I could very well be the biggest blog slacker around. I just get so much joy from reading everyone else's that I forget about my own obligation!
I know, lame excuse...
So, my town has been shut down for the past three days, not enough snowplows or salt or shovels to handle the storm of the century!
Of course, I love the snow, and am feeling the Christmas spirit like crazy! I'm even looking up recipes for roasted chestnuts and baking cookies!
Oh, check out my genius cookie recipe: take your favorite choc chip cookie recipe, (I like the Joy of Cooking one), add an equal part (to the vanilla) of orange extract, and top cookies with slivered almonds. I made them tonight and they are amazing. Just don't cook them too long.
Brian and I went to a restaurant I've wanted to try since we got here. And I ate some of his chicken. It was really good. I guess it's official, I'm not a vegetarian, I'm not even a pescetarian. Lately I'm more concerned with the destruction of the ocean than the welfare of chickens in factory farms, I guess I can still be haughty with some morals somewhere....
23.12.08
11.11.08
OK. I know it's been too long and I'm a lame blogger. So, I'll do a quick catch-up.
I went home for a long weekend. It was wonderful. Soe and I hosted a shower for our beautiful sister, Emma, who is one of those women that just looks amazing knocked up.
I saw family,
and friends,
went apple picking,
and posed on Wasuck's bike.
Then, we had halloween.
I was a spider.
Can you see my sac? Since Halloween, I've been trying to stay warm and cozy as Winter sets in, and getting inspired for a no spending holiday season. Easier said than done! It does help that it seems the rest of the world is in the same mode, and perhaps we really are moving toward a more thoughtful style of consumerism.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am lucky to have a family member here in Portland. Papa's cousin Cupcake, who asked me to call her "Aunt Cup", is having a meal at her home, and I am feeling exceptionally grateful. It is a wonderful thing to have family near.
Oh, and Mister says "Meow", very loudly.
I went home for a long weekend. It was wonderful. Soe and I hosted a shower for our beautiful sister, Emma, who is one of those women that just looks amazing knocked up.
I saw family,
and friends,
went apple picking,
and posed on Wasuck's bike.
Then, we had halloween.
I was a spider.
Can you see my sac? Since Halloween, I've been trying to stay warm and cozy as Winter sets in, and getting inspired for a no spending holiday season. Easier said than done! It does help that it seems the rest of the world is in the same mode, and perhaps we really are moving toward a more thoughtful style of consumerism.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am lucky to have a family member here in Portland. Papa's cousin Cupcake, who asked me to call her "Aunt Cup", is having a meal at her home, and I am feeling exceptionally grateful. It is a wonderful thing to have family near.
Oh, and Mister says "Meow", very loudly.
14.10.08
I got a job.
This is monumental for a few reasons.
1: It took so long. I broke records for myself this year in category "amount of time unemployed." After a month and a half of panic and depression, I decided to go with the flow and found creative ways to entertain myself for free, including but not limited to: focused guitar and voice practice, cooking and cleaning, hikes, thrift shopping for items 1$ and less, art projects, and regular yoga at home. Just when these things were beginning to become pleasantly habitual, I became employed.
2: The irony of who has deemed me worthy of employment. A computer store. Anyone who knows me at all will remember that I only recently got email and a cell phone. I've never bought a computer in my life, I've been lucky enough to inherit hand-me-downs from the people who love me and never needed anything more than that. In fact, I've quite often shunned the computal elements. Needless to say, I'm not exactly qualified.
BUT, I do believe that life puts us into places and situations for reasons that are unknown to us.
I can see the value of the time that I've had to myself, to rediscover the things that make me happy, the things that I need to incorporate into my daily, or weekly life. And for the most part, these things have nothing to do with work, they rarely have for me.
But the value of knowing a lot about apple computers? I do know that this information is valuable in general, but I don't know how it is valuable to me. Of course, the relationships formed are always worthwhile... and
the pleasure of knowing the answer to a geeky question that my "mr. apple" boyfriend didn't know. Now that is satisfaction.
This is monumental for a few reasons.
1: It took so long. I broke records for myself this year in category "amount of time unemployed." After a month and a half of panic and depression, I decided to go with the flow and found creative ways to entertain myself for free, including but not limited to: focused guitar and voice practice, cooking and cleaning, hikes, thrift shopping for items 1$ and less, art projects, and regular yoga at home. Just when these things were beginning to become pleasantly habitual, I became employed.
2: The irony of who has deemed me worthy of employment. A computer store. Anyone who knows me at all will remember that I only recently got email and a cell phone. I've never bought a computer in my life, I've been lucky enough to inherit hand-me-downs from the people who love me and never needed anything more than that. In fact, I've quite often shunned the computal elements. Needless to say, I'm not exactly qualified.
BUT, I do believe that life puts us into places and situations for reasons that are unknown to us.
I can see the value of the time that I've had to myself, to rediscover the things that make me happy, the things that I need to incorporate into my daily, or weekly life. And for the most part, these things have nothing to do with work, they rarely have for me.
But the value of knowing a lot about apple computers? I do know that this information is valuable in general, but I don't know how it is valuable to me. Of course, the relationships formed are always worthwhile... and
the pleasure of knowing the answer to a geeky question that my "mr. apple" boyfriend didn't know. Now that is satisfaction.
30.9.08
Packages
My good friend Melodie sent me a package. In it was a jar of this year's blueberry jam, from the berries out in back of the the log house that her husband built and that they live in. She packed it in pretty paper and sprinkled dried flowers and sent it in a cloth-covered box. It made my week.
I picked her blueberries a few summers ago, took home four or five gallon freezer bags full. Stained my fingers and my mouth that day. Soe & I made up this great drink that had elderflower concentrate and vodka and seltzer and mint and blueberries floating in it. We would cook down frozen blueberries with maple syrup on low during dinner and drizzle it over ice-cream for dessert.
I met Melodie the summer before my senior year of high school, at music camp. I think we got on so well because we were both troublemakers, we loved adventure. And music, and nature. We took baths in the river. Got all the other girls together and went out into a field one night, lay down in the cool grass with all our heads in a circle facing in, sang songs and looked out into the universe. I remember feeling the gravity holding me onto the planet, and fully realizing that that was the only thing that kept me here, separate from those bright Vermont Country stars. It's unsettling, to let yourself feel gravity, especially on a starry night laying down.
Later that summer, she drove up north to get me and took me back to Waitsfield with her. It must have been August, because I remember her brother taking us up to the top of a mountain in his VW bus to watch the meteor showers. And drinking vodka mixed with grape soda. She tried to get me into this bar that she went to all the time, but I didn't look as old as she did. (Back then this was a true curse, I was forever waiting outside of bars while my friends were inside having fun.) And we hitchhiked from one town to the next, her butterfly knife tucked safely into her boot, we'd been practicing. Smoking cigarettes like it was our job. Always looking for the next adventure. Her boyfriend and her brother were drummers, and they made their drums. Their hands were like wood, so calloused. We would have bonfires and dance and dance all night. And gin rummy. All night long. All of her friends were so wonderful, as if to know Melodie was to be touched by magic, to see all of your cares and troubles float away on wafts of incense smoke, with the true knowledge that everything that you need is provided. By nature and the people around you. Do you need water? There's a brook in the back. Hungry? Here's an apple tree, and my friend is making tofu scramble with cumin cumin cumin! There's a party tonight, we don't have a car and it's four towns over. Don't worry, we'll get there! And we would.
For a while, Melodie lived in a little cabin in the woods with a poet. No electricity, and an outhouse in the back. They kept their food cold in a cooler during the summer, in a snowbank in the winter. She made salves and oils and bath salts in the pantry. There were flowers everywhere. It was like a dream.
Many years later, Melodie married her high school sweetheart, Dave, (the one from before I met her, I recognised him from the "Wild West" picture she'd shown me once), on a mountaintop under an arch woven with flowers that he made for her. And they moved into the house that he built, a house of logs, on a hill, with blueberries growing in the back, and a rough trail going up to a little field with a cabin. On Dave's birthday a few years ago, she bought him this monster jeep/truck/tractor thing and had a party. Eventually, people started driving the behemoth up & down the muddy trail. The gas tank was in the bed of the truck, and it sounded like, I can't describe it. Loud, and old, and diesel-driven. I had just learned to drive a stick shift, and Dave got it in his head that I should drive the truck up the hill. So I did. It was frightening, to say the least. There were times when the trail was so steep, I thought we would roll over backwards. There were times when the mud was so deep, I was sure we were stuck. And, it was night. But finally, I got it up the hill. I turned it around and started the descent. Something snapped. The axle broke. I still feel like I broke that truck.
I called Melodie to thank her for the package, and our conversation circled around very adult things. She was doing their taxes. We started talking about the economy and this whole Wall Street bailout. I said "people like you won't be affected too much by this". And she said she's obsessed with paying off the mortgage. And everyone around her is worried. I realised today that I've had a tendency to romanticise her life. That I've always kind of pictured her in this idyllic haze, living off the land like a fairy queen. But she's living in the same world as I am, the same country, the same worries, concerns.
In spite of my fantasy of her, the one thing that is impossible to romanticize is friendship. For some reason, we came together in life, and time and distance have never been able to sever the bond that we wove on that wonderful summer in Vermont. I hadn't talked to her in almost two years when we reconnected this time, and it seemed like a month at the most. I am so very grateful for this friendship. It reminds me of who I am, and where I come from. And it inspires me to be a better friend, to send packages for no reason, because they make smiles and warm hearts.
2008 Showacre Blueberry Jam: spoon on top of coconut sorbet for an amazing treat...
or, mix into plain yogurt with maple syrup for something incomparable, and addictive...
or, spread onto warm toast with butter for a traditional comfort...
I picked her blueberries a few summers ago, took home four or five gallon freezer bags full. Stained my fingers and my mouth that day. Soe & I made up this great drink that had elderflower concentrate and vodka and seltzer and mint and blueberries floating in it. We would cook down frozen blueberries with maple syrup on low during dinner and drizzle it over ice-cream for dessert.
I met Melodie the summer before my senior year of high school, at music camp. I think we got on so well because we were both troublemakers, we loved adventure. And music, and nature. We took baths in the river. Got all the other girls together and went out into a field one night, lay down in the cool grass with all our heads in a circle facing in, sang songs and looked out into the universe. I remember feeling the gravity holding me onto the planet, and fully realizing that that was the only thing that kept me here, separate from those bright Vermont Country stars. It's unsettling, to let yourself feel gravity, especially on a starry night laying down.
Later that summer, she drove up north to get me and took me back to Waitsfield with her. It must have been August, because I remember her brother taking us up to the top of a mountain in his VW bus to watch the meteor showers. And drinking vodka mixed with grape soda. She tried to get me into this bar that she went to all the time, but I didn't look as old as she did. (Back then this was a true curse, I was forever waiting outside of bars while my friends were inside having fun.) And we hitchhiked from one town to the next, her butterfly knife tucked safely into her boot, we'd been practicing. Smoking cigarettes like it was our job. Always looking for the next adventure. Her boyfriend and her brother were drummers, and they made their drums. Their hands were like wood, so calloused. We would have bonfires and dance and dance all night. And gin rummy. All night long. All of her friends were so wonderful, as if to know Melodie was to be touched by magic, to see all of your cares and troubles float away on wafts of incense smoke, with the true knowledge that everything that you need is provided. By nature and the people around you. Do you need water? There's a brook in the back. Hungry? Here's an apple tree, and my friend is making tofu scramble with cumin cumin cumin! There's a party tonight, we don't have a car and it's four towns over. Don't worry, we'll get there! And we would.
