No Place Like Home

Dear No One in Particular,

Well, hello there. Fancy meeting you here.

I bet you thought I had forgotten about this little space. Not a chance.


I'm back from Australia, although I was sorely tempted to become a permanent ex-pat. Seriously: I LOVED it. It was so much more than I had hoped it would be, and nothing like I had dreamed. Something had pushed me to Oz, told me something incredible awaited me there. Not to sound too San Francisco-hippie, but I left the States knowing that the universe had great plans for me.

It's hard for me to recount, what exactly, was so amazing about being there. I wasn't given anything tangible -- not a souvenir, a job offer, or even a picture of a single piece of magnificence -- to hold up and say "THIS. This is why I had to go." But the fact remains that I'm a different person now. Visiting Australia, even for that short period of time, changed me. I can't wait to go back and see what else will happen.

I do, however, have a highlight reel and tons of photos:

If you're planning your Mighty Life List and thinking Australia should be on it, let me be the first to stand up and shout a resounding yes! It's an incredible place and there is so much to see, that I recommend making multiple trips if you can swing it. Or, if you have more stamina than I, take a long, long vacation and travel the entire country. I only made it to the big cities, and my only regret is that I didn't allot time to visit the Great Barrier Reef while I was there.

This is technically a wallaby, but my point still stands.

One thing that every visitor to Australia must do is feed a kangaroo. Honestly, I almost edited my Life List to include this, because I wish I had thought of it sooner. I'd only seen kangaroos in zoos, behind plexiglass walls, so when my cousins told me that I would get the chance to feed them -- feed them with my own hands -- I just about peed myself with excitement. It was hilarious and amazing and kind of cheesy in a really great way.


In fact, all of the Australian wildlife is pretty great:

Case in point.

My favourite vacation fun fact: all of the koalas in Australia have chlamydia.

This is the face of chlamydia.

Speaking of wildlife, the fairy penguins? SO PRECIOUS. I was a bit hesitant to actually drive all the way out to Phillip Island, since I had heard that there were more tourists than penguins these days. I was even more hesitant when they told us to dress extra-warm, since we would be sitting on concrete bleachers at dusk on the beach. But! All of that changed when we saw the first bitty penguin waddle up out of the surf and scurry across the sand toward safety. The Centre is built right on top of the penguins' natural migration path, so you can walk up the hill alongside the tiny tuxedo-ed birds. No joke, it was the cutest damn thing I'd ever seen.
Unfortunately, there are no pictures of this event, since camera flashes scare the penguins. I snapped one photo inside the Visitor's Centre, which conveniently has little peek-a-boo windows into the fairy penguin's burrows.

Real live fairy penguins, in a real live fairy penguin burrow,
having a real live fairy penguin cuddle.

Another "must-do", specifically if you're in Melbourne, is see an Aussie Rules Football game. Don't worry about trying to make sense of the game; the rules are ridiculous and obviously made up by a bunch of drunk criminals who were bored with cricket. It's obscenely violent, but the fans are incredible (they put soccer hooligans to shame) and the players are gorgeous, in a very beefcakey, missing-multiple-teeth sort of way.


Remember how I said that Melbourne was the place I most wanted to see? Yeah, I take that back. Don't get me wrong -- Melbourne is marvelous! The Queen Victoria Market is heaven on Earth and I would kick a puppy to have even the palest imitation of it here in San Francisco. But I wasn't totally in love, ready to drop everything and set up home in Fitzroy -- not for Melbourne, that is.


I loved Sydney. LOVED IT, you guys; loved it like ... I can't even think of a proper analogy, I loved it that much. We had flown out of Sydney to spend a week in Melbourne, and on our flight back in, I remember the plane's wheels hitting the tarmac and sighing internally, thinking "Ahhh ... we're home." 5 all too short days in this glorious city, and it had imprinted itself on my mind as home. Every so often I wake up with my heart strings tugging me back to Sydney, and I want to cry.
I'm not so sure why I loved Sydney more when all signs pointed in the other direction. The food was better in Melbourne (marginally, because I must say the food in Australia is altogether tremendous; it's a country full of foodies), it's much less of a metropolis and more of a cultural hub, etc.

