Brave new nuptials

1. Mark and Paula
"It's okay, we can try again next year," Paula choked back her tears as she reached her hand out for Mark's. 

"But I was certain that we'd pass this year.  I did everything right.  I stopped drinking tea.  I watched all of the Superbowl.  I even took those Saw Palmetto extract pills." I don't know if I can go through this again." He pulled his hand away from Paula's.

"How far off were you?"

"The counts were 22% below what they consider fertile.  Last time we were at 19% below, so we're getting better.  Just not good enough."

He threw down the official report and a stack of papers from the Office of Marriage Defense & Protection.  Across the top of the report in large red letters were the words, DENIED: INSUFFICIENT PROCREATIVE CAPACITY.

"You should go find someone who can actually marry you," he said in a bitter tone.

As he threw the report on the table, a pamphlet slipped out of the pile entitled, "Not Unlike Marriage, Only For You: A Guide to Civil Unions."

"What's that?" Paula asked.

"Just a pamphlet.  They always include it with the test results."

"Are you actually thinking about a civil union?  What would our families think?"


2. Olivia and Charles

At 62, Olivia had given up on finding love again.  She had tons of friends, a job that tapped her creative passions, and a wonderful home overlooking Raven's Gulch in an unincorporated part of the county that had yet to be over-run by MacMansions and Lexuses.  She took the Zumba class at the local community center on a whim and a recommendation from her office mate Marina who guaranteed to her that there was no better way to lose weight.  She had no idea that Zumba would be her gateway to love and romance.

At 61, Charles had recently lost his wife Allie after a mercifully quick but devastating bout of pancreatic cancer.  He felt he had barely had a chance to begin to mourn when his daughter Grace started insisting that he start "getting out there more." In fact, more than seven months had passed and Charles had rarely left his home, a condo in town that he and Allie had bought to "downscale" their life in anticipation of their retirement.  He spent most of his days reading, tracking his investments on-line, or tinkering with minor home improvement projects. Grace missed her mother, but she also missed her father.  The shut-in he had become was a man she did not know nor like. 

One drizzly Spring morning, Grace parked outside Charles' condo and beeped the horn of her Prius.  He trotted out, wearing new cross-trainers, stylish long-ish shorts, and a navy blue long sleeve t-shirt that fell perfectly on his 6'3 frame.  "Ready for Zumba?" Grace asked, a smile beaming across her face. 

In fact, he was not ready for Zumba.  Ten minutes into the class, he felt a twinge of pain in his lower back, three minutes later, the twinge was a full spasm and he was flat on his back.  Grace failed to notice her fallen father as she Zumba'd away, at the front of the class.  Olivia, on the other hand, stopped her work out, approached Charles's writhing body, and asked if he needed assistance.

From that moment, Olivia and Charles never looked back.  A sports drink break in the community center lounge turned into coffee which turned into a long walk which turned into dinner at Olivia's house which turned into a two day sleep over.  

Three months later, on a cloudless Summer morning, Charles brought Olivia her morning coffee and her I-Pad.  Olivia smiled, took a sip of coffee, and reached for her I-pad.  He could barely maintain his composure as he waited for her to open the tablet and start checking her NY Times online app, her typical morning routine. When she hit the NYT icon, the screen changed to kaleidoscope of white roses, with a photo of Charles in the center, on bended knee and a cartoon bubble stating, "Will you register as my domestic partner?"


3. Peter and Tod

"I had an idea last night.  What if instead of filing our fake federal return for state filing purposes as married filing separately, we do the fake federal return as married filing jointly?" Peter asked enthusiastically.

"What about trying the Community Property return this year?  I think the IRS wants us to do that since we are a gay married couple live in a community property state." Tod replied.

"Screw that.  We tried it last year and our taxes went up.  If the federal government doesn't recognize our marriage in other ways, why would assert our marriage only to penalize our ourselves? " Peter replied emphatically.

"Not to change the subject, but when combing through our shoebox of receipts and records I noticed that the San Francisco tax bill is just in your name.  Do you think the title is wrong?"

"It shouldn't be, but maybe they messed it up.  We should check that out.  Otherwise you'd face a huge hassle and a tax bill if I died before you."

"How is that possible, we're married?" now Tod was emphatic.

"Not in the eyes of the Federal government. As far as the IRS is concerned, you and I are unrelated people who happen to own some property together."

"As long as we're on this, what happens if one of us gets hospitalized when we're in a state that doesn't recognize our marriage?  Like Wisconsin, where we go once a year?"

"That's why we have those medical powers of attorney documents.  Not sure where they are, but we should probably travel with them.  Especially before we go to New Orleans next month."

"What would make all of this absurdity go away?" Tod braced himself for the delight of one of Peter's legal soliloquies.

"It's easy.  Repeal DOMA.  Enforce full faith and credit.  Done."

Sticks and stones...

Fag
I knew it when I wanted to try on that beaded  necklace.  The coral and brass strand that Mom wore with those orange hostess pajamas.

Fag
Why did Ernie and Bert interest me almost as much as Bob, the handsome non-muppet with the engaging smile and sweet singing voice?

Fag
A Barbie with a G.I. Joe head hanging out in the Malibu town home while a G.I. Joe with long flowing locks explored the backyard hedges in army fatigues.

Fag
Sitting on the toilet in my parent's bathroom watching my mother's nightly ritual of covering her face with Noxzema.  Time that was ours.

Fag
A snapshot of my 16th birthday with my mouth agape and my mask slipped off by the thrill and terror of ten friends hiding in the den.

Fag
I'm helping Mom distribute parting gifts of bubbles to her pre-school students and I so very much want to keep one for myself.

Fag
I have no idea how to hold this hammer, saw that 2x4 by hand, or apply wood glue to the joint.

