Lost

I just made a rather disturbing discovery: I'm missing Chapter 15.

Do you remember what you were doing in November 2008 and November 2009? I do. I was participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), in which crazy people attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in 30 days. It's not even one of the long months, although I am glad it's not February.

Anyway, in 2008, I successfully wrote 50,000 words, though the novel wasn't even close to complete. Well, maybe kind of close ... we'll say a little less than halfway. In 2009, I wrote 40,000 words, and still didn't finish the novel.

That kind of intense living with one's writing can lead one to put it down for a time, as I did for two years. But now I'm ready; I have time in my life once again, and it's time to finish. So, to refresh my memory, I read the first part from 2008: Chapters 1-14. Tonight, I started the second part, from 2009 ... which starts at Chapter 16.

Could anyone tell me what happened to Chapter 15?

Anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

It must have been good, too, because all of a sudden our heroes are in quite a predicament. Too bad I have no idea what happened.

If anyone can tell me what was in Chapter 15, I'd be much obliged. If you want to make something up and send it on over, I'll take a look.

Dude. Not cool.

Nature Hour

I went trail running a couple of days ago. Here's the trail (left). This section was relatively flat, but the rest of it was
ALL uphill. Steep, steep hills. I'm not exaggerating. Not one little bit.

And because of those steep, steep hills, I still can barely walk, two days later. The still-barely-being-able-to-walk-two-days-later syndrome is one strike against trail running, but Saturday was so beautiful and non-winter-like that I had to get out into the hills.

Here are some reasons why trail running rocks: Deer!
















And more deer!

I also saw bunnies, quail, and other hikers, none of which lent themselves to photos.

So that was my hour in nature Saturday. Sunday I went to the beach and enjoyed even more totally awesome winter weather. Yes, we'll be regretting it this summer when there's no more water left, but it's hard not to enjoy it. Now, if I can just hobble to the kitchen, I'm going to fetch myself some chocolate.

Smelly House and Other Travails

I got ambitious last night, dear reader(s) and cooked up a storm. A tagine-of-chicken-meslalla-with-homemade-preserved-lemons storm, followed by a ghriba storm. Ghriba is a Moroccan cookie that tastes like sand held together with sugar. I believe the dunes of the Western Sahara were modeled after it. It sure made me long for an oasis.

While I may not be what some might call a "good" cook, I do enjoy cooking and baking and like to try new things. I've made tagines before, as I firmly believe that Moroccan food (if not Moroccan dessert) is the best food on the face of the planet, and I prefer to enjoy it at will, and not only when I go to Morocco or to a Moroccan restaurant, where my enjoyment of the meal is typically assaulted by a belly dancer who insists on audience participation.

This tagine came out OK. Maybe next time I'll add more lemon and leave out the olives, but on the whole, it's pretty good, and I have lunch and dinner for a few days. Score!

The problem is my house. It reeks of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. (It doesn't really smell like ghriba, since sugar sand really has no noticeable odor). I was aroused from my dream state multiple times last night by the smell, and in my stupor, was confused and wondered if I were still cooking. Don't get me wrong; it smells good. I mean, who doesn't like the scent of tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons? Don't answer; I don't even want to know. But after one night, the smell should dissipate, right? Well, it hasn't.

I woke up to the smell of dinner; I got ready for work with the smell of dinner all around me; I came home to the smell of dinner. I've had just about enough of smelling dinner. But -- and this is where you come in, dear reader -- I don't know how to get rid of it.

I could open the windows. But then in spring, when people realize they haven't seen me for months, a neighbor will find my body frozen to the floor, my cold, dead fingers pinching my nose closed. It's cold here. So that's out.

I've thought about cooking up some of my holiday potpourri (sooooo nice smelling), but then my house will smell like dinner AND Christmas, and not in that cozy, warm I'm-about-to-eat-with-friends-and-family way, but in that stale, too-many-smells way, often experienced in the homes of women who wear housecoats, roll down their stockings to their ankles and keep unwrapped hard candy in their pockets.

