And the Show was a....

Well, I wouldn't call it a success necessarily.  I mean, I didn't make my millions at Unique San Francisco.  I might have broken even covering the costs of the set up, booth and gas to get to San Francisco.  But my mom came in from Toronto and we drove up with and stayed with one of my good friends, so all and all it was a pretty fun weekend.  Took me a while to get home and recover (hence the lack of blogging last week).  I realized that to me the best part of the shows is the booth set up.  I love taking a 10' by 10' plot of nothingness and turning it into a little store and then seeing how differently everyone else sets up their space.  I guess that's the set designer in me.  Here is how my little space looked from start to set up.

There were a lot of amazing artists and crafts people at the show.  One of my favorites was OodleBaDoodle.  Great display and the cutest owl plashes you have ever seen.  

Just another story about Vomit Everywhere

            The Recent Paterfamilias is beginning to wonder if it is in bad taste, if not totally unsportsmanlike, for him to have a grudge with a one year old. 

Admittedly, this is an unenviable predicament in which the R.P. has found himself, and, to top it all off, she’s not even his one year old.  She’s the baby best friend of his own one year old. 

            And what did this baby best friend (if we can still call her that) do to warrant such a grudge with the otherwise forgiving and lenient and overall mild mannered Recent Paterfamilias? 

            This baby best friend, whom we shall refer to henceforth as the Modern Typhoid Mary, has afflicted the Land of the Recent Paterfamilias with a plague of Biblical proportions.

            In an age previous, an era we shall refer to as B.V.A (or Before Vomit was Everywhere), the Recent Paterfamilias had learned verily from the mother of this so-called baby best friend that their respective filial congregation had found themselves suffering through a rather rough weekend.  The whole family, one after another, had come down with a stomach bug.  This baby best friend, after having been kindly invited into the bed of her longsuffering parents, proceeded to reenact a rather memorable scene from The Exorcist. 

            Oy vey!  What a mess. 

            Then the mother got sick, and then the father got sick, and so on and so forth, but, I was assured, things were all better now. 

            And so, our babies played.  Our babies laughed.  Our babies lunched.  Our babies shared Cheerios. 

            And hen my baby had some projectile vomit of her own.  While sleeping.  She didn’t seem to mind, however, as she kept sleeping right through it. 

            My wife and I were unaware of what had happened until the middle of the night, when we were alerted by the smell, and at that point, that age old adage raised her head and bellowed, “You never wake a sleeping baby.” 

            And so we waited it out. 

            She was all chipper upon awaking, that baby of mine, and, given the circumstances, that’s really a commentary upon her personal constitution. 

            Oh…and It was also coming from both ends now. 

            Consequently, the Clean Up Crew stepped in. 

            A few hours later, clean up was complete. 

            This all began in the wee hours of Friday morning. 

            By Saturday afternoon, this Recent Paterfamilias wasn’t feeling so hot.  By 7pm, he was exorcising all over the place, on a regular basis, and the Clean Up Crew, busy as it was, had been slashed by 50%. 

            By 11pm, the R.P. was in a cab, alone, on his way to the Weill Cornell Emergency Room, where his exorcising continued unabated for several more hours. 

            After three litres of IV fluid were inserted for dehydration, several anti-nausea and anti-diarrheal medications were administered, and seven hours of observation were observed, the medical professionals finally let the Recent Paterfamilias go. 

I could barely walk. 

            It was now Sunday morning. 

            By Sunday afternoon, around 3pm, the wife of the R.P. wasn’t feeling so hot. 

            By 6pm, the Clean Up Crew consisted of a what could only be referred to as “useless” thirteen month old. 

            Eventually, by Tuesday afternoon, days after our baby was feeling tip top, fit as a fiddle, raring to go, pretty and witty and gay, the wife of the R.P. and the R.P. himself were finally finding themselves wishing to rise to the land of the living, complete with an appetite for something marginally (although only marginally) more substantial than dry toast and lukewarm water. 

