Remembering Herb Caen

“Sacramenna Kid,” Herb Caen (April 3, 1916 – February 1, 1997), San Francisco’s epic satire columnist had a lifelong love affair with The City. He immortalized San Francisco with nearly 60 years’ worth of pithy columns chock full of local happenings, insider gossip, and puns. He was credited with coining the phrase, “Baghdad by the Bay,” and bestowed the term, “Beatnik” upon poet Bob Kaufman.

Caen introduced and popularized the term “hippie” (never hippy—unless you were a hippo), Summer of Love and Frisbeetarianism, and Berserkeley. But San Francisco, his real mistress, was always The City. Caen’s daily columns were paeans, "A continuous love letter to San Francisco" and a special Pulitzer Prize called him the "voice and conscience" of San Francisco.

Herb Caen loved what he dubbed "Namephreaks"‍—‌people whose names (aptronyms) were appropriate or inappropriate to their vocations including substitute teacher Mr. Fillin, piano teacher Patience Scales, orthopedic specialist Dr. Kneebone, and the Vatican's spokesman on the evils of rock 'n roll, Cardinal Rapsong.

I had a seriously uptight ramrod of a science teacher in seventh grade called Mr. Sliney. And the other science teacher who replaced him (after he broke a ruler over a student’s hands) was called Mr. Plant.

The quasily-fictional character, “Strange de Jim” was Caen’s chief informer, alter ego, and purveyor of naughty puns. Caen called him "gu-ru di tutti guruskies.” (Strange showed up to Caen’s memorial to deliver a eulogy while wearing two Sesame Street pillowcases over his head.) But soon everyone got into the informer act—he had an “army of reliable tipsters.”

If you made it into one of Herb columns either as an informer, or by (un)honorable mention, you had either arrived, or you had to live down the tale. It was an honor to be lampooned in Herb’s column. Even my father who lost his wallet to a combative squirrel in a park never quite lived down, or up to his new moniker, “Squirrely Hurley.”

*. *. *

Many of Herb Caen’s stellar columns were published in collection of essays, “Baghdad-by-the-Bay,” in 1949, and in “Don't Call It Frisco‍”—‌after a judge's rebuke to an out-of-town petitioner ("No one refers to San Francisco by that title except people from Los Angeles")‍ in 1953. In total he wrote 11 books, including children’s stories.

One reader remembered: When Herb Caen left Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner to join the San Francisco Chronicle, he took 10k subscribers with him. Our man about town was so popular he was nominated for president at the 1984 San Francisco Democratic Convention. Word has it some of those buttons are still floating around in bottomless martini glasses.

Caen received a special Pulitzer Prize (which he called his Pullet Surprise) in 1996 for "extraordinary and continuing contribution as a voice and conscience of his city."Caen was an astute collector of The City’s urban folklore.

After writing upwards of 16,000 columns, at a thousand words a day on his loyal Royal, he thought it was a joke. "Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist," he wrote. "Well, it does have a certain ring to it. And it will definitely add a touch of class to the obituary.” Then he shut his door and wrote his column.

June 14, 1996, was officially celebrated in San Francisco as Herb Caen Day replete with a parade to the Ferry Building. TV news legend Walter Cronkite even showed up and the Damnbarcadero was rechristened "Herb Caen Way…

Caen, the king of what he dubbed "three-dot journalism" was famous for his signature three-dot ellipses separating his short news snippets. And the characteristic three asterisks designating a sea change, separating the acts from the grind.

“In 1993, he told an interviewer that he declined to retire because "my name wouldn't be in the paper and I wouldn't know if I was dead or alive," adding that his obituary would be his last column: "It will trail off at the end, where I fall face down on the old Royal with my nose on the 'I' key.” —Wiki

*. *. *

In his eulogy, Robin Williams said, “A very special Herb communion will consist of dry martinis and sourdough bread. And if you don't see God then, you never will.” And “I think that I know that you wouldn't mind me making jokes up here today because that's part of what you did. You made it kind of possible for us all to gather here and appreciate this very bizarre place.” Williams owed his early career success to Caen’s promotions.

My college schoolmate Robin said, I'd like you to turn to your hymnals. This is (Caen's book) "Baghdad by the Bay." and he read from it: 

"The crowded garages and the empty old buildings above them, the half-filled nightclubs and the overfilled apartment houses, the saloons and the skies and the families huddled in the basements, the Third Street panhandlers begging for handouts in front of pawn shops filled with treasured trinkets, the great bridges and the rattle-trap street cars, the traffic that keeps moving although it has no place to go, thousands of newcomers glorying in the sights and sounds of a city they suddenly decided to love instead of leave." —Herb Caen, Baghdad by the Bay

“I'm sorry you had to leave, man, but you're still here. See ya.”

*. *. *

“If I do go to heaven, I'm going to do what every San Franciscan does who goes to heaven. He looks around and says, "It ain't bad, but it ain't San Francisco." —Herb Caen

*. *. *

The day Herb Caen died, it was standing room only at Grace Cathedral, and at all his local watering holes, people stood a dozen deep, the Stoli and gin ran like water and the bartenders ran out of martini glasses, so they improvised with wine and water glasses. All for six-bits as Herb would say. A few parched souls opted for this infamous Vitamin V shot - Stoli over ice in a wineglass with a twist.

People noshed on his favorite meal, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Next day, the entire city awoke with a massive, pulsating hangover. Pass the aspirin and Alka-seltzer.

Yesterday I had meatloaf and mashed potatoes in honor of Herb Caen, but I passed on the six-bit martinis. I had adult gu…I mean wine, instead. Here’s to you, Herb, wherever you are.

Mr. Nunes’ bison bull calf, Lagunitas, ca. 1982 (photos)

While scanning my tear sheet archives, I stumbled across some poor scans of old photos…. If I ever find the negatives….Mr. Nunes feeding Nickel, the bull calf bison while a scandalized Hereford heifer looks on incredulously as he feeds her hay to the stranger. Lagunitas, ca 1982.

I wonder what the heifer thought of the bison? It looks like the only romance going on was with the hay. Old Man Nunes was so proud of his little bison calf. What was he thinking? (Besides the price of beefalo.) Bison are completely unpredictable and are bulldozers when it comes to fences.

