Gogyohka-Thursday [88]

Ricotta, mozzarella

 melting in our mouths.

"How much money?" we ask.

"No money," the man smiles,

"You woman eat for free." 

This poem was inspired by yesterday's outing to Arthur Avenue. We ladies were picking up several pounds of ricotta and mozzarella from the cheese shop my great-grandmother shopped at for year after year. She always picked up her ricotta for special occasions there because cheese anywhere else "just wasn't the same." I think our delight over cheese (along with questions and anecdotes) must have delighted the cheese-man, because he gave us a huge slab of ricotta to eat on the way and a mozzarella in the shape of a pig for my little sister. When we asked how much we owed him for our 3-4 pounds of cheese, he told us he'd "called his manager" and there was no charge for us. We almost cried, we were so touched by his sweetness.

Gogyohka-Thursday [79]

We war, my food and I.

It stares me down-

I push it around-

I skewer it through-

and then, I EAT IT!

Gogyohka-Thursday [72]

a tender tart

on a table tarries

anticipating

enticing

a traveler to taste

Afternoon Tea in Company

"Find yourself a cup; the teapot is behind you. Now tell me about hundreds of things." -Saki

To my utter delight, I spent my birthday this year with the Townsend girls, my very oldest friends. (We go back to birth- a length of history I would challenge anyone to beat). To celebrate we went out for afternoon tea- all nine of us- our two mothers, their four girls, and my two sisters and I.

We spent the morning ironing our clothes (particularly feminine for the occasion)- doing our make-up- taking last minute pictures.  My little sister was particularly tickled in anticipation and told us with wide eyes- "We should pretend we're from England. From ancient times- before the revolution. And we should be very stiff and speak in English accents."

We went to a lovely tea shop- full of rose-china, linens, accessories, and satchels of tea. We were seated at two tables outside- next to the stain-glass windows and charming wooden-cottage doors. The tables were bedecked with flowers and lovely china, with pink napkins in flowered napkin-holders. Not far off- three older ladies looked up from their tea to giggle and wave at us and ask what the occasion was.  The charm of the atmosphere was contagious. (What is it in a woman- that blooms in the presence of beauty- and is ever seeking to recreate it around her?) We chose from a  vast tea menu two pots of tea to start off with (Dutchess Delight- which was a coconut, lemon, kiwi combo- Vanilla and Pieces- and later we had a mango tea and a blueberry tea)- and then adjourned to the dressing corner where we picked out hats.

What is a tea-party without hats?

Bonnets and boaters! Cloches and cocktails! Straw and felt! We had heaps of fun trying them all on and each choosing one to fit our outfit. I ended up with a wide-brimmed white hat- with a very coquettish netted veil. I found a pair of purple gloves to match my dress- but I ended up taking them off as they seriously interfered with eating.

Soon our tea came- and then our food. We supped on five different kinds of tea sandwiches- pesto and cranberry and humus and ham and cucumber- of that feminine shape and size that would make men shudder and despair of ever being truly satisfied. Next we had fruit and followed by scones with clotted cream, preserves, and lemon-curd. We finished off with strawberry shortcake (mine had a candle in it- upon which I wished).

As to our conversation, well, I shall not betray the confidence of that intimate circle by relating to you our numerous topics- or the smiles exchanged or the jokes shared and giggled over. No, for I hold the confidings shared by an entirely female circle sacred, and I could not tell you of them any more than I could offend the delicacy of my fair companions by relating to you just how many cups of tea each of us ladies consumed- imbued, as they were- with many slips of the sugar spoon and much cream besides. But I can tell you that there was joy- and joy abounding.

As three hours came to a close (you can imagine how much tea and talking filled those hours)- we perused the tea-shop- returning our hats to their hat-stands and fingering the linens for sale. There were three table-clothes purchased. One- a lovely paisley pattern of deep reds, oranges, and black- which, with my propensity towards anything Indian, I was immediately drawn to. Samantha, my darling friend, got it for me for my birthday. (Just the thought makes me smile.)

And then the antique store! More hats! More china! More linens! And cookery and table-ware besides. (We did not emerge unscathed. I believe there was at least one bracelet and exactly four silver napkin holders purchased.)

Five hours from when we set out- we returned home- weary from happiness. I can't think of a better way than to have celebrated my birthday. No tea could have been made any sweeter- for I shared it with the sweetest of company.

*Pictures by Madalynn Townsend. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [45]

parking in Hollywood

snapping pictures of

an abandoned wine bottle

which later passed us-

acquired by three androgynous locals

Gogyohka-Thursday [40]

 Guest Gogyohka by Peter Fiore. (Ok, so, obviously I seem to be making a habit of this...hmm...  IDEA IN INCUBATION! I'll keep you posted.)

Pastries-

lined up in a row-

baker asks,

"What would you like?"

Everything.

Gogyohka-Thursday [36]

Guest Gogyohka by Jonathan Fiore - which he wrote yesterday while walking through Little Italy in the Bronx.

 Going down Arthur Avenue

with three pounds of Ricotta-

(two dark-eyed girls- so beautiful-

pass me).

I wish I knew Sicilian.

City Main Courses

Today was one part  trains, one part walking, one part window-ahhing, and two parts exhibits- pleasantly tossed with culinary adventures. Many thanks to my grandparents for such a delicious day. Some of the highlights were-

1) Seeing the Van Cleef & Arpels jewelry exhibition at the Cooper Museum. (People must have been bigger a hundred years ago- that stuff was enormous.)

