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...

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!

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.

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

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!

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.

"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.