John Updike died last week, and I ran across
this poem by him that I think speaks volumes:

Perfection Wasted

And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market-
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.

John Updike, 1990
Collected Poems 1953-1993

I'm going to have to pick up his Rabbit books
and give them a read.

***

Off to Bellingham today after an early shift at work
to catch a performance of Pilobolus, and Nelson is going
to check out Western Washington University.
I've always loved Bellingham -- a small university town
perched on the edge of the continent -- hilly, green,
vulnerable to dramatic shifts in weather. I think it
might even be sunny today. How did we luck out?

My loving and completely unbiased husband -- Citizen K. --
as well as PWally, has bestowed upon me the Premio Dardos
Award. It is with gratitude and honor that I accept!

The Premier Dardos Award is given for recognition
of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values
transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.
These stamps were created with the intention
of promoting fraternization between bloggers,
a way of showing affection and gratitude
for work that adds value to the Web.

The rules:

1. Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the
name of the person that has granted the award and a link
to his/her blog.

2. Pass the award to another five blogs that are worthy
of this acknowledgement, remembering to contact each
of them to let them know they have been selected for this award.

Without further adieu, here are five blogs that deserve
recognition for creative and original writing:

Radish King, for her unflinching view of the universe;

Poe-Query, for her dedication to the art of poetry;

Madeleine, because of her passion for great food & wine
and her luminous and loving language;

The Dishwasher's Tears, for his hard-hitting prose:
if I were a church-going gal, he would be the preacher;

and, finally, to Tofu Hunter, whose reviews of the Seattle
restaurant world add spice even to us whose lives do
contain dead animals.

Damn, I love blogging!

It's February -- finally. I've left stygian January
in my wake. Light ekes in, a minute or two each
day, slow slow slow.

A few years back I happened upon The Clare Island Survey
by the poet Sean Lysaght while perusing the shelves at Kennys
in Galway (when they still had shelves of books). I was
delighted to make his acquaintance last summer when
he gave a reading in Westport (where he lives) to celebrate
the publication of Venetian Epigrams, his translations
of Goethe. His blog, Stonechat, is a precise and evocative
observation of the birdlife of his landscape, and a blog
I return to when Ireland calls. I am especially enamored
of thelast line of this entry, as I feel that same impatience
growing by the hour:

Chaffinch

The song of the chaffinch is more discursive. My provisional

phonetic translation is as follows: No, really, this is how
we freely spend our time puzzling things. The phrase can be
repeated as often as the weather allows. I heard it
yesterday morning in a small copse of hazel near my house.
The morning was very mild and you could sense the birds'
impatience to be getting on with the business of spring.

A few things that are wrong.

1. Lemon-scented bleach. Bleach is supposed
to smell bad. It's a poison. One should never
be tempted to say (of bleach), "Oooooooooh!
So fresh and lemony! I think I'm gonna pour
me a cupful right this minute and drink it down!"

2. The digital clock on my cat's litter box. It's one
of those electric, "self-cleaning" litter boxes, which
is a joke, because it either cleans without letup or
it doesn't clean at all, which means that I still scoop.
But the clock! Why on earth would anyone need
a clock on a litter box? The cat's don't care, or at least
I don't think they care. What need do cats have of time?
It's all eat, sleep, eat, sleep sleep sleep, eat eat sleep.
And the next time someone asks me "what time is it?"
I'm NOT going to say, "hey, wait just a minute while
I check the litter box!" No no no.

3. Scented kitchen garbage bags. Again, no.

from Labour-Saving Hints and Ideas
for the Home:

Rat Paste -- To destroy rat and mice, melt a
pound of lard and stir into it half an ounce
of phosphorous carefully. When nearly cold,
thicken with flour and spread the paste on
small pieces of brown paper. Lay them near the
rat holes, where they will eat the paste greedily
with fatal results.

I posted this on my Facebook page, and now I'm
posting it here (and I'm dead serious!):
my plan for economic recovery is to legalize marijuana
and then tax the hell out of it. Pass it on!
(No, I didn't say "pass the joint!")

My Work Space....

...and my hirsute assistant, Mr. Lou.

Rosa Sat

A California woman today gave birth to octuplets
(with the assistance of 46 medical personnel).
As of yet unnamed, the babies have been labeled
"Baby A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H."
Let's have some fun and name the babies.
Here are my suggestions, using the letters above
as first letters of each name:

Abner/Abigail
Bob/Bernadette
Caesar/Cleopatra
D'Quandel/D'Quandelle
Elmo/Euduxia
Festus/Faustine
Guy/Gal
Hamlet/Hyacinth

Care to add your names to the list?

Our Lady of January

Loves a glass of cheap red wine
at the end of a day, loves a wool shawl
about the shoulders -- Italian paisley --
loves a sugar plum grape tomato Certified Organic
imported from Mexico. Loves some Zydeco.
Loves dinner out, but is willing to cook:
soup, touch-of-grace biscuits,
apple pie 50% Goldens 50% Granny Smith's.
Would love to know who in the hell is Granny Smith.
And why her name is on half of the apples
she peels for pie. Loves eating the pie.
Loves the silence that accompanies good pie
as well as the accompaniment to good pie:
fork-clink, porcelain-clink.

Our Lady of January acknowledges
that is isn't All About Food
but in the Universe of Winter & Perpetual Grey,
it should be all about food.
Our Lady of January states that if one is willing
to buy All Organic then said foods should by law
be calorie-free and not pleasure-free.
In the name of the father, and the son,
and the holy ghost (she regrets the conversion,
in the ecclesiastical vocabulary,
of ghost to spirit),
Amen.

Heartless

Nearly every year, a long-dead major music personage gets exhumed in the interests of science. Last year it was Frederic Chopin, who died at 39 in 1849, reportedly of tuberculosis. Some researchers want to test Chopin's heart, to find out whether he really died of cystic fibrosis. The Polish government demurs. The heart, preserved in a jar of cognac, rests in a Warsaw church. (The rest of Chopin rests in Paris.)

I visited Chopin's grave in Paris.
I didn't know his heart wasn't in it.

Periodically I am overcome by an urge
to wander the aisles of Value Village.
Yesterday afternoon was one of those days,
and I must say that VV doesn't seem to be
in danger from a recessional downturn in sales:
I bumped elbows, carts, shoulders, strollers,
possibly even hips with countless fellow shoppers
as we perused the color-coded long long racks
of clothing. All blue tags half price!!
I never fail to be astonished at the quantities
of stuff on the planet, and at least at VV,
the stuff is getting a second go-around.
My favorite aisles contain kitchen wares:
bins of forks, bins of mixer beaters,
wooden serving bowls shaped like pineapples,
mismatched cups and saucers, florist's vases,
baskets for 99 cents. I saw some exquisite
bone china espresso cups and saucers, hand-painted,
from Japan. Did I need these? Nope. (Although I regret
not buying them.) Did I need anything? Well, no.
Not even the decorative Nebraska plate, not the
Pat O'Brien's hurricane glasses, not the Evergreen
State geoduck mug. Not even! Damn!
I could've made a killing.
Gone are the days of cotton printed tablecloths
and handmade-rickrack-embellished aprons. Nearly
gone are any pre-1970's books -- those that remain
are labeled "vintage" and priced (seemingly randomly)
at $25. There's a new catch-word at VV these days:
Restyle. It's kind of hip sounding, very green.
I like it. If I felt the need, I could
restyle my kitchen. I could restyle my bedroom.
Hell, I could even restyle myself.
With any luck, I could do it for half-price.

