A Day for Meat Wrapped in Dough

The Richmond District of San Francisco, though rather foggy, has a lot to offer.  First off, it's between two fantastic parks: Golden Gate Park to the south and the Presidio to the north.  Second, there are multiple mini-parks as well.  Perfect for a quick afternoon play session.  Here's Mimi making her way through a tunnel for the first time!  She was a bit unsure at first, as usual, but soon loved it and refused to come out.  My body was...how shall I say this...a bit too generously proportioned to go in and get her out. 

Third, though the neighborhood, particularly Clement street, is known as San Francisco's second Chinatown, there's a wealth of astounding and affordable restaurants hailing from almost every culture across the board.  Dim Sum is cheap and plentiful at "Good Luck" on Clement, the Banh Mi (Vietnamese Sandwiches) are to die for at Little Vietnam Cafe on 6th ave, and the best garlic sausage you'll ever find is at the Seakor Polish Deli on Geary.  Mix in some fabulous pizza at Giorgio's, savory burritos at Gordo, and a few succulent burgers at Bill's Place, and the Richmond gives many Manhattan neighborhoods a run for their money. 

The historical Irish and current Russian population also adds to the culinary prowess of the neighborhood, particularly when it comes to the meat stuffed in dough category.  Stuffed pies and pastries are foodstuffs sadly overlooked here in America.  We have the often poorly produced pot pie, as well as bagel and corn dogs, but nothing to match a good English or Irish pasty.  And that brings me to John Campbell's Irish Bakery and their perfectly filling $5.00 pasty.  It's basically a shepherd's pie in flaky crust.  How can you go wrong?

But if $5.00 is a bit too steep, may I suggest a peroshki.  The Moscow and Tbilisi bakery offers beef piroshkis, each the size of 7 churros, for a mere $2.00 a piece.  If ever I need to live on $4.00 a day, this restaurant is how I would do so.  The picture below is but a snippet of the entire piroshki, pared down so that it could feed me, Mimi, and half of Wisconsin. 

Why have we, as Americans, forsaken these amazing foods.  They're inexpensive, portable, filling, and delicious!  Even Japan has their own take on them with the curry donut!  I can't explain it.  And don't try to say that calzones or, God forbid, "Hot Pockets" are the same thing.  That's just not the case.

Even babies love them.  After just a month, Mimi has already become a devoted fan.  Of course, a piroshki needs to be part of a balanced meal - like the one below with hearty udon noodles and tasty, vegetable-laden salad.

As you can see, Mimi approves.

Cooking for Mimi is often a challenge.  She rarely likes the same thing from one day to the next.  We're lucky if we can stretch what appears to be a favorite food into the next meal.  But, for some reason, she consistently devours pasties and piroshkis without complaint.  Perhaps she is my child after all...

Wake up! I Wanna Play!

Twice a day this phrase blares from the confines of Mimi's bedroom.  Closed doors and solid walls cannot hold it back.  Granted, she does not put her request so concisely and ungrammatically.  In the morning, Mimi brings out her father with either a massive and piercing wail - which could wake a heroin addict from even the deepest stupor - or with sweet and gentle babble, which I imagine is her personal commentary on the skill with which she's thrown her bedclothes to the floor.  In the afternoon, between 2pm and 4pm, Papa will be called from his book or his writing with a gentle to aggressively insistent "ih-hi, ih-hi, ih-hi, aaaaaahhhhhhhh!"  No matter what, though, when I go in to get her, I'm always greeted with a sweet smile.  It helps to take the sting off those cut-short mornings and interrupted afternoon naps.  

Yesterday though, for the first time, this same phrase was uttered in my home with Mimi sound asleep.  That's right.  I said it.  I was bored.  I didn't want to read.  I didn't want to watch Top Gear.  All I wanted to do was play with my loveable, but insane, little girl.  And so, I wanted her to wake up.

I opened the door to her room.  On any other day this would be absolute folly, bordering on the edge of suicidal behavior.  But I didn't care.  This was going against every previous fiber of my being.  Each afternoon and each evening - and I don't think this is going to change, actually - I start yearning for Mimi's eyes to get heavy.  When they do, and she finally submits to the crib, it means I get a little precious time to myself.  This time is worth its weight in myrrh (and this calculation is done with each half-hour equating to 2 metric tons).  Here I was with time to myself - I could listen to music, play Gran Turismo, eat a burrito, read European history focused on the 1930s and 1940s, search for vintage audiophile gear, the possibilities were endless - and yet all I wanted to do was submit myself to the whims of a little girl who says "Wee!" like a chain-smoking and drunken Frenchman.

