Sweet Tea Hospitality

So really I shouldn't complain (but since I happen to be very good at it, here goes:). My new city is really pretty perfect (minus the fact that the earth beneath me could open up and swallow me at any given moment). For the most part there are no bugs. People don't even have screens on their windows here - no need; there is nothing to keep out. Having grown up in the deep south where people joke about mosquitoes being the "state bird" and shrug their shoulders at the site of their ten-millionth cockroach (no, fellow South Carolinians I will NOT use the euphemism "Palmetto Bugs," these creatures are vile and not deserving of a cutesy name), this ranks high for me. However, we do have ants. Seasonal sugar ants. When it is cold and rainy, these little buggers seek refuge and take over the kitchen (eew. gross.). That said, I have had to retrain my brain to keep all alluring food products in the fridge or some other impenetrable fortress. Lewis' frosted flakes - in the fridge. Sugar bowl for his coffee - in the fridge. Oreos - fridge. Needless to say, my fridge is quickly filling up with items that my OCD deems don't belong! However, if this is the price I have to pay to send these pests packing, I'm happy to oblige. So far, so good.......until this morning.

While back home in the 843, my new hubby discovered Firefly Sweet Tea vodka. He quickly became a loyal follower and it has become his libation of choice. Last night he made a drink while I was getting ready for our Poker Night outing. Being a "girl," this took a little longer than I had planned so we found ourselves rushing out the door. Sweet Tea vodka glass gets left on kitchen counter. Ant Frat Party begins. Ants party well into morning hours and were still gathered when I broke it up at 8 a.m. This got ugly. While I should have had the sober advantage, these insects quickly showed me who was boss. I first tried an aerial attack using a hot-water waterfall to flush them down the drain. But there were more. I then attempt to squash out the remaining battalions with wet sponge. This seemed to do the trick.  I had reclaimed my territory! Proceed to wash syrupy glass and surrounding counter top, then on to (finally!) making pot of coffee. Out of corner of my eye I see a black speck on the arm of my bath robe. "Damn coffee grinds mocking me again!" I disdainfully say to myself. To my horror the errant ground is approaching. I pluck it from my sleeve and give it the old 'finger squish.' HA! GOT 'EM! But wait...there are more! The ants have unified Normandy-style to take ME down! They are crawling up my arm and from my waist! I quickly go into sniper mode plucking each one at a time until the last blip of black was gone from my (thankfully white!) robe. Humbled by strategery of these intoxicated arthropods, I grudgingly add the bottle of Firefly to the stash in our fridge.

Failure Is Not An Option

So we're married! I am an official housewife - a housewife who cannot figure out how to use the glamourous new coffee maker that she HAD to register for (hmmm...Aesop any advice on this one?) I'm pretty sure that makes me a big, fat house-fraud.  Allow me to set the stage...as many of you know I have self-diagnosed OCD.  Ground coffee (and glass top tables...I can NEVER seem to get all the streaks off no matter how many passes I make with my Windex and over-priced paper towels) is among one of my arch nemeses. When it spills into the coffee maker or worse yet into the grout of our (white!!!) tile counter-tops it makes a huge mess. I e-hat that [phrase borrowed from "Everybody Loves Raymond - the Pig Latin episode]. When you try to wipe it up with a dry paper towel, it's impossible to get all the grounds; use a wet paper towel and you've created a coffee-colored mess all over the place. Miss a ground or two, you leave a ticking-time bomb just waiting to make its mark on the carpets in your house (Freud?). My solution? BEANS! I'll only use BEANS! Super-easy clean-up if over-zealous scooping occurs with the bonus of added coffee freshness! Ahhh, you might point out, until now you'd need a separate grinder to grind the beans, then have to transfer the grounds to the machine risking the same problem all over again. BUT ALAS <insert choir of angels here> meet the Cuisnart Grind and Brew. Simply scoop the beans into the chamber, pour in the water, and press "on."............. or....not so simply as I would soon discover.

After diligently reading the instruction manual from cover-to-cover (yes, I do that with all my new toys, even the "War and Peace" manual that was my digital camera instructions) I set up, press the shiny new "on" button, step back and prepare for ensuing delight. However, after pouring my first cup of joe, adding the proper ratio of soy milk and creamer, I take a sip only to discover I've created a truly "uninspired" cup of coffee.  How could this be? Chalking it up to being a coffee bean ingenue, I pour it out and start again this time filling the chamber up completely with beans in order to hedge my bet. Same outcome. Coffee colored water with a hint of soy flavor. Damn. So this housewife finds herself under-caffeinated and overwhelmed...guess I need to go apologize to the Mr. Coffee I gave the old heave-ho to last night. Hopefully he's in a forgiving mood.

