MAGPIE TALE: The Truth About Letha

The markets may be sinking and jittery, but we've got our Magpie Tales to ground us.

"Dorene, we need to talk." She always hated it when Clifford said that. His family was always trying to talk things out, and it always ended badly.

Dorene's family never talked about things, preferring to take their secrets to the grave.

"Well, go ahead and tell me. What has that sister of mine done now, Clifford?
Letha Clemons had always been the embarrassment of the family. Always showing up at the wrong time and in the wrong attire and disappearing when she was needed.
She had followed quite a different path than her brother Wade who was now traveling the tent circuit and had a very popular radio broadcast each Sunday and Wednesday nights from WRFW in Toledo.
Wade took Letha's daughter Adele under his wing a couple of years ago, and she was doing quite well with her own children's ministry. But everyone wondered what had happened to Rusty.
"Well, out with it Dorene," told Clifford. "What do you know about Rusty?"

"He's doing just fine. Very fine, actually. Working in Dallas as a husky boy jeans model and the mascot for a vegetable company. He's done quite a few public appearances under the moniker of 'Johnny'. He's the leading husky boy model in the Southwest, though they airbrush his silhouette for the vegetable ads."

"And, of course, he's supporting Letha while she does nothing except honky tonk and loll around in bed until noon," Dorene fumed.

"But it puts a roof over their heads and food on the table."

"More food than Rusty needs. I know he's just having fried chicken and gravy and none of the Wonderbread he needs to build a healthy body. You know it builds strong bodies in eight ways. Eight ways, Clifford!"

"I know, I know....but what can we do, Dorene."

"As usual -- nothing. I told you I didn't want to talk. Talk always leads to nothing but this sort of disappointment."
Just then, Cousin Clara called them in for dinner as she put the needle on for a gorgeous Julie London album and a scrumptious supper.
To no one's surprise, Letha met a horrible fate two years later on her way home at 3 a.m. from the Ebb Tide Lounge in Glendale, California, where she and Rusty had moved as his modeling career had spun off into bit parts on Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best. He would end up under the care of Clifford and Dorene where he would be a National Merit Scholar and culinary master in his "Bachelor Living" classes in high school.
This would lead to him living his dream and opening a small chain of restaurants headquartered in Grand Rapids where he lives to this day with his significant other of 35 years, Sheldon Dreysdale of Dreysdale Dry Cleaning Service.

The Vegan-Bacon Divide

Today I met up with Bryce Digdug for our weekly brunch at Carnivore, the posh restaurant at the Duck Creeke Inn on 22nd Street. Dinner at Carnivore is much too rich for my blood, but it's rare I miss brunch, usually ordering their signature dish -- ostrich eggs benedict with foie gras aspic. Bryce had the same but with a side of pan seared arugula.

Our usual discussion of art, Godard and cuckoo clock repair shifted to this week's election. Though overshadowed by national and state races, we both are curious about the impact of the passage of Proposition BK. Even the landmark Duck Creeke and Carnivore are direct in the line of fire of this controversial initiative that builds on the momentum of the recent banning of Happy Meals from San Francisco.

Proposition BK allowed each precinct in the city to set local regulations on the sale and distribution of animal products. The western Mission -- where Bryce lives and the Duck Creeke is located --will be completely vegan. Even Shoe Biz will be forced to sell nothing but synthetic footwear once the bill goes into effect in January. The Duck Creeke may be spared since it has historic landmark status.

Over in the eastern Mission where I live, Proposition BK failed 9-1. Almost every living room on our side of the arroindissement has deer antlers above the mantle, and all of the ubiquitous pick up trucks have gun racks. In neighboring Bernal Heights, most residents hunt and catch the plentiful wildlife and put it in their smoke houses for the long, wet San Francisco winters.
Life will go on as normal in our part of the Mission where you will find the beloved bacon maple lattes at Pirate Cat Radio or Dynamo Doughnut''s maple bacon doughnut and the famed cannibalistic pig cariceria, Belmar-La Gallinita, on 24th Street.

