ferris wheel bohemia

november koan

2011-11-21T01:44:00.000-08:00

maybe if i were walking in your direction, i could tell you what i had to say

Photo is by Daniela Edburg.

out of the rafters came the barn owl

2011-10-14T00:01:00.000-07:00

"The breezes taste of apple peel. The air is full of smells to feel..." - John Updike

And barn owls, Mr. Updike. Don't forget about the barn owls, who swoop down into October, defining it.

Or steaming cups of coffee, which come into their own on October mornings, as if the rest of the year, those black sips are lent to us from the crisp tribe of days they more naturally inhabit.

While I was in San Fran for a wedding last month, I ended up at Sightglass coffee roastery with good intentions of using their warehouse + token coffee shop as a place to write.

The writing progress was not significant, but this picture of my Americano and Owl's Howl espresso blend spilling out of my bag ended up being the only serious photographic evidence of my trip.

Which made me realize something. Something that I knew, but this was the Exhibit A - Z that sealed it: San Francisco and I - years have not stirred up my fondness for a spark that went cold and grey. No. That place. It's all hills and food and diversions. A veneer of sites I've already taken a million pictures of, only now, along with the endless wind, there's the alarming smell stagnation.

Yet when I got home and had October rising in my backyard, I was so pleased to have this brown paper bag with an owl on its tag, filled with decadent beans to grind and savor. A souvenir of where I'd been, of what season was ahead.

There's something to be said for the pleasure of noticing age; of feeling the sharp drop in temp following day after day when the fluctuations smoothed out over each other like endless pavement. Where coffee matters beyond its single varietal notes and you need its warming; need its native company as you get grounded and watch the leaves flush their sugar; burn for a vibrant flash. Of being able to settle into a turning that asks for more gratitude than enjoyment, where owls brave the night instead of children, and their song marks the ushering in of wisdom.

"everything sings and dies,
but it could be, too,
everything dies and sings."
-Galway Kinnell

make this bread

2011-10-07T00:54:00.000-07:00

I'm a week late for Rosh Hashanah, but the faux challah (no eggs - but honey! hence it's appropriateness!) I made in honor of the Jewish New Year is simply too great not to mention. And since October is the Friday (TGIO!) of the holiday baking season, I'm sure you'll have ample reason in the crisp weeks ahead to warm up your kitchen with the fragrance of this honey-sweetened raisin walnut bread baking in your oven.

Now, let's level for a moment. I don't hear much about this, but I'm of the opinion that far too many of the recipes that get talked up on food blogs (and I mean respected, well-executed food blogs) are only marginally above "meh."

For the most part (let's be honest) people read food blogs for the same reason my mom subscribes to Condé Nast Traveller: pure voyeurism. It's an escapist fantasy with more drool. The likelihood of you making that mouthwatering Salted Caramel Brownie with muscovado sugar and pink Himalayan salt is about as high my mom embarking on that four-star caravan through Rajastan. (Statistical Deviation: if I'm plugged into the immediate equation of anyone's life, I think the chance of the salted caramel brownie being made *and* the excursion to Rajastan happening goes up dramatically).

So maybe it's because my food gawking extends to the kitchen, and a good 90% of what I eat, I make from scratch, but I feel like I've been duped one too many times by a blogger's tantalizing photography and their just-right homey anecdote trumpeting some new (or old) nifty thing to do with say, tomatoes or rhubarb, that they insist you try *now, Now, NoW!*

To which I have said, "OKAY!" and put it to the top of my "to make" queue - only to end up with a pan of underwhelming rhubarb cake, which left me seriously calling into question what the hell the blogger was banging on so rapturously about.

Could it be a mere difference in taste? Or does their need (especially as a food blog is a very very hungry animal) to prettily showcase their culinary achievement overshadow its actual merit?

The fact that I'm still regularly seduced by blogger's food stories must mean I at least latently (or partially) believe the former (as in, at some point, surely, we'll see eye to eye). I mean, I have a hard enough time working up the initiative to compose multiple complete sentences about things I feel passionate about, let alone dress up the experience of that so-so orange olive oil cake I made.

So... with that rather long detour of exposition in mind, what I'm intending to convey to you is the extent to which I think this bread is worth talking about. And it's easy. So take notes.

Beth Hensperger is known as a bread maven. Her book The Bread Bible does not invoke the name of Evangelicals' most-revered volume lightly - she's clearly out to win converts. Anybody can see the light! The divine art of breadmaking is not a blessing reserved for a mere chosen few!

She is very encouraging about the ease with which people can learn about flour and yeast and kneading - it is something she spends the beginning of her book trying to demystify. And I dare say, she took great care throughout the rest of the book to include only the best of the best, most tried-and-true bread recipes - likely to prevent potential new followers from defecting prematurely.

Mostly, she argues, like everything, it's really just about practice.

I'm not very practiced, but the evidence of the ease of Beth's Italian Walnut-Raisin Whole-Wheat Bread recipe (don't tell me you read all the enticing words between those hyphens and didn't feel transported to some rustic Tuscan farm) is apparent from how recklessly I managed to (successfully!) throw it together last Wednesday eve.

A short rundown of the night's events:

Yoga starts at 8pm.
I finished reading through the recipe at exactly 7:06pm.
Realizing that the dough would potentially need to rise for 2 1/2 hours, this bread novice (me) went to work.
I proofed the yeast, combined it with flour, kneaded the mixture into a sticky dough, covered it and left it to raise...
And was *still* on a yoga mat a short 55 minutes later.

Seriously, that's how easy it can be.

A few things to keep in mind when you try it:

This dough is *sticky* -- waaay more sticky (or tacky, as you will) than you think it should be. Beth says to turn the dough out for kneading and only add 1 T of flour at a time - I bet I used 1/4 cup of all purpose at a time! But only because it was ridiculously sticky (high elevation? high % of moisture in the air? the fact that I didn't use a mixer? who knows?)

However, (a little like pancake batter) I was very very conscious not to add too much flour and make it too "done" and smooth. Even when I put the dough into the bowl to rise, while it was "springy" to the touch, it was also extremely sticky and could have easily become glued to the counter top. If you're a bread maestro, maybe you know something better than I about how this was a sign that it was very wrong - however - it came out marvelously - so I'll not aim for any less tackiness in the future!

If you haven't kneaded bread before - maybe try and seek out Beth's tutorial. But basically, push the dough away from you with your full body (stretching it out in the process), then fold the two sides in together like you're wrapping a child in a blanket or making a filled pastry, then push it out again. Repeat.

Also, the recipe says 4 cups of raisins and walnuts combined! 4 cups!! I don't know about you, but even with the amount of dough (two baguette loaves) that seemed excessive. Not to mention, when I went to press all that fruit and nut into the dough, I have no idea where it would have fit given the oval's surface area. Use your discretion and taste (obviously), but I used 1 1/2 cups of plumped raisins and maybe 3/4 cups of chopped walnuts. It still sliced up looking like a luxurious loaf.

Mmmm... think I'm the only die-hard health nut out there who considers bread the most excellent excuse to consume butter (my equally health-conscious sister just shuddered)...Enjoy!

Italian Walnut-Raisin Whole-Wheat Bread from Beth Hensperger's The Bread Bible

[my notes are in brackets]

Ingredients
2 ½ cups warm water
2 tablespoons (2 envelopes) active dry yeast
pinch light brown sugar or 1 teaspoon honey [I used honey!]
½ cup olive oil
¼ cup honey
1 tablespoon salt
4 cups fine-grind whole-wheat flour, preferably stone ground
1 ½ -1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
2 cups (10 ounces) dark raisins, plumped in hot water 1 hour and drained on paper towels [there wasn't room in my dough for all of these... I made 2 cups, but bet I only ended up studding the dough with 1 1/2 cups]
Scant 2 cups chopped walnuts [are you kidding? that's a LOT of nuts! bet I used 3/4 cup and did not feel cheated one smidge.]
2 tablespoons whole-wheat flour, for sprinkling
2 tablespoons, wheat bran, for sprinkling [I didn't have this]

Method
In a small bowl, pour in ½ cup of the warm water. Sprinkle yeast and sugar over the surface of the water. Stir to dissolve and let stand at room temperature until foamy, until 10 minutes.

In a large mixing bowl (or in the work bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, combine remaining 2 cups warm water, olive oil, honey, salt and 2 cups of whole-wheat flour. Add yeast mixture. Beat vigorously until smooth, about 1 minute. Add remaining whole-wheat flour, 1/2 cup at a time. Add unbleached flour, 1/4 cup at a time, until a soft dough that just clears the sides of the bowl is formed. Switch to a wooden spoon when necessary if making by hand. [I never (well, rarely) use machine mixers for anything - so I did this all by hand - in my experience, the dough may have gotten drier quicker (e.g. needed less flour) if I'd used a mixer]

Turn dough out onto a very lightly floured work surface and knead about six minutes, until soft and springy yet resilient to the touch, dusting with flour only 1 tablespoon at a time as needed to prevent sticking [See notes above, I used significantly more - like 1/4 cup at a time]. Dough should retain a smooth, soft quality, with some tackiness under the surface, yet still hold its shape. Do not add too much flour, or loaf will be too dry and hard to work.

Place dough in a greased deep bowl or container. Turn once to coat the top and cover with plastic wrap. Let rise at room temperature until doubled in bulk, 2- 2 1/2 hours.

Grease or parchment-line a baking sheet. Sprinkle whole-wheat flour and wheat bran on the baking sheet.

Turn dough out onto a lightly floured work surface without punching it down. Pat it into a large oval and sprinkle even with half the drained raisins and half the walnuts. Press nuts and fruit into the dough and roll dough up. Pat dough into an oval again and sprinkle it evenly with remaining raisins and walnuts. Press in and fold dough in half, sealing ends.

With a dough cutter, divide dough into 2 or 3 equal portions. Shape into 2 tight right round loaves or 2 baguettes about 14 inches long. Gently pull surface taut from the bottom.

Place loaves on prepared pans. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rise at room temperature until doubled in bulk, 45 minutes-1 hour.

Twenty minutes before baking, preheat oven to 400 degrees. Using a serrated knife, slash the loaves quickly with 2 parallel lines and one intersecting line no more than ¼ inch deep.

Place baking sheet in oven and bake until loaves are brown, crusty and sound hollow when tapped with your finger, 35-40 minutes for round loaves, 25-30 minutes for baguettes. [I think my cooking time for the 2 baguettes was slightly shorter - say 20 minutes (and I actually ended up covering them with foil to prevent burning at about minute 17), but I think my oven also runs a touch hot.]

Transfer to a cooling rack and cool completely before slicing.

cardboard box algebra

2011-09-27T02:57:00.000-07:00

it's mabon... which you probably only know if you are a pagan.
or if you've been clinging to the equinox - looking forward to the balance of dark and light.

the picture above is by samuel palmer, who was only recognized for having any talent in death. an artist's reality that is too-frequently the reality; greatness realized in darkness, when it is too late to do its creator any good.

there is a certain bravery in being the moon in the night sky - illuminating nothing; a world asleep. and yet, without it? without the moon? what would become of the tides?

i feel sorry for those artists who thought their struggle was in vein. what reward did they ever have? save being true to themselves? likely, because it was impossible for them to do anything else.

i came across a charles simic poem the other day. it's unrelated, but maybe, in some future moon-tense, where the y's and z's balance out, it's actually the answer...

nearest nameless (by charles simic)

so damn familiar
most of the time,
i don't even know you are here
my life,
my portion of eternity

a little shiver
as if the chill of the grave
is already
catching up with me --
no matter.

descartes smelled
witches burning
while he sat thinking
of a truth so obvious
we keep failing to see it

i never knew it either
till today.
when i heard a bird shriek:
the cat is coming.
and i felt myself tremble.

absence & space holders

2011-09-08T01:47:00.000-07:00

You can forgive me for the irreverent gruesomeness of the photo - can't you? You can forgive me because it's in the middle of the night and I leave on a plane in a few hours and could so easily have not written anything. But there were a couple of things on my brain and so rather than squirrel them away in a single private email to a friend, or protect their lop-sided form in my journal, I decided to be more deliberate and accountable by going public with them here.

So... two seemingly unrelated things from this week:

1) The philosopher Derek Parfit was profiled in The New Yorker and it so happens that he can't recall images from his past; he does not think, nor does he remember anything visually. Apparently, this is a bona fide condition and it is normally correlated with people who think very abstractly.

While I can't claim to never ever be able to summon up an image from my past, nor is it impossible for me to "picture" something -- it isn't easy. I tend to think in a stream of words. It takes concerted effort for me to imagine, say, a scene of an ocean, in my head, and even when there is a picture, it tends to be captioned... like I'm watching a foreign film, or looking at an editorial in a magazine with a catchy Helvetica headline.

The odd thing about reading about Parfit's condition is that I've been bringing up my odd mode of thought pretty often lately -- usually in conjunction with an explanation as to why I think I struggle with Utah's "grid" number-based address system. Interestingly, Parfit also struggled with math and numbers -- he thought maybe it had something to do with trouble in processing the visual representation of symbols.

So in spite of recognizing that there might be some lacking-visuals / struggle-with-number correlation, I never thought of my "visual problem" as having any relation to my tendency to think in ways that are extremely abstract. Tres interesting.

2) Discovery's Curiosity series featured Stephen Hawking talking about The Big Bang and God and such. He says that through the creation of *positive* energy (e.g. *us*) there is an equal amount of negative energy generated (think an absence... the space left in the indentation of a hole dug to make a mound). As such, every creation, indeed, the entire universe, when plugged into a plus and minus equation adds up to zero. Basically karma, but on this massive scale.

E.g. :

Me + Residuals from What It Took to Make Me = 0

Universe + Every Absence of Energy Required from Forming a Universe = 0

So despite the apparent incompatibility between numbers and abstractions, in this instance, they appear superimposed, since zero seems like the ultimate number and the ultimate abstraction, in which, it is neither a true number nor a true abstraction. The right shakes the left's hand, fused at the same indiscernible point in this conceptual conundrum.

And that's what the bird picture above has to do with. I was at the Spiral Jetty when I took it... I wasn't supposed to be looking at skeletons of dead birds, yet there it was, just as much on display; just as artfully formed as a spiral of rocks. An eroding frame of bones unintentionally laid out next to something that took effort and purpose to erect -- both structures transient in their exposure.
Which was more valid? Life vs. Art - now both eternally inanimate.

So that's what's on my mind as I head west. This idea that perhaps zero is the one place where we all think congruently. Doesn't matter that we arrive there through different concepts and modes and means, we all get there eventually...

in honor of august: squash cake

2011-08-30T20:20:00.000-07:00

I looked at the calendar today and I saw that August is over.

August. Over.

