Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Departure

"Buckled in" courtesy of kcl_seattle.

We made a special trip to our independent bookstore to stock up on reading material for our Summer Vacation. Then each child was tasked with filling his or her backpack with items to keep them busy during the eight-hour flight to Washington, D.C., and from there, the five-hour drive to the Avalon, New Jersey. Here's what I found when I took a peek:

Max
  • Aquaphor for perpetually chapped lips
  • "The Prisoner of Azkaban" and "The Goblet of Fire" by J.K. Rowling
  • Space workbook
  • Uno

Sam
  • A bag of Legos
  • U.S. presidents workbook
  • Pocket knife (which was returned to its drawer after he learned backpacks would be searched)
  • Coloring pages of pirates
  • "Red Wall" by Brian Jacques
  • "Stormbreaker" by Anthony Horowitz

Chaja


Ivan (with a little help from his mama)
  • Bubbles
  • Animal crackers

In my own pack, I've got my knitting, "The Shadow of the Wind" by Carlos Ruiz Zafón, and reinforcements: books of sudoku, mazes and word searches, as well as granola bars, string cheese, raisins and nuts, and, when all else fails, M&Ms to bribe my babies.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Preparations


My family's packing for our Summer Vacation, and I think it interesting to see how my husband and I both achieve peace of mind before locking the door: He buys a packable porta potty. I spend two days washing comforters, sheets and pillows.

Our obsession with keeping dry and clean date back to 2002 when we took our 3-year-old daughter and two 1-year-old sons to Amsterdam to visit family. While waiting to board the return flight home, one son vomited. Shortly after take-off, the second son joined him in what turned into a 14-hour pukeathon across the Atlantic. We ran out of clean clothes, then we ran out of dry clothes. The stewardesses avoided us, a U.S. Customs agent waived us through without an inspection, and as we waited to catch the last leg of our flight, our daughter began throwing up. When we arrived home, we hauled our stinky, damp, exhausted bodies into bed and slept.

Seven years and one additional child later, we're about to board a plane and not get off again for eight whole hours. In the face of such insanity, we take comfort knowing that in our carry-on luggage is a tiny toilet, and in our home are freshly laundered sheets on all the beds. Just in case.

Friday, July 10, 2009

First summer soup

Cherries
Photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

With three pounds of cherries pitted using a paper clip, I made cherry brown butter bars that were a hit at our backyard barbecue (three people asked for the recipe), and a soup that never made it into the bowl. Here's why:

I gave my love a cherry
That had no stone
Steeped in a broth of chicken
That had no bone
I added sugar, salt and pepper
And simmered it on the stove
I called the soup supper
For my love

How was that soup of cherry and chicken broth?
My love took a sip and began to cough
He spat into the sink and cried
It tastes of dirty socks
You're right, I answered
Let's order pizza from Black Rock.

What's NOT in the bowl:

Cherry soup reaction

Cherry soup adapted from Chez Panisse Fruit by Alice Waters.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Saving the farm

"MarketFallout" by bepop717.

My street bristles with signs -- a short sale, an estate sale and a foreclosure -- all in a row just east of my home. If this were Monopoly, you'd buy the set and put a hotel on the properties, but this ain't no game. Everyone on the block is watching these homes, checking out the prices on Zillow and wincing as our castles crumble. (My Zip Code area had the second-highest decline in value according to a Reno Gazette-Journal comparison between housing values in 2005 and 2009.) When I play make-believe, my monopoly isn't a row of rentals nor a hotel, but a little bit of suburban anarchy. I'd buy all three houses, raze the buildings, and expand my yard to include a flock of chickens and maybe a goat.

Photo courtesy of Pingu1963.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Gambol

gam-buhl
intransitive verb or noun



Photo courtesy of Max Levy at Dance in the Kitchen.

1. (verb) To dance and skip about in play; to frolic.

1. (noun) A skipping or leaping about in frolic.

Chaja gamboled in the driveway as her brother snapped her picture.

Friday, July 3, 2009

Melting


Photos courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

"The hot days melted into one another like our Popsicles."
-- Susan Senator, "Summer Without Structure"
The Washington Post, 2005


Summer comes and my stash of chocolate sits on the shelf. The recipes are too rich and dense to whet the appetite, and I'd sooner bake my brain than turn on the oven when it's pushing a hundred degrees outside. But this recipe from Karen Solomon's "Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It: And other Cooking Projects" tempted me enough that I temporarily abandoned my spot in front of the swamp cooler and went back to the stove. Little hands, a few stops to fish out Cheerios tossed in by one eager cook, and a short chase through the house with a chocolate-covered spoon resulted in one decadent dessert. Enjoy the illustrated recipe for fudgesicles and have a happy Fourth of July.








Chocolate Fudge Popsicles
Excerpted from "Jam It, Pickle It, Cure It: And other Cooking Projects" by Karen Solomon

Makes 7 (4-ounce) pops

3/4 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup corn syrup
1 cup water
3 tablespoons golden brown sugar
1/2 cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa (I used Hershey's unsweetened)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 tablespoon butter

In a pot, whisk the milk, water, corn syrup, sugar, cocoa and salt. Heat over medium heat for about 5 mintues, stirring occasionaly, until there are no lumps. Remove from heat. (I couldn't get rid of the lumps, so I strained the mixture at this point.) Add vanilla and butter, stir until melted.

Cool to room temperature.

Pour into molds and freeze for about six hours or until solid.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Twin tales

The 1950s Japanese film is the story of a crime committed and four widely differing witness accounts. The stories are mutually contradictory, leaving the viewer to determine who, if anyone, is telling the truth.



