An Imagined Rendering

Author's Note, 2011

I moved slowly and carefully. I didn't want it to end.

The Cat's Table by Michael Ondaatje

Adrift

glimpse through a doorway near 23rd & 9th, 2011

notes:

Much is neutral. Not a lot of color, yet as soon as you note it, there it is. A young man in a bright red and white checked shirt, just outside the cafe, smoking a fat cigar. It is 8:30 AM. And there was the beach ball, yesterday. And the young slim bright-lipped barista with the red bandana delicately folded and tied atop her pretty blonde hair.

People know each other here, in this cafe, the cafe where they hide dark chocolate in their pumpkin muffins. It's nice, the knowing each other, and one of the main reasons I've returned. During my first visit I found a disgruntled and handsome middle aged gentleman, weathered jeans and tweed blazer, showering the bright-lipped barista with all of his charm. I could tell it wasn't something he offered up often. Kind of sweet to see her draw it forth. He was sure to tell her when he departed that he wouldn't be back for a week because he'd be off on assignment. It sounded very important. I understand his desire. She hurries no one and elegantly glides to and fro behind the counter. Her description of their carrot muffin is downright eloquent.

I appreciate the comfort of familiarity, even if it is not my own. I'm feeling a little homesick and frankly, adrift. I'm between the place I was born and the place I currently call home. I'll return to that current place for a short while before traveling to the place I called home during most of 2008. I'll be there for my birthday, looking out from a glass tree house. I'm lucky, I know, but sometimes I wake up and have to look around before I know where I am.

Last night I dreamed I had an affair with the young Big Night era Stanley Tucci. I was knitting his wife a sweater. Yes, I said wife, it was an adulterous dream. Oh my. Adulterous, but tastefully edited. One moment I was trying on the sweater for dear Stanley and the next the film jumps straight to the frame where he is laying on my bed shirtless, all else is beneath the pristine white sheets, and I'm exclaiming oh no! what have we done? Next I'm relaying the entire drama to my good friend Isabella Rossellini.

And then I'm awake and trying to recall it all for Chris while laughing hysterically.

They are playing The Big Chill soundtrack in the cafe this morning. A film from 1983. A reminder of how quickly time passes. It's an appropriately cool and crisp autumn day, dead leaves scattered on the street and sidewalk. I'm about to walk back out into it, past three yellow barstools, four succulents, and a waiting scone.

I'd like to think about that.

Fullerton at the Lake, 2011

"I'd like to think about that." How often he has used this simple utterance as a way of granting dignity and validity to the opposing position, without relinquishing or invalidating his own perspective. And note how it isn't a flat submission or commitment: "I will think about that." It's, "I'd like to." As in, I welcome it. As in, I believe it will benefit me to entertain a different viewpoint. To lend my imagination to walking around in your shoes. To enlarge my mental field, my field of consideration and empathy.

-Leah Hager Cohen referencing her father's way of keeping alive difficult dialogue

The rest of Leah Hager Cohen's post here.

Yes.

Anna Emilia wrapped up with a bow, 2011

To walk in the rain with an old friend (yes, J., I believe we have become old friends -- crazy, I know), to taste warm soup, to open a package, remembering there is still such a thing as real mail.

These are the good things in life.

your time is limited...

Window, 2011

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life,” Jobs said. “Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

-Steve Jobs, 1955 - 2011

quote: wired.com

Back in the Saddle

Misty Blue, 2011

It's starting to feel like autumn.

more than the places I've been

Place I've Been (view from Tellaro bus stop), 2011

I feel a pull from the general direction of the Barents Sea, the Nordic countries, somewhere near Sweden, Finland, or Norway. A desire to head toward the open landscape and spare sensibility I imagine.

The raw and honest beauty of Tove Jansson's landscapes and characters. The places that inspired her trim prose.

It is simply this: do not tire, never lose interest, never grow indifferent—lose your invaluable curiosity and you let yourself die. It's as simple as that.
-Tove Jansson, Fair Play

My vision of the snow covered landscape, the austere cabin, and Per Petterson's quiet and contemplative central character in Out Stealing Horses.

All my life I have longed to be alone in a place like this. Even when everything was going well, as it often did. I can say that much. That it often did. I have been lucky. But even then, for instance in the middle of an embrace and someone whispering words in my ear I wanted to hear, I could suddenly get a longing to be in a place where there was only silence. Years might go by and I did not think about it, but that does not mean that I did not long to be there. And now I am here, and it is almost exactly as I had imagined it.
-Per Petterson, Out Stealing Horses

And then there is artist Anna Emilia's weather diary. She treads gently on her landscape. Her delicately detailed paintings, a form of contemporary Folk.

The wind and rain outdoors play the most magical instruments. Anything they touch becomes a small echo. Anything they pass, becomes a small note. A cup of tea in left hand, a sketching pen in right one. Light is disappearing, candle flame dances inside shadows. These gray days the color of sleep.
-Anna Emilia, Weather Diary

Yes, they are all really quite different, but careful observation reveals a definite thread. These are insider views, just a few pinpoints on the map of this vast landscape. A comfortable perspective perhaps only accessible to those born in the region.