As a fan of tradition, I really worry about the future of the Duck Creeke. Opened in 1851, it was the tallest building west of the Mississippi until the Call Building was constructed in 1897. It was often called the Chelsea Hotel of the west, having served as the hide away of Fatty Arbuckle after that notorious night at the Saint Francis and was a refuge from LA for Fritz Lang, Bertolt Brecht, Peter Lorre and other German expatriates who found San Francisco's gloomy, foggy summers much more comforting than all that depressing sun and optimism in Hollywood.

Joplin, the Airplane and the Dead all took refuge there after the Summer of Love when boring kids from Orange County and Omaha destroyed all that had once made the Haight so wonderful. Ginsberg did not write Howl there, but he held his first press conference there.

What's not well known is the source of the Duck Creeke's name. It is literally on top of Duck Creeke, the underground estuary that begins at the eastern tip of Stowe Lake to China Beach where ducks are able to make safe passage through the busy neighborhoods of San Francisco without worry of being turned into soup in my part of the Mission or being run over by one of the countless psychotic MUNI drivers.

The creek was built secretly in the 1880s and funded by Meredith Cliff Linquist (whose father was developer Ernest Avrum Cliff, namesake of Sea Cliff), an early animal rights advocate and reputed lover of John Muir. She was concerned by the carnage of ducks hit by street and cable cars and funded this secret, safe passage for her feathered friends.

One can't help but wonder what will become of the Duck Creeke. It would see a bit odd to have the Carnivore shut down at a time when medicinal heroin is available over the counter at San Francisco's Walgreens right next to Airborne, and most hookah bars have opium vending machines.

Only time will tell the future of Carnivore and the Duck Creeke, but it seems we will live in a city divided, and there is even talk of building wall down the middle of South Van Ness, the dividing line between the bacon and vegan sides of the Mission.

Sodium without Fear

Although he prefers to write books with one syllable titles, I hope Mark Kurlansky will consider writing one called "Salad".

Depending on your source, salad was not an integral part of U.S. mealtime until the mid-twentieth century thanks to Lawry's. They claim that they were the ones to introduce it as a prelude to the evening meal at their Beverly Hills location.

My grandfather Ralph considered no meal complete without Lawry's seasoned salt which he always referred to simply as The Lawry salt or just Lawry's.

The Lawry's was always kept on a lazy susan on the table. There were lazy susans in the cabinets as well where there were back up bottles of Lawry's should the one on the table go empty during a blizzard or nuclear holocaust.

Sodium was something we studied in chemistry and did not dread as part of our diet back in those days. My grandfather died at 62, but the impact of Lawry's was never discussed.

I think the orange color on their logo was totally co-opted by MUNI in the 1970s.

Junk Thief Has Dinner with the Basque

Who would guess that there is a full Basque Cultural Center on Railroad Drive in South San Francisco? I enjoyed my beef medallions, and the "nursing home atmosphere" was actually a refreshing break from either overly hip or overly grungy decor of so many San Francisco restaurants. I also loved their little displays in the lobby and the sports arena to the left.

In Defense of Lard

Now, will Alice Waters finally come out in favor of MSG?

San Francisco's Breakfast of Champions

Tiny Bites

Having an Operating Refrigerator Again Is a Very Good Thing

I know that many of you have followed this fascinating saga that began almost a month ago, involved two service people and ended with a complete replacement of the old unit that I loved about as much that hideous BART carpet that headed out the door this week.

Much as I want to embrace repair and restore wherever possible, recycle and replace were the right options today. I almost became overcome with frenzy as I went to Whole Foods and Rainbow Market this afternoon knowing that I did not have to worry about things melting or spoiling come morning. Food, glorious food.

Give Us This Day

One of my favorite things about the change of seasons is that I try to take many of the treasures/junk/stuff I have in storage and swap them with what I've had on display for the past few months. I have an excess of things for my sprawling flat, but some pieces are perennials. This print in my kitchen is one of them and usually gets a strongly negative or positive reaction, or maybe people are just being polite and afraid to offend. I've had it for easily 20 years and acquired it at an estate sale. There is something about it that I have found to be grounding and sobering in a positive way while others consider it to be depressing. Unlike some things, I look at it with some intent a few times a week, usually before having a meal and read something different into it each time. I wish I knew more about it, the artist and its origin. As I slowly recuperate from my cold, it seems to have new meaning.

