Celebrity Sighting....

or maybe not, but last Tuesday at the House of Blues in New Orleans,

I left Paul standing up by the stage in front of the booming speakers

and sought a slightly-less ear-splitting perch from which to listen 

to the soulful, melancholic blues of James Blood Ulmer. I perched

myself on a velvet settee and settled in to the music, sipped my

vodka tonic. Before long, a very handsome young man -- looking an

awful lot like the one pictured above -- asked me if it was okay

for him to sit beside me. I motioned for him to sit, and he did,

and he then attempted to strike up a conversation.  The music was

very loud -- we had to yell. He was dressed in a black suit, white

shirt open at the neck. I noticed his shoes (I always notice shoes)

and they were black, polished, expensive. He was charming in a 

Cary Grant kind of way, and really wanted to talk to me about the

music, which was nearly impossible. This went on for several minutes,

when a tall woman with long dark hair came up and swooped him away.

All I thought at that point was, wow, he certainly was cute! And how

sweet of him, chatting it up with this middle-aged woman! A bit 

of an ego boost, I must admit. And I didn't think much more of it

until, the next day, on our flight to Texas, Paul pulled out 

the American Airlines in-flight magazine and there he was, on

the cover. Now, I can't say I've necessarily been a fan of his;

in fact, I've never even given him a second thought. But the man

who sat beside me at The House of Blues was a dead-ringer

for this man. Demi Moore, move over. 

 

Dream: Oscar Wilde and several other boys/men

came to a party I had in the old family manse

(that's a lie, it was a wonky 3-bedroom, cut-up &

added-on-to rambler in Renton) and they stripped,

ran through the house shrieking and whooping

before plunking their bare asses down in the hot tub.

(Again, a manufactured detail. Hot tub? In the house

where I grew up?! Bathtub, more like it.) I have absolutely

no idea what predisposed me to dream of Oscar Wilde.

But I was concerned when the rest of the guests arrived

and I hadn't yet sliced the log-sized salami and coppacola.

Hmm. Perhaps symbolic. You think?

From Rosa's garden, Kingsville, Texas.

I've been on six planes in the past nine days

and I don't care what scientists and engineers say --

I believe that flying is a miracle. 

There is that moment just after takeoff

for a few seconds when, just skimming the trees,

it feels like one of my dreams of flying:

my ability to fly depends on how well

I can will myself to ascend, and if I lose the concentration

I quickly  drop to earth. Fabulously exhilarating!

(Especially when the dream goes on and on....)

If only airplane travel had the same effect.

But how lovely the vertebrae of the mountains,

and the flanks of the foothills stretching out,

the loops and twirls of rivers.

And how marvelous to be home again, in my own bed.

I tire of the public crush of humans in airports,

the frantic push through security, zip zip zip.

The seating which prevents a recumbent posture!

The same tired bananas and red & golden delicious! apples.

No real food, nor air.

Corpus Christs beach birds, new sisters-in-law, new family!

Photos of the barber shop where P. used to get his hair cut as a child.

One dollar per cut. The Andrews Barber Shop sign looms like a giant

abandoned crucifux. As P.'s brother Jim says, "This part of Texas is 

populated by rednecks, surfer dudes and Mexicans. It IS Mexico." 

And it is so unlike anywhere else I've been.

Had a vanilla ice cream soda at Harrel's Drugstore at the lunch counter

in the back. If you are itching for a snack, here are three options:

egg, any style, $.60

tortilla, $.20

gravy, $.40

Also on the menu is a Phosphate.

This is another universe.

98 degrees this afternoon, according to one bank, 93 at another.

By 8pm it had cooled down to 83 and actually felt cool.

I usually melt at any temp. above 75. Don't know what is up.

Joe (a brother) and I made dinner tonight chez-parents:

broiled scarlet snapper, steamed broccoli, a salad of mixed greens,

spinach, avocado, tomato, cuke, green onions, shaved parm.

It felt to good to be handling vegetables, to feel the velvet

slip of the avocado in my hands, the firmness of the cucumber.

And to let those bright vegetal colors into my consciousness:

tomato-red,  avocado-green, pale-green-onion. Realizing how much

I miss them when I'm traveling. Of course, eating out is wonderful

and I love every minute of it, but food prep. is its own pleasure,

its own joy.

I had to spend some time cruising the aisles at heb-mart,

where massive bloody hunks of beef brisket were on sale

for $1.49/pound, and dried pinto beans were available

in a giant bin, for scooping. There were gallon jars of

pickled jalapenos as well as pickled cactus, many varieties

of mole. I picked up a small jar of Mexican vanilla extract

for $2, and mangoes. I love mangoes. 

Kingsville,

Texas. Too small to be on this map (pop., 25k) but if you can find

Corpus Christi (Body of Christ!) down in the south on the gulf,

then just imagine a burg about 40 miles southwest, and flatter than a

griddlecake, peppered with mesquite trees.

We are here to celebrate Paul Sr.'s 80th birthday.

(Paul Sr. is here because 41 years ago he accepted a job as head

librarian at Texas A & M. ) I noticed upon entering town this morning

that the Terrorist Risk in Kingsville today is Yellow. (Just thought

I'd let you know.) The big claim to fame here is the King Ranch, which

encompasses more square miles than the state of Rhode Island. 

Once known as the Wild Horse Desert, Kingsville, founded in 1904,

lies in the middle of land once part of the Rincon De Santa Gertrudis

Spanish Land Grant. Captain Richard King was a steamboat captain

who became enamored of this landscape when traveling by horseback

from Brownsville to Corpus Christi. He set up camp on the Santa

Gertrudis Creek, therefore establishing a base for one of the most

celebrated legacies in international ranching. We must not forget

his wife Henrietta, who donated land for the town site,

and who was instrumental in luring the St. Louis and

Brownsville Railroads, connecting Kingsville to the larger universe.

Miss Henrietta also decreed that Kingsville be dry, owing to

Richard's excessive guzzling of fine likker. 

This law persisted into the 1970's.

Besides the university, Kingsville is home to a Naval Air Station.

That aside, Paul assures me that there is not one fine-dining

establishment between here and Corpus Christi. We lunched

at Young's Pizza, home of P.'s first job. They serve some kick-ass

sandwiches -- mine was coppacola, provolone, pepperoncini

with a light horseradish mayo, served hot. A perfect combination

of flavors. Iced tea in pint glasses, graffiti over EVERYTHING inside

save the table tops, which the management requests be left clean.

The local grocery store is the H.E.B. and not a soul pronounces it "heb."

I've been referring to it as Heb-Mart, to P.'s dismay. Speaking of marts,

when odious Wal-Mart moved in some years back, it essentially

shuttered the old downtown. There are a few holdouts, including

a drugstore which houses a 1950's-era lunch counter in the back.

And of course, a visit to Kingsville wouldn't be complete

without a visit to the King Ranch Store, which sells dinner napkins,

handbags, silver bracelets, boots, porcelain, scarves, belt buckles, skirts,

placemats, saddles, sofas,  a sedan chair(!), carved-horn business 

card holders, and chaps: all emblazoned with the Running W brand. 

As far as I'm concerned this store contains just about every 

Texas cliche imaginable, plus some really cool stuff 

one would most likely not find anywhere else on the planet. 

New Orleans was like someplace out of one of my

wacky dreamscapes, where the colors are wildly out of control

and every storefront offers something outrageously more intriguing

than the one before, every taste transports the dreamer

to food-time, exclusive of anything/anywhere else, 

while around every corner is yet a different set 

of musicians slinging a tune, plucking the strings

of a washtub bass, or letting that trombone/trumpet wail.

