There once was a feline named Friska ...

A few weeks ago, when my cat's vet told me that it was time to think about letting go of my ailing pet, I started my grieving by posting to Facebook, the modern town crier that gives you a step back from one-on-one contact just when you need it most.

This might sound way too poetic for an often indifferent spitfire that hissed at most of my friends and lately required me to cover all corners and soft surfaces of the house to protect them from her effluvia, but it was what I felt -- and believed -- at the time:

"As she nears the end of her ninth life, Friska the demon cat from hell has finally embraced her docile side. She will now go gentle into that good night."

I was wrong. While she did turn a bit nicer as her health faded, she was anything but docile in defying two death sentences in her last month, and even this morning as her time finally drew near, she let it be known that this wasn't part of her plan. Forget the dismal diagnoses; the kid went out with moxie.


First thing this morning I found her on the living room sofa in the Buddha-cat pose. She opened her eyes to acknowledge my existence then resumed meditation or whatever it is that cats do when they're upright but idling. Out of habit I removed the nighttime barricade to the backyard cat door even though yucky weather would repel the wellest of cats, and went to take a shower.

A half-hour later, she was no longer on the sofa, or in her closet nook, or anywhere else I looked ... until I opened the blinds and saw her sitting in a cushioned chair on the covered patio. The temperature was 57 degrees and it was raining all around her, but she stayed put even after I tapped on the window to get her attention. I left her as she was because it seemed right to give her that one last commune with the yard she had explored and patrolled and fearlessly defended from interlopers for the four years we've lived here. By then it was 7:30 and we would be leaving for her last visit to the vet in less than two hours.

I turned on my work computer and tried to concentrate on my overdue deadlines, but nothing I wrote came out right.


Friska had put on such a stellar performance of spunk at the original appointment for her dispatch that, with the mobile vet's blessing, she cheated death that day. After good days and bad, her second d-day was scheduled for last Friday, but this time her vet couldn't feel her tumors at all and she had been 95% her old self for the days leading up to it, so in the absence of the hard data I needed to make the final decision, I took her home thinking I'd revisit my decision in a couple of weeks if she didn't tell me otherwise sooner.

She did. That night she took a turn for the worse brought on by the corned beef I had given her earlier thinking it would be her last supper. She appeared to be on her last legs by the next morning -- although she was still breathing, she didn't open her eyes and her usually twitchy tail didn't move an inch when I talked to her, and that had never happened before. (Friska had the most aggressively opinionated tail I'd ever seen attached to an animal.) I called the vet and took the soonest appointment they had, which was two days away.


Let me now attest to the restorative powers of chicken tenders and whitefish to a diminished cat. After I hung up the phone, I started rummaging through the refrigerator to try to come up with something palatable to fortify her for the next two days. At the first open container she was up and begging again. And she scarfed up various white meats for the next 10 minutes.

I was so impressed by her latest comeback that I left to pick up some more meat for her and get myself a turkey sandwich along the way. When I got home, the old normal happened for the first time in weeks: My little white ghost had left her haunt in her old habit of escaping to the driveway as soon as the garage door opened. For that, she deserved to share a bit of my sandwich.

Aptly rewarded, she took advantage of the one nice, semi-warm day of the week to renew her acquaintance with her backyard domain, somehow avoiding the hole that was already dug for her inevitable fate.


Make no mistake, Friska was one sick kitty toward the end despite her Saturday afternoon revival. But even when she could barely keep her food down, she never lost interest in whatever I was eating, and right up to her last moments was susceptible to bribing with a nice, meaty nosh.

So I'm not sure I can cook dinner tonight knowing there won't be a soft, furry rub against my ankles to remind me that her supper must come first. It's been strange enough working in the living room all afternoon with rain and wind taunting the window where she used to sleep and making noises that I have to force myself to accept aren't the sounds of a restless feline across the room.

She was just a cat, but she was also my housemate, responsibility, companion, albatross and footwarmer. She was just a cat, but she was also my little girl who brought out the nursemaid in me when feline independence no longer carried her. Besides, anyone who lives with a pet knows that there's no such thing as "just a cat," "just a dog" -- heck, "just a ferret" -- anyway.

All cats love to find a dark, quiet place to wedge themselves into now and then. I'm grateful that Friska found her way into the dark, quiet place that my heart can be, and reminded me to open it up now and then, too.

