Making Good Coffee Is a Lot Like Making Good Love

Making coffee is an art that should be approached with the same degree of anticipation and ardor as the art of making love: The real trick is to go about it with a slight degree of detachment, but bring to it as many senses as possible.

Enjoy the sight, the smell, the touch, the manipulation, the grind, the brewing, the sharing, the fulfillment.

Never go about it precisely the same way each time. Be inventive. Change the grind, do not overly crush your beans, warm the pot, avoid overheating or the whole thing may go rancid, never, never try to brew before the correct temperature is reached.

Your taste buds are more receptive to differing flavors at different times -- make your coffee or your love accordingly, remembering to laugh along the way. Every once in a while just plain stop what you are doing and dance.

However, there are certain rules that are never violated:

always use clean utensils; take your time; serve the ladies first.

And to ensure the very best results, use a French Press.

Here is a popular form of the French press:

To make good coffee with the French Press, start with really good coffee, properly roasted and freshly ground. My personal taste (literally) starts with Peet's = I would like to use their Kilimanjaro, but it isn't always available, but I find that the Kenya Auction Lot is the next best thing. The grind is coarser than you use for drip, but just tell the Peet's people you want to use it with a French Press and they know how to do it.

Like making love, making coffee this way takes time and some concentration, but the results can be fabulous. Use 2 heaping tablespoons of the coffee for each 6 ounces of the brew and drop it in the bottom of the press. Measure the water, using a Pyrex thingy, after it has whistled in your pot = that way you get the proper measure and also allow the water to cool down slightly from its boiling state. Now, whip the water and coffee with a wooden spoon (or a chopstick!!) until a lovely brown foam known as crema is formed on the surface. Put the top on and push down until the screen device is just under the mixture in the press. Set a timer for 3 minutes. Then, press all the way down and serve. If properly done, you will be rewarded with the crema floating on top. Looks and tastes great. Like making love, timing is important.

Crèma is the lovely, golden foam of coffee oils that covers the brew of coffee make with a French Press. Thick with aroma and flavor, it is the sign of proper coffee extraction.

Making Good Coffee

Waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in . . .

Waiting For The Sleeping Pill To Kick In

There are times at night, lying in bed waiting for my evening sleeping pill to kick in, all the flotsam and jetsam of memories past float in at random and I remember some things I had hoped I had tossed away forever. Things I had done and things I had left undone.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The 1930's began with the death of my mother and ended with Hitler invading Poland. All the teen years, all the growing up, all the dances, all the basketball games, all the sweet, hot kisses of new found joys, were about to be behind me. I was twenty years old, an athlete of sorts being a varsity basketball player, and through Milty Lieberman I was able to get a summer job as “athletic director” up in the Catskill mountains. It was just before Labor Day when I got off the train, heading for home when the dreadful news broke that Hitler had invaded Poland. Life was to be changed forever. My decade of being a young man in my twenties was to be given up. War, marriage, college, children filled those life-defining ten years.

It was just a question of time before we got involved in the war. What was the sense of trying to do anything about my life. Before I could even think about it, I had a draft number, relatively safe for a while. Then, one Sunday in December I was coaching a basketball team in Elizabeth, New Jersey (my younger cousin Bill was on my team) and during halftime, we learned that the Japs had bombed Pearl Harbor. Who would have guessed that less than nine months later I would be a brand new second lieutenant stationed at the edge of Pearl Harbor with a 90 millimeter anti-aircraft battery. Talk about closing the barn door after the horse is stolen!

I volunteered for the army on January 1st, 1942, with the understanding that I qualified for Officer Candidate School (OCS) but I needed about three months as a private, then a sergeant before I could apply. By the middle of March, I had passed all the requirements and was on the way to North Carolina. I had made arrangements with my sweetheart (a sorority sister of my cousin, Adele) to get married at her family home in Cranford, New Jersey. Milt Saltzman (who was on his way to the Air Force Navigator School ) was my best man.

I need to slow down here because lots of stuff was going on. I was going to be married on March 21. My father showed up and he insisted that we have lunch together before the wedding because he wanted to tell me something important.

My father remains a shadowy figure in my life. I never really got to know him. I do know that he went through a lot of money being rich, then poor, then rich, then I really don’t know. My basic feeling was being an abandoned child. In any case, we went to an Italian restaurant in Newark. It was a holdover from the speakeasy days now long gone. But, my father knew most of these guys as associates during prohibition even though they regularly high-jacked each other’s bootlegger trucks This joint was owned by Fat Sal, whose call to fame was his ability to swallow a hard boiled egg, shell and all. in one piece.

So, we nibbled on some ravioli with sauteed chicken liver and onion in an olive oil and tomato sauce that was the specialty of the house. My father had some boilermakers (whiskey with beer on the side). He had a funny, twisted smile on his face, but said nothing. I waited. What was so important? What was he about to reveal to me? What family secret for life? Nothing forthcoming. After another drink, he seemed ready to talk. “Be a good boy,” he said. That was it. I drove him back to Edith’s house in Cranford. I have a lot to say about my sweetheart, Edith, and our courtship and our marriage ceremony, but that’s another tale. Please wait.

Before leaving for OCS in North Carolina, a bunch of Spartan guys, all now in one uniform or another, agreed to meet at a bar in New York City. Jackie Barnett, Milt Saltzman, Lenny Reisner, and Harold Max were all there. We didn’t realize it at the time, of course, but it was the last meeting of the Spartans. We had a beer or two to show off our manhood and I can’t remember what we talked about, but after a while we decided to go see a stage play. We agreed on “Pal Joey,” starring Gene Kelly (so young) and including (I later found out) Van Johnson as a chorus boy. We left. I never saw Milt or Lenny or Harold again. I saw Jackie many years later, but that is still another tale to be told.

Jackie Barnett:

In the late 1980's I was in southern California for one reason or another. It’s not important. I had some spare time and I don’t know why, but it occurred to me that my childhood friend, Jackie Barnett had a career in Hollywood as a song writer for Jimmy Durante and later as a producer of girlie shows in Las Vegas, and most famous as the TV producer of the Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs tennis match. Curiosity took me to the phone book, and there was a listing for Jackie Barnett. I called and he answered. I identified myself (although he was very cautious about what I had on my mind) but I assured him I was just looking up an old friend. I suggested that we meet and he told me that he had to workout every morning since his recent heart attack, but he had a boat at the Marina Del Rey harbor and we could meet there. He gave me directions.

It was Sunday morning and I got there on time, but Jackie had to open a locked gate to let me in to the boat landings. We did the Hollywood embrace, and I followed him to his boat.

I don’t know what kind of boat I expected a Hollywood celebrity might own, but I wasn’t expecting this. It had to be about twenty feet long, some equipment for sailing and a cabin with two television sets and two telephones and not much else. It looked like it was a permanent fixture and never been out to sea. I could be wrong, but I never asked.

There was a football game on each of the TV’s. One of the phones rang just as we got into the boat. Jackie excused himself and answered the call. I could tell it was all about gambling on one of the games. He said he was putting two bills on the Rams to lose. Then, he hung up. He asked about my family and I asked about his. He excused himself as he watched the TV. He picked up the phone and said that he was going to put “nickel’s worth” on the Bears. It was Jackie’s third divorce that he was just finished with, he told me. Another phone call came and he made some more bets. How is your sister I asked for I remembered he had one and he called her a Yenta.

He went to a small refrigerator and took out a coke and a thick, fatty pastrami sandwich (talk about a heart attack on a plate!) and asked if I wanted any. I declined, but thanked him. I asked if this diet was okay with his heart doctor. He munched and spoke into the phone several more times, but never answered my question.

I managed to get to talk to him a little. I know that there had been rumors that Jimmy Durante had gotten mad at him because Jackie had hocked a diamond studded ring Jimmy had given him, supposedly to get some cash to cover a bet in Las Vegas. I got up the nerve to ask him about that. He told me that wasn’t it at all. Just some hooker stole it from him.

It was getting to be the time for me to leave. We embraced and as I was leaving, he asked a curious thing, “Tell me, was I a happy child?” I looked at him and told him that as far as I remembered he was surely a fun-loving guy. I left.

We were both about eleven years old when we met. His family lived in an apartment house on the corner of Bergen and Monticello in Jersey City. His father was a bootlegger and so was mine, but they never admitted they knew of each other. His father had a grand looking La Salle convertible with large white-walled tires and the spare tire was covered in chrome and on the right running board.

We had a friend in common, Donny Markowitz, who lived a couple of houses to the east of the apartment house. Donny kept pigeons in a coop he built in yard at the rear of his house. The three of us spent a lot of time watching the pigeons mate, have eggs, hatching chicks in time. Afterward I would walk home with Jackie along side. He was short, had black curly hair, and a nice face. He could do impressions of movie stars and celebrities. I’d say, “Do Edward G. Robinson,” and it sounded just like him (“Listen here, kid”). He had James Cagney (“Take that, you punk”) and Wallace Berry (“Aw, shucks, kid”) in his repertoire and could trot them out on command. But, best of all, he did Jimmy Durante. He knew every song that the Schnoz sang. He was funny. Years later, Mr. Durante saw Jackie perform in a small nightclub in northern New Jersey, doing his impersonation. He hired him on the spot.

