Pink Asparagus

I love Port. For this I blame Peter. The first time I enjoyed tasty, tasty Port was at Gallagher’s at New York New York in Las Vegas. It was a Sandeman’s Reserve. Before kids, we would sip luscious Port from pretty little cordial glasses. Port can be an experience, like I assume Brandy or Scotch is. Or it can be a mix-in to lemonade. We’ve been having this delicious summertime drink for a few years now. But last night I branched out to lime-ade. I cannot recommend it. It didn’t make the Port undrinkable, but it didn’t do much for it either. Don’t get me wrong, I still finished mine.

Don’t waste your good Port on this drink. We usually have a jug of Fairbanks Port on hand. If you’re going to splurge, buy good lemonade. In the end though, I’m not sure you can taste the difference. And after the first one, you’re not going to care.

We actually ran out of the cheap Port (that sediment in my glass is from me trying to get the last drops from the bottle) and I had to use good Port in the limeade. I cried a little on the inside. It’s like sharing the dark Ghirardelli chocolate with kids. They don’t give two shits. They just want candy. Lemonade doesn’t care about the quality of Port, it just wants to be mixed in with it.

Mix 2/3 lemonade with 1/3 Port - or 1/2 and 1/2 … measuring shmeasuring. Mix. Tastes best outside on a warm summer’s night.

skin like porcelein
giant hat and sunglasses
not enough, still pink

sunscreen, you need more
lift your arms like an airplane
play for ten minutes

The company Peter works for took their product loud live on July 1. That night he gave a presentation to the Boulder Denver New Tech Meetup about it. Looking through the pictures, we’ve concluded that his nervous social tic is smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

Better than openly, proudly picking his belly-button like his off-spring is apt to do.

Apparently a shit storm is brewing in blog-land. Or brewed. Or blew over. I don’t know. It didn’t involve me except as a person who drove past the scene of the accident as they’re sweeping the glass from the road. (How’s that for mixed metaphors?)

But it makes my stomach hurt.

Today on IM my girlfriend that thinks it’s “cerebral geeky” that I’m attending BlogHer (I repeatedly told her I’m going for the booze) asked if I was excited. I told her I was nervous, that I sort of want to throw up. Don’t get me wrong, I’m far from shy. But at the same time 1000 new faces all knowing things about me that I didn’t share over a glass of wine. It changes the playing field. Similarly, I know things about you. Back in the olden days, the only way we would have intimate details of each other’s lives was if we were actual, meat-world friends. Or relations. Or friends of relations. Or relations of friends. And it makes me nervous. Maybe I’m not as cordial in person? Maybe I’m so freaking hilarious in person that you come back to my blog and you’re like, really? same girl? nah. Her posts would have me peeing my pants.

Nerves.

In my mail box today was the Pre-BlogHer Conference Guide. Reading it over I panicked. There’s a part about when you check into the hotel get your pin so other people will know you’re there for BlogHer blah, blah, blah. But I’m staying at the hostel. How will people know why I’m there? Granted, a rational person would say - uhm, that badge you’ll be wearing around your neck and the bag o’shwag. But for a moment I envisioned my lonely self walking from the hostel to the hotel on a deserted road with no one to hang with. I’ll wait while you run and get your tiny violins. Ridiculous? Yes. My imagination is a vivid place.

And here we are, two weeks before BlogHer and there’s trouble afoot. I will not pretend to know what’s going on. I read Catherine’s post. I thought it was well articulated. I read a lot of the comments. They were fine too. The thought that stuck with me more than anything else, is: is this going to cause a rift at BlogHer this year? I remember reading about cliques and hurt feelings after last year’s conference (which I didn’t attend). This year are we going to have a girl-on-girl fight in the bathroom? If so, I’d like to sell tickets, recoup some of my conference costs.

So that pit in the bottom of my stomach. It’s nerves. Nerves that I’m going to feel more clownish than usual. And sadness that the women I respect so heartily are tearing themselves apart.

Recently the kids’ preschool had an instructor from a local martial arts school come and give a one hour class. Cool, right? Yeah. Except for the part where the instructor left behind all sorts of marketing materials and no price sheet. Have you ever tried to find a price sheet for a martial arts school online? Next to impossible. But Google does turn up a lot of fantastic things. What I learned is that the man that owns the school that gave the free class also does marketing boot camp for other martial arts school owners.

