furniture music

Since Manka’s, my all-time favorite restaurant, went down in flames last year, Rob decided to surprise me with the closest thing to it for a “pre-birthday” celebration. So this weekend I found myself at the top of a hill on the edge of nowhere, surrounded by chickens and alpacas. Stubbs Vineyard is gorgeous!

Marin Organic held a benefit dinner there, and the chef celeb was none other than Margaret Grade & Co. of the dearly departed Manka’s. Envision a tiny Margaret Grade angrily launching logs onto an outdoor oyster bbq in front of a centuries-old barn with stained glass windows. That was just the beginning. True to Manka’s style, all the ingredients on the menu were gathered less than 18 miles from the kitchen — a disturbingly red beet soup sitting on a thick cloud of cream, a stinky-cheese souffle surrounded by freshly picked arugula, and so on.

At one point, we were seated at a table with Roxanne Klein, who unfortunately was shuffled off to sit with guest speaker Michael Pollan before we had a chance to observe her eating habits. What does a raw food enthusiast eat when the main course is duck?

But perhaps the highlight of the evening: As we were gazing at the baby alpaca by the veggie garden, a lonely lizard made its way up my pants, and yes, into my underwear. And let me tell you, little reptilian legs scurrying across bare flesh does not feel pleasant. So I bolted to the bathroom, where I proceeded to completely strip down and do the naked dance to try to shake the thing off. It landed, alive but stunned, at the foot of the toilet. Poor little bastard. I think it had the fright of its life.

Paint bombin’, Fairfax style. The hills are alive with hiphop, y’all.

Bid early and bid often: the kim family benefit art + craft auction. Galvins and Ruppels and Engmans and the cutest damned stuffed donkey I’ve ever seen, all for a very good cause.

While we wilted in the Northern California heat wave, these luscious beauties grew to mammoth proportions, reveling in 110-degree temps. And yes, they are as tasty as they look, oozing with fat figgy deliciousness, in fact.

So when Susan, my fellow commuter, said her tree was “bursting” and that I should stop by her house to pick up more figs than I could possibly fathom, I could hardly say no. And after one tart and much snacking, we’ve still got a load of plump fruit…and Susan just brought me more this morning on the bus. I may have a mind-numbingly long bus ride, but as Rob said, that never would’ve happened on the 30 Stockton.

Our dear friend Annie (she’s linked over to your right - a little lower, that’s it) has just announced that she’ll be hanging her work for a show at the Canvas Gallery, which is just boffo wicked, not to mention tremendously thrilling. Don’t believe me? Check the wrestlers:

“Is it true that it’s 100 degrees out there?” asked the checker at the local hippie-tastic grocery, which we’ve politely dubbed Good Hippie. “I’m not sure,” I replied, “but it’s at least 90 in my house.”

With the Noahlewis’ Mahlon Taits version of “Tenderly” melting away in the background like Salvador Dali’s wedding band, the lazy days of summer have been rudely pushed aside by the much more aggressive dog days, sunburned and irritable from sunstroke picked up while getting dehydrated tubin’ down the river with a six pack in tow. The dog day starts out perfectly fine, a chatty, amiable day that maybe hits the sauce a little too early but still appears ready to make a worthwhile and productive time of it while awake. But then, by 4pm, when the breeze still hasn’t kicked in and the ground is pushing back the heat like its saturated by it, that’s when the dog day gets pissy. As do the people stuck in it, so it seems. So the animals and I are resigned to sitting with a misting bottle next to whatever fans we can find - house fan, computer fans, stove vent fans, bathroom fans, you name it - and obsessing over liquid sustenance.

And, as in a couple weeks we’ll be hosting a [Belgian] party that’s looking to consist of 50% pregnant or non-drinking folks (leaving my near 20 gallons of [Belgian] homemade hooch safe for the rest of us), I’m busily trying to concoct [Belgian] summertime bevvies that satiate if not inebriate. Today’s recipe was intended to pair with [Belgian] guacamole:

Agua Fresca a la Fairfax

1 small watermelon
1 pint strawberries
juice of two limes
1 tbsp pomegranate syrup*

* available at finer hippie-tastic grocers worldwide

Combine ingredients in blender until smooth. Push through sieve, mesh, or cheesecloth bag. Double volume with water. Chill in fridge. Serve with huge freaking sprig of wild mint for garnish.

Of all the concessions we’ve made recently to provide the incoming youngster with happy, healthy room to do its funky thang, Yoshi today had to endure the most humiliating one yet.

Yes, the regular cat door looked just a *little* too narrow for our big-boned feline friend. But hefty? We agreed that’s as cruel as calling fat boys’ clothes husky size. We’d also like to point out that the Yoshmonster has a new weight goal set by our friendly spokespussy “Harley” (if that is his real name):

And yes, in the background, that’s Rody - snidely beckoning, smiling, staring…

Annie’s comment reminded me that there’s a few of you who haven’t seen Des and her feisty luggage recently. Luggage which is, quite accurately, magically expanding - not to mention squirming around a kicking a good deal as well: