Overheard in Oakland and Environs

Melanie has a fantastic voice, a rich dramatic soprano voice with a range that often amazes me. Furthermore, she has a good ear, superb phrasing, and an innate musicality that is rare.

So it was a bit surprising the other day when Melanie was singing and Amalia pipes up from the back seat, "Mamma! Quit Squawking!"

Then this morning I was talking on the phone with my friend who has a sentimental attachment to democracy.

I was talking about my upcoming plans on making vermouth and some other goodies. I said that I was thinking about making gin and the whole issue of a still came up. I told him that I believed that it was the duty of every man, woman and child to set up a still, because the law against it is so patently unjust, etc.

Anyway, I mentioned that a friend had shown me how to make a still with an electric pressure cooker and surgical tubing.

"You know what the last words of many a redneck is?"

"No, what?"

"'Watch this!'"

Santa Cruz

Melanie has been taking a few vacation days, so we can do fun family stuff. Today we went to Santa Cruz, which is sort of home, in a way that I can say that knowing full well that I will never live there again. I really liked most of my six years in Santa Cruz, but saw the writing on the wall. If I stayed there another month, it would have morphed into a life sentence. At some point you have to leave the beach or become one of the beach people.

I knew and still know a lot of good folks in Santa Cruz, but for awhile it seemed like I was mostly encountering the flakes and weirdos, which would be fine if they were interesting flakes and weirdos. Unfortunately most flakes and weirdos are not that interesting. Aging hippies involved in pyramid schemes selling blue-green algae. Aspiring hippies just learning the ropes of attempting to buy one's way out of consumerism. Talented artists running themselves into the ground with increasingly dull work, inspired by the never-ceasing back slapping of the perma-grin sorts. People who are "spiritual but not religious." And the petitions. Oh those dreaded petitions.

"Excuse me. Are you registered to vote in Santa Cruz County?"

"No. I hate democracy. Go away, Stinky."

I still have petitions to avoid, but the level of kook in the Bay Area is much higher than the level of kook in Santa Cruz.

"Impeach Clinton! 12 Galaxies United in Zegnotronic..."

If you know what that means, then you are truly among the Bay Areans.

For awhile I tried to avoid Santa Cruz, because it is not a good idea for a rocket to hang around in low orbit when trying to maintain escape velocity. However, the temptation is mostly gone, so we go back now and again, mostly to visit friends, but also because it really is a beautiful place.

Today we actually spent very little time in Santa Cruz. We picked up our friends and headed down to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium to see the great white shark in captivity. I like the Monterrey Bay Aquarium when it does what it does well, which is to showcase the flora and fauna of the local coast. It tends to do a good job of explaining the ecosystem and the various zones that make up the ocean there. They do it with a spectacular collection.

What I can do without is the heavy-handed eco-preaching, especially when it presents positions that are disputed even within the eco-creep community as absolutes. For example: we need to relieve pressure on bluefin tuna fisheries (OK, true, but why am I to accept the figures they present as to how much we need to reduce the bluefin haul? They don't present any evidence or hard numbers here), so we should eat farmed fish instead of wild bluefin tuna.

Alright. That is a possible solution, but there are many smart cookies out there who point out that aquaculture is not ideal either. Why is that position not shown? Instead we are told in the "What can you do?" sermon at the end of each exhibit to follow their guidlines (without a shred of the reasoning behind the specifics) and to "support conservation organizations." I looked at their list, and, in fairness, they do not seem to have a lot of the really bad ones. However, they build no case for these organizations beyond the most flagrant generalities (they work to keep oceans clean -- very well, but how? Do they pick up trash on the beach? Do they lobby for strange and immoral legislation? Do they do careful monitoring of oceanic conditions?). Some of these details are given, but not always. We are just to assume that since the good folks at the aquarium said it, it must be true.

At least they don't have anything as bad as what the Oakland Zoo tells us to do to help elephants: "support population control efforts at home and abroad." Whenever I encounter that sign, it makes me want to carve goblets out of ivory to drink a daily glass of elephant blood out of.

Also, the Monterrey Bay Aquarium does not push vegetarianism, but admits that eating seafood is a good thing for the most part (as long as you stick to the choices on their list). They also don't go too much into the bizarre tangential realm of ecofreakishness.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that we missed both the A's game as well as the debate. It sounds like we missed a good game, but seeing huge tuna in the outer bay tank is something spectacular.

Speaking of ecocranks, I am further miffed at our Governor von Kennedy, who signed the awful, John Burton-hatched law to ban foie gras production in California. What it means is that I will have to somehow get ahold of a place to raise geese and will have to learn how to produce the stuff myself for private consumption.

On this date...

Three years ago today Melanie woke me up and said that it was time to go to the hospital. Having seen too many movies of babies being born in taxicabs I immediately bolted up, but Melanie said, "no don't worry, there is time. Make your espresso and then we will go."

I made my espresso and we left. At 5:41pm on August 26th, 2001, we had a screaming, annoyed baby with a funny shaped head. Her head is no longer funny shaped, but sometimes she still gets annoyed and even screams. We discourage that, however.

Anyway we spent that night at the hospital, and I came home the next morning to tidy up, and make phone calls and all of that business. I found a completely undrunk cup of espresso sitting on the kitchen counter. Now, if I forget to drink my espresso, I have a three year old who will remind me. She will remind me of all sorts of things, including things like the approach of the garbage truck at the break of dawn ("Babbo! I want to see the garbage truck!" will ring out from her room on Friday mornings).

