nessahead

Trader Joe’s Wine: St. Somewhere Syrah 2010 (Paso Robles)

nessahead — Wed, 02 May 2012 03:47:15 +0000

It seems that Trader Joe’s is increasingly putting out their own indie wine labels by hiring established wineries to bottle for them. While bottles from these wineries can go for upwards of $20, the Trader Joe’s vintages seem to stick around the sub-$10 category. Hunting this price range in Trader Joe’s the other day, spinning the bottles around and checking the labels for wineries I was familiar with, I found that Castoro Cellars had bottled this yummy Syrah for Trader Joe’s under the label St. Somewhere. Besides the iconic art that nostalgically invoked my Catholic upbringing, the price was right.

While Syrahs generally tend to be spicy and in-your-face, St. Somewhere’s Syrah was a surprisingly easy drinker. This ease may be what put this wine in the sub-$10 category, but who cares if you enjoy the taste? I smelled some jammy berries up front and a tiny bit of leather in the rather weak finish. While that weakness won’t satisfy someone looking for a bold and peppery red, it will go decently well with dinner. I had it with spaghetti tonight and it worked out just fine.

Sustaining One’s Looks

nessahead — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 18:33:06 +0000

When I visited Mom in the hospital I hated seeing her with sleep stuck in her eyes or chapped lips, unable to take care of herself. I devised this protocol for washing her face in the hospital bed:

Lay a hot washcloth over her face to moisten the skin and open the pores, then use it to gently wipe the crusties in her eyes away.
Massage cream cleanser in little circles over her cheeks, her forehead, her chin, her sweet and dainty nose, and end with gentle sweeps over her closed eyelids.
Use the now-warm washcloth to gently wipe the cleanser away, rinse it well in hot water, and make another pass to ensure her face is clean.
Saturate a beauty pad with toner and gently sweep it over her face in upward strokes, avoiding her eyes. Use the rest of the pad on her neck.
Put a dollop of Oil of Olay in the palm of your left hand and dip and dab with your right, smoothing the beauty lotion over her skin.
The whole time she will lay quiet, eyes closed and smiling. Once finished, ask, “Does that feel good?” and she will look you in the eyes with that singular mixture of gratitude and pride and say, “Yes, baby. Thank you.”

We found that an Oral-B electric toothbrush worked very well for her — it had a large enough handle that she could grip it and move it around her mouth on her own. As dental experts, we decided that this electric toothbrush in fact was superior to the old method — I got one for myself as well.

The problem of flossing was not solved so effortlessly. She gave me the lesson on “Flossing A Patient’s Mouth” that she gave to her dental assistants. It was easier than I thought it would be, but hard to do it to her satisfaction. My index fingers having made the rounds top and bottom, I’d ask, “How’s that? Better?” She’d feel her mouth with her tongue and say, “Once more. Here, baby.” She’d open her mouth, point at the offending spot with the prehensile tip of her tongue, and I’d quickly dive in to clear it out so that I could have that look and those words again, “Thank you, baby.”

Pacheco Pass

nessahead — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 21:58:26 +0000

There’s a stretch of One-Fifty-Two out east of Gilroy where the trees bend over backwards and splay their arms out and up to the sky. They’re close in a row by the road and the power lines. They must have begun blithely upright, but now that they’ve grown someone has to come along and cut them away from the lines. Oak trees are sacred in California (there’s a fine for cutting them down) so whoever-it-is only cuts out the middles of their branches and leaves the rest to spread out on either side of the wires. Only when you drive down that road do they line up so that you notice the way the wire cuts a path right through their heads.

When you’re on the back of a motorcycle, though, and turn your head to look at them from the side, they look just fine. Your driver’s helmet blocks the front view, so you turn your head and look at the trees and fences and barns. You hold on to his hips and turn your head to the side and figure out which plots of land you like best and why. When you see a particularly rusty old car or a particularly large old barn that might make a nice garage, you point and he looks to the side too and nods and smiles. On the back of the bike, Los Angeles is a shiny plastic snow-globe in the back of your mind.