My eight-year-old sons are keeping journals this summer, and this week they wrote about the same topic, then read their work aloud to each other and me. The differences were stark. I enjoyed the stories not only for their detail and creativity, but because so much of their own personalities were exposed in the telling, and for the combined Rashomon effect. Below are the two accounts, verbatim.


The Terable Adventure at the Library

By Sam

One day, me, my mom, and Max and Ivan were going to the library. Everything was just fine. I got books and so did Max and Mom. Ivan liked the puzzles. It was good intill the checkout. Ivan saw this thing for old people. He was screaming his head off and so mom asked us to go outside with him but Ivan didn't. So after Mom was done she came through the detector. Suddenly BEEB BEEB the alarm went off. Meanwhile Ivan was screaming so Mom handed me her books and told me to go give them the books but it wasn't it so she [the librarian] asked Mom to go inside to check our stuff, but Mom said no, so she [the librarian] went inside to check our basket. Soon she came back. Ivan was still screaming so we went to the side of the library to nurse Ivan but Ivan was restless. Finally he nursed and had an apple. Finally we rode home and I started righting this story and now I'm finished. Then End.


The Terrabile Library Trip
By Max

"Why don't we ride our bikes to the library" Mom said.

"Sure," me and Sam said.

So we got ready. Me and Sam started going around in circals. I banged my shin twice! I said "Ow" two times. When we were at the library Iven had a tantrum so we went home.

THE END.

Monday, June 29, 2009

Coruscate

kor-uh-skayt
verb


Coruscate
Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

1. To give off or reflect bright beams or flashes of light; to sparkle.
2. To exhibit brilliant, sparkling technique or style.

Sam plays catch with a coruscating ball and temporarily transforms into an elf.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Soup in a boot

"Boots" courtesy of saracino.

Reno was once a cowboy's town where even the lawyers wore boots. Where the brush was once so thick a rabbit had to climb a tree to look out, now stand rows of houses, and this month's cattle drive through town was made up of a bunch of buckaroos who probably wouldn't have enough trail sense to spit downwind. Most of them paid $1,600 to participate in the Reno Rodeo's annual publicity stunt. I hope they heard some colorful cowboy talk and ate a tasty stew.

"Cowboy Slang"
By Edgar R. Potter

Hard up: His boots were so frazzled he couldn't scratch a match without burnin' his feet.

Crazy: As crazy as popcorn on a hot skillet.

Fast gal: Must think her butt is a gold mine since everybody's a diggin' at it.

Lazy: Quit spittin' on the handle an' get to work.

Hot: Hot 'nough to sunburn a horned toad.

Talking: His tongue would get a real frolicsome.

Coward: All gurgle an' no guts.

Braggart: Had callouses from pattin' his own back.

Women: I don't like to have my haunches spurred by no drip-nose of a gal.

Grub: To make a sonofabitch stew yuh throw everything in the pot but the hide, horns an' beller.

In the bowl:

Boeuf bourguignon

Beef stew with red wine
Adapted from Barefoot in Paris by Ina Garten

Serves 6 to 8

1 tablespoon olive oil
8 ounces bacon, chopped
2 1/2 pounds beef chuck, cubed
salt
pepper
1 pound carrots, sliced into 1-inch chunks
2 onions, sliced
2 teaspoons garlic, minced or pressed
1/2 cup Cognac or brandy
1 bottle red wine (I used a Malbec)
2 to 2 1/2 cups beef broth
1 tablespoon tomato paste
1 teaspoon fresh thyme
4 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons flour
1 pound frozen pearl onions
1 pound mushrooms, stemmed and thickly sliced

Preheat oven to 250 degrees

Heat the olive oil in a Dutch oven. Add bacon and cook until browned. Remove. Salt and pepper beef and toss it into the bacon fat. In batches, sear the beef. Remove to the same plate holding the bacon.

Throw the carrots, onions, 1 tablespoon salt and 2 teaspoons pepper into the pan and cook for 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more. Add the Cognac, stand back, and ignite with a match to burn off the alcohol. Put the meat back in the pot. Add the wine and enough broth to almost cover the meat. Add the tomato paste and thyme. Bring the pot to a boil, cover it and put it in the oven for about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 hours or until meat and veggies are tender. Remove from oven and place on the stove.

Combine 2 tablespoons of butter and flour and stir into the stew. Add onions. Saute mushrooms and add to the stew. Bring to a boil, then lower flame to a simmer and cook for 15 minutes. Spoon into bowls and sprinkle chopped parsley on top.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

A launch

"The storm sail" courtesy of Today is a good day.

One Thousand Words is a new series at The Slow-Cooked Sentence. It'll spotlight an unpronounceable word illustrated with a photograph snapped by a someone in my family, and will include a sentence that connects the photo to the word. The series will run until one thousand words have been cataloged.

"How long will that take me if I featured a word a week?"

"Twenty years," replied my math man.

"Twenty years!
Oh, wow. I didn't think it'd take that long."

"Yeah. Twenty years. Divide one thousand by 52 and you get about twenty years," he explained.

"That's crazy! Why would I make that kinda commitment? I just thought it'd be fun, playing off the whole picture-worth-a-thousand-words-thing. But I wanna do it. Is that crazy?"

"Yeah. Chaja might have kids by the time you're done, but do it anyway."

Bon Voyage!

Xanthous

\ZAN-thuhs\
adjective

Photo courtesy of Dance in the Kitchen.

Yellow; yellowish

My sack of sugar nearly sits on the Basket of Gold's xanthous blossoms.

Monday, June 22, 2009

And you can call me ...

"She actually does write with that thing" courtesy of incendiarymind.

