Valentine pruning: blood-drop
from thorn-ripped skin, and gloves
no help. Dull shears --
a blister threatens. How much to cut?
How much to leave alone?
Every year the same conundrum.
( But each stout hip, the heart
of the matter: relinquished.)

Today, and only today, I am on the
Heart-Shaped-Iced-Sprinkled Cookie Diet.
It's the best diet of the year.
Complete with Red Dye #40.
And lip-shaped sprinkles.
Hee haw.
If you come to my house
I will give you some. Hurry.

Chocolate heart.

A few years ago on Valentine's Day I gave a poetry reading,
and decided to read any poems I had containing the word "love."
Thinking it might be perhaps two, or three, I scanned through
a lot of work, and found I think at least a dozen poems --
love indeed, but none of it sentimental, or easy.
This was love of the fractured cardiac variety,
or of skimpy proportions, eked out. Nothing
lavish, lace-bejeweled or chocolate-dipped.
Raw-edged, crushed, minced.
Propped with a kickstand
smack-dab middle of a dark road.

(Trying desperately not to write about the weather
or what I had for dinner. When cavemen-and-women
blogged (on their cave walls) did they draw
pictures of mastadons roasting on a spit?)

Looked at a house high up the slope above Leschi
today, on a dead end, on a 9,000 sq.ft. lot.
Very cabin'o'the'San'Juans, musty, drafty,
lots of (leaky) windows, greying cedar shingles,
charming as a ($$$$) vacation home, probably.
It didn't feel substantial enough for everyday
living, if that makes sense. Something
was atilt, perhaps the foundation. I mean,
I kept looking over my shoulder for the goats
and chickens. The ox, even. (Not that I have
anything against goats, chickens and oxen.)
It's just that it felt lonely and remote: Road's End.
And a goat, a few chickens and an ox or two
would've cozied it up a bit.
If I lived there I would name it The Hermitage.

Winter trudges on. I'd much prefer
endless days of rain upon rain
than this unceasing grey. I'm in love
with the notion, the fact of water
falling from the sky. When it freezes
and we are blessed (yes, blessed) with hail
I am enraptured. What was that the priest
did with his censer at benediction?
Incense, holy water, holy smoke.
A blessing. A part of Catholicism
I won't reject.

Oops.....what I meant to say in my previous post is
when the time comes that I breathe my last breath....
Not anytime soon, with any luck!
Just getting ducks in a row. I mean cakes.
In case anyone wonders.

As I breathe my last breath
I want a piece of chocolate cake
and a sip of champagne to pass my lips.
(Have I already written this?!)
And not just any chocolate cake,
and not Cold Duck.
Two cake recipes (yes, homemade) are acceptable;
one recipe is below, the other is in my private cookbook.
The champagne sure as hell better be French.
High heels are optional.

As per request:

Devil Dog Cake
--from February Gourmet

2 cups flour
3/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1-1/4 tsps. baking soda
3/4 tsp. salt
1 cup (2 cubes) butter, softened
1-1/2 cups brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
1-1/3 cups water
1 tsp. vanilla

350 degree oven. Butter and flour
(I use parchment) 8" square cake pan.
Whisk together dry ingredients.
Cream butter and sugar, add eggs, then vanilla.
Add water alternately with flour mixture
to creamed butter mixture. Pour into
prepared pan, bake 45-60 minutes.
Cool; turn out onto cake plate.

Seven Minute Icing
--from Joy of Cooking, adapted by T.

5 T. water
1/4 tsp. cream of tartar
1-1/3 cups sugar
2 egg whites
pinch of salt
1 tbsp. dark corn syrup

In top of double boiler set over simmering water,
combine all ingredients. Beat with electric mixer
for seven minutes, until mixture thickens
and triples (at least) in volume.
Remove from heat, continue to beat
until it starts to cool and is thick enough
to spread. Add vanilla. Ice cake. Eat. All of it.
Immediately.

P. and I hosted our first dinner party
as a married couple last night. Post caucus
I ascended into cooking heaven and whipped
up pizza (three varieties) a chopped salad
(sparkling with color!) and a single-layer
dense, buttery chocolate cake piled high
with seven-minute icing and a dusting
of cocoa powder. We tried some sparkling
shiraz (a gift from ? I don't know)
which was less, much less than a hit.
(I poured it down the drain.) We also
opened a bottle of '94 Cab. Sauv. that Paul
had stashed away, forgotten, in a cupboard.
(We poured that down our throats.)
Candlelight, Michael Feinstein singing
pop and film standards (on the iPod, not live.)
Now here's something interesting for you foodies:
the icing recipe called for 1 tablespoon
light corn syrup, which I thought I had.
Well, I had dark corn syrup, which I substituted.
Amazing, subtle taste shift! It didn't affect
the lovely white color of the icing at all,
and there was just a hint of more complex flavor,
a je ne sais quoi (except I knew
what the quoi was) which only added to the perfection
that is Seven Minute Icing.

Three posts in a row with a political theme:
I am married to a man who is passionate
about politics. It's catching, a little bit.
So, my first caucus yesterday,
and what a first it was: people lined up
outside Whitworth Elementary, my people,
out to do the right thing. Whoooo-eeee!
And to quote my friend Cz,
"The number of people roaming Capital Hill
just prior to caucus was astounding…
like a happy earthquake just happened,
or something prophetic enough
to put ‘em all on the street."
Some complained at the chaos, but it felt like
the way democracy should be: visceral, gritty,
people elbow-to-elbow, people close enough to each other
so that you could feel the living, breathing body
of your fellow democrats, as opposed to a paper,
mailed-in ballot. Of the people, by the people.
The beating hearts of people. People sick to death
of deceit, war, dishonesty, apathy. I saw more hope
in the faces of my neighbors yesterday than I've
seen in many years. This was true community.
The icing on the cake was when Reilly
raised his hand to be a delegate!
Go Reilly! Go Barack!

No-Bama

Tried to get close enough to Key Arena today
to attend the Obama rally and couldn't manage
to break through the backed-up traffic of 17,000 people
and gave up, finally. Watched it on TV at work.
My younger son, however, arrived late
and managed to gain entry because he knew
someone working security. Go figure.

(Winter rain, unrelenting.
The interminable dark.)

Barack Obama is in Seattle Friday morning
and you can sign up to attend his rally here.
(If you're of the Obama persuasion.)
I've just this week leapt into his camp.
Not that I leapt out of Hillary's camp;
I believe both candidates are intelligent,
capable, articulate and compassionate.
But a comment from an elderly black woman voter
from Georgia pushed me to Barack's side --
I can't find the exact quote (from All Things
Considered on NPR) but essentially she said
(when exit-polled) that she was so delighted
to have the opportunity to vote for a woman,
but as she probably won't be alive for another
presidential election, how could she turn down
the opportunity to vote for a black....

Chicken tagine tonight, recipe from the February
issue of Gourmet. Cinnamon stick, turmeric,
pine nuts, saffron. The kitchen smells like sun,
which is good because there's little of it
these days. The airwaves are ablaze with candidates,
maps of the country with varying colors
alternately lighting up. God I love the scent
of freshly chopped cilantro.

It's dead-on winter and often in winter
there are just no words at all.

Dreamed last night of a large grey
fur-covered bird (no feathers) who
was wearing a collar and license.
Perhaps a desire on my part
for flying felines?

I bench pressed 65#'s yesterday
and when I told my oldest son, he was amused.
He told me that in high school
he topped out at 185# (in the bench press).
Well. Teenage boys.

