Town or Country?

We're stumped.

What are you reading?

July 26, 2011 . 6:09 PM . page 31

About an hour north of San Francisco...

The Girls, 2011

Sheriff's calls

Thursday, July 14

STINSON BEACH: At 5:30 p.m. someone wanted more information about a new sign in the library parking lot.

Friday, July 15

BOLINAS: At 9:55 a.m. a man reported that $200 and some prescription drugs had been stolen from inside his mattress.

Saturday, July 16

WOODACRE: At 1:54 p.m. a young white man wearing a flannel shirt and baggy jeans was sitting in his vehicle in front of his residence. Deputies found the young man to be "off" but not dangerous.

DILLON BEACH: At 4:05 p.m. a woman reported that another woman ran over her foot after she told her to turn down her music.

Sunday, July 17

OLEMA: At 6:49 a.m. a black and white calf was in the road.


Thought you might like to know.

Best,
Denise


excerpts: July 21, 2011 Point Reyes Light

Great goblets of magnolialight.

Earlier on Fillmore Street (2300), 2011

Later on Fillmore Street (2123) I am sitting with a fancy sparkling water from the UK. I did not know this when I bought it. I also bought a book by C. D. Wright. So, a little bad and a little good. I see Michael Ondaatje praises it on its back cover. Like the water, I did not know this when I bought it. I found this book of poetry in a small bookstore (2195) near this cafe where I sit. Sometimes I buy a book just to show the bookstore that they matter. Books of poetry, poetry written by live poets, are not always easy to find. I did not check to see if this book was a part of our library's collection, I bought it on a whim. I am disturbed by its cover. It scares me, but the pages I skim while still in the bookstore reach deeper than my fear. The book is one long poem. While standing before the poetry shelves I flip through the book backward and see lines such as Sunflower blindness and Take a mirror to the river and Great goblets of magnolialight. It all stems from a road trip through the rural South. I push my other books aside and enter her world, this time from the beginning.

Deepstep Come Shining by C. D. Wright

A Valley Named After the Grass

a month later in a year earlier, 2010

Chicago is not the Windy City, it is San Francisco. So we escaped to a valley named after the grass, where the temperature reached up into the 90s, and the heat was absorbed by the pavement. A parade marched down Main Street. I wore a wide brimmed hat and slipped into my new bathing suit. The inn had a tiny pool. I darted back and forth like a goldfish while he watched from a towel covered chair. The days were long and lazy. One afternoon I woke as a child, hungry, and hearing my mother's voice in the kitchen. Something about the air was just as it was back then. Taste and smell are easy, but traveling through time based on the feel of the air is less common, and more luxurious. The cool sheets were familiar too, the way they felt on my hot skin. The ceiling fan was new, but felt old. Half asleep I wondered what she was making for dinner. I woke up alone in the room, turned onto my back, and watched the fan above slowly rotate. A dog barked in the distance and I heard a faint song from a bird who sounded small. A colander of cherries drifted through my mind. Still groggy, I thought of the sequence of our lives, the way it all unfolds. Something to add to my collection.

Simple Food

sweet potato, 2010

Basic unadorned simplicity, it is a beautiful thing.

The mulberries picked from our neighbors tree when I was a girl. Anchovies with lemon in Liguria. A tomato sandwich. Green peas popped from the pod while standing in the garden. A perfect plum. A slab of cold watermelon in the shade of the back porch. A basic salami sandwich. The jambon et fromage baguette I ate beside the Sienne. The pots of flageolets and tomatoes I made in my tiny Paris apartment (thank you Luisa). Avocado toast. Sardines on rye. Fat blueberries stirred into yogurt and drizzled with wildflower honey. Any green sauteed in olive oil, topped with a fried egg, fleur de sel, and fresh coarse ground pepper. Roasted garlic cloves smeared onto slices of crusty bread. Angel hair pasta with chopped home grown tomatoes, olive oil, salt and pepper (Chris made (and grew) the best). A bowl of boiled new potatoes with butter, salt, pepper, and fresh dill. Cool radishes dipped in good salt. The warm olives Pizzeria Delfina serves as an antipasti. A hard cooked egg, each bite tapped into salt and pepper. Roasted sweet potato slices.