To be honest, our playtime gets more fun each day.  With each new activity I see more and more of her individual personality coming out.  Of course, sometimes it's unpleasant (random passion for or hatred of certain books, for example), but most of the time she surprises me and leaves me laughing.  I never really know what's going to happen.

Here are a few pictures of Mimi at play.  The first three were taken at the Children's Park in Golden Gate Park, which is just phenomenal on a sunny day.  Like her father, Mimi has a passion for water.  Despite the many toys and distractions, she always makes a beeline for the flooded section of the sandbox.  This makes for a messy stroll home, but she loves it!

And then there's the backyard.  Fewer distractions here, so yesterday Mimi decided she'd be mesmerized by the sky.  This was cute until our next door neighbor decided to introduce herself, for the first time, just as Mimi was pretending to be a pseudo-philosophical college student high on some very introspective pot.   

Me wanting Mimi to wake up, despite it resulting in less time to myself, has been a welcome development.  It's rather sad to think that before I know it Mimi will have little interest in playing with her father.  She'll just want to text her friends.  And that's why I need to make the most of the time I have with her now.  It's also why she's not getting an active mobile phone until she's 27.

The First Born: Parentally Challenged

Last night Mimi played host to all of her Japanese cousins to celebrate her aunt Kayo's birthday.  By 6pm our little home was inundated with 6 relatively sedate adults and their 5 little ones.  Mimi, the youngest, worked extra hard (i.e. yelled even louder than usual) to make sure she wasn't lost in the shuffle.

Here's Mimi with her cousin Nana.  "Just a moment.  I'm drinking my milk!"  Nothing, not even family, comes between Mimi and her bottle. 

Steve's personal toy collection proved to be immensely popular and provided an excellent source of entertainment for the kids (and some level of anxiety for Steve).  Yes, if you haven't guessed already, that's an original Transformers "Megatron" in Shuhei's excited, but actually quite gentle, hands.  "Jetfire" looks on as Mimi goes to work on "Thrust" who, shortly after this photo, had both his wings ripped off and thrown into the other room.  That's my darling little girl.

Although Mimi was the youngest in the group, she was definitely not the most inhibited.  She's much closer in age to Sayuri and Asuka, who are both the second born in their families, but when it comes to temperament, she seems to take after her older cousins, both first born like her.  This surprised me at first, but then I got to thinking: maybe, despite family differences, all first-born children go through a somewhat similar experience.  Parenting has perhaps the steepest learning curve of any profession.  It's not that new parents do anything wrong, they just don't do much right.  And this has to leave some sort of imprint on the kids; something that all first-born share. 

But why is it that all new parents are so similarly challenged?  Shouldn't parenting be innate?  We see it, experience it, and talk about it all our lives, so why, when it finally comes our turn, do we struggle so?  I still don't know for sure, but this morning, while passing a laundromat, I stumbled across a possible analogy.

Sheet Folding and the First Child

It's the first day of your new job as a professional bed sheet folder for Reynholm Industries.  You are charged with expertly folding 300 individual sheets by the end of the day.  At 30-something years old you've done your fair share or laundry and feel confident that folding sheet after freshly-pressed sheet shouldn't be all that much of a challenge. 


How wrong you are.  The first 20 to 30 sheets you fold are a massive challenge.  Your hands never seem to move the cloth correctly and the resulting pile of linen is a haphazard and jumbled mess.  However, by the 50th sheet you seem to be getting the hang of it.  At the 100th sheet you are really moving along and with excellent accuracy.  This continues all the way up to around sheet 280 or so.  You're almost finished and, with the prospect of a free afternoon and some cash thanks to a job well done, you stop thinking about your work and start focusing on the evening to come.  You get a bit lazy and your folding, while still acceptable, is definitely sub-par.  

Right now, as a new parent, I'm still making my way through those first 100 sheets.  I think I may be somewhere around sheet 37.  There's still a long way to go.  Hopefully, by the next kid, I'll be around sheet 100 or so and I'll be able to forget that I ever proposed this rather sheety analogy (sorry, I couldn't help it).