There has been a lot of hoo-ha both in the poetry
and non-poetry universe about the merits (and demerits)
of Elizabeth Alexander's inauguration poem.
It's been amusing and fascinating to follow
these conversations/arguments/defenses -- my favorites
are on Reb Livingston's blog and Collin Kelley's blog.
(Be sure to read the comments!)

The following -- which made me laugh out loud --
is from a conversation at The Guardian:

How many poets does it take to change a light bulb?

One.

And one million more to say how much better
they would have done at changing it.

--credited to imikeydread

Sing praise for the dawn, for January fog!

Before you can hear the music,
you must be able to hear the silence.
(Awoke middle-of-the-night
with these words on my tongue.)

***

I could use a few days of silence myself.
This week has been a glittery whirl,
and I'm ready for some quiet time by the fire.

We attended the Seattle Obama Ball Tuesday night
as the South Lake Union Armory Building: rw&b streamers,
soul food and flags galore. People dressed to the nines
and to the ones (that would be us: denim).
Barbecued pork ribs, bbq'd chicken, collard greens,
beans, corn bread, sweet potato pie, iced tea.
The Jay Thomas Big Band, a funk band (my bro-in-law
is a fab guitar player) and an Eritrean dance group
with live accompaniment. Reilly was interviewed by
KOMO-4 news and had his 15-seconds (or was it 10?!)
of fame on the 11:00 news. Nelson was the AV man
and kept a steady stream of Obama images on the big screen.
Hundreds and hundreds of jubilant Seattlites, dancing
Seattlites, filled-to-the-brim satisfied Seattlites.
My last image of the evening was of a family of five
leaving the event: each of the three children held
a fistful of red, white & blue helium balloons, undoubtedly
plucked from the table decorations as the evening wound
down. The balloons bopped and bumped as the children
skipped across the crosswalk -- a buoyant hopefulness,
perhaps? A harbinger of better and brighter things to come?

Inauguration Poem

PRAISE SONG FOR THE DAY: A POEM FOR
BARACK OBAMA’S PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATION


Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.



Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Alexander. All rights reserved.

In tribute: Martin Luther King

Ain't she a beaut?
My black and white cake for an inauguration party.
It's black and white inside, too!
Damn, what a production to make a cake
like this when one is not a bakery.

Cake #2 (not pictured) is gingerbread
enlivened with Guinness and cardamom,
along with the usual cinnamon, cloves, ginger & nutmeg.

Although my kitchen is not a bakery,
yesterday afternoon it certainly smelled like one.

Crazy busy week -- I'm booked every evening except
Saturday, when I intend to sit home by the fire!
(Hint hint to Citizen K.: fire logs?!)

In the afternoon's glorious sun, I decided to go explore
Marymoor Park, which is about a mile from my house.
Other than the sports fields and the velodrome, it seemed
relatively deserted, so I parked and took off away from all
the people -- or so I thought. A map showed a trail
skirting the Sammamish Slough, so I headed in that
direction, anticipating a nice stroll beside the flood-swollen
river. As I wound my way past windfallen fir branches
from recent storms and and the winter-abandoned
grounds of Clise Mansion (where the expanse of lawn
in front of the building was pocked with hundreds of
mole hills), I began to see rooftops of cars in the distance.
Ah. Another parking lot. The closer I got, the more people
I could see -- and -- dogs -- hundreds and hundreds of dogs.
A veritable Go Dog Go of breeds and mutts!
A United Nations of Dog. A fur frenzy!
I do like dogs, but I was so unprepared for this canine circus:
dogs running and dogs jumping and dogs chasing and
dogs swimming and dogs sniffing and dogs humping and
dogs fighting and dogs rolling and dogs panting and
a dog in a handbag and a dog in a wagon with a pink blanket
and dogs with bow ties and dogs with ribbons
and dogs that looked like their owners
and people without dogs who looked like dogs
and yelping and barking and splashing and mud,
everywhere mud.
A dog named Barkley, a dog named Gus,
a dog named Tucker, a dog named George.
Holy shit!

From Etiquette, The Blue Book of Social Usage,
Emily Post (Mrs. Price Post), copyright 1945:

The position of the chauffeur differs from that of the
other domestic employees in two respects. The first
is that he has no regular days out. Second, he usually
finds (and pays for) his own board and lodging.
Sometimes a single man eats with the servants
in the kitchen, but this is not usual. Sometimes, too,
there may be a room over the garage that has been
converted from a stable -- in which he and his family
may live.


Just in case you wondered.

Saturday. I avoided, again, getting manuscripts ready
to send out. Made copies, etc., and then just stopped.
Anything else to do? Why, yes!
What is it with me?
Indulgent avoidance.
(Actually, I have a bunch of stuff out in the mail
but could have more.)

A sunset tonight, driving east towards water
and mountains: no fog, no rain, no clouds.
A sharp-intake-of-breath sunset, out of context
in this omnipresent gloom-o-rama.

There were cookie cutters on sale at Sur La Table
for 56¢ and I couldn't resist purchasing M A X.
Even though Max is thirteen and will most likely
think they're particularly uncool.

That great mystery in the sky -- the sun -- made a brief
appearance today, at a very low wattage.
It was an iron-poor-blood sun, an emaciated sun,
an impotent sun, a scant sun.
A sun without ambition.
A non-fat sun.
A salt-free sun.
An out-of-work sun.
A mumbling sun.
A sun who refuses to take its meds.
An introverted sun.
The sun-who-was-a-bear and went back into its cave.

****

In other news, I had coffee today with my son,
who falls into none of the categories listed above.
(Well, except for the out-of-work part.)

****

I am amused and a bit appalled at the language
used to describe the cause of the US Airways
jet engine failure -- it was a "bird strike."
Bird strike?!!!
Is that like terrorist strike?
Premeditated?
Led by Osama Bird Laden?
Anyway, it's a pretty amazing story
of skill on the pilot's part.
I'm just sorry for the birds.

****

Listening to Chopin nocturnes
and sipping just a smidgen of red wine.

At my job we have officially renamed
the president-elect and the first-lady-elect:

St. Barack and Our Lady of Obama.

Stay tuned for St. Barack medals
and glow-in-the-dark Our Lady figurines.

****

On another note, please do check out
this hilarious dictionary.

