Online Dating: Yes or No?

Is online dating only for fun and games, or can folks looking for a relationship actually find others who are looking for the same thing? 

I have reached the point where I am ready to try this. As much as I love living on this mountain, I am ready to venture out into the neighborhood, seeking a woman of mature age to spend quality time with. I may be seventy years old but I ain't dead yet.

This photo of me was taken by
 Ollie Mac a few weeks ago.

I love to cook, bake, garden, walk for pleasure, watch the Giants and 49ers on TV, and I enjoy almost every kind of music. I love painting, writing, hanging out with my grandson, working jigsaw puzzles and canning tomato products. I am not a traveling man, though I do enjoy being in Eureka, which is two hours to the north.

I keep this huge [empty] house neat and tidy, having always found it easier to maintain it than it is to clean it after it falls apart. Except for Ollie Mac, there is no one else around to make a mess. It’s a country home, so you will not find a microwave, a clothes dryer, a dishwasher (except for me), a toaster oven or a garbage disposal. You will see spider webs, ants and the occasional alligator lizard as you mosey around my house, but they’re harmless and don’t eat much.

The first thing I would divulge to a prospective partner is that I indulge in cannabis. Secondly, I would say that I would love to cook a meal for you, and then clean up the kitchen afterwards. I especially like cooking breakfast for two, which leads me into the third thing I would tell my potential partner: I would add that though I am seventy, I am still interested in intimacy. There is nothing wrong with platonic relationships, mind you, except that I am not interested in that.

If this last part seems forward, I apologize in advance; I would just be trying to avoid any unnecessary ambiguity, and plain English seems the best way to do so.

Shortly after Annie passed, I wrote a blog piece called “Only Mature Women Need Apply,” in which I expressed an interest in finding another mate. I now find that piece to be rather naive, as if women would be interested in giving up whatever they had going, to join me up here on my mountain.

I have adjusted my thinking and now realize that a full-time relationship, does not require a full-time living arrangement. It is the connection I am seeking, not a live-in partner. I am talking about being able to go back and forth from here to her place, and that she could be able to do the same thing. Each of us would have our own things going on in our own worlds, but we would also have the time and inclination to reach out for something more.

Driving is challenging for me, so I am not interested in any long-distance commuting. What does this look like? Restricting my area of interest to only The ‘Ville seems too limiting, but extending it past either Willits to the south or Garberville to the north, is simply unrealistic. Even the coast is too far, as it is close to two hours to get to Ft. Bragg. 

Off the top of my pointy little head, I might think the number of available women in these areas is small, but I don’t need any more than one, so it seems worth a try. I do ponder whether or not there are scam artists hanging out at these online dating sites, and how one would go about determining legitimate responders from fake ones, but that is just me catastrophizing. 

Assuming it was better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, if you have ever tried online dating and feel like sharing what that was like, I would appreciate knowing how it worked out for you. Thanks! 

The ABC's of Cooking: B Is for Bacon

Bacon rocks, pure and simple, in a world where flavors blend and come together in four-part harmony. I’m not talking about a breakfast of bacon strips, hash browns, easy-over eggs and sourdough toast, drenched in butter. No, when it comes to bacon, a little bit’ll do you in more dishes than you can shake a spatula at. 

I have been even luckier than most because I have access to farm-grown bacon. This is not the kind of bacon that you could cook in strips; I dice it up in different sizes, depending on what I am preparing, and use the grease to sauté up my onions/shallots/garlic, et al. Bacon grease with a follow-up of homegrown chicken or bone broth, is my favorite way to sauté veggies. 

When farm-grown bacon is not available, though, I am simply buying my uncured, natural bacon with no toxic additives, and putting it into the freezer. Whenever I need it, I pull it out of the freezer, give it a while on the counter, and then use my big iron to chop a chunk of it up, the same knife I use to cut up a whole chicken. Any knife will do as long as it is sharp. If your knives need sharpening, Scott is at the Laytonville market one Monday per month, so bring in your knives so you can be on top of your game.

I do not use enough bacon to dominate the flavor of any dish; I try to never allow one spice or herb to stand out in a meal. Ideally, the different flavors blend and create the desired taste as a team. I usually add salt at the end of any other spices or herbs and I do it incrementally. You can always add more but you can’t take it out once it’s in. I find it is worth the extra minute to be careful with salt.