Three years ago she drank Mamma's milk and did not talk. Now she insists on sparky water (sparkling mineral water - Italian, natch) and sausages and chicken and Greek yogurt with honey. She has definite preferences, and has a mad determination to know the origins of everything she eats (flour is from wheat that grows in fields, salt is evaporated from sea water in France, etc.). She can tell you that the meat from her favorite sausages comes from the pig's shoulder and will correct me when I see a green field out of the corner of my eye and misidentify it as rice when it is really alfalfa.

Three years ago we had to carefully cradle her head when we picked her up. Now, if I am not careful and alert, she will tackle me. She is eager to help with all the chores except cleaning her room, and has gotten to where her help actually makes progress towards getting the chores done. She has started her apprenticeship in the kitchen, as the family pasta maker.

It all amazes me. But my amazement must wait, as she is emitting an aroma, which is a good reminder that she still is a little one.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Amalia Faye Gioconda Cecilia Keilholtz e Neves!

Melanie Speaks!

The other night we were listening to some international children's album and on comes "Waltzing Matilda." Melanie looks at Amalia and says, "Amalia, this is 'Waltzing Matilda', which is Australian for 'Sweet Home Alabama.""

The Princess Speaks!

Amália (sitting on the couch, holding a slinky up to her eyes): Look! I have knock ears!
Erik: Knock ears?
Amália: No, mu-knock-u-ears.
Erik: Ah, binoculars!
Amália (looking at me like I’m from outer space): yeah, mu-knock-u-ears.

Then, there was the other night, when we were teaching Amália some anatomy terms.

Melanie: This is the gluteus maximus. Can you say “gluteus?”
Amália: Gluteus
Melanie: Maximus
Amália: Masochist
Melanie: Hmmm. Gluteus Masochist. Must be the Stairmaster from hell.

And, finally, along the same lines:

Erik: Anterior
Amália: Anteater

A New Rule for the Keilholtz Household

Once a week, more or less, we go to the Little Studio at MOChA (Museum of Children's Art), where Amalia gets to paint and make sculptures, and do all sorts of fun projects. Unfortunately she has decided that colored glue is about the coolest thing in the world, so she has been making pieces with great piles of colored glue, which are nowhere near drying by the time we have to go. Today marks the last day that I attempt to bring home artwork that features more than a superthin layer of colored glue.

Today we had the sort of breeze that one appreciates on a hot day, except when carrying four pieces or artwork, each made with lots of colored glue, each still wet, walking with a tired toddler and two sacks full of pork products (the Oakland Housewives Marketplace is in the same building as MOChA). I was able to keep the glue off of my clothing (miracle), the interior of the car (another miracle), but three of the artworks are now one artwork. Let's call it a triptych.

Fortunately Amalia is still at the stage where the joy of art is in the doing, and she rarely gets attached to a finished piece. In fact, the last time she had unlimited access to her scissors (and the reason that that was the last), she cut up one of my drawings into small pieces. I suppose she was trying to teach me some lesson about attachment. More likely, she saw it all as a great work in progress, and a lot of fun to be able to work with me on an art project. Or it was just another piece of paper dying to be turned into confetti.

But it is good that she does not get too attached to any piece of her work, as we will be leaving all of the great glue creations at MOChA.

Now, speaking of great glue creations, if you have toddlers you might want to know about the great goo one can make with white glue, water, borax and food coloring. We had a lot of fun with that stuff at MOChA today, and when I dig the recipe out of the bag, I will post it.

Your Children's Future Leader Speaks!

"I'm not the puppet. I'm the hand."

-HIH, Crown Princess Amalia

Yesterday I went to the fruit bowl for an apricot. The apricot had a couple of little holes in it. I cut it open, looking to see what had bored through the apricot. Nothing. The holes went in only a little bit. I looked at the fruit bowl. Each apricot had identical pairs of holes.

"Amalia, how did these holes get here?"

"The bull did it."

"Amalia. How did the bull do it?"

Hanging her head, "I'm sorry, Babbo."

Already my food is threatened by the herd of Imperial cattle. And to think that I gave her the bulls in the first place.

I never thought that I would need to say...

Of all the possible combinations of words that I thought I would have to put together in my life, the following are ones that I would not have dreamed of in a thousand years without the assistance of a certain two year old:

Amalia, stir that with a spoon, not with the tiger.

Don't put the hedgehog in your mouth!

Experiments in Linguistics

Watching Baby Doolittle. A woodpecker comes on the screen.

Mamma: Look, it’s a woodpecker.
Amália: Woodpecker!

An owl comes on the screen. It is one of those owls that has a scowly looking face.

Amália: Is that a grumpy pecker?

Once Again, the Duce is Going Soft on Juvenile Disobedience

Right now Amalia is supposed to be taking a nap. Instead she is in her crib singing. I don't mind the singing, because it usually leads to sleep, and it is a relaxing activity, but she has been going on for fifteen minutes. Normally I would poke my head in there and gently remind her that she should be trying to get some sleep.

However, I can't bear to do that, because she is singing Prokofiev (what is the standard transliteration of his name, anyway?). There is something almost unbearably cute about listening to a two and half year old singing fragments of Peter and the Wolf. Yesterday it was "Farmer in the Dell" which is fine, but not quite as fun as "the duck is played the omboe like THIS: la la la la la la." Funny. In all my studies of music history, orchestration, and the like, I have never encountered an instrument called the omboe. I will have to ask Amalia later.