(image: Tony Angell)

Along a four-mile stretch of Rainier Avenue today
I counted 26 crows' nests stuck up in the crooks
and branches of the deciduous trees that line
the arterial. Last year's nests: some clearly
wind-ripped, others still securely anchored.
I cannot imagine birthing a brood up above
the ever-present cacophony of urban traffic.
And when the emptied eggs are tipped from the nest,
they fall to no soft mossy bed, no delicate spring
grasses. Chicks fledge into a shriek of steel,
into auto exhaust and crushing rubber.
It's no wonder crows are so street-wise.

January 13th Vocabulary

(from the workplace):

hot-and-sour soup
hydrocephaly
tall 2%
chess
five black horses
Doe Bay
bi-polar
Bellevue
smart & skinny
oh no!
tempra
Pride and Prejudice
throw it away
empire waist
Arabian
sprained ankle
sleazy
Wal-Greens
gown
sand blaster
eighteen eggs
orgasm
Laurence of Arabia
penguin costumes
Pink Panther
tutu
Oklahoma!
magnificent
Columbia City

I laid on the couch last night
and ate chocolate truffles:
my remedy for January.

Melinda sent me this today, because
I'm such a punctuation junkie. Too funny!

Done with my work week, at least
the work for which I must leave my house.
I got me a bad case of January blahs.
Don't wanna cook.
Don't wanna exercise.
Don't wanna drive.
Just wanna sleep.
And read.

There exist people who insist on framing
my name (T.) in quotation marks. Why is this?
It reeks of preciousness and makes me gag.
My names doesn't come with quotation marks
any more than yours does, okay, "Britney"?
Yours Truly,
(((((((((T.))))))))

Descending into January.
A desire to be ursine.

Tonight I am revisiting the pear.
After the ho-ho-ho of cranberries
and chocolate, after goose
and turkey and prime rib.
Post peppermint, post shortbread.

Autumn was all butternut and acorn,
roasted pumpkin seeds, every variety
of pear I could find. And apple:
pie, cobbler, crisp, tarte.
Pecans and walnuts.
The homely roots: beet and parsnip.

But what are the fruits of January?
Which vegetables?

Snow/ice.
Wind/rain.

At Whole Foods:

Vegan Cane Sugar.

I have to say that I really hate it
when they put pig in my sugar.
Lutefisk is even worse.
And haggis, well, let's not go there.
Thank the gods that this sugar
contains only organic tofu
and pinto beans.

I didn't leave the house today except to walk
to the mailbox three times. The mailbox is about
thirty feet from my front door. I so rarely do this --
stay at home. It makes me a little nutty; it's altogether
too insular for me. I thrive on people, lots of them,
and a quickly changing landscape. I would fail
as a hermit.

With the New Year comes a desire for a bit of remodeling.
I finally figured out how to enlarge the size of my font,
how to change some colors. The new picture on my header
is a detail from a painting by my son Nelson, which hangs
above my piano.

Snow remains in gritty heaps, but sunlight
makes them sparkle, so all is not ugly.
I'm fascinated by how the snow-piles melt,
creating their own soft sculptures.

More than resolutions when the year turns,
I always remind myself of the innumerable things
for which I give thanks, and so often
these are elemental things:
my children
my husband
my sisters, both actual and honorary
my friends: poets, artists, neighbors, family, workmates
shelter
food
wine
sunlight
cats
language
health
humor
work
What have I forgotten? Who have I left out?
All of you faithful readers: I extend to you
my gratitude and my affection.

Not one of these things is a given, or taken for granted.
(When my boys were little, they used to say:
"taken for granite."
Be assured that I take none of you for granite!)

Amen.

Gingerbread Inferno!

Before...



and after:



For the second year now, Paul and I have spent part
of New Year's Eve afternoon witnessing one of the
year's truly great spectacles, at an undisclosed
location in West Seattle. (I've learned that this
is what glass artists do with their blow torches
when they're not creating objets.)

The artists begin assembling their
candy cache after Halloween, scouting grocery
outlets and Asian food markets, for the most
unusual candies possible. The actual construction
takes place over a period of weeks. The architecture
contained several non-candy components, my favorite
being sunflowers seeds (used on the roof) which,
according to the packaging, were coated in saccharine,
salt, and MSG. Who wouldn't want to burn these?!
Last year's "house" was a re-creation of Machu Picchu,
and I recall some red vines that withstood long blasts
from the blowtorch with nary a trickle of melting sugar.
(Haven't eaten a red vine since.) The giant jaw breakers
really steal the show as they drip away in colorful layer
upon layer. And the fireworks hidden inside! Sparklers!

For a firsthand look at the extravaganza,
check out the video below. (My apologies for the sideways
camera angle which cuts in halfway through. My fault.
But the footsteps up the center of the screen
make up for it, I think. I'm a poet, not a filmmaker.)

We received this tragic news last night
just about midnight...the woman, Megan Kinsella,
is the former girlfriend of my step-son Bill --



Backcountry Slide Kills 1
Avalanche watch has been in effect

By JON NAITO
P-I REPORTER

The year ended with another backcountry tragedy Wednesday when a 24-year-old woman was killed and a man was seriously injured after a large piece of ice and snow fell on them on a trail near Crystal Mountain.

Authorities said the couple were near Camp Sheppard, an area filled with trails administered by the Chief Seattle Council of the Boy Scouts of America. It is near state Route 410, east of Enumclaw.

About 3:45 p.m. Wednesday, a crew from Puget Sound Energy came across the man after he made his way to the highway, said Detective Ed Troyer, a spokesman for the Pierce County Sheriff's Department.

The crew went to search for the woman and found her body about two miles from the highway in an area called Snoquera Falls.

The man, 26, was taken to St. Joseph Medical Center in Tacoma.

A search team was working to recover the body of the woman Wednesday night, Troyer said.

Troyer said the man suffered a serious head injury and was semiconscious when he was found.

Authorities were uncertain Wednesday night where the ice and snowpack had fallen or the cause, but said the couple had been ice climbing in the area. KOMO/4 reported the couple were both employed at the Crystal Mountain ski area.

The National Weather Service this week issued an avalanche watch for the Cascade and Olympic mountains for Wednesday and Thursday.

"Nobody should have been in there," Troyer said.

"There have been plenty of avalanche warnings the past few days, so no one should have been anywhere in the backcountry areas. It's dangerous out there."

Wednesday's was the latest in a series of fatal Northwest backcountry incidents recently.

I tottered off to my First Anniversary dinner
in my impossibly-high-three-and-a-half-inch red
patent-vinyl pointy-toe heels and a red velvet coat and two
different earrings. My appetizer was a Beet Bombolino
which is a kind of savory donut filled with melty gorgonzola
atop roasted beets atop a lake of almond butter.
I'd been fantasizing about this menu item all day
and I just kind of melted into it. Slid into it,
jaws agape. Holy shit it was amazing.
And now all I want to do is sleep, for days unending.
Christmas: done. Snow: done. Family party: done.

On another note, I bench-pressed 95 pounds today.