Voodoo, Catholic, altars in remembrance of deceased cats.

Bougainville, hibiscus, plumbago spilling from balconies,

voluptuous lures, pollen-laden stamens drooping in the heat.

Pink shotgun houses, purple gingerbreading, blue scrollwork.

Irregularly-cobbled sidewalks, potholed. Sonambulistic mules

harnessed to carriages in Jackson Square. Confectioner's sugar 

clouds at Cafe du Monde. The bric-a-brac trinket show

at the French Market, nearly everything under $10.

And the t-shirts:

"I got bourbon-faced on shit street."

"I want to be Barbie -- that bitch has everything."

"Don't make me poison your food!" (On an apron.)

On and on.   

From the French Quarter....

FYI -- If you click on a picture, it should enlarge!

We took a low-key (non Greyhound) tour of areas

devastated by Katrina this afternoon, including

the Lower Ninth Ward. All I can say, at this point,

is that I am profoundly silenced by what I've seen.

I also finished the Billy Sothern book, Down in

New Orleans, and feel beat up, and I have no right

to feel beat up. I enjoy a comfortable life, I have

a home, I am on vacation. When I started talking

to a gallery owner here about my experiences

this afternoon, she said, "Oh, don't be sad! I used to live

in the Ninth Ward. Did you see my house...."

And then she started to cry, wiped her eyes.

Our tour guide (who showed us her destroyed home)

said the best thing people like us ("us" meaning those 

in the van) can do to help is to spend money -- and lots of it,

in this town. Okay. That we can do.

Dinner at Antoine's

A short walk from our hotel, Antoine's first opened

its doors in 1840, and is "the oldest restaurant in the

United States operated continuously by the same family

for five generations." Paul was dressed de rigeur --

in jacket and tie -- or so we thought. A tradition that has

existed as long as Antoines's has been serving its nightly

Oysters Rockefeller has been swept out the door along with

the debris that Hurricane Katrina left on its doorstep.

Instead of turning down improperly-clad gentlemen

in the early post-K. days, Antoine's let tradition slide

and did away with the thirty varying-sized sport coats they kept

in case an unprepared guest dared enter its esteemed front doors.

I'm all for casual comfort, but Antoine's is Antoine's: I must

admit that the flip-flops, polo shirts and jeans were a major

disappointment for this Seattlite raised by an east-coast mother.

Rules are rules, but please, let's not mess with tradition.

Our over-the-top charming and most unpretentious waiter

tut-tutted along with us, and before long the maitre d' made

an appearance at our table, and with much wringing of hands

expressed his dismay at the loss of classic elegance

a coat and tie symbolizes.  Midway through dinner he appeared

again at my elbow, asking my first name, which he inscribed

in Antoine's Restaurant Since 1840 Cookbook:

"All the best always from the Antoine family and staff.

So very happy that the winds from the west blow in class

unlike the eastern winds."

And I haven't even begun to describe dinner!

As an appetizer I chose Ecrevisses Cardinale:

shrimp/crawfish tails in a white wine sauce with a hint of tomato.

Paul had Oysters 2/2/2: Oysters Rockefeller, Bienville & Thermidor.

(He was a bit dismayed that I didn't want to share an order

of escargot with him, but I've just never been able, inspite of being

the foodie that I am, to get one of those tiny slimy curls past my lips.)

(And don't tell me they aren't slimy!)

Salad was a mix of chopped asparagus, tomato, hearts of palm

and romaine with a lovely light vinaigrette, which didn't overpower

the delicacy of the asparagus and hearts of palm.

Paul -- ever the more adventurous, had alligator bisque.

My entree was a Pompano Ponchartrain, a white fish

sauteed in butter with a generous topping of lump crabmeat.

Paul's Filet de Truite aux Ecrevisse Cardinale was even more

savory than my pompano.  Accompaniments included steamed asparagus

in butter and their famous puffed potatoes, which are flat strips

of potato deep-fried, cooled, and then tossed back into the very hot oil

again, where they puff like souffles. We finished off the evening

with Baked Alaska, which unfortunately was not flambeed.

While extremely visually pleasing -- with "Antoine's" piped

in meringue on its flanks -- the flavor was just kind of bland

and frozen. Baked Alaska must be served hot from the oven!

After dinner we were invited to wander the restaurant's 15

dining rooms at our leisure. There were very large rooms with

floor-to-ceiling windows and sweeping chandeliers, like the one

where we had enjoyed our dinner, and smaller, even grander 

private dining rooms, all brightly painted, containing one long table 

elaborately decked out in silver and crystal for the next soiree. 

(Not unlike the private apartments of Marie Antoinette in La Louvre.)

In one empty room, we spied a nearly concealed door

at the opposite end. After hearing from our waiter about 

secret doors leading to drinking parlors that existed during Prohibition,

I couldn't resist opening this -- an walked head-on into a private dinner

of perhaps twenty people, who of course all turned to view

my ungainly entrance. If I'd had enough presence of mind 

and hadn't been so surprised I would've recited a poem 

from memory, bowed, then retreated back out the "secret" door.

We collapsed in laughter once I had made my exit and closed the door. 

(I don't think I've ever heard Paul laugh so hard.)

We decided to hang in the Quarter this morning/early afternoon,

keep an eye on the weather. It was hazy, warm, humid; black clouds

loomed in the distance. We discovered a bookshop --Kitchen Witch --

that specializes in new and vintage cookbooks: heaven, for me, 

at least. Many of the older books had recipes cut from newspapers 

slipped in between pages. Many of the books I have at home were here,

some in better shape than mine, others worn and food-splattered

from years in some cook's kitchen. The owner stood behind the counter

and explained how to make a good roux to some young Asian women.

There was a shrine for his recently departed cat, "Bob," on a kitchen chair

with candles, photos. His black lab, "Sophia," slept curled on an

upholstered dining-table chair, hanging off the edges, oblivious.

Here's an excerpt from The Virginia Housewife or Methodical Cook,

copyright 1860:

To roast a fore-quarter of shote: joint it for the convenience

of carving, roast it before a brisk fire; when done, take the

skin off, dredge and froth it, put a little melted butter with 

some caper vinegar over it, or serve it with a mint sauce.

Our next stop was Faulkner House Books, a lovely alley-of-a-store

with shelves all the way to the very high ceiling. Mostly new books,

save for a glass case of Faulkner early editions. I was delighted to find

a copy of my Seattle friend Peter Pereira's book Saying the World.

So nice to run into old friends when far from home!

We stopped for pralines: I say praw-leans, Paul says pray-leans.

I say that I'm right and he says that he's right. Don't ask why

we didn't ask the sales clerk how she says it...and we stopped

for PRAWlines twice. So.

The French Market was overflowing stall after stall with ticky-tacky

imported tourist crap: polka-dotted luggage sets (come with a guarantee

that the zippers will break first time you use them), faux African masks,

piles of voodoo dolls for $1 each, feathered masks, plastic mardi-gras beads

by the thousand. Peppered about were a few actual artists with

their own work, but few is the key word here.

We stood on the sidewalk for about 15 minutes and listened

to a teenage brass band -- two trombones, trumpet, tuba,

two drums -- as the clouds pushed in darker and darker

above us, finally to let out tremendous booms of thunder

and a few scattered raindrops which quickly increased

to a massive downpour. We ducked into Fiorella's

for some lunch. As two cockroaches flicked in and out

of the newspapers beside us on the counter, the storm outside

continued to grow until there appeared to be a waterfall

just outside the door, descending over the awning.

