Wine-Related Resolutions

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12 Monkeys

Wine-related resolutions for 2001

By Bob Johnson

IT’S THAT TIME of year when people resolve to get into better shape, eat healthier, quit smoking, and spend more time with family. Of course, by around Jan. 15, every one of those resolutions will have been broken. To avoid self-humiliation, I’m suggesting a few wine-related resolutions for others to embrace.

January

Resolve to think differently about wine. Too many people associate wine with special occasions. Then they go to Europe, immerse themselves in the culture, and come away thinking all Germans, Italians, and Parisians are candidates for the Betty Ford Clinic. Europeans know that a glass of wine a day does not a gutter-hugging drunk make. Study after study has shown that moderate consumption of alcohol–especially wine, and more specifically, red wine–contributes to a more healthful lifestyle for most people. The special occasion Europeans choose for drinking wine is known as “life.”

February

Resolve to share a bottle of red wine with your significant other. Yes, this is a not-so-veiled reference to Valentine’s Day. Let’s face it, women love romance, and what color do we most commonly associate with that pursuit? You got it: red. Toss in a few candles, some soft music, and a decent meal, and you have the makings of a memorable evening . . . that may well extend into the morning, if you play your cards right.

March

Resolve to hold your wine glass any damn way you please. All right, I admit it: Like every other chronicler of wine at one time or another, I have written about the importance of holding a wine glass by its stem. The reasoning behind this advice is that if you hold the bowl part of the glass, you’ll alter the temperature of the wine, making it warmer than is recommended. Two things: (1) There isn’t a restaurant in the world that serves every bottle of wine at exactly the “correct” temperature; (2) if your hand is throwing off enough heat to significantly alter the wine’s temp, you should be in the emergency room, not a dining room.

April

Resolve to host a wine summit. Have you been feuding with a formerly close friend or someone in your family? Someone has to bury the hatchet, so it may as well be you. Invite your antagonist to a public place, order a bottle of wine, and start talking. Wine brings people together, and it’s also the world’s most effective truth serum. By the time you’re draining your last glass, you’ll either be back on good terms or sharing a paddy wagon.

May

Resolve to adapt an ABC attitude. We’re referring not to the American Broadcasting Company, nor the American Bowling Congress, nor the Alcoholic Beverage Control spies . . . er, representatives. This ABC stands for “Anything But Chardonnay,” and it’s an attitude, should you choose to adapt it, that could open the door to some eye-opening and palate-pleasing wine experiences. Just as some beer drinkers always order a particular brand, many wine drinkers find it easy to get into a chardonnay rut. If variety truly is the spice of life, you can have some spicy times ahead if you occasionally think “ABC” when ordering wine. P.S.: The “C” can also stand for cabernet.

June

Resolve to break the food-and-wine pairing rules. Ever since Red Wine with Fish? hit the shelves at Barnes & Noble, food and wine writers have been questioning the “traditional” guidelines that urged red wine with (red) meat, and white wine with fish. While that’s still good basic advice, the problem is that it’s limiting; it precludes way too many sublime chow-and-vino possibilities. For instance: broiled salmon with pinot noir . . . a thick steak grilled in melted butter with a well-oaked chardonnay . . . spicy beef and broccoli with Gewürztraminer. Didn’t someone once say that rules were meant to be broken?

July

Resolve to refer to California sparkling wine as champagne. For generations, French winemakers have argued that only sparkling wine made in the Champagne region of France should be referred to as “champagne.” Some have even initiated legal proceedings to eliminate use of the word by “interlopers.” I’ve played along with this silliness for way too long, and this is the year I’m putting my foot down. If it looks like champagne . . . if it smells like champagne . . . if it bubbles like champagne . . . dammit, it’s champagne! (Do they still check passports in France?)

August

Resolve to embrace, rather than eschew, the wines of summer. The boys of summer were the old Brooklyn Dodgers. The wines of summer are chilled roses and lighter whites like chenin blanc, Riesling, pinot blanc, and Gewürztraminer. What do baseball and wine have to do with each other? Well, the Disney dynasty owns the Anaheim Angels as well as the soon-to-open California Adventure next door to Disneyland, and that new theme park will include a wine-themed attraction sponsored by Robert Mondavi. And if there’s anything better than a cold beer at a ball game, it’s . . . peanuts and pinot noir? . . . Cracker Jack and cabernet? . . . ice cream and ice wine? . . . OK, so there isn’t anything better than a cold beer and a hot dog. But you can’t spend all your time at the ballpark, so learn to love the aforementioned wines of summer and make some room in the refrigerator.

September

Resolve to trust your own palate. Don’t get suckered by the $100-and-up price tags on a (disturbingly) growing number of wines these days. Those prices have more to do with our proximity to the nouveaux riches in Silicon Valley, combined with somewhat limited supplies, than with quality. You name a hundred-buck bottle, and I’ll name five that are every bit as enjoyable for a third of the price. We all can indulge our champagne tastes on a Budweiser budget simply by learning what we, as individuals, like. Even if most of the wine you drink comes out of a box, that wine is good–to you. And when it comes to drinking wine, you’re the only person who counts.

October

Resolve to cook with wine . . . and even use some in your recipes. OK, it’s an old joke, but adding wine to certain sauces and stews can truly enhance and expand the flavor spectrum. Numerous books have been written on the subject, and many cookbooks include recipes that call for a splash or two of wine. It’s also a good way to kill off a bottle that has been open for a few days.

