Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Sprouts and Symmetry

We're a thousand miles away from family so I'm most grateful for friends who've invited us over for their Thanksgiving fest tomorrow. It's become a tradition: we go to Kathy and Joe's the night before and supply the necessary verbs: dice, chop, pare, saute, set, fold, baste, and drink.

My job tonight was to stare down three pounds of brussels sprouts, amputate their stumps and cut their little hearts out. With twenty-two guests lined up for tomorrow's dinner we're all working like mindless mercenaries.

Symmetry was not on my list of things to achieve, but as I washed and peeled, I realized that the impossible has happened. In the madness of the holiday season I've had a day with balance, proportion, and thematic unity. 

It started early. My morning...as usual...was a battle to bring order out of chaos. I made a list that began with "do yoga" and ended farther down the page with "clean the basement."  Feeling very California I plugged in Shamanic Dreams, stretched through downward facing dog, pigeon pose, and warriors (both I and II), mailed the farm truck registration, paid the farm insurance, gave Cleo a walk in the park. That's when--around ten-- I remembered I needed to run down the street to Claudia's to share some cranberry chutney I'd cooked up for the feast. Though order was lost I was headed toward another classical value, symmetry.

Claudia likes formal visits along the line of high tea, but I persuaded her to let me show up this morning just to hand her the chutney.  She buzzed me in and I trotted up the stairs to her kitchen, unaware that I was about to begin my opening brussels sprouts experience of the day. Claudia was elbow-deep in the knobby green things, rinsing them off for her dinner tomorrow.  So I settled in beside her, paring knife in hand, and side by side we readied dozens of little cabbage dwarfs for their oven roasting.

Normally my visits with Claudia include Ira and her husband John, sometimes Cleo dashing about, lots of trips in and out of the dining room, many courses of Russian and German appetizers and animated multi-lingual conversation. But this morning was different. Claudia was not wearing her pearls. We didn't have canapes or chocolates. As we finished our work the kitchen was quiet and we were just two women from different countries and different generations all done with our brussels sprouts. As I was leaving I remembered--for once--to pause and tell her how much I love her.

So tonight people from coast to coast are--like me-- thinking about tomorrow's feast. They're replaying the bittersweet song of a childhood lost, or the one they wish they'd had. Like me they're making lists and taking stock and wondering if they can measure up. They're looking for order, and failing to find it. But on this day of San Francisco mist, friends, a day that opened and closed with edible buds, I'm settling for a little symmetry.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Flying Things

Forgive me, neighbors, but it's painterly--laundry pinned on the short, taut line. Humidity's down, and light filters dry, giving press to yesterday's dinner-cloth.
White cottons snap the breeze, his sun-colored shirt waves empty arms akimbo and small underthings inhale and shift like prayer-flags. They billow, exhale, salute the sky, the hour, the morning, the July Sunday.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Roots

When Robert Lee Johnson moved into the Emma House over 100 years ago a row of maple twigs stood sentry in the front yard, buffering the house from the dirt road in front.  In the last few years it's been painful to see them burdened with so many broken and dying limbs. To me they have an anthropomorphic presence: they're old fiends in decline.

In April when a troupe of men from the KU Tree Service knocked on the door I knew what was coming...within hours the first (and worst) of the trees was coming down: leaves, limbs, cookies.  Within the next couple of years another tree will have to go, but we're not ready to go there yet.

It took forever to get the debris hauled off.  The Kentucky Utilities men took a load, Carl Buss got a few of the round disks for stepping-stones.  The Hardys next door added a load to their firewood pile, and I tucked a few of the cookies under the front porch.  After that, the replacement tree, and that, too, came in stages. I haven't seen it since April but by this time next week I'll be back. After all the spring rain maybe the twig will be as tall as its siblings.  Ya think??

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Kvass is Diss???

