Three Things We Miss Most

“What do you miss most about California?” people ask sometimes.

If the question was not what but who, then of course the list would be long. We knew that it would be hard to stay in touch with family, and it is. When the home phone and then cell phones ring in quick succession, we know a family member is trying to call. We are getting used to redefining our connectedness, calling regularly, sending an occasional package, and buying plane tickets every-so-often.

As each month goes by, we must admit the answer to the common question is, “Not much.” We don’t miss the sound bites from the only celebrity-status governor in America. We grimace when “Ahh-nold”’s distinctive voice comments on immigration or presidential primaries on local radio. I’ve heard his two cents as often here as I’ve heard our own newly elected governor.

We don’t miss the house payment that made it possible to own half the house we do now for twice as much money. By California standards, we couldn’t hope to own the house we bought, even if we waited and saved for twenty years. We got married two years into the housing boom. We were saving for a down payment when housing prices were rising five thousand dollars a month. Three years later we were barely able to get into the market. Only a miracle allowed us to get out of it without losing money. Last summer, prices were falling twice as fast as they rose. I know that the house we live in wont appreciate in value much, by California standards. I don't care.

We especially don’t miss the health care crisis. Seven hundred dollars a month was deducted from my paycheck to pay for our benefits, and my employer matched that amount as well. Here Craig and I were added nonchalantly to our respective health plans at no monthly cost to ourselves. I grimaced at the fourteen thousand dollar pay cut I sustained when we moved here. When I got my first paycheck, I only took home about two hundred dollars less per month.

I could easily continue a shrill harangue on the pitfalls of Golden State living for several more pages, but that would be unseemly. It’s better to look forward, not backward. We love our life in Kentucky. However, in an occasional magnanimous mood, I admit there are things I miss about California. Strangely enough, the yearnings that steal up behind me on a languid Friday night are not for entertainment, weather, or sunny beaches.

I miss the food the most.

1. Jamba Juice

Being a non-drinker, I’d have to say that Jamba Juice smoothies were the “frozen concoction that helps me hang on.” The neon-colored blended drink bars started popping up in the Central Valley about three years ago. I stopped seeing the distinctive hot pink, orange, and lime swirl of their signs in Arizona, and sure enough, they aren’t big in the South.

The novelty napkins tout the healthfulness of downing a twenty-ounce drink as a meal replacement: “Your body is a temple. Littering is strictly prohibited.” I’d like to believe that they are healthy, but enjoying a dessert shake instead of a cheeseburger doesn’t make me feel a saintly glow of self-denial. The smoothies are made of juice (flavored corn syrup!), sherbet (sugar!) or low-fat frozen yogurt (artificial fillers!), and a few small scoops of frozen fruit. I ate them for the same reason I eat an occasional hamburger with steak fries. They taste good.

The invariably young, smooth-faced employees are delightfully accommodating, and obligingly make discontinued drinks if a patron hankers for one. It’s incomprehensible to me how they stay cheerful during a nine-hour shift in a small back area with five blenders going all at once. Even with the plastic silencing boxes in use, the din inside the store is not conducive to conversation.

Craig and I, preferring quiet, used to take our drinks outside and sit on the patio on dry summer evenings. We'd sip our beverages through the reinforced straws they provided, our cheeks pursing if our smoothie of choice was unusually thick. With tongues numbed slightly from the prolonged cold, we would talk as we watched the SUV's and Humvees drive by on Pelandale Ave.

Right now I could really go for a Strawberry Tsunami, a blend of strawberries and lime sherbet with the added tang of lemonade. My favorite smoothie is tart enough to curl the tongue yet sweet enough for balance. When not in the mood for fruit, I would opt for a peanut butter shake made with yogurt and soy milk. The result is indiscernible from a milkshake. I like everything on the menu, except for the smoothies with raspberries (the hard, bitter seeds clot the smooth texture and stick in the teeth) or too much banana (they liquefy when blended and make a smoothie runny).

When I mentioned my craving for Jamba Juice to a coworker in Lexington, he replied “Isn’t that what Barry Bonds injected himself with in order to hit more home runs?” I don’t see the smoothie craze taking off here anytime soon. In the meantime, I’ll have to break out my blender and try mixing up some homemade frozen concoctions. There’s just one downside. I’ll see everything that goes in them.

2. Ripon Taqueria

In a town with five Mexican restaurants, the best one is where Mexicans eat. The "taqueria,” as it is called, earns this distinction while attracting a steady gringo patronage as well. My greatest disappointment about our December visit home is that, sated every minute with holiday home cooking, Craig and I were unable to break our six month Mexican food fast.

My litmus test of a good Mexican restaurant are flautas, small flour tortillas rolled around chicken and fried to hold their shape. The crispy “flutes” are then presented with shredded lettuce, cheese, and salsa for dipping. A great Mexican restaurant can make flautas light and not greasy. Ripon Taqueria’s are heavenly. Craig always orders a Super Burrito, an entree the size of a liter can of soft drink. If I don’t remind him, he eats all of it, a feat inevitably rewarded by hours of subsequent intestinal distress. It’s much better to save half for the next day to heat and garnish with leftover salsa.

While the food is cooked to order, patrons take their bowl of hot, homemade chips to a table and come back to the salsa bar to choose a few favorites. Their cabbage salsa is never wilted, the pico de gallo crisp. I also love a blended combination of avocado and banana, incongruous in a bar of spicy sauces but refreshing to the palate after a bite full of seedy jalapenos.

Craig’s previous tenure in Lexington brought him to a few Mexican restaurants that unilaterally disappointed. The familiar dishes were either blandly prepared or profaned by the addition of Southwestern barbecue beans instead of authentic refried beans with cheese. Many things have changed since then, and on optimistic evenings we think we could find an authentic Mexican restaurant in Lexington if we asked around. Still, a restaurant would have to be excellent to satisfy the craving that’s had eight months to build up inside me.

Occasionally, a friend will mention a local Mexican restaurant they like, and I wonder if I should try it. I demur. It’s hard to imagine getting a real Mexican meal at a place called MOE’S. Lexingtonians don’t know what they’re missing.

3. Starbucks (in walking distance)

Yes, of course Lexington has about twenty of them. It’s not Antarctica, after all. I miss putting on my shoes and walking a quarter of a mile to the corner Starbucks. I can enjoy a frappuccino, a drink loaded with more fat than a Big Mac, if I know I had to expend a half-mile’s worth of calories to get it. Twisted logic, I know.

Californians microwave their Lean Cuisine meals for lunch and count Weight Watcher points with the zeal of religious converts. Somehow, the venti white chocolate mochas they sip every morning don’t count. There must be a medieval indulgence that covers beverages of unusual caloric lushness.

I prided myself on not being addicted. My German metabolism couldn’t stand the daily dose of cream. Neither did I want my bank account bled dry by daily four-dollar withdrawals. I just relished the occasional novelty of a leisurely stroll followed by a relaxing hour watching the whipped cream slowly melt and flavor the top of my mocha while I enjoy a slow, companionable conversation with a friend.

A Cajun chicken place, one of a million in Lexington, went out of business a mile away from our house. It is my fondest wish that the forlorn, empty building will become a Starbucks. I realize that chances of this are very slim. Starbucks, feeling the pinch of economic slowdown, has announced the intention to stop adding new stores. Still, I keep hoping. It’s one thing I miss about California that I could get back.