.

TO THE MOON

2012-02-08T16:18:00.002-05:00

I stumbled, tripped over this post on the world-verywide-web today. It contains some pretty fascinating photography from To The Moon, "an audio and visual chronology that documents NASA’s Mercury, Gemini and (of course) Apollo projects."

Regardless of all the revealing photographic documentation of the actual inner workings of the space program, of course this is the one that really caught my eye. Check out all those finer than fine specs! And that pure cyan blue, the richness of technicolor, the gasp-y faces captured...such a marvelously frozen slice of time.

But give the link a friendly click and at least peruse the photos -- we humans really can do some astoundingly terrific things. Sometimes I need reminding.

SWEETNESS FOLLOWS

2012-02-02T11:37:00.000-05:00

I have long loved the mournful, hollow, resinous sound of the bow when it slides with an ache across the body of the cello. I imagine it brings pain to the bow and strings at the same time as it brings me tears and creates an unmistakable aura of otherness.

Driving home from mom and dad's, head swimming with what it must mean for Joshua to have his father gone and listening, quite by chance, to R.E.M.'s "Sweetness Follows" as the road rises at the nine-mile mark on Highway 70. The cello's lonesome notes pervade the dim interior of my pick-up and reverberate in my head. "Readying to bury your father and your mother....what would you think if you lost the other....yeah, yeah we were altogether lost in our little lives...."

The five of us together again (with Angela and Joshua having been in Arkansas for about ten days), we found ourselves sitting by the fire, talking uneasily about the details of death. Of the small, handmade wooden box that holds Alvin's remains. About the sweet posey of scarlet roses that topped it at the burial service on the windy plains of Arkansas. Of the way his color changed to cooler hues in the last moments of earthly existence. About the very realness of how Pam trembled and had to escape the room after her husband peacefully slipped from this life to his eternal home. It all makes me awfully uncomfortable, as it does anyone, I suppose. But there are the facts, staring back at us, saying "we can't help it." These are facts we don't have to deal with often, thankfully.

And Joshua, this fair-haired, kind, clever, thoughtful man who was a stranger to me nine years ago when he married my sister -- he sits across the room from me, his eyes a bit distant but his head squarely on his shoulders. I feel such a surge of tenderness for him in this moment. There is a deepening -- I love him, he lost one he loves, I love him more. This sort of growth comes with shared life experience, with grief, with age, and is something I have not understood to be this kind of true until now.

Alvin died on January 24th, the day I turned thirty-five, the day I shuddered with the realization that I'm five years away from forty, the day I began internalizing that things really are changing, that those I love desperately will not always be with me, that I will be the elder some day. Soon.

Until then, we remember those who have gone from us. We shall share their stories and their wisdom to keep them with us. We cling happily to those who are yet with us, and we live in gratitude for the days we have together here -- for the beauty we create and share and taste together. And we will live in grateful expectation of the heavenlies that will be ours when we are released and all go singing, shining home.

MEET THE MORNING BENDERS

2012-01-25T12:02:00.003-05:00

Prepare to have your mind blown, your heart sweetly broken and your ears blessed. Okay, it's possible that I'm a hugely hyperbolic version of myself this morning, but just humor me. My friend Meg and I sat side-by-side first thing this morning, in the tiny womb of an office she has down in the second grade hallway, and watched this. It was my first time to see it, her gajillionth. But there we sat, goosebump-y and teary-eyed on both ends of the spectrum. It's so beautiful. The familial quality of the sound, the broader concept behind just the five-minute song, the way it builds and soars, the pure artisanship. It's glorious.

GIFTS

2012-01-24T15:54:00.000-05:00

I've decided that today, on this anniversary of my own birth, I'm going to list every thing that comes my way in this 24-hour period that seems a gift, whether it was gift wrapped and bow-tied or slid into an envelope or not.

* An occasion to put on my sunglasses. Sunshine! God knew I needed some of that.

* A tearful and sweet conversation with my sister (actually late last night but who's counting?), whom I love more and more every day. It's a strange thing to grow in your love for someone with whom you didn't think that was possible, especially someone you've known from the start of your very life. But it is.

* A sprightly, spring-hued, vintage-style kitchen apron from Rose.

* A card full of encouragement and well-wishes from one of the dearest friends God ever did give me. She tells me I'm loved and beautiful, and I believe her.

* Another dear friend, a walk, a cup of coffee, a photograph and laughter.

photo cred: cute little meg

* A little bag holding pepperminty foot cream and a pretty hair tie from the Aveda store. They're from a fourth grade girl, a sweet one named Eliza, and I don't even teach her this year! What a kind and thoughtful gal.

* Something I would be remiss to leave off this list is the absolute glut of happy, beautifully-worded Facebook messages I've received. It makes a person feel pretty loved, gotta say.

* A happy birthday wish from one of the science teachers here at school as we descended the stairs to our respective classrooms early this morning. He said "You know Evie, I heard someone say how old you are and I can honestly say that I did not expect you were anywhere near that age." Haaaaaa-lle-lu-jah!

*A music recommendation from a friend, The Staves. Holy Lord. Hold onto your socks. (And forgive the intermittent coughing from the person holding the camera.)

* A lively, sweet birthday text from my dear brother Joshua who is currently in the process of losing his dad to a long-time illness. I have never felt my heart so torn in two opposing directions.

* The fact that my fifth graders, God love 'em, are on a field trip today which means that today I teach....shhhhh.... one class. One!! This puts me squarely and immediately in the window seat of the library with computer in lap, coffee in hand, trees outside, M. Ward in my ears and a lovely, unusual quiet in my head. Busily going about the fun sort of work, seeking out and researching a professional development opportunity for the coming summer. I'm thinking plein air drawing and painting in Montreal. Stay tuned.

* Deserving, definitely, a most honorable mention is the sweetest gift from my dear Annie B. On Friday she drove straight from South Bend, Indiana right to my doorstep and, after we squealed and squeezed the living stuffin' out of each other, she took me to a fine, fine dinner at Margot. We munched on toasted bread with Humboldt Fog cheese and a dried fruit agrodolce. I sipped a Vieux Carre and she a classic Martini, olive garnish. Since I chose the cooked-to-order roasted chicken with white beans and kale, we had to wait a bit and ordered also the roasted beet starter with pink grapefruit sections and a toasted hazelnut vinaigrette. Among the tastes and the sips and the orders and the bites, we talked, laughed, eavesdropped, told stories about life and pontificated about men, wondered at children and at food...and then we laughed some more. Such pure goodness and deep understanding there is in our friendship -- I could not be more grateful than I am. Our meal ended with a time-honored dessert, the baba au rhum. It was wholly polished off, believe you me.

* The fact that during his lunchtime announcement from the stage, a terrific, sure-footed, fro-headed little fifth grader named Julian said into the microphone, "Be sure to wish Miss Coates a happy birthday." You can imagine what ensued. It was delightful.

* The happy birthday serenade I just received from my third graders.....in Chinese.

* These flowers from my sister and brother. They came from Oshi, perhaps the finest floral artist in Nashville and are as bright-shining, sweet-smelling, beautifully-asymmetrical, and perfectly-arranged as can be. Add to that the fact that the givers are currently in a hospital, walking through one of the most dim and difficult experiences life has to offer with Joshua's dad. Here we have the perfect recipe for Evie falling to pieces during drawing dragons with the kiddos in class. I feel special, loved, considered, and loved again.

* And now, since I have a moment before I'm off to the next portion of my day and since I know I won't sign back on later tonight, I'll paint how I assume the remainder of my day will play out... After school mom and I are going to meet and have our toes done and sip on glasses of white. This evening, I'm meeting my best girls for a festive, intimate dinner at ChaChah. It's a pretty and a genteel restaurant with white, grey and wood finishes, chill and warm at the same time. (It actually looks nothing like the home page of their website makes it appear. There's no purply neon anywhere that I can see.) They also have what is probably my favorite dish in Nashville, anywhere, on their menu: the starter of warm Brussels sprouts with Marcona almonds, Thai chili, house-smoked vinegar and thin shards of Manchego cheese. I could have three orders of that and nothing else and be perfectly satisfied. It also says "kindly remove ball caps & silence cell phones" at the bottom of their menu so naturally, I'm an instant fan. After that, who knows?

...Maybe a nightcap with someone somewhere, to stretch the day beyond its usual worth. To toast my own self and to wish my own self another year full of beauty, surprise, hard work, satisfaction, love and gratitude. Because it's my birthday and I can do what I want.

POP. CORN.

2012-01-19T17:11:00.000-05:00

In honor of National Popcorn Day (that's right, comrades, this very day!), I share part of a piece I wrote several years ago on this very blog, but which still rings true and right as I re-read my younger self's narrative. What a phenomenon! But this ends up being more in honor of my Grandpa Norberg. He was the quietly confident and well-esteemed popper of the corn in our family. To this day, I can still see his tall, broad, slightly bent form hovering at the dimly lit stovetop, twirling that bright red knob with such patience, such perfect anticipation, such joy at having his family near him. So friends, have some popcorn today, and if you can, hug your grandpa.

On Sunday nights, as the news broadcast wound down and the Disney Sunday Night Movie came on, he would get out the black stovetop popcorn maker and the small yellow enamelware butter warmer with the extra long handle. As soon as the kernels hit the metal measuring cup with a loud clatter (1/3 cup fit perfectly in the pan and just barely popped the lid off as it finished), we all knew what would soon be on the table and tried to wait patiently. His giant hand steadily spun the bright red handle around and around, and the cheerful pop!pop!pop!... pop!......pop! quickened until the lid of the pot began to rise and stray kernels tumbled onto the countertop.

Alongside this massive, perpetually full bowl of white popcorn with fresh butter and plenty of salt, root beer was inevitably set out. IBC brand only, in the glass bottles. Any sort of impostor, not even A&W, was permitted. Generic was unthinkable. If we were really fortunate, ice cream landed on the table somewhere in the evening's spread for making floats. For us cousins, this was understandably a magical and giddy weekly tradition. Even still today, for me, popcorn and root beer makes everything feel right as rain.

In the low, golden light of the small kitchen, as fingernails scraped the bottoms of brown and white melmac bowls and ice cracked in glasses, rich laughter echoed in their small home as Uncle Willard would mischievously plop a toy car in the popcorn bowl and some unsuspecting soul would fish it out. The laughter continued throughout the evening and traveled further still, out through the windows that were open to the dusky purply sky, now filled with stars and fireflies. The warm, grass-scented summer air blew through the room, bringing with it the moths that swirled and bumped around the ceiling light. We kids licked the salt off of our fingers, slurped the last of the creamy root beer, and settled happily back into our spots in front of the television, our little bodies' shapes now flattening the same shag carpet. Eventually the bowls and glasses were pushed to the side as the adults played Dominoes or Rummikub around the kitchen table. I always snuck in and, from the safe place behind mom's shoulder, watched grandpa's extra-large hands scoot and nudge the game pieces with wonder, dazed by the white dots on the black. What could the point of this game possibly be, other than making a small model of a very complicated road system? I truly marvelled and just didn't know, but it was still fascinating as they seemed to be part of a secret club, holding numeric mysteries and gaming knowledge within their smart heads, a status to which I could only hope to aspire, just someday.

A DREAMER, A DRAWER AND A LOLLYGAGGER

2012-01-13T16:30:00.000-05:00

When I asked the kiddos at the lunch table today, "What are your plans for the long weekend?", I was pleasantly surprised to hear things like: "I really don't have any plans." "We'll probably eat pancakes." "I just got a puppy so we'll play, I think." Around here, four-day trips to Paris or horse shows or all-weekend basketball tournaments are not unusual, so when I think that a handful of these dear ones have a few days of open air and unstructured time, it makes me so glad.

One girl, when I asked what they did last weekend, said (roughly, as I recall), "Well, I stayed in bed even though I was wide awake. And I drew a lot -- I had this dream that I lived in a village by the sea where the streets all ran right into the water! I tried a lot of different times to get it right, and the best part was that my house was the closest one to the water so I had the best view. There were shops and restaurants that went out over the water, and I wished I really could visit a place like that so I drew it. It took me pretty much all day! And then it was dinner time."

And so my weekend lies ahead. I would like to pattern mine after hers. When I consider how often I dreamt and drew and colored (and just plain lollygagged) on the weekends when I was younger, it's shameful that I don't use those gifts or that time the way I used to. I admit that the quest for perfection sometimes trips me up and I slam into its cold wall, and I find I'd rather not start something that doesn't have a purpose (or a commissioner's cash) at the other end of it. Just today, in fact, I challenged my third graders to drop their defenses and join their memories with their imaginative powers while drawing some preliminary Chinese dragons. Man, it was an uphill battle. They're only in third grade and they have a hard time remembering how unhindered they were just a mere three years prior.

I know that my weekend will also have to include un-decking the house from its twinkly Christmas state (but only partially, because "Winter" is the current official holiday that I like to celebrate). My weekend will also include taking out the trash, cleaning my bedroom which is yet a total wreck from the action of the past two weeks, and I'll also need to bundle up and get outside for to move my body around and try to turn around the delicious damage that was done to my waistline over the holidays. I'll also need to wield my trusty pruning shears and cut the tree branches that scrape scarily across my bedroom window, sounding much like the witches' fingers from my girlhood nightmares. So many adult-ish things must be seen to, but here's hoping that I might take some time, stay in my pretty bed with my new, cocoa powder-colored fur blanket, my coffee and my Moleskine book, some pencils and paints, some music. Lollygagging is a gift too, see.

SO THESE THREE ROOT VEGETABLES MET AT A PARTY....

2012-01-12T10:22:00.001-05:00

At a little gathering at my house recently, I served this simple jumble of vegetables alongside an herb-roasted pork loin and some buttery-lemony blanched asparagus. The fact that dinner was served on pale green melamine lunch trays (thank you, flea market) might have really driven the fun factor through the roof. The vegetables, however, appeared to be the real prize and vanished quickly from the sheet pan. A friend emailed for the recipe and I just wrote it out -- figured I may as well post it. I assume that roasting vegetables is as second-nature to others as it is to me, but perhaps I assume wrongly. Either way, get yourself some root veg and get to it, friends.

Roughly, as I recall, it was....

three medium sweet potatoes (not peeled), cut into inch chunks
four carrots, peeled and cut into inch chunks
four parsnips, peeled and cut into inch chunks
a large red onion, cut into....you guessed it. inch chunks.

(say that five times fast: inch chunks inch chunks.....sounds like a freight train!)

Put all those inch chunks on a large sheet pan. Now this is crucial: if it doesn't all fit in one layer, if it's too crowded, spread it out on two sheets. We don't want steamed. We want roasted. We want caramelly edges and nigh-on-burnt bits. That's the stuff.

Now that your vegetables have some elbow room, drizzle with about four tablespoons olive oil, sprinkle with kosher salt and fresh ground black pepper. Throw on a couple tablespoons of chopped rosemary or thyme (either/both is great) and then throw some extra whole branches of either/both herbs on there for good measure and prettiness. Mixy-mixy with your hands, pop it into a 425 oven and roast for about 15 minutes. Play them some music while they get about the business of transformation -- mine seem to prefer Brazilian bossa nova. Remove and toss/flip/agitate with spatula to prevent too much stickage, spin the pan 'round for evenness' sake, then roast for another 15-ish. Just keep an eye on it and watch for your favorite toasty colors to appear.

Remove from oven, taste (duh) and adjust seasoning if needed. Devour, lick fingers, moan.

THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS

2012-01-11T14:21:00.000-05:00

This site français, Neëst, full of masterfully but simply crafted housewares in subtle, earth-inspired textures and hues. Cotton, wood, metal, linen, leather. Back to basic. Prettiness!

My new Steve Madden lace-up boots, perfectly distressed and soft in a cognac-colored leather. I really do make an effort to avoid spewing too much information about where I buy things or how much they cost, thereby maintaining not only grace and style but an air of mystery, but who are we kidding, here. I got these at a certain department store where someone had accidentally marked them down to 49.99 from...a higher number. The universe wanted me to have these particular boots.

