MMMMMmm...vodka

It's autumn in San Francisco, which means that we finally have our summer. It was in the 90s here in the city today (oh: and we had an earthquake last night, proving once and for all that my mother was right -- there is such a thing as earthquake weather). Our loft does not have air conditioning, so around 12:30 we gave up and walked downtown and took cool shelter at Westfield Center. Which is probably spelled Westfield Centre, but since we are not in England, and since I'm doing the spelling.... Anyway: we shopped. We considered a movie, but decided against it. We at summery salad. We shopped some more. My husband is a champion shopper. It was fun watching him try things on. We'd disappear together into a dressing room, and I'd inwardly titter at the "God I hope they don't get out of line in there" looks we'd get from the attendants. We did not get out of line. He got four shirts, three pair of pants, and a sweater. I got a sweater. It was not my day for finding Fall wardrobe additions, which is a pity because I'm getting pretty low on clothing that fits. (This is good. Ballast ditching is working.) Anyway, then we walked back home with a stopover at our local, The Chieftan, for a Stella Artois. We were on a roll once we got home, so we graduated from beer to vodka and cranberry juice with a splash of orange juice, which goes down frightfully easily. I am violating my "don't drink and blog" rule. MMmmm. Vodka.

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I have a churchly conundrum. Next weekend my older brother is visiting me, and that Sunday a new priest is being ordained at my church. Greek Orthodox ordinations are pretty special, and it's not often one comes along, so I 'd like to see this one. Plus, the emergency backup priest, Fr. Pete (we call him Pete to distinguish him from the main priest, Fr. Peter), is super-cool. Example: during our recent Greek festival, I found myself serving him coffee from the Greek Coffee Bar and talking to him as if he were a regular Joe. And he was responding as if he were a regular Joe. I kept zooming outside myself and observing "You're having a normal, offbeat conversation with this guy, and he's a priest." It was pretty cool. And because I like this guy, I'd like to attend his ordination. However, my brother -- who is slightly autistic and comes to visit me for no other reason than to indulge his obsessive record collecting -- would be bored silly. So, I have a choice to make. Eat pancakes with my brother, or let my brother sleep in and eat pancakes alone while I go to the liturgy and ordination. Hmmm.

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Speaking of Greek things, I didn't dish about the Greek festival. It was fun! This is probably because I worked only one day of the three. I sold jewelry from noon until 4, and then went and sold Greek coffee until 8. I had the most fun selling coffee. Whenever anyone came up and ordered Turkish coffee, I'd say "Excuse me?" and when they ordered Turkish coffee again, I'd point emphatically toward the door and say "Out!" Actually, I like Turkish coffee much more than Greek coffee, and I stand by my opinion that Greeks can't brew coffee to save their lamb-loving asses. To get a decent cup of coffee or espresso in Greece, you must climb on a ferry or airplane and go to Italy. Anyway, it was incredibly busy. There were lines outside the door for our Greek dinner offerings, after which (of course) people streamed in for dessert. And the desserts were many and tooth-achingly sweet: baklava, melomacarona, galactoboureko, kourambiethes, koulourakia. It's impossible to eat these without something to wash them down with, and so we were inundated with coffee requests. Time and again, I'd spoon powdered coffee and sugar into the briki, add water, stir, then hold the briki over the heat until it foamed up, let it subside, heat it again until it foamed, them pour it into the tiny cups, making sure each one had a topping of "cremaki" (a little foam). For $1 extra, we'd add a shot of Metaxa. One guy kept coming by and ordering Greek coffee and Metaxa, then asking us to hold the Greek coffee. After my shift, I headed out into the still-crowded plaka area to buy some souvlaki and giro to take home for dinner. I hung around the back of the booths like a hopeful puppy until someone took my money and thrust warm, foil-wrapped packets into my hands, and then I shouldered my way through the human swarm, walked a few blocks to my car, and made my peaceful way home.