November

Resolve to mix it up on Turkey Day. Don’t pull your hair out trying to find the “perfect” wine match for your holiday turkey or ham. Perfection cannot be attained . . . unless you’re serving turkey or ham and nothing else. It’s all those other dishes on the Thanksgiving table that create the matching havoc, so the best way to handle the situation is to offer several different kinds of wine and put at least a couple wine glasses at each place setting. Your guests will figure out what they like on their own.

December

Resolve to learn the proper way to open a bottle of champagne (yes, including California sparkling wine that you’ve been calling champagne for eight months now). Uncorking a champagne bottle as they do in the movies is a good way to lose an eye–yours or someone else’s. To avoid possible catastrophe, slowly remove the “cage” surrounding the cork, then get a firm grip on the cork itself. Slowly–repeat: slowly–turn the cork until it emerges from the neck with a muted “pop” sound. The bubbles will be just as, well, bubbly with a muted pop, plus you won’t spill (i.e., waste) any of the wine via cascading spillage. If you simply must experience the sound of a loud pop, tune in a Lawrence Welk rerun on PBS.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Rant

The Actors and the Mole People

By Bonnie-Jean Kimball

HOW EXCITING! We now belong to the Mole People. What a great gift our government has given us! Some of us have been voting in every election, and now we’ve learned it’s not necessary. They let us vote; they just don’t count them! To our politicians we say, “Are you just happy to see us, or is that a judge you have in your pocket?” Ho, ho, ho.

With makeup, hair styling, costuming, and PR, these guys we thought wanted to be statesmen are great actors. What a comedy! It’s a big sitcom, like health care. Our government and those huge insurance companies see that we receive only minimum care because they want us to stay strong and pay the right people, who pay them. Ross Perot became a multibillionaire the American Way, didn’t he, with our Medicare money?

These important men sit on one another’s boards of trustees controlling prices. Is that why we see so many mergers? The international pharmaceutical companies priced us out of medications first so we could get well on our own or take unregulated herbal products. The media businesses don’t get much money from us yet, so they support outfits that buy big advertisements. “That’s just business.”

Don’t revolutionaries take over press, radio, and TV in a coup? Lucky us–we’re coup-less!

And with the merger of grocery companies, they’ve priced us out of products we don’t need, like milk. It’s too bad farmers can’t get more of that money, but they must not be paying our needy candidates and the one-party system enough. Governments don’t want us to have too much water either, because that would put drought-control boards and water-treatment people out of business. Have you noticed lately that they need to raise prices?

Since we can’t afford housing costs where we work, we travel too much, and that’s why the global (whoa–not just Texas!) oil and gasoline people need bigger profits. It puts independent truckers out of business, but their vehicles are the ones that tear up roads that seldom get repaired, so what do we care? We know the government needs our gasoline tax money for other purposes. What are those again?

Now at the start of winter the power companies, whose poor investors weren’t receiving high enough dividends, are helping us realize we can live without heat or light.

Boy! It’s better than a horror movie.

With help from the media, they’ve got everybody scared. Of course, old people get pneumonia or fall down, but without medicine, health care, food, water, rent money, gas, or light they can’t make it anyway. Haven’t politicians reported that Social Security’s going broke?

But, gee, I hope they don’t raise prices on matches and candles, because “if everyone lit just one little candle–” What’s the rest of that song?

Send your 500-word Rant item to: Northern California Bohemian, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa, CA 95403, attn: Opinion page editor.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Open Mic

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Wingin’ It

By Becca Lawton

THE THANKSGIVING DAY vandalism of Luna, the 200-foot-tall redwood made home by Julia “Butterfly” Hill for over two years, followed by a week my own trip to Humboldt County. I’d gone to tour a station that measures sediment in Freshwater Creek near Eureka, hoping to learn techniques applicable to Sonoma County streams. While showing me around, the geologist who operates the station confessed, “I wasn’t an activist before I moved here and saw what was going on in the forests.”

What’s going on is continued clear-cutting that delivers sediment to streams at an alarming rate. The geologist and his colleagues sample on several creeks in Humboldt Bay watersheds, and they’ve watched little drainages go silty one by one as the forests above them become patchworked with naked slopes. During certain storms the Freshwater station has measured suspended sediment at concentrations more than twice what the stream’s dwindling population of endangered coho salmon can handle. Extended periods of high sediment in stream water act like sandpaper on the salmon’s gills. The fish suffocate.

Not everyone cares about fish, of course. A quote I read from someone who doesn’t: “I don’t give a good goddamn about salmon. . . . Saving salmon, it doesn’t make sense.” Words perhaps similar to those, albeit about trees, may have been running through the mind of Luna’s destroyer–on a day traditionally dedicated to feasting, communing, and giving thanks.

Creek monitoring included, we have no way to measure the true impacts of clear-cutting deep forests (whether for timber, agriculture, or building), chain-sawing our elder redwoods, and smothering coho. Which brings to mind the Ray Bradbury tale about the big-game hunters who time-travel from AD. 2055 back to the Cretaceous to bag T. rex. The hunters must confine their movements to an antigravity path hovering six inches aboveground so they in no way affect the ancient environment. Of course, one terrified wretch accidentally strays from the path, and after the’ve downed T. rex and returned to 2055, the wretch turns up with the crushed remains of a golden butterfly on one shoe.

