Category: When things go wrong

Hotel Belmar —– What Belmar?

My first and last visit to Mazatlan

Mazatlan Vieja (Old Mazatlan)

What mahogany? What tile? What swimming pool? What ambiance? Do you mean the broken window? The wire’s hanging out of the ceiling from around the broken fan? The closet doors hanging from their hinges? And no way to lock the door of the room itself.

I was more than disappointed. This was the first time in all of my travels to Mexico that I planned ahead of my trip. Making a reservation in Old Town Mazatlan, unfortunately, I believed the advertisements. Against my better judgment, I made a reservation while still at home. As it turned out, I couldn’t get out of Hotel Belmar fast enough.

Leaving my bag in the room facing the sea, I set off to find a new hotel. I walked and walked until my sandals rubbed red burning blisters into my feet. The sun burned my face. I wanted to cry.

Nicholas, the hotel clerk, was nice. When I said, I wanted to find a new hotel, he said, “Stay, stay”. But I was desperate not to spend my very expensive vacation in the Hotel Belmar. And to top it off, the only beach near the hotel, was a small patch of sand, dark and surrounded by boulders, littered with plastic garbage. It was not even worth exploring.

The malecon swarmed with people. Locals were cooling off in the sweltering heat. Vendors were selling grilled corn on the cob, skewered through on a stick, smothered in butter, and sprinkled with Tajin. Others sold shaved ice, ice cream and soda. Children, covered in wet sand, were squealing. Teenagers were shouting at one another and boom boxes were playing Banda music at top volume.

“I can’t stay there. I chanted inside my head as I walked. What will I do? How will I change hotels? What’s even available? How can I find out? I need water. What am I doing here?” I feared to stay even one night, where the lights flickered in the dark room and the rusty  AC unit ground loudly.

So far I didn’t like what I’d seen of  Mazatlan. A four-lane highway runs between a strip of hotels and the beach. The beach is steep, a thin strip, broken by huge outcroppings of boulders. This isn’t even the hotel district. This is in  Mazatlan Vieja. Right then, I missed my family. What would they say if they saw me now? I was way too hot and my feet were being rubbed raw.

I wished I had picked Acapulco. Acapulco I knew well. I could have gone to Pie de la Cuesta or Zihuatanejo or any number of places that I loved. My dream of buying a small hotel felt crushed, and I certainly wouldn’t be buying anything here.

I hailed a pulmonia. These are small, open-air jeeps with a canopy and music blaring. “Where can I find a cheap hotel?”, I asked the driver in Spanish. These guys get a commission for bringing tourists to particular hotels that they are affiliated with. I also know from experience that when I let them know that I’m fluent in Spanish, they’re going to run into the hotel before me and tell the clerk that I am fluent in Spanish, so there’s no talking among themselves, thinking that I don’t understand what they’re saying.

The driver knows, he says, of a cheap place. It’s called Olas Altas. (High or Big Waves). I’d been traveling in Mexico for a long time, and I knew what hotels go for. But it was peak season, and this is right on the highway with the beach right across those four lanes. Cars were whizzing by and it was quite noisy and dusty. But I was at the point of collapse. Right then I’d pay just about anything.

I wanted to pay $30 a night, but they were insisting on $81. I’ll get a deal, they continued to insist,  if I stay for the whole week. I’m embarrassed to say, I paid over $400. This was unheard of in my experience, but as I said, I thought I might keel over if I didn’t find a place to eat and sleep and soak my damaged feet.

I paid and promised to be back shortly. I hopped on the pulmonia again, back to Hotel Belmar. When I told Nicholas that I was leaving, he was none too happy. He made me pay $100 pesos, for the molestia (for the trouble) I guess for showing me the room. It appeared to me that I would have been their only guest. At this point, I would have paid almost anything. Just get me out of here, I thought. I took one more look at the pool, which was covered with a green slime, and was happy to be gone. I think at one time, this was a very cool and trendy hotel. The bones were still there.

Nicholas kept saying, “Piense bien. Tiene que pensar bien.” You better think it over, he was saying. I said, “I’m sorry, but this is my vacation and my money. Adios.” Did he think that I really could have stayed? So back onto the pulmonia. I hopped on and off I went to Olas Altas.

When I arrived, I instantly dropped my luggage in my room and stripped to the skin. I was as red as a beet, I could hardly walk. I couldn’t wear shoes. I had two or three blisters on each foot with at least one that had burst open and was bleeding… and I’m too hot.