One night when we were in a French-fried potato sort of snack mood my dad suggested sweet potatoes. He cut some thick slices, slathered them with olive oil, sprinkled them with salt and pepper (he might have used a little cayenne too), and roasted them in a hot oven until soft on the inside and just beginning to crisp on the outside. They were so good.

What is your favorite simple food?

If I leave here tomorrow...would you still remember me?

Lost, 2011

I was eating a pumpkin muffin and listening to Freebird. The lyrics had me daydreaming and not giving the interview I was reading fair attention, so I closed the journal and tapped my fingers on the table, swayed to the music, and looked out the cafe window while drifting off into my memory. I like hearing this old song every once in a while and allowing it to carry me away. I'm familiar with two popular versions of the song. The version I like best is not the live version with play it pretty for Atlanta and how bout you? inserted into the original lyrics.

There are certain songs, novels, films, and paintings that do something that jolts me out of the lovely feeling of being lost in the work. It's something that abruptly shifts the mood. In Freebird I find myself lost in the live version until I hear the lyrics shift for the crowd. Maybe if I were there I'd feel differently, but from here, it just doesn't work for me. I'm not in Atlanta. I get transported to some cheesy stadium concert when I prefer being lost. I do get past the disruptions in this live version and I wouldn't turn it off it came on the radio. Perhaps it's because the song is so long. I have time to recover and get back into the music. Does this conflict with the point I'm making? Maybe, but making a clear point is overrated and often the sign of a narrow mind.

In certain novels and films I find myself thrown by the ending. A neatly tied up ending rarely works for me, especially when the story was anything but neat. I never like it, but clearly others do. To me, it feels strange and contrived, disjointed -- forced. I prefer more open endings, such as Sofia Coppola's Somewhere, Amy Sackville's The Still Point, and Per Petterson's Out Stealing Horses. You close the book or walk away from the screen and you are still under their spell.

Yesterday the shift (not quite a jolt) was good. I walked slowly through an exhibition of works collected by the Steins and was taken by a small Matisse painting. It was a landscape with cypress trees, a palette of mostly grey green and grey blue. In the lower right corner there was one subtle stroke of a salmon color. The stroke took me somewhere else. I left the painting and imagined the wet paint, the painter, his choices. But then I sunk back into the landscape and ended up drawn even deeper into the work, imagining him seeing that salmon color one day while standing there beside the cypress trees.

I don't take these things for granted.

1. California Produce

2. A certain 250 Holstein cows

3. The beauty of the bottom of a bowl

A Wedge of Blue

kitchen table, 2010

I see we have one beer standing in the cardboard six-pack and I place it in the refrigerator. It's mine. I'll be on my own this evening and I have an idea. A hunk of blue cheese and a beer, the way Uncle Frank used to do it. Yes, this will be nice. No bread. No crackers. This is how Dad recalls the ritual. Mom agrees. Sometimes simple is best. Dad and I tested it out one night with Stilton. Very successful. Today it will be Point Reyes Original Blue. I'll set myself up beside the kitchen window, where so many good things in life take place. Just a wedge of blue, the last beer, and me.

Patience

Wait, 2011

In the silence and the sun she ate one cucumber, one cashew, and broke off one small piece of cheese. She took three books from her table and read one poem from each book. All of the one note, one beat, singular actions were leading up to something more. She'd know it when it arrived. Patience. But the noise in the hallway did not allow it. It howled, smelled of burnt rubber, and bounced off the base of her door. It demanded her attention. She stood before the mirror and saw her mother. The sun moved south. Fragments beckoned.