Let's start with my upbringing.  Growing up in Clinton we never had a Corona chilling in the refrigerator, not plain, and certainly not boasting a slice of lime.  Our treaty beverage was boiled custard in December, redolent of whole cream and free from any alcoholic link to its delinquent sidekick, eggnog. A revelation was  Sunday dinner with friends Donna and Pete: white wine was in attendance, along with lamb, mint jelly, and an Episcopal priest who joyously imbibed.


So while other friends may have been sampling the sauce, I feared the wrath of Dad and stayed away. At least for a while. Then 11th grade folded to a close and was followed by...the summer o' bourbon.  Along with Thomas Wolfe and Demosthenes, David Sensing, boyfriend au courant and son of the local newspaper editor, seized the teachable moment and introduced me to Maker's Mark. It was a three-part process. First we angled his white 1960s Lincoln, the kind with an inverted rear window, into a grassy field off highway 123 east of town. Then, standing beside the flaring doors of the car,  David and I took turns sipping just enough fire-water to seal the deal. Having cleared that hurdle we swung by the Gazette office, located the bottle of Dr. Tichenor's Antiseptic Mouthwash that was hidden in the back of a gray metal file cabinet, and swished away all traces of the crime.


Somewhere between Dr. Claypool's history class and Matt's entry into preschool it dawned on me that it was not fun to wake up on New Year's Day--or any other day--with a remembrance of drinks past.  Now moderation reigns. I'll have a julep on Derby Day, but other than that, rarely any of the hard stuff.  I pace my one glass of Malbec to the evening news, and become downright doctrinaire when it comes to drinking and driving.


But wait.  There could be a complication.  Today as Simi and I are doing the loop with dog we stop at Cinderella's on Balboa. He goes inside for a loaf of brown bread and comes out with two glasses of the bakery's own home-made Russian kvass--a cold,yeasty brew that looks exactly like iced tea and tastes like a blend of cinnamon and heaven.


Kvass is so low in alcohol that The Cinderella--which doesn't appear to have a liquor license-- sells it as a soft drink. It's considered family fare in Russia, their Wyler's Lemonaid.  However, after downing mine and resuming the walk I am feeling a little too good.  At Park Presidio I sprint across four lanes of traffic, smiling good will at drivers who are waiting out a red light.  Gliding toward Cabrillo I wax eloquent on the current leadership style of Muammar Gadhafi, and offer my insights on Michio Kaku's theories on the crumbling Fukushima reactor. Only when both dog and hub turn, synchronized, to gaze at me do I realize I've been blissfully babbling my way down fifteen city blocks.


A silvery BMW, some David Furman art, The Nobel Prize. A dragon tattoo; flip-flop socks; a string of pearls. Occasionally we all need a little something new in our lives. So on this San Francisco afternoon I step outside the box, sipping this ancient Slavic brew and posing a question to the universe at large-- "Tell me...kvass else have I been missing?"

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

It's all made of paper

For months I've begun every day with the same ritual: roll over, open my eyes, read my email from John.  Since Christmas he's been in various hospitals in Kentucky -- yep, two months and counting. He's without his computer; he can't reach his telephone. So on the rare occasion when we talk I lay it on the line:  You've got to get well, John. Not hearing from you throws me completely off my game.

John is the curator of the Hickman County Museum, and after my mother's death he inherited her mantle as the county's resident historian. He's the one who knows where Camp Nelson was, who remembers that Marvin College was Methodist and Clinton College was Baptist, and who can tell--with proper embellishment--the story of Dr. Jackson's formaldehyde-soaked centipede.

John is a couple of years older than me, way more intelligent, way more resourceful, and way funnier.  His mobility is severely limited by spinal arthritis but his mind and heart are totally unfettered. He and my Mom were joined at the hip through their work at the museum, and when she died in 07 John and I became connected by default.

So today I'm once again phoning Western Baptist in Paducah, explaining to Kathy that John has no immediate family, noting that I am a designated contact person and trying to convey across three time zones that he and I practically define Modern Family, with ties more durable in fact than most genetic ones.