Cute on the Front Lines

One of the benefits to living in San Francisco is being immersed in living history.  Everywhere you turn there's a link to the past, be it a building, a monument, or even a transportation system.  New York, since its inception, has been a city bent on transforming itself.  Only recently has an earnest effort been made to protect and preserve some of the city's gems.  Our old apartment building, the Cherokee, is one of these landmarks.  San Francisco, on the other hand, has done a better job of maintaining the massive architectural and engineer projects, as well as the historical homes and neighborhoods, that not only give a great city its character, but also tell its story.

A vital and strategic port to the U.S. since 1850, San Francisco also has a tremendous and well-represented military history.  As a kid I remember taking a trip to the Marine Mammal Sanctuary, which is up in Marin.  Seeing the process of sea lion rehabilitation was interesting, but what really fascinated me were all the nuclear material warning signs above the doors to the massive, and now defunct, missile silos.  The bay area is filled with these visitable and explorable nuggets of military history.  They're seamlessly blended into the parks, waterfronts, and thoroughfares.  And so, as a military history buff, it was time to take Mimi for a quick visit to one of the old battery installations along the coast.

Unfortunately, many of the installations were under renovation, but we were able to get down to Baker Beach and toddle around the battlements.

All the strolling soon tired Mimi out, so she sat back in the clover (it wasn't actually clover, I just don't know the name of the green stuff she's sitting on).  She must've liked the view because she was content for a good 20 minutes.

The fog was quickly rolling in, so we had to cut our visit short.  Here's a picture of the Golden Gate.  Obviously, this is not how it's most often photographed, but for me, this is how I tend to think of it: shrouded in fog.  Often like much of this surprisingly cold city!

At least there's some sunshine in the forecast for next week.  Maybe we'll be able to get across the bridge and see those sea lions again. 

Sandbox Sympathy: The Art of Sharing

Mimi may only be 16 months old, but she already has a motto: "Share Nothing"

This unfortunate and honestly rather embarrassing credo of Mimi's has been in place for some time.  We first noticed it back in New York when she'd take to bossing children 3 times her size and 5 times her age.  Now in San Francisco, the city of peace and love, Mimi is blatantly rebelling against the spirit of her new city by wrenching toys from the hands of her unsuspecting cousins, swiping remote controls from her parents, and hoarding hotel shampoo bottles in her bunny basket.  And when you ask her about it you never get a straight answer.  She just babbles some excuse, generally "Bookah, bookah, bookah, boooo, dido, dido, dido, dido, ahhhhh?" and then toddles to the other room to rifle through my wallet. 

Mimi's approach to sharing is particularly challenging, at least for me, when we visit the park.  Our outing yesterday began well.  Mimi tackled the stairs of the small slide independently, even making way for other children as they scrambled past.  Here she is at the bottom of the slide. 

And what do you think it is she's reaching for?  My iPhone, of course.  And she didn't get it because I'd never get it back.  This caused a "misunderstanding" between us.  I said, "No."  Mimi said, "Ahhhrrr!"  It was time to find a new activity.

With Mimi still objecting to my cruel monopolization of her iPhone, we walked to the "deep end" of the sand box.   There we were lucky enough to come across a bucket and some scoops.  Mimi was overjoyed.  20 straight minutes scooping, sorting, spreading, and dumping went effortlessly by.  I even got to check my e-mail. 

We almost always come across sand toys when we go to a park.  Often they have been left behind - a kind of community donation.  They're generally in poor shape, but still hold sand, and that's all Mimi needs.  Unfortunately, the ones Mimi was playing with belonged to a sweet little girl and her mother who, in the midst of Mimi's playtime, had to go home.  It was time for us to go as well, so I handed them back to the kind and considerate family.  Mimi, however, was not pleased.

As I attempted to bundle her into the stroller she let forth a stream of obscene baby babble that, if translated into "adult," would've been banned from all the major television networks, Showtime, HBO, and even Howard Stern.  Maury Povich may have let it slide - like he has his career - but that's about it. 

