![]() ![]() My Aunt Betty was the eldest of her siblings and the matriarch of the family. ![]() ![]() I have a small one-burner camp stove that is powered by a can of butane that has served me well here in the lights on-lights off San Lorenzo Valley, and while pouring brandy into my hot Tom and Jerry mixture, heated on that camp stove, I thought back to those days when houses were heated with firewood, families eating dinners together each evening at five o’clock, bedtime for the kids was no later than eight o’clock, and if you came late to church on Sundays, all seats were taken and you had to stand in the back of the sanctuary. Undaunted, by candlelight, I labored on without PG&E’s power until my batter for the Tom and Jerry mixture was completed. If I were to complete the recipe I had been working on, it would be with my hand whisk just as my Aunt Betty did 80-plus years ago. I turned up the mixer’s speed, trying to outrun PG&E, but finished last in this now, oh so familiar race. I was in the kitchen adding eggs to the batter in my Mixmaster when the lights began to blink, that tell-tale sign that our lights were about to go off here in Ben Lomond. ![]()
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