There's a backstory, bison are part of the fabric of my childhood. When I was a kid, there was another bison—yes, we called them buffalo—in Nicasio right by the church. The only reason why Belle the Buffalo stayed put in the church pasture was because she liked the other cows. I used to save my buffalo head nickels and named them all Belle. 

Tuesday was bank day at school. I was in second grade. We had a little manila envelopes with rope ties and we were encouraged to save a nickel or a dime a week so I put all my most treasured coins, Indian head pennies, buffalo nickels, and liberty dimes in those little envelopes thinking that I would get the same ones back again later from Bank of America, in the old brick Grandi Hotel in Point Reyes.

Then one hopped up Saturday night some hoodlums came out and shot the poor buffalo for no reason at all. Or, so the story goes. We were all devastated. Or so I thought, you know how gossip misdirects itself.  As it turns out, she up and died for no real reason. That’s the official story. Maybe it was natural causes like age, or disease. But I suspect some guys did shoot at her. It was that kind of an era with loaded gun racks across back windows of pickup trucks.

So, when Nickel showed up, we were all insane with joy. I used to take my grandmother up to the ranch for a visit (today would’ve been her 130th birthday). It was a case of Meet the new family pet, Nickel. I wonder what happened to the little bison when Old Man Nunes died. He was fence-resistant as I recall. The bison, not Mr. Nunes. 

Now there are fancyass palaces on Portola Road (the fire road to the Lookout) once my own private Eden, and I can't imagine they'd tolerate a wayward bison.

Both Tony Senior and Tony Junior have crossed the rainbow bridge, and Nickel, too, I presume. I always meant to collect Tony Junior’s folklore. Too late. I heard that the youngest brother, Mel Nunes, who was a few years ahead of me in school, became a volunteer fireman for the Woodacre Fire Department—still lives at the ranch. Maybe I’d better pay him a visit before it’s too late.

Potayto, potato. How about tomapotatl as pomato is already taken?

Do check out Cultivariable, a great site for everything potato, including buying seeds.

The other day I recalled reading an article in July, 2017 that claimed that potatoes also grew in North America, and I thought what was dubbed the Indian potato was merely a simile, something lost in translation, or a case of mistaken identity. There was almost no follow-up information on it. I chalked it up to a mistranslation. Looks like, but is not equal to….and then Covid came along and I forgot about it. 

Yesterday, on Facebook, Discover Magazine reposted an archived article from 2021 on Solanum jamesii, or the Indian potato, now renamed the Four Corners “potato,” which renewed my interest. But the somewhat updated article compared it to domestic potatoes because it produces tubers. I thought to myself: hundreds of others solanum species have tubers too. 

However, the Four Corners potato, Solanum jamesii, is not what we think of as the ubiquitous potato. It's related to, but not the same as the garden potato, Solanum tuberosum, domesticated in the Andes 8,000 to 10,000 years ago. 

I let my fingers do the Googling, and found that what are called Apache and Navajo potatoes were hybrid varieties of the domestic potato. A dead end. Back in the summer of 2017, potato farmer /poet Art Goodtimes piqued my curiosity about Solanum jamesii which led to a spirited discussion about the origin and nomenclature of potatoes. And researching "Indian potatoes" led me to another order of plant altogether, an aquatic species related to taro root, Sagittaria latifolia, or duck potato. If it walks like a duck... What quackery!

Growing up Irish meant I ate potatoes every night for dinner. When I traveled through the Andes, I ate many varieties of strange potatoes, the most bitter was black, and grew on the island of Amantani in Lake Titicaca. My GI tract never forgave me. Apparently I was supposed to also eat the arcilla de chaco, or clay jacket—which absorbs the bitterness. When it comes to eating wild potatoes, bitter is not good, and sour is even worse. Spit it out, I tell you.

Astonishing diversity of Incan potatoes in CIP International Potato Center's seed bank.

There are something like 53 known species, and 4000 types, or varieties (not sub-species) of domestic potatoes in Peru alone. And even more in Bolivia and Chile—not to mention the Amazon. According to CIP, the International Potato Center, a genetic seed bank located in Lima, Peru, there are 151 to 180 species of wild potatoes, worldwide. The actual count is in dramatic flux as we discover new species, lose others due to climate change, and make advances in DNA sequencing. 

In fact, the entire Solanaceae family is undergoing genetic reconstruction. Solanaceae is a huge family, there are over 3000 to 4000 species worldwide. And solanum includes a whopping 1500 genera: potatoes, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, tobacco, datura, and petunias, to name a few. They’re all members of the nightshade family.

And like most solanum species, the Four Corners “potato,” Solanum jamesii, prefers to grow in disturbed soil—which suggests to ecologist Bruce Pavlik and his wife, Lisbeth Louderback, who is an archaeology curator at the Natural History Museum of Utah, that this wild potato may have been domesticated as early as 11,000 years ago. I'm not so sure about that. It’s not like hybridizing teosinte.

Escalante Valley was once referred to as Potato Valley. Pavlik and Louderback have been genome sequencing the wild potatoes near the pueblos for signs of domestication—they're looking for a genetic bottleneck. Ok, so I have trouble with their advanced reference date, as it predates Andean domestication, and, besides, it was the end of the Ice Age. Potatoes hate frost. (In the 2017 Salt Lake Tribune article, Louderback, in her doctoral thesis, quoted 10,000 to 11,000 years. See also University of Utah News).

Everything about the Four Corners “potato” is toxic—like many members of the nightshade family—unless you boil or eat the immature tubers with gobs of white clay called gleesh’ (think Kaopectate) to counteract the toxins—so it’s different than the domesticated South American potatoes of Bolivia and Peru. It’s more of a dangerous wild potato cousin with a deadly kick.

It also turns out that the Four Corners “potato” toxins are also different than those found in domestic potatoes. The toxin is the same found in tomatoes. So maybe cavalierly calling it a potato just because it has a tiny tuber the size of a grape, is a bit premature. Maybe call it tomapotatl? 