But Sydney, with it's gorgeous weather, delightful people, and cinematic familiarity just felt right. It felt as if the whole sun-soaked city reached out, hugged me close, and whispered "Welcome. We've been expecting you."

I've been mulling this over for months now, wondering why I felt so strongly about Australia in general, and Sydney (Sydney!) specifically. Before I left, I spent months dreaming about Oz and the wonders it held for me. Those dreams still continue, urging me to go back, to return home.

Australia isn't done with me yet, not by a long shot. But for now, I have photos to remember and a special place in my heart carved out for the land down under.

--amanda


Oh! Before I forget: remember, how, like 2 years ago, I asked Santa to bring me a pygmy hippo for Christmas? I SAW HER. No joke, she now lives at the Melbourne Zoo and I thought I had managed to stop screaming long enough to take a couple of photos of her walking around underwater, but apparently they were so blurry and out-of-focus that the Boy deleted them. But trust me: Monifa (hilarious name) is adorable and wee and just so precious.

Happy Valentine's Day, Cupcake!

Dear No One in Particular,

Red(dish) Velvet Heart Cakes with Cream Cheese Frosting

Happy Valentine's Day!


I love each and every one of you. Your comments, your emails, your tweets have touched me deeply. You're fantastic; you're fabulous; and most of all:

You're beautiful, cupcake.

Inside and out.

Love,
amanda

Passing Moment Gone

Dear No One in Particular,

First of all, I know I've neglected this space. I don't have a good reason. Honestly, I'm a little disappointed; if I had a legitimate reason drenched in awesomesauce for failing to write on a regular basis, I would totally feel like less of a loser. So while, no, I haven't been climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, and no, I didn't punch a shark in the nose while collecting coral samples, I have been busy trying to figure out this "grown-up" nonsense. And let me tell you, it's been no picnic.

The start of a new year often necessitates a lot of selfish introspection; the start of a new decade, doubly so. Forgive me while I introspect selfishly? This is a blog, after all.

2009 was a beast of a year, for a lot of people. Almost everyone I know rang in the new year with a resounding "Thank God that's over with".
It wasn't that the year was particularly unkind -- at least, not to me -- it's that it was so fraught with drama, a hurdle to surmount every 5 paces, that it often felt that the end would never come. While it didn't come peacefully, the end is here. Thank God it's over with.

And now, a quick trip down memory lane. Visual aids when applicable, because words often fall short:

I graduated from 8th grade in 2000. There was so much pride and hope instilled in that fact: to be embarking on something so momentous and new on the cusp of a new millennium! It was almost poetic; in fact, I'm sure I have some rather awful poetry on this topic, just waiting to embarrass me.*
Equally poetic was my graduation in 2009. Two graduations bookended the decade; so much promise, so much uncertainty.

Fuck. Yes.

I can not begin to explain how freaking stressful it is to graduate from university. And yet, that last year, filled to the brim with tears and screams and hair torn from the roots, was easily the best in my academic career. I've never been so challenged by professors, nor had so much fun. I learned how to identify the gender and age of human skeletons, wrote an epic paper on the mind-boggling fluctuations of women's rights in Iran, decomposed logical arguments, and learned how to play the to'ere.

Mid-2009, following my graduation (insert fist-pump here), I moved from an isolated, technicolour island in the middle of the Pacific to a chilly city on the edge of California known for its bridges and foggy summer days.

While I consider both Honolulu and San Francisco home, I do not recommend this move. To anyone. Ever.

In 2009 I watched as my family shattered apart and came together again, drawing on a deep collective strength to create a new, fragile formation.
I also re-kindled a pathetically dormant relationship with my heart-sister. Moving back home after a long absence will do that to you.

The most fabulous redemptor and herald you'll ever see.

If 2009 was a year of difficulties, then let 2010 be the year of relieved sighs.

It was a long, difficult slog through the mud, all the while hoping that the pinpoint of light dancing ever so unattainably on the horizon would bring good tidings and most importantly, a sense of release.

It's a new year, a new decade; it's a new start.

A toast to you, my lovely darlings: thank you for stopping by, commenting, for sending gorgeous gifts, for reaching out through the series of pipes and connecting with me. Here's to you, doll; I hope this year shines as brightly as you.