Olas Altas  was just okay. The rooms were new with air conditioning, the beds were comfy. And across the four-lane highway, was the beach and I could see the spectacular sunset.

I also could see the big red signs saying that there would be no swimming because of dangerous currents and the massive waves. I would have to go searching for a good beach for swimming.

I threw on my swimsuit and threw myself into the pool. I floated in the pool until I felt myself calm down. I was in bed by 9:00 pm. I was tired to the bone and had not had a drink of water or anything to eat all day.

I drug myself to a table by the pool. There was a small restaurant in the hotel and I immediately downed two bottles of Pacifico before drinking glasses and glasses of water. I ordered caldo Tlalpaño which was a soup of rice, avocado, and chicken. I believed it was the best soup I’d ever eaten. And then I had a platillo Mexicano, 1 sope, 1 chili rellano 1 tostada, 1 quesadilla, guacamole, and frijoles.

I didn’t stop until I had my fill. I rested my head in my hands and almost fell asleep. It was time for me to go to my room. I fell into bed and as soon as the traffic died down on the highway, I slept like a baby, listening to the giant waves crash on the shore.

Tomorrow I’ll eat breakfast at Pueblo Bonito. They want to sell me this place, but right now. I don’t want to be sold anything ever.

I spent the rest of the week in Mazatlan staying at Olas Altas. Unlike all of the other times that I’ve been in Mexico this was not fun, not comfortable, not interesting, not anything. I never found the beach that I was looking for… someplace to swim.  I did find some good places to eat, which is easy to do in Mexico. But I found that the food in the hotel restaurant was the best food to be found.

I understand that there are people who love Mazatlan. They buy houses and condos and businesses, and vacations and retire there even. But after that experience, I never wanted to go back… to Mazatlan that is.

Rain, Fish, Fiasco

Fish & Chips in a Rain Storm.

The mess


This inevitably happens with Yum Yum and me. There was a march of heavy rain storms today with a few cloud breaks. Yum Yum and I dressed in our raincoats and went out to walk, of necessity.

After half a block, the clouds opened and drenched us while Yum took her time carefully, sniffing out a perfect spot to relieve herself. By the time we were back in the house, we were sopping wet.

I had decided to fry some cod for an early dinner. I prepped the fish and decided to make a beer batter. These days,opening cans or bottles is best left to Han or Nori, but the fish I wanted wouldn’t wait.

I held the bottle of IPA in my right hand, as tightly as I could, while I tried to pry off the cap with my left. The cap popped off surprisingly. I could easily predict what happened next…. my hand holding the beer, uncontrollably lurched to the right spilling the beer onto the counter, into the tray holding the toaster and coffee pot, then spreading a river onto the floor.

Fortunately, there was just enough beer to make the batter… but that’s not all. While reaching for a large bottle of oil in which to fry the fish, I misjudged the height in which to clear other objects in front of the bottle. It squarely hit the pour over cone, holding this mornings coffee grounds. Not quite dry, the grounds spilled out onto the counter, then bounced down onto the floor, spreading grounds here and there and everywhere.

By this time, I felt hot and sweaty and had lost my appetite for the fish. I cooked it anyway, but it held little charm. I ate a few pieces and now only want to clear the dishes and go to bed. Maybe that’s the safest place for me.

Yum Yum wants it

The Case of the Stolen Borscht Recipe

How was I to know she would be offended. I thought this would honor her. But it affected our relationship, negatively, from that day forward .

It was decades ago and we had moved from Whidbey Island in the Puget Sound, off the coast of Washington, and into the astoundingly and equally beautiful Columbia River Gorge in Oregon.

We lived on the Island for about 7 years. During that time, we met some very interesting people. Among them were Magdalene and her husband Ivor. They had both been born to Ukrainian parents in the same refugee camp in Germany after WWII was over. His family was then sent to England and hers to the US to begin again.

Their families didn’t know one another. But later, once both Ivor and Magdalene were grown young adults, by happenstance, they met in New York City and fell in love. I won’t continue their story since it’s their story to tell.

How they ended up on Whidbey Island with 2 children in tow, I can’t recall. We moved to the Island because we were promised a house and a job. An old high school friend of Jack’s was pastoring a church there and had connections.

It was at this church that we met Ivor and Magdalene. Now, when I look back, it was the friends that we made that made being in a toxic environment seem worth it. I still have a couple of friends from that time. Fewer, of course, because whenever you leave “the church” being ostracized is the norm. But I digress.