Fag
Better students are sitting at their desks working on their assignments, said Mr. V.  Note to self, don't be like him.  Everyone knows what he is.

Fag
Manny wants to take me surfing in Santa Cruz.  Charlie is going too.  I'm torn.  If I hang out with Manny will I be guilty by association?  If I hang out with Charlie will I get to smell his hair?

Fag
I'm trying to write the pain away.  De-fang the word.  Repeat it enough so that it becomes nothing more than a syllable.

Fag
The NPR reporter sticks a microphone in a homophobe's face and let's her repeat the word three, four, maybe five times.  Balanced reporting?  Exposing the evil of the opposition? Doesn't really matter.

Fag
The word still stings.  Cuts me once, twice, three times, then twice more.  I'm bruised.  I'm bleeding.  I'm angry.  I'm enraged.

Fag
I'm weak.  I'm strong.  I'm fighting back.  I'm fighting myself.  I'm brought to my knees.  I'm standing tall.  I'm a

Fag.

A Comment to NPR about Broadcasting Homophobes

In covering the demonstrations outside the Supreme Court yesterday, I was shocked and dismayed that the reporter -- and her editors -- felt it appropriate to broadcast an opponent of marriage equality who repeatedly used the word "fag" in her comments.  While I understand the journalist's interest in presenting a full picture of the demonstrations, I imagine she could have generated plenty of comments from opponents of marriage equality from people who are not compelled to use the epithet "fag." Can you imagine broadcasting an opponent of Affirmative Action using the "N-word?"  Can you imagine broadcasting a sexist's use of the C-word?  The word fag is no less repulsive.  It is no less violent. 

Yesterday, the reporter almost seemed to chuckle at the animosity expressed between the marriage equality opponent and the proponent.  She almost seemed to bait the opponent into using the word again, and again.  Perhaps her motivation was to expose the offensive nature of the opponent's perspective, but that motivation was well-hidden. 

As the nation navigates the road towards marriage equality, maintaining civil discourse will be more crucial than ever.  The majority of Americans who now support marriage equality will only grow in numbers.  Those who have an irrational fear of marriage equality will likely become more angry, defensive, and hateful in their rhetoric.  Moving those opponents to move beyond epithets to civil arguments is critically important.  As we saw at the court yesterday -- and in the original Prop 8 trial -- there is no rational basis for their opposition to marriage equality other than the irrational bias we call homophobia. Ultimately, their arguments collapse on themselves, or suggest that we reserve marriage only for those who can prove fertility or intent to raise children.

Giving voice to their epithets may expose their homophobia, but it also legitimates it.  The word fag is used by bullies in elementary schools and street thugs who threaten and commit real violence.  It does not belong on NPR without filter or comment. 

Tod (Hill) rants about Todd (Akin)

In the current storm swirling about Missouri Republican senatorial nominee Todd Akin,  pundits from all sides have been focusing on his outrageous and offensive use of the term "legitimate rape."  Even in his retractions, the man has been unable to hide his misogyny, re-phrasing, "I meant forcible rape."  As opposed to what?  Welcome rape?  Accidental rape?  Rape is rape.  It's a violent sexual crime.  I hope the controversy catapults incumbent Senator McCaskill to victory in November.  

As the controversy builds momentum, what I feel to be the most concerning part of Akin's comments seems to have slid off the radar.  Akin full statement was, "If it's a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down."

Let's deconstruct the temple of ignorance represented by this second phrase:

"...the female body has ways..."

You know, that grand mystery of biology called the female body.  It has secret ways that started back when Eve ate the apple.  

"...shut that whole thing down..."

For a man who believes that life begins at conception, he's a bit casual with his language isn't he?  "That whole thing" would be a fertilized ovum implanting itself in a uterus, or in Akin's world, a citizen with unalienable rights.

And just how how does this secret process of "shutting it down" work?  Does he think women secrete RU-486 (the morning-after pill) naturally at-will?  If they did, I am sure people like Akin would have figured out how to outlaw it.  

The bottom line here is that anti-choice, anti-women politicians like Akin operate from absolute ignorance.  Akin is not just ignorant about the what language to use when describing sexual assault.   He is ignorant about the basics of human biology.  

I hope the voters of Missouri make sure he is never in the position to legislate his ignorance.

Okra, the philosopher

We have a lot to learn from Okra.

That's not the way most statements about Okra begin.  I find that people are bitterly divided about it.  "Yuck, it's so slimey," is one side of the argument.  "You've never had it deep fried," is the other side.  And then there are the converts, "I thought it was just a gooey green ingredient in gumbo until I had it grilled and dipped in sour cream."  Okra's first, and perhaps most fundamental lesson is:  Just try it.  Life is filled with things that at first whiff or taste can challenge our sensibilities.  If your first exposure to Okra was as the viscosity-provider for gumbo, you might not believe that it might be the vegetable equivalent to fried calamari.  Just try it.  Yes, it's slimey when sliced and diced.  Yes, when added to a pot it can look like airplane glue.  Take a deep breath, let it simmer, and soon the airplane glue disappears and you'll have a thick tasty stew made more tasty by the tender green nuggets that moments ago horrified you.  Just try it.  You might surprise yourself.

Buying Okra can be daunting.  Years ago I would go to the Farmer's Market and have to battle with the Laotian women combing through bushels of Okra to find the smaller, tender pods; ideally should the size of thumb knuckle.  Inevitably, I would lose out and end up with index finger-sized pods.  One can occasionally find Okra at Whole Foods or equivalent foodie palaces, but usually it looks a bit bruised and wilted.  Frozen is an option, frozen Okra works best in stews.  The lesson of sourcing Okra is: Do it Yourself.

