Skipping Town

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: We love our farmers’ market. Really. It is the best farmers’ market I have every seen, anywhere—and that even includes the Boqueria, though for atmosphere and sheer grandeur, the Boqueria still trumps all. Our farmers’ market takes place every Sunday in a big parking lot underneath a highway overpass, which makes it very California. What also makes it very California—but in a good way—is the abundance of fruits and vegetables available every week, all grown and harvested within driving distance of Sacramento. The bounty is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before: piles upon piles of peaches, pluots, corn, potatoes, greens, herbs, onions, carrots, squash, cucumbers, green beans. Baskets of strawberries and blackberries and figs. Fresh meat and fish. Lavender, bunches of wildflowers, fresh honey. Andrew and I have committed ourselves to eating solely what we can buy at the farmers’ market and at our local organic food co-op, except...

Over the past year or so, I’ve made great inroads with my explorations of California. My knowledge of the West, however, needs quite a bit of work; I’ve been to Reno and Tahoe in Nevada, and Denver, but that’s about it. So last weekend Andrew and I headed to Sandpoint, Idaho, for what proved to be an eye-opening, rather alarming, introduction to this odd, distant state. Our purpose for the trip was a wedding, for a cousin of Andrew’s who—of his own volition—recently moved with his new wife to a log cabin deep into the Idahoan woods.   Without naming any names or being too specific, I’ll say only this: I saw more guns this weekend than I’ve ever seen in the rest of my life combined, and heard more talk of guns than ever before, which is saying a lot since I come from the hunters’ playground of Southwestern Pennsylvania. I learned about people living “off the grid,” who don’t pay taxes and have their own generators and are for all intents and purposes, and for reasons of their...

Now is the winter of our discontent… There was nothing to be discontented about on Friday evening, as the sun set over a shimmering, cerulean Lake Tahoe and the brilliant stars slowly emerged in the wide black sky. Andrew and I had taken my parents, visiting from Pittsburgh, to the Lake Tahoe Shakespeare Festival to see Richard III —a repeat visit for us, having seen Romeo and Juliet at the festival last year. I’ve written about the festival on this blog before, but it is such an amazing event it bears repeating. The plays take place at the Sand Harbor State Park, on a stage in an open-air theater that has Lake Tahoe as the backdrop. The first ten rows or so feature Adirondack chairs with wide armrests, where theater-goers enjoy the dinners they've ordered in advance from Shakespeare’s Kitchen. The next rows of seats are on a sand-covered hill; and above that is the “upper gallery,” where you can rent a low-to-the-ground lawn chair for $3 and have a volunteer with a shovel hel...

Planning to be on the road this afternoon? Then my advice to you is—watch out. Better yet, stay home. I’ve got a brand-new, house-size Jeep…and I can barely drive it. Is the Jeep mine? Please, no. Is it mine for a few days ? Yes. Our beloved Volvo is in the shop again (eleven-year-old cars stubbornly tend to like it there), relegating us to the joys of paying for a rental car when we already own a car. But I digress. I was calmly watering my plants this afternoon on the terrace when I saw a behemoth of a car glide sinisterly, hearse-like, down my block. I had my usual thought, whispering idly through my mind as I tended to my bright marigolds and thyme: Look at that awful car. What an ugly, gas-guzzling piece of hideousness. I can’t imagine ever driving a car like that. To my surprise, the car came to a stop outside my house. And then out stepped my husband, who waved at me warily. That’s our rental?! I screamed. I’m not driving that! Once in the apartment, Andrew explained that...

Loyal readers of this blog will remember a distraught post from a little over a year ago, when my altered mind-state, brought about by being by myself all day with nothing to do in a suburban studio apartment without any furniture, led me to agree to attend a time-share sales presentation, with the idea that this would be a good way to get a free trip to Las Vegas. Loyal readers will remember that Andrew and I were effectively held hostage for several hours, in what was easily one of the most harrowing and horrible experiences I’ve ever willingly put myself into. We escaped without buying a time share with a “fantastic” 18% interest rate on the offered mortgage. We did, indeed, receive a certificate for a free trip to Las Vegas. With the voucher’s expiration date rapidly approaching, we have decided to forgo the trip. Not surprisingly, the departure times are difficult, the hotel is sub-par, and the required taxes all add up to something that is a total waste of time. Part of me was de...