How can that be? I had no sense of it coming. This is what happens when your schedule is your own and you have no real use for calendars - or clocks for that matter - just days and nights. Back and forth, up and down, an endless side-to-side sashay with no context.

But seeing we were on the very tip-end of August, I thought - Aha! This explains everything! And I became certain that a craving I had a few nights back must have signified the exact moment when summer ran out of breath; when she finally reached up to rub the blood from her eyes due to that last sweaty full-cylinder sprint.

It happened three days ago. I was working through that ambiguous hour past 3am when the night bottoms out, and you're looking down the barrel of dawn, when suddenly I had an overpowering yen for a desserty-something. August has been my month of frozen desserts and my freezer had seen different versions of peanut butter icebox pies in pretty steady rotation to cater to exactly these type of moments.

But no, after wanting nothing but slivers of peanut butter icebox pie for *weeks* - smoother and more slippery on the lips than ice cream, delivering an up-front punch of sweet/salty peanut butter with a dark chocolate finish - this had no appeal. I wanted something toothsome. Something dense, with....spice; I wanted stodge - I wanted... a *baked good*

"In this heat??" I asked myself.

"Absolutely," said the something inside of me that knew summer was downshifting... it could already taste what was on the way.

So sensing that we were starting to nip at early autumn, I was craving layer cake.. I was craving Nigella's Chocolate Gingerbread Brownies (which I'm not allowed to make unless I'm in a position to rapidly give away 3/4 of the pan...)... I wanted anything frosting-topped that I could sink a fork into.

But I had nothing suitable on hand, so I did that decoy grazing thing we probably all do when we have a very particular taste for something, but don't have it. I tried to appease the Craving Gods with some Ryvita with raspberry jam, some Nairn's ginger biscuits... but they weren't having it. Finally I said to myself, "either *make* something, or get back to work, or go to bed, but whatever you do, get your hands out of the granola!"

I think I ate another handful of granola and *then* went to bed.

Happily, like magic, seasonal produce and my cravings have a way of syncing up even when I'm oblivious to the calendar. Yesterday a massive yellow squash appeared at my house. We don't know who its original owner was (poor squash, they are much like the fruitcakes of summer season... and so hastily orphaned), but I was very happy to adopt it and just *knew* that like zucchini (there was actually a zucchini too - but that was rapidly set aside for *the best pickles ever*) it could probably lend itself to a splendid cake.

I was right. This cake is everything I wanted that night when neither peanut butter pie nor granola would suffice: substantial, moist, a little bit spiced, and oh-so-satisfying to carve a fork through. I hate to even bring it up, but it could also be argued that it's healthful too. It's so good, I'm actually wishing a little bit that I could spruce this up with some molasses and fresh ginger to have it at Christmastime -- not sure that the squash will comply...

So make this while you can!! And enjoy!

The garnish(which I realize looks a little like onion rings & moths) is a combo of ground cherries (they come with little flowery wings like that...cool - huh?) and thinly sliced yellow squash - sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and put in the oven at 200 F for about an hour (which tastes *surprisingly* good!)

Adapted from the Squash Cake Recipe via The Meaning of Pie

1 1/2 C sugar
1 1/2 C flour (I used a mixture of half all purpose, half whole wheat)
1 T cinnamon
1/4 tsp nutmeg
3/4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
1 1/4 C grated yellow squash
2 eggs
1/2 C apple sauce
1/4 C olive oil
1 tsp vanilla

Mix everything together and pour into a well-greased 9-inch cake pan. Bake at 350 F for approximately 40 minutes or until golden brown and until tester comes out clean.

I made frosting with a cream cheese base, plus butter & confectioners sugar (oy! sorry! I never measure these things...)

berlin, part ii

2011-08-21T23:31:00.000-07:00

Toward the end of Wings of Desire, there is a sort of Psalm recitation. A soliloquy voice-over about what we long for and think about as children that remains a thruline throughout our lives.

"On every mountaintop," the voice says, "the longing for a higher mountain yet." And, "in every city, the longing for an even greater city."

This rang so true for me. I've lived in many many places, and in each one, after I've "conquered" them, I've thought - Onward! Upward! And whenever I've returned for a visit, I've often thought, "However did I live here??? [e.g. Boston, San Francisco] It's just so *small*!"

But Berlin seems different. I think it's quite ironic that a movie about Berlin claims that no matter the city, there is a longing for an even greater city. As I mentioned in my last post, I found Berlin rather impenetrable; a great unfurling metropolis... with so many layers.

After all, there isn't a spot of geography without history, but few have been emblematic of so many diverse ideologies in such a short span. This is the place of Prussia! Of Wiemar! Of Nazism! Of Sovietism! Of the Cold War! Of squatters! Of art! Of engineering!

So many elements, all heaped upon the next and then pushed out from the center into a sprawl of districts and neighborhoods so far-flung I couldn't begin to try and get to them. How could anyone really truly long for a greater city than this one? It seems the ultimate in challenge, in riddle. Berlin seems like a place that needs years of deciphering.

So with that as a caveat, since I had days, not years, I bring you some additional promised pictures from my journey there. Enjoy!

The predictable first pic - no? The Berlin Wall...

"Madness" - think that sums it all up nicely.

This footpath could not have happened a few decades ago...

There's a continuous line of cobblestones throughout the city that indicates exactly where the wall once stood.

Brandenburg Gate 50 years ago, when they rolled out barbed wire before the wall itself went up.

And Brandenburg Gate today.

Toys for tots in East Germany during the Cold War... Grenades are fun!

A luxury stretch Hummer going through the site of Checkpoint Charlie (which has all been recreated... and according to my tour guide, is now manned by Eastern European immigrants...)

No idea...

Love the options here.... "Do you vote?" Ha. "No - I don't care for nothing!"

Couldn't resist... a new cartoon character for 'Don't Walk'!

And walk!

Am I an idiot for not fully realizing that Berlin has a river running through it??

My hotel (a former bank) - the building beside the green dome (thank you corporate expense accounts that aren't mine). This is also the square where books from a university were burned during the Nazi-rise.

And where I spent a good dealing of my Berlin evenings... a few lovely receptions on top of this roof... (need to get my camera lens cleaned, clearly).

So this wasn't quite as fantastic as the to-die-for breakfast at the hotel, which consisted of every variety of fruit, muesli and yogurt you could possibly imagine (in an atrium setting, no less) but it also didn't cost 40 euros (whoops!)... Rhubarb Kuchen and Caffe Americano by the river.

This bird was seriously interested in my Rhubarb Kuchen... had to enlist that fork to try and fend him off!

The mall, Quartier 206, which looks like it was designed by M.C. Escher.

Nice pic from one of Berlin's many many wonderful parks. Which happens to go well with the last line from the Wings of Desire monologue:
"When the child was a child, It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today."

oh & hey, i went to berlin

2011-07-27T23:16:00.001-07:00

Hello there. Long time. This post is brought to you by Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire - I had very little to do with it. Frankly, until watching Wings of Desire last night, I'd thought about shutting this whole blog down (so silent, for so long... it was becoming atrophy). But the film's message and setting jolted me.

See, a couple weeks ago I rode to LA with a filmmaker, a trunk full of art and the art's maker, a certain Jared Lindsay Clark, who'd lived in Berlin for a stint. A subject that came about because, oh hey, I just went to Berlin.

I told him how impenetrable I'd found it. He told me how much he loved it. I talked of Soviet culture. He talked of art scene rapture. I told him he needed to see The Lives of Others. He told me I needed to see Wings of Desire. "Okay," I said, "I will."

And being the sort of person who does what she's told when somebody with an artistic bent glows about a film, I did. (Had he mentioned that it was particularly timely given the recent passing of Peter Falk, I might have been even quicker about it).

Peter Falk. Berlin. Death. Life. Change. The film's subject matter. Its inspiration taken from the work of Rilke. Angels longing to be mortals. The incalculable value of eternity compared to the precious handhold we have on the current moment. The fact that I'd just been there; walking circles around the very same landmarks featured in the 1987 film, but in a vastly different political context. And yet, it was the same. Within the film's context, they felt the same.

Serendipity. Serendipity and footfalls.

I dug out my camera today and uploaded photos I hadn't bothered with yet. Just to prove to myself that what I'd seen had been what I remembered it to be. Felt no different. That I wasn't imagining it.

I wasn't.

If you've seen the film, you'll recognize the pic of Lady Victory at the top of this post. A guardian angel of military triumph built when Germany was still Prussia.

And the Mercedes sign [spoiler alert] such a prominent backdrop for the lovelorn man's suicide. An association I viewed with irony, since the familiar revolving car ornament was the first thing I'd recognized (with an internal yawp of glee) after getting a little lost around Tiergarten mere hours before my departing flight.

And Maxim Gorki Theater, like a linen-draped saint heralded with celestial glory.

Gorky's Theater wasn't in the film (it's in former East Berlin), but this seemed a fitting parting image for a post about angels and serendipity.

See... I hardly think Gorky's Theater is a landmark many people seek out. I didn't seek it out myself. It was just something I stumbled into during my directionless wanderings. Though once I saw it, I went right up to challenge its existence, head-on, like a windmill, saying, "Oh yes, Gorky, there you are! But of course! I know what you're here for! I know what you're after!" The theater stood steadfast, blinking back with no statement beyond its gold letters and embellished classical majesty, a messenger from Olympia, knowing that just by being there its point had been made.

For no matter where I go, its seems there are Russian playwrights whom I'm constantly bumping into, who stare at me... with knowing glances about the things I am to write -- and how they figure into it.

More Berlin pics forthcoming.... promise x

oh, marie.... vanities of queens & cake

2011-04-05T03:11:00.000-07:00

Spring is here! See all that green grass laying cushion for the cake plate - who would have thought such lush life was hiding under those last crusts of snow and grey skies! Our toe-dip into spring came just in time to blow March out the door like a lamb... which also meant it was just in time for my mom's birthday.

Ahhh... birthdays. I think I love them mostly because they give me a really good excuse to make cake - or rather - (and slightly more importantly) to *decorate* a cake. I'm a bit odd, I know, but for me the cake part really is secondary to the the decorating of it. If I were less of a last-minute person, I'd probably spend days decorating my cake masterpieces, but I rarely find myself with such a luxurious amount of time - and birthday deadlines simply can't be pushed - so I'm usually working under the pressure of people impatiently waiting with candles and forks in-hand, murmuring with their lack of understanding as to why the perfectly delectable-looking cake ISN'T READY YET!! (and yes, I've been known to shout that)

As a long-time cake decorator extraordinaire, I have inordinate amount of respect for frosting. You may not realize, but it's the secret to any good-looking cake you've ever seen. Those thick drifts of sugar-infused butter is the baking equivalent of duct tape - the MacGyver-like answer for magically transforming unruly, lopsided, mind-of-their-own layers into something neat and eminently presentable. Sure, there are wooden dowels, and tricks for shaving off uneven bumps with floss, but at the end of the day, it's the frosting that reliably rises to the occasion for any problem that might look too big to handle.

I mean, really there's nothing else that could have transformed this Inside-Out German Chocolate, let's face it, *mess*...

...into (a few short hours later) this prim, fit-for-a-queen-mother's birthday layer cake.

That's why every baker should have a recipe for saving-grace frosting mortar that will never fail. The one for chocolate glaze that went with this cake is well worth remembering (dare I say, more worth remembering than the cake recipe itself). It's a chocolate glaze that tastes a little like salted chocolate caramel (mmmm - can't argue with that!), mixes & firms up quick, but most importantly, is *sturdy* - like, it's going to hold things together you are worried might not stay together (though don't forget that setting up your layers up in the refrigerator can also be a big help).

So there you have it. I'm not sure how much looks had to do with it (or if it was the oodles and oodles of chocolate happening), but my mom said it was the nicest cake she'd ever had.

Voila! Fit for a Queen!

Inside-Out German Chocolate Cake (via the Bridge Street Bakery, Waitsfield, VT as featured in Gourmet)

**Notes: My cake layers cooked quicker than the 20 - 25 minutes recommended. I would say cook as little as 15 minutes. For the German chocolate, I went Dulce de Leche style and simply put a can of sweetened condensed milk in a sauce pan filled with water, brought the water to a boil, then reduced the heat and let the can simmer for a little over an hour. Also, though the recipe didn't call for it, I made a chocolate ganache (ha - nobody ever said I don't do overkill on my cakes) and spread that on the layers before the German chocolate filling AND then topped the filling with a handful of raspberries, which I HIGHLY recommend. Definitely serve this cake at room temperature - it can seem a little dry otherwise.

For cake layers

* 1 1/2 cups sugar
* 1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
* 1/2 cup plus 1 tablespoon unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder
* 3/4 teaspoon baking powder
* 3/4 teaspoon baking soda
* 3/4 teaspoon salt
* 3/4 cup whole milk
* 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
* 1 large egg
* 1 large egg yolk
* 3/4 teaspoon vanilla
* 1/8 teaspoon almond extract
* 3/4 cup boiling-hot water

For filling

* 7 ounces sweetened flaked coconut
* 4 ounces coarsely chopped pecans (1 cup)
* 14-ounces can sweetened condensed milk
* 1 tablespoon vanilla

For glaze (which is what I raved about above!)

* 2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
* 10 ounces fine-quality semisweet chocolate
* 3 tablespoons light corn syrup

Make cake layers:
Preheat oven to 350°F and oil cake pans. Line bottoms of pans with rounds of parchment or wax paper. Sift together sugar, flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, baking soda, and salt into a large bowl. Whisk together whole milk, butter, whole egg, yolk, vanilla, and almond extract in another large bowl until just combined. Beat egg mixture into flour mixture with an electric mixer on low speed, then beat on high speed 1 minute. Reduce speed to low and beat in water until just combined (batter will be thin). Divide batter among cake pans (about 1 1/2 cups per pan) and bake in upper and lower thirds of oven, switching position of pans and rotating them 180 degrees halfway through baking, until a tester comes out clean, 20 to 25 minutes total. **I would suggest 15-17 minutes cooking time, as mine definitely cooked in quicker than 20 min!!

Cool layers in pans on racks 15 minutes. Run a thin knife around edges of pans and invert layers onto racks. Carefully remove parchment or wax paper and cool layers completely.

Make filling: **See my note about doing this Dulce de Leche style below...
Reduce oven temperature to 325°F.

Spread coconut in a large shallow baking pan and pecans in another. Bake pecans in upper third of oven and coconut in lower third, stirring occasionally, until golden, 12 to 18 minutes. Remove pans from oven.

Increase oven temperature to 425°F.

Pour condensed milk into a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate and cover tightly with foil. Bake milk in a water bath in middle of oven 45 minutes. Refill baking pan with water to reach halfway up pie plate and bake milk until thick and brown, about 45 minutes more. Remove pie plate from water bath.

Stir in coconut, pecans, and vanilla and keep warm, covered with foil.

