EVening rain

I am sitting in Big Red right now somewhere in Golden Gate Park. The
rain has paused a moment and the sun is sneaking under the rain clouds
for a brief moment before setting. The sunset sent fingers of light
through the gloom

ed. note-- I couldn't finish this post because the tow truck finally arrived for Big Red.  As inconvenient as it was, BR decided to eat his own alternator in beautiful and peaceful Golden Gate Park.  I am grateful it was there, and not on a freeway, or busy, gridlocked 19th Ave, or far from home..  It gave me a chance to watch an entire rainy sunset, which was prettier than it sounded.  Especially as the dying light appeared rose pink through the tinted windows.

The Car Kitchen

I briefly mentioned the Car Kitchen in the last post and it deserves more blogtime.

The Early Years


published 1965

Three years ago I was at the Oakland White Elephant Rummage Sale with the Inimitable One and I happened upon a book that would change my life, "The Ford Times Traveler's Cookbook." It was a humble tome, wedged in a pam box with other small cookbooks with really boring names like Aunt Frida's Fermented Fish Recipes and Junior League Fondoo Surprises. I took it home and read it from cover to cover, marveling not only at its exciting recipes, but also how it celebrated American regional foods and presaged the whole slow food movement, all without sounding the least bit pretentious. But even better than the recipes, are the instructions on kitting out your own car kitchen.


Inspiration!

As soon as I arrived home with Dutch's car, the stuff I had been hoarding for years suddenly started finding it way to the trunk.



I get teary-eyed looking at this-- not only all the potential road-tripping contained here, but our glorious heritage of traveling and eating-- from wooden ships, to wagons, caravans, Mustangs and station wagons of all stripes-- I feel connected to the ancestors near and distant.



Oh How I Love FOMOCO


The car I learned to drive in was a '70 blue Mustang. The handling was so syrupy that only by actually looking down at the pavement did the driver get an indication that she was actually on the ground. Big Red is no different, I've since discovered, its a Ford thing.

The Fine Tableware


It matches the car. Vintage melamine I bought at a garage sale in Flip Flop on a table cloth I purchased for $1/pound at the Flip Flop Bargain Barn.


At home on the Range


Only in Cambodia introduced me to the magic of the butane stove. Cheap and easy (especially if you live near an Asian market), it requires no special skills or supplies, just a level, fireproof surface.



All ready to clean and chop any kind of veggie.



Clean-up, my "favorite" activity.

::

I am not sure why its so exciting to know all this stuff is in the back of the car. Its slightly embarrassing, even. It only starts to make sense to me when I think about all the road trips I went on as a child, all the great memories and all the great food (why are beans warmed in a can, over a fire, so good?). Maybe Dutch has something to do with it. Cooking is always so much more fun when there are at least two people to enjoy it. Maybe I am just a frustrated gypsy, and the illusion that I am settled in an apartment is merely a thin veneer over a contrary reality. Maybe, its just time for a road trip.

Bike Food

bike, originally uploaded by camille94019.

I biked all the way across the City today, going farther than I ever have before. I snagged my favorite pair of hose on a sprocket tooth, but other than that, I returned home unscathed. I have been training for this day ever since I learned how to bike in the driveway when I was ten.

The City's infamous hills and aggressive, urban traffic, continues to intimidate me, so last week I attended a four hour bike safety class put on by the Bike Coalition. I learned that I had the right to a full lane all the time (except for on freeways), how to wear a helmet and other sorts useful things that are easy to take for granted. I am still scared of traffic, but now I can mostly avoid it.

Since the Silver Bullet's untimely demise, I have had to relearn how to be a grown-up. I used to just be able to drive places, like to work, the post office, and the grocery store. I feel like I have suffered from some kind of life-changing physical accident. What was once easy, is now hard and fraught with drama. It was as if she was an appendage. My phantom car hurts.

After the car went away, I didn't go to the grocery store for a long time. The stash of dry pasta was running out. The ranks of canned beans were decimated. Only a few dry garlic wrappers chased the breeze in the bottom of the allium bowl. The lone banana quietly rotted in the corner. The proverbial larder was painfully bare. Fortunately, Dutch didn't let me starve, instead, he fed me at restaurants, but that is expensive, though delicious (at this point, this blog could almost be entirely devoted to food). My nutritional outlook is now sunnier since I put a rack on my bike.

I was going to wait to install a bike rack until such time as I had money, but the irresistible cry of my stomach overrode those petty financial inhibitions, so I took the bus to the closest Sport's Basement (the Presidio lacks groceries, but it has a sport's megastore!). The Yellow Monster now has the cheapest rack and the heaviest saddle-baskets available (and when my ship comes in, I'll replace them with something lighter) and together we can haul up to two conservative bags of groceries! Now the wide, wonderful world of City grocery stores is mine for the taking! I can even go to places that don't have parking, like the legendary Mai Wah Market on Clement St, which I had to avoid before. (My housemates describe Mai Wah as a "food museum" because it represents everything eaten by humans, regardless of continent and epoch). Not to mention the Evergreen Market on Mission, whose tortillas are hot, the quesa cold, the chiles plump and you can fish the tofu out of the barrel for 99 cents-a-pound. The adjustment period has been difficult, but my gastronomy can only expand! Oh the vistas to conquer! and worlds waiting to be chopped, sliced and sauteed and consumed!