The PI published Paul's letter to the editor
today. (Scroll down to "Peace and prosperity
are significant achievements.")

Today we took Flat Stanley on a tour of Seattle,
upon request of Paul's nephew Bobby from Fort Worth.
Stanley went first to Microsoft, then traveled
to visit the Fremont troll. Next stop was Archie McPhee,
the Space Needle, and EMP. He was photographed
with the Pike Place Market pig, on the ice
with king salmon, in a pile of fresh oranges,
and with a Washington State Ferry in the background.
Lastly he sat at the base of the Tsutakawa mitt
at Safeco Field. Phew! Flat Stanley kept us running!
Tourists in our own city! We mixed in a few
townhome viewings (all thumbs down) and lunch
at a sports bar where we did not have the $22
everything-on-it Kobe beef burger.
I am very tired of Flat Stanley and want Paul
to take a photograph of me setting F.S. afire,
which we will not send to the nephew.

This old man, he played one,
he played knick-knack on my thumb
with a knick-knack paddy-whack
give a dog a bone,
this old man came rolling home.

We sang this at work yesterday,
up to the number ten.
G. said that this rhyme creeped her out
when she was a child, made her scream.
Said she didn't want any old man
playing knick-knack on any part of her.
Max said, "What's with the old man rolling home?"

I couldn't find any definitive origin
of this nursery rhyme. We used to sing
it holding two spoons together back-to-back,
plunked against the thigh.

Some poem titles:

The Man I Lost in My Bedroom
Squid Proportions
Living in the Heart

(No poems, only titles.)

Last night my ancient, edging-towards-dementia cat
decided to venture down to the family room
for the first time and sit beside me on the couch.
All was peaceful until Sally, the resident cat,
decided to sit in front of aging-Alice and stare
at her. (Not growl, not hiss: simply stare.)
Alice would have none of this. She decided to leap
up quickly into a defensive position and in the process
hooked two claws in my sweater, on my arm.
In her panic, she couldn't release her claws,
and began literally to scream, all the while
flailing like a marlin on the end of a fishing line.
I knew that if I tried to undo her claws she'd
go tooth-and-nail into me, and I didn't want
to risk a nasty cat bite. What to do?!!!!
In my own rising panic I decided to strip off my sweater,
which left Alice swaddled in black cotton,
yet did nothing to assuage her agitated state.
But I was free! And puncture free!
She eventually settled down, hunkered behind the TV.
And why is it I have cats?

My Ideal House....

...is a silver glass tree ornament
of a six-sided house, covered in white glitter.
I've wanted to live in it for many years.
Not sure if P. and I would fit. It's very small.
(Zero bedrooms. Zero bathrooms.)
All this time and it has not broken.
It lives most of the year in the back
of my closet, and for two weeks in December
it inhabits an uppermost branch of an evergreen
in my living room. The ideal house, the perfect house,
the house of one's dreams doesn't exist.
(Or if by chance it does exist it's really
a Christmas ornament and there's no way in hell
anyone can live within its fragile veneer.)

The cats hiss and stalk each other. No snow.
A glass of red Bordeaux. Winter dark.
Some Portugese cheese from Spanish Table, Casa de Mednevil ,
crackers in a white porcelain ramekin.
Shelby Lynne singing on a Dusty Springfield
tribute album. This quiet moment.
This peace.

I told my 14-year-old nephew Travis last night
that I benched 55#'s, and he was amused, in that
young-teen kind of way. He'd just played a
basketball game where he scored 18 points,
so he was feeling mighty pumped. We sat together
at his older brother Kevin's basketball game.
Kevin is a senior and a damn fine player, but
at 5'10", a bit too short to go anywhere with it.
He did, though, shoot a beautiful 3-pointer
which pretty much guaranteed their win.
(And he pretty much carries the team.)
But getting back to Travis: he took it upon
himself to explain to his weight-lifting aunt
all the nuances of basketball play. I came
out of that game last night realizing just
how little of the sport I truly understand!

I bench-pressed a whopping 55 pounds yesterday.
Whoo-hoo!!! Two sets of 15 reps. I'm ready
to bump it up a notch. (Not bad considering
it's only the second time I've bench-pressed,
ever. Last week (the first time) I just lifted
the bar...45 pounds. At the bakery I regularly
heaved 50# bags of flour and sugar. Guess I
haven't lost it.

Pancake Review No. 2

Candied Ginger & Lemon Oatcakes at Pomegranate Bistro
in Redmond....I was a little bit hesitant, as candied ginger,
when used with a heavy hand, can overwhelm other flavors,
but I thought, what the heck. I was not disappointed!
For $11 (a bit pricey) I received a stack of six 3-inch
pancakes, topped with slivers of candied ginger, honey butter,
a side of whipped cream, and a pitcher of real maple syrup.
(I think the authenticity of the maple syrup accounts for
the slightly steep price.) The oatcakes were tender but with
a slight chewiness, thanks to the oats. Not a lot of lemon flavor,
(which wasn't really missed) and the candied ginger was only used
as a garnish, so I was able to season as desired.

Pomegranate Bistro, the on-site catering location
and restaurant home of Lisa Dupar,
is located in a non-descript business park on the
Redmond-Fall City Road, across from Whole Foods.
Noisy, kid-friendly, with richly-toned wood tables
(some are large family-sized), high ceilings and
ambient lighting, it's inviting and comfortable,
and the wait-staff is always knowledgeable and congenial.
There are tall windows on one side which look out onto
the massive catering kitchen. (I've not yet been lucky
enough to sit close to the show) The menu boasts a selection
of signature drinks, as well as beer and wine.
For after dinner, there is a lovely selection
of Ports and single-malt Scotch. But wait!
I was writing about pancakes! Breakfast!
Dinner is just as good -- we held our rehearsal
dinner here. It's worth the journey over the
river and through the -- I mean, across Lake Washington.
If you happen to get there for breakfast (Saturdays
and Sundays only, beginning at 9am) don't hesitate
to order the pancakes.

I vote for an evolutionary-speeding-up
in Etiquette (with apologies to Emily Post)
so that it is proper to send a thank-you note
via e'mail. Don't get me wrong -- I'm all in favor
of mail via paper and stamps, especially
hand-written cards. But. Who among us enjoys
writing thank-you notes in bulk? Have you
ever heard anyone say, "Man, I just can't wait
to get home and write twenty thank-you notes!
Hoo ha! Great fun! Break out the confetti
and noise makers!"
I'm just sayin'.

I took all of Paul's spices from his cupboard
and alphabetized them on the counter. Many multiples:
seven cinnamons, five cumins, four black peppers,
four chili peppers, three oreganos, three nutmegs,
two turmerics (lifetime supply!) and
several herb & spice artifacts, including a jar of
Kary's Louisiana Cajun Roux, from Ville Platte, LA.
Then I put them back (condensed)
in roughly alphabetical order, as much
as one can on lazy susans. I'm 51, and
this is the first time I've alphabetized
anything in my kitchen.
What does this mean?!

Winter is about the kitchen.
That daily ritual of chopping, mincing, crushing.
Last night it was red peppers and yellow squash
(I am thankful for the brilliance of their colors
which spark light into this darkness) and chicken tikka
(crisp from the broiler )and basmati rice spiked with saffron.
Remembering how important the colors on the plate
were to my mother. How dismayed she would be
if it happened to be, say, an all-yellow dinner.
I think she disappointed herself, seeing that she
was the cook. I am more forgiving, try to find
the humor in an all-yellow meal! (Baked chicken,
yukon gold potatoes, corn, yellow squash.)

