          
|
|
 |
 |
During the first act, I found myself very confused by the show. I wasn't used to seeing actors embrace such a parade of stereotypes. I was taken aback, even turned off, by the simplicity of the characters and their uncomplicated motivations. Far too familiar with the modern trend of attempting earth-shattering, emotionally ravaging theater "experiences," I was not expecting to see such a down-to-earth, compassionate production. The story is simple and sweet: a few days in the life of a large poor-but-happy family that exists blissfully even under the yoke of the Depression, forming a bizarre zoo of folks, each with their own eccentric, kooky, lovable traits. Mr. DePinna (Ryan Koch), an ice delivery man who showed up years ago and forgot to leave, builds fireworks in the basement with Mr. Paul Sycamore (Mat Cornwell), who is the father figure for a multitude of unconventional offspring. Paul Sycamore's wife, Penelope (Shoshannah Crow), is strange enough herself, as she writes rotten plays on a typewriter that she believes was an omen calling her to the craft, when in reality it was delivered by mistake to their house. Their daughter Essie (Donzelle Richardson) feels she is destined to be a ballerina, and despite years of lessons from a boisterous Russian dance teacher, Boris Kolenkhov (Aaron Elkin) she isn't a very promising pupil. The rowdy atmosphere grinds to a bit of a halt when the abrupt discovery is made that the patriarch of the family, Grandfather Martin Vanderhof (Steve Mandell), seems to owe a near fortune in back taxes, as he does not believe in them moralistically and has never chosen to pay. Because of the everyday joyful chaos of the family life, no one bemoans their worries about the money, but it is obvious in the subtle changes in interactions that the household is perturbed. At the same time the financial problems are brought to light, it is revealed that the most normal family member, Alice Sycamore (Laurel Sturgis) has fallen in love with the upper-crust son of her Wall Street boss. While she loves her family, she is also afraid that their quirkiness will humiliate her or her lover, Tony (Antion Ray) because of their class gap. However, as the romance progresses, Tony insists that he adores Alice's family and doesn't care what his family thinks. In a lovely nighttime scene, Tony and Alice return from a date to the ballet and they dance together on the sidewalk outside Alice's home. They kiss, whisper, and laugh together. Tony broaches the topic of marriage. At first Alice objects, pointing out the dissimilarity between their lifestyles. In a few moments, though, Tony has wooed her with loving words and gentle promises, and it is clear how much they really love each other. However, even though Tony himself loves Alice's family, that doesn't solve the young couple's problems. Despite their passion for each other, their lives are still opposites, a truth that becomes glaringly obvious in a climactic scene in which Tony brings his parents to have dinner with his fiancée. Even while confronting such topics as classism and the Depression, You Can't Take It With You is a very funny show. The fabulous work of Kaufman and Hart is still laugh-out-loud funny 70 years later. The play could have followed many different courses, a predominant number of which would have been detestable. But as we enter the theater we put our trust in director Patrick Torelle, and he does not fail to transport us into a happy little world where we can safely laugh and love. Torelle has done a terrific job with the assistance of his dynamic, energetic cast and the breathtaking set design of Skip Hubbard and the outstanding costumes of Sue Surdam Bean. You Can't Take It With You is a delightful romp. It plays through May 12. Back to Top
Recently I've been talking with people who have moved to this community from many different regions of Mexico. They garden in backyards, community gardens, and apartment courtyards in Eugene, Springfield, Coburg, and Veneta. I asked them -- which Mexican vegetable and herb varieties grow well and taste good under Oregon conditions? How are the ways you grow plants here the same as in Mexico, and how are they different? Juan Escobar, a tree-planting foreman from Guerrero, plants dozens of chile peppers in his Springfield garden every year. His favorites are 'Anaheim' and 'Habanero.' He thinks 'Serrano' and 'Jalapeno' don't become hot enough here. He harvests his chiles as they turn red and dries them in the sun. "Dried Anaheims are mild. We add them to chicken, so the food won't be too spicy for the kids." Mauro Montes, a Springfield landscaper from Oaxaca, grows mostly 'Jalapeno' chiles and early 'Tam Jalapeno.' "In fall, when I go hunting, the chiles are ready. My friends and I eat deer and jalapenos. My friends like chiles, but sometimes the jalapenos I grow are too hot for them!" Mauro plants pepper seedlings big and early - sometimes the end of April - for a long season to mature fruit. He waters deeply every eight days. Alberto Sanchez, a timber contractor, keeps his chile plants moist in heavy Veneta clay. In his garden, 'Anaheim' and 'Habanero' hardly grow but 'Jalapeno' and 'Serrano' thrive. "I water my chiles every two days, so they keep flowering. When the flowers stop, I cut back on water." When Alberto lived in Jilotepec, near Mexico City, he didn't irrigate because he gardened from April to October, the rainy season. He helped his parents grow corn, beans, and pumpkins.