Writer. That's what I put in the little box under "employer," and then handed in the medical update form.

"Writer?" the receptionist asked. "That means your self-employed."

"Yeaaah.

I smiled weakly because honestly I can't remember the last time I pulled in a paycheck for my words. No, take that back, I can remember. It was an advertorial for a group of surgeons opening their own clinic, a blow-job that left me feeling icky. Rather than be a word whore I quit.

For the longest time I didn't do anything but write for myself, filling notebook after notebook with rants against my husband (which I won't share here) and sweet bits of conversation with my children like this:
October 5, 2006 -- The little neighbor girl came over in her cheerleading outfit and played. Later Max asked why she was dressed up like a "chili pon-pon." Chaja has a rash that keeps flaring up. She's had it for about a week and I'm beginning to think it may be bed bugs. God help me. I don't need bed bugs on top of all the other crap I'm dealing with. Speaking of bed ... here's a great Italian proverb: "Bed is the poor man's opera."

December 13, 2006 --
Kyna (one of my sisters) asked Max to tell her the names of his kindergarten classmates because she's trying to figure out a name for her baby.

"Jasmine, Jade, Andrew, Logan, Hot Guy," he said.


"Hot Guy?"


"Yeah, Hot Guy."

"Are you sure?"


"Yeah, even the teachers call him Hot Guy."

Later, after Max is asleep, Kyna's telling me the story and I say, "Hot Guy? Hot Guy? Ooooh, Hawkeye!"
I was writing, but without an editor, without an audience, I never felt compelled to go any further with the ideas so they just sat on the pages until the life drained out of them.

"We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out," author Ray Bradbury said.

For me, the trick has been this blog, which forces me to write an idea to its end and put the finished piece of work out there to be read, if only by fifteen readers (but, oh, how I love you, my fifteen loyal readers!). Why do other writers write? After a lot of asking, author Judy Reeves compiled many of the reasons in "A Writer's Book of Days":
  • for the feeling that I entertained the reader, made people laugh, touched someone
  • for the feeling of being creative, "in the groove," being an artist
  • to tell a story, creating characters, plots
  • to play with words, using language
  • to have an audience
  • to express myself
  • to produce something
  • to finish
  • to leave a legacy, make a mark on the world
  • to become a more discerning reader
  • to find out I'm good, that there is promise
  • for surprises, to find out what happens.
This week I'm asking five children why they write. They're coming to my house to participate in a writing camp -- a skill swap between me and my friend Shannon at Arthouse Easel. Every other week for most of the summer our kids will wade into watercolors or scribble stories for a few hours. I've never tried to teach another person to write, let alone five kids. Heck, I've only now started to publicly call myself a writer and doing so at the doctor's office makes me feel like a poseur. But I'm gonna snatch that title and run, despite the government classifying me as a dependent, the lack of dimes, and that three of my five students will be calling me "Mom."

Friday, June 19, 2009

Report card

A fellow writer from Yes, Honey Chyle asked if I'd comment on "The Good Wife's Guide," which allegedly appeared in the May 1955 edition of Housekeeping Monthly, and its endorsement by The Southern Housewife. So let's take a few of the Guide's suggestions and see how I stacked up:


"1950s Suburban Glam Grandma" courtesy of watchumean.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Went on a cooking strike this week, leaving my husband to scrounge around in the fridge. He couldn't find anything because I haven't gone grocery shopping in two weeks, so he picked up pizza the first night and Taco Bell the second.
Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.
Our youngest is sick. Having been puked on for the umpteenth time, I had given up changing into clean clothes by the time he walked through the door.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him.
Kids bicker. Washing machine chugs. NPR's on in the kitchen and Hannah Montana blares from the living room. But as I shove a whining toddler into his arms I tell him, "Thank God you're home."

Some fabulously old quotes

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of our founding feminists.


"Four things necessary in a house are a chimney, a cat, a hen, and a good wife."
-- John Florio (1553-1625) royal language tutor.

"No sooner are (American women) married than they begin to lead a life of comparative seclusion and, once mothers, they are actually buried to the world." -- Francis Joseph Grund (1805-1863), author.

"While I am about the house, surrounded by my children, washing dishes, baking, sewing, etc., I can think up many points, but I cannot search books. ... I seldom have one hour undisturbed in which to sit down and write."
-- Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815-1902), women's rights advocate.

A brief history lesson

Excerpted from Ann Crittenden's "The Price of Motherhood:"

At the turn of the twentieth century, the women's movement contained two contradictory strands: one that denigrated women's role within the family, and one that demanded recognition and remuneration for it. The first argued that only one road could lead to female emancipation, and it pointed straight out of the house toward the world of paid work. The second sought equality for women within the family as well and challenged the idea that a wife and mother was inevitably an economic "dependent" of her husband.

For the rest of the twentieth century, the women's movement followed the first path, and that led to innumerable great victories. But in choosing that path, many women's advocates accepted the continued devaluation of motherhood, thereby guaranteeing that feminism would not resonate with millions of wives and mothers.

Oatmeal in the crosshairs

Oatmeal brulee 3 courtesy of chotda.

My first 10 years as an adult I walked the path of a feminist: put myself through college, earned my bachelor's, landed a job in newspapers and loved it. Along the way I fell in love and married, the personal and the professional paths running side-by-side. When I gave birth to my first child the distance between the two courses widened, and yet I managed to straddle them for a while as a freelance writer. When I discovered I was pregnant with twins, the paths split and I made the decision to stop earning a wage and follow the course that the founding feminists had abandoned: Demanding equality within the family.

