Sunday, December 25, 2011

THE HOLIDAY DILEMMA...

Okay, now it is official. I am one of those goddamn Californians I have spent my life railing against.

No, I didn’t join a commune. No I didn’t sign a legalize pot initiative in front of Safeway. And, no I didn’t buy an overpriced beach bungalow and learn to surf.

What I did do, for the very first time in my life, is purchase a “live” Christmas tree. There. I said it. I’ve sent it into the cyber-void and cannot gracefully take it back. 


I have spent the last 61 years supporting the Boy Scouts, or the Baptist Youth Fellowship, or, on several occasions, braving the wilds, with boot and saw, to gather my own feral holiday shrub from the great outdoors.

And, with the exception of the wild and unwashed variety, it has become harder and harder to find a tree that looks like a tree, and not some mutant seedling that was carefully groomed to fit into that giant pencil sharpener gizmo that turns it into the picture perfect little clone of someone’s over-vivid imagination.

Before, you could poke around in the back of the lot (behind the tiny, poorly lit trailer house) where they kept the bastard children and the severed limbs. There you could find a tree that was just asymmetrical enough to be a second class citizen and too thin of branch to qualify for the shaper-shredder. You would drag it out into the light and ask, “how much for this one?” and the overdressed and unshaven lot troll would glean some crumbs from his stubble and point out that it had a bald spot on one side and didn’t come with a stand. You would claim it was just what you wanted, he would offer you a deal on a fifteen foot Norway Spruce that was normally a hundred bucks, you would stand your ground, he would cave and it was yours for ten or twelve bucks. Onto the roof of the car and he was glad to be rid of both you and that ugly goddamn tree.

This year, apparently, the Christmas tree union came down hard at the bargaining table and, as a result, the price of any tree came close to a ten day holiday south of the border. At least here in Insanity Cruz the crap trees started at about thirty-five bucks and shot up like a two stage rocket from there. But there amongst the groomed, sculpted and bundled denizens of Holiday Hell was a wee bairn of a tree in a three gallon bucket.  Not a standard “christmas” tree of pine or spruce, it is a cypress tree. It looks rather like a four foot, wind swept cedar, a long feathery bower with a whimsical tilt to its top and it was only $29.95.

Throw on some lights and the odd decoration and there is no mistaking its purpose. Now if I can just keep the goddamn thing alive for the next 364 days (out on the deck…) I will use it again and get the price averaged down to my unrealistic standards.

And to all a good night.


Sunday, October 16, 2011

ENTER THE DRAGON (fruit)

Now, it’s true that I have traveled some and I do have an appetite for foods I have never seen before, but there is still a lot out there that is new to me at every turn.  This would be why I tend to frequent Farmers’ Markets and Mercados and the odd roadside stand.

Tuther day we were in Watsonville on a day trip for good grub (quick side jaunt to the Corralitos Market for a variety pack-o-sausages…) and so we stopped at our favorite produce stand out on the way to the fairgrounds. They had a mountain of Halloween related vegetables with pumpkins of every color and giant squashes & gourds that had a decidedly pumpkin cast to their physiognomy…some with proper names like Turk’s Head Squash and others labeled simply Big Warty Bumpy Things.

We bypassed all this to get to what we wanted… grapefruit-10 for a buck, fresh berries, avocados-4 for a buck, raspberry newtons and fresh veggies.

Shopping bags groaning, we headed for the register where, in a manner most eye-catching, sat a flat of Vietnamese Dragon Fruit. I had never seen one or even heard mention of them and I was intrigued. 

Imagine, if you will, something the general size and shape of a big sweet potato only hot, fluorescent pink with large, random, bright green artichoke leaf looking bits poking out here and there. 



From there the conversation went sorta like this:
“What the hell is that?”
“Dragon fruit…. they’re from Vietnam.”
“Are they good?”
“Some people like ‘em. They’re an acquired taste I guess.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Slice ‘em open and scoop out the insides and eat it.”
“Well I gotta have one.”

So I took it home, laid it on the cutting board and sliced it right down the middle.
Not that I had expected anything in particular when I opened it… but it was not what I expected. The inside looks like French Vanilla Bean Ice Cream… creamy white with hundreds of little black flecks throughout.  Somewhere between a kiwi and a poppy seed muffin only in black & white.



Now, as a rule, the more arcane a fruit or vegetable looks the more likely it will be like a Chinese puzzle box or a bank vault when it comes to removing the small edible bit somewhere in the middle.  Not so the Dragon Fruit. It opens up like a lonely, liquored up librarian at a conference far from home and you don’t have to toss anything out with the husk.  You just scoop it out like you would an over-ripe avocado, dice it up and you are ready to chew. (they do say to make sure that all the pink bits from the inside of the husk are cut away because they taste nasty…)

The acquired taste bit must be the fact that it is not overly sweet like many giant fruits, so we mixed it in a bowl with fresh raspberries, blackberries and bananas. Damn good eatin’.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

EIGHTY IN DOG YEARS...

Sad to say, my dog, Pepe, has gone off to play fetch with Jesus. Luckily his passing was quick and relatively pain free. He died in his own bed, in his favorite place - hunkered down in front of a good, warm fire - with the help of a great friend and good drugs.


