July 11, 2003

• Brett and I spent the Fourth in Mendocino.   He rented an old clapboard whaler's cottage on Highway One overlooking the beach.  Circa 1890, the walls and ceilings (nine feet throughout) were all whitewashed bead board, there was a large bathroom with a chain-flush toilet and claw foot tub, and you had to walk through one bedroom to reach the second.   Half of the full-length front porch had been converted into a narrow sunroom-type den cluttered with maps and a spyglass for whale watching.  The unfitted country kitchen, basically untouched since the 30's, was complete with a maple trestle table and a big white antique china dresser stocked with odds and ends, and had a long Victorian drain board sink and large enamel gas range with multi-sized ovens.   The stove was set right next to the back door so I could see the hilly overgrown unfenced yard while I cooked.   That's right, no wine and dine this time; we just settled in like a regular pioneer couple, lazed around, and toured the sites.   Brett has a friend in the stock car races up here.   I guess the boy thought I'd dig it in view of my intense housefrau behavior last visit.   Only Sunday we did go out for dinner at the historic Little River Inn in honor of my twentieth birthday the next day.   Afterwards Brett presented me with a new leather-bound journal with marbleized edges.  Neat.

  
  

  It was a grand time to work on my writing.  I could've been Alice B. Toklas, sitting back against the living room wall on the cool hardwood floor in my jeans and one of Brett's tees, the proverbial mug of coffee and cigarette (clove, but what the fuck) at my side, one of Noni's almond biscotti, hard as cuttlebone, humidifying on a pink melamine plate, the front door open wide to catch the quiescent morning tide, a study in sapphire blue.   And my subject, spotted by accident in a crumpled local paper left by the last guests, waiting pensively before me.   A friend of my brother Greg's has been convicted of murder.   Who would've thought it?

  
  

  Wait a sec.   Why am I waxing literary when there's nothing wistful about Craig's crime at all?  In truth, I was wired from the moment I saw the headline, and afraid to be there alone.   Old houses are evil; they can't forgive the past.   Each wall, every floorboard, every pane of glass is warped with repressed anger.  The tall grass hides snakes; every car on the highway's an intruder up to no good, its red brake lights the eyes of demons, double checking behind them.   I couldn't stand the bathroom window uncovered, view or no; after dark the black reflection hides a face pressed to the glass, a hand feeling along the ledge.   In daylight the face recedes into a window of an unfriendly neighboring house.   The rusty water's tainted from a hidden grave.   The walls encroach, tomblike.  There's a subtle odor of rot.   Pipes and heater registers and floor boards are overloud.   Does the phone still work?   Better check.  While you're at it, lock and bar the cellar.   

  
  

  Craig came from an old town, an old house.   And to those old haunts he returned, becoming an unwitting avenger of the past. All people possess a demonic half, don't you know?  Nothing was as ever innocent and fun and carefree as it seemed.   They got one by you.   Only through sheer intuition and stubborn self-love did you escape not knowing, but also the luck of the draw.   Cuz it could've easily been you, slayer or slain.  And  now that all the good memories have been painted over to reveal the fine lines and the shadows, which hand of fate hovers over the blank canvas of the future?    

  
  

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  Almond Biscotti of Tuscany

  
  

  8 oz (about 1 1/3 cups) whole unblanched almonds
  4 large eggs
  1 teaspoon vanilla extract
  1 teaspoon butter flavoring
  1/2 teaspoon almond extract
  1/4 teaspoon coconut extract
  1/8 teaspoon lemon extract
  1 lb (about 2 1/4 cups) granulated sugar
  1 lb (about 4 cups lightly spooned) unbleached white flour
  2 teaspoons baking powder
  1 teaspoon salt
  1/2 tsp baking soda
  1/4 tsp cinnamon
  Optional:  1 egg for glaze

  
  

  Blanch 2 ounces (about 1/3 cup) of the almonds:  Drop into boiling water.  When skins puff--no more than 1 minute--immediately pour into strainer and rinse with cold water; drain on paper towels.  Pinch skins off between thumb and forefinger and spread on fresh paper towel to dry.  Meanwhile, lightly toast the rest in a 300 degree Fahrenheit oven for about 15 minutes; set aside to cool.

  
  

  Combine eggs and flavorings in large mixer bowl fitted with flat beater.  Add sugar and beat until very smooth and light in color.  Grind the 2 ounces blanched almonds in food processor or blender with about a cupful of the flour plus the baking powder, salt, soda, and cinnamon. When the consistency of fine meal, add to egg mixture and beat at low speed until just smooth.  Beat in the whole toasted almonds.  Add remaining flour and mix until just smooth.  

  
  

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.  Divide dough into 3 portions.  On well-floured work surface, shape each into a thick log about 2-inches in diameter.  Place, one per pan, on large greased and floured cooky sheet. If desired, beat optional egg until very smooth and brush generously on logs before baking to form glaze.  Bake until golden brown, about 40 minutes.  Transfer to wire racks.  

  
  

  When thoroughly cool, take a large, sharp, unserrated knife and cut diagonally like French bread into slices about 3/4-inch thick. (You may make them thinner to eat plain or coat with semisweet chocolate, but they tend to fall over when toasting and need to be turned).  Stand slices upright on cooky sheet with at least an inch between them and toast at 275 degrees for about 40 minutes, rotating pan from back to front after 20 minutes.  They should be very hard and dry, but only slightly browned.  Cool. Serve with coffee, milk, sherry or other dessert wine, such as the traditional Italian Vin Santo.  Biscotti are best eaten when dipped into liquid, which softens them.  They keep well in an air-tight container, practically forever if chilled.

  • 7:16 pm
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