There were more than 29 people; I lost count.
This is a big house, and there were at least five
parties going on simultaneously in different rooms:
1) boys/men & football
2) college students & beer/wine/champagne/vodka
3) sisters & talking
4) teen nieces and texting
5) everyone & food

Three chocolate cakes plus chocolate fudge.

-----

Happy first anniversary Paul!

RAIN
GLORIOUS
RAIN

Finally, finally able to travel by car.
The trick, I've learned, is to get your car wheels
in the grooves on the road, except my car, an 11-year-old
Mazda, rides a little low, and the undercarriage
scrapes the blizzard-buildup between the grooves.
An ungodly racket, as if the bowels of the car
were (are) being gouged out. And we live in a
temperate rain forest. Ha.

I'm enjoying a Kir: white wine, creme de cassis,
a lemon twist. The Fouilly Poussé (which I like to call
"fussy pussy") was a bit sour, thus the rescuing elements
of liqueur and rind.

We went to see Seven Pounds today -- it's okay,
emotionally manipulative, lethargically paced.
My favorite movie of the year is A Christmas Tale, reviewed here
by Citizen K. (I don't do movie reviews.)

Twenty-nine people here tomorrow for a party,
all related to me. Nieces and nephews and brothers-in-law
and great-nieces and great-nephews and a step-niece
and a step-nephew-in-law and two step-great-nephews,
and, oh yes, sisters, many sisters.

I received two books on the art of book-making
for Christmas. Is this a hint? I've already delved
into the elementary first steps of this fading art form,
and it's great fun. The goal is to combine
poetry/collage/line-drawings. We'll see. I'm optimistic.

Before and after Merry Christmas cookies!

***

Be sure to check out Peter Pereira's poem on The Writer's Almanac....
Peter and I have been in the same writing group
since 1991. (And please, after you read his poem
buy his books!)

Ah, snow, snow, again, again.
Waiting for large grown children
to awaken, boys all. Blueberry pancakes await.

Oh god help me it's snowing again.
What I would do for a drizzly rain.

On the eve of the Eve

Always before Christmas the days lose shape,
lose the essence of Tuesday, Saturday.
Each waking becomes one less stretch of hours
taken up by ribbon, by tinsel.
And now, snowbound, the amorphous days
inhabit a limbo, a slushy lethargy
punctuated by tea, soup, bread.

As if we need more of this nonsense....

We spent an hour this morning not going anywhere,
and it involved a car, a snow shovel, hot water
and kitty litter. Now we're out of kitty litter
and we're still marooned on this hill. I decided
to take a walk to check out 520, and discovered
a snow-free highway and cars moving at normal speeds.
Well then. All this less than a half-mile from my
ice-locked car.

I have no presents for my husband, as they all require
the use of vehicles. I tentatively arranged some
pick-up action this morning when I was convinced
we were mobile, but, alas, I'm back to square one.
I'd really like to progress to square two or three.

Yesterday I made pumpkin bread and two loaves of basic
white bread. Friends came by (on foot!) and we spent
the afternoon playing board games, drinking tea,
eating popcorn and the homemade breads, while a fire crackled.
Later it was three-olive vodka martinis
and spinach dhal and cashew pulao.

****

gone away, is the shopping
here to stay, is the mopping
i'll curse right along
with this stupid old song
walkin' in a fuckin' wonderland

Japanese maple, from my front porch

I crunched through the snow through the woods
this afternoon, saw a set of deer tracks. Felt
as if I didn't belong, as if the behemoth MicroS.
buildings looming above me up the hill didn't belong,
the apartment complex partially obscured by trees
didn't belong. Out of balance.(The world, not me.
But I'm not entirely certain of that. Some may disagree.)

But what peace, and how effortless it was to move my body
through that silenced landscape. Even the ducks -- walking
on top of their pond -- were oddly quiet. In our temperate
rainforest, all the ferns growing on the trunks of the big-leaf
maples were drooped with cold & ice. I recalled the blossoms
of the native blackberries lining my path last spring,
and how I missed their ripening mid-summer.What I would do
for a single bag of those tiny berries in my freezer,
pie-ready. It just makes sense to bake a blackberry pie
when we're snowed-in.

I waited all last night for the predicted Big Wind
but it remained gentle and fairly calm outside. I laid in bed
with the shades open and watched snow swirl past the window,
carried aloft in the benevolent 20mph gale.
And this morning, booted and swaddled in Irish wool,
I trekked down the driveway to fetch the Sunday paper
and every step sounded with a crisp crack as the crust
which formed overnight on the snow's surface shattered.
When I was fifteen I made a chocolate cake from my mom's
three-ring-binder Betty Crocker cookbook called
Black Midnight Cake and frosted it with seven-minute
icing. And because of some particular humidity
in the air, some fluctuation in the dew point,
the outer edges of this thick white swirly confection
crystalized: you bit through a delicate crunch before
losing yourself in the pillowy white; the dense black
of the underlying, now nearly irrelevant cake almost
an afterthought.
I've not yet been able to duplicate that incredibly
sensual experience. It was a gift to the tongue
and one of those surprises that occurs when one dabbles
in the science -- the chemistry -- of baking.

Ah. Tomorrow winter officially begins at 4:04am PST,
but from the looks of it here, it seems we exist already
in the very depths of a frozen universe. We did manage to get
off our street and onto 520, which was pretty much clear
and dry. Hair cut, lunch out, and a visit to Sur La Table
in Kirkland, where at least 49 million people
were shopping for gadgets and there was a woman
directing the line for the cash register fa la la la la.
It took several stops on skating rink parking lots
to find a flashlight for sale, and then there were none
of the right size batteries left at any of the three stores
in the vicinity (according to another shopper).
So we ended up with tiny flashlights with microscopic batteries
so if we lose power in tonight's Storm of the Century
we'll only be able to read very tiny books.

The thing about snow is that it takes up so much room.

According to Those Who Know, Redmond (where I live)
received the brunt of the current storm: we officially
received 11" of snow! Damn. Last night we walked down
to our friend Sarah's house to celebrate her daughter
Emily's 20th birthday. Geez it was glorious stomping
through all that snow. In my bakery days I used to fantasize
about diving into the bins of flour -- so soft! so white!
Fine powder, glitter-dusted, white-mountain-seven-minute-frosting.
There was a semi-truck jack-knifed on Bel-Red Road, and four
cars had subsequently crashed into it. Glad to be on foot.

We really must venture out today over hill and dale
(and hill and hill and hill) for groceries:
supplies are dwindling. But: there are two bottles
of champagne in the refrigerator, so all is not lost!

Zippy

Breakfast just wouldn't be right without my daily dose
of Zippy, by Bill Griffith.(In case you're unfamiliar,
Zippy is a comic strip.) Today, in the space
of three tiny squares, Mr. Griffith displayed a spectacular vocabulary:
god, Holyland Theme Park, Orlando, handmaidens, Blu-Ray disc player,
Mel Gibson, "Th' Passion of Th' Christ", animism, wicca and,
last but not least, hell. Other than a nice strong cup
of coffee, what else could one possibly desire?!

