Thanks for All the Years Zoe

Dad had to put Zoe down last night.

She started knuckling, which meant that she was no longer able to operate her own left back foot and instead of sitting on it, like a rabbit sits on its long haunches, she was dragging her foot, and later her leg around. Her kidneys had started to go and she was losing weight fast, so it didn't surprise me when I knew the time had come. It's just that no matter how you know the time is coming, it still hurts.

Make no mistake---I've seen my fair share, more than my fair share of the life cycle. Animals are small, you love them as babies, they grow older, and inevitably decline. As loving guardians, our job is to be strong enough to end their lives when they have no quality of life left, or they are suffering. I've been a part of this process several times and have seen many beloved animals go to the grave; my dearest Henry, Arthur, Nell, Mr. Jeeves, Bear---just to name a few.

Zoe was never my favorite cat; but her presence will be missed, perhaps more than the others. She was the last living member of what I call the "Old Gang"---the cats that adopted us (or did we adopt them?) when we moved into our house on Oleander in the late summer of 1992. She was perhaps the oldest cat we've ever had and we saw her go from infancy, to motherhood when she had two litters. We got her fixed as soon as we could and she lived outside amidst our lush garage garden for many years, until she had an accident and ripped one of her toe nails out. We took her to the vet and thought she was too old, although she was only middle-aged and still wily, to live outside. On the eve of my mother's baby cat, Nell, being put down, that very week, (or was it the day?) we had to help Zoe, and it was her turn to come inside and live with us in a more domesticated setting.

She had a full fluffy tail then, and until my girls came, long, silky haired giants, I thought Zoe had the biggest tail I'd ever seen. She was unique in her voice. I've never heard a cat cry with so high a pitch, almost like a bird calling in the trees, and my friend, Jessica, called her "the bird cat" since then. She reminded Jess of a bird.

Zoe has passed, and her passing reminds me that time moves forward, I am getting older, and things at the Oleander house, so much a part of me, will never remain the same; they are ALWAYS changing. There will be one day, unless I have the money to buy the home from my parents, that I'll have to leave the house that saw my childhood and womanhood, my tears, laughter and growth. Zoe was a reminder of the beginnings of my life in this house. She lies in the slope at the side of my kitchen door, buried with her comrades. This is not morbid, but a testament to the animals that I have loved and that have, and will remain, so much a part of my life.

Sleep well, sweet Zoe.

Fall and Writing

Fall makes me nostalgic. I watch people gather around television sets to watch college football shenanigans and it almost makes me wish my alma mater had a football team. Almost.

Walking invigorates me, especially when I'm walking in crisp November morning air, especially when I know that by midday in Los Angeles, that air will be at least 15 degrees warmer. Fall brings me back to Oregon autumns with yellow trees, textbooks, lawns spread over college quads and the fog that subsequently hides the construction docks and ships from sight.

Feet hitting the ground=words on paper, and with words comes the hope for my professional writing future.

Good Ol' Soul Food Cookin' at Larkins in Eagle Rock

I had heard many a thing about Larkins and knew that it had already been reviewed by Los Angeles Magazine (with whom I currently intern), and given great reviews. I'd driven past it's craftsman home location countless times as well, and even stopped once or twice only to find it closed on Monday AND Tuesday.



But this last Wednesday, November 4, I drove there with the intention of finally sitting down and eating the food I'd heard about. Why my haste? Even in the best economies, opening a restaurant and having it stick around is tricky; I couldn't be so sure this one would tough it out in these hard times.

Not to fear; I entered the restaurant and found two couples already sitting there, and while sitting with my eating companion, my mother, Karen, we saw at least six people come inside to eat. Apparently Larkins ain't doing so bad.

But how was the food you ask? Tasty, and a bit unexpected. To my delight there were more than a few bbq items smothered in bbq sauce. The menu featured the consummate corn-breaded catfish, meatloaf, gumbo and jambalaya. I was in the mood for fried chicken, and I ordered macaroni salad and potato salad as accompaniments.

The fried chicken plate consisted of three all-dark meat pieces (just the way I love it) and fried to a crispy finish. No complaints here.

The only thing I can complain about are the salad sides. Both were two sweet and pickel-y for my taste. The macaroni salad was cooked to an al dente finish, impressive, since most people cook pasta until it becomes flimsy and soft. The potatoes were cut chunky style, instead of mushy, but in the end tasted too much like vinegar and pickle.

Karen ordered an amazing hot links bbq po' boy that offered everything it claimed it would. The hot links were meaty, smoky and hot enough to leave a burn in the back of your throat. The bread was pillowy, and the bbq sauce was smokey, thick and sweet; the way good barbecue sauce should taste. Her sandwich came with a dainty salad side.

To finish everything off, Karen ordered unsweetened iced tea and I ordered bottomless house-made lemonade. She didn't liked her iced tea and thought it had a bit of a weird aftertaste. I tasted it and summed it up to being over-brewed (not altogether a bad thing, either, considering that under-brewed tea tastes like nothing). I couldn't ask for more with my lemonade--it was sweet, tart, refreshing, bottomless and served up in a mason jar.

Mama Larkins came out and served us our dessert: a triple layer red velvet cake with three layers of cream cheese frosting. Nothing too complicated or gourmet. But a tasty, moist, rich finish to an all together tasty meal.

Would I go to Larkins often? No. But if ever the mood strikes me for southern barbecue or soul food, Larkins is first on my mind.

I'm a Writer

Two pitch story ideas turned down at Los Angeles Magazine. A pitch silently killed on the other side of the internet ether when it hit the Pasadena Weekly inbox. But no matter.

How else would I define myself if not for being a writer? I sometimes smile to think that I had no idea this part of myself was waiting for me when I entered that classroom in January of 2006. And then, all of a sudden, a part of me, a future part of me which had existed all along but was separate from me, found me and we became one.

Writing is hard and there isn't much money to be had. I figuratively bang my head on the wall every day, partnered with the intense fear and anxiety that I can't come up with ideas or that once gotten, they will be rejected, as I have been rejected by men and others all my life.

My solace resides in the fact that while climbing the mountain, it's not really possible to see how far up you are or the progress of your climb; it's only when you reach the top that you can see above the low lying cloud line to the vast valley from whence you started.

Stress and difficulty and that quiet desperation that I live with everyday, especially in this economic climate, remind me to micro-view. Insanity comes about when I try to see the big picture. Better to take things in smaller doses, much like a recovering addict is told to take one day at a time. So shall I. So shall I take one moment at a time, and merely be proud of putting one foot in front of the other. Times like these build fortitude and strength.

Just tell me I'm not a writer and I'll have a few choice words for you.....