Oddly enough, Santa Rosa, horticulturalist Luther, Burbank, the man who invented the Burbank, or russet potato, aka the Idaho potato, did developed an edible white potato-tomato berry called a pomato. But, unlike the ill-fated Wonderberry, also a nightshade, which resembled a huckleberry, victim of a smear campaign touting its toxicity, the pomato didn’t breed true, so he gave it up. But in 1934, an Australian successfully bred a pomato. Many flowering ornamental solanum produce tubers too, but noshing on them could be a one-way ticket to paradise—no matter how you roll the old snake-eyes.

I realize that it’s a handy linguistic shortcut to call this wild potato cousin a "potato," because it’s so much easier to say potato family instead of saying the nightshade family. Old habits die hard. And then there’s the toxic baggage attached to the word nightshade. Think Atropa Belladonna and deadly atropine. How about an expansionist mindset, with a new name, instead of a reductionist one handcuffed by the tyranny of simile?  

The Diné word for the potato is Nimási. Maybe we should call the Four Corners “potato” that. But then we’d also have to include the Apache, Hopi, Kawaik, Southern Paiute, Tewa, Zia and Zuni names, etc., not to mention the Ancestral Pueblo (Anasazi) names. So maybe calling it the Four Corners “wild potato” is a far better name. Otherwise we’ll have hordes of eco-nuts going afield to nosh on them thinking they’re benign.

For the record, botanists insist that pretty much all wild potato species are not safe to eat, other than in small amounts, due to their high glycoalkaloid content. Also, Solanum jamesii is not native to California, which means it was introduced from somewhere else. But where?

Wiki spells it out: “Solanum jamesii is a species of nightshade. Its range includes the southern United States. All parts of the plant, and especially the fruit, are toxic, containing solanine when it matures. Immature tuber roots are edible.” But they’re the size of grapes, so how do you know if they’re immature? They tell off-color jokes? 

It turns out that Solanum jamesii is not the only “wild potato” in the old pueblo. One or two other southwest wild potato species, depending upon how you count your potatoes, are Solanum stoloniferum aka Solanum fendleri, or Fendler’s horsenettle—genetically speaking, they are variants of one species, the controversy rages on. Horsenettles are generally not called potatoes, BTW. 

Because of the toxicity, they are often considered famine foods. And people sometimes eat the ripe berries, or ground cherries. And since they vary in toxicity, you never know which ones will be real stinkers I’m not willing to be the guinea pig.

Let’s talk toxicity. “The primary glycoalkaloid in this Solanum jamesii species is tomatine, unlike the domesticated potato, in which the primary glycoalkaloids are solanine and chaconine." And there’s also a smidgeon of the nicotine alkaloid too! Tomatine puts this species firmly in the tomato camp—name your poison. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. 

Wow! Potato blossoms. Cultivariable is a great site for everything potato, and then some.

The question begs, how closely related is the Four Corners “wild potato” to South American potatoes? As James Dinneen in The ancient potato of the future, quipped, DNA-wise, “The Four Corners potato, Solanum jamesii, is related to the common potato in somewhat the same way coyotes are related to dogs.” Both are canines and can interbreed. But the domestic dog is descended from wolves. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think they're siblings.

Why does any of this matter? Because, Dear One, genetic diversity. Wild species carry a wide range of unusual survival traits. Take the Irish potato famine—had there been a way to introduce more resilient genes into the potato monoculture against the potato blight (Phytophthora infestans), then one million people might not have needlessly died. Or immigrated.

The USDA is interested in the Four Corners potato’s astonishing 8-year shelf life, resistance to disease, and to drought. Climate change is affecting domestic monoculture potatoes, which is the world's third largest important food crop. Potatoes need specific heat requirements and 12-hours of daylight in order to reproduce. Not all nightshades reproduce by seed, some spread via tubers, or reroot via creeping stolons.

I plowed through a lengthy list of solanum section of Petota, and found that Solanum commersonii is resistant to root rot and nematodes. Solanum demissum, Solanum pinnatisectum, and Solanum bulbocastanum, an ornamental nightshade, are resistant to the potato blight, and "has been used to genetically engineer resistance into the cultivated varieties of potatoes around the world." —Wiki 

Genetic traits from tough wild potato species can be hybridized into our domestic potatoes. And before you go off the deep end about genetic modification, every plant we consume has been genetically modified—from aubergine to zucchini. Especially corn and broccoli. Besides, the voodoo magic of crossbreeding solanum species is far better than sticking pins into a potato. 

Where is Mr. Potatohead when you need him?

The cultivated history of daffodils as we know it

A daffodil admiring itself in the mirror, ca. 2008. I forgot to date it.

Note bene: This blogpost began as an excerpt from a letter I wrote to novelist Gregg Dunnett who emigrated to Spain from Britain and was missing his daffodils. I never did get around to reshaping my notes into a blogpost, until a year later, so these notes are convoluted. 

Lechyd da! Those daffodils that everybody bashes over their neighbors’ heads in Wales on March 1 may not be native to Britain because daffodils, as we know them, along with rabbits, originally hailed from Iberia! So get your repatriation papers in order. 

In Wales, the daffodil is known as cenhinen Bedr or ceninn Pedr in Welsh—that which is like St. Peter’s leeks. It’s a complicated simile. The daffodil leaves resembled a leek that rules out daffodils as being native in Wales as they didn’t even know its name. According to a 1630 broadside ballad, the Welsh wore leeks in their hats to recognize friend from foe before the battle won on St David's Day. And ate them afterwards. Crossing leeks and daffodils, the national flower of Wales, could be dangerous as they are, like all lilies, extremely toxic. Don’t tell Saint Dewi.

Sant Dewi stained glass window at St Non's Chapel; note the flowers—daffodils. Wiki

To be fair, there might also have been a “native” plant that resembled the narcissus/daffodil/jonquil in the British Isles. However, I don’t trust the sources (since they’ve all copied each other, warts, and all) though I’ve included the links below. People often confuse the concept of native wildflowers with escaped naturalized cultivar flowers. Like with mustard, forget-me-nots, and Scottish bluebells…. the word “wild” can swing both ways.

But I did find this: “ The only species of narcissus native to Britain is the rather demur Lent Lily…” However, The National Records of Scotland misidentified the daffodil, or narcissus as a member of the Primulaceae family. Ak! Nope. Strike the word, “native,” add “naturalized.” (Unless it is a primrose —not a daffodil.) At least Wikipedia got that part right—they came from Iberia. I should’ve just begun my quest with Wikipedia, and saved myself a lot of grief, but I wanted original sources.