Make glaze while milk is baking:
Melt butter in a 3-quart saucepan. Remove pan from heat and add chocolate and corn syrup, whisking until chocolate is melted. Transfer 1 cup glaze to a bowl, reserving remaining glaze at room temperature in pan. Chill glaze in bowl, stirring occasionally, until thickened and spreadable, about 1 hour.

Assemble cake:
Put 1 cake layer on a rack set over a baking pan (to catch excess glaze). Drop half of coconut filling by spoonfuls evenly over layer and gently spread with a wet spatula. Top with another cake layer and spread with remaining filling in same manner. Top with remaining cake layer and spread chilled glaze evenly over top and side of cake. Heat reserved glaze in pan over low heat, stirring, until glossy and pourable, about 1 minute. Pour glaze evenly over top of cake, making sure it coats sides. Shake rack gently to smooth glaze.

Chill cake until firm, about 1 hour. Transfer cake to a plate.

passover, with apologies, & oh so many liberties

2011-03-30T03:23:00.000-07:00

My mom recycles calendars. She estimates that she's saved a little over $30 for every year that she has done this. It's an eccentric and slightly sheepish revelation that gives you a really good glimpse into how my family thinks about money. Expenses are evaluated, not on their one-off cost, but as they are projected over a lifetime.

For instance, my preferred Wallaby yogurt isn't $2.69 - $2.99 a pop - on no, it's $12.50 a month, nearly $150 a year - hence the recent $28 investment for a yogurt maker. Which might sound like a hassle to you, but it sounds like half a ticket to Iceland to me.

Not to stereotype (as I now proceed to stereotype), but this penny-pinching attitude is part of why this Shiksa and the Jewish men I've dated have always gotten on famously well in this regard. They seem to get it; spend on extravagances, on indulgent luxuries - and scrimp on the mundanities - like calendars - that don't really effect your life quality. If you do, when it comes to frills, you'll usually find that you have the money.

The only trouble with spending money on, say, international travel instead of this year's calendar, is that some pesky holidays don't stay fixed to a constant date. No, they go roaming around various months and make it difficult to pin them down if you're not watching carefully - which I wasn't.

So I'd half-planned a Seder feast for March 27, before I realized that while Passover happened on March 27 in *1994* - in *2011* Passover won't be making an appearance till April... sigh... oops... & oh well...

But it was too late - I'd already started in on the Matzoh Balls.

Despite the many Seders I've been to, as a function of me being vegetarian, I've actually never had Matzoh Ball soup. Though I've always been a little dubious that I'd actually like it - sodden bread is very far from my favorite texture and I don't particularly enjoy things with an eggy flavor - and since that's basically the two things Matzoh Ball soup has going for it... well... you can see the rationale behind my skepticism.

Nonetheless, I love traditional dishes and was quite keen to try a veggie variation and do my damnedest to turn this into a dish I might enjoy. I adapted this version of Sarah Kagan's Vegetarian Matzoh Balls, which basically means I made a moderate attempt to mask the 'egg' taste.

No doubt, people raised on their grandmother's plain matzoh ball & chicken consomme might balk, but I think it turned out well. Next time, however, I'll make an even grander attempt to make those balls super-savory and thus palatable to my palate (think more onion, more garlic, more turmeric, more cayenne, hmmm... maybe some rosemary?) - I'll call it Anne *Spiced* Matzo Ball Soup!

Till then, if you don't mind egg, and are looking for a veggie Matzoh soup dish that's a few steps left of the traditional, you'll probably really like the below recipe:

Slightly Bastardized Vegetarian Matzoh Ball Soup

2 eggs
1/2 tsp salt
2 dashes cayenne pepper
1 1/2 tsp grated yellow onion
1 clove minced garlic
3/4 tsp turmeric
2 tsp butter (leave this out if you're aiming for kosher!! & use a full 1 T of olive oil instead)
1/2 T olive oil
2 T chopped spinach
1 T grated carrot
2/3 cup matzoh meal (or approximately 2 sheets of finely blitzed matzoh crackers, which I felt *very* fortunate to find in this wholly gentile community where every store clerk responded to my inquires about matzoh meal - "What? You're looking for Malt O' Meal?")
5 cups vegetable stock
1/2 cup finely chopped celery
1/2 cup finely chopped onion
1/2 cup carrot
3/4 cup cooked chickpeas
1/2 cup spinach

Separate the eggs and beat the egg whites in a small bowl until they hold stiff peaks. In a medium bowl, whisk together the egg yolks, salt, cayenne pepper, onion, garlic, turmeric, carrot, spinach, butter and oil. Gently fold the egg whites into the egg yolk mixture until just combined. Fold in the matzoh meal (or finely blitzed crackers) in 4 separate additions. Cover bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate one hour.

In a large pot, saute the onion for 3-4 minutes, then add the celery and saute for an additional 3 minutes. Add the vegetable stock and carrots and bring to a boil. Shape the matzoh mixture into 3/4 inch balls and drop them into the boiling stock. Return to a boil, then reduce heat. Simmer for 25 minutes, turning the balls occasionally. Add the spinach and chickpeas, cover and cook for an additional 5-7 minutes. Serve warm with those extra Matzoh crackers you now have on hand! (Some people take their Matzoh balls out and serve in 'fresh broth' - so you know, do this if you don't like the idea of 'cloudy' - but from my perspective, the more that's going on besides those eggy dumplings, the better!)

Voila!

when at rope's end.... bake

2011-03-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

do you remember when this blog was sing-songy and all i wrote about were things like candy drawers, wild unexpected jaunts and baked goods?

i do.

it was years ago. before notorious men, one cosmically so, irreverently bucked through my life like a bull-in-a-china-shop tornado. since then, once i'd dusted off the shards of glass and dabbed the blood, i looked around at my world and thought, "oh wow - we are most definitely *not* in kansas anymore."

was the world so different? of course not. but i looked at everything with different eyes. gone was my buoyant optimism. my belief in magic, in life, in... anything.

BUT - i've grown weary of digging my heels into the poisoned earth of this abandoned fairground that i've built. i'm tired of picking stale peanuts off the ground, hoping like jack & the beanstalk that one of them will conjure back an irretrievable past - make people and circumstances behave & turn out differently.

people have done & will do what they do. even when their actions are good for nobody - not even themselves. which is tragic, but that doesn't mean my life needs to be a tragedy.

and so... first step, for me. is to start where i began, and bake my way back. baking is magic. it's starting from precious little nothing & turning all those separate elements into something. it is creation rather than destruction.

my young cousins and i were all in desperate need for a cheery diversion on monday and so we tackled peter reihnart's bagels - which had been featured by luisa of 'the wednesday chef' *and* tim of 'lottie and doof' (i trust these bloggers implicitly) - the kneading of which is *highly* recommended for emoting, whether you be a 12-year-old, or, uh, slightly older. **(there wasn't time for us to refrigerate the dough overnight - so my genius sister suggested we let them raise in a warm dark place for an hour instead, which worked *perfectly* - but i plan to make them again properly and take a pic to show you).

and last night i made the vegan chocolate tahini cake pictured above, suggested by my friend molly of 'the particular kitchen' (good for gluten-free baking or if you have a load of tahini on hand - which i did... but if not, and if you're not doing it for health, i'd suggest this loaf by nigella instead!)

it's been a good start.

so... here's to more baking... more great adventures... more living life in a way that's full of creation and gratitude. that's my promise to you from here on out. maybe i'll even get around to writing about candy drawers again.

love,
the long ago, but not forgotten, ms. spice

the last chapter

2011-03-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

The weekend was a train wreck.

We'd come all this way, but not journeyed an inch of distance.

And I knew that my life, what I expected, what I accepted - needed to drastically change.

"Learn the alchemy true human beings know. The moment you accept what troubles you've been given, the door will open." — Rumi

Top photo is by Alex Prager.... bottom photo is by me... the palms of Los Angeles, mid-summer.

you & me

2011-03-04T18:52:00.000-08:00

Michelle Williams stared at me in the night-quiet of a Brooklyn apartment. Lifted from a coffee table, she was shorn and reduced to 10 questions within Time's red and black oil-slick pages. One question - the obligatory question du jour - What helped you prepare for Blue Valentine? - was sourced from an anonymous John of Montana (Ryan Gosling once compared Michelle to Montana. She's like Montana were his exact words - did you know?)

Her answer: it was a performance bled out of poetry and song. She stitched together the character's outline with banjo notes; reached her bone-thin arm, like a needle through the ice, into the words of Galway Kinnell to fish out its soul; a paper doll stuffed entirely from the wrist and pulse skating atop Kinnell's white pages.

"There's a line in one of his poems, 'Being forever in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.' [...] The poem is called "Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight." Go find it."

Go find it she said. So I did.

And after I found it, I also found Galway's take on finding love:

"It takes a lot of living to grow fully into your own wrongness. And it isn’t until you finally run up against your deepest demons, your unsolvable problems — the ones that make you truly who you are — that we’re ready to find a lifelong mate. Only then do you finally know what you’re looking for. You’re looking for the wrong person. But not just any wrong person: the right wrong person—someone you lovingly gaze upon and think, 'This is the problem I want to have.'"

I sat in bed chewing on this. I wondered if I'd grown into my wrongness fully enough yet - or if I still needed to wrangle my deepest demons to the ground in my very awareness of them. How well did I know the topography of my darkest and most unsolvable problems? Enough to know the shade and silhouette of the right wrong person I ought to be on the lookout for? Perhaps there was still living I needed to traverse to know who I was, which would explain everything - my singleness... the fact that I was alone, awake at night, contemplating such things.

When then, of course, he texted. He who has (self-confessed) run to and from me for a very long time.

"You should write alongside me," he said.

I'd been anticipating his text - not this text, but a text from him - it's always only ever a matter of time. I even had a planned response - the gist of which was to be something like, "I'm sick of this - If you can't run to me without running so long and so far from me - Please don't come back."

But I was feeling particularly melancholy - wondering about my wrongness, you see - so it was well-timed (boys always know), and this opener was also a little outside the scope of the usual pattern - it had different tone, was striking at a slightly different chord... but also (probably especially) because I knew what he meant, as a would-be writer himself he wasn't merely proposing that I write alongside him in the sense of 'you do your thing & i'll do mine,' but that we might be something more simpatico...

So instead of an eternal sayonara, I responded, "Shall I...."

For when it comes down to it, right or wrong, my imagined picturesque future has always consisted of a house or a cabin or a room with another writer in it. A person I sense is there, but who is quiet, as we spend our days tapping, thinking, spinning impossible threads naked to the mortal eye - reconvening at a regular time near dusk to murmur about what we didn't accomplish, or what we hope we did - saying "and what do you think of this?" with a bizarre sort of wild delight I think only a person with one foot in their imagination and one foot on this planet who is constantly trying to merge the two can.

But is this - or he - the right problem for me? Writers as a species are notoriously neurotic, self-absorbed, off.... And when it comes to him in particular, I may never know since I'm not sure there's a chance we'll ever get past his see-saw of approach and retreat long enough to have a real shot. But still - it's a question in my heart.

Particularly since so much of the reason I began speaking to him again some time ago can be ascribed to a coincidence related to Blue Valentine - a theme that now seems to be recurring. In the film, Michelle Williams' grandmother says, in essence, how you much you owe it to yourself to trust that the person you choose to fall in love with is worth it for you..for all it will cost. Which makes me doubly wonder when I see such blue flags.... what they mean... and how they relate to the problem I ought want to have.

Photo is by Henri Cartier-Bresson

the trouble with insomnia

2011-02-06T00:08:00.001-08:00

"The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing."
- Elizabeth Bishop

i'm up till 5 & 6 am these days... i can't sleep, i can't sleep...

i know what the root of the problem is - my third eye won't close since there's another place it'd rather be confronting its dangers - on a computer screen, or a piece of paper - its been pining away for those white dreamscapes now for too long. i must. resolve. to write.

the photo is by ballestreros + marot.

MoIA: Musee d'Art Impenetrable - imaginary wing

2011-01-31T23:10:00.000-08:00

this is exactly what silence looks like in my head.

buried behind an uninspiring stack of rubbish & rust. a simple concept intersected by low-hanging pipes -- that clank.

and my brain is that white wall. a canvas with such potential, restless zen, longing to become flypaper with the smudge of a word - not just any word - a glacial lozenge - with layer of honest frost so flesh-ripping it causes you to gasp, catches in your throat, forces you to breath around it, negotiate through its layers in order to survive.

there are other nooks in my head too.

one featuring a giant ruler that likes to measure where i am with where it thinks i ought to be, condemns my progress, decides what letter should go before z, you know, practical things - the marketing department lets it self-promote and wrest control from time to time.

and somewhere i hear a gramophone playing songs tied to ex-lovers - that's a noisy wing.

and you -- here you are -- observing. hello!

welcome to my museee d'art impenetrable - that's impenetrable museum of art - though the "art" bit is all bravado for flourish and consistency in theme - primarily it's just an impenetrable museum. one that i find difficult to access. sometimes.

BUT - enough about me...

the charming and delightful news is that the image above is from an actual museum -- a forgotten one.

years ago, the artist Marcel Bloodstandt started Musée d'Art Moderne, Départment des Aigles - a conceptual museum with no collection and no permanent location (yep, pretty much the equivalent of my head). this picture was taken in where it once stood in a basement in Berlin; now it's nothing more than a storage shed with accumulations of chairs and random bits and bobs.

but the words are still on the wall and artist Tacita Dean has created a film called "Section Cinema" of what the abandoned museum looks like now.

i love the remnants. but perhaps what I love most is the discovery of Marcel - and how he and i are perhaps more kindred spirits now that his lofty ideas have matured to the point of stagnation, and his concepts become dusty refugees in an inaccessible basement -- which somehow make them all the more sincere and pristine...

and reflective of the modern museums we feel are inside us all...

o, tempus incognitum

2011-01-01T17:06:00.000-08:00

"And now we welcome the new year, full of things that have never been"
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Tempus incognitum - unknown, uncharted time; that which has never happened nor will be repeated is what awaits us in 2011.

I am remarkably excited for this new year - it's as if the shades have been pulled and the world looks clear and hopeful where once a cynical film of doubt had been growing like algae and increasingly tainting my view. With all the 1-1 possibilities, it is being said that 2011 is the year of balance - weights and measures dropping in to even out the negative marathon of bumpy extremes. So on this never-before-charted day of one of one of one-one - I hope you also feel the world afresh and are excited at the page turning to this new year. Good things are coming...

Photo is an untitled by '50s &'60s street photographer Garry Winogrand.

o magnum mysterium

2010-12-31T18:10:00.001-08:00

"Awakened at midnight
by the sound of the water jar
cracking from the ice"
— Basho

2010 winds....

the sounds of revelry and gentle snow - en thaw - grey lumplings arriving home with frozen cheeks and noses - gratefully laid to rest & happily tucked in with....

