Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
misc.
Today is my 54th anniversary of January 31st, which is utterly meaningless. Just thought I'd mention it.
I seared a pot roast, browned some onions, threw it in the crock-pot with carrots, celery, thyme, parsley, bay leaves and lots of salt and pepper. Some days I crave meat, no apologies, omnivore that I am.
Shopped for bright! tropical! clothing! yesterday, which, needless to say in this brown and grey landscape, was not in abundance. P. is taking me to Maui in a little over a week, for eight nights. My first trip to The Tropical State. I expect to be stunned silly and even, possibly, into silence by sun, warm water and blooming flora. I also expect:
1. cocktails beginning at 4pm
2. seaside reading
3. etc.
I seared a pot roast, browned some onions, threw it in the crock-pot with carrots, celery, thyme, parsley, bay leaves and lots of salt and pepper. Some days I crave meat, no apologies, omnivore that I am.
Shopped for bright! tropical! clothing! yesterday, which, needless to say in this brown and grey landscape, was not in abundance. P. is taking me to Maui in a little over a week, for eight nights. My first trip to The Tropical State. I expect to be stunned silly and even, possibly, into silence by sun, warm water and blooming flora. I also expect:
1. cocktails beginning at 4pm
2. seaside reading
3. etc.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Buried
I recall the basement in my childhood home as a space that had no limits: neither in darkness nor possibilities. Rainy winter afternoons my mother sent us down to play in the company of a bellowing furnace & rows of summer-canned cherries, saws & wrenches. A tiny bedroom wedged itself into a corner, and where the light eked in, a washer and dryer in perpetual spin. The solitary closet backed up into the earth, supported by concrete. Ledges appeared to lead off into underground caverns and I knew they didn't but believed otherwise. Something in me still believes that -- and in my dreams I venture beyond the army-surplus tent and mummy bags in search of something -- what? How much of memory is the product of one's manufactured imagination? My sisters and I drew chalk landscapes on the cement, cupid-hearts around the crush-of-the-moment.
When my mother sold the house, back in the early 1980's, I made one final descent into that underground vault after the last bit of belongings had been loaded into a truck, and found a stuffed toy monkey named Vincent abandoned, forgotten on the floor. I took him home with me, and a few years later he burned up in the Louisa Street apartment fire.
Last night in my dream I was back again, with a broom, sweeping and poking into all the corners, once more on the hunt.
When my mother sold the house, back in the early 1980's, I made one final descent into that underground vault after the last bit of belongings had been loaded into a truck, and found a stuffed toy monkey named Vincent abandoned, forgotten on the floor. I took him home with me, and a few years later he burned up in the Louisa Street apartment fire.
Last night in my dream I was back again, with a broom, sweeping and poking into all the corners, once more on the hunt.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Boundless
On a day off, indulging my love of the dictionary:
***
Ten days straight of work, and now this soft day
of sleep and quiet play. Listening to Pandora,
a Baguette Quartette station. Ah, lovely stuff.
There's lasagna bubbling in the oven and a chopped
salad ready for oil & vinegar.
***
In my dream last night I was swinging from a rope
strung from the upper branches of an apple tree,
and I could go as high as I wanted without bumping
or snagging. Below me were about twenty women,
and I was reciting spontaneous poetry about the joy
of the moment. Awake with exhilaration!
***
Cheap wine from Whole Floods: sour.
***
What is there to be said about January,
about winter, that hasn't already been said?
***
Ten days straight of work, and now this soft day
of sleep and quiet play. Listening to Pandora,
a Baguette Quartette station. Ah, lovely stuff.
There's lasagna bubbling in the oven and a chopped
salad ready for oil & vinegar.
***
In my dream last night I was swinging from a rope
strung from the upper branches of an apple tree,
and I could go as high as I wanted without bumping
or snagging. Below me were about twenty women,
and I was reciting spontaneous poetry about the joy
of the moment. Awake with exhilaration!
***
Cheap wine from Whole Floods: sour.
***
What is there to be said about January,
about winter, that hasn't already been said?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Criminal
Back in my college years, I worked as a clerk in a department store. One of my co-workers (I'll call her "M."), an imperious and bullying middle-aged harridan of a woman, happened to be the mother of the man who, in 2003, confessed to more confirmed murders than anyone else in American history. At the time, of course, I didn't know that she was the mother of a psychopath, and didn't know that he was a murderer. The only ones who could have possibly known were already dumped limp on riverbanks and under vine maples, in the damp fiddlehead-fern wilderness of the Pacific Northwest.
M. was insufferable in her black bonnet-of-a-beehive, her slathered-on face, her slick polyester slacks: a continuum of clicking heels and hip-twists, sharp-edged jerks left and right. She sold menswear, and the men lined up for her hour upon hour. She always entertained at least one in the back of her department, up against a wall of white briefs, package of three for $4.49. I sensed something askew, but who, at age eighteen, would suspect the kind of horror M.'s son was committing? That he would eventually admit to the murder of 71 women?
Though this abomination of a man often stopped by on his way to work to say hello to his mother, it was the mother I suspected of questionable behavior, not the son. Questionable behavior! I was painfully naive.
I began to question other co-workers, who were all about the same age as M., and every last one of them turned a deaf ear to me. My guess is that they were afraid of her: not surprising. No one would confront her or take her on. I tried several times, and each time she arched up and spit her venom at me. I was powerless in her sinister wake. I was nothing.
It seems logical to speculate that the sins of the son were retaliation for the sins of the mother.
Thirty-five years later I can hear the snap of her gum, smell her spearmint breath inches from my face, and it still scares the hell out of me.
M. was insufferable in her black bonnet-of-a-beehive, her slathered-on face, her slick polyester slacks: a continuum of clicking heels and hip-twists, sharp-edged jerks left and right. She sold menswear, and the men lined up for her hour upon hour. She always entertained at least one in the back of her department, up against a wall of white briefs, package of three for $4.49. I sensed something askew, but who, at age eighteen, would suspect the kind of horror M.'s son was committing? That he would eventually admit to the murder of 71 women?
Though this abomination of a man often stopped by on his way to work to say hello to his mother, it was the mother I suspected of questionable behavior, not the son. Questionable behavior! I was painfully naive.
I began to question other co-workers, who were all about the same age as M., and every last one of them turned a deaf ear to me. My guess is that they were afraid of her: not surprising. No one would confront her or take her on. I tried several times, and each time she arched up and spit her venom at me. I was powerless in her sinister wake. I was nothing.
It seems logical to speculate that the sins of the son were retaliation for the sins of the mother.
Thirty-five years later I can hear the snap of her gum, smell her spearmint breath inches from my face, and it still scares the hell out of me.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Simple
I want to stay home and glue things to
other things and rip pages out of my
ancient dictionary and sort through
all my old stamps, some of them torn
from old letters, postmarks still intact.
I want to finger the Japanese papers
which arrived in a packet of blue
and lay out all the expansive sheets
of rice paper, handmade paper, paper
with names I can never remember.
I want to make cylinders of the three
sheets of stiff paper I bought last week
and cut slots for light and place them
over candles. And sit amongst that filtered
light and drink wine, a Malbec-Syrah blend.
I want olives and a good toothy bread
and Irish butter and bits & bobs of cheese.
And pickled things: asparagus, beans,
peppers. Salted salmon.
I want
I want
other things and rip pages out of my
ancient dictionary and sort through
all my old stamps, some of them torn
from old letters, postmarks still intact.
I want to finger the Japanese papers
which arrived in a packet of blue
and lay out all the expansive sheets
of rice paper, handmade paper, paper
with names I can never remember.
I want to make cylinders of the three
sheets of stiff paper I bought last week
and cut slots for light and place them
over candles. And sit amongst that filtered
light and drink wine, a Malbec-Syrah blend.
I want olives and a good toothy bread
and Irish butter and bits & bobs of cheese.
And pickled things: asparagus, beans,
peppers. Salted salmon.
I want
I want
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Humble Grumble
Sometimes you think you've done everything right:
you've measured, researched, pondered, conferred,
and you still end up creating a hot pink muumuu
big enough to clothe an entire herd of matronly
elephants.
And sometimes that's just the way it goes,
and there's not a damn thing to be done about it.
you've measured, researched, pondered, conferred,
and you still end up creating a hot pink muumuu
big enough to clothe an entire herd of matronly
elephants.
And sometimes that's just the way it goes,
and there's not a damn thing to be done about it.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Blah
Mid-winter.
I wanted nothing more this morning
than to drive north on the freeway, head up
to the Skagit Valley and spend the day among
the snow geese, and all those miles and miles
of flat farmland, the dormant tulip fields.
A whim.
But I drove south, as usual, into the city
and on to work.
