Corn on the Sob

Oh, man. Yeah, Kathy and I try to do our little weekend adventures, but she took some vacay days to address home improvement.

Ya know how they say that there is no such thing as a $50 car repair? Daddy, that’s the hookup we are finding out with 3.5 bathrooms in the joint we’re living in right now. All brass fixtures, all da time. As mentioned, this house was built 2000, but looks 1983. I love a welder-chick-by-day, dancer-by-night as much as the next straight guy, but what a feeling. I am music now.

But we gots Bryan Brizendine to do the do; all bathrooms non tricked out to chrome. I call him BB King. That’s what I’m talking about.

But we got to the annual corn festival in neighboring Brentwood.

Little blind kitty. OK, I digress. Just read a piece in the local about a feral cat who, after several months of feeding, turned out to be sightless; a second feral kitty jumped up and became his guide, waiting patiently while the former finished his food, keeping him safe from the pool, etc. That’s why I get sucky. Man, I can get weepy reading newspaper Page 2.

So, Kath and I head down to Livermore to p/u our new Pinots from a vineyard way up north in Alexander Valley (where France’s Roderer Estate decided to establish their New World outpost), then hit CornFest.

Yeah, yeah: lots of merchants. Cheesy rides. And fire-roasted corn that may have seen five seconds of a safety match. Gotta love it. We could not believe how much fun we had at, and spent time at, the music bandshells. Rock dudes who looked to be about 5 years of age jamming (and they had a merch table (!), and banners exclaiming that they won a Los Angeles muso competition). But when we headed over to the West stage, we could not be prepared for complete strangers falling into line, kickin’ it synchronicity style, and mouthing the lyrics to, literally, boot.

Kickin’ it, or kitties; corn husks or the Conzelman Vineyard: festivals are us.

Wine Upon the Waves

Ah, the siren call of Discovery Bay. Kathy and I were just there last weekend for the “Paddle for Fame,” which set an authorized world record for largest amalgam of nonmotorized watercraft. And last Saturday afternoon, we were back at the scene of the sunburn (we’re both still peeling), namely: the Discovery Bay Yacht Harbor, this time for a 2-hour BYO-wine cruise of Discovery Bay aboard the “Rosemarie” piloted by Captain Frank Morgan.

Yep, Capt. Morgan.

The idea for this little wine&brine jaunt is that every passenger brings an unopened bottle of vino, in order to share sips, stories and general schmoozing, as cruise the residential waterfront maze that is Disco Bay.

No kidding: Within DB proper lie dozens of smaller manmade inlets, coves, baby bays, curlicues and twisty-treats along the narrow waterways, most lined with residences on either side. It was an amazing tour, sipping wine, waving and raising our glasses to passing boaters and landlubbers lounging on their waterfront patios.

Under cloudless blue skies, the California vibe was complete, as Venice, Santa Monica and Beverly Hills mashed up here in Contra Costa County. Million-dollar+ properties jostling next to weekends-only fixer bungalows; teak-trimmed yachts and inflatable loungers, construction design ranging from over-the-top to under the radar: It’s a fascinating side of CoCo that Kath and I could only have seen from the water.

Now, if the cruising aspect was inspired, the wine aspect was, uh, not so much. As newbies (or as my idiot neighbor across the street once called me and Kathy, “Nubians”), Kath and I took the whole “bring a wine to talk about with others” thing seriously. We packed a pair of Cline Zinfandels into the padded wine luggage to take aboard: Big Break and Bridgehead vineyard designates, from sites right here in our Oakley ‘hood. We thought that these local sites might provide some light conversation, should anyone be mildly interested in the juice.

OK, don’t get me wrong here. Our fellow passengers were unfailingly nice and sociable; we shared plenty of laughs. But the uneasy feeling that began when we spotted the first Safeway bag, turned in to downright resignation when it became apparent that many, if not most, of the cruise-goers purchased their offering at a supermarket mere minutes before setting sail.

And swapping $58 worth of old-vine Zin for a swig of Barefoot Cellars, Crane Lake or Woodbridge was, well, enough to put the “Oy!” in “Ahoy!”

But we’ll know better next time.

