Slower Pleasures

Park, 2012

We forget that there is a thrill that attends the slower pleasures, pleasures that become increasingly powerful the more time we spend pursuing them.

~Mark Strand

via the PARIS REVIEW

April

spring windows I, 2012

This time last year I was noticing lace curtains, finding it odd that they dressed so many urban windows.  I'd always imagined lace curtains in the country, but eyelet or calico would probably me more likely.  Calico, as we use it in the United States, the small floral print.  The print of cotton pajamas I wore in the summer, when I was a little girl.  There was rhubarb.  And there was the book of Wisteria I wanted to make, a map showing all the publicly visible spaces in San Francisco it grew.  Wisteria always leads me to Enchanted April, so it is fitting that it was and is April.  Conception of an idea is often more beautiful than implementation.  On April 10th Chris gave me daffodils wrapped in brown paper.  I thought about Alice, and wondered if the depths of darkness were better than the depths of anything else.  I wondered why so many thoughts were formed as snippets.  The second priority was fighting for first.  I searched for patterns, but found none I desired.  A section of April 6th proved to be as special as the blue hour and the moments preceding sunrise.  I ate Stilton.  There were butterfly cookies.  And some days were simply forgotten. 

This April has been different, although there were daffodils, and rhubarb.  On April 24th I saw a middle aged man with Tevas and a wide grin heading up a hill.  He was carrying a slim cellophane package of white cheese and one red onion, both in the same hand.  There was something very likable about him, and for now, he overshadows the rest.

Rhubarb and Rain for Breakfast

spring windows II, 2012

Hello.

Today's post is light and easy.  I'm taking a break from deep thought this morning.

Shari has pleasantly distracted me with her spring windows series.  I've joined in.  You should too.

Rhubarb is back in my life and I'm so happy.  Ah, the simple things.

Here's my latest experiment.

Rhubarb with Apple, Raspberry, and Allspice
4 humble servings

3 long thin ribs rhubarb roughly chopped into 1 1/2" pieces
1 peeled, seeded, and cored apple (I used a Gala) roughly chopped into 1" pieces
½ cup frozen raspberries
juice and zest of 1 small lemon
¼ cup sugar
¼ cup vanilla sugar*
½ teaspoon ground allspice

*I made my vanilla sugar by simply placing a ¼ vanilla bean in a tin with a ½ cup sugar. for a few days

Pre-heat oven to 325°

Pour measured sugars and allspice into a small bowl and stir to mix.

Place rhubarb, apple, raspberries, zest and juice of lemon, and sugar allspice mixture in a medium casserole dish or oven-safe pot with lid.

Gently toss ingredients.

Cover and bake for 15 minutes. Stir. Bake an additional 15 minutes. Stir.

Let sit with, covered, for at least 10-15 minutes.  Fruit will continue to soften during this time.  Or cool uncovered for more firm fruit.

And...that is it. You are done. Bravo!

Serving options:  Warm with vanilla ice cream on top.  You could also top bowls of Greek yogurt, cottage cheese, or ricotta cheese with chilled rhubarb.  I'm sure it would be delicious atop a simple cake such as pound cake with unsweetened or lightly sweetened whipped cream.  Yesterday I ladled some warm rhubarb into a bowl and ate it plain.  It was great.  This morning I am enjoying my rhubarb cool and spooned over Greek yogurt.  It tastes equally great.

Enjoy.

+ More on my relationship with rhubarb. +

Reminder: Life Can Change Quickly

A Gift of Daffodils, 2012

After a Morning Visit to the ER, 2012

I've been looking at the world through new eyes these past few days.  First there was shock, and then pain.  A little blood, followed by the fear of needing help, not being able to wing this one on my own.  After a visit to the emergency room and confirmation that I want to do everything possible to minimize my time in hospitals, I'm okay.  I'm still me, just me with a temporary limp and the beginnings of a new scar.

I have been lucky in this life, and when I compare it to the challenges so many have experienced, it has been a walk in the park.  But, still, within the context of my life, the only one I truly know, the last few days have been hard.  I continue to review the accident and the what if aspects of it.  It could have easily been worse.

People look at me differently as I walk slowly, with this quiet limp.  They look at me with half smiles, but not for too long, they don't want to stare.  I believe they see me as a softer and more fragile person, weaker than the me they might have seen just a few days ago.  Perhaps I am.

Looking at those who are slowed down due to one thing or another and admiring their ability to push through, and get out there, and live their lives--this is not new to me.  I am not one to take my health for granted, but even the smallest of injuries have a way of shifting your view, allowing you to see first hand what other people have felt.  It is a different sort of empathy.

Today I simply want to record how happy I am to have this little home, my husband, the ability to sit here and write, soothed by Norah Jones, and the ability to walk, albeit slowly, for now.

Who Wakes with the Sun

First there were the camellias in the early morning light. They brought me to the borage. It emerged from the pavement and rested against an old dark wood fence dressed in pale green moss from another season. A still life of sorts.

