My sister Sharon was mercifully released from the grips of breast cancer this morning. She and I had a complicated relationship. So much lost, too little found.
We shared a love of music and my nascent tastes were the fruit of hers - Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt, Laura Nyro – though through the years, I'd occasionally return the favor. She worked as a sound engineer at several D.C. venues and well-known artists would specifically request her services, such as Nancy Wilson, who wrote Fred and me a note of apology and good wishes a week before our wedding when Sharon was supposed to be at a pre-nuptual event, but was instead with family of a different sort. In fact, the majority of my favorite memories center on the ways music enabled her to connect, and not just with me – on the Kirby Scott show (in an orange windowpane suit she sewed); at the Civic Center seeing the Beatles; in musicals at Northwestern High School; playing her guitar; scrubbing Anita Baker and Patti Austin tracks of vocals so I could serenade Fred at our wedding; and the haunting and ultimately heartbreaking full-length feature of my family she crafted from home movie patches and tape-recorded snippets, on top of which she laid the perfect soundtrack. I can’t bear to watch the thing, what with the shots of Daddy cuddling little blond me in Bubbie and Zadie’s backyard to the strains of Debarge’s “Who’s Holding Donna Now?” and the video and audio of Shabbos dinner at Grandma’a house around what is now my table, set to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family” and Grandma’s surprisingly thick Russian inflection.
I sat at that table tonight and remembered Sharon was smart, sensitive, a wicked Scrabble player, articulate, funny, and the sweet side of saucy and sassy. The me who emerged from my chrysalis in my twenties and gained so much confidence in my thirties is partially a product of trying to emulate the best of her. Why she and I never could connect long-term is a question, one maybe I’ve wrongly avoided asking, even today in my grief, though until a few years ago I didn’t fully appreciate her significant challenges. It was more than the cancer that made her disappear. I used to describe the twenty-two hours she spent as a guest in my Rehoboth house as the worst in my life, and it’s not because she ran into it with her car, but because of the crash course I got of another kind.
It is somehow appropriate that freedom was delivered during Passover. The fifteen stanzas of Dayenu, for her (and my mother) the pinnacle of the seder, all conclude with the word dayenu, the translation of which means "it would have been enough," and though for any of us there could probably never be enough, she miraculously managed to eke out another year after last year's crisis. She even breathed two days past Wednesday morning's dire prediction. I wish she had fought as hard to live her life as she fought having it taken away.
10 April 2009
24 October 2008
The Colour of Happy
Just before EBDI quitting time late last Friday afternoon, the west wall of our Ashland Avenue Victorian jewelbox, to which my office is attached, bounced the sun into the north-facing windows of my carriage house perch, transforming my ho-hum-hued office with sublime light the most exquisite shade? tint? colour? Of what? Light definitely has a colour - just go fluorescent or incandescent bulb shopping, at least while you still can. Notice the way a room colour changes throughout the day. Think about why painters prefer north-facing studios.
Perhaps what I observed best resembles the look of a simply celestial Rehoboth summer sunrise, the early-morning uber-rosy glow of the east-facing salmon-pink brick rowhouses meeting my gaze across the way, that same glow infused with unobstructed mid-summer high-octane first light pouring in from across the Fallsway and settling on everything near the corner of Calvert and Chase streets (stand there - you'll get it), and the late afternoon fire that ever so briefly blazes the cornices of Oliver’s ramshackle grand houses lining Preston Street.
But no words sufficiently capture what I mean and what I see. Maybe Anu Garg, founder of Wordsmith.org, which five days a week sends me A Word A Day (with which my chum Albert and I compose dueling haikus), might know a word that means TGIF, as I associate last Friday's type of light with almost every sunny Friday of my life, beginning with the flat-out happiest times of my childhood - late Friday afternoons, particularly in fall, often clad in plaid, venturing a few miles over to Grandma's house for the warmth and comfort and pleasure of Shabbos dinner the way it's never tasted since, for seemingly the briefest moment in time with my parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and Grandma and step-grandfather all squished together 'round that precious mahogany inlaid table that became my most prized possession, along with the matching demilunes, Hepplewhite chairs, and Potthast breakfront. In June 1999, I marched into the crowded Bolton Hill Wednesday broker's open for my house, whipped out my tape measure to confirm my eyes had accurately assessed that the demilunes would neatly tuck into the recesses either side of the tiled, pier-mirrored fireplace, and proclaimed victorious my search for a house worthy of Grandma's furniture.
More than nine years and countless dollars later spent mostly on things not seen, rehab still hasn't reached the dining room, which still wears colors (spelled without the u on purpose) chosen by the clueless owner twice removed - idiotic imperceptibly pink walls plus crown moulding and a jaw-dropping Eastlake ceiling medallion polychromed in puke - but even with my hypersensitivity to colour, I love and revere that room.
My friends gather there and I serve them approximations of what Grandma made and when they ask for recipes, I repeat her oft-used line: "I'll make it for you." It wasn't about wanting to keep the recipe close, but keeping her family close by.
She was my champion, my biggest fan, and the most important person in my life. I dialed her every single day right after school (484-0098). If I could have five minutes more with anyone, it would hands-down be with her, though as I strongly feel her presence in my dining room, she's always with me. Every day I sit at the head of the table for a moment or two after work or when I need clarity and courage. If need be, I lay my head on the table like an ear to the ground and always hear which way to go.
I focus on the Bradbury and Bradbury Aesthetic Movement and Herter Brothers wallpapers tacked about and dream of the day twenty or more might, in Eastlake fashion authentic to this house, co-mingle on the walls and ceilings, restoring this room, and the rest of this spec-built 1883 house, to its original papered glory touted in an 1884 Baltimore Sun for-sale ad; and hope to see the mouldings and the shutters liberated of layers of haphazardly applied white paint obscuring poplar masquerading as walnut. I fantasize how food, simple or opulent, will look against a crazy quilt of colours and patterns and imagine I’ll savour, even more, my guests enjoying those beautiful meals. It’s endlessly amusing to remember that Grandma's walls were white, a room colour I neither understand nor tolerate, though of course it mattered not a whit then, as now. Friends and family are the real colour in a room.
But absent beating hearts, or on a cold grey dank day, my dining room is still filled with an ethereal light maybe only I can see. It is the colour of happy.
Perhaps what I observed best resembles the look of a simply celestial Rehoboth summer sunrise, the early-morning uber-rosy glow of the east-facing salmon-pink brick rowhouses meeting my gaze across the way, that same glow infused with unobstructed mid-summer high-octane first light pouring in from across the Fallsway and settling on everything near the corner of Calvert and Chase streets (stand there - you'll get it), and the late afternoon fire that ever so briefly blazes the cornices of Oliver’s ramshackle grand houses lining Preston Street.
But no words sufficiently capture what I mean and what I see. Maybe Anu Garg, founder of Wordsmith.org, which five days a week sends me A Word A Day (with which my chum Albert and I compose dueling haikus), might know a word that means TGIF, as I associate last Friday's type of light with almost every sunny Friday of my life, beginning with the flat-out happiest times of my childhood - late Friday afternoons, particularly in fall, often clad in plaid, venturing a few miles over to Grandma's house for the warmth and comfort and pleasure of Shabbos dinner the way it's never tasted since, for seemingly the briefest moment in time with my parents and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins and Grandma and step-grandfather all squished together 'round that precious mahogany inlaid table that became my most prized possession, along with the matching demilunes, Hepplewhite chairs, and Potthast breakfront. In June 1999, I marched into the crowded Bolton Hill Wednesday broker's open for my house, whipped out my tape measure to confirm my eyes had accurately assessed that the demilunes would neatly tuck into the recesses either side of the tiled, pier-mirrored fireplace, and proclaimed victorious my search for a house worthy of Grandma's furniture.
More than nine years and countless dollars later spent mostly on things not seen, rehab still hasn't reached the dining room, which still wears colors (spelled without the u on purpose) chosen by the clueless owner twice removed - idiotic imperceptibly pink walls plus crown moulding and a jaw-dropping Eastlake ceiling medallion polychromed in puke - but even with my hypersensitivity to colour, I love and revere that room.
My friends gather there and I serve them approximations of what Grandma made and when they ask for recipes, I repeat her oft-used line: "I'll make it for you." It wasn't about wanting to keep the recipe close, but keeping her family close by.
She was my champion, my biggest fan, and the most important person in my life. I dialed her every single day right after school (484-0098). If I could have five minutes more with anyone, it would hands-down be with her, though as I strongly feel her presence in my dining room, she's always with me. Every day I sit at the head of the table for a moment or two after work or when I need clarity and courage. If need be, I lay my head on the table like an ear to the ground and always hear which way to go.
I focus on the Bradbury and Bradbury Aesthetic Movement and Herter Brothers wallpapers tacked about and dream of the day twenty or more might, in Eastlake fashion authentic to this house, co-mingle on the walls and ceilings, restoring this room, and the rest of this spec-built 1883 house, to its original papered glory touted in an 1884 Baltimore Sun for-sale ad; and hope to see the mouldings and the shutters liberated of layers of haphazardly applied white paint obscuring poplar masquerading as walnut. I fantasize how food, simple or opulent, will look against a crazy quilt of colours and patterns and imagine I’ll savour, even more, my guests enjoying those beautiful meals. It’s endlessly amusing to remember that Grandma's walls were white, a room colour I neither understand nor tolerate, though of course it mattered not a whit then, as now. Friends and family are the real colour in a room.
But absent beating hearts, or on a cold grey dank day, my dining room is still filled with an ethereal light maybe only I can see. It is the colour of happy.
01 August 2008
My Blue Heaven
The value and importance - really the necessity - of home clearly cuts across class. Everyone seeks comfort and shelter and sanctuary in some way, even those with next to nothing. Two Baltimore Sun items yesterday morning speak eloquently to this point.