Jackie was a member of our Spartan Club, and once, in a close election, he managed to make me the president. He did this with the flair of a theatrical trickster. He held the hat for the votes to be dropped in, and he palmed one of the votes that he knew was against me and had put an extra vote for me concealed in the hatband which he dropped into the hat. The votes were counted, I was the presumed winner, and the opposition called it a foul as they reconstructed their votes. Jackie just laughed at them and said the count was right. I was mortified, but being president of the Spartans was pretty important to me at the time. So much for a career in politics.

When we were about sixteen years old, a bunch of the guys we knew would gather in the cellar of Eli Selman=s house where the family billiard table had been converted into a craps table and a former round dining room table was used for poker. There were only soft drinks allowed. Most of the guys smoked . Eli was more than a year older than us and he was big. He would go from table to table taking his cut, about a dollar from each pot. Nobody complained. If you didn’t like it, don’t come back. He was also a numbers runner.

Jackie was hooked on craps. He knew every possible betting combination and the game had honest odds. He had a fistful of dollars and he got all revved up on just the rush the game gave him. He would say to me, “Hey, this is fun.” He had a nice smile.

Eli was a good host and provided sandwiches (for a price) for the players. He would say to Jackie, “Want somethin to eat?” Jackie would always say, “How about a nice big pastrami on rye!”

The boy is father to the man.

My Mom The Flapper in the 1920's

My Mother, the Flapper:

I was born at the end of the 19-teens. My life can be conveniently divided in the decades of the twentieth century (and hopefully extended to the twenty-first). The first ten years of my life were with my mother, father, and a sister (I didn’t like, but that’s another tale) under very pleasant conditions. Prohibition of liquor was in force, so my father, the bootlegger, became very wealthy. We had a Pierce Arrow (with chauffeur), an apartment house (with elevator) named after me (with my cousin, Irving), a pony (with a wicker basket cart) kept at a house on the seashore of New Jersey, made trips to Atlantic City (including one despite my bout of mumps), and many outings to the circus when it was in New York City.

My mother was tall and cut a very nice figure. In keeping with her times, she was a flapper of the twenties. Her skirts were cut on the bias and her right knee, clad in the finest silk stocking, was visible. She walked with an I-don=t-care attitude. She had bobbed hair and at times wore the felt cloche hats that were the style. She had her group of cronies, all cut from the same cloth, basically formed as a bridge playing group of well-to-do young ladies. I remember seeing a particular photograph of them all lined up in order of height (my mom the tallest), each hiking up their skirts to show some thigh as well as kneecap. And all bearing a naughty (Clara Bow) smile that said, “Here we are, take us, love us, or leave us”

Bridge day was special for our house when it was her turn to be hostess. Mom always ordered individual bridge score cards with colored tassels on them and a souvenir pencil stub. Bridge tables were arranged in the living room and the dining room table was moved aside for one more bridge table. Her best bridge day recipe for the ladies was her own made creamed mushrooms that she poured into very buttery pastry shells. She ordered the pastry shells from a local bakery on Jackson Avenue, about four blocks from our house. I know, because I was lassoed away from some street ball game to go fetch them. Why the maid didn’t have to do that, I don’t know. I suppose, in my own rotten way I was what my (older, and thank God the only) sister said I was, AA spoiled brat.

There was always champagne and strawberries and brown sugar for the bridge parties. We had a black Steinway Baby Grand in the living room. My sister took classical music lessons, but I was given jazz piano lessons. I had absolutely no ear for music of any kind, but this didn’t stop Mom from enlisting me to jazz up the party. I know I felt embarrassed, but the ladies would lean over the piano with champagne glasses and ebony cigarette holders and sing along. They either didn’t know anything about jazz or they were very polite. But they smiled a lot.

There was a black, fringed, silk throw over the piano. It had an embroidered red rose with green leaves in the center. I mention this, because one of my fondest memories of my mother is the time I got out of bed in the middle of the night because the music and laughter coming from the living room was very loud. I went down the hallway and opened the glass door and peeked in. A lot of guests were there for a Saturday night party (that usually lasted until dawn). There was my mom in her silk chemise with the silk piano throw around her shoulders and she was doing the Charleston Hop. She was laughing with her bright red lipstick smile and all the guys and ladies were cheering her on. It’s nice to have that memory, because by the end of the nineteen-twenties she was dead, age 36.