For a while, Melodie lived in a little cabin in the woods with a poet. No electricity, and an outhouse in the back. They kept their food cold in a cooler during the summer, in a snowbank in the winter. She made salves and oils and bath salts in the pantry. There were flowers everywhere. It was like a dream.
Many years later, Melodie married her high school sweetheart, Dave, (the one from before I met her, I recognised him from the "Wild West" picture she'd shown me once), on a mountaintop under an arch woven with flowers that he made for her. And they moved into the house that he built, a house of logs, on a hill, with blueberries growing in the back, and a rough trail going up to a little field with a cabin. On Dave's birthday a few years ago, she bought him this monster jeep/truck/tractor thing and had a party. Eventually, people started driving the behemoth up & down the muddy trail. The gas tank was in the bed of the truck, and it sounded like, I can't describe it. Loud, and old, and diesel-driven. I had just learned to drive a stick shift, and Dave got it in his head that I should drive the truck up the hill. So I did. It was frightening, to say the least. There were times when the trail was so steep, I thought we would roll over backwards. There were times when the mud was so deep, I was sure we were stuck. And, it was night. But finally, I got it up the hill. I turned it around and started the descent. Something snapped. The axle broke. I still feel like I broke that truck.
I called Melodie to thank her for the package, and our conversation circled around very adult things. She was doing their taxes. We started talking about the economy and this whole Wall Street bailout. I said "people like you won't be affected too much by this". And she said she's obsessed with paying off the mortgage. And everyone around her is worried. I realised today that I've had a tendency to romanticise her life. That I've always kind of pictured her in this idyllic haze, living off the land like a fairy queen. But she's living in the same world as I am, the same country, the same worries, concerns.
In spite of my fantasy of her, the one thing that is impossible to romanticize is friendship. For some reason, we came together in life, and time and distance have never been able to sever the bond that we wove on that wonderful summer in Vermont. I hadn't talked to her in almost two years when we reconnected this time, and it seemed like a month at the most. I am so very grateful for this friendship. It reminds me of who I am, and where I come from. And it inspires me to be a better friend, to send packages for no reason, because they make smiles and warm hearts.
2008 Showacre Blueberry Jam: spoon on top of coconut sorbet for an amazing treat...
or, mix into plain yogurt with maple syrup for something incomparable, and addictive...
or, spread onto warm toast with butter for a traditional comfort...
8.9.08
Scavenger's Delight
As the days grow shorter, and my wallet thinner, no job in sight and the cupboards grow bare (it's not really that bad, yet!)... one thing I can be grateful for are the gifts of the earth. I have no garden, but blackberries grow like weeds along the side of the road around here! And next to my not-so-secret berry patch, there is an old, gnarled lone apple tree just aching from too much fruit, right on the edge of a forest. So, today, I went and picked my fill of berries, worth about 15-20$ at the market, and stocked up on these beautiful apples... I think I'll make muffins.
I did learn one thing: berry prices at market must be directly related to how dangerous it is to harvest them: in spite of my thinking ahead (long-sleeves and boots), I walked away with one splinter, around ten bloody pricks, torn clothing, and a good twenty new huge brown spider friends who were happy that I didn't tear thier homes all up in my endeavor. For me, this is part of the pleasure. For others, a good reason to spend 5$ a pint!
Et.... VOILA!
I did learn one thing: berry prices at market must be directly related to how dangerous it is to harvest them: in spite of my thinking ahead (long-sleeves and boots), I walked away with one splinter, around ten bloody pricks, torn clothing, and a good twenty new huge brown spider friends who were happy that I didn't tear thier homes all up in my endeavor. For me, this is part of the pleasure. For others, a good reason to spend 5$ a pint!
Et.... VOILA!
1.9.08
Insomniac
I can't sleep. It's four o'clock in the morning and I haven't gone to sleep yet. I tried, but it didn't work. This is the fourth night that i haven't been able to sleep in a row.
It wouldn't be a problem except I end up sleeping til noon, and getting nothing done during the day when you can do stuff. And, Mister is sleeping like a rock, which means that as soon as my weary eyes finally let the lids escort me to dreamland, he will be up and at em' and ready to drive me to crazy land.
Speaking of dream time, I've been having an unusual amount of extremely vivid and strange dreams, one of them in particular I don't want to forget.
Mama Sonia, my grandmother who died two and a half weeks ago, was in my dreams. The first was more of an image of her. She had this HUGE bouffant hairdo, and it was bright blue and had fluttering wings coming out of it. If you knew my grandmother, you would know that this sort of look is quite unlike her. She was the perfect picture of elegance and good taste, always dressed, coiffed, and made up impeccably. But she also loved art. And not just any old painting by joe shmoe painter down the street. She knew good art, and loved it. We would talk forever about different artists and what we did and didn't like about their work, why we thought it appealed to people, what could have inspired the piece. One of our very favorite things to do together was to go to art shows and museums. She was a very cultured woman, and she loved beauty. At her funeral, it occurred to me that that was something I would like to take of her with me for the rest of my journey, her love of beauty. And even though her person here on earth wouldn't be caught dead in public without makeup and jewelry, let alone a blue bouffant with wings, her spirit inspires and compels me to pursue my own vision of what beauty is.
In the next dream, she had gotten up out of bed, and was getting ready by herself, standing. Her last few months here were colored by her inability to get out of bed by herself, so seeing her like this surprised me. I said to her how well she looked, and she sort of dismissed my surprise and said that she wanted to go out and walk in the garden. We went out and the garden was beautiful. It wasn't big, but it was well-cared for and housed all sorts of wonderful plants and flowers. The house was two stories, and the garden was walled. And we walked and looked and smelled and it was all very peaceful.
Beauty. Art. Music. Food. Family. These are the things that Mama Sonia cared about. These are the things that made her happy. These are the things that make me happy. And my memories of sharing these things with her make me feel that she's not actually gone, because my taste and choices are painted with her touch.
I have so much more to say about this, but it's going to take some time. I think I'd rather just let it come as it needs to. I'm not good at forcing things....
like sleep, for instance.
It wouldn't be a problem except I end up sleeping til noon, and getting nothing done during the day when you can do stuff. And, Mister is sleeping like a rock, which means that as soon as my weary eyes finally let the lids escort me to dreamland, he will be up and at em' and ready to drive me to crazy land.
Speaking of dream time, I've been having an unusual amount of extremely vivid and strange dreams, one of them in particular I don't want to forget.
Mama Sonia, my grandmother who died two and a half weeks ago, was in my dreams. The first was more of an image of her. She had this HUGE bouffant hairdo, and it was bright blue and had fluttering wings coming out of it. If you knew my grandmother, you would know that this sort of look is quite unlike her. She was the perfect picture of elegance and good taste, always dressed, coiffed, and made up impeccably. But she also loved art. And not just any old painting by joe shmoe painter down the street. She knew good art, and loved it. We would talk forever about different artists and what we did and didn't like about their work, why we thought it appealed to people, what could have inspired the piece. One of our very favorite things to do together was to go to art shows and museums. She was a very cultured woman, and she loved beauty. At her funeral, it occurred to me that that was something I would like to take of her with me for the rest of my journey, her love of beauty. And even though her person here on earth wouldn't be caught dead in public without makeup and jewelry, let alone a blue bouffant with wings, her spirit inspires and compels me to pursue my own vision of what beauty is.
In the next dream, she had gotten up out of bed, and was getting ready by herself, standing. Her last few months here were colored by her inability to get out of bed by herself, so seeing her like this surprised me. I said to her how well she looked, and she sort of dismissed my surprise and said that she wanted to go out and walk in the garden. We went out and the garden was beautiful. It wasn't big, but it was well-cared for and housed all sorts of wonderful plants and flowers. The house was two stories, and the garden was walled. And we walked and looked and smelled and it was all very peaceful.
Beauty. Art. Music. Food. Family. These are the things that Mama Sonia cared about. These are the things that made her happy. These are the things that make me happy. And my memories of sharing these things with her make me feel that she's not actually gone, because my taste and choices are painted with her touch.
I have so much more to say about this, but it's going to take some time. I think I'd rather just let it come as it needs to. I'm not good at forcing things....
like sleep, for instance.
15.8.08
Da Beach
We went to the seaside. I drove us out of the city, after we hit our street I could swear we were in the middle of nowhere. The landscape began to change, and although we drove for an hour and a half, we did not see much civilization on the main road. We did see a road-side spring for drinking water. I filled up my little container that Mindy gave me:
We arrived at our point of destination, and walked under the road to a wonderful path that led through the woods to the sea. The trees are so big here!
So are the slugs! Rock!
We got to the beach, and there were lots and lots of surfers. The sand was fenced in by these huge jutting cliffs. We climbed out as far as we could. There were starfish EVERYWHERE!
Then, we made our way down to this great burrito joint in a little town south of the beach, stopping off for a romantic picture-esque....
Next stop: Farmer's Market! xo
We arrived at our point of destination, and walked under the road to a wonderful path that led through the woods to the sea. The trees are so big here!
So are the slugs! Rock!
We got to the beach, and there were lots and lots of surfers. The sand was fenced in by these huge jutting cliffs. We climbed out as far as we could. There were starfish EVERYWHERE!
Then, we made our way down to this great burrito joint in a little town south of the beach, stopping off for a romantic picture-esque....
Next stop: Farmer's Market! xo
14.8.08
Parks
There are a whole lot of Parks in Portland. Yesterday we explored two. The first was called Washington Park, it is a part of a bigger park called Forest Park, which is right next to our new house, which we haven't moved into yet. Washington Park is veined with trails, and my favorite one that we went on is called "Wildwood" Here is a picture of us there:
Then we went up to an old mansion that is surrounded by park and panoramic views of the city, the valley, and the snow-covered mountains beyond. This truly is beautiful country.
While walking, I saw what appeared to be my very favorite wild berry, red caps. I wanted to eat a whole bunch of them, but decided against it just in case. Although the flora seems so similar to Vermont's, I thought it best to wait until I get my dirty paws on a field guide.
Now we're off to the beach. I'll report back later on that!
Then we went up to an old mansion that is surrounded by park and panoramic views of the city, the valley, and the snow-covered mountains beyond. This truly is beautiful country.
While walking, I saw what appeared to be my very favorite wild berry, red caps. I wanted to eat a whole bunch of them, but decided against it just in case. Although the flora seems so similar to Vermont's, I thought it best to wait until I get my dirty paws on a field guide.
Now we're off to the beach. I'll report back later on that!
13.8.08
Portland, Oregon
I've moved.
No longer a Vermonster misplaced in the desert outside Hollywood, now I'm in the town I always thought I'd never move to. For the simple reason that everyone always compares it to the town I call home, only bigger. And everyone from Burlington ends up in Portland.
I'd rather be unusual.
Or would I? Times past, I contemplated the irony of my existence, the strangeness of my instinct. Nothing made sense.
Lately, all I can think about is teacups and curtains. The lure of the underground is fading. I want to make tables and chairs. I want to sew place mats and napkins.
I remember the advice of someone I admire greatly when I told him I was moving to Southern California: he said, "L.A. is a wonderful place, if you know who you are."
I felt it very easy to define myself in an environment that did not produce me, did not support or validate me, and viewed me as an oddity. There was never anything closely related to who I am that I saw. I never questioned who I am.