Embarrassed at the situation, I looked over and saw the little girl who had loaned us the bucket was concerned about Mimi.  She looked downright sad for her.  And she couldn't have been more than three.  Inaudibly she must have asked her mom about it because I heard the response, "She'll be alright, honey."  It was a mere 5 seconds after that comment that I finished preparing Mimi's bottle and popped it into her wailing mouth.  Silence and smiles prevailed.  The little girl looked relieved and her mother commented on the miraculous power of milk.  The outing ended on a good note all around.

I'm sure that Mimi will learn to share in time, but I'm beginning to think it's going to take a lot of patience and guidance on behalf of her parents.  She's looking out for number one right now.  I've a feeling a younger brother or sister may seriously challenge that approach.  For the better.  

Lastly, I'd just like to thank all the American Dairy Board for their excellent work.  I, for one, am deeply and humbly in their debt.

Bored? Here's a Bucket!

Occam's Razor (roughly phrased and blatantly simplified for my own purposes): 
When faced with multiple hypotheses, all other aspects being equal, the simplest explanation is generally correct. 

It's a rather straightforward concept and a great principle to keep in mind: don't confuse the issue with elaborate explanations, though they may sound more impressive.  For instance, the other day I couldn't find my car keys.  After two minutes of desperate and distracted searching, my fecund mind began to picture my innocent wife snatching said keys from the counter, thrusting them into her purse, and taking them with her to the hospital via bus.  Obviously she had done this intentionally.  Perhaps because I had told her in no uncertain terms the night before that I needed the car.  She wanted to punish me.  But for what?  It was while considering the 34th vindictive possibility for her "rude personal transgression against me" that I discovered the keys hiding in my pocket.  "Ah yes," I thought, "that certainly makes more sense."  Sorry, hon.   

As a new parent, I've found that sometimes I am similarly over elaborate when it comes to entertaining my child.  In a previous post I had mentioned that a barren back yard is hard to play in.  It needs equipment.  Thus, I went out and bought some.  Several days of play, though, has taught me that I was perhaps over-thinking the problem.  Before I bought that first ball the yard was already equipped with a hose and a bucket.  Mix in a sunny day and you have endless possibilities for play. 

To be fair, this wasn't any ordinary bucket.  It was an ordinary watering bucket.  And, for reasons I still can't explain but kind of understand, Mimi loved it.  She wanted to water everything.  Except the plants.  Completely filled it would weigh well more than Mimi, so I was kept rather busy refilling that jug every 2-3 minutes as Mimi scampered about the back yard bringing refreshment to cement and dead wood. 

Eventually, of course, she tired of the bucket.  This meant it was time to bring rain on a sunny day.  Take that, Credence Clearwater Revival!

The nozzled hose became my weapon of choice.  The spigot turned to full power, I would take my aim as Mimi walked unsuspectingly along the garden square. 

My own child ruthlessly in sight, I would fire a two to three second burst high into the air. 

A second or two later the rain would come crashing down, oddly localized right over Mimi's head.  This was generally followed by manic giggling (from Mimi, not me). 

Thanks to the can and the hose, we turned what could've been 10 to 15 minutes of outside boredom into over an hour of enjoyable, and cheap, adventures.  I can't wait till she gets a bit older so I can turn that hose on her full force.  Just like my parents did to me.  I understand it now.  It's all about gentle payback!

Sun, Sand, Surf, and Spew

I've always loved convertibles, but they've played only a minor role in my automotive life.  My 914, which I had for a scant 3 years, was a targa, so at least I could take off the roof.  Not that it was ever really on.  It actually snowed on me in that car.  For me, and pardon the cliche, there's nothing better than an open road in a car with the top down.  And I want to make sure Mimi develops a similar mentality ASAP.  So, when my Mom offered that we take her convertible Volkswagen Eos on a sunny drive up into the Marin headlands, I jumped at the chance.
Heading north across the Golden Gate Bridge we soon found ourselves headed for Mount Tamalpais and Stinson beach.  This meant time on Highway 1, which is, I have to say, God's greatest gift to the automotive enthusiast.  Mimi had fallen asleep, so we kept the top up all the way to the beach.  Upon arriving, on an atypically bright and sunny day, we realized something.  Today wasn't just Mimi's first trip in a convertible, it was her first time at the ocean!

We found a nice spot well removed from the surf and set out our trusty picnic mat.  Mimi, somewhat perplexed by the unstable brown stuff underfoot, stuck to the mat at first.