Growing Okra brings rich rewards.  The first reward is purely visual.  Okra flowers are lemon yellow with a dark brown center and a defined pistil & stamen.  They look like hibiscus.  They bloom every morning and fade and wilt before the afternoon.  The lesson of the Okra flower:  Get up early and enjoy the morning.

The real rewards of growing Okra are culinary, but to reap the rewards requires discipline.  Ignore Okra, and the pods grow into giant, tough, inedible green missiles.  Harvested daily, your options for the tender pods are endless.  Small pods can be grilled or dry-fried, then eaten as an appetizer.  They can be sauteed with onions, tomatoes, and peppers for an instant vegetable gumbo.   They can be sliced or thrown in whole into any soup or stew.  Harvesting the small pods takes a good eye.  After a first round of snipping off the obvious pods, the four foot high Okra plants can seem picked clean.  This is the lesson of the Okra plant:  Look again.  Use a different angle.  Pull the plants aside.  Look from the bottom.  Look from the top.  Okra, and life, will give you rewards if you take a deep breath and change your perspective.

The final lessons of Okra are in the pan and on the plate and echo our first lesson: Just try it.  This odd little green pod, filled with seeds and slime, can deliver delight.   Just try it.  And try it a few different ways.  Variety is a good thing.

Grilled okra
Rinse okra.  Put on a grill.  Turn when slightly brown and blistered.  Turn again.  Toss with some salt and serve dipped in sour cream. (Variation:  Dry fry them in a cast iron skillet with a little oil.)

Instant veggie gumbo
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add okra, either sliced or if small pods, whole.  Add chopped tomatoes.   Cook until okra is fork-able.

Senegalese stew
Sautee onions and red pepper.  Add diced chicken and cook through (or use left over roasted chicken).  Add okra and cook until tender.  Add chicken stock and simmer.  Take a cup of chicken stock and mix with peanut butter.  Add to stew.  Simmer.  Serve with diced tomatoes as a garnish.

Is it cheating if you use a mix?

Sorry, Mr. Krusteaz, but you should have eased up on your ego and not named your product after yourself.  Krusteaz?  Sounds like something to be removed from one's eyelids in the morning, not the basis of a delicious breakfast.  Krusteaz?  Maybe it would have worked for pie crust, "Don't fret over your pie crust, Krusteaz and makes pie crust a snap!" Krusteaz? Sounds like a Hogan's Heroes character, the bumbling Wermacht officer, Captain Krusteaz.

Poorly named product, aside, Krusteaz Buttermilk Pancake Mix is my secret weapon.  Like orange juice, it's not just for breakfast anymore.

Most summers I am overwhelmed with zucchini.  Turn your back on these squash and your garden becomes overwhelmed with obscene, forearm-sized monstrosities.  The British, who call zucchini by their french name courgette, call these over grown green giants marrows.

You can stuff a marrow with cheese, bread crumbs, and finely diced pieces of itself.  You can chop a marrow and stew it with tomatoes and eggplant for ratatouille.  You can make zucchini bread, muffins, and even chocolate cake, but by August, you're sick of it, and your friends are sick of it, and you risk an obscenity charge whenever you leave the house with a well-formed marrow stuck under your arm.

This is where Mr. Krusteaz's mix saves the day.  Grate three or four cups of a giant courgette, add some chopped herbs, a bit of grated gruyere and enough pancake mix to dust it all and you have the batter for zucchini blinis.  Spoon the batter into sand dollar sized shapes on the griddle, flip 'em, then serve them warm with creme fraiche and chopped basil.

The savory secrets of Krusteaz mix do not end with blinis.  Scared of real chile rellenos?  You know, the kind dipped in batter and deep fried? Skinning and seeding roasted poblano peppers is treacherous enough, but stuffing them and battering them without tearing the peppers into shreads? Forget about it.  Just slice the peppers in half, stuff them with cheese, and then pour a light batter of pancake mix over them and bake them at 400 for 25 minutes.  You'll save the hassle and mess of frying and probably save a few calories (but seriously, chile rellenos are probably not recommended for serious calorie counters.)

The fun doesn't have to stop there.  Eggplant torta?  Roast some eggplant --lightly painted in olive oil-- for 10-15 minutes in a 400 degree oven.  Sautee some onions and red peppers.  Mix an egg, a spoon full of yogurt or sour cream, and a 1/2 cup of parmesan with about a 1/2 cup of pancake mix.  In a cast iron skillet or round baking dish, place a layer of eggplant, peppers & onions,  batter, then a final layer of eggplant.  Top with thinly sliced tomatoes and more parmesan.  Bake at 400 for 25-30 minutes.

Embracing Husbands

In the sitcoms of my youth, husbands were often dragging their wives to important business dinners, inevitably leading to anxiety & antics.  Darren worked himself into a tizzy of worry that Samantha would reveal her witchcraft to the big client.  Maude's husband lived in fear that she would engage in a biting argument with his boss.  Even Mike Brady had to worry that dinner with the new client might be interrupted by some whacky plot line involving Carol, Alice and the kids.  In the world of sitcoms, despite plenty of tension and hilarity, these dinners would always have a happy resolution.  The presentation would win approval. The promotion would be granted.  The deal would be signed.  Usually this success was somehow related to the wife's noble, thoughtful, efforts.

It was in the spirit of this grand tradition of spousal duty that I joined Peter at a dinner with his legal colleagues last night.  It was a diverse group of colleagues from his firm and an array of cooperating firms from his current litigation.  Peter barely knew some of them.  I only knew the hosts.  Subsequently, the beginning of the night was filled with introductions.

There are three basic types of social introductions.

The first is the re-introduction.  I usually do this one myself.  "Hi, I am Tod, we met at that Holiday party a couple of years ago."  By diving in, I save the other person the potential embarrassment of trying to remember my name and save myself the embarrassment of the blank stare if they actually have no clue who I am.