            And so, as my reader can most clearly see, concerning good taste or sportsmanlike or not, this Recent Paterfamilias has a little bone to pick with that certain baby best friend, that certain Modern Typhoid Mary, and the next time I see her, I will be sure to say, “Hey!  Look here, you baby, I have a bone to pick with you!”  And then she’ll look at me with her Modern Typhoid Mary eyes and she’ll curl up her mouth in her Modern Typhoid Mary way and I’ll think, “Well, that’s pretty cute,” and then I’ll consequently (and conveniently) forget everything that’s happened. 

            Because it’s not her fault, really.  Just because a baby spreads an epidemic, does that mean you can blame her?  It would almost be like having a grudge against that first dog or rat or flea who stepped into Dark-Ages Europe and thought, “Huh, that’s weird but my throat feels a little scratchy.”  

Headed to San Francisco

Today is the day:  Set up for Unique SF -- Come by and visit me this weekend at booth #152 if you are in town. All the information is here on their website.  

Notes from a Recent Culinary Master

            I did it!  I did it!  I finally did it! 

I’ve done it!  I’ve done it!  I’ve finally done it! 

I finally made something that my daughter deemed edible!         

Believe me, this seemingly simple feat took more than a little doing. 

An historically finicky eater, in the past months, my daughter has ruled out numerous foods, packaged, nature made, and homemade alike, all of which were apparently non pleasing to her own personal, and evidently very sophisticated palate. 

Avocado?  No.  Guacamole?  No.  Grapes?  No.  Prunes?  A resounding, and surprising, success.  Chicken?  Turkey?  Rice and beans?  No, all. 

And, naturally, on and on the process went.

It took months, but this Recent Culinary Master (nee Paterfamilias) finally figured out what his daughter liked to eat, most notably mac and cheese, and vegetable lasagna with beef, both packaged, both store-bought, and, frankly, both a little pricey. 

So, to cut down on our overhead, as well as to satisfy my own culinary arrogance, I decided that I would start making these two dishes my own self, in my own kitchen, with my own hands. 

Because how hard could it be?  It’s mac and cheese and lasagna for God’s sake.  It’s not like I’m trying to make duck confit with fresh morel mushroom, parmesan, and asparagus risotto, followed by a wild blackberry cobbler, and all accompanied with a nice little cabernet sauvignon from my own personal vineyards. 

My first go ‘round was something of a disaster, on both counts.  She literally clawed the spoonfuls of homemade food out of her mouth and discarded it off to the side with an enthusiasm that said, “I would care for no more of whatever that was, thank you very much.” 

My second attempt fared no better. 

What was I doing wrong?  Was this really beyond my cooking ken? 

My first idea was to eliminate one of my menu items. 

Mac and cheese was the one to get the boot. 

Next, I more closely examined her store-bought food.  It was saucier than mine, much saucier in fact, so I decided to double what my original recipe had originally called for.  I also chose to cut out the baking entirely (Ciao, lasagna!) and a whole wheat fusili got the upgrade.  She, of the picky palate, seemed to prefer food of more flavor, so to the ground beef sizzling in the skillet, I added pepper and oregano and garlic powder and fresh basil, and after finishing the sauce and adding it to the pasta, I then pulsed all of the ingredients together, in batches, in my trusty old food processor.  And then I served the dish, warm and with crossed fingers. 

The first two mouthfuls were immediately rejected, but then her skepticism abated and she gave it a shot and she gave it a swallow and she gave it a thought, and then what do you know, she decided she could stomach it. 

Success!  I am a cooking genius!  I can get a one-year-old to (sometimes) eat food!  What a provider I must be!  How highly she of the picky palate must consider me!  How fortunate, and superior, she must feel to be blessed with such an excellent caregiver! 

And, daily, I witness her obvious sense of pride and good fortune for her dear father as she gazes at me with those big giant blue eyes, and then laughs, maniacally, right in my face.  