I wanted nothing more this morning
than to drive north on the freeway, head up
to the Skagit Valley and spend the day among
the snow geese, and all those miles and miles
of flat farmland, the dormant tulip fields.
A whim.
But I drove south, as usual, into the city
and on to work.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Treasures
My late husband was a book collector, and in my
delving into his hoard of boxes, I've uncovered
countless treasures. This is one of my current
favorites:
The spine is elegant --
-- as are the endpapers:
A delight of surprises awaited me inside -- scraps
from a life long expired:
There is a name signed in longhand in the front --
Burton_____, too faded to make out.
Some of the chapter titles:
-On the Mind and Its Faculties (including Ghosts and Passions)
-Artificial Aliments
-Poisons -- Suspended Animation (with a subheading To Excite Perspiration)
-Comforts for the Sick (to include Toast Water)
-Eminent Mechanics and Their Inventions
-Arts of Locomotion, of Heating, Ventilation &c.
And a bit of it's own poetry, in advice on how to
rid ones home of red or black ants:
Scald their haunts, and put Scotch snuff where they go
to procure their food.
Go here to stock up on Scotch snuff.
Scald haunts with caution.
delving into his hoard of boxes, I've uncovered
countless treasures. This is one of my current
favorites:
The spine is elegant --
-- as are the endpapers:
A delight of surprises awaited me inside -- scraps
from a life long expired:
There is a name signed in longhand in the front --
Burton_____, too faded to make out.
Some of the chapter titles:
-On the Mind and Its Faculties (including Ghosts and Passions)
-Artificial Aliments
-Poisons -- Suspended Animation (with a subheading To Excite Perspiration)
-Comforts for the Sick (to include Toast Water)
-Eminent Mechanics and Their Inventions
-Arts of Locomotion, of Heating, Ventilation &c.
And a bit of it's own poetry, in advice on how to
rid ones home of red or black ants:
Scald their haunts, and put Scotch snuff where they go
to procure their food.
Go here to stock up on Scotch snuff.
Scald haunts with caution.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Bar Talk
I was sitting in a bar tonight (not a regular pastime, mind you) and discovered that the guy sitting next to me had the same piano teacher as me, back in the day. And that he was in the same summer piano class with my little sister. This teacher, a Mrs. W., was a family friend, and she gave lessons free-of-charge to my sister and me because we were fatherless. Mrs. W. Had Pity. She was also, for the most part, impatient, irritable, and probably would have made a good nun. Or a good "bad nun".
Anyway, I asked this man at the bar if he remembered the evil pair of black nail scissors with their fragments of nicked skin that Mrs. W. kept on the little shelf just above the black-and-whites, and his eyes lit up and he began to laugh, with what appeared to be fondness. Good god! He remembered Mrs. W. with fondness! He remembered her nail scissors with fondness!
I recall dread and fear prior to each lesson. I loved playing the piano, but my time with Mrs. W. was a trial, in spite of decent piano skills and keeping a religious practice schedule. My last year of lessons was less fraught than those earlier, and about halfway through that year, when I was seventeen, an extraordinary thing happened, which changed everything:
I'd been assigned one of Chopin's nocturnes, and after a week of practicing it, I came to my class and played it with the vigor of a piano player in a marching band. Strident! Upright! I didn't know that nocturne meant a piece appropriate to the night or evening. Horrified, Mrs. W. swooped (swooped!) her brittle-edged body from her chair and began to sway and teeter about the room in her best Isadora Duncan imitation.
"No no noooooo! This is a nocturne! It's meant to be played slowwwly, it's meant to flow like a streeeeeam! It's night-time, it's quiet, it's sennnnnsuous!" She spun once or twice.
My lower jaw dropped to the keyboard. Who was this sudden sylph, this impromptu ballerina, this ripple of fluttering flesh who'd replaced Mrs. W.? I seem to recall a chiffon scarf trailing from her fingers, but perhaps that's just forty years of embroidered memory adding its inevitable stitches. But scarf or no scarf, at that moment Mrs. W. crossed into another dimension. Where, moments before, I'd seen, for all intents and purposes, a wimpleless nun, I now saw a woman still in possession of passion and the spark of youth. And suddenly, we clicked. The years of tension were replaced with a mutual love of Chopin and the piano.
Well I'll be damned. Apparently, I, too, remember Mrs. W. with fondness, my memory edited after a chance conversation at a bar. But I will never -- NEVER -- reminisce fondly about those blasted nail scissors!
Anyway, I asked this man at the bar if he remembered the evil pair of black nail scissors with their fragments of nicked skin that Mrs. W. kept on the little shelf just above the black-and-whites, and his eyes lit up and he began to laugh, with what appeared to be fondness. Good god! He remembered Mrs. W. with fondness! He remembered her nail scissors with fondness!
I recall dread and fear prior to each lesson. I loved playing the piano, but my time with Mrs. W. was a trial, in spite of decent piano skills and keeping a religious practice schedule. My last year of lessons was less fraught than those earlier, and about halfway through that year, when I was seventeen, an extraordinary thing happened, which changed everything:
I'd been assigned one of Chopin's nocturnes, and after a week of practicing it, I came to my class and played it with the vigor of a piano player in a marching band. Strident! Upright! I didn't know that nocturne meant a piece appropriate to the night or evening. Horrified, Mrs. W. swooped (swooped!) her brittle-edged body from her chair and began to sway and teeter about the room in her best Isadora Duncan imitation.
"No no noooooo! This is a nocturne! It's meant to be played slowwwly, it's meant to flow like a streeeeeam! It's night-time, it's quiet, it's sennnnnsuous!" She spun once or twice.
My lower jaw dropped to the keyboard. Who was this sudden sylph, this impromptu ballerina, this ripple of fluttering flesh who'd replaced Mrs. W.? I seem to recall a chiffon scarf trailing from her fingers, but perhaps that's just forty years of embroidered memory adding its inevitable stitches. But scarf or no scarf, at that moment Mrs. W. crossed into another dimension. Where, moments before, I'd seen, for all intents and purposes, a wimpleless nun, I now saw a woman still in possession of passion and the spark of youth. And suddenly, we clicked. The years of tension were replaced with a mutual love of Chopin and the piano.
Well I'll be damned. Apparently, I, too, remember Mrs. W. with fondness, my memory edited after a chance conversation at a bar. But I will never -- NEVER -- reminisce fondly about those blasted nail scissors!
This man is nuts.
Pact with the devil?
Obviously, the millions of Haitians whose
lives have been devastated by this event
need to take responsibility for it.
Anyone can see that they brought it on themselves.
I suggest that Mr. Robertson, to atone
for these outrageous statements, go to Haiti,
roll up his sleeves, and help dig people
out of the rubble.
Obviously, the millions of Haitians whose
lives have been devastated by this event
need to take responsibility for it.
Anyone can see that they brought it on themselves.
I suggest that Mr. Robertson, to atone
for these outrageous statements, go to Haiti,
roll up his sleeves, and help dig people
out of the rubble.
Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Writing group tonight. My new poem is called Holy Goose. Derived from the Our Father (as Catholics [and we formerly-practicing Catholics] say), the Hail Mary (both of them prayers particularly useful when saying one's penance post-confession) and Mother Goose. And it's back to yoga also, first time since before Thanksgiving. I really miss yoga when I don't go. It makes everything easier. And, oh yeah, I'm heading off for a full day of work before yoga and writing group. Better get a move on.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Vacant
Inspired by Planting Along the Verge:
Last time P. and I were in Kingsville, Texas,
he drove me out to the shuttered downtown
of Bishop. Some years back, when a new highway
was built a few miles away, the entire downtown
packed-up and moved on down the road.
These photos were taken on a weekday in May,
about noon, temperature close to 98 degrees: blazing.
Last time P. and I were in Kingsville, Texas,
he drove me out to the shuttered downtown
of Bishop. Some years back, when a new highway
was built a few miles away, the entire downtown
packed-up and moved on down the road.
These photos were taken on a weekday in May,
about noon, temperature close to 98 degrees: blazing.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
zzzzzzzzz
I'm always a bit perplexed when people respond to the subject of blogging with a "NO, I DON'T READ BLOGS", accompanied by a recoil, as if even mentioning the word "blog" will precipitate an outbreak of leprosy.
There are a lot of really boring blogs out there, though. Painfully boring. And I admit that I avoid those.
My goal is to bring to my readers a snooze-free experience. Don't always accomplish it, yet the effort is continual.
Thanks for tuning in.
There are a lot of really boring blogs out there, though. Painfully boring. And I admit that I avoid those.
My goal is to bring to my readers a snooze-free experience. Don't always accomplish it, yet the effort is continual.