The second is when one is introduced to someone connected to the introducer, in this case Peter, whom you have heard about and are genuinely happy, if not excited, about meeting. To a colleague who knows of my existence Peter needs to say nothing more than, "This is Tod."  My relationship to Peter is clear because he talks about me constantly in glowing terms.

The blind introduction can be the most uncomfortable.  In the case of last night, it is when Peter barely knows the person (and may even be struggling to remember their name).  "Hi Bill, this is Tod," does not suffice because Bill has no clue of my existence.  In this case, it is incumbent upon Peter to make clear to Bill who I am.  And who I am is Peter's husband.

Since October of 2008, Peter and I have been legally married in the state of California. After 14 years of being "partners" (a term which has complications in a room full of attorneys), as far as the state was concerned we became "spouses."  We never adopted that term, but lately we have been trying to use husband.  Every married woman I know calls her male spouse her husband, why shouldn't I?  I have to admit it has not always rolled off my tongue.  I don't want people to think I'm using air quotes or being ironic in anyway.  I don't want to have to explain to people, "We're part of the 28,000 couples who got married in the window before Prop 8 passed..."

Putting that potential verbal and social awkwardness aside, I have started to embrace the word husband.   Partly because I want better short hand in social situations to describe who Peter is to me.  Partly because to believe in marriage equality does not mean applying second class euphemisms to your marital status.  And partly, I admit, as an act of defiance.

So last night, on no fewer than ten occasions Peter introduced me as "My husband Tod."  The response from a not uniformly progressive crowd was interesting to observe.  Some people visibly winced.  Others appeared to be struggling to avoid appearing as if they were struggling.  Others appeared to struggle to process simultaneously the information that Peter was gay and that this tall man standing next to him was the man he lived with (and probably fucked) legally.  A few seemed un-phased, but still had a quizzical look on their faces, as if looking for the air quotes around the word.

The evening had none of the poignant resolution of those sitcoms.  I did nothing to embarrass Peter, win over his client's wife with my charm, or help to nail his big promotion by talking sports with his boss.  We were just a couple at a social function organized around business function.  Two husbands giving each other the signal when one of us needed rescue from a boring conversation about the expert witnesses at last week's trial.  Two husbands, quibbling over who would be the designated driver.  Two husbands relieved to head home once we agreed we would no longer be the first to leave.

Math isn't hard. It's beautiful.

The stem of a true mint is square.  I learned this last year.  Not sure who told me.  Turns out it's true.  Peppermint, spearmint, chocolate mint, pineapple mint, all square at the stem.  Right angles.  Even sides.  Rigid geometry in fragrant form.  It freaks me out to tell you the truth.

It's like the Fibonaci scale.  The pattern of arithmetic progression that flower petals and plant leaves follow.  Mathematics in bloom. I suppose I think nature should be allowed its beauty without the burden of physics.  A yellow rose and its leaves should be more than a result of molecules aligned in sequence.  A rainbow should startle wonder that transcends the theory that light against a prism breaks out into a spectrum of its inherent colors, especially when the light is shining through a sudden spring squall.  The bees should swarm the lavender with a busy hum not because of chemical compounds and secretions that convert into sugar molecules.  The bees should swarm the lavender because the sound means Spring is almost over; because the glory of lavender is made more glorious by their presence.

I spent yesterday with an advocate for STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Math) learning.  He recited statistics about workforce development and shared the shocking fact that California ranks 50th in digital learning.  Then, he shared a revelation.  STEM learning offers the only chance we have to bury No Child Left Behind and the drama of the over-tested child.  STEM learning will bring creativity and critical thinking back to school.

The square-stemmed mint giggles in delight.  The leaves of thyme count off, Fibonaci style, as each leaf shouts hurray.  As the bees return to their hive and construct the perfect hexagon maze of their honey comb, they buzz in agreement.  We, the dumb humans, may start to get it.  The beauty of nature is not there in spite of, or because of, the math and science.  The math and science is the beauty.  Electrons and neutrons doing a digital dance for no reason other than the beauty of it all.  Atoms combining into harmonious notes of molecules.  Molecules aligning into songs and symphonies of compounds.  Cells counting to three, then five, then eight, before becoming rose petals.  No reason to feel uncomfortable just because it's math.  It's all beautiful.  That's one thing you can count on.

In praise of delayed gratification

The plants are sitting happily in loamy topsoil, surrounded by nests of half-decaying rice straw.  A protective perimeter of organic slug killer outlines each raised bed.  They've been fed healthy meals of rotting fish juice. The irrigation drips for 12 minutes every midnight.  The tomatoes and tomatillos have been staked and caged to tame them upwards.  The peppers lean against their bamboo teepees.  The Roman beans are starting to find their way to their poles.  The marigolds stand ready to attract the good bugs and drive the bunnies away.  So now the waiting begins.

The advantage of my hybrid city:country lifestyle is that once a week I say good bye to my garden and allow the unwatched pot to boil into abundance.  The rest of the week I am like a child during Advent.  In my waking dreams I wonder if the eggplant is going to shake off the earwig infestation and establish itself, when the fist padrone peppers will appear, whether the zucchini will start to blossom.  By the time I arrive back home I am bursting with curiosity.  I park the car, release the hounds, and rush down to the garden to witness the week's progress.

Satisfaction comes. The pumpkins and squash have started to shoot out tendrils.  The tomatoes need to have their suckers pinched off (non-fruiting green growth that starts in the elbows of the primary leaves).  The Armenian cucumber plant has doubled its circumference.  The basil has doubled its height.

