All the Damn Hippies, Part II

Imagine my surprise yesterday when I read in the Seattle TIMES that the Solstice Parade was going on, even as I read. For any one not familiar with Seattle and its traditions, the annual Solstice Parade happens every summer solstice, an event reminiscent of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, a huge celebration of all or most or at least some of Seattle's artist community, replete with all the free spirits looking for a venue.

In other words, hippies.

And don't get me wrong, I dig hippies--especially hippie chicks. Only thing is, the solstice isn't til this coming Thursday, so I thought that the Solstice Parade and its attendant festivities were the following weekend.

No, I saw it in the TIMES: it was going down. So I quickly finished off my breakfast and coffee, and got down to Fremont. And it was pretty much what I expected, other than the fact that the weather wasn't so amenable: 61 degrees and overcast, threatening drizzle. I went to Gasworks Park (which is Seattle's answer to San Francisco's Golden Gate Park, other than the fact that it's deserted most days of the year).

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The food court was very sparse, only three booths or so. But this place caught my eye. No, it's not some evangelical Southern Cookin' barbecue: this is Seattle, so of course it's some kind of hippie vegan deal. And friendly enough: as I snapped this picture, some guy ran out with free coupons for me to sample the vegetarian fare. I declined, though, figuring that the real vegetarians of the event would be more likely to profit from such promotion.

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This was the show. Hundreds of hippies watching.

And this was the band:

And this was the accompanying floor show. I'm not sure what this was supposed to be, but then again, I seem to have come in during the middle.

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This was some cool artwork that someone had done up near the entrance to Gas Works Park. Very nice.

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The fairway at the Fremont Fair. Nobody here, as Seattle weather has driven Seattle hippies indoors.

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Carrie Akre, and company.

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Now, of all the booths, this is the one I liked. Pro-Duct-Ive, where all the products on sale are made from duct tape. Aeryk the Hippie, a big duct tape afficianado, would definitely approve. And is most likely out there somewhere, wondering why he didn't think of such a display first.

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Funny Cars

Pizza Injury

Pizza is about ten years old at this point. He's one of my mother's cats, a very friendly and very aggressive tomcat, who's never been fixed. He's getting on in years, but I've seen him take on dogs four times his size. He likes a good, rough petting.

If I hold my hand several inches over his head, he'll rear up on his hind legs and grab my arm with both paws and pull my hand to a particular spot on his head, as if to say, "Right there, right there!" He's one of the best cats I've ever known.

He has a serious flea problem, though. And dry skin, so he's always digging and scratching and chewing on himself. My mother has tried all varieties of powders, collars, and lotions, nothing works for very long, if at all. The vet said there's nothing else for it: cat needs a periodic flea bath.

So, a few months ago, my mother and I, aided by our good friend Alicia, set out to give Pizza a bath. We got some Hart's flea shampoo from PetCo, and filled the bathtub to an inch deep of warm water. My mother had a body harness that looked like it was designed for a toy dog or something, but it fit Pizza OK. I just wondered how it would hold during the ensuing struggle. See, that's what I like about cats (or one of the things, anyway): much more so than any other mammalian pet--certainly more than dogs--a cat is clearly a wild animal. A wild animal that has struck up a fortunate and endearing symbiotic relationship with humans, but a wild animal nonetheless. And its feral nature is on display several times during any given day.

I love cats. I definitely have a cat-nature.

Anyway, cats have a thing about getting wet, so I knew this wasn't going to be easy. It went OK, that first time, even though he did struggle quite a bit, between the three of us and the Rainmaker shower wand we were able to apply an appropriate amount of flea shampoo, and then get it rinsed or washed off, without any injury (other than psychological) to Pizza, and no flesh wounds for any of the rest of us.

After it was over, he just lounged on the towels on the bathroom counter, purring and licking himself clean of his bath. Didn't resent any of us, or even balk at the running water in the sink next to him, as each of us washed off. In fact, I think he watched me a bit more closely as I washed my hands, as if for the first time understanding what it was that us humans did so routinely. Remember, he's ten years old and never had a bath before; he probably thought we were trying to kill him, somehow.

That was a few months ago. Time for another bath. And this one didn't go so well.

This time, when we put the harness on him, I think he knew what was coming. I got him into the tub OK, but he started fighting immediately, of course. Things were going well, until one of his paws got loose, and he lashed out and got me in the elbow of my left arm. Not much flesh there, but he got one claw in, and it took me a second or so to extricate. Then he lashed out again, this time getting me on the inner forearm.