That classification error by The National Records of Scotland led me on a merry Google chase—because despite Easter being movable feast, the idea of a flower named after Lent certainly suggests a long-term cultivation. For the record, the narcissus or daffodil is a member of the Amaryllidaceae family, a lily with six tepals, and not a four-petaled primrose (oxlip looks a bit like a narcissus). And narcissi are not native to the British Isles.

In the middle ages, narcotic cowslips were called St. Peter’s herb. Wiki

And it doesn’t help that the origin and symbology of the daffodil is muddied by the strife between Catholicism and Protestantism. I suppose we could blame Martin Luther who never saw it coming when he nailed his theses on the church door at Wittenberg in 1517.

The folklore surrounding the daffodil is diverse. During the middle ages, narcissus was associated with the Virgin Mary and resurrection. Its leaves were compared to a spear, its sap was a gateway drug to the undiscovered country from which no one returns. Elysian Fields and all that. I can see the leaves of daffodils compared to spears, and Dame Edna (yes, I met him too) said that gladiolus refers to the Celtic Claymore sword. (See Narcissus in Culture.)

Etymology Online revealed that the word daffodil possibly arrived by way of Middle English affodill " (ca. 1590s) by way of the Dutch affodyle), via medieval Latin, via Ancient Greek—to make numb. Narcissi, like all lilies, are extremely toxic. But despite the added-on article, “d,” an accretion from the Dutch “de affodyle,” references cite the word (d)affodil itself as from an unknown source. Another source stated that affodyle means 'that which comes early.’

I tried another approach. First reference in English. Terminus post quem (TPC—that is, the first ever literary mention I could find…) During the “late 16th and early 17th century botanists and herbalists John Gerard and John Parkinson described them as "Pseudonarcissus Anglicus pleno", "Gerrards double Daffodill".

Ok, that reference suggests that cultivated daffodils were introduced before 1629, as there were notices concerning the introduction of daffodils to the British Isles. This may be one of the earliest citations. (And don’t forget the 1630 Welsh reference to daffodils as Saint David’s leeks). When I looked up the original source, the gardener-monk Gerard wrote that “The common yellow Daffodilly or Daftodowndilly is fo well knowne to all, that it needeth no deicription.” He also noted with almost a nod that they originally came from Spain.

“The double yellow Daffodill hath fmalf finooth narrow leaues of a darke greene colour: among which rifeth up a naked hollow ftalke, of two hands high: bearing at the top a faire and beautifull double yellow flower…The common yellow Daffodilly or Daftodowndilly is fo well knowne to all, that it needeth no deicription. We haue in our London gardens another fort of this common kinde, which naturallic groweth in Spaine, very like vnto our beft knowne Daffodil in fhape and proportion…” —Gerard’s Herbal 1597

Gerard’s Herbal may be a TPQ for the term, daftodowndilly/ daffodowndilly, not A.A. Milne. Move over Winnie the Pooh! But Milne got it right, when the daffodil arrives, it’s a sure sign of spring. Winter is dead. 

Garden historian, Dr. Twigs Way, who is associated with the Cambridge University, gets it wrong too as she too repeats that Britain also has wild daffodils. She goes on to say “Daffodils… have been seen in England since the 17th century; Shakespeare celebrated them as the flower that “comes before the swallow dares”, and bunches of wild blooms were sold by flower girls on the streets of London.” 

The full Shakespeare quote: “Daffodils/ that comes before the swallow dares, and takes /the winds of March with beauty…”, (Winter’s Tale, Act IV Scene 3), which makes the reference date ca. 1609-11. Too late. Not TPQ.

Dr. Twig’s 17th century reference is too late on the cultural horizon, as by the Elizabethan era, daffodils and asphodels were firmly ensconced, if not entrenched in English literature. Somehow the dubious connection with the asphodel and daffodil ca. the 15th c. isn’t exactly a TPQ either. By the time the Daffodil Society was founded in 1898, the greeny asphodel dominated the decorative arts—especially William Morris’s wallpaper. No, not the wallpaper Oscar Wilde morbidly objected to. (And yes, like Winston, I ended that sentence on a preposition.)

I was reminded that William Carlos Williams wrote: "Asphodel, that greeny flower." I always wondered what the greeny asphodel was. (I was lazy and went to school before internet!) You know how the poets are overfond of death as muse. But Milton said it earlier: “To embathe in nectared lavers strewed with asphodel.” (Comus, 1634). And Tennyson wrote: "Others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel." 

And somewhere along the way, the similar sounding asphodel and daffodil and their death mythology were conflated with each other. cross colonization. Deep botany as we know it hadn't yet been invented. Asphodelaceae (which includes the red hot poker plant) wasn’t identified by Carl Linnaeus until 1753. Let that sink in.

So here’s the rub, asphodel is a completely separate family that got kicked out of the lily family along with aloe and asparagus by the way. DNA never lies. Allo? Who’s your daddy? And they do look like our New World Oenothera, aka evening-primrose. And there were no less than 10 different species of asphodel on the Iberian peninsula. The yellow ones do look a bit like daffodils if you have a good imagination, or need glasses and hearing aid.

Cleric Robert Herrick, in To Daffodils (1648), described narcissi as portents of death: Fair Daffodils, we weep to see/ You haste away so soon…And of course, By the time Wordsworth wrote his famous 1804 poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud, When all at once I saw a crowd/A host, of golden daffodils;/Beside the lake…daffodils were thoroughly naturalized and canonized ad nauseam in English literature.

A teacher asked me for a drawing to go with Wordsworth. I got an epic sunburn in Feb.

Digging deeper, I found a vague reference: “Daffodils were introduced into gardens in about 300 BC. The Greek botanist and philosopher Theophrastus listed and described many of the earliest known kinds of narcissus in his nine-volume 'Enquiry into Plants'. Daffodils were brought to Britain by the Romans who thought that the sap from daffodils had healing powers.” (What? 300 BC? Asphodel or daffodil? Whose gardens? Where?)

