Morsels

Just a quick note — made more bread (finished it last night) and it is getting better and better. Also, inspired by my SBF (serious bread friend), I have some sourdough pizza dough fermenting in the fridge. We’ll probably have that this weekend.

Anyway, I’m just writing to say how very much I love september. Tomatoes, peaches, one or two leaves skittering across the road, crickets, cool nights. And so forth. Last night I tackled my peck of peaches and now they are all very politely resting in their freezer bags in the freezer. They are a promise kept for winter when I want to cook them with vanilla, nutmeg, some cinnamon and maybe cardamom — you don’t even need pastry or ice cream to go along with really good peaches — but you might want some just to add to the fun. As for the tomatoes, I bought a case this past weekend of very nice romas and slow-roasted a bunch on Saturday. There are still plenty left. And THEY are not being polite at all. They are lurking in their basket as only impatient ingredients will do. I suppose I should blanch them and cook them down tonight. I’m sort of wishing that they would turn themselves into a sauce (do you think nanotechnologists are considering these sorts of issues?).

Finger Lakes this weekend.

It’s been so long since I’ve posted I wonder if anyone will bother to check out the blog. Maybe that’s a little on purpose though? I am having trouble with the fine line between privacy, writing, sharing and audience…. when I write my “book” or “we shall see” as I prefer to call it (note: I haven’t been writing THAT either), I can let the audience be far away, almost never. But with this and especially after I added it to my notes on my facebook page, there isn’t much pretending that no one will see it.

And yet, I do like writing. I like how the words tumble out and mostly fit together and how much I enjoy making them fit and telling about life. So I suppose I carry on and forth and whatever.

We’re in NY and having adventures. Dennis felled his first tree ever and with it an old bat. Brian tells us that the old bats “silverbacks” don’t get to migrate south with their brethren. They are left behind to die. So this one had a surprise fall from the tree and scuttled under some bark. Dennis and Brian also found a wood frog, which I had never seen before. Apparently, they come out of the vernal pools and live in trees and such. It was beautiful, light almost salmon-colored brown with dark brown stripes along its eyes. It was quite a jumper. We had it in a box (ok, yes an open box) as we carried it back to where it had come from (Den and Brian having brought it to the house for viewing). Our happy parade was interrupted when Christopher exclaimed “oh, cute, it’s itching itself” and then “whoaaaa!!!” when it leapt out and plunged itself into the comfort of the dry brown leaves. Better that way, really. And the bat was nowhere to be found.

Tomorrow we head up to Maine and I am looking forward to that (understatement). Hope the lobsters and oysters have found safe places to hide. If there’s any lousy weather, I plan on making pickled cauliflower from the Well Preserved book I just bought. But only if there’s no sun and no boating — that’s too precious to waste. Bone, the author of the Well-Preserved book, has a blog. I just took a look at her pork and sour cherry recipe — looks tremendous.

Promise I’ll be back with more later.

There are a few things that I am pretty bad at — identifying small birds (it was small and brown), mushrooms (it was umm small and brown?) but one of the most seasonal frustrations I run into is my complete lack of talent in the compost-making department. It may not seem very important to those of you who do not fancy themselves suburban farmers (which, btw, is all the rage) but for anyone who wants to tuck some tomatoes into rich, organic soil, harvest some fresh-snapped peas and so on and so forth, you really must have a nice compost pile.  I will admit that Bay Village is not the most compost-friendly environment (sort of feel odd running out in the morning in my “work” clothes, heels and all, dumping eggshells, lettuce leaves, apple cores and the like into the growing pile beside my little vegetable garden). But dump I do and for those of you who are excellent and worthy composters, yes I alternate “green” material with the food and I make sure it has water and it is in a sunny spot. Poo. It is still lumpy and matted and seems to enjoy resurrecting the food that I am trying so desperately to turn into dirt. By that I mean that I think there is a potato growing out of it at this point. Now my mother? She is a damn good composter. Plunge a pitchfork into her compost pile and turn it over… you will be rewarded with rich, warm earth. Perfection. Arthur felt bad enough for me that when he left for college he made sure to print out this article in his favorite magazine (Arthur) about the Sodfather. Take the time to read the article — he’s a real character.  But read as I might, it has been to no avail.