Dusk


My footsteps startle a hundred coots
from water's edge; their wakes reflect
waning sun. The moon rises
and one white feather ruffles up
from pebbles and sand. No eagles
harassed by crows, no milky-blue herons
scooping minnows from shallows.
Only a scratching of red-twigged
dogwood, and ruined grasses.
Nothing before, and nothing after.

(Started this three years ago; dug it up
and pruned it. I need to prune my roses
and grapes too. Need to work on the metaphor
of the grapes, on rose-diction.
Need to put all the roses in tidy four-line stanzas.)

Popover weather. Scone and gingerbread weather.
Honey-whole-wheat weather, slathered with butter.
(I am being stalked by carbs.)

I Imagine Us as a Holy Family Engaging
in the Great Work of Increasing Light
--Cappy Thompson, exhibited in the Library
of the Evergreen State College, Olympia

Yesterday at work, the glass artist Cappy Thompson
stopped by to borrow Melinda's sandblaster....
Genevieve graciously blasted a few pieces
for her. Today she rewarded us (all!) by bringing
snacks from Hi Ho Pho -- sushi, several noodle dishes,
and something with green beans and surimi whose name
escapes me. We sat outside bundled in the crisp
cold sunny afternoon and had ourselves a picnic.
Chopsticks, pickled ginger, and something red and spicy
in the world's tiniest container (about the size
of my deformed thumb). (Squished in a car door
when I was six.) Twenty minutes of heaven!
And then: hi ho, hi pho, it's back to work we go....

My friend Genevieve(the fabulous glass artist)
has come up with a campaign slogan for Hillary:

KEEPING PINK TO A MINIMUM

The visual could be a pink circle with a line through it.
I love this!

These are glorious late-January days,
sunny and cold. The full moon rising
in a violet and indigo sky, the light
from the setting sun glowing on the
cloudless horizon. Gloom on hold.

I love popovers.I love that the name
of this food item (noun: a name of a
person, place or thing) is actually
a verb and an adverb. Go figure.
Made these for dinner tonight:

2 eggs
1 cup milk
1 T. melted butter
1 cup flour
1/4 tsp. salt

Butter muffin cups. Mix eggs, milk, butter
flour and salt just until blended.
Half-fill prepared pan, and set in a cold
oven. Turn heat to 450 and bake for 15 min.,
then reduce heat to 350 and bake for
another 15 minutes, until puffed and golden.
Serve immediately.

from The Fannie Farmer Baking Book

This is a rant. About Open Floor Plan Kitchens.
Nearly every house/town-house/condo for sale
adheres to this plan, or has been remodeled,
"opened-up," so that the kitchen/dining/living-room
is one big 'ol grand space. I want an old-fashioned
kitchen, a self-contained kitchen, preferably
with space for a small table and chairs.
And a door. TO CLOSE.
(No need for any land masses. [Island, peninsula.]
They exist just fine on the earth's crust
and have no need to be confined indoors.)
I desire a kitchen cocoon. Closed off from TV,
noisy guests, the world at large. I want
my little CD player/radio and I want to cook
(and I love to cook) in my own universe.
This is not a performance! (But the food is art.)
And when I'm ready, I'll open the door
and present you -- yes YOU! -- with some
damn fine food. I am the queen and absolute ruler
of my kitchen and don't want anyone in my way
unless they are willing to take orders
and stay out of my way. And at some point
in the dinner (if it's a party) I want to
disappear behind the door and scrape plates.
That's right! Scrape plates and wash knives
and Put Stuff Away. In private.

Alice is fifteen and feline and has resided
on Brandon Street, where she was born, all of
her fifteen (and a half) years. Yesterday
she made the first move of her short furred life:
to Redmond. My sons were nearly teary when I
took her (but they still have two cats, "the boys.")
I kept her closed in the bedroom/bathroom all night,
and about 2am, she began to scratch at the door,
wanting more. When I opened the door, we were greeted
with a hiss and growl from Sally, the resident doyenne
at this address. Whoops! Back into the bedroom for Miss A.
Now this morning, (Alice let loose to roam and explore),
they've hissed and growled alternately, Alice more fierce
than I've seen in years, including growling while lying down.
(Not an especially fierce stance.) Quiet now. This house
is big enough for many cats. (But, I think two is plenty.)
Alice, the runt, plucked a freezing October Sunday afternoon
from an aluminum pie pan outside at old Mr. Nelson's house.
(No, she had not been baked into a pie.) She nestled in
my hand, and on my kitchen scale, weighed eight ounces.
Her favorite place to sleep was on the back of my neck
under my pony tail, and then in a tiny box on the
dining room table, which I had to continually switch out
for a larger box as she grew to her current very slight
size of about four pounds. O new beginnings!

Damn. Those are some monumental marshmallows
pictured below. And I'm too lazy to size down
the photo. I guess we'll all just have to suffer
through them. Splurged yesterday on some Fran's
Premium Hot Chocolate Richer Darker Blend
100% Venezuelan Chocolate. OOHHHHHH.
P. suggested that we snip off a corner
of Drew's birthday marshmallows to float
in the steamy concoction and, OMG, few things
as sublime have passed my lips....the ideal
remedy for a mid-winter rain-slogged afternoon.

Marshmallows. Today I am making a batch
for my friend Drew's birthday. They are simple
to concoct if you can handle a candy thermometer
and follow basic cooking instructions. Sugar,
gelatin, corn syrup, water, vanilla.
Bring them to a party; people will love you.

It's a sad day when the one and only e'mail
received is spam. Remember when we called
unwanted mail junk mail? (I suppose we still do,
when it's of the paper variety.)
If there was still a truck
going door-to-door collecting junk
(as in the junk man) would we be required
to rename him Spam Man?

Here are two odd definitions of junk:

hard salt beef for consumption on board a ship

and

old cable or cordage used when untwisted
for making gaskets, swabs, oakum, etc.

In case you wondered What Would Bacon Do?
(Courtesy of Archie McPhee)

The ghost-boat rocks more slowly today.
Could this be a metaphor for my life
of the past four years? That I'm only
just now noticing the rocking because
I'm no longer on that vessel plunging
headlong over the falls? That I've become
so accustomed to thirty-foot swells
continually battering my hull?
I've reached the shore, at last.

Mal de Barquement. The continual rocking sensation,
sometimes for months, and even years, upon
disembarking from a ship. Most common
in women between the ages of 40 and 50,
possibly hormone related.

Outside Paul's house is a massive Japanese maple,
and this morning the sun shone through all its
iced branches, making a prism of every melting
snowdrop. One could only guess that a tree
much like this was the inspiration for the
first crystal chandelier. (Crystal chandeliers
date back to the 18th century.) I stood beneath
and was gently tick-tick-ticked by falling ice.

Ah....grey skies. I do love them!
And my sons once more have not burned
the house down in my absence. And they can't wait
for me to officially move out, so they can
move their stuff into any space they desire.
So odd, this mom-moving-out thing.
Feels like I'm looking the wrong way
into a mirror....

Seattle: Home!

I'm walking like a lousy drunk,
atilt and akimbo, still feeling the lilt
of each wave beneath each step....
It is a surreal experience, traveling
to a tropical landscape in the middle of winter.
(Never having done this. I know people
do it all the time.) To walk outside
and feel warm -- no, hot -- air!
To actually put on a swimsuit
and then go out in a public environment
wearing said suit. The shock of flesh!
The sun's reflection on flesh! Blinding!