The results are disastrous. The butterfly was meant to survive, and losing it from the fragile landscape of the evolving ecosystem transforms the world to a place not worth living in: chemically tainted, oily, and overridden with crude sensibility. A Las Vegas with gloves off.

In the wretch’s own words, Killing one butterfly couldn’t be that important. Could it?

Sonoma County writer-geologist Becca Lawton is the author of ‘Discover Nature in the Rocks.’

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Newsgrinder

Important events as reported by daily newspapers and summarized by Daedalus Howell.

Thursday 12.28.00

“Steffi & Andre: Liebesnest für 50 Millionen Mark,” blared a headline from Bildzeitung, a German-based tabloid. What’s it all mean, oh great one, you ask? Andre Agassi, tennis star and Brooke Shields deflowerer, bought a pad in Tiburon for Steffi Graf, girlfriend and fellow Wimbledon champ, reports the Marin Independent Journal, which was besieged by German tabloids covering the “story.” German tabloids–can you just imagine? Remember that is the nation that invented the concept of “schadenfreude” (experiencing joy from another person’s misfortune), not to mention Nazi spin doctor Joseph Goebbels. “I think everybody and their brother is after this thing,” noted Brigitte Knauf of Der Spiegel, who said her publication wants to run a “small, human interest” piece on the dwelling–so small, apparently, that the German rag is willing to lay out some hard cold marks for airfare and accommodations.

Friday 12.29.00

Rick Ferguson, an employee of a San Anselmo concrete company, cemented his “Employee of the Week” title when he endeavored to retrieve a stolen company dump truck after spotting it being driven near his Richmond home. “I started following him, trying to get him to stop, and the guy pulled over to let me pass,” Ferguson recounted to the IJ. “I got out and told him that he was driving my boss’ truck. He got out and said he didn’t steal it and that he owned it. Then he took out a gun and put it to my head.” (Suggested soundtrack: “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero,” performed by Bo Donaldson & the Heywoods.) “I think Ferguson’s motives were good and that he was trying to do the right thing, but I would never advise anybody to do that,” said San Rafael Police Sgt. Jonathan Bean. “In that situation I would recommend you be a good witness, drop back and protect your safety, and call 911.” Or just walk the fuck away.

Sunday 12.31.00

The Napa Valley Register reports that U.S. retailers bought up to 20 percent more champagne and sparkling wine than usual in 1999. According to wine columnist Dan Berger, customers bought only 5 percent more, however, leaving millions of undrunk cases sitting in stockrooms. “We were all victims of the biggest marketing hoax in history,” said Phil Huettenhain, owner of Vintage 1870 Wine Cellar in Yountville (apparently unaware of the Village People). “It was built up so big I thought every person in the world would have a glass of champagne in hand.” There’s still time, Phil. Overstocked champagne can be sent to: Daedalus Howell, c/o Northern California Bohemian, 50 Mark West Springs Road, Santa Rosa, CA 95403. Bottoms up!

Sunday 12.31.00

When wetlands consultant John Zentner pleaded guilty to illegally moving eight red-legged frogs protected by the Endangered Species Act out of the path of a Concord housing development, he said he didn’t foresee the tidal wave of negative press that would follow. “I could never have predicted the newspaper coverage,” Zentner told the Press Democrat. Indeed, Zentner could never have predicted this: wiggy, wiggy, wom, wiggy, wom, wiggy wom. . . .

Monday 01.01.01

Thanks to bicyclists Tom Fallon and Dolores Mosqueda, motorists who drive “dangerously close” to bicyclists may get a poor grade on their “Road Rage Report Card” (drivers who run down cyclists still have to drive home really, really fast and get paint jobs, however). Concerned about the growing number of assaults on cyclists by aggravated motorists, the duo has printed 1,000 notebooks for cyclists to record license-plate numbers and physical descriptions of unsafe drivers (or their Last Will and Testament, depending on the extent of the assault). The report cards come on the heels of part-time balloon salesman Glenn Wilson’s alleged endangerment of the cyclists when he reportedly threw a soft drink at them, charged at them, and skidded by, whilst driving a car full of helium balloons. Fallon says that Ross Police Chief Lee Hinnenberg told him that Wilson was a member of a venerable Ross family (uh, yeah, sure, balloon guy) and encouraged him to drop the matter, which the chief denies. “From what we’ve been told, [Fallon’s] a radical–one of the bicyclists, the hard-core type,” he said to the IJ. Watch yourself, Chiefy, words like that tend to attract radical, hard-core cyclists in droves–they may swarm your wee little burg like a plague of locusts for a little civil disobedience. . . . Calling Critical Mass!

Monday 01.01.01

The PD reports that 5,400 babies were born in Sonoma County during 2000; however, only 4,000 county residents died before 2001. The result is a 1,400 countywide Soul Deficit, owing to the skewed reincarnation ratio. Parents who suspect their child was born without a soul are urged to register him or her with the Census Bureau to aid in the search for the antichrist. When the antichrist is located, he or she will be rewarded a $500 college scholarship and an embossed certificate of authentication. Happy New Year. . . .

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Dave Foreman

Dave Foreman’s novel offers passion for vanishing wild places

By Steven Hawley

FOLLOWING Mark Twain’s adage “Write what you know about,” the world of fiction might be neatly divided into two camps. There are writers who research a subject extensively and manage to write intimate, detailed, vivid prose born of whatever spark might be ignited by hours spent in library stacks. Then there are writers whose work is purely imaginative. Such authors tend to create characters who are at least loosely autobiographical.