..... kisses xx

Photo is Prague Winter Scene by fellow Czech, Zdenek Vozenilek

we journey afar to find our way back home

2010-12-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

bear died in his dad's arms on sunday night. he was outside, where he wanted to be. his spirit went like a whisper; puff; gone.

i don't know where it went exactly, but i am certain, like all those who have ever left us, he is home.

angel bear: 1996 - 2010

attention: this is a live performance

2010-12-06T00:09:00.000-08:00

"Why are you stingy with yourselves? Why are you holding back? What are you saving for — for another time?
There are no other times.
There is only now.
Right now."
— George Balanchine

Lives are changed because of silences. Because of words unspoken. Requests, desires, feelings, never articulated. We think that our actions are what shapes our future, but it is the void, the things not done, the scope of the unspeakable, unknowable ether is what weighs down upon us more than we know.

I have left many many places in my past, but as I explained to a friend the other day, the likelihood that I would have stayed put in any one of those locales had someone, the right someone, sat me down, taken me by the hand, looked me in the eye and said, "I wish you wouldn't go. Please don't. Please stay right here for a little while," is frighteningly grand.

Granted, I come across as pig-headed, as unswayable, as confident and unwavering and devil-may-care - to the point that perhaps it is my own fault that nobody ever had the guts or the grist to get in the way of one my decisions and request a serious reconsideration and reversal. Nonetheless, my life's trajectory has largely been shaped by drastic exits simply because nobody ever put up a good case, often any case, for otherwise.

Which brings me to an recent experience of a friend of mine (no, this is not a veiled tale about me). There is a person in this friend's life who was planning a move - a major one - across an ocean. My friend did not want this person to go.

Me: "Have you asked them to stay?"

Friend: "No. But isn't that a huge request? An unaskable request? Something that signifies neediness on my end. Insults them by implying I think they'd consider such a sacrifice, a redirection of their life, on my behalf?"

Me: "Maybe, but sometimes, the only reason I've left, is because nobody told me not to go."

So my friend asked. Imagine it. A life was asked to be changed. And guess what? The person in question is staying put - for a bit longer anyway.

I am not surprised.

We are so afraid of showing our need; showing our affection; our depth of care for fear of frightening away those whom we feel those things toward. But that is the true irony. For really, isn't that the grand quest we're all on anyway? Finding a person, place and thing who can furnish us with exactly that sort of unrestricted devotion.

This prevalent hesitancy and the potentially life-altering wrongness of this hesitancy reminds me of another of my favourite quotes:

"Say "I love you" to those you love. The eternal silence is long enough to be silent in, and that awaits us all."
- George Eliot

Ahh... the eternal silence. Which brings me back to my airplane theme that you've seen recently, together with the girls in dresses and the quotes from choreographers (above).

I've been taking a lot of risks lately (those of you who know me may say, 'but you always take risks' - true, but these are perhaps more directed, more *calculated* risks than usual). Risks of the heart and the deep deep soul. Taking plane rides and grand leaps of faith. Some have worked. Some not so well.

But a novel is being written (there are dancers in it - I feel eerily in sync with the zeitgeist and all the Black Swan buzz) and a venture is being formed. And if I don't hold back - well, actually, the *if* of that is almost irrelevant as I've reached a point where I don't feel I *can* hold back anymore... a sensation that makes me feel as if I've backed myself onto the right gang plank (diving board?)... a place of such overwhelming surrender because there simply is no choice.

In effect, to appropriately end with another Balanchine quote:

"I don't want people who want to dance, I want people who have to dance."
— George Balanchine

And if you have to dance, dancing then, is what you must do; the very abandon of your existence is fulfilled through the act of dance itself.

Photo is by the similarly-minded Rodney Smith, who (if you read his blog) rarely loves exactly how his photos turn out, but the process, the elements that make up the vocation of photography, is his reward.

cutting bait

2010-12-01T22:39:00.000-08:00

"I imagine the feelings of two people meeting again after many years. In the past they spent some time together, and therefore they think they are linked by the same experience, the same recollections.

The same recollections? That's where the misunderstanding starts: they don't have the same recollections; each of them retains two or three small scenes from the past, but each has his own; their recollections are not similar; they don't intersect; and even in terms of quantity they are not comparable: one person remembers the other more than he is remembered; first because memory capacity varies among individuals (an explanation that each of them would at least find acceptable), but also (and this is more painful to admit) because they don't hold the same importance for each other.

When Irena saw Josef at the airport, she remembered every detail of their long-ago adventure; Josef remembered nothing. From the very first moment their encounter was based on an unjust and revolting inequality."

— Milan Kundera

I find it quite hard to leave people behind, even when I know I ought. Yes, more than places or work, people prove my foil. Don't they have a way of weaseling in and making it nearly impossible to completely abandon them? Even when it would probably all be for the best? At least, that's what I find...

This photo, entitled Nancy is by the fantastic Alex Prager. It's pretty clear to me that whatever impending circumstance awaits this red head, she needs an extra dose of courage. Whether she is running from or arriving at her fate, there seems to be an ominous fog and longing in the air of the sort we'd all rather avoid altogether if we could.

On a related, but wholly separate note, if you missed Prager's stylized short film Despair (somehow I did!) starring Bryce Dallas Howard - do waltz on over to Nowness for a viewing. It's totally worth the few minutes - ha - for me, watching it conjured up the the equally technicolour work (albeit, written) of Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down.

wordless exchange

2010-11-13T00:48:00.000-08:00

I've been ever-so-quiet in this space lately - I know. I feel the silence between posts and it provokes a gnawing in my forearms, as if the blog's in danger of drying up and blowing away if I don't apply my wrists to a keyboard and start to rake and hoe, to try to plant something, to tend to it properly.

I've been half-heartedly composing a post about a trip I took with my fam to the Spiral Jetty (the picture of my dad, sis and mom above is borrowed from that excursion), but the trip was significant to me and convoluted in its significance and thus needs effort and the sort of words that need mining to explain it and lots of them... soo... hence the wait.

BUT I came across a wonderful site today called Pictory and decided my silencebreaking piece about the Spiral Jetty would just have to wait. Pictory is an arty sort of digital rag where pictures meet story, but the crossroads are executed in such a distilled and potent and significant way that it addresses a problem I have with much of the Internet in general - namely, that most of the content lacks *meaning* - substance.

In particular, I came across a Pictory spread about "Life Lessons" picked up from those who are older and wiser and was struck by this enlightened tidbit:

"I can’t hear you because your actions speak so loudly." - Larry to his to his mentee Tyler

Now, I've heard this before. And we all know the maxim Actions speak louder than words, but it has become trite and has almost taken on the patronizing ring of I know you are, but what am I? such that we no longer hear its message.

But in this incarnation of the quip, the speaker is acknowledging that the words of the other person have been taken into account, nevertheless, there is a discrepancy. I can almost picture Larry telling Tyler in a cowboy drawl, "I get what yer saying, but I can't heeeare you because yer actions speak SO dang loudly..." In effect, pinpointing the frequent contradiction between words and action.

Most of us are guilty of this failing from time to time, but it's one that's easy to dodge, mask, evade, and thus avoid being called on it. I know I'm particularly good at making excuses for people, yet, this is the sort of credo that works like a mirror - making it hard for either party to deny what the reflection actually reveals. I think I owe it to myself to use it as a rejoinder more often.

Which brings me back to my silence. What you are hearing now, in the empty oasis of quiet between posts, is seismic activity. There is a lot ambition, there always has been... and right now, in fact, (hopefully) for the next while, the reason you aren't hearing my words is because my actions are speaking so loudly.

Not a bad excuse - eh?

buona notte

2010-10-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

The rain pounded against the black cab; flooded the gutters.
We were not lost, but stuck. In traffic. In our wrong decision.

Then rescued. Plucked from the side of the street in Lesley's Foxtons Mini. Whisked to La Famiglia, an obscure and wonderful restaurant at the end of King's Road; Italy when you step through the door frame.

It was not the easy choice - not the restaurant, not the assemblage of people, not the night with its torrents; not easy simply because this was London and it was what I wanted.

I insisted though because it would be my last orchestrated occasion in town; a last forced bon mot, a toast to what had been my life. Good conversation. Good friends. The sort who are kindred pieces of you, who had taken a long time to find, to make mine. And London was there too - inside of Italy; the crux of everything; seated at the table, indifferent.

"Goodbye, London," I whispered to the empty space next to me after we'd 'ooh'd and aah'd' at the cheese and tarts on the desert cart and the waiter had wheeled it away.

"You're still here?" the city retorted, rolling its eyes, "Will you ever get the message you stubborn Warbling! Be gone."

"I'm going, I'm going..."

"You're sure? You're sure you'll do it once and for all - without a tear or sentimental regret? You've extinguished all romanticism? Smothered every seed of nostalgia? Every past and future sprout - withered. You're taking it all with you - your whole soul - in tact."

I laughed at the city's skepticism. It knew my general makeup too well. "You've done a good job. There will be no tears, I assure you. Not in my eyes or in my heart. Every cell of optimism, of conviction, belongs to my future; there's no latent belief in the gold I might have unearthed if only I'd stayed a little longer. And yes, it's really happening this time."

"You, living here - you were expected much later."

"I know. I arrived before I should have, forced my in, then proceeded to wear out my welcome."

"Next time, when you come back, if you come back, it will be time..."

"It would be the only way I could stand it. And I'll await your blessing and an engraved invitation. But I've got more faith in the 'when' than the 'if.'"

"Take a good swig of the downpour on your way out then - just in case, just so you're not tempted to come back before then."

I had to laugh at the city's consistency. "I expected as much of a parting gift from you - though there was really, honestly, no need." The rain drops sounded increasingly fierce against the canvas roof. "Alright then. Chin chin and buona notte, London."

"No, not good night. Last night - that will be my only tribute to you - among all the nights that have not been good nights - I will toast to the last evening. Serata finale, my willful girl. Go back from whence you came. Go. And don't look back."

underway

2010-09-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

This is, rather happily, the state of my life right now.

Cut-out artwork is by the quirky and phenomenal Rob Ryan (don't miss his delightful Ryantown shop near London's Columbia Flower Market if you ever get the chance!)

come to the cabaret!

2010-09-21T15:20:00.000-07:00

"Art is not merely an imitation of the reality of nature, but in truth a metaphysical supplement to the reality of nature, placed alongside thereof for its conquest." - Friedrich Nietzsche

I got an invite in my inbox today for Mr. Alan Clarke's exhibition (a "pictorial cornucopia" he calles it) this Sunday in Dublin and am *gutted* that I won't be able to attend. His pictures are deliciously dark and etheral, intriguing, victorian, comedic - in other words, right up my alley - and they are hard to find!! At least, I've found there to be an extreme dearth of his images on the Internet... so I was greatly looking forward to attending one of his shows.

C'est - next time.

If you happen to be in Ireland this weekend and fancy attending "The Loons Have Looned Their Last" find the details here.

another chorus, or was that the last verse?

2010-09-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

"Only the basic situations in life occur only once, never to return. For a man to be a man, he must be fully aware of this never-to-return."
— Milan Kundera

I'm reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being right now, and Kundera writes about Beethoven's last major completed work: String Quartet No. 16. Beethoven titled the quartet's final movement The Difficult Resolution wherein he supplemented the notes with a question:

"Muss es sein?" "Must it be?"

followed by (twice!):

"Es muss sein! Es muss sein!" "It must be! It must be!"

As we live along, it is sometimes curious to me how we make decisions predicated on the number of fresh chances we anticipate will be in our future that may never come to pass, but I'm also continously amazed by how many tries, how many try-agains, we get - to the extent that sometimes it's as if, indeed, what must be, must be.

So now, as I push off a present experience, I find myself musing: Must it be? Was that just the third movement? Or is it sonata-over?

Photo: We haven't seen Mr. Smith in a while.

just like that, all the magic was gone

2010-09-15T19:41:00.001-07:00

i once had a boyfriend who said, "you're like a siren of the sea - men see you and they just don't come back." a sentiment he not only acutely felt, but had also witnessed among other men; his own friends and acquaintances; the type of emails i'd get from ex-boyfriends.

i used to smirk whenever i recalled this statement - revelling in its truth; sometimes it seemed if i snapped my fingers in the right way i could cast a spell that would extract a man's heart from his chest and put it in the palm of my hand, to fondle or eat whole as i saw fit.

but today, i suddenly felt nothing more than human. and that power, that wily brook of magnetic pull - i felt it evaporate - sink down through the cracks of my soul and disappear into nothingness. the beguiling flame, which i probably very falsely believed i could control, could wield for better or worse, to captivate, to bewitch, has gone cold; entirely depleted, diminished to nothing more than the flat reality of my white blood cells.

in its place is a pervasive awareness that i am just like everyone/anyone else. there is no elusive allure. there is no je ne sais quoi; no mesmerizing quality. i am no enchantress. i am just another person among the flesh-and-blood populace. and a largely unextraordinary one at that.

all the while, i'm sitting on yet another runway, hitching a ride to somewhere - hoping to end up - well, maybe not another incarnation of an enchantress, but maybe, better off.

The rather fitting and Hollywood-esque photo is by Alex Prager of LA, which is the city I've just left (again).

i'm still here

2010-09-13T13:41:00.000-07:00

Caterpillar: Who are YOU?

Alice: This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. I -- I hardly know, sir, just at present -- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.

- from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland

Photo is by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue

straw poll

2010-09-10T00:38:00.000-07:00

Would you move here??

Even if the people think a little too much like this?

And you were the only person in a dress?

buh bye brooklyn

2010-09-08T23:47:00.000-07:00

You were the best part of NYC for me.

These pics are just the tip of the iceberg of my sister's new hood in Cobble Hill... patisseries, indie book shops, boulangeries *everywhere*...sooo darling.

Happy settling Kasey!

a lonely hunter

2010-09-05T00:01:00.000-07:00

“All men are lonely. But sometimes it seems to me that we Americans are the loneliest of all. Our hunger for foreign places and new ways has been with us almost like a national disease. Our literature is stamped with a quality of longing and unrest, and our writers have been great wanderers.”
- Carson McCullers (author of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter)

After a long stage of restless limbo, it appears I'll be on the road again very soon. I'm glad. I'm ready for a new place to settle. A place to put myself and breathe in a new routine. It's been an interesting and difficult couple of months - life has felt increasingly liquid, less concrete, like I can't get a grip on anything - am treading water in a vat of Jell-o. So many things up in the air - my emotions and things on no one geographical point on the map. Being a perpetual vagabond is a lonely endeavor. I know I do it to myself. But it often seems unavoidable. I long for roots, and I envy those who have them, yet I still can't seem to put them down - not for long.