Most of the gardeners I talked with grow green tomatillos. Mauro thinks purple tomatillos taste better. (I prefer them because I can find the fruits more easily.) I was startled when Alberto said he uses green tomatillos fresh all winter. Graciela, Alberto's niece, showed me a wire basket hanging in their kitchen, filled with tomatillos harvested in fall -- still fresh in April! "Harvest the tomatillos when they are still green but the husk is brown," Alberto told me. "And keep an eye on the basket," added Graciela. "If one tomatillo rots, throw it away fast." Most gardeners from Mexico grow cilantro, especially 'Slow-Bolting.' Cilantro often self-sows. Mauro plants cilantro seeds in September; small plants winter over to grow lushly in March. Lucio Rodriguez, manager of Mekala's Restaurant, thinks the biggest, tastiest cilantro comes from soil that is well cared for. He grows alfalfa for green manure, resting the soil every third year. From his grandfather in Pueblo, he learned, "We take everything from the earth. We have to give something back." Marcelina Ramirez Ortiz, a nursery worker and homemaker, was in the midst of preparing tamales and Oaxacan mole for her booth at Fiesta Latina. Sharing dried epazote with me, she explained, "Simmer the beans until they are almost done, and add a little epazote in the last 20 minutes." Epazote is a pungent lambsquarter relative that seasons beans and tamales. It dies back in winter and resurfaces vigorously in spring. Marcelina's first epazotes, from U.S. seeds, tasted bland. She got better seeds from Mexico. Marcelina and other gardeners from Oaxaca mentioned papaloquelite, which tastes somewhat like cilantro and grows wild in Mexican corn fields, and verdolagas -- purslane -- which Mauro's wife Angelica adds to mole at the end of cooking. German Galicia, a roofer from Oaxaca, overwinters hoja santa, sacred leaf, with broad tropical leaves and a spicy flavor, against a protected wall in his Springfield garden. German and others have tried to grow Mexican varieties of dry corn to grind for tortilla flour. German laughs. "My neighbors were surprised! The plants grew 15 feet tall. But they froze in October before there was any corn." Cesar Gutierrez, a musician from Mazatlan, had good luck with 'Rainbow,' a multi-colored corn from Corvallis. "It has good flavor, not too sweet. When I grew 'Rainbow' corn, I prepared the soil in fall and covered it with plastic in winter. With soil that was not soggy, I could plant in April 4 but still, the tortillas I made didn't taste like the ones I remember from Mexico. This summer I'm planting corn from Ecuador." The experiments continue. For these gardeners, growing plants is an ongoing process of adapting to the Oregon climate, revising, growing plants they remember, searching for others. For many, gardening is a family tradition they bring from their homeland. Juan says, "It comes in my mind every year -- I've got to plant." Lucio adds, "I don't want to forget my old background." Marcelina smiles, cuddling her baby Luisito. "I like working in the garden. It makes me happy to see tomatoes and peppers growing up. I like to grow food for my family and give food to my friends." A recommended book is The Edible Mexican Garden by Rosalind Creasy, 2000, paperback, $14.95