My third graders' latest paintings of birch trees in winter. They never fail to re-astound me with their built-in talents and individual stylings.

Singing. Not many people know that I can sing, I like to sing, I'm good at singing. It's in my bloodstream. I like to croon, to harmonize, to weave. I'd like to do more of it.

Finely- and deliciously-scented Italian soap given to me by Santa (via sister and brother) for Christmas. It's from a store called Peter Nappi, a place that's classing up our Nashville downtown, a place where we can afford nothing but soap (which, in turn, classes up my bathtub). But still, go pay a visit.

Red lips. Cover Girl 968, Ruby Rush, to be precise. It chases away the gloom.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2012-01-10T16:00:00.000-05:00

Listening to:

Pandora, Jeff Buckley edition. Friends and I hummed/cobbled/crooned a rendition of "Last Goodbye" in my living room the other night and since then, I can't get his trembly, torturous, soul-crammed sound out of my head. And so his style brings me Mazzy Star, Bob Dylan, The Stones, Pete Yorn, Cat Power, Portishead, Cowboy Junkies, Ray Lamontagne, Radiohead -- all perfect for this gloomy yet unseasonably warm January day. He, Buckley, was so beautiful. A true pity he had to go. I wonder what made him walk into the river that night...maybe the moon's reflection was too much to resist.

Remembering:

my skin being the same color as the sienna-hued rocks we climbed in Sedona all those months ago, though now it seems like years. I was shuffling quickly through some summer pictures in iPhoto and came upon this one -- never noticed how camouflaged I am. The pasty-white shade of my January skin does not agree with my general aesthetic. Oh, to sweat in the pounding Western sun like that once more....yet in those canyons, all I wanted was snow. What's a girl supposed to do?

Really missing:
My sing-songy friends. I and a crew of alumni from the ol' alma mater were in a concert this past weekend (called ArtWorks, at CPA) and we really formed quite the bond -- it was largely unexpected and completely lovely to be a part of. It felt very familial, so I basically miss my brothers and sisters. Once we had adjourned in my little living room after the show, we kicked off shoes, sipped wine and noshed on bowls of salty things. Amanda sat in a potato chip trance and said, "It's like camp, kinda." That's how it feels. I miss the vocal innovation and togetherness, the creative spirit, the raucous laughter, the moonshine toasts, the late nights, the mandolin, the embraces, the pure generosity and affection, the sarcastic shenanigans. I miss it all, so much more than I figured I might. What a nice surprise.

Smelling:

I don't think I can explain it very well, as I've tried before. But I'll try again. It's a cologne called Santal 33 from "Le Labo," one of Barney's exclusive lines, and it filled my head for the first time this summer when I was in NYC. It's crazy-expensive but I ordered a 1.5 ml vial so that I can spritz it from time to time and inhale its manly, woodsy, smoky, spicy notes. Truth? I spray it on my classroom bulletin board -- it's covered in white flannel so it's like a built-in diffuser. If you walk past my door and my nose is on the wall, you'll know why. The following is from the cologne's press release -- see if you can smell it after reading. Ah, the power of descriptors.

Do you remember the old Marlboro ads? A man and his horse in front of the fire on a great plain under tall, blue evening skies – A defining image of the spirit of the American West with all it implied about masculinity and personal freedom.
This man, firelight in his face, leaning on the worn leather saddle, alone with the desert wind, an icon so powerful that every man wanted to be him and every woman wanted to have him…
From this memory is born SANTAL 33: the ambition to create an olfactive form inspired by the great American myth still a source of fantasy for the rest of the world…
A perfume that touches the sensual universality of this icon… that would intoxicate a man as much as a woman… that introduces our use of cardamom, iris, violet, ambrox which crackle in the formula and bring to this smoking wood alloy (Australian sandalwood, papyrus, cedarwood) some spicy, leathery, musky notes, and gives this perfume its unisex signature and addictive comfort.
Here are, in a few words, what SANTAL 33 is… An open fire… The soft drift of smoke… Where sensuality rises after the light has gone.

Bugged by:

stems on pickles. Would it kill the nice people at the pickle packing plant to remove the pesky, fibrous, inedible bits?

Looking forward to:

My walk home. That's right, you heard me. My walk.

IT IS THE EVE

2011-12-24T11:33:00.001-05:00

Christmas, won't you please slow down?

It is the morning of Christmas Eve, the [dvd of a] fire crackles and "warms" my tiny living room, A Winter's Solstice II tinkles quietly with piano and string, candles flicker and pop, casting shadows on their surroundings now festively decked and sparkling for the holiday, steam rises from a freshly warmed coffee cup and this last morning's minutes seem to be cut in half. It goes too quickly. I want to put this past week on repeat.

Mornings have been spent in my chair, just as described above, with book and cup and pen. Behold the Lamb Of God: An Advent Narrative by friend and compatriot Russ Ramsey (the cover of which contains my art, by the by) has been my daily read. I started it by rushing through each day of advent in chunks, but then had to slow down, read more deliberately and ingest it piece by piece, morning by morning. His telling of that great and totally absurd story of Christ's birth is at once reverent and wildly illustrative. I need things told to me in story-form, especially the Bible. I am an absolute drooling infant when it comes to comprehending the largeness of what has been done for me in the work of that little boy-become-Savior, Jesus. "But this couple carried a holy secret, whispered into their ears by the lips of an angel and conceived in the warmth of her womb my the overshadowing Spirit of God. It played like a distant symphony, building in its movements and phrases to a coming crescendo that would shake the foundations of the world. But for now it remained a quiet, distant sound pulsing in the hearts of the man and his bride." And so I sit, I think, I read, I think some more, I write, and I pray. I breathe. I savor.

And then I set out about town (maybe with my hair washed, maybe not) to have long lunches with my dear sister or my dear friend, I tackle the retail world with aplomb, I laugh in its face! I bite my thumb in its general direction! I delight in the bustle and the traffic, I do my best to cheer and shock tired salespeople with patience and smiles, I slow down occasionally for afternoon coffee or chatter with the odd old friend or student I encounter (which happens plenty).

In the evenings I return to my little home, lights twinkling a path up to my door through the grass, happily and brightly. I light the candles once more (where, oh where does the wax go?..like, really?..), I settle in with a glass of red and, cueing the fire on the screen, I commence to wrap everything that's not nailed down, so prettily. (This year I made wrapping paper with my second graders with kraft paper and potato stamps. I got quite into it and it gave my wrapping aesthetic a real solid direction. Yes, I do that. I plan a wrapping aesthetic.)

So now it has become, all too rapidly, the Eve of Christmas Day. Menus are (roughly) planned, grocery lists are written, packages are wrapped, laundry is clean, the sleigh is loaded (Rosie loves Christmas), and I am yet in my pajamas. This day, too, will pass me by, as will tomorrow. But, as I answered a friend's thoughtful question last night, "What are you looking most forward to this Christmas?"

Christmas morning. "Christmas morning." That little two-word phrase holds millions of different meanings and emotions for folks around the globe, I understand...but ours is best.

Christmas morning on The Hill is a rare and wondrous phenomenon. We rise whenever we feel like it, but most likely when we hear Billy the cat go harrumping maniacally down the hardwood hallway floor. He dashes and darts between chair and food bowl and desk and table, then again, running through an Olympic-standard obstacle course. We do brush our teeth but that's the extent of it. We whisper "Merry Christmas!" to one another, we giggle, we pour coffee and sneak one of mom's Spritz cookies (a favorite tradition and mainstay from days of old), we light the candles, we turn on music, we love. We just plain love. Because we know that the day will vanish like a vapor we sit, the five of us, and enjoy one another and the prettiness of the setting. We think we are the richest five in all the world, and a lump will rise in my throat when I think, fleetingly, that this will someday not be the same as it is now. I don't spend much time there, and we get on to reading the Christmas story via our favorite Nativity book, illustrated whimsically and colorfully by Julie Vivas.

(This post is waaaay longer than I intended, and it's nearing 10:30am. See? I told you it flies. More later, I'll leave you with that cliff-hanger of Mary and the Angel in combat boots.)

DECEMBER, COME TO ME

2011-12-05T18:29:00.000-05:00

In anticipation (the calm, non-frenzied kind) of the melancholy that will follow the Advent and Christmas season, I celebrate the not-here-yet-ness of that cold, bare, January phenomenon.
Because Norah, she's tres magique.

December, come to me
I hope I can see
You not just in dreams

I will let you be
Why can't you believe
How much you really mean?

December, won't you come
Back with snow, even sun?
Don't say that it's done

I will carry you home
Take you from the loneliest place
you have known

I will carry you home
Take me from the loneliest place
I have known

GINGER SPICE CRISPS

2011-11-22T14:16:00.001-05:00

I posted this last year and was dreaming just the other day of all things gingery (when a dear friend brought me a bag of ginger cookies and started the ball rolling), so I figured I'd repost the recipe for my own benefit just as well as for that of all you adoring, burrowing, holidaying, cookie-loving fiends. (Not friends, I said fiends.) But beware, they hold magic.

These have been a real star player lately at little house gatherings, couch sessions with dear friends, cast parties, as gifts for new mamas, for breakfast with strong coffee, etc. Folks have been asking for the recipe, and I hate the idea of secret recipes, so here you go.

A spicy, crunchy, chewy, salty, sweet, very merry Christmas to you.

WHISK OR SIFT (in smallish mixing bowl): 2 c flour, 2 t soda, 1 t cloves, 1 t ginger, 1 t cinnamon, 1 t kosher salt

BEAT (in larger mixing bowl): 3/4 c butter, 1 c sugar, then add 1 egg, 1/4 c molasses (or Swedish dark syrup, that's what I used)

ADD dry to wet (magic starts)

CHILL dough (in bowl is fine) until firm (or for as long as you can stand it)

ROLL into small roundish blobs

DIP tops in coarse, raw (or demerara if you're fancy) sugar, space out on parchment covered cookie sheets

BAKE 8-10 minutes (let cool for a bit on trays)

DEVOUR at your leisure with strong, hot black coffee. Or cinnamony applesauce. Or red wine. Or all bundled up, out in the snow. Or naked in your bed. Or upside down or right side up. Any ol' way, these salty-spicy-chewy-crispy sweets will become the newest habit you need to break.

11.11.11, 11:11:11

2011-11-11T10:20:00.001-05:00

It's 9:40am. We've got an hour and 31 minutes.
Something good is bound to happen.

Either that or the planet will explode magnificently.
Either that or a handsome prince will waltz into my classroom with a song* and an armful of lilies.
Either that or I will go blind.
Either that or I will sprout wings and fly to Italy.
Either that or the floor of my kitchen will finally decide it's time to fall through.
Either that or cash money will rain down from the sky....

Either that or everything will stay blissfully as it is and I will go on my camping trip this weekend and enjoy spending quality time with a certain few delightful friends, having morningbirds as my alarm clock, drinking coffee (or Cabernet) by the fire, hiking through autumn-tinged woods, slicing onions for our campsite supper, laughing in one accord at life's many ironies and hilarities.

This is what 11.11.11, 11:11:11 means to me. Absolutely, unequivocally nothing.

*I like New York in June, how about you?
I like a Gershwin tune, how about you?
I love a fireside when a storm is due,
I like potato chips, moonlight
And motor trips, how about you?

WE THROW FINE PARTIES

2011-11-10T10:09:00.000-05:00

OUT OF SEASON

2011-11-08T13:21:00.000-05:00

While reading back a-ways in my trusty Moleskine journal, I stumbled upon a slice of writing from back in April. It feels strange, now that the leaves are rusty red and the air is sharp, to be taken back to a time when the earth's green was fresh and the air was soft, but also significant considering the theme of that particular morning's scrawlings. Remembrance.

It's Tuesday of Easter Week. The back porch is littered with twigs blown to the ground by the more-violent-than-usual spring winds and storms. A carpenter bee is bumbling around the rail, trying to find his way in. The hostas I planted last year are pushing up through the blackish dirt, proudly it seems. "We made it!" they seem to say. I'm wrapped in a soft cotton tablecloth. It was the nearest thing to a blanket and sat, clean and ready, folded on the kitchen table next to my unruly tray of seedlings. Radish, onion, microgreen.

A morning dove is cooing steadfastly and rhythmically from a neighbor's tree. My grass is getting uncomfortably long. I do love and fully appreciate the sense of place I have come to know and enjoy in this house, on this little square patch of land. It doesn't feel like it belongs to someone else, though I'm glad it does when the floor goes soft or the faucet leaks.

Neighborhood dogs do their waking barking, the wind runs through its gears. Accelerating, revving, decelerating. The little birdhouse sways on its low branch above the new growth of Maidenhair fern and Creeping Jenny. How will I keep this feeling all the day through? Remember.

Remember.

"So Jesus said to them, 'The light is among you for a little while longer. Walk while you have the light, lest darkness overtake you. The one who walks in the darkness does not know where he is going. While you have the light, believe in the light, that you may become sons of light.'" John 12:35-36

I will remember the prophesies fulfilled, the actions of a man who meant nothing but to lay down his life, the astonishing decisions made and steps taken which led to his very death, the rash and absurd behavior of my brave Jesus, the fear in the unsuspecting hearts of that day's leaders and politicians, the perfume on his body, broken, the plot to snuff out his light, the glory that followed. I will remember.

A cardinal, feathers as red as new blood, is in the maple tree above me.
In case I need reminding.

"SOME THINGS ABOUT THIS WEATHER MAKE ME OLDER....

2011-10-27T14:00:00.000-04:00

...some things about it make me feel so young."
"Sonnet 46," Roman Candle

Tucked in amidst fine clothes and finer people at Billy Reid last night, with a mason jar of Buffalo Trace (one cube) and standing shoulder to shoulder with smartly dressed, bow-tied, pomade-slicked, red-lipped, tall-cuffed friends and strangers, I was fortunate to give audience to a dialed down recording session by a threesome from Chapel Hill, North Carolina. They are Roman Candle. Skip's voice pierced and soothed at once, Timshel's (Skip's wife) sparse vocals and calm keyboard pads filled the void, loose and lovely, and Logan's (Skip's bro) voice and gentle undertone -- on whatever he was playing, there was a rack of shirts obscuring my view -- slid along in true familial style. That little hour and a half, it was short, sweet, perfect. I was transported to a slower space, one where all there is to worry about is the temperature of your bourbon and how well those lyrics suit that melody. Comfortable, low-impact, unfussy, and with room for jokes between songs, a little laughter and walks to the bar for refills. Friendly, cozy.

I'm relatively late to the Roman Candle party -- and even more delayed in singing their praise -- but better late than never.

Here's a snippet from the store recording last night. It's kinda magic.

And here's their sonnet song which I quoted above (from their 2009 record, Oh Tall Tree In the Ear), which they sang last night, and which I think is beautiful:

Some freezing rain is falling on my shoulder
and a winter wind is blowing through each lung
Some things about this weather make me older
Some things about it make me feel so young
There's a quarter moon that knows the hours I'm keeping
and a glittered highway showing back its light
There's a baby at home in my room sleeping
and a woman that won't be alone tonight

So let the lads and lad-ettes keep Ibiza
morning walks home, cocktail on their chin
I'll spill my own drinks listening to Aretha
with my girl and a fireplace in our den
If being young is one prolonged farewell
I'll find it undiminished somewhere else.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY.....

2011-10-25T16:30:00.000-04:00

Growing tired of:

The effects of Sudafed on my sleeping patterns, spritzing Afrin up my nostrils, and sniffling in spite of it all. 'Tis the season for snot.