We moved to a table slightly away from the roaches,

and  when our food finally came, after a very long wait

(and the cook neglected to make my deep-fried dill pickles)

it was worth it -- fried chicken, red beans-n-rice, stewed cabbage

with a vinegar tang.  Iced tea. Paul had an oyster po'boy.

I took a long time to eat, tucked-in there from the storm.

Fiorella's (which has been open since 1936)

was a bit of a dive the last time I was there, in 2003,

and seems to have suffered post-Katrina. There were huge

water stains along one wall extending from the ceiling

to about halfway down, peeling plaster, chunks missing

in the plaster. Very run down, dingy.  But after a few bites

of that chicken, and those beans, and that cabbage, I noticed

nothing but what was in front of me. It was one of those

food moments where you exist in only food-time, shut off

from the rest of experience.  I made Paul wait as I savored

and chewed, the perfect blend of flavors and -- dare I say it -- grease!

I'm reading am amazing book: Down in New Orleans,

Reflections from a Drowned City, by Billy Sothern -- 

a transplanted New York attorney who moved to NO

four years before Katrina to defend death-row inmates.

I've already read a hundred pages....

There's a glimmer of sunshine in the street outside,

and we're keeping our fingers crossed that it persisists

long enough so we can see Irma Thomas, Al Green, Elvis Costello

and Beausoleil. I think that perhaps I should purchase

a voodoo doll in a cloud formation and load it up with pins.

New Orleans. Torrential rain. Thunder. Lightning.
BUT IT'S WARM. We got rained out of the Jazz Fest
this afternoon after listening to Chief Iron Horse &
the Black Seminole Mardi Gras Indians and Hadley J. Castile
and the Sharecropper's Band. The food was amazing --
while not there long enough, we did have time to try
boudin balls and hot tamales. Oh oh oh. Yum.
The forecast for tomorrow is more of the same.
(Same food, same rain.) Plastic ponchos were sold out
at all the booths, but a generous man sitting at a table
with us gave me an extra one he had stashed in his backpack.
Paul -- ever the gentleman -- insisted that I have it.
He got soaked to the skin on our way out of the fairgrounds,
and we shared a cab back to the Quarter with four other people --
it was a sauna in there, with all those dripping bodies.
But there is plenty to do/see even in the rain,
which doesn't seem to stop anyone in this city.
Stepped into Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo tonight
to check out the chicken-feet keychains and skeleton amulets.

Heading off to New Orleans tomorrow where the temperature
is 83 degrees and god only knows what the humidity is.
On the agenda: New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival,
dinner at Antoines, beignets at Cafe du Monde, voodoo, a hotel on Bourbon Street, but no aligator for me. Nope.
We hope to get out of the city to see some of Katrina's devastation.
On one hand, it seems kind of voyeuristic to act the tourist
and snap photos of destroyed homes, obliterated neighborhoods.
But on the other hand, it also seems necessary.
More on this later.

Some statistics:

1. My old cat Alice has thrown-up on the average
about 1.5 times per week for the past 15 years.
This comes to 1,170 times. That's a lot of paper towels.

2. In the lifetime of my two sons (ages 22 and 19)
I have done approximately 9,152 loads of wash.

3. I have no idea how many times I've typed the word "the"
but I'm fairly certain it numbers in the tens of thousands.

4. Hillary Clinton carried Pennsylvania by approximately 200,000 votes.

New poem and newly sewn ensemble...feeling pretty damn good
in the creativity department!

Heaven


April snow descends
as I cross the parking lot

to the mall where nine harpists pluck.

The sun emerges — steam rises
in sinuous billows from the pavement:

I drift through clouds.

All along I've wanted to say 


that I reside in cumulonimbus, 

but it's too dreamy to admit, too flimsy.

Too much the poet.
But here, finally:
swirling evidence at my feet.

Sewing, Redux

The tissue pattern is even more delicate than I remember,
and not that it was anything other than delicate, flimsy,
good for only one cutting. It's been so long, but muscle memory
is powerful, and I let my hands remember how to pin, how to
cut with scissors flush with the fabric. I love the skreet, skreet
of the blades as a pants-leg takes shape, a pocket.
The vocabulary: selvedge, pinking shears, bobbin, presser foot.
And the convoluted path the thread takes from spool
to needle: up, around, through, caught-on, hooked, left-to-right
and then: ready to sew. Everything inside-out, reversed,
like reading a book held up to a mirror.

I've taken the leap across the great chasm
between the PC world and the Apple world:
last week my little beloved laptop that my boys
gave me for Christmas a year ago (used, refurbished)
began its downhill journey to the computer graveyard.
Even Nelson -- the resident computer whiz -- couldn't
resuscitate it. So tonight Paul and I braved the sleet/snow/hail
and plunked down the credit card for a cute new Apple.
My only regret is that it didn't come in pink. Alas.

A question: why does the middle-aged female body
turn into a one-woman sauna???!! There must be a way
to harness all the energy being expended from me.

And....I think Apple should name their computers
fuji, golden, akane, pippin....

Melinda and I stood outside in the hail this afternoon
with our mouths open, heads tilted back. The tiny ice balls
clung to my hair, my sweater, and a few actually made it
into my mouth in spite of my laughter. The flavor was cold.
Bland, in need of a little vanilla. A grain or two of salt.
Adequately chilled, though. The perfect diet food.

Mid-April and there's talk of snow, here in this temperate rainforest
where ferns cling to the sides of maples and moss is abundant.
The one day of warmth so far this year is going to be cancelled out
by a blanket of white fluff. O sun come back to us.
(But I don't want to write about the weather! Or last night's dinner!
Which, incidentally, was an artichoke, asparagus and fontina lasagna
made by Leslie Mackie of Macrina....)

Perhaps some year I'll return to poetry readings. Just can't bring myself
to do much more in that world now but attend my writing group.
Meanwhile, it's National Poetry Month and the city is alive with
the spoken word, with friends and fellow-poets on the stage.
So much in my universe changed four and a half years ago --
such a dramatic shift, so many desires have slipped away,
so many things have no meaning any more.

Nelson brought me the painting of a pear he painted in his class
at SSCC....this is the first art of any kind he's done since his father
passed. Prior to that, he played the flute, painted, sculpted, acted.
Perhaps it's just an excess of maternal pride surging forth, but allow me
to say that the depth of emotion contained in that single yellow fruit,
with its underlying layers of black and red, nearly brought me to my knees.

It's quarter to ten and Paul is politely suggesting I close this computer
so we can go up to the gym and lift weights. It's not enough that I do
packing and shipping at work, which = weight-lifting. Not so glamorous
as at the gym, alas. He's been putting me through a particular kind
of torture since our trainer has been out for surgery. And after three
months of this four-or-five days a week strenuous output of energy
one would think that at least a few inches would be shed from
this half-century+ body. Well. No. Not at all. I'm convinced
that muscles weigh more than fat. Yes? Please?

Every winter it's the same: I convince (or attempt to convince) myself that
this omnipresent grey is okay -- there are myriad variations of tone,
the bare landscape is elegant in its simplicity, darkness is a comfort.
And it works, for the most part. I do love the rain -- water falling from
the sky is like living under a perpetual waterfall. And the drama of wind
exhilirates me with its possibility for change. Cold foggy mornings
feel like swaddling: cozy, secure, the larger world shut out for a time.
And then there is a day like yesterday -- nearly eighty degrees
and it's as if every tree and bush is beside itself trying to leaf out --
and the new growth is nearly fluorescent in the surprise of sun.
The world feels opened out, limitless, infinite.
And I think: how did I possibly endure the eternal grey of a Seattle winter?
How does anyone?
And this I know: it's the contrast that is necessary.
Yes, I love it here. Indeed I do.