"Something about a baby encourages the resurgence of traditional gender roles," Crittenden wrote. "With the arrival of a child, a mother's definition of accomplishment becomes more complex, her work load goes up, and her income and independence go down."

For the last 10 years, I've followed the less trodden path, and this week it led me into the bathroom where I stood, hair dripping, wearing only a towel. My husband entered, smiled, kissed me, and left a cup of coffee on the counter and a dirty diaper on the floor. I took a swig of hot coffee, rinsed the diaper and, still following that trail, walked to the desk and began to write as my husband cooked oatmeal.

Then I sat down at in the intersection of these two paths and ate breakfast.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Git along, lil' kitties!

Image courtesy of DrBacchus.

Alone with our children, one on one, we have a chance to see and hear and accept them as they really are, right now, in this moment. We see them not in relation to their siblings, friends, or peers, or as a piece of the larger family puzzle -- but as unique individuals, each with a particular destiny to fulfill on this earth. Such recognition is a basic human need.

-- Katrina Kenison
"Mitten Strings for God: Reflections for Mothers in a Hurry"


This is hard for me to do. I try to steal moments -- Cub Scouts offers an evening walk with one son, a half-hour later bedtime allows for one-on-one with my daughter -- but being a time thief is a challenge. On most days I feel as if I'm herding cats.

Monday, June 15, 2009

The walrus and the carpenter

Water-gun and woolen socks



"The time has come," the husband said,
"To talk of many things
Of water-guns and woolen socks
And other summer flings,
And whether we shall all survive
My mother visiting.

"But wait a bit," the woman cried,
"Before we have our chat
For I'm out of breath from cleaning
And haven't even sat.
"No hurry," said the husband.
She thanked him much for that.

"Bottles of wine," the husband said,
"Is what she'll chiefly need.
Nesquik and Lays potato chips
Are very good indeed.
Be prepared, my darling dear,
For she's coming in great speed."

"Two weeks!" the woman cried,
Turning a little blue,
"We'll be so busy thinking
Of things for her to do."
"It may rain," the husband said.
"Look at those storm clouds brew."

"It was kind of you to come!
Your stay will be anything but dull,
For we've soccer, skating, swimming
And, of course, shopping at the mall."
The mother-in-law took a drag on her smoke
And said, "I'm ready for it all."

Four young children hurried up
Eager for their treat.
Their hair was brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat.
The mother-in-law reached into her bag
And pulled out Twinkies to eat.

Roller rinks, soccer games,
Shopping 'til they dropped.
Mining tour, squirt-gun fights,
Then up again they'd pop.
And every day the sun would hide,
And never the rain did stop.

"It seems a shame," the mother-in-law said.
"But it's time to say goodbye."
So she stuffed her suitcase, kissed the children,
And dabbed at her streaming eyes,
Then spent the next 14 hours
Sleeping in the sky.

"Oh, darling," said the husband,
"We've had a pleasant run.
My mother's heading home again."
But answer came there none.
And this was scarcely odd because
All were exhausted from the fun.

Friday, June 12, 2009

A story shard

"Fragments" courtesy of erix!

It was dark when the birds woke her, but instead of trying to go back to sleep she got up and walked into the kitchen. In the shadows, she made a pot of coffee and carried a cup to the rocking chair near the window. She sat quietly, drinking the hot, bitter coffee, watching the charcoal outline of the neighborhood emerge. She didn't notice the tree until the sun had climbed high enough to pour warm, yellow light across the lawns and climb up the sides of houses. When the sun touched the tree, it split into a million bits of light.

Outside, she was blinded for a moment by the sparkling tree. Tiny rainbows danced across the sidewalk, the lawn, the car, the house. Its trunk was smooth and cold, and a breeze blew through the stiff leaves and carried away the sound of tinkling glass. She snapped off a thin branch, held it up against the sun and watched as a bird flew across a green sky. She let it slip through her fingers and watched it fall to the ground where it splintered. Gingerly, she picked her way through the glass and moved to the porch.

The sun climbed. High up a branch broke, tumbled through the canopy of leaves, everything breaking, glass peppering the ground. More branches, more leaves fell until the whole tree came crashing down in one shattering roar. Then silence. She exhaled and the birds renewed their song. Where the tree once stood was a hill of broken glass, green and brown shards stabbed the dirt and littered the sidewalk. The sun climbed and she took a sip of coffee, but it was cold. So she went inside for another cup and a broom.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Mending the nets

Winslow Homer, 1882. The National Gallery of Art exhibition.

When life's
a little frayed,
I knit it together.
Tangled thoughts slip and click into
purls.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Addiction

"Knit Wit" by roctopus.


Why I'm a knitting junkie:
  1. I must finish a line before I get up and do anything else.
  2. I get excited over new needles.
Who's wearing my work:
  1. Ivan
  2. Sam
  3. Chaja
  4. Max

Friday, June 5, 2009

Wring me out

"Rainstorm" courtesy of Frank.lin.


Rain every afternoon.
Thunder and lightening between me and my husband.
My one-year-old learns to use a squirt gun.
A nasty bug steamrolls over one son.
My mother-in-law mops up vomit at the movies.
Then, finally, the sun shines and I make soup.



