clear plastic so you will stay completely dry without bumping into other pedestrians or accidentally walking out in front of a moving vehicle. Note that I could really use a new College of William and Mary t-shirt for Father's Day/Christmas."

"Let's take a closer look at that highly reflective band around the umbrella's tip. Now grab that band and pull it all the way down to the handle."




"Your wet umbrella is now encased in a plastic sheath! You will no longer have to endure angry glares from janitorial staff at supermarkets, hospitals, and museums on rainy days."

"That's pretty slick. I bet I even have some gift bags with a touch of that International Yellow in the pattern. And if I don't, we can just pick some up the next time we're in Japan."




And that's how I became an umbratelist. Next I'm going to figure out the fancy name for people who collect fabric. After that I'm planning to coin a name for people who collect plastic banks shaped like Japanese cartoon and candy store characters. Suggestions are always welcome.

Wedding Pictures

This is Dan and Erin. He's a musician/singer/songwriter and she's a dietitician. Their honeymoon destination is Panama.

This is Jill and Dave, the bride's parents. Jill was a year behind me in high school and a college roommate (she was a senior and I was a recent drop-out when we started living together). Her feet are smaller than mine but she loaned me her clogs for three months when I landed a real job at a place that frowned on sneakers. She is generous like that. I have never since put my feet in a pair of clogs. And, yes, Dave bears a remarkable resemblance to Santa Claus. He's even jolly.

Karaoke aficionados will notice that these two wedding guests seem to have inherited a genetic propensity for making fist microphones. They were seriously enjoying a Journey song.


Someone and her childhood friend are trying to look innocent as they polka off the dance floor seconds after realizing they were the only dancers other than the bride, groom, and bride's parents. Someone and her childhood friend have pretty much perfected the art of looking innocent after 48 years of practice.

This is someone and her daughter. The one making the Mick Jagger face hasn't the faintest recollection of what could possibly have brought them into such close proximity on the dance floor. The other one was not nearly as naked as she looks in this picture.

Norman Rockwell and the Pips

Niece Amy took a well-deserved break from nabbing prescription forgers to wander through a pair of Detroit museums with us last Saturday. Her husband Craig made a surprise appearance when early morning showers forced the cancellation of his bike race. Their sons, Matt, Will (of Flat Stanley fame), and Colin, a delightful trio of Renaissance boys, checked out the Norman Rockwell exhibit and antique chess sets at the Detroit Institute of Arts then took in a Classical piano concert while waiting for the stragglers to catch up. My Matt, AKA "Big Matt", tends to crawl through a museum at the same (snail's) pace as his mother.

After lunch in Greektown - Opa! - Craig led us to the Motown Museum, our main reason for spending the night in Detroit enroute to Erin and Dan's wedding.

Since cameras are not allowed inside the Motown Museum, you are just going to have to trust me that it's worth the price of admission ($10). Which is easy for me to say, I suppose, since it was Craig who made the nonchalant yet heroic sprint to the ticket booth (below) while the rest of us stood gaping at the two busloads of tourists from a Chicago church who pulled in just ahead of us.

The museum is spread across two houses. The entrance is in the house on the right while the house on the left, a Michigan Historic Landmark, belonged to Berry Gordy, Jr. With an $800 loan from his parents' foundation, Berry sealed a grand piano in his garage in 1959 then covered the walls with acoustical tiles and suspended microphones from the ceiling. This was the Motown recording studio until 1972.

An erudite, gregarious college kid was our guide through most of the museum but a Diana Ross impersonator took over when we reached the recording studio. We saw Michael Jackson's glove, costumes worn by The Supremes, and the vending machine where Little Stevie Wonder got his sugar fix. We learned how Mr. Gordy succeeded in getting radio stations to play music by Black artists (at first, sadly, this required removing all photographs from the album covers), how he involved all his employees in choosing the records to be released, and that Marvin Gaye got his foot in Motown's door by sweeping floors while Diana Ross was hired to answer the telephones.


Katie has yearned to visit the Motown Museum since learning of its existence a few months ago. She can't remember the last time she's experienced gratification as immediate as this. Unfortunately, the photographer was facing in the wrong direction when this picture was snapped but Colonel Sanders might be in the market for a new poster child.

Missing: One Basic Black Dress

Yikes! This is what happens when one puts off packing until the last possible minute. My trusty black dress is nowhere to be found. Not in the basement closets, not in the bedroom closet, not in the coat closet. Surely I didn't leave it in the closet at the Palm Hotel in South Beach after wearing it to Jeremy and Chrissy's wedding last August (but speaking of whom, guess who'll be making me a Grandaunt XXI come December)?

I meant to start packing this afternoon until I nearly tripped over this sidewalk artist on my way home from the Postal Museum. Five passersby stopped to admire his work while hundreds of Federal drudges shuffled past with nary a sideways glance. My sense of politeness forced me to stand there gawking for the better part of the lunch hour while offering (unsolicited) advice to my fellow aficionados.

P.S. You might be interested to learn 'air guitar' is in the dictionary. I know this because I overshot aficionado when I was checking my spelling.

The Dead Authors Book Club

Katie and her friends invited me to the inaugural meeting of their book club at Sherman's mom's house in Alexandria last Saturday night. (If you don't remember Sherman, scroll back to my January 23 post.) Reading The Great Gatsby for the third or fourth time seemed a small price to pay for the chance to eavesdrop on the scintillating conversation of the next generation. The price went up a bit, however, when Sherman decided everyone should bring a bring a prop and/or make 'a little presentation.'




