This guiding motto leads me to track down favorite chefs when they change lairs. Whilst hunting and gathering in the recently opened New Frontier Broadway Market Bistro & Wine Bar deli case, my heart skipped a beat as I spied a beloved rice pudding. Oh, be still my gastronomically aroused tummy! Could it be that Andrew Trieger had left the Oasis Deli, aka Wild Oats, and had been set free to create in a kitchen worthy of his stature? One rice pudding bite later and I knew I had found my man. I could taste it all -- eggs, milk, cream, Basmati rice, honey, vanilla bean and cranberries. Oh, goody-good gumdrops! I ordered a small bowl to chase my breakfast special, which was an exceptional deal of squeezed OJ, tea or coffee, and choice of two entrees ($4.99). A word of praise must be said for the breakfast offering of sugar and cinnamon encrusted French Toast made from Pane Como from the Metropol Bakery ($1.75 each), topped with organic maple syrup. My other breakfast entree was the frittata du jour, composed of smoked duck, sausage, mushrooms, spinach, red onions and cheese, and served on designer greens ($2.75 each). Simply delectable. The Bistro is one-third restaurant, one-third wine bar and one-third grocery at the southwest corner of Broadway and Charnelton streets, just west of the now-endangered mall. This third store of the Hardy family has been open almost a year. As in all their stores, the emphasis is on fresh, natural foods. Organic produce is usually purchased from local vendors. To conduct an unbiased review, I ordered little bits of many salads, entrees and soups. I dined with my Symantec son since love of fine food is a genetic trait in our family. Thad had his regular garlic-herbed chicken breast, grilled to a low-fat, high-taste perfection ($9.99 per pound), along with a tasty Broccoli Twice-Baked Potato ($2.75). I set myself the task of chicken-salad tasting, since I have high standards set from many meals at the New Morning Bakery in Corvallis. I am happy to report that the Chicken, Asparagus and Roasted Red Pepper Salad ($7.99 per pound) is almost as good as it gets in Eugene, perhaps due to the lemon juice and tarragon flavored dressing. Less celery would have made it totally perfect. Wines to go with meals surround diners on all sides, and the bar keep is happy to make recommendations. The Bistro offers monthly winery events that feature four wines with four-course meals for 16 people who reserve ahead. A superb new addition to the Bistro offerings is two cases of Sweet Life Patisserie goodies. I stuck with my rice pudding, but Thad lapped up a Key Lime Tart that hit that right combo of barely enough sugar to avoid muting the lime. Not all my choices made the A list. The other chicken salad -- Classic, I believe -- relied on way too much mayo and celery and not much else. The white bean salad was "beans all right," as Thad said, but boring. Ditto with the meatballs. Still these things sell, to other palates I presume. Be aware that seating is somewhat limited, although it rarely feels crowded with tables spread throughout the store and a few outside. Another offering at the Bistro is the diverse clientele of yuppies, hippies and suits -- something for everyone. Breakfasts are served until 11 am. Dinners and lunches can be purchased
at any time, both from the deli case and sandwiches or salads made to order. There
are seven dinner offerings, ranging from $7.99 to $10.99. Reserve seats for Saturday
and Sunday night dinners featuring two more expensive and extensive specials. The Broadway Bistro, 200 W. Broadway, opens at 7 am weekdays and at 8 am on weekends. It closes at 10 pm Mondays through Thursdays; at 11 pm on Fridays and Saturdays; and at 8 pm on Sundays. Call 685-0790 for more information. Back to Top
The whole trip, Mole nattered about Satanic forces behind California wine marketeers who had corrupted consumers' taste for white wines: "'Chablis-inna-box' -- dat's not chablis" -- ranting, raving, both hands off the wheel -- "not a smidge of chardonnay grapes inna whole carton. It's sugared schlock, so when the peeps see some fine French chablis on the shelf for $30, dey tink it's a rip and dey never taste great flavor & 'n dat's not the only crime: Chill the whites! Ice 'em down 'til dey gots no taste at all. Dat's a felony!" Meanwhile, the rig bottomed-out a dozen times as we wove through swampy wetlands dotted with huge, reeking skunk cabbage blossoms, splashes