Thanks for tuning in.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Technology in Action
This is what happened at work yesterday:
My son stopped by to do some odd jobs
for my boss, and while he was there I told him
that I'd brought him a container of homemade
soup, and reminded him several times not to
forget it.
Then, of course, he left, and left the soup behind.
So I sent him a text:
"U forgot yr soup"
My son: "Who is this lol"
Me: "Duh, Mom!"
My son: "I'm confused?"
And again: "Who is this lol"
So I thought, WTF? --and called him
and said:
"What's going on with you anyway?
I told you several times that I'd brought you soup!"
My son: "Huh? Oh, yeah, I forgot it. I'll be right over."
So when he got there I asked him what he meant
by all those odd texts, and he told me he hadn't texted
me. I said that he had indeed and proceeded to show
him the three messages from him....OH NO!
I'd entered his number manually, and had made an error
with one of the digits. HA! Wrong number!
I'd been texting a stranger!
I began to laugh, and laughed harder, until I could
barely stand up. Melinda followed suit.
My son just shook his head, took his soup,
and made his exit. (Smart boy.)
By that time Melinda and I were shrieking and falling
off chairs, etc.
I decided to send an explanation to my Wrong Number.
I wrote,
"Lol sorry! Wrong #. And unfortunately u can't have
the soup."
Wrong Number texted back:
"NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
I want the soup!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Please!!!!!!!!!!Lol
My reply:
"I don't know u well enough
to give u soup. Just sayin'. Laughing so hard
I'm crying."
Wrong Number:
"Hi my name is dlonn!!!!!!
And I like soup lol"
And that was the end of the Texting Soup Drama.
Melinda and I finally regained our composure
and got back to production.
She suggested that I text "dlonn" tomorrow
with this message:
"U forgot yr chocolate chip cookies"
I'd bet $$ that dlonn LOOOOOOOOVES
chocolate chip cookies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My son stopped by to do some odd jobs
for my boss, and while he was there I told him
that I'd brought him a container of homemade
soup, and reminded him several times not to
forget it.
Then, of course, he left, and left the soup behind.
So I sent him a text:
"U forgot yr soup"
My son: "Who is this lol"
Me: "Duh, Mom!"
My son: "I'm confused?"
And again: "Who is this lol"
So I thought, WTF? --and called him
and said:
"What's going on with you anyway?
I told you several times that I'd brought you soup!"
My son: "Huh? Oh, yeah, I forgot it. I'll be right over."
So when he got there I asked him what he meant
by all those odd texts, and he told me he hadn't texted
me. I said that he had indeed and proceeded to show
him the three messages from him....OH NO!
I'd entered his number manually, and had made an error
with one of the digits. HA! Wrong number!
I'd been texting a stranger!
I began to laugh, and laughed harder, until I could
barely stand up. Melinda followed suit.
My son just shook his head, took his soup,
and made his exit. (Smart boy.)
By that time Melinda and I were shrieking and falling
off chairs, etc.
I decided to send an explanation to my Wrong Number.
I wrote,
"Lol sorry! Wrong #. And unfortunately u can't have
the soup."
Wrong Number texted back:
"NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
I want the soup!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Please!!!!!!!!!!Lol
My reply:
"I don't know u well enough
to give u soup. Just sayin'. Laughing so hard
I'm crying."
Wrong Number:
"Hi my name is dlonn!!!!!!
And I like soup lol"
And that was the end of the Texting Soup Drama.
Melinda and I finally regained our composure
and got back to production.
She suggested that I text "dlonn" tomorrow
with this message:
"U forgot yr chocolate chip cookies"
I'd bet $$ that dlonn LOOOOOOOOVES
chocolate chip cookies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
In the Big-Leaf Maples
We named them and believed them holy:
--Whispering Winds
--Old Nettle Patch
--Horseshoe Bend
And possibly others, but they've long disappeared
and given way to trim houses and tidy lawns.
We knew the scrape of bark on the belly,
how far a branch could bend before breaking.
Knew how the topmost branches gained pliancy
the higher one climbed, as close to clouds as possible.
Knew the camouflage of leaves in summer, the stark
visiblity against a winter's framework of limbs.
This wasn't play, but something deeper than that.
It wasn't fun: it was everything.
This was what I dreamed of during the long dull
Catholic sermons each Sunday, and I shed
my tights and patent leathers fast as I could
once home, into rough denims & a sweatshirt,
so that I could get on with the real work
of being alive.
--Whispering Winds
--Old Nettle Patch
--Horseshoe Bend
And possibly others, but they've long disappeared
and given way to trim houses and tidy lawns.
We knew the scrape of bark on the belly,
how far a branch could bend before breaking.
Knew how the topmost branches gained pliancy
the higher one climbed, as close to clouds as possible.
Knew the camouflage of leaves in summer, the stark
visiblity against a winter's framework of limbs.
This wasn't play, but something deeper than that.
It wasn't fun: it was everything.
This was what I dreamed of during the long dull
Catholic sermons each Sunday, and I shed
my tights and patent leathers fast as I could
once home, into rough denims & a sweatshirt,
so that I could get on with the real work
of being alive.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Ought
This week lots of bloggers are chronicling their
experiences during the "oughts" -- their disappointments,
appointments, accomplishments (all things ending
in -ment, apparently). While I'm not inclined
to type a list, let's just say for those who didn't
endure these past ten years at my side that
the following events occurred:
1. opened a bakery
2. began remodeling house
3. lost husband #1
4. battled massive lawsuit
5. finished remodeling house
6. lost bakery
7. nearly lost house in lawsuit
8. fell in love
9. fell in love with Ireland
10. settled lawsuit
11. two sons finished high school
12. began new job as artist's assistant
13. got married
14. moved to the other side of the lake
15. one son graduated from college
16. travelled to Ireland, France, Italy,
Caribbean, New York, Maine, New Orleans,
Boston, Texas, LA
17. started blogging
18. continued to write and publish
Okay, so it is a list.
An abbreviated list.
But what's most important is everything
between those lines, everything left unsaid,
all the minutiae of every day that makes up
a life.
experiences during the "oughts" -- their disappointments,
appointments, accomplishments (all things ending
in -ment, apparently). While I'm not inclined
to type a list, let's just say for those who didn't
endure these past ten years at my side that
the following events occurred:
1. opened a bakery
2. began remodeling house
3. lost husband #1
4. battled massive lawsuit
5. finished remodeling house
6. lost bakery
7. nearly lost house in lawsuit
8. fell in love
9. fell in love with Ireland
10. settled lawsuit
11. two sons finished high school
12. began new job as artist's assistant
13. got married
14. moved to the other side of the lake
15. one son graduated from college
16. travelled to Ireland, France, Italy,
Caribbean, New York, Maine, New Orleans,
Boston, Texas, LA
17. started blogging
18. continued to write and publish
Okay, so it is a list.
An abbreviated list.
But what's most important is everything
between those lines, everything left unsaid,
all the minutiae of every day that makes up
a life.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Lean-To
Resolving to take more walks, and I managed
to get out today for 45 minutes, in the woods
wedged between apartments and a mega-corporation.
Here in my pretend wilderness, with its remnants
of the world that existed here 100+ years ago --
nurse logs, huckleberry bushes, cedars, salal --
it takes only moments to forget that I'm surrounded
by civilization. It's easy to block the car-sounds
floating up from the bottom of the hill, easy to think
not of the strip malls and intersections a half-mile
to the west, and focus instead on the crows' nests
visible in the bare maples and alders, the lichen
which seems to drip from branches, the ferns clinging
to the eastern sides of tree-trunks.
I've never seen children roaming these woods:
do kids not do this anymore? My kids didn't because
there were no woods to roam. But I cannot imagine
a life beside a wild patch such as this without dreaming
up every sort of mossy encampment, or scouting out
the best trees to climb.
I did notice several stacks of sticks and branches
stacked beside the path at one point, with attention
given to the size of the stick. Not seen anything
like this in the two years I've walked these woods--
was someone gathering kindling for a fireplace?
A bit farther down the path I got my answer:
against an errant boulder was a primitive lean-to
with wobbly posts and a roughly-woven twig roof,
unfinished, an afternoon's project interuppted
by a call home for dinner, perhaps. (On the cell phone,
most likely.) Tiny, obviously constructed by equally
small hands -- maybe two children could hunker
down here in tender oblivion -- but no more than that.
(I cursed myself for not having my camera.)
I was a bit amazed that it was so close to the path,
so vulnerable. In my woodsy days our "forest"
headquarters were carefully concealed -- or at least
we believed them to be. Who knows if they truly were?
We kept house surrounded by fiddlehead ferns
and guarded by six-foot-high nettles: swept the "floor"
with Douglas fir branches, made stump-chairs.
Ate our bologna sandwiches (yellow mustard) from
brown paper bags. Gulped water from Mason jars.
