Stargazers

I am sitting, lying, and basking in heaven. This house has a fabulous collection of children's literature. In fact, as I chose my first stack this morning, I felt like I was at the library. I began with The Pinkish, Purplish, Bluish Egg by Bill Peet. There is a good number of Peets so I will intersperse them in my reading. Followed with a familiar favorite, The Secret Three by Mildred Myrick, drawings by Arnold Lobel. The cross-hatched children and the sea and the bottle are Harriet Welsh's childhood. Blue and yellow make green. It is inscribed by the author to J. H. M., who has sent many messages. I hope I am the kind of person of whom it is said, she sent many messages. Snippets from Happy Times in Noisy Village by Astrid Lindgren, illustrated by Ilon Wikland is good for those wanting to read of Lisa, Karl, Bill, Anna, Olaf, and Britta. Further on, there is Lotta. I ended the sitdown with Stargazer to the Sultan by Barbara K. Walker and Mine Sümer, illustrated by Joseph Low. I enjoy a palatable moral. Next to go: Lonely Scarecrow (if you can get through it, says the mom) by Tim Preston, illustrated by Maggie Kneen and The Three Golden Apples by Nathaniel Hawthorne. They also have a piano. I am pleased.

You've Arrived

During college years and those that followed, we discussed what we would have or where we would be when we knew we had arrived (i.e., financial security, well-being, adulthood, etc. Unbeknownst to most of us, it would take a while and we are still in it). My friend S. would own multisized Zip-locs and foil and Saran Wrap. She would use them indiscriminately, not washing the used Zip-locs for later. At one point, she also said she would have an iPod.

I remember my focus was a deep freeze full of white packaged meats, casseroles, and ice cream and popsicles. Why these? A sense of well-being sometimes comes from having things at the ready. I am not an extreme carnivore but do eat numerous glacial desserts. I would also like good windows and fruit trees. I wanted to go to See's candy for a pound of selected chocolates to keep in the fridge and eat at will (not as a gift).

A garden is a world of well-being. This week my two gifted plumeria are blooming simultaneously. It makes me renew my quest for a bit of dirt to plant them in for years to come. For now, they grace the pool at the complex and gladden the eye. Potted.

Bright Copper Kettles

I hope I am not an overly greedy person. It is always a joy to happen upon something you find perfect, appropriate, so well done. Following is a personal list of such treasure:

Book Title: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Carson McCullers
Comforter: Fraulein Maria's dark gold satin in her bedroom most noticeably showcased in My Favorite Things. Had she used this for the children's play clothes, they would have plumped up.
Albacore Salad: Waters Fine Foods
Black Pants: Worn by Kenneth Branaugh in Hamlet
Floor: White marble worn smooth as water
Color: Ocean
Pre-dinner Tasting: Olives
Idea: the library
Art Form: the book cover

Midsummer Meal

Yesterday I finished all 853 pages of Five Smooth Stones which took twenty moons to complete. It is the current read of the Reading Society and we look forward to discussing in September after our summer hiatus. We try to resemble Congress in our vacation schedule. I was surprised to pick up Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Birthmark soon after putting down the tome.

To celebrate any small victory, it is nice to plan a dinner party. I have not entertained in twenty moons either. So tonight was it. Here is the menu.

Wild Smoked Salmon

Mint, Feta, and Watermelon Salad (recipe on an earlier post)
Pasta with Sun-Dried Tomatoes

Chocolate Chip Peanut Butter Cookies

Peach Infused Water

My guests were kind and appreciative. We discussed everything: counseling, Sunday School rooms, kids, relationships, counseling, bosses, GPS, trapeze class, taxi drivers, counseling, bitterness, first grade, summer vacation, and counseling. It was well rounded. One of my happier moments of the day was finding a bottle of red wine vinegar in the cupboard which I started yesterday to worry over (thinking I had none). I was going to barter with my neighbors for 2 tablespoons of the stuff for a Zip-loc of chocolate chip peanut butter cookies. I am not the type to not know my neighbors. I borrow too many eggs.

The Woman in Sunshine

I have done some interesting things this week. Here are a few of them. I made chicken and hominy soup. It is corny and hot-ish and liquid. Perfect for summer you say, shaking your head. I have eaten it every day with these chocolately cherry cookies. I explained to someone who Almanzo James Wilder is. Tonight I toppled a full bowl on warm soup on my person. The carpet will not recover. The clothes were removed and replaced. Drip dry. Reviewed the film Becoming Jane with the expected apprehension which was grounded (not being rooted in fact, concern for the actors, etc). Blindly, I enjoy all period pieces. Called a woman Grace whose name was indeed Frances. I blame the era these names were à la mode. I wore goggles for the second time this summer in the attempt to become a champion swimmer. I happened upon this fitting poem and knew it should be passed on.

The Woman in Sunshine
Wallace Stevens

It is only that this warmth and movement are like
The warmth and movement of a woman.