Those of you who erroneously imagined that it was you who had the best dog in the world may now fight amongst yourselves for the title of Also Ran.



He is now off on an adventure where the birds have no wings, the squirrels all have one bum leg and Auntie Michelle never puts the lid back on the treat jar… 

I like to think of him eating table scraps off God’s own dinner fork.



Thank you to Talia who had the presence of mind to pick him out of the pile of shelter pups in the first place, everyone who dog sat him over the years, Michelle for giving him a country estate in his dotage and especially Lovely who saw him through his moving on. 

He and I are both forever in your debt.


Wednesday, September 21, 2011

WHERE IT'S REALLY WICKY WACKY WOO...

Got a line on another great place to dine in downtown Santa Cruz ‘tuther day. I had a little bit of the old folding green come in and, while I was pondering how best to fritter it away, I heard an ad on KPIG for All Night Long Happy Hour at a place called Hula’s Island Grill and Tiki Room. Well, if there is anything I know for sure it is that Happy Evening trumps Happy Hour every time. So, in the time honored tradition, I rescued Tama from the jaws of employment and off we went to our very own south sea isle, right off Pacific and with two hour parking for only a buck


Gotta say, it don’t look like much from the outside but that definitely ends at the threshold.  Acres of bamboo and plaited palm fronds cover the interior and the walls are generously appointed with surf ephemera and paintings on black velvet… look, there’s Elvis from his Blue (Hawaii) Period. Nearly every horizontal surface not dedicated to food or alcohol is littered with small statuary of the Tiki God variety (say, isn’t that the one that Greg Brady tried to steal?) I tell you, it made me want a narrow necktie and a cocktail date with Hedy Lamar.

Anyway, we were seated by our charming wait person, a lovely young woman named Leilani (Leilani? Really? Maybe the waitress formerly know as Tiffany…) and we settled in to the drinks menu.  As I said, it was happy hour all night long which meant that things like their signature Island Cocktails and the whole appetizer menu were all only five bucks each. I went with the swaying palms, moonlit beach theme and ordered a Mai Tai, which came in an oversized rocks glass and it’s very own fruit salad.  With the first sip it was obvious that the happy hour fairy had pushed up hard on the bartender’s elbow while he poured in the rum and I silently gave praise for such skill and devotion.

With a panoply of five buck appetizer choices… well, that’s as far as we got with the menu. We ordered Hawaiian Ceviche, served with lime juice, coconut milk, chilies, cilantro & garlic and served with big deep fried wontons instead of corn chips; Crispy Coconut Shrimp Rolls with a pineapple-horseradish dipping sauce (so good we ordered that one again); Vegetarian Vietnam Spring Rolls with apple and lemongrass and served with both a mint/chili sauce and peanut sauce; Spicy Thai fish Cakes with a cilantro, chili, red onion, ginger, fish sauce and Tiki Torch Chicken Wings in a hoisin/sambal sauce… oh, look, sweet Leilani brought me another tub-o-Mai Tai. How nice.

Everything was excellent or better and a lot of new or forgotten flavors… we left so stuffed we didn’t even check to see if the dessert options were priced for happy hour and we piled up enough crockery to assure the dish washer his next semester’s tuition. Hell, I didn’t even care that the Spring Rolls had tofu in them… will wonders never cease.

The food tab came to a measly thirty bucks so, like McArthur in the south seas so many years ago, we vowed that we shall return.

Friday, September 16, 2011

YEE HAW! WE HAVE DONE WENT TO THE COUNTY FAIR!


It is that autumnal time of year which means the Santa Cruz County Fair in Watsonville.  Tama jumped ship an hour early and we beat the rush, forked over five bucks to park and a few more to crash the metal detectors at the main gate and we were in the heart of the beast.


First off lemme say that I am a fair attendee born and bred.  Starting in a blanket and cloth diaper, I didn’t miss one in my home town until I was 26. A few blank years here and there, the odd very small town ones as I wandered the good old US of A on a motorcycle and I am still a fan.

Why this over-abundance of garish lighting energizes me while the same voltage in Vegas leaves me yawning and indifferent is a mystery… maybe if you could readily get corn dogs and deep fried burritos on the streets of Sin City?

But I digress…

A couple of things of note on the Watsonville turf.  For one, there was a very high profile for the long arm of the law… all armed and properly vested etc. but also hanging out with Smokey Bear or driving a 1947 John Deere in the tractor parade.  The other most obvious thing was a startling level of tidy.  Not quite Disney-sterile but an industrious bevy of worker bees staying well on top of litter and bagged trash and all the food vendors had bright and shiny trailers.  Somehow reassuring in the front of your brain but still somehow disquieting back in the dark recesses… where’s the one armed, toothless ride carny covered in prison tats?

A big part of what made this Fair more than just fair is that Watsonville is still very much an agricultural community.  Not used to be agricultural and not agri-business… agricultural.  A massive Youth /4-H/FFA display in the Harvest Building.  This year’s theme was Dancing With The Steers so lots of club displays featuring life size, paper maché (wait, is that one a cow? I dunno, could be an eel in a pearl snap western shirt…) cows waltzing in coveralls or break dancing or cloning John Travolta replete with white three piece and mirror ball.  On a sad note, one animated young bull lost a critical bolt or wire so that the arm that had no doubt been waving to the crowd had now fallen, still active, across his pants giving the impression of an endorsement for self abuse.