Thankfully Zippy prevents me from sliding hopelessly
into complete sentimentality: we awoke today, finally, after
days of Breaking! News! Reports! Inclement! Weather!
to a good three inches of white fluff. (Oddly it's darker
in the house than usual because all the skylights
are snow-covered.) And before coffee, before the crackle
of pepper-crusted bacon, I lit two candles and sat
at the piano and improvised a little snowflake-descending tune:
tinkle tinkle tinkle

Soon I'll go outside with my jewelers loupe
and examine some crystal structure up-close.
I read once in a kids science project book
that if it's cold enough outside, you can blow a bubble
and it will freeze. The actual temperature required
in order for this to happen was not stated, and so far,
it's not been cold enough here to accomplish this.
(God knows I've tried. )

Today was the day of the massive storm
that never happened. In fact, the sun came out.
Schools closed in anticipation.

I'm having a late-afternoon cup of coffee
and listening to Handel's Messiah.
We sang this every December in my high school
a cappella choir -- started practicing after Thanksgiving
and performed it right before the winter break
(which we used to call Christmas Vacation.)
Our choir director was a perpetually cheerful man
and I think probably every one of his girl students
(and come to think of it, probably a number
of his male students also) had a crush on him.
He was dashing and handsome and the best
music teacher I ever studied with. No one
left his class without being able to read music
and play basic scales on the piano.
And this was public school.
My singing voice is long gone but I still know
all the alto parts and most of the tenor parts
for quite a few pieces from The Messiah.
What a pleasure it was to sing!
I currently have about a 5-note tenor range.
Ugh.

Santa, circa 1963.
A Brownie Troop project.
Odd, indecipherable felt shapes were laid out
on a table, and we picked them up one at a time,
gluing each subsquent layer upon the previous,
until -- ta da! --
Mr. Claus appeared.

To cart out the Christmas ornaments
is to delve into my own personal Ancient History:
the annual catalog of joys and injuries, pleasures & miseries
all boxed up together, a jumble of past lives.
Tonight I left more than half in boxes,
as did Paul.

ice ice ice ice ice ice ice ice ice ice ice

As Paul said, we got a "damn fine tree."
It's a Frasier fir, very crisp needles.
Handel would roll over in his grave if he heard
his Messiah emanating from a display of blow-up
snow-people. On the other hand, he might be astonished
at how ubiquitous The Hallelujah Chorus has become.
A few snowflakes fell as we tree shopped.
(And by a few, I mean three or four.)
Pretty darn exciting.

Burnt

Bringing my piano to this house has brought up thoughts
of another piano, another residence, another life.
In 1987 my late husband and I were living in Eastlake --
a four-plex -- with our nearly-one-year-old-son R.
It was January, 25 degrees. Husband M. was out
with friends, and I'd put the baby to bed for the night.
As I left his room I thought I smelled smoke.
Did the downstairs neighbor burn her toast, again?
Our smoke alarm, which sounded when someone lit a match,
was unusually silent. I was on the way to bed myself,
but decided to step outside and get a breath of fresh air,
then walk into R.'s room again, to see if that burning odor
persisted. By the time I'd walked to the front door
and walked back to his room --what? Maybe ten seconds?
-- his room had filled with smoke, but I could
see no flames. I swooped in and plucked him from his crib,
called 911, then called M.: Something. Is. On. Fire.
I grabbed a blanket from the couch for the baby, propped
the door open for the cats, and fled outside
into the frozen night as sirens grew louder every second.
My downstairs neighbor was already outside,
visibly disturbed: a plastic garbage can too close
to a wall-heater had ignited in her bedroom,
directly below R.'s crib.

A night janitor in the office building behind us let me into
his warm building, where I watched flames consume the back
of our apartment, my son awake, oblivious. M. appeared
at some point during the chaos. I remember firefighters
(62 responded to the call) on the roof with axes.
I remember news cameras, sparks shooting into the night.
Didn't know where the cats (three of them) were.
We ended up that night at my in-law's house, and various
relatives showed up, offering support and sympathy.

The next day we returned to find an immense pile of burned
belongings and furniture piled on the parking strip in front.
Inside, everything that was in the rear three rooms (and not destroyed)
was stacked -- neatly! -- in the living room. Two cats hunkered
down beneath the dining room table, clearly hungry and very put out.
The third cat I found halfway up a cedar, paws wrapped tightly around
the trunk, claws embedded for who-knows-how-many hours.
My Waterford crystal champagne flutes were still upright
on my sideboard, filled with insulation from the axed-open ceiling,
albeit on the opposite side of the room.
And the piano. A century old, black, ornate. I sat down and played
Chopin's funeral march. It was so cold! The stench of burn
was pervasive; nearly impossible to take a clean breath.

We washed things for a week solid -- every single item we owned
had to be scrubbed, or thrown away. Everything. Every cup, every
article of clothing, every knick-knack: Everything. Lots of books
went to the dump. Melted baby toys. Singed teddy bears, my stuffed
toy monkey named "Vincent" -- All ruined. But because I had essentially
pulled my baby from a burning apartment, I was on an adrenalin high.
I walked around for weeks -- months -- with an incredible sense
of capability. It was kind of odd: I kept waiting to feel traumatized,
but it never happened. Yes, it was horrible and terrifying, but I walked
away from it, literally. All I lost was stuff.

Even now, all these years later, it feels funny to say I saved my baby.
Feels like I belong on the Hallmark Channel: heartwarming family drama
where a young mother saves her toddler from a devastating fire.
But I did. And because he was so young, R. remembers nothing about
his near-singeing. His crib was scorched. All the handmade quilts
I'd been given as gifts prior to his birth: burned.
All his toys: burned.
But I still had him -- perfect and alive.

That lovely old piano ended up with my friends S. and R.
Lord knows where it sits today. But can you hear
that funeral march -- steady, somber, intoning the death
of a certain life, sooty shadow on its century-old felt pads?

Periodically I look at the Help Wanted ads on Craigslist,
the food/bakery/etc. ads, and yesterday I came across this gem:

"egg experience very preferred."

There is a delicate line between having too much to do
and having not enough to do. I like to balance on that line,
or even a little bit on the Too Much side. Empty space
has the ability to call forth demons with many names.

This afternoon I was given the gift of five free hours,
and this morning I was given the gift of delivery
of my piano. I lost myself in music today, arrangements
of traditional Christmas Carols. The cats stalked each other
and hissed an accompaniment as the December light
eked away. Hot tea in a Lusterware pot. And now I'm
fairly played-out, the first time in many years. And it was
a high -- reading music again, making it all work together:
brain, fingers, keys, eyes. It's different now that so much
time has passed; it's easier. More focused. I'm more focused.