Which brings me to my mother’s placemats. Stay with me here Since seester had her little boy Luca Mom has taken to frequenting local thrift shops very frequently and snapping all sorts of lovely little things for the baby. At some point in her forays she found what she described as beautiful, multi-colored placemats that were like little rag rugs for your table. They were perfect for the Finger Lakes house she decided if a little musty. So home they came and into the washer. Unfortunately, once removed from the wash, it turned out that they had become a little frayed. My mother said they had grown beards. And what do you do with unruly beards? You trim them naturally. By now we were several days into the saga. It took a few weeks for beard trimming what with gardening, yoga, cooking and etc. And then once they were taken off, the little mats turned in on themselves (think those pot holders we all made as kids). Apparently they aren’t as bright either. Mom skyped me last week and said she thought either they were just fine or I might want to use them as mulch. See? Compost connection made. Oh snap.

So at this point I am a little afraid of what they will look like when she presents them to me. I will take a photo and post it maybe. And then if I can figure out polls I will let us all vote: Compost? or placemat? Only I will have to think of wittier questions.

“That’s it, I’m just going to blog about you!” This was a threat I leveled at Christopher the Younger this morning for reasons that shall become clear in a minute. But of course he thought THAT was pretty funny. And it is quite the 21st century parental threat right?

Anyway, here’s why. At some point last week it came up that he has always liked pineapple and why don’t I ever get it for him and etc… also, he needs fishsticks. Because he is deprived of fish sticks. So, this Sunday, I dutifully stroll over to the pineapples (already cored and not at all local or in season or anything, mind you) and buy him some. And later I get him a box of extra crunchy fish sticks. Then this morning I carefully dice some pineapple up and place it in a lovely white bowl with a fork while he moseys around upstairs (yes, I spoil him and yes I enjoy it). And down he comes and has the nerve to eyeball the pineapple in semi-mock horror. Apparently he does not really like pineapple, just likes to say that he does. Or some such.

So I brought it to work and just now!!! realized that I forgot to eat it.

Anyway, that is why he is in the doghouse with only fishsticks for dinner.

Here is the painting I have finally finished…. it is based on the picture posted below.  I had to crop it a little but it still gives a good sense of where I ended up with it.

Well, Susanna (seester) is taking a terribly long time to have her baby (she started at two am on Saturday morning, so she’s 34 hours in). I have tried everything…. a long walk in the woods, a sit on a big moss-covered rock, hugging my big dog and wishing away any pain that my “baby” sister is feeling. Too much drink before and after dinner so I wouldn’t think, think, think. And then about midnight I gave up and gave myself over to direct thoughts; trying to zero in on her brain and hold her up. It was exhausting. So I slept and then woke up at four this morning for good (why, you ask wasn’t I downstairs at the computer making myself useful and blogging about the results of the pheasant meal? Answer: I was reminding myself that I was raised for the sole purpose of tending to my sister) That latter statement is entirely not true of course. But everything is so stark in the middle of the night and as I said in my toast to her on her wedding day; her little baby self was one of the first lessons in love that I ever had. Clear memory of lying in the middle of the blueberry patch — it’s softer and nicer than it sounds — and holding her little body in my arms in the sun; her funny curls all about her face. And now she’s hooked up to lord knows what machines, in a hospital 6 hours away doing a very hard thing. Giving birth is crazy hard and you think you know. Then you don’t. And each birth takes its own path so no matter the plan (and this one is not going according to plan) you just have to throw it all away and be in whatever experience you are being given — sounds a little like life, yeah?