Thank you for letting me love you, sweet girl, and for granting me the great favor of loving me back sometimes. See you in the next go-round ... as always, you'll be the one with the moxie.

Hill Country Vegetable Soup

Note: I like a lot of vegetables and a colorful soup. Don't fret about using everything on the list.

1              teaspoon olive or toasted sesame oil

1/2          pound beef or buffalo stew meat, cubed 3/4"

1/2          cup onions, diced

1/4          cup celery, sliced on the diagonal

1/2          cup carrots, jewel cut* or sliced in rounds

1              cup vegetable or beef stock

4              cups spring water

1/4          cup barley, rinsed

2              cloves garlic, minced

1              tablespoon dried roasted garlic slices (or 1/2 teaspoon roasted garlic powder)

1 1/2       cups canned diced tomatoes

3/4          cup yukon gold potato, diced, or 3/4 cup of wheel-shaped pasta in keeping with theme
1              cup cooked white beans

1/2          cup yellow squash, 1/2-inch half moons

1/4          cup corn kernels

1/2          cup green beans, sliced 1"

1/2          cup shredded green cabbage

3              tablespoons mushrooms, sliced

                salt and pepper to taste

1/2          teaspoon herbes de provence

1/2          teaspoon marjoram

1/2          teaspoon smoked paprika

Heat oil and saute stew meat until it quits bleeding. Add onions, celery, carrots and pinch of salt, and stir until bright, adding stock if needed. Add rest of stock and water. Bring to boil. Skim meat foam if it appears.

Add barley, garlic, tomatoes, potato or pasta, beans, squash, corn, green beans, cabbage and mushrooms. Bring to simmer.

Add salt and pepper and simmer until barley is cooked, adding remaining seasonings partway through.

Makes 4 servings, more or less.


* Jewel cut: Slice carrot on the diagonal 1/2 inch from small end. Rotate 1/4 turn toward you and slice at the same angle. Keep rotating and slicing all the way down the carrot, making multi-faceted pieces that look like cut jewels.

does writing about food = dancing about football?

About an hour into Julie & Julia, I realized that I was engaging with the action onscreen just like a football fan watching a game on TV. I'm not sure whether there's a foodie equivalent of "armchair quarterback," but that's what I was acting like.

(I write this in tribute to Julia. I'm leaving it unfinished in tribute to Julie, who finally finished something.)

mmmmmm, mighty tasty crow

One of the stories on today's "This American Life" mentioned the infamous Van Halen contract-rider clause: must supply bowl of M&Ms backstage with all brown M&Ms removed.

For years, this has been cited as the ultimate rock-star indulgence, although while researching a feature I wrote for the Dallas Times Herald in 1984, I found several more that seemed to go way farther than adding a little extra labor to the task of pouring M&Ms into a bowl. Sammy Hagar's demand that each venue supply a bottle of expensive vintage wine -- not for after-show drinking but to add to his personal collection -- comes to mind.

The point of the radio mention was that, far from being indulgent, this was actually a very visible quality check for the band. In his autobiography, David Lee Roth wrote that when he arrived at the venue and saw either no M&Ms at all or a bowl complete with brown ones, he knew that someone on the management end either hadn't read the contract thoroughly or wasn't keen on detail. And with a production as extensive and complicated as Van Halen's, ignoring the specs about load-bearing stages and massive electrical requirements could prove disastrous or possibly even fatal.

So Van Halen, I stand corrected and I apologize for perpetuating the indulgence myth. But your apparent belief that incorrectly supplied M&Ms gave you license to trash the backstage turns that crow I'm eating from entree into tiny tapas.

Late-breaking rewrite aside, that was one fun article to put together. Every concert promoter and venue manager I talked with had some eye-rolling excess to brag about having to endure. (When I find the article I'll post some here.)

Among all of the foodstuffs, doggie perks and general silliness I heard about, the most touching came from Paul Leary of the Butthole Surfers. Maybe he was a little more candid with me than he might have been with some other journalist -- after all, he was my first boyfriend, many years before -- or maybe he was, just for a moment, wanting to transcend the extremes of the Butthole Surfer image.