And, a little disappointment comes.  That one tomato in the corner by the fig tree is still stunted.  The french beans have a failure to thrive.  One of the eggplant starts has disappeared, victim to a slug who somehow managed to navigate the sluggo mine field successfully.  The Tuscan kale looks like it is about to bolt.  The artichokes are nearly done.

In the next couple of weeks, the weekly rush to the garden will reveal cherries, a spring crop of mission figs, and the first raspberries.  There will be a lull filled by squash blossoms, rainbow chard, a few purple potatoes, and the first zucchini, tender and small.  Then, the thrill ride begins.  I'll find the first tomato, a flash of red in a forest of green.  I might bring it to the kitchen to share.  Or, I'll give in to impulse and pop it into my mouth right there, a burst of gratification well worth the wait.

As we step forward, lets remember the global struggle for LGBT equality

Dear Friends

Yesterday was a historic day.  President Obama’s support for same sex marriage represents a cosmic shift in the struggle for LGBT equality. Although there are still setbacks and disappointments, including Tuesday’s vote in North Carolina to outlaw same sex marriage and civil unions, no one can doubt that the global movement for LGBT equality is gaining strength and public support. 

Here in the United States we may be bracing ourselves for another election year where LGBT equality is used as a wedge issue in swing states.  Globally, however, the struggle can be much more fundamental.  In fact, more than 75 countries still criminalize homosexuality, some with the death penalty. 

Still, the global LGBT movement is at a critical stage in its history and maturity.  Vibrant LGBT rights movements and leaders have emerged in most of the world’s nations, and mainstream human rights organizations have become more inclusive of LGBT.  Many nations have acknowledged the importance of LGBT rights and made attempts to integrate basic protections into their laws and policies. 

However, increased visibility for LGBT rights movements has led to backlash – particularly in the Global South and East.  This backlash has made the need to support emerging rights movements even more vital, because every day LGBT people face harassment, arbitrary arrest and detention, separation from partners and children, and even murder – simply for trying to live with dignity and honesty.

The urgent need for a strong, global LGBT movement is why I joined the board of the International Gay & Lesbian Human Rights Commission (IGLHRC).  With staff in the Philippines, South Africa, Argentina and the US, IGLHRC supports local movements in Africa, Asia, Latin America, the Caribbean, the Middle East and North Africa.  Our work begins on the ground level, listening to, partnering with and training human rights defenders.  Then we help bring their voices to national, regional and international stages, including the United Nations, the African Commission on Human and Peoples’ Rights, the Asia Pacific Forum, and the Inter-American Commission for Human Rights.

To learn more about IGLHRC’s work, check out their website: http://www.iglhrc.org/

IGLHRC’s work is funded primarily by private foundations, and government agencies, including the U.S. State Department that supports our groundbreaking work on Iran. 

I am writing in the hope that you will join me in helping to expand our support to include more individuals.  Individuals like you and me who were moved by President Obama’s groundbreaking announcement.  Individuals like you and me who understand that the struggle for human dignity does not end at our borders. 

To support IGLHRC’s important work, you can go directly to the IGLHRC the Donate Now  button on the IGLHRC web site.   If you plan to be in the New York area in July 16, you could also consider attending our annual event, Celebration of Courage where we are honoring Congresswoman Tammy Baldwin.

If you have any questions about IGLHRC, please let me know and what I can’t answer I can refer to our talented staff.

With hope and love,

Tod

Yesterday was a good day

I'm walking across Union Square, a bag of marked down shoes in one hand, my cell phone in the other, and I come across a beautiful scene of men and women of all ages, shapes, colors, and sizes dancing a tango to the rythmns and beats of a live band.  I'm smiling at the San Francisco-ness of it all and my cell phone jiggles.  I look down and it's a note from my father, "Let's have an Obama toast on Sunday to celebrate!  It is fitting to combine Mother's day, mom'/ Ann's birthday, with this wonderful moment for America."  Quite suddenly my smile turns to tears.  I am deeply moved.  I am deeply grateful.  16 years ago, Peter and I held a commitment ceremony where my father gave a heartfelt toast about the "real family values" present at this celebration of his son's love for another man.  My father was 16 years ahead of the President.  My 48 year old self tears up thinking about that event, yesterday's email message, and the good fortune I have to have such a father.  My 14 year old self -- he's still in there -- cannot believe what happened yesterday.  That boy could not imagine a day when the President of the United States -- at great political risk -- would stand up for the rights of gay & lesbian people in such an absolute way. That boy could not imagine the overwhelming joy of a moment like yesterday. 

Spring hurts so good

My neck is red.  My hands are dry and chapped.  My palms are sliced and scratched.  My fingernails are filled with earth.  My fingertips are raw and not yet calloused.  My nostrils are dusty.  My back aches and my knees buckle every time I climb the stairs.  Three weekends of solitary construction and creation.  Just me and the dirt and the black spaghetti tube irrigation and the post driver and the chicken wire.  I am the architect of the canals of Tenochitlan.  I am a slave building the aqueducts of Carthage.  I am an eight year old boy losing an afternoon in his Lincoln Logs.

Just me and the seedlings that I nurtured myself.  Nine varietals of heirloom tomatoes whose identities got jumbled in transport.  Pumpkins from Provence.  Eggplant from Japan.  Tomatillos from Oaxaca.  Squash from Martinique.  Kale from Tuscany.  Beans from Calabria.  Basil from Genoa.  Sweet, hot, red, green, orange, and chocolate peppers.   I am the designer of an edible Versailles.  I am the son of the Earth Goddess.  I am a United Farm Worker.  I am a Woody Guthrie song.  I am content.

