Ostrich Burger

It all started with an ostrich burger.

In the high desert, amidst miles of Joshua trees, dry washes, scrub grasses and sand, streets turn into roads, roads fade into trails, sign posts become sparse, and you quickly think you are far away from home. Just in the very fact of being there, you have taken the road less traveled.

Last week, it was work that took me there, to a small town, deep in the Antelope Valley, with the charming name of Pearblossom. It was noontime now, and my afternoon was free until my return in the morning to observing classrooms and talking educational jargon with intelligent administrators.

MacDonalds reared its yellow arches up ahead on the Pearblossom Highway. No, not MacDonald’s, not today. The sky is too blue, and the snow is white on the distant mountains. No, today it must be something more authentically indigenous. Charlie Brown’s, touting fresh picked peaches, buffalo steak, date shakes, exotic game meats and . . . ostrich burgers. Within 15 minutes, I had ordered an ostrich burger and sweet potato fries, changed out of my pantsuit and pumps and into my jeans and plaid shirt, and was settling onto a sunny picnic table in the middle of a tiny, fake, wild west ghost town. I took my first bite of ostrich burger.

I don’t know how the fella at the next table knew it was an ostrich burger. It looked as tame as a burger of beef. “How’s that ostrich burger?”

“It’s quite good. Lean, mild, almost like turkey. I like it.” “It’s my first time trying one,” I added needlessly.

“I’ll have to give it a go next time. My buddy and I, looks like we had too big a breakfast up at the top.”

“At the top? Of what?”

“The mountains. We rode our bikes down. Do that every once in awhile. We live up in Wrightwood.”

“Bikes? How on earth do you get back up?” I put down the ostrich burger.

“Motorcycles, dear lady.”

“Oh, of course. How far away is it from here?”

“Just about thirty minutes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Those mountains looked huge, and distant.

I quickly calculated a comparison to my intended drive to Palmdale for the night. Visions of pine trees danced through my head.

Within fifteen minutes, I was on the road going in the opposite direction. Within half an hour, I was at 4,000 feet, noticing patches of snow. Ten minutes later I was at 7,000 feet, in the town of Wrightwood. I reeled out of the car, drinking deep, bracing breaths of mountain air, my eyes lifting a hundred feet up to catch the tops of pines that brushed the sky blue.

I started to walk -- I didn’t know where and I didn’t care. I was in a place I didn’t expect to be, and it was glorious. An hour later, I had walked all the streets named after birds, and all the perpendicular streets named after trees. I was near the edge of town, when a fluffy little white dog tumbled off a front porch and gamboled up to me and started licking my hand. A man got up from a wicker porch chair, laughing and apologizing, and we exchanged the usual greetings that occur when one’s dog has just shared intimacies with a stranger.

We chatted on, as the shadows lengthened.

“So, where do you recommend someone stay here in Wrightwood?”

“I have the perfect place. I’ll show you.”

In another half an hour I had met his wife, written a personal check, and Iwas installed for the night in a cozy little apartment over the detached garage.

I sank into a leather couch, opened my laptop, and buried my head into curriculum analysis. When I emerged, I was ready for the meeting tomorrow and ready for something else, though I didn’t have the foggiest idea what. I hopped into the car, wrapped myself in two sweaters, and drove down the road called Pine.

Three minutes later, I was drinking a glass of Merlot at a little wooden table in a little rough-wood-paneled coffee shop. Packed into the corner were two guitar players, a bass player, a keyboard player ,dreadlock-bedecked drummer and a tambourine man.

The singer’s name was Gale and she had a clear, true voice and she smiled as she sang. She was singing all the songs I loved when I was in my twenties. One by one, the locals showed up, greeted each other and settled in. After a bit, they started introducing me, too. I was swept up by the natural friendliness and abandoned my usual reserve. Sure felt good, by golly, sure did.

At a pause in the songs, we all trooped up wooden stairs to the singer’s new studio, where sunlight shone in the daytime and moonlight shone at night, through the windows wide and high, onto the drafting tables with paintings held in suspense. Everyone mingled, and milled, and mulled over the possibilities of watercolor classes in May, acrylics classes in June, and starting life anew in a redwood loft.

Then we all trooped back down the stairs, and settled into our chairs. The drummer from Chicago, the school teacher-turned-artist, the newcomers, the old-timers, the several woman clinking glasses and proclaiming their success in forgetting their lost loves, the few men drifting on memories of youth, and the husband and the wife producing sandwiches, pouring wine, and forgetting to tally the bills.

Gale told the story behind a song she had written about her retirement from teaching, just a few months before. It was called The Time of My Life. When she sang, the story of the wild, fast ride up the mountain, on the back of a Harley, with her hair and her spirit flying, not knowing what her future was going to bring. somehow it felt like the time of my life.