That brown stuff looked familiar, though, and before too long she'd made the connection.  It was the same stuff she'd dumped all over herself in that cement box in the park in NYC.  "This is sand!" she realized, "I'd better start throwing it at people."  And so she did.  Within two minutes half the picnic mat had been buried. 

A water lover like her father, Mimi was soon drawn to the waves.  With Mama's help she made her way through the unstable and tricky drifts to the cool, damp, and infinitely more stable sand at water's edge.

 The excellent footing gave Mimi newly found confidence and it was all we could do to keep her from racing into the waves.

Her first real wave, though, which came up to her knees, was a bit of a shock.  "Why is this so cold?" she seemed to shriek.  "And what's happening under my feet?  The ground seems to be going away!"  Before long, though, she'd gotten her beach legs and was making the most of it.  She eventually tired Sumie out and we had to send in a substitute.  Grandma was happy to oblige.

We eventually returned to the car, crusty but happy, and put the top down for the drive home.  Mimi loved it.  She can be a bit of a screamer in the car sometimes, but the full view of the amazing scenery was providing a welcome distraction to both baby and parents.  I began to think that maybe I should get a convertible someday, too.  I tend to enjoy driving more when there's no screaming.

But, even with the excellent views out of a convertible, there's no getting around the fact that Highway 1 is a very enjoyable but very twisty road.  The kind of road that brings things up that are better left down.  Five miles in I glanced over at Sumie, who was looking a little green, but hanging in there.  She'd stopped talking, which meant she was feeling a bit nauseous, but could handle it.  Mimi was quiet.  I thought that maybe we'd make it to the main road without incident.  And then, just as I was getting comfortable, came the unmistakable sound of vast quantities of semi-digested milk, juice, and Japanese pretzel sticks being hwarfed violently back into the light of day.

5 minutes later, after changing Mimi's clothes once again and wiping down her unfortunately still rather stinky carseat, Mimi seemed to be in good spirits.  We bundled back into the car and I gingerly made my way down the mountain to the main road without further incident.

Despite the vomit, I'm still quite intrigued about a convertible as a family car.  When the top's down it's far easier to get the kids in and out of car seats.  And we live so close to the beach, amidst such wonderful scenery, that it's virtually criminal to deprive them of an unobstructed view.  It's going to take a lot of research, but I have time.  I have no idea what car we'll eventually get, but I do know that we'll be going back to the beach.  Though Mimi won't be able to say so in words, I'm sure that she'll insist on it.

Dinner for Two? We're out of Practice!

As a family, we're pretty good at dinner.

We generally cook for ourselves, eat together around the kitchen table, and make less of a mess each day.  Well, at least Mimi does thanks to her new bib, a gift from her adopted Grandmother, Mrs. Hoshino, in Japan.

We can even entertain with general ease.  Last week we invited our friends Hanayo and Juan over for steak and salmon.  A delicious dinner was on the table 30 minutes after firing up the barbecue.  I cannot begin to express just how comforting it is to be able to grill again.  There's something in every man's soul that screams to set fire to meat.  It also means that I'm less likely to do the dishes!

Nearly 16 months of dinner for three has taught us how to cook quickly and efficiently.  By learning how to cut down on our prep and clean-up time, we've been able to eat as a family each evening without it feeling like a chore.  We were feeling good about our dinner skills.  But all that changed Saturday night.

With Grandpa Reber out of town on a hike, Grandma decided to come in and stay an evening with us in San Francisco.  This meant that for the first time since Mimi's birth, Steve and Sumie had the opportunity to go to dinner as a couple.  We were excited.  We'd had the occasional lunch together when Mimi was in daycare, but we'd not been on a date in 16 months.  Perhaps more.

And so we prepared.  Thanks to a local foodie show, we settled on a nice little restaurant in Hayes Valley called "Sauce," which offered portobello mushroom fries, tater tots in truffle oil with gruyere and bacon dipping sauce, and many other tasty tidbits that reward the palate and punish the waistline.

The food was great, the ambiance relaxed, and the restaurant relatively quiet.  Everything we were looking for.  But despite the great setting, something was off.  After nearly a year and a half of eating with baby, Sumie and I were woefully out of practice when it came to a couple's night out.