Guess it doesn't matter much that Pizza has an unusual birth defect: six claws on both forepaws, rather than the usual five. As it was, three of the six said claws got into the skin of my arm, and hooked in good. As he continued to struggle about, he pulled on my flesh. I looked down, to see the skin of my left forearm pulled out by about an inch and a half or two. The first thing I thought of was a documentary I saw on National Geographic Channel a few months ago, on the horrible practice of suspension. If you're at all squeamish, don't follow that link. I'm not squeamish, really, but goddamn. Let's just say that scene in LAST KING OF SCOTLAND wasn't foolin'. People really do that sort of thing--voluntarily, now--and survive. And, at this particular moment, my favorite fucking cat was doing it to me. And it fuckin' hurt.

Well, I got his claws out of me, and continued with the bath. I was disconcerted that the puncture wounds didn't bleed out. One of the things I'd picked up among my medical studies is that wounds are less likely to get infected if they bleed out. Puncture wounds are particularly troublesome, since whatever contagion imparted gets trapped when the wound closes over; wounds that bleed out may very well drain off the infectious agent. And here I was, three deep puncture wounds awash in flea shampoo and cat dander.

I washed off with soap and water--with Pizza there like I said last time, just happy as he could be on the towels on the bathroom counter, no trouble with me at all. And no understanding that he just inflicted a deep wound on me. Washed it further with isopropyl alcohol, then with peroxide. Seems to be doing OK, though it's starting to bruise. Don't think any infection took hold. But I have what looks to be needle tracks on the inside of my left forearm. And since I scar very easily, I'm wondering how long this junkie look is going to last.

The Return of the Evil Chef

One thing I keep meaning to do for my webpage is something on how much I like to cook.

I remember when I was young, and would help my mother in the kitchen. She used to say to me, "You like to eat? You damn well better learn how to cook--I'm not doing this all my life." Sounds better in Spanish, maybe--anyway, I've always enjoyed cooking. I'm very proud of my mother's recipe for rice, as most people who know me will attest: I keep insisting that they try it. (I resent the needed effort: if I'm trying to force something on you, it should be taken as a given that it's a good thing.) Then there's fettucine al bachelor, my signature pasta dish. So lively that my ex-roommate, Hammerhead, described it as intolerable. All because I use hot Italian sausage, rather than sweet. Whatever.

So here I was today, more or less out of work, since the web interface to my current software testing contract job was still down. I don't know at what point in the day, sitting around on the couch with the weather overcast, that I decided I would do something new for dinner. And I settled on French onion soup.

Now, I love onions. Raw onions--garlic, too, but that's a different discussion. As it is, I've had French onion soup in several restaurants, and it's always so heavy on cheese as not to be about onions. So I checked out my favorite reference source, the Good Cook series from Time/Life. Turned up a simple recipe for onion soup, and it seemed easy enough: fry up some onions, add water and boil, simmer for a bit, and you have soup. I remembered someone telling me about a restaurant in downtown Tacoma that served up a seven-onion soup: sounded ambitious, so I ran a Google on "seven onion soup", and turned up a recipe from Emeril. Looked basically the same, only with a step or two that I could omit (didn't have to bake any bread, could skip the bacon if I used extra butter, etc.).

So I spent about twenty minutes chopping onions: yellow onion, red onion, Vidalia sweet onion, shallot--good stuff. Fried all that in a two-quart saucepan, lots of butter. Added salt, thyme, lots of fresh ground pepper, and a bay leaf. While that sauteed, chopped up a leek and the white parts of a bunch of scallion. Threw that in, too. When all that softened into a thick pulp, I added some flour and stirred it around. After that browned some (maybe not as much as it should have, in retrospect), I added a quart of chicken broth. Let that boil, then simmered for an hour. Added half a cup of cream, boiled it again, and let it simmer down in time for serving.

The green leafstem of scallions are better known as chives. Chopped them up fine, grated some Parmesan cheese, laid these over a bowl of the soup.

I like it. Very good, if you like onions--and I love onions. Might need some fine-tuning, as far as flavoring goes--I may have overdone the thyme, not had enough pepper. Think I'll try tarragon. But I can say, onion soup is very good without a layer of mozzarella cheese clogging the flavor up.