My mother had gotten a form of heart disease (rheumatic heart) that is easily cured with today’s medicines such as a sulpha drug. She was told, after my sister was born, not to try to have any more children because of her condition. Then, sometime before Armistice Day in 1918, I was conceived. She laughed off all those nutty doctors. This was her body and she wanted me a lot. I, for one, am glad.

Max That Cat Finds Romance

Max, That Cat, loves to keep up with the stock market.

New chapter about Max = finds romance:

MAX, THAT CAT,

HAS A BIG ROMANCE

GOING

WITH THAT

GLAMOROUS

LADY-CAT

WHO LIVES

THREE DOORS DOWN.

SHE HAS LONG SILKY

BLACK FUR

AND A WINDING FLUFFY

BLACK TAIL

THAT WIGGLES

WHEN SHE STRUTS HER STUFF.

SO MAX, THAT CAT,

FALLS FOR HER

BATTING EYELASHES

AND HER COME-ON

SMILE.

MAX, THAT CAT,

PLAYS IT REAL COOL

AND SIDLES UP TO HER

AND I COULD SWEAR

SHE GIVES HIM THOSE

GOO-GOO EYES

AND SWAYS SLOWLY AWAY.

"OH,MAAAAX,"

SHE SEEMS TO SAY,

"DON'T YOU REALLY CARE

FOR ME , DAHLING?"

MAX, THAT CAT,

WHO HAD BEEN SOMEWHAT ALTERED

BY HIS PEDIATRICIAN

SOMETIME PRIOR TO THIS,

REPLIES

"OH, I DO CARE,

BUT

I CAN'T REMEMBER WHY!!"

"MEOOW, MAX,"

SHE CRIES WISTFULLY,

"CAN YOU IMAGINE

HOW CUTE OUR KITTENS

MIGHT HAVE BEEN?"

"WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN,

MIGHT HAVE BEEN,"

SAYS MAX, THAT CAT,

"BUT,

CAN'T WE STILL BE

JUST FRIENDS,

AND WATCH HOLES

IN THE GROUND

TOGETHER

EVERY NOW AND THEN?"

Max That Cat!

In The Beginning

S

everal years ago,during a fit of what can only by described as a severe joint mental lapse, it seems in retrospect, my Fair Lady (hereafter, referred to on occasion as MFL) and I decided that we should have a house cat. So, we began to scan the local newspaper classified ads for pets.

My Fair Lady pursued an offer to give away one of a large litter of cats of unknown father-hood since the mother cat had been known to bestow her favors upon all comers — and we are told there were multitudes.

The catch was that the cats were up in a house in the foothills of the Sierra mountians. But, the wonan said that she would bring them down to our valley when they got a little older. She took our name and address and promised to call us.

Sometime after this, on a Saturday afternoon, I recall, My Fair Lady AND I WERE SIPPING VODKA GIMLETS ON OUR REAR DECK OVERLOOKING THE FIRST FAIRWAY OF THE GOLF COURSE WITHIN THE COMPOUND IN WHICH WE LIVE, WHEN THE PHONE RANG. MFL INSISTED THAT I BE THE DESIGNATED PHONE CADDY. I ANSWERED WITH A FUZZY HELLO. THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION TOOK PLACE AS BEST AS I CAN RECALL:

"THIS IS THE SECURITY GATE. THERE IS A LISA BOWEN HERE TO SEE YOU."

I DON'T KNOW ANY LISA BOWEN AND TOLD HIM SO. THEN, THE LIGHT BULB WENT OFF IN MY HEAD. THE CAT LADY!

"WAIT," I SAID, "ASK HER IF SHE HAS ANY CATS IN HER CAR."

I HEAR HIM ASK, "DO YOU HAVE ANY CATS WITH YOU?"

"NO," THE LADY REPLIES.

THE SECURITY GUARD IS NOT TO BE PUT OFF SO EASILY SINCE PERHAPS I DID NOT WANT ANYONE WITH CATS TO BE ALLOWED IN AND HIS DUTY IS TO PROTECT MY WISHES.

"ARE YOU SURE? WHAT 'S THAT IN THE BACK SEAT? LOOK'S LIKE A CAT TO ME."

"THAT IS A DOG."