I'm getting my piano today! A year ago I tried to give it away
and wasn't successful. I'd lost interest in it, hadn't really played
it for five or six years. And now the urge to play is back,
and it's being moved from the Brandon Street house to Redmond.
Yay! My sister bought this piano thirty-something years ago,
and I gave her daughters lessons, but they weren't into it,
and twenty years ago, my sister gave it to me. Thirty years ago,
she purchased it used for, I think, $300. I'd be lucky to get
that much for it today, were I to try to sell it. The price of used
pianos has pretty much remained the same for a long time.
I suppose people buy electric keyboards -- portable and easy
to store. And they don't require a Big Truck and Big Men
with Big Tools in order to get from one house to another.
As far as pianos go, it's nothing special -- kind of beat up,
most of the keys are chipped. But it's sound, it's mine,
and I'm going to play again. Hee hee!

Last night Paul and I watched Christmas Ships on Lake Washington,
neatly tucked beside each other at the water's edge, a perfectly conical
bonfire shooting sparks thirty, forty feet into the night sky. A girl's choir
sang Carols, and no rain. Paul clutched his "red" martini glass; mine
(yes, plural, more than two) had already been tidily quoiffed
prior to our half-block trek to the beach. Pomegranate martinis:
tarte and vermillion. And then back to the party, where coffee
and lemon water replaced alcohol. And oh, we're getting on:
we left prior to 7:30, came home and fell asleep. Party. Animals.

I received in the mail today a Last Minute Shopping
catalog from Eddie Bauer. Have I missed something here?
Didn't I just notice that it's December? According to my
estimated calculations, as of right now, there are 24,883 minutes
until Christmas. That means that there are still 24,882 minutes
until The Last Minute.

I'm engaging in some very bad activity.
I'm ripping pages out of an old dictionary
and glueing them onto other pieces of paper.
This dictionary is mildewed and old.
I love dictionaries. I worship dictionaries. I wouldn't do this
if the dictionary was not mildewed. I desperately hope
that the Dictionary Police do not arrest me for Dictionary Abuse.

I'm typing using only 3 fingers on my left hand
because of slicing & dicing to my thumb & index finger
and wads of gauze taped to the tip of each. So.

Another spectacular sunset tonight, reflected in Lake Washington
on the drive home from work, the color of flesh & blood. Literally.
And Mt. Rainier. I will never cease to be amazed by its prominence
on the southern horizon. This is a dull entry. My apologies.

Cooking dinner tonight for two nieces, two sons
and one husband: Guinness beef stew, fresh greens
with Sweet Orrin apple, toasted walnuts, celery
and a blue-cheese vinaigrette; buttermilk biscuits,
and bread pudding for dessert. It's going to be lovely
having girls in the house!

I ate a very small nibble of chocolate this morning
before I had eaten anything else, and I was just about
knocked flat with the flavor. Amazing. I recommend this.

---

We have a new cat, here in our cozy home.
Her name is Marley, and she's a tortie, six years old,
sister to one of my sons' cats. Tiny, thin, beautiful.
A rumbling purr. Affectionate.
Thank-you Carol & Tom!

---

It just occurred to me that Christmas is this month.
In three weeks. Not next month, next year, but Very Soon.
There is the recurring dream where it's a day or two
before The Big Day and there is no tree, no fancy lights.
Or the tree is needleless, barren, most of the branches torn off.
Memory adrift.

Detail, Gravestone, Roslyn Cemetery


Sunday, we drove over Snoqualmie Pass just past noon,
ascended the west side through thinning fog. Traces of snow
on only the highest peaks. Mist hung upon Lake Keechelus:
torn white blankets tossed on the water, rag-edged.
We lunched at the Roslyn Cafe, then drove up the hill
to the Roslyn Cemetery, a collection of 25 adjacent cemeteries
spread out over 15 acres, most of them representing fraternal
lodges, dating back to the late 1800's. I was delighted
to find a very small section signed "Druid." Only ten graves,
all the names of Italian origin. Druids in Roslyn, a hundred
years ago?! In a town with a population of less than a thousand?
Alas, I've tried in vain to unearth more information on this subject
on the internet. Looks like we must take another jaunt
across Snoqualmie Pass! (Be sure to check out Citizen K.'s
fact-filled and beautifully-written entry on the Roslyn Cemetery.)

My niece is in town this week from Ottawa, where she is
starting work on her PhD in January in microbiology.
Haven't seen her since last December. She's more of a
sister/daughter/friend than just a niece, and if I could
choose a daughter, it would be her. Nicole.

---

Seriously attempting to rev up some inspiration
for a Christmas card design. (Didn't do one last year --
I sent out wedding invitations instead.)
The clock is ticking and I should at least have a rough draft
sketched out, but all I have is a blank piece of paper.
Maybe that's it: a whiteout. A blizzard of sentiment.

A sock to the gut: this past week both my sons
were laid off from their jobs. Both in the food
services industry. In fact, P. and I and my sister
and her husband were planning to eat dinner tonight
at the restaurant where R. was laid off this afternoon.
(A quick change of venue is in order.) Needless to
point out that this is very depressing. And I am
thankful for my half-time job!

Jell-O Disclaimer!

I certainly hope that there are no readers out there
who believe that I was serious for even a demi-second
about the Juicy Giblet Jell-O. It's a complete falsehood --
in fact, the recipe only exists on this blog. But if anyone
feels that he/she absolutely must give it a try, lets hope
that he/she keeps it to his/her-self.

I exist in the post-pie slug phase, the carb-hangover fog.
Cast adrift in the haze of dishes-still-to-wash,
the remnants of candles and crusts,
empty bottles of Louis Perdrier Brut Excellence.
(French Champagne for $8.99 at Whole Foods.)
(Yes, that's right: $8.99.)
Sigh.

I've done the requisite bird brining and I have to say,
wrestling that slippery fowl into a colossal ziploc bag
with salty-sweet water sloshing everywhere is quite a task.
And it's heavy.

Here's my favorite Thanksgiving recipe:

Juicy Giblet Jell-o

1 large package orange Jell-o
chicken bouillon cubes
cooked turkey giblets, chopped
1 small jar cocktail onions, drained
1 T. dehydrated parsley
1 cup Miracle Whip

Prepare Jell-o as indicated on box, adding bouillon cubes
to the hot water. Let jell slightly. Add giblets, cocktail onions
and parsley. Stir. Chill until set in decorative bowl.
Spread Miracle Whip over top.
Serve.

Gobble.

At my job today: we had popcorn with butter and truffle salt.
About as perfect as it gets (in the land of popcorn, I mean).

The Pumpkin-Infused Vodka Experiment

About three weeks ago, I started my Thanksgiving cocktail
base: I roasted a small sugar pumpkin, then cut it up,
put it into a large canning jar, and added a fifth of vodka
(Stoli), a cinnamon stick, a split vanilla bean, a handful
of cloves and a nutmeg (about 2/3 pod, partially grated.)
Tonight I strained it twice -- once through a mesh strainer
to get out the chunks, then another time through cheesecloth
to remove the sediment. I tested it on Paul and our neighbor Pete --
not bad at all! And even better with a splash of cream....yum.
I don't really want to make a sweet cocktail but the concoction
seems to be leaning towards sugar & cream. Alas. (It would be
great on a rich vanilla ice cream.) I might have to break down
and make a simple syrup to shake up with some ice and a shot
of my gourdish brew. But what to call it? The Soused Pilgrim?
Happy Jack? Suggestions?!