It is not that there is any image in the air
Nor the beginning nor end of a form:

It is empty. But a woman in threadless gold
Burns us with brushings of her dress

And a dissociated abundance of being,
More definite for what she is—

Because she is disembodied,
Bearing the odors of the summer fields,

Confessing the taciturn and yet indifferent,
Invisibly clear, the only love.

Outfoxing the Hounds

Last night I returned from puppy sitting for ten days. The home was not far from me but you know a change of environment is always a destination. There were eight pooches plus their mother (who I will expose was no help at all). Three brown, three yellow, and two black laboradors. I know next to nothing about this breed, least of all how to spell it. I found the brown ones visually appealing. One of the browns had an asthmatic rumble that I took to. The mother was a loon who lived for ball playing and games of this sort. I welcome lightheartedness in spurts but found the incessant demands obtrusive and wearing. When one is coralling, sweeping, hosing, resisting mutinous escapes by the deckhands, or in other ways doing one's duty, the last thing said person wishes for is to be barked at. The puppies were a pack of swarming bees when I entered their part of the house/yard. We got along though they progressed to eating my shoes, toes, and clothing within reach. With the young, all is forgiven.



While ignoring the barking requests for another round of Take Me Out to the Ballgame, I picked white nectarines, tomatoes, eggplant, basil, and smelled mint. The figs and red grapes did not ripen in time for me to enjoy them.

I performed hundreds of back and front dives and even used goggles one day to look under the surface. It was a pastoral region and peaceful.

Fish Eyes

On my mission in the city of Dijon we dwelt in peace and laughter. The missionaries and the members both. There was a missionary from Florida who was quite the funny bone. He didn't try to be. One day we left the chapel and hopped on the bus adjacent to return to town. We were discussing caviar and he expressed much distaste. He winced and told us he couldn't understand why people would eat fish eyes. Hilarity ensued.

This recipe is for all you standing there with an eggplant in hand, wondering what to do with it.

Yesterday I made the elegant eggplant caviar from The New Basics Cookbook by Rosso and Lukins. Some of you are attached at the hip to The Silver Palate (SP) and would benefit by this publication as well. As you know I just returned from the wild west and was presented with the 25th anniversary edition of the SP. The publisher and authors have outdone themselves. Charming color imagery and the feel is still home. Most of the kooky line drawings are gone but I don't hold them hostage. It's a beaut so if you don't own the first, choose this one. I read the review of it in Saveur today and was moved. It is a lovely tribute.

I wouldn't choose the title caviar for this dish if I ate it blindfolded. Perhaps the nuts crunch like fish eggs. Your guess is as good as mine. I would mince the onion smaller and chop the walnuts finer. I overdid the lemon juice for which I'm patting my own back. Who among us is there who doesn't love an eggplant?

Note to the wise: I shun the microwave daily. This recipe is labeled with an alarming lightning bolt to signify the method of cookery. I plowed ahead. It is a quick and easy way to deal with the eggplant. Who doesn't want to see an eggplant collapse?

Elegant Eggplant Caviar

Serve on the end of crisp Belgian endive leaves, atop soft scrambled eggs, or spread on grilled peasant bread toast. (I spread it on the round sesame crackers from TJs.)

1 eggplant
1/2 C walnut pieces
1/4 C minced onion
1/4 C minced fresh parsley (I used dried flakes)
1 to 2 teaspoons minced hot finger chile pepper, depending on taste (I used red pepper flakes)
1 clove garlic, minced
1/2 t salt
Freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 T extra virgin olive oil
1 T fresh lemon juice

Prick the eggplant in several places with a fork. Place it on a microwave-safe dish and cook at full power, uncovered, until soft and collapsed, 10 minutes. Set it aside to cool.

Arrange the walnut pieces on another microwave-safe dish and cook, uncovered, until fragrant and toasted, 2 1/2 minutes. Chop fine.

Scrape the eggplant flesh into a wooden chopping bowl and coarsely chop.

Stir in the walnuts, onion, parsley, chile pepper, garlic, salt, and pepper. Then slowly beat in the oil and lemon juice. Adjust the seasonings if necessary.

Cover loosely and let stand at room temperature for several hours before serving.

1 1/2 cups
The New Basics Cookbook

Summer Sun

by Robert Louis Stevenson
A Child's Garden of Verses

Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven without repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden around,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.

We celebrated the fourth with a community pancake breakfast, homemade hamburger buns, blue cheese burger, sautéed onions, and an evening fireworks party at Fawn's. The summer sun shone bright in this desert. The buns raised in record time.



Fawn's balcony lends onto the city center where the taxpayer's contribute to a show of fire. We enjoyed root beer floats, were regaled by stories of Turkey and travel, and father was jovial. He complemented my teeth twice. This land is your land, this land is my land.

Refreshments are Served

Last night I cut desserts, arranged them on trays in an attractive fashion, and mingled. My mother is the new activities chair and I am in town. After the fireside, refreshments were served. I brought to the task what I learned in my few short months in a new relief society calling where catering figures into our duties. I am pleased with my new-found knowledge and rejoiced in spreading this wealth to a desert with the goal of improving life as we know it and making things lovely.