I found another plagiarized source: “Narcissi were introduced to the UK in about 300 BC by the Romans who later inexplicably abandoned these blooms.” What? Somebody lifted and condensed  the sentence out of context, replete with the arrival date typo. Now, I’m fairly certain that the Romans had not settled in Britain circa 300 BC. That quote should probably read that in Greece and also in Rome people were cultivating daffodils circa 300 BC. In the Mediterranean, not Britain.

Trying to find out the truth about daffodils from the internet is like trying to sort out whether or not rabbits were brought to southern Britain by the Romans, or if they were introduced later during the Norman Conquest. See, that inexplicable line of logic suggests that daffodils were not introduced to Britain at all by the Romans, but much later. Like the rabbits. It always amazes me that people post nonsense and don’t even verify the basics—like a timeline.

A close-up, Mr. deMille, stabilo, pencil, ca. 1994; original drawing was destroyed.

I tried another approach. DNA. Yep, genetics definitively rules out the possibility of there being any endemic narcissi in Britain (see excerpts from a paper, below). Genetics can measure what is lost in the process of cultivation, and defines Iberia as the homeland of British “wild” daffodils. Iberian narcissi have the most genetic diversity whereas the daffodil cultivars of Britain have a truncated genetic pool. And the answer is daffodils were not introduced by the Romans. Certainly not in 300 BC! 

Also, narcissi weren’t even cultivated until Muslim era ca. the 10th -12th centuries. Etymology Online, footnotes daffodil with: “First reference to the yellow, early spring flower we know by this name (Narcissus pseudo-Narcissus) is from 1590s.” So, I didn’t get my TPQ closure as to when daffodils were introduced to the British Isles, but I can surmise they arrived from Holland somewhere around the 15th to the 16th century, and, as they say, the rest is history. at least the Welsh had enough common sense to not conflate the daffodil with the asphodel and made a leeky simile instead. Ceninn Ped. Happy St. David’s Day.

I was playing with backlighting. These daffodils were miniatures from the supermarket.

Califia, warrior queen

Someone on Facebook made a big fuss about Califia, the Amazonian warrior queen that California is named after, as being black. And I was off and running. I said, yes, she was called a black Amazonian warrior queen. But it’s complicated. Also, the term black wasn’t used quite the same in the 15th c. as it is now. Anyone dark-skinned or of another faith was referred to as black, even Levant Arabs, Moors, Egyptians, Touaregs, the Kush/Habesha. (In Spain, it could also be interpreted as a metaphor for a non-Catholic, therefore a pagan with a stained black soul.)

The reference is not always a straightforward reference to Black Africa, or Black America (a different kettle of fish) because the Maghrebine Amazigh (indigenous North African Berbers who’ve lived in North Africa and the Canary Islands since the Holocene), are often referred to as Moors, which also complicates things. The word Moor comes from Latin “Maurus,” later referred to the pre-Arab Berbers (sometimes also called Algerians, Lybians, Tunisians, or Tuareg) from the 3rd c. BC Roman province of Mauretania, which included Morocco and beyond), but later, the term also referred to those with dark skin! Yikes! 

Woodies under the floorboards of the Woodpussy (photos)

Note the size of the large brass screw above them, for scale.

As I was cleaning up trash and the last of the old Woodpussy sailboat floorboards, preparing for the upcoming storm, I was startled by a pair of tiny hibernating baby woodies, the somewhat rare reclusive Marin forest, or wood scorpions. I carefully replaced the floor boards after I took their prerequisite Cecil B DeMille close-ups. They were too cold to even move, so I had a captive audience. Note the large brass screw behind the second one for scale. Such exquisite, if scary, perfection. And yes, of course I screamed. I usually do, as I am initially repulsed by them. They are the stuff of nightmares. I was haunted by recurring dreams of finding scorpions in attics. I got exasperated and invented a new ending where they didn’t sting me. I must’ve been reading too much Levi-Strauss for my folklore classes. Luckily, these little guys don't know the fable of the scorpion and the fox that it’s inherent in the scorpion’s nature to sting. Startled, surprised, and absolutely gobsmacked by them, and I am also in utter awe to catch a glimpse of these shy little creatures. I can count the times I’ve seen them on one hand. Well, maybe two. That rare, yes. We grew up with them but never even knew of their existence. I remember rolling a rotted log down by our old oak tree and there was a family snoozing under the log. I screamed and climbed the hogwire fence. They eventually waddled off. I felt so betrayed, somehow. Then the penny dropped, they were also under the house where I used to play, when I crawled to get the cats….and they never once stung me. I got inpetigo, and other odd ailments, but not scorpion stings. Most people will never see an Uroctonus mordax, no matter how wood-wise they are. When I look at their incredible beauty, I am in awe that such complicated creatures even exist in this world. And I get to witness it. They are fairly docile, you would be hard-pressed to get them to sting you. And even if they did, a beesting is much worse. And if I had a UV light, they’d fluoresce teal blue vs. yellow. These little guys were too cold to move away from the direct light. They just watched me warily, scuttling in a circle to face me, as if to say, I’m too small. Not a tasty snack. Apparently they taste like very tiny lobster. A good thing I don’t like lobster. I guess I’ll be leaving the rest of the Woodpussy boards in situ until they move along.

• Scorpion under a pot for Earth Day
• Camping in Baja
• The Wood-Pussy

Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)

Last night was the first night I slept in my own bed since Oct 21, I fell asleep at 7 PM, as soon as I got home, and then slept 12 hours—but not straight through. Woke up at 12:45 AM, after a furiously hard sleep, wondering where the hell I was, surprised that it was only a little after midnight. I also woke again at 4, which would’ve been the time I needed to wake up in order to check in on Justa, then I fell asleep again until 6, & struggled to stay asleep until 7 AM. But I sure racked up some missing hours. I think I’ve finally reset my circadian rhythm clock. TG!

I’ve been back in CA for a few days, but since I needed to work in Marin, I stayed there, rather than drive back and forth, thus not wasting both time and gas. Sticker shock on gas prices, BTW. It was $3.12, to $3.29 in Maimi. Anyway, I hit the ground running, working right away as soon as I got back to Marin, right off the plane, literally, and then I worked all weekend, and Monday, too. All this, sans Cuban coffee. 