Stephen Elliott, a former heroin addict, was homeless until Deanne Callegary and L.R. Wagner, volunteers at a shelter he frequented, performed an audacious act of tikkun olam (Hebrew for repairing the world) and invited him to live in their barn and tend their goats. I often question the worthiness of human-interest, front-page Baltimore Sun picks, but not this one. Mr. Elliott understands and appreciates his great good fortune, channeling, in an admittedly unusual way, the words I wrote two months ago "If you're lucky, home is where you're comfortable, safe, and loved." I hope and pray this humble place of healing and blessings will compel Mr. Elliott to find his way all the way home, whenever and wherever he himself determines that to be.
The second article appeared, oddly, in the police blotter (are certain items included just to make sure we're paying attention - I mean, who doesn't remember last year's theft of the Woodlawn garden tomato with a street value of three dollars?). Too short to excerpt, here it is in its entirety: "Police were seeking an apparently homeless person who forcibly entered a storage locker in the basement of an apartment building in the 300 block of Pleasant Ridge Road on or about July 25 and lived there for a short period of time. While in the storage room, the person painted the walls blue and improvised a burglar alarm by placing a bucket full of water atop the door so that anyone who attempted to enter would be soaked."
Blue hues prompt feelings of relaxation, harmony, and holiness and in some cultures the colour blue is thought to chase away evil spirits. Our enterprising storage room resident made himself comfortable and safe and, my, he must really love blue. His temporary lodgings may have been his Taj Mahal to Mr. Elliott's barn to the place from where most of us are truly lucky enough to be reading this.
Stephen Elliott, a former heroin addict, was homeless until Deanne Callegary and L.R. Wagner, volunteers at a shelter he frequented, performed an audacious act of tikkun olam (Hebrew for repairing the world) and invited him to live in their barn and tend their goats. I often question the worthiness of human-interest, front-page Baltimore Sun picks, but not this one. Mr. Elliott understands and appreciates his great good fortune, channeling, in an admittedly unusual way, the words I wrote two months ago "If you're lucky, home is where you're comfortable, safe, and loved." I hope and pray this humble place of healing and blessings will compel Mr. Elliott to find his way all the way home, whenever and wherever he himself determines that to be.
The second article appeared, oddly, in the police blotter (are certain items included just to make sure we're paying attention - I mean, who doesn't remember last year's theft of the Woodlawn garden tomato with a street value of three dollars?). Too short to excerpt, here it is in its entirety: "Police were seeking an apparently homeless person who forcibly entered a storage locker in the basement of an apartment building in the 300 block of Pleasant Ridge Road on or about July 25 and lived there for a short period of time. While in the storage room, the person painted the walls blue and improvised a burglar alarm by placing a bucket full of water atop the door so that anyone who attempted to enter would be soaked."
Blue hues prompt feelings of relaxation, harmony, and holiness and in some cultures the colour blue is thought to chase away evil spirits. Our enterprising storage room resident made himself comfortable and safe and, my, he must really love blue. His temporary lodgings may have been his Taj Mahal to Mr. Elliott's barn to the place from where most of us are truly lucky enough to be reading this.
20 July 2008
Cross Hairs
While I prefer to think I'm found memorable for my mind, it seems I'm often unforgettable for my hair - or, for the past ten years, the lack thereof. My hair has been up, down, and all around. Its current length is no declaration of my politics, sexuality, or anything else. Quite simply, it makes me feel utterly and completely beautiful. I've stopped being astounded at the reactions I get, every day, often multiple times a day. Women constantly tell me how good it looks and how much they admire me for it - the caveat being that some of my female friends worry it's an impediment to happiness. Gay men generally love it and hetero men mostly hate it or have to work their way into acceptance. So silly - I'm still the same person (well, actually, better with the perspective age brings) who had a braid down to the tush, a perfect Louise Brooks bob, a short curly (constantly expensive) perm, and everything in between.
For the past few weeks, for reasons completely incomprehensible to me, negative comments on my hair have ramped up to a level difficult (even for me) to ignore - prompting even more navel-gazing in a summer already way too stuffed with it (as readers of my three blogs have no doubt observed). I never say never about anything, so, sure, I'd let it grow for the right reason, whatever and/or whenever that might be, but in the meantime - if this is one - please just leave me be.
And so from the "I Couldn't Make This Up If I Tried" department, walking through Mount Vernon last night en route to Iggies (OMG the funghi and Alice pizzas), deep in thought the entire way about my hair (what a thorough waste of time), I encountered a conventional-looking chap about my age, wearing an Orioles shirt, baseball cap, etc., who, as he was about to pass, said "Nice hair!" Of course, that stopped me in my tracks for all the obvious reasons and a brief conversation ensued, during which he asked if my 'do posed a problem at work (I'm still puzzled by this question), and as it was just cut (every two weeks - thanks Linda) and still looks and feels like lush silk velvet, he asked what a lot of people ask - could he touch it? - and I saw no reason not to oblige.
The universe, as usual, provided exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it, and today, this velvet head is busy thinking about things much more important.
For the past few weeks, for reasons completely incomprehensible to me, negative comments on my hair have ramped up to a level difficult (even for me) to ignore - prompting even more navel-gazing in a summer already way too stuffed with it (as readers of my three blogs have no doubt observed). I never say never about anything, so, sure, I'd let it grow for the right reason, whatever and/or whenever that might be, but in the meantime - if this is one - please just leave me be.
And so from the "I Couldn't Make This Up If I Tried" department, walking through Mount Vernon last night en route to Iggies (OMG the funghi and Alice pizzas), deep in thought the entire way about my hair (what a thorough waste of time), I encountered a conventional-looking chap about my age, wearing an Orioles shirt, baseball cap, etc., who, as he was about to pass, said "Nice hair!" Of course, that stopped me in my tracks for all the obvious reasons and a brief conversation ensued, during which he asked if my 'do posed a problem at work (I'm still puzzled by this question), and as it was just cut (every two weeks - thanks Linda) and still looks and feels like lush silk velvet, he asked what a lot of people ask - could he touch it? - and I saw no reason not to oblige.
The universe, as usual, provided exactly what I needed exactly when I needed it, and today, this velvet head is busy thinking about things much more important.
26 June 2008
What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life?
I wasn't a minute into my Rehoboth house when something told me to flip on the TV and there it was - mid-afternoon, wall-to-wall coverage of the sudden passing of Tim Russert, my secret Sunday crush. My usual blue May/June bad mood went black and I practically unprecedentedly took to my bed, pinned by emotional G-forces beyond my comprehension and control.
And then, thankfully, as the sun sank, my mood rose. I'm not sure how or why I was suddenly aware that on that day, the thirteenth of June - 6.13 - I was the exact age - 35 days short of 49 years - my mother was on the day that she died. If there was any comfort in that realization, it's that 613 is a very significant number in Judaism - the number of commandments in the Torah.
Today, on what would have been my Daddy's 79th birthday, I remember that in 2003 - though I didn't realize it until a few months later - I had visited Amish country, a close-by, but nonetheless, never-explored place about which I had always been curious, on the day I was the exact age - 48 days short of 44 years - my father was on the day that he died. I spent a fabulous day antiquing, eating, and buggy-watching with a treasured friend, capped by a return trip in a thunderstorm so torrential that it brought all highway traffic to a halt. I smile and think of that day every time I (try to) use the long-sought and procured that day, over-priced, 1930s green-handled cherry pitter that refuses to stay clamped to the table.
On 6.14, I embarked on my customary 5:00 AM sharp, four mile bike ride to the boardwalk, having outlived both parents - a little scared, but ultimately joyful and grateful to be launched into unexplored territory.
And then, thankfully, as the sun sank, my mood rose. I'm not sure how or why I was suddenly aware that on that day, the thirteenth of June - 6.13 - I was the exact age - 35 days short of 49 years - my mother was on the day that she died. If there was any comfort in that realization, it's that 613 is a very significant number in Judaism - the number of commandments in the Torah.
Today, on what would have been my Daddy's 79th birthday, I remember that in 2003 - though I didn't realize it until a few months later - I had visited Amish country, a close-by, but nonetheless, never-explored place about which I had always been curious, on the day I was the exact age - 48 days short of 44 years - my father was on the day that he died. I spent a fabulous day antiquing, eating, and buggy-watching with a treasured friend, capped by a return trip in a thunderstorm so torrential that it brought all highway traffic to a halt. I smile and think of that day every time I (try to) use the long-sought and procured that day, over-priced, 1930s green-handled cherry pitter that refuses to stay clamped to the table.
On 6.14, I embarked on my customary 5:00 AM sharp, four mile bike ride to the boardwalk, having outlived both parents - a little scared, but ultimately joyful and grateful to be launched into unexplored territory.
16 June 2008
Not For All The Tea In China
As owner of Baltimore's favourite tea room, I harbored a pretty fantastic secret - I was, and still am, a total coffee maven. Even the prized Old Waverly tea, a secret blend concocted by me and the late Tom Thompson of the Coffee Mill, failed to hold my interest. The only tea I truly enjoy, even sometimes crave, is oolong. Twining's oolong. In the bag, if you must know. Been drinking it for decades.
So imagine my surprise when a search of Giant, Super Fresh, Eddie's Saint Paul, Eddie's Roland Park, and Whole Foods yielded none - and it was not merely out of stock, but eliminated from their product lines. Instead, their shelves are crowded with a jumble of black and green and (the newly sexy) red and white teas in pretty boxes, all pretty much tasting the same.
Black tea is fermented, green tea is not, and oolong is right in the middle. It's not accurate, however, to say the taste is an average of black and green. I liken it more to tea as liqueur. All three types have essentially the same health benefits, though I am amused at endless on-line stories reporting oolong tea as a weight-loss tool. If that were true, I would have looked like a super-model in college and grad school.
I never buy in the county what can be obtained in Baltimore City and I never buy on-line what can be had somewhat locally. So it was with an air of exasperation and resignation that I clicked the amazon.com checkout button to order this staple of life.