As I turned away I came upon a proud postured and seemingly determined woman on what I supposed was her morning walk. She looked directly into my eyes and said good morning, with gusto and sincerity, her entire body involved with what I can best describe as some combination of a nod and a bow. It was as if she was the mayor or ambassador of the neighborhood, or perhaps the morning, and she was confident it would be a good one.

When I continued on and crossed the path of a man wearing the frown of a widemouth bass, walking his tall somber dog, I was still in possession of her nod and bow, a smile of contentment upon my face. It was then I realized her air of confidence was not without reason.

Monday

Early Spring, 2012

I started the day with poetry, because when it is good it fuels my prose. But what I read did not speak to me, so I listened to All the Days and Nights, for the fourth time.

...

row, 2011

Do you ever just feel like running away? Boarding a plane or train and hoping your destination feels right? Jumping into a small boat and rowing until you end up where you belong?

Where you belong. Is there such a place?

Perhaps you are already there.

Big Poetry Giveaway

photograph: courtesy Kelli Russell Agodon

Hello. I hope this note finds you well.

Molly has just brought the Big Poetry Giveaway to my attention and I quite like the idea. I have decided to join in and give away two books of poetry.

Would you like one?

The giveaway has officially begun and will run through midnight PST, April 30th, 2012.

I will be giving away two books.

1) The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake by Molly Sutton Kiefer
2) Blizzard of One by Mark Strand

Reading poetry is always a good idea, but I seem especially drawn to it in the spring. I purchased Molly's chapbook close to this time last year and just finished reading this book of Mark Strand poems. Two beautifully moving collections by two gifted poets.

Simply leave a comment below and I will select two winners during the week of May 1st. 

+++  update May 1, 2012  +++
The giveaway is now closed and the two selected recipients have been contacted.  Thank you for your participation.

On this fine spring day,

Stella Pastry, 2012

I wish you hot cross buns.

the words we write down

August 18, 2010

It's funny, the words we write down and then forget. I'm compiling bits from the many notebooks I've filled during the past several years and I've been enjoying an unexpected part of the project. I'm finding odds and ends, notes, lists, phrases, ideas, out of context sentences, and lines of poetry. All items I wrote down and haven't returned to, until now.

I found the lines below in the back of a notebook from 2010. They were originally written by the poet, Robert Haas. I believe they were simply lines that caught my attention, possibly from The Apple Trees at Olema. Maybe it was Poetry. I wanted to save them for later, no real agenda. I do this type of thing often. Do you?

Robert Haas:
-Because she, not her sister, answered the door,
-She looked beautiful, and looked her age, too.
-In the other world the girls were named Eleanor and Filina,

The Apple Trees at Olema
Poetry

home

life at home, 2012

Found in old journal. Still true.

home

deep bathtub
gas burners on my stove
room for a kitchen table and two chairs in front of my kitchen window
high ceilings
large bay window in living area
vintage built-in bath cabinet & mirror
large walk-in closet w/ shelves
view of coit tower, bay, and alcatraz when walking out our front door
proximity to good food: okoze, za, swensen's are favorites
2 bus lines stop outside our front door and the cable car is one block away
tile kitchen countertops
price
little telephone cubby in front hallway
ample kitchen storage space
instant hot water
great water pressure
attentive building management

For Chris

Pretty Red Soup

soup, 2012

I made this wonderful soup last week and thought you might like to try it. It's more of a sketch of a soup than a true recipe because I simply tossed together a variety of ingredients I happened to have in my kitchen. This is how I usually make soup.

I found this combination especially good, so I wrote it down.

Pretty Red Soup

Find a medium pot for soup and gather your ingredients.

- good olive oil
- 1 big red bell pepper, chopped
- 1 small leek, chopped
- grey sea salt
- 4 whole plum tomatoes (canned w/ some juice)
- 14 ½ ounces of low sodium chicken broth
- 2 large garlic cloves, chopped
- 2 cups roasted (w/ olive oil, s&p) beets & carrots, chopped
- 1 tablespoon cream

Warm a tablespoon or so of olive oil in pot set over medium heat.

Add red bell pepper and leek and sprinkle with a little grey sea salt.

Allow pepper and leek to soften, about 7 minutes.

Crush (I do so with my hands) and add tomatoes and garlic to pot and simmer 5 minutes.

Add carrots and beets and simmer 10 more minutes.

Turn off heat.

Puree contents of pot with immersion blender.

Stir in cream.

I ate mine as-is, but it might look nice served with a dollop of Greek yogurt or crème fraîche and a sprinkle of something green, minced (maybe chive).

Enjoy!

I'm not embarrassed.

phone, 2012

One of those very scraggly, yet entirely confident, hipsters rang up my groceries today. She asked me if I was on my way home or to work. I said both. She said, oh, home and then work? I said no, home is work, although I do need a better chair. She very soberly said work and play should be separate. I said they are, mentally. She smiled disapprovingly and handed me my receipt.