"LOOKS LIKE A CAT TO ME."

"SIR, I HAVE HAD THIS DOG FOR TEN YEARS, AND IT IS A DOG. I KNOW WHAT CATS ARE AND THIS IS DEFINITELY NOT A CAT. IT IS A DOG!"

NOW THE SECURITY GUARD RETURNS TO THE PHONE AND ME.

"SHE SAYS IT AIN'T A CAT."

"WHAT THE HELL," I SAY, "LET HER IN ANYHOW."

I RELATE TO MY FAIR LADY THE STRANGE CONVERSATION AND THE FRONT DOORBELL RINGS. MFL ANSWERS.

I HEAR THE FOLLOWING:

"LISA!"

"KAY, THAT IS SOME SECURITY SYSTEM YOU HAVE HERE. THAT GUY CAN'T TELL A CAT FROM A DOG."

OH, GOD, THEY KNOW EACH OTHER. NOT ONLY THAT, BUT LISA IS IN CHARGE OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL AND KAY IS ONE OF THE TEACHERS. IT SEEMS THAT LISA WAS DELIVERING THE LESSON PLANS THAT MFL, ALSO KNOWN AS KAY AND MY FAIR LADY, HAS ASKED HER TO BE KIND ENOUGH TO BRING OVER.

I TRY TO MAKE AMENDS BY OFFERING TO SHARE OUR GIMLETS.

"AND," SNIFFS LISA, "I DON'T DRINK."

SO SAYING, SHE TURNS SMARTLY ON HER HEEL AND WALKS OUT FOLLOWED BY MY FAIR LADY, APOLOGIZING ALL THE WAY TO THE CAR FROM WHICH I HEAR A DOG BARK.

THINGS ARE RATHER BLEaK IN THE OLD HOUSEHOLD FOR SEVERAL DAYS AFTERWARD. BUT, I CAN RELY ON TIME, THE GREAT HEALER, AND SOONER OR LATER THINGS RETURN TO NORMAL, OR WHAT PASSES FOR NORMAL IN OUR LIVES.

EVENTUALLY, WE GIVE UP ON THE CAT LADY WITH THE FREEBIE CATS, AND DECIDE TO BUY -- GOD BLESS US FOR WE SHALL NEED HIM -- a SIAMESE KITTEN. SO, ON ANOTHER SATURDAY, WE TRAVEL ABOUT 25 MILES TO A CAT HOUSE. IT SEEMS THERE ARE TWO KITTENS OF THE LITTER REMAINING, ONE A FEMALE, THE OTHER A MALE. THESE CATS ARE NUTTY BEASTS, BALLS OF FAUN COLORED FUR, SCURRYING HERE, THERE, UP A TREE OUTSIDE THE DOOR. HOW CUTE. HOW ADORABLE. MY FAIR LADY PICKS UP ONE. IT PURRS. SHE PICKS UP THE OTHER. IT PURRS.

"WHICH ONE DO YOU WANT, MY DEAR," I ASK.

"WHICH DO YOU WANT"

"NO, WHICH DO YOU WANT. YOUR CHOICE."

I MEAN, I HAVE BEEN IN THIS GAME OF MARRIAGE TOO LONG TO BE SADDLED WITH WITH WHAT MAY TURN OUT TO BE THE WRONG DECISION. MY PHILOSOPHY IS PRETTY SIMPLE, YET EFFECTIVE. I MAKE THE BIG DECISIONS: I DECIDE WHETHER WE AS A NATION SHOULD GO TO WAR, I DECIDE WHAT THE NATION'S FISCAL AND MONETARY POLICIES SHOULD BE. MY FAIR LADY DECIDES ON THE SMALL THINGS: WHO ARE FRIENDS ARE, WHERE WE SHOULD LIVE, HOW MUCH WE NEED TO SPEND ON WHAT VACATION SHE HAS IN MIND, WHAT AND WHEN WE EAT, WHAT CARS WE SHOULD DRIVE. WE HAVE NOT, TO THIS POINT, EVER FACED THE DECISION OF THE PREFERRED SEX OF OUR HOUSE KITTEN. MY MIND WORKS LIKE A STEEL TRAP, LIKE A WELL TENDED SWISS CLOCK, SOUND MIND IN SOUND BODY AND ALL THAT. SHE MUST MAKE THE DECISION. I TELL HER SO.

SHE HAS ONLY ONE LOGICAL DEFENSE: SHE CRIES.

"WHY THE HELL ARE YOU CRYING."