Vendela Vida observes the stark landscape of the Sami from a different perspective. She has only visited Lapland three times. In Let The Northern Lights Erase Your Name she writes of a young woman's search for truth in a subarctic climate she is experiencing for the first time, the land of polar night and midnight sun. During an interview Vida speaks of having fallen in love with Lapland in the winter, the subtle gradations in the darkness. She liked the way the physical landscape mirrored her central character's emotional state. I'm intrigued by her exploration of violence and forgiveness in this bleak landscape. My attraction equates to fear and curiosity rigidly standing side by side.

It was three in the afternoon when my plane landed at the Helsinki airport, but outside my window, dusk was already settling in like a bruise. I retrieved my suitcase, its handle cold, and stumbled to the tourist information desk, where a woman with good teeth and bad English helped me find a hotel near the train station. My plan was to take the first train north, to Lapland, after a night of sleep.
-Vendela Vida, Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name

I wonder how it would feel. Could I love it more than the places I've been? This place where respect for the land appears inherent in its inhabitants, where they haven't forgotten the wilderness is wild.

Until She Knew Enough

Montemarcello, 2011

A quiet boat, soft wood planks, and photographic reflections in still water. The first person to speak to me is outside the building just north of the old Sausalito Caffe Trieste.

He is a proud man with grey hair standing beside a younger man. Both of them before a quiet red espresso machine. He, the older man, the one who is clearly in charge, says good morning, and I say good morning too. He tells me they will be serving coffee, soon. I ask him when and he tells me next Monday at 7:00 AM. I smile and say great, implying I will return, and I will. Then he says ciao, as if he were placed here in my day to ease my transition from Liguria back to Northern California.

A block away I notice I've held my smile. The sun is warm on my hair. It is a beautiful day for return. Cibo has photographs from a cooler season in Italy displayed in my favorite room, the glass room with old paint wearing thin upon its cement floor. There is a pigeon in the room. He steps lightly, knowing he shouldn't be here. His manners are appreciated. The day feels good. I don't long for other places.

Close to noon, in the public library, I find a poignant Hemingway quote from The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Now he would never write the things that he saved to write until he knew enough to write them well, and I wonder who is orchestrating this grand plan.

One of Those Things

Self, 2010

Hello.

It's been a while. Some of you have been around for years and I'd like to thank you for being here, reading, and commenting when the mood suits you. Writing is a fairly solitary endeavor and I enjoy this space, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one. I appreciate your being around for the good stuff and for your patience with my experiments. Much has changed since the summer of 2008, but I believe the important parts remain the same.

This is one of those things I usually do not do, but after some thought I decided it would be a good exercise to go back through the years and see what I've written here. I've thought a lot about the various types of posts I've written. Some make me proud and some duds (yesterday was sort of a dud...) I'm tempted to hide, but I won't. There are themes that repeat and thoughts I've allowed to fade. It's an evolution and it was a treat to look back at the way this space has stretched and contracted over time. Thank you, Amelia and Tracy, for this suggestion. It was viewing your walks down memory lane that inspired me to take my own.

Most beautiful post: February 8, 2011 A Reading
Most popular post: August 12, 2009 Julie & Julia Bruschetta
Most controversial post: May 24, 2011 Adaptation (Theft?)
Most helpful post: August 10, 2010 Who is she?
Success surprised me post: February 10, 2010 Shoot to kill.
Didn't get the attention it deserved post: May 13, 2010 The Pier
Most proud of post: October 27, 2010 Of Parks and Trailers

The following talented writers and photographers have inspired me. I'd love to see them write similar posts and I hope they do, but until then I highly recommend taking a look at their spaces. Seeing the world through there eyes is something you don't want to miss.

Rachel's rachel eats
Rachael's the slow-cooked sentence
Shari's the art of seeing things
Lecia's A Day that is Dessert
Lucinda's nourish me

(found) composition

In the Park (remember the slipper?), 2011

On Polk Street, 2011

The Little Room (Greens Restaurant), 2011

com·po·si·tion noun \ˌkäm-pə-ˈzi-shən\

the act or process of composing; specifically :
arrangement into specific proportion or relation and especially
into artistic form

-Merriam-Webster's 1 a :

The Book

Book, 2011

I fear the loss of them and their beautiful imperfections revealed by time and use.

Odd Indulgences

Pink Pearl, 2011

I like to take an apple, any type, but I'm particularly liking these Pink Pearls at the moment, and peel it, then chop it up, roughly, nothing fancy. Place it in a bowl and squeeze the juice of 1/2 a lemon on top. Next I sprinkle some sugar, just a little, over the lemony apples. This is a particularly puckering experience with the Pink Pearls. I don't believe the combination is a common enjoyment, but I certainly like it.

Do you have a culinary indulgence some might deem odd? Perhaps you'll share.

Or maybe I'm the only one.

Pink Pearl (apple)

Sometimes I prefer questions to answers.

Photograph courtesy of Christopher Parsons

I dreamed this,
does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in the world to be real?