I wondered if she had a point. Is working from home a bad idea, like driving a car while texting?

I do generally believe in doing one thing at a time. Earlier today I read this article (Thanks, Chris), confirming much of what I already believed.

After the article, and before the grocery store, I was pulling together a few things to go out for some coffee, writing, and a little Mark Strand (Thanks, Ann). No, not all at the same time. Well, actually I did plan to drink the coffee while writing. And I sometimes talk to my father on my cell phone while I'm walking. Nothing is ever black and white...

I do work from home, but I do not do all of my work from home. I also transform cafes, libraries, park benches, beaches, and community gardens into writing spaces. Sometimes I stand on a curb. And there is the corporate work, in the Financial District. But almost everything I do on my laptop is done at home.

So anyway, as I was preparing to do some work outside of the home I noticed my cell phone on the kitchen table and thought goodbye. I won't take you along today. I'll walk out the door without you, completely free from digital distraction. This relic of a phone has such minimal capability most would not see it as a devise qualified to distract. It has been out of date for quite some time now.

My husband has an iPhone. My parents are completely up-to-date with their shiny new phones. I don't think I know anyone with a phone like mine. Maybe this is why I like it.

A few years back I was out for cocktails with some friends when I pulled my phone from my handbag to check my messages (someone was late, possibly lost). A rather straightforward friend of mine yelped Denise! For God's sake. Get a new phone. That thing is embarrassing!

Embarrassment is not why I make purchases.

I didn't take my phone (yes, that same old phone) out with me today and I hesitate in buying a phone with more progressive technology because I don't enjoy constant connection. I don't want to be linked up with every single person I know at every moment of the day. I was slow to warm to the cell phone in general. I originally embraced it as a tool for emergencies, to be kept in my car.

I don't own a Kindle, yet. But I might, one day. I do read articles and poetry, watch movies, and do many other things on my laptop. I'm obviously far from being a Luddite. I tweet, I pin, I blog.

But I continue to write in pencil and transfer what I like to my laptop, later. It is what works for me, for now. I have no desire to tote my laptop around or confine myself to my apartment for peak efficiency. I feel a certain freedom and lightness when I walk out into the fresh air with only a pencil and paper.

That being said, it could all change.

I haven't shot film in ages. I really should finish that ancient roll of black & white film I have in my dad's old SLR. The last time I was in a darkroom shunning photographers using digital cameras, sheesh, it has been about five years now. And those days beneath a big black cloth, exposing large negatives, they are even further back.

I now treasure a banged up little digital camera I originally borrowed to make test shots before exposing large format negatives. It's not perfect, but it allows manipulation of film speed setting, lighting, and exposure. It has been good to me and has served me well as a camera for my thoughts.

I read this poem after writing the above, saw a connection, and thought I'd share it with you.

Old Man Leaves Party by Mark Strand

The March

Monday, 2012

There is a small San Francisco library branch with large arched windows and a very nice wedding cake like ceiling. I'm here right now. Four books I'd requested have arrived at once. This was not planned. Just a week ago I returned all but one of my library books. I believed it was a waiting stack of books that gave my reading that terrible marching feeling. I don't enjoy marching.

Shari has recently been sharing spring manifestos written by some of her friends. They've been inspiring. I like reading manifestos, but shrink at the thought of writing my own. It seems too grand, too serious. The moment I commit to something of this sort I seem to lose my will.

I tried, again, last year. I was very easy on myself. Still, the result was disappointing. Reading Lisa's manifesto yesterday, and her lighthearted attitude toward it, brought out the optimist in me. I started thinking that it wasn't such a big deal. I should just make it fun, like Lisa. Not take it too seriously.

So my idea (trying to trick myself by not calling it a manifesto) is simple, a subtle behavioral shift I believe will yield big results.

End the march.

There seems to be a nasty little march I break into, without warning. It can begin at just about any time -- marching up a hill with groceries, marching through email, marching through a phone call, marching through cleaning beneath the kitchen sink. I can even march while writing.

Clearly, the march does not always involve walking. It is a state of mind, an abrupt and determined way of moving and thinking.

Turning a task that needn't feel forced to be accomplished into a forced march isn't a pleasant way to move through life. It is a behavior that can suck the fun out of anything, and requires such laborious focus it removes me from all present surroundings not specifically related to the task at hand.

I know I won't be able to stop it from starting. It's too sneaky.

The good news is that I've found I only need to notice it to bring it to a halt and shift into a more steady and relaxed state of mind, see things through a new lens, slow my breathing, feel my jaw unclench, and peacefully take a look at what is around me. Seriously. This isn't dramatized. It happens that quickly.

I just did it now. The march snuck up on me as I was writing and I decided no no no. And there was the wedding cake ceiling, the trees and blue sky beyond the arched glass, the glowing acorn light fixtures suspended above, and the the shelves of books.

