I was going to be in the neighborhood, so it was with great excitement that I made the trip to the current cat craze coffeehouse, the first in Seattle, nay, Washington State, the Meowtropolitan Cat Cafe. (As the name suggests, the venue itself is begging for puns, so pardon my jumping in on the pun fun.) I envisioned having a leisure cuppa while being charmed by alternately lazy or playful cats of all colors and sizes, endorphins oozing out of my pores. I’d read the articles and hype leading up to the opening recently, and was surprised to see it required reservations. Now they are open and their website is up, I understand the rationale  – only 10 people at a time are allowed into the separate cat lounge to interact so they don’t get over-stimulated. The website suggests placing reservations two weeks in advance, and the $10 cover charge includes a drink and 50 minutes of feline fun time. The cats wear g-strings so you can stuff in a tip when they are particularly cute. (Okay, that’s a total lie.)

​The cat area is nicely done, a glorious cat haven, with high ceilings, scratching posts, wooden cubicles lined in burlap they can chill in, ramps and high spots to climb nearly out of petting reach, and a bridge I kept hoping one would venture across, but alas, was not meant for my peeking eyes. After sanitizing your hands in a double-door area between the café and the cat zone you can bring in your beverage and torment the kitties with feathers on sticks and pet to your furry heart’s content – if they deem you worthy of their attention. Unless you rub yourself with catnip before you go in, (oh my, isn’t that a brilliant idea that has the potential to go horribly awry!) I would say you should keep your expectations low. They are cats, after all. They sleep two-thirds of the day, and there are nine other people in their room vying for their blessed attention all day long.

​

​Of course you can also walk in simply for coffee and pastries; they have some adorable trendy cat-faced macarons, that were frankly too cute to eat. I had a “Death by Turtle” bar, which I managed to survive. They offer your usual beverage choices – including a “catpuccino” plus a mocha cleverly named the “meowca,” which looks good in writing, but when the barista called it out everyone shared the same perplexed expression trying to cipher out what he was actually saying. Like, sorry dude, I don’t speak that jive cat language! I had my 8-ounce latte in a porcelain cup on a saucer, which gets a thumbs-up in my book, though when I placed my order after several scrambled minutes of waiting  – in a jagged queue that wasn’t designated as either an order or pick-up line – I wasn’t asked my choice of “here or to-go?” and noticed every other customer had the sadly universal wasteful paper cup. (Come on, Seattle! Haven’t you got with the program yet?!) Seating consists of a few rustic wood tables and a bar top area at the counter as well as one with four stools at the window looking into the cats – the prized area for those of us too cheap to pay for cat time. There is also a full-length window next to the front door, two-people wide, which was usually occupied while I was there, so I spent most of my time head-bobbing back and forth to catch sight of the promised cats. Other than that, the best place to get your voyeur on is looking through the window from outside.

Considering they booked over 800 reservations in the first few days of opening, I suspect they’ll do well. They need to work some bugs out on the coffee front, but I imagine they’ll be successful at adopting cats out, and providing a feline-fix for those sad folks who don’t have the pleasure of a cat at home. My cat café curiosity is quenched. Meow I know. 
​

Part 3
I’m in a low-income psychiatric clinic waiting room today. It smells like smoke, wet coats, and hopelessness. It’s a sad indication of our current society that I’m thinking this would be the type of place someone would come in and start shooting. I spend a few minutes figuring out the best way to save the most people and stop the gunman, because I’m sorry but I couldn’t just let it happen. My 20-pound purse could possibly disarm him, and I know my MacBook could probably cause some damage. I dropped it on my lap last week and the starship-shaped bruise is still on my thigh. The woman sitting next to me looks normal enough, but she’s chewing her gum and I can hear her breathing, the teeth chomping away, her slurping up of the saliva squirting up out of her glands. I type harder and faster to counteract. Crazed Christmas music is playing – Trans Siberian Orchestra – and it’s making me tense. I overhear a patient saying she had to stop taking her medication because she was low on money, that she’d start taking it again at the beginning of the year, and I want to help, to pay for this month’s meds as a gift, but we’re low on money, too. The temperature is pleasant enough but the heating system has a high-pitched whine like someone relentlessly trying to start a car on a cold morning with no success. Whitney Houston has taken over the airwaves and she sounds crazed as well. Maybe it’s me. I’m wearing a sheepskin vest that’s quite cozy and bohemian looking, but I find it hard to get comfortable in these plastic chairs. It’s bringing back unpleasant flashbacks of parent-teacher conferences. The horrible whining has stopped; turns out it was someone’s car. I find it ironic that I have considerably relaxed when Mr. Grinch comes on. Am I a Grinch this year? A Scrooge? I’m just getting sapped being strong for others. I want to let myself be sad, but you just have to keep going on, don’t you? 