Katie whipped up some surprisingly tasty gin rickeys. I'm still picking lime flecks off my sandals from the one she sent across the room with a slick hip move during her Souljah Boy demonstration. I'm also still trying to work out what Souljah Boy has to do with F. Scott Fitzgerald and The Roaring Twenties.

















Amanda created a detailed model of Gatsby's mansion, Sherman's mom paraphrased songs from his favorite childhood album, Whitney (below, with Amanda) likened Fitzgerald's colorful descriptions to the art of Marc Chagall, Sherman showed a video of prison inmates discussing the book, and Kate told us about the art on the book cover (there's naked ladies in the irises). Me? I reimbursed Kate for the gin and passed out maps to St. Mary's Cemetery in Rockville, Maryland, where Scott and Zelda are buried. Zzzzzzz.






















Jana (above, right) somehow managed to avoid giving a presentation. Note Katie in the background fixing yet another Gin Rickey.
















We toasted ourselves with champagne at the end of the discussion. As you can see, Sherman's parents really got into hosting the book club. They've offered their house as the regular meeting site but I nabbed the June meeting when we'll be discussing Catch-22, a book I never dreamed I would read a second time . . .

For My Mother

Dear Mom,

I miss you every day. I've been saving these pictures to share with you and today seems like the perfect time.

Riley made her First Communion last week. Isn't her hair cute? She had it cut a couple months ago to support Locks of Love, but you probably already know that.










James is still a kid magnet but does not yet have any of his own (we assume).










Now that Cathy is retired, she is taking time to smell the tulips and making sure Jerry gets to see all those places he missed when he skipped family vacations as a teenager.








Your music gene has finally resurfaced. I'm sorry this didn't happen in your lifetime but we sense your presence front and center at every performance.

It pains me to inform you that your competitive gene petered out sometime between 1956 and 1959 . . .

. . . but I am being a good big sister and picking up the slack.

Love always,
Your Humble Daughter

Tequila 201: Getting Past the Gross Parts

Remove the agave roots from your lava rock pit when they soften up and turn brown like this (right). I would like to give you a rough time estimate for the roasting process but the annoying Canadian couple distracted me during that part of Martin's lecture. I was worried Martin might mistake Jennifer and Bill for US citizens.





Once cooked, the agave root is easily separated into chunks about the size of Martin's hand. Martin illustrated this process which is a lot like shredding a pork roast.





The shredded roots are collected in baskets and then dumped into a trough carved out of a log. Agave juices will drain from the fibers when you stir them occasionally with a wooden paddle. Bees will swarm gleefully to the trough and dip their little footsies in the juice. This is not the least bit appetizing but do not swat those bees or you will be very, very sorry.











The liquid and remaining fibers are eventually dumped into big plastic barrels where the fermentation process (bubbles coating surface of rear barrel) runs its course. This is almost as gross as the bees' feet.




Fermentation is followed by distillation, a fairly rudimentary process as practiced by the Leyva family. At left, Martin is standing between the two distillation vats. The tequila is draining into the plastic jug next to his leg. Tequila is distilled twice because the product of the first distillation is just about 100 percent lethal. Did he say methane? I don't know because Bill and Jennifer are distracting me again.




The distilled tequila is bottled (right). The Leyva's produce three different grades of tequila, ranked by how long it's stored before being bottled. They also produce flavored tequilas (coffee, almond, and orange) which are meant to be sipped (as opposed to being tossed back with salt and a lime wedge).


The girls (left) prepare to sip the orange tequila. They are in good moods because they have already tasted all three grades of the regular tequila and daintily sipped the almond version.

So there you have it.

Tequila 101: The Main Ingredients

We toured the Leyva Tequila Factory during our trip to Mexico last month. While some tequila brands are bottled in the United States these days, every ounce of tequila in the world originates in the Mexican province of Jalisco.

In these tough economic times, you might be forced to make your own tequila. So I am happy to pass along what I remember of the tour. Any errors and omissions in my transmittal of the tequila production process are the fault of the Leyva Tequila Factory for forcing me to taste six different varieties of tequila at the conclusion of the tour.



This is Martin (Mar-TEEN), our congenial tour guide. Martin's sister runs the gift shop where we stocked up on tequila after the tour. Other relatives/employees operate a little taco stand on the premises. They make their own tortillas. The day we were there, Matt was their best customer.






Agave azul (Blue Agave) is all you need, other than some lava rocks, to make tequila. Agave plants look a lot like pineapples on steroids. The business part of the plant is underground. The only purpose of those spiky leaves you see on the plants at left is to scream, "Hey! There's a big fat juicy root hiding under me and you will not regret digging it up."




"For once, Mom isn't exaggerating. They really DO look like pineapples on steroids."








Legend has it tequila was discovered when a desperately parched person stumbled upon an agave root that had been baking in the sun. Liquid was bubbling out of the root's crevices. Rather than mutter "Something is rotten in Jalisco" and crawl on by, this person was thirsty enough to sip and swallow that liquid. Eureka, Zounds, and Gadzooks!



Nowadays firepits are used to hasten the process.






The pits are lined with volcanic rocks. We took lots of pictures of those volcanic rocks as if any of us know the first think about geology.






Let's review: Blue Agave + Lava Rock Furnace = Making Tequila, Step One.

Stay tuned for Tequila 201.