So imagine my surprise when a search of Giant, Super Fresh, Eddie's Saint Paul, Eddie's Roland Park, and Whole Foods yielded none - and it was not merely out of stock, but eliminated from their product lines. Instead, their shelves are crowded with a jumble of black and green and (the newly sexy) red and white teas in pretty boxes, all pretty much tasting the same.
Black tea is fermented, green tea is not, and oolong is right in the middle. It's not accurate, however, to say the taste is an average of black and green. I liken it more to tea as liqueur. All three types have essentially the same health benefits, though I am amused at endless on-line stories reporting oolong tea as a weight-loss tool. If that were true, I would have looked like a super-model in college and grad school.
I never buy in the county what can be obtained in Baltimore City and I never buy on-line what can be had somewhat locally. So it was with an air of exasperation and resignation that I clicked the amazon.com checkout button to order this staple of life.
04 February 2008
Good Night, My Sweet Pet(s)
It was one of those life-changing, door closing/door opening (though I didn't immediately know it) moments. I was at the Waverly Farmers Market in February 1993 when I saw a man with two of the most breathtaking dogs (that were not mine), spaniels of some sort. I could tell he was asked about them endlessly as he patiently told me they were English cocker spaniels and gave me the breeder's name.
I called Mary Ann Alston the same day and told her I would be interested in a puppy sometime in the future, as my Sascha, my first dog - a spaniel-sheltie mix and the greatest birthday present I have ever received - was thirteen and a half and I was just trying to be realistic. Little did I know I would call her again just two weeks later, as Sascha collapsed the night after my initial call and died two weeks later of cancer.
So afterwards, immediately needing to give my heart away again, I called Mary Ann and inquired about puppies. She told me she had a four month old puppy she still had not decided would be pet or show (usually determined by two months), but that the puppy was going to a new home in Japan. I was invited, nonetheless, to experience what English cocker puppyhood looked like.
Knowing I could not have her, I hoped the fence separating me from the puppy would also foster emotional distance. Fat chance. With her blue roan coat, she was a thousand times more exotic than the black and white-coated dogs I saw at the farmers market. Every description of English cockers includes the words "merry" and "melting eyes" and I knew at that moment that the puppy stage of all this would make every frustration of housebreaking and training worth it. I left Millersville dejected and heartbroken that the love of my life would soon be on the other side of the world.
Cut to the very next day and the miracle. Mary Ann decided the puppy just didn't quite measure up to show quality - or should I say measure down, declaring that the tail sat the tiniest smidgeon below the breed standard. With that, the Japanese buyer backed out. I still consider that Mary Ann performed a mission of mercy for the puppy, but even more so for me.
Sophie (named after Sascha, who was named after my daddy, Sam) came home and as soon as I set her down, my perfectly-behaved greyhound, Hannah, promptly clamped down on Sophie's entire face, as if this were the hors d'oeuvre of her dreams. With my scream, Hannah unclenched, but the very next time I let the two near each other, Sophie walked right up to Hannah and patiently waited for her to do it again. After six years of regarding Hannah's extreme interest in squirrels and bunnies, I realized she had no bloodlust in her eyes for Sophie and I came to understand it was all about dominance and not dinner. This particular manifestation of their lovefest continued for years, with Sophie usually initiating the game. Hannah would ever-so-tenderly clamp Sophie's snout in her mouth, and as soon as she released it, Sophie would bug her to do it again.
I often joked that I maintained an almost hairless head so as to finance Sophie's monthly grooming appointment and I was never ashamed to proclaim how vain I was about her beauty. She sometimes glared at me while being groomed and I told her being fabulous was hard work, but once off the table, you could almost hear her say "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." And it was her beauty, not to mention her quintessential English cocker merriment, that delighted all who encountered her.
Hannah dropped dead at thirteen and a half, probably from a stroke. Up to that day, she had been hale and hearty and looked years younger. I think she just didn't want any part of moving from Charles Village to Bolton Hill. It was obvious Sophie missed Hannah and once ensconced in Bolton Hill, would moan and wail endlessly whenever left alone (the kitty, Simcha, apparently not providing adequate company). I could hear Sophie howling up and down the block and my new neighbors were beside themselves. Sophie was pining away for her former habitat, and I imagined, a canine companion, so I called Mary Ann again.
Hennie, the exceptional blue roan offspring of Playboy and Peaches, arrived after a long wait for her conception, gestation, birth, and vetting, but this is not a completely happy story. After the first few years, an exceedingly rare condition emerged, ideopathic aggression, with no known cause or cure. Drugs can't completely control Ms. Jekyl/Hyde, and after winding up in the ER one Christmas night with a bite to my face, I should have said enough is enough. What stopped me, I suppose, was the sight of Sophie and Hennie mostly snuggled together like puzzle pieces and the intoxicating combination of pride and vanity I felt when accepting the constant compliments on my two stunning dogs.
Hennie attacked Sophie about a dozen times over the years, though never once drawing blood. But in the middle of the other night, she did. And although just last month, her vet, the amazingly intuitive and compassionate Dr. Bill Benson, marveled while treating her for high blood pressure at just how young she was for a fifteen year old English cocker, this episode proved too much for her - something about platelets and red blood cells and her age - and at 6:13 PM tonight, she was gone.
English cockers rarely make it past twelve, yet even recently I was asked if Sophie were the younger of the pair. Every day with my best friend was a blessing, especially those of the bonus years. In my last hours with her at Dr. Benson's, I told my still-stupendously gorgeous Sophie how much I loved her, asked her how she heard cucumbers being removed from the fridge (not carrots, not peppers, not cheese - only cucumbers), and thanked her for taking care of me in ways only a dog can.
Instead of cruising 695 and 795 earlier today to Dr. Benson's in Reisterstown, I snaked my way through Greenspring Valley, imagining all the while that it was the British countryside and I was in a pair of Wellies and Sophie and I were romping in the mist and headed towards tea by the old Aga stove after a day flushing out birds. That hazy fantasy, and the knowledge I could not have loved her more, plus the unwavering belief that she and Hannah have been reunited, is what holds me together at this moment. And I’m secure she's in a place where every day will be a great hair day - without ever again enduring the groomer.
But nothing will assuage very different feelings, of guilt and regret, as I prepare to put Hennie down. Mary Ann and Dr. Benson tell me there is no escaping the illness that sends her growling and snarling at me for no reason. Sometimes I am afraid of my own dog and worry she'll bite someone else. Of course, she must be gone before I can get another dog. Due to liability issues, English cocker rescue and the SPCA will not take her. For years, until I had to confront it, I pooh-poohed the notion that we know the exact right time to ease a pet to a painless end. This is different. She's sick in mind but not in body. I am bereft in a whole other uncharted way.
Almost instantaneously going from a two-dog household to a no-dog one is unfathomable and cruel beyond belief, and all because one dog hastened the other's death. I got Hennie because Sophie needed a companion, but this fairy tale ends in a nightmare.
I called Mary Ann Alston the same day and told her I would be interested in a puppy sometime in the future, as my Sascha, my first dog - a spaniel-sheltie mix and the greatest birthday present I have ever received - was thirteen and a half and I was just trying to be realistic. Little did I know I would call her again just two weeks later, as Sascha collapsed the night after my initial call and died two weeks later of cancer.
So afterwards, immediately needing to give my heart away again, I called Mary Ann and inquired about puppies. She told me she had a four month old puppy she still had not decided would be pet or show (usually determined by two months), but that the puppy was going to a new home in Japan. I was invited, nonetheless, to experience what English cocker puppyhood looked like.
Knowing I could not have her, I hoped the fence separating me from the puppy would also foster emotional distance. Fat chance. With her blue roan coat, she was a thousand times more exotic than the black and white-coated dogs I saw at the farmers market. Every description of English cockers includes the words "merry" and "melting eyes" and I knew at that moment that the puppy stage of all this would make every frustration of housebreaking and training worth it. I left Millersville dejected and heartbroken that the love of my life would soon be on the other side of the world.
Cut to the very next day and the miracle. Mary Ann decided the puppy just didn't quite measure up to show quality - or should I say measure down, declaring that the tail sat the tiniest smidgeon below the breed standard. With that, the Japanese buyer backed out. I still consider that Mary Ann performed a mission of mercy for the puppy, but even more so for me.
Sophie (named after Sascha, who was named after my daddy, Sam) came home and as soon as I set her down, my perfectly-behaved greyhound, Hannah, promptly clamped down on Sophie's entire face, as if this were the hors d'oeuvre of her dreams. With my scream, Hannah unclenched, but the very next time I let the two near each other, Sophie walked right up to Hannah and patiently waited for her to do it again. After six years of regarding Hannah's extreme interest in squirrels and bunnies, I realized she had no bloodlust in her eyes for Sophie and I came to understand it was all about dominance and not dinner. This particular manifestation of their lovefest continued for years, with Sophie usually initiating the game. Hannah would ever-so-tenderly clamp Sophie's snout in her mouth, and as soon as she released it, Sophie would bug her to do it again.
I often joked that I maintained an almost hairless head so as to finance Sophie's monthly grooming appointment and I was never ashamed to proclaim how vain I was about her beauty. She sometimes glared at me while being groomed and I told her being fabulous was hard work, but once off the table, you could almost hear her say "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful." And it was her beauty, not to mention her quintessential English cocker merriment, that delighted all who encountered her.
Hannah dropped dead at thirteen and a half, probably from a stroke. Up to that day, she had been hale and hearty and looked years younger. I think she just didn't want any part of moving from Charles Village to Bolton Hill. It was obvious Sophie missed Hannah and once ensconced in Bolton Hill, would moan and wail endlessly whenever left alone (the kitty, Simcha, apparently not providing adequate company). I could hear Sophie howling up and down the block and my new neighbors were beside themselves. Sophie was pining away for her former habitat, and I imagined, a canine companion, so I called Mary Ann again.