The song ended, and I heard my own voice blurt out, “Oh, yeah, you go girl!” Everyone’s glass was raised with my words, and the room clinked.

“So, how long have you lived here, Pat?”

“Me? Oh, I just got here today.”

“Today? This is your first day here? Well, let’s all give Pat a big welcome to Wrightwood!“

“Where do you live?” I think they expected me to name one of those bird streets.

“Oh, I live in Manhattan Beach. I came here on a whim.” A dozen faces were looking at me with incredulity.

“Well, see, It all stared with an ostrich burger.“ And so I began to tell my story.

The Pad

I went disguised as a writer. I was carrying glasses, laptop, pens, and a yellow tablet. If I put on my reading glasses, I might be convincing. I had found the red brick building, deep in the mysterious industrial zone of downtown L.A. It had no door. It had a gate, which rolled open if you said the right thing, to the right person, after pushing the right button. Aha! I gained entrance. Three flights up the fire escape, and I was in. The Writing Pad.

The door opened to shoes. Many shoes. Bare feet evidently enhanced either the experience or the shine on the blond hardwood floor. I sidled my Sketchers up against a masculine pair of New Balance. The floor was smooth, cool and clean on my feet. I stepped in.

Just past the white bed,on the left, a computer hutch and stacks of books defined a work area. To the right, a rectangle aburst with sunlight shining through gauzy curtains defined a mysterious space, with a couch.

I was immediately drawn to this veiled and lighted space, curious to know what mystical acts were performed in there that required more care in privacy than the bed. A peak revealed vaulting floor-to-ceiling windows and, yes, a couch. Then, the answer: Huge canvases asplash with colors, all colors, bold colors, bold shapes. Multiple easels and stacked canvases. A place to worship to the artistic process and nature’s sunlight.

Beyond, working towards more huge windows, were couches and chairs, a fireplace, and about a dozen people lounging everywhere, on the couches, on the chairs, on cushions, on the floor. Everyone was barefoot, and had something to write with and something to write on. In a corner kitchen, the hosts shared their morning coffee. Kindred spirits, surely.

So here I was amidst writers, not knowing quite how I got there, nor what I was going to do. I was in another world, in an artist’s loft. The building used to be a mattress factory, and yet here now were fifty artists creating art -- and me.

This space was everything. It defied norms, boundaries and separations. It was workplace and bedroom merged. It housed both a private life and a public life. All was skylit. Walls did not exist. Everything was movable. Chairs glided, the bookshelves rolled, cabinets shifted.

Here was a place where minds could change, hearts could roam, and spirits could investigate. And here I was. And so, there was just one thing to do. I began to write.

Tables and Taxes

I got up in a perfectly good mood and went downstairs to make a good, hot cup of tea. I approached my dining room table, but did not sit down. I glared at it. Emotions surged through my hands and I gripped the cup hard. Anger boiled. Rebellion built. Insurrection screamed.

The table was completely extended, big enough to serve a dinner party of 10. But no one was going to come and laugh and clink wine glasses, oh no. Not until the contents of this table, the piles of checks, the stacks of forms, the calculator, the checkbook, that covered every inch of its oaky surface, were cleared. No, not until the day of reckoning came. That day would come when it all got bundled up, its pertinent numbers crunched on a form, and it all got carried to the Tax Man. There, it would then cover his table and our dinner could be served again.

Until the fateful meeting with the Tax Man, every day, I would look at this. Its stacks demanded attention, and were designed to bother me, and bother me they did. This was constantly what I was supposed to be attending to instead of whatever it was I was doing. It foretold checks to write, withdrawals, and the concocting of deductions. It was nothing good.

Why is it so much trouble to give money to Uncle? Not only do you have to pay your medical bills, you then have to find a year’s worth of medical bills, find a year’s worth of measley insurance payments, add them, subtract them, and itemize them—all in hopes of getting back money you have already given.

And then there is the accountant. By the time the whole family has had the taxes done, the accountant bill alone could have paid for half a year’s education for a third grader. Think of what this could mean to starving school districts.

Last night I had a dream about the dining room table. In that dream, a man with a tall hat was informing me that I needed to estimate how many breathes I took that year, subtract the number of mouthfuls of food I consumed, and estimate what I was going to owe in tax dollars next year. In that dream, I just went home and laid myself down on the dining room table, closed my mouth tightly and tried not to breathe.

I woke up with a great tenderness for all of the groaning dining tables across the great nation with their burden of papers, and all the suppers eaten as people crouched with their plates on their laps.