Jost Van Dyke, pop. 180

The end of laziness. Or, at least,
it's laziness' last day. We may just stay
on board today, too much work to strap on
the life vests, clamber into the Zodiac,
splash ashore. But there is caviar and champagne
on the beach. (Not into caviar, and champagne
in the noon sun turns me into jelly.) (Or Jell-o.)
But that sand and warm water beckons.
Looking forward to returning to Seattle weather,
where, as Reilly said on the phone yesterday,
"it's cold as fuck." (I really am looking forward
to it!)

------

We did end up drinking champagne on the beach,
although I had to wade out into chest-deep water
to retrieve our full glasses -- they were floating
on a surf board. Really! Most of the ship's 102 passengers
were on the beach for this, and there were some middle-aged
women in bikinis who perhaps should've considered
alternate bathing costumes. Lots of breast flesh
and belly flesh just kind of slopping about.
Paul and I watched the pelicans swoop and dive
for minnows for at least an hour, then we tramped
about on some back roads, oh-so-slow in the heat,
happy to feel the earth solid beneath us.

Virgin Gorda

Lounged beachside at The Bitter End Yacht Club
most of the morning, turquoise water, sandsandsand,
palms, tropical hills rolling up from the surf.
I didn't want to leave. The earth felt so welcoming,
so certain. Although this ship is quite amazing,
it's a bit like trying to manoeuver a gentle earthquake
when walking anywhere. Side to side, back and forth.
I've taken to crashing into posts (discreetly, though).
So pleasant to do mostly nothing except eat and read.
Discovered the most perfect, plain sweet roll
at the breakfast buffet this morning, a simple twist,
a hint of glaze, a perfect eggy dough. Unpretentious,
barely sweet. Glammed it up with some unsalted
butter. Ate two. Wanted so many more.
Didn't find Nina, but we sure tried.
Paul said to me at lunch, "what day is it?"
I wasn't sure. There are no days here.

Marigot, St. Martin, French West Indies

Trying to meet up with friend Nina today
who is working on a private yacht,
and is moored on the other side of the island.
A phone call from the French side to the
Dutch side of the island, a distance of
eight miles, is an international call!
I've been trying every combination of numbers
this morning from the ship's phone
to contact her but no luck yet. Crazy.
We're so used to instant communication.
Reminds me of thirty years ago in Paris,
when calling home I had to go to a phone center,
gave them my intended number, then waited
about 15 minutes for it to go through,
and I was then directed to one of many booths
to receive my call.

Evening on the bay

Was down below the surface today
in the bay off Gustavia in a semi-submersible
boat, gliding through schools of yellow
and black striped fish, angel fish,
manta rays, barracuda's, a single turtle.
Coral reefs: brain coral, candle coral.
And now, past dinner, out on the top deck
with the binoculars, scoping out Orion
and its nebula, so many galaxies beyond
what we experience, so much more
than the dinner conversation which veered
from baseball to Archie McPhee
to the question: how does one punctuate reality?
And then: should one punctuate reality?
And my question (which might've been
a bit much for our fellow diners:
What would Bacon do?
Bacon would sizzle, I can tell you that.
(Life is way too short not to sizzle.)
I'm going to sizzle, baby, all the way.....

Adrift Beside St. Barthe's.....

French is the prevailing language,
and it is so lovely and familiar
to these ears.....I get about half
of what is said. Enough, though. Everything here
is compacted onto the waterfront and
up the steep hillside. Givenchy,
Yves St. Laurent, a mini-Paris of shopping.
Paul and I have been shopping for linen
shirts, which line the shop walls
in abundance, in every color imaginable.
It's really the only fabric to wear
in this humidity. Hoping to rendez-vous
with my neighbor Nina tomorrow, who is
working on a private yacht. We'll try.
We'll see. Lobster last night for dinner.

Anchored in Cruz Bay

Gems on display: massive, gleaming,
multi-faceted emeralds, sapphires, rubies,
diamonds and diamonds aplenty. On nearly
every female hand aship, and on some men too.
I love my delicate, modest Edwardian-styled
white-gold ring, and my even more modest
(to the point of being nearly invisible) sapphire.
I'm in observation mode, the poet-spy,
constantly taking notes. So many fellow-passengers
are glazed, polished, pressed, tucked.
At times I feel unsewn, my selvages a bit raw.
Cut on the bias. Hem undone. Au naturel.
The Renton coming out in me. Alas.

On The Water

The ever-present hum of engines: I am thankful
for air-conditioning, although the breeze
while on deck is refreshing. Spent the morning
on the island of Culebrita, a nature preserve.
Didn't see any nesting turtles, but we did hike
a mile up to the abandoned lighthouse, through
brambly bushes, land crabs scuttling before us,
the criss-cross of lizards on the path, rustling
grasses as they disappeared, slick stripes glistening.
I walked out into lukewarm jade-colored water
up to my shoulders, and could have stayed
just like that all day. No need for movement:
so much to take in, all the senses alert.

The social dynamic of these cruise passengers
is infinitely fascinating to me. Just about everyone
feels the need to inform you of prior cruises,
prior Asiatic adventures (Europe is soooo passe....)
There is a continual fashion parade among the women,
and I keep mistaking swimsuit cover-ups for
negligee, among the twenty-somethings. Oops!
Forgot to get dressed. (Okay, I DO remember
being that young and lithe.)

So I realize that I need to put my natural sarcasm
in storage for a few days.....
This boat is incredibly comfortable, I love the
economy of space in our cabin. Service is tops,
the crew is uber-friendly, a bottle of suntan lotion
purchased from the boutique was $35. Ouch! That'll
teach us to remember it next time. But they've
got us hostage, and I wasn't going to forego
today's dip in the sea. I LOVE the constant availability
of drinks & snacks. Grazing is most pleasurable.
Upon boarding yesterday, we were greeted with
tall, cool glasses of champagne. Looped & looped!

There is a gold-digger couple (or two) aboard --
most fascinating, the younger(skinny)(dyed)(tanned)
(plucked)(pinched)wife with the doddering rich
(caned)(dehaired)(jowly)(7-Up drinking)geezer.

It's all very surreal; I've yet to really settle-in.
First I have to try everything, walk on every deck,
sit on every (type of) chair. I do love walking when
the boat is in motion, the slightly tipsy back-and-forth
tilt of every step.

Lying on a bed of roses....

Upon entering the room after dinner,
we followed a petal-strewn terra-cotta tile path
to the bed, where the blankets had been pulled back,
and gold-wrapped chocolate coins
were tossed among pale pink and yellow petals.
We're guessing the travel agent put the hotel
up to this honeymooner's scenario!
I giggled for at least fifteen minutes,
then draped myself in a languor
across the bed....

I finished Ann Patchett's Run on the plane ride
today....a deeply moving book about class, race, familial love
and responsibilty, mothers both absent and present.
Patchett's work reads like a good massage feels,
muscular yet silken, with a build-up to a big emotional release.
Her writing is flawless, liquid, tight and original. Towards the end
I was allowing myself only a few pages at a time. One of the best
books I've read in ages: highly recommended. (Thank you Mary,
for this gift!)

Two nights here in San Juan at a converted 17th century
convent: El Convento. (Converted to a hotel.)
Balconey with a water view, lovely walkways
overlooking a courtyard restaurant. (I imagine
the sisters at vespers, rosary beads clacking.)
In Old Town. Traffic, on a Friday night at 10pm,
was crazy, congested, lots of horns.
Anxious to explore: tomorrow.
Close to midnight here, and it's dark.
And it's warm.