I feel old talking about this but when I stop to consider
that before the Pacific Northwest was logged, just over
a hundred years ago, the trees were so thick and the trunks
so immense, one could carve out a reasonable hut
in the remnants of a massive stump -- albeit, a primitive
hut, and most likely suitable only for a play house,
but I'd guess that more than one solitary mountain-man
(or woman)made-do with moss for wall-paper
and a packed-dirt floor.
Nothing, of course, like the meager fir-twigs stacked
beside my path today, but trees hundreds and hundreds
of years old, and older.
I left on my walk today intoning my customary groan:
Don't Wanna Do This.
Came home from my walk dreaming of ferny hollows
and mossy ravines, wishing for a July afternoon, a book,
and no cell phone to summon me home.
to get out today for 45 minutes, in the woods
wedged between apartments and a mega-corporation.
Here in my pretend wilderness, with its remnants
of the world that existed here 100+ years ago --
nurse logs, huckleberry bushes, cedars, salal --
it takes only moments to forget that I'm surrounded
by civilization. It's easy to block the car-sounds
floating up from the bottom of the hill, easy to think
not of the strip malls and intersections a half-mile
to the west, and focus instead on the crows' nests
visible in the bare maples and alders, the lichen
which seems to drip from branches, the ferns clinging
to the eastern sides of tree-trunks.
I've never seen children roaming these woods:
do kids not do this anymore? My kids didn't because
there were no woods to roam. But I cannot imagine
a life beside a wild patch such as this without dreaming
up every sort of mossy encampment, or scouting out
the best trees to climb.
I did notice several stacks of sticks and branches
stacked beside the path at one point, with attention
given to the size of the stick. Not seen anything
like this in the two years I've walked these woods--
was someone gathering kindling for a fireplace?
A bit farther down the path I got my answer:
against an errant boulder was a primitive lean-to
with wobbly posts and a roughly-woven twig roof,
unfinished, an afternoon's project interuppted
by a call home for dinner, perhaps. (On the cell phone,
most likely.) Tiny, obviously constructed by equally
small hands -- maybe two children could hunker
down here in tender oblivion -- but no more than that.
(I cursed myself for not having my camera.)
I was a bit amazed that it was so close to the path,
so vulnerable. In my woodsy days our "forest"
headquarters were carefully concealed -- or at least
we believed them to be. Who knows if they truly were?
We kept house surrounded by fiddlehead ferns
and guarded by six-foot-high nettles: swept the "floor"
with Douglas fir branches, made stump-chairs.
Ate our bologna sandwiches (yellow mustard) from
brown paper bags. Gulped water from Mason jars.
I feel old talking about this but when I stop to consider
that before the Pacific Northwest was logged, just over
a hundred years ago, the trees were so thick and the trunks
so immense, one could carve out a reasonable hut
in the remnants of a massive stump -- albeit, a primitive
hut, and most likely suitable only for a play house,
but I'd guess that more than one solitary mountain-man
(or woman)made-do with moss for wall-paper
and a packed-dirt floor.
Nothing, of course, like the meager fir-twigs stacked
beside my path today, but trees hundreds and hundreds
of years old, and older.
I left on my walk today intoning my customary groan:
Don't Wanna Do This.
Came home from my walk dreaming of ferny hollows
and mossy ravines, wishing for a July afternoon, a book,
and no cell phone to summon me home.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A little light, or not so light, reading.
Citizen K. on Rushbo....
On blogging....
The glamorous life of a working artist....
(I typed that "glamorous lie", then corrected.
perhaps "glamorous lie" if more correct?!)
Mud house....
Remember that it's fatal, but not serious....
On blogging....
The glamorous life of a working artist....
(I typed that "glamorous lie", then corrected.
perhaps "glamorous lie" if more correct?!)
Mud house....
Remember that it's fatal, but not serious....
Dogma: I am God
01-02-2010.
Don't nod
Never odd or even
Too bad – I hid a boot
Rats live on no evil star
No trace; not one carton
Was it Eliot's toilet I saw?
Murder for a jar of red rum
May a moody baby doom a yam?
Go hang a salami; I'm a lasagna hog!
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas!
A Toyota! Race fast... safe car: a Toyota
Straw? No, too stupid a fad; I put soot on warts
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Doc Note: I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention
Anne, I vote more cars race Rome to Vienna
Sums are not set as a test on Erasmus
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak
Some men interpret nine memos
Campus Motto: Bottoms up, Mac
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Madam, in Eden I'm Adam
Oozy rat in a sanitary zoo
Ah, Satan sees Natasha
Lisa Bonet ate no basil
Do geese see God?
God saw I was dog
Dennis sinned
And even more fun here.
Don't nod
Never odd or even
Too bad – I hid a boot
Rats live on no evil star
No trace; not one carton
Was it Eliot's toilet I saw?
Murder for a jar of red rum
May a moody baby doom a yam?
Go hang a salami; I'm a lasagna hog!
Satan, oscillate my metallic sonatas!
A Toyota! Race fast... safe car: a Toyota
Straw? No, too stupid a fad; I put soot on warts
Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?
Doc Note: I dissent. A fast never prevents a fatness. I diet on cod
No, it never propagates if I set a gap or prevention
Anne, I vote more cars race Rome to Vienna
Sums are not set as a test on Erasmus
Kay, a red nude, peeped under a yak
Some men interpret nine memos
Campus Motto: Bottoms up, Mac
Go deliver a dare, vile dog!
Madam, in Eden I'm Adam
Oozy rat in a sanitary zoo
Ah, Satan sees Natasha
Lisa Bonet ate no basil
Do geese see God?
God saw I was dog
Dennis sinned
And even more fun here.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I layed down with my book at 11:45 pm last night
and read for 5 minutes then turned off the light
and blam. Asleep. Didn't hear the year change.
P. came in to sing Auld Lang-whatever and I was
long gone. Woot.
A correction: in an earlier post about my travels
in Italy with friends R. and S., I had brought up
the subject of R.'s "minimal Italian", and have
been taken to task over these two words.
So let me say here that R.'s intermediate-to-advanced
Italian SAVED US FROM MANY POSSIBLY
UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENTS and FACILITATED
THE ORDERING OF SUMPTUOUS MEALS.
And other things, I am certain. And for this
I am grateful. Now I shall go say two
Our Fathers and three Hail Mary's
and forgiveness shall be mine.
Amen.
ps, I need a new year. My old year is threadbare.
and read for 5 minutes then turned off the light
and blam. Asleep. Didn't hear the year change.
P. came in to sing Auld Lang-whatever and I was
long gone. Woot.
A correction: in an earlier post about my travels
in Italy with friends R. and S., I had brought up
the subject of R.'s "minimal Italian", and have
been taken to task over these two words.
So let me say here that R.'s intermediate-to-advanced
Italian SAVED US FROM MANY POSSIBLY
UNFORTUNATE ACCIDENTS and FACILITATED
THE ORDERING OF SUMPTUOUS MEALS.
And other things, I am certain. And for this
I am grateful. Now I shall go say two
Our Fathers and three Hail Mary's
and forgiveness shall be mine.
Amen.
ps, I need a new year. My old year is threadbare.
The Trees
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
--Philip Larkin
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
White Bean and Mushroom Ragout with Shredded Duck
This was what I wanted to eat tonight,
so this is what I cooked:
1 leek, sliced
1 shallot, sliced
1/2 large onion, sliced
2 T. butter
1 T. duck fat, if you happen to be so lucky
Season with salt and pepper, and saute over low
heat for about 15 minutes, until all those lovely
onion-derivations begin to caramelize.
Then add:
about 2 cups sliced mushrooms -- I used
crimini and rehydrated black trumpet.
Some sliced celery -- as much as you want.
Saute for 2-3 minutes.
Add:
a couple of cups chicken stock
2 cans canelini beans, drained
a few sprigs fresh thyme, or about 1 t. dried thyme
1 generous bay leaf
a pinch of allspice
a pinch of cinnamon
a splash of white wine
Simmer on low heat for about 45 minutes.
Add:
shredded duck, as much as you want!
Stir well, let simmer a bit longer.
Taste, adjust seasonings, if necessary.
Sprinkle with chopped Italian parsley.
This is yummy homey French-style goodness
that I could probably eat every day
for the rest of my life.
so this is what I cooked:
1 leek, sliced
1 shallot, sliced
1/2 large onion, sliced
2 T. butter
1 T. duck fat, if you happen to be so lucky
Season with salt and pepper, and saute over low
heat for about 15 minutes, until all those lovely
onion-derivations begin to caramelize.
Then add:
about 2 cups sliced mushrooms -- I used
crimini and rehydrated black trumpet.
Some sliced celery -- as much as you want.
Saute for 2-3 minutes.