I read one of Mark Strand's poems and have decided to read one of Ms. Simpson's short stories, knowing I have other books at home, and much else to do today, but also knowing it can all get done. No need to bring anxiety into the picture. No need to clench the jaw.

Today I am one of only two library visitors without computers, yet I don't hear keyboards. I hear the distant sound of a paper cutter and a man turning pages of a newspaper.

tiny discoveries (episode 2)

Morning, March, 2012

place noun

1 a : physical environment : space

I have found the following are what set the mood and create the infrastructure for how I exist in a place.

landscape
architecture
inhabitants
weather
sound
privacy
site
view

definition via Merriam-Webster

Us

The Pond, 2012

He wakes like toast. Straight up without pause. I am far more meandering, more of a slow-cooked egg.

I imagine his daydreams are closer to home than mine, related in some way to his task at hand. But I have no evidence. He doesn't tell me about them.

Mine are odd floating daydreams, frequently simple objects drifting above and past me, just skimming my peripheral vision. Often food. Yesterday I saw the Good Humor strawberry shortcake ice cream bar of my childhood pass by, and later a plate of poached salmon, green beans, and new potatoes with dill.

I told him what I saw. I don't believe it changed his opinion of me.

tiny discoveries (episode 1)

March 13, 2012

It is amazing how hand squeezing a single grapefruit for juice can make one feel centered.

I'm home.

Souvenirs from Guido's, 2012

Our suitcases are still full. Empty Chinese take-out containers rest on our coffee table. Chris left for his office in the early morning dark. I'm transitioning. Chris is so much better with transitions than I am. Evidence? I dipped ak-mak crackers into cottage cheese for breakfast this morning. My kitchen table is set with a generous handful of Sicilian oregano and a box of camomile flower tea. Two Italian imports brought to me via Scottsdale (Thanks, Mom). I'm admiring both and contemplating what's next. My laptop is lined with tabs of articles and recipes and bird identification sites I want to return to. There are characters waiting to be read and written. Everything feels out of order this morning, but it doesn't bring distress. I'm sure a good cup of coffee and some writing will help things fall into place, or at least allow me the temporary illusion that they are so.

What are you up to today?

Monday Morning

Tomales Bay, 2012

Monday morning coffee beside Tomales Bay followed by a walk along the Estero Trail has left quite a spring in my step. A long weekend in West Marin. Oh, the joy.

Thank you, Chris. You sure know how to celebrate your birthday.

A pretty amazing two minutes.

Litany

Dreams and Actions

I remember when my father talked of building a lighthouse in the desert, and the glimmer in his eyes. The crazier the idea, the brighter the glimmer. It would be the only lighthouse for miles, and he'd live in it. Of course, I would have lived in it too, as would my sister. We were still young and living with Dad when he had the lighthouse idea. But it wasn't really about us, it was about him. We were simply along for the ride.

He didn't just tell us to follow our own paths in life, he exemplified the idea. He left a stable career he felt was no longer for him, packed up all we owned, and moved west. He's built many things over the years, even houses, but not a lighthouse, not yet.

I wonder if he remembers the dream of a desert lighthouse. I hope so. Perhaps he's laying the foundation right now, as I type. It is possible. The dream is beautiful, but the action makes all the difference.

Pearl brought back this memory. He has me thinking about dreams and actions. Have you seen A Man Named Pearl? If not, you should.

No Comment

The Neighborhood, 2011

Three tiny paintings sit in a first floor window on Vallejo Street. The canvases look to be about 3 x 3 inches. Each canvas rests on its own small easel. The paintings appear to be the work of a young child. I wonder who decided the paintings should face the street. The mother, the father, the artist? It was a good decision. The paintings made me smile.

I wanted to thank the artist, but this isn't how it typically works with painting, or poetry, or novels -- so many things. We visit museums and galleries, linger over chapbooks, and feel our perspectives shift while reading a well-written novel.

Most of these creators will never know how they have moved us. There is no comments section beneath their work. And perhaps this is for the best.

pattern

Too predictable?

Book Bay Find, 2012

My husband has been out of town and I've found myself with much quiet time to think and explore. Rather than embarking on an array of new adventures, I've comfortably slipped back into my former single-girl ways and have been treating myself to simple pleasures. I've also been keeping very strange hours. I've seen 2 AM more than once during this past week. Oh, well, all will be back to normal soon enough. Why not embrace the quiet and the strange.

I'm reading Eric Rohmer's Six Moral Tales. I had no idea he'd written these stories before he was certain he'd become a filmmaker. The book of short stories came with my Criterion Collection box set (Thank you, Christopher). Rohmer explains in the preface that his stories became films because he did not succeed in writing them. I wholeheartedly disagree. I'm in the middle of reading his third moral tale and feel smitten with all I've read thus far.

I've also added a book to my collection (see above). Yes, I admit without apology that I was drawn to this book by its fabulous 1961 cover, but I bought it due to Celia Dale's Broadsheet description. A little used bookstore browsing and buying is always fun, but especially so when the bookstore is just beside a beautiful bay view.