In the days of old, gypsies used to move in packs. I guess I was born to the wrong time. I've been watching loads of Carnivàle lately, an HBO series that traced, you guessed it, a traveling carnival across the dust bowl of the Great Depression. It got cancelled after a couple of seasons about 5 years ago - I somewhat think it was ahead of it's time - I have a feeling people would relate more to the uncertain desolation of that era now. Me, I guess I've always related to the desolation of that era. But superimpose the magical wanderlust of a carnival on top of it... whoa... I know that. A life that's a series of places and incredulous events... I know that.

Maybe it's just a sign of being a life-thirsty American - who knows. But here's to getting back on that quiet road, to embarking on more jaw-dropping adventures, to hunting down a plot of land to stake a tent... and to writing about it.

Photo is by a guy who still travels with the gypsy packs, and astounds me with the emotion he can capture in a single still frame, Mike Brodie.

he's a scorpio, i'm an aries... hmmm...

2010-08-29T21:07:00.000-07:00

“Yes, but we’ve always had different taste in art and living. I assume that won’t be a problem?” - me

Illustration is by the wonderful Nicoletta Cecooli.

portrait of a self-conscious enigma (shh)

2010-08-25T16:16:00.000-07:00

no really, i am...

"In the artist of all kinds I think one can detect an inherent dilemma, which belongs to the co-existence of two trends, the urgent need to communicate and the still more urgent need not to be found..."
- D. W. Winnicott

I'm reading a fascinating book about personality types in the context of the Enneagram... soooo insightful. I consider myself a lay expert on Myers-Briggs, but this book and its in-depth exploration of different personalities far out-trumps any revelations the Myers-Briggs' summaries of the Jungian archetypes provide. I *highly* recommend investigating the Enneagram for self-discovery and understanding the ins and outs of the minds of your (potential) loved ones. It's amazing how different our motivations are, how differently we think, and what we need to find our place in the world.

I'm a Type 4 "The Individualist" (it took courage for me to imbed that link!) - and the authors of my book nail me for the way I communicate in symbols. This blog is usually highly personal in a way that can only be intrepreted by those who are very close to me... and sometimes is only an inside joke with myself. It's the typical tug-pull of needing to put my highly personal thoughts out there - but in such an enigmatic way that only I or a handful of people around me might fully understand. I need to stop that. Trying to get over my self-consciousness is supposedly one of the ways my personality type can find fulfillment... interesting...

Photo is by Jackie Young and Cybil Gustafson... from an Austin-based project of theirs called "I am ______ " Who are you? Take the Enneagram test yourself here.

over

2010-08-22T22:47:00.000-07:00

just back from the hamptons and am feeling thrown. it's odd how some of life's best moments take a while to sink in... take months, years, and other continents for you sit back in reflection and think, "my, how sweet, almost ambrosial, that was."

other moments, such as those final glimmering seconds of christmas, are appreciated as divine and passing within closer proximity to living them - often *as* you live them. my trip to the hamptons this weekend was more like that - a rare circumstance animated by its unchecked merriment and singularity.

so when kasey, our friend tom (international man of mystery), and i boarded the train home, it felt like i was sorrowfully dimming the lights and pulling down a bittersweet curtain over the memory of our weekend. i have not laughed so hard, nor been so thoroughly entertained and surprised by events in a very long time. we gathering hopped, we met artists, we met (other) eccentrics, in some ways, we met each other... and through it all, we laughed, oh how we laughed. it was an unexpected and redemptive bit of perfection... a freeing gust of air... the type of unleashed contentment you'd like to cork up; consumed moments that somehow, someway, you wish you could down again so you could savour different elements of them; those rarest of unmarked hours that are not grand or extraordinary per se, but sober you up with joy, make you wince at their passing, magnify the reality that life is temporary... all of which make it difficult to let go of the experience while it's still up close.

our trio's trip to the hamptons of aug 20-22, 2010 may have been absorbed by the sponge of time passed, but i do hope that something very similar will unfold again, ideally sooner rather than later... and perhaps with greater frequency... yes, being able to count on that would make me less mournful and more gleeful, replace my clingy reminiscence with a sense of anticipation - like the promise that a thousand imminent christmases from my childhood are going to appear on the horizon and i'll have the exhilaration of watching them draw closer and closer, and living through them, all again.

Photo is by a very cool Los Angeleno (can't you *tell*?) who I discovered during our weekend - Alex Prager.

Re: the picture... Is her life over? Or is this some kind of liberation? The moment looks both transcendent and lethal. At any rate, it seems to capture a point where one thing has stopped and another has begun. Shrug. It seemed appropriate.

oh how i love thee, may i forget the ways...

2010-08-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

"Maybe the best thing would be to forget being right or wrong about people and just go along for the ride. But if you can do that -- well, lucky you."
— Philip Roth

i love thee, i love thee not..... no really, may i forget how i love thee... entirely, sometimes incontestably, and without measure... (cue: opposition to step in...)

photo is from the latest portfolio of work by the enigmatic and darling Tierney Gearon.

rebel

2010-08-16T01:03:00.000-07:00

"In my childhood I led the life of a sage, when I grew up I started climbing trees"
— Philip Roth

when i was a child i'd climb out onto decks, balconies, anything that put me above-it-all, and marvel....
at least my adult-life has witnessed *some* consistencies...

midtown girl

2010-08-13T05:48:00.000-07:00

right. so i'm living life mid-air right now. not quite here, not quite there. my belongings are in boxes on one continent, i'm across the atlantic looking at them from another. an atrium in my heart is tremulously balancing - teetering, really, on a grain of sand in a bankrupt western coastal state, while i'm waylaid in the hello-limbo tar pit of new york city, though my long-term future plans don't look to include either locale.

basically, i'm a homeless, bi-coastal, bi-continent, decision-straddling vagrant who is waiting.... waiting, as my friend said today, for something solid that i can place both feet on to appear. yes, that would be ideal or even as wishy-washy sounding as nice. but at least trying to hover over the unknown till something materializes shouting "me! step on me next!" till then, i'm nothing more than your common, everyday, living-on-good-graces squatter.

i've mostly imposed at my sister's apartment on the upper west side, but it's a bit of a literal and figurative war zone (not going to get into that) - she calls it baghdad. so fortunately, i've got the equivalent of switzerland on reserve as a place to put myself. have occasionally fled to my friend's ridiculously appointed midtown high rise as a quiet, air-conditioned, oasis of refuge. his pad is *quintessential* new york - what people mean when they say 'the big apple.'

sleek and polished with near-360-degree views.

taken from the balcony 50 floors up - it gives me the shakes to even put one foot on it.

ahhh... central park... surrounded and enshrouded in all its smoggy and dreary architectural glory. honestly, if there's one thing this stint has taught me, it's that even though i always thought i'd *eventually* end up in nyc, i actually don't think i could live here permanently - after london it's just too anonymously urban, too poorly executed, grimy, blah.....

though it looks better at night. which is when i tend to live anyway. so i ought to appreciate it, since i'm here.... until.......

subtext

2010-08-08T21:24:00.000-07:00

i am here.
on a shelf.
come & get me.

Photo is by Mike Brodie.

something white, something blue

2010-08-06T07:40:00.000-07:00

ah meghan, my closest dearest kindred friend from boston. my senior year roommate; the girl with an equally reckless & incorrigibly independent streak; the person who lived a life parallel to mine, albeit, seemingly, always a few steps ahead.

we met through her childhood friend jaime (i also had a childhood friend called jamie) and were fast friends. on the surface, it didn't appear that we had a lot in common, but emotionally, we shared a very similar makeup, plus, it seemed, we had similar life stories. a trend that amplified over time.

in the years following university we appeared marked for the same destiny. first she got stuck back at home, then i got stuck back at home. she moved to california (LA) and left, then i moved to california (SF - then LA - missing her by mere months) and left. she got mixed up in TV, then i got mixed up in TV. she abandoned broadcasting, then i abandoned broadcasting.

if that weren't odd enough, our romantic lives also seemed to follow a similar course, the men we dated, the way things with them played out - it felt like looking in a mirror... i can't tell you how many times we rallied each other having just been through the *same thing.* it was *weird.* honestly, for the longest while, it seemed i could predict what lay in the cards for me based on how meg's life had looked six months prior.

and then.

she moved back to boston - permanently. she got a 'normal' job. she met a guy. they stayed together (whoa). a year ago, they bought a house. in the house was a ring. he asked her to marry him. she said yes. they planned a wedding. on saturday, that wedding happened.

clearly, all parallels between our lives ended about five years ago.

and i *could not* be happier for her. meghan, of anyone i know, deserves to be happy. you see, not only do i love meghan because she is fun and free-spirited, she is *nice* - through and through - without having any good reason to be. her niceness isn't a compensation for a lack, or a way of glossing over hollow bits of her character that she doesn't want you to see - no, she's the full package. she's gorgeous, fun, possesses an unshrinking (sometimes she's made me sooo nervous!) wild bent, and has been through too many health problems and other high waters to mention, and she *still* doesn't have a single malicious barb to her makeup. you know the type of person who is so lovely they don't even know how lovely they *are*? that's meghan.

can't you just see it?

so when she told me a year ago, "i'm getting married!" then, asked, tentatively, "it'll be in newport - do you think you'll be able to make it?" i said, "are you kidding?!? yes!!! of course! i have to be there. i WILL be there."

and i was.

after all, i had to witness this person who i consider something of an extension of myself tie the knot, come full circle - i had to approve (and i do... just look at the way he's looking at her, he loves her... )

nathan, you may kiss the bride.

ta da! just like that. nathan and meghan. man and wife.

the best man made 170 people cry during his speech, which he delivered with an undisguisable crack in his voice, despite being a total joker who clearly never dreamed he'd shed an emotional tear in public. it was so good that i'm stealing the gist of his tearful last line: "may you be happy together as long as you live and forever and for eternity."

you both deserve it.

flight. cancelled.

2010-08-03T00:01:00.000-07:00

"When your dawn theater sounds to clear your sinuses: don't delay. Jump. Those voices may be gone before you hit the shower to align your wits.
Speed is everything. The 90-mph dash to your machine is a sure cure for life rampant and death most real.
Make haste to live.
Oh, God, yes.
Live. And write. With great haste."
— Ray Bradbury

I am Sedona bound.

Photo is for UK Vogue by the surrealist de excellence Tim Walker.

owning my siren self

2010-07-30T16:41:00.000-07:00

"Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world." - Sylvia Plath

Right now, I'm on the Atlantic coastline of Newport, Rhode Island and it's lovely - one of the most genuinely charming and surprisingly vivacious towns I've been in a long while. Steve Martin is down the street, strumming a banjo, my skin is burnt from a half-hour of direct sunlight, and I'm about to watch one of my best friends walk down a beach aisle and say, "I do" to a guy who realises how lucky he is to have her - nice.

Also nice is an epiphany I started circling around today - all about recognising my place in the world enough to be confident in it. To allow my age and bird's eye perspective to bolster me from my groundling status to instead take hold of the paddle and start flexing the strings in the grand design of my life. Traces of this thought of my yet-to-be-realised potential struck me more than once today - in relation to different universal themes. A burgeoning sense of my womanly empowerment that I will also blame on Steve Martin and the 75 pages I read today of his (unreleased) novella, An Object of Beauty. Coincidence? Hmmm....

Photo is by Sarah Moon.

la, la, red rover... and where will she land?

2010-07-29T09:54:00.000-07:00

most people aim to minimise the number of unknowns in their lives... sometimes, it seems, i do my best to maximize mine...

Illustration, which very much captures the way I feel at the moment, is by the lovely Rebecca Dautremer.

clockwork

2010-07-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

"Love is a drama of contradictions."
— Franz Kafka

Photo is by Spanish duo Jorge Alvarino (photographer) and Ali Larrey (art director).

the baroque & the marvelous real

2010-07-22T06:43:00.000-07:00

"In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine."
— Milan Kundera

I don't know how I missed the movie Everything is Illuminated when it came out five years ago. Surely, if I'd seen a trailer, I would have taken note - the film brings together so many different elements that resonate quite deeply with me: magical realism, Jewish history, a distinctly Slavic style, a quest into the past... Where was I when it was released? What was I doing? How did it so entirely escape both my sister's (a Slavic film buff) *and* my attention? I don't feel that I was even remotely aware of it.

Equally curious, is that while I was oblivous of its existence for 5+ years, as of about a month ago, I haven't stopped hearing about it. References, questions, mentions of "everything is illuminated" has been *all over* - even the Kundera quote above was something I just stumbled across.

I took the universe's hint and it became something of a quest to watch the film, which, after multiple set-backs, I *finally* managed to do a couple nights ago.

And?

Highly recommended. Set in the Ukraine about an American boy searching for the truth behind an old photograph of his grandfather and "Augustine"... it's heartbreaking, and funny, and surreal, and an all-around charming movie. Go see it if you also happened to miss it. Though I still don't know exactly what I was supposed to get out of it yet... perhaps that bit will come later... or maybe I also ought to read the book - ha - is that gauche?

Photo is by Tim Walker - appropriately, I thought, of a Russian household interior.

enjoy this. this one moment. right here.

2010-07-22T00:16:00.000-07:00

"Why didn't I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future." — Jonathan Safran Foer

Photo is by Mike Brodie, The Polaroid Kid, who has done a masterful job of documenting life of modern rail jumpers - people who are likely better at doubting the future than the majority of us.

twopenny island

2010-07-18T14:47:00.001-07:00

On occasional weekends throughout the summer, New York's Governors Island transforms into a Jazz Age Lawn Party where fellas and flappers wistful for the Charleston era congregate to dance, peacock their retro duds and generally get swept up in the nostalgia for a roaring decade they never knew.

Kasey, Malena and I packed a gourmet picnic (and attempted at dressing up) and joined them.

1920's style tip: when you've got great socks, show them off.

Malena made this caramel apple masterpiece for the "pie bake-off." She won the Hobo's Choice prize - as in, the pie a hobo wouldn't be able to resist absconding with if he spied it cooling on a windowsill.

The Baby Vamps. (Available for bookings.)

This kid's going to be a foxtrotting maestro.

rash acts

2010-07-16T15:31:00.000-07:00

late last night, while standing on the platform waiting for the A train to the upper west side... i nearly turned right around, headed to la guardia, and boarded a plane.

Photo is from Danish photojournalist Joachim Ladefoged's Shanghai 'Neon Revolution' photo essay. (Thanks much to Inge08 for pointing me in his direction!)

paths.