Add:
a couple of cups chicken stock
2 cans canelini beans, drained
a few sprigs fresh thyme, or about 1 t. dried thyme
1 generous bay leaf
a pinch of allspice
a pinch of cinnamon
a splash of white wine
Simmer on low heat for about 45 minutes.
Add:
shredded duck, as much as you want!
Stir well, let simmer a bit longer.
Taste, adjust seasonings, if necessary.
Sprinkle with chopped Italian parsley.
This is yummy homey French-style goodness
that I could probably eat every day
for the rest of my life.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Miracle
First I walked on concrete,
the run-off trained
to follow exact paths.
I walked on gravel, tidy & sensible.
Clean, for god's sake.
Then wood, slick with moss,
planked-down over ice.
And gravel again: percussion.
But not water, never water.
I walked on dirt,
and with velvet arms
the earth gathered me in.
the run-off trained
to follow exact paths.
I walked on gravel, tidy & sensible.
Clean, for god's sake.
Then wood, slick with moss,
planked-down over ice.
And gravel again: percussion.
But not water, never water.
I walked on dirt,
and with velvet arms
the earth gathered me in.
A few indulgences....
Dinner was lavish and decadent last night,
yet we seem to be establishing a history
of forgetting to cook the green vegetable:
on Thanksgiving, the green beans languished
in the refrigerator, and yesterday the broccoli
suffered the same fate. To compensate, there was
red-tipped butter lettuce with diced beets --
-- and blood oranges -- no complaints there!
Roasted red kuri squash, roasted leeks --
-- and fingerling spuds that lingered just long
enough in duck fat to achieve near-confection
status. The four men (I LOVE being the only
woman in the current group) wolfed down
the bloody lamb with nary a growl. They earned
points for keeping their lupine instincts in check.
I, on the other hand (other fork?) delicately nibbled
on a duck appendage which had been rubbed with
Chinese five-spice and who-knows-what-else by
Chief Culinary Wizard Riles --
(who stated in no uncertain terms that this is the
one-and-only time he'll roast two meat-products
simultaneously in a single oven).
I entertain a fantasy from time to time that a holiday
will occur where we'll fix something quick'n'easy
and arrive at the table ready to enjoy the meal
rather than longing for a nap by the fire.
But in the end, we do love this hours-long kitchen
encampment over the electric flame, although
I must admit that a question has arisen which I
feel compelled to share: Just when was it that
I became the prep cook for my son??!!!!
For dessert there were Oeufs a La Neige (thanks to
Radish King for the link), a version of Ile Flottante
aka Floating Island, but I let the chocolate/cardamom
sauce cook a second too long, so it was more of an
Ile sur La Terre (island on the earth). I was reminded
by the aforementioned Wizard that islands do not float,
so therefore my sauce-turned-pudding was forgiven.
(Has anyone else on this planet poached spoonsful
of meringue a few minutes prior to sitting down
to Christmas dinner? I'd like to know. I want to
form a club, or at the least, become a facebook
fan of it.)
Oh my. This is all way too complicated for the post-hectic
after-Christmas gelatinized Boxing Day noggin.
I feel as if perhaps it's my brain itself that's
been poached, pickled, set out to dry-age
for 12-21 days at a low humidity.
Call me when it's done.
This afternoon I'll start the French onion soup
process by plunging the duck remains in the soup
kettle along with onions, celery, carrots, thyme,
pepper corns and a clove or two. Later in the week
I'll put in more time at the stove, a meditation in
carmelization: hours of stirring half a dozen or more
sliced ohm-ions to their most rich and golden essence.
A glug of white wine, a little Cognac, croutes
and the best nutty Gruyere I can find:
The feast never ends.
yet we seem to be establishing a history
of forgetting to cook the green vegetable:
on Thanksgiving, the green beans languished
in the refrigerator, and yesterday the broccoli
suffered the same fate. To compensate, there was
red-tipped butter lettuce with diced beets --
-- and blood oranges -- no complaints there!
Roasted red kuri squash, roasted leeks --
-- and fingerling spuds that lingered just long
enough in duck fat to achieve near-confection
status. The four men (I LOVE being the only
woman in the current group) wolfed down
the bloody lamb with nary a growl. They earned
points for keeping their lupine instincts in check.
I, on the other hand (other fork?) delicately nibbled
on a duck appendage which had been rubbed with
Chinese five-spice and who-knows-what-else by
Chief Culinary Wizard Riles --
(who stated in no uncertain terms that this is the
one-and-only time he'll roast two meat-products
simultaneously in a single oven).
I entertain a fantasy from time to time that a holiday
will occur where we'll fix something quick'n'easy
and arrive at the table ready to enjoy the meal
rather than longing for a nap by the fire.
But in the end, we do love this hours-long kitchen
encampment over the electric flame, although
I must admit that a question has arisen which I
feel compelled to share: Just when was it that
I became the prep cook for my son??!!!!
For dessert there were Oeufs a La Neige (thanks to
Radish King for the link), a version of Ile Flottante
aka Floating Island, but I let the chocolate/cardamom
sauce cook a second too long, so it was more of an
Ile sur La Terre (island on the earth). I was reminded
by the aforementioned Wizard that islands do not float,
so therefore my sauce-turned-pudding was forgiven.
(Has anyone else on this planet poached spoonsful
of meringue a few minutes prior to sitting down
to Christmas dinner? I'd like to know. I want to
form a club, or at the least, become a facebook
fan of it.)
Oh my. This is all way too complicated for the post-hectic
after-Christmas gelatinized Boxing Day noggin.
I feel as if perhaps it's my brain itself that's
been poached, pickled, set out to dry-age
for 12-21 days at a low humidity.
Call me when it's done.
This afternoon I'll start the French onion soup
process by plunging the duck remains in the soup
kettle along with onions, celery, carrots, thyme,
pepper corns and a clove or two. Later in the week
I'll put in more time at the stove, a meditation in
carmelization: hours of stirring half a dozen or more
sliced ohm-ions to their most rich and golden essence.
A glug of white wine, a little Cognac, croutes
and the best nutty Gruyere I can find:
The feast never ends.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Holiday
In the other room, where the detritus of dinner
lingers, the four men argue the weapons of
WWII. Russia. Germany. All of them
too studied, erudite.
And now it's Elvis, Bob Marley, The Beatles.
My father was a master of debate, and so
this discourse pleases me unto infinity.
My blended family, or at least the part of it
that allows itself to be together. Who is alpha?
Ohhhhh, argue some more. I love it all.
R. toiled all afternoon over the heat, reductions
of red wine and onions, beef and pork. All
enclosed in a pastry crust. O glorious feast!
Brilliant, every last one of them.
xxoo
T.
lingers, the four men argue the weapons of
WWII. Russia. Germany. All of them
too studied, erudite.
And now it's Elvis, Bob Marley, The Beatles.
My father was a master of debate, and so
this discourse pleases me unto infinity.
My blended family, or at least the part of it
that allows itself to be together. Who is alpha?
Ohhhhh, argue some more. I love it all.
R. toiled all afternoon over the heat, reductions
of red wine and onions, beef and pork. All
enclosed in a pastry crust. O glorious feast!
Brilliant, every last one of them.
xxoo
T.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Queen
The receptionist at Gem hair salon in Kirkland
was wearing this most spectacular vintage necklace
yesterday, and she graciously allowed me to photograph
her for my blog:
She looked like royalty standing behind the counter.
Found at an antique shop up the street, she said
that she wears it all the time. How great is that?!!
was wearing this most spectacular vintage necklace
yesterday, and she graciously allowed me to photograph
her for my blog:
She looked like royalty standing behind the counter.
Found at an antique shop up the street, she said
that she wears it all the time. How great is that?!!
Monday, December 21, 2009
A Little Solstice Pomp....
The most abbreviated of days, and I believe it's going to
fill up with rain. This descent into darkness always
thrills me, oddly. I think it's because it always ends
in Christmas, which, oddly (or unlike many adults
I know) I still rather enjoy. Of course as the years
have accumulated, the delights exist less in the
material world and more in the pleasures
of the palate.
My sons have unanimously requested tourtiere
for Christmas Eve dinner. It's a French-Canadian
meat pie which was a tradition in my home
growing up. Here's the recipe:
1 # ground beef
1/2 # ground pork
2 pieces bacon, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 onion, finely chopped
3/4 cup water
1 t. salt
1/4 t. freshly ground pepper
3/4 t. sage
1/2 t. thyme
1/4 t. allspice
3 T. chopped parsley
1 potato, boiled & mashed
pastry for a two-crust pie
Brown the meats, add the onion and garlic; cook for a few minutes.
Add everything else except the parsley and potato.
Simmer for 20 minutes. Add parsley and potato, let cool.