Hennie, the exceptional blue roan offspring of Playboy and Peaches, arrived after a long wait for her conception, gestation, birth, and vetting, but this is not a completely happy story. After the first few years, an exceedingly rare condition emerged, ideopathic aggression, with no known cause or cure. Drugs can't completely control Ms. Jekyl/Hyde, and after winding up in the ER one Christmas night with a bite to my face, I should have said enough is enough. What stopped me, I suppose, was the sight of Sophie and Hennie mostly snuggled together like puzzle pieces and the intoxicating combination of pride and vanity I felt when accepting the constant compliments on my two stunning dogs.
Hennie attacked Sophie about a dozen times over the years, though never once drawing blood. But in the middle of the other night, she did. And although just last month, her vet, the amazingly intuitive and compassionate Dr. Bill Benson, marveled while treating her for high blood pressure at just how young she was for a fifteen year old English cocker, this episode proved too much for her - something about platelets and red blood cells and her age - and at 6:13 PM tonight, she was gone.
English cockers rarely make it past twelve, yet even recently I was asked if Sophie were the younger of the pair. Every day with my best friend was a blessing, especially those of the bonus years. In my last hours with her at Dr. Benson's, I told my still-stupendously gorgeous Sophie how much I loved her, asked her how she heard cucumbers being removed from the fridge (not carrots, not peppers, not cheese - only cucumbers), and thanked her for taking care of me in ways only a dog can.
Instead of cruising 695 and 795 earlier today to Dr. Benson's in Reisterstown, I snaked my way through Greenspring Valley, imagining all the while that it was the British countryside and I was in a pair of Wellies and Sophie and I were romping in the mist and headed towards tea by the old Aga stove after a day flushing out birds. That hazy fantasy, and the knowledge I could not have loved her more, plus the unwavering belief that she and Hannah have been reunited, is what holds me together at this moment. And I’m secure she's in a place where every day will be a great hair day - without ever again enduring the groomer.
But nothing will assuage very different feelings, of guilt and regret, as I prepare to put Hennie down. Mary Ann and Dr. Benson tell me there is no escaping the illness that sends her growling and snarling at me for no reason. Sometimes I am afraid of my own dog and worry she'll bite someone else. Of course, she must be gone before I can get another dog. Due to liability issues, English cocker rescue and the SPCA will not take her. For years, until I had to confront it, I pooh-poohed the notion that we know the exact right time to ease a pet to a painless end. This is different. She's sick in mind but not in body. I am bereft in a whole other uncharted way.
Almost instantaneously going from a two-dog household to a no-dog one is unfathomable and cruel beyond belief, and all because one dog hastened the other's death. I got Hennie because Sophie needed a companion, but this fairy tale ends in a nightmare.
23 December 2007
My Christmas Prayer
Here it is, well past noon on Sunday, and by now I'm usually long-finished with the Baltimore Sun and deep into the New York Times, but not today. I tire of those who say there's nothing to read in the Sun and today, there's almost too much.
The Ideas section is especially rich today. If prioritizing because time is short, don't miss the Q&A with Dr. William Brody, president of Johns Hopkins University, where he defines success as "a combination of preparation and opportunity," - in other words, recognizing good fortune when it comes your way and then acting upon it. "Writers, Book Trade Face Aging of Readers" poignantly reminds that we only have but so much time to do what Dr. Brody suggests.
But today's cherry on the sundae is the Viewfinder column, guest-authored by photographer Jed Kirschbaum. The Sun has a stable full of gifted photographers, many with whom I have had the privilege to work, and Jed's talent awes me. But today it is his words that move me, as he discusses balancing the need to take pictures for the 6 December 2007 article about the homeless encampment beneath the Jones Falls Expressway, while at the same time respecting the dignity of his subjects. The published photo, so brilliant, captures a homeless man shoveling a path in the snow to his ramshackle shelter. Jed then recounts a past, cold Christmas Day, when he "saw three homeless people taking their overcoats off and handing them to one another. They put on one another's coats, which made me curious enough to ask them why. They said the only things they had to give each other were the jackets on their backs."
It matters not what holiday you celebrate (or not) this time of year to be deeply affected by that exchange of gifts. They gave each other the most valuable thing and maybe the only shelter of sorts they had. For most of us, our homes, our shelters, are our most valuable possessions. People become homeless for many reasons - loss of jobs, relationships, and minds.
My Christmas prayer might seem odd, as it is actually a Jewish one that concludes the Passover seder. But "Next year in Jerusalem" is also an all-purpose expression conveying optimism and even hope for miraculous wonders. Baltimore City will always be home to poor people, but I pray home, one day and for each and every one of us, will mean shelter beyond coats and cardboard shanties.
The Ideas section is especially rich today. If prioritizing because time is short, don't miss the Q&A with Dr. William Brody, president of Johns Hopkins University, where he defines success as "a combination of preparation and opportunity," - in other words, recognizing good fortune when it comes your way and then acting upon it. "Writers, Book Trade Face Aging of Readers" poignantly reminds that we only have but so much time to do what Dr. Brody suggests.
But today's cherry on the sundae is the Viewfinder column, guest-authored by photographer Jed Kirschbaum. The Sun has a stable full of gifted photographers, many with whom I have had the privilege to work, and Jed's talent awes me. But today it is his words that move me, as he discusses balancing the need to take pictures for the 6 December 2007 article about the homeless encampment beneath the Jones Falls Expressway, while at the same time respecting the dignity of his subjects. The published photo, so brilliant, captures a homeless man shoveling a path in the snow to his ramshackle shelter. Jed then recounts a past, cold Christmas Day, when he "saw three homeless people taking their overcoats off and handing them to one another. They put on one another's coats, which made me curious enough to ask them why. They said the only things they had to give each other were the jackets on their backs."
It matters not what holiday you celebrate (or not) this time of year to be deeply affected by that exchange of gifts. They gave each other the most valuable thing and maybe the only shelter of sorts they had. For most of us, our homes, our shelters, are our most valuable possessions. People become homeless for many reasons - loss of jobs, relationships, and minds.
My Christmas prayer might seem odd, as it is actually a Jewish one that concludes the Passover seder. But "Next year in Jerusalem" is also an all-purpose expression conveying optimism and even hope for miraculous wonders. Baltimore City will always be home to poor people, but I pray home, one day and for each and every one of us, will mean shelter beyond coats and cardboard shanties.
20 November 2007
Inspired by the Gift of a Sage Wreath
I am blessed, though that is not nearly strong enough a word, by the friendship - again, an inadequate word - of two men I would not want to imagine life without.
Friendships come in all shapes and sizes. The friends we spend the most time with are not necessarily our closest confidants. My two special guys have incredibly demanding careers, including commutes that take one from our Bolton Hill neighborhood into D.C. and the other from Mount Airy into Bolton Hill, so while one or the other is usually nearby, there is little time for the face-to-face interaction that typifies most close relationships. We don't even e-mail. Instead, we spend hours on the phone as they drive and drive and drive. Hence, time spent together at dinners and celebrations, even neighborhood meetings, is truly savored.
It's odd for me that this is OK, as I thrive on doting on my friends, particularly feeding them. I generally believe the fires of friendships need to be stoked, that a constant diet of virtual or phone contact can never substitute for being in the same place at the same time. But because these gentlemen are as essential as breathing, the compensation for not being able to see them often is the comfort of knowing their love is like the Wi-Fi network in my house - always surrounding me and always available to tap into.
One of these gents recently left the gift of a homemade sage wreath on my doorstep. The wreath was accompanied by another present, a beautifully-penned, heartfelt note explaining the offering followed in the tradition of his Italian grandfather, who would craft sage wreaths for those close to him experiencing challenges. The wreaths apparently always brought relief to the recipients. Why and how, I am not exactly sure, though doubtless there's anyone who doesn't benefit from knowing that someone else is thinking of him or her and has taken the time and care to handcraft an exquisite gift, particularly one that is so meaningful to the giver, who in turn knows it will be just that to the receiver.
While not every nice thing needs to be dissected to be enjoyed, my curiosity about the sentiment behind the wreath got me Googling - frustratingly, to no avail. I inquired of the giver for additional clues and he mentioned the possibility of a connection with the French beaujolais nouveau celebration held the third week of November every year. But plugging that into Google also proved fruitless, so I let it drop.
Last week, while reviewing my Thanksgiving menu, which always includes a self-concocted cornbread, leek, and shitake mushroom stuffing recipe perfected a few years back by a cornbread recipe supplied by my buddy Keiffer, I realized this year's stuffing would be even more special with the addition of the now-dried sage from the wreath to supplement fresh sage from my garden. That sparked my curiosity again, so I got on the phone and called several wine shops, including Chesapeake Wine Company, owned by Mitchell Pressman, who lived just a few doors from me when we were kids.
I do not drink much in the way of alcoholic beverages. As a formerly overweight person battling to stay thin, I simply have no wiggle room in my daily caloric intake. Alcohol consumption is directly linked to certain cancers so rampant in my family. And as a foodie and a frequent hostess, I'm totally embarrassed to know next to nothing about wine. My other special gent and his partner always supply my dinner party wines - sumptuous wines, I am told. I rarely imbibe, unless it's Champagne (a few sips of that and I am invariably told I ought to drink more often, that I'm a lot more fun).
Wine shops intimidate me. I venture in only to buy essencia orange muscat for my poached quince, Manischewitz concord grape for my poached pears, Pikesville rye for my honey cake, and Kahlua and Amaretto for coffee and ice cream. I know only the basics, and I probably know less than I think I know. Again, for a foodie, it's embarrassing.
When Mitchell answered the phone and I announced myself, he was amazed - seems my name had literally just come up in conversation a few days earlier, though he could not recall why and with whom (stuff like this never surprises me, and those who know me understand every nuance behind that statement). After a brief chat about the wreath (no, no knowledge of any connection to beaujolais nouveau), I headed down to visit with him in what I found to be his fantastically warm and welcoming shop at the American Can Company in Canton.