In the bowl:

Turkish yogurt soup with tiny meatballs

Photo courtesy of Marcel Levy

Turkish yogurt soup with tiny meatballs



Turkish yogurt soup with tiny meatballs
Adapted from "The Essential Mediterranean" by Nancy Harmon Jenkins

Serves 8

1/2 to 3/4 cup finely chopped onions
4 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup long-grain rice (I used medium grain)
Boiling water
Sea salt
1/2 pound ground lamb
2 tablespoons minced parsley
1/4 cup minced fresh dill
2 tablespoons minced mint
Freshly ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon red pepper (I used 1/8 tsp. cayenne)
1 large egg
2 to 3 tablespoons bread crumbs
5 cups chicken broth (I used 7 cups)
1 egg
4 cups whole milk yogurt
1 egg yolk
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons dried mint

Saute the onions with 2 tablespoons of oil over medium-low heat for about 20 minutes. Add the rice and 1 cup of boiling water with salt to taste. Cook for about 10 minutes or until the rice has softened and absorbed most of the liquid. Set aside.

In a bowl mix the lamb, parsley, dill and mint, lots of black pepper and the red pepper. Stir in the rice. Add the egg and enough bread crumbs to make a mixture that is moist but will stick together. Form into small meatballs, about the size of a gumball.

Combine the chicken broth with 1 cup of water and bring to a simmer. Add the meatballs in batches and let simmer until they rise to the top, indicating they're done. Remove them with a slotted spoon and set aside.

In a bowl mix the egg yolk and yogurt. Whisk in 1 cup of cold water. Measure out 1 cup of soup broth and stir it in, then pour the yogurt into the soup and stir. Simmer very, very gently for about 10 minutes. In the last few minutes add the meatballs and simmer just long enough for them to heat thoroughly.

Ladle into bowls and dribble a small amount of mint butter over the top.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Localicious

Image courtesy of Chris Silas Neal.

What's a gal to do who has sworn off store-bought tomatoes, but who's own small plants are maybe two months away from offering up their first fruit, gloriously red and warm when plucked off the vine? I count the blossoms, longingly press my nose against the fuzzy leaves and inhale their perfume.

Backyard tomatoes are as local as one can get, and the new links in the right-hand column are local, if a bit more broadly defined. I start with the image above by Chris Silas Neal, who's not a local artist but whose poster (inspired by Great Depression-era art) is free to post locally, and then I riff from there ... a song, a birth, a lemony kiss, a free wheeling moment, a backyard bird ... local links I love and local loves that are linked. Each of them a tiny yellow flower filled with juicy promise. Go ahead, take a bite.

Monday, June 1, 2009

From the brass section

Photo courtesy of spcbrass.

A tiny bit of horn tooting:

My essay "In which a heart hurts" is featured on Blogger's Best Carnival. A carnival collects links to blog articles on a particular topic, and is like a magazine with a title, a topic, editors, contributors and an audience.

Friday, May 29, 2009

A final burst of joy

For more joyful images, click here.


In the strawberry patch I pose
freshly painted raspberry toes.

Fulfilling a pledge to take a Joy+Ride this month.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Q&A


Does a falling tree scream? Photo courtesy of slimmer_jimmer.


If a woman screams because she had the following things going on this week: grimy windows, sticky floor, a mother-in-law arriving for a two-week visit, piles of laundry from last week's camp-out, a broken vacuum, a sick toddler, twins turning eight, a cat with an abscess, soccer snack and mold in the bathroom, and no one is around to hear her, does she make a sound?

A possible answer, plus a biology lesson

When the woman screams, a large amount of air passes over the vocal chords, causing them to vibrate. The vibrations cause a compression and expansion of air, creating a sound wave. Sound waves are produced, regardless of what conscious being is there to perceive them. When sound waves hit the ear, they travel down the ear canal, cause three tiny bones to vibrate against the eardrum. The vibrations pass to the small, shell-shaped cochlea filled with liquid. The liquid moves causing hair cells to tremble and shake, triggering an electrical impulse to the brain, which, finally, registers the vibration as sound. That is why we have an auditory cortex in the neocortex of the brain, to interpret the vibrations of a toddler whining or a vacuum breaking. But the short of it is: If there's no ear to capture the noise, then her scream does not exist as sound, only vibration.

A question over evidence

How do we know said woman is justified in her screaming if no one was around to witness it or even hear it? Can you send a scream via the Internet by chopping it up it into a million tiny pieces and then have it reassemble itself on another's screen? Would they hear it?

Answer to evidence and a clarification

It's a philosophical question. Why do you scream? When do you scream? Are you screaming right now? This is an exercise for the mind. The more you use it the stronger it gets. The real question is: If a vibration is cased by a woman screaming and no one can hear or feel it, is it real? The only real answer to any metaphysical question is consciousness. Your conscious thought (the voice in your head asking this question) was the answer to the question all along.

Philosophy is a slippery slope

This is a straightforward question. There is nothing rhetorical, mysterious or metaphysical involved. The question asks whether we would hear the scream of a woman panicking over: grimy windows, a sticky floor, a mother-in-law arriving for a two-week visit, piles of laundry from last week's camp-out, a broken vacuum, a sick toddler, twins turning eight, a cat with an abscess, soccer snack and mold in the bathroom. And the conclusion is that there would, indeed, be screaming and we would, indeed, hear it. It's not rocket science.

An engineer answers, anyway

Yes. Sound is mechanical energy and sound will be created when the woman screams. If no one is there to hear it that does not negate the fact that the woman created a sound and the scream bounced off the grimy windows and ricocheted throughout the house.

A simpler answer

If the woman screamed, would a deaf person hear her? No, because the deaf person's auditory system is broken and wouldn't pick up the the vibrations that make sound. They may feel the lower vibrations in their body, but not the sound.

A personal point of view answer

No matter what, whether heard or not, the woman would make a sound. This conclusion makes sense because if she had all that stuff going on and someone WAS around to hear her throat-ripping panic, she WOULD make a sound. That "someone" could be the woman, herself, who would definitely hear her own scream.