of brilliant yellow against dark muck. I caught flashes of white, last of wild trillium, then dense stretches of gold Scotch broom, all bordered by looming giants of fir, cedar, even an occasional redwood. Mole had lured me out of the city to meet the mysterious Treetop, a Buddhist forest-dweller obsessed with white wines (weird, but no accounting for taste, et cetera). After a mere eon, we jerked to a halt somewhere near the ends of Earth. Mole rolled out his side: "We'ah heah!" I thought the little maniac had lost his mind, then heard a deep voice call "Hello!" from heavenward. I looked up, and up -- there, about 40 feet into the trees I could see the bottom of a house floor braced into the tall trunks of four firs. Then I noticed an elaborate ladder built into an old-growth fir -- uh-oh, climbing, heights, trees, nope. "C'mon, Sleuth! It's safe!" Mole's round booter was halfway up the ladder. I began to climb, iron grip on each rung. Eventually, my head rose through the floor, into a beautiful structure, a large single room, simple furniture, lots of windows, sliding glass doors to a large deck. "Welcome!" boomed a voice, still above me: Treetop, nearly seven feet tall, lanky as a heron, dressed in browns and greens, face and hands deeply tanned, waist-length black hair shot with grey, black smiling eyes, maybe 45 years old. He held out a hand about the size of a horse blanket, wrapped it around mine, gently tugged me toward a table set with sparkling glasses, plates of cheeses, breads, chilled seafood tidbits. "Glad you made it," he rumbled. "My friend Anthony" -- Mole! -- "helped me select some nice little whites your, uh, clients might enjoy, options other than Napa chardonnay, all quite affordable." He loomed over the table, began to pour. A breeze gently rocked the treehouse. "I deeply cherish Oregon Pinot gris, but let's savor some other whites, first these from Amity Vineyards." The giant lined up three charmers: Amity 1999 Dry Riesling ($10), crisp, clean, low in alcohol but delicious in flavor, with apple/pear and mineral notes, fine with Asian and vegetarian dishes. Next came Amity 1998 Dry Gewurtztraminer ($9), citrus notes, tingle of spice, refreshing, wine for curries and peppery recipes. Third was one of State's newest ( and potentially best) Pinot's, Amity 2000 Pinot Blanc ($12), ripe, round pear-like flavors, like river pebbles, just yummy gottahavit vino, so versatile with a wide range of grub. When I raved, treetop split a wide grin, like a wedge cut from a sequoia. "Here's a surprise in this vein, from Austria, Peter Schandl 1999 Pinot Blanc at $14.50, rich and complex, pretty fruit, pears and stones." I slurped, conjuring fantasies of fresh halibut, dreams of Dungeness crab, rainbows of trout. Next, Treetop poured pale gold liquid in which danced sunrays, like Tinker Bell in the glass. "Little known Italian I consider very special, particularly with light pasta dishes with olive oil, garlic, good Parmesan." Treetop beamed, offering crusty bread, slivers of Reggiano, a salver of Tuscan oil with Falchini 1999 Vernaccia di San Gimignano ($9). Impressive citrus/herbal with slightly resin qualities, echoes of Greek retsina but with more finesse. Dab of oil on bread, wedge of cheese, sip of wine -- wedding bells. Last was Stoneleigh 1999 Sauvignon Blanc ($10), another superb New Zealand version of this varietal: pretty citrus/lime notes, hints of peach or apricot. Paired with fresh oysters or mussels, the wine would sing. Treetop filled our glasses, gestured through the sliding door to a wide deck open to pale sky. Mole scurried out, cackling at my wonder. We found seats, dangled legs on the high perch, lingered over Treetop's lovely whites. Breezes brushed our faces. Something to be said for our host's airy eyrie. I almost forgot the city -- and the chilling prospect of Mole driving us home.