The Borscht

I’m no expert, but from what I learned, borscht is an everyday, common soup/stew eaten in many countries of the world. Mainly made of beets, which gives it its distinctively rich, red bordeaux color and the tomatoes, fresh or canned. It takes on unique flavors based on the meat used for the broth and the addition of other mostly root vegetables. Some cooks add cabbage and others add saurkraut. Dill, fresh or dried, is sprinkled in liberally.

Once the meat is seared with the onions and garlic, water is added to cover and then left to simmer until the meat is fall off the bone tender and the broth is rich and savory. Various meats can be used… like I said, this is not a “precious” soup. Its kinda like a “what’s in the fridge” kinda everyday soup. Anyway, this is what I was taught.

Then carrots, potatoes and other vegetables of your choice are added and cooked until very tender. The meat always used in this recipe was pork short ribs. Once everything is red, dyed by the beet juice and it fills the kitchen with a delectable fragrance, you should dish up huge full ladles into big bowls. Forget about small bowls.

This is a main course soup eaten with crusty, white bread or other breads of your choice. I can imagine a dark rye sliced into thick slabs smeared with soft butter. Never mind if your bread is a day or two old. This soup is made for dunking bread in.

The finishing touch is a large dollop of sour cream, sprinkled with cayenne pepper and more dill. This soup quickly became a staple in our household even though the children wouldn’t eat it. Why, I’ll never know because they’re advenurous eaters and have always been. Even to this day they turn their noses up in disgust when I offer to make a pot of borscht.

So, I’ve kind of roughly given you the recipe for what I learned to make from Magdalene. While living on the Island, we would often go to their house after church to eat with them. More often than not, there was the delicious pot of borscht on the stove. I could always eat bowl after bowl after bowl.

I was so enamored of this soup, I asked Magdalene one day for the recipe. She gladly told me how to make it just like I’ve told you here. She would say things like, “pork short ribs or spare ribs or left over roast, whatever you have”. And the same for the vegetables with the exception of the beets and she always used saurkraut and so when I began to make my own pots of borscht, of course I always used pork short ribs and there was always the saurkraut. I wanted mine to taste just like hers.

The theft of the borscht recipe

As I mentioned before, even though the kids didn’t like the soup, I still made it often enough to make them complain. I didn’t change a thing that Magdalene had taught me.

It seemed only natural when a morning TV show, that I watched almost daily, had a cooking contest. They were asking for recipes with a $25, or was it a $50, prize for the one chosen as the most delicious and desirable. Within a month my recipe had won the prize and a check arrived in the mail and the recipe connected to my name was announced on the morning show. To me this was just good fun. And even though I knew how good the soup was, I wasn’t really expecting to win, so it was a wonderful surprise to hear my name and the name of the recipe announced.

Excited, I called Magdalene to tell her and to tell her I would share the money with her or that I would give it all to her since it was her recipe. She responded in a way that I never expected. She was mad. She was offended. She wanted nothing to do with it or with me. She hung up on me right then and there.

From then on there was a rift between us. We never saw one another again even though she had moved to the eastern part of Washington and we had moved into the Gorge. We never even talked to one another on the phone again.

Occasionally, I saw her posts on Facebook. She had survived cancer and had grandchildren. She looked wonderful and I missed her as a friend. This morning, another mutual friend told me that Magdalene had died 2 years ago after a fight, I assume, from another bout with cancer.

Then the memories of the borscht theft came rushing in. Without doubt, every time I make borscht, I remember Magdalene and the infamous theft. Thank you, Magdalene, for the wonderful unintentional gift of borscht. I’ll never forget you.

The Naito Brothers, Laurel Lee, Grand Larceny, Jesus and Me

Jesus ascending

“If I have any debt to pay, I will pay it to god.” That sentence and that image kept me out of jail… I think.

Just out of high school and barely 18, I got my first job. Well, my first job was as a theater usher at the age of 16 for $1.50 an hour but this was my first real grownup job.

No one had encouraged me to go to college. I guess making something of myself, in the traditional sense, was not an option. This was 1967 so smoking weed and taking LSD and going to live dance venues represented adulthood and freedom and a meaningful education in real time. My main occupation was expanding my mind. But in order to do this, I needed a job.

I’m out of the house, I have my own apartment and my frontal lobe obviously was not fully developed. Good sense hadn’t even occured to me yet. Making reasonably good decisions was not my strong suit, let alone a priority. But finding a job to support my new lifestyle was.