As usual I don't learn much, and with John on my mind I'm feeling off-center. Alone in San Francisco I often wish I had a secretary who could over-schedule me, or a job, as in those years of teaching when everything was clearly and irrevocably organized by hours and bells.  But today I am a particularly good Miss Hathaway, chalking off my chores in the morning (tidying, filing, dog-walking) and reserving my afternoon for the Legion of Honor Museum, and the Isabelle de Borchgrave show, which is about...paper.

I can faintly see the Legion of Honor from my house, but like so much in life, it seems almost impossible to get there.  I walk to 25th Avenue and hop the north-bound Muni, a two-dollar ride to lower Clement.  It's a long uphill walk to the top of the street, the entrance to Lincoln Park, the museum, and the exhibition. By 33rd Avenue I'm hoping this show will be worth the effort. It takes another 20 minutes to skirt the golf course and climb the steps of the museum. I am winded by now, and so are the tourists in new white running shoes who have been trudging up the trail alongside me. Some stop to take photographs of the path, obviously pleased that they have made it this far.

Isabelle de Borchgrave (b.1944) is a Belgian countess, which may explain how she has the time and unlimited revenue stream it must take to have constructed--since 1994-- dozens of historically-accurate, life-size pieces of clothing made completely from paper. From flappers to Medicis to Marie Antoinette, she (and the workers of her atelier) have meticulously duplicated every pin tuck, every ruche, every hand-knotted slip of lace or turn of a collar that made somebody famous look good.

Having always liked paper-- the riddle of origami, a well-aimed paper plane, a bad draft tidily ripped from a notebook, wadded, and sent sailing to the wastebasket--I am totally floored at her level of skill.  Besides marveling at the excruciating amount of research that's been done, I'm asking myself the big questions, "How did they ship these bustles from Belgium?? In giant hat-boxes?  In refrigerator crates labeled "day dresses of the Medici extended family, Handle With Care?"

Most of all I'm moved by the way Isabelle uses homely, expendable, and combustible materials:  rag paper, wadded, padded, and  stippled; corrugated cardboard, snipped, glued, polished; tissue, folded and fanned and glazed.  I hope it's not lost on viewers, as they crane their necks and itch to touch, that while the Elgin Marbles could be around forever, the gossamer lines of Isabelle's paper garments are astonishing in part because they seem to exist in peril.  One crushing blow or careless flick of an ash, and a work could be lost. This makes each layered creation seem almost as temporal and lovely as a life-breath.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

The Tuxedo Effect

I can't do anything without a deadline, so with company coming tomorrow I finally decided to replace the seat covers on my dining room chairs.

These chairs are survivors. They were part of a dining room set given to my grandmother by Les Watson in 1919, and eventually passed along to me. So the Mary Elizabeth Watson Jewell oak table and six chairs have lived on Southern Parkway in Louisville, they've migrated to various institutes of higher education, have made lateral moves across Kentucky, have survived a divorce, and lived alone with me and a dog named Maggie, they crossed The Great Divide, and along with a truck load of other items I could have done without, landed in San Francisco.   

My first choice of replacement fabric was a pricey cotton brocade (also indigo) that I spied at The Satin Moon on Clement, but the solid linen I found in The Mission has a reasonable amount of elegance for half the price, and going down there in the pouring rain and standing in line to buy it Saturday was fun. Really.

Also this afternoon, continuing to ride the creative wave, I dug out a couple of unframed paintings, small watercolor/ink works, and matched them with frames that had been sitting in our basement since Aaron Brothers last frame sale.  Of course I only had one mat that fit, so that necessitated another rain-soaked trip downtown to Flax, art supply heaven, between Castro and the seedy end of Market.
Now the chairs look so fine that I don't want to sit on them because the linen may wrinkle, who knows.

And the drawings...floating them in a deep beveled mat and classy frame has the tuxedo effect (anything looks good in it)-- but heck, I don't have a single wall to hang either of them on. So here's an idea, the paintings can sit in the chairs. Yes, that works, and now order has been restored to the universe.