Part 2
​In the waiting room at the clinic again, fourth time in two weeks – I’m the driver. My health is fine except for a gnarly cold that has been producing Blue Ribbon-sized googies – like I could take these babies on tour. Step right up, ladies and gents, behold the amazing two-pound gunk! I’m sitting in the upstairs area, a few empty chairs well lit by windows, yet I can hear a vet on the phone downstairs who has a very clear, loud, frustrated voice that’s projecting up the stairwell, trying to illicit help from some type of legal authority by the sounds of it. I know he’s a vet, because he mentions it a lot, just in case we forget for a second. The entire time I’m there staff from the clinic attired in assorted ugly Christmas sweaters walk back and forth with decorations, crockpots streaming trails of tantalizing meat smells, salad bowls, trays of goodies, for their company party while this man accompanies the jingling bells of their festive jewelry and the parade of cross-eyed snowmen leering out at me from their sweaters with his complaining, berating, negative attitude, heavily sprinkled with “eviction.” I’m trying to feel empathy for the man, yet can’t help wondering how it feels to be on the other end of the phone – you’ll catch more flies with honey than vinegar, dude – and how the staff party will be able to shrug off the heaviness of their jobs for a moment of lightness while the guy’s endless futile phone calls are being broadcast into their room while they bite into a bittersweet Christmas sugar cookie.

Part 1
A man steps into the waiting room filling the door with his frame, proceeds to take off his puffy green coat, followed by the ceremonious unwinding of a colorful fleece blanket from around his substantial girth, where it gets caught on his tonsured, sweaty head, his face broad and red-weathered, his eyes intelligent, though I’m trying not to make eye contact, because I don’t want to get drawn into his crazy, but then my interest is piqued when he starts mumbling poetry like Whitman, Kerouac, Morrison, sprinkled with lyrical flowing biblical references, and when a name is called “Christine is an angel” barely audible under his breath as he waits for the nurse to call him in for his appointment, only when she does comes out she tells him they can’t help him today, and he politely asks for a clean bandage and a pair of scissors, and gently schools her on how he does it and she nods, and says a few canned words that make it seem like she’s listening as she backs away, “a huh, a huh,” dismissing herself to get back to her other more important duties stepping backward cautiously and never returning  with a bandage, so the man struggles to lean over and pull up his pant leg, jeans folded up so 6 inches of pale denim are exposed, revealing worn tennis shoes too narrow for his feet, the shoe strings wrapped around and around the bottom and over the top of his foot, and grunts as he finds the end of the Scotch-taped Ace bandage, and breathlessly begs pardon from the two women sitting across from him, saying he would do this at home, but he doesn’t have one.

 
Every year after Thanksgiving it seems as though December pops up like a Jack-in-the-box, momentarily terrorizing me, and then making me laugh in embarrassment; I knew it was coming all along, but it still surprises me. Life has been challenging the last couple of weeks, and instead of embracing December, I feel like putting on some boxing gloves and pummeling that Jack-head until it rolls off its spring. Instead though, I shall grin and bear it, and cheerily share a recipe with you that would be a great host gift, one they can put aside and dig into the morning after the party, as is, or warmed.
 
This recipe comes from my James McNair cookbook collection, breakfast. I made it with cranberries to get into that holiday groove, and the tart pop of the warm berry bursting in your mouth balances the rich sweetness of the cake most pleasantly. I also have to note that any recipe that has the instruction to “lightly beat” or “crush” or “smash” is always an extra point in its favor with me. If you’ve ever wondered what that means, simply loosen your grip on the implement of the moment, whether it be a fork, whisk, back of your chef’s knife or pestle, rock your head back and forth and sing “la la la.”  Light of hand, light of heart.

Upside-Down Breakfast Cake
11/2 cup (1 stick) plus 2 Tbsp. unsalted butter,
at room temperature
1 cup packed light brown sugar
2 ½ cups fresh blueberries, blackberries, or cranberries
1 ½ cups all-purpose flour
2 ½ tsp. baking powder
½ tsp. salt
¾ cup sugar
2 eggs, at room temperature, lightly beaten
¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice,
or ½ cup freshly squeezed orange juice
1 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh lemon zest,
or 2 Tbsp. grated or minced fresh orange zest
(If you use blueberries or blackberries,
add lemon juice and zest;
if cranberries, use the orange juice and zest.)
½ tsp. pure vanilla extract
1/3 cup milk (not nonfat), at room temperature
 
Preheat an oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter a 9-inch round cake pan (or 8x8-inch square), and set aside.