Whatever the finer points or drawbacks of either genre, Dave Foreman’s first crack at fiction, The Lobo Outback Funeral Home (University Press of Colorado; $24.95), falls plainly within the bounds of biographical fiction.

Foreman, a co-founder of the radical environmental group Earth First!, has attracted controversy from inside and outside environmental circles.

Over a 30-year career in the conservation movement, Foreman has been beaten by pro-logging thugs, investigated by the FBI, and reviled by fellow environmentalists for abandoning his radical roots.

The protagonist in this novel, 40-something Jack Hunter, is a lot like Foreman: a lifelong conservationist who has made the Southwest his home. Like Foreman, Hunter began his career as an environmental lobbyist in Washington, D.C., and became disillusioned with the bureaucracy there. And like Foreman, Hunter seems unable to avoid headlong collisions with controversy after departing Washington for greener pastures.

Unlike Foreman, Hunter wishes to retire from the activist life, relegating himself to a quiet existence as a farrier (a person who shoes horses) and explorer of a nearby beloved wilderness area.

Of course, things get complicated. Hunter falls in love with a fiercely intelligent and passionate wildlife biologist, Dr. MaryAnne McClellan, finds a breeding population of wolves in his wilderness area, and runs afoul of rednecks and monied interests that have an anti-environmental stranglehold on local politics.

All this leads to sex in the wilderness, brawls in bars, and duels with local hicks and bureaucrats, borrowing intelligently from a fiction formula perfected by Ed Abbey and Carl Hiaasen.

Foreman’s passion for American wilderness is transparent, an obsession that both helps and hinders this novel.

His love and intimate familiarity with Southwestern wild lands is finely woven into the scenery of the book in a visceral way that makes you want to hop onto I-15 south and drive until you find the landscape that matches the prose.

While the scenery is great, Foreman’s zeal to promote the wilderness cause presents some literary glitches. Anyone not fascinated by the procedures for designating, documenting, and protecting wilderness areas can skip substantial portions of the middle of the book, since that’s what the good guys in Lobo Outback are up to. The same goes for a long lecture from Hunter’s love interest McClellan, who often sounds like a Peterson’s field guide, providing accurate, detailed bird, plant, and animal factoids that nonetheless take some of the wind out of the sails in this plot.

But overall, Lobo Outback is an entertaining read, a contemporary Western that depicts some fantastic wild places and the increasingly divided culture charged with protecting them.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

‘Hamlet’

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Hamlet.

Will Red

The plot’s the thing in compelling Soviet film version of ‘Hamlet’

THE VERY notion of a Russian-language version of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, filmed in the Soviet Union in 1964 during the terrible old Cold War days, will surely intimidate certain viewers. Others may be attracted to such an offering out of cultural curiosity, approaching the piece with an eye for cinematic clues about life in Russia during the reign of Khrushchev. And some, Shakespeare fans who’ve already seen every English version of the play, might be eager to score one more big-screen Hamlet notch on their cineaste belts.

Such fears and expectations are natural. But the true pleasure of Grigory Kozintsev’s magnificent Hamlet–screening during the Rafael Film Center’s Soviet Cinema series–lies in seeing the bones of the story laid bare. With Shakespeare, the glorious language often takes precedent over the story itself. But in this case–with English subtitles translated from a “modern language” version by Russian poet-writer Boris Pasternak (Dr. Zhivago)–Shakespeare’s language is dropped to a subordinate role, allowing the tale itself to rule the show. And rule it does.

Few filmed versions of Hamlet have so perfectly captured the relentless doom of Hamlet’s predicament. He’s too terrified to accuse his uncle of murdering the rightful king, yet he’s equally scared not to.

The film was made in a Cold War-era Russia steeped in fear. The dread of nuclear annihilation and the growing sense that each Russian’s every move was being watched reveal themselves in the way Hamlet’s every action is shadowed by spies: Claudius, the court adviser Polonius, Hamlet’s turncoat friends Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the faceless guards lurking in every corridor. The prince is a prisoner in his own country, deemed dangerous because he won’t play along.

Kozintsev’s Hamlet opens with a long series of eerie shots, in stark but vibrant black-and-white, that brilliantly set the tone and pace for all that follows. Waves rise and fall at sea. Then more waves, filmed a bit closer, till we finally see the shore: sharp, jagged rocks being pounded by surf, and a shadowy reflection–the imposing Castle of Elsinore–now appearing in the mist-shrouded water below.

The ominous quiet of these images is suddenly shattered by a wide shot of Hamlet (Innokenty Smoktunovsky) riding a horse at frantic full gallop across a barren landscape, then up and through the gates of Elsinore. Slowly the gate is lowered and, with a reverberating click, locks into place.

The prison theme shows up throughout the film. When Hamlet addresses his former love, Ophelia, delivering his self-hating “Get thee to nunnery” speech, he does so from one side of a stairway banister, talking through the wooden supports as if through the iron bars of a jail. Later, Ophelia is shown being locked into a stiff iron corset that looks more like a torture device than a piece of apparel.

Smoktunovsky plays Hamlet with a heartbreaking openness, his overwhelming grief and anger made profoundly clear in his haunted eyes. All the performances, in fact, are magnificent, somehow transcending the muddling effect of the subtitles. The orchestral score, too, by Dimitri Shostakovich, is exceptional, rising and falling from moments of quiet emotion to rousing cacophonies that, like this provocative Hamlet itself, are as moving as they are frightening.

