Perfect and Wild

bay window, 2010

One of my first words was butter. It makes sense. Members of my family are genetically predisposed to appreciate good fats. We also ate kishka, the Eastern European blood sausage type. But it wasn't the name of her book that drew me to Gabrielle Hamilton, it was a little piece about Christmas Eve she wrote for her sister's publication, Canal House Cooking. This raw and honest writing left me intrigued about the author.

Soon I was the owner of a nice new hardcover book. I don't buy hardcover books often, this was a special occasion, so I took my book to Vesuvio, found a nice table with a view, ordered an Anchor Steam, and began reading.

I finished Blood, Bones & Butter yesterday afternoon and today I am thinking of Gabrielle and all of her idiosyncrasies. Her book is not perfect, she is not perfect, and as I ponder the word this morning I'm starting to think there's something ugly about perfection. Who needs it.

I've realized the traits I liked and disliked in Gabrielle (the Gabrielle we see in her book) are in direct relation to what I like and dislike in myself. Her experiences highlighted the good and bad in my own life. Her self reliance as a wild young girl had me recalling the young driven and independent me and her later drama over small obstacles left me wanting change in my life today.

I was most moved by her haphazard pruning of a set of towering oleanders outside her mother-in-law's villa in Puglia. This vision of her balancing barefoot in the crotch of branches, resolved to cut through to a view of the sea, it left me craving the same feeling of wild determination. It also reminded me of something a former drawing instructor said to me.

It was the final day of class and each student pinned their first and last drawings to the wall, proudly displaying the improvement made after a semester of practice. Our instructor thoughtfully commented on each set. When she reached my drawings, the first very loose, almost feral, and the second more careful and well crafted, I sat tall awaiting her praise of the progress I had made. She did acknowledge my progress, but followed with but I kind of miss wild Denise.

Blood, Bones & Butter
Canal House Cooking, Volume No. 5
Vesuvio
Anchor Steam
Kishka

in the quiet

slipper in the park, 2011

I play the same song, over and over again. It takes me away, well, not away, back. I wonder what the neighbors think, but don't change a thing. The plants in my window are misshapen, so leggy, reaching desperately for the sun. They need more. It's supposed to rain soon, but I'm going out anyway. I won't wait. I don't feel like waiting. Why is this single white slipper still in the park? I first saw it in early March. Time keeps the same pace, but it's all relative. As life stretches time appears to move more quickly. Today is not moving at all. It is a pause, pressed down and smeared with a thumb. I can do anything I please and it won't count. I remember the sea lion in Biarritz, sleeping in the sun. He knew it wouldn't last.

She's at it again...

Rhubarb, 2010

Right around this time last year I became a little obsessed with rhubarb. Today at the market it all came rushing back to me when I saw my first crimson stalks of the season and quickly snatched them up. I turned the corner and saw Straus Vanilla Bean Ice Cream, my favorite vanilla ice cream, and it was on sale. Obviously, this was all very meant to be. When I returned home I looked back at my recipes from last year, Star Anise Rhubarb (including the Rhubarb with Juniper Berries recipe) and Rhubarb with Earl Grey Tea, Cardamom, and Orange Zest and then looked around the kitchen and found I didn't have the ingredients for either one. Let's be honest here, I rarely make the same thing twice, there always has to be a substitution here and spice change there, so as I mentioned before, this was all very meant to be. I made the following tonight.

Rhubarb with Blood Orange & Cloves
2 servings (+ a little bit more)

3 long thin ribs of rhubarb (roughly chop into 1" pieces)
2 small blood oranges (zest and then supreme, saving all orange juice - 1/2 of the zest will be added before cooking and 1/2 added after cooking)
1/4 cup sugar
1/4 vanilla bean split, seeds removed (you will use only the seeds) save the scraped bean, bury it in some sugar, and enjoy vanilla sugar later
4 cloves (remove buds from stems and crush buds only) save the stems for another recipe

1 small scoop vanilla ice cream per serving

Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.

Place chopped rhubarb, orange sections, and all orange juice in a small casserole dish or oven-safe pot.

Add 1/2 of the orange zest, sugar, vanilla seeds, crushed cloves, and gently toss.

Bake uncovered for 15 minutes. Stir (It will smell so good). Bake an additional 15 minutes. Fruit should be tender and kitchen should smell even better than it did the first time you opened the oven door. Cool 5-10 minutes and then top with remaining orange zest.

Serve warm with a scoop of cold ice cream on top.

You must see the gorgeous photograph Sarah Shatz at food52 made of my Rhubarb with Earl Grey Tea, Cardamom, and Orange Zest last year. The woman knows how to photograph food.

Addendum: It is the next morning. After two servings, there is a little bit of my rhubarb remaining in the pot. I am tasting it cold, without ice cream, and it is very good, maybe even better than last night.

Addendum II: Last night I made a similar dish. I increased rhubarb to 4 ribs, no orange segments or zest, the juice of one Meyer lemon, upped the sugar to closer to 1/2 cup, no vanilla, 1 teaspoon garam masala. Yum.

The Words of Others

I don't worry too much about the pith., 2011

The most common and popular North African dessert is orange slices sprinkled with a little orange-blossom water and cinnamon. Remove all the pith when you peel them, and slice them thickly.
-Claudia Roden

Truth. Sometimes we're tempted to create what we think a smart, popular, or "normal" person would make. But our work is best when we're just being our own peculiar selves.
-Sharon Olds

Omit needless words.
-William Strunk, Jr.