Omg pix !!!
(And yes, this is evidence that it really happened.
Can you see the word "Proof" stamped across our faces?!)

Departing tomorrow, 6am flight, for the Caribbean.
Looking forward to doing mostly nothing except
having people wait on me, reading, beach time.
We'll be on a yacht-type boat (not a floating
shopping mall cruise ship) which can accomodate
110 guests, plus a staff of 95. I think I can
manage this! Both P. and I are still coming down
from December and its parade of celebrations.
(The ol' blog-voice seems to have left me
these past few days!)

P. is disassembling his Christmas tree
before my very eyes. He just removed
the top third, now he's folding all the branches
down, compacting them for the storage box.
No fuss, no muss, no trail of fir needles
from tree-stand to door. Nonetheless, I still
vote for a real tree. And I have an entire
year to convince him that it's the only way to go.

The Wedding Feast

Cafe Juanita, Kirkland
December 29th, 2007


served family style

Salt Cod and Hearts of Palm Fritti
Fra'Mani Salame with Balsamico Panna Cotta

~~~~~

House Made Pappardelle with Goose Sugo and Parmigiano Reggiano
Taleggio Raviolini with Pinenuts, Pomegranate, and Marjoram

~~~~~

Winter Citrus Salad with Avocado, Rising C Citrus, and Pickled Shallots

~~~~~

Whole Roasted Branzino, fileted tableside,
with Taggia Olive Pepperoncini Vinaigrette

Oregon Saddle of Lamb with Sunchokes in Bagna Cauda
and Housemade Pepperoncini Fariciti Piccanti

Quail with Broccoli Rabe and Marsala Sauce

~~~~~

Rich Golden Cake with Raspberry Mousse Filling
and an Italian Buttercream, embellished
with Organic Candied Rosepetals

Nuptial Math

Fifty-four people, forty-four bottles of wine/prosecco
consumed (or at least opened and billed!) at the wedding.
44 divided by 54 = .81/bottles/person.
Subtract the designated drivers and the non-drinkers,
and, well, it's more like one bottle per person. Yikes!

For more wedding stories, check out Paul's blog.

--------

At a New Year's party last night at Ben and Pam's
I hit my socialibility wall pretty quickly --
went and sat outside alone by the fire.
It didn't take Paul long to find me, as he was
feeling quite the same. We made our quick exit,
went back to my house to crash, pre-midnight.
Awakened at the stroke of twelve by a neighbor
lighting loud, bright fireworks one after another.
Damn, I'm feeling old!

Party of the Century

Yep. And it was mine. And Paul's.
Wish we could have invited all 500
of our friends/family, but, well, at this age,
I think it's a good idea to only have as
many guests as ones age. Or as many as will fit
in Cafe Juanita, whose staff, by the way,
cooked up THE MOST SPECTACULAR FEAST.
Menu will be posted later!
(But I recall quail, saddle of lamb,
salt cod fritti, pappardelle with goose sugo....
And lots of Prosecco, a lovely Nebbiolo.)
Both Paul and I managed to get through
the "till death do us part" portion of the vows
without voices cracking or tears descending the cheeks.
Ahhh. Layers and layers of emotions there, our four
beautiful young men beside us (Reilly, Nelson, PK, Bill),
alive and shining with the grace of being well-loved.
This afternoon P. and I shall walk to the Market
(we're ensconced at the Fairmont Olympic)
and shop for new cookware at Sur La Table.
Joy by the heaping cupful!
(No pinch, no smidgen. No carefully leveled.)
Overflowing.

I would live in your love as the sea-grasses live
in the sea,
Borne up by each wave as it passes,
drawn down by each wave that recedes;
I would empty my soul as the dreams
that have gathered in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats,
I would follow your soul as it leads.

Sara Teasdale
1884-1933

Wedding practice. There is a reason for this.
Oops! Wrong music! Whoa! Stand here! No! Here!
Turn it up. Turn it down. Scoot over.
Move the chairs back. Now line them up.
Now arc them. Now separate them.
Walk up the stairs. Now walk down the stairs.
Do it again. Turn and face each other.
Move the flowers. Get rid of the table.
More candles. Candles. Don't make me laugh.
Are we done now? Let's run through it again.
What's for dinner?

The threatened snow never arrived,
and we canceled Spa Day even so.
Spent the afternoon routing out
the corners of my bedroom, making way,
making way. Bags stuffed for give-aways,
the useless tossed, the useful carefully
folded, boxed. And then it was on
to razor-cutting each wedding-favor edge,
a John Lennon song, the text neatly reproduced
in claret ink on chardonnay card stock, mounted
then on burgundy card stock. With a single malt
finish.

In My Life
There are places I'll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
--John Lennon

Rain, please.

I love snow. But no snow, not today.
People arriving (perhaps already arrived, actually)
from Ottawa, Florida, Virginia, Texas.
And I want to go to Olympus Spa today in the north
with friends from work. I want to lie on a heated floor
and then get scrubbed with salt. I want to not think.
I want to float, to steam.

The cats have taken over the Christmas tree water.
What is it about these creatures? There is always
fresh water in two dishes in two different locations
in this house, but for some reason the water pooled
at the base of a brightly lit decorated fir
is so much more delicious.

Entered into retail post-Christmas madness briefly
yesterday to find a tie for Paul for the wedding.
Stripes! Satin! Paisley! Dots! Squares! Geometry!
Algebra! Calculus! (Whoops. Got a little carried away.)
All the salesmen at Nordstrom looked the same:
twenty-something, dark hair, well-groomed.
Little happy selling clone boys.

And I'm very efficiently avoiding everything
I must do today while writing this blog.

Tom Porter's Brussel Sprout Story

Shopping at Puget Consumer's Co-op this afternoon,
I was dismayed at not seeing anyone I knew. I
dawdled by the beer cooler, pondering the many
varieties, wondering which hip new label would
appeal to the twenty-somethings at my Christmas table.
I knew that if I stood there long enough, someone
I knew would walk in, and sure enough, my friends
Carol and Tom appeared, as if on cue.
We talked beer, Carol recommended a Pinor Noir,
Tom rustled up the Cheese Man who recommended
a Manchego substitute, of which they were out.
I next caught Tom sifting through brussel sprouts,
picking out the tiniest. Wish someone in my house
liked brussel sprouts! He asked me if I'd ever heard
his brussel sprout story, and I said no. One must
settle-in to listen to a Tom Porter story, so that I did
among the portobella's and watercress and Dungeness Farm carrots
(among the gridlock of grocery carts and elbowing
produce seekers): Tom was hitchhiking in California,
must've been twenty-five-thirty years ago, and sometime
in the middle of the night, was suddenly let out
of the car in which he was traveling, in the dark,
and just possibly a bit hazy from a certain
inhalation. He awoke the next morning in the middle
of a field of brussel sprouts. No explanation:
that's just where he was. And that was his breakfast:
brussel sprouts, raw, fresh off the stalk.

We read A Child's Christmas in Wales
by Dylan Thomas, out loud, Nelson and I.
A Christmas Eve ritual in this house. Reilly
played with the cats, gave them a holiday dose
of catnip, so "Aunt Hannah sang like a big-bosomed thrush"
was accompanied by the romping and galloping
of drugged kitties. Even the old cats played,
lured out of their sedate naps by waggling ribbons.
Tip pulled a wrapped piece of Christmas candy
from behind the piano. God only knows how long
it's been there! Not one of us had seen it before.
All this after homemade pizza (coppacola, feta, kalamata)
and an afternoon session of cookie making (candy-cane
cookies) and floor mopping. I insist on a clean floor
for Christmas. That way it gets cleaned
at least once a year.