We need some big wind to rustle up the last of the leaves
on the thirty-year-old Japanese maple out front. Nearly
everything is bare save this one last holdout, which seems
to refuse to let those leaves go. It's the first thing I check
outside each morning, my grounding element, my anchor.

Dessert last night....thirty-one-year-old port
and a flourless chocolate tarte. Sublime.
Sustenance for the gods (and goddesses).

Cleaning-out-the-fridge-chopped-salad.
To go with delivered pizza.

Awoke this morning craving wind, the cedars outside
my bedroom window barely rustling. And now a gloom
has settled upon the landscape, as if we're retreating
backwards into night -- an unwillingness to progress
into day. Now the cedars toss and swish their emerald
skirts in a furied twist, and rain deliberately lashes.
Can true cold be far behind? Once again I can breathe.

Today, M.C., who is nearly 13, went digging in the yard at work
in an attempt to find a box he buried some time ago because
it contains pesos and he heard that pesos have grown in value.
Inside the house, the kitten clawed at my hair and we ate
Caesar salad. At some point in the day we actually did some
work. A lot of work, actually. Worked until the skin on my hands
felt it had begun to let loose from the bones, fingernails tearing.
M.C. did not locate the box.

The absence of inspiration: in writing, art, cooking.
Is it the November death-of-things? The waning year?
Something, something that hovers at the far edges
of imagination. A nice glass of Tempranillo
surely helps. As does a generous slice of cake.
I think cake is the perfect food.

"Sunny optimism & know-nothing anti-intellectualism
are the twin handmaidens of pathological behavior."
--Zippy, by Bill Griffith

Man Thinks He’s a Tree
--headline from a tabloid


At first it was just itchy flakes
on his legs. Thickening. Rough.
Lotions useless. No remedy.
His toes began to curl earthward.
Each step hunkered him, sagged him.
When the tips of his fingers flared
into florescence, and his tousely haircrop
flitted in the breeze, and a starling, and then another
and suddenly ten and then seventy, eighty starlings
all chittering and squawking, plucking ants
from his scalp -- well, then he began:

I used to think I was the class clown, or an uncle.
Once I thought I was smart, when I figured
the radius of my father’s head.
I never thought I was so swell to look at.
Once I thought I was Elvis, knew
I was a fool. I thought I was right

And now this -- I can set down roots.
I can doze all winter like a tuber, no apologies.
Even stand outside all day. Who cares?
Some days my xylem aches.
Fear the wind, my mother told me.
I fear saws and decay, acid rain.

When I was human I thought a tree
could live a thousand years. Now I know
a thousand years is too long.

We watched The Wizard of Oz last night, on a big screen
in the dark. Glinda's giant bubble was bubble-gum pink.
I don't remember it being so vibrantly-pink, but Paul said
that's probably because I watched TWOZ so many times
in b&w as a child. I paid close attention to the costumes,
and they are truly stunning. I want a job in The Emerald City
so I can wear a nipped & tucked & bibbed green dress.
Some of the green dresses look like elaborate nun's habits:
winged & whooshy. The Immaculate Order of Oz.

This is not one of my pictures -- I received it in an e'mail
from my brother-in-law. I think it's amazing.

Even more beautiful in their decline....

Sitting here with a glass of nero d'avola/syrah blend,
waiting for Old Fashioned Meat Loaf to be done.
God I love Old Fashioned Meat Loaf. Comfort Plus.
(Whoa. Lots of CAPITAL LETTERS.) And I take back
that blog I wrote last September when I sang the praises
of my daily commute across the Lacey V. Murrow Floating
Bridge. Since we fell back, in time, as it were, and the rains
began, traffic has been %*$##@&. And then some.
But there's a log on the fire (in the fire? Flaming?)
and dinner is nearly done. Rain is heaving itself
on the skylights. We exist in a cocoon of light
and warmth.

Tuesday Soup

A little homemade chicken stock, some canned tomatoes,
corn, leftover potatoes, cilantro, cumin, chili powder, avocado,
a squeeze of fresh lime: supper.
Paul: "This is good. You really worked hard on it."
Me: "I did?"
Paul: "Yeah, you started it last night, worked on it this morning,
then finished it when you got home from work."
Oh. I guess I did, but I don't really consider it work.
It's as if he said, "Wow, T., you really worked hard breathing today."
And breathing is just something I do.

Sunday Night Truffles

From top to bottom:
Diablo Truffles
Espresso Truffles
Toasted Pecan Truffles

(Birthday present for a friend.)
(Kitchen therapy for me.)

We were lucky to happen upon a pair of herons yesterday
while walking along the Sammamish Slough. (Unfortunately,
it's name has been "prettified" to Sammamish River. No no no.
Slough = slow moving canal-like river. A slough's a slough.)
Anyway, the morning clouds parted for a few hours
and the late-afternoon sun set against that threat of rain
made for some brilliant contrasts in the light.



The herons were on the far bank of the slough, and as one prepared
to launch itself I started fumbling with my camera, and then
a dog darted down the bank in pursuit of the bird, and it
lifted off just as I untangled my fingers, and I managed to snap
the photo in my header.

Cafe Campagne

My new must-have food is Confit Duck Legs.
Had one last night at Cafe Campagne. (Not
Campagne, which is the more up-scale and $$$
restaurant upstairs from the cafe. I much prefer
the cafe -- it's more relaxed, and is a better value.)
In fact, when I was cruising restaurant menus online
looking for a place to go for my BD, I chose CC on the
basis of the duck on the menu. And, well, it's French.
No way to go wrong there.

So......these tasty little morsels are made by seasoning
the duck legs with lot of S & P, maybe some herbs,
then letting them sit for 24 hrs. in the refrigerator.
Then they are fried in duck fat. Oh god oh yum oh yeah.
At Cafe Campagne you get a duck leg & thigh, with thyme-
roasted potatoes. Not exactly ideal from a diet-perspective,
but for a BD treat they are Exactly Perfect.

But back to the restaurant:
on Post Alley & Pine in Seattle, the cafe has a bit of a cellar-
feel to it, but in the golden lamplight of a rainy November
night, it was snug and cozy. We sat next to the bar, not far
from the door, so there was a constant in-and-out bustle
of patrons and wait staff. There are corners to tuck into
if one desires a more intimate dining experience, but I'm
always pleased as punch when I feel like I'm in the middle
of the action. My meal started with a Pate de Campagne, which
was really a terrine -- a kind of rich French meatloaf --
a very generous serving on bed of dressed greens, with pickled
red onion, Nicoise olives, cornichons and two kinds of mustard
as garnish. Practically a meal in itself! This was followed
by a salad of roasted beets, bibb lettuce, roquefort and whole hazelnuts
with a simple vinaigrette. At this point, I probably should've
cancelled my entree -- I was stuffed! But being that it was the
duck, I just couldn't. No way! No how! And it was dee-vine.
The kind of deep-down, I-can-feel-this-in-my-bones and I-
want-to-fall-to-my-knees-and-weep kind of flavor.
Luckily there exist take-home containers, so today's succulent
lunch awaits me in the fridge. Besides, I had to save room
for dessert! I chose the sublime pumpkin creme brulee,
which should've been named Spiced Edible Velvet.