Know Thyself

olive biscuit cookies, 2011

Hello. How are you doing? Good I hope.

Today is a new day. There is sun and there is wind.

I appreciate your reading my indulgent entry yesterday. Having made my confession, I felt free. I moseyed over to the gym this morning, baked Heidi's cookies (an interesting and unique cookie - highly recommended) this afternoon, and am about to begin Betty's preface.

There is a lesson here.

A little off topic, but I have two heads of escarole and cannot decide what to do with them. Any suggestions? Thank you.

olive biscuit cookies via 101 Cookbooks

I would prefer not to.

Breakfast in March, 2011

I believe my manifesto is deflating, shrinking, melting -- something like that. It was such a nice manifesto, accompanied by a pretty springtime picture. I just don't think I'm the manifesto type. Somehow, the moment I make the formal declaration, my excitement fizzles out. The grand plan shifts to chore. I begin to feel like Bartleby, and I've never even worked in a dead letter office. It's such a shame. Perhaps things would be different if I had an office boy named Ginger Nut. Or maybe I just prefer the messiness of life, and breakfast.

"I would prefer not to." -Bartleby, the Scrivener

p. 19

Not Iowa, 2011

I found hope on page 19, yesterday's paper, The New York Times. There it was, buried beneath the grief and the sadness. Good news. If you are patient you will find it, its roots in rural Iowa. Giovanni has found himself. It has taken time, a lot of time, heroin, and prison. Things are different now. He serves Italian food from the back room of a cafe. 50 people on Friday and Saturday nights, booked every weekend since he began. He has turned their noodles to pasta and introduced them to the beauty of cannoli without a fork. He's married a nurse he met in rehab. He'll celebrate 60 years of life in June, but in so many ways is really just beginning. This is good, right? Why do I wonder how much I don't know? What crimes were committed? Who has been hurt? How did this particular story make it into The New York Times? I fear the neat little 3 column package has left too much behind. Perhaps Giovanni's debt has been paid and this is a true case of reform, it is what I want to believe. It is possible.

p. 19

sponsored by the number 3

waffle, 2011

First and foremost, writing poems should be a pleasure. So should reading them, by God. -Philip Larkin

Like Alice

The water is very hot,
so I drain the bathtub.

I turn to the side
and cross my legs,
fitting myself perfectly
into the width of the tub.

I look down at myself and think, I am
smaller.

I focus on this for
a while, until I remember,
what you focus on expands.

So will my focusing on
this thought of being smaller
cause me to expand, grow larger?

Or will my focus expand
my thought of being smaller
and prompt me to shrink?

::

March

Mary knows there will always be birds, but she plans to broaden out a little bit, or maybe a lot, this is what she tells Maria. Her poems will change. I write of waffles and of bathtubs and plan to draw again. Kim gives away her fence, for Japan. I stop more often to jot it down, whatever it may be. Does it make me look anxious? I'm not. Shari dons a new hat, feather sewn into the side. She is taking herself less seriously. I decide to follow suit. Maizy wears perfume that smells of warm strawberry jello and Little Mary draws my portrait. Lisa eats a small bag of cheetos, while in her hospital bed. I revisit the line but you'll never see the end of the road while you're traveling with me, and know it is true. Mom saves me with fresh air and a banana. Rachael writes of raindrops and loneliness. And two other Rachel's return. I meet a little guy in a stroller, he dances without music. A father and daughter in Germany make a pendant for Japan. Chris sheds his consulting clothes and escapes on a ferry. I learn brisling sardines are the small ones I like. They are young sprats, an important Latvian export, but mine are Scottish. Dad finishes my chocolate cake. You smile as I walk by, and I smile too.

::

I Always Order a Waffle

They focus on inconsistency,
so I never get bored.
Dependable predictability
lives across the street.

Today my buckwheat waffle is eggy,
not a hint of buckwheat.

The syrup has an
odd molasses taste, but
there is always a
mound of butter.

Their one fault in the
system, the butter,
it is always the same.

Dependable butter and
inconsistent wheat,
one table with a view.

sponsored by the number 3
what Mary tells Maria
Kim's fence
Shari finds her hat
Rachael's raindrops
Rachel & Rachel
Help Japan Necklace
brisling sardines
chocolate cake

springtime manifesto

bloom, 2011

This is where I will be, this springtime.

observation
Revisiting drawing through Betty Edwards.

movement
Beginning a new program that prioritizes feeling good over the ideas of work and discipline.

sustenance
Focusing on Heidi Swanson's recipes for inspiration.

Where will you be?

Spring Song Felix Mendelssohn

+ Inspired by Shari and The Art of Seeing Things +

Try to Catch the Deluge in a Paper Cup

door, 2011

Today I woke up in another decade. Don't Dream It's Over played quietly in the background. We wrote letters, spoke on landlines, and wore our hair like Madonna's. We listened to records and didn't call them vinyl. MTV showed music videos and we wanted no more. The 80s were actually the 80s before they were retro.

The mockery or loving reenactment of a time and space will never truly bring it back. What was cannot be again, not even in memory, but the memory is all we have, so we hold on to it tightly.