While She Was Sleeping

Canerdy, 2006

I walked into my closet and with the exception of a few balls of dust and one black button, the floor was empty. My shoes, shoe rack and all, were gone. I couldn’t imagine what had occurred, how my shoes could have vanished, but they were gone, and I needed to decide how I’d go on without them. Would I need to walk through the city barefoot? It seemed a bit dangerous. I thought of all the cute pups out on walks relieving themselves. There wasn’t a shop in my immediate vicinity that would sell even a pair of cheap flip flops. Were barefoot people allowed to travel by bus? What would a cab driver think? If I tried to explain, people would think I was crazy. I considered the possibility, maybe I was crazy, and it might not be safe for a crazy person to go out seeking shoes. I went back to sleep, hoping my shoes would return.

There wasn't a menu.

Me (near the Mad River), 2006

Christine owned a simple little cafe beside the Mad River. I hear it still exists under the same name, but it is no longer Christine's.

I really cannot imagine it without her, her well-worn books of poetry scattered about, her mismatched china, her very particular ways. She opened when she felt like it and closed when she had other items to tend. There wasn't a menu. Almost everyone who walked in the door was a little confused. This did not inspire her to change.

She always had egg salad. People would ask if there was a menu and she'd say, I have some very nice egg salad. Not another word. Sometimes she'd have chicken salad and she'd follow the same routine.

She was an intriguing woman and I wanted her to like me. I moved in slowly. I happily let her decide my lunch, a plate of whatever. I quickly learned that she did know what was best.

Her salads were accompanied by slices of crusty bread that she would brush with olive oil, sprinkle with sea salt, and just barely brown beneath the broiler. A vegetable of some sort would always be on the plate. Although there wasn't much to prepare, she took a very long time arranging things in her own precise way. It was always perfect, perfect for me.

Christine employed a young red head who was responsible for all that revolved around the espresso machine. They needled one another with a mutual respect. The red head sweetened our cappuccinos with maple syrup.

I did become friends with Christine. One afternoon she closed the cafe and invited me to stay and chat. She explained that she did things to suit her preferences versus the customer's because she had chosen to spend most of her waking hours in this cafe, she knew she wouldn't do it forever, and she wanted to enjoy the experience. Most people just don't think this way. She was wise and I am happy to have found her and to have experienced her magical little space while it existed.

When I returned to the other side of our country we continued our friendship by exchanging poems and letters. I recall her mentioning that her time with the cafe was coming to an end. She said we should come back and run the place. I wonder what that would have been like.

I'm not sure who wrote the last letter, but somewhere along the line we drifted apart. Sometimes I think of writing to her. It's been years now.

Just as I worried each year my family returned to summer camp that the children I'd met the year before had forgotten me, I worry that Christine won't remember me. But would it matter? The past would remain the same.

Almond Cakes

The Color of Baking, 2011

Today I felt like baking and had everything I needed for an almond cake, well, everything I needed for my version of an almond cake. So I baked.

Baking during the summer months is not for everyone. Although we've not quite reached the official season, it is June, and it is cool and grey. Perfect baking weather. This is a big benefit of the San Francisco summers that aren't really summers at all.

I was originally inspired by David Lebovitz. I adapted his recipe the last time I made almond cake and the cake you see outlined below was inspired by my last. David adapted his recipe from Chez Panisse Desserts by Lindsey Remolif Shere. I've veered so far from David's recipe I hesitate to even drag him into what I've done here.

Why is it so different? My kitchen is very low-tech, I wanted a healthier cake, and I wanted to make less cake. I always make too much cake. I adore the version I've made here, Chris likes it too, but David and Lindsey haven't tried it, yet.

Almond Cakes
8 petite slices of cake

1/2 cup brown sugar
7 ounces pure almond paste
1/2 cup unbleached white whole wheat flour
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
3/4 teaspoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 large eggs
confectioners sugar (optional)