Seriously, beautiful people, I need help here. I feel like I smell like tagine of chicken meslalla with homemade preserved lemons. Help!

On another note, just this very evening, my laptop stopped functioning as a laptop and has come to think of itself only as a desktop. Every time I unplug it, it dies. All I have to say is, WTF?! Dear readers, help on this too, please! The thing is brand new! Alas.

On still another note (this one's an E flat), doesn't the nice forest scene on my blog make you feel relaxed and happy? Yeah? I did that just for you.

Soy Sauce!

I'm very sorry, dear readers, that I have not posted sooner, as I know you have been waiting with baited breath for my next installment. I sincerely hope your breath was only baited and not held, since you probably would have passed out by now. Side note: are baited breath and held breath the same things?

Anyway, it's tough to keep up with the blogging when you get home at 9 p.m. from work, and you're tired, and ohmygod, there's no soy sauce to go with the Trader Joe's pot stickers you just fried up because you're starving, and there's no real food, but there are inexplicably three (THREE!) bottles of worcestershire sauce in the fridge, even though you never cook anything that calls for worcestershire, and what exactly are they doing in the fridge to be multiplying like that?

So, you see, dear readers, my worcestershire sauce is possessed. That wasn't the original point of this blog, but it is now. Just something for y'all to think about. I will now try to concoct something in the kitchen that resembles something edible. G'night.

Now with Pictures!

Here's a little taste of what's been going on with La Familia Panchita over the Christmas holiday.
There were (and still are!) tamales:

and gifts:

the tree that refused to drink water:

still sketchy about Santa:

And a chair makeover:
Before

After, but still not done.

More on the chairs and other construction later.

We even flung my parents, who don't even own cell phones, into the 21st century with the purchase of an iPad. 

All in all, a successful weekend, even with me opening the wrong present and having to rewrap it. But mainly, there were tamales. Lots and lots of tamales. I love Christmas.

Did you all have a good holiday weekend?

The Re-Return

The time has come once again my friends for the bi-yearly (if such a word exists, and if it means once every two years) resurrection of my blog, La Vida Panchita. You are perhaps familiar with the title of this blog, as you are currently reading it.

In the initial post (the very first initial post, not the re-initial post), I told you what not to expect, and that holds true today. I like to stay consistent for my bi-yearly, loyal fans (bi-loyal?) You may get more stories here, though I'm not making any promises. I'm just sayin' is all. Could happen.

Pues.

Perhaps y'all are wondering what's been happening in La Vida Panchita. I will not give you a blow-by-blow of the last two years. We all have lives, don't we? But here's the latest -- Pancha (that's me), her trusty sidekick and their valiant steed have recently changed the whereabouts of their hidden lair. It is neither cave-like and damp, nor big, well-lit and full of spiders. It's a cozy abode with a functioning fireplace that fits the three of them quite well. We are decorated, cookied-up and ready for Santa.

My trusty sidekick has begun her formal education, which involves many and varied songs regarding the spelling of certain words, set to tunes that are nearly impossible to extricate from the depths of one's brain.

I began a new job at the transportation agency for this vast metropolitan area. My title is "Senior Policy Analyst," though I prefer "Ninja Policy Analyst." Now it's up to you to figure out -- does that mean I am a ninja who analyzes policy or one who analyzes ninja policy? Just a little something to ponder on your way to dreamland tonight.

So tell me -- either in as many words as you like or in a haiku -- what have the last two years been like for you?

Now Playing

The incomparable comedy duo of Lester and the Infidel, known for their inability to understand each others' jokes, will be performing for one night only this Indigenous People's Day.

Starting noonish in that vaunted burrito bistro, Pancho Villa's, the pair will wend their way through the City, hitting up various public houses and other drinking establishments, until they stumble drunkenly into the East Bay, from whence Lester (me) will head to work, and the Infidel (Hank) will continue his Bay Area tour.

Those of you interested in a night of drunken debauchery are welcome to witness the duo in action. Admission is free. Just don't expect to understand anything. We don't.