Some of the past is brought back again and again through story or photograph, but most disappears, until the day you wake swimming in a pool of it. It is elating. It is all there, and like a dream, you are afraid to move or think for fear it will vanish and never return. So you tell someone, or you write it down, as quickly as possible, while you have it there in your hand.

Dad called me one day to share a story. Just the telling was exciting for him. Without warning, a completely forgotten part of his life was returned to him.

So I chop up some garlic and toss it into a pan with olive oil, the scent wafts up, and I'm six years old again. (long pause for effect -- I sense he's smiling) I've done this a million times, but today I'm six years old again. (another pause, not as long) I'm in my family's apartment on the South Side. It's all so real. I'm actually standing there, in our old apartment, and I'm smelling the garlic. A Jewish family lived beneath us and when they cooked, the smell of whatever they were cooking came up through the vent. I hated the smell of garlic back then. I guess we didn't cook with it. I couldn't imagine what horrible food they were preparing down there. (You have to understand he is relaying the hated and the horrible with great glee and animation -- he is six years old again) I couldn't believe it. It's like I was actually there. Has anything like that ever happened to you? (Of course he's speaking too quickly for me to answer) So I call Al (his big brother) and I tell him the whole story in Latvian (they grew up speaking Latvian). I felt that it had to be told in Latvian. I asked him if he remembered the apartment, that family, the garlic. He said No, not really.

Don't Dream It's Over Crowded House

He Never Asks

Known, 2011

As the scene comes into view I am looking down at my small feet, they are tan, bare. It must be summer. Carly Simon's No Secrets was released in 1972, so I am 4 years old. We are in our new home, a bungalow in a tidy little neighborhood with tree lined streets and small square lawns. We are still a family.

There are women in my living room, they are young, slim, and tan. Yes, it's definitely summer. They are whispering and giggling, about me. Mom wants to know what it is about this Carly song that brings me to tears. I don't want to discuss it, it's too hard. She's enlisted their help. Mom rests the needle and it begins. They all look at me. They are a little worried, but also find my quivering lip adorable. Mom stops the music and they question me. I'm silent. These are my feelings and I don't want to share them.

I quietly think of Grandpa. The lyrics speak of someone named Robin and Carly sings until we're old. The music is sad and haunting, but draws me in with its beauty. I imagine Robin has died or will die soon. Getting old means dying and I don't like it, I don't like it at all. Grandpa is the only person I know with grey hair. I know he is old. My other grandpa is already gone and I fear this one is going to go too. I don't want him to go. We belong together, we always have. He takes me to the park. He soft boils eggs for me, places them on toast, and cuts the toast into little squares. He understands me and never asks for more than I can give.

Ships

reflection, 2011

We were watching
tales of origami.

He thought it would
slow us down, ground us.

It worked,
but he closed his eyes
too soon.

Between the Folds

Outside the Octagon House

March, 2011

This tree has me speechless.

notes to myself

single frame, 2011

I’d been putting off the task for too long, so I dumped the pile onto my sofa and began to sift. There were several months of receipts, notes to myself, grocery lists, baggage claim checks, and ticket stubs. I felt my life passing before my eyes, and it was moving too quickly. We live inside a moving picture and rarely see the single frames, the stills. I had to stop. And then I had to cry, but just for a little bit. It is beautiful, this life. It is difficult to look back on it all and realize that even if it were possible to be completely present in each and every moment, there would be no way to hold on to it all. So much had been accumulated in just a few months. Too much, and all of the years before, and it just keeps growing. I wouldn’t want it any other way, but where will I keep it all? I started feeling sentimental about train tickets and lists on small pieces of torn paper. They are my triggers, they take me back in time.

As I read Just Kids and accompanied Patti Smith on her walk through the last forty or so years of her life I knew I was being moved in ways not yet clear to me. This must be part one.

In all the world one may always hope to recapture something lost. But sometimes we are obliged to set the memory of certain things in a dresser of small regrets. Yet occasionally we discover in the folds of an old handkerchief a shell or insignificant stone that had once embodied our happiest of afternoons.
-Patti Smith Just Kids

Thanks, Shae.

Housekeeping

a few of my favorite things, 2011

Hello,

How are you? Enjoying your weekend? We actually have sunshine here in San Francisco today, so I am having a wonderful time.

I'd like to ask you a couple of housekeeping questions. You know, not dusting or window washing, but housekeeping as in Merriam-Webster's third definition: the routine tasks that must be done in order for a system to function or to function efficiently. I hope you won't mind.

1) Do you link to interesting tidbits out there in our world via twitter? If so, please leave me your twitter username in the comments section below. I'd like to see what you've been up to lately.

2) Are you collecting visual inspiration via Pinterest? If so, please leave me your Pinterest username in the comments section below. I'd love to take peek.

If you are a little more private and would rather keep your usernames just between you and me, you can send me an email.

Okay, that's it. Back to the sunshine.

Thank you!

Best,
Denise

P.S. Housekeeping is also the title of a fabulous novel written by Marilynne Robinson.

Somewhere

still, 2011

Somewhere, I miss it today. It's nice to think of sunny Southern California on this day of grey and puddles. When I remember the film I feel adrift, lost in a dream state where simple moments become magnified and days can disappear. I think of the people who touch our lives and see more in us than we are able to see in ourselves. Without trying or even knowing they've done so, they quietly press possibility and hope into our palm.