Okey dokey artichokey

Anyone with a home garden knows the juicy deliciousness of a tomato fresh from the vine.  In the winter, fresh beets eaten right after they are pulled from the ground are not only sweeter, they give you a rush of vitamins and flavor that can make your head spin.  Fresh chard and spinach can give you the same rush.  And nothing beats raspberries picked and eaten as you wander through the berry patch.  Most anything grown in your own garden tastes better, but given farmer's markets and upgraded produce aisles, we can usually find fruits and vegetables that come within shouting distance of the home grown product.  Among the few exceptions are artichokes.  If you want to dip artichokes leaves in butter or aioli, go ahead and buy those big globes at the store, even though home grown and fresh picked artichokes may taste a bit sweeter.  It is next to impossible, however, to find good quality fresh baby artichokes.  Unless you grow them.  For the past month or so, at least once a week and sometimes two, I snap off three or four artichokes the size of a baby's first, trim them, slice them up, soak them in meyer lemon juiced water, dust them with flower, then pan fry them in a little olive oil and butter.  Sometimes I add a thin sliced meyer lemon.  I've tried this with store bought "baby" artichokes but it just doesn't work.  The store bought babies are a bit more like bitter adolescents than the sweet, rich, babies I can grab from my own artichoke shrubs.  In a few weeks, as the weather warms, my artichokes will find their thistle DNA and rush into flowering.  They'll take over their corner of the garden with gangly silver green foliage and purple flowers.  Still worth looking at, but no longer worth eating.  Just in time for the zucchini blossoms -- part of the limited late spring bounty that just can't be bought.

Paris, Peru, Peking, Potrero...Papito

Today at lunch, after a rousing heirloom seed exchange, my friend Kepa and I headed up the hill to the miniature gourmet ghetto at the intersection of Missouri and 18th Street in Potrero Hill.  Our options were not limited.  Mediterranean tapas, upscale French, downscale French, upscale comfort food (Plow), Thai, Korean, pizza...we landed at the relatively new Papitos featuring organic mexican food.  The gimmick is not subtle.  Serve slightly updated, all organic taqueria food and charge 40% more than you can charge down the hill at the corner of 18th and Mission.  I felt like I was back in Mexico City trading value and indigenous atmosphere for printed menus, table service, and arty posters on the walls.  The posters, however, were vintage Air France posters from the 60s advertising the France-Mexico route.  Papito, you see, is part of the network of restaurants that include Chez Papa and Chez Maman on Potrero Hill, Chez Papa Bistro next to the old Mint, and numerous other French restaurants located in every corner of San Francisco.   

The French roots of Papito are not revealed in the menu, the kitchen crew, or the decor, but the wait staff is borrowed directly from Chez Papa's network of French and Quebecois hotties of both genders.  The mostly local, neighborhood clientele notice that the wait staff speak accented English, but most probably don't bother wondering if the accents come from Mazatlan, Madrid, Montreal, or Montepellier.  They just care if their ceviche appetizer comes before their duck confit quesadilla (duck confit? shouldn't that give away the restaurant's French origins?).  

As Kepa and I enjoyed our guacamole and selection of three different salsas (none of them spicy enough for my tastes), the diners next to us ordered their food from the lithe brunette server.  The diners were of Asian persuasion in their fifties or early sixties, chatting enthusiastically with each other in unaccented, Northern Californian English.  When the server asked them for their order, the female guest spoke first in fluid Spanish, "Tacos de camarones, ponga la salsa al lado, y una limonada por favor..."  (Shrimp tacos with salsa on the side and a lemonade please.)  The server flashed her a bewildered look.  "I am sorry, I am French.  I don't speak Spanish. Where are you from?"  Turns out the woman was from Peru.  Spanish was her first language.  

Stereotypes be damned.  Servers in taquerias named Papito who speak with accented English don't speak Spanish.  They sass back to their bosses in French. Asians are not from Asia.  Some are from the Andes and speak Spanish as well as they speak English.  And the bald guy from San Mateo is capable of eavesdropping on everyone.  Capable of it.  And enjoying every moment.

In search of Irish cuisine

I am sure in Dublin there are some innovative chefs deconstructing traditional Irish food to create brilliant dishes like corned beef infused foam injected into "ravioli" made from cabbage leaves.  In San Francisco they're doing Irish-Eritrean fusion at food truck called Eiretrea (I am not making that up).  That said, an internet search for "gourmet irish cuisine" came up relatively empty.  All of the recipes for Irish stew, corned beef and cabbage, and champ (mashed potatoes) sounded fine, but none of them sounded all that unusual or interesting.  Not prepared to invent nouveau Irish cuisine on my own (my foam maker is on the fritz), I gave in and made a solid, decent, hearty meal centered around the color green and a little inspiration from my web research.   We started with miniature potato pancakes, mixed with parsley (for the green) and cheddar cheese, served with green tomato jam as a garnish.  To go with the pancakes, we invented two cocktails.  The first, a midori-bitters-Irish whiskey concoction that I would not recommend.  The second, a vodka martini with a kiss of Midori achieved its green goal and slid down a bit more easily than the first experiment.  The main meal was something you might have at a quaint pub down a wooded lane outside of Killarney.  A lamb stew braised in Guinness Stout (highly recommended).  Champ (mashed potatoes, with chopped bacon, leeks, and spring onions).  Sauteed kale.  Steamed broccoli.  For dessert, I channeled my inner Mrs. Patmore (Downton Abbey's cook) and made a trifle sort of thing: lady fingers soaked in Irish whiskey, a layer of rhubarb compote (it was green rhubarb), a layer of lightly sweetened whipped cream (with a zest of lime), repeated, then topped with shaved almonds.  Not bad.  That said, I don't think I'll be booking any trips to Dublin soon.