I started a coconut cake last night.
Baked two layers, split them, filled them
with sour cream with some sugar swirled-in
and a bunch of coconut. Poked holes so the
filling can macerate, settle. Tomorrow I'll
whip up a seven-minute icing and transform
the towering, oozing layers into a glimmering
snowy confection, set on a vintage pink plate.
O heavenly!

R. also requested a cherry pie, so we searched
for the out-of-season iconic orbs at Safeway
yesterday, found some battered fresh Bing-types
in the produce department. The sign said
"Northwest Bings" but the bag said "Product of Chile."
Hmm. Questionable. There were some generic canned
sour pie cherries -- also questionable. Other canned
versions appeared equally unpromising. We finally opted
for two bags of frozen cherries. I will not use
the fluorescent Red Dye #40 canned cherry pie filling
that lights up the baking aisle! (With Real Cherry Flavor!)

A college friend of Paul's
from Austin sent him this poem today:

Marble Cake


A widowed friend is marrying
A woman who lost her husband
Four years ago
I picture batter in a bowl
Chocolate marbling into white
Flavors blending but retaining
Separate integrity
As the mixture stirs and rises to a cake of marvelous height
Layered in the variegated texture of memory
All-over iced with future sweetness
Melting on the tongue

--Nita Lou Bryant

A need to be private these next few days,
to burrow into winter, to sleep out this rain.
Contemplation, meditation, silence.
But no! Lo! Christmas!

I am going to talk about my son
for just a moment. Bear with me.
R. was magnificent in the kitchen
Thursday evening. I had many reservations
about hosting a sit-down dinner for 22 friends
the week before Christmas, the week before
my wedding. (I'm also in the middle of packing.)
But he persisted. He rarely asks for anything.
So I went forward on faith, and the payoff was
beyond any dollar amount imaginable. A bit of history:
this young man suffered debilitating seizures as a toddler;
he missed entire developmental stages.
We were reduced to experimental drug therapies
after the traditional methods failed, and were
ultimately successful. Then followed years of
therapy. At four, after two years of seizures
and intense medical intervention, he began to learn
to talk again. At eight years of age, he gradually
withdrew from all medication, and has been seizure-free
since. But he emerged from all this as a unique
individual, with challenges the rest of us would
take for granted. The death of his father four years
ago was an unfathomable blow, and he's moved forward
in his life since then at a slow and jagged pace.
The Culinary Arts Program at South Seattle Community
College has been a marvelous home for him these
past two years. He doesn't cook at my house often enough
for my taste, so seeing him in his element cranking
out dinner for 22 in my less-than-adequate kitchen
was like, oh, perhaps seeing one's son step forward
to receive a diploma from, say, Harvard. He was efficient,
professional, poised, organized, wildly creative, humble
(unlike his mother!) And he was smiling. It's been so long
since I've seen that. Planning and preparing the house
for this event and shopping for the ingredients
was something for which I had no time. There were
moments when I considered calling the whole thing off.
I was sick for the four days prior and nearly reduced
to tears more than once. But he kept assuring me
that we could do this, and I trusted him, and what
transpired was perhaps the best evening of my life:
three long tables stretched the length of my living room,
dozens of candles down the center, cedar greens and
holly branches and vases of red tulips. The only light
from the tree and the candles. Twenty-one of the best friends
(mostly neighbors, one fiance, two sons) imaginable.
R. received a standing ovation. I stand up
and applaud my handsome and magnificent son.

Maria Muldaur's touring RV is parked outside my house.
She rolled into town yesterday afternoon to do two shows
at the Highway Ninety-Nine Club. When
in Seattle (and I've always been out of town on previous
visits) she stays with my neighbor Candy, across the street.
The band members are bunking at another neighbor's house.
Now, Candy's house is slightly larger than a doll house,
and this massive bus/RV dwarfs it. I've yet to meet her,
but tonight Paul and I are going to her show.

Running on fumes. Need to refuel.
Very little sleep. Took the elevators
in the King County Administration Building today
and one of the floors doesn't have a number
but it does have a letter. "T". Why?
And in Nordstrom downtown, the women's clothing floors
are numbered 1, 2, and 3; but the men's floor is just "M".
In some department stores in France, the basement level
is marked "-1". Now that makes sense.
(Paul and I got our marriage license application!)
(Then we walked down to Cafe Paloma on Yesler
for a late lunch, the restaurant quiet and subdued.
We were both a bit slow and dumb by that point,
no need for talk, just calm and secure in each others
presence. The Mediterranean flavors served as a balm
to the frantic pace of these past few days -- feta
and tomatoes and hummous and olives. Lemon vinaigrette.)

The Menu

Sparkling Pomegranate Cocktails
Marcona Almonds
Marinated Olives

Pink Lady Apple & Cabbage Slaw
with Confetti Peppers
& a Dijon Blood-Orange Vinaigrette

Pork Roulade with Pears, Garlic, Fresh Rosemary
Roasted Fingerling Potatoes
Sauvignon Blanc Braised Mushrooms
Filet Green Beans Tossed with Cashews & Shallots

Gingerbread Ice Cream Sandwiches
Candy-Cane Ice Cream Sandwiches
Mayan Cocoa with Peach Schnapps
Bourbon Eggnog
Coffee
Tea

I am grateful
I am grateful
I am grateful

Mushrooms give up no secrets.
The radishes argue.
And O! The humble cabbage!

---------------

Reilly's eggnog slips like silk
across the tongue.

Crazy prep for the dinner party today. Costco.
Trader Joe's. Scrub scrub scrub. Tested the pomegranate
martini. Needs something sweet. (And it's not really
a martini and I really loathe this current fashion
to call anything and everything a martini
if it's served in a martini glass.) The boys
are down the street picking up tables. Julie polished
silver for me: thank-you Julie! The ice cream base
is cooling in the fridge. Reilly is starting the forcemeat
stuffing for the pork loin any minute. (Adding pears,
fresh rosemary and shallots.) I need a double refrigerator.
It's been packed and repacked several times today.
Linda brought over an alstromeria bouquet. Plates
are stacked. The wicks on the candles are standing
at attention. Pot roast for today's dinner nearly burned
from inattention. Going to my writing group tonight,
our second annual White Elephant Gift Exchange.
My contribution is a record album:
Anita Bryant, The Miracle of Christmas.
Here's a tidbit from the album notes: "Anita Bryant sings
these familiar songs of the Christmas season, and she
sings them the way you like to hear them."
And I know you are all jealous.
I just bet you all wish you could have
your very own Anita Bryant album.

I had a date last night with five
very handsome and gracious men.
It began at ACT where we saw A Christmas Carol,
(the ghost of Marley lept out of the bed
this year -- explosions of surprised laughter!
[I should say it surprised the Dickens out of us]),
then dinner at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse.
(I just typed -- and then corrected --
Ruth's Christ Steakhouse. What would a Christ Steakhouse
be like, I wonder?!) After last night's meal
I really shouldn't eat for several days....

I hunkered down this afternoon at Uwajimaya
at the Vietnamese lunch counter over a bowl
of steaming pho, fragrant with fresh ginger, basil,
jalapeno. There are half a dozen stools wedged-in
down a little corridor. It's cozy, anonymous, private.
The perfect antidote to rain and shopping panic.