Then on to a whole section of children's handmade Veggie Critters, with koi made from bananas and an eggplant sedan with mushroom wheels (picture yourself on a boat on a river with tangerine trees and a marmalade sky…)  Of course this was day three so some of the cucumber birds were looking a wee bit sickly and the mushroom tires needed a little air.

Throw in the classic, permanently housed, model train layout, the chance to win a giant decorative boulder if you guessed it’s weight, some calf roping, and a woman made up to be anybody’s granny (if anybody’s granny strolled around on stilts using an eight foot high walker…) and you have a nice overview.  Now toss in an opportunity to have your photo taken while being kissed by a lovely, attention hog of a sea lion, pig racing, Mexican wrestling and the aforementioned vintage tractor parade… John Deere, Farmall, Oliver, John Deere… wait, what’s that sleek, art deco, red one? Does it really say Porsche on the side in polished chrome?

Oh, and did I neglect to mention fair food?  Not to worry, it was well covered. All the usual suspects in spades along with a BBQ stand that covered an easy 80 feet of frontage with an impressive row of oil drum grills buried under ribs, turkey legs, chickens and brisket.  I started with the obligatory corn dog and cold beer which cured the jones and allowed me to wander, past the garlic fries and alligator sausage, clocking my options before going in again.

And there, at the end, across from the redwood lumber display, I found my Fair nirvana in the form of a Twister Dog.  Twelve solid inches of pure beef tubesteak encased in a spiral-cut whole potato and tossed ceremoniously into a large vat of gurgling hot oil.  A dribble of condiments and a fist full of napkins was all that was needed to make Mr. B a very happy fella.


Fat, full and tired of walking, we retreated to the grass in front of the outdoor ampitheatre and the folding chairs we had placed there hours earlier, for 90 minutes of al fresco entertainment by Antsy McClain and the Trailerpark Troubadours.

And there you have it.  Good for another 364 days.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

FOOLS RUSH IN WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD


Slipped into culinary exploration mode for an adventure with deep fried Kool Aid.
More to come after some fine tuning...

Friday, August 26, 2011

GIMME A SINKER AND A CUPPA JOE


So, as I traveled around the greater Santa Cruz area in order to achieve some manner of orientation to my new environs, I could not but notice that, for a town with a natural foods coop on every corner not already occupied by a Starbutts, there was also a preponderance of good old fashion donut shops. 


As I am a long time fan of what Anthony Bourdain  happily refers to as the Fry-o-lator arts it seemed only a natural (oh, look. There’s that word natural again…) course of events that I should enlist my wife into a series of early morning soirees to establish a pecking order for the aforementioned donut vendors.  

To that end we are sampling all of the donut shops we can find, and will report back to the waiting masses when we have all the info that is to be had.


"Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny." 
                                                                                                                     -Yoda


Sunday, August 21, 2011

SOCIAL NETWORKING ON THE INTERNET: The new Hollywood Squares.

In the “good old days” when one wanted useless information on tertiary celebrities and their ilk you were at the mercies of re-run classics movie theaters or that treasure trove of the totally unnecessary detritus - daytime television.  Queries such as “Is so-and-so still alive?” and/or “What ever happened to that woman who starred in that midnight movie we saw last weekend?” required a commitment of some measure by the inquisitor. Inevitably, and with some effort, the answer could be found in one of three places… The Merv Griffin show, The Love Boat, or that Holy of Holies where grand dames like the highly interchangeable Gabor sisters carried on their meteoric descent from the panoply of stars to that ignoble cubicle on Hollywood Squares (or the mysterious wild cards like Paul Lynde who, seemingly without celebrity resume, sprang forth whole and fully grown, like Athena freed from Zeus’s forehead, to take possession of the all critical center square). The “three-in-the-afternoon” timeslot - much too early in the day for anyone but alcoholic housewives, late night entertainment workers and the chronically unemployed – was hardly any advertiser’s dream-team demographic but then any press is good press as long as they spell your name right.

Of course these days all you need is a little broadband and the ability to remember your password occasionally.  Thanks to those all prevalent social networks, literally anyone and everyone can become a tertiary celebrity and, if I choose to squander my time thusly, I can all too easily learn how very too much sorority sister "A" had to drink at the bar on Friday or what clever things "B"s piss-dog puppy did this week or the coma inducing dietary habits of "XYZ".

I can be friends with uncounted numbers I have never actually gotten to know and I can even make friends with corporate giants and local dining establishments (sorry, but the last time I went to a friend’s house for dinner they didn’t slip me a bill alongside my dessert plate…) Best of all I can exercise that nifty new verb and un-friend those who garner my displeasures… even easier and less emotional than dumping your girlfriend with a quick text.

