[sic]

At the northwest corner of Crescent Heights and Wilshire this morning sat a weathered man holding a weathered piece of written-upon cardboard in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. I don’t remember what the sign said verbatim, but it included the words “Please Help” and gave information that the man was hungry and had no place to go and that he was a veteran of the Korean War.

Had the light been green to cross Wilshire and continue southward I would’ve just kept on going, but it was red and so I pulled beyond him and stopped and even though he was out of my sight he stayed in my mind — especially the word “hungry” — and so I pulled up onto the sidewalk and retrieved the container of yogurt and the banana and the Luna bar out of my backpack. It was to have been my 400-calorie breakfast consumed later at my desk, but suddenly I didn’t need it because he needed it more.

As I drew beside him, he jumped a little at the sound of my voice when I said “It ain’t much sir, but you’re welcome to it,” and then he gratefully accepted the items and said “God bless you” and I said “And you” and he caught sight of my bike with a sidelong glance and added “Be careful out there!” and I said “Thank you, take care” and I got on my way.

And so it was that a crew of five of us set out with about 40 fresh and piping hot burritos on last night’s revitalization of the dormant Hollywood Burrito Project ride and we learned that no good deed goes unpunished. We headed up Western Avenue where first I flatted my rear tire after nailing the sharp lip of a deep pothole between Melrose and Santa Monica. After innertubes were swapped and the new one inflated we found our next obstacle in the form of haggard, wild-eyed antagonistic Buddy Ebsen-looking transient bastard who arrived from across the street as we were passing out food to the six or seven homeless encamped at the Big Lots! store on Vine Street a couple blocks south of Sunset.

“What are you doing?” he demanded to know. “Are you bothering these people?” As if he was their guardian or some such shit.

“No,” I told him, “we’re just giving them something to eat.”

“Something to eat?” He inquired sarcastically.

“Yeah, burritos.” I held one out to him. “Would you like one?” He took it from me, but instead of it having any sort of calming effect on him, instead it set him off.

“A burrito?” he said it like I’d just handed him a used tissue. “Is that it?” Taken aback that someone would be so willing to bite the hand that literally feeds them, none of us said anything.

“Really? A burrito? That’s all you’ve got?” He looked at the people laying on the cement against the storefront bundled as best they could against the chill of the night — all of whom were appreciative of what we offered them. “These people probably eat better than all of you and all you give them is a burrito?”

Let me preface the short remainder of the post with the point that it was obvious to me that there would be no winning the argument this idiot was making — and a hypocritical idiot at that given that he accepted the burrito I gave him and when I indignantly asked for it back from the ingrate he refused to give it. Instead with an abject lack of regard of the good — however little — we were doing and the efforts we were making, he insisted that we “sell our bikes” and give the money to the poor.

At some point I finally ramped my own sarcasm and stepped up to thank him for the insulting buzzkill he was providing, and immediately after came a chorus of voices from the people prone before us who clearly did not share his warped point of view and instead thanked and blessed us profusely for our kindness.

Heading away from the jerk I pointed out that we’d be back next Wednesday if he wanted another burrito and to bitch at us some more, then I suggested to the crew that it might be high time to introduce the Knuckle Sandwich Project to the area.

It’s amazing how 10 pounds of rice and 10 pounds of beans can fill up a backpack.

I’ve had these foodstuffs for several weeks, but the Burrito Project I’ve been involved with went dormant after I bought them.

With intentions expressed toward getting the Hollywood Burrito Project going again next week, I hauled these a couple miles over to the young lady whose kitchen will be used to make the burritos.

I’ll be out of town for next week’s run but hopefully I’ll be able to help out the following week.

After I got back from yesterday’s bike tour and crashed out in the livingroom watching the finish of the marathon I woke up to find my Baybee hard at work clearing and cultivating along the north fence, the better to get a garden of ‘maters and spinach and lettucesses growing.

I later recovered enough to pitch in with the backyard’s overall de-weeding and raking.