2010-07-15T00:02:00.000-07:00

"You may not remember the time you let me go first.
Or the time you dropped back to tell me it wasn't that far to go.
Or the time you waited at the crossroads for me to catch up.
You may not remember any of those, but I do and this is what I have to say to you:
Today, no matter what it takes,
we ride home together."
— Brian Andreas

Photo is by Heri Cartier-Bresson - an artist who made it his aim to capture life's "decisive moments."

le misanthrope

2010-07-14T18:25:00.000-07:00

"I have the fault of being a little more sincere than is proper." - Moliere

i recall, once, someone very dear, shouting at me, "are you really that naive?!" concerned that i was feigning some simple observation i'd had, some idealistic attitude, some uncalled-for and unsophisticated reaction....

as my eyes widened, stung by the accusation, he realised, not without some horror, that yes, yes i was... at that age, and in spite of all the experiences that should have left me hardened, calloused, wizened... i was as willfully delicate as ever.

this weekend, i spent some time with a group of guys who, once again, rather painfully reminded me that compared to run-of-the-mill joes, i take living, too gravely. our brash treatment of each other, too sensitively. i can't help it - the acceptable norms, the glib flippancy where people seem to meet on common ground, are waters laden with sharp scissors in which i do not comfortably tread.

how is that people do it? laugh at one another - in the most tragic and cutting way? say things that they surely cannot mean? or if they do mean it, how can they actually stand it? to participate in those supposedly friendly encounters so thoroughly saturated with contempt?

i'm incapable. of digesting such maliciousness; it makes me ill. of welcoming the dispensing of acidic grime, which i'm sure i taste with greater amounts of toxicity than it is intended, since i can't separate words from their meaning. i survived the weekend, albeit with a grand and shocking finale of tears. but the fact that this was not an anomaly, that people ladle this out, with disturbing regularity - oh, i hate humanity for it.

Photo is by David Bailey.

so spaketh my sage mountains

2010-07-11T19:02:00.000-07:00

"Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day."
- A. A. Milne via Winnie the Pooh

Touched down in Utah just long enough to hike to Secret Lake, catch a Modest Mouse show and dine at Takashi (my favourite sushi restaurant on the planet) as well as catch up with some of my favourite *people* on the planet! It was a lovely break... full of whispers from the mountains I so revere... the ones I pilgrimage to and try to heed whenever they send me potent rumblings about my potential next steps.

Am in New York City now... arrived yesterday... and already life is as weirdly manic as ever... but this leg is more optimistic... am wondering if the river is right - that I shan't worry about lost time, nor write off things simply because they did not happen yesterday.

Photo is one I took from my night hike to Secret Lake just above Alta ski resort... do you see that one lone light in the sky?? It's Venus! x

night lights

2010-07-09T23:05:00.000-07:00

I adore fireworks. As in, *love.* They may just be my Holy Grail... despite my age, I still find them downright magical and will gleefully adopt any foreign holiday if it means I get to see a show. Which is why, what I may hate *most* about being an expat is the absence of star spangled spectaculars on July 4th. I mean, really? You think the Brits are going to launch celebratory rockets in honour of our violent succession... probably not. And let me tell you, the holiday is a horrible let-down without them. It's been a consecutive three years of firework-less 4ths... and I simply couldn't bear to repeat it again this year.

Luckily, the surround-sound fire fest on the lake this year more than made up for all the barren holiday nights of the past few summers. My uncle's house is on reservation land, and he and his neighbours clearly delight in taking full advantage of all the generally-illegal pyrotechnics possibilities this affords them.

Bona fide Roman Candles...

...or light sabers, as you will.

My dad and cousin Taylor, crouched to ignight our explosives... before quickly backing away in anticipation of...

Trails of incadescent sparks and dense wafting clouds of sulphur *everywhere.* Honestly, couldn't have asked for a more perfect night.

Happy belated 4th of July!

off the grid

2010-07-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

i'm quite certain that if there's anyone who needed a break from the rat race (especially the monstrosities i tend to compete against, you know, the sort that not only run you ragged, but also yearn to eat you whole) it was me. so i felt very *very* fortunate to be invited to my uncle and aunt's house on lake coeur d'alene, in northern idaho (about 100 miles south of the candadian border), for a few days.

i don't think this family retreat could possibly have been better timed. and while i thought it sounded relaxing, i really had no idea know what i was getting into - that i was headed to a place so remote that not only would wifi be unavailable, my *mobile* would be out of signal range - an escape from modernity that i haven't even been able to achieve in as far flung places as turkey, egypt, or belize - and let me tell you, it was *wonderful.*

our drive in: 45 minutes of this... on a gravel road... a long long way off from the highway.

our little dock: the central hub of the water action.

my cousin taylor, trailing us on the jet ski, just before the storm hit and he had to traverse 10 foot waves high to get back to the shore!

my room's view. vista parfaite for writing - non?
and honestly, with the shade drawn, i haven't slept so well in.... ummm... have i *ever* slept so well??

just look at that - and imagine... completely out-of-your-hands nothing to do, but marvel at the very existence of such a scene.

i dare you to try it some time.

city of hollow angels

2010-06-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

"It's redundant to die in Los Angeles."
— Truman Capote

Oh Truman, how I concur. There's a lot of walking dead in the town that tinsels; souls that have been sold - or would like to be.

Goodbye LA... I presume that, once again, it will be a while.

writing the script as i live along

2010-06-30T10:24:00.000-07:00

"Leave it to me: I'm always top banana in the shock department."
- Holly Golightly from Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's

I'm clearly the sort of person who can't just imagine what it must feel like to be dazed by an electric fence, nor do I buy into the conventional wisdom that messing with high voltage is a potentially bad idea... oh no, when I get it into my head that I want to tamper with sparking matter, I waltz past all the 'achtung' signs, and despite knowing what's possibly in store, grab the wires with both hands, just so I can feel the charge convulse through my system before, sufficiently stupefied and singed, I can finally let go and say, "ahhhh... so *that's* what it feels like. Well, now I know and can describe it with acccuracy."

Don't worry, someday it will all go into the novel, which will aptly be titled, The Seagull, I think... or some variation thereof...

Fabulous illustration is by Nicoletta Ceccoli.

ready or not

2010-06-26T00:01:00.000-07:00

"what woman having ten silver coins,
if she loses one of them,
does not light a lamp, sweep the house,
and search carefully until she finds it?
When she has found it, she call together
her friends and neighbours, saying,
'Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin
that I had lost.'"
-Luke 15:8-9

and uh, wish me luck...

Image is one of Rob Ryan's delightful silhouette creations.

try me: girl with a warning label

2010-06-25T00:23:00.000-07:00

am safe in LA (hurray!) where, last night, my friend anthony and i were discussing my enchantress-like tendencies. i have this pattern where men become enamored with me rather quickly; they come sprinting out onto the tightrope of my life, marvel at the view, the thrill, their eyes are widened, their souls are opened, but it's as if they panic the minute they look down and quickly run right back to wherever they came from; whomever they started as.

anthony suggested that to thwart this problem, i have two options -

1) i can act like a different person for a while, gradually letting my real-self emerge... so being in my presence is a little more like boiling a lobster rather than just throwing someone into the deep-end that is me.

or

2) i should warn them. "tell men: you're going to feel very comfortable with me very quickly, and you're going to have experiences with me that will blow your mind, but very soon you're going to get scared and run away." he says, "at least then you cautioned them about who you are, and they may fight hard just to try and prove you wrong."

#1 seems an impossible and likely fruitless waste of energy and #2 seems a little haughty and odd and presumptuous - like, "i know you just met me, but trust me, you're going to fall hard and fast, and you're going to feel transformed, but this won't be sustainable, so you'll duck out at the first exit, yet remain infatuated with me until your dying day."

then again, it may quickly root out the ones with a real stomach for the risk.

interesting.

what do you think?

Photo is from the infamous Annie Leibovitz "Alice in Wonderland" Vogue shoot.

before lift off

2010-06-21T18:05:00.000-07:00

these past weeks have read like some kind of pop fiction novel. paranormal appliance malfunctions, sickness, backstabbing, sociopaths, burgeoning doomed romance, legal intrigue, and classic comic relief. think 'hamlet' meets 'sex and the city' meets a wannabe john grisham novel... i mean, *nuts*

i leave for LA in, well, mere hours... and the journey to get to this moment has felt a little like i was running toward the boarding gate while life threw everything it could *think of* at me. crazed 4am phone calls from strangers? check. twice-flooded flat? check. betrayal? check. meeting a reincarnation of my ex? check.

as all this was going on i was reading 'one day' by david nicholls. relatively brilliant compared to most contemporary fiction, yet nonetheless an entertaining and swift read. i'm actually trying to decide where i will weigh in on it in the end - whether i *really* liked it or not. but i came across the below quote in the midst of - well, what turned out to be *not everything* - but in the midst of enough, and thought, for as many times as i feel that i've comforted myself with the notion that "when i look back on all of this i will laugh..." i couldn't agree more with this particular character:

"an amusing story? she didn't want an amusing story, she wants change, a break, not anecdotes. her life has been stuffed with anecdotes, an endless string of the bastards, now she wants something to go right for once. she wants success, or at least the hope of it." - emma (from david nicholl's 'one day')

so here's to me making my flight to LA, antibiotics in-hand, and to it hopefully ushering in a turning of tides.

photograph is my own... a ferris wheel charm my sister gave me for my birthday... may it provide both inspiration and luck!

the return

2010-06-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

well, that was a rather unfruitful experiment over there at wordpress. don't know why, i know wordpress looks more polished, more professional, it's hipper... it's what the cool people do. but writing there, i felt shackled, handcuffed. maybe it was something about the polished template? i didn't want to mess it up? i'm not sure.

but i'm back - this writing space feels like home.

thanks for following me after such a fallow period.

let the posts begin! (resume!) x

Picture is my own... of a Martin Creed installation at the Tate Britain in January 2010.

the carnival has shifted!

2010-02-20T08:12:00.001-08:00

ahem.

it was bound to happen and now it has. even in the virtual world a hopeless gypsy will eventually feel compelled to inhabit a new space.

i won't be posting at this address anymore, BUT i'm *very* excited to drag you along with me to my new little bubble:

www.ferriswheelbohemia.wordpress.com

see you there!

pax,
ms. nožisková

almost finished! promise!

2010-01-24T10:20:00.000-08:00

auld lange syne

2009-12-31T12:04:00.000-08:00

"Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
- Dylan Thomas

A winter sunset as seen from the mountain behind my house - captured during a snowshoeing trek with Kasey, Tom and my dad.

Farewell 2009... x

you're not perfect, and it's okay

2009-12-28T22:36:00.000-08:00

"You'll be bothered from time to time by storms, fog, snow. When you are, think of those who went through it before you, and say to yourself, 'What they could do, I can do.'"

-Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Wind, Sand and Stars

Image is "crows" by the wonderful Italian illustrator, Nicoletta Ceccoli.

a christmas miracle

2009-12-26T15:14:00.000-08:00

Hey! Look what Santa brought....

...a three-legged Bear who is able to walk! (Much quicker than anticipated!)

christmas eve recovery

2009-12-24T14:11:00.000-08:00

We picked Bear up after his rather distressing surgery today. He seems to be holding up okay...

... provided my dad is by his side.

Clearly, my dad has a rather abiding bedside manner. Oh... you've just got to love the both of them! x

lumen/atrum

2009-12-23T12:28:00.000-08:00

See that sun-drenched mountain peak poking out over the smog-choked clouds threatening with imminent snow? I think the image encapsulates so much of what the Christmas season has been for many people I know this year. It's been a time of extreme yin and yang - more distinctly, I think, than it has been in the past. I see the juxtaposition reflected everywhere...

Twinkling lights and penetrating dark.

Mountains rising over valleys.

And yet, there's beauty in all of it - no? Since for the most part, I think the cold times have elicited even warmer greetings and more heart-felt gestures of love than usual.

So on that note, I offer you two lovely off-the-beaten-track Christmas tunes that each reflect a sentiment felt during this season. The first is a sing-song happy tune from Lenka and the second is a more melancholy Joni Mitchell-like ballad by Brandi Carlile - both equally gorgeous in their respectively light and dark ways.

Merry Christmas All!

Enjoy!

deck the halls

2009-12-22T10:19:00.000-08:00

We're getting into the Christmas spirit at our house... maybe a little late this year, but with no less enthusiasm. We were without a tree when I landed, so one of the first things we did when I arrived was set off on a hunt for the all-important Tannenbaum.

The lots were a little picked over, but I think we managed to find quite a good one - perhaps this particular fir was meant just for us!

Thar she lies, waiting for her coach home...

Part of Kasey's marvelous holiday table centerpiece.

Glittering foil-wrapped candy all they way from Slovakia!

The nostalgic silos of the still-functioning Lehi Roller Mills - a *must* stop for unique Utah-made gifts.

Not only do they grind their "Turkey" flour right on the premises, our Grandma has come to expect their exceptional blueberry pancake mix in her Christmas package.

At historic Wheeler Farm - telling Santa that "yes, I have been a *very* good girl."

And what's Christmas without a sleigh/hay/tractor ride through a forest of fairy lights?

Here's my fam waiting (freezing) patiently as we await our turn - hot cocoa in hand.

Yay! After an hour... at last we board!

Giddy-up let's go!

Singing carols with brisk air against your face and a backdrop of laughing little lights in the trees...

Magic.

poor little bear pup

2009-12-20T13:30:00.000-08:00

I'm back in Utah... and came home to an ailing/injured Bear!

He does *not* understand why we're taking such measures to prevent him from chewing on his leg.

Or *why* he has to wear this stupid bonnet.

Poor babe. Wish him well! x

heed thy black swans...

2009-12-16T17:03:00.000-08:00

... it's only a mirage that they come in a row.

Happened to read the below excerpt from Nassim Nicholas Taleb's book on improbability The Black Swan *right* before I had the chance to do this today. (Full taped version ~~coming soon~~...here)

"Seize any opportunity, or anything that looks like an opportunity. They are rare, much rarer than you think. Remember that positive Black Swans have a necessary first step: you need to be exposed to them. Many people do not realize that they are getting a lucky break in life when they get it. If a big publisher (or a big art dealer or a movie executive or a hotshot banker or a big thinker) suggests an appointment, cancel anything you have planned: you may never see such a window open up again. I am sometimes shocked at how little people realize that these opportunities do not grow on trees. Collect as many free nonlottery tickets (those with open-ended payoffs) as you can, and, once they start paying off, do not discard them. Work hard, not in grunt work, but in chasing such opportunities and maximizing exposure to them."

And now you understand why I changed the flight I had scheduled for today to tomorrow; I think I've snubbed enough lottery tickets...

Photography is by the indefatigable Rodney Smith.

Only 525,600 minutes in a year?

2009-12-15T00:32:00.000-08:00

“Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I’d rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.”

– Holly Golightly in Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Too many people have told me I'm like the infamous Holly... and guess what? I am. But I'm not.