‘Hamlet’ screens Saturday, Jan. 6, at 7 p.m. at the Rafael Film Center, 1118 Fourth St., San Rafael. Tickets are $7.50. For details, see Movie Times, page 31, or call 415/454-1222.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

The Wide-Eyed Gourmet

Will work for food

By Marina Wolf

I WAS CRAVING fresh seafood the other day, and feeling posh, too, so I did the logical thing and took my girlfriend to a restaurant that serves plain boiled crab. The crab came with the standard nutcracker thingy and a seafood fork, neither of which actually work against the fiberglass shell and tiny little pockets of crustaceous resistance. Of course we got sticky crab juice all over our faces within 30 seconds, and of course we had to wait until the end of the meal for those little lemon-scented warm towels to do a proper clean-up.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, while I was wrenching and picking my way through a leg, it hit me: crab is possibly the most inefficient food on the face of the planet. The paltry return in kilocalories in no way justifies the energy spent on getting at the goods in the first place. In other words, it takes a lot of work for one mouthful of crab.

Such moments of awareness–cold showers on the lusty work of crab eating–are the curse of the modern appetite. They come because we are becoming more and more used to not doing any work at all. The food comes to us preprocessed, after all the effort in cleaning, extracting, chopping, seasoning, and/or cooking has been applied in far-away factories. The more processed the food, the easier the eatin’, a truism that leads us right up to astronaut squeeze-tube entrées and cans of Slim Fast.

Hey, I didn’t say the food is tastier. It’s just easier to get in your mouth.

Some of the best food in the world is a real pain in the ass to eat. Artichokes. Fresh pineapple. The bit of meat left in the corner of the pork chop bone. Food worth having often involves getting fibers in one’s teeth, as in mangoes or fresh corn on the cob, and sometimes it’s just downright dirty work. Like pomegranates.

For years I carefully, cheerfully peeled them, accepting any stray spurt of blood-red juice as my toll for the sensual pleasure that would follow. And even though I’ve learned the trick about peeling them while submerging them in a bowl of water, the tough peel still manages to work its way under my fingernails every time. This, I think while digging under my nails with a painful grimace, is the price for pleasure.

Not working for our food creates a valueless menu. Without some level of brute physical engagement with the process, there is no striving, no contrast of pain or temporary deprivation or nasty toxic bits to make the final mouthful so delicious. Is this too moral an overlay for the simple facts of digestion? Perhaps. But there is no denying the elation I experience in finding and mining an overlooked section of crab leg.

Contrast that with the easy foods (they call them convenience foods for a reason). There is no triumph in a corndog. Yes, it’s good, and there is a certain dexterity involved if you put too much mustard on before walking a crowded fairway. But it’s on a stick: How can you miss your mouth? Or take preprocessed cheese slices, which, in addition to being oversalted and strangely textured, take all the science and suspense out of cutting a piece of real cheese off an unwieldy block. And let’s not even talk about Krab meat, which bears enough resemblance to its namesake to use for display in cheap deli-case salads, but not enough to put on my plate

Hell, yes, I’ll work for my food. If it’s easy, we pay for it in other ways.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Driving Soccer Moms

The Wheel Deal

Sprawl: Soccer moms’ public enemy No. 1

By Linda Baker

I HATE TO DRIVE. I’m also the mother of two young children, ages 3 and 5. A few years ago, if you’d asked me what the former had to do with the latter, I’d probably have responded, grumpily, that I wasn’t looking forward to shuttling my kids to music lessons, soccer practice, and friends’ houses five days a week. Only recently have I realized how inextricably connected driving and motherhood really are. And in the process, something personal–chauffeuring my kids around town–has become something political: understanding the deleterious effects of an automobile-centered society on women, children, and the institutions that sustain them.

According to a study released last year by the Washington, D.C.-based Surface Transportation Policy Project, spread-out development caused mothers with school-aged children to spend more than an hour a day driving. Whether they work or not, women with kids now make as many as five car trips a day, 20 percent more than the average for all women and 21 percent more than the average man.

“Women drive more because they do the bulk of household production tasks such as shopping for groceries and dropping kids off at day care–what we call ‘trip chaining,’ ” says Catherine Lawson, a researcher at Portland State University who studies gender and transportation patterns. It’s not that fathers never perform family driving tasks; it’s just that mothers, by and large, do more.

And what mothers do has changed over the years as more and more drive their kids away from neighborhood schools to high-performing public and private institutions. That daily exodus coupled with the sprawl that often puts families miles away from the essentials–supermarkets, laundromats, hardware stores, and the like–have conspired to create an unlikely situation. The simple act of walking–to school, to the store– increasingly belongs to the affluent.

As a work-at-home mother, I find it impossible to avoid driving my kids: to the doctor’s office, to the dentist, to friends’ houses, to swimming pools, to indoor play parks, and to children’s museums located only in far-flung areas. Like many women with children, I spend a good portion of every week strapping my kids in and out of car seats, negotiating back-seat squabbles while changing lanes, and scooping up wayward preschoolers as they skip dangerously through one of an infinite number of parking lots. It’s as if automobile access has become a necessary adjunct to child rearing, on a par with caring parents, health care, and a good education.

The specter of mothers haunting the streets creates several problems. First of all, the stress women incur from driving their kids around town is tremendous, if not yet quantifiable. Ask any mother; road rage is a tame descriptor when you’re stuck in traffic with a screaming child in the back seat.