Now I know how Cubans navigate the day, on strong Cuban coffee. They have these little tiny toy teacups they knock back throughout the day. Pure rocket fuel. Half sugar, half quad strength espresso. Which also explains why they all talk so fast!  They’re wired to the gills! No time for those rolled rrrs, or sibilant esses. And Ls are swallowed as well. I’ve learned to speak a passable Cuban Spanish, but my Mexican Spanish seems positively languid in comparison. 

I love how they make time for their cafecitos. At Publix, a girl comes through several times a day with a small carafe of coffee, and small plastic one oz. shot cups to give the checkers their cafecitos. Very sweet. The checkers knock them back in one gulp. Mainlining the stuff. Yet they always have the time to graciously take care of me, the awkward gringa in line.

I would’ve loved another outing or two, but I at least got to see Key Largo, and Miami Beach. A day and a half of touristing is not much but it’s better than nothing. We went to South Beach near the pier and all went swimmingly, except for the actual swimming. But getting home was a nightmare that took hours. We went down Calle Ocho but the Café Versailles was having a 50-year anniversary bash so every Cuban in Miami was out partying. They were dozens of cop cars everywhere. By the time we got to Coral Gables, I could care less, but the houses were pretty awesome. I noticed oak savannah. I wasn’t expecting that. Kirk wanted to barbecue and I just wanted to sleep so we settled for pizza and salad, totally doable. A good thing too as I nearly fell asleep in my salad plate.

I am grateful that my school meeting is via Zoom. I don’t think I’m up to driving down to Berkeley for a meeting. Can I zoom in my jammies? I might need a cafecito or two to make it through the day.

Florida Journals:

• • Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)
  • RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)
  • Re-entry is a bitch (Florida Journals)
  • Flying home (Florida Journals)
  • Inside-out & backwards interview (Florida Journals)
  • Key Largo snorkel tour (Florida Journals) (photo)
  • Maimi Beach (Florida Journals)
  • Disconnectivity happens
  • The color of blood (Florida Journals)
  • Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)
  • Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journ...
  • A new day beginnith (Florida journals)

• • Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Losing the plot (Florida journals)
  • Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Maimi Majordomo (Florida journals)
  • Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)
  • Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa
  • Airborne
  • Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
  • 2004 Florida journals
  • Confessions of an iPod Roadie
  • Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
  • Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)

Mi abuela Amalia, was born in Havana, and died when I was 7 or 8. I was born in Puerto de Golpe. My Abuelo, Elucerio died at 70. Mi mama, Mima, was one of 7 daughters. they didn’t have tv, or radio, nada, so they had many daughters. (Laughs). I study three years at University of Havana for dental surgery. When the University of Havana was closed by Castro, I couldn’t finish my diploma. In 1922 Fidel closed all the Universities—todo. Everything. Everything. 

Mis tias were Marusa Caridad, Silvia, Oralia, Emelina, JoAnNuñes. My name, Justa, belonged to my grandmother. I had muchos primos Mi favorito was Rolando Ross who died two years ago. He was so friendly with me, we talked about many things about life.

Mi padre, Francisco Jose Nunez Blanco, nacie en San Cristobal, so kind a person. I loved him. He married my mother when she was 16. He was the Chief of Puerto De Golpe train station. He was very smart. She was a telegraph operator. Francisco had six brothers two sisters. I had muchos primos from my father’s side too. One uncle had 12 children.

Mi primo Rolando was a singer, and he loved Mexican music. I have two cousins who were lawyers. Nephews who are doctors, they live in Coral Gables. 

I met Gustavo when I was 17, Gustavo was 19, in 1927. We met en Puerto de Golpe. Y en el university. I see him many times. When the univeristy closed, he wrote me a letter. Many letters he wrote me. He wrote to me and Maynita sent it to me. It was a secret. One time I put the letter on the table and I forgot it. And my mother found it and she said it was impossible, you’re too young. 

You told your family you wanted to marry Gustavo. But he was mi enamorado. They knew nothing about him. One day Gustavo wanted to visit me and they said Get out. She’s too young. Everyone was angry with me. Gustavo said I won’t wait anymore. On Dec. 20 , 1920, I married with him. He is the man of my life.

We got married twice, once in Havana. Then I went to Santa Clara to marry in the church, where he was born. El pais de General Carillo. We lived in Havana, close to the school where Gustavo taught, at the Collegio Belem, a religious college. When the university closed, he had to leave. He studied architecture. But nowhere to practice.

I left Cuba on July 9, 1975. My brother Miguel left first, he died last year. We went to Spain for three years. Refugees. I didn’t go back to school. I didn’t want to be a medico. Gustavo worked at mano alsada? architecture. I taught at the Sagrada Familia school en Barcelona. We had two daughters Mari and AnaLina who went to school there. When we got ready to leave to the United States, they didn’t want to leave. 

After three years in Spain, we had to leave, or return to Cuba. We came direct to Miami because Gustavos‘s brother lived here. En 1979 we went to Maimi but I don’t like it. Gustavo said Bueno, everybody has to stay here because this is the last place. The family was scattered over here. Money is so important. It was impossible no junto.

I worked 26 years as a surgical nurse in the Emergency room at Coral Gables hospital. I liked to work in hospital, I made electrocardiograms, I helped people with heart problems. I loved my job. All those hearts. All those heart operations, sometimes I was covered in blood. Sangre. Es la verdad. 

When Gustavo died I lost my heart. It was 17 June 2016.  For me it was a love forever and ever. I say to God, I’m sorry, the time that I had with him was good. I will visit him again.

Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa

I have been so busy since I arrived here in Miami that I have not had a chance to compose any thoughts. Kirk and Mari invited me to Miami to be an overseer care provider for Mari‘s mother, Justa.

My days are long, often 13 or more hours. No wonder I have no time to write or to be creative. Mari has been taking care of her mother for two years and it must be extraordinarily hard on her.

I am the inexperienced care provider flown in from California to keep an eye on things. I have it easy as my care person, Sam, is mobile and does not need the kind of care and attention that Mari’s mother needs.

The official care providers come in at noon and take care of the larger work, bathing Justa, feeding her lunch, etc. But the buck stops with me. I am one in charge of the house. The majordomo, or majordoma—I make things run smoothly. I make the trains run on time. I am el jefe. Which is a scream, because the latest care provider doesn’t speak a word of English, and she is not the brightest bulb. We muddle along in my broken Spanish, sometimes with Justa, who speaks little English, providing translation.