About 8 to 10 were scheduled to bring desserts. I waited in anticipation, trays and knives ready. My mother made a square pan of Ghiradelli brownies from the package. I showered it with powdered sugar and cut them into 1-inch squares. The first offering to arrive was a paper plate with oatmeal-y chocolate chip cookies covered in foil. A homely and homey start. I hoped for variety and thanked the giver.

The next time I turned around there were two 9 x 13s with frosted cakes. One a spice cake with cream colored frosting and one an orange cake with white frosting and much moisture. I worried how to cut these and arrange the pieces on the trays. I gave the orange cake squares center stage for its color. The spice cake suffered in comparison only because it was not exciting (dull brown) and most likely from a box. Short shrift. (We dished more out later but it was not the first picked for the team.)

We came out grandly with a eye-pleasing variety: baby cream puffs filled unfortunately with heavy raspberry frosting (not a light cream as desired), Hello Dollys that were excellent in every way (baked in a jelly roll pan for thinner crust), tiny chocolate chip cookies, chocolate and caramel cookies bars, mint brownies. I sampled a bit of each. May I explain the fascination? I have always been taken with the results of a pot luck. One day an important article will be published.

In a traditional mealtime potluck, the baby cream puff maker equates to a main dish. Someone who knows not everyone has time or inclination and who delivers each time. My friend Andrea is a main dish person with a middle name of Chicken Casserole. I enjoyed the tiny cc cookies for their cunning size and charm. Improving the visual with a change of shape or size. Easy and important. The maker is a beautiful person I don’t know well . . . we seem to have become friends in recent visits. She lived in NYC until recently but is from this area. She is now back and misses her friends who were so interesting . . . artists and doctors (a delightful pairing, no?). A husband and small baby in tow who is christened something lovely and foreign. I enjoy this quick and wonderful interchange. It is always good to know there is someone who understands who is seated on the other side of the room.

Bar cookies must be my favorites. I enjoy them all. One cannot tell if our efforts were overwhelmingly restorative but I believe they were. Someone complimented the serving platters and trappings brought from home. Another praised the small size of the desserts. I suggested they have cheese, crackers, veggies, and dill dip next time.

Summer Solstice

Unlike most people in the U.S., I'm heading away from the shore. Approximately 475 miles away if the odometer serves. My nephew's birthday is on Sunday. He will be one. We are all gathering for cupcakes. The next day, Donn and Nancy will be there and we'll celebrate once more with a baseball cake and gifties.

Armed for the journey: Eggs, Beans and Crumpets by P.G. Wodehouse read by Jonathan Cecil. (I was so taken with Young Men in Spats that I'm giving this one a go.) Sesame crackers, seedless red grapes, celery, m&ms, a fig bar, and water.

Most looked forward to stop on the way: Williams-Sonoma outlet in Primm, NV.

Deck chair leisure: Middlemarch (all 747 pages of it) by George Eliot and The Sea Runners by Ivan Doig (a wildcard). I have a respectable paperback issue from the library and the font and layout are intensely magnetic to me. I want to read it no matter what it says.

Recipes we may sample: ranch dressing (this region is known to use only ranch; I want to see what they think of a housemade version), sweet corn salsa, watermelon sorbet, a variety of chocolate cakes (in view of my mother's birthday on 7-7-07), alice waters's coleslaw (yummers), coconut milk pudding rolls (on a special occasion morning).

Baggage: gently used clothes (laundry), cameras, a hanging pocket I am going to paint and turn into a spice rack, the makings of memory books for Bodie and Maysen (both birthdays), a summer wrap for an evening venture, an ice cream maker (they have one but I am used to mine), lemons, red pepper flakes, honey, balsamic vinegar, pineapple shampoo and conditioner, a choice of swimsuits (I finally let go the old rags of yesteryear and paid several successful visits to Marshalls and Ross).

Entertainment: Ratatouille, The Matchmaker (at the Shakespearean Festival . . . yes, I know it's not Shakespearean), Joseph . . . Dreamcoat, water fun, watching Bodie, holding Bodie, smiling at Bodie.

What is your favorite route to travel?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I held out for years. I thought of the gym as a group sport, an easy outlet for the weak who really didn’t want to exercise, and perhaps worse, a place to meet people. I always knew it wasn’t for me.

I started jogging with my dad. We went outdoors, not far from home. Why would I pay a monthly fee to exercise indoors? Well, rocket scientists, I wouldn’t. Indoors sports is not my thing. Hence, my refusal to join the WNBA, Ice Capades, and gymnastic squads. Jogging alone outdoors is time to reflect, to not think, so that running becomes breathing. For body and spirit. Canvassing the earth.

I am a simpleton in that I don’t need to acquire much (in comparison to those in North America). I have always loved the idea of carrying around everything you own on your back. Perhaps this dates from following the pioneers and living in the West. Sadly, I own far more than I could pack on my back but my conscience tells me not to buy most things and to keep it small and if possible light. Of course, I love to pack light too. With jogging, one requires minimal equipment and is not dependent on a machine.