A far more complex issue is the connection between mothers’ increased drive time and the erosion of urban institutions. This enormously complicated set of relations between land use and transportation patterns, between suburban development and inner-city decline, became clear to me this year when my husband and I enrolled our son in our neighborhood school. As it turns out, we are part of a dying breed. Concerned about deteriorating quality in the public school system, most of our friends and acquaintances now forgo the neighborhood school and instead enroll their children in the best magnet program or private institution they can find.

“There are six kids on our block, and all of them are going to different schools,” one mother recently told me. The majority of these travelers, you guessed it, are driven to school by mom.

SENDING your child to the best school you can find–or afford–carries with it an infallible logic. But what happens to the community school when half the parents send their kids to institutions outside of the neighborhood? How has inadequate funding for urban school systems led to an increase in the number of cars on the road . . . and the number of mothers who drive them? And what happens to the neighborhood when no one is walking to school?

The health of a community, says urban social critic Ray Oldenberg, can be measured by the number of amenities located within walking distance. By this standard, the community is far from well. Largely because walking has become both unpleasant and dangerous, the number of adults and children walking to school and to work has declined dramatically since the 1970s, according to Sprawl Watch Clearinghouse. Although it used to be the most common way of getting around in cities and towns, today only 5.5 percent of all trips are on foot.

Interviews with department of transportation officials in 10 states reveal that kids are walking to school less than in the past, mostly owing to parental concerns for safety and to siting of new schools in outlying areas where lack of sidewalks makes it difficult to walk. It’s no surprise, perhaps, that a study released last year by the Centers for Disease Control links increasing childhood obesity rates to automobile-centered lifestyles.

The connection between gender, sprawl, and transportation first drew national attention under welfare reform, when state officials found that the lack of affordable child care, inner-city employment, and suburban mass transit prevented many single mothers from keeping new jobs.

Today, traffic congestion has added a startling new dimension to class-based travel problems. Reversing a decades-old trend, walking, not driving, is becoming a privilege of wealth. Compare the rising poverty rates in the nation’s older “carburbs” with upscale New Urbanist communities like Seaside in Florida or award-winning Orenco Station in Portland. Or consider the gentrification that is claiming inner cities across the country, replacing affordable housing with premium-price condos located only a stone’s throw from work, shopping, and entertainment.

THE LOGIC is simple. When gridlock takes over, cars are no longer synonymous with mobility. And as Lawson puts it, “Single mothers . . . who have the greatest need for mobility have the greatest problems when their mobility is limited.”

With the advent of new light-rail systems, U.S. metropolitan areas plan more family-friendly transit projects, such as putting dry cleaning businesses and day-care centers along rail stations. The Metro rail system in the Washington, D.C., region has child-care facilities at two of its train stops. In San Jose, the Tamien Child Care Center is located at a light-rail stop and offers family dinners to go, dry cleaning, and hair cutting for the children.

But these developments alone won’t get mothers out of their cars. As the link between driving and out-of-favor public schools suggests, strong educational institutions are essential for thriving–and sustainable–communities. Good urban planning can’t solve all social problems. But it can certainly put communities back on the map and–don’t forget–give mothers some of their time back.

From the January 4-10, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

First Night Santa Rosa

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At the helm: Organizational coordinator Leslie French works to bolster funds for Santa Rosa’s First Night, which has been strapped for cash this year after the event fell far short of its fiscal projections.

Party Pooper

Will this be last call for First Night?

By Paula Harris

FIRST NIGHT in Santa Rosa is at a crucial turning point. Whether the New Year’s Eve arts and entertainment monster block party, touted by organizers as “the single largest multicultural expression of creativity that takes place annually in the North Bay,” will survive past this year remains to be seen.

Arrangements have never run quite smoothly for Santa Rosa’s street celebration–which puts the spotlight on local musicians, thespians, clowns, mimes, dancers, and other artists performing in the streets and downtown venues–since its inception in 1995. Miscalculation of attendance, lack of continuous leadership, low levels of sponsorship, and poor weather have all contributed to its rocky history.

Santa Rosa’s alcohol-free community celebration of the New Year is modeled on the First Night party in Boston, which began in 1976 with the aim of bringing the neighboring communities of the city together in a joint celebration that eschews drunken revelry while providing the public with an alternative way of ushering in the New Year.

Boston’s idea caught on, and now some 200 cities in the United States and Canada have started their own First Night celebrations. But it hasn’t been much of a party at times for Santa Rosa First Night organizers.

IN THE FIRST year, organizers researched how the event fared in similar-sized cities and anticipated a crowd of 10,000. It was a gross miscalculation–between 25,000 and 30,000 people showed up. The following year, wary organizers prepared for a far bigger crowd–but the event was practically rained out.

Expected annual growth in turnout never materialized, remaining at a steady 25,000 for the next couple of years. Then last year’s “Millennium Madness” First Night event (actually something of a nonevent) almost killed it.

Overspending organizers envisioned hordes of Y2K partygoers. But instead, spooked folks stayed home in droves, a fact that caused many millennium New Year’s Eve celebrations across the country to bomb. The city of San Rafael, for example, reportedly lost $1 million on its frizzled extravaganza. The miscalculation in Santa Rosa created a $30,000 deficit in the shaky First Night budget–which doesn’t have an operating reserve fund.

Yet, although Santa Rosa’s First Night appeared to have withered on the vine five months ago, it’s clawing its way back to the streets this year with a scaled-down celebration, an increase in button prices (from $5 to $7), and, according to organizers, a more focused vision.