Fill pie shell with mixture, top with remaining pastry.
Bake at 400 degrees for 45-60 minutes, until brown.
My mom served this with buttered peas on the side.
She always would roast some beef and pork earlier
in the week, then grind them in her hand-crank grinder
(which clamped to the table's edge and was stored
in an old Quaker Oats cylindrical box with pictures
of Woody Woodpecker on the back.) She used this
meat instead of the pre-ground beef and pork.
I loved feeding the meat into that grinder,
turning the handle and watch it spiral out
on the other side!
My kids grew up with this pie also. On the Christmas
Eve morning of R.'s first quarter of culinary school,
I was happily ensconced in the kitchen, stirring up
my tourtiere, when R. came into the room, grabbed
the spoon out of my hand and bullied me out of the
way. WTF???? He firmly and calmly stated
that he was trying to INTRODUCE SOME CLASSIC
FRENCH COOKING TECHNIQUES INTO MY
KITCHEN. Hrrrmmmpppphhh!
Boy was that a mistake. I told him that this was
about as classic as it gets, or, at least, classic country
French-Canadian. This recipe has its roots in our
Quebec ancestors, Thomas Hayot and his wife
Jeanne Boucher, who, along with their children
Genevieve and Rodolphe, emmigrated from
Mortagne au Perche (France) in 1638.
R., in his new-found expertise, was not impressed.
I finally demanded that he leave the kitchen.
If you know R., you'll know that this is very
out of character for him. He's genial, easy-going
and generous of spirit. We had more than one
culinary run-in that fall, where I finally told him
that for 19 years he'd loved everything that had
come out of this kitchen. Moreover, I hadn't yet
poisoned him, forced him to eat watery gruel,
or made him suffer the penury of anything
from a store-bought-mix or squeezed out of
a tube.
Happily, as he progressed in his studies, his
criticism of All Things Mom eased, to the point
where I find nothing more pleasurable than an
afternoon spent in the kitchen with him.
Yes, we do engage in some good-natured
verbal sparring now and again over this spice
or that cut of meat, but it's with respect and
curiosity now, and the desire to learn.
My greatest pleasure, though, is when he asks
for cooking advice! From me!
Here's his Christmas gift to me (and himself)....
He endured way more than his share of adversity
while on the road to this piece of paper --
heart attack, victim of a violent crime, legal fall-out
from his father's death, plus other serious health issues.
But he persisted, Classical French Cooking Techniques
and all:
fill up with rain. This descent into darkness always
thrills me, oddly. I think it's because it always ends
in Christmas, which, oddly (or unlike many adults
I know) I still rather enjoy. Of course as the years
have accumulated, the delights exist less in the
material world and more in the pleasures
of the palate.
My sons have unanimously requested tourtiere
for Christmas Eve dinner. It's a French-Canadian
meat pie which was a tradition in my home
growing up. Here's the recipe:
1 # ground beef
1/2 # ground pork
2 pieces bacon, diced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 onion, finely chopped
3/4 cup water
1 t. salt
1/4 t. freshly ground pepper
3/4 t. sage
1/2 t. thyme
1/4 t. allspice
3 T. chopped parsley
1 potato, boiled & mashed
pastry for a two-crust pie
Brown the meats, add the onion and garlic; cook for a few minutes.
Add everything else except the parsley and potato.
Simmer for 20 minutes. Add parsley and potato, let cool.
Fill pie shell with mixture, top with remaining pastry.
Bake at 400 degrees for 45-60 minutes, until brown.
My mom served this with buttered peas on the side.
She always would roast some beef and pork earlier
in the week, then grind them in her hand-crank grinder
(which clamped to the table's edge and was stored
in an old Quaker Oats cylindrical box with pictures
of Woody Woodpecker on the back.) She used this
meat instead of the pre-ground beef and pork.
I loved feeding the meat into that grinder,
turning the handle and watch it spiral out
on the other side!
My kids grew up with this pie also. On the Christmas
Eve morning of R.'s first quarter of culinary school,
I was happily ensconced in the kitchen, stirring up
my tourtiere, when R. came into the room, grabbed
the spoon out of my hand and bullied me out of the
way. WTF???? He firmly and calmly stated
that he was trying to INTRODUCE SOME CLASSIC
FRENCH COOKING TECHNIQUES INTO MY
KITCHEN. Hrrrmmmpppphhh!
Boy was that a mistake. I told him that this was
about as classic as it gets, or, at least, classic country
French-Canadian. This recipe has its roots in our
Quebec ancestors, Thomas Hayot and his wife
Jeanne Boucher, who, along with their children
Genevieve and Rodolphe, emmigrated from
Mortagne au Perche (France) in 1638.
R., in his new-found expertise, was not impressed.
I finally demanded that he leave the kitchen.
If you know R., you'll know that this is very
out of character for him. He's genial, easy-going
and generous of spirit. We had more than one
culinary run-in that fall, where I finally told him
that for 19 years he'd loved everything that had
come out of this kitchen. Moreover, I hadn't yet
poisoned him, forced him to eat watery gruel,
or made him suffer the penury of anything
from a store-bought-mix or squeezed out of
a tube.
Happily, as he progressed in his studies, his
criticism of All Things Mom eased, to the point
where I find nothing more pleasurable than an
afternoon spent in the kitchen with him.
Yes, we do engage in some good-natured
verbal sparring now and again over this spice
or that cut of meat, but it's with respect and
curiosity now, and the desire to learn.
My greatest pleasure, though, is when he asks
for cooking advice! From me!
Here's his Christmas gift to me (and himself)....
He endured way more than his share of adversity
while on the road to this piece of paper --
heart attack, victim of a violent crime, legal fall-out
from his father's death, plus other serious health issues.
But he persisted, Classical French Cooking Techniques
and all:
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Three
And then it was candied orange peel and chocolate
almond macaroons and key lime pie and vanilla-bean
marshmallows and toffee dripped & drizzled with
bittersweet. And just on the first day!
Sugar-dipped ginger cookies and Russian tea cakes
and red-and-white candy-cane cookies and just
possibly divinity, if the air dries a bit. Not fudge:
I can't stomach its cloying sugary excess.
There is an ancient cookie press in the trunk
of my car which I may employ in the spritz department.
Love the interchangeable patterns, the spiraling
handle, the aluminum housing. There is even
a wooden rack with a slot for each pattern-plate.
The box is long-disintegrated so I store it in Zip-Loc,
alas. (I don't actually store the press in my car trunk.
It was at the other house, and I picked it up today.)
This could go on for weeks, months even. But it won't.
January carries its own particular abstinence, and
waits just beyond the kitchen door.
almond macaroons and key lime pie and vanilla-bean
marshmallows and toffee dripped & drizzled with
bittersweet. And just on the first day!
Sugar-dipped ginger cookies and Russian tea cakes
and red-and-white candy-cane cookies and just
possibly divinity, if the air dries a bit. Not fudge:
I can't stomach its cloying sugary excess.
There is an ancient cookie press in the trunk
of my car which I may employ in the spritz department.
Love the interchangeable patterns, the spiraling
handle, the aluminum housing. There is even
a wooden rack with a slot for each pattern-plate.
The box is long-disintegrated so I store it in Zip-Loc,
alas. (I don't actually store the press in my car trunk.
It was at the other house, and I picked it up today.)
This could go on for weeks, months even. But it won't.
January carries its own particular abstinence, and
waits just beyond the kitchen door.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Sweet, Part Two
Watching the checker fill my bag at Trader Joe's,
I thought, how can one be anything but happy
with this bagful of oranges, limes, walnuts, pecans,
almonds & chocolate? Little sack'o'bliss.
I thought, how can one be anything but happy
with this bagful of oranges, limes, walnuts, pecans,
almonds & chocolate? Little sack'o'bliss.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sweet
All I want to do is bake.
Great heaping mounds of cookies
and pies and tiny cakes iced and double-iced
with warm ganache. Loaves that thunk
when tapped, impossibly tiny tartes with berries
and apples and plums and peaches (not all in
the same tarte). Generous sheet-pans
of almond-studded toffee, heavenly divinity,
pumpkin bread and date bread with walnuts
and lemon cakes and marshmallows speckled
with vanilla bean specks and candied orange rinds.
Bake bake bake.
But who will buy?
I need a bakery, a patisserie, again.
It's time.
Great heaping mounds of cookies
and pies and tiny cakes iced and double-iced
with warm ganache. Loaves that thunk
when tapped, impossibly tiny tartes with berries
and apples and plums and peaches (not all in
the same tarte). Generous sheet-pans
of almond-studded toffee, heavenly divinity,
pumpkin bread and date bread with walnuts
and lemon cakes and marshmallows speckled
with vanilla bean specks and candied orange rinds.