Friday, February 18, 2011

Untitled Experiments

Today I'm home-bound by a pouring rain, so I've gotten into the creative mode. I'm trying to teach myself how to digitally merge ink drawings on flat illustration board with watercolors done on 140# cold press paper.

Yes, I am definitely too old to get a scholarship, but it's fun (sort of) to see if my sieve-like brain can master something altogether new.

A couple of years ago I was asked by a friend to do a freelance graphic-arts project--basically a set of colorized ink drawings of composers. Yes, it was a stretch for me.

Illustration board and an 005 black Micron pen worked great for the drawings but adding even minimal color to the set was a challenge-- first because illustration board isn't made for watercolor and second (and most important)--there was no room for experimentation at all. Put the color on the paper, and like it or not, you're done.



So today I finally merged Beethoven (above) with another watercolor painting, just to see if it would work. It's not too bad by my standards, which are low.

I spent the afternoon working on some small (5" x 7") abstract ink drawings and merging them with watercolor paintings of the same scale. For someone like me who is not a tech-head, it was hard work. But way more fun than doing the laundry.


Wednesday, February 2, 2011

It Isn't Easy Being Free

Only three full days in San Juan --  two for sightseeing and people-watching and today, the third, for beach and sun.  For me the difficulty is slowing down and enjoying doing nothing.

The El San Juan is a hotel where you learn that Scott Fitzgerald was right: the rich are truly different.  Those to whom money is no object sit down for a pricey breakfast inside the hotel, but we stride forth carrying our Starbucks coffee and novels out to the pool, or more accurately one of the pools.




The little coqui sing their hearts out for us, and when we get tired of doing nothing (which happens pretty quickly) we walk for an hour on the beach, passing a row of hotels, swerving around  beach-walkers in all shapes and sizes and stopping to photograph a sea-side cemetery that is in eerie contrast to the excess and revelry along the shore.

At lunch we exit the hotel grounds and I finally sample mofongo--a Puerto Rican staple--in small local restaurant nearby. It's plantain, that bland and starchy cousin of the banana, cooked in a little oil and garlic and molded into a flat and circular shape.  It's bland. I take sidelong glances at other diners and see that most have ordered their mofongo surrounded by chicken soup and shrimp. Next time.
By afternoon all chairs, poolside and beach, are full. No one at all is in the pool. Lavender towels are issued to all the guests, so even though the posted "resort dress code" for humans is totally ignored, the chairs are all tastefully draped in matching lavender towels.  Poolside bars have lengthy menus of mojitos and coolers, and of course, no prices are listed. If you have to ask, you really don't belong here.

Before dinner we check out the televised news, see photos of the snow in Boston and footage of political riots in Cairo. We haven't had a cloth-napkin dinner since we arrived in San Juan, so on this last night we take the elevator down to the hotel restaurant for the prix-fixe. The waiters are overly attentive, swooping down on us to refill our water glasses each time we have taken a sip, but the salmon has a lively fresh tomato sauce with capers, and Caesar salad is cold and crisp, and the dessert is chocolate. Need I say more?

Thursday, January 27, 2011

The Culinary Old San Juan

Two days in Old San Juan and we've already gotten into a routine.  It must be an age thing.  Both mornings we breakfast at a deli called Yurta, on Calle San Francisco. Walk in and there's nothing to see but a steamed up cooler, but keep going and you'll find a walled garden with a couple of tables, a caged parrot that shouts, "Hola," and  any number of tiny lizards scampering over the walls and floor.

For less than six dollars each we had granola, yogurt, and fresh papaya the first day and egg scrambles and home fries today.  The local bread is a wheaty baguette flattened Cubano Style and drenched with butter. San Juan coffee is always made with local beans-- rich, dark, and a definite necessity considering that we're ignoring jet lag altogether.

After spending another morning glass-hunting on the beach we inhale a frozen yogurt and then hop on one of the free trolleys for what we think will be a leisurely ride around the town.