The wine selection here is equally pleasing, with 25 wines
offered by the glass, with additional aperitif and dessert wines
to choose from, plus a full bar. Our waitress suggested
a French Chenin Blanc to accompany my duck,
and the pairing was perfect: soft with understated fruits --
an ideal contrast to the dark, almost cinamonny richness
of the confit.

When Paul and I eat out, we love to listen-in to bits of conversation
from nearby tables. (Okay. We love to eavesdrop.) The young
couple on one side of us sat down, ordered, and ate
while the woman glared at her date. She didn't touch
her food. The only thing I heard him say was,"It's French."
They were in-and-out before we even had our entree.
No fun there! On the other side of us, a napkin in the
bread basket caught fire on the candle. Ooooh! Excitement!
Actually, it was immediately doused, but an acrid burning
smell permeated the air, which sent me into a sneezing fit.
And then, another diner stepped into the room we were in
from an adjoining room to answer his phone, which he had
put on speaker, which he repeatedly yelled into. Paul complained,
the bartender intervened, peace was restored.

The service was efficient and elegant. Named one of the best
restaurants in American by The Wine Spectator, Cafe Campagne
is worth your appetite, and your dollars. Again and again.

The Wizard of Oz....

....illustrated by Graham Rawle: spooky, quirky, fabulous!


A gift from Paul. He wasn't sure if I'd like the artwork,
and I LOVE it. The L. Frank Baum Oz series is one of
my favorites works of fiction -- children's or otherwise.
When the boys were young (well, they're still young,
but you know what I mean) I read them all fifteen +
books. I didn't read these books as a child, so they were new
to all three of us. They are fantastical, political, witty,
entertaining, funny, touching. One Halloween I sewed
R. a scarecrow costume, and another year we built
a Jack Pumpkinhead and the boys brought it
to school for show-and-tell. (Many of their classmates
were a bit baffled by this life-sized wooden creature with
a paper-mache pumpkin-head making an appearance
in their classroom. ) One of my favorite scenes occurs in,
I believe, The Land of Oz, where Dorothy & Co. wander into
a village where everything is made out of bread products,
and Toto is hungry and eats a child. Ouch!

Coming down, calming down.
But back to earth? Never.

First Thursday tonight on the arms of my two
beautiful young men, R. and N., pummeled by rain.
The main attraction for us was the Helen O'Toole show
at Linda Hodges Gallery. Check it out!

We popped into Davidson, then Grover Thurston,
before heading up the hill to Lark for a pre-birthday
dinner. (Well, "pre" by just a few hours.)
Lark is small plates: farro, yellowfin, endive, rillettes,
honeycomb, hazelnuts, delicata....this list could go on forever.
The best part was that R. treated. And of course,
post-election glee was still in the air, albeit somewhat worn out.
(As I am.)

At the Polls

Pen in hand, I paused for a moment
before darkening that tiny spot on the page
that said Obama-Biden. I took a moment
to just breathe in the moment, to be aware
of what I was doing, what 64,239,510 (CNN)
other people were also doing: taking back
our country.

Nearly every year of my life (well, not so much
lately), on Christmas morning I check the back yard
for a pony: a red bow tied on its halter, warm breath
steaming in the December chill. Well, last night
was better than a hundred Christmas mornings,
and I think I can finally give up that little equine
dream, because what happened yesterday
was probably the best gift I could ever hope for.

Thank-you, hallelujah, and amen.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

We listened to this after Barack's acceptance speech --
loud and booming (some of us sang along)!

Patty Griffin singing Up to the Mountain:

Cooking dinner for, oh, maybe ten on Tuesday,
a little election night soiree, and the prep is well
underway. Paul suggested the menu be foods from
Kenya, Kansas and Kuaui, but the triple K's are just too scary!
I opted for Indian, and there is Chicken Tikka
marinating in the refrigerator. Some paneer
is cooling and draining on the counter, and an
apple-walnut cake is rising in the oven.
(I think that soon we're all going to rise up
and sing Hallelujah!)
Tomorrow I'll make Tarka Dhal, basmati rice
and a yogurt-cabbage slaw with cashews, honey & grapes.
(This comes after cardio at the gym, voting [lines?]
and a 5-hour shift at work.) (Sometimes it feels as if
I were any less busy I'd fall off an edge. Any edge.)

Check out this video on Peter's blog -- it made me chuckle
and helped soothe my E-Day-Minus-One election anxiety.

And for a startling and disturbing look inside an inner city
public health clinic click here.

When SP (and jMc) lose the election, it's possible
that she'll turn to street drugs to alleviate the anguish.
Then she can have four more kids and name them
Crank, Meth, Weed and Smack.

Come to Jesus Sunday

Are we all just waiting for the election?
Are we holding our breath, holding our water,
awaiting the diagnosis, our sentencing?
Will we rise up and dance in the streets
and kiss our neighbors and tipple champagne
and fermented cider and single-malt Scotch
and cry out in joy and redemption?
Yes. We will.

*****

We went to a wedding reception tonight
where there was a one-armed man (the groom)
and a one-eyed woman (not the bride).
At Januik Winery, in Woodinville.
I found myself critiquing and analyzing every morsel of food:
the roasted asparagus not roasted enough; ditto for the roasted
root vegetables. The risotto was fab, as was the bacon-wrapped pork.
(Imagine that: pork cooked in pork, with pork drippings. )
One of the starters was supposedly a pumpkin soup with a touch
of maple syrup, but it tasted suspiciously like Campbell's Cream of Celery
Soup. (No pumpkin. At all. Suspiciously green.)
The wine flowed and flowed: Sangiovese, Roussanne,
Syrah, Chardonnary (crisp, light on the oak).
A pair of Irish step dancers, an Irish piper.

So enough of this festive hoo ha. It's time for bed.

Fall Back

It’s returned, that hour lost last April,
slipped in at 2am while a half-moon gleamed
in the pine. Hovered while I slept,

unclaimed angel, tick-tock.
But I don’t desire to use it yet —
I want to be selfish, I want to hoard.

I want to tear it into ten-minute bits,
fold one into my wallet for the late appointment,
one in the vegetable bin when lolla rosa

need last until supper. Under my pillow
to extend the dream, in the oven to slow
Quick Yellow Cake. I’ll give one to my son

to get out of jail free. And one
I’ll bury in the garden in eternal plastic,
mark an X with apples. Maybe

I’ll forget it’s there. And just maybe,
in the next century someone will unearth
a ten-minute treasure, spend it lavishly.