As an example, picture yourself as a child living with your mom. Your TV is rather loud, and tunes out all other sounds. Your mom is shouting to you from across the room. You can't hear her, but she is making a sound. Why can't you hear her? Is it because the TV's noise overwhelms her shout? Now picture the same thing, except the TV is not on, and you are sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Your mom yells again from upstairs. Though no other noise is made except for hers, you still can't hear her. Why? Is it because she is too far away? Whatever your excuse for not listening, she's still screaming at you.

A disputing viewpoint

The scenarios above would make a sound, a lot of sound. Here's my analogy: If a person blows a dog whistle does it make a sound? Not to a human, but definitely to a dog. And in my opinion, that kid is acting like a dog and should get up off the couch and go help his mother.

It depends on certain factors

Just how overwhelmed is the woman and how loud is she screaming? What is her breaking point? Is it the sick kid, the abscess, the roller rink? Could she scream so loudly that it could be heard half way around the world. Also are we assuming that the vibration in the air is not a scream until it reaches our ear? What is the speed of sound and how long does it take to get half way around the world? Is a snack not a snack until we eat it? Is a child not sick until we take his temperature? Sound exists whether we are around or not (as do mothers-in-law). The real question is whether there's anyone around to translate the woman's sound into useful information.

Call in the reinforcements

I think that she does make a sound because if she makes a sound when we are there then why would she not if we were not there? If I stick to her kitchen floor we all hear the sticking sound with maybe small differences. So her scream is not completely in our mind, though she may be going out of her mind. Maybe she should hire a cleaning service or find a therapist.

Is a scream still a scream in an unknown language?

The reason she screams is the same whether she screamed in Japanese while in America. Someone makes that sound and others hear it and understand it, but you don't, maybe because you don't know Japanese or maybe it's because you weren't there. Either way, you will still know she screamed because in the first scenario someone could tell you about the scream and in the second you could probably decipher her emotion over the grimy windows, a sticky floor, a mother-in-law arriving for a two-week visit, piles of laundry from last week's camp-out, a broken vacuum, a sick toddler, twins turning eight, a cat with an abscess, soccer snack and mold in the bathroom...

Inspiration for this piece should go to Edvard Munch's "The Scream" and WikiAnswers.com's "If a tree falls ..."

Monday, May 25, 2009

Memorial memories



Raindrops
pepper playa,
turn hardpan into clay.
Puddles stick to the bottom of
my shoes.



The land sailing adventure also included "A birthday lesson," "First s'more" and "Finally, the wind blew." Want even more pictures? Click here.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Silly soup song

Editor's note: The Slow-Cooked Sentence is devoting itself to song this week as part of its Joy+Ride, a month-long quest that involves planting, polishing and singing.


In the bowl:

Great Big Gobs of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts
Photo courtesy of meganpru


Sing along with me and my kids. I dare you.

The Recipe: Gopher Guts
Serves: One campsite

Great big gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts
Chopped up monkey meat
Concentrated birdie feet
Chopped up eyeballs
Baked in a pot of blood
And I forgot my spoon!

Great big gobs of greasy, grimy gopher guts
Chopped up monkey meat
Concentrated birdie feet
Chopped up eyeballs
Baked in a pot of blood
And I forgot my spoon!
But I gotta straw!
(Slurrrp!)
(Aaaaah!)

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

What happens in the backseat ...


Editor's note: The Slow-Cooked Sentence is devoting itself to song this week as part of its Joy+Ride, a month-long quest that involves planting, polishing and singing.


... stays there. Photo courtesy of Larsz.

So today's my anniversary and I forgot.

"I'm happy," my husband said as he reminded me. "I'm happy with you. The kids. The house."

"I think Ivan's in the toilet," I replied.

As he pulled out the toddler, I raised my glass in a silent, solo toast to fourteen years, four kids, but not one of them conceived in a backseat. I shrug. Sex, schmex, and then hum a little of that song from "Fiddler on the Roof."

(Tevye) ...
Do you love me?

(Golde)
I'm your wife.

(Tevye)
"I know..."
But do you love me?

(Golde)
Do I love him?
For twenty-five years I've lived with him
Fought with him, starved with him
Twenty-five years my bed is his
If that's not love, what is?

(Tevye)
Then you love me?

(Golde)
I suppose I do.

(Tevye)
And I suppose I love you too.

Want to know where some great backseat action is taking place? Check out Black Cab Sessions Chapter 60 featuring Calexico. I'm digging the song "Not even Stevie Nicks," particularly this line:

With a head like a vulture and heart full of hornets, he drives off the cliff into the blue.

Ain't it a beaut of a sentence? And there's enough in that song for me to pull my husband into the backseat for our own little session.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Mama's mix

Editor's note: The Slow-Cooked Sentence is devoting itself to song this week as part of its Joy+Ride, a month-long quest that involves planting, polishing and singing.



"Casi05" courtesy of INDEED.


Thirty songs plus half
a day all for me equals
sweet, sweet sanity.