Kiss kiss

Now bring me that horizon.

--amanda




___________________
*There are no photographs documenting my elementary school graduation because there's only so much humiliation I can endure.

Big Eat Challenge -- 2 for 1

Dear No One in Particular,

I've always been a little intimidated by the Ferry Building; there are so many delicious, interesting-looking restaurants nestled under its glass and steel arches -- not to mention the bustling, legendary Farmer's Market on the sidewalk outside -- that I get overwhelmed and end up leaving for more familiar territory.


A couple of weeks ago, I decided to bite the bullet and sink my teeth into some delicious food from the Ferry Building.

#40: cheeseburger from Taylor's Automatic Refresher:
I can't remember where I first heard of Taylor's Automatic Refresher, but after a cursory glance at their yelp page, decided I was, in fact, in the mood for a gourmet burger.

I'm really more of a patty melt girl, so I opted for the patty melt over the top 100 list making cheeseburger. The jury's still out on whether or not this was a wise decision. Then again, I'm just looking for any excuse to visit again.
In addition to the patty melt, I demanded an order of sweet potato fries and an espresso shake. I was stupid enough to be starving when I visited Taylor's, which is a lot like volunteering to have my fingernails pulled out. I'm such a slave to my hunger, it's ridiculous.

I sat at my table, inhaling the splendorous scent of their garlic fries. I began to worry that I picked the wrong side. Then I began to wonder if I could kill the couple who so disrespectfully ordered the garlic fries, but didn't eat them. I'm 99% sure I could have gotten off with minimal jail time.


As soon as my order came up, I grabbed a fistful of the gorgeous, bright orange sweet potato wedges and crammed them into my mouth. At that moment, I reached nirvana. Heavenly choirs sang hallelujah and the sun danced in the sky.



You guys, Taylor's sweet potato fries are THAT GOOD. They somehow lack the starchiness of regular fries, and are seasoned perfectly. Per. Fect. Ly. The slight heat of the chili powder, coupled with the light dusting of regular ol' salt and pepper cuts through the gentle sweetness, creating a symphony in my mouth. If I had ordered nothing else, I would have been so happy with Taylor's I would have run through the Ferry Building singing its praises.


The patty melt was more than a bit disappointing. To be fair, I was so hungry, I barely tasted the first couple of bites. They use a nice dark rye bread, which is a welcome change from the usual light rye. The burger itself is obviously of good quality, but it's sadly overshadowed by the liberally applied condiments. There is way too much mayo and mustard on the damn burger. Granted, I hate mustard, and truly believe the spice and tang of the rye is more than sufficient to cut the fatty goodness of the Swiss cheese and beef. Still -- they overpowered the yummy dead cow, which knocks it down a peg in my book. The meat should sing in a burger, not the sauces.

The shake was equally disappointing. It was made wayyy before the rest of the meal ( I know because I was sitting near the end of the bar and watched it being made) so it melted and became a runny mess, rendering it no more than melted ice cream. Tasty melted ice cream, but not a shake.

Overall, it was a decent meal. Sure, the burger fell short, and the shake was laughable, but those fries -- THOSE FRIES -- were delicious enough to forgive puppy kicking. My biggest issue with Taylor's is the overinflated prices. Maybe if everything was perfect spending $20 on a burger, fries, and shake would be worth the cash, but not if my meal was the best they could offer.

The sweet potato fries, though. They were miraculous.

#49 -- ginger snaps at Miette
Miette is somewhat legendary in the confection/baking world. Bakers and major sweet teeth make pilgrimages to the adorable bake shop in search of their notoriously delightful cupcakes. Or so I've heard. I don't think I've ever had one of their cupcakes. I'm a snob, you see.

Anyhoodle, I was a little surprised to see their ginger snaps as the list-maker over their more well-known cupcakes or macarons, but I jumped at the chance to try a new ginger cookie. I love ginger confections, and ginger snaps are some of my favourite cookies.


"Adorable" is the best way to describe Miette. Everything, right down to their shopping bags, is tooth-achingly darling. I didn't get any photos of their Ferry Building location, but it's a nice French girl respite from the stark architechture that predominates.