Instead we're stopped in traffic for at least an hour--stalled by noisy and expansive student protests in front of the capitol building. The driver won't let us off: it's not a designated bus stop. We finally escape to walk in our sandy beach shoes up and down the hills of the Old Town, cooling off in pricey gift shops where buying is out of the question.




The women of San Juan love their stilettos, and every other shop is filled with platforms, strappy sandals, and trendy gladiators.  I try on a pair I like and immediately realize that--for me at least-- walking will not happen in these shoes.

Late lunch is at a vegetarian restaurant called Cafe Berlin. Barb and I share hummus and a salad;  I get an eggplant/tofu sandwich that's marinated in something smoky and wonderful.  The waiter insists on bringing us a second glass of iced tea and then bills us an additional $3.50 for it-- a temporary downer.
 

Many side streets in Old San Juan are as narrow as walkways. Near the sea these streets yawn open into the broad and grassy grounds of the 16th century fort. It's here that you see just how imposing the brick abutments are, and get a sense of what life might have been like when security came in one grand and sprawling package: a massive city wall. The most charming part of Old San Juan?  Curving, hilly streets, brilliant pastel colors everywhere.  And of course the sunshine. 

Late this afternoon we reclaim our baggage from its storage place in our hotel and nab a taxi to get to our overpriced but lovely beachfront hotel.  It's going to be more difficult to find local bargains here in the area called Isla Verde...lots of restaurants along the main road but they're Americanized chains that are best avoided.  We're confirming what we've known all along: there are some days when eating in clearly trumps eating out.



Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Drying the Mermaid's Tears






They call them "mermaid's tears," those softly rounded beads of sea glass that wash up with the surf.   Today I discovered that searching for them at water's edge is as meditative as walking a labyrinth:   the rhythmic stepping, bending, and sorting completely rocks my mind to sleep.

We're at a stretch of isolated beach that's just below the blue cobblestones and hilly, winding streets of Old San Juan.  Indigenous grape vines forge a thick barrier between avenue and ocean, but this morning we find a path through the foliage and make our way down to the shore to look for sea glass.



To the west, the walls of the city.  To the east, nothing but sand and sea.  We're just a stone's throw from the capitol building but we're lost in the moment.  There's no one here but us.

When my mind wanders, it takes a peaceful turn: this is why Minda loves her berry-picking; this is something I must do with Silas and Sylvie; this is something my mom would have loved.
 
The ocean softens every shard. It takes plates and broken windows, mirrors, chandeliers, and champagne bottles.  It files away serrations of a frantic industrial world and revises those parts, sanding and buffing until all the angles are muted. On this day the Caribbean smooths my rough edges as well.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Flying the Red Eye: What NOT to Wear

Tonight I begin the first leg of my thrifty getaway to San Juan, engineered by my friend Barb and made possible by the free airline "Buddy Pass" she gave me.

It's 10:55 pm, and as I wait in the stand-by line at San Francisco International, I can see that my black yoga pants and t-shirt are way too tame for this experience.  What's right?  Looks like it's Sherpa Boots, long vests made of llama hide, some platform heels to die for, a fair-aisle patterned toboggan complete with top pompom and ear-flaps.  Best of all?  A walking firecracker red sweatshirt that extends from chin to knee.  It's emblazoned with a life-size, full body white skeleton--fibula, tibia, clavicle, everything is there.

During the four-hour flight to Atlanta I sleep briefly in an upright fetal twist, made possible only by years of yoga practice and a state of extreme exhaustion.  It's six am in Atlanta when we arrive;  The Skeleton follows me off the plane.  Neither of us seems bothered by the fact that it's really 3 am in San Francisco. 

Barb is waiting at the gate with a cup of coffee.  We can't get to San Juan on the flight from Atlanta as we planned.  Instead, armed with bags of Hershey's Kisses, she visits her colleagues at the gate and finds a route to San Juan through Orlando.  We manage to get the last couple of standby seats on the plane.  As an added bonus, we've shaken "The Skeleton" completely off our track.