I had intended to go over to my Seattle house today
and do some serious work in the basement, really plunge
into the subconscious of ghosts which inhabit that
underworld, rout them out. I dreaded it. I do realize once it's done
and cleaned out I won't have to do it again, so there
are advantages. But. Nature handed me a reprieve
in the form of sun: we've been buckled under
with lingering winter, but today blossomed and unfurled
in total sun, so who in their right mind would go underground
instead of digging and clipping and trimming? Certainly pas moi.
Nelson and I worked for a good two hours
and accomplished more than I've ever done in that garden
in a single day. There is more incentive when I don't live there
anymore; not exactly sure why. The lemon balm is doing its best
(and competing with bindweed aka morning glory) to TAKE OVER.
Bindweed is insidious. Lemon balm is tenacious.
The yellow tulips (and one pink one) are close to blooming.
One of the grape vines is weeping sap where I pruned
a branch I missed a month ago. The kiwi is winding its tendrils
in crazy spirals up to the upper floor balconey.
Nelson, (who is 19) was completely into it, for the first time
in his life. He's started basil and cilantro from seed, little peat pots
lined up on a sunny sill.

Being Green

As good custodians of the earth, we use recycled packing materials
at my job whenever we can. Craig's list is a good resource, and M.
knows of various businesses who are delighted for her to pick up
giant garbage-sacks full of peanuts. This week she picked up about
a dozen bags from a home on Capital Hill....apparently the homeowner
was a packrat of sorts, as the yard was piled high with stuff.
I've been doing the lion's share of shipping lately, so I dug in
to these bags with my usual gusto, and discovered that they were
indeed green. These bags contained not only peanuts
but a hornet, multiple spiders, worms, slugs, and cedar twigs.
My packing was accompanied by constant yelps and shrieks.
After about 3 1/2 hours of this nonsense I had a mini-breakdown
and laughed hysterically for a few minutes. M. very kindly brought me
a delicate little glassful of single malt Scotch. Later on that evening
I was cooking old-fashioned macaroni-n-cheese and when I poured
the cooked mac. into the baking pan I jumped back and let out
yet another screech: the pasta resembled a wad of decomposable
packing peanuts that have come in contact with water: pale, shrunk,
shriveled. But I was in luck: there was no evidence of vermin
of any kind, not arachnidic, not apiatic, not gastropodic.
Miraculously I managed to eat my dinner, even though my brain
kept wanting to envision something larval and jiggly on the plate.

(Audubon)

Blue with envy: three Stellar's jays
on the railing outside, one holding a peanut.
Wrap me in those feathers and let me fly....

Happy birthday to my wonderful husband!

My book group tonight: we've been meeting almost regularly
since 1991, and three of the original members are still members.
We discussed The Beautiful Things That Heaven Bears
by Dinaw Mengestu, about an Ethiopian immigrant
living in a run-down neighborhood of DC.
A quiet book, gently eloquent. The tragedy that is
the protagonist's life eases itself in, no fanfare,
no bells or whistles. Recommended.
We dined at Shanghai Garden on 6th in the ID -- OMG go there
(if you live in Seattle) and order ANYTHING with the green barley
hand-shaved noodles. Spectacular: bright green,
tossed with yellow scrambled egg and orange carrots
and snow peas and bok choy and mushrooms. Not to be missed!
New book: The Inheritance of Loss.
And then Sex Wars by Marge Piercy.
It's National Poetry Month (NaPoMo)and I'm reading fiction
like a damn fiend. I'm renaming it NaFicMo.
(There must be something wrong with me.)
Last night I finished the magnificent The Story of Lucy Gault,
by William Trevor. Heartbreaking, evocative, with a complicated
sentence structure that seems to wind around and through itself.
Highly recommended.

Now this is ridiculous: imagine hosting a dinner to a dozen pre-teen
Fundamentalist Christian boys and girls. You are trying
to make macaroni and cheese (from scratch). Everywhere,
someone is in your way, the water won't boil for the pasta,
no cheese grater. When you finally put dinner on the table
it's ten o'clock and all the children have fallen asleep
with their faces in their plates. You wake them up!
Eat, children! Afterwards, they all get in
an enormous bathtub together. You're a bit concerned
with the nudity and close proximity of wet bodies, etc.,
in light of their conservative natures
but when you start handing them towels
you realize that they are all still wearing their underwear.
Then.....you wake up from this dream,it's 3am, and when you finally
drift off again, just before 4, there it all is once more,
except this time you're watching it on super-8 film,
the projector making that little click-click-click sound.
(note to Mr. Pereira: you and D. were also guests at this dinner....)

Driving home at 5pm, east over the bridge,
whitecaps on the water like crisp meringue peaks,
cumulo-nimbus clouds stacked up against the Cascade
foothills, scattered & assorted blue patches.
The shifting of the season now inhabits my brain
and with it there surges again that old desire
for change, for creation, for all things
beautiful and inspired.

Purchased two yards of ecru 100% linen
and two yards of black/ecru pinstripe linen/rayon blend.
Unfolded the pattern and studied the cutting layout,
each a-b-c step. Wondered: where in Heck
are all my sewing notions? (I know quite well
where all my other notions reside, and it's nowhere near Heck.)
At the other house, ferreted away in the garage,
most likely, in a box marked "useless sewing stuff."
It's been at least ten years since I stitched anything
other than the simple line of a cotton tablecloth
(fabric purchased at the foot of Montmartre).
And then it was probably a costume for one of the boys:
wizard, dinosaur, scarecrow.
Now suddenly this old lovely ache
of putting fingers to fabric, feeding it
inch-by-slow-inch under the machine's insistent needle.
A garment assembled inside-out, right-side-in,
all parts exposed, unraveling, clipped.
A dangle of thread. Seam-ripper, hopefully, neglected
in its green tin box marked New Home.

Yesterday on my walk I brought along my new camera
to document the new spring growth in the little patch
of woods that borders on the local Tech Giant.
The air was ripe with the scent (yes, scent!) of skunk
cabbages: they rose elegantly from the soggy earth,
so brightly green and yellow they were nearly painful
to look at. There were thimble-berry blossoms, ferns
clinging to tree trunks, young nettles just waiting
for a bare ankle.... Though the prize of the day
was a single trillium beside the path. When I returned
home, I enlisted P.'s help in loading these images
onto my computer (I am SO tech-challenged it's pitiful.)
And he said, take out the film. I said, where's the film?
And then, what film? Isn't this all digital??
Aaarrrrgggghhhh.
(The film was still in the package.)
No photos. No trillium.
(The film is now in the camera.)

Today's cake: Boston Cream Pie. And yes,
it really is a cake. Rich yellow layers
sandwiched with pastry cream, glazed
in chocolate. For R. for his birthday
(two days late!) This was a favorite dessert
in my childhood home, and few people I knew
had ever heard of it. My father was born and raised
in Boston, my mother in Providence, so our east coast
culinary roots were well established.

1856 - The Parker House Hotel (now the Omni Parker House Hotel), claims to have served Boston cream pies since their opening in 1856. French chef Sanzian, who was hired for the opening of the hotel, is credited with creating Boston cream pie. This cake was originally served at the hotel with the names Chocolate Cream Pie or Parker House Chocolate Cream Pie. This was the first hotel in Boston to have hot-and-cold running water, and the first to have an elevator.
from www.whatscookinginamerica.net

Living with an elderly cat is like living with an infant:
don't wake her up! Every pillow-rustle, sheet-twist,
every voiced exhalation (let's not mention snores)
and she's up and demanding food. Can't leave the food
dish filled up as the plump younger cat is dieting.
Can't close the bedroom door because younger cat
will scratch and meow, excluded. So. Awake awake awake.
Meow meow meow. Coupled with middle-aged hormones
the result is scattered dreams and sleepus interuptus.
Pulled my sludgy self from the bed this morning
to make breakfast for P.. I shuffled into the kitchen,
slippers flapping-half-off, bathrobe belt askew,
and sat down at the kitchen table and laid my head
upon its oak surface. Ooof. Fuzzy brain.
I was a veritable feast for my new husband's eyes!
(Perhaps the honeymoon is over....)
Fried up some peppercorn-bacon and eggs, over easy,
toasted two slices of oat bran bread. Made tea.
Made coffee. Poured Cheerios. Poured milk.
Ate. Went back to bed.