After Mitchell and I hugged hello and caught up on the last, oh, 40 years, we got to talking about folks like me, who are curious about wine, but much too intimidated by the vastness of the subject to even approach it. He said that even though he's been in the wine business for 30+ years, and even though no wine is offered for sale in his shop unless he himself has tasted and approved it, he still considers himself a novice.
That statement not only rocked my world, it changed it.
I don't merely like to learn something new, but rather conquer it, so consequently, I only consider learning the skills I am confident I can quickly master. Cake decorating is a perfect example. In 1996, in the space of less than a year, I went from knowing nothing to being able to skillfully copy Martha Stewart Weddings Magazine cakes, down to the fondant and gum paste flowers. In 1981, I bought a brand new five-speed VW Jetta, never having previously touched a shift knob. Granted, dropping ten thousand dollars on what economists call a commitment device pretty much guaranteed I would learn to drive a manual transmission quickly. But that is the speed with which I have a compulsion to learn. I've been this way since childhood. I want to know everything and I want to know it now.
Mitchell's comment forced me to realize that I have continuously and profoundly deprived and limited myself. I've wanted to speak Spanish, design with Photoshop and CADD, write with a calligraphic flourish, grow the more exotic orchids - and understand and appreciate wine - but my fear of not being quickly proficient has put the kibosh on a whole lot of learning.
There's not a day I am not supremely grateful for the talents with which I am blessed, but the flip side is the frustration with what does not come easily - musical instruments, foreign languages, crocheting, catching a ball, etc. I am reminded of these blind spots every year at this time as I choose the skills I'd like to acquire in the coming year.
Tick-tock. Life is short. Do it now. But I'm not this driven and impatient in all areas of my life. My friends know me to be instantly and endlessly available to listen and give counsel. I knit with ultra-skinny yarn and teeny-tiny needles. And I need look no further than the amaryllis bulbs on my windowsill to note that progress in the garden is often imperceptible.
Hmmm, but what's this?
Every gardener knows success is not even guaranteed, so I'm not sure how to explain what keeps me with my hands in the dirt year after humbling year. Even after 30+ years in my garden, I, too, am still a novice.
Wow. What a kick in the fanny.
With that, it's clear I have no excuse left not to learn about wine, no matter how long it takes to voyage from Manischewitz to Malbec. And it's time to start chipping away at the wish list. Yes, it will take aeons to master certain subjects, in some cases a lifetime. But there's so much to be learned, however slowly and in whatever way I can. The journey of a thousand miles beginning with the first step will be an ever-present mantra.
Since everyone will soon need an understanding of Spanish, if time/money prevents me from taking a class, then I should at least be going on-line for vocabulary words. Other people learn Photoshop every day; I just need to declare I will be one of them. And with only twenty-six letters and ten numbers to form, my steady hand certainly can grasp the basics of calligraphy.
Learning something new compels us down other avenues we can't even yet visualize, just as my curiosity about the sage wreath detoured me into Mitchell's wine shop. Those two hours re-connecting with an old friend led me to grant myself permission to not always be an instant expert. One gift leads to another if we let it.
The gift of a sage wreath hit its target by cheering me up, but then unexpectedly set me on the path to losing my fear of the fermented grape.
May the gift continue to bear fruit.
Friendships come in all shapes and sizes. The friends we spend the most time with are not necessarily our closest confidants. My two special guys have incredibly demanding careers, including commutes that take one from our Bolton Hill neighborhood into D.C. and the other from Mount Airy into Bolton Hill, so while one or the other is usually nearby, there is little time for the face-to-face interaction that typifies most close relationships. We don't even e-mail. Instead, we spend hours on the phone as they drive and drive and drive. Hence, time spent together at dinners and celebrations, even neighborhood meetings, is truly savored.
It's odd for me that this is OK, as I thrive on doting on my friends, particularly feeding them. I generally believe the fires of friendships need to be stoked, that a constant diet of virtual or phone contact can never substitute for being in the same place at the same time. But because these gentlemen are as essential as breathing, the compensation for not being able to see them often is the comfort of knowing their love is like the Wi-Fi network in my house - always surrounding me and always available to tap into.
One of these gents recently left the gift of a homemade sage wreath on my doorstep. The wreath was accompanied by another present, a beautifully-penned, heartfelt note explaining the offering followed in the tradition of his Italian grandfather, who would craft sage wreaths for those close to him experiencing challenges. The wreaths apparently always brought relief to the recipients. Why and how, I am not exactly sure, though doubtless there's anyone who doesn't benefit from knowing that someone else is thinking of him or her and has taken the time and care to handcraft an exquisite gift, particularly one that is so meaningful to the giver, who in turn knows it will be just that to the receiver.
While not every nice thing needs to be dissected to be enjoyed, my curiosity about the sentiment behind the wreath got me Googling - frustratingly, to no avail. I inquired of the giver for additional clues and he mentioned the possibility of a connection with the French beaujolais nouveau celebration held the third week of November every year. But plugging that into Google also proved fruitless, so I let it drop.
Last week, while reviewing my Thanksgiving menu, which always includes a self-concocted cornbread, leek, and shitake mushroom stuffing recipe perfected a few years back by a cornbread recipe supplied by my buddy Keiffer, I realized this year's stuffing would be even more special with the addition of the now-dried sage from the wreath to supplement fresh sage from my garden. That sparked my curiosity again, so I got on the phone and called several wine shops, including Chesapeake Wine Company, owned by Mitchell Pressman, who lived just a few doors from me when we were kids.
I do not drink much in the way of alcoholic beverages. As a formerly overweight person battling to stay thin, I simply have no wiggle room in my daily caloric intake. Alcohol consumption is directly linked to certain cancers so rampant in my family. And as a foodie and a frequent hostess, I'm totally embarrassed to know next to nothing about wine. My other special gent and his partner always supply my dinner party wines - sumptuous wines, I am told. I rarely imbibe, unless it's Champagne (a few sips of that and I am invariably told I ought to drink more often, that I'm a lot more fun).
Wine shops intimidate me. I venture in only to buy essencia orange muscat for my poached quince, Manischewitz concord grape for my poached pears, Pikesville rye for my honey cake, and Kahlua and Amaretto for coffee and ice cream. I know only the basics, and I probably know less than I think I know. Again, for a foodie, it's embarrassing.
When Mitchell answered the phone and I announced myself, he was amazed - seems my name had literally just come up in conversation a few days earlier, though he could not recall why and with whom (stuff like this never surprises me, and those who know me understand every nuance behind that statement). After a brief chat about the wreath (no, no knowledge of any connection to beaujolais nouveau), I headed down to visit with him in what I found to be his fantastically warm and welcoming shop at the American Can Company in Canton.
After Mitchell and I hugged hello and caught up on the last, oh, 40 years, we got to talking about folks like me, who are curious about wine, but much too intimidated by the vastness of the subject to even approach it. He said that even though he's been in the wine business for 30+ years, and even though no wine is offered for sale in his shop unless he himself has tasted and approved it, he still considers himself a novice.
That statement not only rocked my world, it changed it.
I don't merely like to learn something new, but rather conquer it, so consequently, I only consider learning the skills I am confident I can quickly master. Cake decorating is a perfect example. In 1996, in the space of less than a year, I went from knowing nothing to being able to skillfully copy Martha Stewart Weddings Magazine cakes, down to the fondant and gum paste flowers. In 1981, I bought a brand new five-speed VW Jetta, never having previously touched a shift knob. Granted, dropping ten thousand dollars on what economists call a commitment device pretty much guaranteed I would learn to drive a manual transmission quickly. But that is the speed with which I have a compulsion to learn. I've been this way since childhood. I want to know everything and I want to know it now.
Mitchell's comment forced me to realize that I have continuously and profoundly deprived and limited myself. I've wanted to speak Spanish, design with Photoshop and CADD, write with a calligraphic flourish, grow the more exotic orchids - and understand and appreciate wine - but my fear of not being quickly proficient has put the kibosh on a whole lot of learning.
There's not a day I am not supremely grateful for the talents with which I am blessed, but the flip side is the frustration with what does not come easily - musical instruments, foreign languages, crocheting, catching a ball, etc. I am reminded of these blind spots every year at this time as I choose the skills I'd like to acquire in the coming year.
Tick-tock. Life is short. Do it now. But I'm not this driven and impatient in all areas of my life. My friends know me to be instantly and endlessly available to listen and give counsel. I knit with ultra-skinny yarn and teeny-tiny needles. And I need look no further than the amaryllis bulbs on my windowsill to note that progress in the garden is often imperceptible.
Hmmm, but what's this?
Every gardener knows success is not even guaranteed, so I'm not sure how to explain what keeps me with my hands in the dirt year after humbling year. Even after 30+ years in my garden, I, too, am still a novice.
Wow. What a kick in the fanny.
With that, it's clear I have no excuse left not to learn about wine, no matter how long it takes to voyage from Manischewitz to Malbec. And it's time to start chipping away at the wish list. Yes, it will take aeons to master certain subjects, in some cases a lifetime. But there's so much to be learned, however slowly and in whatever way I can. The journey of a thousand miles beginning with the first step will be an ever-present mantra.
Since everyone will soon need an understanding of Spanish, if time/money prevents me from taking a class, then I should at least be going on-line for vocabulary words. Other people learn Photoshop every day; I just need to declare I will be one of them. And with only twenty-six letters and ten numbers to form, my steady hand certainly can grasp the basics of calligraphy.
Learning something new compels us down other avenues we can't even yet visualize, just as my curiosity about the sage wreath detoured me into Mitchell's wine shop. Those two hours re-connecting with an old friend led me to grant myself permission to not always be an instant expert. One gift leads to another if we let it.