My Spanish is based on Mexican Spanish which is much easier to understand and people speak slower. Cuban Spanish is another animal entirely. Everything is running together, and there are no Ss, or Rs pronounced. And everything has a lisp to it.

The most recent care provider’s name is Virginia Maria, the Virgin Mary, I kid you not. Justa is offender by both her, and by her name. Virginia Maria’s husband is still in Cuba. She speaks a rough, guttural Cuban Spanish from the Oriente that even Justa has trouble understanding.

We, none of us, like each other very much which makes this whole mess worse. Virginia Maria talks simple to Justa and then shouts at her. But Justa is not deaf, and she is cognizant of what is going on around her. She is trapped in a body that no longer functions. She was once a nurse so she knows how the body works. Justa was born in the westernmost province of Pinar del Río, in Puerta de Golpe, close to Havana, where she studied dentistry. When she came to Miami, after a three-year haitus in Spain, when she fled Cuba, she became a surgical nurse.

Virginia Maria spends most of her time texting on her cellphone or playing bad Cuban music. Poor Justa just wants tranquility and silence. Intelligent conversation. And I cannot tell Virginia Maria anything because I am not fluent in Cuban Spanish, and if I question her, she flies off the handle—probably because she cannot understand me. It is difficult getting care providers and if I lose her, then I am stuck doing everything and I cannot do it all alone. My back hurts. The last care provider walked off the job the day I arrived. They are unbelievable, unprofessional, etc., but then they probably don’t get paid much either.

I arise around 7:45 AM so that I can give Justa her thyroid medicine. I change her pampers and also her nightie, if it is wet. This takes about 15 minutes. I turn on the daily mass for her and leave her to it.

I make my tea in a tiny carafe as there is no teapot large enough. The first time I made tea I used to tapwater and it was atrocious. I have discovered the hot water from the water dispenser makes a passible cup of tea. Not a decent one, but passable. At least I get my 3 cups of water in that way. My mug is the Mona Lisa. She doesn’t know whether to smile, nor do I at this time of the morning. Miami is three hours ahead of California time. So it is really 4 AM, which explains why I stagger down the hall like a drunken sailor. I am not used to being awakened so early in the morning.

I feed the cats, and the raccoon, a laborious process of many steps. The outside cats are not in great shape, nor is the inside cat, Buddy. He is deaf and senile; he is also a yowler, and no matter what I do, I cannot keep him quiet. I think he is looking for Kirk. It is hard to say as he cannot hear himself, let alone, me. I have tried clapping to get his attention but it doesn’t work. However, he can see. Sort of. Poor thing has a chronic eye infection, so his face is a mess. I don’t wipe off his face daily, but I should. He loves it and helps me clean his face.

He is an abandoned flame point Persian with blue eyes. Under ordinary circumstances, he might even be beautiful, but the owners declawed him and so he is permanently an indoor cat because of it. His teeth or not so good either. Now he is meowing that horrid sound outside the back door. Since he cannot hear, I am thinking of sprinkling water on him when he is particularly obnoxious, but he is an old cat and would not understand.

The other feral cats, have abscesses and are real dirtbags. They are starting to figure out that I am the gravy train. So they are cozying up to me for a head skritch. Heaven help me if the raccoon wants a scratch too. She has babies stashed somewhere in the back yard.

Last night it rained, thunder and lightning—and Buddy the cat yowled the entire night outside my window. After his breakfast, he goes into the hall and yells like a banshee. He hits the exact right note to exacerbate my dull-witted morning ears. So I generally toss him out right away. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get to hang out in the house, but I can’t stand the noises he makes. I have never heard such volume in a cat.

Then I prepare Justa’s morning pills and rice pudding breakfast, timed for an hour after her thyroid medicine. But before that I need to take her blood sugar. I have been on my own with Justa for three days and still I cannot seem to get the blood sugar monitor to work. Either no needle, no blood, or error. Turns out there are no more needles left in the cartridge. After her bloodwork, Justa gets tiny Cuban cafecito con azucar.

Then I make her breakfast, which really is her elevenses if we were in Hobbitlandia. Cafe con leche y toast Cubano. Somewhere in the midst of all this I give Justa her eyedrops as well. There are so many things to remember I have to constantly refer back to my lists which are not sequential.

The care provider arrives late. My job is to make a salad and sort out the lunch, her job is to feed Justa, etc., but she needs help with dressing, bathing, etc. She is supposed to also do housework, but she does as little as possible. She is constantly on the phone talking to her husband, daughter, friends and relatives in Cuba—which is very strange for me.

By the time Virginia Maria leaves, I am supposed to feed the cats again, but sometimes I sit down in a coma and just stare at the wall, or the iPad. I am so tired. The idea is that I should also be feeding myself by then, and sometimes I have to force myself to eat. Luckily there is lots of soup and take-out meals in the refrigerator.

The first two days I spent re-organizing and cleaning the house. Everyone saves every bit of paper possible, every time something is bought, so everything is kept and nothing is thrown out. I must’ve tossed five or six big bags of recycle debris, not to mention, garbage. Nearly every chair is filled with something, and all tables are covered with stuff. It’s frustrating because there’s no place to get comfortable. Even the couches have hundreds of pillows on them them, so many but there’s no place left to sit.

I found what I thought was a dead cockroach snoozing in the middle of the dining room floor. I went to scoop him up with a large post-it, and he scurried off. don’t know if it was a native palmetto bug or an unAmerican cockroach. Just didn’t have the heart to step on it. Besides I was barefoot, and I haven’t yet had my morning tea.

So, a little sucker came out from under the bar for another visit. This time I was prepared. Flyswatter in hand. Whap! That’s one dead cockroach. How many more million to go? I feel queasy, oh, so queasy am I. Urg. So much depends upon my weapon of mass destruction, a red fly swatter on the table, next to the fruit bowl.

I am gaining so many new skills. When I went outside to feed the cats—I mean, it’s bad enough to have to face dirty cat bowls, or cans of cat food in the morning on an empty stomach before having my cup of tea—I was greeted by cat barf. My stomach is winning the queasy battle. Bilious stomach score 3, equilibrium score, zero. 