The time's been spent, but I can still share my songs. My favorite is "Half Acre," I can listen to The Kinks all day long, and you've got to check out the lyrics to "A Chat With Your Mother."
  • I'll Fly Away, Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch
  • Julia, The Beatles
  • Mother Nature's Son, The Beatles
  • Half Acre, Hem
  • Your Mother Should Know, The Beatles
  • Ghost Town/Poem For Eva, Bill Frisell
  • God Bless The Child, Billie Holiday
  • Sunspots, Bob Mould
  • I'll Come Running, Brian Eno
  • All Mama's Children, Carl Perkins
  • What A Wonderful World, With L Dan Zanes & Friends
  • Leave It Like It Is, David Wilcox
  • Do You Realize??, Flaming Lips
  • White Winter Hymnal, Fleet Foxes
  • After Midnight, J.J. Cale
  • Crazy Mama, J.J. Cale
  • Boom Boom, John Lee Hooker
  • Hot Potatoes, The Kinks
  • Have A Cuppa Tea, The Kinks
  • Bonjour, Bonjour, L'Autobus A Vapeur
  • Our House, Madness
  • You Are My Sunshine, Norman Blake
  • That Was Your Mother, Paul Simon
  • Mother and Child Reunion, Paul Simon
  • A Chat with Your Mother, Sally Rogers & Howie Bursen
  • Inní mér syngur vitleysingur, Sigur Ros
  • I Wish, Stevie Wonder
  • Isn't She Lovely, Stevie Wonder
  • What Child Is This, Vince Guaraldi
  • I Took My Mom To the Prom, The Ziggens

Friday, May 15, 2009

Participating



"Elephant Hiding in a Strawberry Patch" by Evelyn Leavens.


Joy+Ride is a blog devoted to poetry, photography and inspiration that I discovered via Mamazine, a now defunct site that published one of my essays. This month the two editors issued a challenge to rediscover joy. Here's the idea and its rules:

"It’s easy to lose sight of the joy in our lives, easy to forget we have the means to find joy, that we are in the driver’s seat... For the month of May, let’s make a promise to practice joy even when we aren’t feeling that joyful."

The rules:
  1. Make a list of three attainable things that give you daily joy.
  2. Open your calendar and find a place to fit each joy.
  3. Set your own joy pace, but we suggest once or twice a week, at least.
So in a search for joy, I am:
  1. Painting my toes pink.
  2. Singing out loud.
  3. Planting a strawberry patch.
Which made me think of the joke about why the elephant painted its nails red and instantly brought me a tiny burst of joy because I could remember the punchline! I'll keep you posted on my progress. Wanna join me for the joy ride?

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Hue are you?


"Color Wheel Magic" by Mary Anne Ciccotelli.

I recently read "The Commoner" by John Burnham Schwartz. It's the story of Haruko, who becomes the first non-aristocratic empress of Japan. It's a story of sacrifice set in a world mysterious and sealed off, yet still highly public. Schwartz's style is as exquisite as this world, refined, almost delicate, yet hidden in the silky words are burrs like those in this passage:

His tenderness was like a wound that could be bandaged but never entirely protected -- like his body, so badly burned in the fire of 1945 that he appeared more wound than boy. All except his spirit, which leaked out, as if through a dark curtain pocked with rips and tears, in silent, unexpected slants of light that if looked at directly would have dazzled the eyes.

The second example of this beautiful writing is when Haruko describes her girlhood friend Miko. The two short sentences shed insight into the two girls' personalities and their relationship.

If I was the routine blue sky, Miko was the twilight whose darkening colors never appeared in the same shade twice. One waited for her, never knowing which girl would appear.

Two metaphors comparing personality to light, the first shining through a torn curtain, the second to a time of day. After reading them, it got my mind wandering: where do I fall on the light spectrum? Not what is my favorite color, but what hue, tint or shade is my personality? I have one friend who's easy to color code. Her cheeriness, smile, bubbly laughter and optimism despite the drama of her life makes her as yellow as sunshine, as warm as the sand on the beach, as the sweet as the juice of a peach. I have another friend the color of sage, a pungent, yeasty green, pulling strength from its tap root sunk deep into the earth, nourishing and toasty as homemade bread. Incidentally, she's also writing about color this week on her blog. A third friend is definitely an energetic orange, sizzling and intense with midday energy, and a fourth is the color of a delicious wine, a deep burgundy, round and rich and generous with her life.

And me?

Perhaps my youngest brother Dylan decoded my color decades ago. Dylan was maybe five years old when I left for college, so his memories of me are few and far between. In fact, he may have no memories of me at all; he once drew a picture of our family and omitted me. Incidentally, he's provided a coloring page of himself. To find it, click here. Anyway, no matter how infrequently I visited, once home I re-assumed my place in the sibling hierarchy -- the top. Suffering at the bottom of the birth order, Dylan once asked, "Who does she think she is?"

The queen, of course. In purple.

Monday, May 11, 2009

When the world's a stage


"Hovering fly" courtesy of wolfpix.

Can I tell you about something both magical and mundane, about life and death, about a ballet danced in the twilight of my backyard? It involves the birds living in the neighborhood, a giant, brittle willow along the fence line and a thousand beetles that escape from the willow just after sundown.

I was sitting under the tree in the corner of the yard, drinking the last wine in my glass and listening to my husband summarize an article on Somalia. Suddenly I noticed tens, then hundreds, of bugs fluttering above my head, all heading away from the willow, through the backyard and over the rooftop.

Just as I noticed, so did the dozen or more starlings, sparrows, finches and blue scrub jays. They shot off the tree branches, pinched bugs from the air and flew to a telephone line with dinner. I called for the kids to come see. Two and then three times, swarms of bugs left the safety of the willow and were sent into dizzying confusion as birds pirouetted among them. Some of us cheered for the bugs when they disappeared over the rooftop and some for the birds when they nabbed in mid-flight. We watched until the cloud of bugs dissipated and the stragglers were picked off with ease. The birds flew to their perches and we waited with them. Minutes passed. Not a single beetle took to the sky. So we went inside and closed the curtains, leaving the birds staring intently into the empty twilight.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Mothering skills have eluded me


... or Jane and her mom make Emerald City Salad.