A couple years ago, I had an injury. Plantar faciitis in my right foot. It was a long haul. I couldn’t do any weight bearing exercise (walking was painful) and told myself firmly not to loose my mind. I tried everything: physical therapy, ultrasound, cortisone shot, aspirin, hot and cold water, a night splint, inserts for my shoes, acupuncture for about six to eight months, and rest.

I knew it was inevitable. I had to join a gym for any exercise. I had to sit and bike. I hoped the elliptical machine would work but it was too much weight bearing at first. I sat and biked with the same three each morning. There was G, a woman who showed up in full make-up and talked like a NY dame. She came from Rochester and spent the evenings and weekends gardening and seeing a number of men. She always ended in the hot tub with a glass of wine. Sometimes she showered before she left for work, sometimes she didn’t. This produced some comment among the locals.

The other two were sane men, T and D. D has two children, a boy and girl. Both have begun college since our meeting. I fear he is now experiencing marital difficulties. He has a voice that carries (because he talks loud) and is a very pleasant fellow. I think he is an engineer. T is a finance guy but his calling card is his responsible nature and advanced vocalization of right and wrong. He is an active Catholic with four children. The daughter married two years ago. G threated to show up in her pajamas. Of course none of us were invited and it was all in good fun. He is an excellent father and husband and travels a lot for his work. He works from home. T brings the newspaper every morning and comments on the articles. D makes jokes. G (until she stopped coming) told stories full of innuendo and complained about her daughters and her job.

It was like a club and we called each other by name and wished each other good morning and later, good day. We all sat and pedaled in the early morning. After some time, I drifted away, able to be upright little by little.

Those of us who go early in the morning know each other. There is T and K (married), L and R (married and neighbors), J who is also in yoga and went to aesthetician school last year, K who works for the school board, S who complains about squeaky equipment, and a whole lot more.

During this time I also started yoga classes (at the gym). They have helped me to no end and I embrace it now (it took me a while to love).

We call each other by name. From the co-owners to the trainers, the clients and the instructors. My idea was to get in and get out, preferably addressing no one. A solitary endeavor. I was wrong. It has been a life shaping experience. I love my gym.

Living in the West

What is it about a row of cypress that takes me to a happy melancholy? Did you see the Pasadena yard with cypress and agave from the recent Martha Stewart magazine? It is truly a dream on paper. To walk such a space would be a highlight. I am looking at the cover of the June Sunset magazine. There is a citrusy laid outdoor cement table with wooden benches on a gravel plain. And in the distance, a wonderland Seuss would draw, complete with a row of cypress.

Cypress are figurative symbols of death. I know because we had a widely spaced row in our back area in Glendale. In addition to thinking of Tuscany (where I’ve never visited), I think of my youth.

Sunset is a magazine of applicable fact and pleasures. Each page is relevant. This month I have learned about outdoor dining, one wall rooms in nature, a rose drink in Portland garnished with a single petal, a trailer that is the RV equivalent of the iPod, the history of Pike Place Market, fifteen varieties of bougainvilleas, and some spicy meatballs that look super yum.

For those in the Pasadena area, there is a Maynard Dixon exhibit from June 1 to August 12 with masterpieces from BYU and private collections, including twelve classic covers for Sunset. See it at the Pasadena Museum of California Art.

I enjoyed the article Vintage Getaway about an updated cottage and harmony of past and present objects. It also got me thinking how I would sit on the couch if a magazine was photographing me. This person is sitting up very straight in a casual leg cross. I enjoyed the window that opened up and in, reclaimed wood-plank floors from old chicken coops, and most of all the white and red wide striped entrance mat. The room with the mat is my favorite.

Unfortunately for you, I avoided the articles on Alaska, Kings Canyon, and most of the Idyllwild feature. These locations have mountains. I have a genetic predisposition not to be in love with mountains. I don’t hate them. I just don’t gape and gaffe. Yes, I like waterfalls, crevasses, and valleys.

Disguise the Hot Tub really wakes up on the second page of the article. Sunning beds and a hot tub cover that slides under the larger bed when the hot tub is in use. I said audibly, No way.

In the last year, Margo True (formerly of Saveur) showed up at Sunset as the food editor. I don’t know how they lured her but this fish is loving it. Her article on the Blenheim apricot makes the mouth water. Tangy-sweet. The recipe for chilled poached halibut with fresh apricot salsa tempts me to poach something beyond an egg.

The Art of Barbecue features Santa Fe’s Bill and Cheryl Jamison. Just listen to this:

First there’s direct grilling, in which smaller cuts of meat (and vegetables) are cooked quickly, right over a hot fire. It’s ideal for boneless chicken breasts, fish fillets, or meats that need a good sear, such as steak.
At the opposite end of the spectrum is barbecuing, the “low and slow” indirect-heat method that turns large cuts like pork shoulder and brisket into tender, smoky piles of meat.
In between these approaches is the hybrid one called two-level grilling, which allows you to cook medium-size pieces of meat (such as pork tenderloin or ribs) all the way through without burning the exterior. For this you need two temperature zones: one hot, one cooler. The meat is first browned in the hot zone, then moved to the cooler area to cook through.