I made a side dish of cabbage, chard and baby turnip greens yesterday for lunch, to go with my chicken in white wine and mustard sauce. As always, I started with three or four ounces of diced bacon so as to use the grease to sauté the shallot and a couple of cloves of fresh garlic. These days it could even be green garlic, since it is in season. I added a quarter-cup of balsamic vinegar and a tablespoon of maple syrup to the shallots/garlic, along with salt and black pepper before I put in the greens.

I use a giant wok so that when I add the chopped greens with a medium fire on underneath, I can put the lid on for a few minutes to reduce the volume of greenery. And I add broth as needed to make sure that the balsamic vinegar and maple syrup mix evenly with all of those greens.

I use bacon as a base ingredient for chili con carne, for cooking a pot of pinto beans, for shepherd’s pie, chili chicken, rancho steak, any kind of stew or soup, side dishes of greens, cabbage, baby turnips, zucchini, green beans (!), German potato salad and so many more dishes.

The amount of bacon I use is not prohibitively expensive, as I can get three or four meals out of one twelve-ounce package of store-bought bacon. Expensive enough, for sure, but I feel worth the cost.

The flavor of the bacon should balance itself with additions of such ingredients as fresh onions/shallots/leeks/scallions, rosemary, thyme, oregano, sage, basil, black pepper, Worcestershire sauce, maple syrup, balsamic vinegar, Tamari sauce, garlic and any others you choose to work with. 

Bacon goes with almost everything and adds one more layer of flavor to your meal. Being the first step in cooking your dish, the smell of bacon mixes with the onions, garlic, et al, and infuses into your kitchen an intoxicatingly delicious fragrance. 

It’s enough to make you think you are living on a farm.

The ABC's of Cooking: A Is for Attitude or "Smooth Cooking"

Just as going on vacation with a two-year-old really isn’t a vacation, cooking for enjoyment and cooking for hungry kids/spouse are not the same experience. Having ravenous loved ones breathing down your neck does not make for especially enjoyable cooking. 

With this thought in mind, I would like to do a series  on cooking for enjoyment, the ABC’s of culinary arts if you like. Key points include the fact that I am retired and that I have access to HappyDayFarms, which covers a broad range of ingredients for meals. These include freshly harvested seasonal veggies, spices, herbs, farm-grown chickens, pork, lamb and turkey, and locally-grown beef.

These spring days I get regular infusions of fresh eggs, farm-produced lard, garlic, green garlic, onions, shallots, leeks, scallions, kale, boy choy, baby turnips, salad greens, radishes, baby carrots, beets, cabbage, potatoes and whatever else is being harvested from both farm and greenhouses (which survived the snow). I have old-growth rosemary, sage, thyme and oregano plants, and get seasonal infusions of basil, cilantro and parsley from the farm.

With access to whole chickens, ground turkey, lamb roasts, locally grown beef from Meadow and bacon, I have the basis for a multitude of lunch possibilities. All are tried and true meals which have received two thumbs up from farm staff, which means they were tasty and everyone went back to work on full stomachs.

Using the 35 years I served as Annie’s sous chef, I have become as comfortable in the kitchen as I used to feel in the classroom. The avenues I choose to follow in the kitchen do not lead me into unknown neighborhoods, so my level of comfort is sky high, not to be confused with my bong.

This is turkey broth

I like defrosting two chickens over twenty-four hours, cutting them up, cooking the breasts in water separately for the broth, and then cooking the bones in water for twelve hours afterwards. I get chicken and bone broth, two essential ingredients in a number of dishes. 

There is also an amazing amount of boneless dog food to be had from cooking a chicken carcass for twelve hours. Both the bone broth and the undesirable parts of the chicken that remain when we are finished eating what we like, are then jarred up and refrigerated for use over the next couple of weeks. 

I use broth in countless dishes, including stews, soups, chili, casseroles, shepherd’s pie, chicken cacciatore, pots of pinto beans, rice, including Spanish rice, cooking greens in my wok, scalloped potatoes and any number of other dishes which use a liquid base. Substituting broth for oil when cooking veggies is a tasty and healthy alternative.

So in reading any of the following pieces, beginning with B Is for Bacon, bear in mind that the scenario I will paint is one of a leisurely process, with time always on my side. Cooking with time constraints is the worst, so I don’t. 