Stuck in my head this morning:

The "love" theme from one of my all-time favorite Jim Henson movies, Labyrinth. I can't fully express my love for this film. It goes deep, real deep. I mean, I already had a hefty Bowie crush as a nine-year-old, but this song and this scene drove it right home. Those gigantically puffy sleeves and silver vines and flowers in her hugely coiffed hair, that one-blue-eye-one-brown-eye stare of his when he mouths the words to her while they're dancing, the exaggerated upturned collar and the super-80s-spiky rock hairdo...man. That's the stuff of dreams. Years later, as a junior in high school, I still loved it and even suggested it as our prom theme. Can you believe I was shot down? Cruel, narrow-minded dream-killers...they're called high-schoolers.

Saddened by:

The earthly realm's loss of a dear, dear man named Cortez Cooper. We called him "Corty." He was the founding pastor of the church where I grew up, a pastor in the most real sense of that word. He was a caretaker, a warm, humble and elegant man. He has gone on to be with Jesus...I think those two will really like each other.

Anticipating:

A skillet full of sauteed baby bok choy for dinner. Me crave greens.

"THEN VIOLINS WILL CRY, AND SO WILL I....

2011-10-24T14:37:00.000-04:00

...Mam'selle."

A real favorite from Frank. Swoony. (The record-crackly version I found? You're welcome.)

AMATEUR, LOVER

2011-10-20T09:16:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago while listing, on an actual piece of paper so I could face them, some fears as they relate to my prowess as a cook and a knowledgeable expediter in the kitchen, I scrawled "That I am an amateur." It was just one in a long list of fears, but it is one of the primary and powerful.

I'm reading a book called The Supper of the Lamb and I am giving you fair warning here and now that, until I finish this fine piece of writing (and perhaps even long after), there may be a glut of it spat out on this here blog. You may get sick and tired of Robert Farrar Capon (dad calls him Crouton). If you do, don't tell me about it. I may disown you, so fierce is my allegiance. Already.

So last night, I read the following. When you read it, you'll understand how it fell on me coolly and soothed, how it bolstered and buffeted my second-guessing spirit. It's the kind of reading that makes me exhale loudly and shake my head in a slow-motion fashion. Yes. It's that good.

In introducing himself to his audience, after wiping his hands, he writes...First, I am an amateur. If that strikes you as disappointing, consider how much in error you are, and how the error is entirely of your own devising. At its root lies an objection to cookbooks written by non-professionals (an objection, by the way, which I consider perfectly valid, and congratulate you upon). It does not, however, apply here. Amateur and nonprofessional are not synonyms. The world may or may not need another cookbook, but it needs all the lovers -- amateurs -- it can get. It is a gorgeous old place, full of clownish graces and beautiful drolleries, and it has enough textures, tastes and smells to keep us intrigued for more time than we have. Unfortunately, however, our response to its loveliness is not always delight: It is, far more often than it should be, boredom. And that is not only odd, it is tragic; for boredom is not neutral -- it is the fertilizing principle of unloveliness.

AAHHHHHH!!!!! My brain almost fell out of my head and onto my empty dinner plate (parts of it dribbling into my glass of red. Gross.). So perfectly put. Yes, I should have known I'd be undone by Capon when I read the book's dedication...

Holy romance.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-10-18T21:14:00.000-04:00

Listening to:

Astrud Gilberto's Beach Samba. More specifically, "Tu Meu Delirio." I've loved this particular track for years now and, Holy Smokes!!, the piano bridge by Walter Wanderley (pronounced Von-der-lay) is just about one of the most deeply groovilicious things my ears have ever had the pleasure of entertaining. Every time I hear it again, I love it again. (And...I can whistle the entire bridge. Makes mom laugh each time!) Please, dear reader, have a listen (it begins around 1:50 and you'll know when it ends because you'll have that special sense that you need to forsake the rest of the song just so you can hear it all over again):

Wearing:

A little bit of NYC on my feet. During a midday dodge into the Camper store in midtown on my last day in the city this summer, Angela, Joshua and I all tried on shoes. This was the pair I adored but couldn't manage to justify at the end of a trip where I'd enjoyed several delightful meals and several hand-crafted cocktails. Cha-ching. Upon their return, Angela and Joshua bestowed upon me......you guessed it. I almost cried. I love these shoes, so much of the love comes from the story. Isn't that the way with lots of things?

Anticipating:

Some grey and a pronounced chill. I'm ready.

LETTERS: RETROSPECT

2011-10-15T22:07:00.003-04:00

From time to time I go back into folders of saved correspondence. It rushes me back in time like nothing else can. A big thank-you goes out to Hotmail for making this possible since I joined you all the way back in 1999. You've done most things well. Except for that time I got hacked. But I'll bet that wasn't entirely your fault. I don't care what others say about you -- you've been good to me, Hotmail.

Dated October 26, 2005, I share the following because it is autumnally tinted, because I always like to talk about my silver baby, and because the dreams of the past are always apropos, I think, no matter how flighty they may seem, given hindsight. (Hindsight can be a terrible, mean friend.) This was written to a long-distance friend of mine, a long distance ago...

you're there. good. and i'm here, that's good too. i was so very glad to see your name in my inbox once more. yes, it has been non-stop busy-ness on this end as well. teaching takes over one's life in a way that no other profession can, i think. the start of this year was, of course, so much smoother than that of last year. i actually know what's going on, and it feels good. we have a new lower school head, he and his wife came here from connecticut. he's a big part of why this year has felt so good -- he's an incredible administrator, and has a long history in the waldorf-style schools up north where art is an integral part of learning. we are fortunate to have him, and he is thrilled to be here. his wife is an artist, and we hit it off right away. i told her that i work with junk and old stuff in my art and we discovered that we both have a strong affinity for gears. we love gears. old, rusty, round machine-ish sorts of pieces.

i told you about my search for a vintage travel trailer. right? i think i've found it. it's in arkansas, in siloam springs, the little town where mom and dad met at college, and where my grandparents lived, and other family still lives. (we went for their singing group reunion a few weeks ago.) my cousin said, "hey you're looking for an airstream, right? i know a guy who's selling one -- it's behind the old post office downtown." GOD SMILED and there sat a 1960 silver dream. it's in really good condition, has just had new axles and brakes added, and with a little banging and buffing, the exterior will be goooood-lookin.' the interior needs a little help, but it's nothing i can't handle -- merely cosmetic. he is asking $4300, which i think is insanely low, compared to what i've seen in all my searching on the internet. so i am now trying to figure out how to make a quick $4300....

dad is still not convinced, i don't think. i'm pretty sure he thinks it's just going to go away, and is perhaps scared to think of his little girl on the roads with a truck and a trailer, and nothing but the Lord's protection and perhaps a dog. i'd like to aim to travel between farms and friends and art shows. farms: "willing workers on organic farms" -- heard of it? look it up; it's so cool. you can go to any farm and work and they give you room and board and you wokrk for as long as you want -- harvest grapes in napa in september, pick blueberries in maine in july, detassel corn in the midlands all summer...you get the idea. it's a great way to meet folks and to see the country inexpensively. friends: that's where people like you come in. art shows: it would make perfect sense to create art while on the road or in certain communities and then take it to art fairs or galleries. it all just makes sense...y'think?

great news: in order to get on the road to financial freedom, i knew i'd have to get another roommate, and i've been praying and watching for the last 5 or 6 months (and skating by on grace, month to month). got one! her name's alice, she moved here from baltimore, i didn't know her at all 2 weeks ago and we're quickly becoming friends. she's hilarious and makes me belly laugh quite often, which is lots of fun. i love laughing and bellies. she's also a licensed cosmetologist and she's going to color my hair in the kitchen today. don't worry, i won't let her get too crazy.

fall is here, finally. actually, it's turning straight into winter, pretty much. i've been walking in the neighborhood, crunching yellowed leaves, breathing the cold air deeply into my chest, having "autumn lattes" at the local coffee shop, pulling out the sweaters and making chili...ah. makes me happy to be alive. happier than normal.

have you heard of, picked up, or read donald miller's newest "through painted deserts"? after reading only the author's note, i had tears in my eyes -- maybe it's because what the book is about (leaving) is near to my heart these days, what with my current state of wanderlust. he shines as brightly as always in his words, and i already recommend it, well....having read 16 pages.

i have been listening to shawn colvin's "holiday songs and lullabies" on which she sings "in the bleak midwinter" -- remember when we were drinking beer by the fire at blackstone brewery here in nashville and we each heard her separately in the restrooms and then came back to our seats and remarked about it nearly simultaneously? i always think of that and giggle when i hear it. anyways, it's a beautiful song, and a lovely version of it. we have good memories, don't we? even if they involve bathroom radio.

THINGS IS COOKIN'

2011-10-06T11:32:00.000-04:00

Friends! I am not lost. I am here. Autumn's in full swing, I couldn't be happier about that. Lots of celebrating of that fact has occurred in the last few weeks -- never miss an opportunity to be festive. Blankets, fireplaces, roasted figs, fuzzy socks, walks in the park, pies, the odd bright red leaf in my path, chili, books and pens, cuddles, family. And repeat.

Things are tumbling, swirling, sloshing, whizzing, exploding, banging around in my little head. I've got so many creative irons in the fire it's just silly. But that there fire isn't yet raging, it's just a mere teency ember here lately. (What a strange visual...all of those many irons, vying for a resting place on a miniscule lump of rusty-orange coal?...I must be off my descriptive game today.)

However you put it, when the planets align, the moon is full, the night is crisp, the time is right.....there's gonna be a big......
"kaaaAAA-BOOM!"
.....sometime in the near future.

I can just taste it. So stay tuned.

LAST FRUITS

2011-09-26T12:03:00.000-04:00

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine.

Rainer Maria Rilke

(I am outright, unabashedly stealing this timely quote from a friend's blog. Thank you Lanier, for drawing Rilke's words out of the well so that I could take a brisk, autumn-scented drink...)

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY

2011-09-13T16:43:00.001-04:00

Listening to:
Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark (whom I discovered, after doing a short bit of Pandora reading, were in a band called Hitlerz Underpantz before forming OMD. Interesting.) Billy Idol. The Cure. Tears for Fears. When In Rome. Dream Academy. Men Without Hats. 1986, I loved you. I still do.

Wearing, stupidly:
My pretty white linen blazer from Billy Reid with the liquid-soft oyster colored silk lining. I mean, why would any art teacher in her right mind wear a white linen anything to school?! I haven't gotten anything on it....yet. A dear fourth grade boy named Richard (whom I adore) said, while we were standing in line at the hot bar, "Miss Coates, you look so....mighty." "'Mighty', Richard?" "Well I mean, I never see you wear white! You just look kind of royal."

Cheered by (speaking of awesome things kids say to me):
The fifth grade girls who waltzed into my room this morning for class saying things like "Miss Coates, you're sooooo pretty." "Can I have your hair?" "You remind me of a mermaid. Like, all flowy and gold under the water." ?!?! Yesssss. I've still got it....in the eyes of fifth graders.

Looking forward to:
Early McIntosh apples (early macs) I'm about to go buy in celebration of temperate weather. Early McIntosh apples were introduced in 1923 and originated in Geneva, New York. The Early Mac is a cross between a Yellow Transparent and a McIntosh. Early Macs are moderately firm and crisp and good for eating and baking. Seasons change, and so does my eating. It's the way it should be, and the change is endlessly exciting to me. It's not quite time yet, but my thoughts are turning to pots of chili (with pickles), apple crisps, roasted, buttery acorn squash, and rich braises, aromatic and spoon-tender...

FROM WENDELL, ON THIS CHILL SEPTEMBER MORNING

2011-09-08T09:16:00.001-04:00

Teach me work that honors Thy work,

the true economies of goods and words,

to make my arts compatible

with the songs of the local birds.

Teach me patience beyond work

and, beyond patience, the blest

Sabbath of Thy unresting love

which lights all things and gives rest.

Wendell Berry, Sabbaths 2002, no. X

SOUL HEALTH

2011-09-02T09:44:00.008-04:00

Our lower school head is a delightful, sensitive, humorous, genuine man whom I respect greatly and love deeply. I don't know what my life would be like if he were not my administrator, advocate and friend. In our meetings I always feel lifted, supported, encouraged, buoyed and warmed by the things he says. I also appreciate the fact that he communicates efficiently and with the utmost respect for the teachers' afternoon time (almost never do our meetings last the whole allotted hour.)

One such thing he said this past Wednesday, which has stuck with me and will continue to do so, was this; "I believe that gratitude is a mark of soul health." Soul health. So simple, so true. In reading back through letters and journal entries that I have written, from as far back as they take me, I have seen a few common threads, things that have always been true of who I am. I don't think it's boastful for me to say that a grateful heart has always been a constant for me. It's my mainstay. I must, must offer thanks for the riches I've been given. I must also give thanks in the more shadowy seasons of life, when nothing seems right and things just suck. Searching for the good and giving thanks for it is good exercise, a discipline which I try to re-establish in my inner life, time after time, good or bad, magnificent or just plain awful.

I lay in bed the other night, finding faces in the popcorn on my bedroom ceiling and saying (more like spewing) my prayers. I remembered, suddenly and so crisply, the sweet, whispery sound of my grandpa Norberg's voice while he said his prayers after climbing into bed each evening. One night, perhaps in his late 80's (a spring chicken!) mom, Angela and I and...well I don't remember who all was there...we all gathered in the hallway and listened as he shared with his Lord (quite out loud since he'd taken his hearing aids out) a laundry list of everything and everyone he was thankful for. "We thank you Lord for this, another day...." this was how his every prayer -- breakfast, lunch, dinner -- began. I'll never forget it. His voice has not faded from memory, nor will it. His was always a tone of thankfulness.

...and then I stumbled upon this picture I took in Philadelphia way back in 2005.

We yield unfeigned thanks and praise

For the return of seed-time and harvest

For the increase of the ground

And the gathering in of the fruits thereof

And for all other blessings

Of thy merciful providence

Bestowed upon this nation and people

The Book of Common Prayer

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY EDITION

2011-08-31T09:45:00.022-04:00

Listening to:

Thad Cockrell's new rock band, Leagues. I saw them Friday at Mercy Lounge and I can't turn these four songs off. It's gotten under my skin in the very best way. Thad's familiar, heart-breaking, shimmery vocal has been yanked up from its usual simple, sweet, folk-y, harmonically-inclined home base. Now, wrapped all around with driving, poppy beats to which my toes could not keep from tapping and the ambience of an electric guitar's echoes, he still somehow maintains that inherent, unmistakable spirit of sweet. He couldn't lose it if he dropped it on its head from a fast-moving train on a moonless night -- it would find him. I found a perpetual, giddy smile on my face as he hopped percussively around and danced with his microphone and his audience members, wrinkled that charming nose of his and punctuated the air with his yearning-but-hopeful cries. All of this, packed richly with illustrative words. "I thought I saw you in the fields of the midwest, golden fingers in the wind waving, 'follow me'..." Uh, whew. Thad and his salt-worthy bandmates lavish on their audience everything they want and didn't know they wanted and then some....except for more than a mere four songs on the current record. I. Want. More. (insert stomping feet here.) This man, he loves his work. And so does this girl.

Laughing at:

F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was a weird guy, more than a little snarky. And I like it.

"Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke."

"Nothing is as obnoxious as other people's luck."

"I like people and I like them to like me, but I wear my heart where God put it, on the inside."

Just ordered:

Coccoina adhesive paste. It's been used by pretty little Italian school children since way back in 1927. Why does Europe have to be so much cooler than us all the damned time? It comes in this cute little tin with a natural bristle brush which fits down in a little cylindrical compartment in the middle of the paste. How fun! It smells like sweet almonds, like marzipan. Mmm. I can't get enough of marzipan or anything almond-y, and I know I'm not in the majority. It's my one allowance in a lifelong march against sweet smells. I don't know what makes it passable, but oh, I love it. I first bought a tin at Kate's Paperie in Soho way back on a college trip to NYC. It stayed with me for a couple of years before it began to harden and crack. Sadness and a pretty glue void in my life, until today. Remember the old [what I hope is an] urban myth about eating paste? You just might consider it if this stuff is on the table in front of you.