Now I’m all in favor of free speech but let’s not dwell on the free part at the expense of the speech part.  Speech is the communicating of thoughts and ideas by speaking, not just opening your mouth and letting images and words tumble out all willy-nilly with little or no regard for content or the permanence of the expressed word.

My fear is that we are creating a mind-numbing, culturally stupefying realm devoid of critical thinking and the art of the wordsmith where pabulum, stirred up for the palate of the most common of denominators, becomes the lingua franca of a generation steeped in an ugly brew of self indulgence and transient fascinations.

Although I am a practicing, card carrying curmudgeon I am not a Luddite… a fact made obvious by my dubiously applied talents in Photoshop and the mere fact that I am blogging this complaint rather than transcribing it by hand with a quill pen in the dim light of a single flickering whale oil lamp.
That being said, I would like to quote Jaron Lanier from a recent New Yorker article, “...it’s not that technology has taken over lives but that it has not given us back enough in return. In place of a banquet, we’ve been given a vending machine.”

Thursday, August 18, 2011

MORE THAN JUST ANOTHER WIDE SPOT IN THE ROAD...



Everybody has some manner of home town pride. That little something that sets your birthright apart from the next guy's.  That little something that put your town on the map long ago and far away.  This is one of mine...



Lyda Anna Mae Trueblood was born in 1893 in Keytseville, Missouri and, when she turned 13, moved with her family to the newly founded town of Twin Falls, Idaho.  There she attended Twin Falls High School but did not graduate.  She was courted by Robert C. Dooley and, at 19; she married him on March 17th, 1912.  They lived on his ranch along with his brother, Edward, and in October of 1913 Lyda gave birth to a daughter they named Lorrain.  For a brief time they gave every appearance of being a happy, typical farm family until, two years later in 1915, everyone around her began dying in rapid succession.  First baby Lorrain died suddenly; not that unusual an event in the early days of the 20th century.  Then on August 9th of that year the brother-in-law, Ed, also died without warning.  The Coroner’s Inquest and autopsy settled on ptomaine poisoning, Ed was buried and the couple collected $2000.00 from an insurance policy they had taken out on him.  In less than 2 months Lyda’s husband Bob was also dead, supposedly victim of typhoid fever.  This time she collected $4500.00 from another conveniently held insurance policy naming her as beneficiary. 

Lyda seemed to have a problem with being a widow and so, by May of 1917, she was married to a William McHaffie.  With her new husband she moved to Hardin, Montana where, surprise of surprises, Mr. McHaffie passed away suddenly from “flu”.  This time she had an insurance policy valued at $5000.00 but could not collect since, no doubt unknown to her, McHaffie had missed payments and let the policy lapse.  A widow again at 26, Lyda began casting her spell over one Harlan Lewis, a well-to-do engineer from Billings, Montana who had often visited the ranch in Hardin.  In March of 1919 Lyda and Harlan married and by July he, too, had collapsed and died.  The death certificate listed gastro-enteritis as the cause of death and, having made certain that he was paid up, Lyda collected most of $10,000.00 worth of insurance.

Short on overwhelming grief, Lyda forged ahead with practiced skill and planning.  She used her charms on an unsuspecting ranch foreman named Edward T. Meyer, and the three time widow became Mrs. Meyer on August 10th, 1920 in Pocatello, Idaho.  Apparently feeling impervious to discovery she, with her husband, returned to her old stomping grounds in Twin Falls where, in less than a month, on September 7th, 1920, the unfortunate Mr. Meyer left Lyda a widow for the fourth time.  Again the death certificate listed typhoid fever as the cause of death and folks finally began to wonder at the all encompassing misfortune that surrounded Mrs. Lyda Dooley Mchaffie Lewis Meyers; four husbands, a daughter and her brother-in-law all dead before she made it to the ripe old age of 28.  Sadly for Lyda, one of those folks who began to wonder was a Twin Falls County chemist named Earl R. Dooley (no relation…).  Earl Dooley not only knew Ed Meyer but had seen him, pale and ill, leaning against the outside wall of his ranch house only a couple of days before his death.  Recalling the scene in his mind, Dooley remembered that Meyer had vomited while leaning there and, wasting no time, he went to the ranch and collected a sample of the dirt where Meyer had stood.  Returning to the laboratory he ran tests and confirmed the presence of arsenic.  Seeking independent examinations, Dooley gave samples to Dr. Hal Bieler, a local physician, and Edwin Rodenbach, Idaho State Chemist.  Both men ascertained results that confirmed the original findings.  The State’s Attorney, Frank Stephan, was notified and the body of Edward Meyer was exhumed and the examination revealed large amounts of arsenic in the remains. 

A murder warrant was sworn out against Lyda, but when the deputy went to her home to serve it, she had flown the coop, saddened no doubt by the fact that she had to forego collecting yet another $12,000.00 insurance payout.  In her absence the state’s investigation went forward and, while looking for a motive for the multiple murders, it was discovered that Lyda had insured all her victims through the same insurer. Records at The Idaho State Life Insurance Co. of Boise, Idaho showed that husband #1, Bob Dooley was insured for $4500.00 - Lyda Dooley the beneficiary; husband #2, Bill McHaffie, was insured for $5000.00 – Lyda Dooley McHaffie the beneficiary; husband #3, Harlan Lewis was insured for $5000.00 – Lyda Dooley McHaffie Lewis the beneficiary and husband #4, Ed Meyers was insured for $10,000.00 – guess who… yep, Lyda Dooley McHaffie Lewis Meyers the beneficiary.