As always, I don’t know how to take Diane Keaton who ends the issue with her new home restoration of a Lloyd Wright (son of Frank) in Los Angeles. I’ll just leave it at that.

As solstice approaches, I renew my goal of growing numerous citrus and fruit trees when I have some dirt. I embrace temperate climes and gentle winds.

F is for Fridge

There is only so much I can take. First, the White House white tie dinner with QE II and Philip. The handwritten invitation, the menu, the music. I can’t believe they invited a jockey and they overlooked me. Everyone knows (the whole world read Seabiscuit) that a jockey “rids” himself of food as soon as it is down the hatch. I shudder to think the fresh pea soup with lavender, fish, lamb, and sugar flowers did not nourish this chosen one. Though Itzhak Perlman is a master, my joy would have been full had Yo-Yo Ma been listed on the playbill. I would have framed the invite and the menu. I would have worn a sparkly red raspberry confection and golden sandals à la Grecque.

Second, I have been reading M.F.K. Fisher on and off today. I love this woman for more reasons than there are meals in her writings. I have focused on An Alphabet for Gourmets. Having skimmed, I am at O is the Ostentation. I was most taken with D is for Dining Out. One can only read so many references to aspic and consommé before the same voices, “what is in my fridge?”

And, here is the root of this tree. I became quite merry thinking of just a few occupants in the ice box.

First, a plastic container of vodka sauce.

I don’t use alcohol in my cooking (I’m sure it would be an improvement), but I seem to have little qualm eating other people’s spiked delicacies. This began when we dined with my maternal grandparents. My grandmother enjoyed a more elevated menu than we did at home, her champagne mustard being a specialty. As I grew to be interested in her menus, I would ask and without fail each dish boasted either a hard liquor or liqueur. Spirits. My brother and I would address this after and play the role of the punch drunk. This is my second dose of vodka sauce prepared by Gloria. It is the color of Thousand Island dressing. Add warm linguine, parmesan, sliced basil.

Until ten minutes ago, I had another plastic container. This one of pot roast and mashed potatoes and carrots. I supped with the Bunkers last Sunday. I felt it was a house warming as they moved into larger digs and embrace the prospect of a garden and full sun. We enjoyed a very appropriate green salad (I served myself numerous times) and chilled cantaloupe. She slyly slipped a container of the dinner into my square Tupperware that conveyed these brownies to the festivities.

Supernatural Brownies
15 large or 24 small brownies

2 sticks (16 T) butter, plus more for pan
8 ounces good-quality bittersweet chocolate, such as Valrhona or Callebaut
4 eggs
1/2 t salt
1 C dark brown sugar (muscovado)
1 C granulated sugar
2 t vanilla extract
1 C flour
1/2 C chopped walnuts or 3/4 C whole walnuts, optional

Butter a 13-by-9-inch baking pan and line with buttered parchment paper. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In top of a double boiler set over barely simmering water, or on low-power in a microwave, melt butter and chocolate together. Cool slightly. In a large bowl, whisk eggs. Whisk in salt, sugars, and vanilla.

Whisk in chocolate mixture. Fold in flour just until combined. If using chopped walnuts, stir them in. Pour batter into prepared pan. If using whole walnuts, arrange on top of batter. Bake for 35 to 40 minutes, or until shiny and beginning to crack on top. Cool in pan on rack.

For best flavor, bake one day before serving, let cool and store tightly wrapped.

Adapted from “Chocolate: From Simple Cookies to Extravagant Showstoppers” by Nick Malgieri.

Yes, I did buy Dark Muscovado sugar from Mauritius at Whole Foods for $3.99/lb. I used the bittersweet bar from Trader Joe’s that is inexpensive and fine but not the quality of the French or Belgian.

Back to the fridge. One bottle of Izze Clementine sparkling juice. 3 mangoes, a few broccoli heads, grapefruit, lemons and oranges (from Cami’s parents’ trees), blueberries, goat cheese, 1/2 a red onion, a quart + of 1 percent milk, whole wheat tortillas and sharp white Cheddar, a few eggs, leftover cold salads that need to go soon, jars of olives and cornichons (I am addicted to picholine olives also from TJs), All the fruit is on the far side of ripe. I am only one person and need a few more mouths to feed.

What’s happening in your fridge?

Those That Climbed for the Sun in Their Lives

In the pushcart market, on Sunday,
A crate of lemons discharges light like a battery.
Icicle-shaped carrots that through black soil
Wove away lie like flames in the sun.
Onions with their shirts ripped seek sunlight
On green skins. The sun beats
On beets dirty as boulders in cowfields,
On turnips pinched and gibbous
From bulging rocks, on embery sweets,
On Idahos, Long Islands and Maines,
On horseradishes still growing weeds on the flat ends,
On cabbages lying about like sea-green brains
The skulls have been shucked from,
On tomatoes, undented plum-tomatoes, alligator-skinned
Cucumbers, that float pickled
In the wooden tubs of green skim milk—

Sky-flowers, dirt-flowers, underdirt-flowers,
Those that climbed for the sun in their lives
And those that wormed away—equally uprooted,
Maimed, lopped, shucked, and misaimed.