R.'s birthday today. Twenty-two. Yikes.
How is this possible. A rather disappointing dinner
at Salty's on Alki -- fabulous view, of course,
but the dining room was so cramped and so noisy
I couldn't hear a thing my boys were saying.
R. took one bite of his food and proclaimed
that he had a stomach ache. What? How old is he? Two?
So. No dessert. For anyone. Clang clang clang
went the forks and knives and plates and glasses.
R. suggested that we walk along the beach, so we did,
as the sun slid into the clouds, and the Olympics
showed their snowy peaks. Suddenly chilly, we crowded
into N.'s Honda, cranked the heat up, drove home
with talk of Alpha Centauri and the speed of light.

I was a mouse, and there was a Mouse Emergency,
so I scurried down to the den of Mother Mouse
and Uncle Mouse, to alert them and get their advice.
Their hole into the earth was concealed
in spring grasses, and both Mother Mouse
and Uncle Mouse were sleeping peacefully,
their little mouse noses and whiskers barely visible.
Mother Mouse woke slowly and with good cheer,
stretching her stiff little mouse legs.

(This was a dream.)

What do you call it when it's not exactly
snowing, or raining, or hailing, or sleeting,
or freezing rain?

Sneet?
Rail?
Slain?
Snail?
Slow?!
Heet?
Snain?
Heezing Row?
Sneezing hlail?
I call it sheeeee-it.

Modern Marriage:

We sit beside each other at the dining room table
commenting via computer on each other's blogs
and laughing hysterically.

Last night: Bruce Springsteen at Key Arena.
I'll leave the review to Citizen K.
(If it's not up yet it will be soon.)
Great show, although it felt a little bit
like I was at a club meeting for Members Only
as I didn't know any of the lyrics
or when to wave my fist in the air, etc.
P. brought up the notion that I've probably
gone to more concerts since I've known him
(3 1/2 years) than I've been to in my entire life.
Yes, well. This is true. I spent most of my teen years
and early twenties listening to and playing (piano)
Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Schumann. Throw in some
Beatles, Carole King, Stevie Wonder, CSN&Y, James Taylor,
Chicago. A little jazz. Lots of radio. Very little
$$ for vinyl. Apparently not the typical 1970's teenager
but oh well. But getting back to last night:
we had seats behind the stage. This may sound odd,
but I rather loved it, because I could see a lot of the
behind-the-scenes stuff, could watch the keyboard players
(I counted eight keyboards, including organ and baby grand),
and I could watch the young women down in front of the stage
grabbing for Bruce's feet, legs, crotch every time he
ventured close to them. What a hoot! I'll opt for this
seating section any time!

Private Pleasures

I've been shopping a lot these days at Whole Floods
(which P. calls it because the original Austin location
was beside a river which flooded often) which only carries
the twig/boulder/bark/scree variety of cold cereal. Fine
for a short time, but, damn, this body just craves
some refined/marshmallowed/red-dye-#40'd/alphabeted/waffled-
style good ol' American breakfast food. So I cruised
the cold cereal aisle at Safeway yesterday, and
believe-me-you, it was all I could do not to pick up
a box of Lucky Charms or Golden Grahams. This is some
powerful addiction. I lingered, I gazed, I salivated.
Those magically delicious marshmallow bits were calling my name!
But I was strong. I settled for Grape Nuts Flakes
and Multi-Grain Cheerios. No artificial colors!
Vitamin fortified! Whole grain! (Well, sorta.)
And the really pathetic part is that I couldn't wait
to get up this morning so I could have some.
(Saturday is decidedly NOT a steel-cut oat morning.
Puh-leez. All that's missing is cartoons.)

Chocolate cake just out of the oven:

1 cup butter
2 cups sugar
4 eggs
3 cups flour
1 T. baking powder
1/2 t. salt
1 T. vanilla
1 cup milk (whole is best)
4 oz. melted unsweetened chocolate

Carefully melt chocolate in microwave.
Cream butter, add sugar, then eggs. Whip up good.
Mix in melted chocolate.
Sift dry ingredients, add to butter mixture alternately
with milk/vanilla. Whip up good once more.

I use two 8" pans, greased and lined with parchment.
Bake at 365 for about 40 minutes.
A kitchen could not smell any better
than mine does right now!

Poetry here last night, in the burbs.
And as always, themes wide and varied:

Peter: a winter orchid
Susan: Where do you pray?
Ted: a typewriter
me: song in the woods
Rosanne: Scandinavian manners
Kathryn: state of the union from a plane
Jeff: lost lover

Three cheeses, two French wines, a magnum of champagne.
Overflowing wit and a surfeit of laughter.
Damn, we're good!

Spring eases in with an afternoon of sun
then abruptly exits in fits of rain.
I love this bluster, this ongoing mood-shift.

Word of the Day

Paraskavedekatriaphobia: fear of Friday the 13th.

(In case you're wondering.)

Easter Greetings

**************

Today's menu:

Mesclun and Ricotta Salata on Grilled Garlic Toasts
Baked Spiral Cut Ham
Artichoke, Leek and Potato Gratin
Carrots Tossed with Shallots, Lemon, Butter and Italian Parsley
Roasted Asparagus with Mediterranean Sea Salt
Mile-High Strawberry Pie (from Fannie Farmer Baking Book)
Bittersweet Chocolate Tarte (courtesy of Savannah Moonbeam)

Attempting to put the finishing touches
on tomorrow's menu....I'd much rather just
make a dozen desserts than have to slog through
actual dinner items -- that's where my heart
truly resides. At the Dessert Cart.

These were the days of frantic stitching (new dresses)
curtain washing, floor waxing. New white patent-leather
shoes and if lucky, a bright spring hat. White gloves (hand-me-down).
The last remaining days, hours even, of the forty-day
candy fast. Mother gone Holy Saturday to clean the altar.
Eggs set to boil, a teaspoon vinegar for each bowl,
each tablet of dye. Rustling waxed-paper grass.
Older sisters. Always older sisters.

Worn out today from lifting weights, packing glass,
lugging china plates from one house to the other
for Easter dinner, I logged on to Radish King
and was immediately reminded, when I read
the following passage, of all that is right with the world:

It isn't the face itself, the body itself, but how the body responds to another that makes it beautiful. This is the secret it takes so long to learn.

Thank you, Rebecca.

Chocolate Jesus

Happy Good Friday.

From today's PI -- Letters to the Editor:

Pastor: But right-wing preachers aren't called on the carpet

So let me get this straight: Barack Obama's pastor makes a remark in the sanctity of his church, and Obama is called out from the public pulpit and is made out to be somehow responsible for it. But right-wing Christian ministers can spew anti-gay, anti-woman, anti-Arab, anti-Semitic, anti-Catholic, anti-science, anti-human bile from their cable networks and talk shows. They can summon the wrath of their God on the Muslim world and call for the assassination of foreign leaders. They can do all this, and the Republican presidents and politicians who consort with them not only get off scot free, they get away with branding the media as liberal.