Paul told me that their contract had no special food-related requests beyond a vegetarian meal for one band member and no pork for another. Being a self-contained, seasoned touring group, the most important thing for them, he said, was six pairs of new cotton socks at each venue. Looking at my own overflowing basket of freshly washed laundry nearby, my heart ached for these itinerant boys. Clean laundry is hardly an indulgence, but in some circumstances it can seem like unattainable luxury.

#  #  #

Amazingly yummy quinoa

And now, a detour into the kitchen for your alternative grains. Serves 2-3ish.


Ingredients

1	tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
1/4	cup carrots, diced
1	cup kale, spines and leaves finely diced separately
3	cloves garlic, minced coarsely
3	tablespoons scallions, diced
3	dashes ume plum vinegar
3	sun-dried tomatoes, soaked and diced
3	tablespoons pine nuts, toasted
6	ounces chicken breast, (smoked) diced
2	cups cooked quinoa
3	tablespoons mango, diced
1/2	ounce romano cheese, finely grated
2	tablespoons yogurt cheese or sour cream (optional)
1/2	teaspoon smoked paprika (optional)

Directions

1. Cook quinoa according to directions.
   
   
2. Dice vegetables to about 1/4-inch cubes.
   
   
3. Heat olive oil in a heavy skillet over medium-low heat. Add carrots, kale spines, garlic and scallions, stir to coat with oil, and add ume vinegar. Stir until bright. (Do not overcook.)
   
   
4. Add kale leaves, sun-dried tomatoes, pine nuts and chicken and blend in well with other ingredients. If using unsmoked chicken, add smoked paprika.
   
   
5. When ingredients are heated through, stir in quinoa and mix well. Add another dash of ume vinegar if necessary. Gently stir in mango and romano cheese.
   
   
6. Serve immediately, topped with sour cream or yogurt cheese (drained yogurt) dusted with smoked paprika, if desired.

Guv, this one's for you

My friend Richard Hoffman wrote the Wikipedia entries for both New York TX and Texas NY. Here's an interesting factoid from the latter:

"Texas is a hamlet in Oswego County, New York ... It is officially part of the town of Mexico."

So next time someone shoots his mouth off about secession, you can stop him in his tracks by truthfully informing him that, six-flags history notwithstanding, Texas already belongs to Mexico.

By the time he figures out what you were actually referring to, you'll be safely off the Capitol grounds.

Memory dump 3: KLIF

Very early in my working life, I was Kelly Clarke, a disk jockey (ahem, radio announcer) at what had been the birthplace of Top 40 in years past, KLIF. As an AM station in a world where FM ruled music radio, we had to try harder to get attention, so we regularly appeared at onsite promotions. It was only natural that KLIF would sponsor the local premiere of the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band movie (starring Peter Frampton and The Bee Gees!), and the promo department announced that it would involve some "very special guests."

The premiere was scheduled for a multiplex in the Dallas suburb of Garland. (Garland was a major inspiration for the setting of the cartoon King of the Hill, so try to imagine what kind of movie premieres there and what kind of "special guests" might actually show up.) We, the on-air talent, learned that WE would be the special guests, dressed in colorful band jackets rented from a costume shop. Y'know, like on the cover of the Sgt. Pepper album, right?

So Allen Farmer, Steve Scott, Harry Nelson and I arrived at the premiere in a limo, but stayed inside hidden behind the darkened windows, building what we were assured was a frenzy of anticipation and excitement, until the audience was seated in the theatre and ready for the movie to start. Then we walked in together under a spotlight -- like anyone would recognize our faces anyway since we worked in radio -- and the only reaction was "Hey, that isn't Frampton and the Bee Gees!" We had to sit there in our cordoned-off seats wearing smelly old band jackets through the entire awful movie (rated 3.4 out of 10 on imdb.com; the Zap2it.com description is "Sgt. Pepper's grandson and three other guys form a band and fight bad guys. Based on a Beatles album."). The promo guy wouldn't let us leave during the screening while the house lights were safely out. I hope he's shilling for the ghost of Enron now.

I recall discussing that evening with my fellow suffer-ees only once afterward, when we decided that the TV show WKRP in Cincinnati, while billed as a sitcom, was actually a documentary.

(NB: Possibly the most bizarre twist in this story is that my cousin, the late Terry Southern, also had a connection with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band ... the original one. He was among the faces on the cover of the album -- wearing dark glasses, not a short red band jacket. Sigh.)

Memory dump 2: Before he was a wild and crazy guy...