But now, after a year and a half of creative rest and relative inaction, I find myself asking that question. Who are you? Are you the result of your work? Are you a mirror that reflects how you've affected the people you've chanced to meet? Are you still a vessel of unrealised potential, perpetually distracted from practice and discipline? Are you a sponge that drinks from it's surroundings, thriving on the excitement of others?
I do know that I'm specifically tired.
Tired of doing nothing, and tired from moving.
And I do know that music still moves me, perpetually and religiously.
So, let's make some music.
No longer a Vermonster misplaced in the desert outside Hollywood, now I'm in the town I always thought I'd never move to. For the simple reason that everyone always compares it to the town I call home, only bigger. And everyone from Burlington ends up in Portland.
I'd rather be unusual.
Or would I? Times past, I contemplated the irony of my existence, the strangeness of my instinct. Nothing made sense.
Lately, all I can think about is teacups and curtains. The lure of the underground is fading. I want to make tables and chairs. I want to sew place mats and napkins.
I remember the advice of someone I admire greatly when I told him I was moving to Southern California: he said, "L.A. is a wonderful place, if you know who you are."
I felt it very easy to define myself in an environment that did not produce me, did not support or validate me, and viewed me as an oddity. There was never anything closely related to who I am that I saw. I never questioned who I am.
But now, after a year and a half of creative rest and relative inaction, I find myself asking that question. Who are you? Are you the result of your work? Are you a mirror that reflects how you've affected the people you've chanced to meet? Are you still a vessel of unrealised potential, perpetually distracted from practice and discipline? Are you a sponge that drinks from it's surroundings, thriving on the excitement of others?
I do know that I'm specifically tired.
Tired of doing nothing, and tired from moving.
And I do know that music still moves me, perpetually and religiously.
So, let's make some music.
9.7.08
"What is up with the blogging. I keep looking and it is stale. "
Papa wrote to say that he's been checking my blog and it is stale.
I can't deny that I have been very lazy about it or that I have not felt particularly inspired.
So, I'll write about one thing in my life that is constant, rarely changes, and I share with my father: coffee.
Or "coffeeyah" as Papa so lovingly refers to it.
One of my very favorite occupations out of very many was that of a barrista. A constant flow of new and familiar faces made for a varied day at work. I was in a position of power, which I enjoyed, because people don't go into a coffee shop just for the hell of it, they NEED something. And the good thing about being a coffee-slinger is that you don't have to feel guilty about fueling the addicted. Wherein as a bartender, this is an unfortunate facet that goes with the territory. But coffee addiction doesn't directly ruin peoples lives, tear families apart, destroy careers, etc. Quite the opposite, it encourages ritual and thoughtful contemplation in an ever quickening environment.
Was I born into it? I don't know. I remember that the local shop & save had free samples of coffee and donuts every morning, and my walk to High School was often punctuated by a stop in the bakery section for a free breakfast. I remember one of my first jobs was working the graveyard shift at a truck stop, where I developed an appreciation for convenience store coffee that's just this side of thickening into tar from sitting on the burner too long. The truckers thought I was crazy, and often insisted on a fresh pot, but something about that burned flavor went so well with a lucky strike and leftover Danielle Steel paperbacks.
After we all left home, Papa got into roasting his own beans in an air popper. We'd bring up bags of green beans from the roasteries in Burlington, just to make sure we didn't miss out on the wonderful experience of drinking Papa's very own roast, pot after pot all day on a Sunday. Now, he orders the beans on the internet, and has an actual roaster, I wonder what happened to the popper?
Of course, as a barrista in a coffee shop that prides itself on the freshly roasted beans, I became a bit of a coffee snob. Trouble is, if you travel at all, you simply must be able to let go of that snobbery and figure out your way in a world over-run by Starbucks and styrofoam cups. Trick one: order Americanos, short, at Starbucks. They go through so much espresso that it ends up being the freshest, and it's cheaper. Or, order a double espresso on ice. That is quite impossible to mess up. Trick two: always bring your own cup. Even if it's a mug. That way you don't have to go through the excruciatingly disgusting experience of drinking out of styrofoam, and you'll feel cool while making everyone else feel like a loser for not doing it themselves. HA. Trick three: if the coffee pot looks terrifying, but you need to stay awake for those last few hours on the road, don't be ashamed to take advantage of the vanilla and hazelnut International Delight. Stooping to flavored coffee, on the other hand, is unforgivable. If you knew the level of toxicity those flavors posses before they go onto the beans... Trick four: if there is a place that you always return to, (an example for me and mine would be Winter Park, Fl), do take the time to find your very own local coffee shop.
I like Palmano's off of Park Avenue. The atmosphere is diverting, and the coffee good, and the staff friendly, informed, and welcoming. Palmano's was not around when I lived there, but I go back often enough that the comfort of familiarity is well appreciated. I remember for a year or two my sisters and I were hooked on the cappuccinos (it's an Italian joint). The last time I was there, it was very hot. I ordered espresso on ice the first day, and they told me about the new craze of having it shaken. I declined until the next day, when I discovered that it ended up having a foam similar to a cappuccino, but with no milk! (Iced cappuccino, it does exist! I'm now feeling shame at all the people I looked in the eye and told "there's no such thing" when they tried to order this from me. Oh, where was invention and experimentation then?) On my way out, the owner told me that he brews a concoction called "toddy". He described the procedure, which involved precise brewing, filtering, and aging to take away the bitterness and develop the fullness of the flavor. I'd only heard of the hot kind made with whiskey. He offered me a taste, and I was hooked! For the duration of my stay, I drank iced "toddy" like it was going out of style.
When I first moved to Orange County, it took me a long time to find any good coffee. But I persisted, and after getting a few recommendations on the same place, I checked it out and it has been my saving grace. Keane Coffee in Newport Beach is quite honestly one of the best roasteries I've ever had the pleasure to frequent. The proprietor used to run this huge coffee chain called Dietrich's which I believe sold out to Starbucks a few years back. I can't say that I'm sorry, because now he has the time to produce amazing coffee in small batches, and they are always getting in new beans from crazy farms and co-ops all over the world. The people who work there are borderline psychotic about their place of employment, (always a good sign). The only thing that isn't good about this place is it's location. I rarely go down there...
There is a coffee shop around the corner from my house called "Javatini's". It's been there for a while, but I never went, mostly because it's in a weird spot and the font of the sign looks just like Starbucks so I figured it couldn't be that good. But one day, I went there, on a lark. Guess what? They roast their coffee fresh on-site every morning, and throughout the day. AND, if you go in and want a pound, they'll roast it for you while you wait, takes about 15-20 minutes. AND they gave me a bunch of jute sacks that I am in the process of transforming into these fabulous tote bags for grocery shopping and beach bags! Just goes to show: don't judge a bean by it's bag. You must first explore, sit, and sip.
While I was last in Florida, my Grandmother told me about her father's coffee. Once a month, a woman named Monse would come from the village to roast the beans in the backyard in a big pot over an open flame, constantly stirring with a big wooden spoon. The beans were roasted darkly, and a concentrate was made called "tinto" that was kept in a cruet, thick and black as ink. Every afternoon, after his nap, Vincente Usera, my great Grandfather, would have 2-3 drops of this "tinto" mixed with milk to make cafe con leche.
The first time I had cafe con leche was in Miami, with my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Maria-Luisa. They took me to a Cuban cafe that they said made the best cafe con leche in the city. This was made with condensed milk and espresso, and it was very, very good.
For me, coffee reminds me of home (in all it's incarnations and locations!), of family, of comfort. And each morning when I grind my beans and drink a cup under the lemon tree, I remember how big the little things are. Even the seemingly insignificant movements of our day are connected to our history and values. And I would like to thank Papa for nurturing and encouraging this love of coffee in me.
I can't deny that I have been very lazy about it or that I have not felt particularly inspired.
So, I'll write about one thing in my life that is constant, rarely changes, and I share with my father: coffee.
Or "coffeeyah" as Papa so lovingly refers to it.
One of my very favorite occupations out of very many was that of a barrista. A constant flow of new and familiar faces made for a varied day at work. I was in a position of power, which I enjoyed, because people don't go into a coffee shop just for the hell of it, they NEED something. And the good thing about being a coffee-slinger is that you don't have to feel guilty about fueling the addicted. Wherein as a bartender, this is an unfortunate facet that goes with the territory. But coffee addiction doesn't directly ruin peoples lives, tear families apart, destroy careers, etc. Quite the opposite, it encourages ritual and thoughtful contemplation in an ever quickening environment.
Was I born into it? I don't know. I remember that the local shop & save had free samples of coffee and donuts every morning, and my walk to High School was often punctuated by a stop in the bakery section for a free breakfast. I remember one of my first jobs was working the graveyard shift at a truck stop, where I developed an appreciation for convenience store coffee that's just this side of thickening into tar from sitting on the burner too long. The truckers thought I was crazy, and often insisted on a fresh pot, but something about that burned flavor went so well with a lucky strike and leftover Danielle Steel paperbacks.
After we all left home, Papa got into roasting his own beans in an air popper. We'd bring up bags of green beans from the roasteries in Burlington, just to make sure we didn't miss out on the wonderful experience of drinking Papa's very own roast, pot after pot all day on a Sunday. Now, he orders the beans on the internet, and has an actual roaster, I wonder what happened to the popper?
Of course, as a barrista in a coffee shop that prides itself on the freshly roasted beans, I became a bit of a coffee snob. Trouble is, if you travel at all, you simply must be able to let go of that snobbery and figure out your way in a world over-run by Starbucks and styrofoam cups. Trick one: order Americanos, short, at Starbucks. They go through so much espresso that it ends up being the freshest, and it's cheaper. Or, order a double espresso on ice. That is quite impossible to mess up. Trick two: always bring your own cup. Even if it's a mug. That way you don't have to go through the excruciatingly disgusting experience of drinking out of styrofoam, and you'll feel cool while making everyone else feel like a loser for not doing it themselves. HA. Trick three: if the coffee pot looks terrifying, but you need to stay awake for those last few hours on the road, don't be ashamed to take advantage of the vanilla and hazelnut International Delight. Stooping to flavored coffee, on the other hand, is unforgivable. If you knew the level of toxicity those flavors posses before they go onto the beans... Trick four: if there is a place that you always return to, (an example for me and mine would be Winter Park, Fl), do take the time to find your very own local coffee shop.
I like Palmano's off of Park Avenue. The atmosphere is diverting, and the coffee good, and the staff friendly, informed, and welcoming. Palmano's was not around when I lived there, but I go back often enough that the comfort of familiarity is well appreciated. I remember for a year or two my sisters and I were hooked on the cappuccinos (it's an Italian joint). The last time I was there, it was very hot. I ordered espresso on ice the first day, and they told me about the new craze of having it shaken. I declined until the next day, when I discovered that it ended up having a foam similar to a cappuccino, but with no milk! (Iced cappuccino, it does exist! I'm now feeling shame at all the people I looked in the eye and told "there's no such thing" when they tried to order this from me. Oh, where was invention and experimentation then?) On my way out, the owner told me that he brews a concoction called "toddy". He described the procedure, which involved precise brewing, filtering, and aging to take away the bitterness and develop the fullness of the flavor. I'd only heard of the hot kind made with whiskey. He offered me a taste, and I was hooked! For the duration of my stay, I drank iced "toddy" like it was going out of style.