Not looking forward to:

Sweltering heat. (I'm sorry, this photo popped up on google when I was entering different adjectives for heat and I couldn't resist. I mean, what the hell?!?) Ironic that the tail end of August has been pleasanter than any I can recall and that the beginning of September is going to be a little bit brutal. Well, at least I can be.....

Looking forward to:

Pool time on Saturday. Yesssssss. Gurgle gurgle, splosh splash.

Peace out, suckas.

MARTY & JOHNNY

2011-08-30T10:18:00.021-04:00

(Anniversary Soundtrack for your reading pleasure, which just popped up on my iPod Genius on my starlit walk and which I love so very dearly. Go to the very bottom of the post, click "play" and then come back to the start!)

******* * * * * * * * * * *

A crazy, clever, dapper, piano-playing virtuoso named John (middle)...

...caught the eye of a pretty, wholesome, velvet-voiced girl named Marty who had the most heart-stopping smile he had ever seen.

Music (namely a college group called "The Sound Generation" from tiny John Brown University in NW Arkansas) brought them together and into a unique world of nationwide travel, dashing celebrity and warm California nights.

He wooed her with clever love letters and a staggering wit...

...and took her on some unconventional dates which made her laugh, wonder and soon know for certain that he was the one for her.

They married on August 30, 1968 and moved into married student housing. A couple of houses and a Winnebago later, they welcomed this little gem, Angela Noel, into the world. She loved to wear her shades upside down and put lots of pieces of Doublemint gum in her mouth at once.

A few years and another city later, this perpetually sleepy-eyed little chunk, Kirsten Evie, joined the family. She loved to sleep. Still does.

Angela and Evie, two wackos on wheels, kept Marty and Johnny on their toes. Their heads spun. They wondered what they'd gotten themselves into. They began to create, very organically, a world of love, faith, humor, affection, creativity and good taste for their little family. They say now that they had no idea what they were doing, but they were doing the most important thing well: loving one another. Their girls often took notice.

This stylish family was sometimes color-coded, and always with a sweet ride (silver Cadillac, yes?) in the driveway (whether they could afford it or not).

Many years later (and many bad photographs later which, I'm sorry to report, will not be featured here), they had weathered some storms of adolescence and heartbreak. With one happy addition -- Angela's wise choice for a husband in Joshua Samuel Prichard -- the five still remain and thrive as a tight-knit family unit. (And they patiently wait and pray for the sixth.)

Marty gets more gorgeous, patient, and endearing with every passing year, Johnny gets more hilarious, more soft-hearted and more (can it be?) crazy. They knew. Isn't it remarkable? Way back, they just knew. They were meant, created, destined, one for another.

Happy 43rd anniversary, mom and pop! (raise a glass) Here's to many, many more.....

"Eyes On the Prize"

M. Ward

Everything I've learned I have forgotten
Everything I've forgotten looks just like new
I pulled the ends out for the tie that binds
To keep my promise with you

With my eyes on the prize
And my mind on you
I put my pride on the line
My whole life too

Now anything you ask me for is yours
Now say the word and I'll lay it at your feet
I'll meet the payments down the line somehow
If you keep your promise with me

With my eyes on the prize
And my mind on you
I put my pride on the line
And my whole life too

You say take your axe and fashion me a kind of sway
Walkin' blues have played a number on my feet
And I'll dance whatever dance you need to dance
'Cause you keep your promise with me

You'll keep your promise with me
You'll keep your promise
You'll keep your promise
You'll keep your promise with me

LOVE DIVINE

2011-08-28T13:54:00.005-04:00

Written by I-don't-know-who, and glowing among the line-up of Maura O'Connell's 1995 record, Stories, "Love Divine" has been, since I first heard it, one of my most favored songs about love. I've been known to play it over a dozen times in a row, sap that I am. James Taylor sweetly slides alongside Maura in close, cozy harmony, effortlessly offering the mingling of two simply rich, perfectly matched voices. I love this song. I really wish I could figure out how to post it here for you, but instead I'll have to merely direct you to iTunes. Go have a listen, spend that little 99 cents and be blessed.

It's been off the front burner for a while now, just as most of my time-tested, favorite songs do a dance of presence and absence in and out of my current good graces. Its melody and words, however, have crept up and accompanied my pondering of the love story of two specific people. Pete and Jennifer became one yesterday in the sweetest and loveliest of ceremonies. Noontime light streamed in through the opalescent stained glass, pint-sized pirates strolled down the aisle as did several pretty little gals, one especially-special in her green satin dress and bearing a flowered fiddle. Surrounding this union there is a glorious story of God's own good timing and the richness that resides in a community of loved ones, a cloud of witnesses.

So this song goes out to Mr. and Mrs. A. S. Peterson. I celebrate with much gladness the marriage of a dear friend to his very God-given helper, his beautiful soul's perfect mate.

...I believe a rose you send me

I believe that He will mend me

With a thread of love divine

Love divine

Love divinely selected

For only the love ordained up above

And stitched by fire in his side

With a thread of love divine....

LETTERS: RETROSPECT

2011-08-26T15:26:00.009-04:00

Dated July 7, 2005, the following was written to a long-distance friend of mine. This kind of reading opens windows onto myself and other scenery that have been painted shut for far too long. It's surprising and comforting that, for at least six years now, I've had the same sort of voice as a writer. If I scrutinize too much, however, I get pretty bored with myself, so hopefully no one else picks up on that. I think I'll post these slices of my past occasionally because it's fun for me to read, and why would it not be similarly entertaining for you, dear reader?

so i have been on the creative warpath in the last couple of weeks. i am

generating some new artwork, and i'm quite proud of it. it's based on old
family photos, which i am constantly drawn back to and fascinated by. if
only i could have been there!! and if i had a digital camera in working
order (mine's broken) i'd send photos. i am making a few things for the
second annual tomato art show (remember this from last year?) and also some
little odd pieces which are turning out to please my eye very much. it's a
great thing as an artist to get to the end of a process and discover there's
a smile on my face. i even said "hallelujah" aloud this morning when i
finished one. i think you can probably relate.

okay, so my favorite book which i am two-thirds of the way
through..."extremely loud and incredibly close" by jonathan safran foer. it
is KICKING MY ASS it is so good. they need to create a new word to describe
this guy's writing style. i laugh and sigh simultaneously. you MUST go and
get it if you haven't already. now. right now. turn off your computer, go
get in the little blue car, and drive to that little book store, hand over some
cash and start reading. this is how serious i am.
and my new favorite CD is willie nelson's "teatro." (see if they have that,
as well.) it was produced by daniel lanois. he can do [almost] no wrong.
and emmylou makes a few appearances as well. there's a song called "the
maker" and it also KICKS MY ASS. there's this driving bass guitar by mr.
lanois that makes my heart hurt in a very good way. i heard a few tracks
when we were in this shop in colorado and i asked what it was and this tall,
gorgeous, brazilian fellow said "teatro" and he even rolled his "rrr" when
he said it. that made it even more appealing.

we leave for wyoming this saturday at the very earliest we can manage. i
can feel my blood already flowing in the westward direction. we will land
at my aunt's house on sunday evening if we can keep the pedal steadfastly to
the metal, as they say. i look forward to sleeping outdoors in the
wheatfields, reading, tinkering with my cousin mike in his workshop, making
pies (gooseberry, to be exact), riding the bike up and down and up and down
county road 147 with nothing but golden wheat in all directions, hearing the
unmistakable norberg laughter late into the night as we will, no doubt,
honor my grandpa's memory with fresh-popped popcorn and root beer (IBC --
the only way to go). all this and more pies (they've got a chokecherry bush
too, don't know if they'll be ripe yet or if they're good for anything but jam...)

i don't think we'll be heading back east until late july. sounds like pure heaven to me.

until then, westward ho and hot damn, my dear.

WAIT! DON'T GO!!

2011-08-24T11:56:00.004-04:00

It's still me, Evie.

You haven't accidentally stumbled into some other Evie's blogspace. I know it looks different in here -- you'll get used to it. It was way past the time for a change, so I hope you like it and will come to feel quite at home on your occasional visits.

And one other thing...I'm feeling indecisive these days (fickle on many levels, I am) so the fonts may switch and the header photo may change for a few days/weeks/however-long, until I settle on just the right ones. What can I say, I'm a born editor.

...And if I could actually land on the perfect title for my blog, it'd be called something else than "." See? A fickle girl.

So welcome.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-08-23T11:10:00.011-04:00

Listening to:

Pandora: The Police. The Cars, Talking Heads, Rick Springfield, Cyndi Lauper, Dire Straits, all good sounds coming out of these sub-par computer speakers. (note to self: purchase some inexpensive exterior speakers...it's an easy fix, girlie.)

Smelling:

India ink. Reminds me of college because of A) similarly sour, skunky old carpet in the dorm where I held a job as an RA and B) because we used India ink and nib pens from the corner art supply store as we drew, until we were numb and cross-eyed, seemingly hundreds of copies of logo designs and distillations of letterforms on what became heaps of tracing paper. Apologies for that run-on sentence.

Loving:

Ticonderoga "Laddie" Tri-write pencils. If you want to return to your youth, write with one of these. They boast slightly thicker, gently three-sided barrels, soft, rich lead, and a proportionately larger, broader eraser. I don't think I'll ever go back to grown-up pencils.

Still thinking about:

Porcelain cups of tea daintily held by lithe fingers, silky, moon-white skin, tiny waists and flowing skirts, dashing, stand-up collars and healthy sideburns, handsomely crafted and quietly thrilling groupings of words. Or in just two, much clearer words....Jane Eyre. Um, whew. If a man ever looked through me with eyes that shade of blue and said to me, "You transfix me, quite..." well, I can't be held responsible for what might happen.

Annoyed by:

Crabtree & Evelyn. Dammit, why can't they just leave a good thing well enough alone?! Namely, my signature scent, Lily of the Valley. They've gone and altered the formula, adding a sweeter tone and a touch of just plain, boring normalcy. All that and they have shortened it to just "Lily." Before, I smelled like I had just run through a field of the delicate, fresh white blossoms and now....I just don't. Sigh.

A little too proud of:

before

after

The product of four hours of grueling scraping, scrubbing, sweating. Elbow grease has a whole new meaning, and my art tables have a shiny-clean new lease on life.

But reeeeeally proud of:

My dear Matty (friend/peer/co-mischief-maker since fifth grade and current housemate, for those of you who have no idea who he is). His dream of a theatre company is slowly -- but also relatively quickly -- sprouting those beautifully marked, color-filled wings and forcing its way out of the dreamy, cocoon state. Studio Tenn is now a full-fledged professional business. And their business is kicking some thespian ass. Just went to see the first show of their season, Guys and Dolls, on Sunday afternoon and had my socks very nearly knocked off. The sense of pure performing joy and true camaraderie is unmistakable when watching this cast pull off a monster of a show in a fresh, cutting edge, jazzed-up fashion. Sorry to tell you all of this when the show is all but sold out....

Stay tuned for more from Nashville's newest creative powerhouse production team. Big things are happ'nin.

"HERE WE GO"

2011-08-18T15:34:00.013-04:00

I happily flicked the radio knob, wielding my sole power over news of campaign mischief, national debt, war. I can only stay so informed before I go raging mad. Instead, I spent that precious little silent time in my head, being thankful for asparagus with my eggs, the morning's sunshine, my pretty orange shoes, a truck that drives and legs that move...simple things.

I arrived at school early, clopped down the stairs and flipped on the lights that hang over my desk. They're white paper lanterns in varying sizes, ethereal and easy on the early morning eyes. I set down my second cup of coffee, yet quite full thanks to minimal spillage on the six-minute drive. This song was the first that popped up on my Jon Brion Pandora station, so very appropriately titled and timed for my heart's position toward and sense of confidence in romance lately. Not just romance, but the concept of partnership with a person -- the idea that someone might know me differently than anyone's ever known me, some day. Anyway, it's beautifully, knowingly written. (Brion's the guy who did the music for, among many other movies, Punch-Drunk Love. If you've seen that, it'll make perfect sense. If you've not seen it, get it on a screen in front of you, now.)

Check it out on iTunes -- the melody and instrumentation are almost as right-on as these words are. Some might think me a downtrodden, complaining sap, what with these yearny things I sometimes post, but I think maybe I'm just more of a full-hearted, incurable hoper.

You've gotta hope that there's someone for you

As strange as you are

Who can cope with the things that you do

Without trying too hard

Because you can bend the truth

Until it's suiting you

These things that you're wrapping all around you

You never know what they will amount to

And your life is just going on without you

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

You've gotta know that there's more to this world

Than what you have seen

Because we all have a limited view

Of what we can be

As we move along with our blinders on

Each one of us feels a little stranded

And you can't explain or understand it

Each one of us on a different planet

And amidst all the to and fro

Someone can say hello

Here we go

The feeling that someone really gets you

It's something that no one should object to

It could happen today

So I suggest you skip your habit of laying low

It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

Because someone can say "Hello,

You old so and so, here we go"

01.07.2011

2011-07-05T14:49:00.001-04:00

I am SO behind. Does the fact that I'm typing all of this on my phone's touch screen make you slightly more inclined to forgive my latent posting?

A day in Encinitas (and surrounding cute outposts) with Ultimate Tour Guide David.

Bull Taco. No-fuss, right-down-to-it, fresh as can be Mexican fare. Mmm.

David masterfully wields the Jeep, tells funny stories and sunburns his nose.

Fish! Mindful fish, at the Self Realization Fellowship meditation gardens in Encinitas. I know, how very Californian.

Moonlight Beach. Lots of tanned bodies, sweaty volleyball players, coconut scented air. Typical. This grandaddy of a palm tree looms quite large in the middle of the public area. He's a friendly tree.

Supper with family at Casa de Bandini.

Post-dinner mapping with Marion.

Marion, a prolific watercolorist. Maybe we're family?

30.06.2011

2011-07-02T00:39:00.001-04:00

Breakfast, blue corn cakes with blueberries and plantain, orange creme fraiche.

A walk to the Salk Institute and the....

La Jolla Gliderport.

Typical La Jolla. Typically gorgeous.

San Diego Zoo. Charming giraffes, three. They have black-purple tongues! And cute, sleepy, sweet eyelashes.

Fambly. Mom's cousins Marion and Nadine. And the girl in the stylish hat is great niece Isabel, a fully capable tour guide, rich with knowledge about various and sundry animals.

Peacocks!

Skyway. We watched from the roadway.

29.06.2011

2011-06-29T18:43:00.001-04:00

I appreciate a change of scenery, right down to the most mundane.

Morning repast at La Jolla's little gem called Coffee Cup. Aptly named. Strong, toasty coffee, sweet corn tamales with tomatillo sauce, eggs over medium, fresh avocado. The morning paper. Charmingly unaffected servers. The fog burned off as we sat at a sidewalk table, the morning sun gradually warming my back. A cute, scrubby pup under the table to our right whined patiently for a scrap of tortilla. The crazy orange "umbrella" contraptions at the boutique burger joint to our left got a thorough, noisy cleaning.

La Valencia Hotel, back in the pink as the fog dissipates.

A visit to the hilarious, occasionally barking seals and poop-factory pelicans at La Jolla Cove. Miraculous critters, both.

Feet in the Pacific: done (and will most certainly be accomplished several more times).

Back to the Estancia La Jolla with its lush landscaping, Spanish tile roofs, attentive valet boys, poolside refreshments, salt water, shrieking Italian children wearing upside-down goggles.

Prickly pear mojito, contraband lunch snacks, yellow and white cabana stripey towels, earbuds bringing me Eddie Vedder's Ukulele Songs. "Longing to Belong" may or may not have been on repeat for awhile. "and though the moon is rising, can't put your picture down, love can be frightening when you fall..."

Dinner tonight is with one of mom's college friends. She's sweetly made a reservation at a place just down the coast in Del Mar. I have a good feeling about dining anywhere that translates to "of the ocean."