Bake bake bake.
But who will buy?
I need a bakery, a patisserie, again.
It's time.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Amazon.con
I spent an hour on the phone with a customer service
rep. at Amazon yesterday. On the phone. I'd received
their email notification stating that if you ordered by
December 17th, you were guaranteed Christmas delivery
with the spend-$25-and-get-free-shipping-option.
Well. Hrrmmmph. Not exactly, apparently.
It's only on certain items, but the rep. had no idea
just what those items were. And how many items
does Amazon sell? Hundreds? Thousands?
Hundred of thousands? And there I was, thinking
that by placing my order on the 16th, I was in like Flynn.
I am quite successful with the squeak/wheel/grease
routine, but an hour on the phone to an internet company!
Cheezitz Crisp. That's ridiculous.
My hands were going numb from holding my little Nokia.
(Yeah, I could've probably gone to speaker-phone, but
that would require knowing how to do that.)
Ended up with almost everything shipping immediately,
with the promise to credit me the $50 shipping charges.
($50 to ship it less than 20 miles to my house is NOT free.)
We'll see if that actually happens. So much for feeling
smug doing all my shopping from the comfort
of the couch.
rep. at Amazon yesterday. On the phone. I'd received
their email notification stating that if you ordered by
December 17th, you were guaranteed Christmas delivery
with the spend-$25-and-get-free-shipping-option.
Well. Hrrmmmph. Not exactly, apparently.
It's only on certain items, but the rep. had no idea
just what those items were. And how many items
does Amazon sell? Hundreds? Thousands?
Hundred of thousands? And there I was, thinking
that by placing my order on the 16th, I was in like Flynn.
I am quite successful with the squeak/wheel/grease
routine, but an hour on the phone to an internet company!
Cheezitz Crisp. That's ridiculous.
My hands were going numb from holding my little Nokia.
(Yeah, I could've probably gone to speaker-phone, but
that would require knowing how to do that.)
Ended up with almost everything shipping immediately,
with the promise to credit me the $50 shipping charges.
($50 to ship it less than 20 miles to my house is NOT free.)
We'll see if that actually happens. So much for feeling
smug doing all my shopping from the comfort
of the couch.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
The memory is feeble....
....but the internet is robust! Today I was
looking online for a gift-book for P.,
and did a search for reviews of a particular title,
and whose name should come up but Citizen K. himself.
Oh! I'd forgotten that one of his blog sidebars
is a list of books read in 2009, and this title
was on it.
And now I learn, after informing him of this
moment of serendipity, that I had given him
this book for his birthday last April....
O god help me.
looking online for a gift-book for P.,
and did a search for reviews of a particular title,
and whose name should come up but Citizen K. himself.
Oh! I'd forgotten that one of his blog sidebars
is a list of books read in 2009, and this title
was on it.
And now I learn, after informing him of this
moment of serendipity, that I had given him
this book for his birthday last April....
O god help me.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
This Cheerful Gloom
The rain is back after a sub-freezing spell
and when I heard it pelting the skylights
last night it felt as if an old friend had returned.
And this early darkness makes me giddy
with glee. I can't walk around saying this
because most of the people I love feel otherwise,
but this is my blog and I'm sayin' it.
The more ominous the clouds the merrier,
I say. Light the candles, turn up the music,
pop open the wine. Get lost in your favorite book.
It's winter. Enjoy it. It's not going away.
and when I heard it pelting the skylights
last night it felt as if an old friend had returned.
And this early darkness makes me giddy
with glee. I can't walk around saying this
because most of the people I love feel otherwise,
but this is my blog and I'm sayin' it.
The more ominous the clouds the merrier,
I say. Light the candles, turn up the music,
pop open the wine. Get lost in your favorite book.
It's winter. Enjoy it. It's not going away.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Scrambled
I've been given the gift of a day off tomorrow
and for that I am grateful. (Thank-you, Miss M.!)
Today at work I read and reread an order wrong,
substituting the words delicate leaf and rose hips
for branch; and oval for fishbowl. A brain disconnect,
sizzled wires, synapses akimbo & askew.
After some futzing, I realized that the items subject to
my misunderstanding had already been completed
and were ready to pack. Oh! Altogether too easy.
Or: altogether too easy to misunderstand. Or not.
Something! The day off is timely.
and for that I am grateful. (Thank-you, Miss M.!)
Today at work I read and reread an order wrong,
substituting the words delicate leaf and rose hips
for branch; and oval for fishbowl. A brain disconnect,
sizzled wires, synapses akimbo & askew.
After some futzing, I realized that the items subject to
my misunderstanding had already been completed
and were ready to pack. Oh! Altogether too easy.
Or: altogether too easy to misunderstand. Or not.
Something! The day off is timely.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Red
P. has been in a dilemma about what to get me
for Christmas, as Plans 1, 2, and 3 have fallen through.
I'm not sure what that means, but I made him an internet
list today with links for a red bowl, a red baking dish,
a red tablecloth and a blue tablecloth. I have few needs.
I love red bowls. I had one a long time ago, but R., at
at a young age, climbed the shelving unit on which
it perched and pulled the entire thing down
upon himself. No injury, but lots of broken things --
the red bowl, a ceramic platter painted with blue violets.
After that, we bolted the thing to the wall.
No more broken anything.
In my sea-going trunk which I bought at a garage sale
in South Park for $10, there are piles and piles
of vintage linens, from my old life. None are precious,
all have suffered the indelible red-wine splash,
or candlewax. It's time for something different.
for Christmas, as Plans 1, 2, and 3 have fallen through.
I'm not sure what that means, but I made him an internet
list today with links for a red bowl, a red baking dish,
a red tablecloth and a blue tablecloth. I have few needs.
I love red bowls. I had one a long time ago, but R., at
at a young age, climbed the shelving unit on which
it perched and pulled the entire thing down
upon himself. No injury, but lots of broken things --
the red bowl, a ceramic platter painted with blue violets.
After that, we bolted the thing to the wall.
No more broken anything.
In my sea-going trunk which I bought at a garage sale
in South Park for $10, there are piles and piles
of vintage linens, from my old life. None are precious,
all have suffered the indelible red-wine splash,
or candlewax. It's time for something different.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
It's 56 degrees in the house this morning,
and 19 degrees outside. It's interesting to think
that, if this were January, and it was a sunny
56-degree afternoon, we'd all be outside
contemplating short sleeves and remarking
on the near-balminess of the day.
But hunkered down over my computer, up to my neck
in soft blue fleece, and cinnamon-spiced coffee at hand,
the only place I'd even consider exposing that much
skin is in a deep hot bath.
Our annual holiday sale at work is tomorrow
and will be repeated next Sunday. We've had the
good fortune to be swamped with orders since
September, with absolutely no let-up. And we're
getting down to the wire here with last-minute
requests begging to be filled. We spent the last
two days converting Melinda's factory-house
into a boutique-house. We've been wading through
an ocean of packing peanuts and shipping boxes
and suddenly there are vast open stretches of floor.
(Okay, "vast" is a bit of an exaggeration, considering
that our "production facility" is only about 600
square feet, but still. The contrast is startling.)
I really want to be present tomorrow when the customers
crowd-in and ooh-and-ahhh over all our meticulous
work, but the thought of driving yet another day
into the city on my only day off is less than appealing.
and 19 degrees outside. It's interesting to think
that, if this were January, and it was a sunny
56-degree afternoon, we'd all be outside
contemplating short sleeves and remarking
on the near-balminess of the day.
But hunkered down over my computer, up to my neck
in soft blue fleece, and cinnamon-spiced coffee at hand,
the only place I'd even consider exposing that much
skin is in a deep hot bath.
Our annual holiday sale at work is tomorrow
and will be repeated next Sunday. We've had the
good fortune to be swamped with orders since
September, with absolutely no let-up. And we're
getting down to the wire here with last-minute
requests begging to be filled. We spent the last
two days converting Melinda's factory-house
into a boutique-house. We've been wading through
an ocean of packing peanuts and shipping boxes
and suddenly there are vast open stretches of floor.
(Okay, "vast" is a bit of an exaggeration, considering
that our "production facility" is only about 600
square feet, but still. The contrast is startling.)
I really want to be present tomorrow when the customers
crowd-in and ooh-and-ahhh over all our meticulous
work, but the thought of driving yet another day
into the city on my only day off is less than appealing.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tree, Redux
I wrote about Chubby & Tubby Christmas trees before (here), and I'll probably write about them
next year too, but I do miss them. Untrimmed, unfashionable, sparse and often flattened from
having been trucked-in, they filled the parking lot of the variety store every December. For what seemed like centuries they cost $5; then the price leaped up to a whopping $7.