Preheat oven to 325ºF

Butter two 16-ounce ramekins and dust them with flour. Line the bottom of each ramekin with a round of parchment paper. Combine sugar, almond paste, and half of your flour (only 1/4 cup) in a medium bowl and break, crumble, and sift with your hands until the almond paste is broken up into pea size bits. In a small bowl combine the other half of your flour (1/4 cup), baking powder, and salt. Gently stir with a fork or your fingers to mix well. Add olive oil and vanilla extract to medium bowl with almond paste mixture and stir until it reaches a gritty smooth state. Add eggs, one at a time, to medium bowl, stirring well after each egg. Sprinkle half of the flour mixture over wet ingredients and stir gently, just to combine. Do not over-mix. Repeat with remaining flour mixture. Divide batter evenly between your two prepared ramekins. Bake cakes for approximately 45 minutes or until the tops reach a deep brown color and spring back when pressed in the center. Remove cakes from oven and run a knife around the perimeter of each ramekin to loosen the cakes. Allow cakes to cool completely in ramekins and they should slip out easily. Peel away parchment and you are all set. Dusting with confectioners sugar is optional. Each cake can be sliced into 4 petite slices.

I am sure whipped cream or berries would be nice with this cake, but I like mine plain.

Enjoy.

Reflecting

Mornings in Paris, 2011

I adored reading and writing stories when I was a little girl. Library visits with Mom began early.

My love of reading slowed down during the school year in high school. I still enjoyed reading during the summer months, I just didn't like being told what to read. My desire to write grew during this time. We were given assignments, but I recall a generous amount of freedom within those assignments. I need freedom. This also began early. I was inspired. I wrote all sorts of things and wanted to write more.

As an undergrad, the university drained my love of reading and writing and there was a period of recovery following graduation. My mother brought me back to reading with The Kitchen God's Wife. It was the first non-required book I had read in years. I was lost in it and it sparked a new interest in reading fiction that remains with me today.

After writing my resume and cover letter, there just wasn't much of a need to write. Sure, I wrote what I needed to write for work, but nothing fun or creative -- pure function. Thankfully, I did keep a journal. I wrote in it sporadically during most of the year and obsessively while on vacation.

Graduate school is what brought me back to writing. The funny thing is that my major was photography. Focusing on distilling my visual art down to the essence of what I wanted to say brought me back to writing. I was constantly trying to sort out my intentions, thoughts, and feelings and writing it all down was most helpful.

Now I have this workshop with instant publishing and people like you reading what I write, offering support, and consistently recommending fabulous books. Thank you. This is not something I could have predicted even ten years ago. Technology can be pretty amazing.

I was late to the game. My first reluctant entry was in 2008. This space began as a joint project with my husband. We wanted to document our kitchen garden. Obviously, things are quite different now.

I'm not sure how to explain what keeps me going or inspires me to write in this space. I just know I like it here.

Seeking Small Town Inspiration

Waitsfield, 2006

Hello.

Can you help me out? It's a pretty minor favor and I bet each one of you has at least one idea for me. I'll gladly trade you an idea, if you are busy compiling your own list.

I'm writing about some characters that live in a small rural town and I want to keep myself in this small town state of mind for a while. I have my own memory and imagination to draw on, but living in the middle of San Francisco (and reading magazines like the gentlewoman) is a bit distracting. I need some additional inspiration.

Many of you shared your love for Northern Exposure with me, so there's one idea. I'm planning on watching Il Postino again and I'm reading a novel written in 1955 about life in a Catalan fishing village, The Day of the Fox. Okay, we are off to a good start.

What other small town centered novels, short stories, poems, memoirs, essays, recipes, movies, television shows, artwork, or _____ have you enjoyed?

Thanks for thinking about this for me.

nonsense

Blue, 2011

I wonder if there is any way I can exchange an afternoon of work for an afternoon in my pajamas, with my favorite person, playing cards, watching Reality Bites and then Singles, and eating caramel corn. Or fly back to Paris.

the Reality Bites mood

Food Preferences are the Window to the Soul

Little Jackets, 2011

He was a very comfortable sort, often compromising for the greater good, until it came to fava beans. The pods had to be firm and measure between five and six inches. His desired shade of green was difficult to describe, but he knew it when he saw it. First the beans were shelled. Next, blanched, ever so briefly. Anyone could handle the first shelling and quick blanch, these were the steps that mattered least to him, but he liked to remove the little jackets himself. He found it meditative and gratifying. Only one cheese could accompany his tender little beans, Pecorino, the Romano variety, grated on the fine side of the box grater. The prepared beans had to be served in a specific ceramic oval dish, glazed in a deep periwinkle blue. There were no substitutions. The day I ate my favas in a white ramekin with Parmigiano-Reggiano felt a betrayal.