28.06.2011

2011-06-29T11:58:00.001-04:00

And so it begins. Turbulation ( as Angela has coined the phenomenon) carried us westward to DFW, a bourbon and soda took us the rest of the way to the tired, weird-smelling, space-agey LAX. Considerably smoother for a couple of reasons.

After seemingly interminable lines and waits, we procured our ride. Ladies and gentlemen, meet our Jeep, HiHoSilver. Pepper and eucalyptus trees towered above, between us and the deep blue sky, filling our nostrils with favorite smells and mom's head with favorite memories.

Wind-whipped, traffic-bewildered, road-weary, we arrived, eventually, at this sight:

A little stroll through La Jolla on our way to dinner. Walls here are fairly dripping with nasturtiums, succulents, sweet peas. Agapanthus and Bougainvillea astound us. And then there are the awesome cars.

Dinner at Whisknladle was especially satisfying for two gals who had only had a banana and some almonds since our early morning rising. A summer salad with fresh roasted corn, grapefruit, hearts of palm, arugula, a flatbread with gruyere, pancetta, beet greens and chili flakes. We did also find it necessary to indulge in sharing a dark Valrhona pot de creme with salted cinnamon caramel and cute little squares of coconut macaroon shortbread served alongside. Yes. Necessary.

There's a fireplace by the pool, so the day was nicely wrapped here, nightcaps in hand.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 11

2011-06-15T12:11:00.001-04:00

I think I could live in McMinnville.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 10

2011-06-15T11:00:00.008-04:00

En route to Soter Vineyards, I wound my way up a hill covered in crimson clover (yes, you heard me) and edged by ancient juniper trees. It's quiet and unassaulting up here, you'd barely know they exist if you didn't listen to the right folks down in town (namely Scott at Community Plate). I pulled up to this lovely common space (which serves as the Soter family's actual kitchen and living area in the summertime when the kids are finished with their schooling) and the delightful Hallie walked out to the car with a flute of sparkling Rosé! What a greeting. We proceeded inside to a long table set for eight (with every kind of glass and linen napkins and all), but where we had a nice one-on-one tasting because the rest of the appointment's party were running behind. Probably their "Grape Escape" minivan ran into some trouble.....

So Hallie and I chatted casually for quite a while -- everything but wine, really -- then got on to the sipping, swirling, swooshing, aerating, tasting, where I was able to ask all sorts of questions I might have otherwise swallowed in the presence of six other tasters. I got a marvelous little lesson about the valley's history and current state, and tastings of some charming wines, my favorite of which was the Brut Rosé, and a bottle of which I walked out with. But not before......

...Hallie poured me a complimentary two-inches-or-so of the pinot noir...

...and showed me out to the patio that overlooks the valley....

...and thus I spent the next hour and a half with my paints and Mac the Dog.

Most importantly, I'm profoundly pleased by this view. This view and the cooing of turtledoves in the tops of the weepy juniper trees, dripping with dusty blue berries, the bleating of those funny, black-faced sheep on the hillside and the buzz of honeybees and the fuzzy hum of farm equipment doing the day's due work in the vines. Such simple beauty wraps me up. Fortunate one.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 9

2011-06-10T21:45:00.008-04:00

This morning I woke around 7 and have lay in this bed, bathed in blue-white light until now, 10:05. I have to be out at 11, so this is cutting it close. I don't care. Such luscious sleep I had and now a pot of Italian roast, diffused light from an overcast sky through (six) open windows and Ella Fitzgerald have kept me company.

My log, I named her Lola. She is shapely, pale-skinned, with really lovely knobby bits. Battered to a particular smoothness, steadfast, sturdy. I watched the jade green curls of surf surrender to their end with my back against her, chill turned to warm. I finally stood and brushed the sand from my ankles and headed east.

Rockaway Beach held really fat and friendly chipmunks,

the town of Garibaldi passed me by to the soundtrack of dueling accordions ("There Will Never Be Another You") on satellite radio, which made me cackle aloud.

I have found that, given the right station, I do love surprising music for surprising terrain. Satellite is not a part of my reality driving the vehicle I drive at home, but this has spoiled me, terribly so. Jazz has brought me thus far, sprinkled with a little bluegrass and some classical.

And now I sit with a pint of a local IPA and a little cup of house-made chowder at The Schooner, Netarts Bay. Beauty. I would love it if I could beam down my family right now. I'd be most happy to see them, unusually cheerful to share a spoonful of chowder with dad...

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 8

2011-06-10T12:58:00.007-04:00

Morningtime. I'm sitting at ocean's side, my toes bare and my jacket buffeting the winds from the surf. The sand is surprisingly warm and cozy for burying my feet up to the ankles. I've been walking around dropping pretty stones in my pocket, all smooth and rounded from the tide's constant tumbling. I feel like Amelie, when she keeps picking up skipping rocks and plunking them quietly into her sweater with a funny little unassuming pucker on her face. I just wish I were as adept as she when it comes to making them hop lightly across the water's surface. I've never been good at skipping rocks, ever.

Neahkahnie sits up there, daring me, begging me, threatening me. I must go. I just have to. Besides, the cinnamon-cardamom roll from Bread and Ocean needs to be counteracted. Fair sun is about to show herself, and the wafting hints of warmth are delicious. The anticipation of her full rays is enough to keep me out from under any and all roofs on this charmer of a day.

The ancient, stoic trees. They move me. They render me agog and without words. This is already my phone wallpaper. You have my permission to download it and use it for yours, too.

Hey, there's a bench. Would you believe that I didn't even sit down?

What you can't really tell here is that I was at an elevation of 1600 and that's the Pacific down there. Unpredictability is the only predictable thing on a mountaintop. Salty sweat mixed with ocean mist, pine-scented, the loudest quiet, perfect solitude. It was splendid.

I just saw an almost entirely shaved Chihuahua named "Erica" and wearing a camouflage doggie-t-shirt chase a German Shepherd (five times her size) all the way up the beach and onto the sidewalk. This is MY beach, bitch! she seemed to balk. Will wonders never cease! That was rich. I know folks do it every day without blinking, but that doesn't lessen the small exhiliration I feel at the fact that I just climbed that mountain right there, made it to the tippy-top, got showered with the heavy mist which currently envelops its peak, then made it back down in the sunshine (finally), came straight to the water's edge and washed off the trail dust (mud) in the foamy green surf and am now enjoying the filtered glow of fickle lady Sun with my favorite log, Lola. What a round!

I do love the mystery and tension of those shadowed, wooded trails, but oh how I revel in the wideness, the nuanced colors, the tactile qualities, the wildness in the churning water, the virtues, all shining and lovely (until a tsunami), of the shore.

A cute little cottage, typical Manzanita.

Vino. I heard Dixie, the owner and my server, say something about a local lady who is famous for her pies. Name, Billie. There was one such pie in the kitchen (she doesn't bake much anymore, she and her husband have both taken ill). What's that you say? Marionberry? Homemade ice cream? Hells yes. I asked the stiff, unemotive white-haired lady to my right how it tasted. She had a piece she'd plowed her way through, sans expression. "Mhm. It's good." Er, so when I took my first bite and was just about sucked up into the lower heavenlies, I understood afresh that we humans have different modes of emotion and certainly different pie-goodness scales. HOLY MARIONBERRY. Just sweet enough, just tart enough, full berries yet intact, a shattery crust with a finish of buttery chewiness, cold, smooth ice cream....oh man. Now I know why I hiked.

After offering gratuitous thanks and settling up, I was drawn oceanward, once again. Couldn't help it, though the wind picked up and chilled me through. I was rewarded by a stunning peachy display of parting clouds with ominous, green-grey ones in the far off places. "Don't forget about us" they mumbled with warning tones. But fair Sun broke through and held them at bay. I stood and drank it: the color, the crashing, the screaming gulls, that constant mountaintop with its tempestuous and fickle rounds of lovers, soft banks of mist and fog.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 7

2011-06-09T12:26:00.010-04:00

Manzanita. The fire crackles in front of me, bare toes warmed by the licking orange flames. I wonder what kind of wood this is? I think some parts of heaven will smell like this. The ocean pounds the sand several blocks down. Muddy Waters offers his soulful crying to the evening, mixing with the noisy crows cawing above me on a line. Loudmouth little bastards. I've achieved the perfect balance of body temperature via: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, bare feet, smoldering fire.....wine. (Funny though, Muddy is now singing "Cold Weather Blues.")

The drive from Portland turned out to automatically flip a switch in me, one I didn't realize could be flipped so automatically. I thought my change of venue would take some time to warm up/cool down to. Nope.

Paul Simon and Fleet Foxes accompanied me through the forever-tall, mysterious, dappled bluegreen woods, all dotted with what looked a lot like forsythia. Not so, smarty pants. Upon asking, I learned it's something called Scotch Broom which folks around here hate. It's a strangler of other native inhabitants which would also like a chance at growing (sort of like their version of kudzu?), so as soon as it gives itself up with the startling yellow, they all go out and cut it down/yank it from the ground as quickly as they can. I passed lots of logging trucks, couldn't help but think of the theme from Twin Peaks and wish vehemently that I'd had it on my iPod (note to self). Also saw lots of Subarus, old trucks (thump-thump went my heart) and self-sustaining homesteads...must be in the Pacific Northwest, methinks. And all of a sudden, around a bend I came and WHAM! Rocks!

Gigantic, monstrous rocks in the THWACKK! Ocean!!! There's the ocean. And there, friends, is the end of the land. The very edge of our nation, where it just stops being America...I don't know how it can affect me as deeply as it does every single time but it's just so grand. Add to that boulders dropped from the very grasp of the Almighty into the drink (that's how I like to think of it) and whoa.

So I snaked southward and hit 101 and ended up in sweet little Manzanita. The clouds were hugging the landscape in a tight embrace, not really wanting to let go. It felt cozy and muffled but still wild, unpredictable. Hardy. Buffeted. Shingled buildings hunker down along the main drag called Laneda. I don't recall seeing a stop light.

I've been sitting alone by this fire for what seems, now, like many moons. I'm breathing more deeply. Sighing a lot. Exceedingly happy to have lots of air and trees and quiet and birds around me (even if some of them are crows). I may have misjudged my city girl to country girl ratio. The hushed mood around here is pure medicine.

I'm cobbling together a fireside picnic. They had cute little homemade s'more kits and fruit on the table in the cabin, so that'll be the start. I got some "Loukanika" salami (Greeky with orange peel, cumin, oregano) from Olympic Provisions and some pickled okra from the farmer's market. I meant to take them home but, er, I'm going to eat them here instead. Promises to be tasty, especially when a slice of charcuterie ends up on the actual s'more. Oh. Oh yes sir.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 6

2011-06-06T22:14:00.002-04:00

Stumptown brew has become my morning regular, a habit I could not afford to maintain were I to live at The Ace Hotel. Hmmm.....living at The Ace. Idea. Those are my new watermelon red socks that already have holes in the toes. Is this what we've come to expect from socks? Come on now, China.

I ran across the Hawthorne Bridge then along the East Esplanade, home to several homeless folks. I'd live there if I were homeless, lots of nice landscaping and a watery lullaby. (I'm aware that's awful.) There's a flight of four sections of metal steps that rise back up to "street" level of Burnside Bridge which I've made a vow to run up and down for each dessert and unnecessary cocktail or glass of wine I've enjoyed. I figured that was a good trade-off. So I've run up and down those steps a LOT. So then I found myself on the east side and tooled around over there in the cool morningtime. Really enjoyable, and lots of cool signage. We all know I love signage, add to that an automobile's name and a dramatic sky, boom. Chevytown.

Sizzle Pie! This made me glad.

While enjoying a strong second cup, a....what's that you say?......vegan apple cinnamon scone (if only I'd had some butter..) and an art periodical at a sidewalk table at Grendel's Coffee, I glanced at the barrage of posters in the window. Loved this one, everything about it. Everything that I can't put words to. Get me?

Lan Su Chinese Garden. Forgive me, but I don't generally find breathless inspiration in art that is Asian in origin/style. I understand and acknowledge the craft and care that go into the architecture, the meticulous laying of stone, the cautious, intuitive pressures involved in the calligraphing of characters....it's just not my cup-o-tea. (Tea. Heh.) So the garden was lovely, peaceful, well-designed, intriguing, good-smelling....

Most of these sound like really delightful places to spend one's time. And some of them are, well, hilarious. "Knowing the Fish Pavilion."

So Evie is either there, getting to know the fish, or she's in the Tower of Cosmic Reflections...oh hell. It could be any one of them, really.

A darling little lunch at Little Bird on 6th.

A dusk walk across the Burnside bridge once more. Clear sky, whipping wind.

Le Pigeon. They had everything I loved. Vintage (looking) cutlery and dishware, a kind and genuine waitstaff, a really great glass of Rosé from the Loire, smiling chefs that hand you your food right across the bank of mise en place, big crunchy crystals of sea salt on the sweet, creamy, just-shy-of-cold butter they serve with their baguette, a good luck card to the chef hand-drawn by a little tyke (I hope) and taped to the hood vent, dining neighbors who offer me a bite of their foie gras and then ask if they can take a picture for me.

Strapping fellows. This one had inch-long eyelashes and said "we're here to make things possible" when I asked if I might have a phone book on which to sit so I could see over the towering bins of toasted pine nuts, dressed tomato salad, Italian parsley leaves, perfectly sliced potatoes, and fresh morels.

Honey-lavender cake, pistachio terrine, rhubarb.

A giddy diner.

MONDAY AFTERNOON AT THE ACE

2011-06-06T18:15:00.002-04:00

A bath at 2:30 in the afternoon?

Even though I showered five hours ago?

And with a glass of rose and some Stephane Grapelli in the other room?

Don't mind if I do.

And no, I won't drop my phone in the drink.

Location:SW Stark St,Portland,United States

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 5

2011-06-05T22:44:00.006-04:00

The Vacation

by Wendell Berry

Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch there it would be. But he

would not be in it. He would never be in it.

I'm not sure what it is that has settled into my traveler's heart and mind for the past few days. Inspiration deficit? Rebellion? Distraction? Laziness? Apathy? I don't think it's any of those, more like a similar sense to the one set forth in the above poem by one of my favorite men on the earth, Wendell Berry. Striking a balance between sharing/documenting and experiencing/absorbing is a tricky job, and full-time. This time around, I feel unable (unwilling?) to keep up with the detailed recording of every thing, every moment, every bite. I don't think anyone expects that of me, except for me. So self, quit that.

Evie got on the MAX headed North and learned the ins and outs of that flippy feature on the iPhone camera where you can turn it around on your own tired mug. Wondered if it's wise.

Evie walked a-ways down a street called Interstate, which isn't actually an interstate. It runs along one, a couple of streets over, which I suppose several people thought was a good enough reason to name it thusly. I think that's absurd.

Evie ate (most of) a plate of the best chilaquiles I've.......ever had. Had to think about that one, but yep -- these were the best of the cream of the highest ranking. crunchy, chewy, saucy, meaty, eggy. Heaven-y. Awesome place called Por Que No on North Mississippi. Fine folks, fine eats.

Here is the saddest, most adorable kitty cat in Northeast Portland. He resides in a dear little shop called Flutter. You can't really see it here but he had a weepy wound on his rear haunch and a mean-looking, kinda cleft palate sort of situation. He blinked slowly and tried to meow. I feel sad for his apparent misfortune, but happy that he found this perfectly sunny spot on the beautifully corroded, paint-chipped cement floor of a stylish locale. People do care.

En route to Sauvie Island, we passed through a diggish little spot called St. John's. Full of spunk and soul, gritty and friendly and hilarious and poignant at once. These are the types of places and people my storyteller's gut is craving.

Sauvie Island. Purity.

I sat in a rusty metal chair on the porch of this little country store to eat my 99-cent coconut popsicle. This mysterious man next to me looked to be possibly KGB, so I thought it'd be okay to sneak a photo of him. He didn't pull a gun, but he did offer me a ride to the beach then sang me a song on the way back. (the above is mostly true, except the part about him being in the KGB.)