The ginger snaps were ... well, there's a reason their cakes are more famous. That's the kindest way I can put it.
The cookies, despite looking lovely, were disgustingly stale. They lacked anything resembling the "snap" necessary to make a good ginger snap. They had a strange bite; soft, yet tough and chewy. I took a bite and had to chew for a good 5 minutes. My jaw was aching so bad I couldn't get through an entire cookie.

I made the Boy try one, and I wish I had taken a picture of his expression. His entire review: "Ew. God, ew. No." A couple days later, he informed me that they made impressive Frisbees.

But! I am no fool. I was wary of the ginger snaps, and had heard incredible things about Miette's macarons. I snapped up a classic raspberry for the Boy and a chocolate-lavender for me.


Let me tell you, the macarons should be on the Big Eat list, not the ginger snaps. They were the most perfect macarons I've ever eaten. The meringue had a slight crunch, yielding to a soft, melt-in-your-mouth fudge/jam centre.


The raspberry tasted true to the berry, without being overly jammy or sweet. The chocolate was a study in unfolding flavours: the fudge melted across the palate, giving way to a gentle lavender flavour, which, miraculously, didn't taste a bit like soap.

I could have eaten a million of them.

While the actual entries on the Big Eat Challenge fell short of my expectations, they pushed me in the direction of some really great food. If the rest of the challenge continues in this way, I'm going to be very fat. Very happy, but also very, very fat.

--amanda

Working for the Weekend

Dear No One in Particular,

I've been in a foul mood recently.
I often find myself suffering from a case of the grumblies for no reason other than I want to feel as though the world owes me a living, but that really isn't the case this time. Believe me when I say I wish all my problems were in my head and not out there in the real world, poking at me and pestering me.

I try not to take things for granted -- after all, my health is relatively good, I have a solid job and (for the most part) fantastic coworkers, lovely friends, an even lovelier boyfriend -- but you know how things can just snowball and all of a sudden you find yourself tumbling in a world of white and the only way out is to spit and pray for Beethoven to pop up with a case of brandy?
Speaking of which, do you know how much it costs to register a vehicle in California? Enough to make me want to go back to Hawaii, where their vehicle registration process makes sense and is inexplicably cheaper. And smog inspections? On a car that is less than 3 years old and is made to produce low emissions? Give me a fucking break, California. By the time I'm done paying to have my beloved car re-registered here, I'll have personally taken care of the state budget's deficit.

Honestly, I could go on all day, bitching and moaning about how I am now broker than broke (THANKS A LOT, CALIFORNIA. I wasn't saving that money for rent anyway), but then you'd probably want to strangle me with your bare hands, and really, I wouldn't blame you. Not one bit.

I've been told over and over again that "when God shuts a door, he leaves open a window". Can we just discuss for a moment how utterly impractical this is? Have you ever locked yourself out of a house? I have, and climbing through windows may sound like fun, but breaking and entering is not an adventure worth exploring. I feel like a more apt description would be God put the key to the locked door in a hide-a-key rock and he didn't tell you where it's hidden. And you're in a Japanese rock garden. Start turning stones over; you're bound to find it, so long as you look carefully.

This is my roundabout way of saying "Life kind of sucks right now, but I'm going to focus on the positive and try to make things better, especially since it could suck so much worse". So, let me tell you about my fantastic weekend.

Normally, my weekend could be summed up in a couple short sentences: I slept in late. I watched a movie and read blogs. I may have eaten something delicious. The end.
But this weekend was different! It was adventure-filled and fun! I socialized with real people instead of hiding in my room! I took pictures!

Friday:
The Boy took me to the Sonoma Mission Inn, which is apparently owned by Fairmont Hotels. Can I just say I had no idea the Fairmont was a chain? Not that it matters.
The hotel spa offers a "good neighbour discount" to those that live within 100 miles of the Mission Inn, allowing them to use the spa facilities for a meagre $25/day.

Knowing I would be in bougie-yuppie territory, I dressed up like Doris Day.

We brought a picnic lunch to share while lounging poolside, but never ate it. Apparently, the hotel's small cafe that serves overpriced salads and smoothies frowns on outside food being consumed in their midst.

Lounge chairs on a balcony overlooking the pool.