So on to more mundane and easier subjects. The pheasant was amazing and I riffed on the James Beard recipe so I will describe what I did (but remember the drinking part above? I couldn’t give you exact portions if I tried). This would work with Cornish Games Hens, chicken, rabbit. And contrary to my previous concerns, those pheasants were the very unathletic sort. I believe they were hand fed grapes and maybe, maybe did a few sit-ups once in a blue moon.

When we were in Croton and the boys were babies. Actually, Christopher was only there for three months as a baby (crazy kid, what was he thinking?) we lived next door to Ethel Stein who was, at the time 72.  King street, where we lived, was a short dead end and she and I  spent afternoons talking while Arthur ran from house to house. Ethel was/is a renowned textile artist though really all I knew of her then was that she had exhibited in the Art Institute of Chicago, that she made beautiful pieces, that she made her first weaving from the collected hairs from her Irish wolfhound, Bear. (Those feather-light hairs she wove into a tie for her husband Dick, an architect). When I knew Ethel, she was tremendous and warm and funny. We would sit in her studio with its loom and her backyard curving over the stone wall into mine and talk. She loved Arthur’s brightness (and by that I mean that he was a warm, present baby who could draw people in just by smiling).

Once we went on an excursion to pick berries at an organic raspberry farm, meandering along backroads trying to find the place which was just here, no just here and so on. I’m sure I was driving too slowly, talking and peering. But there was this complete a.hole on my tail, he may have been confused and thought we were playing bumper cars. Anyway, he gunned his engine and rode my tail and I turned into the place finally and, sorry to say, with my wonderful older friend and my little shiny baby in the back, flipped the dude off.

Well, never again (and I mean that, this was 16 years ago and I have never, ever made an assumption that it is ok to react angrily to another stranger on the road). He backed his pickup fast, pulled into the dirt drive behind us , stormed out of this truck (his girlfriend hid her face in her hands). Guy was big and THERE and screaming at me. I brought it down, raised my hands, apologized. He saw my baby and my friend and I think it took the wind out his sails. But what if? There was so much pent up rage in him and I think about how simple anger collides with weapons. Guess I am feeling sensitive to that after today’s stories from Alabama and Germany. We all need to take a deep breath I think. And also, Ethel and I liked to laugh about it after — so writing about her reminded me. She was actually more of an iconoclast and braver than I was at the time. And even now, I think I am working myself up to my full Ethel-ness.

Back to her. She loves this time of year, when every living thing is done waiting and is ready  to POP.  This evening I stood at the kitchen window working on our dinner — the light is so welcome when I get home from my day.  I looked up into the arching trees and their dark buds. “It gets so soft when they all come,” she said once. And we stood and looked up and the light was a very delightful pale green from the myriad baby leaves, peeking out, becoming.

The winter has been so swift and I am happy about that. And I’ve been so immersed in writing, painting, thinking about painting, reading about art. Just ingesting so many things and being very actively engaged. What my creative coaching teacher calls Hungry Mind. Time is washing over me. So, I stand at the window and make an active choice to stop and watch.

I haven’t spoken to Ethel in over a decade but I see by her gallery’s website that she is productive. You can see her sweet face, a bit of her loom, her work at this link. And I imagine she is waiting for another spring. When the leaves come she will notice and I think the time’s rush will slow; strands, threads, the weft and the weave. My best friend and I spoke on the phone tonight and separately, together noticed the full moon. How poignant that shared experience across so many miles and how fleeting it is — the moon is nothing but a marker of time passing.

So it goes.

There

Woke this morning to a new weather system… the wind is whistling through the screens over the pool, several doves are tucked in close to the house, hoo-hooing to the wind and one another. Temp is supposed to plummet today to 55 degrees. But that’s fine — yesterday we were at the beach, sleeping in the sun and listening to the waves come in. Even one of those days can sustain a body for weeks to come.