In the market in Damascus a goat
Came to a stall where twelve goatheads
Were lined up for sale. It sniffed them
One by one. Finally thirteen goats started
Smiling in their faintly sardonic way.

A crone buys a pickle from a crone,
It is wrapped in the Mirror,
At home she will open the wrapping, stained,
And stare and stare and stare at it.

And the cucumbers, and the melons,
And the leeks, and the onions, and the garlic.

From “The Avenue Bearing the Initial of Christ into the New World”
By Galway Kinnell

I spent last weekend in a dream-like state with family friends. We loll and spend a sublime time. As my yoga teacher says, All choices correct. Their home is one of my favorites for a thousand reasons. Some activities: dying eggs, dining, putting together Easter baskets, hiding eggs, talking to someone who understands, house looking, dining, family, church, singing, art, browsing, photography, learning, remembering. Life is rich.



Movies: Casino Royale (dvd), An Unfinished Life (dvd), Miss Potter (theatre).
This week I finished typesetting the poem you just read. I am interning for an afternoon here and there with my former book arts instructor and company. They are teaching me letter-press printing and typesetting.
Book: The Tortilla Curtain by T.C. Boyle, reserving judgment till it is finished.
Preparing: pasta with fresh tomato sauce (sublime concoction) and Sharing Time.
Poem: Apology for Bad Dreams by Robinson Jeffers.
Best Newspaper Title: Mirror (see Kinnell poem)

Perfume, or Why I Love the French

I read mysteries and detective stories in my youth. In fact, I largely read them. Encyclopedia Brown, Trixie Belden, the Happy Hollisters, and of course our titian-haired Mademoiselle Drew. I had a book of short mysteries as well. The first story in this book involved a closet of clothes in the suspect’s home and the clue to the suspect was in this closet (at least I read this into the story . . . ). Hanging clothes, shoes, and accessories were listed and I was stumped. What in that closet pointed to a suspect? The answer was in fact the choice of colors hanging in the closet, which in turn leads to the woman’s hair color and skin tone. In short, fashion is telling.

My friend Scout limits herself to one scent at a time. When the perfume is gone, she can choose a new one. I am not so strict, though the idea of identifying a period of life by the scent one wears is appealing. A mystery query to our senses. I was Anaïs Anaïs in junior high. Now I am more expansive (schizophrenic): Light Blue, Fleur de Lotus, Gio, and Nirmala from Molinard are what I spray most often.

In my mind my clothes are red or pink. So, even when I wear an ensemble without red or pink, I choose red or pink in my mind and then select a scent. For example, I wore white shorts and a white and brown Indian tunic on Wednesday. That outfit was pink (I wore Nirmala). Blue is always my base color which teams with red or pink like a dream. So pink and red are the accents. Today I wore red cotton pants with a light grey long sleeved tee. My outfit was clearly red. I wore Fleur de Lotus. Gio is always red. Light Blue is always red. I don’t know what this means about me. As a youth I was told I was a Spring. Ho ho. The orange shirt and white skirt I wore last Sunday are pink. I sprayed Nirmala about 4 times. I love this one.

Occasionally, I wear the soft lily of the valley fragrance Diorissimo. Of course, it is a pink or light blue outfit. Sha from Alfred Sung is also pink. Lou Lou is red and blue. Allure is pink. My only ambidextrous scent is Fleur de Lotus. What versatility. It works with everything! I could be bald and say that pink is for the light scents and red is for the heavy scents but that is Scents for Dummies and incredibly stereotypical. My color designation has to do with the notes of the scent. Some would find Nirmala heavy. I love it’s headstrong pinkness. I fell in love with Poison long after it’s heydey. To me, Poison is always purple so I can’t buy it, owning no purple. I could never be accused of wearing deep purple. I reserve this for nobility or those who can wear deep purple. But, they could wear one of my red perfumes with it. I suggest Lou Lou, a deep, base composition that is always Belgian in my mind.

Share Your Table

I returned to San Diego with a suitcase of twice worn outfits, the urge to read Year of Wonders, find potato gnocchetti at Trader Joe’s, buy anything red, watch Casino Royale, make magnets, and organize my shoes. That is what great people do for you. Susie, Rachel B, and I spent a never to be forgotten three days in Washington together. We covered Seattle, Olympia, and the Olympic peninsula braving wind and rain. At Pike Place we ate melting macaroni and cheese (Beecher’s Handmade Cheese), French pastries, mini hot doughnuts. Needless to say, it was gourmand. We dined at Café Flora (vegetarian), Rosey’s on Rogers, and Aqua Verde. The euro hot chocolate at Trophy: Cupcakes and Party was 3 ounces of Wonka bliss. I ate a gorgeous coconut cupcake and Susie chose a lemony flower. Ahh, confections.