I'm slowly working my way through a new-to-me chocolate bar from Belgium, a departure for me because it is milk chocolate (with speculoos) and I am always partial to dark. It's nice, but very sweet. I'm pretty sure I'll be returning to dark the next time I'm in the mood for chocolate, but if you like sweet milk chocolate this could be for you.

Two new candles in little gold tins are scenting my apartment, one lavender and one vanilla.

And I've brought home a skein of Italian cashmere/silk/merino yarn, in the most beautiful red (#45). I'm knitting a simple cowl.

One last item... I made Pasta all'Amatriciana last night, River Cafe style. Yum.

Too predictable? Perhaps, but I don't mind.

How do you treat yourself? What are your simple pleasures?

Six Moral Tales
Book Bay
Lynne Reid Banks
Dolfin's Milk Chocolate with Speculoos Bar
Seda France's Travel Tin Candles
Filatura Di Crosa's Superior in #45 Lipstick Red
Superior Cowl
Pasta all'Amatriciana

Midnight Blue

Outside The Aldrich, 2005

Just as the grey sky turned dark, I looked up and saw it. Midnight Blue. I was always partial to the blues, Sky Blue, Cornflower, Periwinkle, but Midnight Blue overshadowed them all, and there it was, in the sky, the same sky that was there every night. Why hadn't I seen it before? And why did it take me back to running through the snow in the silence of night. I don't think I even looked up at the sky, and I know it was well past midnight. I only remember my footprints in the fresh snow. He'd called to tell me he was in town. My younger more naive self found venturing out into the snow cold night a reasonable request. He missed me and something about him made me weak. Time with him was both thrilling and depleting. A place I could not stay. Part of me wonders what was I thinking and another part misses the innocence.

Midnight Blue (1987) by Lou Gramm

Midnight Blue (1958) by Crayola

A Postcard

L'Eternelle Idole, 2012

A thoughtful friend sent me this postcard from Paris, in 2004. It rests in the lower left corner of a mirror near my entryway. I've been looking at it lately, and thinking about relationships. When asked to accompany someone I care about on an adventure, I find it nearly impossible to say no. I don't want to miss anything. I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It began with my father, moved on to boyfriends, and now involves a certain husband. For this reason I have had much fun. For this reason I have also sometimes put my own adventures on hold, often without even knowing I was doing so. When I can find the strength to pry myself away from what I know and love, just for a little while, I always return with so much more to share.

notes

why we have saucers, 2011

I sneeze in a quiet cafe and no one says bless you.

A woman with pink hair is so loud I decide to leave. As I walk out, her eyes catch mine, and I imagine we could be friends.

Later a small dog named Tamale stands beside my leg as I sit on a park bench. It was like he just wanted to be near me, for a moment, and then he was on his way.

When the sound of traffic slows I hear the birds in the trees. No crows or seagulls, just song.

A Life

Today I Saw Two Pink Flamingos, 2012

It was dark and silent when I realized I was awake. I was holding two socks in my right hand, beneath my pillow. Wearing socks to bed on a cold night always seems a good idea, until it isn't. I inevitably wake with my socks removed.

I wrote this down in the library, the branch that inspired Richard Brautigan's fictional library of unpublishable books.

There was an old Mason jar filled with paperwhites placed atop a shelf neatly stacked with various newspapers and Chinese magazines. I couldn't stop looking at the flowers, and the jar. I'd never seen fresh flowers in a library. They changed the space in the most positive of ways.

I was also surprised by the number of people without keyboards before them, and the library quiet of the past.

A hardcover titled Paris Trout seemed to scream from the shelf across from my table. The title font was enormous and slanted to the right, as if in action. Freedom sat on a shelf to my left. I guessed its days of having a queue were over.

Still holding my socks I thought of a sentence Annie Dillard had written. I'd found it the night before, in the form of a note in one of my old journals.

I hear the river outside the window, if I remember to listen.

My river was the moan of the distant foghorn. It was dependable, except on those days that decided to turn blue.

Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters by Annie Dillard

Satsuma, meet Kishu.

Kishu, 2012

I've tasted my first Kishu. Satsuma now has a rival. Kishu Mandarins are smaller than Satsuma Mandarins, they are even smaller than Page Mandarins. Almost bite-size. No seeds. They are rumored to be easy to peel, but it's all a matter of perspective. The Kishu is not as easy to peel as the Satsuma, but much easier than the Page. They are not as juicy as the Page, but juicier than the Satsumas I've eaten lately. If the two Kishus I've eaten today represent the typical, I prefer their overall taste to both the Satsuma and the Page. Luckily I have three more.