I could do retail, I told myself. The most interesting shop around was Import Plaza owned by Bill and Sam Naito. I applied and was immediately hired, on what merit, I hadn’t a clue. But this was my first step in becoming an independent woman. This is where fate took over.

This is where I met my new best friend, Laurel Lee. Yes, it was that Laurel Lee (may she rest in peace), author of Walking Through the Fire, and subsequently, many other books. She was working there before she became famous so that she and her husband, Richard, could travel to Alaska in a house he was building on the back of a truck.

This was a general retail position. I stocked shelves, put price stickers on new items, straightened the merchandise throughout the store, helped at the cash register bagging purchases and that kind of thing… in other words, anything I was asked to do.

I proved to be reliable and a good worker. I was promoted to cashier and merchandising. The Naito brothers liked me and soon, but not warranted, they put their trust in me. I was given the keys to the store to open and close. Before long, I was invited into the office where they discussed training as a buyer. I had met the current head buyer and I liked her. This would mean international travel as a trainee. But how did I fuck this up?

I was not new to fucking up. I had a couple of opportunities while in high school that I passed up that could have set me up for a successful future. The first was working as a designer for Star Sapphire. My art instructor saw potential that others did not see. She knew people and set me up with an interview. Without going in to painful detail, suffice it to say, I foolishly let that slip through my fingers.

My second opportunity was with the Portland Junior Symphony. Again, a teacher saw potential, this time in my musical abilities. I auditioned and interviewed and was accepted. But once again I let an incredible opportunity pass me by. I won’t go into great embarrassing detail but it’s another example of me fucking up.

So continuing on with the story of the perils of being young and an already established history of being really foolish, I made a bigger mess of things. I’ll make this short.

First, my criminal escapades started with taking smoked oysters and exotic crackers off the shelf to eat lunch with Laurel. She was already taking from the store. Richard would come to pick her up and I noticed that he was leaving with goods without paying. His strategy was to pick up several things, pay for one or two and stash the rest in a bag leaving with the stolen goods.

As time went on, I was taking small imported objects to decorate my apartment and imported cookies from Belgium, baskets from Thailand, fabrics from India, stained glass lamps from Morocco. Once I was closing the store, I took a rattan “King Chair” from Indonesia. I took, unabashedly, jewelry from around the world.

What was I doing? I had never even shoplifted the odd candy bar or lipstick or mascara as a kid. My parents taught me perfectly. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t walk across the neighbor’s lawn. Don’t skip school. Don’t cheat. Be kind and conscientious. And they were good examples as far as I knew. I grew up happy for the most part. So what was I up to now?

I liked to justify my actions with excuses like, I was taking from the rich and giving to the poor… the poor which included myself. I was obviously deluded and a liar… and a thief. What I was actually doing was taking from people who were trying to give me a chance in life. I was stealing from people who wanted to help me.

My “career” as a thief did not end there. As a cashier and a manager, I was able to steal money, as well. I thought I was so clever. Even at this point, I allowed a friend to come after closing and he loaded up his car with stolen goods.

I was doing all of this while expanding my mind with psychedelics and entering the world of Eastern religion. My studies alone should have deterred me from the path I was on. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I suppose you could say I wasn’t thinking at all and you would be right.

They say that all criminals, that get caught, fuck up in some way. I had been fucking up for a long time and in many ways without even knowing. The end of it for me came quite suddenly and was over quickly. It happened one day as I was cashiering. Three men in suits came in and approached me at the cash register in front of a line of customers. They said to follow them to their car and I did, heart in my throat.

I was taken to another building down the street owned by the Naito brothers and was escorted into an austere office. Both Sam and Bill were there. These were kind and generous and important businessmen in the community. These were men who had trusted me. These were men who saw potential in me just as my two high school instructors had. Here I was again having failed and fucking things up.

I sat and looked into their eyes and saw that they were sad for me. This was really painful. They could have allowed the investigation to be done by the professionals but instead they sat in front of me and talked face-to-face. First of all they asked me what kind of grades I got in math in high school. I replied that I had very good grades in math in high school, that all of my grades were good in high school. And then they put a box of cash register receipts in front of me and asked me to explain why then do these not match the amount of merchandise going out the door.

If I remember correctly, I sat silently having no answer for them. Then they showed a video of what I had been doing at the cash register. Again, I had nothing to say. I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

I was crying. Both brothers stood up and turned their backs to me and walked slowly out the door without turning around and without having anything more to say. The investigators once again asked me to follow them out to their car and we went to my apartment and they confiscated all the stolen goods. They said that the Naito brothers were contemplating whether they should press charges or not but in the meantime, I would be free on my own recognizance.