I stopped first in the Bay Area for quality time with bakeries, restaurants, public transit. Thrilling. I visited Chez Panisse, Tartine Bakery, Zuni Café. In the Ferry Market Building there was The Slanted Door (modern Vietnamese), Miette Pâtisserie, Cowgirl Creamery, and Lulu Petite. There was the de Young Museum, Golden Gate Bridge, Sausalito, and Muir Woods. It was my first foray to Marin, land of MFK Fisher and Skywalker folk. I will describe it as woodsy countryside with coastline. I kept half a round of cheese in my handbag for much of this visit along with 16 lbs of change from transit machines. The best thing at Tartine (not including the strong croissant) is the rocher. Now you know. Take advantage of this.

On my next visit to this region I will hit Point Reyes, the SF Center for the Book, SF MOMA, and more restaurants and bakeries. You can see I could easily be helicoptered in. On a subsequent visit to Washington I will pluck and eat blackberries.

It was a sumptuous occasion: rich in friends and nourishment. Rachel B. gathered oysters for a stew on Sunday night. She taught Susie and I how to shuck them and we supped at 11 pm after our day up and down the peninsula. We visited the co-op where she volunteers to package cheese once a week. It is a greener city. At Tartine, I drank hot chocolate and ate a croissant at a large kitchen table with studying students, a laptop user, and a newspaper. The laptop user kindly offered me the other half of his scone. Had I not been stuffed to the gills, I would have conceded.

When There Were Trees

There are two people who should not walk around with an arm in a sling: Yo-Yo Ma and Michele Burgess. She has a dog, Decoy, rescued from the Cedar fire. Both greeted me when I walked into Brighton Press yesterday before noon.

A day so easy to make happen, once the words were in place. I came without introduction or appointment. The dog barked and is “completely harmless.” Michele was seated at a desk by the open door, her arm in a sling; Jim Renner approached to help. I patted the dog and called him “puppy,” my title for all new dogs. I was invited through the office studio to a library room alcove where Bill Kelly collects first editions. Jim too is kind, harmless. His work is on display on the walls of the open exhibit room. He offered to show me anything the press had created that he could find. I asked for broadsides and told him my favorite art book is Swimming Lessons (poem by Nancy Willard, etchings by Michele Burgess) and was led to the only table in the open room. He pulled up another chair.

He brought the actual to the table and told me about each. (Books and broadsides are online.) I started with Repair, Kelly and Burgess’ latest work. A substantial size and page count and the quality of rust throughout. We went through Jim’s current creation of woodcuts and Kelly’s poetry, The Outline of Reparation. Smaller, horizontal, spare interior on all counts save the woodcuts and color. And we were off. Sandra Alcosser’s poem The Blue Vein with hand colored etchings by Burgess; Figures Made Visible in the Sadness of Time, poems by Peter Everwine and etchings by Bill Kelly. Broadsides of The Blue Vein, Drought, Elegiac Fragments, Flame. Swimming Lessons and Sleeping Inside the Glacier are both out of print. I have seen them at UCSD Mandeville Special Collections and at The Athenaum.

I met Bill when he arrived after teaching his letterpress class at SDSU. He greeted me warmly. Each of the troop is genuine and welcoming and interested. An attempt to connect image and word. I am on the mailing list. Michele’s parting words: bring in something you’ve done. I ordered a sandwich at Waters after two o’clock.


Swimming Lessons
Nancy Willard

A mile across the lake, the horizon bare
or nearly so: a broken sentence of birches.
No sand. No voices calling me back.
Waves small and polite as your newly washed hair
push the slime-furred pebbles like pawns,
an inch here. Or there.

You threaded five balsa blocks on a strap
and buckled them to my waist, a crazy life
vest for your lazy little daughter.
Under me, green deepened to black.
You said, “Swim out to the deep water.”
I was seven years old. I paddled forth

and the water held me. Sunday you took away
one block, the front one. I stared down
at my legs, so small, so nervous and pale,
not fit for a place without roads.
Nothing in these depths had legs or need of them
except the toeless foot of the snail.

Tuesday you took away two more blocks.
Now I could somersault and stretch.
I could scratch myself against trees like a cat.
I even made peace with the weeds that fetch
swimmers in the noose of their stems
while the cold lake puckers and preens.

Friday the fourth block broke free. “Let it go,”
you said. When I asked you to take
out the block that kept jabbing my heart,
I felt strong. This was the sixth day.
For a week I wore the only part
of the vest that bothered to stay:

a canvas strap with nothing to carry.
The day I swam away from our safe shore,
you followed from far off, your stealthy oar
raised, ready to ferry me home
if the lake tried to keep me.
Now I watch the tides of your body

pull back from the hospital sheets.
“Let it go,” you said. “Let it go.”
My heart is not afraid of deep water.
It is wearing its life vest,
that invisible garment of love
and trust, and it tells you this story.

Johnny Old Saint Nicholas

Maysen played this piano song as a duet with his father.

Three favorites from the red velvet man's visit.


A line of Lego magnets. My mother bought some a few years ago (at Legoland) and I admired them. Unfortunately they were not sold when I visited Legoland this year. However, Santa ordered them from Lego and put them in my stocking. They are quite visually perfect. I'm not sure I'll take them out of the box.