I have an unorthodox sleep schedule, which I am endeavoring to correct, but it still means I am up before the roosters have even had their coffee. I therefore have the time and the inclination to cook at a pace that befits a man who keeps a bong within easy reach.

Just not close enough to have to worry about errant elbows…

Trouble in the Attic or TIA

Gotta say, kick-starting this blog isn’t much different than talking Old Paint, my 62 VW Bus, into winding up the rubber band enough to get me to school. But I experienced a little trouble in the attic last week, a Transient Ischemic Attack, what amounted to a small stroke.

I had never even heard the term before, which might explain why I couldn’t put my finger on it, but more likely it was because I was just plain disoriented. Not the kind of disoriented, when you have just taken the gnarliest bong rip in the history of the universe, and your head rush threatens to send you sprawling. And you are smiling like a cheshire cat.

No, the kind where you make the same statement a dozen times, each time as though you were submitting a fresh and witty comment. It was cute the first several times, but like the recent snow, it wore out its welcome soon enough.

The whole “let’s repeat something over and over again” reminds me of the time I suffered a concussion, back in 1973, while in the army and home on leave from South Korea.

I don’t remember anything at all about that day except for the doctor down at the VA hospital in Long Beach. He was smiling ear-to-ear, while asking me in a jovial tone, “So how are you feeling, Private O’Neill, about returning to Korea after your leave? This here amnesia of yours isn’t tied into that, now is it?”

I was told that I asked one question over and over that day, and always as though it were the first time: “Is Pa bummed out?” I called me father, Pa. Me father was not a fan of football, in general, and even less a fan of tackle football, which is what I was doing when I got clobbered. Hence the repetitive nature of my question.

Obviously, there was a loose screw up in my noggin back in the day. So when the same thing happened last week, and I finally stopped spinning around the track inside my head, I decided to pay a visit to my friends at the Laytonville Clinic. Though they did not ask me anything about Korea, they definitely felt that I was on leave, if not of my senses, at least part of them.

“Can you come back in the morning at 10:30?” that nice Holly asked me, and I said yes. Course, to save my life, I could not keep that time of my appointment on the white board of my brain: It kept on getting erased. I mean, sure I could have just checked the card Holly gave me, but that would have been too easy.

It was also hard to figure out that it was Wednesday, and when I did, I had to do it again. I thought Obama was President and that it sure would be nice if the car I was trying to load my stuff in would quit moving around on me.

I was dazed and confused, and downright lost. I mean, more so than normal. My son Ben was available to give me a ride down to Howard, where I was admitted to the ER. While there I got to go for a ride in the tunnel where they do CAT scans and MRI’s. I am not a fan of that tunnel.

But being able to do it provided the Pros from Dover with a negative for any continuing signs of a stroke, big or small.

Meanwhile, Casey replaced Ben and hung out with me until I was released. Though I was eventually told I could drive, I did not have to worry about that, as Casey was there to give me a ride. And when I got home, I found that Lito had come over earlier and started up the big stove. Made me feel warm and fuzzy that my sons have my back.

The obvious question is, what caused the trouble in my attic? The answer is not so obvious, but much of what I eat comes from the farm, I am not into alcohol, my blood pressure is spot on, I exercise daily and I am within ten pounds of the weight my doctor wants to see me at. 

Ben is going to schedule an appointment with a neurologist to see what's up with that. I also have a sleeping disorder and it has been way too long since I paid a visit to the dentist, so I am starting with these three items. I stopped at the Laytonville Dentist’s Office today and made an appointment, and I spent a couple of hours with Claudia on Monday, getting a plan of action for my sleeping issues. She is also going to do a hypnotherapy session with me so I can sit in the dentist’s chair without getting claustrophobic. 

So my trouble in the attic is a bit more than dusty cobwebs and trunks of old clothes, but whatcha gonna do? I’ve got to get things sorted out and put back in order, because I am only seventy years old. I have plenty of gas in the tank and my kitchen is just getting used to me hanging out in here. I still have a cookbook to put together, and I have a five-year-old grandson, who is getting pretty good as a sous chef. 

What’s a little trouble in the attic here and there, among friends? 