I did nom on some of the snacks we brought up here while reading book 3 of the Southern Vampire Mysteries (a.k.a. the True Blood books). This is also where I realized that the girl that best mirrors my mental image of Sookie Stackhouse is, in fact, Kendra from Girls Next Door. I know.

Just about every doorway/arch had some ivy creeping through:

So romantic.

I didn't take any pictures of the hotel's mineral-hot spring pools, mostly because I didn't want to be a creeper skulking around, snapping photos of middle-aged yuppies.
I spent the majority of the day floating around on water noodles, my head tipped back into the water so warm it felt like a bathtub, listening to a string symphony playing underwater.*

Later that night, I got a message from my favourite cousin, Mel**, asking if I wanted to go out. Naturally, I said yes; the last time we went out, a Berkeley hippie asked us if we wanted half of his watermelon. That's not a euphemism: he was sitting in the back of his pickup truck, eating a watermelon and genuinely wanted us to have the other half.

The Boy and I met her at Butter, my new favourite bar in San Francisco. Located in crazy-popular SOMA, Butter is a genius white trash bar. They serve drinks like the Tang-tini and snacks like deep-fried pb&j and Twinkies. You want to go now, right? Unfortunately, the "ironic" nature of Butter means it's insanely popular with the hipster crowd. Apparently, a gaggle of the hip were throwing a moustache party that night. I would ask if anyone knows the significance of a moustache party, but I figure we're all better for not knowing.

Regardless, the unwashed irony of hipness didn't throw off the night. Mel ended up getting me my first ever Jello shot for free, after trying (and failing) to help one of the bartenders. Related: I don't like Jello shots.

I figure this picture is fair game, since we both look like idiots.
(Also, don't try to enlarge it. It won't work. )

The best -- and most blasphemous --conversation of the night centered around us talking about getting fresh ink.
Mel: I'm going to get 'redemptor' tattooed.
Amanda: Oh God, you're serious about that?
Mel: Why the hell wouldn't I be?
Amanda: *shakes head in disbelief*
Mel: I AM THE REDEMPTOR. That makes you John the Baptist!
Amanda: Why, because I'm six months older?
Mel: You should get a John the Baptist tattoo! That way, we match.
Amanda: I'm going to pass on that. Does this mean some bitch is going to have my head cut off?
Mel: *shrugs her shoulders* I'm just saying .... pave the way. 35 is coming up real fast.

Saturday:
Wine and Cheese Parties are something of a tradition with my girlfriends and I. For the past 5 years we've been flung across the country, meeting only when school breaks for summer and winter vacations. Every summer we would have a Wine and Cheese Party every week, weather permitting. Now that we're all back in the Bay Area, it's been oddly difficult to schedule a party, since it's now our job schedules that get in the way. Miraculously, we were all free Saturday evening, so we celebrated by throwing our first party of the summer.

We always hold Wine and Cheese parties at the Berkeley Albany Bulb. Apparently, it's a landfill? I obviously know nothing about the pretty little peninsula that I've been frequenting for years. It's a wonderful place to walk your dog or throw an outdoor picnic; it's quintessentially Berkeley, filled with grafitti and makeshift art.

We always -- ALWAYS -- hike out to what my friend L calls "The Castle". It's a bizarre mishmash house-like structure made of rebar and concrete.
It's difficult to get to, unless you know exactly where it is.



One of the better shots I got of The Castle. Up top are my gorgeous friends, N and L. M is the lovely girl waving from the doorway and ... the back of the Boy. Uh, none of these people know about the blog (Boy excluded), so let's not tell them, kay? Good deal.

Anyway, we always eat on top of The Castle, since the inside is small and usually littered with broken bottles. Every surface is painted in bright, bold graffiti, even the small concrete bench sitting below the sole window.



We sat and talked, eating bread and brie, watching the sun set across the San Francisco Bay.

M: "I like the way the clouds look sun-dappled. Like a palomino.
*laughs*
The sky looks like a dirty horse's hindquarters!"

It was a lovely couple of days, and a wonderful way to end the week.

I hope to have more of them.

--amanda


_______________________
*You read that right -- one of the pools plays music underwater!
**Quick warning: while I find Mel's blog HILARIOUS, her writing can -- and probably will -- offend more sensitive readers. Everything's SFW; just don't read it aloud while children are in the room. ***
***I'm pretty sure hers is the only food blog that requires such a disclaimer. (You're totally interested now, aren't you?)