They dripped with sap and were mossy and lichen clung to the branches. They had cones. They were real trees. (Yes, I know, cut off in their prime but Oh Well.) Awkward, often. Adolescent Douglas firs, with skinny little trunks not unlike the legs of many thirteen-year-old boys. They'd never done the weight-lifting of the tree-farm trees. Never taken commercially-manufactured vitamins. Never been to the salon for a shaping.
And a Chubby & Tubby tree presented unique challenges when decorating: the branches slumped with the slightest weight, so many decorations were hung close to the trunk. The trunk itself was often too narrow to properly tighten into the stand. (I recall shimming it with wooden blocks.) Some branches stretched ridiculously wide, others barely existed. But if you had the space, you could buy the tallest tree on the lot and still pay only $7. Joy!
Gone now, farewell, au revoir. The Chubby & Tubby building on Rainier Avenue, vacant since 2003, is for sale. A beauty school camped out there for a while, then a school-supply facility for disadvantaged children. They too have moved on.
Driving past on my way to work, I attempt to summon the ghosts of Flattened-Christmas-Trees-Past, but, alas. It's dark, and it's vacant.
Only in memory.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Female Energy
If someone could figure out how to harness
the power generated by a menopausal woman's
hot flashes, we could power the planet.
Think of it, girls! No more HRT, no more
dread of the suddenly-a-sauna effect!
We could actually look forward to this
time of life, and its income-generating
possibilities!
Scenario: you are waiting for a flight
at the airport, and a fellow passenger loses
battery power on his laptop. You just plug
the computer in to your convenient yet-to-be-
invented device, take his credit card, (charging
by the minute, in this case), and voila! Power!
In so many ways!
And environmentally sound. I'll get to work
on this.
the power generated by a menopausal woman's
hot flashes, we could power the planet.
Think of it, girls! No more HRT, no more
dread of the suddenly-a-sauna effect!
We could actually look forward to this
time of life, and its income-generating
possibilities!
Scenario: you are waiting for a flight
at the airport, and a fellow passenger loses
battery power on his laptop. You just plug
the computer in to your convenient yet-to-be-
invented device, take his credit card, (charging
by the minute, in this case), and voila! Power!
In so many ways!
And environmentally sound. I'll get to work
on this.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
From The Dishwasher's Tears, one of my very favorite blogs:
I have broken out the good martini glasses and my smoking jacket.
Strike up the band, and rearrange those deck chairs!
You must suffer it all. There are no exemptions.
All that's left is to do it in style.
I have broken out the good martini glasses and my smoking jacket.
Strike up the band, and rearrange those deck chairs!
You must suffer it all. There are no exemptions.
All that's left is to do it in style.
Monday, December 7, 2009
We watched A Christmas Tale for the second time
this past weekend; this is what Citizen K.
had to say about it:
Superb film about a troubled French family gathering for what may be their final Christmas together. Sublimely acted and directed, this honest, penetrating study of complex family dynamics never veers off course on its way to the shattering final scene between the mother and the estranged son. Not to be missed. In French, with subtitles....
I love this film, as does Paul. We agreed
that we absolutely must watch it every year.
Highly recommended!
this past weekend; this is what Citizen K.
had to say about it:
Superb film about a troubled French family gathering for what may be their final Christmas together. Sublimely acted and directed, this honest, penetrating study of complex family dynamics never veers off course on its way to the shattering final scene between the mother and the estranged son. Not to be missed. In French, with subtitles....
I love this film, as does Paul. We agreed
that we absolutely must watch it every year.
Highly recommended!
Brr
18 degrees.
There appear to be handsful
of tiny white flowers -- rosettes --
scattered across the roof of my black car.
Buds and blossoms: an icy bouquet.
Shortly I'll drive west where the weather
is warmer: it's 24 degrees in Seattle!
There appear to be handsful
of tiny white flowers -- rosettes --
scattered across the roof of my black car.
Buds and blossoms: an icy bouquet.
Shortly I'll drive west where the weather
is warmer: it's 24 degrees in Seattle!
Sunday, December 6, 2009
And all flesh shall see it together.
A page of George Frederic Handel’s
autograph draft score of Messiah, 1741.
The Granger Collection, New York
In my high-school years as an alto (or second soprano, or tenor, as needed), our a cappella choir (or ockapella, as we liked to say) began learning/practicing Handel's Messiah in early November. We were an earnest group, with an instructor -- Mr. McManus -- who inspired us to hit every note with accuracy and passion. This was our most ambitious project each year -- pity the poor parents with no interest in classical vocal music and multiple vociferous children! (My mother included: I think her love for classical music made an exit sometime around 1975, and there was more to come.) But the group of perhaps sixty of us loved every trilled minute of it. We could be serious and dramatic and show off our honed expertise with long runs of notes and vibrato and barely a chance for a breath. (Not unlike that sentence.) All of us hailed from working-class families (Boeing) and most of us had our religious origins in some form of Christianity. It was the 1970's -- religious music was commonplace in the public schools. We felt important when we sang Messiah. We were important, and we sang like salvation was at hand. Our voices overflowed that school cafeteria as if it were the most prestigious European concert hall, drowning out the monotone of vending machines which lined an entire wall. No ho-hum Carols for us!
As long as Mr. McManus was the vocal instructor, all alumni were invited to return for the Christmas concert, and join the group on the risers. Two of my sisters and I did this several years in a row -- fun! And then somewhere along the line we stopped going, and I don't remember why. Maybe we felt that we had outgrown it. I know I had long outgrown my suburban hometown of Renton. But I miss that December ritual, along with my singing voice, which cut out when my boys were still quite little. (Gone, gone for good.)
Handel would turn over (and over and over) in his grave if he could hear The Hallelujah Chorus muzak-ized all over the planet. (But who knows -- maybe he'd enjoy it.) It's even available as a cell-phone ring tone. Seems to me that, as a society, all we like sheep have gone astray.
Still, it makes for some great listening on a cold Sunday afternoon, cranked up pretty damn loud on the stereo.
God help us.
And: hallelujah.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Saturday, finally.
Today is my first day off after eight days
of working with a f---ed-up back. It hurts
to bend. Don't even mention twisting.
Thankfully the knees & legs are springy.
And now I can get up off of a chair/sofa.
These are good things.
I must remember to be thankful for even
these infinitesmally-wee improvements.
Wee-er than wee. Wheee. No.
Wii. Again, no.
There was a menu in my dream last night which was about 700 pages long and the waitress was getting pissy because I couldn't decide what to order. There were pages from my mother's 1950's era Betty Crocker cookbook, beat-up and falling-out. Entire chapters of alcohol and desserts. And it kept growing. When I decided I'd settle for a plain old sandwich, I couldn't find those pages, and then wool skirts and blazers suddenly began to fall out of the menu, all in dull-brown tweed. The hostess walked up to the front of the restaurant and shouted The sun is shining! Everyone applauded.
Not a particularly thrilling night in dreamland.
I woke up hungry.
of working with a f---ed-up back. It hurts
to bend. Don't even mention twisting.
Thankfully the knees & legs are springy.
And now I can get up off of a chair/sofa.
These are good things.
I must remember to be thankful for even
these infinitesmally-wee improvements.
Wee-er than wee. Wheee. No.
Wii. Again, no.
There was a menu in my dream last night which was about 700 pages long and the waitress was getting pissy because I couldn't decide what to order. There were pages from my mother's 1950's era Betty Crocker cookbook, beat-up and falling-out. Entire chapters of alcohol and desserts. And it kept growing. When I decided I'd settle for a plain old sandwich, I couldn't find those pages, and then wool skirts and blazers suddenly began to fall out of the menu, all in dull-brown tweed. The hostess walked up to the front of the restaurant and shouted The sun is shining! Everyone applauded.
Not a particularly thrilling night in dreamland.
I woke up hungry.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
My son has suggested that we make a Christmas
dinner with a "Twelve Days of Christmas" theme.
Yes! Although, after reviewing the lyrics,
this may be a fowl-heavy meal:
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Drummers Drumming
Eleven Pipers Piping
Ten Lords a Leaping
Nine Ladies Dancing
Eight Maids a Milking
Seven Swans a Swimming
Six Geese a Laying
Five Golden Rings
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree
There may be a bit of interpretation involved.
Fun!
Suggestions welcome.
dinner with a "Twelve Days of Christmas" theme.
Yes! Although, after reviewing the lyrics,
this may be a fowl-heavy meal:
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Drummers Drumming
Eleven Pipers Piping
Ten Lords a Leaping
Nine Ladies Dancing
Eight Maids a Milking
Seven Swans a Swimming
Six Geese a Laying
Five Golden Rings
Four Calling Birds
Three French Hens
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree
There may be a bit of interpretation involved.
Fun!
Suggestions welcome.
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