Our conversation, though engaging, focused on the following:  Mimi, finances, three-year-plan (where will we live and how will we afford it), work, and life-balance.  It was all good, necessary conversation, but not exactly what one would expect on a romantic night out.  By dessert our talk and our topics had finally started swinging around to us; the two of us.  It had taken nearly two hours, but we eventually did get beyond the baby, the house, and work.

The drive home was fun.  We both realized that, as a date, it wasn't all that successful, but in recognizing that, something clicked.  Family will always come first, even, at times, at the cost of our personal relationship.  But if we try, if we give it some time, we can always find that connection we shared when it was just the two of us.  With Mimi in our lives we not only have a new source of joy, a new way of living, but also a new means of making us reaffirm what made our relationship so special in the first place.

Backyard Shenanigans

For ten years I lived without a backyard.  And it wasn't all that bad.  On the West Side of Manhattan we had Riverside Park and on the East, John Jay Park.  Many city dwellers think of their neighborhood parks as extensions of their homes; their "backyards," so to speak. 

But now, in addition to Golden Gate Park, we actually have some space in the back of the house to call our own.  And that's posed a problem.  Our "adopted backyards" had always come fully equipped.  All we had to do was bring a picnic mat and we were set.  Our actual backyard, though clean and tidy, is rather barren.  I hadn't considered it before, but a barren backyard is no more useful than an empty room in the house.  Handy, but not that functional.  I needed some stuff.  But what?

Patio furniture would have to wait.  It's been ten years since I've had a backyard and I'm not ready for that kind of commitment.  Not yet.  I decided to start small with a few surprises for Mimi.  The first, and I had forgotten just how important having one of these around can be, was a new soccer ball.

We play a little game called "get the baby."  Mimi will run to one end of the patio and I'll kick the ball toward her.  If I hit her, I yell out, "Gotcha!"  She's taken to repeating after me.  "GAHSUTHA!"  She's getting pretty good at stopping the ball now.  Maybe she'll be a goalkeeper someday.

The other surprise was a little ride-on fire truck.  This took some figuring out for Mimi, but she was soon scooting along the pavement on her own. 

There's a slight slope to the patio leading from the garage down to the garden railing.  This is Mimi's race track.  I'll prop up the rear of the fire engine on the garage door ledge and then Mimi will shoot herself down the hill with a mighty kick.  The girl enjoys speed.  Hmm, maybe if she keeps this up I'll be able to bring her to her first track day in 12 years or so.  I guess that means I should get to work on a track day racer, right?

Of course, unlike adults, toddlers are amazingly adept at finding things to do even in the absence officially sanctioned leisure equipment.  Mimi will take the steps down from the patio to the garden, with Papa's help, at least 5 or 6 times a day.  First, she scopes out the situation.

Then, she contemplates that first step.  Is it worth it?

Sometimes it still feels a bit overwhelming.   

But, with Papa's help, she always makes her way down successfully.  Again on flat land, Mimi races around the track.  Often with Papa running behind her shouting "GAO!" like some kind of overweight and uncoordinated Japanese tiger.  "Well, at least he seems to be having fun..." she seems to smirk. 

Her races run, Mimi will take to organizing the garden.  This usually consists of picking up dead leaves from the cement path or moving the wood chips from the garden's center to the planter bucket which has no bottom.  Why this is done, I have no idea.  She seems to seek order in things outside the house.  Sad that her organizational impulse for the outdoors is consistently supplanted by a destructive impulse when she comes inside.

Before I know it Mimi will be taking to her first tricycle.  I can't wait to see her pedaling around that back patio.  It'll be cute.  And maybe, just maybe, she'll be distracted enough for me to get some reading in.  One of my personal favorite backyard activities.

Unintended Acceleration: Some Thoughts for all who Drive

Yesterday, while pulling out of the garage, the oddest thing happened.  As I slowly backed from the garage into the street, checking my side mirrors for parked cars and my rear-view for oncoming traffic, I noticed my car speeding up, ever so slightly.  I applied more brake, but the car only continued to speed up.  I hit the brake harder, only to pick up more speed.

The total distance was perhaps only 20 feet, the speed, maybe up to 10 mph, but it was genuinely frightening.  It felt as if the car was fighting me.