Somewhere directed by Sofia Coppola

American Girl

yellow, 2011

I was in the back seat, beside him, listening to The Black Crowes and gazing out the window onto the bleak landscape. We were going skiing, sort of, if you call skiing in Wisconsin skiing. One of my best friends sat up front. The conversation had dwindled and we rested in the quiet. My mind was whirling, as it tends to on road trips. Without thought I blurted what was on my mind.

What if one day I just want to run away, hop on a plane and escape?

No one really knew how to respond. Maybe they didn't care, maybe such statements were just too misaligned with Midwestern manners to warrant a response. He was less than pleased.

I'd completely forgotten about that day, that ride, but she reminded me of it recently, my friend in the front seat. He's no longer in the picture, but she is. I still see her from time to time, we click right into our former roles and talk as if no time at all has passed. True friendships work this way.

As anticipated, I did escape, but not by plane. It was hurried and by car. He'd gone to 7-11, for what I cannot recall, while I jammed all I could into a suitcase and drove away. I soon found myself in the lobby of a nice generic hotel downtown, checking in under a false name, only leaving my room to visit a nearby Thai restaurant where I felt safe. No one knew where I'd gone. Not this friend I refer to, not even my parents. I needed time alone, to sort things out.

Eventually I moved into an attic above the rooms of two Chinese friends. They were sisters. They introduced me to dim sum. They couldn't bear watching me pay to live in a hotel as if it were an apartment. I was only with them briefly before finding my own space, a quaint little apartment, mostly empty, all mine.

Back then I wanted to erase the last year and a half of my life, but I accept it all now. It's part of who I've become, and I quite like her, usually.

In trying to determine where my dreams of breaking away originated, they've been with me for quite a long time, I returned to a pivotal point I believe to have taken place very close to, if not in, my 10th year. Complete blame rests upon From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Gosh, I loved that book. A brother and sister moving into the Metropolitan Museum of Art -- taking baths in a fountain and dreaming upon antique beds. I couldn't have imagined a more exciting and elaborate way of running away.

Soon after my reading I wrote up a plan to run away and live in a nearby grocery store. Not as glamorous, yet quite practical. The museum was obviously more brilliant, but I didn't want to be a copycat. Unfortunately, I couldn't interest my sister, or my cousins.

While single and living in Chicago, I entertained the idea of leaving Corporate America and running away to Italy. I'd be a a waitress. I'd start a new life. I'd worked as a waitress one summer in college, so I had the experience. It was the perfect plan, collecting my pay in cash, strolling through olive groves, and living quietly beneath the radar.

How about moving to San Francisco with someone I'd only known for six months, leaving my career behind, and going back to school full-time to earn my MFA? Oh, that one really happened.

I've imagined my sister on a train, far far away, watching the sun drenched countryside from her window. She stops in a rural town and begins a new life, happily employed by a small bakery.

And then there is the scenario where my mother accepts a position in an ad I read. She moves to the rolling hills of Olema, CA and lives in an Airstream. Room and board in exchange for caring for the horses, a little gardening, and helping maintain a small property. She's happy. I can see her smiling sun-kissed face.

I've envisioned another good friend of mine in a snippet of an alternate life. It's kind of retro 70s music video style. She's laughing and running through what seems a never ending field of yellow flowers, topless and free, her long hair flowing, the sun shining. It's all happening in slow motion and takes place to the soundtrack of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers' American Girl.

American Girl (studio version)

* more poppies and other blooms over at Jane's today *

To Fill the Silence

Quiet, 2011

We walked on glass,
or was it ice?

Slow,
steady,
waiting for the other,
afraid to move too soon.

Fear filled the room each time one of us spoke,
fear in the form of figures.

Figures,
identical and dark,
like Katharina's rats.

Their shoulders touching ours,
hot breath on our necks.

They would dissipate when we parted,
but return to fill the silence of the following day.

Knitting and Promises

Knitting in Paris, 2011

Remember my going on about my love of knitting, simple knitting, knitting as meditation? Remember the promise I made, the one that included a visit to Churchmouse? The ferry ride to Bainbridge Island? The search for the perfect Brooklyn Tweed? Well, it seems someone in Norway likes soot, Jared Flood's interpretation of the color soot. And she has such good taste in bookstores. I'm so very pleased.

Reminder

Table for one, please., 2011

Don't forget to love yourself. From what I can tell, it makes you more lovable. Enjoy today.

The Simple Beauty of the Blood Orange

sunrise, 2011

Blood Orange Juice
serves 1 (but leaves one wanting more)

3 blood oranges

Learn from my mistake and wear proper attire (old t-shirt or perhaps something red -- this can be messy). Slice oranges in half. Remove juice from oranges (I like to use a simple and quiet manual juicer). Pour juice into glass of choice. Serve Immediately.