The gift of a sage wreath hit its target by cheering me up, but then unexpectedly set me on the path to losing my fear of the fermented grape.
May the gift continue to bear fruit.
24 September 2007
Trinacria Macaroni Works
In profile, I've got a Nefertiti head and the length of my hair, cut every two weeks, is just short of shaved. The only down side to my trademark look is a bone-dry scalp during heating season that no dandruff shampoo can cure. So I started rubbing my favorite extra-virgin olive oil, Colavita, on my head before showering. I jokingly refer to my head as a salad bowl.
One day, when buying an extra bottle of Colavita, I mentioned all this to Vince Fava, the owner of Trinacria Macaroni Works, the 100+ year-old Italian grocery founded by his grandfather with the same name. He informed me that Colavita makes a shampoo with olive oil and he would soon have it.
That got me thinking about how little Trinacria has changed over the years and how unusual - not bad, just unusual - any changes have struck me. Things like finding shampoo, body wash, and soap on the shelves; or the impossible-to-miss stainless steel 55 gallon drum holding olive oil that is decanted to order (by the way, it has a lighter taste than Colavita); or the staff's use of electronic devices rather than their brains, paper, and pencil to tabulate purchases – amazingly, the manual method persisted until just a few short years ago.
Located at 406 North Paca Street, it’s the lone retail outpost on this block, though that hardly deters the hoards seeking farfalle, farfalline, linguini, and linguini fini. Once in the door, the nose immediately alerts that Trinacria is so much more than just pasta, with the scents of cheeses, olives, breads, cookies, and deli combining into the finest kind of Italian perfume. Non-odiferous pantry items include a wide variety of canned and jarred sauces, tomatoes, peppers, etc.; arborio rice for risotto; quick-cook and conventional polentas; bottled and tinned olive oils; plain and fruity vinegars; locally-roasted coffee beans; and a plethora of well-priced wines. Actually, everything in Trinacria is well-priced, including cold case items such as make-your-own pizza components, heat and serve chi-chi dinners, and tubs of mascarpone. And the cherry on the gelato? - the overstuffed, made-to-order Italian sandwiches.
Here are some words of wisdom for first-timers: Trinacria is closed on Sundays and Mondays, bring quarters for the parking meters in case you’re not lucky enough to snag a space in the alley just north of the building, and don’t be dismayed by the crowd - the line moves pronto. Take a number and start assembling a pile on the counter. Chances are when it’s your turn you’ll still be marveling over the beet and squid pastas. It’s a safe bet that founder Vince Fava never sold these 100 years ago. Change can be good.
One day, when buying an extra bottle of Colavita, I mentioned all this to Vince Fava, the owner of Trinacria Macaroni Works, the 100+ year-old Italian grocery founded by his grandfather with the same name. He informed me that Colavita makes a shampoo with olive oil and he would soon have it.
That got me thinking about how little Trinacria has changed over the years and how unusual - not bad, just unusual - any changes have struck me. Things like finding shampoo, body wash, and soap on the shelves; or the impossible-to-miss stainless steel 55 gallon drum holding olive oil that is decanted to order (by the way, it has a lighter taste than Colavita); or the staff's use of electronic devices rather than their brains, paper, and pencil to tabulate purchases – amazingly, the manual method persisted until just a few short years ago.
Located at 406 North Paca Street, it’s the lone retail outpost on this block, though that hardly deters the hoards seeking farfalle, farfalline, linguini, and linguini fini. Once in the door, the nose immediately alerts that Trinacria is so much more than just pasta, with the scents of cheeses, olives, breads, cookies, and deli combining into the finest kind of Italian perfume. Non-odiferous pantry items include a wide variety of canned and jarred sauces, tomatoes, peppers, etc.; arborio rice for risotto; quick-cook and conventional polentas; bottled and tinned olive oils; plain and fruity vinegars; locally-roasted coffee beans; and a plethora of well-priced wines. Actually, everything in Trinacria is well-priced, including cold case items such as make-your-own pizza components, heat and serve chi-chi dinners, and tubs of mascarpone. And the cherry on the gelato? - the overstuffed, made-to-order Italian sandwiches.
Here are some words of wisdom for first-timers: Trinacria is closed on Sundays and Mondays, bring quarters for the parking meters in case you’re not lucky enough to snag a space in the alley just north of the building, and don’t be dismayed by the crowd - the line moves pronto. Take a number and start assembling a pile on the counter. Chances are when it’s your turn you’ll still be marveling over the beet and squid pastas. It’s a safe bet that founder Vince Fava never sold these 100 years ago. Change can be good.
20 September 2007
The Great Triad
My all-time favorite Sunday summer at-home supper is what I call the great triad – green beans, corn, and tomatoes.
I have a favorite bean man at Baltimore’s Downtown Farmers Market and his beans can best be described by the lyrics of “Farmer’s Market” by Lambert, Hendricks & Ross - “They’re the finest beans, the coolest beans, the best beans that you will find in this or any other market place.” (If you’ve never heard of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross, get thee to Amazon.com and treat thyself to “The Hottest New Group in Jazz,” originally released in 1959. These lyrics and more are there for the listening on the Amazon site if you want to try before you buy).
Crazy, but after all these years, I’ve not a clue what the bean man’s name is; he’s just the skinny, nice blond guy on the corner with the best beans (and beautiful cantaloupes starting at fifty cents). Guess I shouldn’t beat myself up about not knowing his name. I know Doug the quince guy and Kathy and Dave, the heirloom tomato and apple folks, and that’s about it. Still, after shopping this market for twenty-five-plus years, it feels a little odd to not know the names of most of the farmers who provide my main source of sustenance.
I prefer my beans straight up, cooked for just a few minutes until they’re worthy of a Technicolor close-up. I immediately toss them into a colander and run cold water over them to stop the cooking, then usually eat the whole pile before biting into anything else.
But every once in a while, especially at the end of the season or if somehow they’ve escaped notice in the veggie bin, I do cook them. I’ve always considered one of Ikaros restaurant’s chief drawing cards their green beans cooked in tomatoes. I suppose I should have just asked my friend Xenos, one of the owners, for the recipe, but it always seemed rude, so I made one up. Sometimes, with a beer in me, they taste the same.
I sauté a few cloves of garlic and a big onion in olive oil, then add a can of Cento tomatoes with basil leaf (Cento is by far the best brand of canned tomatoes I have ever had. I order them by the case at Eddies Market on St. Paul Street in Charles Village). It makes less mess to chop the tomatoes in a bowl and then add them to the pan, so there’s no plop. After reducing that for a few minutes, I add a two-dollar basket of beans with stem ends trimmed; there’s no need to chop the beans because they will cook down. I also add at least a heaping tablespoon each of cinnamon and dried Italian seasoning, and also a bit of sugar and a little salt and pepper. There’s no right or wrong here – just adjust to your own taste. I let the whole affair cook til I just can’t wait any longer.
Corn is another vegetable that should be cooked only slightly. I was multiple decades tardy learning this. I remember the corn of my youth boiling endlessly in the pot. I don’t know why. Maybe there was a good reason.
Corn certainly tastes sweeter now; the name Silver Queen seems to have lost its cache, as every variety is sweet, and stays sweet longer. Maybe fooling with corn’s DNA to increase the sweetness also changed the cooking requirements. At any rate, just a few years ago, a friend told me she cooks corn by boiling the water, putting the corn in, covering the pot, and then immediately turning off the flame and letting the corn sit for two minutes. That’s it. That’s all it needs.
As much as I love the beans and the corn, I really only have eyes for the tomatoes. I grow heirloom tomatoes of all colours and descriptions, but I rely on Kathy and Dave at the market for the bulk of it. For eating out of hand, my favorites are anything black, especially the small oval black cherries and any other smallish black variety. I’m convinced all those best-tasting tomato contests that Brandywines usually win are rigged – or there are never black tomato entries.
Again, the simplest preparation is the best for these sweet treats. I cut up what I haven’t already pilfered before dinner and add a little salt and pepper. There’s no need for basil, olive oil, or vinegar.
Or dessert.
I have a favorite bean man at Baltimore’s Downtown Farmers Market and his beans can best be described by the lyrics of “Farmer’s Market” by Lambert, Hendricks & Ross - “They’re the finest beans, the coolest beans, the best beans that you will find in this or any other market place.” (If you’ve never heard of Lambert, Hendricks & Ross, get thee to Amazon.com and treat thyself to “The Hottest New Group in Jazz,” originally released in 1959. These lyrics and more are there for the listening on the Amazon site if you want to try before you buy).
Crazy, but after all these years, I’ve not a clue what the bean man’s name is; he’s just the skinny, nice blond guy on the corner with the best beans (and beautiful cantaloupes starting at fifty cents). Guess I shouldn’t beat myself up about not knowing his name. I know Doug the quince guy and Kathy and Dave, the heirloom tomato and apple folks, and that’s about it. Still, after shopping this market for twenty-five-plus years, it feels a little odd to not know the names of most of the farmers who provide my main source of sustenance.
I prefer my beans straight up, cooked for just a few minutes until they’re worthy of a Technicolor close-up. I immediately toss them into a colander and run cold water over them to stop the cooking, then usually eat the whole pile before biting into anything else.
But every once in a while, especially at the end of the season or if somehow they’ve escaped notice in the veggie bin, I do cook them. I’ve always considered one of Ikaros restaurant’s chief drawing cards their green beans cooked in tomatoes. I suppose I should have just asked my friend Xenos, one of the owners, for the recipe, but it always seemed rude, so I made one up. Sometimes, with a beer in me, they taste the same.