"I CAN'T MAKE UP MY MIND. THEY ARE BOTH SO ABSOLUTELY ADORABLE."

OH, MY GOD. AM I GOING TO WIND UP WITH TWO CATS? NOT VERY DESIRABLE, BUT THERE IS THE OLD PLOY, THE WINNING GAMBIT TO BE PULLED OUT.

"TAKE THEM BOTH," I OFFER. HEH! HEH!

IT WORKS!

"NO, THAT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TROUBLE." SHE IS DOWN TO A MERE SNIFFLE.

"OH, GO AHEAD, IT IS PROBABLY JUST AS EASY TO RAISE TWO AS ONE, AND BESIDES THEY CAN PLAY WITH EACH OTHER." HEH! HEH!

SHE SMILES. "DO YOU REALLY THINK SO?"

WHAT HAVE I DONE? I HAVE OVERPLAYED MY HAND! SHOT WITH MY OWN GUN! FLOORED BY MY OWN CLEVERNESS!

"WELL, LET'S TAKE THE MALE."

I ESCAPE, BUT AT A PRICE.

"GOOD. IT'S SO NICE TO HAVE YOU MAKE SUCH IMPORTANT DECISIONS."

SHE IS ONE UP! HOW DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF? I AM THE ONE WHO SHOULD BE CRYING, BUT THAT WOULD SHATTER COMPLETELY HER IMAGE OF ME.

SO, IT COMES ABOUT THAT WE HAVE A SMALL, FAUN-COLORED, PURRING SIAMESE CAT IN A CARDBOARD BOX ON THE SEAT BETWEEN US ON THE WAY HOME. PERHAPS A WHIMPER OR TWO, A FEW SCRATCHES ON THE INSIDE OF THE BOX, AND THEN SLEEP.

WHAT DO WE CALL THIS CREATURE? AFTER A FEW FALSE STARTS, WE AGREE ON MAX-IN-THE-BOX, OR MAX FOR SHORT. SO, THAT'S HOW IT STARTED. WE HAVE MAX, THAT CAT!

THERE ARE SOME WHO WOULD SUGGEST THAT CAT-TRAINING IS DIFFICULT. AU CONTRAIRE! WITHIN TWO DAYS, MAX, THAT CAT, HAD US PERFECTLY TRAINED TO TEND TO HIS EVERY WANT, HIS EVERY NEED. EVERY MEOW BECAME A COMMAND.

FOOD, WATER, PLAYTIME, SLEEP ALL YOU WANT. GROW UP ON THE EDGE OF A GOLF COURSE WITH MARVELLOUS GEESE, SWANS, SQUIRRELS TO CHASE, MICE TO PLAY WITH. INSIDE WHEN YOU WANT. OUTSIDE WHEN YOU WANT. ROLL OVER AND GET YOUR TUMMY RUBBED WHENEVER THE URGE HITS YOU. ECONOMICS? WHAT'S THAT! POLITICAL UPHEAVALS? NOT MY PROBLEM! WANT OUT AT MIDNIGHT? SCRATCH AT OUR BEDROOM DOOR. WANT BACK IN AT 4 AM? CLIMB TO THE LEDGE OUTSIDE OUR BEDROOM AND CROON UNTIL ONE OF US GETS UP TO LET YOU BACK IN.

I WANT TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT MAX, THAT CAT.

AND WHEN I DIE, I WANT TO RETURN AS MAX, THAT CAT!

Mt Rainier on Oct 14, 2007

Here is THE mountain in all her Fall colors glory.

Mt Rainier on Oct 14, 2007

Here is THE mountain in all her Fall colors glory.

Jessi at Mt Rainier reflection lake

Jessi and I got up early Sunday morning, and after coffee (she drank it black!) and some juice we climbed into the old (but reliable Infiniti J30) and took off. There was rather dense fog when we started out, but within the hour it turned just gorgeous: blue sky and a few Sirius clouds floating above. We caught a few tantalizing glimpses of THE Mt Rainier in all her glory along the way, but after a little more than two hours driving we got into the park itself. And what a treat. Lovely fall folliage and then up close and personal was the mountain of all mountains (for me). Like the attached. Enjoy.

View from dining window

This is the view of Sahalee golf course seen from my dining room window.

Mt Rainier

My dear Jessi is visiting this old guy for the weekend and tonight we are going to some sushi bar in Seattle with a few young friends. But, tomorrow, we are heading for the Mt Rainier area hoping for some photo ops. Here is a vertical panorama I took a couple of years ago.