When I first moved to Orange County, it took me a long time to find any good coffee. But I persisted, and after getting a few recommendations on the same place, I checked it out and it has been my saving grace. Keane Coffee in Newport Beach is quite honestly one of the best roasteries I've ever had the pleasure to frequent. The proprietor used to run this huge coffee chain called Dietrich's which I believe sold out to Starbucks a few years back. I can't say that I'm sorry, because now he has the time to produce amazing coffee in small batches, and they are always getting in new beans from crazy farms and co-ops all over the world. The people who work there are borderline psychotic about their place of employment, (always a good sign). The only thing that isn't good about this place is it's location. I rarely go down there...
There is a coffee shop around the corner from my house called "Javatini's". It's been there for a while, but I never went, mostly because it's in a weird spot and the font of the sign looks just like Starbucks so I figured it couldn't be that good. But one day, I went there, on a lark. Guess what? They roast their coffee fresh on-site every morning, and throughout the day. AND, if you go in and want a pound, they'll roast it for you while you wait, takes about 15-20 minutes. AND they gave me a bunch of jute sacks that I am in the process of transforming into these fabulous tote bags for grocery shopping and beach bags! Just goes to show: don't judge a bean by it's bag. You must first explore, sit, and sip.
While I was last in Florida, my Grandmother told me about her father's coffee. Once a month, a woman named Monse would come from the village to roast the beans in the backyard in a big pot over an open flame, constantly stirring with a big wooden spoon. The beans were roasted darkly, and a concentrate was made called "tinto" that was kept in a cruet, thick and black as ink. Every afternoon, after his nap, Vincente Usera, my great Grandfather, would have 2-3 drops of this "tinto" mixed with milk to make cafe con leche.
The first time I had cafe con leche was in Miami, with my Uncle Jerry and Aunt Maria-Luisa. They took me to a Cuban cafe that they said made the best cafe con leche in the city. This was made with condensed milk and espresso, and it was very, very good.
For me, coffee reminds me of home (in all it's incarnations and locations!), of family, of comfort. And each morning when I grind my beans and drink a cup under the lemon tree, I remember how big the little things are. Even the seemingly insignificant movements of our day are connected to our history and values. And I would like to thank Papa for nurturing and encouraging this love of coffee in me.
8.6.08
What I Did On Saturday
First, I woke up. I was at Brian's house and he made us espresso in our new little cups that are so cute. Then, we got a backpack packed, and set out for a grand bicycling adventure.
First, we rode down to pch and along the one-way streets through Sunset Beach. There were a lot of people riding on the road, and I have to say that even when we were on the busy sections of the road, the bicycle lane was quite generous! We made our way over to Seal Beach, and toward the water, we rode on the boardwalk for a while. About that time, I started fantasizing about Mexican food and Margaritas. We made our way over the bridge to Naples, and then down into Belmont Shores, the southern-most section of Long Beach.
I really like Belmont Shores, there's always a little bustle, and lots of shops and cafes and restaurants. We found a really cool Mexican spot that looked a hundred years old. The food was mediocre, but the margarita's rocked! We rode home along more boardwalk and raced each other for a while. I think I gave Brian a run for his money...
We arrived home, sore and exhausted, and rested for a bit before deciding to down some joe and get back on the adventure wagon. I really wanted to play miniature golf, but surprisingly, there aren't very many places to do that around here! So we headed to the Fun Zone on Balboa Peninsula in Newport Beach. The fun zone was funnish, we looked for a place to eat and ducked into a sushi joint. Thanks to our neighbor at the bar, we tried a lot of really crazy things! He kept ordering all of these things I'd never seen before, and he knew the sushi chefs pretty well. So, we tried raw sweet shrimp, tempura fried whole sweet shrimp, head and legs and all, freshwater Japanese crabs, whole, shell included. They brought them out live and then took them in the back and returned a few minutes later with sweet potato sticks in a stack, "like linkin logs", surrounded by these little crabs, now a different hue, and not moving. Our new friend told us they are like potato chips, and he's right.
Then we ordered red snapper and salmon sushi, both of which made our eyes water with delight. I think I can honestly say that this was the best sushi I've ever had. Oh, and the sho chu isn't half bad either! The restaurant is called 365. The address is 205 Main Street.
What a wonderful day!
First, we rode down to pch and along the one-way streets through Sunset Beach. There were a lot of people riding on the road, and I have to say that even when we were on the busy sections of the road, the bicycle lane was quite generous! We made our way over to Seal Beach, and toward the water, we rode on the boardwalk for a while. About that time, I started fantasizing about Mexican food and Margaritas. We made our way over the bridge to Naples, and then down into Belmont Shores, the southern-most section of Long Beach.
I really like Belmont Shores, there's always a little bustle, and lots of shops and cafes and restaurants. We found a really cool Mexican spot that looked a hundred years old. The food was mediocre, but the margarita's rocked! We rode home along more boardwalk and raced each other for a while. I think I gave Brian a run for his money...
We arrived home, sore and exhausted, and rested for a bit before deciding to down some joe and get back on the adventure wagon. I really wanted to play miniature golf, but surprisingly, there aren't very many places to do that around here! So we headed to the Fun Zone on Balboa Peninsula in Newport Beach. The fun zone was funnish, we looked for a place to eat and ducked into a sushi joint. Thanks to our neighbor at the bar, we tried a lot of really crazy things! He kept ordering all of these things I'd never seen before, and he knew the sushi chefs pretty well. So, we tried raw sweet shrimp, tempura fried whole sweet shrimp, head and legs and all, freshwater Japanese crabs, whole, shell included. They brought them out live and then took them in the back and returned a few minutes later with sweet potato sticks in a stack, "like linkin logs", surrounded by these little crabs, now a different hue, and not moving. Our new friend told us they are like potato chips, and he's right.
Then we ordered red snapper and salmon sushi, both of which made our eyes water with delight. I think I can honestly say that this was the best sushi I've ever had. Oh, and the sho chu isn't half bad either! The restaurant is called 365. The address is 205 Main Street.
What a wonderful day!
30.5.08
26.5.08
The Queen of Winter
The Queen of Winter
floats above the quiet of a
thick, new, snow.
Footsteps echo, tree limbs snap
in a hollow breeze,
Points a trembling hand and finger
to pathways
concealed by drifts of
white.
Hair of silver wisps
a halo of icy silk ripples
of mercury.
Woolen gown wound about her lets go yarns,
here and there scattered,
leave a trail of use, and memory.
The end of the year is where she reigns.
Her horses winged and dappled
stamp impatiently to take her
to the castle
on a sleigh
with bells that echo,
gently press eternal melody
into your memory,
And you'll remember the far-off sound of
a men's choir singing
a sound you've never heard
and will forget
until you hear
Again,
once again,
Listen.
floats above the quiet of a
thick, new, snow.
Footsteps echo, tree limbs snap
in a hollow breeze,
Points a trembling hand and finger
to pathways
concealed by drifts of
white.
Hair of silver wisps
a halo of icy silk ripples
of mercury.
Woolen gown wound about her lets go yarns,
here and there scattered,
leave a trail of use, and memory.
The end of the year is where she reigns.
Her horses winged and dappled
stamp impatiently to take her
to the castle
on a sleigh
with bells that echo,
gently press eternal melody
into your memory,
And you'll remember the far-off sound of
a men's choir singing
a sound you've never heard
and will forget
until you hear
Again,
once again,
Listen.
18.5.08
I see me everywhere
What a whirlwind. Of love and hugs and kisses and news and booze friends family and seeing me everywhere... I went to see the Spielpalast Cabaret, and I saw my old dresses, and corsets, and shoes in action. Loved and used well. I love to give my special things to people who use them. A favorite vintage bag and wallet accessorise a loved one. A brightly colored and patterned scarf, it's like to be found nowhere quickly, wrapped with love around an other's neck.
And the gifts! Jewelry, makeup, shoes, and a cunningly confiscated corset! And the food! A long winter begs a sacred reverence for all things green, especially edible ones. I am surrounded by love, appreciation, friendliness, puppies, beauty, fashion, inspiration, a sort of confidence and bravado that is unapologetic. I feel renewed.
And I need renewal. The next two weeks will be difficult.
There is nothing like looking into the eyes of a much missed friend and seeing the love that they have for you in their eyes. The look of being cherished. This is a thing that is not easily communicated over the phone, or e-mail. Perhaps letters get closer.
Finally, I feel gratitude. Was it Brett Michaels who said "don't know what you got till it's gone"?
Well I know what I got, and it ain't gone.
And the gifts! Jewelry, makeup, shoes, and a cunningly confiscated corset! And the food! A long winter begs a sacred reverence for all things green, especially edible ones. I am surrounded by love, appreciation, friendliness, puppies, beauty, fashion, inspiration, a sort of confidence and bravado that is unapologetic. I feel renewed.
And I need renewal. The next two weeks will be difficult.
There is nothing like looking into the eyes of a much missed friend and seeing the love that they have for you in their eyes. The look of being cherished. This is a thing that is not easily communicated over the phone, or e-mail. Perhaps letters get closer.
Finally, I feel gratitude. Was it Brett Michaels who said "don't know what you got till it's gone"?
Well I know what I got, and it ain't gone.
13.5.08
Still
I asked a yoga instructor whom I greatly admire and think of often as a source of inspiration, Emily Garrett, for direction in finding a studio in my area and a video to use at home. She sent me to the website of a teacher in L.A., Erich Schiffmann, and recommended his book. I started reading the first chapter, "Stillness", today.
The author speaks of becoming comfortable with the truth of who you are, and how, through this process, you become better at everything you do. I remember my mother once telling me that when she did yoga her drawing improved dramatically. I must admit that this concept was one of the major forces that initially drew me to try yoga. I liked the idea of becoming better at the things that I love to do. Perhaps the discipline of practice in any form would help me dramatically! (I'm trying to tell myself that this is not a self-judging statement.)
So, I'm thinking about art. I'd only read the beginning of the article in the New York Times about the passing of the artist Robert Rauschenberg when I read Isaac's blog entry which informed me that we all three share the same birthday, October 22. I went back and read the entire article, feeling especially inspired by Raushenberg's words: "A lot of people try to think up ideas. I’m not one. I’d rather accept the irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore."
I clicked on "more articles in art" and was put on a page with a picture of a sculpture whose style was familiar to me. But this was about a new exhibit in Paris at the Louvre, this exhibit was not on display during my recent trip, yet I felt sure I knew this artists work. And I was right. Richard Serra's sculpture in the courtyard of the Orange County Performing Art Center is a huge part of my life, I walk by it every night. I've been thinking a lot about this piece recently. When I first saw it, I began to feel more at home where I live. When I then explored it further, I found that standing inside it and singing straight up, it is an echo chamber. When I returned late one evening to still my soul with a song for myself, a rude guard asked me to leave and said they were trying to keep out vandals. The vandals around here do some pretty good graffiti on the walls of the river, but someone is forever covering it up with grey paint. They don't cover up the graffiti in Paris. Richard Serra doesn't like it when people deface his art. I haven't been back inside the piece here yet, but I continue to draw from it aesthetically.
The article mentioned a piece Serra had made to display at the Pompidou, which made me think of when I was there, and how we compared it to the Tate Modern, and of the wonderful moment when I saw in person the painting of one of my very favorite artists of all time, whose name I had forgotten so many years ago, only able to see his work in the blurry, inaccurate hall of my feeble memory. And there was his name, under his painting, Clyfford Still.