Raucousness, Rays and Rafting Up

Kath and I spent one of the zaniest Saturday afternoons we’d ever spent since landing in CoCo County almost three years ago.

The “6th Annual Discovery Bay Paddle for Fame” is a gonzo event that almost defies description. But I’ll try.

Held in the spacious lagoon just outside the moorage area of the Discovery Bay Yacht Club harbor, the Paddle for Fame invites one and all to float their nonmotorized seagoing vessel, be it paddleboat; kayak; boogie board inflatable pool lounger; canoe or inner tube, out into the briny in an effort to break the world record for “rafting up”: the formation of a contiguous mass of self-propelled watercraft.

Last year’s record, set at Disco Bay and acknowledged by the international body that governs such things, was 492 boats or boat-like flotation devices, as evidenced by aerial photographs snapped at a predetermined moment and scanned by sharp-eyed officials.
This year, the fly-over photos were to be taken at 3 p.m., and participating paddlers started gathering and hitting the lagoon at 10 a.m. Let the party begin, Gilligan!

By the time Kath and I arrived a bit after noon, the clambake was splashing with vendors on the green, motorized yachts cruising the blue, paddlers launching from the wharf, the funk band starting to unload equipment by the stage, and kids running and taking deadly aim with Super Soakers.

Now, you have to understand that Kath and I both thought that we’d spend 30 minutes tops at this thing. You know, stroll the grounds, maybe have a glass of wine, and, despite bringing our low folding chairs just in case, would no doubt bail long before the aerial flyover.

Four hours, a few drinks, and, we discovered that evening, two cases of extreme sunburn bordering on sunstroke later, we discreetly made our exit, sometime between the 10-piece “Touch of Class Band”’s covers of “Disco Inferno” and “It’s Hot in Here.”

The wine was individual varietal servings of Copa, a proprietary brand of resealable 187-ml portions featured on our new guilty television pleasure, “Shark Tank,” in which five filthy-rich entrepreneurs mercilessly grill would-be inventors seeking investment funds.

But it was the people-watching and –listening that kept us there soaking up unhealthy amounts of outdoor ultraviolet. Whether it was the slacker dude turning to his buddy to remark “Lotta plastic surgery around here, bruh,” the would-be paddler heading to the wharf and sporting a truck-size inner tube that had to have been 40% duct tape, or the inappropriate-age-for-a-bikini-clad woman (to paraphrase Raymond Chandler: “She was pushing 60 so hard she nearly broke a wrist”) with skin so tanned that she could send both Coach and Kate Spade into a bidding war, the atmosphere was outrageously festive. OK, the mortgage broker leaving her booth to offer complimentary chair-side Margaritas may have had something to do with it, too.

We ended up staying for the skydivers, the flyover photo and a booty-shakin’ dose of funky R&B. A glorious afternoon of surprising fun in Disco Bay.

BTW: Kathy found out on Monday that they broke the 2011 record, with well over 600 craft “rafting up.”

How’ya Napa Now? or Straight From the Horse’s Mouth

The horse “whinnied” last night. Audrey and Constance, our resident Black Widow spiders, have spun egg sacs in both the garage and the front porch.

And I’m about to make the worst shot ever in our Oakley city Bocce league. Trifecta, muthah!

We had a really nice jaunt up to Napa this past weekend, courtesy Lot 18, whose Wine Country Pass for select joints meant that we could cruise fee-free. What a relief! Kath later checked out non-participants; neighbors routinely charge $20+ tasting fees.

We’ve discovered, that Highway 29 or Silverado Trail, no matter how many balloons are affixed to the “Open Today!” sandwich board, caveat emptor (which I think is Latin for “You’re gonna get boned.”)

So Kath and I are up in Napa, and we call another little place on our Lot 18 list to see if they can squeeze us in. Not enthusiastic, but yeah, OK. We meander, (literally) for 30 minutes up a mountain east of the Silverado Trail to reach RustRidge, a working ranch, winery and B&B.

Kathy and I ended up having a great tasting with winemaker Susan Meyer, another generation of land stewardship messed up by sibling squabbles. Self-taught or not, Ms. Meyer makes, from estate fruit, what Kath thinks is the best Chardonnay she has ever tasted: the real deal. And the baby horse, bred to be a champ (wait, chomp?) has greatness ordained.