I sauté a few cloves of garlic and a big onion in olive oil, then add a can of Cento tomatoes with basil leaf (Cento is by far the best brand of canned tomatoes I have ever had. I order them by the case at Eddies Market on St. Paul Street in Charles Village). It makes less mess to chop the tomatoes in a bowl and then add them to the pan, so there’s no plop. After reducing that for a few minutes, I add a two-dollar basket of beans with stem ends trimmed; there’s no need to chop the beans because they will cook down. I also add at least a heaping tablespoon each of cinnamon and dried Italian seasoning, and also a bit of sugar and a little salt and pepper. There’s no right or wrong here – just adjust to your own taste. I let the whole affair cook til I just can’t wait any longer.
Corn is another vegetable that should be cooked only slightly. I was multiple decades tardy learning this. I remember the corn of my youth boiling endlessly in the pot. I don’t know why. Maybe there was a good reason.
Corn certainly tastes sweeter now; the name Silver Queen seems to have lost its cache, as every variety is sweet, and stays sweet longer. Maybe fooling with corn’s DNA to increase the sweetness also changed the cooking requirements. At any rate, just a few years ago, a friend told me she cooks corn by boiling the water, putting the corn in, covering the pot, and then immediately turning off the flame and letting the corn sit for two minutes. That’s it. That’s all it needs.
As much as I love the beans and the corn, I really only have eyes for the tomatoes. I grow heirloom tomatoes of all colours and descriptions, but I rely on Kathy and Dave at the market for the bulk of it. For eating out of hand, my favorites are anything black, especially the small oval black cherries and any other smallish black variety. I’m convinced all those best-tasting tomato contests that Brandywines usually win are rigged – or there are never black tomato entries.
Again, the simplest preparation is the best for these sweet treats. I cut up what I haven’t already pilfered before dinner and add a little salt and pepper. There’s no need for basil, olive oil, or vinegar.
Or dessert.
Wake Up and Smell the Coffee, er, Peaches
At 6:00 AM, between the beginning of May to just short of Christmas, you will find me at the downtown Baltimore Farmers Market each and every Sunday that I'm not at the beach. During every phase of peach and nectarine season, I'm on the prowl for the white varieties. Not to disparage regular peaches and nectarines, but the white ones are different fruits entirely. Their spellbinding perfume and liquor-like taste makes their intermittent appearance at the market a source of frustration for me.
As a foodie and a gardener and an artist, I find inspiration at this market even if I leave without the ultimate prize. No matter how scheduled the rest of the day will be, I try to relax and enjoy the time going round and round as the market wakes up and more wares come off the trucks and onto the tables. Only a few farmers are ready and waiting for early-birds like me. Luckily, one is Doug, my quince guy, who is also my main white peach and white nectarine guy. He's also my main bruised regular peach and nectarine guy. Two Sundays ago, he brought no bruised ones, but that disappointment was erased last Sunday, when the end of his table brimmed with baskets of gorgeous, and therefore, puzzling, cut-rate peaches. I truly couldn't discern the fruits' faults and didn't take the time to ask. Competition for this stuff can be fierce, so I've learned to claim my fruit, pay quickly, and go, and anyway, there's ample opportunity for conversation at quince time.
I was also a bit distracted because a treasured friend was expected at my house for an eight o'clock breakfast and I was pre-occupied with a work-related project. So I hurried home and dumped the dozen and a half not-quite-ripe peaches in the rare black yelloware bowl that holds pride of place atop my stove.
Breakfast with my friend might have been the only relaxing moment between Sunday and yesterday, when the peaches ripened. While I am jazzed and excited by my project, it has pretty much dominated my thinking and made me less than mindful about almost everything else. So imagine my surprise - and delight - when I opened the kitchen door and was knocked over by the fragrance from the bounty in the bowl. Not just peaches, but white peaches.
As a foodie and a gardener and an artist, I find inspiration at this market even if I leave without the ultimate prize. No matter how scheduled the rest of the day will be, I try to relax and enjoy the time going round and round as the market wakes up and more wares come off the trucks and onto the tables. Only a few farmers are ready and waiting for early-birds like me. Luckily, one is Doug, my quince guy, who is also my main white peach and white nectarine guy. He's also my main bruised regular peach and nectarine guy. Two Sundays ago, he brought no bruised ones, but that disappointment was erased last Sunday, when the end of his table brimmed with baskets of gorgeous, and therefore, puzzling, cut-rate peaches. I truly couldn't discern the fruits' faults and didn't take the time to ask. Competition for this stuff can be fierce, so I've learned to claim my fruit, pay quickly, and go, and anyway, there's ample opportunity for conversation at quince time.
I was also a bit distracted because a treasured friend was expected at my house for an eight o'clock breakfast and I was pre-occupied with a work-related project. So I hurried home and dumped the dozen and a half not-quite-ripe peaches in the rare black yelloware bowl that holds pride of place atop my stove.
Breakfast with my friend might have been the only relaxing moment between Sunday and yesterday, when the peaches ripened. While I am jazzed and excited by my project, it has pretty much dominated my thinking and made me less than mindful about almost everything else. So imagine my surprise - and delight - when I opened the kitchen door and was knocked over by the fragrance from the bounty in the bowl. Not just peaches, but white peaches.
Trattoria: A Passion For Italian Food
I might as well get this out of the way - I do not travel much and have never been out of this country. I enjoy, however, hearing about other people's trips, particularly the food, and have noticed traveling foodies often say it's impossible to re-create in this country whatever dish they happen to be describing. I suppose I wouldn't really know, but I tend to doubt such pronouncements. I don't think it's the availability of ingredients - FedEx/UPS/USPS can bring practically anything to one's door - I think it depends more on finding authentic recipes.
While I'm baring my soul, I'll also admit a hyper-sensitivity to book design in general and cookbook design in particular. I did graphic design and food styling for years and sometimes can't help but dismiss books that offend my eye, even if the topic is of interest. Every once in a while I pick up a book that, conversely, is so glossy and beautiful that I imagine it's all looks and no brains and anyway, I'd be petrified of splattering it.
I read a positive review of Trattoria: A Passion for Italian Cooking, by Ursula Ferrigno when it was published last year. With relatively little space for cookbooks in my compact Bolton Hill kitchen, I've an incentive to at least try to avoid cookbook sections in bookstores. Today I was ambushed, not in a bookstore, but instead in the usually depressing Tuesday Morning book aisle. A ten second flip through Trattoria revealed copious stunning photos of food, people, places, and things and convinced me it was easily worth having at a third of its published price, even if I never cooked from it.
Once home, I simply could not stop looking at this book. The photos are nothing short of food porn and the recipes authentic and provocative. So very odd, but right now I have a serious jones to pack a bag and jump a plane to Italy.
While I'm baring my soul, I'll also admit a hyper-sensitivity to book design in general and cookbook design in particular. I did graphic design and food styling for years and sometimes can't help but dismiss books that offend my eye, even if the topic is of interest. Every once in a while I pick up a book that, conversely, is so glossy and beautiful that I imagine it's all looks and no brains and anyway, I'd be petrified of splattering it.
I read a positive review of Trattoria: A Passion for Italian Cooking, by Ursula Ferrigno when it was published last year. With relatively little space for cookbooks in my compact Bolton Hill kitchen, I've an incentive to at least try to avoid cookbook sections in bookstores. Today I was ambushed, not in a bookstore, but instead in the usually depressing Tuesday Morning book aisle. A ten second flip through Trattoria revealed copious stunning photos of food, people, places, and things and convinced me it was easily worth having at a third of its published price, even if I never cooked from it.
Once home, I simply could not stop looking at this book. The photos are nothing short of food porn and the recipes authentic and provocative. So very odd, but right now I have a serious jones to pack a bag and jump a plane to Italy.
Gotta Hand It To Wegmans
I'm a firm believer in keeping my money local, for a couple of reasons. My Baltimore City property tax obligation certainly reminds me of the importance of every penny of sales tax re-distribution. And owning a small niche business for thirteen years that was patronized mainly by non-city residents frustrated me because even my immediate neighbors didn't understand that supporting locally-owned neighborhood businesses builds community and raises property values. For these reasons, I refuse to buy anything outside of city limits that can be procured within them and I prioritize patronizing family-owned businesses. In addition, paying a few cents more to buy, say, a bucket at family-owned Belle Hardware in Bolton Hill instead of motoring out to the just-inside-city-limits Eastern Avenue Home Depot decreases my carbon footprint and actually saves me money once I figure in the cost of gas.
So it was an unusual occurrence that I ventured out to Wegmans yesterday. In my defense, I was there to meet a friend, so I browsed and did not buy. Talk about your self-restraint - to a foodie and accoutrement addict, Wegmans is nothing short of paradise. And it is a family-owned business - just not a Baltimore family - so I don't feel too guilty shopping there when they've got what no one else does, and they do in spades.
While perusing the knife case, one of their ultra-helpful staff, another great aspect of this store, asked if I were looking for anything in particular and I answered in half pantomime that I was seeking a foot-long magnetic knife rack. Somewhat amazingly, Wegmans does not carry such an item, but she noted that my gesticulations would have enabled her to understand my request even if she had not heard it. That launched a brief conversation about the American sign language classes taught in-house; it seems Wegmans has a number of deaf staff members and of course they have deaf customers. I know a few deaf folks and have tried, admittedly not hard enough, to learn American sign language.
Sorry I didn’t get her name, but she gave me a whole new perspective on this unique emporium and I'm looking forward to going back soon with acquisitive intentions. When I got home, I pulled out my guidebook to American sign language and practiced the alphabet. So although I didn't buy anything, I didn't walk away empty handed.
So it was an unusual occurrence that I ventured out to Wegmans yesterday. In my defense, I was there to meet a friend, so I browsed and did not buy. Talk about your self-restraint - to a foodie and accoutrement addict, Wegmans is nothing short of paradise. And it is a family-owned business - just not a Baltimore family - so I don't feel too guilty shopping there when they've got what no one else does, and they do in spades.