At the arrivals gate of the San Juan Airport I'm making plans to hand-wash my black yoga pants and t-shirt as soon as we get to the hotel.  No one is wearing sherpa boots or flap-hats at baggage claim.  As we calculate the options for ground transportation, it looks like last night's scramble for flights, the  contorted sleeping positions, and parade of costumes was just a nightmare, something brought on by wine and pretzels.  But wait.  Can it be?  What's that over by the taxi stand??

Monday, January 17, 2011

Pathways

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I take issue with the popular interpretation of "The Road Not Taken," by Robert Frost. But for the moment let's put that aside, and just say that a clearly marked pathway is something every man or woman should quietly celebrate.

When I am in Kentucky I often shun Clinton's aging and precarious sidewalks and head straight for the deer paths around Threeponds.  As I leave the cornfield and step high into the woods there is a moment of getting my bearings.  Like my whippet, I zigzag here and there trying to catch sight of a trail.  Then it happens: an opening in the brambles and before me a narrow but well-trampled path. Follow the way of the deer and you'll edge easily along the precipice, skirt the side of the hill, descend along the jagged  sandstone outcroppings, step over fallen trees, and finally, effortlessly, arrive at the ancient track of the river.

Returning to San Francisco I can, with equal pleasure, chose my route among a dozen or more worn paths.  Tracks snake through the forested medians along Park Presidio and into the hillsides of Golden Gate Park.  At the far edge of the neighborhood is Land's End, a winding scar of a trail that seams the hillside to banks that plummet toward the surf.  When I walk these paths my eyes are drawn to the ocean, but my heart celebrates the predictable trail beneath my feet. On a good path the choices are easy, and there's an abiding knowledge that the solitary walker is never really alone.

All of my favorite trails have forks here and there, and as I select my route I sometimes think about Frost's poem. Instead of being a hymn to individualism, I believe his lines are really about the all-too-human condition of making a decision: standing at a crossroads and then striding forth, confidently, in one direction or another.

Life's traveled pathways offer linear perspective. They're a way to know--without a doubt--what road you've taken. These trails also chart the forks where, sometimes with so little thought at all, we've made a life-defining choice.

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Catching Rays

In the 1100s, Abbot Suger watched as his craftsmen hoisted plates of stained glass into the towering walls of the first Gothic cathedral. The way he saw it, the laser-like rays of red, blue, and green that streamed from windows and settled in the apse of St. Denis embodied the very presence of God.

As I begin the drudgery of de-decorating this year's Christmas tree, I'm adjusting my attitude by meditating on what the Abbot knew:  there is power and mystery in the jewel-like ornaments, and if the spiritual is meant to be studied and held in reverence, then a burst of liquid color is the perfect delivery system.

During a way-too-short summer studying the churches of France, one purpose that united our class (if you exempt the celebration of wine and cheese) was to properly photograph this magic of sun streaming through stained glass.  We set up our small tripods in the naves and transepts of St. Denis, Amiens, Chartres, and Notre Dame. We steadied our bulky Nikons against piers, crouched under rose windows, and lay flat on chilly limestone floors--all in the hopes of capturing that instant when sleeping space is awakened by streams of color and light.

Sometimes we were rewarded by the perfect ray, and at that moment we frantically focused, snapped, and--without the instant gratification of digital cameras--waited faithfully to see what fish was in the net.

Trying to capture these jewel-tones is an obsession that transcends time and place. Indonesian craftsmen must have been speechless as they first held fiery, crackled batiks against a wall of sun. Equally dazzling are Morris Louis' fields of color and Dale Chihuly's prismic works of glass. They take my breath away.

When I was younger I planned to obtain my bliss:  finish a degree, get the kids through college, burn the mortgage. Now I've learned that joy resides in things I can't contain--there's darkness, pure cadmium crimson, and then a burst of fire.

My friend's companion piece:
http://btalan.blogspot.com/2011/01/catching-rays.html