With a suspect and a motive well in hand if not in custody, all that remained was to figure out how the crimes were committed.  Sheriff’s Deputy Virgil Ormsby of Twin Falls began poking around in the case and interviewed Bud Taylor and Ben Squires who both worked on the Meyers Ranch.  They both thought it odd the way that Meyers gotten married, and Squires, who had eaten with the family, had also gotten sick at the same time as Meyers but had recovered.  Ormsby talked to Dr. J. F. Coughlin who had attended Meyers during his illness and hospitalization and who said Lyda had been running about the house wildly insisting Meyers was dying. When the he had arrived, Meyers was having difficulty breathing. When he stopped breathing altogether, stiffened and died, Lyda fainted. When she revived, she asked the doctor what could have killed him. Dr. Coughlin told her it might be ptomaine poisoning whereupon she left and the doctor never saw her again.  Taylor and Squires also noted that after the funeral Lyda had only shown up at the ranch for a couple of hours to collect some papers before disappearing. 

Going deeper into the background of the case, Ormsby traveled to Hardin, Montana to look into the death of William McHaffie. Looking for a source of the poison, Ormsby interviewed a drugstore clerk who remembered Lyda buying up their entire stock of arsenic laced flypaper in the fall of 1918, just before William McHaffie died.  McHaffie’s attending physician was questioned and said that Lyda seemed indifferent while McHaffie lay dying.  While visiting with the Hannifins, who had purchased the McHaffie place in Hardin, they took Ormsby down to the basement and showed him a barrel that contained a battered, dirty kitchen pan and a stack of used flypaper.  Flypaper, at that time, came as flat sheets of paper impregnated with sugar and arsenic.  The paper was placed in a shallow pan of water to re-hydrate and the flies, coming in for the sugar, would also ingest the arsenic and be killed.  It would later come out that Lyda was in the habit of boiling down the sheets of poison flypaper until she extracted the arsenic crystals which she would then add to soups or sprinkle on top of apple pies to feed to the unsuspecting husbands.


Exhumations were now ordered for all of her husbands, lethal levels of arsenic were found in each and she was formally charged with their murders on April 22nd, 1921.

Lyda was finally traced through California and Mexico to Hawaii where her newest husband, Paul Southard was stationed.  He listened incredulously to the stories hinting that his wife was a multiple murderess. "She's been a mighty good wife to me," Southard protested, "and I don't care if she married ten men before, and they all died. That wouldn't make her a murderess."  Lyda waved the charges away. They were silly. She'd return to Twin Falls and face them.  Authorities placed her under arrest and she was held until Deputy Ormsby arrived on May 24th.  He returned with his prisoner on June 7th to San Francisco, traveled by train to Wells, Nevada and then on by car to Twin Falls for trial.


On June 17 Mrs. Southard was formally charged with murdering her fourth husband, Edward P. Meyer. She sat apparently emotionless throughout the day at the preliminary examination before Probate Judge Duvall. Her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trueblood, were constantly at her side and Lyda seemed oblivious of the gaze of the spectators, mostly women, who had crowded into the court.  Counsel for the defense offered no testimony in behalf of Mrs. Southard, and the prosecution called witnesses which included Dr. J. F. Coughlin, who attended Meyer in his fatal illness and testified that Meyer had suffered a relapse almost immediately after a special nurse had been discharged as a matter of economy and Mrs. Southard was left alone in care of the patient; Dr. Hal Bleler, who made the post mortem examinations of the body of Meyer; Ben E. Busmann, attorney, who identified a copy of Meyer's will, drawn soon after his marriage to Mrs. Southard, naming her as sole legatee, and a Mr. C. D. Thomas and his son, Rex Thomas, who testified as to Meyer obtaining life insurance for $10,000 and of his widow's repeated efforts lo collect on the policy.  Lyda was indicted and bound over for trial for the murder of Ed Meyer.



The trial began on September 26th with Judge William Babcock presiding.  Working at the prosecution table were State Attorney General Roy L. Black, Twin Falls County Prosecutor Frank L. Stephan and lawyer E. A. Walters.  Lyda’s defense team consisted of W. P Guthrie, A. J. Meyers (again, no relation…) Homer Mills and A. R. Hicks.  Only Edward Meyer’s death was at issue and Lyda pleaded “Not Guilty”.  Although the trial was long and occasionally bogged down by a great deal of technical and chemical evidence, it was sensational enough to draw reporters from all over the world, descending on little Twin Falls, Idaho to cover the store of “Lady Bluebeard”.  It was, in fact, one of the “sob sisters” covering the trial for a London newspaper who, in her dispatch home, coined the phrase “serial killer” in describing Lyda Dooley Mchaffie Lewis Meyer Southard.  The trial ended at the beginning of November and on November 4th, 1921 the jury, having deliberated for twenty-three hours, returned a verdict of guilty to the charge of murder in the second degree.  The judge sentenced her to the Idaho State Penitentiary in Boise for a term of ten years to life.  Lyda had just turned 29. 