Market Value

My booty

So the latest adventure on the road to becoming a city girl is to shop at the fun ethnic markets. There are many to choose from in the big city...Spanish, Mexican, Asian (old Asian men are ADORABLE by the way...reason enough to shop there) and the list goes on. So far my loyalty lies at the Spanish market a few blocks from home. I plan my trips armed with my list of produce that is acceptable to buy "un-organic." [For more information simply google "The Clean 15" vs. "The Dirty Dozen."] but often end up with superfluous fun purchases such as a jicama, hot sauce which I deem "indigenous", and very cute yellow squashes with ruffles around the edges.  At the check-out I can't help but ask a few questions.  Pointing to the mountain of gelatinous cheese covered by a clear plastic dome I ask, "What kind of cheese is that?" The answer complete with rolled /r's/ and breathy /que/ sound, "Queso Fresca." "Ahhh," I find myself replying with a nod as if I knew what it was all along and merely had a brief mental block. I press on. "What do you do with these jicamas?" "Well we saute them and add them to Corno' Rosco' (SG's interpretation to what cashier actually said)." Again as if I can't help myself at this point, I reply AGAIN with a nod, "ahhh. huh." (Note: Jicama still sitting in produce bin on SG's counter - unsauteed.  Will likely remain in this state until rot and/or mold, whichever more indigenous to jicama species, sets in, ...And yes, I acknowledge this does make me somewhat of a poser) I limit myself to these two questions as to avoid being labeled the "polka-dotted pariah," and await the total. Nine-teen dollares and vente-cinco cents. Wait. Really? Surely she had forgotten to ring something in. All this fresh produce, spices, meat for the dog, and an entire jicama for under twenty bucks?! I hesitate counting out my dollares and she feels the need to translate slower.  "NiNE-TEEN Doh-Lars ann Twen-tee-Fih Sssenss." "Oh. Wow. Yes, mam...muchas gracias!" Really Caroline?!  You're such a nerd. Maybe you should take your damn jicama and google what to do with it.

Green Spaces

Out and about in the city today and I happen upon this...people sitting alongside the street (lined with sod) and enjoying themselves as if in the serenity of a park. Hmmm. What could this be? Several possibilities cross my mind, each trying to win as "most logical"...are they waiting to buy tickets to a concert? Is a new book about to hit shelves and they must have it NOW? But why the sod?  I suppose it is a clever way to cushion the ground if one expects to be sitting on pavement for an extended period of time.  After all Californites are creative creatures...pretty genius way to wait out a ticket sale if you ask me! And quite esthetically pleasing! Convinced that I have stumbled upon the most plausible explanation for this exotic site, I continue on my way. Wanting to share my discovery and perhaps boast a little about having deciphered the situation so well, I tell Lewis of the display.  Letting me down gently, he says, "I think they are part of that 'Take Back the Parking Spaces" movement." Uh. Huh. Of course.  Silly SG. Hippies don't do things simply for themselves -it's part of the Hippie Credo to act on the part of the greater good.  While I'm not exactly sure what the desired outcome is O' Beloved Hippies (do you want the city to rip up the concrete and replace it with a putting green? Not likely friends, but major points for optimism!), I have to say this is dedication at its finest.  It also further proves that you never know what sight or scenario might pique your curiosity in this fabulous city full of fabulous people on any given day!  I heart you San Francisco...and I color that heart green.

"Faux" Pho

Faux Pho

So those of you familiar with SG, know that I am a self-proclaimed "foodie" and love delving into any culinary adventure. However, being a bit of a germaphobe, I usually shy away from any establishment requiring a "sneeze guard," but decided to put all preconceived notions aside and try it. Today, Lewis took me to lunch at a salad bar joint called Fresh Choice. I walk in and am greeted with a sign boasting "85.5% local options" for today's date. Wow...these Cali's are on it! As I go through the familiar steps of being back in my elementary school cafeteria, I collect my lunch tray and silverware and venture along the "L" shaped salad-trough.  To my outward delight everything is labeled with calorie content, ingredients, and fun little animal icons depicting whether or not items are vegan, vegetarian, pescatarian, or the full-on contraband that are full meat products (tsk. tsk.)  I start loading my plate with all the fun choices (base of lettuce, edamame, garbanzo beans, jicama...nope don't even know what that is either, tofu, and vegan bacon bits topped with a low-fat vinaigrette). Then alas...I come to the "Pho." What is this foreign fun-ness?  Wait. There are Japanese translations.  This must be the real-deal-whatever this is! Looks innocuous enough.  I read the step-by-step directions.  Seem easy. Place noodles in bowl - check.  Add desired items (I choose scallions and bean shoots) - check. Top with chicken broth - check.  Extremely proud of my concoction, I walk over to the table to dive in.  Delish! Whoa! Truly delicious! Feeling more and more Californian with every spoonful! Much to my dismay, I am soon cut down to size.  While sharing my adventure with an authentic, I soon realize that I am a fake.  Turns out I wasn't eating the real-deal after all.  I wasn't even pronouncing it right.  (it's pronounced "fuh" by the way, not "foe" as the naive SG labeled it)  True Pho contains such intimidating ingredients as star anise and cardamom pods.  I was eating the baby food version. Humbled yet still happy about my discovery, I file the restaurant away as a place to definitely come back to.  Pho' real.

No Monograms Allowed...

The first discovery on my road to becoming a Californite (sic) was that there are no monograms, pearls, or even a polka-dot adorning anyone, anywhere in the city - the things that make us southern girls quintessentially "southern."  Oh and khaki shorts....out of the question (caveat: you will see the occasional cargo short, but that friends, is rare).  My fiance warned me that "no one wears shorts in the city."  I don't understand.  No one wears shorts? The weather here is perfection! Absolute perfection. and I consider myself somewhat of an expert on perfect weather having grown up in the rain forest disguised as Charleston, South Carolina. Humidity. all the time. ick. Also, drab clothes are in here...blacks, browns, tan, grey...these are the uniform. and if you can score an old t-shirt that used to be 100% cotton and is now 50% cotton, 50% holes you are z'man! Crisp white pants = nerd. uber nerd. (um. yeah. guess what SG wore to her first California outdoor concert. yeah.  i wasn't winning any "where's waldo" contests. see above) On the plus side, this city seems to be full of accepting people who have lots of patience for us "yuppies." And...as an added bonus, shopping at thrift stores is considered city-sheik. yay! love thifting....it's like a big-girl treasure hunt!  So SG finds herself deliciously curious and ever grateful for this wonderful city and its denizens who have welcomed her...as they have also, unbeknown to her, become her muse.