What a world.

Paul Goode
Redmond

Here's my Irish Brown Bread recipe --
I looked at a bunch of recipes and fiddled
and tweaked, and I'm very happy with the results:

2 cups flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour
3/4 cup wheat germ
1/2 cup rolled oats
2 T. sugar
2 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp soda
3/4 tsp. salt
1 egg, beaten
2 cups buttermilk
2 T. canola oil
1/2 cup walnuts, chopped very finely
1/2 cup currants

Soak oats in 1 cup of the buttermilk for at least
a half hour; overnight is even better.
Combine dry ingredients. Add remaining buttermilk
and oil to egg, then add to dry ingredients.
Add currants and walnuts. Mix -- this will make a
stiff dough -- you might want to knead it a few times
to smooth it out a bit -- not much kneading, though!

Form a round loaf, flatten it slightly, and cut a cross
in it. Bake for 30 minutes at 400 degrees, lower heat
to 350, bake for another 10 minutes, turn oven off
and leave bread in for an additional 10 minutes.
Let cool completely before cutting, or the bread
will crumble.

Slice, butter, enjoy!

I bought myself a new digital camera yesterday
and when I look at the instruction manual
I feel incredibly stupid. What is this language?
P. told me just to point and shoot. Huh.

Cooking the traditional American St. Pat's Day
dinner tonight -- corned beef and cabbage, etc.,
which I've never seen on an Irish menu, or in
an Irish grocery store. (Try Bacon and Cabbage.)
But I am making a traditional Irish brown bread...
what we like to refer to as soda bread, except
once again, I've never seen our American version
of soda bread anywhere in Ireland. This loaf will be
part whole-wheat/part white flour, some wheat germ,
oats, maybe some finely chopped walnuts. Buttermilk.
We'll finish up the meal with a purely American concoction:
Irish "Coffee" Cake -- a nice single layer butter cake,
macerated with a strong coffee/whisky sugar syrup,
crowned with whisky-infused whipped cream.
(C. is bringing -- are you ready for this -- a GREEN salad.
Imagine that. On St. Pat's day. Clever clever.)
I also picked up some Kerry Ivernia Kerrygold:
a hard cow's milk cheese. Gotta do a Guinness run....

The sales clerk in Rite-Aid today was named "Thin."
I want to be her. I want to be Thin.

Citizen K. leaves for NYC/Boston tomorrow,
and plans to take in a Brooklyn Academy of Music
production of Macbeth, with Patrick Stewart in the leading role.
The following is from a NYTimes article:

Mr. Stewart described an experience he had recently, as he walked alone before dusk near his rural village in Oxfordshire. “Suddenly I had this urge to speak the role, and there’s nobody about,” he said. “So I started at the top of the play, with ‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen,’ and I said the whole role through aloud, just to refresh my memory. It was a long walk.

“But it hit me before I said the lines ‘Light thickens, and the crow/Makes wing to the rooky wood’ — That’s exactly how it was,” he continued. “And I thought: This is wonderful. Every night in New York when I come to that part, I’ll remember where I was, on this lonely road with bare fields on either side, and there’s a mist hanging over the field, and indeed there are crows.”

Ah....to have been one of those Oxfordshire crows....

----------

After school as a child, I'd toast-up four slices
of white bread, slather them with margarine
and raspberry jam, wrap them in foil, then head out
to my beloved woods behind the house. My favorite
perch was in a maple tree we named "The Horse Tree"
for it's zigzag curve in the trunk. I'd sit on this
swayback equine substitute, leaning into the bark,
and eat my snack, then sing as if the waning afternoon
were my last on earth -- usually hymns or spirituals,
blasting my ten-year-old soprano notes across rooftops
and treetops, oblivious of any other universe
than my own. Were there crows? Probably, and Stellar's jays
and robins and chicadees, an owl or two. All silent
during my backwoods chant, which vanished once adolescence
slid itself in unasked, unexpected.

Not quite Patrick Stewart, I acknowledge,
and Renton is far from Oxfordshire. And the only
Shakespeare I knew of, then, belonged to my oldest sister --
slim blue volumes I coveted like a crow covets
a lost trinket sparkling on the path to home.

Multiple Choice

Zyzzya

a) leaf hopper
b) San Francisco based poetry journal
c) a type of pousse-cafe
d) last word in dictionary
e) all of the above
f) none of the above
g) some of the above

(When I don't have much to say
the letter "Z" surges to the forefront.)

Nothing to say. Nada. Rien.

This is good for a laugh, especially if you
are one of those people who puts dolls clothes
on cats.....

Once again, I'm listening to The Marsellaise.
For an explanation, click here.
(Yesterday's post -- March 12th.)
Rousing! En francais! Oui! Oui!

Sore and hunched and stiff from my workout
at the gym yesterday. Feeling my half-century.
And then some. And to think that we are paying
for this torture. Aye yi yi.

A little clarification on yesterday's post and photo:
in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer yesterday there was
an article (which included a photo much like the one below)
on the Boeing-topic-of-the-day, namely,
the perceived theft of the current mega-contract,
which will dump about 15,000 new jobs into the
Alabama econony. Now, I'm not exactly sure what
the Azalea Trail Maids have to do with all this, other than
the fact that Azalea Trail Maids are an Alabama product,
but I'm sure that a photo-editor at the PI giggled him/herself
silly when stumbling upon this very colorful photo.
As did I.

(Paul is playing The Marsellaise. A few moments ago
he was singing it, and reciting the words to me.
Don't ask why, because I don't know.)

The Azalea Trail Maids

Wait -- aren't these crocheted toilet-paper covers??!!

Gala

Crumpling ankles, too many Lemon Drops, plus
a Vodka Martini. And gowns galore. (I committed
the faux pas of stepping on someone's train!)
After the sojourn to the restroom, completely lost,
and the lovely young woman at reception
asked if I wanted her to take my arm,
and I gave in to her direction, and she
safely escorted me back to my table.
(It's important at these Gala Functions
to fully play the part of The Poet.
Does anyone care, though? Does
anyone notice? I doubt it.) After coffee
and a nipple-topped chocolate mousse-like dessert,
the room regained its focus. Those damned spike heels
will be the death of me or will be the
sprained-ankle of me. How we suffer
in the name of fashion and beauty and silk pleats
with just a hint of toe showing. And sequins
at the neckline. I wore my mother's glass-bead
necklace, black. We bid on nothing
but when the Week At Carrowholly (Paul's gracious donation)
came up in the live auction, there I was on the screen
in full April glory, wrapped in my green Irish shawl,
reading Yeats on the bench outside the house
with Clare Island looming in the blue
and cat's-eye green distance.

The Perfect Couple

My Ferragamo's and my $14.99 Target Evening Bag.

Carrowholly, Westport, County Mayo, Ireland:
down the road from the house.
I want to be here, now.
(Photo thanks to Amy Denio.)

In the Confessional

I discovered early on -- perhaps at age seven or eight --
that I could invent any sins I wanted and assign to them
what seemed like an appropriate number of times committed.
The final sin, at each monthly visit to the terrifying
little closed-door closet with the sliding window,
being the sin of The Fabrication of Sins. It seemed
the logical way of saying a Good Confession,
then fixing it all in the end: make it up,
end with the sin of a lie, say your pennance
and then: Bingo! Forgiven.