Adaptation (Theft?)

One Sunday in Bolinas, 2011

This morning I was reading a poem. It almost matched my thinking, but not quite. Still, I liked it. I thought of posting it here, but then realized I am not clear on what is appropriate or legal in such matters. I'm sure I've already made my fair share of mistakes.

Then I thought of all of the blogs that are based on recipes written by someone else and then adapted to suit the blogger and their post. This seems to be fully accepted as long as it is an adaptation of some sort and the original source is noted.

I wondered how Ruth Stone would feel if I adapted her poem, just changed a few words, toyed with her line spacing a bit, so it would better suit my post, and me. Would it be okay if I pulled a photograph from one of my fellow blogger's sites and decided to adjust the contrast a little and crop it in Photoshop for a post of my own?

Are we being unfair to original recipe writers? Is there such a thing as an original recipe, or has it all been done before?

See the photograph up there? It is a brunch offering at a cafe I like in Bolinas, CA. At first I thought, no I won't order it, I love beans and greens, but it is something I make at home. Then I changed my mind, wait, I will order it, see if they do anything better than I do, and steal their ideas to use at home. Yes, perfect! I was excited.

Their beans were better. I tried to ask about them, get some details, but I couldn't get a straight answer. Perhaps they wanted to keep their bean recipe a secret, or it was a locals only scenario.

Maybe we should just accept that what we make public is no longer our own. If it's a big secret, then we should keep it that way. Or maybe we should simply follow our moral compasses and everything will be fine.

I found a Q&A with Amanda Hesser, addressing such matters. My favorite part was this anecdote she shared:

People should take a step back and think about how they’re living their lives. There’s this great chai supplier in Connecticut. The first time I ordered the chai by phone, she told me she would send me an invoice. I said, “You mean, you’re going to send me the chai before I pay?” She replied, “Yes, because if you don’t pay, it’s really your problem, isn’t it?”

So what am I really getting at here? I don't know. My mind has drifted to how I will replicate those delicious little pinquito beans from Coast Cafe. Like I've told you before, this is just a workshop. Playing around with thoughts and ideas is what I do here, but I also see this as a space for conversation.

So what do you think...about delicious little pinquito beans, secret recipes, adapted recipes, or anything else you are in the mood to share? Seriously, I'd like to know.

Thanks for reading.

This post has no title.

Climb inside.

Steady, As She Goes

Window, 2011

I've been enjoying Alison's blog for a while now. I often visit quietly, without comment. It seems a private ritual. I don't want to intrude. I'm inspired by this delicate set of actions, performed regularly. There is something very comforting about it. It is beautiful, meditative. Peaceful. If you visit, be gentle, tread lightly. It's a special place.

I'm not sure I understand what this song is actually about, but sometimes I hear the chorus in my head when I leave Alison's space.

About the author of this blog...

Two, 2011

A long while back Anna of WSAKE asked me to write down seven things about myself. I'm not very good with such exercises, so I put the request aside to see if the list of seven would come to me naturally. Today it did.

1. Drawing connections between seemingly disparate things helps me understand the world around me. Yesterday I saw connections between the way Chris wants to run his business and Stanley Kunitz discussing poetry and gardening in The Wild Braid and also in the 100th episode (Paris) of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations. I read Chris that special part in The Wild Braid and we watched Bourdain's 100th episode together. He got it. I guess this is why we are married.

2. I was once very into worm composting. I wrote a short book about my experience and shared it on a blog. I still need to add the last chapter.
update 05/13/2011 I really hated typing that last chapter bit, so I visited the blog to update things. I realized there was also a brief closing chapter that needed to be completed. I am proud to report done & done.