The prettiest bridge in Portland, maybe the world. Vantage point: Cathedral Park.

Careful, tiger.

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 4

2011-06-04T20:14:00.008-04:00

It's been a really glory-ous day. I woke early, pulled on my shoes and all but skipped out the door (Stumptown brew firmly in grasp) and into the deliciously perfect/perfectly delicious air. A jog along the water set me all at rights, as did the really adorable elephant on my second cup of coffee from the Fresh Pot.

So the rest of the day will have to be read from photos alone, because I've just made a reservation at a place called Simpatica and I have to get to the bus stop in about 20. I get the sense that this is not your regular restaurant -- they call it a dining hall. All sorts of nice things have been written about it, and I've read a whole lot of them. My conversation with the delightful girl who answered the phone went like this:

Hi there, I know it's quite last minute, but is there any way you have room for one at tonight's seating?

Sure...just a party of one?

Yes, just a party of little ol' me! (nervous laughter)

Well, let me tell you, I do have a place for one, and it's across from another party of one. Would that feel weird to you?

Well, wouldn't we be at a table with some other people? Not just at a table for two?

Oh yes! Other folks around you, just wanted to make sure that was alright.

Well...(cautious pause)...is it a girl or a boy?

(laughter) It's a boy.

(more laughter) Well then it could go either way, couldn't it?

(a lot of laughter. Now I feel like I want to be best friends with this girl -- I wonder if she wants to grab a cocktail tomorrow evening.) Okay, dinner's at seven, we'll see you soon!

So tonight I could be dining across from a 78-year-old car salseman just in from Pasadena, a 22-year-old, tattooed, hot-pants chef wannabe, or maybe a smarmy, pomade-slicked divorcee looking for a chance for conversation or practicing his pick-ups. Or maybe it's a handsome single fellow who just loves good food and wholesome girls from Tennessee. Whatever the case, bring it. I love the prospect of new folks, the surprise element is what I'm all about. "Let's just see" = one of my favorite things to say.

SO, here are those photos......

(farmer's market)

(before)

(after)

FRUTAS MIXTAS

2011-06-04T12:29:00.003-04:00

I've spent the morning in the company of a placid, sparkly river, what seems like hundreds of people who run faster and more seriously than I do, and this lovely cup of fruit with lime and chile which I picked up from a nice Guatemalan guy at the Saturday market I accidentally found myself in the midst of.

Spears of watermelon, cucumber, perfectly ripe mango, pineapple, cantaloupe, papaya (which just might be the only produce I can not abide), a slab of milky white, freshly hacked coconut.

Sunshiny, bright blue, breezy. It's a perfectly temperate day in Portland. And now, off to squeeze and fondle the region's best edible offerings at the Farmer's Market...

Location:Waterfront Park

ALMOND CROISSANT

2011-06-03T12:15:00.002-04:00

The Superman theme is playing here at Pearl Bakery. It echoes (the song in its entirety, that is) in the huge baking facility that's behind the counter which is laden with every variety of golden brown buttery crusty temptation. A two mile jog along the Willamette made this pictured piece of perfection possible. Thin, crinkled layers of buttery, shattery crust envelop a soft, dense pillow of ground almond paste, only scarcely sweet. Good grief. Nothing so equally rewarding and stupid as immediately undoing the good one just did for one's body.

There is a little girl wearing a sparkly, sky blue princess frock, a navy pea coat ands brown cowboy boots. She twirls and smiles shyly, hides behind her mama's thigh. Reminds me of my own girlhood, except for that part about actually smiling....

Location:NW Couch St,Portland,United States

LONG DISTANCES, JUNE 2

2011-06-03T01:36:00.004-04:00

So I made it. Tonight's will be a brief post, as it's been a long day of travel and I'm ready for a drinky-drink and a bite down at the adorable and swanky Clyde Common, attached to the Ace Hotel where I'll lay down my head these five nights.

The transit, once on Oregon soil, has been eerily easy and fuss-free. MAX light rail = geeeenius! Like, it can't really be this easy......but, can it be? It is. Portland welcomed me with parting clouds, purply shadows, wet roads, a squealy train track (I could smell the metal), and a rainbow. Nice folks, smiles and friendly greetings.

Pictured, my reading material from today's flight. My love for food isn't obvious, not really much. Gabrielle Hamilton's memoir Blood, Bones and Butter kept me occupied and inspired as the plane(s) pitched and shuddered across the mountainous landscapes and the babies -- yes, plural -- wailed. It wasn't all bad. I had thinking and dreaming to do. More of that shortly when my cheek hits this downy white, crinkly cotton pillow. 'Night.

CONTRIBUTE TO MUSICAL BRILLIANCE....

2011-05-11T14:58:00.004-04:00

and KICKSTART my dear, adorable girl, Julie Lee. She needs your help.

DENTAL WORK

2011-05-10T20:49:00.002-04:00

Combine these two fellows and you have how I feel after being in the dentist's chair today.

BREAKFAST WITH THE BIRDS

2011-04-15T07:49:00.006-04:00

It is not a common practice for me to hop out of bed at 5:50 on a Friday morning, nor to pull my shoes on and go for a run (only to be chased home by fat rain drops), but today things were different. A steely grey film hung between me and the up-creeping sun, shrouding and insulating the quiet morning. A warm wind stirred the bright green treetops and blew the last stubborn twirlybirds dramatically from the branches. I longed to be among it all for a short spell before the fluorescent cacophony of the day began.

When the metal-scented raindrops starting beating my forehead, I ran through Sylvan Park's eccentric grid of alleyways, my heart beating behind my ears, as the cardinals beat their wings flying for safe cover. Exhiliration, red-winged streaks and flashes in my periphery, clean, salty sweat.

Coffee percolated while I showered and dressed. I sliced a vine-ripe tomato, a bright red fresno chile and tore some basil from the potted garden in my windowsill to sit alongside my fresh egg. That egg came from Willow Farms in Summertown, Tennessee (I thought I could taste a little hometown in that yolk). The back door was open, a female cardinal sat on the porch rail just outside and torqued her little head toward me as if to say, "what are you doing in there?" "I'm watching you," I told her, matter-of-factly. Then I spent a moment trying to get myself in a mindful posture of gratitude before I got up from my chair and the day ate me alive with its teeth of ignorance, mindlessness and apathy.

Dave challenged us with two easy-to-remember questions at the end of last Sunday's sermon, and I've been making an effort to remain aware and open to what the answers are for me. These are they:

1. Practice being grateful for everything. Every little thing, even the difficulties. Study what you're thankful for/or not. Try to zero in on how your heart feels in those different places where your gratitude takes you.

2. Study weariness. Where are you exhausted in life? What takes it all out of you and puts nothing back, leaving you sapped and empty? Where do you overindulge?

I'll not divulge my impulsed answers, but I'll leave you to think in quiet. Hopefully a pretty bird is peppering your mind space with melody as one did for me this very morning.

HOUSE FOR SALE

2011-04-11T16:22:00.005-04:00

Anyone want a house? They're $12 + shipping.

When was the last time you could honestly say you bought a twelve dollar house?

They're all different, hand-crafted (duh), and attached is a wire hanger for dangle-ability. I even cut up one of my oldest and faithfullest friends -- a red and yellow potato chip can -- for the good of adorable roofing material. Don't let her death be in vain.

....Okay, you got me....they're Christmas ornaments! But they're just too charming to be kept in the Tupperware bins that won't be pulled out again until Thanksgiving weekend, so get yourself one (or nine).

How about this: I'll even personalize, within reason. A name or a short verse, sure. Thoreau's Walden or a sonnet, perhaps not. Or if so, I'll have to charge you. I can write pretty teeny.

So leave a comment if you're in the market, we'll get it all sorted.

FLIPCARD!

2011-04-05T19:50:00.006-04:00

This is fun. You can view my blog in a new way these days. Just put.....

/view/flipcard

....after my usual blog address (like below) and presto-change-o! It's real fun, you should try it.

www.eviecoates.blogspot.com/view/flipcard

If you likey, bookmarky.

PUTNAM COUNTY

2011-04-04T19:04:00.007-04:00

I'd venture to say that Tom Waits' voice is an....acquired taste. I've acquired it gradually, gently, maybe selectively? Well, Nighthawks at the Diner, his 1975 live recording is one of these favored selections. The sheer poetry of this here tune, "Putnam County," it gets me every time. He sets out scenes of such pure blue-collar Americana. Until the moon was a stray dog on the ridge...And swizzle stick legs jack-knifed over Naugahyde stools...Leaving the little joint winkin' in the dark warm narcotic American night...With the porcelain poodles and the glass swans staring down from the knick-knack shelf....

He plays with the ruddiest combinations of words in his charcoally, aggregate tone. Then he underscores himself with sad cello and violin, a plaintive piano. All wrapped up within the parts is an intelligent, zinging yet base-level humor...it should astound you.

...And the GMC's and the Straight-8 Fords were coughing and wheezing

And they percolated as they tossed the gravel underneath the fenders

To weave home a wet slick anaconda of a two-lane

With tire irons and crowbars a-rattling

With a tool box and a pony saddle

You're grinding gears and you're shifting into first

Yeah, and that goddamned tranny's just getting worse, man

With the melody of see-ya-laters and screwdrivers on carburetors

Talking shop about money to loan

And palominos and strawberry roans

See ya tomorrow, hello to the Missus

With money to borrow and goodnight kisses...

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-03-29T14:35:00.010-04:00

Just found:

In my bottom desk drawer, a note I made to myself about a dream I had, trying to scrawl out the details so I'd remember. It must have been two or three years ago. I remember who it was about but can't remember specifics of the dream to save my own life, which is why the list reads so hilariously. I will copy it here, word-for-word:

- boring and "obvious piano", Futura font, xeroxed

- Indian Pacific studios, Star Wars/Abbott & Costello

- 3 CD box set, shrink wrap

- perforated tear-out polaroids of friends and family

- credit card debt

- album release "party" was a fish fry somewhere in New England (a la Mystic Pizza) -- there were shingle houses and a marina nearby

- salt water taffy in the mix somewhere

.....I mean, what?!

Listening to:

Trent Dabbs' newest release. Can't pick a favorite but boy, it is toe-tapping, ambient, mellow, classic, all kinds of awesome.

Feeling:

Soft.

Saving:

Pennies. The pre-first graders are about to start their penny drive for Habitat for Humanity. They will collect, count, roll, tote across the street to the bank, thousands of pennies over the next month. My wallet is pleasantly thinner and lighter. There will be a parade soon, too. Penny hats are involved, cuteness will veritably ooze.

Laughing at:

My second graders' clay fish. Oh, the things they come up with!

open wiiiide!

snorkel, anyone?

squid astride/attacking shark. ?

SOMEONE HELP ME OUT

2011-03-28T09:57:00.003-04:00

I found this little drawing on one of the tables after clean-up this afternoon. Can anyone surmise what is happening in this picture? Who are these critters? And what species is the one on the right?! I think maybe he's a buck-toothed lizard in lederhosen, wearing five party hats. But you're entitled to your own opinion...

I welcome your observations.

THIS TIME LAST WEEK

2011-03-24T15:29:00.002-04:00

This was me.

PRE-VACATION MUSINGS OF AN ART TEACHER ON A DREARY THURSDAY

2011-03-10T10:01:00.007-05:00

I just heaved a particularly audible sigh of relief. It could have been noted by the science teacher down the hall, I'll bet. Grades and comments are finished. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh. (Note the post-it list with check marks next to all but one item.....dragons are next.)

Laundry was taken care of last night. "Don't forget" lists are being made (phone charger, cumin seed, cigars, beach chair, watercolors). Cash has been withdrawn. Piles of nearly weightless, cotton-y clothing items are building gradually on the surfaces in my bedroom. I've landed upon the perfect sheer, satiny red SPF lip smear called "Tropical Kiss." My bottle of bourbon is waiting seductively on the kitchen counter. The iPod is loaded with all brands of vacationish tunes. Sunscreen soldiers are lined up on my dressing table, 15, 10, 4.

I'm even wearing white jeans in total defiance of the cold and rain. HA! Take that, winter. I bite my thumb in your general direction. You cannot last, history tells me so. As does the Farmer's Almanac.

In other news, my brand new, chunky German colored pencils have arrived! LYRA is the brand name, pleasantly hefty weight and outlandishly saturated color is their game. Can't wait to put some of the beachier tones to some paper in just a few short days.....

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-03-08T16:08:00.005-05:00

Listening to:

Josh Rouse's El Turista. It's my pathway to the beach before I even get on the road. It gives warmth before I ever feel the sun touch my skin. I taste tequila under my tongue. Smooth, bossa nova-y, ocean-breezy, twinkly instrumentally, luscious, sweeping, did I mention smooth?

Wearing:

red shoes

and a blue bird.

Watching like a hawk:

Sat
Mar 12

Mostly Sunny

64°
49°

64°F

Sun
Mar 13

Sunny

66°
52°

66°F

Mon
Mar 14

Partly Cloudy

69°
55°

69°F

Tue
Mar 15

Partly Cloudy

66°
54°

66°F

This Week's Ask the Weatherman

Wed
Mar 16

Mostly Sunny

67°
56°

10%

67°F

Thu
Mar 17

Showers

69°
54°

30%

69°F

The ten day forecast, courtesy of the Trupoint Weather Transmitter at the Seaside Amphitheater, the spot nearest our cozy oceanside aerie in the Florida panhandle. Hold on, I'm comin.'

Not liking:

The rain I see dripping forlornly down the windows of my classroom greenhouse. This means removing aforementioned red shoes and making a mad barefoot dash to the truck. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

"HOW OLD ARE YOU, MISS COATES?"

2011-03-07T11:53:00.003-05:00

...they asked, while we were all sitting on the classroom stools after clean-up, trying to hold our feet up beside our heads so that we could see whether they really are the same length/height (yes, heads and feet).

"Thirty-four."

"You look SO young, like, twenty!" - Martha, grade two

"You look like you're in college!!" - Claire, grade two

Day: made.

ADVENTURES WITH FAVORITE FORK, CEPHALOPOD EDITION

2011-03-06T21:47:00.010-05:00

I found this red onion acting up in the under-counter bin, throwing a rowdy dance party for the sweet potatoes and her cousins, the yellow Spanish onions. I recognize this behavior -- she was all but begging to be used. And so I thought it fitting to throw her in with the below creatures.

Baby octopuses (or "octopi," though the term is often thought to be a hypercorrection), trimmed, beheaded, halved, quartered, basically cut into palatable pieces. They were seasoned with kosher salt and fresh black pepper, browned quickly (whereby they began to immediately writhe and seize in the most alarming, fascinating manner), then added to....

an aromatic jumble of the holy trinity of onion, carrot, celery. Some call it mirepoix, I just call it a good start. Anyone worth his salt knows this is where any good braise begins. Speaking of braise, a bay leaf and some crushed red pepper flakes were added, as were a large handful of tiny cherry tomatoes and several healthy glugs of red wine. A chewy, blood-dark cabernet, to be exact. Dialed in to a happy simmer, it stayed this way for about half an hour, softly bubbling on the stovetop, filling the kitchen with a savory waft and boasting the most beautiful, ruby-purple tendrils of tentacles.

To go alongside, a verdant tumble of quartered Brussels sprouts, steamed to tender perfection then tossed with a drizzle of zingy extra virgin olive oil and a squeeze of Meyer lemon, finished with a grating of the zest, marigold in hue, heady and fragrant.

Some mandoline-thin raw beets (red and golden, both) with fresh spring onions were dressed and added to the plate, and dinner was served. A glass of Penny Farthing dry Rosé never hurts. Favorite fork, knock yourself out.

MAST BROTHERS CHOCOLATE

2011-02-24T15:04:00.005-05:00

The Mast Brothers. Bearded, curious, adorable, funny, brotherly. I bought one of their lovingly crafted bars at Joe Coffee in New York's Greenwich neighborhood back in the fall. My very keen and understanding friend, Taylor, had set me up with a flask refill of some fine bourbon, so as the plane hovered somewhere above the half-way point on my return route, I began to delicately unfold the pertly printed thick cotton rag paper, then the gold foil with its deep, intentional creases.