Chow Bike (adapted from Martin Yan's Chow Mein)

1 bundle Japanese yam and buckwheat noodles (from J-town, of course)
mess of green beans (from the Syrian Market District on Geary) cut 1"
two cloves of garlic, minced
1 t-spoon sesame oil
fresh ginger, to taste, grated
2 tbs soy sauce
orange bell pepper, diced
1 tbs oyster sauce (from Mai Wah)
half cup of chicken stock
pepper, to taste
cooking oil
1/2 tsp crushed "brown sugar" from Evergreen (it looks rustic, tastes divine, comes in a big, pre-industrial cake)

1. cook noodles per directions, rinse with cold water, set aside.
2. heat skillet, add oil and garlic, but don't burn either one, just warm the garlic, to release its fragrance. Add the beans and cook gently
3. mix liquid ingredients in a bowl, plus the ginger and sugar.
4. add the sauce and noodles and stir until heated through, add the bell pepper. Add some pepper if you want.
   

bon apetit!

Part II, A Dip in the Ganges

Like a stillborn metonymy, they stand for a car that no longer...

::

A year ago my mechanic told me that I should start looking to replace the Silver Bullet, because entry-level GM cars aren't meant to last more than 100,000 miles, in other words, they are disposable cars.

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

This car leaks oil! It leaves dark stains on the ground!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

The oil eats the engine mount bushings! That is a 180 dollars!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

The lower engine mounts are causing the upper engine mounts to wobble!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

The wobbly engine is destroying the transmission!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

Your transmission is leaking!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.

The lower radiator hose is leaking again! 50 bucks!

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.
Let it cool off! Pour the water in! Fill the buckets!

The car is overheating! "Could it be the thermostat?" asks the Pater ($35 +new coolant, $20)

"I haven't paid it off," I whined in reply.
Let it cool off! Pour the water in! Fill the buckets!

The car is overheating! The car is overheating! Pull over! Pull over!
Could it be the HEAD GASKET!!!

Sound the death knell! Sound the death knell!

"This car is dead!" exclaims the Pater.
"This car is dead." exclaims the Pater.

With one more payment left and 160,000 miles driven, I call the Salvation Army car donation service. The towman arrives and asks for for three small things; my signature, the title and the keys. I sign the papers, using the top of the trunk of the Silver Bullet as a writing table-- her last service. Her body is clean, a few nicks from minor fender benders, a little parking lot rash, a spot of rust. It would have been nice to do a small ritual, perhaps dipping her in the Ganges, before I turn away.

Elegy

I pulled the fake fleece-lined gloves out of the glove compartment today. I remember putting them in it for the first time. The winters in Redding were so cold that a pair of gloves was critical for keeping the digits pliable in the freezing mornings. Sport (the long gone VW Golf) was under the car port at the ugly brown apartments (the tragically misnamed Hilltop Garden Apartments) when I crawled into the passenger side one sunny afternoon and slipped them in. Surprisingly, they survived the move to Flip Flop and slid, unnoticed, into the compartment of the Silver Bullet. At least one officer noticed them.
"Wow," he said, "You actually have gloves in your glove compartment." I didn't respond as I pulled out my licenseandvehicleregistration.
Sitting on the table, they look naked and vulnerable outside of the confines of the glove compartment. Like a stillborn metonymy, they stand for a car that no longer...

The writer is overtaken with emotion, please return for part 2 of this post. --ed.

Dream Journal

I was hanging out at the home of a large Italian family. I wanted to leave but I couldn't because my car was gone. I was convinced they took it, so I started searching through all of their garages, found lots of cars. I stumbled across a group of men disassembling a small silver car that I was convinced was mine. I made off with a few pieces that I could fit in my backpack, and I rolled off on a large dolly.

Man the Yardarms, you Sons of Scabby Whores

Things are looking up. Thanks to everyone who wrote and wished me well. My car is purring like a cat out of hell. It only took one crazy-intense exchange with the pirate, er, auto mechanic, and suddenly all is well in Camilleland. It always amazes me how easily my life unravels, and conversely, how easily the illusion of normalcy returns.

::

Good Mechanic/Bad Mechanic

Riddle me this. You go to two mechanics to get your car fixed. One mechanic announces that he is a liar, will break your car and charge you for it. The other mechanic says that he is honest, even though he is constantly tempted to charge people a hundred bucks for "some thing-jinger or other." He also tells you a story about how one of his clients, a theology professor, asked to see one of the girlie calendars that mechanics are known to have around, and then how the prof "woof-woofed" at it.

I am immediately suspicious when someone tells me that they are honest. Maybe they are? I sure hope so, because if he is honest, then he is saving me the indignity of being a dupe.