Picture is Love's Exquisite Happiness by Cassandra Barney.

abundance

2009-12-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I've posted much about cooking. Not that I haven't been.... I think I've officially mastered the art of both veggie lasagna and tarts, have created some divine chocolate chocolate cookies, and discovered that split pea soup takes an awful long time (think days) if you're starting with dried break-your-teeth peas (and therefore is *not* recommended for a dinner party....). But not only have I been too preoccupied to relay much of my cooking feats, there are also only about 4 hours of natural light in London these days, and since artificial light and food photography really don't pair well - dishes inevitably come out looking like unappetizing brown slop - I simply refuse.

Anyway, had not one but two success stories yesterday and managed to snap some pics before the sun set at 3: a gingerbread pumpkin pie and a butternut squash gratin. Pumpkin puree is rather difficult to find in the UK and I forked out too much for an imported can of Libby's at Partridge's for my Thanksgiving feast that never happened - and felt *compelled* to use it before I went home for Christmas and came back only to the glum post-holiday aftermath.

I devised a hybrid recipe, drawing inspiration from the Los Angeles Times and what I had on-hand. The dark brown sugar and extra dash of ginger is what makes it more gingerbread-like in taste. And, with absolutely no time to make a proper pastry crust, I made one out of digestive biscuits and oats with a dash of sugar and spice - the result was a struesel-like accompaniment to the pumpkin custard filling. Even Guillaume, Mr. I-don't-like-cinnamon-or-pumpkin-pie enjoyed this pumpkin pie. When you turn someone from espousing hatred for something to conceding that they like it, I always take it as a good sign.

The butternut squash and goats cheese gratin also turned out quite well. I pretty much verbatim used this recipe from Epicurious. Come to find out it is *exactly* the recipe Kasey used for our family's Thanksgiving at home - ha. Apparently, my parents thought it was a little dull, but both she and I (and my guests) thought it was amazing. To me, it seems like a decadent macaroni and cheese with squash instead of pasta. The only minor twist I put to the recipe was to add several dashes of nutmeg and I toasted pumpkin seeds instead of hazelnuts for the nutty flourish - seemed more seasonal, and hey, it was what I had!

Even though it's the holidays and time for baking extravaganzas, this squash-themed feast is likely the last bit of cooking I'll do here in the rainy dark of the UK before I head Stateside. Utah with its proper snowy winter/Christmas - here I come!

Recipes follow. Enjoy!

Anne Spice's Gingerbread Pumpkin Pie (adapted from the Los Angeles Times)

For Crust:
1 1/2 Cups crushed digestive biscuits (or graham crackers)
1/4 Cup Oats
5-6 T Butter
1/4 Sugar
1/4 tsp each of ginger, cinnamon and nutmeg

Mix together thoroughly and press into a 9-inch pie tin. Cook at 175 C (sorry! now all my knowledge of cooking temps are all over the board) for ten minutes - or until golden brown. Let cool before adding filling.

For Filling:
1 15 oz Can Libby's Pumpkin Puree
2 Eggs
2/3 Cup Whipping Cream
1/3 Cup Semi-Skimmed Milk (that = somewhere between 1% - 2%)
1 T Cornstarch
1 T brandy or vanilla extract
3/4 Cup Dark Brown Sugar (lightly packed)
1 tsp. ground ginger
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp. all spice
1/8 tsp. coriander
1/8 tsp. cloves
3 grinds of freshly ground black pepper

Preheat the oven to 325 F. In a large bowl, whisk the pumpkin, eggs, whipping cream, milk, cornstarch and brandy or vanilla. In a small bowl, mix the brown sugar and spices. Whisk the sugar mixture into the pumpkin mixture.

Pour the filling into the cooled piecrust. Bake until the pie is set around the outside but still slightly wet and jiggly in the center, about 1 hour. The filling will continue to set as it cools.

Butternut Squash Gratin with Goat Cheese and Hazelnuts (from Bon Appetit)

3 1/2 pounds butternut squash (about 2 medium), peeled, cut into 1-inch cubes
2 tablespoons olive oil
Coarse kosher salt
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) butter, divided
3 cups sliced leeks (white and pale green parts only)
1 1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh sage
1 5.5-ounce log soft fresh goat cheese
1 cup heavy whipping cream
1/2 cup hazelnuts, toasted, husked, coarsely chopped

Preheat oven to 400°F. Place butternut squash cubes and olive oil in large bowl; sprinkle with coarse kosher salt and ground pepper and toss to coat. Spread out squash cubes on large rimmed baking sheet. Roast until just tender and beginning to brown, stirring occasionally, about 35 minutes.

Meanwhile, melt 3 tablespoons butter in heavy medium skillet over medium-low heat. Add sliced leeks and chopped sage; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Sauté until tender but not brown, about 15 minutes. Coat 11x7-inch baking dish with remaining 1 tablespoon butter. Spread half of leek mixture over bottom of prepared baking dish. Sprinkle with half of squash and half of cheese. Repeat layering with leeks, squash, and cheese. DO AHEAD: Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover and chill.

Preheat oven to 375°F. Pour cream evenly over gratin. Sprinkle with toasted chopped hazelnuts. Bake uncovered until gratin is heated through and cream is bubbling, about 30 minutes (40 minutes if previously chilled).

like sparkling tears on the earth's tartine

2009-12-10T19:04:00.000-08:00

"They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we ever recover from the wonder of it?"
- Jeanette Winterson

Took the photo in Sloane Square this evening - by far the best light display in London I think.

trays of ice cubes

2009-12-07T17:47:00.000-08:00

Heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying
I went closer,
and I did not die.

- Mary Oliver

I think grief is one of those things you have to melt through like a glacier - it's cold and terrible, but if you hover over it, rather than press it close to you, well... it simply won't evaporate.

The painting is one by Cassandra Barney called Spring. I swear, I felt some connection between the poem and the glacial colour palette/expression on the woman's face, but I didn't appreciate the appropriateness of the title till just now.

a cozy little nest with a couple of good eggs

2009-12-04T14:49:00.000-08:00

ha. i think the familial dynamic between my french flatmate gui and me has reached a new level:

me: 'i'm going to the store.'

guillaume: 'do you need any money?' (in all seriousness)

winter vacation

2009-12-02T17:30:00.000-08:00

"I must try to find something new, not necessarily in a place that is unfamiliar, rather in a person or a place that is right beside me."

- Rodney Smith

Ah, perhaps should have gone with a Rodney Smith photo to go with his words.... but how cool are those lamps??? I was torn, but in the end went with Rune Guneriussen.

as november winds

2009-11-30T11:23:00.001-08:00

"Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves - slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future."

— Thich Nhat Hanh

November has been a brutal, tumultuous, flaming orange and whitely quiet month for me. I'm sorry to see it go.

Image is by the French illustrator, Rebecca Dautremer.

"when the wind blows..."

2009-11-27T06:15:00.000-08:00

I think I was about the only one who saw the movie Moonlight Mile a few years ago. It's a beautiful film, and the fact that I've watched it dozens of times over the years and still manage to take something away from it only confirms this.

I put it on to while away some time in bed the other day and have been caught up in the haunting Vietnam-era soundtrack ever since. I've always been nostalgic for eras that were never mine, but these songs all stir up such a mood. The one that I especially can't get out my head is this ballad by the Rolling Stones, which the movie lifted as its title, "Moonlight Mile."

Enjoy!

the season of thanks

2009-11-26T12:17:00.001-08:00

“Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful.”
-Buddha

Well, I managed to get sick. A sick of the horrible bedridden variety. Nonetheless, despite the lack of pie in my life today, I think I have more to be grateful for than simply not having died....

And so, my thanks goes to...

All the people I love with my whole heart who inspire me, encourage me and simply are there.
My insatiable curiosity.
Historical, magical London - and being able to live in it.
The accidents and follies that have proved blessings.
The people who believe I'm good enough at what I do to see I get paid for it

But this year, perhaps most of all, I'm thankful for my country. Maybe because I'm so far away from a traditional feast this year, or maybe it's just what I've learned living in this nation amongst its host of foreigners, but I'm grateful for being born in a country that...

Allows me to travel the world freely.
Encourages autonomy of thought, decisions, and action.
Fosters dreams, ideas, and people.

But lastly, in these difficult times, I'm grateful to be from a country that values its history and the concept of simple gratitude enough to celebrate it.

I cam across this quote:

"The Pilgrims made seven times more graves than huts. No Americans have been more impoverished than these who, nevertheless, set aside a day of thanksgiving."
-H. U. Westermayer

And I hope, it is with this in mind, despite any bleakness, that we dedicate this day to express thanks to those bold pioneers, to life, to family... thanksgiving... what a beautiful thing.

and still figuring out what to do with the rest of it....

2009-11-23T12:56:00.001-08:00

The Uses of Sorrow

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

-Mary Oliver

Ahh... just when she emerged from her Recuenco photography phase she stumbled squarely into the capable hands of the poet Mary Oliver. I have a feeling we're going to be here for a while.....

Photo is by the amazing Rune Guneriussen. Maybe we'll keep her around a while too.

my work

2009-11-21T05:02:00.000-08:00

Messenger
by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Just a couple images from a sunset stroll along the Thames.

The Comeback of Donna Reed?

2009-11-17T15:19:00.000-08:00

Um, well, actually... now that you mention it....

You mean there are enough similarly-minded aspiring domestic goddesses out there to merit a cover story on a free London rag?

Saw too many women reading this on the Tube this evening.... get the full article here.

the days of imber

2009-11-14T18:49:00.000-08:00

“All that you think is rain is not. Behind the veil angels sometimes weep."
- Rumi

The pictures are a couple I took of the storm clouds parting just over Canary Wharf - the clouds' blue dominance and jagged edges almost make them look like mountains.

no really, it's true

2009-11-13T06:06:00.000-08:00

"In this broad earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,
Enclosed and safe within its central heart,
Nestles the seed perfection."

-Walt Whitman

The photos are an especially fitting accompaniment to the Whitman quote I think - they're taken by Mike Brodie aka The Polaroid Kidd, who rides the American rails and documents a group of people who wade along on the periphery of society - squatters, drifters, what have you - capturing their lives, character, authenticity and faux-authenticity. Perhaps I think Brodie's images illustrate Whitman's view of the world so well since my own association with such folk has been so wonderfully refreshing.

slaughtered white

2009-11-09T04:27:00.000-08:00

Against Winter

The truth is dark under your eyelids.
What are you going to do about it?
The birds are silent; there's no one to ask.
All day long you'll squint at the sky.
When the wind blows you'll shiver like straw.

A meek little lamb you grew your wool
Till they came after you with huge shears.
Flies hovered over open mouth,
Then they, too, flew off like the leaves,
The bare branches reached after them in vain.

Winter coming. Like the last heroic soldier
Of a defeated army, you'll stay at your post,
Head bared to the first snow flake.
Till a neighbor comes to yell at you,
You're crazier than the weather, Charlie.

- Charles Simic

No magical realism today. No mood for it. Today needed something harsh - blunt. Photo is by German artist, Anke Merzbach.

circularity

2009-11-08T20:00:00.001-08:00

What Big Ben looks like at a clear and cold 2:30 a.m in the heartwrenching and lonesome days of early November.

Hey fates, tell you what - next year, let's *not* meet here at the same time, same place.

oh, won't you be mine

2009-11-04T16:43:00.000-08:00

"If our love is only a will to possess, it is not love."
- Thich Nhat Hanh

Image? Back to Eugenio.

home sweet flat

2009-11-02T00:21:00.000-08:00

I've been promising my Mom that I'd send pictures of my flat ever since I moved in waaay back in March. But I stalled and stalled because there was the matter of the manky sun-bleached-stained yellow walls to contend with and even mankier furniture (the pièce de résistance being a cream futon from the early 90's with a proclivity to slide to the floor like a slug when you tried slump into it), and well, painting and redecorating takes time (especially if you're me). So, it is not until these many months later that I have pics for her - and you, of course.

Kasey found the chair and the picture/collage is mine - still very much a work-in-progress.

We turned an odd rectangular notch of space into a dining alcove. The woman's portrait that you see in the middle of the wall, while often mistaken for a member of my family, is actually Her Lady Black Pear by Cassandra Barney from the last post... proud to say, one of the first paintings she ever sold! The rest are all my amateur doing.

We can't forget the minty hall... yet another work in progress.

And Mom, don't worry - bedrooms are forthcoming....

over the river and through the woods

2009-11-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

"Those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart don't know how to laugh either."
-Golda Meir

Painting is by the lovely Cassandra Barney (and I *do* mean lovely, as I've had the pleasure of meeting her and she's delightfully impish and has a wonderfully warm vibe).

i need to stop smiling when i'm not happy

2009-11-01T12:18:00.000-08:00

it sends the wrong message.

that's all.

spooks and rituals

2009-10-31T06:04:00.000-07:00

Rituals are funny things - for those who practice them, they seem so commonplace, natural, instinctive even - while for those watching from the outside, well, they tend to furrow brows and raise serious questions. As it turns out, pumpkin carving is one such practice that the unindoctrinated eye with skepticism. While each October we Americans happily empty out gourds, slice scary faces into their squashy flesh and set them aglow, the rest of the world thinks the practice is: odd, reeks of Satanism and is a shameful waste of food.

Oy!

Kasey and I weren't fully aware of this when we invited a couple Brits, a Frenchman and an Indian (oh, and another American for moral support back-up) to join us in a bit of pumpkin carving fun. Our reluctant recruits had never before contemplated participating in this bizarre American tradition and it took some coaxing to get them started. But once the slimy seeds were scooped out, the patterns traced and incised, and they saw the resulting radiant orange blaze, I think we had some converts.

Kasey and Tom's Tom-Cat.

Tisha's Ghost (done entirely free-hand!!!)

Andy's spider (ingeniously lit by his phone).

A reprise of the cat with mine and Rohit's pirate ship.

The over-carved pumpkin that you see on top of the stack (or shall we call it, pumpkin carving nouveau - or, perhaps, simply [and appropriately] "outside-of-the-box") was Guillaume's addition.

Cute marshmallow ghosts that sustained us during our efforts.

All together now. Happy Halloween!!!

wishing on stars, opening doors, and such

2009-10-30T00:53:00.000-07:00

It's nice to see wishes grow up, manifest themselves into tangible things, become solid.

Early last Saturday morning, I was painting the walls in my hall a bright minty green (more minty than I intended) and ruminating on what I should do - and by that, what I mean is thinking about writing writing writing, quandaring about it. When the fed-up depths of me yawned and said, "Really? Where is the quandary here? Just devote each second you can to it and stop all this fuss." To which the sometimes-more-rational me said, "You're right. I should just trust, commit and plow forward."