My Super Power

Though I am no superhero, I do have one super power: I make people happy by cooking for them. I acquired this skill unknowingly by serving as Annie’s apprentice for forty years, give or take a year or two. Only we don’t call it apprenticing here in the kitchen: I was Annie’s sous chef.

I diced the shallots, garlic, and whatever else needed to be added while Annie selected the seasonings, but I watched which seasonings they were; I boiled the potatoes, added butter and milk and mashed them, while Annie made the gravy, but I watched how she added the flour and took the oingo-boingo whisk and stirred to prevent clumping; I peeled and removed the avocado seeds and diced onions for guacamole, while Annie added fresh tomatoes, spicy salsa and lemon juice, and I took mental snap shots.

I had no clue at any point in time that I possessed such a skill set, nor could I ever have foreseen a time when those skills would be pressed into service. And this is probably as good of a time as any to say I also could never have imagined trying to step into Annie’s shoes and cook for the farm staff either, but such has been my path.

A few seasons ago, I hurt-in no particular order-one of my toes, both of my shoulders, here a knee, there a knee, everywhere an ouchie, so I stopped to assess matters. Planting and maintaining 300 tomato plants and processing much of the harvest, left me a bit more tattered than cannabis could keep up with: My body was trying to send a message, but there was seemingly no one home to receive it.

So two calendar years ago at this very point in time, a paradigm shift occurred and I began cooking a main meal at lunch time, five days a week. The goal was-and continues to be-that I make use of what is grown or produced on-farm, one of the most rewarding goals ever scored.

This varies hugely from a tuppie of produce now-to one in September. What I find these days are the brassicas which include cabbage, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts (on the vine), broccoli and romanesque. Cooking greens are in every week’s CSA packet, along with salad greens, scallions, baby turnips, leeks, shallots, radishes and garlic. In late summer I would see cucumbers, tomatoes, summer squash, eggplant, salad greens, peppers of all sorts, and any other hot weather veggies that you would expect to find at the farmers’ market.

Additionally, I pull two HappyDayFarms-grown chickens from the freezer two weeks out of three, and for the longest time had access to ground turkey, again from sixteen turkeys raised last summer.

What continues to boggle my pea-brain is that Annie was only up to doing two of these meals per week, simply because it required so much prep. She made lists of what needed to be cooked, what needed to be purchased in town, what needed to be done and when it needed to be done by. I simply followed directions.

And I was going to cook five days a week? It was exactly what the doctor might have prescribed. Only eight weeks removed from Annie’s passing, I plunged into a world that required the same type of lists as the ones Annie produced, only I did them in my head. And then I reviewed them morning, noon and night, much the way a school teacher reviews in his mind exactly what it is fourth period social studies with the eighth grade looks like, on Tuesday. I kept my mind engaged in such a tight vise grip of planning that there was little room for anything else.

And then I decided to build a new deck and enclosed front porch at the same time.

But I am not here to prattle on about me; I want to discuss cooking. Whereas joy is more likely to be associated with the bedroom than cooking, I have found joy in the kitchen. And before you roll your eyes and scroll on, let me quickly add that I am retired so I have the time, inclination and ingredients to be able to cook for the farm crew.

I find joy in cooking because there is so much to be said for cooking as an art. I especially like it when I can devise new ways to do old things. Recently I decided to experiment with baking corn tortillas instead of cooking them in sizzling oil. This is not because of the six-inch long burn I incurred one day last summer, when the tortilla I was flipping, flopped. 

I inadvertently allowed the tortilla to belly-flop as it were, propelling a jet stream of oil to the back of my right wrist. There it plopped and flowed down my wrist and the back of my hand like lava to the base of my index finger. 

Setting aside joy for the moment, I pinched off a goodly amount of the aloe vera plant and thwarted some serious discomfort. I also managed to conceal the fact that this had occurred until it was healed. Then it was OK to bring it all up, if for no other reason than to try and determine if this were a senior-or a stoner-moment.

As a direct result of this mishap, I found myself determined to find a way to cook the tortillas that did not include sizzling oil. There were several recipes to choose from but the easiest just had me brushing on a minimal amount of olive oil to both sides of the tortillas and then baking them for about seven minutes on each side at 400 degrees. I can put four of them on a big cookie sheet and there is no spattering oil to dodge.

