by Christina Waters | Oct 31, 2009 | Food, Home |
We’ve all done it. Run into Trader Joe’s, desperate for a few last-minute staple items.
There it was – eye-catching, under $5 (rare these days) and allegedly loaded with fiber.
I bought it.
We tasted it.
We rejected it. Why? No flavor. None. Zero. Zip. I’ve tasted cardboard with more flavor density and nuance than this. A cruel joke packaged with an eye-catching purple label and the word “Quinoa” boldly imprinted, this was bread made by people who had no tastebuds.
For people with no tastebuds.
If you, however, have tastebuds, you will want to avoid this product.
by Christina Waters | Oct 30, 2009 | Home, Movies |
What a pleasure it was to know Morton, a one-man poetry festival, charismatic raconteur and major mensch. I have been enjoying reading his wonderful memoir, full of so much lore about California bohemia and the vivacious arts and letters scene in Santa Cruz of the past three decades.
A passionate cinephile, Morton and I almost always disagreed about films – but we agreed about friendship, road trips and red wine. He cast a long and lasting shadow over our hearts – and everyone lucky enough to know him, will miss Morton. Probably permanently.
(You just know he’s scribbling away up there…..odes for the gods and other tricksters.)
by Christina Waters | Oct 20, 2009 | Art, Home |
An Open House at Baskin Arts honored founding member of Oakes College and beloved UCSC art professor Eduardo Carrillo. The gallery that bears his name was dedicated and the life of this extraordinary painter celebrated, by friends, colleagues and students.
The newly-dedicated Carrillo Gallery will be open Monday through Friday 11-4pm, or by appointment (831/239-9411). And be sure to see the comprehensive show of Carrillo’s masterworks, on exhibit through November 22, 2009, at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History.
by Christina Waters | Oct 19, 2009 | Home, Wine |
That would be Grangia. My new favorite house white is a bone-dry, mineral-laced bit of ever-so-slight effervescence from Piedmontese Favorita grapes, a version of Vermentino, made by the house of Elvio Tintero. Here’s the amazing part – $8 per bottle. I picked up a case of this in Berkeley, at the mighty Kermit Lynch.
I’ll admit it is an acquired taste. Salty, with a nose of cactus, pear and even banana (!), it smooths out into something haunting and crystalline, with spectacular aromatics and a white pepper finish. At 11.5% alcohol, it makes wickedly easy sipping. The perfect antidote to over-oaked chardonnay.
Yes, I did say $8.
by Christina Waters | Oct 17, 2009 | Home |
As I sit here I am still overcome by emotions so bittersweet, that the only way I can sort through them is to write it out.
Saturday morning I was driving home after a workout. It was one of those fresh autumn mornings that sparkle with possibility.
I drove up Laurel, and looked to my right, toward the center of downtown. There they were. Young students from all over the state, lining the side streets with exuberant anticipation.
At the far end of my view, one band was already in formation, trumpets and tubas glittering in the morning sun, uniforms all crisp, waiting for their turn in the parade.
Ready for the future, the future that of course belonged to them. The sight of them just about destroyed me.
And looking to my left, in the direction of the beach, I passed the spot where less than 12 hours before, a sixteen-year-old boy had been stabbed to death.
He had probably been ready for the future too. But not that one.
I drove through those young dreams – my own past, so full of getting ready for something huge, something that stretched on and on and would never end. As well as the dreams that would never come true.
My throat grew tight, I couldn’t breathe and the tears began – just as they have as I’m writing this. I was in the middle of something that completely mastered me. I am grateful that I could feel it.
That high school marching band, standing – sparkling – on the side street, looked like an America I grew up in. An America that has slipped away. It isn’t that I fear change, or am clinging desperately to some long-gone stereotypes. Just that it was a glimpse of something that cannot be again. The little boy dead underlines the death of that simple, expectant time – a time in every person’s life, a time in the life of our collective yearning.
It hit me hard, all that joyful energy, gearing up for a performance on a fabulous October day – oh and the irony of it being the 20th anniversary of the earthquake was folded into my sudden wave of sadness too. The joy on one side of the street, the loss of everything, on the other. And I drove right through the center of it, filled with despair for something I can’t quite put a name on. But I’ll bet you’ve felt it.
Still flooded by this sense of loss, I’m thinking now of Bob Worsham, Christie Carlson, Leniece Wu, Maurice Dubin, Jerry Kleiner and Danny Gouin – all of us who were young together, and for whom it’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.