I didn't panic, though.  Instead, I eventually backed my foot off the brake and shifted the car from drive to neutral.  The engine was screaming at this point at 6,000 rpm, but the car had stopped.  I looked down at my right foot.  It was planted on the brake pedal, but had slipped, almost imperceptibly, onto the accelerator as well.  As such, the harder I had pushed on the brake, the further down I had pushed the gas, causing the car to accelerate.  I slowly shifted my foot entirely to the brake, the revs dropped, I put the car back into gear, and went along my way.

Now, as a person who loves cars and prides himself on his ability behind the wheel, this is rather an embarrassing story.  I've been driving for nearly 20 years without an accident (knock on wood) and know the mechanical systems of my cars well.  Yet yesterday I nearly lost control of my car simply backing out of the driveway.  It's because I can't believe I did this, that I made this stupid mistake, that I need to share the story.

Several years ago there was an outcry, and some claimed a scandal, regarding "unintended acceleration" in certain Toyota vehicles.  While Toyota did find that some of their cars may, in exceedingly rare instances, suffer from a stuck acceleration pedal due to pedal or floor mat design, there seems to be no evidence of cars accelerating "on their own."  The NTSA found that this was almost always caused by driver error.

Unintended acceleration has been blamed for 89 deaths, according to complaints fielded by the traffic safety administration. But in a separate study of Toyotas involved in accidents, the agency concluded that most cases of sudden acceleration were probably because of drivers stepping on the gas when they thought they were stepping on the brake.

     -New York Times:  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/09/opinion/09wed2.html

As someone who experienced the very unsettling sensation of my car accelerating against my will yesterday, I can understand why so many people claimed that they had experienced a mechanical error.  It really did feel as if the car had taken control and was "disobeying" me.  It's very disorienting and disquieting.  For some time after, even though I knew the unwanted acceleration had been my fault, I had a feeling of "distrust" towards my car.  "How could I make such a stupid mistake?  It must be the car!"

But this is a very dangerous attitude to have behind the wheel.  Cars break down or fail from time to time, but we humans are far more fallible.  I've been walking since the age of one, and yet I manage to trip slightly or stumble at least once a day.  Even worse, I've been eating since the day I was born and somehow still manage to bite my tongue from time to time.  And yet when these things happen I never blame the shoes I'm wearing of the food I'm chewing.  So, why was I so quick to blame my car?

I think it's human nature to occasionally scapegoat our tools when we ourselves make egregious errors with them.  With every video game system I've ever owned, from Atari to PS3, I have, at some point, blamed the controller for causing me to fall down a pit, lose control of my race car, or mistime a shot at an enemy who then, happily, killed me instead.  Almost without fail, however, when something electronic or mechanical doesn't do what I want it to, the fault is my own.  I've set it up wrong, misread the directions, gotten the controls confused, failed to plug it in, etc...  When I eventually calm down and retrace my steps, I invariably find I was the one at fault.

The vast majority of accidents on the road occur because of driver error.  That's a fact.  We can all keep ourselves a little bit safer by keeping this idea in mind.  Unintended acceleration is a prime example.  In most cases, the driver is doing something wrong.  And, because of the initial error, when it comes time to correct the mistake the driver only makes it worse.

My experience with unintended acceleration - and driver error - got me to thinking about how we can better protect ourselves behind the wheel from, well, ourselves when this kind of thing happens.  Despite all the press Toyota received from the initial complaints, nothing much helpful was shared when it was determined that the accidents were attributed to human error.  If it is human error, how do we improve upon it?  I don't claim to be an expert and make no guarantees about the strategy below working every single time, but, upon reflection, this was at least helpful for me in my situation.

If your car seems to be accelerating against your will...

1. Don't panic or make any sudden movements.  This kind of over-reaction can just make matters worse.  Slamming what you think are the brakes can result in just pushing the accelerator further down.  Turning the steering wheel violently to get off the road can result in a skid.
2. Shift the car into Neutral or, if needs be, Park.  The most important thing to do is to disconnect the engine from the transmission so that it can no longer drive the wheels.  This means shifting into neutral in an automatic or simply putting in the clutch in a stick.  Drivers should know how to do this quickly and without thinking.  Shifting into park could damage the transmission, but that's far better than crashing the car.   
3. Don't Immediately Try to Turn Off the Engine.  Once you put the car into neutral the engine may be screaming, but don't turn it off just yet.  Turning off the engine can be quite dangerous, particularly at freeway speeds.  Not only will the steering column lock, making it impossible to steer the car, power steering and power brake systems will no longer have power and will require far more force to operate.  Let the engine scream until you can stop safely.
   