You must have an upgrade system to move students up through higher tuition rates. At my schools, we move students to the Master Club at $259 per month within 8 to 16 lessons (that’s 1 to 2 months). Often, this results in a PIF at $7,800.00 or more.

Now, I’m not naive. I get that they’re not out there only for the greater good. The owners of the martial arts schools want to make money too. Good for them. But seeing the plan to fleece me in black and white was a little too unsettling. Elliot is four. He doesn’t need to be moved up to a higher tuition rate after 2 months.

I should have stuck with my initial reaction that I can’t give money to a school whose forms don’t work in Firefox. Who writes their stuff only for IE? People who don’t want my money, that’s who!

I did find a school for Elliot to try. Last night was his first class. I was so very proud. He listened, followed directions and I didn’t interfere once. Not even when he was picking his belly button. It’s a big step toward independence for both of us.

If you’re here because I was the first commentor on Bossy’s Ten Word Tuesday, welcome. If you’re here because you usually swing by - good to see you too.

When I hear “tart” I either think of that girl in high school, who was not me, or a sweet dessert. But a beet tart? Sounds a little … repulsive? What’s next, brussel sprout pie?

But! It’s fantastic. Amy and I have had it twice together. Once on a fluke and once on purpose. The second time we were actually seated at Cheesecake Factory when we remembered we wanted beet tart. So we left. It’s not like we had actually ordered yet.

From Rioja’s menu:

Asian pear and beet roasted tart, puff pastry shell, glazed red beets, carmelized onions, goat cheese mousse, shaved Asian pears, hazelnut vinaigrette, beet reduction

Next time, oh there will be a next time, I’ll discreetly whip out my cell phone and take a picture.

I love, love beets. And who doesn’t love goat cheese? Never in a million years would I have created this concoction on my own. One supposes that’s why I’m not a chef. But the combination of the tangy beet, the sweet pear and the creamy cheese is amazing. The flavors don’t blend into one giant flavor.; you can taste each individually. And it comes in a cute pastry shell.

My most favorite brother-in-law finally accepted that its 2008 and got a blog. Head on over and see what he’s up to. This summer he’s working at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory. I think he does something with “lasers”. He’s a physics Ph.D student, who really knows what they do?

He has an amazing view from his lab.

Welcome to the World Wide Web, Joshua. We’ve been waiting for you.

Hmmm … Elliot’s legs are almost as long as the slide.

Whoops, they’re nearly as long as the pool is wide too.

Phew, Audrey can still take full advantage of our home-made water park.

Good, because we’re not leaving the hammock.

Know what’s even better than Samoas? Still having them in June.

Our neighbor vacationed in Alaska a few weeks back and caught a 113 pound halibut. We were lucky enough to have been gifted some of the fish.

It was sliced too thin for grilling. So, I decided to make ceviche. Gary introduced us to this delectable treat years ago. Each time we make it we think, we should do this more often - it’s so easy! If you’ve never had ceviche and you like fish I highly recommend it. The fish is not raw. It is “cooked” by the acid in the limes. You don’t have to be a sushi lover to appreciate ceviche.

Because I have a full day and wanted to be able to take the ceviche to the pool tonight for dinner, I took some short cuts.

I sliced a pound of fish into approximately 1″ squares and covered with the juice of four limes in a glass dish (all Internet recommendations are glass or stainless). Choose limes that aren’t too juicy, they’ll be more watery and less acidic affecting the curing of the fish. That concoction was refrigerated for just over an hour. Last night I found recipes ranging from 15 minutes at room temperature to 8 hours in the refrigerator. Your mileage will vary based on type of fish, quality of fish and your preference for “doneness”. I drained the fish and then poured a chunky peach mango salsa over the top (that’s the short cut part, there are as many variations on ceviche as there are sangria).

We’ll nosh on this at the pool this evening with tortilla chips.

Total time prep time: < 15 minutes
Total time: approximately 1 hr, 15 minutes
Difficulty: uhm, none
Kid friendly? Maybe, since it’s in salsa

Wipe the drool from your keyboard.