3. I miss the television show Northern Exposure and the young pre-Sex and the City John Corbett.

4. The traits I value most in people are empathy, a good sense of humor, confidence, and curiosity.

5. I tasted my very first fresh kumquat yesterday. My produce guy warned me. He told me I had to like sour if I wanted to just pop the whole thing into my mouth. I did it anyway and found them much more complex than a simple sour. Yes, there is sour, but there is also sweetness in the rind, and a hint of bitter. I talked Chris into trying his first too. Thanks, Margie.

6. My first job was in a one-hour photo shop in a very small town near the beautiful Lake Powell. I only lived there for one semester. My job was part of a work-study program at school. My evaluation was gleaming beside the bit about my need for improvement in taking constructive criticism. I was sixteen.

7. When I was a little girl and we hosted family gatherings in our home, I would always hang out with my dad and my uncles in the living room. I liked laughing, playing chess, and taking small sips from my dad's frosty mug of beer. I found the women in the kitchen prepping food and gossiping terribly boring. The men seemed to have all of the fun. I claimed I'd marry my father or no one. Now I am married to someone else, still like beer, love cooking, and sometimes gossip in the kitchen. I need to buy a chess set.

I won't tag anyone, but if you'd like to play along and note your seven, please do so in the comments or place a link in the comments to your blog post.

Interpretive Cake

remnants, 2011

Have I already told you about this cake? Everyday Chocolate Cake? It is one of my two favorite cakes. The other is this wonderful Almond Cake. There is a close third I must mention as well, Rosemary Olive Oil Cake, another simple, lovely, unfrosted creation. All three cake recipes have been interpreted to suit each maker and I like that. I believe it is something that has always gone on with recipes, but the internet has really escalated things. Recipes as inspiration versus a set of rules. It's a good thing.

Deb of Smitten Kitchen's post on Everyday Chocolate Cake has generated more discussion than any other post I've ever seen on any blog. She adapted this cake recipe from Alyssa of Magnolia Bakery. The last time I checked Deb's post it had received 509 comments. It seems people have strong feelings about chocolate cake.

I made it following Deb's recipe twice, once at home and once at my dad's, and on both occasions it was great. Only one note, both times (two different ovens) it cooked way faster than Deb's recipe notes, closer to 40-45 minutes.

The last time I made this fabulous and apparently very forgiving cake I made several changes to the original recipe. Some were an attempt to make it a bit healthier and some were based on the use what is in your cupboard philosophy. I used only 1/2 the sugar, my egg randomly had two yolks, I used 6 oz. non-fat yogurt + 2 oz. 1% milk in place of 8 oz. buttermilk, and I used King Arthur white whole wheat flour. I baked this one for about 45 minutes. I'd check it at 40 minutes next time. I think I cooked it just a few minutes too long. My oven runs super hot, so I set it to 300 degrees versus 325.

You should try all of these cakes, make them your own. I suggest you make the chocolate first. Enjoy.

The sun shifts priorities.

1424 & 1426, 2011

The sun today is triggering thoughts of summer and has me wanting what only summer can give. I would easily pay ten dollars for a small perfectly ripe tomato, fifteen if freshly plucked and still warm from the sun. Perfectly ripe, yes, but not perfectly round. I prefer my tomatoes misshapen. My knife would be sharp and gently pierce the skin, minimal juice drunk by the wood surface of my cutting board. Each slice would be carefully placed atop bread and butter of the best quality, or not at all. A tilt of the cutting board and scrape with the blade to collect any lost juice. To finish, the lightest dusting of my favorite fleur de sel, if only I could find another jar. Like tomatoes, salt is not salt. And then I'd give it all a long look, saving the visual aspects for later, to help recall the taste. I'd inhale the scent while taking my first bite. I would chew ever so slowly. I'd insist you take a bite.

If you believe in the power of memory, or want to be convinced, read Molly's poems, The Recent History Of Middle Sand Lake. Incredibly moving. Graceful, sad, and beautiful.

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