Just Do It

I’ve been on the slow path to recovery from a ruptured disc. Slow is always difficult for someone used to getting things accomplished efficiently. But slow affords the opportunity to better notice things along the way.

My inspiration this week has come in the form of a dog. He is a German shepherd named Nike. Nike has had a stroke and has almost totally lost the use of his hind legs. One of his hind legs flops on the ground as he walks, and has to be protected with bandages. The other one is completely inert.

Nevertheless, this dog walks. He walks twice a day, every day, on the Strand. Nike is a “Just Do It” dog. He also has a “Just Do It” human who gets him up and about every two hours, takes him to her real estate office with her everyday, and takes him on his glorious walks.

She has also done something else: She has found Nike his wheels. Nike walks with his hind quarters suspended by an ingenious set of rear wheels, hind leg supported in a soft sling. These WalkinWheels were created by Eddie, who has custom-designed ingenious contraptions for dogs, sheep, pigs, llamas and even – yes – chickens. Seeing will be believing, so check it out at www.eddieswheels.com.

Eddie has found a way to help. And Nike has found a way to “Just Do It”. I would guess that Nike doesn’t think too much about how he is doing it. He just gets up, gets out, and gets going. It may not be the way he learned to walk the first time around, but, by golly, he gets his strong front legs going and somehow the rest of the dog comes along. One day, one fantastic day, he even spotted a squirrel, hesitated just for a moment, and took off after that squirrel, running This dog knows how to live.

We may encounter injuries and setbacks. We don’t always feel we have what it takes. But if we can just find our wheels and believe in them, get up and get going, we can do it too.

Why Is the Toilet in the Hallway?

My friend Amelia, who is five years old, asks the most provocative questions. Her latest one was, “Why is the toilet in the hall?”

This question prompts complex philosophical inquiry. There are many ways to explain such a phenomenon, as exemplified below.

“Well, it’s better there than in the bedroom!” This is usually going to be true, depending of course on what goes on in the bedroom.

“You see, when you don’t know how else to fix your life, you tend to turn your attention to plumbing.” When in doubt, upgrade your flushing capacities; you can’t go wrong.

“Well, the time was right. We decided to remodel our daughter’s bathroom before she moves out. She will enjoy it for a whole two months. Carpe diem.” Carpe momentus stupido.

“Well, we didn’t know if we were selling or staying, so we decided to embark on a project to further confound ourselves.”

As for the psychotherapist’s take on the toilet in the hall, as long as nobody uses it, there should be no permanent psychological harm.

Why the toilet is still in the hallway? Because, madam, you’re not in as much of a mess as other clients.” This is cause for optimism.

None of my explanations quite seemed to impress Amelia. So I distracted her by showing her the marvels of the black hole in the floor, down which goes the poop. She gaped in amazement. Now this,this indeed, was a profound revelation.

Young at Heart

Never judge a person by her age. 

I have a friend who is truly young at heart.  It just seems to come naturally to her.  She is inquisitive, spontaneous, energetic and imaginative.  Her eyes sparkle as if she were on the brink of a discovery.  Although I’ve only known her for a few years, she accepts me like a life-long friend.  She delights in simple things, and her laugh gurgles like a fresh stream after a rain shower.  I simply feel young when I am with her.  Her name is Amelia. 

Last night, Amelia was my dinner guest.   Within minutes of walking through the door, she was on the floor hugging the golden retriever.  After a rousing game of tug and fetch, she was eager to help cook the meal.  Amelia gives me fresh insights on everything.  For example, she is the only cook I know who needs no spoons. Why use spoons when you have your fingers?  Mixing cornbread, applying marinade, no problem.  The set of ten tools you were born with are sufficient. 

Amelia is also a believer in “taste as you go”.  Although this has the potential of disaster to the recipe, the results are nevertheless excellent when the method is equally applied to all ingredients.  She will always be welcome wherever she goes: She is the only guest I know who gets as much pleasure from washing the bowls as she does from eating the food. 

She leads with her heart.  Her passion for pink inspired the utmost creativity with desert, transforming whipped cream, strawberries and vanilla yogurt into a dream-bowl of frothy wonderfulness. 

To top off a most illuminating culinary experience, we indulged in our mutual love of literature by reading Pinkalicious.

If you need distraction from life’s complexities, it’s a good idea to seek out a good friend --  preferably one who, like Amelia, is five years old.

Martinis at 3

Sometimes life’s detours are better than it’s destinations.