Imagine being a 15-year-old standing in the high school hallway (sporting what looks like a strawberry-flavored Mickey Mouse mask because you didn't apply sunscreen before you donned ski goggles and hit the very sunny Colorado slopes over winter vacation, but that's beside the point) and telling people that the best part of your trip was going out to a club one night and seeing this breath-stoppingly hilarious comedian whose shtick involved playing the banjo while wearing a fake-arrow-through-the-head and ended with a poem about all the things he had done and seen, including the memorable line "I've put a telephone in my nose and called my mother."

Imagine the looks you would have gotten, even from people who usually got your offbeat sense of humor.

Of course, we all know now who that comedian was. In 1973, nobody in San Antonio did. What fun to remind my classmates years later that I discovered Steve Martin. At least, before they did.

The show was a benefit for the Aspen Free Clinic, and most of the talent had local connections, such as headliners John Denver and the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and other, less famous acts. Albert Brooks presented his one-man performance of "Blue Moon" as the Albert Brooks Big Band, providing vocals, instrumentation and backup vocals -- all a capella. Then there was the guy with the banjo ...

Think about Steve Martin's old standup act. How do you explain his brand of performance -- usually punchline-free -- to someone who's never seen it? And how does a 15-year-old girl convey the hilarity of the line "I've done terrible things to my dog with a fork"?

# # #

Memory dump 1: KZEW

Today I tripped down memory lane when I heard The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" playing in the improbable venue of Walgreens. Here's the trippy thing it reminded me of:

I was a disk jockey on KZEW-FM in Dallas. It was a huge deal for me at the time, and I still love the memory.

Getting on the air at the Zoo was the dream of my radio career (many thanks to Ken Rundel for pointing me that direction), and I managed to be there at the tender age of 21, soon after I graduated from college. While I was in school I had worked briefly at some other interesting stations -- notably, KEXL in San Antonio and KLIF (the Mighty 1190, home of Top 40 radio a few decades before I arrived) -- but the Zoo was where I wanted to end up. And that I did: At the end of my tenure I left both KZEW and radio behind forever, thinking I should put my newly earned college degree to better use. Still wondering whether that was the right call.

What a great station -- you still find diehard Zoo Freaks, even though its AOR format we knew and loved went quiet more than a few decades ago. People still want to buy Zooloo window stickers (see here), and I'm still kicking myself for not keeping one of the satin bomber jackets that the station had made for the staff that year.

I had the great fortune to work with the amazing LaBella & Rody & Rhyner, the adorable Jon Dillon, John B. ("Viacom.") Wells, sweet Beverly Beesley, Michael Brown and Charley Jones. It was the Zoo's sixth year on air, and to commemorate it, some of the on-air staff posed for a publicity shot in our birthday suits ... with strategically placed birthday cake and sound board.

I wasn't there long, and my presence was hardly a dimple in the station's big ol' public face, but being there meant enough to me that I still smile thinking about it. I loved giving the station ID ("You're listening to the Zoo [sound effect: synthesized elephant roar] ... KZEW, Dallas Fort Worth") and coming up with great sets and segues, and in a weird way even the jerkoff who phoned in and, well, jerked off while I gave some long, involved answer to a stupid question he asked -- took me awhile to figure out what he was up to because I had the call on noise-cancelling speakerphone so I didn't hear his, um, utterances until I finally shut up myself. (Beverly later congratulated me on getting my first beat-off call ... with many more to look forward to, she predicted.) Of course there are better, more interesting, celebrity-laced stories but I've saved those for my other, anonymous blog.

Good luck finding that.

The movie Almost Famous weirded me out when I first saw it because Cameron Crowe's kid-in-the-bigtime story felt so familiar. Not that I was as young at the time as Crowe was or could hold a candle to him in talent then or now ... but I felt every bit as awed to be in my situation as he did in his and that movie brought it all back for me.

Fixing John LaBella's mic

Even so, I didn't realize just how big an impression these folks had made on me until years later when I learned about the untimely death of John LaBella -- I cried as though I'd left the station only the week before.

So Beverly, guys, others I didn't mention, and even you, Jeff and Tom -- your faces and especially your voices are permanently embossed on my memory. Maybe one of you remembers mine. Hint: There were two cute young redheads on the air around that time -- I was the one who didn't marry Jones...