serving suggestion: drink while looking out of a window at sunrise

A Reading

34, rue Saint-Louis en l´île, 2011

January 31, 2011

They've gone. I am alone now. Having grown used to such fullness, each day bulging with activity, today feels quite hollow. It grows later, yet I hesitate. A reading. Do I really want to leave my new apartment? It will be my home for such a short time. It's terribly warm and comforting and I'm feeling rather lazy. Yes, yes. I should go. No, don't make it a should. Make it a want. Okay, I want to go. I'll be happy. I know I will. Up already. I go. It is cold, very cold, but my journey is brief. I settle into one of the last available seats and soon she is before me, just a few feet away. It is an intimate space. A tiny Left Bank bookstore brimming with books and people. She begins. Her voice, at first curt and British, a bit rough, is soon reined in to soft. And then she finds it, she's exactly where she wants to be. Her voice sways with perfect cadence and the chill I've brought inside with me begins to dissipate. All that was rigid is now relaxed and I begin to take in my surroundings. Books, old and new, stacked to the ceiling, uneven columns on the verge of collapse. It is dusty and warm. The eyes around me look tired and hungry, yet patient, fully willing to wait for food and sleep. I sit quietly against the west wall of books, their spines making faint impressions in mine. The lower shelf I sit upon seems to become harder as the night progresses and I strain to keep my shifting silent. Climbing into her world is difficult, as I am so immersed in my own. So much new. Her voice slows and then finishes. There are questions. Why do they always seem to disappoint? And then it is over and I am jolted as all of the bodies stand at once and the wine begins to flow. But this is not my ending. I wrap myself up beneath the necessary layers, push through the crowd, and hurry into the icy night air beside the river. Quiet, cold, the traffic a simple hum. Lights twinkle all around me and scattered flakes of snow fall slowly as I cross the bridge and head back toward the island. I climb what seem a great many well worn steps and then I am sealed tightly inside, four stories up, behind my cerulean door.

The Still Point

Cast Off

Through, 2011

I am preparing to cast off, to shed. To pare down and live lightly. Just for a while, but one never knows. Lessons will be learned. Things impossible to foresee. Open, aware, and patient. I will discard the unexpected and acquire what I did not know existed. Goodbye, for a short while, short relative to what has passed thus far. What have you been pondering lately? Leave me a note. I'll look forward to them as postcards upon my return.

Unnecessary Desires

Due, 2011

In her interview with The Paris Review Louise Erdrich speaks of her father's wish that her and her siblings not nurse any unnecessary desires. I can see the potential benefits, but also the supreme challenge, at least for me.

I've been traveling through a mist of input and I am drenched. Each of my senses is ready to spring from its blocks. I've seen the pinks and blues of La Jolla, smelled the sea from the Sunny Jim Cave, felt the sadness of James Salter, eaten the most superb vegetable hash with poached eggs, watched the sun set from the window of a train, rode round the winding stretch of Orange County freeway by day and by night, experienced the warmth of true Texans, listened to Steve Martin read his own prose, and been hypnotized by hotel television.

Erdrich also speaks of her urge to write prose, her conflicting inability to sit still, and her humorous solution that I just might have to try. I like the part about the scarves and the coffee, but I'll probably avoid the cigarettes.

In short, there is much on my mind, possibility seems to lurk around every corner, and sitting still is only satisfying in small bursts.

There's a name for this seemingly useless poking around and preparing. I know I've read about it. It might have been described by Twyla Tharp. It has a name, something like fishing, but not fishing. I suppose the word itself is not all that important. I'm finding the act of defining rather irksome lately. Wait. Yes yes, it was Tharp and it is scratching. The action has value. It is an imperative part of the creative process. She believes this is so. I believe it too.

And as for the nursing of unnecessary desires, well, who decides what is necessary and what is not? I believe in simplicity and the clearing of clutter, but most things are best in moderation. Rigidity is such a bore.

Louise Erdrich, The Art of Fiction No. 208
An excerpt -- I highly recommend reading the entire interview

The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life by Twyla Tharp
An excerpt on "scratching"

January

One, 2011

Beginning
and completion,
they both gratify.

It is ending
that is hard.

I pause beside the park.

This tenth day
smells of fresh cut grass.

The air,
it is cold and sharp.

Still and quiet, I watch.

A small aging dog
hobbles contentedly
through the short blades,
softening the day.

Moving forward,
I begin to count my steps.

Rosemary at Night

Dinner-ish, 2011

Chris is working late. I bought a roast chicken and made some beautiful homemade stuffing with fresh fennel and apples for dinner. It's all still in the kitchen. This cake I baked, actually it's more of a bread, outshined everything else. So here I sit, around 9:30pm, quite happily, with my glass of milk and my slice of Rosemary Olive Oil Cake. Actually, it's almost gone now. I know the photograph is a little homely, but trust me, it's really good. It's dinner-ish, if you believe in cake (or is it bread?) at 9:30pm equates to dinner. I originally saw this recipe in Kim Boyce's Good to Grain and was intrigued. I was reminded of it when I saw the Heidi Swanson at 101 Cookbooks version on Pinterest. Have you played around with Pinterest yet? It's kind of fun. I also saw a B&W photograph of Sawyer while I was there. Remember him? I miss Sawyer. If you are curious, there's a link to my 'pins' over there in my right margin. I made some changes to the recipe, of course. Here's my version.