Kishu
Satsuma
Page

Twilight

Half Past Five, 2012

There is something about the sunsets in La Jolla. When I'm here, I cannot miss them. I enjoy sunsets at home, but they don't pull me toward them as these do. I bundle up each evening and walk along the water while the sun sinks and the sea roars. I watch the horizon as the light shifts and the colors change. It is hypnotic. I saw a fire truck filled with firemen pull to the curb and settle in to watch the display this evening. So many people do the same. I understand. The sea and what's left of the sun absorb all of my tension. Most of the onlookers disappear with the sun, leaving the brief stretch of time before dark to the congregation of cormorants, and me.

FO

Hat, 2012

I kept meaning to ask the ever-inspiring Rachel what an FO was, and then I figured it out. It's knitspeak for a finished object (knitted object).

So here's my most recent FO. A hat. I finished it this morning and I'm so pleased. I bought the yarn from Sophie at Bluebird Yarn in Sausalito. The yarn is a Merino Wool/Alpaca/Silk blend (Mirasol Sulka in Wine, Shade: 203). I found the Colour Sparks pattern on Ravelry. It is also available on Etsy. As you can see, I decided against the flower. I just wasn't feeling flowery.

It knit up quickly, well, there was a bit of drama last night, but it was silly, so I won't get into it. It fits perfectly. Completing it was a nice way to begin a day.

And that's not all. I recently finished some pretty sweet fingerless gloves. I used Madelinetosh yarn for the first time. Laurie from Greenwich Yarn (here in San Francisco) thought I would like it, and I did. Knitting with it was a treat.

Watch out, I'm moving, albeit slowly, beyond scarves...

There was a man...

from here, 2012

The man in the furthest window seat from the door, the only space with a cushioned seat, he wears a faded green train conductor type hat and a synthetic vest with metallic safety stripes. I wanted to look at him longer, because he had a nice way about him, but he stood up shortly after I sat down. He very purposefully gathered his cup, napkin, and paper bag which likely held his pastry or muffin, and dusted away every crumb from from his table. He left with a free newspaper cradled beneath his arm and a humble smile. I continued to look at the now empty space and wondered what had been in his paper cup and his bag, what his plans were for today.

Temptation

voting with my pocketbook, 2012

So many books in the queue, but with a first page that begins like this...seriously, how could I resist?

Within each horseradish leaf, where it unwinds from the stem, there’s a small bead of rainwater. He sees one there, shining brilliantly in the morning sun, as if it’s been placed, a jewel, pure and dazzling. It’s perfect. This will be lovely he thinks, leading his daughter toward the plant, her hand so small and cool in his own, both of them crouching over the leaves till their shadows merge.

-Excerpt from the novel Sea Change by Jeremy Page.

4:02 PM Inspiration

inspiration, 2012

This beautiful slice of banana oatmeal bread inspired me. I hope mine inspires you. I only made my usual changes to the recipe, nine ingredients or so. I can't help it. It's my nature. I say start with Pam's recipe and make it your own, but if you really want to know what I switched up, just let me know.

Now for a warm slice...

what her world might have felt like

just before the new year, 2011

Lecia has me thinking. I'm not surprised. She does this often. Her post took me back to the day I was born, the day my mother became a mother. Of course, I don't remember a thing, but this song gives me an idea of what her world might have felt like, back then.

To Sir With Love by Lulu

was it all a dream

from the upstairs window, 2011

I just woke up and I'm wondering ...wait, was it all a dream?

Beginning the day with a walk on a beautiful empty beach, the bobcat, the fox, the Dungeness crab on our brunch table, the midday nap.

Either way, I figure it is worth writing down and saving.

Shifting Gears

Winter, 2011

So, we've officially entered winter. I hope you are enjoying it. It feels good over here.

I just walked up the hill with this mound of my favorite citrus, Rio Star grapefruits and satsumas. Stella Pastry is baking the panettone I will pick up this afternoon. I've learned that I will have a small plot for gardening this summer and my beloved Kitazawa Seed Co. catalog has arrived. I feel a shift.

All I need is a novel, one that is light, perhaps funny, but is still good. Does it exist? I don't want trash, unless it happens to be good trash, then please tell me about it. All I seem to adore in the literary world is the beautiful writing that almost inevitably involves an underlying sadness. I still love this work. I'll always love this work, but I need a small break, to shift gears for a brief period of time. Can you help?

I know most of you are busy with the holiday season and all, but if you have a moment and can think of anything old or new that might suit my mood, please offer your suggestion. Just type it in the comments section quickly, don't worry about typos or links, I'll figure it out.

Thank you, kind readers.

Living

The bus to Rodeo Beach, 2011

Rodeo Beach, 2011

He meant doing things not because we were expected to do them or had always done them or should do them but because we wanted to do them. He meant wanting. He meant living.

- Joan Didion The Year of Magical Thinking

New Traditions

Christmas Whale, 2011

We've added a small tree, clearly inspired by Charlie Brown, complete with felted acorn and papier-mâché whale, to our holiday spirit collection. I also made some cookies. Chris mistakenly bought a mint chocolate bar versus simple dark chocolate, so we just went with it. These cookies are so good and super simple. And almost gone.