The author speaks of becoming comfortable with the truth of who you are, and how, through this process, you become better at everything you do. I remember my mother once telling me that when she did yoga her drawing improved dramatically. I must admit that this concept was one of the major forces that initially drew me to try yoga. I liked the idea of becoming better at the things that I love to do. Perhaps the discipline of practice in any form would help me dramatically! (I'm trying to tell myself that this is not a self-judging statement.)
So, I'm thinking about art. I'd only read the beginning of the article in the New York Times about the passing of the artist Robert Rauschenberg when I read Isaac's blog entry which informed me that we all three share the same birthday, October 22. I went back and read the entire article, feeling especially inspired by Raushenberg's words: "A lot of people try to think up ideas. I’m not one. I’d rather accept the irresistible possibilities of what I can’t ignore."
I clicked on "more articles in art" and was put on a page with a picture of a sculpture whose style was familiar to me. But this was about a new exhibit in Paris at the Louvre, this exhibit was not on display during my recent trip, yet I felt sure I knew this artists work. And I was right. Richard Serra's sculpture in the courtyard of the Orange County Performing Art Center is a huge part of my life, I walk by it every night. I've been thinking a lot about this piece recently. When I first saw it, I began to feel more at home where I live. When I then explored it further, I found that standing inside it and singing straight up, it is an echo chamber. When I returned late one evening to still my soul with a song for myself, a rude guard asked me to leave and said they were trying to keep out vandals. The vandals around here do some pretty good graffiti on the walls of the river, but someone is forever covering it up with grey paint. They don't cover up the graffiti in Paris. Richard Serra doesn't like it when people deface his art. I haven't been back inside the piece here yet, but I continue to draw from it aesthetically.
The article mentioned a piece Serra had made to display at the Pompidou, which made me think of when I was there, and how we compared it to the Tate Modern, and of the wonderful moment when I saw in person the painting of one of my very favorite artists of all time, whose name I had forgotten so many years ago, only able to see his work in the blurry, inaccurate hall of my feeble memory. And there was his name, under his painting, Clyfford Still.
1.5.08
Dress-Up Tea Party
I want to have a weekly dress-up tea party. Bring yourself, your friend, your dog, and a treat to share, be it cake, cookies, candy, chips, ice-cream, whatever you like. Come dressed in flowing robes and wide hats, fake eyelashes and wigs, high heels and lipstick. There's a piano here, and many other instruments. We will play old favorites and make new favorites as well. You don't need proficiency, just enthusiasm. We will drink tea and champagne and have a weekly topic for conversation created by the group and chosen at random the week before. If you don't have anything to wear, don't fret, I've got a trunk of gowns and scarves to clothe an army. If you don't like to dress up, please at least wear a hat or scarf or hot boots. Bring your knitting or crochet, bring your baby. All are welcome, there are only a few rules:
1: You must...
I just decided that are no rules except to respect each other and have fun. If you're not having fun, you can go and sulk in the dunce room and we will shove drinks and treats under the door for you. xo
1: You must...
I just decided that are no rules except to respect each other and have fun. If you're not having fun, you can go and sulk in the dunce room and we will shove drinks and treats under the door for you. xo
Moldy
My sister said that my blog is so moldy, it stunk up her entire house. I can't deny it. A lot has happened that is worth writing about, but my computer monitor is still broken and I'm having problems taking care of the basics lately. I have so many wonderful photographs that I want to share, but the computer program that accepts them is acting up as well. You know, these days I'm almost longing for the time when I boasted luddish; no cell, no email, no computer, no tv, no car..... those were simpler, and joyful times.
I rode a bike from here to there, I met my friends on the street, I wrote letters. I painted or read or wrote to entertain myself, strummed the guitar, made up songs about nothing. I really couldn't contact someone during the day without a quarter. So my to-do list was shorter. I missed out on a lot, but I enjoyed what I was doing without distraction. Sigh, nostalgia you've got me by the neck at the mo.....
I rode a bike from here to there, I met my friends on the street, I wrote letters. I painted or read or wrote to entertain myself, strummed the guitar, made up songs about nothing. I really couldn't contact someone during the day without a quarter. So my to-do list was shorter. I missed out on a lot, but I enjoyed what I was doing without distraction. Sigh, nostalgia you've got me by the neck at the mo.....
31.3.08
I've been a lame blogger
But that's because I'm in Paris. And I've been speaking loads of French. I have lots of pictures, too, but I can't put them on this computer so you'll have to wait! I'll write more when I get home.
19.3.08
Tomorrow....
I leave for England. A weekend in London with my sisters and our "partners". A week in Dorset with my parents and relatives. And finally, 5 days in Paris with my hot boyfriend. Wow, I am one lucky lady.
But all I can think about is my cat. Last night, he came home covered in mud. He looked like a japanimation porcu-cat. And, the recently healed ear was cut open and bleeding. I gave him a bath. This sounds dangerous, I know. Especially if you've ever witnessed Mister and a vet. But he's actually not that difficult if you know how to handle him. I washed his fur with my "refresh" grapefruit scented shampoo, rinsed the dirt out, and by the time he was able to react, I was done. I squeezed him in a towel, and put him on my bed. It made a huge wet spot. I put the medicine on his ear, and we went to bed. He snuggled in my arms all wet all night long. Didn't move once. And when we woke up this morning, he was dry and his fur was so soft! I couldn't stop petting him! Before, I liked to snuggle and pet him because I love him. But now, I want to snuggle and pet him for the sheer pleasure factor. Is that shallow? There must be some argument here for the use of exfoliation & moisturiser, and shampoo and conditioner as a way to catch or keep a mate.
All of my life, I've loved the feeling of soft hair. It comforts me. As a child, I would "soft" and "twiddle" my hair when I was upset or to help me fall asleep. I still do it. Sometimes I fall asleep with my elbow pointing up and my hand firmly anchored in my hair. When I lived in the North, my favorite way to sleep in winter was under a gazillion blankets with the heat off and the window near my head cracked open. I would pull all of my hair up over the pillow and cover myself to my nose. Cold air makes your hair even softer. Then you can pull down one lock at a time and soft it until it gets warm and then switch for a new, soft, cold one.
So anyway, now I love my cat even more, in a different way, and I'm convinced by the statistics of this month that I'm going to come home and find him cold and stiff on my bed, dead as a doornail. The more I think that he's dead, the more I'm convinced I won't have a nervous breakdown when it actually happens.
But all I can think about is my cat. Last night, he came home covered in mud. He looked like a japanimation porcu-cat. And, the recently healed ear was cut open and bleeding. I gave him a bath. This sounds dangerous, I know. Especially if you've ever witnessed Mister and a vet. But he's actually not that difficult if you know how to handle him. I washed his fur with my "refresh" grapefruit scented shampoo, rinsed the dirt out, and by the time he was able to react, I was done. I squeezed him in a towel, and put him on my bed. It made a huge wet spot. I put the medicine on his ear, and we went to bed. He snuggled in my arms all wet all night long. Didn't move once. And when we woke up this morning, he was dry and his fur was so soft! I couldn't stop petting him! Before, I liked to snuggle and pet him because I love him. But now, I want to snuggle and pet him for the sheer pleasure factor. Is that shallow? There must be some argument here for the use of exfoliation & moisturiser, and shampoo and conditioner as a way to catch or keep a mate.
All of my life, I've loved the feeling of soft hair. It comforts me. As a child, I would "soft" and "twiddle" my hair when I was upset or to help me fall asleep. I still do it. Sometimes I fall asleep with my elbow pointing up and my hand firmly anchored in my hair. When I lived in the North, my favorite way to sleep in winter was under a gazillion blankets with the heat off and the window near my head cracked open. I would pull all of my hair up over the pillow and cover myself to my nose. Cold air makes your hair even softer. Then you can pull down one lock at a time and soft it until it gets warm and then switch for a new, soft, cold one.
So anyway, now I love my cat even more, in a different way, and I'm convinced by the statistics of this month that I'm going to come home and find him cold and stiff on my bed, dead as a doornail. The more I think that he's dead, the more I'm convinced I won't have a nervous breakdown when it actually happens.
5.3.08
A Lovely Saturday
I had a lovely Saturday.
I made breakfast, omelettes with portabella mushrooms, leeks, kale and wine-soaked goat cheese seasoned with herbs collected from Mummy's garden.
We drove into L.A., first to Culver City to see a show of Evan Hecox. This show was of pieces he did in Mexico City, lots of woodcuts and color-blocked watercolors. It was great! We peeked into another gallery that was in the process of hanging a show to open that night and saw a whole slew of great pieces! As we headed to our next destination, we talked a lot about what we liked about the works, how they worked, and tried to define why. I love talking about art, and I'm so lucky to have a hot boyfriend that loves it too!
We went to Fairfax near Randy's house and looked at books in this great bookstore, Family. They had comics and lots of art books and novels as well. Julie Doucet and Dame Darcy! A diary of Werner Herzog's as he walked from Germany to Paris! Our tummies were rumbling so we got a pastry at a bakery/deli across the street that has obviously been there for years, and they must put crack in the stuff b/c people were lined up out the door and pushing and shoving and yelling at the people behind the counter. What a mish-mosh it was! That's when you know something is good, when people will wait in an obscene and violent line to get it. We got it, and it was GOOD!
We drove around the corner to Randy's house and had a nice visit with him & Julia. Someone stole their aloe plant off the porch, and I decided to try and take a cutting from the monster in the back of my house and propagate it. Challenge: all of the appropriate pieces on this behemoth are HUGE and will require a small army of supports to keep it up in water so it can sprout new roots....
Then we made our way over to Little Tokyo, to a little place called Daikokuya which is rumored to have the best authentic ramen in the city. We knew it must be true when we walked in and saw how many people were crowded patiently into the tiny and cramped waiting area. Alas, the menu was not created with vegetarians in mind. Brian had the famous ramen, and was so enthusiastic about it that I copied down every detail that the menu revealed, with promises to try my best one day soon to replicate it. I will not, however, be boiling down pork joints for two days at an undisclosed location before adding the fresh veggies and noodles in front of him. This is what the menu claimed as the secret to the mystique, flavour and success of the dish... I had tuna wrapped in these wonderful leaves (I can never remember their name), dipped in tempura batter and fried. AMAZING!!!!!
THEN, as if the day couldn't get any better, we went up the street to the Frank Gehry Disney Concert Hall to see the L.A. Philharmonic open up for Grizzly Bear. Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!? Brian had never seen an orchestra perform live, so I had fun being a little know-it-all, answering questions both posed and imagined. The acoustics in this room are unreal. It's like a round pod, with every angle designed specifically for the sound coming from the stage. Grizzly Bear's performance was unbelievably beautiful, they are truly great.
We drove home laughing, tired and wired on energy drinks that did not inhibit a full on crash into bed...
I made breakfast, omelettes with portabella mushrooms, leeks, kale and wine-soaked goat cheese seasoned with herbs collected from Mummy's garden.
We drove into L.A., first to Culver City to see a show of Evan Hecox. This show was of pieces he did in Mexico City, lots of woodcuts and color-blocked watercolors. It was great! We peeked into another gallery that was in the process of hanging a show to open that night and saw a whole slew of great pieces! As we headed to our next destination, we talked a lot about what we liked about the works, how they worked, and tried to define why. I love talking about art, and I'm so lucky to have a hot boyfriend that loves it too!