I think I need to lie down with Buddy the cat who comes over for a little scratch and a head butt, he is scent marking my iPad with his goopy eye, and he wants to snuggle, this is a first. I guess I am finally being accepted. Even the gris-gris cat outside wanted a scratch. If only my stomach would settle down. An opossum came during the night, leaving strange little starfish paw marks on the patio tiles. At least the raccoon cleaned her bowl. Small mercies. I think I may need to resort to a PeptoAbysmal chaser.

Ana the good care provider who comes on the weekend, brought me dozens of bananas from her garden. I think they’re bananas, but they could be platanos. Yesterday I bought what I thought were small bananas, they turned out to be tiny platanos.

Today’s agency care provider was an absolute joke. she came a half an hour late, she apparently had almost no skills and was definitely not a nurse, she looked like she was ready to go to a rock concert, or the mall—not even dressed for the job and then she expected me to do the work, missing the point entirely that she was being hired to do the work. I was torn between wanting to be gracious and polite in another culture to this new person and wanting to rip her a new one. The latter won out. 

What blows my mind is how no one actually speaks English at all. And yet they live here in America you’d think that by osmosis they would have picked up some rudimentary language skills, but, no. I have found that when I attempt to speak someone else’s language they equally reach out and attempt to speak my language. And between the two languages, we are able to communicate. Not with this one. She simultaneously quit and was fired at the same time. She lasted all of three hours on the job.

Despite everything going wrong, Justa and I have many laughs. She is teaching me to swear. She has discovered Alexa. And she is plowing her way through all the big band music Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, etc. We make up silly new lyrics to all the old songs. Who knew that Alexa would be an excellent eldersitter? I told Alexa Cállete! to shut up in Spanish, and Justa giggled and giggled and giggled. We are easily amused.

I am gaining odd new skills daily. Survival equals one nostril above water. Or, snorkel. But for some reason I have trouble taking Justa’s blood sugar readings. I don’t get enough blood and then I get an error signal and then I feel so bad that I have to stab her finger again and again. There must be a knack to this but I don’t seem to have.

The raccoon is upset because I’m not giving her enough cat food. I give her table scraps as she has babies, so a varied diet would be a good thing, but she shows her displeasure by throwing food all over the back porch. Or maybe it’s pleasure, it’s hard to say. However she did scoop out the rest of the papaya and leave a hollow shell. Her water dish is atrocious.

The opossum stole what was left of the Halloween candy. There are little silver wrappers glittering all over the porch. There have only been three outside cats the past few days. I think the orange one is dead. He was very sick.

Buddy the inside cat continues his yelling and sings all night long. I have taken to cuddling with him on the couch in the afternoon for a siesta which seems to calm his raging heart. He misses his beloved. But that cat has the howl from hell. I keep trying to record it but every time I sneak up on him he twigs me and stop yelling.The stairwell gives him maximum volume. He is positively a Pavarotti with laryngitis on those high notes.

OK so I fed Buddy the cat his second breakfast, his elevenses, and then he yelled again. I told him to be quiet in several languages. Nada. So I waterred the cat—he has been amazingly silent. I think he knows that he is not supposed to howl.

The food that the agency sends is atrocious for anyone who is a diabetic. Toto carbs. However, the opossum and raccoon are eating very well indeed. Fine porchlight dining and impromptu howling cat serenades. I’m still suffering from jetlag, and fall asleep practically in my dinner plate, and I’m still not done with my chores.

Florida Journals:

• • Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)
  • RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)
  • Re-entry is a bitch (Florida Journals)
  • Flying home (Florida Journals)
  • Inside-out & backwards interview (Florida Journals)
  • Key Largo snorkel tour (Florida Journals) (photo)
  • Maimi Beach (Florida Journals)
  • Disconnectivity happens
  • The color of blood (Florida Journals)
  • Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)
  • Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journ...
  • A new day beginnith (Florida journals)

• • Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Losing the plot (Florida journals)
  • Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Maimi Majordomo (Florida journals)
  • Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)
  • Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa
  • Airborne

Old Florida blogposts.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

DEAR GOOGLE, My Woodside play is missing, looks like Google deleted it

OK, FOUND V. 3 on an old hard drive. Will restore it later. Right now I’m too disenheartened to think.

Final copy is missing. I found a first draft in my scanned notes. The short play would’ve been posted on my blog Sept 26, 2016. It was a smash success. I did a lot of historical research and incorporated folklore. Neil was so good as a vagrant ghost that some of the guests tried to run him off.Literally.

Woodside Spook Party Sat Sept 24TH 2016

Links to some of my foodie bloggies

I was compiling a bloglist of foodways for my latest food blog, expecting to find a mere handful. Instead, I found 25 blog posts, and when I compiled a growing list, for some inexplicable reason, Blogger erratically erased the correct links. I had to redo this list too many times to count. I no sooner fixed three dead links, then when I reformatted it, other links went wonky. And so on. For every step forward, I retreated two steps. It took me most of the day to undo the damage. Shame on you Blogger for once again making what once was a relatively simple task into a logistical nightmare. Ditto that with your dogged changing of spelling in the search window. Foodways is a real word. The links are in no particular order, but are mostly chronological in nature. I'm sure I missed a few.

A note on native foodways in the British Isles vs. foods introduced by Romans
Wild Apples

Defiant Fruitcakes

A note on Medieval spices

A note on Medieval turnspit dogs

Folklore: Foodways, saying, a food thief/ house sprite
Folklore: Foodways/ How to make Irish Soda Bread

Folklore: Irish Soda Bread Recipe
Corned beef & cabbage came out of Hell's Kitchen

Groundcherries by any other name 

On Jack O Lanterns and squashes 
Lemon Meringue Merengue
Elderberry Whine

Baking a Cake on Bastille Day

Writing down the bone soup

Recipe for bone broth
Tea vs Chai—if by Land, or Sea
Tapping trees: a soggy story
Arbutus, Madroño, or a Strawberry Tree by any other name
Irish salmon
Naked man in a filbert bush, and spotted dick

Shrove Tuesday Pancakes

Fat Tuesday pancakes

Huckleberries