“Y2K put us in the hole,” admits Leslie French, First Night’s new part-time coordinator, a job she’s held since October. Before French’s arrival, the event had been without a coordinator since March, when the previous one, Brooks Leete, resigned after three years on the job.

“First Night is like a business,” French continues. “Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. It might take five years to get the event back at full force.”

French is working long hours during the final run up to this year’s crucial celebration. Volunteers are going through orientation (it takes about 400 volunteers to hold the event), decorations are being prepared, and deals are being made.

“We’re trying to work with artists at reduced fees,” explains French. “For example, a band that charges $1,000, we’re asking to perform for $750 or even $500. It depends on how we can negotiate.”

In addition, organizers have cut back the number of artists from 150 to 90, reduced the number of stages from five to three, and scaled down the physical size of the event, which will now center on Fourth Street, from E street to Wilson Street in Railroad Square, while increasing the children’s area with some paid activities.

THE ORGANIZERS ARE also attempting to garner more community support for First Night. When some 25,000 people attend the event, only about 18,000 pay for buttons to get into the indoor venues–the other 7,000 or so roam the streets and get to watch free entertainment. “We’re looking to close that gap up,” says French.

Ellen Draper, board president for the Cultural Arts Council of Sonoma County, the parent organization of First Night, adds that downtown Santa Rosa doesn’t have as many indoor concert venues as other cities, so revenue from button sales is lower to begin with.

“While the philosophy of First Night is that it’s accessible to all people of all income levels, we’re trying to educate the community that purchasing a button isn’t just a way to get into the concert venues,” Draper says. “It’s a way to support the arts in Sonoma County.”

In July, community leaders met to discuss First Night’s future and decided to scale back. The event had reached a point where the budget required $275,000 cash, increasing to $450,000 with in-kind donations, according to Draper. This year, the budget is $175,000 and increases to $275,000 to $300,000 with in-kind donations figured in.

“We are very in-kind rich,” Draper says. “The city provides bus and police services, the printing is donated, and a lot more.” Unlike other First Night cities, Santa Rosa does not contribute cash funding. However, this week, the Sonoma County Board of Supervisors made a $10,000 one-time contribution through the county’s Department of Health Services.

Draper says First Night’s main challenge is the need to increase long-term corporate sponsorship to cover costs. That would allow the money raised by the sale of buttons to be used as seed money, creating an operating reserve. “We need to do a better job of recognizing our sponsors so that more will want to join,” Draper admits. “We have not done as good a job with that as we could have.”

However, organizers have finally been able to scrape together enough donations from businesses and individuals to hold the scaled-down event this year. Notable donations come from Beatle John Lennon’s widow, Yoko Ono, who is donating prints of Lennon’s manuscripts for a countywide schools fundraiser; and from the Charles Schulz estate, which has donated a drawing of Linus by the late cartoonist to be used in a design for the First Night entry buttons.

SANTA ROSA is not the only city to have problems funding a First Night party. The city of Annapolis, Md., was poised to kill its celebration last year until a major corporate sponsor stepped in at the last minute. Lima, Ohio, canceled its party because of costs, and –like Santa Rosa–Edmonton in Canada is having to cut way back this year.

“There have been First Nights that have gone dark, and it’s very difficult to bring them back up again, ” says Serene Earls.

Earls is president of the International Alliance of First Night Celebrations (the umbrella organization for First Night) and organizer of the first First Night 23 years ago in Boston. She headed up that event for 14 years.

“I hear of financial reasons, but what that really means is volunteer burnout, lack of leadership, and a community not entirely interested in the event,” Earls says.

Earls adds that Santa Rosa is at a typical juncture and must re-evaluate its needs, particularly after having changes in management of the event. Barbara Harris, executive director of the Cultural Arts Council of Sonoma County for 10 years, resigned this month.

“In Santa Rosa’s case it all started with a big bang and did well,” Earls says. “But the more continuity in leadership, the further you’re going to go. Each change brings new image building and relearning, and you need very strong volunteer leadership–just one person can’t make magic in the community.”

Earls says that a First Night celebration thrives if the community is interested enough not to let it go. “The fact that Santa Rosa didn’t go dark shows that the community is still interested–otherwise the event would have gone off the map,” Earls concludes. “This is an event that pulls the community together. It’s the time of year to look ahead. This is New Year’s Eve, and with it comes a special set of collective needs of a city and the people who live there.”

Meanwhile, Draper contends First Night organizers aren’t to blame for the festival’s near demise in Santa Rosa. “If there was any mismanagement, it was done out of ignorance and flying by the seat of our pants, not out of incompetence or maliciousness,” Draper says. “The event took off like a horse at the gate and we’ve been racing to slow it down.”

Ritzy Washout in San Rafael

It’s no wonder San Rafael city officials were red-faced about last year’s failed millennium bash. The city had hoped the high-profile, exclusive extravaganza–featuring celebrity rockers Bonnie Raitt and Huey Lewis, a couple of dozen other performers, and a $22,000 balloon drop– would draw in masses and moola. Instead, the swanky event took a $1.2 million bath with taxpayer money. Rather than attracting the 11,000 partygoers needed for the city to break even, the event drew only 6,100 to pay the $225 to $300 ticket price. The financial loss, which reportedly represented some 2.5 percent of the city of San Rafael’s 1999-2000 budget, caused a political uproar between city officials and community leaders. As one city spokesperson put it: “We did it last year to celebrate the turn of the millennium, and I think we’ll do it again in 2999.”