-excerpt from the poem Castile from the book Vita Nova by Louise Glück

Leave Me Alone

Blackbird, 2011

I was sitting before the window in a little cafe named Blackbird when I saw a well-read day-old copy of The New York Times. I reached over and pulled out The Arts section. I was first drawn to the striking image and then to Michael Kimmelman's words.

He begins:

Sometimes on a whim I stop into the Bode Museum here to commune with a tiny clay sculpture of John the Baptist.

I'm hooked. It seems we share a definition for the good things in life. When I find someone who believes in taking time out of his day to commune with a tiny sculpture, I want to know more. What else does he have to say?

He continues:

It’s in a corner of a nearly always empty room, a bone-white bust, pretty and as androgynous as mid-1970s Berlin-addled David Bowie. The saint’s upturned eyes glow in the hard light through tall windows. Attributed to the 15th-century Luccan artist Matteo Civitali, the sculpture is all exquisite ecstasy and languor.

And I start remembering what I love about museums, especially quiet museums, especially the rooms that do not have the of-the-moment crowd pleasing exhibitions. Yes, often those crowd pleasers are worth seeing, but the experience is entirely different.

There is nothing like standing in a silent room of a museum with a work that speaks to you. A room empty of people. A lingering museum guard is fine, but no one else fighting to stand before the piece you are admiring. No one bumping into you while they view the highlights with their headphones. No docents. No tours. No all-knowing friends explaining the meaning of the work to their interested and uninterested companions (did you see Midnight in Paris?). Just you and the work.

Before I left Chicago I planned a day of saying goodbye to some of my favorite places, The Art Institute of Chicago, the Adler Planetarium, and the Shedd Aquarium. It was a weekday and I walked along the lakefront to reach my first destination. If you are able, I highly recommend visiting weekend destinations on weekdays. It is a different world.

I recall entering the quiet museum. It seemed I was the first visitor. I had it all to myself, at least temporarily. I'll never forget the way the late morning light flooded into the atrium and onto the sculptures.

Later in the afternoon I visited the planetarium's giant dome, sat beneath a simulated night sky, and looked up at bright stars in an almost-empty theater.

I never made it to the aquarium. Still, it was an amazing day, one I hope I will never forget.

Michael Kimmelman's article and my memory of this day in Chicago remind me of how lucky I have been to have had a wide array of such beautiful experiences, all over the world.

There was something about art school that distanced me from this type of beauty. I don't know if it was the way I fully immersed myself in the degree experience by attending every single lecture and exhibition I could fit into my life at the time, or seeing the work of others as well as my own work through an academic and often critical eye, or if it was just too much of a good thing, but I graduated with a feeling that resembled a need for detoxification. The beauty was gone. I just wanted to get away from it all.

It has been about four years now and I've been slowly easing my way back in, learning to appreciate it again. It's nice to be back, but I don't regret the way this part of my life unfolded. The experience reminds me of something I read in an interview with Tobias Wolff.

But it’s good for a while to be dropped through the bottom, to be a little helpless, to have to scramble to make do, because as you get older, you do less and less of that, and it’s good for you, it takes the rust off.

I found a mermaid in the woods this morning.

Inverness, 2011

Get Back to Work

Desk View, 2011

“Quit your complaining. It’s not the world’s fault that you wanted to be an artist. It’s not the world’s job to enjoy the films you make, and it’s certainly not the world’s obligation to pay for your dreams. Nobody wants to hear it. Steal a camera if you have to, but stop whining and get back to work.”

-Werner Herzog (a paraphrase)

I still can’t remember all the best things she said

fog, 2011

The landscape here makes me feel small. When the secrets of the thick fog reveal themselves at dusk the mind is transported to a place where anything is possible.

Holding mugs of hot coffee in the cool mornings while looking out at the stillness of the bay, Bob Dylan's Isis in the background. I've been floating, suspended somewhere above my usual reality, drifting back into my past, forward into potential futures, and landing back in the beauty of the limbo present.

I remember walking beside my mom, the young cool chick with long dark hair. We are in the mall and she is asking the clerk in the record store if they have that new Dylan album, the one with Hurricane.

There's the future I'll keep secret so I don't write it away, and the words I'll type, but not say.

The calf has escaped, she's beyond the barbed wire fence, and appears to have done so without bloodshed.

Desire

How we spend our days...

Monday Morning, 2011

I couldn't help myself. -Denise


Sheriff's calls

Tuesday, July 19

SAN GERONIMO: At 7:55 p.m. someone reported that subjects unknown had attached a homemade street sign reading "Bird House Way" over an official street sign. The vandals had attached the sign with clothespins. Several unsanctioned birdhouses had also been attached to nearby telephone poles.

Saturday, July 23

INVERNESS: At 4:12 p.m. a man reported that a group of bikers grabbed him on his way to the post office, restrained him and took his picture.

Monday, July 25

WOODACRE: At 1:30 p.m. a woman reported that the garbage man always looks through her window from his truck. Deputies talked to the man, and determined that he was not doing anything illegal.


excerpts: July 28, 2011 Point Reyes Light

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.