Rosemary Olive Oil Cake (Bread)

2 1/4 cups unbleached white whole wheat flour (I used King Arthur)
3/4 cup raw sugar (plus 2 tablespoons for top crunch)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon kosher salt
3 eggs
1 cup olive oil (I used Greek)
3/4 cup skim milk
1 1/2 tablespoons fresh rosemary, chopped fine
3 ounces extra dark chocolate (I used one bar of Scharffen Berger 82% Cacao), chopped rough

Preheat oven to 350º
Line a loaf pan with parchment paper and set aside. Combine flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl and set aside. Whisk dry ingredients (this might seem a little strange, but I found it to work well). In a second medium bowl whisk eggs and add olive oil, milk, and rosemary. Whisk again. Add wet ingredient to dry and fold gently until all dry ingredients are moistened. Add 3/4 of the chocolate and fold until evenly incorporated. Pour batter evenly into pan and scatter remaining chocolate on top, pressing chocolate bits gently into the batter. Sprinkle the remaining 2 tablespoons of sugar on top of batter. Bake for 40-45 minutes or until lightly browned and skewer inserted in center comes out clean. I followed Heidi's suggestion and finished it beneath the broiler for a minute (just a minute, it goes fast) to caramelize the sugar.

Recipe adapted from 101 Cookbooks by Heidi Swanson, which was adapted from Good to the Grain by Kim Boyce.

It is there.

Resolution: More of this., January 2011

I saw something yesterday. It was simple. A soft painterly image of a bird in flight accompanied by a few well chosen words. I have saved in my memory, the bird, and the specific words Time lost and found, shared as a much-needed read. The author tells us how the smallest adjustment can yield big change. She is clear. She is concise. Don't save it for later. Read it now. It's not long. It will make you feel good.

Thanks, Sheri.

Reasons To Be Beautiful

Starting, 2011

The sound of cars lumbering through dirty puddles was growing tiresome, so I found a recording of Jan and Dean's Surf City and set it to repeat. It definitely lifted the mood, with the exception of the insistent two girls for every boy... Really. Still, it was better than the puddles and the cold and the dull flat view. Yes, my former Chicago self would have laughed in the face of the individual describing this morning as cold, but I no longer have sturdy Midwestern blood. Like it or not, 46° is now cold. Just one of many increments of change that have taken place over the last decade or so. So I shimmied around the apartment to warm up a bit Well, with two swingin' honeys for every guy, And all you gotta do is just wink your eye... Okay, that is it. Enough Jan and Dean. A little 90s Courtney Love will level the playing field and match this dead weather that brings life. She was born here. It's difficult not to appreciate a girl who reads a Sylvia Plath poem for her Mickey Mouse Club audition. Oh yes, this is it. Let the music match the mood. So I sink into it and somehow it all circles backward and ends up in yesterday. The first day of this year and the day that I woke to something beautiful done for me for no reason at all by someone I barely know who had absolutely nothing to gain by doing so. For me. I thought I'd be smiling all day. But then I wondered, why me? How? Do I deserve this? It halted me, concrete drying around my lower limbs, or maybe it was more like sinking in quicksand. Could I live up to it, this vision of the person she perceived? So I carried the weight around with me all day, just to see how it felt. I loved it and it scared me and...it was heavy. Today I sit here watching small red potatoes grow eyes, knowing they must be used. I feel the warmth of belief and realize it has stolen space from the heat of the struggle.

She wanted snow, but settled for sun.

Behind, 2010

It was three days before Christmas. She wanted snow, but settled for sun. The weather had been gloomy and grey for so long. It was mid-morning when it arrived. She wondered if there'd ever been a sun so welcome, so comforting. It lulled her to sleep, almost instantly.

She woke to see the moon smiling brightly against the dark sky. It was stunning. Each evening she'd shut her blinds as darkness began to descend, but this moon had her rethinking her ways. What one does mustn't be what one does, forever.

The world felt light. She was floating, an absent minded bliss. It went on. Time was not of the essence, so she lost track of it. Why bother.

She'd filled the bathtub hours ago and forgotten about it, completely. So she drained the cool water, and filled it again with hot. It was wasteful, yet gratifying.

She eased into the hot water, wincing a bit, and then settling. Clear hot water -- no bubbles, oils, or salts. The heat made her feel slightly dizzy, so she maneuvered the oblong trip lever with her toe and the waterline began to recede.

Soon the tub was empty. She remained still. The trip lever resembled a long nose, the round metal plate behind it, a face, and the two screws, eyes. The nose was crooked and the expression aloof. It looked at her, mockingly. Still, she did not move until the heat evaporated from her skin and she began to cool.

Finally she stood, slipped into a large men's oxford shirt, and moved toward the kitchen. She poured herself a tall glass of water and drank half of it in a single gulp. It was 2am.

She'd slept most of the day and now felt wide awake and ready to begin, something. Seated upright at the kitchen table, she looked down at the blank page and watched the landscape begin to take shape.

what we do when we're alone

November, 2010

You know her novels, but do you know her poetry?

It’s necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You’d be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

- excerpt from Margaret Atwood's In the Secular Night

Malt-O-Meal is still good.

Breakfast with Rooster Sauce, 2010

Visiting my old friend, Malt-O-Meal.
recipe

Baked Oatmeal

Breakfast, December 15, 2010

Denise | Chez Danisse said...

Just pulled it from the oven. It smells absolutely heavenly in here! I think I'll have to take up doing something with fresh ground cinnamon and nutmeg every morning.