Kathy and I visited only a few wineries this weekend; a rarity for us. But we encountered a couple of stories of sibling squabbles concerning the winery property.

It was all put into relief since we had just rented “The Descendants” the night before.

Oy.

Who can do Potpourri? Tuscan!

Guys, please excuse me for the catch-all thang going on this week, but I hope that y’all will forgive the arachnid, cinematic, avian and philatelic vibe, all in one post.

OK, there is going to be nothing chronological about this rambling, but the CoCo vibe is unmistakable.

Friday night, Kathy and I did a belated birthday (hers, not mine) dinner: a Tuscan-styled three-course fest paired with appropriate vino.

Caprese, roasted pork loin sided with mushroom gnocchi, and kale accompanied by rosemary potatoes: It did not hurt that Kath and I had the best convos with our “family style” (that was the rule: no table reservations) tablemates.

Check out Kath’s photo: Michelle was the cool court reporter who, if I was any judge, could drop the bomb: She knows which attorneys whisper to the jurors, as if to circumvent, but she don’t play that. “Your honor, I can’t hear counselor,” Michelle civilly tells the judge. End of story: the courtroom theatrics on the part of counselor are done.

Nuff said. Apparently there are judges, working their way through a million cases a week, who need a reporter to be accurate. You got a grandstander shyster who wants to win this one? Michelle may not be the one reporter you want to cast aspersions on.

No further questions, your honor.

Hey, our local cinema-plex is doing the hardcore community outreach doo.

Now, while I don’t want to look a gift copyright-expired-DVD-OK-for-exhibition disc in the mouth, I do have to give kudos to RAVE Cinemas management for engaging the digital tech to hit everything.

Dude! I watched “Cyrano de Bergerac’ on a bad DVD transfer at RAVE. Sweetness! I’d never seen José Ferrer’s performance in this classic. Homes won, oh, I don’t know, AN OSCAR!

And now, I, old-skool, am buying stamps. Who is featured? Fifteen guesses. And the first fourteen don’t count. José. And the Don is smiling.

His son, with then-wife Rosemary Clooney, is Miguel, who played anal-retentive Special Agent Albert on “Twin Peaks.” Oh, and the lead in “Where’s Marlowe?,” a crazy late-90s neo-noir with “Mad Men”’s John Slattery as his biz partner.

Ferrer-pere is so arrogantly wonderful in “Cyrano” that it’s actually jarring to see his avuncular mug smiling from postage. Each time I affix his visage to a utility bill, I envision his deadly wit and mortal swordplay. En garde, Pacific Gas & Electric! This time, I shall spare thee, varlet Comcast!

Hey, Audrey is back! Our black-widow spider pal has made a return, looking plumper than ever. A couple of months ago, Kath and I saw the makings of a bad web in the garage; shortly thereafter, we saw what we thought was Audrey. Now we have a bad web on the front porch (Audrey’s previous domain), and have seen a ready-to-burst black widow, while still having the web in the garage. Kathy thinks that Audrey is in front ready to give birth and that our other tenant, Constance, is chilling in the garage. (Though, I’m sorry to break the news that temps in our Northern Cali ‘hood are not “chillin’.”)

Oh, and this week we discovered one talon-equipped raptor mofo fending off dive-bomb attempts from other birds, from atop our backyard Sequoia redwood tree.

I’d sing, “California, Here I Come,” but for the fact that I’m already here.

Talk soon.

Hannah and Her Sippers

I’m probably flogging a dead Riedel here, but sometimes the Contra Cost County/Oakley blog idea of being surrounded by vitis vinifera growing in the most outrageous places (120-year-old Zinfandel vines producing beside the Kmart?: talk about your Blue Light special) leads to the frustration of never fully knowing what amazing wines are being made from Grapes in Da ‘Hood.

So, last Sunday was an overdue trek to neighboring Brentwood to visit the winery and tasting room at Hannah Nicole Vineyards, pretty much the only local concern with working grape-erage used to make their own stuff, as well as an oh-so-civilized facility in which to sample it.