P.S. Just to update: In regards to all that enthusiasm for trying out yesterday and perhaps playing in an adult baseball league this season. I don’t like to think it evaporated like the rains from last weeked that postponed the previous Sunday’s tryouts. More like it was replaced with the reality that without much much much more practice I have neither the skills nor the willingness to make the required commitment. Maybe next year.

On Gower under the Hollywood Freeway this was one of our last stops and certainly the location of the highest concentration of homeless. Overall we gave away 40 burritos last night. Here we fed seven  people as indicated by the notes in the snap at right posted to Flickr plus one more not pictured on the sidewalk behind me(click image to check it out).

It can be argued that feeding the homeless with no greater purpose leaves them dependent and does nothing to enable their escape from the streets. While that may be true, what is truer for me is that moment of transition when the food goes from my hands to theirs with no agenda and no judgment. In that brief interval of giving and receiving I stand apart from a society that shuns and instead acknowledges them as humans who matter, who count, who deserve. For that short span we are brothers and sisters helping each other.

With 17 years in its location on Silver Lake Boulevard just north of Effie, The Back Door Bakery & Cafe was a neighborhood institution. Thanks to a heads-up from Sean Bonner about the place closing yesterday after being given 30 days notice to vacate by the building’s owner, Susan and I didn’t miss the opportunity for one last fried egg sammich:

Back door’s proprietors are actively looking to relocate and reopen but they say it may be awhile, and so in the meantime there will be a hole in the ‘hood where once there was a hole-in-the-wall hangout.  And regardless of whatever moves in to take the cafe’s place, something will be missing. Farewell Back Door, you will be missed.

Several of the IAAL•MAF faithful gathered tonight at LaFayette Park for a chilly bike ride over to the recently opened Indulge Cafe at Pico and Redondo whose proprietors ran the dearly departed Mo’ Better Meatty Meat Burger stand.

Though I never got the chance to sample their wares, if the fabulous burger (above) and The Best French Fries I’ve Ever Had bear even the slightest resemblance to their ancestors, than indeed I missed out. And I’m glad their back! And I’ll be back!

It was Jo Gillis and the miracle of her “Charlie Brown” peach tree that got things started. Shortly after reading that post near the end of July I plopped into pots the pits of a pair of peaches (say that three-times fast) to see if they might grow, but so far nothing yet.

Jo later asked if I’d ever successfully grown an avocado from seed and I told her I’d previously and unsuccessfully attempted the same “drop, cover and hope” method as the peach pits and just for the heck of it googled “how to plant an avocado tree” and of course found out How To Plant An Avocado Tree. Passing on that link to her, she replied that she was going to give it a try and shortly thereafter so did I — aided in part by the seed of a store-bought Haas avocado that had already grown what the instructions call the “tap root.”

That’s the one on the far left, above (click to quadruplify), which has since added additional roots. As you can see since we immersed that one on August 5, we’ve grown our collection to include the seeds of every avocado we’ve consumed since.  The one on the far right also had a tap root already in progress; the one left of center has cracked and a tap root is just beginning to emerge and the one right of center is the least developed of the quartet.

We’ve yet to come up with names for them.

Adding to the hopes for the long-haul success of this undertaking is the recent discovery of the removal of an amazing neighborhood avocado tree around the corner from us that I wrote about on Blogging.la in April 2006. While walking the dogs last week I was shocked and heartbroken to find the towering tree so fantastically laden with fruit the previous year had been completely and totally destroyed.

Here’s hoping one or more of these babies can be its replacement.

Perhaps it’s because I’m guilty of having been rather proficient behind the fountain counter at the old Beverly Hills Swensen’s Ice Cream Shoppe where I worked during high school, but the $5 milkshake that I had Saturday at the vaunted Milk on Beverly Boulevard left a lot to be desired.

Like a shot of bourbon in it. Or my five dollars back.