There Must Be Something in Books

This is, perhaps, old news, but I was recently introduced to the heartrending photographs taken at the Detroit Public Schools Book Depository, aka the Roosevelt Warehouse. I spent the last 15 minutes clicking through the set with my heart in my throat.
Granted, Jim is an incredible photographer, but it's the sheer destruction of the book depository that causes me to tear up. I still can't get over it.

My first reaction was "what the hell happened?" Apparently, it was everyone's first reaction. Jim wrote up an incredibly detailed history of the depository and the series of events that eventually led to the ruins that we see today. Short answer (in case you don't want to read the whole story, which you really should): a major fire ravaged the warehouse in 1987, seemingly destroying everything, causing officials to abandon the wreckage; it later became apparent that not all supplies had been destroyed, leaving perfectly good textbooks and much-needed school supplies abandoned. The building was eventually purchased by a local magnate, but the building and its contents were left to the elements, vandals, drug addicts, and Detroit's increasing homeless population. While the warehouse was once ridiculously easy to break into, security measures were tightened (albeit superficially) only after a frozen corpse was recovered at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

In another post detailing his photographing the book depository, Jim muses that he is "struck by the way people respond in the comments with a sense of 'sadness'". He goes on to ask his readers:

why is it "sad" for a building to be left to decay if there is no one willing to use it? Can decay be something more than sentimental? Can it ever be beautiful? Can it just be respected for what it is, and not further corrupted by our emotions? And what is it that draws us to ruination? Why do some of us find it so compelling?

My sadness, if you can call it that, stems not from the fact that this old building is crumbling. It comes more from the history of it, the stories of the people whose very lives revolved around the building and its contents. Detroit is the quintessential blue-collar city, and it is impossible for me to remove the workers from the warehouse when I click through the photographs. I can't help but imagine the warehouse floors free of decay and bustling with workers. Distribution records, charred along the edges, but still legible, litter the floors. Someone spent their day filling out forms; someone spent their day moving boxes. 1986 feels so far gone, yet it's only recently passed. I wonder what happened to the people who woke up one morning and started their day like it was any other, only to watch their livelihood go up in flame -- literally. Did they simply move to another depository, or were they forced into the unemployment line, trying to find another marketable skill?

Yet what really slays me are the abandoned supplies. Granted, the fire destroyed quite a bit of the warehouse's contents -- what wasn't burnt was severely water damaged, but so much was simply written off as unsalvageable. Mountains of unwrapped textbooks still on pallets are now covered in mold; it's pretty easy to see that these books were perfectly fine at the time of the fire -- why weren't they redistributed? Some workbooks appear to have sustained minimal damage, 20+ years later.
Detroit is one of nation's poorest school districts. Administrators are sensationalist newspapers' darlings, never failing to provide scandal purchased with money from the district budget. My heart aches not for the ruined building, but for the children whose futures went up in smoke and/or were simply abandoned. Student achievement scores are sickeningly low and it is impossible to pretend that this is a recent occurrence -- 47% of adults in the Motor City are functionally illiterate. How many of these men and women would have benefited from the piles upon piles of unused material found in the book depository?
I must admit, this is a subject that is close to my heart. I once taught in an outreach program for at-risk youth. The kids were incredibly smart, but because of poor living situations and because they weren't receiving the necessary attention in school, they were falling through the cracks. 14 year-olds couldn't tell time on an analog clock, could barely write a simple sentence. And while I was far from working in the nation's most financially-needy school district, I didn't always have enough books or worksheets for the kids. Paints and markers were purchased with our own money -- and we didn't make that much. The sight of all those unused school supplies makes me bitterly angry and sad.

The photos stand as a testament to the failures of the system, of, as Jim puts it, "abandoned hope". I look at the pictures and see so much waste: wasted chalk, wasted paper, wasted opportunities.

But of course, there's always some silver lining. Some of my favourite photos from the set are of a tree called the "ghetto palm" growing from a soil made of burned textbooks. While the destruction is heartbreaking, there is something poetic and beautiful about some life bursting from the ruin.

--amanda