While perusing the knife case, one of their ultra-helpful staff, another great aspect of this store, asked if I were looking for anything in particular and I answered in half pantomime that I was seeking a foot-long magnetic knife rack. Somewhat amazingly, Wegmans does not carry such an item, but she noted that my gesticulations would have enabled her to understand my request even if she had not heard it. That launched a brief conversation about the American sign language classes taught in-house; it seems Wegmans has a number of deaf staff members and of course they have deaf customers. I know a few deaf folks and have tried, admittedly not hard enough, to learn American sign language.
Sorry I didn’t get her name, but she gave me a whole new perspective on this unique emporium and I'm looking forward to going back soon with acquisitive intentions. When I got home, I pulled out my guidebook to American sign language and practiced the alphabet. So although I didn't buy anything, I didn't walk away empty handed.
Colour My World
Colour is one of my greatest joys - so much so that I elevate its importance by employing the British spelling. I look at paint chips when I'm feeling blue and virtually always turn sunny. I see hairs of difference in colour, even at a distance, and I often get flashes of colours out of nowhere. I view all of this as a great gift, though, sometimes choosing between an excess of beauty does have its challenges.
I often get asked about "bad" colours. There is no such thing as a bad colour, only a colour in a bad place.
I often get asked about "bad" colours. There is no such thing as a bad colour, only a colour in a bad place.
Instant Gratification
I spent over seven hours today, without a single break, standing in front of my Bolton Hill walnut entrance doors, trying once again to liberate them from countless layers of paint. Seven passes of ZipStrip today, in addition to PeelAway the last time around, and I doubt I got even ten percent more accomplished.
With Rosh Hashanah dinner for thirteen guests only three nights away and much left to do, I was glad that starching and ironing napkins awaited - finally, a task I could complete.
Ironing quickly allows me to render something perfect. And I love, love, love starch - the stuff in the bottle, not the can. Spray starch is convenient, but can be messy, and I've yet to find a brand up to the challenge of starching a napkin into total attention.
An hour and fifteen napkins later, I could finally say I had had a productive day.
With Rosh Hashanah dinner for thirteen guests only three nights away and much left to do, I was glad that starching and ironing napkins awaited - finally, a task I could complete.
Ironing quickly allows me to render something perfect. And I love, love, love starch - the stuff in the bottle, not the can. Spray starch is convenient, but can be messy, and I've yet to find a brand up to the challenge of starching a napkin into total attention.
An hour and fifteen napkins later, I could finally say I had had a productive day.
Perfectly Imperfect Rosh Hashanah Dinner
I gave up trying to be perfect a while ago. Despite the now-usual unpolished copper pots, burned pizza, unwashed windows, English cocker spaniel tumbleweed, and years-out-of-commission powder room, among other imperfections, my guests invariably chide me for expending so much energy on being perfect. So I've given up trying to explain that I gave up trying to be perfect.
Rule number one of entertaining is that it's not about being perfect, but about you enjoying your guests and your guests enjoying you. The food and everything else is secondary, no matter how many hours you fussed over the menu. If you are not relaxed, your guests won't be either, and they may even feel guilty for thinking you worked so hard. Being relaxed with your guests goes a long way in making up for so-so cuisine and an unkempt garden. Faults are overlooked. Laughter and great conversation are remembered and savored.
My guests left last night satiated and convinced the dinner was worthy of a magazine spread, but I know I didn't have time this year for my usual homemade challahs and pickled gefilte fish, nor did I wash the windows, polish the silver, get my dogs groomed, or tame the jungle out back. Good thing, as it made for a perfect evening.
Rule number one of entertaining is that it's not about being perfect, but about you enjoying your guests and your guests enjoying you. The food and everything else is secondary, no matter how many hours you fussed over the menu. If you are not relaxed, your guests won't be either, and they may even feel guilty for thinking you worked so hard. Being relaxed with your guests goes a long way in making up for so-so cuisine and an unkempt garden. Faults are overlooked. Laughter and great conversation are remembered and savored.
My guests left last night satiated and convinced the dinner was worthy of a magazine spread, but I know I didn't have time this year for my usual homemade challahs and pickled gefilte fish, nor did I wash the windows, polish the silver, get my dogs groomed, or tame the jungle out back. Good thing, as it made for a perfect evening.
Roasted Tomatoes
It's a special alchemy that occurs this time of year when tomatoes and basil meet an oven. My roasted tomatoes recipe transforms even semi-mealy or bruised and broken local tomatoes into a sweetness you will mourn for after frost. The summer and early fall menu I most often serve guests includes risotto topped with roasted tomatoes, a salad of anything fresh, good crusty bread from Trinacria, and sauteed peaches (bruised ones from the farmers market) with mascarpone. Your guests will likely detect the other-worldly roasted tomato fragrance before you even answer the door and you'll notice my menu omits a first course, as wading through an appetizer while the tomatoes await seems cruel.
I enjoy making this a visual feast as well, so whenever possible, I use red and yellow tomatoes. Any type of oven-safe dish will do, but I like to use an eight-inch square pyrex dish and nine big tomatoes or sixteen little tomatoes for a snappy checkerboard effect.
The tomatoes must be skinned - not a big deal. While boiling a few inches of water in a soup pot or wide saucepan, cut into the tomatos just enough to remove the top part of the core and then make a small x on the bottoms. Place tomatoes in the boiling water, cover, and when the skins begin to wrinkle after a moment or two, remove the tomatoes to a bowl, preferably an ice bath. While they cool, wash a big farmers market-sized bundle of basil and don't worry about drying it. Coat the bottom of the dish with a little olive oil and then add the basil leaves. Carefully skin the tomatoes and place them core side down into the dish. I usually roast them at 400 degrees - but anywhere between 350 and 425 degrees works - until about after an hour or so, when the tomatoes become slightly charred.
At serving time, use a slotted spoon - these babies are soupy. And one last instruction - after your guests go home, drink the nectar remaining in the dish.
I enjoy making this a visual feast as well, so whenever possible, I use red and yellow tomatoes. Any type of oven-safe dish will do, but I like to use an eight-inch square pyrex dish and nine big tomatoes or sixteen little tomatoes for a snappy checkerboard effect.
The tomatoes must be skinned - not a big deal. While boiling a few inches of water in a soup pot or wide saucepan, cut into the tomatos just enough to remove the top part of the core and then make a small x on the bottoms. Place tomatoes in the boiling water, cover, and when the skins begin to wrinkle after a moment or two, remove the tomatoes to a bowl, preferably an ice bath. While they cool, wash a big farmers market-sized bundle of basil and don't worry about drying it. Coat the bottom of the dish with a little olive oil and then add the basil leaves. Carefully skin the tomatoes and place them core side down into the dish. I usually roast them at 400 degrees - but anywhere between 350 and 425 degrees works - until about after an hour or so, when the tomatoes become slightly charred.
At serving time, use a slotted spoon - these babies are soupy. And one last instruction - after your guests go home, drink the nectar remaining in the dish.
Crafting - Sickness or Wellness?
While having too much fun (crafters need no further explanation) at the Michaels crafts store in Rehoboth Beach, I muttered to my friend and Michaels employee, Phoenix, that wanting/needing/buying all that stuff was a sickness. Phoenix, a shaman of partial American Indian descent, quickly corrected me. "No, Donna Beth. It's a wellness." And he's right.
In today's parlance, I'm a crafter, a term I dislike, as it's way too generic and soul-less for an essentially creative enterprise. Little makes me happier than the luxury of time and a table full of project. Knitting, sewing, scrapbooking (from childhood I've known this as collage), beading, and lots of things in between - all are fun, relaxing and rewarding - when not maddening.
Sometimes the motivation to create is clear - we need something custom-made because what's available store-bought just won't exactly suffice. But what of the other 90%, a figure, by the way, I just made up. Why do we do this? Why do we spend so much time and money on this stuff?
In trolling for a satisfactory explanation, I got sidetracked by the contents of the cottage-painted Victorian dresser in my otherwise Arts + Crafts-furnished sewing room, stuffed with part of my collection of 1910s and 1920s millinery, sewing, and knitting books. An often-quoted reason for the current crafting craze is that it's an antidote to the cold anonymity of technology and that it's a soothing, nesting response to 9-11. But we've been crazed before. The Arts + Crafts movement of 1880-1910 was a reaction to the Industrial Movement and the 1910s and 1920s are often thought to constitute the last previous era with a technological explosion rivaling our digital one. My paper treasure trove contains projects that even Martha (do you really have to ask Martha-who?) and I would laugh ourselves silly over.
So the best explanation, or at least the one I'm going with, is that history shows we sometimes just can't help ourselves. Accordingly, my next excursion to Michaels will be blissful and guilt-free.
In today's parlance, I'm a crafter, a term I dislike, as it's way too generic and soul-less for an essentially creative enterprise. Little makes me happier than the luxury of time and a table full of project. Knitting, sewing, scrapbooking (from childhood I've known this as collage), beading, and lots of things in between - all are fun, relaxing and rewarding - when not maddening.
Sometimes the motivation to create is clear - we need something custom-made because what's available store-bought just won't exactly suffice. But what of the other 90%, a figure, by the way, I just made up. Why do we do this? Why do we spend so much time and money on this stuff?
In trolling for a satisfactory explanation, I got sidetracked by the contents of the cottage-painted Victorian dresser in my otherwise Arts + Crafts-furnished sewing room, stuffed with part of my collection of 1910s and 1920s millinery, sewing, and knitting books. An often-quoted reason for the current crafting craze is that it's an antidote to the cold anonymity of technology and that it's a soothing, nesting response to 9-11. But we've been crazed before. The Arts + Crafts movement of 1880-1910 was a reaction to the Industrial Movement and the 1910s and 1920s are often thought to constitute the last previous era with a technological explosion rivaling our digital one. My paper treasure trove contains projects that even Martha (do you really have to ask Martha-who?) and I would laugh ourselves silly over.
So the best explanation, or at least the one I'm going with, is that history shows we sometimes just can't help ourselves. Accordingly, my next excursion to Michaels will be blissful and guilt-free.
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