I’m telling you back in the day I used to whip up some awesome heavy-handed stuff that was not for the weak or sugar/lactose intolerant. There was no subtle artistic blending of flavors with notes of freakin’ sandalwood or some such nonsense. Just good old-fashioned American sledgehammer ice cream. At the top of the list was a Vanana Fudge Malted (my own creation; it wasn’t on the menu) with a splash of milk, 12-ounces of French vanilla ice cream, a whole chopped banana, a strong dose of hot fudge sauce and three heaping scoops of malt powder that people used to come in and specifically ask for. Served up extra special thick and rich and dellish in a large frosted shake glass with whipped cream piled high and covered chocolate sprinkles and a mary cherry and the extra in the stainless steel cannister on the side…? Damn Sam, that’s how a shake is done!

And never mind my You Got Your Chocolate Ice Cream In My Peanut Butter And Banana Malted. I made that oooooonly for myself with my own peanut butter imported specifically for the occasion. Heaven.

In so knowing way around a shake machine and ice cream scoop when we stopped on our way back home from the Hammer Museum I took it for granted that with the buzz reputation that the popular Milk has developed, they would too.

Nope.

Sure, the over-the-counter ice cream sammich Susan had was wonderful, but by the time she’d more than halfway finished it was when they finally delivered my confection to our table, which is violation of Rule No. 1: Don’t give the customer any time to regret his order.  Shortly after its arrival I discovered they also blew Rule No. 2: Know how the hell to make a shake.

See there are certain things that are necessary for a shake to qualify in my book and this failed on all counts. Of utmost importance is that starting out it has to be thick enough where you have no choice but to go to the spoon; using a straw for extraction is just too labor intensive if not downright impossible, at least right away. Not mine. I used a spoon for the whipped cream and a little bit off the top, but it was so liquidy — like there was more milk used than actual ice cream — that I went right to the straw and in seconds was vacuuming up at the bottom. Second it’s gotta be big, or at least give the illusion of big. While Milk’s glass I’d been served had been appropriately tall (I’d guess eight inches), it suffered from a diameter no large than a soda can. Gotta double that. Third, pony up the overflow. It takes a very retentive person or business to make a shake that will fill up the confines of its serving glass no more or no less. There’s always some leftover (or there should be) and pouring it down the drain is not only wasteful but cheap.

With my once-bitten mentality should I ever deign to return to Milk I certainly won’t waste time nor money on their fountain offerings. Instead I’ll just keep to their simple scoops or their ice cream sammiches.

I’ve been curious about a gangly tree shrub growing in the neighbor’s backyard next to the fence that separates the two properties since I moved in with Susan almost three years ago. Situated between the lowquat tree and a large cactus, each spring there appears at the ends of many of its spindly branches a fuzzy greenish fruit. About a year ago I took one hanging over into our yard and sliced it open but it was decidedly unripe and didn’t help solve the mystery of what the fruit was.

Earlier this week I took another and again cut it in half but other than a faint apple/pear smell the fruit was unripe and hard and, based on the tiny bite I had, bitter but almost entirely devoid of taste.

So I took the above photo as well as a couple snaps of the tree itself and uploaded them to Flickr and sent an email to Erik of Survive L.A. Blog pointing him to them and calling on his organically inclined assistance. He took a look and had a couple other people look and one of them told him it was a quince, but he didn’t seem so sure because he didn’t think quince fruit had fuzz. So he suggested taking a branch into the expert at a local nursery who could ID it right there or contact noted author, ethnobotanist and survivalist Christopher Nyerges to get his thoughts.

So I wrote Nyerges and he quickly confirmed that it was indeed a quince and that the fruit “is related to apples and pears, and is a common fruit cooked and eaten as is or made into pies.

I’ll be keeping an eye on them babies in hopes that they ripen, but I’ll be making sure to stay away from the seeds, which are reported poisonous in the fruit’s Wikipedia entry.

Thanks Erik and Christopher!