A SPRING FEAST

Our Easter meal was one for the books. Nothing fussy, just perfectly balanced, fresh, seasonal, tasty plates of food. And lasting, in its food-centric entirety and including in-between chatter, about four hours.

caper-dill deviled eggs with smoked salmon


Joshua's mint juleps (made with Corsair's Wry Moon, an unbarreled rye)

creamy asparagus soup with spring onion and meyer lemon asparagus gremolata

grilled herbed lamb rib chops

cucumber-mint yogurt sauce

grilled baby red potatoes, parsley vinaigrette

chopped kale salad

oranges and golden beets, goat cheese, mint

rosewater pavlova, fresh cream, red berries 

champagne

The piercingly green treetops above, the breeze, the perpetual birdsong and Stephane Grappelli's violin didn't hurt either. 

AN EASTER EVE REFLECTION

"Lemon, YESSSsss!!" I said aloud to myself just now. Yes, I'm alone in my dear little house and I'm talking to myself. Reading through a recipe for "lemony asparagus soup," I was lamenting the fact that my produce bin (actually a drywall mud tray from Home Depot) holds only limes. But then I remember the three Meyer lemons that sit waiting in my grocery bag, destined for some spring-y dish. I just knew I'd need them. And this gives me much delight, the fact that I know the seasons and their flavors, that I know my cupboard, and that I know myself.

It's been a thoroughly enjoyable Saturday-before-Easter. I've potted herbs and re-potted formerly suffering succulents. I've swept the floors until the varnish threatens to come up with the bristles. I've folded laundry. I've put things prettily on display in the living room, livened up my vignettes with fresh blooms and a spit shine. I've pre-heated the oven for the meringue building block of our family's favorite and ideal Easter dessert, Pavlova. Asparagus soup will soon commence. Evening's dark has just now fallen, the ice in my bourbon and soda is clinking and cracking next to me, and Simon and Garfunkel croon in their tremolo harmonies, "April, come she will..." quite by chance, from the next room.

I attended two, count 'em, two Good Friday services last night. Tenebrae, which means "the darkening." One at my new church where I grow up now and one at my old church, where I grew up back then, because, of course, I don't stop growing. I hope. The first service held sweet moments in a darkened room, scriptures read in the voices of people who are dear to me, and a message to "let our hearts remain buried" until the glorious and meaning-full break of the sun's rays upon Resurrection Sunday. The second service held equally sweet moments, candelabras, a prelude with a string quartet, an oboe, and my dad on piano (an unmistakable sound to my ears) and beloved, aged faces of choir members who observed all of that growing up I did way back then. I felt a lump in my throat as I watched these old friends process, candle-lit, down the aisle; There's Bill, his first wife is now with Jesus. There's Linda, she just lost her job of twenty-five or so years, yet her face glows with spirit and gladness. There's Thelma, my advisor from high school. There's Tom, the faithful and tender supporter of our family. The emotion caught me by surprise.

In each of these drastically differing services, though, one similarity caught me by the throat and held me fast, these lyrics from one of my all-time favorite hymns (which, each time, rendered me unable to sing):

"This is my Father's world
O let me ne'er forget
That tho' the wrong seems oft so strong
God is the ruler yet"


I cling to this truth.


My friend Rebekah and I drove down Highway 100 afterwards, on our way to our own Communion, a glass of wine and a plate of crusty bread. We were mid-conversation when she gasped and said "Evie, look at the moon!!" There it sat, glowing as brightly as a flood light and brighter, with the dark silhouettes of trees pulsing beneath its illuminating power. I slowed, to the chagrin of several drivers around me, to 30 miles per hour. We couldn't stop gawking. I remarked after a moment, "Isn't it so nice to see something beautiful and to have someone beside you to enjoy it with?!" We giggled in our perpetual single-ness, but in our hearts were so deeply gladdened to be enjoying God's good creation with one another.

(This post is totally writing itself, by the way, stream of consciousness is my preferred method tonight...come to think of it, that might be all I've got....)

So I'll close. God speaks to his children in countless ways, but He reaches me through beauty; He gives me the gifts of color and texture and taste and shared tenderness with those whom I love. He is real to me in these ways and so many others. I mark the rising of his Son tomorrow morning. I will celebrate it standing, drowning in gratitude.

AN OCEANSIDE THANKSGIVING

March 14, 2010
"It's been a long winter, girls," I said to the bathing beauties on my left. I could very nearly cry with gratitude for the sun's warming fingers, the sound of pounding waves, the scent of SPF mingling with the salty wind, and the quiet in my mind. My first impulse is to invade that long-awaited quiet, to fill it up with words or music or some other distraction. No, the iPod stays (for now) in the basket alongside all books and magazines. The only reason I'm bothering to extract paper and pen is out of concern for the rarity of the moment. "The wintry thoughts have lasted much longer than the actual winter," Angela added. Truth. But here we lie. We are swimming in warmth, beauty, stillness and calm. The season is changing, outside our hearts and inside, too. 


Thanks be to God.

JOURNAL ENTRY: MARCH 13, 2011

This time last year. Here it comes.

Just another ideal morning at the beach. Rain visited us overnight but the skies are doing their best to clear as I write. The sun sneaks through the breaks in the clouds and quickly warms me. The surf has picked up, the waters charging the sand more assertively, but the breeze is warm and the day is promising. I dreamt last night that [insert a couple of lines about long-ago-romance-gone-wrong and the yearnings that go along with it...but with a certain twinge of humor...we all know what that's like, so let's carry on, shall we?] My dreams, they deliver me into such strange places of wonderment and weirdness -- I just wish I could remember and record them as brightly and vividly as they come to me. 

I woke to the soft, indeterminable mutterings and chuckles of sisters Martha and Nellie. Boy, are they two peas in a pod. Joshua and Angela are reading, we're on our second pot of coffee (although Joshua doesn't contribute much, Mister Healthy Water Drinker Guy). We all make up for his absence when we line up at the percolator. 

The yellow and the purple flags are flying again today, warning us of what, I'm not sure. The only "marine pests" we've seen so far were the delightful little gaggle of dolphins we spotted frolicking in the water yesterday morning. Oh, another dream I had, night before last, was one that we saw dolphins swimming in crystal green, still waters, but when we looked more closely, they were dogs. Dogs. All kinds! Labs, pugs, mutts, you name it. Wha...?!

Meanwhile, back on earth, our choosing of spots has yet to be refined -- we meet with some hilarious/maddening oppositions each day, regardless of our scheming from our balcony in the morning....awkward adolescents, back-flipping in the sand for any attention, children with raccoon eyes from the fierce suction of goggles, loud-mouthed white-haired women, talking at one volume about God-knows-what. We will triumph, come week's end....

THINGS I QUITE LIKE, FIRST OF MARCH

A new screen saver.

(A photo I took in Manhattan Beach over the summer.)

Not seeing a single cloud in the powdery blue sky and inhaling the scent of wet earth and persistent green.

A mid-morning treat of actual strong coffee in the teacher's lounge (imported).

This drawing by a second grader named Eleanor.

In case you can't tell, it's a crab with a bowler hat and a cane.

TO THE MOON

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

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

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

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.

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

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....

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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?