What truly confounded me was how one was supposed
to keep a running tally of each sin, and how many times
the evil deed had been committed. No one ever suggested
a Sin Notebook, small enough to carry in one's pocket.
(Not that I would've even for a second ever considered one.)
I had learned, however, the notion of rounding up (and down),
and so with the mathematic skills of a budding poet
I assigned each sin its likely number:
1) talking-back to mother: 11 times
2) fighting with sisters: 7 times
3) disobedience: 4 times
(I never went higher than the number 12,
and I don't know why, except that twelve -- a dozen --
was a very amiable number. Friendly, even. What priest,
upon listening to a child's solemn confession,
could question this perfect tally of misdeeds?)

These are the only sins I can recall. I can say for certain
that I never Coveted My Neighbor's Wife, I never Murdered,
and I never Committed Adultery. I had no choice but to Keep
the Sabbath Holy. And as for False Gods, I worshipped without
any guilt whatsoever:
1) all horses
2) the woods beyond my back yard
3) our apple trees
4) the falling-down barn we abandoned upon the death of my father.
These were my False Gods, I suppose, but they were damn good ones
and I've never regretted my true and absolute love and worship
of each and every one. Oh, Jesus! Yes.

Let's play Mass. M.W. can be the nun,
P. can be the priest, M.C. the altar boy,
D. can be the usher collecting big bucks,
and I'll be the choir. G. can be the rest
of the congregation. Fish food flakes
can sub in for hosts. But the wine, the wine:
only the best -- a Chateau Margaux, I think.
And let's not pretend it's blood.

Today, yesterday, tomorrow: eat, sleep, read, drink,
play, lift, work, drive, avoid, dremel, watch, listen, talk.
Pet, feed, tender. Type. Ponder. Disagree. Solve.
Cough, burp, swallow. Yawn.
Log off.
(These are Quiet Times.)

A charming dinner yesterday at a new, family-run
Ethiopian restaurant in Southeast Seattle. I won't
mention the name because I'd like to poke a bit of fun
at some menu translation/grammar errors -- there was
beef steak skirt and foul beans.
I'm not sure what I'd wear with a steak skirt.
Something red, perhaps? And as for foul beans,
it's usually what comes a little while after the beans
that's truly foul. Skirts and foul beans aside
the food was excellent, the service was delightful,
and I felt as if I was dining at my own kitchen table.
The waitress (daughter of the owners) brought the five of us
a complimentary appetizer of a deep-fried cheese and cabbage
filled fritter. Yummy! Walking in, we commented
on a large, simple powdered-sugar dusted cake
perched on a cookie sheet -- it was a special order
for a group of about twenty already there. At the close
of our dinner, she brought us each (again, complimentary!)
a slice. We were so lulled into being taken care of
that we had to awaken ourselves to the fact of the bill.
The very small bill, actually. What pleasure!

My friend Pam told me last night that she
is going to take a trapeze class....and
then she's going to enroll in the
School of Acrobatics and new Circus Arts in Georgetown!
Need I mention that Pam is not a teenager?!
(In fact, she's no closer to youth than me.)
If she decides not to run away from home
with the lion tamer, she promises to set up
a hire-wire in her back yard for impromptu performances.
I'm there!

I should remember not to go to the Pike Place Market
on the weekend: the touristing throngs make it
nearly impenetrable. I have a difficult time
with it's status as a tourist mecca. (Here I go:) back
in the old days I used to go there to shop.
When I lived in Wallingford it was easy to hop
on '99 and zip down for produce, fresh bread,
some meats from the German deli, olive oil
from Delaurenti's. Saturdays were great
for Swedish pancakes at a hole-in-the-wall place
whose name escapes me and is long-gone.
Yet in spite of the crowds I am eternally grateful
for the visionaries in the 1960's who won the battle
to preserve this bit of Seattle history.

Today the line for fresh-fried mini-doughnuts
was at least 20 minutes long. Alas. I passed.

Now on to Jamon Iberico : we splurged
on a 4 ounce package from The Spanish Table
and it is indeed meat butter. At the dinner table
I fluffed our 2 oz. portions into lush little piles,
and served fresh papperdelle with truffle oil and
sauteed mushrooms on the side. Ahhh....

You know how you can catch sight of dust particles
when the sun's angle is just right? Those suspended
specks of fluff and dander, that evanesce with a milimeter
turn of the head, or a shift in light?
Yesterday morning, while the sun was still
with us and warm, I was outside following my elderly cat
on her trek around the house. I knelt down
to coax her out from under the deck,
and as I tilted my head, the angle of the sun
illuminated swirls of what I believed to be pollen --
tinier than any other particle I've ever observed,
golden and swirling in the rising breeze,
reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night.
A second or two, and with an inhale my position shifted
and I could not find it again, this illuminated river.
Was it everywhere, if I could only see it?
Did it flow around me always? Or was it simply
an imagination, a product of fleeting desire?
Later the wind kicked up in earnest, bringing with it
chilly slanted rain and an end to this tease
of spring. No chance today for a glimpse
into the microcosm, unless I find the mossiest rock
in the forest, and unbed its secrets.

Not merely Formal Evening Event but
Black Tie Formal. Oh.
There will be gowns, ie, Cinderella.
Organza, tulle, taffeta, silk:
all those sumptuous fabric words.
Where do I order a pumpkin carriage?

From Catherine Reynolds' Spanish Table Newsletter:

Jamon Iberico

...it's simply amazing. For one, it's got a gorgeous mahogany color that immediately sets it apart from jamon serrano. These pigs have lived the good life. On the approach to your salivating palate you'll notice wondrous nutty aromas even though these aren't the true acorn-fed bellota pigs, but you would think these swine dine exclusively on Marcona almonds. This is all flavor with no gaminess, meltingly tender as Armandino's culatello, and astoundingly worth every penny. My favorite description came from my co-worker Steven who aptly coined the term, "meat butter".

So get a group of your favorite foodies together to chip in for a tasting--it's not cheap at $30 a quarter lb--or go build yourself the most decadent ham sandwich of your life.

This sure better be worth every penny
of the $120/pound pricetag!!
(We're going to splurge on some this weekend.
I'll keep you posted!)

Ah, serendipity: the dress I wanted
(for a formal evening event) DID NOT
cost $200; the price tag impossibly said $69.
Impossible in that it both fit the bill
and looked good. Imagine my surprise
when the clerk rang it up at 50% off -- $34.50!
This pleases me to no end.

Check out Rosanne Olson's new book,
this is who i am, our beauty in all shapes and sizes.
It's hot off the press and I had the pleasure
of skimming through it last night at my writing group.
Rosanne is not only a talented photographer,
she's also a poet. Looking forward to a closer look!
Available at Amazon.

Today is Homemade Turkey Stock Day.
A couple of meaty wings, an onion,
a few celery stalks, a carrot, parsley
sprigs, ten peppercorns, a bay leaf, salt:
heaven simmering in the kitchen.
Especially lovely when spring tempts us
then winter pushes back in. I'll let it
cool, then skim the fat, refrigerate
until tomorrow when I'll strip the meat
from the bones and boil up some eggy pappardelle.
Perhaps a basket of Touch of Grace biscuits too.
Is there any need for anything else?!
(Oh -- butter for the biscuits!)

Found myself with a free block of time
this afternoon, over at my house,
so I decided to grab clippers and tackle
the rampant grape vines. Not dressed for gardening
(black boots, slacks, nice sweater), but ambient enough
outside to shed my jacket, I began by hacking
at the lowest-slung vines, intertwined
with wild clematis and wisteria. Chaos!
Important at this early stage to not look at
the big picture but to focus on just cutting back,
pulling the dry brown strands from the tangle.
The fluff of clematis gone-to-seed
catching in my hair, my sweater.
And what's this? What's this thin crackle
insidiously wound around and around every stem?
The Dreaded Bindweed. Common morning glory.
So, battling four species knitted together.
Clip and clip. Pull. (Some of the grape vines
reach to twenty-four feet.) Clip again.
Finally, the snarl loosens; a framework emerges.
Detritus cast aside. Clarity.
All so that new growth may flourish,
and next winter I may have the privilege
of repeating this exercise.