Take matters one step further and I was also baking taquitos instead of plopping them into sizzling oil. I start by flipping a corn tortilla onto the red-hot griddle for ten seconds per side, which softens it up. Next I brush olive oil only on the outer side of the corn tortilla and then fill it with seasoned, shredded chicken. 

I place the taquitos folded-side down and bake them for about twenty minutes at 425 degrees, checking a few times along the way. They come out crunchy like they are supposed to, only a lot healthier.

It has been two years now since I started cooking and I am on my third season. I have reduced the number of weekly meals from five to four, with one of them being a day of leftovers. Additionally, I also bake a double-batch of gluten-free, chocolate chip/raisin cookies, every four days or so for the HappyDayFarms farm stand.

At the rate these cookies fly out of the stand, I am inclined to call them superheroes, but like me, they aren't. They just make folks feel happy, 

The Rookie

Graduates from the Class of 1970 cannot relive our high school days, without revisiting a time period that stood alone as a turning point in our culture: the late sixties.  With the winds of change swirling through the air, combined with the horror of an unwindable overseas conflict, our future was laced with question marks.

Within the hallowed halls of Bishop Amat, we may have been a bit more protected from these changes, but certain cultural norms flourished. The Los Angeles Dodgers won the National League Pennant in the fall of 1966 and faced the Baltimore Orioles in the World Series. In those days I was still under the spell of Dodger Blue, a condition that existed until I relocated to the Bay Area, following my release from the Big Green Machine in 1974.

Having won the whole enchilada only one year earlier, in 1965, the prevailing logic was that the Dodgers would out-pitch Baltimore with their handy duo of Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale. What no one anticipated was that it would not matter how well the duo pitched if the Dodgers could not score any runs. 

Sandy and Don

LA became the first team ever to be shut out three consecutive games, scoring a grand total of two runs in the four-game sweep by the Orioles. Simultaneously, having been so vocal in my belief that the Dodgers would prevail, I had inadvertently set myself up for a record-setting fall. 

I was a rookie at this game called high school. I had attended St. Martha’s with the same crew of students from third through eighth grade, where we became almost like siblings. I got a rude awakening at Bishop Amat. I learned quickly that it was better to keep one’s pie hole shut, and have the other kids think you were a geek, than to open it and prove them correct. Only back then I would have been labeled a spaz. Methinks I overdid it by being a bit too cocky about the outcome of the series.

Even a seven-game, highly contested affair, would have gone far to protect me from ridicule. Instead, LA could not even muster one measly run in the final three games of the series, thus opening up the floor for comments from the peanut gallery. The final score in both Game 3 and Game 4 was 1-0, Baltimore.

"Hey, O’Neill! Your team can’t score any runs. Maybe it just can’t score at all." Ha, ha, ha.

"What happened, O’Neill? LA forget to eat its spinach?"

"Hey, O’Neill! Maybe Koufax and Drysdale better learn how to hit!"

"The Orioles swept the Dodgers? With what? Their tail feathers?"

Can you say, “Ba-dip, ba-dip?” Try it-nonstop-for say, a month.

As the dust was still swirling after the fall classic, chapter two of unclear-on-the-concept-Mark was just picking up steam. There was an initiative on the fall ballot to annex the area in which I lived and include it in the city of West Covina. 

It could not have made one iota of difference in my life one way or the other, but there were ramifications of this action that my parents did not care for. What these were remains murky, but it translated into my being-once again-far too vocal for my own good. Sigh.

Somehow my prattling on about the evils of being annexed by West Covina, transformed me and all those from that little neck of the woods, into being represented as The Little Rascals. We were portrayed as marching off to battle, complete with upside down buckets on our heads and go-carts. New to this game called sarcasm, I had no defense, except to once again point the finger inwards.

If only I could learn to follow the advice being so frequently sent my way, and shut up, I would be in much better shape for the shape I was in. You know? And I did. I learned to pretty much not say anything for the next three-and-a-half years because, truth be told, I still cared what people thought of me. 

I was a kid back then and I thought like a kid. I am 69 now and I can’t say categorically how I think, be it like a kid or like an old fart, but I can tell you this: The most valuable lesson I ever learned was to stop caring what others think about me-if they do at all. 

Bette Midler summed it all up quite nicely with her catchy phrase, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.” Whereas some might object to the earthy language, I might counter with a casual-

[Editor’s Note: STOP! You’ve made your point…]