December 13, 2010

That was Monday. The photograph above is the last serving. Jane inspired me with her post about baked oatmeal. I just had to make my own. Jane, I cannot thank you enough. I was somehow imagining granola bars, but no no no, not even close. So much better. Imagine combing the tastes of bread pudding, rice pudding, and oatmeal cookie dough, yes, that about sums it up. I ate two servings warm from the oven. We also ate some for dessert (the same day). If I'd had a dollop of unsweetened whipped cream, well, I don't know what I would have done with myself. Perhaps its best I do not keep cream on hand. This recipe is delicious warm and it is delicious cold. Make some for yourself. Share it with someone, if you are in the mood.

Baked Oatmeal
(serves 2 for a few days)

2 tablespoons butter (plus a little extra for buttering your baking dish)
2 cups fruit and nut müesli (uncooked rolled oats, fruit and nuts)
1/4 cup sliced almonds (yes, there are nuts in the müesli, but I love almonds)
1/4 cup shredded coconut (mine was sweetened)
1/4 cup seeds (I used toasted pumpkin, sunflower, and flax)
1 teaspoon baking powder
fresh ground cinnamon (I like just a pinch)
fresh ground nutmeg (I like several pinches)
between 1/4 and 1/2 cup raw sugar (depends how sweet you like such things)
1 egg
1 1/2 cups skim milk
6 ounce container of vanilla yogurt

Preheat oven to 375°

Melt butter and set aside to cool. Measure müesli, almonds, coconut, seeds, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar into a medium bowl, stir, and set aside. Whisk egg in a separate medium bowl. Add milk, yogurt, and cooled butter to bowl with egg and whisk it all together. Add bowl of dry ingredients to bowl of wet ingredients and stir to combine. Butter a small baking dish (mine was a rectangular 11 cup glass baking dish) and pour in combined ingredients.
Bake 20 minutes.

Oh, you are going to be so pleased.

And no, I still haven't put that plant in soil. Mind your own business.

She always had that same look in her eyes.

Ladies, 2010

I had fallen deeply into another of her books. Her writing was not what I usually gravitated toward, yet each of her novels had grabbed hold of me and would not let me go. They haunted me more than I looked forward to them.

I woke thinking of the current novel and knew I'd begin reading it before coffee or breakfast. It rested upside down, on the top of the stack beside my bed, her small passport sized author photograph looking up at me. She always had that same look in her eyes. In each photograph I'd seen of her -- similarly placed on her other books, on her publisher's website, and accompanying articles about her and her writing -- she always looked out with that same sexy squint. It looked good on her. I stood and looked into the mirror. My eyes were effortlessly wide open, even when I was tired. I tried her squint. I looked as if I'd been pinched.

She seemed one of those pretty girls who do not know they are pretty, but really do. Not unlike the main characters in her novels, but she was more sophisticated, more poised.

Now gripped by her third novel, I started to want to know more about her. How was she able to exert this power over me? I wanted to exert some power. I found video and written interviews, reviews of her books, and read her biography on the site linked to her teaching. I learned a little bit about her process and confirmed her sexy squint was de rigueur, at least it seemed so.

I resolved to try writing more like her -- to create characters removed from my own experiences, their emotions imagined versus linked to something I'd felt. There would be less weight attached to the work. Less worry about exposing myself or someone in my past or present. No fear of the moment so and so will approach me and ask "Is so and so character based on me?" I could stand taller, shoulders back, because there would be no secrets to cradle. So I tried.

It wasn't me. I knew after one page. I decided it wasn't her either. Her characters were not solely imagined. They were various incarnations of herself.

It's beginning to look a lot like...

December 10, 2010

I would like to share with you a glimpse of my one and only Christmas decoration, so far. There might be more, there might not. I do not feel deprived. Quite pleased, actually.

All that's needed now, to really get into the spirit of the season, is my holiday trilogy: It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on 34th Street, and Love Actually. I know, so pedestrian, but they make me happy.

Wreath
(serves one or more)

Cut ring of desired size from piece of cardboard you were just about to recycle. Find beautiful and sadly unused ball of red yarn in knitting stash. Wrap red yarn around entire cardboard wreath. Be patient, it takes a little while, but not too long. Tie desired length of red yarn to back of wreath for hanging wreath. Hang wreath from window lock in front window after you decide you don't like it on the mirror in the entryway. Now all passersby will be able to view your fine craftsmanship. Admire your little creation and feel pleased with yourself.

*

With and Without My Camera

First Satsuma of the Season, 2010

Walking home today, a little lost in thought, nothing organized, not terribly focused on any one thing, I had a general feeling of happiness surrounding me, kind of like the cloud of dust and debris that floats around Pig-Pen in the Peanuts cartoons. The rain had stopped and bits of blue were starting to show through the clouds. It was nice to have dry pant legs. I really dislike wet pant legs, especially when they are my own.

This walk is a walk I take often. It is a walk I know well. Most of the trees I pass are green, yes, even in December. I feel lucky when I spot a few sidewalk squares covered with wet yellow leaves. It's been very wet lately.

Well, today when I was strolling along, I unexpectedly caught a glimpse of red. It slipped into my distant peripheral vision. I'd walked this way so many times, never noticing any red, but there it was. Just beyond a quiet white painted brick entry way, chipped, a little faded, nothing special, and a long concrete courtyard. The bricks, bushes, and green trees faded into the background when this tall stunning tree at the far end of the courtyard came into focus. It was absolutely covered in what seemed millions of small red leaves. It was grand. It commanded respect.