I also woke with a funny phrase in my head and given my thoughts of late I figured I ought to pay attention. “Well, what do you make of that,” some old voice queried this morning apropos of nothing. I stopped in my tracks (no one around, it’s ok) and the phrase repeated.  What do you MAKE of that?

I’d just been dreaming about a woman I know peripherally through work. In my dream, she had lost her job and was doing about five different (some wonderful) things to make ends meet. And we talked about the variety and the creativity in the variety. And as I checked in to this blog, I noticed a very thoughtful comment to the Fertile Soil post where I announced the change in direction. My commenter, Mary Sweeney, said that she was seeing folks from all over making significant changes because of their economic circumstances and that for many those changes were pretty freeing, actually.

Exactly. It does feel that there is more than economic gloom and all that out there. Some people are grabbing hold of the change and creating more fulfilling lives (though their economic circumstances may be diminished).

So back to what you make of it. I tend to think of these choices as small, daily that then add up to larger change. Think of Dirty Harry only turned sideways — don’t make his day, make your own. And I start (when I remember) with what I call my gratefuls. Sounds corny but try it. Instead of rolling out of bed, glancing at the alarm clock and beginning the river of “I have to, I should, I’d better…” all usually revolving around the morning routine and then maybe the work-day, none of it pleasant, I will make each slow morning movement an opportunity to be grateful. I’m not going to dictate to anyone what this positive litany needs to be, we are each grateful in some way, somehow differently.

And of course, it will change. So today, one foot on the floor and I am grateful to be able to spend some time with Dennis, with not much more to think of then which book to read (then the other thoughts flood in — but, really, Eliza, you ought to be redesigning your blog since you’ve changed it!) So I focus on the other foot, another breath. I am grateful for my two healthy boys, both fast asleep. I am grateful for my health. I am grateful for just another day, really. And so on. Creating that open, present space at the very beginning of the day changes the day.

So, for those of you prone to exercises. Do this. Make a mental note of what you are grateful for. Keep making those notes throughout the day (if you like, you can write them down). Send them my way if you want to share! Then tomorrow, when you get up, literally slow your body and mind down, paying careful attention to your progress from bed to bathroom (or wherever you first head) and say your gratefuls. It’s nice and for that alone it’s worth doing. And don’t worry if it feels as if there’s no point. There doesn’t have to be.

We are on vacation in Reunion, Florida which is a planned, gated community outside of Orlando Florida. Artificial anyone? The house is one owned by the company where Dennis works and we are lucky enough to be able to stay here as a perk — so I am by no means complaining. Just trying to put the atmosphere into context because, of course, my plan with my pencils and sketchbook was to do little drawings of the place and longer bits if I found visual inspiration. And, frankly, there is not much visual fodder about. And the lesson, I think is that you do need to try and surround yourself with objects that provide that kind of nourishment because, right now I am not seeing it. There’s a challenge there, too, I guess.

I suppose I ought to describe the decor? It is as if someone went into Bombay and bought out the place. It’s that simple. The light is lovely though. It is sunny and the light is clear, certainly harsher than the Cleveland winter sun (which has lately been a pretty oxymoronic statement, i.e., I don’t remember seeing that strange golden orb as of late).

But in a reminder that inspiration is always there (it’s just a matter of, as the title to this post says, staying open, looking and perhaps more in another post about the fact that looking doesn’t always lead to seeing), anyway, back to inspiration. I headed out to the front porch to sit in one of the rockers and saw that everyone in this very regular place gets a nice regular USA Today. I picked it up and scanned and there was a piece by Edna Gunderson who is a very well-respected rock journalist and has written for USA Today for as long as I can remember — about the new U2 Album. (warning, that is a link to their myspace page and one of the songs sort of automatically plays so it you are in a contemplative mood, don’t bother going there).