The three smalls. Placed in a frame I purchased last week for occasions such as this.


A French cherry red roasting pot. I have long dreamed of a suitable soup or piece of meat to inaugurate the use. I have not come up with anything yet but share the image as it is fine as a stand alone. I also enjoy Le Creuset in Dune. I would make a meat soup in it.

What were your favorites? And, do you embrace surprise?

In a Nutshell: Thanksgiving with the Indians

Flights: amazingly well spent and pleasing. I used to not sleep in planes; now I can for a couple hours.

Movies and TV viewed en route: Quand J’étais Chanteur (The Singer) featuring Gérard Depardieu as an aged lounge singer opposite his young love interest. I watched bits of this repeatedly and finally admitted he is an endearing character.
The Page Turner (also French), a mean-spirited film of a young pianist who is disillusioned during a recital/judging and gives up the piano. She later comes into the life of a family (the pianist mother being the one who dissed her at the judging) as a nanny and ruins their lives through treachery. She turns composition pages for this woman at a piano performance, hence the title.
The Break-up with Jennifer A. and Vince V. I tired of their constant bickering but approved the performances of the art shop receptionist and Jennifer A’s “brother.”
Fifteen minutes of Pirates II. Did not enjoy this and thought I would have nightmares of the tentacles. Yick.
One whole episode of MacGyver and a bit of The Love Boat (Doc was jumping up and down on a mini tramp by the pool. All the men had on tiny shorts. Long shorts are a pleasing change).

Illegality: snapping two pictures inside the Taj Mahal. My guide hissed to quickly take a picture of the inlaid stones while he shone a flashlight on them. I obeyed but these images will not implicate me being that I needed a flash (had my bulky camera with me).

What a huge proponent of light packing wishes she had packed: a nail brush (I simply walked outside and my nails became filthy) and a heel pumice (my poor feet were clad in sandals most of the trip (and most of my life); would that I could have filed them).

What I wish I hadn’t brought: multiple long pants and long sleeved shirts. The weather for the most part was hot and humid, especially in the south (Hawaii like climate). Knee-length skirts would have been perfect. (I had brought one and bought one there. I also wore long shorts some of the time.)

Bookshelf (in order of attack): Climbing the Mango Trees by Madhur Jaffrey (recent Knopf bio with recipes of the cookbook writer and actress); The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai (winner of 2006 Man Booker Prize); half of V.S. Naipaul’s India: A Wounded Civilization; half of A Princess Remembers: The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur (purchased in Mumbai on a recommendation after I had visited the Rambaugh Palace, now a hotel, in Jaipur).

Animal Fair: elephants, camels, goats, cows, bulls, monkeys, cats, dogs, birds, two dead rats, one or more live rats.

Casualty: one black hair clip (see also claw) that is integral to my being. It was mercilessly crushed on the flight from Delhi to Cochi.

Loss: black yoga pants used for running around. I believe they must have been left in Jaipur, hung out to dry (literally).

Flavorings acquired: two packets of black peppercorns and 10 vanilla beans (gift of Nimmy Paul, cooking instructor). Two packets of whole cardamom and one packet each of nutmegs and fenugreek.

Spices I wish I had bought (what can I say . . . I was overwhelmed): chili powder, curry powder, and black mustard seeds.

Other purchases: textiles (Gandhi proclaimed the answer to India’s ills is the spinning wheel) and two pieces of cookware, one aluminum pot and one steel uruli, a flat bowl for stovetop (I will try to post an image) for a combined weight of about 4 kilos.

Brought home: a taste for marble.

Birds of a Feather

This morning I breakfasted with four peacocks. They flew into the walled compound probably looking for water. They approached the pool but flew off without drinking. I was eating an omelet, toast, papaya, and Cadbury drinking chocolate. It is quite a Western breakfast but it was nourishing and will prepare me for the day. I am staying at Jasvilas in Jaipur. It is an oasis. As Rachel prepared me, this is a third world country. The people are very welcoming, non-threatening, and good. I point out this place is an oasis because the streets are a different thing, but not dangerous. I haven't minded the driving (from my back seat in the taxi). People seem to know what they are doing and no accidents yet. Horns a plenty. I spent the first four days in Mumbai (Bombay) which is the second largest city (I believe population) in the world, after Mexico City. It never appeared super overrun so it paints a broad swath and the worst slums are not where I was. Brad, Angelina, and I are visiting India.

At home, preparations continue for Thanksgiving, arguably a perfect holiday. Do let me know your plans and any menu successes. I plan to make Thanksgiving at Christmas. Cami presented me with a portable Thanksgiving feast: candied pecans, dried cranberries, pringles (potatoes), a pumpkin seed bar, an apple pie Larabar, and turkey jerky. I will eat royally. Perhaps you wish your feast was as pre-pared. I hope someone is baking an Indian pudding. This is what I will try in the coming days. Rachel B. made the best baked gingerbread ever a week ago. I will also make this. I don't see why we need pie with these deadlies. Historically wholesome. I wish you all well and heap big blessings.