Oatmeal Chocolate Mint Cookies
makes about 24 cookies

Preheat oven to 350°F and gather your ingredients.

1/4 pound (1 stick) softened butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 egg
3/4 cup white whole wheat flour (I use King Arthur)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon fleurs de sel
1 1/2 cups whole grain oats
1 3/4 ounces (half 3.5 oz bar) dark mint chocolate bar rough cut into 1/2 inch pieces

In a medium bowl mix softened butter and sugar with a fork until creamy.

Add egg to butter and sugar and mix well.

Carefully pour flour, baking soda, and fleurs de sel on top of butter sugar egg mixture, without blending the dry ingredients into the wet.

Stir the flour mixture very gently as it sits atop the butter, sugar, egg mixture. The goal is to combine and evenly distribute the dry ingredients before mixing them into the wet ingredients (no need to wash a second bowl).

Combine flour mixture with butter, sugar, egg mixture, evenly distributing all ingredients.

Stir in oats.

Stir in chocolate pieces.

Place tablespoon size rounds of dough onto cookie sheet.

Bake for about 8 minutes and then keep a close eye on your cookies. You want them to just start to dry on top and be light brown on the bottom.

Cool on cookie sheet for a couple of minutes and move to wire rack.

They are really good warm.

Enjoy.

These cookies made me miss you, Marshall Field & Company. I miss your Christmas tree in your Walnut Room and your Frango Mint Chocolate Chip Cookies and your animated Christmas window displays on State Street. Those cold winter trips downtown I began adoring as a little girl just aren't the same without you. Thank you for the memories...

Marshall Field was famous for his slogan "Give the lady what she wants." A wise man.

It's like someone's pinched me.

Solo Trip, 2011

I cannot stop thinking about a sentence I read a few weeks ago.

"Women live longer than men because they really haven't been living."

It was something Diane Keaton's mother noted in one of her journals. She read it in a Tom Robbins novel.

I know it was fiction, so why am I so irked? All I keep thinking is what ridiculous crap.

when I truly pay attention

dust and cupcake, 2011

I thought I was a creator, but when I truly pay attention I realize I'm more of an archaeologist, simply digging to find what already exists, dusting it off, and looking at it in a new way.

One day I brought home a big fat red peony.

December, 2011

It's been good to me so far.

What's new with you?

Joan Didion Notes / 24:

Life, 2011

When I saw Joan Didion in conversation with Vendela Vida I was listening so intently I only made a few notes.

November 15, 2011

Joan Didion

24 - Her mother told her it was her favorite year.

24 - She reads a passage she has written about being a little girl and describing what her life will be like when she is 24. She is wearing a sable coat and dark sunglasses. She will be on the front steps of a South American public building. She will be getting a divorce.

24 - After her husband died she no longer felt 24 because he was the last person who'd known her when she was 24.

Some things just stay with you.

While getting dressed I thought of the conversation last night and how it exemplified the little pockets of beauty hidden throughout our lives, even beneath the heavy folds of sadness.

I made this photograph and wrote the accompanying words on November 16, 2011. Someone commented on it today, the first Monday in December 2011, and prompted me to return to it and study its contents. It has me thinking back to words that originally moved me in August 2003. Those words were first published in 1974, as part of a nonfiction narrative by Annie Dillard. You glimpse a few of those words in the photograph. I wrote briefly about the words in September 2009.

Some things just stay with you.

The world's spiritual geniuses seem to discover universally that the mind's muddy river, this ceaseless flow of trivia and trash, cannot be dammed, and that trying to dam it is a waste of effort that might lead to madness. Instead you must allow the muddy river to flow unheeded in the dim channels of consciousness; you raise your sights; you look along it, mildly, acknowledging its presence without interest and gazing beyond it into the realm of the real where subjects and objects act and rest purely, without utterance. "Launch into the deep," says Jacques Ellul, "and you shall see."

excerpt from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard

Ten days ago...

Armeria maritima var. californica, 2011

transcribed from my Moleskine, shown above:

November 20, 2011
close to 7 AM

I am 44 years old today, officially in about an hour.

Again, my dreams were filled with wild cats.

The sky is a white tending toward a very light grey tending toward the lightest of blues. There was a little rain, but it has stopped, for now. The tree branches on the east side of the house wave, the branches on the west side are still.

The heat is filling the glass house, the sun is rising, and I sit here upon the Jetsons-style sofa taking it all in through transparent walls, documenting with sleepy hands and thought patterns.

Chris is asleep.

I believe I saw our grey owl again, but he disappeared into the trees before I could confirm.

The large moth was searching for light in the kitchen this morning while I poured my first glass of sparkling water. We've been drinking sparkling water exclusively because the orange-tinted tap water, although promised to be perfectly fine, does not appeal to us.

Yesterday Chris suggested I give the large moth a name so he would seem less menacing. He thought Bernard might work. I agreed. Bernard has now followed me into the living area. Last night Bernard was in my shower. I think he likes me.