And with that I put down the brush and plodded off to make a cup of tea while the first coat of mint paint dried. Once seated and sipping, I clicked through the New York Times and then on over to The Wednesday Chef. She hasn't written much lately, but to my pleasure, there was a new post. And not only was it new, it was fresh - usually I arrive to find her posts at least fifty comments old, but this one had none. And not only was it fresh, its topic was about something more existential than food. It was about wishes... and disappointment... and yearnings...and life. I read the post on that quiet morning with the same exhilaration and elating wonder as it feels to look out over new fallen snow.

If I've piqued your interest, here's some back story for those of you who aren't food blog addicts. The Wednesday Chef a.k.a. Ms. Luisa has had a crazy year. A bout of depression, then a surprise engagement in SF - which momentarily cheered her up, followed by the demise of her relationship to her fiancee and their subsequent break up, which seemed to leave her worse off than before.

As she persevered through these highs and lows, Luisa shared her cooking adventures by night, and worked as a food editor by day. She occasionally talked of her work with food writers and photographers, but of course, those who read her blog knew all along that what she really wanted to do was write - simply just be a writer, rather than edit all the thoughts and recipes of others.

Now, with all that in mind, you may proceed to read the post for yourself here. It's lovely and inspiring.

And the fact that I was the first to comment? Well, I trust quite a bit in serendipity, and it was certainly an appropriate punctuation to my own rumination. As I said, it's nice to watch wishes grow up... and sometimes they need a pinch of borrowed starter to get them to do just that.

P.S. Luisa changed the picture on the post from the one that was there when I first found it. Now it's a tree with picnickers underneath, but before, it was the picture of a card on a shelf that somebody had sent her... who knows when. I quite liked it better, for the card read:

"Your journey has molded you for your greater good, and it was exactly what it needed to be. Don't think you've lost time. There is no short-cutting to life. It took each and every situation you have encountered to bring you to the now. And now is right on time." -Asha Tyson

(My tree picture is a painting by Magritte.)

mr. plum in the conservatory with chocolate

2009-10-24T17:04:00.000-07:00

This may be it - a brownie recipe worthy of all that incessant and absurd 'death by chocolate' prattle. Yes, as much as I dislike the trite phrase, I have to admit, when I took the first (and second, and third) bite of these brownies the thought "whoa. death by chocolate" was the inane sentiment that went looping through my mind. Apparently, these fudgy bon bons are so densely compacted with the mesmerizing dark substance that they overload neurotransmitters and stupefy the verbal cortex.

The blame for my chocolate-induced brain cell death goes to Miss Alice in the kitchen. That would be Alice, as in, Alice Medrich, who devised this jaw-dropping recipe, and who is often hailed as the "Queen of Chocolate" by foodie types. After this result, I am convinced that her unconventional recipes are sheer baking genius.

In fact, this Alice Medrich brownie recipe may just replace my *other* Alice Medrich brownie recipe with its magical freezer technique since this one only requires cocoa. I know, I know, *scary* how they possibly be good enough without melted chocolate?? But trust Alice and her scant cup of cocoa. I dare you. Especially if you're one of those types who declares you'd fancy a death by chocolate.

Alice Medrich's Best Cocoa Brownies

10 tablespoons (1 1/4 sticks) unsalted butter
1 1/4 cups sugar
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder (natural or Dutch-process)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
2 cold large eggs
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2/3 cup walnut or pecan pieces (optional)

Position a rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat the oven to 325°F. Line the bottom and sides of the baking pan with parchment paper or foil, leaving an overhang on two opposite sides.

Combine the butter, sugar, cocoa, and salt in a medium heatproof bowl and set the bowl in a wide skillet of barely simmering water. Stir from time to time until the butter is melted and the mixture is smooth and hot enough that you want to remove your finger fairly quickly after dipping it in to test. Remove the bowl from the skillet and set aside briefly until the mixture is only warm, not hot.

Stir in the vanilla with a wooden spoon. Add the eggs one at a time, stirring vigorously after each one. When the batter looks thick, shiny, and well blended, add the flour and stir until you cannot see it any longer, then beat vigorously for 40 strokes with the wooden spoon or a rubber spatula. Stir in the nuts, if using. Spread evenly in the lined pan.

Bake until a toothpick plunged into the center emerges slightly moist with batter, 20 to 25 minutes. Let cool completely on a rack.

Lift up the ends of the parchment or foil liner, and transfer the brownies to a cutting board. Cut into 16 or 25 squares.

* Special equipment: An 8-inch square baking pan

hindu new year

2009-10-21T17:29:00.000-07:00

While most of you thought this past Saturday was just a regular October day, the whole of India and a host of Indian expats were celebrating Diwali - the Hindu New Year. The fact that I also ended up celebrating Diwali at the Neasden Temple in West London had only a little bit to do with the fact that I accompanied a Hindu to the to the festivities - I likely would have gone regardless. Not only do I love holidays (I am American) I love, love, LOVE fireworks - and since we don't get them for the Fourth of July here - well, I just have to take them as they come.

First stop was the flower-bedecked temple for prayer.

The men and women are separated on arrival. Without my Hindu guide, I was left to wonder what I was doing/supposed to next while sitting on a platform in the center of a room of idol-Gods amongst 50 Indian women who were also probably left to wonder what a bewildered-looking blonde girl was doing there.

Hurray! Survived the temple ceremonies having committed only minor faux pas. Next up! Food!

Rohit with a delicious plate of ginger and cardamom steeped Chole Puri. Some claim he makes it better... maybe it was just because I was starving, but I'm not so sure... (yes, he can consider that a challenge).

Then, the trek past the temple to the fireworks.

Where we started with trance music and lasers... before...

Ooooh.

Ahhhhh.

Ka-bam! Happy Diwali!

This Is Who I Am. Who are You?

2009-10-19T05:33:00.000-07:00

"You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway."

- Junot Diaz (winner of the 2008 Pulitzer)

I've been suffering major writer's/blog block lately. Not that my half-done fiction writing ever makes it up here anyway - the blog is only a depository for my real-world thoughts and experiences - but it's been a very blah struggle to write about either real or imaginary of late. Nonetheless, I keep on tapping away, warbling out nonsense that will hopefully come together someday. So you see, when I came across Mr. Diaz's words, I found them comforting.

x

if you can't say something riveting...

2009-10-12T12:01:00.000-07:00

Someone recalled of their encounter with the poet, Dylan Thomas:

"Dylan talked copiously, then stopped. 'Somebody's boring me,' he said, 'I think it's me.'"

Oh my, how sometimes I relate.

See? Even the same Eugenio Recuenco photo rut (not that I love him less for it).

I shall return with another post that I guarantee not to dull you - or more importantly me - yes?

Voyage of the H.M.S. Wind-Up Heart

2009-10-03T14:59:00.000-07:00

"Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further." - Rainer Maria Rilke

Photo is still Eugenio Recuenco - what can I say? Art/Photography-wise, I'm in a rut. But latey, his pics all seem to perfectly suit my mood.

doormouse molasses

2009-09-30T01:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've been guilty of an overt "Americanism." Honestly, people don't even think I'm from the States off-the-bat anymore. But a recent trip to the grocery store reminded me that I'm still very much a foreigner in this country.

With Autumn plowing its way into the city, I'd been craving molasses cookies - heady, spicy, deep molasses cookies - the sort I used to make as a kid called "Christopher Columbus Cookies" from a children's cookbook with an American holiday slant. So, with a more PC recipe in mind that I'd spotted in the LA Times from the Model Bakery in Napa Valley, I headed to the store for the necessary ingredients. The basics were all easy, but I eyed every inch of the sugar aisle for molasses before approaching one of the workers for help.

"Do you have molasses?" I asked the first uniformed girl I saw.

"Umm, we should, let me go check." (Usually code for: I'm going to make a quiet exit and never come back).

I waited around for a bit. Looked at the honey. The syrup. No. No molasses.

"Do you have molasses?" I asked the next uniformed person I saw.

"What's that?"

"It's kind of like a syrup."

She showed me the maple syrup, the Lyle's Golden Syrup (for the Brits' Golden Sponge Cake), but there was no molasses in sight.

Finally the first worker came back (Wow!)

"They say it's not called that anymore."

"Oh?"

"It's called treacle."

"Treacle? Of course! I should have known!"

I mean, treacle - straight from the doormouse's speech in Alice in Wonderland. How had I overlooked it?? Since there it was - Lyle's Black Treacle - right next to Lyle's Golden Syrup. And although it's not *really* verbatim molasses... it would do. I promptly thanked the girl and removed two tins of the stuff.

As I was in the process of scurrying away with my treacle, I heard a girl with a distinctly American accent ask the same worker "Where are your chocolate chips?"

"Let me go check."

But this time I knew the answer and turned to the tall bright-eyed blond American with her chocolate chip cookie craving and said, "I haven't seen any chocolate chips in the UK outside of the specialty shops carrying American imports. You just have to buy a bar of chocolate and chop it up."

"Oh wow!" she said in her oh-so-nasal Californian voice "That's SO funny? Right?"

Is it? I shrugged, wondering a little why I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to agree, "It's the UK."

I left her to contemplate this, and with my cute tins in tow, I went home and made molasses cookies with treacle. I even added some chopped up Green & Black Spiced Orange Dark Chocolate for good measure. (Unconventional, perhaps, but highly recommended - they turned out divine).

The recipe follows (personally, I thirded it!)

Enjoy!

Model Bakery Molasses Cookies

4 ½ sticks (2 ¼ cups) butter
2 ½ cups granulated sugar
3 eggs
¾ cup dark molasses
1 ½ teaspoons vanilla
8 cups (2 pounds) pastry flour
1 ½ teaspoons each: baking soda, salt
1 tablespoon plus ¼ teaspoon each: cinnamon, cloves, ground ginger
½ cup crystallized sugar, or more as needed

Beat the butter and sugar in a medium bowl with a mixer until light and fluffy. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, until each is incorporated. Beat in the molasses and vanilla. Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, cloves and ginger in a separate bowl. Beat the dry ingredients into the liquid ingredients, a little at a time, until fully incorporated to form a dough. Cover; refrigerate 1 hour.

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Scoop the dough into balls with an ice cream scoop. Roll each ball in the crystallized sugar; place on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet, leaving 3 inches between each cookie. Bake until lightly golden and set, 10-12 minutes, rotating halfway through for even baking. Cool the cookies on a wire rack.

one way trip to the hotsprings on Mars

2009-09-24T04:35:00.000-07:00

"Wish for your deepest desires, she said & when I asked if they'd come true, she said they always do, so you might as well get them out in the open while you're still young enough to correct any serious mistakes." - Brian Andreas

Photo is a more offbeat and amusing side of fabulous photographer Eugenio Recuenco.

pretty little ditties

2009-09-21T13:58:00.000-07:00

While for most of us it's Fall '09, for the fashion crowd it's already Spring/Summer 2010. That's right, we're in the midst of another LFW.

It's been an interesting (and shorter) season. The recession is definitely taking its toll. People who were paid last season, aren't seeing a penny this year (but still working, of course). The gift bags are sparser. The champagne is running out quicker. But ah well... we're all here for the clothes - right?

That said, I rather enjoyed this creepy-dreamy live "puppet show" by Steve J & Yoni P. We stared at the puppets, they stared right back at us, while ethereal harp music scored our unspoken exchange. It was haunting, unsettling, gorgeous. It's hard to capture the full effect without the melodic trance-inducing lullabies, but here's my best go.

Enjoy!

mary, mary, quite contrary....

2009-09-20T04:51:00.000-07:00

"The past is not dead. It isn't even past." - William Faulkner

Picture is Tim Walker.

for my squatters in bloomsbury

2009-09-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

"No one who has lived - even for a fleeting moment - for something other than life in its conventional sense and has experienced the exaltation that this feeling produces can then renounce his new freedom so easily.” - Andre Breton

The very appropriate picture (it quite reminds me of the new place of the "video basement" squat) by the avante garde Czech, Jiří Kolář.

Welcome home!

manna, milk, & honey

2009-09-17T08:06:00.000-07:00

So, the bad news is that it's starting to getting cold and blustery here - plenty of rain, wind, and the general inclemency that makes London a city synonymous with trench coats, umbrellas and wellies. Sigh. These past many months - starting with the early hints of spring right down to the final faded remnants of summer - have been so unbelievably warm and pleasant, I think I'd genuinely forgotten that this city could be so miserable weather-wise.

The good news, however, is that the storminess out my window has made me want to do nothing but nest and bake. My revived sense of domesticity started off with a couple batches of cookies, but on a recent and particularly rainy day, I wanted something more homey, more eventful - something that required extreme patience and multiple steps. When I read about spiced Ethiopian bread over at The Wednesday Chef, while not exactly French pastry, I thought it would do quite nicely.

This Ethiopian loaf is sweetened with honey and boasts an earthy combination of cinnamon, cumin and cloves that is just lovely. Long after the baking is done, merely toasting a slice sends aromas of sugar and spice dancing through the air. I altered the recipe slightly to include both wheat and plain flour (when it comes to adding wholemeal to baked goods, I just can't help myself!) If you're tempted by how this sounds, but are afraid of the yeast (as I often am), don't be... it really is rather simple... have a go!

Enjoy!

Ethiopian Honey-Spice Bread
Makes 1 loaf

1 tablespoon active dry yeast
1/4 cup warm water
1 teaspoon sugar or honey
1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
1 large egg
1/2 cup mild honey
1 tablespoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 cup whole milk, warmed
4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted and cooled
4 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

1. Combine the yeast, water, sugar or honey, and ginger in a small ceramic bowl and set in a warm, draft-free place until it bubbles vigorously.

2. Combine the egg, honey, spices and salt in a large mixing bowl or the bowl of a heavy-duty mixer. Add the milk and butter. Mix in 1 cup of the flour.

3. Add the yeast mixture and beat until all the ingredients are well blended. Add more flour, 1/2 cup at a time, using only enough to make a soft dough. Use your hands, if needed, to work in the last bit of flour.

4. Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead the bread by folding it end to end, pressing down and pushing forward several times with the heel of your hand. (The dough will be sticky. Use a dough scraper to clear the board and turn the mass of dough. Avoid adding more flour.)

5. In about 5 minutes the dough will become smoother and more elastic. Shape into a rough ball and place in a large oiled bowl, cover with a tea towel, and let rise until doubled in bulk.

6. Heavily butter a 3-quart round baking dish that is 3 inches deep, such as a casserole or an enameled Dutch oven. Punch down the dough with a single blow of your fist. Knead the dough for a few minutes, shape into a rough ball, and place in the prepared pan. (Press the dough down so that the bottom of the pan is covered completely.) Cover and let rise again until the dough has doubled and reaches the top of the pan.

7. At least 20 minutes before baking, preheat the oven to 300 degrees F.

8. Bake for 60 minutes, or until the bread is nicely rounded on top and a light golden brown. Leave in the pan for 5 minutes, then remove and transfer to a rack to cool completely before slicing.