Paul Southard, the clean cut navel Petty Officer and current husband, who had stood by his wife up to this point, quickly filed for a divorce (although there appears to be no record of an actual divorce…) and Lyda was transferred to Boise to begin her sentence.


Female prisoners at the Idaho State Penitentiary were housed in a single building inside the grounds and separated from the rest of the population by a high stone wall which enclosed both the women’s ward and a small grassy yard.  By all records Lyda was a model prisoner, often the only inmate in the women’s section.  She did what was know as fancy work to sell and worked in the warden’s house as a housekeeper, nanny and cook… an irony not wasted on many an uncomfortable lunchtime guest.


After nearly a decade however, prison life began to lose its charm and whatever talents Lyda had used to win herself an unending string of heavily insured husbands were not diminished by a prolonged stretch in the slammer.  In spite of the limited contact between prisoners of the opposite sex Lyda soon beguiled a male inmate, David C. Minton, to aid and abet her bid for freedom.  After securing his help, Lyda used her skills on warden R. E. Thomas, asking for and getting his permission for Minton, who worked in the prison metal shop, to avail of his time and talents in the making of several iron trellises for Lyda’s rose garden in the women’s yard… how could you not see this one coming?  All sat fallow until Minton was paroled and then, on the pre-arranged night of May 13th, 1931 and in classic jailbreak style, Lyda loosened a bar in her cell window, knotted together her bed sheets and slipped into the night.  Quickly snapping together the well designed trellises she created a ladder tall enough to clear the wall, over she went into the arms and waiting car of her loving confederate.  By morning’s light they were well on their way east to Denver

A year later the police caught up with David Minton and arrested him for his part in the prison break.  Lyda had dumped him and moved on to greener pastures and he was bitter and willing to talk about her whereabouts.

In December of 1931 Lyda had answered an ad for a housekeeper and a nurse for one Harry Whitlock and his ailing mother, Theodosia.  Whitlock’s mother soon died of gastro-intestinal problems and, although there was no investigation, it is easy to imagine Lyda sweeping clean the path to another insurance windfall.  By March she was Mrs. Whitlock and she was pushing him to get adequate coverage.  With the information from Minton the police approached an understandably stunned Whitlock who, upon learning the truth about his new wife, agreed to help with her apprehension.  Lyda, who had allegedly gone to visit her mother, sent her husband a general delivery letter from Topeka, Kansas.  Whitlock replied and when she came to collect his letter the long arm of the law was waiting.  Whitlock had the marriage annulled and, in August of 1932, Lyda was returned to the prison in Boise.


A little plumper and pushing 40, Lyda apparently still had her skill sets.  A 1933 exposé which cost then Warden George Rudd his job revealed that she had received extraordinary favors in prison.  She had been allowed, unguarded for five hours, to visit her sick mother outside the prison, she had been taken for afternoon automobile rides, permitted all-day outings to a nearby resort and allowed to attend the moving pictures in Boise on a number of occasions.  Warden Rudd’s defense was that, although he had allowed these liberties, Lyda had never betrayed the trust he placed in her…

Back in Boise, Lyda began a campaign for a pardon.  She applied for parole in April and again in November of 1935, but was denied on both occasions. She became almost hysterical every time it was denied and was nearly as hysterical in October of 1941 when her request for parole was finally granted. Parole board member Idaho Governor Chase A. Clark voted against it, remarking that he felt the interests of society would be best served by keeping Lyda locked up, but he was outvoted by his two colleagues.

 In setting the terms of her parole, the judge spoke from the bench and said, “…that, since she was now old and no longer attractive, she would not be a threat to any man.”  Lyda insisted that the only men she was interested in were God and Uncle Sam.  She was released on October 3rd, 1941; paroled for a six month period of probation to her sister, Mrs. John Quigley of Nyssa, Oregon.  After her probation ended in 1942, Lyda returned to Twin Falls, Idaho where she married one more time to a man named Hal Shaw.  Two years later Hal Shaw would disappear without a trace…

Lyda moved to Salt Lake City, Utah where she lived until she dropped dead of a heart attack while walking home from the grocery store on February 5th, 1958.  She was buried in the Twin Falls cemetery under the name Anna E. Shaw.

Lyda Anna Mae Trueblood Dooley McHaffie Lewis Meyer Whitlock Shaw
1893-1958













Saturday, August 13, 2011

ALL THE NEWS THAT’S SHIT TO PRINT


Yeah, I know… if YOU had a blog you would write for it all the time… No, wait… I like to think that I am teaching you something with this blog and, being a teacher, I took the summer off. There. My conscience is clear…
Well, since last we gathered around the ol’ cyber campfire, many things have transpired. Unfortunately most of them were without great merit and require no comment here. Of note was a road trip with the missus back for a visit to Quincy.