Awfully good Cauliflower

It's usually the neglected item on the crudite plate.  Bulbous dull-white florettes whose primary purpose, other than color scheme diversity, are as a delivery mechanism for blue cheese dip.  We pick around the poor cauliflower and likely throw most of it into the compost.  I have never been a big fan of what the French call chou-fleur (cabbage flower), but nonetheless I decided to plant it in my winter garden this year.  Home grown vegetables always taste better, but sometimes home grown vegetables are a completely different and better beast, so to speak.  Home grown tomatoes explode with perfect sweet-acid balance.  Freshly harvested artichokes are among the best things ever to pass my palette.  Cauliflower, usually bland and boring, when picked fresh, offers up flavors that are rich, earthy and spicy.  I've had it dipped in a warm dip of garlic/anchovy/olive oil/butter.  In a vegetable curry the cauliflower added to the flavor profile, instead of just soaking up the other spices.  And I found exquisite simplicity in a gratin of chopped cauliflower and gruyere cheese.  My cauliflower harvest is over, but I will no longer sneer at it when it shows up on my plate.  Even the usual bland piece of cauliflower dipped in Ranch dressing will likely stir the memory of my new favorite winter vegetable.

Bagna Cauda
Finely chop a head of garlic (more or less)
Finely chop one can of anchovies
Heat one cup of olive oil in a small sauce pan
Add the garlic and anchovies, cook over medium heat until the anchovies are dissolved and the garlic is softened (be careful not to allow the garlic to brown or burn)
Add half a stick of butter
Heat until mixture hits a strong, steady simmer

Bring the mixture to the table (use a small chafing dish or fondue pot if you have one).

Enjoy with an array of raw or parboiled vegetables: carrots, broccoli (parboil), asparagus (parboil), red peppers, AND cauliflower.

Cauliflower curry
Heat a little oil (olive or safflower) or ghee if you have it in a sauce pan
Add:
One onion, finely chopped
Two shallots, finely chopped
Garlic (optional)
Curry spices to your taste

Cook over  until onions and shallots are soft

Add:
One large carrot, diced
One red pepper, seeded and thinly sliced

Cook until the peppers are loose and soft

Add:
One head cauliflower, coarsely chopped (one inch chunks)

Cook for about 3-4 minutes on high heat, stirring/tossing constantly, until cauliflower is soft and is thoroughly covered with the spices.

Add:
One cup chicken broth OR
One cup light coconut milk
Up to one cup water (to achieve your desired consistency, don't add too much or you'll regret it)
Bring to a simmer

Serve over rice

Optional additions once the base of the stew is complete:
Chick peas
Tofu
Diced boneless chicken breast (cooked)


Cauliflower Gratin
Finely dice one head of cauliflower
Toss with 1/2 cup milk
Add to a buttered baking dish
Top with small dots of butter
Cover in grated Gruyere cheese
Bake uncovered in a 400 degree oven for 25-30 minutes, until cauliflower is soft

Rice-a-rena, the San Francisco Treat

A series of errands lead me to various corners of San Francisco this cool, sparkly morning.  I started south of Market where we dropped Peter's car off to be serviced and encountered a power outage.  Without traffic lights, each intersection became an awkward dance of the hesitant.  Drivers seemed to forget the basics of stop sign etiquette.  You go first...no me...no you...okay me...wait you...  Eventually, we wound our way through one way streets to one that would lead us across Market for me to drop Peter at his French class in the Tenderloin.  A few minutes early, we waited outside his teacher's apartment on what we call our "stake outs."  Self-consciously we wonder if we look like under cover cops (in an orange Honda Element), as we watch a steady stream of neighborhood characters.  Transvestite prostitutes walking confidently to their favorite corner.  Unbathed men projecting drug dealer/pimp energy skulking slowly in the entrances of tenement apartment buildings and SROs.  And the occasional junkie shuffling zombie-like past our car windows.  At 7:45 Peter exits the car and I move on to the Wells Fargo ATM at the mood-lit Safeway on Market followed by the used-to-be an ARCO gas station at Castro.  Cash in my pocket, gas in my tank, I roll down 18th Street towards the Mission towards my ultimate goal of a cafe where I can recaffeinate and do a little writing.   As I approach Church Street, I get caught behind my latest pet peeve: a car driving well below the speed limit, missing their right of way turn at Stop signs, remaining parked at green lights until the last minute.  Obviously someone texting or playing Words with Friends while they drive.  Vehicular manslaughter in-waiting.  My state of annoyance is lifted when I look out at the tennis courts in Dolores Park and see a dozen elderly Chinese doing a vigorous Tai Chi on one of the courts.  In unison they stretch their arms forward, palms facing up.  They cross arms to opposite shoulder.  They reach their hands to grab their buttocks and swivel their hips in a gentle, geriatric rotation.  And then they all leap forward in unison.  Oh my God.  Is it the Hokey Pokey?  No, it's the Macarena.  Or, in this case, it's the Tai Chi version.  I'll call it the Rice-a-rena.   Maybe it's the newest thing in Shanghai, but I bet not.  Only in Dolores Park.  Only in San Francisco has the graceful, elegance of morning Tai Chi been fused with 1990s dance craze once named by VH-1 as the "greatest one hit wonder of all time."

Carb footprint

Since Thanksgiving at least three times a week I drag my long-waisted, big-footed body on to a road or trail for a run.  My joints might ache or the ibuprofen regimen may be fully functional.  It might be brilliant winter drought sunshine or bone chilling winter drought tule fog.  It might be in Golden Gate Park or the Russian River levee in Cloverdale.  Aches, weather, and location may vary, but the point is, I do it.