We went to Fairfax near Randy's house and looked at books in this great bookstore, Family. They had comics and lots of art books and novels as well. Julie Doucet and Dame Darcy! A diary of Werner Herzog's as he walked from Germany to Paris! Our tummies were rumbling so we got a pastry at a bakery/deli across the street that has obviously been there for years, and they must put crack in the stuff b/c people were lined up out the door and pushing and shoving and yelling at the people behind the counter. What a mish-mosh it was! That's when you know something is good, when people will wait in an obscene and violent line to get it. We got it, and it was GOOD!
We drove around the corner to Randy's house and had a nice visit with him & Julia. Someone stole their aloe plant off the porch, and I decided to try and take a cutting from the monster in the back of my house and propagate it. Challenge: all of the appropriate pieces on this behemoth are HUGE and will require a small army of supports to keep it up in water so it can sprout new roots....
Then we made our way over to Little Tokyo, to a little place called Daikokuya which is rumored to have the best authentic ramen in the city. We knew it must be true when we walked in and saw how many people were crowded patiently into the tiny and cramped waiting area. Alas, the menu was not created with vegetarians in mind. Brian had the famous ramen, and was so enthusiastic about it that I copied down every detail that the menu revealed, with promises to try my best one day soon to replicate it. I will not, however, be boiling down pork joints for two days at an undisclosed location before adding the fresh veggies and noodles in front of him. This is what the menu claimed as the secret to the mystique, flavour and success of the dish... I had tuna wrapped in these wonderful leaves (I can never remember their name), dipped in tempura batter and fried. AMAZING!!!!!
THEN, as if the day couldn't get any better, we went up the street to the Frank Gehry Disney Concert Hall to see the L.A. Philharmonic open up for Grizzly Bear. Are you kidding me?!?!?!?!? Brian had never seen an orchestra perform live, so I had fun being a little know-it-all, answering questions both posed and imagined. The acoustics in this room are unreal. It's like a round pod, with every angle designed specifically for the sound coming from the stage. Grizzly Bear's performance was unbelievably beautiful, they are truly great.
We drove home laughing, tired and wired on energy drinks that did not inhibit a full on crash into bed...
4.3.08
How To Have Breakfast at "hom"
"Hom".
That's the name of the house that Granny and Gaffa used to stay in when they came to visit us in Pawlet, the little town we grew up in. It was shingled with red and green trim, and sat on the curve of a hill with a river running behind it.
This morning I had a breakfast that reminded me of home. First, I woke to the sound of Alexis' voice, which was strange, because I was dreaming about her at that very moment. So her voice pulled me out and away from her voice.
Second, I had an orange to eat from the tree in the back yard, and for me right now, this is the essence of the house I live in, and a big part of what makes it a home. We've had a lot of wind lately and there are oranges all over the back yard. I looked them over, trying to find one that hadn't been damaged by the fall, or succumbed to those weird potato bugs that also love the sweet treat inside. I found one, it was covered it dirt and webs, there are a lot of spiders living in that tree... but once rinsed it looked like a miniature sunshine, and it was warm from sitting in the morning heat. I've learned that the very best oranges are the ones that the tree gives me. Those are the ones that are at their peak of sweetness. The ones that I pick are always good, but they have less sugar.
Third, coffee. Need I say more? Well, I will anyway. I have found the most wonderful coffee shop where they roast their own coffee. I hate to say this, you know that I do, but I think it might be better than speeder's. They roast it in the same style, full city roast, to the point of the best flavor highlights for the bean, but not so dark that the bean is burnt. And, I re confiscated my little sugar jar from Brian that he'd been using for q-tips. It's one of my favorite pieces I ever made. That and the mug I'm drinking the coffee out of...
Fourth, and the inspiration for this piece, Wasa rye crackers with butter, and honey on one, Marmite on the other. When I was staying with Granny in the summer after 7th grade, every morning consisted of this combination for us. She would make toast and place the pieces neatly in the little toast rack on the table. The we would butter each one and choose between all of these wonderful options: Marmalade, thick cut in the white jar and appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Marmite: one of my favorite things in the entire world. So wonderful to have a cucumber and tomato sandwich with marmite, veggies fresh picked from the garden, still warm from the sun, in the afternoon. So comforting to know that even when the bank was empty, the garden was always full of the very best of the best. And honey: all of my life I've had a love affair with honey. We had friends up on the hill in Pawlet, the Winpennys, they kept bees and had the BEST honey! Their bees were happy bees, and the honey was raw and unfiltered, like cream. (pause for coffee refill) There is a wonderful apiary in Ferrisberg that makes all kinds of honey products. I fell in love with their cough syrup one year when I was very sick for a long time. I don't know how effective it was medicinally, but it was soothing and tasted like heaven. Good thing you can't really o.d. on that stuff! Guess what? I found a jar of raw honey from Honey Gardens apiary at the local market! And I am savoring it like the rarest jewel, like golden flowers from that tree that grew underground where the Twelve Dancing Princesses would go every night.
Fifth, I have my Meow, Mister the Terrible, nesting at my feet in a pile of freshly hand-washed sweaters. His ear is FINALLY healing. And we are happy and content this morning.
That's the name of the house that Granny and Gaffa used to stay in when they came to visit us in Pawlet, the little town we grew up in. It was shingled with red and green trim, and sat on the curve of a hill with a river running behind it.
This morning I had a breakfast that reminded me of home. First, I woke to the sound of Alexis' voice, which was strange, because I was dreaming about her at that very moment. So her voice pulled me out and away from her voice.
Second, I had an orange to eat from the tree in the back yard, and for me right now, this is the essence of the house I live in, and a big part of what makes it a home. We've had a lot of wind lately and there are oranges all over the back yard. I looked them over, trying to find one that hadn't been damaged by the fall, or succumbed to those weird potato bugs that also love the sweet treat inside. I found one, it was covered it dirt and webs, there are a lot of spiders living in that tree... but once rinsed it looked like a miniature sunshine, and it was warm from sitting in the morning heat. I've learned that the very best oranges are the ones that the tree gives me. Those are the ones that are at their peak of sweetness. The ones that I pick are always good, but they have less sugar.
Third, coffee. Need I say more? Well, I will anyway. I have found the most wonderful coffee shop where they roast their own coffee. I hate to say this, you know that I do, but I think it might be better than speeder's. They roast it in the same style, full city roast, to the point of the best flavor highlights for the bean, but not so dark that the bean is burnt. And, I re confiscated my little sugar jar from Brian that he'd been using for q-tips. It's one of my favorite pieces I ever made. That and the mug I'm drinking the coffee out of...
Fourth, and the inspiration for this piece, Wasa rye crackers with butter, and honey on one, Marmite on the other. When I was staying with Granny in the summer after 7th grade, every morning consisted of this combination for us. She would make toast and place the pieces neatly in the little toast rack on the table. The we would butter each one and choose between all of these wonderful options: Marmalade, thick cut in the white jar and appointed by Her Majesty the Queen. Marmite: one of my favorite things in the entire world. So wonderful to have a cucumber and tomato sandwich with marmite, veggies fresh picked from the garden, still warm from the sun, in the afternoon. So comforting to know that even when the bank was empty, the garden was always full of the very best of the best. And honey: all of my life I've had a love affair with honey. We had friends up on the hill in Pawlet, the Winpennys, they kept bees and had the BEST honey! Their bees were happy bees, and the honey was raw and unfiltered, like cream. (pause for coffee refill) There is a wonderful apiary in Ferrisberg that makes all kinds of honey products. I fell in love with their cough syrup one year when I was very sick for a long time. I don't know how effective it was medicinally, but it was soothing and tasted like heaven. Good thing you can't really o.d. on that stuff! Guess what? I found a jar of raw honey from Honey Gardens apiary at the local market! And I am savoring it like the rarest jewel, like golden flowers from that tree that grew underground where the Twelve Dancing Princesses would go every night.
Fifth, I have my Meow, Mister the Terrible, nesting at my feet in a pile of freshly hand-washed sweaters. His ear is FINALLY healing. And we are happy and content this morning.
29.2.08
Two Houses
Last night, I dreamed of two houses.
The first was tucked away in a cozy neighborhood somewhere in L.A. It stood supported by four very tall trees at each corner, three stories with the fronts all open and white gauzy curtains blowing out at the sides. It was a basket house and it got gradually larger at the top. The interior was very simple and all natural colors. I was fascinated by the idea of using trees as a support system, turning the building into a treehouse, and hidden right in the middle of a city! I saw a group of children nearby and they had supplies and tools all around them and they told me that they built the house and they showed me the piece of paper that had the directions and diagram: "How To Build A Basket House". The whole place housed a sense of peace and mystery.
*warning: stop reading if you don't want to read something bloody and awful!
The second house was a one story concrete block and the front was open but with a glass face. I went there with a woman, an acquaintance. Because the front was transparent, you could see inside and it was very dark and dirty and it was full of water. There were no windows other than the front, I could see debris and one or two indistinguishable pieces of furniture and I was mesmerised by the dark beauty of the water and the things floating in it and the colors. I wanted to take photographs of it. Another woman was walking by us and she looked like she was on her way to work. I asked if she would be a model for a moment because she was wearing red lipstick and had brown hair and I thought it would look interesting. I took a couple of pictures and then she left. But I didn't want to stop because I didn't feel like I'd gotten a good picture that really showed the beauty that i saw inside that house. So I asked my friend if she would model and she said yes but no nudes and don't use these for anything. I thought that was strange but didn't care too much I just wanted to take more photos.
I took one and I could tell I was getting closer. I took another and saw that something was floating toward the window. I took a third and the camera showed that it was a woman's body floating toward us, and it was all white, as though it had been there a long time or maybe it wasn't real, like a mannequin. And then the story of what had happened in that house flashed through my mind very quickly.
A woman had been murdered there in the most awful way, piece by piece head first with a strange log cutting contraption. There was lots of blood. And screaming. The image of this man covered in her blood and pushing her into the machine as she screamed kept going through my head for the rest of the dream, like an overture.
And then the woman I was with took the memory card out of my camera and said that she wanted to hold onto it, implying that she wanted to make sure that no one saw the pictures of her. The police came and we told them that something bad had happened there and they asked if we had proof, because the body had disappeared. And then the woman I was with began acting even more strangely saying that she had the proof but they couldn't see it. I could sense that something bad was going to happen again and then....
the phone rang. Thank GOD! Or, thank Laura for calling at that very moment.
I can't stop thinking about how strange it was to dream of two houses that were so very different, and also wondering if the dead woman and my acquaintance were one and the same...
The first was tucked away in a cozy neighborhood somewhere in L.A. It stood supported by four very tall trees at each corner, three stories with the fronts all open and white gauzy curtains blowing out at the sides. It was a basket house and it got gradually larger at the top. The interior was very simple and all natural colors. I was fascinated by the idea of using trees as a support system, turning the building into a treehouse, and hidden right in the middle of a city! I saw a group of children nearby and they had supplies and tools all around them and they told me that they built the house and they showed me the piece of paper that had the directions and diagram: "How To Build A Basket House". The whole place housed a sense of peace and mystery.
*warning: stop reading if you don't want to read something bloody and awful!
The second house was a one story concrete block and the front was open but with a glass face. I went there with a woman, an acquaintance. Because the front was transparent, you could see inside and it was very dark and dirty and it was full of water. There were no windows other than the front, I could see debris and one or two indistinguishable pieces of furniture and I was mesmerised by the dark beauty of the water and the things floating in it and the colors. I wanted to take photographs of it. Another woman was walking by us and she looked like she was on her way to work. I asked if she would be a model for a moment because she was wearing red lipstick and had brown hair and I thought it would look interesting. I took a couple of pictures and then she left. But I didn't want to stop because I didn't feel like I'd gotten a good picture that really showed the beauty that i saw inside that house. So I asked my friend if she would model and she said yes but no nudes and don't use these for anything. I thought that was strange but didn't care too much I just wanted to take more photos.