Tama had a burning urge and a financial obligation to attend the annual, Patchouli soaked, High Sierra Music Festival over the 4th of July weekend.  Since I am buffing up my skills as a curmudgeon and saw scarcely a venue name I recognized, I elected to remain outside the gates and spent my mornings soaking away in Michelle’s hot tub to the dulcet tones of cackling hens and the boastings of the pip-squeak banty rooster.  I did tow her away from the hub-bub on Saturday night for a dinner date at Le Coq which was, as you would expect, casual, homey and superb… one of those delights that I miss the most.
Monday morning was a run to Reno to put Mrs. B on a plane for home so she could get back to tormenting her underlings at work while I stayed on for a busman’s holiday to do some work for the Museum and for Michelle.
I stopped by  Plumas Arts to say howdy and to drop off a few examples of my recent labors as a potter… a little something to clutter up the shelving in their gift shop. I got to see pretty much everybody I wanted to this time around so, all in all, more fulfilling visit than the previous, shorter one.

THE FUCKIT LIST


In these days when we are inundated by reminders that vita is, indeed, brevis --1000 places to see before you die and a Bucket List of personal goals that need achieving -- I think we could all use a bit of a reminder course in “things we promised we would never do (or, perhaps, do again). Thus was spawned the Fuckit List and in it we will find the mundane and personal… never eat beets… never watch televised golf, etc. and the more practical and worldly… don’t shoot people… don’t drink and drive… well, you get the picture so get to work on your own list, and make damn sure you don’t do them before you die!

YES, I HAVE EATEN LATELY TOO


On the advice of a friend who could be trusted, we went ‘tuther day to dine at a place just around the corner from our house.  The Main Street Garden & Café is an unassuming, remodeled house in the middle of a residential Soquel neighborhood and, if it wasn’t for a largish mosaic sign out front, you would probably never find it.


We didn’t have any preconceived notions so we were more than pleasantly surprised by what we found.  First off, everybody who worked there seemed to be twenty-something and when it came to wait staff, the owners must have called the employment agency and said, “Just send us one of each kind.”  One Nordic amazon, one curly-haired, tie-dyed hippie chick, one urban goth, a homo and a skater… plenty of ink and metal bits everywhere and much more than a passing acquaintance with the food and wines.  This works well because their customer base appears to be just as eclectic.
The kitchen staff were appropriately covered in body art and black t-shirts and dancing around the stove to metal music (which, since it was divided from the dining area by only a half wall pass-thru, occasionally conflicted with the dulcet strains of Loreena McKennitt in the front of the house…). This by no means implies that they don’t know what they are doing back there.  All their produce is organic and locally sourced and they buy all their meat on the hoof and butcher, cut and prep it all themselves, including smoking meats, packing sausages and the like.  There is a massive wood-fired oven where they produce their breads, slow cooked dishes and pizzas which gives everything that yummy, campfire dinner hint-o-smoke.
Tama had a slow roasted pork shoulder that came with boiled potatoes and mustard greens and I ordered up their classic goat pot pie which was slow cooked nanny goat in a savory sauce with taters and veg all wrapped in a crusty shell and wood-fired… served with a mint salsa. Wash it all down with a couple of pints of Murphy’s fine Irish Stout and you have one happy fat guy.
Having left a wee bit of room for dessert, we shared a fig & olallieberry galette. This is a wood-fired, flaky pastry dough wrapped around (obviously…) a fig and a puddle of olallieberries along with some sweet seasonings and a dollop of some manner of mascarpone style cheese, yum-yum. Boy, oh boy, it made the old taste buds sit right up and say howdy.
We were going through the list of our friends we wanted to bring here when they came to town but, when the check arrived, we pared that list down to friends who would like to come here dutch treat… It took a Franklin to get out the door, but we did have a$14 appetizer, several drinks, two dinners and dessert.  The only sense of being cheated was that we couldn’t afford to eat there all the time.

WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?

A week ago Friday PG&E shut off all the electrons flowing to Cabrillo College so we had a weekday run away.  We actually rolled out early in search of breakfast on the town. There, just around the corner from us was the Bayview Hotel, a rambling old Victorian pile with a dining room in a converted sun porch. 


Luckily we were on a no-schedule holiday because they are in no hurry at the Bayview.  We got our first inkling when it took us five minutes to find anyone at home. Menus were quickly brought forth but coffee took another ten minutes.  Tama ordered crepes stuffed with oranges and brandy and I called up buttermilk pancakes.  Well, apparently they had to make a quick run to France for the crepe batter… our waitress (the owner…) informed Tama that crepes took 25 minutes… no problem, we had nothing ahead of us.  I guess that the staff is dyslexic and had transposed the 2 and the 5… okay, so it was actually 45 minutes but by then the “real” waitress had arrived so the really good coffee kept coming and we had two copies of the Santa Cruz Weekly to peruse.  And when the food arrived it was fresh, hot and damn tasty…just don’t stop by to get a bite before the movie or on your way to work.
Next stop was in the teeny burg of Corralitos between Aptos and Watsonville which is home to The Corralitos Market, a carnivore’s wonderland of meaty bits of steaks, chops, bacon, sausages and the like. All made in-house and remarkably cheap considering.  Since we had the good old Trader Joe’s insulated bag we grabbed up some andouille, some Santa Fe flavored sausages and a pound of smoke-house bacon.
The only real plan we had for the day was to eat some Mexican food in Watsonville… but breakfast had turned out to be brunch so we did a quick pass thru Watsonville and headed east to the bucolic splendors of San Juan Batista. Staying off the arterials led to a wrong turn, but Tama had it once again at her fingertips (smart phone:2, dumb guy:0…) and in no time we were looking for a road into the old part of town.
It seemed so quaint when we had to stop dead to allow a small flockette of chickens wander across the main drag… from a dead stop it was then easy to maintain the posted 25 mph.  Well, within an hour we had been privy to two ardent locals with diametrically opposing views on “The Great Feral Chicken Debate”. It seems that San Juan Batista is awash in droves of wild chickens that wander, dine and drop anywhere the mood takes them.  Half the locals think this is cute and is a great hook that brings a smile to the lips of the hordes of touristas (yes, we smiled…) and, as we all know, a happy tourist is a spending tourist.  The other half of the Batisters think the chickens are spreading shit, feathers, disease and a hillbilly attitude and need to head out to that great processing plant in the sky.  Both sides are at the signatures on a petition stage of the game and Monday night council meetings are probably hellish to say the least.