One day last week, my plan was to get drawer liners and bathmats. En route, I approached my friend Suzie’s empty house. After 32 years there, she had moved to lovely but landlocked Arizona.  Impulsively pulled out my cell phone and dialed her number.  A ring.   Vavam!  Her image appeared -- not on the phone, but in her front yard!  I immediately pulled over and attempted to kidnap her for two hours.  I applied all my charm, and she resisted.  The errand list was driving her like a cowboy. 

I finally coaxed Suzie into the car with promises of doing errands—all the while scheming to  spend one precious hour with her relaxing in some sunshine, on a beautiful day, in the beach community she has forsaken, with the friend she has left behind.  My dark side plotted a means to cajole this desert-and-mountain convert into acknowledging that beach is beautiful.

So, two destinations later, we were heading towards the ocean -- two old friends with a car stuffed with bathmats.  Seeking a sunny spot, somehow we found ourselves sitting down at Hennessy’s. 

It was three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Who was this person sitting in Hennessy's in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week?  I was supposed to be in my windowless office, surrounded by books, clicking away at endless emails, managing task lists, people and budgets and hoping at best for some diverting text message.  Wasn’t I?  No more!  I had shut that office door for its final time.  If not work time, then, wasn’t it time for homework, milk and cookies?  Well, I didn’t see any.

It was 3 o’clock, and it was HAPPY HOUR.  Lord, I didn’t even know people got happy so early in the day.  So, with limited savvy in the ordering of martinis, but emboldened by the offer of two for one, I ordered a most girly pink Cosmo. 

Gazing left, over the railing, I could see the blue Pacific rising up the wall of the horizon.  Looking up, I could imagine that the handsome bartender was glancing at me with appreciative eyes -- if I did not more realistically assess that he, too, was admiring the sparkling sea beyond me. 

Glancing right, I could see a twenty-something woman in a casual dark ponytail, scribbling on a well-filled, legal-sized yellow tablet.  My secretary, when I had a secretary, had always kept me supplied with stacks of these talismans which I believed invoked my best thinking.  I therefore assumed THINKING was happening at the adjacent table.  This young woman’s ink was black and her focus was enviable. 

I, myself, reserved by nature, did not inquire about the black ink. 

My friend, who has fewer inhibitions and therefore makes more friends, blurted out, “What are you writing?” 

The young woman looked up with pondering brown eyes and said simply,  “I’m writing a book.”  My ears pricked up. 

Then the Cosmo started talking, and my confession gushed.  “That’s what I‘ve always wanted to do!” 

And so the conversation expanded.  Here was a girl, age twenty-six, who obviously had it more together than I.  She had achieved miracles.  She had put black ink onto a tablet.  She had an agent who had offered her a book deal.  How did the happen?  Well, she had always been writing.  A few years ago, she had started writing a blog.  An agent had discovered her blog and approached her. 

Where does this girl live, anyway, in Never-Never-Web-Land? 

“A blog?”  My ears were now ringing and the Cosmo was half drained.  “I just started a blog a few weeks ago,” I responded with some dignity. 

The two-for-one martini deal was getting good.  Emboldened, I offered her my blog address.  She gave me hers, BecomingJennie.com.  Feeling suddenly chummy, I asked,“ Jennie, how many hits have you gotten?”

“Well, one day I woke up and actually cried when I hit ten thousand hits.”  I had to repeat the number.  She probably thought I was deaf in addition to being sixty years old.  My jaw dropped and my martini nearly splashed into my lap.  No!   Surely this girl lives on the moon, and has redefined cyberspace.

She must have sensed incredulity quickly turning into to E-Envy.  Generously, she offered up some advice, such as keeping a blog name short.  I reflected on my long, sweet-and-sassy name and looked with dismay at my empty martini glass.  I encouraged Suzie to order another martini, so I could drink half of it without feeling I had ordered a second martini. 

Suzie asked, “So what do you write about?” 

Jenny answered, “Well, basically, about life.”  I lifted my eyebrows. Didn’t you have to have more wrinkles before you could write on that topic?  She must have sensed my skepticism.  Turning a page of her tablet, she sighed, “It seems like I’ve already lived several lifetimes.” How could one achieve this so early on in the game?  Later, when I would hit her site, I would get some clues; it wasn’t easy. 

In my twenties, I don’t think I knew very much about life.   I was too busy achieving the predictable.  It takes a long time for most of us to figure out life. 

“Well, Jennie, I’ve got to tell you, if you think you have a lot to say about life and living now, just wait ‘til you hit your 60’s!  It will amaze you!  But be prepared:  You’ll be trying to figure it out all over again, just like when you were twenty. ” 

With an extravagant flourish, I paid the bill and walked out with my long-time, old-young pal.  I was smiling.  I might be just a beginner, and I might not understand a lot about life.  But I had just had my very first martini at 3.  And I was going to write about it.