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Manka’s Inverness Lodge

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Keeping the home fires burning: Comforting food and cozy surroundings greet diners at Manka’s Inverness Lodge.

Rustic Romance

Inverness Lodge the perfect winter retreat

By Paula Harris

WEND YOUR way this dark wintry night through the foggy backroads to Marin’s wildly beautiful Point Reyes Peninsula and your reward for the trek is a cozy superb supper served in the rustic and romantic comfort of an old lodge tucked away atop a hill under the stars. If you can find it!

It’s a real challenge to locate the turnoff for Manka’s Inverness Lodge in the misty darkness. We know there’s a signpost, we know there’s a hill, but we can find neither as we drive back and forth over the same stretch of road beside Tomales Bay.

The owners of neighboring restaurants must get really pissed off with all the lost souls heading for Manka’s who stop by in a panic (jeeze, they may lose their reservations) and ask for directions, as we did in two places on either side of the elusive eatery.

All fretting is forgotten, though, when you at last find the elegant old hunting lodge, built in 1917. Step into the cold, pine-scented night air and crunch your way through the leafy ground to a pumpkin-laden porch accented with a couple of creaky hickory rockers.

Inside is pure casual though sneakily indulgent comfort. The reception room is dark, but dotted with the golden-orange glow of mica table lamps. The light from a crackling fire dances in the large rock fireplace. The room is filled with deep plaid-covered couches, rustic wood furniture, baskets of logs, vintage fishing gear, and antique game boards. There are classic photographs on the walls, a chandelier fashioned from antlers hangs from the ceiling, and smoky jazz lazily emanates from the sound system.

The room is also filled with diners waiting to be seated. Lots of diners. It’s not usual to have to wait half an hour or more (even with reservations) to get into the dining room. Still, the ambiance is so mellow that any complaints are quashed by the warm room, the soft lights, and the relaxed and charming hostess in the ankle-grazing dark skirt who sips red wine and offers to bring you a glass of champagne (alas, not free) while you bide your time.

The wait is worth it. We are lulled into a state of relaxation seated in the shadowy dining room, which also has rustic wooden chairs, snowy linen tablecloths, more glowing mica lamps, and real ivy sneaking in through the window frames.

There is a five-course supper for $58. All that’s required is to sit back and relax and let the server bring you the chain of courses.

The large majority of what is served is grown and raised and caught within 15 minutes of Manka’s. The daily changing menu highlights wild game, local fish, locally raised birds, rabbits, lamb, abalone, and oysters–plus an array of greens roots, fruits, and olives grown on the property. Foragers ferret out wild mushrooms and pick buckets of huckleberries for the restaurant.

TONIGHT’S dinner begins with local goat’s milk camellia–a soft, delicate, not too “goaty” cheese served with a sweet syrup and fruits in square silver bowl. The delicious dish features a chutney of sun-dried sour cherries and pieces of candied pumpkin that were “plucked from the porch.”

Next up are bites of sweet soil-flavored baby Bolinas beets tumbling over a fluffy egg-rich parsley-garlic custard encircled with a butter sauce dotted with piquant black olives. Pure decadence.

The soup of Tomales Bay mussels is a creamy saffron-scented brew topped with ribbons of fresh green sorrel. The mussels are plump and perfect.

At this point, the “clearing ice of lemons” is a lovely palate scourer. It’s a tart, slightly creamy sherbet served in a small martini glass.

The main course is a choice between grilled axis deer or (for vegetarians) local wild mushroom risotto. Manka’s may be heavy on the game meats, but will accommodate vegetarians in all the courses offered on the menu. For example, the vegetarian in our party was served a delicate salad of spicy-bitter wild arugula dotted with pomegranate seeds and flecks of goat cheese.

The risotto is a nutty-textured delight flavored with cauliflower and served with porcini, beech mushrooms, and leeks. It’s a very satisfying alternative to the meat.

And the tenderloin chop of wild axis deer grilled in Manka’s fireplace is a rich-pink tender morsel on a slender bone. It’s accompanied by mashed parsnips, slow-roasted shallots, and a venison sauce flavored with oranges and autumn spices. What could be more perfect with a glass of deep red wine on a night like this?

The wine list, by the way, is expansive (and expensive), with more than 150 selections, a number of which are from small and often quirky domestic and foreign wineries.

Finally comes the dessert, a puddinglike bittersweet double chocolate gelato atop a pumpkin syrup-soaked pastry wedge (which is more the texture of a sponge cake) served with crunchy salty-sweet seasoned walnuts. The pastry base is too stodgy, but the rest of the dessert is wonderful.

Linger by the fire afterwards or plan to stay overnight in one of the lodge’s luxuriously rustic rooms or cabins.

Final note: Restaurant times at Manka’s frequently alter, so plan to call ahead for seasonal changes (and please note that the restaurant will be closed for several weeks from January to March) and complete directions.

Manka’s Inverness Lodge Address: 30 Callender Way (Argyle St.), Inverness; 415/669-1034 Hours: Dinner; the restaurant will close between January and March Food: Local delicacies, heavy on game meat Service: Usually a wait to get into the dining room, but service is great Ambiance: Woodsy, romantic, and relaxing Price: Expensive Wine list: Large selection Overall: 3 1/2 stars (out of 4)

From the December 28, 2000-January 3, 2001 issue of the Northern California Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

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