When I started running, I wondered to myself, "Does it ever stop hurting?"  For six or seven weeks that question remained.  Short runs or longer runs, it hurt every time. My hamstrings, glutes, and calves always felt on the verge of cramp or muscle spasm.  My ankles, knees, and hip joints always felt on the verge of surgical replacement.  My feet lived under the threat of heel blisters and the occasional cracked and bloody toe nail.  Sometime in late January, the pain changed.  Each run starts out a little stiff and slow, but ten minutes into it I start to feel better.  Twenty minutes in, the slow motion jog opens up and my stride lengthens.  As long as the hills are minimal or angling in my favor, I start to feel like I could run forever, or at least the ten miles to the First Street bridge and back.

The amazing thing about my running is that it kills my appetite.  I don't walk in the door after a run feeling ravenous.  In fact I don't feel like eating much at all.

Until the next morning around 10:30am.

I used to enjoy a scone with my coffee and make it to a late lunch without a problem.  I still enjoy my morning scone, croissant, or bowl of granola but it doesn't hold me to lunch.  By 9:30am I feel peckish.  By 10:00am I feel hungry.  And by 10:30am I feel desperate.

For carbs.

And the faster they can be accessed, the better.

Some of these carbs require barely any preparation: Matzoh eaten dry (just bought a box at Costco that could feed a kibbutz); a bowl of cereal, Cheerios mixed with Raisin Bran and Granola (and then another bowl); cold leftover pasta (I can't be bothered to heat it).

And then there are some that take minute or two: Quinoa cooked on the stove, finished with a bit of butter, milk and cinnamon;  Tortillas quickly heated in the microwave with melted butter (just one, then two, then what the hell there are only three more left in the package....);  a sweet potato peeled, cubed, and quickly fried in olive oil with a bit of manchego melted on top.

Fortunately, this diet and exercise routine seems to be working for me.  I've lost close to 30 pounds on the Doctor Tod method.  It's easy.  And it works.  Just quit your job, run more than twenty miles a week, and gorge yourself on Israeli couscous or Girl Scout cookies every morning at 10:30.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls(scout cookies)

Yesterday I gave in to the aggressive sales pitch of a pack of green-frocked bullies and purchased five boxes of cookies.  Last night I made one of my favorite desserts, Dirty Drunken Girl Scouts.

Here's the basic recipe:

Two girl scout cookies
Small slice of ice cream, the same diameter as the cookie
Make a sandwich

Repeat with different cookie flavors until you have enough (generally two to three per person)

Place on a plate, cover with plastic wrap and place in the freezer for at least one hour

For serving, place piping hot water in a small bowl.
Pour a shot of your favorite after dinner spirit in a glass
Place glass in bowl of hot water

Serve the shot and the cookies

Eat a cookie sandwich with your hands
Sip the shot
Use the warm water in the bowl to clean the melted ice cream and cookie crumbs off of your fingers
Repeat

Variations:
> Dirty Drunken French Girl Scout (use cognac)
> Dirty Drunken Gascon Girl Scout (armagnac)
> Dirty Drunken White Trash Girl Scout (bourbon)
> Dirty Drunken Puerto Rican Girl Scout (aged puerto rican rum)
> Dirty Drunken Mexican Girl Scout (aged tequila)
> Dirty Drunken Oaxacan Girl Scout (aged mezcal)
> Dirty Drunken Italian Girl Scout (grappa)
> Dirty Drunken Russian Girl Scout (vodka)
> Dirty Drunken Irish Girl Scout (irish whiskey)
(you get the idea)

Mullahs of the Mission

Ten days ago I was soaking up the cultural and culinary offerings of Mexico City.  Since returning, the reality of my unemployment has hit.  I awake every morning to a blank slate.  I can exercise, or not.  I can fill my day with chores, or not. I can network with colleagues and potential clients over breakfast, lunch or cocktails, or not.  Today, my focus has been on exceeding my running distance in Golden Gate Park (up and back without stopping!), delivering a donation of clothing to the thrift store, and finding a decent place to write.  

At the moment I am in the midst of a Goldilocks-like  quest to find a cafe in the Mission District where I can comfortably create.  This morning I checked out Ritual on Valencia and 22nd.  I liked the coffee and the instrumental loungey background music, but the space was a bit drafty and cold.  I returned to Lundys Lane and attempted to write in the studio, or as I am going to start calling it "Ridgeback Cavern."  Surrounded by three occasionally fussy but mostly dozing dogs was conducive to napping, but not to writing.  At the moment I am at Four Barrel at Valencia & 15th.  It's still a bit drafty and cold, even though the sun is shining.  The chairs are flat, wooden and uncomfortable and I am sharing a table with two chatty women who are alternating between their conversation and texting a recently pregnant friend.  The music is a bit loud and grungy and includes vocals.  The coffee seemed watery. This one is definitely not "Just Right."  My search will continue.

As I sit here, it is impossible not to notice that one, by one, there has been a steady stream of fully bearded men in their twenties and early thirties.  More than half of the men fit this profile. The same is true at Ritual.   Their haircuts are relatively trimmed-- they are not going for a hippy look -- but their beards are full, bushy and flowing.  No goatees or flavor savors.  A disturbing number of the beards have the unfortunate gnarly appearance of facial pubic hair.  Many of them are wearing stocking hats.  They look like members of the Taliban, only hipper.  

As I sit here with my relatively new full beard, I am faced with a crisis of personal aesthetics.  I have never been one to attempt coolness, but I wonder if my decision to grow a beard was a subconscious effort to appear younger and hipper?  Given the distinctly silvery nature of the beard, one could argue that I look older, but maybe my inner hipster wanted to fit into the cafe culture of the Mission.  With this realization, maybe my anti-hipster instincts are going to lead me to reduce the beard to a goatee.   Or maybe remove it completely and grow my remaining locks into a flowing Ben Franklin.  (Not going to happen.)  Or maybe, I'll continue to tour cafes and just sit back and enjoy the show.  A man just walked in with a heavily waxed handle bar moustache...