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?"

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.