I took one and I could tell I was getting closer. I took another and saw that something was floating toward the window. I took a third and the camera showed that it was a woman's body floating toward us, and it was all white, as though it had been there a long time or maybe it wasn't real, like a mannequin. And then the story of what had happened in that house flashed through my mind very quickly.
A woman had been murdered there in the most awful way, piece by piece head first with a strange log cutting contraption. There was lots of blood. And screaming. The image of this man covered in her blood and pushing her into the machine as she screamed kept going through my head for the rest of the dream, like an overture.
And then the woman I was with took the memory card out of my camera and said that she wanted to hold onto it, implying that she wanted to make sure that no one saw the pictures of her. The police came and we told them that something bad had happened there and they asked if we had proof, because the body had disappeared. And then the woman I was with began acting even more strangely saying that she had the proof but they couldn't see it. I could sense that something bad was going to happen again and then....
the phone rang. Thank GOD! Or, thank Laura for calling at that very moment.
I can't stop thinking about how strange it was to dream of two houses that were so very different, and also wondering if the dead woman and my acquaintance were one and the same...
25.2.08
Pathetic
I was on my way out the door to the gym, but now I'm writing a post instead. here's why:
Last night I spent the night at my good friend Sheila's house. We watched the Oscars and ate the latest incarnation of my spinach and artichoke dip and drank wine. We laughed, we cried, I was particularly inspired by the folks who won best song, and their call to "make art!"
I came home this morning with the intention of heading straight back out to work off all the dairy I've been eating (as though it were crack, and i an addict). Sometimes cutting something out of your diet can turn it into a tempting vice...
But when I came home, Mister came down and presented me with yet ANOTHER battle wound, this one the sickest yet. It took me three rinsings to get all the blood off of his fur to see the wound for what it was, and expose it enough to put his extra strength ointment into it. All of his other wounds had finally healed and I thought we were in the clear. Not so, not so. This one is relatively superficial, it still isn't as bad as that one time with the raccoon and the huge open hole that I had to stick back together with this weird super glue fake skin stuff. I do have faith in my nursing ability at this point in our relationship, it's mister's ability to heal in his old age that has me worried.
(By the way, according to Jon Stewart's method of figuring out your stripper name, one of my many options is "Mister Pleasant"...)
So now, I've decided that it is more important for me to hang out in my room with meow than to get to the gym. I'll do it later. I mean it. I'll go tonight after work.
Speaking of my room, I must tell you how exceptionally clean and zen-like it is. I've re-arranged it yet again, and now the focal point has become my beautiful valentine's day orchid. It is living happily in front of the window, and every day it seems to grow new blooms. I was very nervous at first, but it seems so happy now that I feel more confident that i won't kill it.
I had another show with my band, Dig A Pony. It was raining again. The sound system at this little cafe is truly horrendous, it sounded like I was singing through a blanket, and not in a good way. I probably shouldn't have used the mic, the place is small enough. But at the time I didn't really care. I was really focused on what the songs are all about. Most of them I wrote about my journey out here, what I was chasing and what and who I left behind. It's been a year, and I'm feeling pensive. I have changed a lot, and my vision of my life has changed. I think that I have become simpler. Stupider, maybe, but I think it's okay to be stupid for a year. Just not much longer than that or it has more of a chance at becoming a permanent state, instead of a rest.
Right now, I am desperately anxious to see my family next month when we convene in London. I miss them all a little too much, it hurts. MUST MOVE CLOSER. Patience, my child. A virtue I think on every day... when does patience become pathetic? When is it time to pick up and make something happen? Looking forward to some Wall Sister Magic. You'd think that in Southern California I'd be surrounded by Glitz and Glamour, but I have yet to see anything that really compares to what occurs when the three of us get together. My sisters are the epitome of Glamour, and how it translates to everyday living. Emmy looks like a movie star in Carrharts and cow manure, and Soe looks like a supermodel in a flour-encrusted apron. It's all about the attitude and being yourself. Now, my challenge is how to be famously intriguing whilst cleaning my cat's pussing neck... He is so grounded.
Last night I spent the night at my good friend Sheila's house. We watched the Oscars and ate the latest incarnation of my spinach and artichoke dip and drank wine. We laughed, we cried, I was particularly inspired by the folks who won best song, and their call to "make art!"
I came home this morning with the intention of heading straight back out to work off all the dairy I've been eating (as though it were crack, and i an addict). Sometimes cutting something out of your diet can turn it into a tempting vice...
But when I came home, Mister came down and presented me with yet ANOTHER battle wound, this one the sickest yet. It took me three rinsings to get all the blood off of his fur to see the wound for what it was, and expose it enough to put his extra strength ointment into it. All of his other wounds had finally healed and I thought we were in the clear. Not so, not so. This one is relatively superficial, it still isn't as bad as that one time with the raccoon and the huge open hole that I had to stick back together with this weird super glue fake skin stuff. I do have faith in my nursing ability at this point in our relationship, it's mister's ability to heal in his old age that has me worried.
(By the way, according to Jon Stewart's method of figuring out your stripper name, one of my many options is "Mister Pleasant"...)
So now, I've decided that it is more important for me to hang out in my room with meow than to get to the gym. I'll do it later. I mean it. I'll go tonight after work.
Speaking of my room, I must tell you how exceptionally clean and zen-like it is. I've re-arranged it yet again, and now the focal point has become my beautiful valentine's day orchid. It is living happily in front of the window, and every day it seems to grow new blooms. I was very nervous at first, but it seems so happy now that I feel more confident that i won't kill it.
I had another show with my band, Dig A Pony. It was raining again. The sound system at this little cafe is truly horrendous, it sounded like I was singing through a blanket, and not in a good way. I probably shouldn't have used the mic, the place is small enough. But at the time I didn't really care. I was really focused on what the songs are all about. Most of them I wrote about my journey out here, what I was chasing and what and who I left behind. It's been a year, and I'm feeling pensive. I have changed a lot, and my vision of my life has changed. I think that I have become simpler. Stupider, maybe, but I think it's okay to be stupid for a year. Just not much longer than that or it has more of a chance at becoming a permanent state, instead of a rest.
Right now, I am desperately anxious to see my family next month when we convene in London. I miss them all a little too much, it hurts. MUST MOVE CLOSER. Patience, my child. A virtue I think on every day... when does patience become pathetic? When is it time to pick up and make something happen? Looking forward to some Wall Sister Magic. You'd think that in Southern California I'd be surrounded by Glitz and Glamour, but I have yet to see anything that really compares to what occurs when the three of us get together. My sisters are the epitome of Glamour, and how it translates to everyday living. Emmy looks like a movie star in Carrharts and cow manure, and Soe looks like a supermodel in a flour-encrusted apron. It's all about the attitude and being yourself. Now, my challenge is how to be famously intriguing whilst cleaning my cat's pussing neck... He is so grounded.
13.2.08
I don't have a specific topic, so I'm set to ramble.
Mister got in another fight and has a slice in his ear. I cleaned it with peroxide and put neosporin on it, that's all they would do at the vet, I know. He came in this morning and his eyes were all black and his fur was all tufty and dirty and had little pieces coming out. I saw the spots where someone had bitten him and looked for blood, found none on his throat, but the ear is pretty gross, it's deep.
He's fine though. Looking as regal as ever.
I made pizza for dinner two nights in a row. Trader Joe's is selling pizza dough now for a dollar, and last night I made whole wheat crust and roasted japanese eggplant and onions and mushrooms, basil, spinach and leftover sauce from Brian and I's gnocchi extraveganza this weekend. Carolshine came over and did most of the work: as soon as I found out that she'd moonlighted at American Flatbread in her youth, I started calling her the pizza guru.
So Brian and I had a cooking craze this past weekend, we made gnocchi with tomato sauce. The first batch came out okay, the second came out as mush, but the third came out perfectly. I learned a lot and want to try it again. The next morning we made birds in a nest with hollandaise sauce. Brian made the birds and I made the sauce. The first try was a complete failure because i was using a metal bowl for the double boiler and the yolks cooked immediately. So I switched bowls and started over and this batch came out PERFECTLY!!! BUT, I did decide that next time I will use vinegar instead of lemon juice for hollandaise on eggs, and use lemon only if topping a fish or vegetable.
I think that the next time I cook for someone, I'm going to have to do a repeat of what I now consider to be my signature seafood dish. The trick is getting a really fresh and beautiful salmon steak. All you have to do is a broil/poach in the oven. Top the fish with a nice coating of your favorite miso paste. Place in a baking dish with a lip. Add liquid to come up halfway to the top of the fish. And the liquid is just orange juice, soy sauce, and chopped shallots! I'm pretty critical of my cooking in that I'm always looking for ways to improve the recipe. But this one might be perfect as is. Try it and let me know what you think.
That's all for now, I'm tired and must go and snuggle with meow.
Mister got in another fight and has a slice in his ear. I cleaned it with peroxide and put neosporin on it, that's all they would do at the vet, I know. He came in this morning and his eyes were all black and his fur was all tufty and dirty and had little pieces coming out. I saw the spots where someone had bitten him and looked for blood, found none on his throat, but the ear is pretty gross, it's deep.
He's fine though. Looking as regal as ever.
I made pizza for dinner two nights in a row. Trader Joe's is selling pizza dough now for a dollar, and last night I made whole wheat crust and roasted japanese eggplant and onions and mushrooms, basil, spinach and leftover sauce from Brian and I's gnocchi extraveganza this weekend. Carolshine came over and did most of the work: as soon as I found out that she'd moonlighted at American Flatbread in her youth, I started calling her the pizza guru.
So Brian and I had a cooking craze this past weekend, we made gnocchi with tomato sauce. The first batch came out okay, the second came out as mush, but the third came out perfectly. I learned a lot and want to try it again. The next morning we made birds in a nest with hollandaise sauce. Brian made the birds and I made the sauce. The first try was a complete failure because i was using a metal bowl for the double boiler and the yolks cooked immediately. So I switched bowls and started over and this batch came out PERFECTLY!!! BUT, I did decide that next time I will use vinegar instead of lemon juice for hollandaise on eggs, and use lemon only if topping a fish or vegetable.
I think that the next time I cook for someone, I'm going to have to do a repeat of what I now consider to be my signature seafood dish. The trick is getting a really fresh and beautiful salmon steak. All you have to do is a broil/poach in the oven. Top the fish with a nice coating of your favorite miso paste. Place in a baking dish with a lip. Add liquid to come up halfway to the top of the fish. And the liquid is just orange juice, soy sauce, and chopped shallots! I'm pretty critical of my cooking in that I'm always looking for ways to improve the recipe. But this one might be perfect as is. Try it and let me know what you think.
That's all for now, I'm tired and must go and snuggle with meow.
1.2.08
I'm not dead
I just get restless in front of the computer lately. I'm sorry mummy, I'll think of something amazing and long to write soon. Oh, my band has a myspace now and there are a couple of recordings of our practice on there. Let's see, what's the link?
http://www.myspace.com/digapony1
See? that took forever and now my eyes are going square!!! Must stop-need fresh air and sunlight now!!!!!!!
http://www.myspace.com/digapony1
See? that took forever and now my eyes are going square!!! Must stop-need fresh air and sunlight now!!!!!!!