I picked up one of my sons from school today at 10:30 a.m. because he'd thrown up. When he climbed into the car he was hiding a smile. Sick? Probably not. But how do I insist that the school keep a kid who's puked?

This 7-year-old has learned to work the system. About every two weeks, I receive a call from the school nurse, Eloisa, who's phoning because he's in her office, again. By now we're in agreement that there must be visible signs of sickness, like vomit or a thermometer that reports a fever. Today's proof lay in the bottom of the trash can, so I came, grudgingly. My toddler's nap had been interrupted, my mouth was set in a grim line, and what does he say when he climbs into the car?

"Was Ivan eating chocolate?"

"He had part of a donut."

"Yum."

So much for the sore tummy. He's spending the day in his room. In bed. Without a book.

I'm desperate, cranky and sick of my life being interrupted by sick kids. On days like this I grab chocolate and plop down in front of the computer for an episode or two of my favorite food show, Cookus*Interruptus, featuring Feeding the Whole Family author Cynthia Lair. My top episodes can be found in the right-hand column. They all involve Cynthia's daughter, Jane, who is a single mom with enough irreverence and sarcasm to light a fire under any pot. On more than one bad day, Jane's saved me (and my son).

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Blogus interruptus



H1N1 influenza virus courtesy of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Today's blog post suffered from frequent interruptions by children with hacking coughs, which, incidentally, were not caused by the H1N1 virus or swine flu, according to the pediatrician. In the half hour the writer sat at the computer, she received requests for:

  • peaches with cottage cheese
  • a discussion on how to write a persuasive essay
  • water
  • a diaper change
  • a reminder to report the absences to school officials
  • a towel to clean up the water
  • toast with apricot jam
  • more water
  • cough syrup
  • string cheese
  • a hug
  • still more water

By now, the writer was suffering from a headache and a bad attitude, so she threw the wet towel at the computer screen and called it quits.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Going down



"Porco Rosso" by William Montgomery,
from of his daily sketch blog
Montgomery Today.


Our family is like a World War II bomber under fire but somehow managing to stay aloft. My husband (who receives credit for this analogy) and I in the cockpit as the kids yell out that the left wing is on fire and the rudder has fallen off. Such were yesterday's conditions as we steered the minivan into the church parking lot.

Half the family was sick, but Sunday was the culmination of two years of religious education, and so the Devil be damned, we were going forward with First Communion. As we walked into church, I stuffed a lozenge in a mouth, tucked a handkerchief into a pocket and uttered a small prayer that no one cough on the Host.

God answered that prayer.

As bread and wine were blessed, the five children receiving the sacrament of the Eucharist gathered around the altar. As I watched, Max slowly sunk from view, then stood again, whispered to the priest, walked a few steps, knelt down and puked. This family was crash landing before the eyes of the congregation.

I whisked Max away to the bathroom, cleaned him up and marched him back up the aisle to accept communion. As Max held out his hands, Christ looked down from his cross and said, "Dude, you look terrible. Go home."

We took his advice.



I'm happy to report that after more coughs, sputters and groans, the family took to the air this morning. Over and out.

Friday, May 1, 2009

Soup, slop and sanitation


"Songs We Sing From Rogers and Hammerstein" illustrated by William Dugan. Golden Press, 1957. Image from Vintage Kids' Books My Kid Loves.


I made clam chowder last night and it was a stinker. Perhaps it was because (one) I refused to run to the store for four stalks of celery or (two) I lazily tossed in the potatoes without peeling them. But whatever the reason, it was bland, boring and kinda dirty tasting. (Even though I distinctly remember scrubbing the potatoes!)

We ate the chowder, anyway.

But the leftovers? Into the slop bucket. Well, to be more exact, ours is a compost bucket, but when I was growing up we raised the occasional pig or two, so our scraps turned to slop. And how our first pig loved that garbage, nudging her nose into curdled milk, congealed Cream of Wheat and gobbling up the crusty ends of peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Doesn't that remind you of "Charlotte's Web"?

Wilbur lifted his nose and sniffed. The smell was delicious... He walked to the trough and took a long drink of slops, sucking in the milk hungrily and chewing the popover. It was good to be home again.

While you can go on loving Wilbur, I'll love Star, our family's big, black sow who gave birth to a run of piglets who were so darn cute and pink. Star was smart enough to escape from her pen, so now and then my brother or sisters or I would spot her trotting down the dirt road, a line of babies behind her. We'd yell to mom, who'd hop in the car and chase her down. You know, I can't remember how my mom got Star and her babies back home. I like to imagine her as big and tough as Pecos Bill's true love, Slue-foot Sue, roping and riding that sow into the pen again.

Eventually, Star's antics grew tiresome and the piglets outgrew their cuteness because one day the pig pen was empty, the slop bucket was fed to the chickens and a conversation between a mother and child went something like this:

"What's for dinner?"

"Star."

We ate the pork chops, anyway.

But today -- as the swine flu spreads and worries grow about a possible pandemic -- people are hesitating when it comes to pork, according to The New York Times. Several nations closed their borders to pork and Wall Street analysts predict a drop in pork sales in the grocery stores, the paper reported this week.

Although pigs were the original source of the new virus, experts said the animals don't appear to be playing a role in its transmission now.

"The virus is passing from person to person ... most likely by the spread of respiratory droplets," the Times reported.

So I'm not passing up bacon, nor am I running out to buy face masks. I won't even demand that my children's teacher be quarantined following her vacation in Mexico. But I have taken the precaution of posting hand-washing signs in our home's bathrooms. Should you be overcome by a similar desire, here's one poster and links to the rest:




Have a swine-free, sanitary weekend!
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