Then I realized I was not toting my camera. Maybe it was better this way. I simply stopped and stared, smiling. It wasn't a moment meant to be captured on film. It will remain wild in my memory and will stretch and slip this way and that each time I recall the moment.

Nadja à Paris

I found the short film Nadja in Paris several years ago, after watching The Criterion Collection version of Eric Rohmer's Suzanne's Career. It just happened to be an extra on the disc. For some reason I thought of Nadja this morning. I sometimes think of Charlotte, too. Charlotte and Her Steak is another excellent Rohmer short film Criterion included in their Six Moral Tales set. Nadja remains my favorite.

So Much to Carry Home

Morning with Mom, 2010

Spending time with my mom and dad, in their spaces, away from most of my belongings and habits -- it always changes something in me. I watch them move through the world, these two people who created me. I interact with them, as an adult, but still their child. I thought of these things as I watched the sun set outside a small airplane window yesterday evening. There is always so much to carry home.

I watched Bridget Jones's Diary and rode my new green bicycle with my father. The pomegranates in his yard were heavy and ripe. The oranges were not, but we ate them anyway. My mother and I listened to Aerosmith, loudly, while baking biscotti we later dipped in dark chocolate. We shared soup (lentil and lemon rice) and drank tea, both Arabic and green. The air was cool. I planted a winter garden. The sky seemed to stretch forever. I finished reading Tinkers. My favorite line was We saw beaches of snow and blizzards of sand. So beautiful... When I woke in the twin bed, my dreams stayed with me. My fingertips were cold when I wrote this. Now it's my toes.

Today I walked past City Lights Books and read the large hand painted banners in the windows above the store OPEN DOOR, OPEN BOOKS, OPEN MIND, OPEN HEART, TURN LEFT and I sent good thoughts to my mom. She's beginning a new chapter in her life. There is space for new beginnings in all of our lives. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. I don't recall where I first heard this, but I like it. Have you ever thought of it that way? It's kind of exciting.

What would you know about Cee Lo? Cause you're like 40.

As I'm about to turn like 40 this week, I found this scene especially fun.
Go Gwyneth.

Painted by Hand

There, 2010

The city was silent in the distance. Each building oddly outlined in white. The sky a vacuous black. Stars formed thick amoeba-like clusters, none stood alone. It was time to go. I drove through the deep night and emerged on the other side, continuing until the roads grew narrow and all of the signs were painted by hand. I made my own shoulder, as large as the road, so others could pass, and continued on foot. I discovered a bed made of pine with a mattress of fallen leaves bound by a white cotton quilt. My pillow, it did feel it was mine, was crisp and clean and scattered with wild strawberry cross stitch. Beside the bed stood the stump of a tree, on it a hollowed apple filled with fresh cider. It fit my palms perfectly. I lifted it to my lips. I slept until I woke, unsure if hours or days had passed. My apple was full, again. I sat up and sipped, looking out the lace curtains and across the prairie, prepared for the unknown.

Seeking

possibilities, 2010

Can a plant grow too many roots?
What if I don't anchor these roots into soil?
Will they spiral out of control?
Am I really seeking the answer to another question?

And the winner is (drum roll...)

got it, 2010

Someone in Norway is going to be sporting some Brooklyn Tweed SHELTER this winter. Anne Marie from Life in Yonder, you are the chosen one.

Per Anne Marie's request, I will surprise her with one of her two color choices (Homemade Jam or Soot). I'll be visiting Bainbridge Island and making the big decision soon.

I'm sending a big thank you to all of you who joined in on the fun with your kind comments. You make me smile.

Congrats Anne Marie!

Summertime Olives

Fresh & Bitter, 2010

A friend of a friend has a grandfather who is a farmer and now this mountain of olives is mine. Beautiful fat green California olives grown on trees that have been around for 125 years. It's all very grand. They were delivered to me last night. I've been looking at them today, for a while now. I'm feeling a little intimidated.

I've done some research. This gentleman says Brine-curing is stupid easy, but takes FOREVER. Somehow this appeals to me. The intimidation is fading. This is the path I will follow.

It seems we are entering a long-term relationship. We'll begin today, but they won't be ready until June or July. I bought a nice large glass jar. I have a box of salt. All I need is some white wine vinegar. The Moroccan spices will be added later...

I'm going to have my own homemade olives, eventually. This is kind of exciting. Summertime Olives.

Thanks, Susan.

Last chance...

Noro at Trinka's, 2010

Tomorrow I will select the handmade scarf recipient. Would you like to toss your hat into the ring? Do so here.

as my father does

salt, pepper, egg, 2010

November 2, 2010
5:37 pm

The sky is fading and the sounds of the landscape have shifted. Most of the birds have gone inside. They sit at their small tables, plates of worms before them. Something croaks, a frog or toad, I imagine. I've never known the difference. The clock ticks, loudly. Strong, secure. It will go on long after I've stopped. Tonight, I will eat a hard cooked egg, just as my father does, or as he did, the morning of my wedding. I will pinch salt onto a plate, grind pepper over the salt, and tap my egg into the mixture before each bite. I will eat an apple pulled from the tree just outside my window. The sheep will watch. And I will drink water from a wine glass because the night is special. Later, I will wake and stumble to see stars so strikingly bright I will be afraid to return to sleep. I won't want to let them go.