(Realized, also, how necessary this cutting back,
this making way for what must surge forth
in the warming days.)

Yesterday I discovered that I can walk out the door
and take a forty-minute walk through woods
wedged between apartment complexes and
the behemoth Microsoft. Puddled ponds,
trickling streams, ducks, ferns clinging
to the sides of maples, windfall Doug firs,
cedars. The temperate rainforest
in winter's grey cloak. Nearly nature.
I was out for pussy willows though, and found none.

Roethke, Jive-ized

De Wakin'

I wake t'sleep, and snatch mah' wakin' slow, so cut me some slack, Jack.
I feel mah' fate in whut ah' cannot fear. Ah be baaad...
I learn by goin' where ah' have t'go. 'S coo', bro.

We dink by feelin'. Whut be dere t'know?
I hear mah' bein' boogie fum ear t'ear. Ah be baaad...
I wake t'sleep, and snatch mah' wakin' slow, so cut me some slack, Jack.

Of dose so's close beside me, which is you?
God bless de Ground! Right on! ah' shall walk softly dere,
And learn by goin' where ah' have t'go. 'S coo', bro.

Light snatch'd de Tree; but who kin tell us how?
De lowly wo'm climbs down some windin' stair;
I wake t'sleep, and snatch mah' wakin' slow, so cut me some slack, Jack.

Great Nature gots anoda' din' t'do
To ya' and me, so's snatch de lively air,
And, lovely, learn by goin' where t'go. 'S coo', bro.

Dis shakin' keeps me steady. Slap mah fro! ah' should know, so cut me some slack, Jack.
Whut falls away be always. And be near. Ah be baaad...
I wake t'sleep, and snatch mah' wakin' slow, so cut me some slack, Jack.
I learn by goin' where ah' have t'go. 'S coo', bro.

Finally, my boys came over to dinner, together,
tall, handsome young men that they are! Driving
home last night from work, anticipating their
arrival, I wondered once again how is it
possible that I'm a mother? When did this happen?
When did they grow up? Who have I become?
Driving east over the Floating Bridge the Cascades
and foothills were lit purple by the setting sun,
traffic was easy -- a world contained
in that moment, that thought.

And then in the kitchen, I became aware
of the universe having shifted: now they are guests,
and I'm the hostess/mom (better, I suppose, than hostess/cupcake!).
What a difference a little space makes!
This was no longer a perfunctory friday-night
dinner but an event. Hors d'hoeuvres included.
So much joy in this inevitable movement forward!

My Morning Laugh

Visit this site. You won't be disappointed.
(My favorites are jive and cockney.)

Absolutely The Easiest Scratch Cake

It has turned out to be a Blueberry Poundcake night:

3/4 cup butter
3/4 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
3/4 cup
pinch salt
3/4 cup blueberries, tossed with a handful of flour

Cream butter and sugar, add eggs and beat well.
Add flour and salt, mix well, then fold in blueberries.
The recipe calls for a 10" springform pan,
which would be too large, I think. And lacking
that (at other house!) I just used an 8" square
pyrex pan -- not as pretty, but turned out
and dusted with powdered sugar, I don't think
anyone will turn it down because of its right angles.

Almost forgot: bake at 325 degree for 45-60 minutes.

Tonight may just be an Apple Pie Night.
My secret: use half goldens, half Granny Smith.
Cinnamon only. (No other spices.) All butter crust.
No substitutions allowed. Can't go wrong.

No Penance

I'd bet money that I'm the only poet
in North America who did not watch
last night's lunar eclipse. Instead
I opted for Project Runway at ten,
then cozied myself between the sheets
for some semi-trashy reading (Spending,
by Mary Gordon). Alas.
I wonder if there's a special confessional
just for Bad Poets. (I wouldn't go.)

I was a bad Girl Scout. In fact, my deceased troop leader
still owes me badges. We argued
(in grade five, mind you) about some protocol
in documenting the badge-earning process.
She made up her own rules and expected us
to abide by them. And the only graffiti
I ever did was during a scouting weekend
at Camp River Ranch in Carnation,
on the canvas walls of our covered-wagon "cabin."
Used a permanent marker -- don't remember what
I wrote -- and someone told on us. Bleach
was not much help removing it! Victory!

Just discovered a great website that's an online
personal food diary, nutrition tracker and exercise log
all in one. Calories in, calories out. I've always
resisted keeping a food diary just because it's so
time consuming, and so what -- it's just a list.
But this site instantly breaks down your latest
consumption into fat/protein/carbs/sodium, etc.
There is a little bit of work involved,
especially for those of us who cook from scratch.
This involves entering the recipe (recipe? People
use recipes?!) into their database, which then
converts to pertinent info. per serving.
Very easy if you're a brand-name shopper
or eat at chains. (Not me.) But once you mess around
with the site a bit, it's easy to make-do.
For $9/ month, it's worth it. And think of all the
calories you burn just entering all those recipes!
And two days into it, I can honestly say I'm hooked.
(Had only a 1/2 cookie after dinner. Only 35 calories.
Still under my daily limit.)

My cat weighs three pounds.

Check out The Carnality of Food on Killiansaid.
(Scroll down to the February 18th post.)

Gotta love that internet. One of yesterday's
submissions was via e'mail, and lo and behold
there was an acceptance waiting in my in-box
this morning for not one but two -- yes two --
poems! A new magazine -- Motel 58.
I guess that secretary-role-playing pays off!

Four packets of poetry in the mail for today.
The dreaded job. I've never been anyone's
secretary because I WOULD MAKE A BAD SECRETARY.
Too much paper shifting and file attaching
and save as and printing and stamping.
Etc., etc., etc.

Some new reality shows I've been contemplating:

Who Wants to be a Poet?
Project Poet
America's Next Top Poet
Dancing with the Poets

perfectly possible potential. Ponder it.

I had my assessment at the gym today
and while I'm off the charts in the upper body
strength category AND apparently have grown an inch
(thanks to two years of yoga and better posture)
I have to conclude that THE SCALE AT THE PRO CLUB IS EVIL.
It's back to eat less and exercise more. Boo.

Years and years ago, perhaps I was six or seven,
I had an abrasion of some sort on my leg
which I fidgeted over, didn't let nature
do its timely healing. I showed it to my sister P.,
who had a scientific, doctorly bent to her,
and upon examination, she stated with assurance,
Yes, it's leprosy.

Leprosy! Horrors! I was too shocked to let anyone else
in on this frightening "fact." I recall losing sleep
over this accumulation of ragged cells above
my ankle, in constant fear of loss of ear/nose/foot.
(I never considered the possibility, at that young age,
that I might be transmitting this disease to my family.
Ah! The self-involvement of youth! If I was going to die
a tragic, agonizing, untimely death, I was going to do it
alone, by gum.) But first I was going to have to endure
banishment and dress in tatters as my skin and bones
left a trail behind every step.

The fears eventually diminished when new symptoms
failed to appear. It had to be at least a year
before this happened, and I began to believe that maybe,
just maybe, P. had been mistaken. I didn't for a moment
believe that my beloved older sister had been
pulling my leg (off!)!

My sister M. sent me an e'mail that said
"Wonder Polenta Recipe" in the info. line.
At first I thought it was a message about
a polka band:
Vic Dogwinkle and the Amazing Wonder Polentas.
Definitely accordian.

But I jest. (Sounds like a great recipe.)