My theivery added up to grand larceny and could have ruined my life but for the kindness of the Naito brothers. They did not deserve my arrogant response. At the time I didn’t even realize my response was arrogant and was completely inappropriate and out of hand. Within a few days, I received a letter from the courts saying that I would be called and not to travel outside of the state. I wasn’t going anywhere anyhow.

While waiting for the court to call me, I tried to figure out what to do and worried about going to jail. I was suddenly dragged from a dream. I was fully aware that what I had done was wrong. How was I going to make up for it except by going to jail?

While all of this was happening to me, Laurel and Richard had left for Alaska just as they had planned. I received some letters from Laurel and I guess you could say the most significant was one in which she told a story of how they had met Jesus on a dirt road in Alaska. According to Laurel, which evidence proved out through the rest of her life, she had been transformed.

From this day forward, Laurel was a devout Christian. But what made this significant for me was that inside the envelope was a small card with a painting of Jesus ascending into the clouds. The card was about 2″ by 3″. I always kept Laurel’s letters because she was a wonderful storyteller and her letters were always full of great stories. Suddenly that card held more importance than I could have imagined.

I wanted to apologize to Sam and Bill but I didn’t know how. “I had a brilliant idea”, she says sarcastically. “I’ll write them a letter and include the card and ask them if it wouldn’t be all right for me to pay my debt to God.” This is entirely cringe worthy.

Apparently, my letter got to them because I received a letter asking me to meet with them. My biggest punishment was having to meet with them face-to-face again. They were not going to press charges, they said. The worst that they were going to do to me was to never recommend me for a job working with money. However, they would give me a good recommendation based on my skills and work ethics.

How could they have ever said anything about ethics concerning me. After that meeting, I slunk out of the office, my head hanging and my tail tucked under. Next was an official document from the court saying that all charges had been dropped.

I have no idea whether that little card had any influence on the Naito’s decision to forgive me or not. I’m sorry to have used Jesus, since I’m not a believer. Perhaps I could just as well have used a card with an image of the Buddha or any of the Hindu gods or any mythical images of gods and goddesses but perhaps it served its purpose.

As a girl who was under 20 years old, I sure was lucky. I had no criminal record and I would spend no time in jail. In fact, there was very little punishment other than humiliation in the face of love and generosity. I’ll never forget Bill and Sam Naito. These men are long gone, having passed away, but among many other things, their legacy lives on in me.

Bill and Sam Naito
Laurel and her the children. Years later.

Bulldozing Montgomery

We lived on Montgomery St., just below Vista Avenue, before Hwy 26 went in. The construction destroyed miles of large beautiful houses built at the turn of the century.

Beautiful large homes, in the West Hills, like this one, were bulldozed to make way for highways.

Portland exemplfies the song “Yellow Taxi” written by Joni Mitchell, which goes, they paved paradise and put up a parking lot… Portland was being raped and thousands of long time residents displaced. No one who was making a killing cared.

Our yellow house was built with four apartments. The front was built at street level on a steep hill leading towards downtown to the East, and to the North, the land was even steeper giving each apartment spectacular views of the city.

I couldn’t find an historic photo of the area but this is the type of house sacrificed for development

Each apartment took up an entire floor. The ceilings were at least 10 feet in height with windows almost to the ceilings. There were at least three bedrooms, a large living room, a kitchen and with just one bathroom. The back door opened out from the kitchen onto a balcony with stairs that led to the ground below.

This is not the house but reminiscent of the types of houses in the area.

This was in the late 60’s. Pure LSD was easily had and weed was $10 a “lid”. Our rent, if I remember right, was under $100/month. We didn’t need much money to live, so we bought pounds of marijuana, divided it into plastic sandwich bags and we put them in a large container just inside the front door. Whoever wanted to buy pot from us could leave their money and grab however much they wanted. The honor system at work.

Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, peyote and the like, were all illegal. But at the time, we were more concerned that the house would be raided by FBI agents looking for draft dodgers and those who were AWOL. It had happened and it was scarey but if they’re looking for people, they had no jurisdiction to bust us for drugs.

Our life on Montgomery street was mostly peaceful. It was a good time for exploring both internally and the world around us. We were protesting the right of the US and other countries to invade others to procure resources. We were protesting a culture dictated by corporate greed and materialism. We wanted a simpler and more peaceful world.