NEW Sunset Skårt

I spend a lot of time out in Santa Monica.  Whenever I have free time I go to the beach - to play volleyball, to run or just to take a nice walk and enjoy the ocean air.  When I started selling my art at Mindfulnest on Main Street, in Santa Monica, I developed a series inspired by my time spent at the  beach.  Each piece has an individually stained sunset which fades from light to dark blue.  On top of the stain is a silhouette based on a photograph I've taken at the beach.  Now they are available for purchase on ETSY.

This is one of my many inspiration photos:

Look at the Installation ...and Smile!

Isn't this pretty?

Can you tell what it's made of? 

How bout now?

I saw this in a store in West Hollywood called, Rolling Greens.  They sell plants and antique-y things.  Why they have a tea bag installation I'm not sure, but I thought I would share because it looked so pretty.

            The Recent Paterfamilias has been bested.  The Recent Paterfamilias has been outdone.  And the Recent Paterfamilias does not like this.  The Recent Paterfamilias says, “I do not like this!”  He says, “Damnit!”  “Damnit!” he says.  And again he says, “Damnit!” 

            But, perhaps, the Recent Paterfamilias should explain. 

            The Recent Paterfamilias’ loyal readers will almost certainly recall his retelling of his own daughter’s birthday party preparations, tribulations, and, of course, the post mortem after the fact. 

            Well, this past weekend, the R.P. and family en totale attended a single birthday celebration for three of the R.P.’s daughter’s baby friends.  It’s was a birthday party for non-related, but otherwise de facto, triplets.  It was, essentially, a birthday party in triplicate. 

            A brilliant idea, this:  All our kids were born around the same date.  Let’s consolidate forces and stage a single party for our three urchins, only with three times the adult mental acuity, three times the creativity, and three times the physical strength necessary to accomplish all that’s needed when mounting one of these colossal baby party affairs. 

            Again, the R.P. says, “Brilliant.”

            And they went all out, these parental party planners, and they did it on a strict budget, too, which is increasingly more impressive, the more that I think of it. 

            There was a theme (a carnival theme), and they’d strung out pennant banners and balloons along the park fence which cordoned off the party area.  (And did I fail to mention that the party in question was held in Central Park?  In the middle of Central Park?  The logistics alone of getting everything to the middle of Central Park and setting up and executing this thing, on any budget whatsoever, is enough to impress most, if not all, other parents and most, if not all, professional party planners).  There were games.  There was a potato sack race (although only one actual race took place).  There was a beanbag toss into a beanbag receptacle (which was commandeered by the adult males after the urchins on-site cleared out, and, over beers, bets were laid and beanbags were tossed and bets were lost and more bets were laid and more bags were tossed and more bets were lost and so on and so forth and this is just one more example of how men will lay bets on just about anything). 

And, apart from the spread (which was impressive), it was really the presentation and the delivery and the execution of the thing that really set it apart. 

Now, I know I’m really gushing here, but when a Paterfamilias is bested, he often can help but glow histrionic. 

There was a color theme (red).  There were three matching, and equally homemade, but hardly identical, cakes (all in the shape of the number 1).  And all the other minor details had been attended to:  personalized beer cozies, squeeze food packs for the baby set, pinwheels (which, of course, are fun for babies and tall people alike), and then there were swag bags, not only for the babies, but also for the mothers (complete with lotions and bubbles and inflatable beach balls).  And it was all done on a very strict budget! 

The Recent Paterfamilias does not like to admit it (and certainly not in a public forum), but he was impressed. 

So, naturally, the Recent Paterfamilias now finds himself wondering how they (the parents of these three urchins) are going to top all of this on baby birthday number two.  (And, frankly, he’s a little relieved that he set the bar so low per his own daughter’s brouhaha that all he has to do is launch a little better than average brunch on a pleasant little Sunday afternoon, and it will never be compared to a brilliant baby get together that some people will remember, and think about, and write about, for years and years and years to come). 

Alas, there is much solace to be found in being so solidly half-assed.