The heater pauses and the cold sets in quickly.

This beautiful home was not constructed for heating efficiency. Understood. This is California. But there is quite a chill up here.

The local paper leads me to believe the National Park Service will reclaim this land, along with this glass tree house, in April of next year. What will the park service do with a glass studio perched on stilts, accessible by small tram? A meditation space for rangers?

I think I'll crawl back into bed.

The Jetsons

Another Me

@76-A, 2008

I'm missing her today...

photograph: Christopher Parsons

Are you preparing for Thanksgiving?

March of the West Marin Wild Turkeys, 2011

What will be on your Thanksgiving table this year? I'd love to know what you're up to today. I'm about to begin shopping. Yes, It is probably way too late, but just think of all of the excitement that will be buzzing around the farmers market, grocery store, and wine shop. I am making my lists and listening to Bob Dylan's Desire album. The song Black Diamond Bay is playing and I'm in a very good mood.

Wish me luck out there.

Dinner:
turkey breast (bone-in - hope I can find one...)*
gravy (toasting my flour this year)
stuffing (inspired by Mom's cornbread stuffing)
cranberry chutney (inspired by Nicole's recipe)
brussels sprouts (roasted w/ pancetta)
carrots (roasted)
pie (sweet potato - inspired by Joy the Baker's recipe - I'm going to try her no-roll pie crust too)
ice cream (vanilla)
whipping cream (a 2nd pie topping option?)
wine (red)

Shopping:
turkey breast - bone-in*
chicken stock - at least 6 cups
celery
onions x 2
apples x 2
cranberries - 4 cups (1 lb.)
ginger - fresh
raisins (seedless) - 1 cup
carrots - nice bunch
brussels sprouts
pancetta - just one thick slice
sweet potatoes x 2
cream cheese
evaporated milk - two 5 oz cans (1 1/4 cups evaporated milk)
eggs - 6pk.
ice cream - vanilla
whipping cream (maybe?)
wine - red

Did I mention this is dinner for two? Plus leftovers, of course.

updates:

12:35pm
Back from Ferry Plaza Farmers Market (special holiday market hours today). *Turkey legs at Golden Gate Meat Co. looked better than breast. Bought two giant legs, and a thick slice of their pancetta.
Also, found a beautiful Weck Globe Jar at Heath Ceramics for our chutney.

5:02pm
I did buy the whipping cream. Done.

habit

Making Memories (this one in Brooklyn), 2011

I've been working on cultivating a few new habits lately, good habits, thanks to the blog named habit. Are you familiar with it? It's about making memories.

I want to tell you more about my experience with habit so far, but I'm so sleepy (yes, it is 3pm) and have too much else to do, so it's going to have to wait. Until then, you should head over and take a peek.

I'll be there along with a long list of others documenting special moments in their days. Each person in their own unique way. You'll find me on the posts dated November 14, 15, and 16.

I hope you are enjoying this autumn afternoon moving too quickly into evening, wherever you are.

Take care,
Denise

One foggy morning...

Flowers and Fog, 2011

I woke remembering a good dream. I was attending a writers retreat and hanging out with Vendela Vida. She borrowed one of my spaghetti strapped tops to go out one night (Yes, I know...do writers go out at night while attending retreats? One might assume, no, they are too busy working or fretting about not working, but I haven't attended such a retreat, so I don't really know. For me, the act remains completely plausible). She liked my top. I felt a little starstruck, but played it cool and pretended it was no big deal.

There are only so many.

Simple Stuff, 2011 (also on habit)

“The small things of life were often so much bigger than the great things . . . the trivial pleasure like cooking, one's home, little poems especially sad ones, solitary walks, funny things seen and overheard.”
-Barbara Pym

It was around noon today when I read this quote. I was reading a Sadie Stein piece on The Paris Review blog. I liked the form. Isn't Sadie Stein a great name? I think so. The quote was in her piece.

I like reading about, watching, and discussing the trivial things that happen to people as they walk through their days. I realize Sadie Stein's days are far more interesting than mine, but she inspires me to relive some of my own little things.

Things such as waking up and still feeling the salt in my hair after a long walk beside the bay yesterday. Observing a man in a white t-shirt early this morning, carefully straightening the interior of a closed restaurant. The light he worked in was so beautiful. Too bad they only open for dinner. The feeling of having an unknown person just behind me, nipping at my heels as I descend a hill. Writing with my grey Le Pen because I cannot stand the new mechanical pencils I bought. The taste of a slice of pear cranberry tart. Like it or not, such small things make up the bulk of our lives.

Lately I've been thinking about the way I sometimes allow my days to happen, to take me away. It can be nice. I want to allow a little of the taking to continue. Relinquishing a small amount of control holds the possibility of being presented with something I wouldn't have pursued on my own. But I also want to make more choices and achieve a balance that makes the regular days feel rich and full and chosen. There are only so many.

A Week in Culture: Sadie Stein, Editor