A few weeks previous, after a nice Sunday of yoga (Kath), swimming/sauna/steam (me) and multi-store groceries for the week chez nous, I chirped, “Hey can I buy you a glass of wine at Hannah Nicole?”

Kath responded that she was thinking the same thing, but that our last visit, although buoyed by the ambience and bottle purchase enjoyed while nestled in comfy chairs, was preceded by a tasting fee that would define any wine guide’s entry of “skimpy pours.” Damn! Because the stemware was so friggin’ elegant.

Enter livingsocial.com. Once again, Kathy gots the hookup to bargoons, and this one with Hannah Nicole was one to bite on.

We arrived at HN; Giovanni Mandala was creating a vibe with his acoustic guitar among the myriad im-vibers picnicking outside. Expecting a packed tasting room gangbang inside, I was elated to have Kath and me welcomed one-on-one with a smile and knowledge of the Web printout we were bearing.

OK, the pours were just as cheesy as we remember them, but our pourer had no probs letting us “revisit,” and the wines at Hannah Nicole are darn tasty. Part of the livingsocial deal was that we walk with a bottle, comp tastings and two stems. After das swirl, Kathy and I knew what to pick as “das bottle.” (Even splitting glass pours in an effort to double up on selections, we still had to jettison two selections from the menu.) Like many wine snobs, I elected to toss the two Rosé wines from our tasting itinerary. I am such an idiot.

Kathy and I purchased, and consumed, a deliciously refreshing bashful blend on the beautiful Brentwood grounds of HN.

Hey, so we discovered that the only varietally bottled wines in the Hannah Nicole portfolio not grown onsite are the Chardonnay (Napa), and this particular crazy Zinfandel.

We’re told that the Hannah Nicole 2009 Contra Costa County Zinfandel is crafted from fruit plucked one-and-a-half miles from our house. Rose and Laurel. (Hey, it ain’t just an intersection, it’s a label!)

Tasting notes can be all over das map:

The color is lighter than one might expect from old vines, and yet K thinks that I am nuts for smelling bacon fat on such a light frame.

Cloves on the nose, cranberry and allspice. There is fruit there, but it needs to hit that berry thing to match heft on the palate with a looooong finish.

Man, aren’t tasting notes the most bogus thang around?

U-Pickin’ a Fight?

Guys, you would not believe the scene last weekend in our little agricultural corner of CoCo County.

Now, we wrote last time about our latest foray to pick cherries and strawberries. It’s our third season here, and we’ve always heard the legends about Memorial Day being the unofficial starting pistol to U-Pick frenzy. That’s why we always jumped on the weekend before: Sure, the cherries might not be as dark, but we at least avoid the fabled crowds.

Man, the legends are true.

Last Sunday, a full week after the U-Pick starter’s pistol sounded, Kathy and I went to gym, she for a yoga class, me to swim and sweat out the week’s booze in the sauna.

And then we decided to venture closer to home to pick fruit. Armed with enough cash to do the do (U-Pick is a ca$h-only deal), we used our Farm Trail Map to discover what was open seasonally.

The peaches at Pomeroy Farm were ripe and plentiful, and despite the one-lane road, relatively accessible despite the comings and goings of clueless drivers.

Check out Kath’s photo: the fruit was just begging to be picked, and twisting a peach off its stem was a breeze. Of course, one peach weighs a lot more than a handful of cherries, so even at a bargain $2 per pound for 20 minutes work, Kathy surrendered $36 worth of folding dough-re-mi.

And then it gets goofy. We motor to the other end of the street and experience that “U-Pick Uh-oh” moment. We literally could not travel across the main drag on the same road due to all the vehicles turning off said drag to hit the farms.

Dude, we saw carpool vans full of would-be pickers, even a school bus obviously rented for the occasion. We finally made it across the intersection, but when we glimpsed the parking-flag-sporting attendant working her auto-centric semaphore magic up ahead, we realized that it was time to bail. Making a right turn still took us 10 minutes.

By then it was time to head back to Oakley and bask in 18 ell-bees of fresh peaches.

Kath and I can fully dig that fruit ripeness waits for no one, but, in CoCo, a U-Picker is going to have to wait for everyone. At least after Memorial Day.

I’ve checked its date on the 2013 calendar, and the alarm clock is already set for 51 weeks.