So. I was at a family gathering yesterday
expressing my anxieties about leaving the family
home, moving out and leaving my (grown)(in college)
sons at home, an upside-down sense of abandonment,
which I intellectually know is silly. (Actually, I cannot wait
to abandon the mountains of laundry they have a tendency
to leave everywhere.) My youngest son
volunteered that the two of them are delighted
in the upcoming arrangement, and he actually said,
"Phew. Now we won't have to do dishes all the time."
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha !!!!!
This all reminds me of when R. was an infant, and I
had to go back to work. I'd heard of the phrase
"separation anxiety," and seeing that this was in the
olden days of the last century, pre-internet, I did my best
to research how one dealt with it. I was very surprised
to find out that all the literature centered on how to prepare
the infant for the separation -- not the mother!
I was not at all concerned about R., as he was going to be
cared for by his father, at home. I was concerned about me!
I felt as if I was the only mom on the planet
who hated leaving her baby every day. Baby and Dad
managed beautifully. I was jealous. Sigh.
Time to grow up. Time for everyone
to grow up.

My first and last names anagram to Secret Healer.
How does your name fare?

I love this image. These were most likely the
u-cut version. Impossible. Difficult.
Predecessor to the punch-out variety.
Loved the little tabs for holding on
the various outfits. You boys out there
have no idea what you have missed!

Spent four hours today trying out fancy hair
and fancy makeup (didn't even recognize myself)
at a salon in Kirkland. Pampering.
Came out to a cold and windy afternoon
on Lake Washington, the hairpins holding fast
each carefully coifed fancy wisp.
I am ready to be Bride.
In fact, I went to a party on Yarrow Point
disguised as a bride. This was not a fancy
party, per se. Fancy house, fancy pomegranate
martini's, not fancy people, though. Down to earth,
pleasant people. As one guest has been quoted
as saying, "Face it -- we're all white trash."
(Well, maybe in a prior life. Or last week.)
Lots of people in jeans and a scruff of a beard
and wool sweaters: tres Northwest/Seattle.
And then there was me: somewhere between
Marge Simpson and the Queen Mum.
With my Big Beautiful Hair. I felt perhaps
just a wee bit conspicuous with my pink Coco Chanel lips.
My bronzed jaw. Rouged and plucked.

Strike Two

The pharmacy clerk at Safeway. Again.
(Wait: his name is Sang. Not Sing,
not Sung. Sang. And I didn't question him
on this! I didn't say, shouldn't your name tag
say Song?) He said that the bottle had an odd flange,
and wondered if it would bother me.
He said, "Some senior citizens
have a hard time with it." I wondered for
perhaps a second about what he was saying,
then it dawned on me: he thought we was being
considerate of me, thought I was a senior citizen!
(No offense, Senior Citizens.) I looked straight
at him and nearly shouted: "I AM NOT A SENIOR CITIZEN!"
He appeared to be confused for a second or two,
then quickly backpedaled, apologetic, obsequious.
He really does seem to be a sweet young man,
though I can't even begin to imagine what he'll say next.

Working well under pressure, although
hours and hours of sleep are required.
Wedding two weeks away: finally ordered
flowers today, over the phone. I highly
recommend Ballard Blossom. Professional,
helpful, efficient. Most of all: reliable.
Dark red roses, pale pink roses. No blushing
white. (No blushing whatsoever. Too late for that.)
Christmas tree is in the stand, albeit crooked.
No decorations yet. No lights. House is still
in complete disarray but (I'm trusting) that
will all change in the next six days prior
to the giant dinner party. I really could
use the services of a housekeeper. A live-in
housekeeper. (Dream on.) Last day of work today
then several weeks off.....ahhhhhh.

There were no miracles....

Melinda and I went to Nordstrom today
to buy bathing suits. Steeled ourselves.
The best-selling item for the post-teen, post-size-zero,
post-bikini mature women (when did I
get to be mature, anyway?) is called the Miracle Suit.
Huh. The only miracle that I witnessed
was when I actually managed to squeeze my torso
into one of those elastic compression devices.
The problem with frontal steel-belting is that excess body mass
is forced out the back of the garment.
Kind of like sausage bursting from its casing.
Not at all pretty! Whilst undergoing
this self-imposed torture in the dressing room,
Melinda yelled out to me: "Do you think they
have any burka bathing suits?!"
We each did manage to leave with a new swimming costume.
M. opted not to get the red suit. I opted for a matching
black skirt/cover-up. (Although what exactly it's supposed
to be covering up I can't for the life of me figure out.
Fully costumed, there is still altogether way too much
of me without any covering whatsoever.)
Sigh. O youth forever lost.

After reading Rebecca's accounting of the salmon
returning to spawn in a local creek, this poem
by David Wagoner has been afloat in my brain
all week:

THE POETS AGREE TO BE QUIET BY THE SWAMP

They hold their hands over their mouths
And stare at the stretch of water.
What can be said has been said before:
Strokes of light like herons' legs in the cattails,
Mud underneath, frogs lying even deeper.
Therefore, the poets may keep quiet.
But the corners of their mouths grin past their hands.
They stick their elbows out into the evening,
Stoop, and begin the ancient croaking

----------

I've always loved this poem.

I'd much rather be pre-minstrel
than pre-menstrual.

This is hard to explain, but I'll try:
In my bedroom, which faces east, there
is a bank of windows through which
the sunrise shines every morning.
Just now, while lying in bed, I saw
in another window, a side window, a perfect square
of pink and yellow light -- perhaps two by two feet.
Its lines were not gauzy; all was perfectly delineated.
It appeared to be hovering. Fascinated, and not entirely
sure what it was, I arose, and, of course, this
reflection shifted when I shifted, and disappeared.
When I got back in bed and positioned myself
at the same angle as before, there it was again,
but the light had intensified -- now fuschia,
now gold. Ephemeral window, an entrance (an exit?)
to another life? And of course, as I write this,
it has entirely disappeared along with the rising sun,
behind the ever-present winter clouds.
O golden moment!

Nom de Moi

I have absolutely no time for this blog
these next few weeks but I doubt that will
keep me away from this keyboard.....
The girl who bagged my groceries at Safeway today
was named "Bionica." What if her last name is "Mann?"
Not good. The last time I picked up an RX
from the same store, the pharmacy clerk
asked for my last name, which I told him.
Then he asked my first name (ALWAYS difficult),
as it's Therese (and I can't seem to do accents here
but there are two of them, on the first and
second "e's.") Just like the saint from France.
Bona fide French name. Correctly pronounced,
it sounds something like this: tay-rez. Give or
take a gutteral "r." So, after I told him
my name, he found my RX, and said, "OHHHHH,
you mean Teresa! I just groaned. So sick and tired
of mispronunciation. Thus the pruning to the single
letter T. And what nerve from that clerk!
What did he expect me to say? "Oh, yeah, that's it!
I always mispronounce my own name! Thanks
for correcting me!"
Parents-to-be: pay attention!
Give that kid a relatively easy name!

Here are some mispronunciations (and misspellings)
of my name that I've endured these past fifty years:
Theash
Threase
Terse
Treece
Trace
Trish
Terace
Terrace
Terez (actually not so bad)
...and my current favorite, my name as seen
on the Q-West (I will not say "quest!") bill : Threrse.
Please, call me T.