While there was a bit of that greyish clouding on the surface of the chocolate (to be expected with the temperature and humidity changes of a coffee shop and roastery, perhaps?), the bar lived up to its nine dollar price tag. I poured a handsome glug of my amber, buttery spirit over some ice, spread out the papers that coddled this hand-wrought chocolate bar, and slowly broke off triangular shards (completely disregarding the embossed "guides" that show you how much of a portion is really, er, sensible?). Rich, dark, smooth, slowly melting, mingling on my tongue occasionally with the caramelly, cool bourbon. Well, I wish I had known while I was in Brooklyn for the day that I might have actually stopped by their magical little factory. It looks to be a haven for pure alchemy and delightful exploration. I'd like to shake these boys' cocoa-stained hands.

The Mast Brothers from The Scout on Vimeo.

THAW

2011-02-22T09:17:00.010-05:00

That's my mom's genius creation of an indoor garden in a birdbath, by the way...

The irony is not lost on me, the fact that I'm posting this poem about thaw on one of the colder days of the week, but I read a teeny portion of this jewel on my friend Alison's blog and just had to share it in its entirety. I've put in bold the part that makes me want to weep it's so right-on, both literally and in the shifting light of metaphor. I wait, I wait.

Psalm for the January Thaw

By Luci Shaw

Blessed be God for thaw, for the clear drops
that fall, one by one, like clocks ticking, from
the icicles along the eaves. For shift and shrinkage,
including the soggy gray mess on the deck
like an abandoned mattress that has
lost its inner spring. For the gurgle
of gutters, for snow melting underfoot when I
step off the porch. For slush. For the glisten
on the sidewalk that only wets the foot sole
and doesn’t send me slithering. Everything
is alert to this melting, the slow flow of it,
the declaration of intent, the liquidation.

Glory be to God for changes. For bulbs
breaking the darkness with their green beaks.
For moles and moths and velvet green moss
waiting to fill the driveway cracks. For the way
the sun pierces the window minutes earlier each day.
For earthquakes and tectonic plates—earth’s bump
and grind—and new mountains pushing up
like teeth in a one-year-old. For melodrama—
lightning on the sky stage, and the burst of applause
that follows. Praise him for day and night, and light
switches by the door. For seasons, for cycles
and bicycles, for whales and waterspouts,
for watersheds and waterfalls and waking
and the letter W, for the waxing and waning
of weather so that we never get complacent. For all
the world, and for the way it twirls on its axis
like an exotic dancer. For the north pole and the
south pole and the equator and everything between.

DUST THAT DREAMS

2011-02-21T08:59:00.003-05:00

Man. Monday hasn't landed with such a heavy thud in quite some time. Puffy eyes, a mid-forehead zit, unruly hair sticking up in all the wrong places, sore neck, a night of fitful sleep. I need a re-do of this weekend. Can we kindly rewind to Friday afternoon? There are things I'd do differently. I will be given the grace to make it through this day and this week, I will.

From Richard Holloway, by way of Randy Draughon in church yesterday:

This is my dilemma:

I am dust and ashes, frail and wayward,

a set of predetermined behavioural responses,

riddled with fears, beset with needs,

the quintessence of dust,

and unto dust I shall return.

But there is something else in me.

Dust I may well be,

but troubled dust, dust that dreams,

dust that has strange premonitions

of transfiguration,

of a glory in store,

a destiny prepared,

an inheritance that will one day be my own.

So my life is stretched out

in a painful dialectic between ashes and glory,

between weakness and transfiguration.

I’m a riddle unto myself,

an exasperating enigma,

this strange duality of dust and glory.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-02-15T14:55:00.006-05:00

Listening to:

Rattle and Hum. "This is a song Charles Manson stole from the Beatles. We're stealing it back...." Oh yes indeedy.

Quite enjoying:

The warm afternoon weather and the trip down to the grocery that was necessary to procure some salt for my second graders' "Far Out"er Space watercolor project which, surprise-surprise, also resulted in an afternoon spot of coffee from the 'Buck for teacher.

Wearing:

Well, not my ring. I forgot it on the top mirror shelf and now my right ring finger feels strange and naked. I miss my twinkly green gem.

That's all I got.

VALENTINE'S DOESN'T SUCK

2011-02-14T21:45:00.007-05:00

Not this year, at least.

The family pre-empted the holiday at Margot for brunch yesterday. Champagne, shiny heart-shaped stickers, a round-robin of our delectably eggy entrees, storytelling, French press and one order (five spoons) of house-made chocolate-hazelnut ice cream.

Mom gave me a pair of little pink polka-dot, lounge-y boxer shorts. I feel incredibly girly in them.

I bought myself a bunch of pink tulips, listened to love songs and wore poppy lipstick all day long (with my really lovely running pants and blue bandanna covering dirty hair).

I spent a leisurely, sunny morning in the kitchen with a strong pot of coffee constructing lunch for a few gals down at Sarah's. Got to hold Livi, my newest Valentine (eleven days old, to be exact). We had a Nicoise Salad with mustard-dill grilled chicken and zucchini-broccoli soup with lemon mint yogurt. For a bit of something sweet, we finished with pears roasted with honey, golden raisins, almonds and pumpkin seeds topped with a splot of vanilla yogurt. We talked and laughed til we cried about first dates and adolescence and breast feeding (sorry).

Joshua showed up this afternoon with a bunch of daisies and tulips, fresh-ground peanut butter (the honey roasted kind because he knows I love it), a bar of good, super-dark chocolate, the dearest card with heartfelt sentiments which I'll keep and read over and over again when I need reassuring, and an impromptu happy hour cocktail called the Bees Knees, involving honey and lavender and much mmmmmmm-ing and lip-smacking.

Reba called this evening with stories of hilarity and we belly laughed.

Then dad, the original, appeared on my doorstep tonight with a single, delightful, heady rose, a kiss and a cup of Sweet Cece's to share (original tart with Golden Grahams, granola and fresh blackberries -- he read my mind).

Although I'm not being romanced, I'm sure being loved.

MOLESKINE REVERIES, MAY 5 2004

2011-02-11T15:45:00.007-05:00

(I spent two weeks in Lincoln, Oregon in May of 2004. I wielded a mean chainsaw in the woods with a friend during the day, read, wrote, pontificated, cooked by night. Here's an excerpt.)

Woke at 6am. Another chilly morning, and beautiful. Breathing such cool, sharp, pure air first thing in the morning is something I could get used to. We hit the site by 7, Jim met us up there. We got fires going right away, there was a lot of dragging and wrestling with the branches. I got a little friendlier with the piles of blaze and maybe more brave. We had our noses to the flames for the better part of the morning, took our coffee break (Oreos were involved), then back to the inferno. It was quiet work, kind of nice. Doug was talking about the monks who believe there is value in contemplating the task that is in front of you. No mindless work, just mindful work. I like this. We broke for lunch after I took out about 7 or 8 trees, then topped the ones reaching across the road.

We sat in the sun, we three at the base of our favorite trees (still standing), and Doug doled out the lunch Marj had graciously sent up with us. We remarked on how much better sandwiches taste when made by someone else. We talked about our families and siblings. Good talk, quite humorous at times. I like listening to Doug's voice and watching his mouth move when he tells stories, so deliberate and earnest. It sort of calms me. His wavy white hair peeking out from a bright blue bandanna, his kind brown face and white stubble, laughing eyes behind smoke-smudged glasses.

We broke out the tractor after lunch and, boy-oh-boy, what a sight to see. Three chains, one cable, turn that baby on and watch the huge trunks careening through the slash, right toward you, nevermind the stumps and the fires. It's remarkable. We drug three trees a little too close to the fires, though, so we had to work quickly for a solid hour, limbing and cutting, all three of us. We made fast work of them, started another fire and then got our beers from the cooler and sat on a log. It feels so good to work my body to its limit (or seemingly past it), accomplishing visible things, then sitting and admiring the progress, cold brew in hand. It is something so simple and so satisfying.

We topped off the water jugs, cleaned up, reassessed, put the chainsaws in the Scout and descended once more from the smoky heights. Now I'm shiny clean and fresh (save for several blisters and a lot of sap stuck to my palms), heading to the house soon to start a strawberry-rhubarb pie....

PAPERWHITES

2011-02-09T18:06:00.005-05:00

infant.

gradeschooler.

teenager.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY EDITION...

2011-02-09T10:24:00.016-05:00

Not that I wish it to be Tuesday, because yesterday's day was ready to be good and over.....

Listening to:

Genius mix on my brand spankin' new iPod (thanks mom and dad, for having me in the first place, then for giving me such generous gifts). I let the highlight hover over the song "Starry Gazey Pie" by the Bees (a.k.a. The Silver Seas), held the button down until "Genius" popped up, then was given the gift of a knowing mix including Genesis' "Follow You Follow Me," Bruce Springsteen's "I'm On Fire" as well as "Streets of Philadelphia," all the songs I forget I own come up in such a fine string. Now I am listening to Genius based on the Foo Fighters' "Walking After You" so now I'm looking forward to Beck, Radiohead, Arcade Fire, Flaming Lips, REM.....How does it know?! I know I'm late to the Genius party but I'm here now, and this is staggeringly great.

Really digging lately:

Art lessons with Anna. My friend wrote me at the start of the year and asked if I'd ever be interested in giving her drawing lessons. Not that she needs them, mind you. She's already got a solid set of skills, a firm grasp on the virtues of contrast and perspective, a body of knowledge that makes me wonder what I have to teach her. We sit at my kitchen table for two hours every other Tuesday in the flicker of candlelight, we sip wine or tea, listen to good music, talk through life's issues, laugh, sit in silence for a while, then pick back up on other topics, all the while covered in graphite and eraser dust. The fact that she writes me a check when eight o' clock rolls around still feels funny, but she insists. (these are my two drawings, one of Jamie Oliver picking garlic and one of a vintage Dr. Pepper bottle. I'll ask the student at our next lesson if I might be allowed to feature her work here too.)

Wearing:

A scarf given to me by my lovely Reba two (or three?) years ago for my birthday. I love it when I remember articles of clothing I forgot I had. It was tucked away behind summer dresses and rain jackets in the hall closet. I remembered it in the first place because of the indigo blue tights I have on with my Wellies today. It's fun to match sometimes. But I distinctly remember, back in Junior High when I was becoming the dashing pinnacle of style I am today, mom saying in her gentle way, "does everything always have to match perfectly?..." That might be one of the best notes on style I ever received. And yet, today, I match. It's a process, folks, a process.

Anticipating:

Dare I say it? Snow. We've got more on the way, it appears. I'm so ready for spring I may cry. Not that I'd mind a little day off, free from watercolored dragons and puppets needing their sticks and markers that are running out of juice.....

Reading at night:

(re-reading, really) Garrison Keillor's compilation Good Poems. It does not get old.

Here's one that suits today (and of which I have a special understanding, given my morning battles with a temperamental old pick-up) :

January

by Baron Wormser

"Cold as the moon," he'd mutter
In the January of 5 A.M. and 15 below
As he tried to tease the old Chev into greeting
One more misanthropic morning.

It was an art (though he never
Used that curious word) as he thumped
The gas pedal and turned the key
So carefully while he held his breath
And waited for the sharp jounce
And roar of an engaged engine.

"Shoulda brought in the battery last night."
"Shoulda got up around midnight
And turned it over once."

It was always early rising as he'd worked
A lifetime "in every damn sort
Of damn factory." Machines were
As natural to him as dogs and flowers.
A machine, as he put it, "was sensible."

I was so stupid about valves and intakes
He thought I was some religious type.
How had I lived as long as I had
And remained so out of it?
And why had I moved of my own free will
To a place that prided itself
On the blunt misery of January?

"No way to live," he'd say as he poked
A finger into the frozen throat
Of an unwilling carburetor.
His breath hung in the air
Like a white balloon.

Later on the way to the town where
We worked while the heater
Wheezed fitfully and the windshield
Showed indifference to the defroster
He'd turn to me and say that
The two best things in this world
Were hot coffee and winter sunrises.
The icy road beckoned to no one,
Snow began to drift down sleepily,
The peace of servitude sighed and dreamed.

I'M IN LOVE

2011-02-03T09:46:00.015-05:00

7:10am: Cousin Jason calls, hems and haws comedically about the fact that Sarah has gone into labor and has then proceeded to take Doug the Dog for a walk. Evie freaks out, screams a little. She does have the presence of mind to hear Jason say, however, "The way it's looking, it may be a while..." And so Evie proceeds to school.

10:18am: Judy, mother of the mother, calls and reports that Sarah is dilated to 9 cenitmeters and may start pushing any moment. Evie freaks out again, screams a lot this time (quite terrifies a few teachers in the lounge) and all but tosses papers and folders everywhere at her desk, trying to get her s*#% in order so as to get on the road in the direction of Vanderbilt.

10:24am: Evie calls mom at school and says, "Wait, where am I going?" Evie has momentarily, in the extreme flurry of emotional and physical activity, forgotten where the hospital entrance is. Heart in the throat, heart in the throat.

10:43am: Evie arrives in the labor and delivery waiting room (after already shedding an anticipatory tear or two in the elevator), sees Judy with her cute, bright red hair. Sister Jaymi arrives, so does papa Ed, brother Zach close behind but not yet there.

10:58 (or was it :56?) am: We see Jason's unmistakably fine, tall form (completely covered in a white hazmat-sort of suit) appear down the hall, followed by a nurse with a little baby in a little cart. We scurry down the hall and meet Olivia Grace mere moments after her entrance into this world. Wow. Eyes wide open and pearly blue. Tears pour freely down Evie's face; she's never felt this kind of thrill. Such beauty.

Mama and daddy, they done good.

Do you see the sheer perfection of those lips? Her pensive brow? Her masterfully sculpted nose? That dewy, fresh, brand-new rosy skin? The smooth expanse of her fine cheek? A shame her ears are covered, because they're perfectly perfect, too.

Aunt Marty claims little Livi as granddaughter too....until she gets her own. (By the way, that's not a cigarette in mom's mouth -- it's an oblique view of her collar.)

Livi and Evie. We love each other too, too much.

Sweet mama Sarah, finally feeling a little more human and finally "not seeing two of everyone."

I have a feeling I'll be down at 4202 Idaho several times a week, just getting my hands on the sweet babe. I don't remember ever being quite this smitten before. It's all brand new. Never been so in love.

MOLESKINE REVERIES, 10 JUNE

2011-02-02T15:27:00.008-05:00

an excerpt from my summer's travel writing (which I re-read in its entirety last night and loved all over again....)

The clouds are persisting, holding tightly to one another in a fuzzy, grey haze over the sagebrush and cacti, blurring the lines of the horizon. The old power lines that are traveling along with me just outside my window -- they've seen better days. The rough-hewn logs are weathered and knotty, the differently colored glass insulators are fogged with age, the wires sag and slack, seeming obsolete until they meet with one of the more sturdy, fatherly posts.

We just crossed the Pecos River on the highest expansion bridge in the United States (at least I think that's what the loudspeaker lady just said). We're trawling slowly but purposefully along the southern border of Texas, about to hit Langtry, Dryden, Sanderson, Marathon, then Alpine. Peggy, our in-charge hostess on car 2130, has informed me that I'll need to lug my belongings to the next car to exit the train. No problem, I tell her. Peggy is a bustling gal, undeniably proud of the work she does for Amtrak, and had a hard night what with all of the bothersome practical issues due to the gully-washer in New Braunfels.

Gillian and David, the Revelator record, are the perfect companions for this desolation, this hard limestone and craggy landscape. There's a noticeable absence of birds out here. I saw one crow on a power line's crossbeam, and a predatory bird of some sort, floating motionless in the atmosphere above some unfortunate critter.