In a bowl, combine 2 tablespoons of the butter and the brown sugar and mix well. Spread the mixture evenly in the bottom of the prepared pan. Spread the berries evenly over the mixture and set aside.
 
Place the flour, baking powder, and salt together into a sifter or fine sieve and sift onto a sheet of waxed paper or into a bowl. Set aside.
 
In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with a flat beater, or in a bowl using a hand mixer, beat the remaining ½ cup butter at medium speed until soft and creamy, about 45 seconds. With the mixer still running, slowly add the sugar, then stop the mixer and scrape the mixture that clings to the sides of the bowl into the center. Continue beating until very light and fluffy, about 5 minutes. Slowly pour in the eggs and beat until smooth, about 2 minutes. Stir in the lemon or orange juice and zest and vanilla.
 
Using the mixer on low speed or a rubber spatula, fold in about half of the flour mixture, then the milk, and finally the remaining flour mixture.
 
Spoon the batter over the berries. Bake until the top is golden and a wooden skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, 50 – 55 minutes. Remove from the oven, run a knife around the inside edge of the pan, cover the cake with a serving plate, and invert the cake onto the plate, fruit side up. Cool slightly before serving warm.
 
Serves 8 -12.
 

After two-and-a-half Thanksgiving-type food gatherings I am left wondering: is December 1st the worst time of the year to start eating right and exercising again, or the best time? Will I be setting myself up for failure?
 
I’m overweight. I’m fighting genetic obesity, and a fierce love of food, and enjoy curling up and reading, or writing, sitting stationary for hours at a time, which is not conducive to anything near svelte. Every year starting with Halloween, (those little fun size Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers made by the devil himself, in particular), it’s one big food fest until the end of the year. There’s this sexy pagan god running around with an enticing platter of food I can’t resist and I follow him for a couple of months, grabbing whatever I can and stuffing it into my eager gob. And every year a little more weight decides to stick around. But right now, I want to pull on some sweats (for exercise, not cozy-pants comfort) and start hitting a punching bag marked with different areas I feel really happy about punching: fat, money, crazy world, sadness, frustration. 
 
This recent glutton-fest started with an entirely vegan and gluten-free dinner last Wednesday, with hummus, homemade gluten-free pita, (which was like a rich mochi cake, all gooey and not very pita-like, but served its scooping purpose well), green cilantro chutney, cucumber raita, Moroccan carrot salad, dolmas with chanterelles instead of meat and a spicy tahini dipping sauce. I made everything myself (with Joe saving my impatient patootie from the sticky pita dough just before I hurled the entire globby mess across the room, which would also have been unsuccessful as it was sticking to my hands making me look like a rice-flour covered zombie). Regardless of the starchy pitas, the meal was a success, filled with vibrant lemon, garlic and spices. When our guest bit into her first dolma she covered her mouth, closed her eyes in what looked like pain and emitted a low moan that increased in volume to a wail. I was worried she had bitten her tongue, and asked if she was all right, but it turned out to be a food-gasm. Now I know.
 
Thanksgiving itself consisted of the half-meal. I had one bite of turkey. It’s kind of complicated, but even when family is falling into a hole, I’m grateful that I can be there to lend a hand and a hug. Or give a hard loving push, depending on the situation.
 
Saturday we had what I christened Our Big Fat Italian Thanksgiving with my side of the family. Classic lasagna, fettuccine, panzanella salad, spinach salad, red wine, decadent desserts (recipes to follow in separate post when I’m not talking about how fat I am) —it was heavenly! And we’re not even Italian. I just wanted something other than turkey and potatoes. Cheese, that’s what I wanted, and it was delivered!
 
 My dad took my family out for breakfast the following morning for one last hoorah, (spellcheck suggested 'hookah' here, which I thought was very humorous...) and though I had resolved to select a simple, healthy meal, the bacon, tomato, avocado Benedict started batting her eyelashes on the menu at me in all it’s creamy, salty, saucy glory and I had to order it. To my credit I saved half of it for this morning’s breakfast, but walking out of the restaurant I waddled like a penguin to the car, tummy leading. The post-holiday walk of shame. When we got back to my parent’s house we stepped through the door into a cloud of lethargy, each retreating to a couch or chair and nodding off. I took myself back to my old bedroom, now an odd mixture of sewing-room and guest room, with only a couple of hints of my past existence – a smiley-faced candle, a cat candle with enormous eyes, a Japanese doll – and rolled my sausage body onto the bed. The trip home was a haze of sleepy.
 
So, determined not to go through the next month in a food stupor, I made a wellness appointment with my doctor for two weeks from now, so I have a little time to start taking my calcium supplement again, and exercise away my food sins. Wish me luck!