Tree

Attempting to carve out a space
in my living room for a tree. Of the evergreen
variety. I miss the $5 Chubby & Tubby trees.
I saw an ad in the paper last week advertising
C & T trees at a lot somewhere out north -- Shoreline,
I believe. But without the old variety store
with its merchandise stacked to the ceiling,
it's just not the same thing. Upon purchase
of a tree, every customer was given a key,
where one could attempt to unlock the Treasure Box
in the store. One year Nelson's key opened it!
He received a $10 gift certificate, which he promptly
spent on a green fleece hat with a long tail
and a pom-pom. Our cat Tip went crazy over
the pom, and we had to make sure we put the hat
high out of his reach or he'd spend hours
chewing on it. Chubby & Tubby trees were the old-fashioned
Doug firs, untrimmed, spare, often flattened from
lying stacked one against the other. They needed fluffing.
Tree-shopping there was a source of great amusement.
And you couldn't beat the price, even when they
went up to a whopping $7.

I want to lie on a beach
and sleep for about 200 hours.

I got up sometime during the night
to use the bathroom, didn't turn on
any lights, and my pajamas
were sparking with static electricity!
Every time I moved I looked like a
human sparkler. This is an advantage
to getting over ones fear of the dark.

My friend Genevieve told me today
that every Christmas season she, her husband
and their son build a gingerbread house.
Actually, she said it's more a gingerbread sculpture,
with turrets and drawbridges and spikes and porches
and and and. They work on it for several weeks, adding
layer upon layer of nasty neon-colored candy (which we
whole-heartedly agreed is NOT food), adding rooms
and roofs and entirely new wings. Until, by January 1st,
they tire of it completely, haul it out to the driveway
and set it on fire with blow torches. She said that a lot
of the flaming candy smells really good, but some of it
smells really bad, and it sparks and flares with the most
amazing colors. Cool. My kind of gingerbread.

Tell me I'm crazy. I'm planning a sit-down dinner
for 22, five days before Christmas, for my neighbors
who are practically family. In my not-so-big house.
This involves moving furniture out of the living/dining room
and setting up tables the length of it.
We'll be touching elbows (and most likely shoulders,
thighs, forearms), the lights will be dimmed
to hide the dust and the carpet which needs
to be replaced. My son the culinary whiz is confident
(or delusional?) that we can pull this off.
Why am I doing this? Because I love to entertain.
I love to cook. When I was twelve, I tried unsuccessfully
to talk my mother into turning our house into a
restaurant. (In the Renton suburbs, no less!)
I made out a floor plan, a menu. I priced all my
ingredients based on the weekly Safeway ad.
(I didn't know about wholesale at age twelve.)
I was shocked that she didn't agree to do it.
Thought it was the perfect plan. My dear mother.
I mean, who wouldn't want strangers roaming
through ones house, sipping coffee in the living room,
forking sausages in the bedroom? (No apologies for that
last image.) So....this fantasy resurfaces.
And it's crazy right now because I'm getting ready
to move, getting ready for a wedding, and it's Christmas.
The more stress the better! No wonder
I wake up at 4am every day.....

Waking at 3:30am, or 4am, night after night,
the brain overloaded with details. Each day
divided into 15-minute segments. I go to work
to relax.

In the garden the apple trees --
the Akane and Chehalis --
lay down their heavy load,
the earth at their feet
a confetti of red and green,
the party at last over.

-------

From a journal:

(from a dream, 1999)
Cupboards refill as soon as I pack a box,
all the plates, mugs, emptied bowls
in their newspaper nests,
yesterday's events crumpled.
There is to be no end
to this leaving.

Rustling through papers, sorting and tossing.
Found an envelope containing ten slides:
five of Mark as a toddler, five of Reilly
at roughly the same age. Who put these in this
envelope? Mark? Me? And when? Why? This was in the
bottom of a drawer long abandoned, old bank statements
and gas company bills. I abandoned many things
four years ago. Just closed up boxes and drawers,
moved the good stuff into my new living space upstairs
and left everything else behind. Bye bye.
But back to the slides: held up to the light,
it was difficult to tell Reilly from his father
in such a tiny square space. The same curls.
The same inverted half-moon eyes. The same cheeriness.
I also found a bunch of photos someone took
the night after Mark died, at a neighborhood wake,
and everyone is smiling. It looks like a birthday party.
(No: a Deathday Party.) Can someone tell me what
everyone was so damned happy about????

Yoga. Early morning.
At the close of each practice, we lie
on our backs, eyes closed, feet slightly apart
and arms extended out from the body, palms upward.
Savasana. Ten minutes, after a fairly intense workout
of stretches and prolonged poses. Time
for the body to process all that it has just done,
time to free the mind of thoughts. I've been
practicing yoga for nearly two years, and once
during savasana I had the sensation of levitating,
my body raising about twelve inches, then rotating,
floating, all very slow and dream-like. Today
I was given the gift of another other-world experience.
I was lying on my back, a mini lavender-scented
pillow over my eyes. There was a window open, and the clouds
parted for a few minutes. (This after three days of wild weather:
snow followed by monsoon-like rains.) I could sense sunlight
illuminating the room. The wind kicked up, and a chime
tinkled outside, delicately audible. As the wind rustled
the curtains, crinkled the edges of magazines,
filling the room with an almost balmy glow,
I was aware of spirits entering on the breeze, flowing
around the three of us supine on our mats,
bright benevolent swirls of blues, greens, reds, yellows.
They persisted for just a few moments --
until the furnace clicked on, forcing hot, packaged air
into the space, driving our visitors back out the windows.
The chimes became silent, the sun disappeared.
As if there was no place for these -- what? Ghosts?
Angels? -- in our conscious world. Our intentional act
of operating a furnace, taking control of our living space,
sent them back out into the wide wild universe.
We who are fully alive, filled with breath.
The temperature in the room dropped just enough
to warrant closing the window. It is, after all, December.
But my hope is that they come again, uninvited,
when the scent of lavender fills the winter air.
And may there always be an open window.

Nearly eight o'clock, and it's barely
light outside. Over two inches of rain have fallen
since midnight. What good reason could anyone have
for abandoning ones bed on a morning like this?
(Okay. I admit that some of you have jobs
where you are required to clock in prior to 1pm.)
I want to know where Jeeves is, with my coffee.
And croissants. And butter.

I had intended yesterday's blog entry,
December 1st, to be a list of all the flowers
still in bloom in my garden. (A random blossom
here and there, hangers-on.) But no! Bossy snow had to push
her way in, cloaking all, shouting "Look at me!"
Snow is a Prima Donna. A Princess.

So anyway, here's the list, humble and modest:
--roses
--lavatera
--cosmos
--nasturtium

I've picked roses for a Christmas bouquet
many years. The December rose.
Nothing flamboyant, mind you.
Hard little red buds, drawn
into themselves. Aiming
for invisibility.

Just as Paul and I parked this afternoon
on Stewart Street in the Market, snow began to fall,
hesitantly at first, as if trying itself out
for the first time. We bundled ourselves up the hill
to First Avenue and squeezed into the entryway
of Le Pichet (tiny French bistro)
where every table was occupied. Alas!
There were two booths to be squeezed into
against the wall, and as soon as we sat down,
we noticed that the snow, now apparently boldly confident,
was descending in puffy clumps. A murmur rippled
from table to table, everyone turned his or her head
to the front windows, and a group "Ah!" sounded.
One of the waiters bounded from behind the bar
to the sidewalk, yelping and cheering and flinging
his arms to the heavens, performing a spontaneous
snow-dance. We each ordered Soupe A l'Oignon Gratinee,
which arrived steaming from the broiler,
a gruyere-rich croute afloat
in the rich, deeply-brown beef stock,
onions perfectly soft and sweet,
a hint of Cognac in the finish.
No wine, no coffee, no dessert. No need!
A constantly replenished basket of sliced baguette
and a generous hunk of butter, tall glasses of water,
and soup. And snow.
Perfect.