Still not hungry and having seen a surfeit of antique stores, we popped into a local main street watering hole for a cold one & some salty peanuts and then we were off to Moss Landing and a stop at our favorite fruit & veg stand.  Grapefruit (10 for a buck), raspberries, peaches, cilantro, spuds, dinky Ecuadorian bananas, mango, plums… a heaping shopping bag full of farm fresh eatables for a mere seventeen bucks.
Okay, so now it’s after 5 o’clock and we are finally hungry and on our way back to Watsonville.  Tama had done a quickie poll of her Hispanic employees so we had a short list to draw from and settled on Real Colima.  A brightly colored building in an equally brightly colored neighborhood and a mostly non-anglo room full of diners showed great promise.  We got the menu and ordered our food.  Dinner came in good time but that was the last time we saw even a flicker of interest from our waitress… and we thought that the breakfast service had been bad… the only way I could have caught this waitress’ attention would have been with a fishing rod and a treble hook.  The food was very good… Tama had mole and I went with a tamale platter but, goddamn it, you can’t really eat Mexican food without washing it all down with great lashings of Tecate, and you can’t get a beer unless you can get a waitress.  Sorry, but in a neck of the woods where Mexican food joints pop up like Canadian thistle, you only get one chance to hit the mark or wind up on the also ran list.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

POTTERY MADNESS IN THE KITCHEN…

So there I was with an uncooked, whole chicken in one hand and a small bag of leftover pottery clay in the other and I was in dinner mode.
What’s a feller to do… except combine the two for a too, too dinner for two.

THE CLAY
I pounded out some red, terra cotta clay into a slab about 1/2  inch thick and big enough to cover the bottom of a greased 8 x 8 glass baking dish.  I then stuck “wings” on all four sides to wrap around the bird after placement.  I, of course, reserved some small clay bits for embellishment.

THE BIRD
I pulled out all the oddments stuffed in the cavity, rubbed the whole bird down with butter, dusted the outside with salt, pepper & paprika and stuffed half an onion and a sliced lime inside.  I then mixed a little salsa verde juice with some good, 100% agave tequila (I prefer El Jimador Reposado…) and, using my ever so handy-dandy monster syringe, shot it under the skin and into the meaty bits of the breast and leggies… ummmm, good.

Since we were having corn on the cob I husked the ears ahead of time, reserving and blanching the green husks to make them more pliable.  Saving back enough husks to re-wrap the corn for slow roasting, I laid a bed of greenery down on the clay, slid in the clucker and covered it with the remaining husks.

After that it was the old slick and easy to fold the clay over the bird, seal the edges, model a quick chicken head and feathery bits, draw on some wings, poke a tiny steam hole in it somewhere and stuff it into a pre-heated 375° oven for 2 ½ hours.


Come dinner time pull it out of the oven and give it a sound whack with a meat tenderizing hammer or some similar blunt object.  A word of advice… the clay is dry at this point so put the whole affair in the sink and give it a direct hit and not a glancing blow which will only serve to ricochet teeny bits of clay into every corner and crevice of your stovetop area.  Pull off the clay bits, peel back the corn husks and lift out the bird.  Don’t be nervous that the bird is still pretty much as white as it was going in… remember, you essentially boiled the bird in it’s own juices with absolutely no exposure to the kind of heat that makes it brown & crispy.

Serve it with fresh steamed baby artichokes, fava beans, mashed with garlic, onions and spices then stuffed into tiny banana peppers, slow baked new potatoes and corn on the cob that has been buttered, salted, peppered and drenched in lime juice before being re-husked and slow roasted with the spuds and peppers and, by golly, you got yerself the kind of meal they show on TV.

JUST DESSERTS
For dessert we had dates and sliced cherimoya. 
For those of you who have never tasted cherimoya, it is an unattractive, lumpy, green thing on the outside with a creamy inside scattered with big, black seeds. The texture and taste is like a really good pear with a hint of vanilla and roasted nuts.  Mark Twain said it was the greatest fruit of them all and he may very well be right (except for raspberries, of course…)