15.1.08
REDN.E.K.
While I was in Vermont, I went to the Brown Cow, a local diner that only serves breakfast and lunch in Newport. I went with Mummy and Papa and one pancake filled me for the day, if that tells you anything. On the way out, I noticed a bumper sticker by the register. It looked like the old GB stickers, or, more recently, VT: The abbreviation circled in Green. But this one said NEK (North East Kingdom). The North East Kingdom is where I call home, and it really means something to be a member of this club.
I gasped dramatically and screamed "oh I HAVE to have this!" As I was pulling out my money, the proprietor shook his head and said "no way! Your money's no good here." I protested until it would have been rude to continue, and then thanked him profusely, leaving the Brown Cow with a full belly and a hefty smile.
Now, it may seem as though my joy were a little too much, but I forgot to tell you the best part of this sticker: right above the NEK in little letters it said "red" in red. Get it? REDNEK.
Now, to those of you who don't really know what a redneck is, or think that it only comes in one shade or dialect, it might be hard to fully grasp this concept. For example, a "Texas redneck" is a different race from a "Vermont redneck". And within the grouping "Vermont Redneck" there are many variations as well. A "Waitsfield redneck" is a far cry from a "Newport redneck". And although some would liken a "Saint Albans redneck" to a "Newport Redneck", I would argue that they are very different still. The one thing that I can see that ties them all together is a love of the land and a love of trucks. But the differences are what set them apart, and a REDNEK is the finest of the bunch, in my opinion.
Not that I'm a redneck. I'm most certainly a wanna-be, a poseur. I've only been on a snowmobile twice, but I did ride four-wheelers through the woods when I was young. And I have no problem shoveling shit or mucking in the garden. And I can build one hell of a campfire. Oh, and drink my weight in cheap beer when called to.
So, I left the Brown Cow torn. I wanted to put the sticker on my car, but no one in Cali would have any idea what it meant. And my car is fixin to bite the dust anyway.
Immediately, I thought of My sister and her Husband. Em is probably one of the biggest redneks I've ever met. Just ask her to revive her accent, it's authentic, I swear to you. But she's driving a European hot rod these days, and a sticker like this could get her car keyed, or worse. She doesn't put stickers on the Zipper, anyway.
But Kevin, Kevin's got a truck. Not only that, he works in Agriculture and goes up into the Kingdom all the time. Kev was in 4-h from a very young age, a sure-fire sign that your neck might be red. Kev listens to classic rock and country. And Kev talks like a farmer.
When I gave the sticker to him, he hesitated. My Dad said "If you put a cat in the oven and it has kittens, you can't call them biscuits!" His implication was that since Kevin isn't from the Kingdom, he's not a rednek. But I disagree. People don't choose where they're born. And certain people fit in to different locations more easily than others. Kevin is among a rare breed of people born in the city who naturally migrate to the countryside, like birds born with a map of who they are and where they need to go to get there.
A couple of days ago, I received an e-mail from Kevin with pictures of the sticker on his big huge truck. What a frickin reird.
I gasped dramatically and screamed "oh I HAVE to have this!" As I was pulling out my money, the proprietor shook his head and said "no way! Your money's no good here." I protested until it would have been rude to continue, and then thanked him profusely, leaving the Brown Cow with a full belly and a hefty smile.
Now, it may seem as though my joy were a little too much, but I forgot to tell you the best part of this sticker: right above the NEK in little letters it said "red" in red. Get it? REDNEK.
Now, to those of you who don't really know what a redneck is, or think that it only comes in one shade or dialect, it might be hard to fully grasp this concept. For example, a "Texas redneck" is a different race from a "Vermont redneck". And within the grouping "Vermont Redneck" there are many variations as well. A "Waitsfield redneck" is a far cry from a "Newport redneck". And although some would liken a "Saint Albans redneck" to a "Newport Redneck", I would argue that they are very different still. The one thing that I can see that ties them all together is a love of the land and a love of trucks. But the differences are what set them apart, and a REDNEK is the finest of the bunch, in my opinion.
Not that I'm a redneck. I'm most certainly a wanna-be, a poseur. I've only been on a snowmobile twice, but I did ride four-wheelers through the woods when I was young. And I have no problem shoveling shit or mucking in the garden. And I can build one hell of a campfire. Oh, and drink my weight in cheap beer when called to.
So, I left the Brown Cow torn. I wanted to put the sticker on my car, but no one in Cali would have any idea what it meant. And my car is fixin to bite the dust anyway.
Immediately, I thought of My sister and her Husband. Em is probably one of the biggest redneks I've ever met. Just ask her to revive her accent, it's authentic, I swear to you. But she's driving a European hot rod these days, and a sticker like this could get her car keyed, or worse. She doesn't put stickers on the Zipper, anyway.
But Kevin, Kevin's got a truck. Not only that, he works in Agriculture and goes up into the Kingdom all the time. Kev was in 4-h from a very young age, a sure-fire sign that your neck might be red. Kev listens to classic rock and country. And Kev talks like a farmer.
When I gave the sticker to him, he hesitated. My Dad said "If you put a cat in the oven and it has kittens, you can't call them biscuits!" His implication was that since Kevin isn't from the Kingdom, he's not a rednek. But I disagree. People don't choose where they're born. And certain people fit in to different locations more easily than others. Kevin is among a rare breed of people born in the city who naturally migrate to the countryside, like birds born with a map of who they are and where they need to go to get there.
A couple of days ago, I received an e-mail from Kevin with pictures of the sticker on his big huge truck. What a frickin reird.
Boring
I called Alexis yesterday and announced, "I'm boring, are you going to de-friend me?"
I called Isaac yesterday and asked, "Will you de-friend me if I'm boring? Because I am."
And the thing is, I'm really happy about it. I think that boring suits me for the moment.
Simple repetition of only the most necessary actions. And a little time here and there focused on a project. Simple, small, quiet.
I woke up at 4:30 and now it's 10:40 and I'm not tired. Time to make coffee and decide what to do. Cook? Ride? Sell dresses at Consignment Shop? Coffee first.
I called Isaac yesterday and asked, "Will you de-friend me if I'm boring? Because I am."
And the thing is, I'm really happy about it. I think that boring suits me for the moment.
Simple repetition of only the most necessary actions. And a little time here and there focused on a project. Simple, small, quiet.
I woke up at 4:30 and now it's 10:40 and I'm not tired. Time to make coffee and decide what to do. Cook? Ride? Sell dresses at Consignment Shop? Coffee first.
9.1.08
Wow! Photos!
I took 431 photographs while I was in Vermont.
Granted, many of them are bordering on the obscenely mundane and awful, but many are quite good, and having the entire collection keeps the memories fresh and clear. Thank you, Soe & Colin!
Snow, snow, and more snow. Snowshoeing. Meeting new pets and falling in love with them. Seeing old friends. Spending time with my wonderful family.
Mummy is now on Facebook and blogger, once again.
Here are a few of my favorite photographs from my trip.
My gorgeous sisters.
Me & Cooper, not Cougar.
Why I should be a sports photographer. Colin shows off on the kicker he & Soe & Kev made.
Isaac shows off, and I am a sports photographer.
Sadie & I went snowshoeing with Mummy.
Mama was on the phone.
Goodbye.
Granted, many of them are bordering on the obscenely mundane and awful, but many are quite good, and having the entire collection keeps the memories fresh and clear. Thank you, Soe & Colin!
Snow, snow, and more snow. Snowshoeing. Meeting new pets and falling in love with them. Seeing old friends. Spending time with my wonderful family.
Mummy is now on Facebook and blogger, once again.
Here are a few of my favorite photographs from my trip.
My gorgeous sisters.
Me & Cooper, not Cougar.
Why I should be a sports photographer. Colin shows off on the kicker he & Soe & Kev made.
Isaac shows off, and I am a sports photographer.
Sadie & I went snowshoeing with Mummy.
Mama was on the phone.
Goodbye.
4.1.08
NEKin' it.
Here in Vermont, there is a whole lot of snow. Feet of it. And last night, it got down to -14 below zero. I'm as happy as a clam about it. Papa bought me a pair of winter boots at Pick and Shovel ("Pick and Shove It" to those in the know). He said that since Ames closed down, Pick & Shovel has expanded to include all types of inner and outer wear, whereas it used to be mostly a hardware and building supply center.
We went to lunch at the East Side, sat on the porch and looked out over the frozen white lake. I thought that it looked a little empty without all the little ice shanties, Papa said they aren't allowed out on the lake until after the 14th of January.
I'm especially glad about the boots, because I've been wearing Em's special ones that she bought in Quebec city which are 3 sizes too big for me. And then I could effectively go snowshoeing around the front field without my feet slipping out. Sadie came with me and led the way like a real sled dog.
Right now, the fire is blazing and Papa is making a pot of freshly roasted Guatemalan coffee. Mummy is trying to remember her password for her blog so she can finally write in it again after 8 months of cyber silence. I'm fixing to make a pot of vegetable soup, something clean and hearty after weeks of junk. Gee Whiz!
I'm very excited about the prospect of adding photos to my blog. Soe & Col gave me a digital camera and I've already taken 350+ pictures.
We're contemplating a jaunt for the day tomorrow, but I'm going to try to go into the woods early and take even more pictures.
Coming back up here with Wasuck last night, we talked about our favorite Vermont towns. Mine has always been Eden. No matter what, Eden always has the most snow. And it's so hilly and beautiful, like a cozy white blanket lying peacefully over the evergreens and cabins. Isaac thinks I'm crazy because the cops there give tickets out like every day is Christmas, and I realized he's right. Everyone gets tickets in Eden. Maybe I like Eden for its name. Also, it's about halfway between Newport and Burlington, where the people that I love reside. One day, I hope to have a cabin in Eden. I'll keep an old truck in the barn and spend summers there. Or go in the winter for silent retreats... one day.
We went to lunch at the East Side, sat on the porch and looked out over the frozen white lake. I thought that it looked a little empty without all the little ice shanties, Papa said they aren't allowed out on the lake until after the 14th of January.
I'm especially glad about the boots, because I've been wearing Em's special ones that she bought in Quebec city which are 3 sizes too big for me. And then I could effectively go snowshoeing around the front field without my feet slipping out. Sadie came with me and led the way like a real sled dog.
Right now, the fire is blazing and Papa is making a pot of freshly roasted Guatemalan coffee. Mummy is trying to remember her password for her blog so she can finally write in it again after 8 months of cyber silence. I'm fixing to make a pot of vegetable soup, something clean and hearty after weeks of junk. Gee Whiz!
I'm very excited about the prospect of adding photos to my blog. Soe & Col gave me a digital camera and I've already taken 350+ pictures.
We're contemplating a jaunt for the day tomorrow, but I'm going to try to go into the woods early and take even more pictures.
Coming back up here with Wasuck last night, we talked about our favorite Vermont towns. Mine has always been Eden. No matter what, Eden always has the most snow. And it's so hilly and beautiful, like a cozy white blanket lying peacefully over the evergreens and cabins. Isaac thinks I'm crazy because the cops there give tickets out like every day is Christmas, and I realized he's right. Everyone gets tickets in Eden. Maybe I like Eden for its name. Also, it's about halfway between Newport and Burlington, where the people that I love reside. One day, I hope to have a cabin in Eden. I'll keep an old truck in the barn and spend summers there. Or go in the winter for silent retreats... one day.
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