Unfortunately, our idealism could not, and has not, changed the white and wealthy. We were using psychedelics, meditation and exploration into philosophies both western and eastern, to found a new path to a kinder and gentler world. But what I know now, is what history teaches us: the few wealthy are lords in the earth and the rest of us… well, we work for them and try to keep our heads above water. No one benefits from war but the wealthy and the young are sacrificed to that purpose.

Those were days that I would return to. Those were days when we thought that on that LSD trip, the answer had been given to us but language failed us. The answer slipped away as we “came down”. One definition of reality that I can recall so clearly came out as I sat looking out over the city as “loud tomato raisin”. I’m still looking for the translation. Perhaps one day I’ll be enlightened enough to translate. 🤭

Those were days of infinite sexual energy, which I didn’t experience again until my 40s and 50s. Hormone saturated freedoms. Dancing in the moonlight. Light shows. Live music and open mic poetry readings. Unbridled idealism anchored and tempered by existential nightmares that things always stay the same.

David Byrne sang, “Burning Down the House… same as it ever was, same as it ever was…” and it appears that we are burning down the house. We can see the ashes. But now it’s not just the big beautiful houses that were once our abodes but it’s the planet where we live.

Earth is on fire

Some days!!! If it’s not one thing…

OK, so it’s not even 8 o’clock on a Monday morning and I have 2 big problems and on top of that, some contractor is up nailing on a roof near by and he started like half an hour ago, argh!

Problem#1: Yesterday I changed my bed and took my mattress cover off so that I could wash it and Yum Yum, the dog, threw up something yellow like curry on the sheet without the mattress cover underneath. Now this wouldn’t be so much of an issue except that I have never slept on this mattress without the mattress cover until last night. There’s not a bump or a tear or a stain on it anywhere. Does this upset me? It’s a small thing right? I think what hurts the most is that I rarely have the mattress cover off of it and then here I am with the mattress cover off and Yum Yum throws up on it!

My lovely… now not so lovely mattress

Problem #2: Well, I don’t think I would be as affected by the mattress thing as I am except that I did a big booboo yesterday, and because of it, I couldn’t sleep. I was out grocery shopping, when I saw a message from Dhillon and thought that he had just called me and I missed his call, but no, it was a message from last week on Wednesday. From the message, I thought he was asking me to go out with him again this week. But, no. Here’s where the problem begins: I called him back and said, Yeah, sure, I’d like to hang out with you again. I’m free on Thursday and then, of course, he acquiesced but he was probably confused. This is cringe worthy. When I thought about it later I realized that no, he hadn’t asked me to hang out again. That was an old voice mail. So, now I’m so embarrassed and I don’t know how to correct it. I want to call him and tell him I made a mistake but then how do I do that? “Oh, sorry Dhillon, I thought you were asking me out this week but you weren’t, so we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to.” That sounds so lame, and it sounds like I invited him out. What would you do?

Oh, yeah. I didn’t sleep last night and here’s another reason why.

Problem #3: I’ve been making raspberry trifles for many years. Issue number one is that I couldn’t find my trifle bowl. OK. That’s OK. Not really but I do have another glass bowl, even though it’s not a trifle bowl and it’s not the right shape, it will do. So as is my custom, I make the trifle the night before. Instead of making the traditional pound cake or angel food cake, I make a vegan pound cake using coconut sugar. It tastes identical except because of the coconut sugar it is a beautiful shade of caramel. OK. I can live with a caramel colored cake and not the pure white of angel food or creamy yellow of pound cake. I can accept this. The vanilla pudding turns out perfect and I mix in the whip cream and the frozen raspberries have thawed and I have the fresh raspberries to add in. I layer the cake, the vanilla cream and whipped cream and berries to make a beautiful trifle. It’s not the traditional shape but again, I can live with that. But then during the night all I can think about is my problem with Dhillon and that the cake is going to dissolve into nothing and I’ll have a crumbly mess instead of a beautifully layered trifle. So, I didn’t sleep at all and I have these problems and it’s Ancel’s party tonight. This wouldn’t be so bad except that at the last family party, I managed to make soupy potato salad. Who makes a soupy potato salad? Too much pickle juice, I think.

Not so pretty

Oh, there’s a problem #4: the handyman bailed on installing my new AC because it weighs 80lbs. and it needs to be hauled up to the 3rd floor. Now what? It’s late July and the temperatures are climbing.

The monster AC

My life right now! I just want to crawl under a rock. I need coffee. ☕😟

I guess I just have to laugh. ☺️