4. Come to a Gentle and Reasonable Stop.  Pull to the side of the road safely - no sudden movements - and then turn the car off.  

These steps seem very simple and obvious, but it's amazing what a little disorientation and a little panic can do to someone behind the wheel.  The best thing one can do is to simply remain calm.  We owe it to our passengers.  They're rather important.

Sorry today's blog was a bit pedantic and preachy, but my experience yesterday really had an impact.  If you found this post at all instructive or helpful, please feel free to share it.  I honestly don't remember learning any of this is Drivers' Ed, which is a shame!

A Weekend of Family, Friends, and Homesickness

This Saturday we braved the weekend traffic for a family birthday in the east bay.  Mimi's cousin, Lucy, was turning two and with the girl cousins currently well outnumbered on that side of the family, it was imperative that Mimi attend.

Here's the birthday girl, along with her Grandpa, Dad, and Uncle enjoying the beautiful weather.  The sunshine fit in well with the yellow themed party. 

The yellow theme ran to the food as well.  This was great news for the kids as they were able to gorge themselves on mac and cheese.  Yellow cupcakes followed.  They were very good.  So good, in fact, that Sumie decided to snatch Mimi's cupcake while she wasn't looking.  Poor, poor child.  Cupcakeless, Mimi decided she'd use the rest of the afternoon to get a little work done on the car.

On Sunday a friend of my mine from high school dropped by the house along with her husband.  They arrived around 2pm and we spent the next few hours catching up while taking in a few of the exhibits at the Academy of Sciences.

Back at home, while preparing chicken karaage (Japanese-style fried chicken) the relative calm of that serene afternoon was rent asunder with the arrival of Kae, Eddie, and Mimi's cousins Nana and Sayuri.  It was great fun, but now, having experienced three young children running at full speed in a 1,200 square foot home, I'm thinking Mimi might need only one brother or sister.

Around 9:00pm, shortly after everyone had headed for home and Mimi for bed, Sumie and sat down to watch a little of the 9/11 memorial services and dedications.  By 10:00 there were tears in my eyes.

Neither Sumie nor I lost anyone in the September attacks.  But they still hold a powerful sway on us.  That terrible day ten years ago, just before the events unfolded, found me in my tiny living room in Japan and Sumie at JFK Airport awaiting a mid-morning flight from New York to Tokyo.  I was watching the news in Japanese.  I couldn't understand much, but the pictures helped.  And that's when the newsflash came on.  One of the twin towers was on fire.  That was as much as I could make out.  Minutes passed.  And then live, on the screen before me, the second tower was hit.  What the hell was going on? 

It would be nearly 12 hours, and a very sleepless night, until I heard Sumie's voice confirming that she was safe. 

When I came to New York to live in August of 2002, the tragedy was no longer raw, but definitely present, particularly downtown.  There was still fear in the city, yes, but far greater was the pervading community of remorse, resolve, rebuilding, and rebirth.  Sumie and I lived in the city those ten years of regeneration following the attacks, and they were very special years.  Despite New York remaining a city famous for its contradictory human congestion and anonymity, there was definitely a shared spirit, a sense of recognition and fellowship, between those who chose to make the city their home.  New Yorkers may have a reputation for being rude, but if you're one of them, you know full well that your fellow New Yorkers have your back.

And so, when the tears came late on Sunday evening, it was not so much in response to 9/11, but just a severe bout of sheer homesickness.  It was a shocker.  I'd never experienced homesickness before.  Not when I moved to Davis for college, to Japan, or to NYC.  Sure, with each transition there were things and people I missed dearly, but never that urge of needing to return home.  At least until last night.  It was powerful and only now is it really starting to wane.

Don't get me wrong.  I love San Francisco and coming here to live near our family and friends was by far the best move we could have made.  But it's not home.  Not yet.  Manhattan, beyond being one of the great cities of the world, gave me my wife, my first career, my first home, and my first child.  No matter San Francisco's benefits, and they are significant and many, it will simply take time to accumulate the life experiences essential for turning a wonderful place into a beloved home.