Say It's Not True

Bad news in the Mission. Oh, no! The Katz Bagels giant bagel is being removed. This is worse than the demise of the Doggie Diners. Maybe the economy is worse than we thought

Let's Have a Pork Barrel Holiday in SF!

Since I had so much fun with all of you New York bloggers in September, I hope you might come out west soon. In this week's issue of New York magazine, this article even lures you to come out west for just $226 and experience high culture and come within barely 500 or so feet of my door by visiting the "seatless" (actually, that's not true, they have sidewalk chairs) Dynamo doughnut store (dynamosf.com) which they compare to the Lower East Side's Doughnut Plant (doughnutplant.com). However, for all of the Doughnut Plant's history and charm, can it offer you maple-bacon doughnuts? I actually came close to buying one yesterday but held off. Come on, Kusala and Salty Jill, come out to (up to) SF and we'll have a pork-packing holiday and meet up with Bryce Digdug, who can shuffle the tarot cards of pork products.

New in My 'Hood

I'm not sure if it's a sign of the new economy or a last remnant of the old one, but I finally got around to stopping by Dynamo SF, just around the corner from me after its opening a month or so back. Bryce Digdug often speak of the Bi-Rite phenomenon, and it's easy to see how a place that serves simply coffee and dough nuts could be seen as a part of that. However, at $2.50 for a simple cup of coffee, one wonders how long such a place will hang on charging what would be pricey even at an airport.

Mission Still Life - Friday Afternoon

On my way to lunch on Valencia. No, not my lunch.

Sushi at the End of the Tunnel

I had a lot of lunch hour errands that were in the mid-Mission, so it was a good reason to head over to Valencia Street. My walk started off well, since it was the first time I was able to capture the cat in the window of Virginia Howell's in the block over from me wide awake and not just sleeping on merchandise. I've been trying to do that for at least a couple of years. There is always plenty to see along the route, and I seemed to obsess on the political this time, sorry, before heading to We Be Sushi where they'd just added a really cool, sexy block print that ends this journey.

Outside Herbivore: Rat Rights Now!

Some of my best friends are vegans, though they are usually smokers too, and I give them grief about supporting the evil empire of Phillip-Morris.

However, fucktards like this give San Francisco a bad name, and I was very tempted to slash the tires and bash out the windows. Of course, isn't there sweet irony in the contradiction of this shiny, gas guzzling SUV covered in so much tripe (meat pun noted and intended). I bet the driver is a smoker to boot. It proves that you don't have to be Rush Limbaugh to be a self-righteous, idiotic, annoying bigot. The "left" has plenty to spare as well. I'd love to see the unholy trinity of Bryce, Kusala and Salty take this one on!

Foiled TD at TJ's

Overheard at the Trader Joe's on Brannan at 11:12 a.m. today. (Him - Filipino American in a Ricky Martin sweatshirt and big silver wrap around glasses. Her - African American woman in a Hollister t-shirt, motorcycle boots and wallet on a chain.

Her: Dude, we still need to replenish the bottom shelf. Hand me some more.

Him: (Hands on hips) I know I'm pretty femme, but I still know how to pitch a football. (Throws a six-count package of garlic naan.)

Junk Thief: (Picks up two $.79 each grapefruits)

Him: (In a girlish, cheerleader scream as he looses his balance, falls backwards, knocks several dozen grapefruit on the floor, lands his butt on my shoes.) Oh, sometimes I don't even realize my own strength!

Her: Dipshit, you pitch a baseball; you toss a football. Stop fucking around and hand me the rest of the naan. I'm almost ready for my break.

I always feel the universe is out of balance when I go more than two weeks without a trip to Trader Joe's. I'd not been since early December in order to avoid crowds, especially those getting last minute XXXL mark downs at Nordstrom Rack that shares the same parking lot. Some might critique it as a big box store, but then Whole Foods is based in Texas, while they are headquartered in South Pasadena, just a stone's throw away from the John Birch Society and Blue Boy and Pinky at the Huntington Museum. Pasadena, I've heard it said, is just like mid-America, only more so. I always find it comforting to go there, a movie set version of the sort of streets where I grew up.

Best song ever written about a shopping experience can be found here on Jennifer Terran's Cruel. I've yet to be aware of Albertson's or Safeway inspiring such a ditty.