"Oh I dream a highway back to you, love...."

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-02-01T11:44:00.010-05:00

Listening to:

To my best recollection, this is the only album I have ever bought on the very day it was released. Never have I taken part in such a musical phenomenon (just check out any/all of the dazzling reviews they've gotten in less than 24 hours) as these two lovelies have created in the entertainment industry on this first day of February. (And it's worth every penny of the low-low $7.99 I paid for it.) I'll go on and on about my favorite tracks at a later time but will leave you with a few lyrics to this song, which I heard live for the first time at The Second Annual Billy Reid Shindig in Florence, Alabama this past summer. I stood in the throng of sweaty, plaid-clad folk and let hot tears fall down my already flushed cheeks. The candles flickering in the Ball jars on worn, scraped plank tables cast just the right lighting for falling apart. I leave you with these for reasons which should be plain as daylight if you, dear reader, know at least one single girl....

I miss you

but I haven't met you

Oh but I want to

Snacking on:

God help me, Barnum's Animal Crackers. Matt had a read-through for The Glass Menagerie at the house tonight and generously provided kid-friendly snacks for his actors (Goldfish and animal crackers....errr, juice box, anyone?). I'll be damned if the siren song of those tart-sweet, fine crumb-luscious bits didn't waft into my head from across the kitchen. Hard to quit.

Happily anticipating:

Crawling into my dear, soft bed and falling asleep to the sounds of wailing winds, the gusts of which could get up to 45 MPH this night. Bring it, Mother Nature. I'm tucked right in.

Turning over in my head:

This poem I read tonight while in the captivity of my bedroom....

Where We Are

Gerald Locklin

i envy those

who live in two places:

new york, say, and london;

wales and spain;

l.a. and paris;

hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation of the change;

the chance that what is wrong

is the result of where you are.

i have always loved both the freshness of arriving

and the relief of leaving. with

two homes every move would be

a homecoming.

i am not even considering the weather,

hot or cold, dry or wet; i am talking about hope.

Feeling:

Soft, small, undiscovered, weary. But assured and quite sanguine.

SIGNED,

2011-01-27T14:39:00.006-05:00

I have a fun friend with whom, when we sign off on our e-mails to one another, I exchange frivolity, cheer and silliness. We make me laugh, and I thought you might like to laugh too.

love and noodles,
E

sunny days and Nalgenes,

peach pies and unicorns,
E

la-la-las and bazooka bubblegum,
E

peace and cake frosting,
E

autumn leaves and lasagna,

hot cider and fluffy mittens,
S

chimney smoke and jack-o-lanterns,

candy corn and ruby slippers,
E

trick-or-treating and a pink sunrise,

peanut butter chews and practical jokes,
E

frosting-covered waxy candles and tight squeezes,
E

red velvet cake and anticipated surprises,

cherry blossoms and Mary Janes (the candy or the shoes -- take your pick),
E

pinecones and hot toddies,
E

painted coffee mugs and new raincoats,

toast-and-jam and orchid toenails,
E

sparkly rings and rotary telephones,
E

fun-size candy bars and drippy icicles,

peppermint swirl and swooping swallows,

WHY ANDREW PETERSON CAN'T STOP LISTENING TO JOSH RITTER

2011-01-19T13:24:00.002-05:00

I'm directing you directly to the Rabbit Room for a fiercely perfect review of the charms and writing wiles of a one Josh Ritter. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you one master of his craft pontificating on another master of the same craft.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-01-18T14:59:00.004-05:00

Not liking:

Sending pretty stamps to un-pretty places (such as the credit union or the folks at Metro Water.) But I suppose there have to be a handful of souls who open all of this mail who maybe do appreciate the beauty. I'll try to remember that possibility.

Listening to:

The Exotic Sounds of Courtney Jaye. Don't Tell a Girl How to Feel...

Trying to sidestep:
A stomach bug which I hear is going around, wielding a fierce grip.

More and more excited about:

The arrival of Baby Norberg. Fingers tap, tap, tapping...

Looking forward to:
A grocery run and then hunkering down under the grey, rainy skies in my little house. A day for staying in, most certainly.

SKORPOR

2011-01-17T23:43:00.016-05:00

While living in Umeå, Sweden I worked occasionally (when I was bored with window shopping, reading and writing) at a cool place called Kafe Station (pronounced stah-SHOON, not STA-shen). Moving right along. A local church turned an old fire station into this cafe and it stands as a major component of their ministry, staffed and managed by the church and used as a really neat gathering space for concerts, meetings, minglings and such. When I had just barely acclimated to the new pace/language/wonder, Maria and I went shopping one morning for organic lavender for our morning baking. Curious, I thought, as we shuffled through the snow to the shops down the street. We found a medicine and herb shop where we purchased a little plastic pocket filled with teeny purple buds. This was going to be both fun and educational.

Once back in the little green-tiled kitchen and with the local radio playing songs in a language I could only scarcely grasp, we tied on our aprons and started mixing a dough for the day's skorpor (Sweden's answer to biscotti). My job was chopping chocolate chunks off a good size block and running a knife through some toasted hazelnuts, both of which would eventually be folded into the soft mound of sweet dough, along with the aromatic lavender. Just enough to perfume the biscuits, though, not enough to render them soap-like.

They baked, nestled in their long baguette forms, while we cleaned our workspace. When they came out, fragrant and golden, we quickly sliced them into inch-thick pieces, laid them out on sheet trays and slid them back into the oven for their second and final baking. We retired to a cafe table for fika and enjoyed the tiniest cups of the darkest coffee with the cutest spoons. Soon the sweet, floral, nutty scent settled into air of the warm, sunlit room, quiet save for the clinking of said cute spoons, the hushed murmur of the lilting, sing-songy language, and the occasional squeal of a beautiful, rosy-cheeked Swedish baby in her stroller.

The skorpor were taste-tested, naturally (my tongue can still remember the foreign but marvelous combination), slid onto trays and then into the lighted case, ready for the day's dunking.

HURRY HURRY

2011-01-16T23:11:00.003-05:00

I heard the following at a Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris tribute show tonight at The Basement. Backed by the fair Courtney Jaye and the inimitable Thad Cockrell, Baylin knocked this one out of the park. The unexpected, flippy melodies and the squeezed-tight harmonies flew us along a sunny coastal landscape with the top down without having to leave the dark, subterranean, turbo-crowded venue. Oh, what songs can do.

LETTERS: 22 APRIL 2008

2011-01-13T09:30:00.011-05:00

Am I the only one who saves letters, all sorted into their respective virtual folders? Saving emails is less romantic (by leaps and bounds) than saving the actual paper and pen (and perfume and lipstick) kind, but they sure do take up a lot less space. From time to time my cursor wanders over to the left of my inbox and hovers over one of these folders. I've been known to spend a moment (or an hour) re-reading things I wrote to whoever the recipient may have been and think "Wow, that's fun/arbitrary/revelatory to read." So these occasional "Letters" posts might be mostly for my own benefit and enjoyment, and I'm okay with that. (I'm also okay with leaving them in thaeir original, mostly caps-free state. I deem capitalization a royal waste of time for my letter-writing purposes.)

summers... i really like to travel, even if it's just to wyoming or new mexico. i love the west. i love the act of getting there. the corn and the wheat and the dry air en route -- there's nothing like it. quite a few summers back, mom and i started an annual west trip of our own. it didn't matter the destination, even if it was just cabin #1 at the albuquerque central KOA. we're not hard to please. we rented a little pick-up, threw our air mattresses, propane grill, coffee pot and cooler in the back and took off. we had such fun. we're pretty much two peas in a pod. so that's that, "summers." if i had a disposable income, things would look a bit different. i'd be getting away to much further-off locales (italy and greece spring to mind), but for now, reading about them will have to do.

tonight i went to the grocery, bought beer and red tulips, made dinner and watched "wait until dark." have you seen it?? audrey hepburn and alan arkin? oh i LOVE it. i saw it once in college with a bunch of art club people in the art history room at about 11 at night. i've never been so freaked out. i'll never forget that one very pivotal, creepy point in the movie where the shoulders and gasps of everyone in the theatre raised in surprise all at once. great suspense. you should see it if you haven't. of course, it's got its henry mancini scary off-key toy piano soundtrack and some totally cheese moments, but overall, c'est magnifique.

i had to force myself outdoors this afternoon when i got home from school. i went on a walk in the neighborhood and then sat out on the porch with my new gourmet magazine. you see, my computer lives indoors and all of the writing that was shoved aside this morning was pulling at my sleeve. well, what you're reading right now is all i was able to muster this evening. i feel that i need to strike a balance between screen time and sky time, you know? do you ever feel chained to this machine?

i wish i had a clever quip with which to end this email...

ADVENTURES WITH FAVORITE FORK

2011-01-12T21:55:00.004-05:00

I threw this together in mere minutes when I got home tonight. Wanna know how?

Set a nonstick skillet to ramp up over medium-high heat. Wash tuna medallions (mine were on sale at Harris Teeter, 5.99/lb), dry them thoroughly. Bone dry, I'm talking. Drizzle with olive oil and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Putting the oil on your fish rather than in the pan means less smoking, it's just smart (thank you, Bill). Slap the dark pink hunks of tuna onto the hot pan, there should be a fierce sizzle.

Chop up two plum tomatoes, most of a Serrano chile (take out seeds and rib if you're a lily-tongued pansy), one scallion, and a stalk of celery. Mix all of this colorful vegetary confetti in a small bowl with about a tablespoon of capers and the juice of half a lemon, salt and pepper. I used my limey green au lait bowl with the chipped edge, for it begged to be pulled from the shelf so to join the party of brightness. (Please, puh-lease don't ever use that ReaLemon stuff that comes in the hollow, plastic orb. It's atrocious, the saddest excuse for lemon juice that ever did exist.)

In the meantime, turn your attentions to the stove top. The tuna should have turned opaque about a third of the way up the meat. No need to time it, just use the eyeballs God put in your head. Isn't that great? Flip and let the other side cook the same amount, whilst admiring the lovely golden sear you've attained. There should be a nice little pink stripe running laterally through the piece of fish, it's what will give the flesh the luxurious, buttery texture you want. Don't be afraid of underdone fish, little friend. It will do the opposite of harm you.

Remove from heat, lest they overcook (gasp!). Tumble the tart, fresh salsa of sorts over top or around or below or beside, doesn't matter. Nestle in a little cheek of lemon, too. While I poured my wine, the little piece of citrus had time to bask in the fish's pan-fresh glow, now warm and easy-squeezy, a lovely effect. Spritz, pause, dig, delight.

ON THIS PARTICULAR TUESDAY...

2011-01-11T13:36:00.005-05:00

Sporting:

Electric yellow nails. All the girls at school think I'm really cool. And then dear little Meg told me "That's what you are like for others, Evie. Bright yellow in the dead of winter." I thought that was nice and very nearly cried.

Loving:

The extra hour of sleep I got as result of our two-hour-late opening of school today. Thank you, dear snow. You are both pretty and useful.

Enjoying:

Tart, sweet, juicy Minneolas in the lunch room. Gluttonous me, I ate two of them today, juice running to my elbows. I think the kids were impressed with my peeling savvy. I can undress a little orange globe in record time. While I was making the young folks aware that winter is the best season for citrus (which I've never quite understood since they taste like sunshine), one boy swore he didn't know the word "citrus." What's citrus? I'm worried for this particular boy.

Happily anticipating:

Seeing Taylor and his dog Cooper, on their way north back to NYC, stopping in for a bowl of shrimp and grits, a bottle of red, stories. I like it when friends drop in for sustenance and warmth, it's what life's about.

Celebrating:

Auburn's win. I went to school there (if only for two years) and one of the only things I really loved was the football, but Toomer's Corner's famous hand-stirred limeade wasn't too shabby either. The view from my sophomore year window in Owen Hall was the eagle's aerie, so that was a plus.

Not liking (but needing):

Deadlines. Enough said.

ADVENTURES WITH FAVORITE FORK

2011-01-09T20:44:00.008-05:00

I have a favorite fork. The fork is favored. For its soft silvery sheen and handsome Art Deco design, favor falls upon this fork. Some of my more long-suffering readers may recall that this fork came home with me from the well known and highly revered New York City institution, The Waldorf-Astoria. It's a more involved story than I feel compelled to share right now, but let it be known that I have been known to exhibit symptoms of a kleptomaniacal streak and, well....it snuck into my purse and out the door. You think that's bad? Ha! A sibling piece of cutlery resides in the spoon-shaped quarters of my silverware drawer. She (spoon) came first (up my coat sleeve, as an act of retaliation toward a nasty waitress who withheld from our table one of those fancy three-tier trays of treats during afternoon tea service a couple years prior), then he (fork) followed (to keep her company, of course). Together, they remain two of my most dear possessions. They have confided, though, how deeply they do miss brother butter knife....

I digress so terribly much.

When I do what I'm doing tonight -- that is, when I, all by myself, cook and eat and take photos all the while -- the favorite fork almost always is the one chosen for the final plate shot. (I do realize that the entire post thus far positively screams of a startling, brand-new level of lonesome-old-maid-cat-lady-ness, which I suppose I'm fine with, except I have no cats. Must remedy.) So I'm beginning a new series called Adventures With Favorite Fork. From time to time, I'll share recipes, kitchen activity, maybe the accompanying music, perhaps a weather report, but you'll always see my favorite fork. I hope you can become friends. So here we go.

After a leisurely, most delicious lunch at Marché with my friend Emily after church, and in the giddy anticipation of an impending perhaps-snow, I hit Whole Foods on the way home for a few provisions. I trolled at my leisure through the good-smelling aisles filled with good-looking people, stopped and said hello to a couple of old friends, and happily filled my basket with wheat berries, beets, collard greens, pears, Meyer lemons and Satsumas (one of the more luxurious fruits God made), among a few other strange, wonderful, colorful items.

Removing my hat, checking the weather, unpacking my bags, cueing the music, peeling off tights and sliding into faithful fuzzy slippers, checking the weather once more, I commenced to cook.

Pears were cored and chunkily sliced (but not peeled), thrown into a saucepan with a cinnamon stick, some Meyer lemon peel and a couple tablespoons of sugar while Andrew Bird whistled and warbled through "Masterfade." The fruit bubbled and sang along, scenting the air with warm spice. Chopped collards were drowned in the sink and firmly encouraged to shake loose any grit, then added to a simmering bath with bright red Fresno chilies, smashed garlic cloves and salt. Feist crooned "Brandy Alexander" and "Limit to Your Love" while ten little beets were scrubbed, trimmed, and piled into a [heavy duty] foil packet with a dribble of oil and a toss of salt, bound for a 425 oven.

A yellow onion was finely chopped, sauteed, then joined by a cup of wheat berries, toasted over medium heat. Thyme and salt were added, as were four cups of water. That bubbled away under cover for oh, say, and hour or a bit more while Band of Horses sang the blues about a window. In my big, shiny, stainless salad bowl I piled the following, all chopped to bite-like bits: Braeburn apple, two scallions, four stalks of celery, a little pile of fresh dill, a quarter head of red cabbage, a handful of toasted almonds, olive oil and the juice of one Meyer lemon. Toss, toss, toss, add the drained wheat berries, now perfectly toothsome, toss again, devour. Crunchy, chewy, tart, salty, sweet, fresh, nutty, crunchy again...I had a hard time laying down the tasting spoon.

Jackson Five crooned "Never Can Say Goodbye" as I poured a glass of red and dressed my beets with a splosh of red wine vinegar and a restrained sprinkling of kosher salt. In a still and quiet kitchen Jesus, with his dear sacred heart, joined me at the table. I tasted, hummed, chewed with total satisfaction, often looking out the window, checking for the snow which I do wholeheartedly believe is on its journey down from the heights and promises a pure white coverlet in the morning hours.

For dessert? Another pour of red, a serenade from Willie Nelson and Bono. And that sweet, bright Satsuma which never really stood a chance.