It’s such a telling piece. I have heard some of the songs and they are terrific, and according to what I’m hearing it’s one their best albums since Joshua Tree or Achtung Baby. After all these years, they continue to explore and produce sonically challenging songs. Here is Bono describing why it worked. “The band says its self-confidence is the first casualty during months of studio skydiving and spelunking.

“you don’t get this much attitude if you’re not insecure,” Bono says with a laugh. “Insecurity is our best security, and the moment we lost that insecurity, we’re in deep trouble. It’s important to be out of our depth.”

How true. The moment the creative process becomes formulaic, it loses its relevance. Another interesting point within the piece is the band discussing how there is no one way to develop a “U2″ song. “The only thing that is consistent is the search for inspiration,” says Edge. I suppose someone might shrug that statement off as a nicely rehearsed quote for the upcoming press junkets except that the album was much delayed by that very creative process. Edge even admits that they wanted to finish earlier but that the songs weren’t finished with them.

And I love that image. The idea, that if you delve deep enough into your art, it will take on its own timetable, frustrating as that might be. Funny, I just “got” the title of the album — No Line On the Horizon — no end in sight is there?

I have, I am ashamed to say, many gadgets that I either have never used or have used once or twice. I have a feeling though that I am not alone. So, I will list mine in the hopes that we can all remember to stop once, take a breath and maybe not go there next time we are beginning to be seduced by the whatever-it-is-I-must-have-right-now-because-surely-it-will… improve my cooking, change my life. Most of my purchases in the not so distant past were themed around the idea that I was going to make my own, preserve my own whatever. So, I have a yogurt maker and a food drier and a champion juicer. The yogurt maker has never been opened. The food drier actually turns out to be useful — I dried lots of blueberries and cherries last summer and apples in the fall. I did buy a smoker which I have posted about and which I do use. The champion juicer is probably the worst offender because it was pricey and I asked for it for my birthday. We used it once or twice but it was a pain to clean and it is really disheartening to put so much of a fruit or vegetable into something and get this piddly little puddle of juice out the other end.

My ex-mother-in-law used to have one and she put frozen cantelopes in or frozen bananas and we had delicious sorbet-type desserts but I never was able to recreate that in my one or two paltry attempts at resurrecting that particular food memory.

I say all this because I almost, almost bought a pasta roller yesterday after reading Michael Ruhlman’s post on pesto and homemade pasta. There was a lovely photo of a sheet of fresh pasta and a nice simple pasta recipe to accompany. And I thought, “why, fresh pasta! I’ve always wanted one of those roller-thingies!” But then reason took over and mentioned to me several things. One, you can buy some damn nice pasta in this town, made by good people (Ohio City Pasta) who should go ahead and make their living. Two, how often do you eat pasta, anyway? Three, when you do eat pasta, it’s your easy go-to meal, not your major production meal. Four, Michael Ruhlman is a professional chef, he should have the time to do this stuff. And so on.

I backed slowly away from the Williams-Sonoma site and curled my clicking fingers up into careful little curls.

Saved….

I do, however, want to make this: Ravioli from Nice from Lydie Marshall’s Chez Nous cookbook.  The raviolis are stuffed with left-over meat from beef stews and spinach, a little parmesan and some sour cream stirred into the spinach. In order to make this dish, you need the left-over beef as well as left-over beef stew juices and rich broth. I have, at this point, the left-over beef from a very good pot roast recipe which I made this past week and I will cook up a broth today since I have the time.

You can freeze these raviolis and that is my plan since I can’t take anything due to a nasty cold that has taken hold of first Arthur, then Christopher, then me (I think it is busying itself trying to find a way into Dennis at this very moment).  And, as usual lately, I don’t want to post the recipe until I have tried it and, in this case, simplified what looks like a pretty lengthy process (wait, didn’t I just say that pasta was my easy-go-to meal?) Hmm.

And here is the Pot Roast Recipe — it is from the cookbook that came with my 1/4 beef, Bucky (now how many of you can say you got a cookbook with your cow?).