But it was not always this way. I once worshipped the shapeshifter of glorious consumption. Starbucks Coffee. Lexus sedans. The Bon Marché. Then I discovered the enlightened path. It was destiny. It was fate. It was being stuck in Burrito Boy on Taco Tuesday with nowhere to sit. It was the cosmos compelling me to share a table with the Frugal Buddhist. My life was forever changed. At the time I could not tell he was special. I could tell only he was bald. I asked, "Is this seat taken?" "No seat is ever taken," he answered. "Like our time on Earth and a glass of beer, it is only borrowed. Please, sit down." After a few minutes of awkward silence I made a lame attempt to start conversation. "Man, this chili verde is as spicy as a jalapeño bonfire," I said. Thoughtful and composed, the Buddhist responded. "Yes, but be aware. Like the candle of eternal light, it can burn at both ends." I was instantly smote with his powerful but simple insight into flaming gastrocity. I wanted to know more, to learn, to harness the torque of the V-8 Engine of Truth that this man was revving at dragstrip speeds. Before the guacamole was done we had become friends, and soon, student and teacher. We engaged in discourse on many subjects, but frequently came back to my issues -- the fears and desires caused by materialism. "When you discover your essential nature, in that knowing is the ability to fulfill any dream, any possibility," the Buddhist told me. "It is the pure power of the self that is our internal reference point, not the objects that our ego desires. Our true identity is our energy, our consciousness, our bonds with the living universe around us. Not things. Not possessions. Not the trappings of the material world. Except for DVDs. Those are excellent, man." Through his wisdom, the Frugal Buddhist awakened me to the shallowness of consumerism, the Nirvana of yard sales, and the transcendency of haggling over used cars. Phones and phone bills, even more than the clergy jokes he relished, were frequently springboards for our lessons. "Master," I once revealed to him, "I recently had a call to switch phone service," "Yet, no sooner had I hung up when the old company called, saying they'd do whatever it would take to get me back. What," I queried, "is up with that?" "Long distance services are surrogates for the forces of good and evil, which are invisible to us on this Earthly plane," he sagely observed. "From them, we can learn. "When one says 10 cents a minute, another says 9. When one says 5 cents a minute with unlimited free weekends, the other says -- with frequent flier miles. The secret is to not be attached to the outcome of things. In detachment lies the intuitive tension of uncertainty. Seek freedom by holding out. At least until those sons of bitches pay you." When the Frugal Buddhist announced he was moving to Port Townsend, to take a job as a greeter at the new Wal-Mart there, I was struck with sorrow. "Do not be upset, my young friend," he consoled me. "Like Nietzsche's mythic camel that trod into the desert to become a lion, it is now time for you to dump your hump and measure the world on your own." "Yes, I know, master. But Wal-Mart?" "It is the noblest calling, to be of service," he explained, stroking his white goatee. "And besides, I'm a people person." It is strangely right that he will be guiding others along the path of enlightenment as he guides them to $3.99 plastic storage bins. I hope someday they will give him his own aisle. I was helping to pack his U-Haul4you can sure get a lot of candles in a 24-foot truck4when I asked one last question. "Master, the inherent validity of both science and intuition make it possible for the co-existence of evolution and reincarnation," I posed. "Therefore, as a race, we keep improving, becoming more intelligent, wiser, learning from the past. How then do you explain gas-powered leaf blowers?" "Things are not what they seem," he suggested, slamming the door on the truck, flashing a thumbs-up, and rolling north into the rain shadow. "Nor are they otherwise."
. |