2) Grace Kelly's engagement set from the Prince of Monaco!

3) Hearing lots of people speak in French- and in French accents. (Best one: "Ze batroom iz dis way- Yoo cannout mees eet nouw.")

4) Having a prosciutto sandwich (like I did seven or so years ago the first time) at Via Quadronno.

5) Amazing chocolate from La Maison Du Chocolat (favorite was one infused with passion fruit).

6) Resting on a stone bench- blue hydrangeas, watching people pass by, Annie playing with pigeons. 'Checking Facebook on my grandmother's iTouch. (My grandmother's more techy than me! I don't even own a cell-phone!)

7) The quilt exhibit at the American Folk Art museum. Such minute stitching! (I could never have that much PATIENCE!)

8) Finally storing away a bit of the Manhattan geography in this map-less brain of mine.

9) Splitting between the four of us Indian food and sorbet in Grand Central!

10) It being universally agreed upon (between my mother and myself) that woman's fashion has definitely improved in the last ten years.

My brothers had a day in the city too- they went to a Yankees game (we won). But what I found the most interesting about their rapturous report of their day was that over and over again they talked about food- food- and food. Italian ices. Pizza. The mozzarella, provolone, and three pounds of ricotta my Poppi purchased on Arthur Avenue. 

Is it just our family? Is it being Italian? Is it something in the New York water? I find myself wondering if all peoples in all places find such delight in joining together over food. I hope so.

If we ever meet in the city- I want us to walk down Madison Avenue together and try my favorite chocolate. And then maybe we will have Peruvian food at Flor De Mayo- or stop by little Italy to bring back cheese for our mothers.

Oh, Spontaneity!

The plan for Sunday was very simple: church and then a surprise outing to one of our favorite local restaurants, McKinney & Doyle. But after the service our parents engaged in a rather important (and lengthy) conversation with a fellow church member. Eventually my dad turned to me, handed me the keys to the Camry, and told me to take a bunch of us home. I grabbed my two sisters, Sarah's friend from college (Katie), and Peter, and off we went.

It was a truly spring day (before the snow hit yesterday). The ground was bare- daffodils blinked shyly, and the sky was blue. We rolled down the windows a bit and my iPod went on. One of the first songs up set the mood, "I love you more... than the spring in its blooming against the sky." (Ought To Be, Audrey Assad).

Then came Lucky (Jason Mraz) and all the girls (the seven year old mostly smiled) began to sing... "Lucky I'm in love with my best friend / lucky to have been what I have been..."

Then came the Newsboys- and the car began to bop. We sang our hearts out in unified consent, "I'm not ashamed to speak the name of Jesus Christ!" We were enjoying ourselves immensely. I looked sidelong at my sister, "Take the long way home?" Yes. We wove in and out around brimming reservoirs and the iPod hit a run on Beach Boys...

Well she got her daddy's car
And she cruised through the hamburger stand now
Seems she forgot all about the library
Like she told her old man now
And with the radio blasting
Goes cruising just as fast as she can now
And she'll have fun, fun, fun
'Til her daddy takes the T-Bird away

Surfer Girl. Catch a Wave. The sun was bright, our smiles were brighter. We cruised into the driveway. When I reached the door I heard the phone ringing- I rushed in and caught the phone off the receiver on the umpteenth ring- it was Dad. He'd sent me with the Suburban keys- he, Mom, and the boys were stranded at church. So back off I went, this time by myself.

I skipped to my favorite songs. As I drove (a little faster this time) I suddenly had the odd sensation of seeing myself- as I couldn't have imagined just twelve months- let alone twelve years- ago. 

There I was. Living in New York (of all places). Driving down back roads to pick up my parents (of all things). Listening to country love songs (of all music). On a spring Sunday in 2011 (of all times).

By the time we all united at home it was about three o'clock. We all piled into the Suburban and were just about to leave when we called the restaurant and discovered they were closed. Nobody felt like going inside to have PB&J. We were hungry.

In fact, we were so hungry I think we were a bit crazed. We wanted food. REAL food. Dad made a suggestion, the members of the car erupted in loudly voiced opinions in true Democratic form- parents used their executive rights to overrule the few dissenters and the next thing we knew the nine of us were making the hour+ trip down to NYC to go to Flor De Mayo. 

We grabbed some chips to tide us over. We were scarcely twenty minutes down the road when, to our dismay, it was discovered in our spontaneity no one had grabbed a camera. Katie, my sister's friend, was particularly disappointed since this was her first time going into the city. (Thus I am writing this post, to immortalize the occasion.)

At Flor De Mayo (Peruvian-Chinese cuisine) we ordered the timeless favorites: two whole rotisserie chickens, four large orders of black beans and yellow rice, and several plates of maduros and avocado. On such occasions, manners are temporarily disbanded. There is much grabbing and yumming and clashing of forks and general silence as the meal is consumed. As Katie attested, it was well worth the wait.

We drove down Broadway to show Katie Time Square. There was much traffic- we gazed up at show signs and advertisements and read the newsflashes on the economy and wars and talks and treaties scrolling in large neon letters around a building.

Just as we passed the Apple store (giant glass conservatory of technology), Dad pulled the truck over and said he had to go see something (presumably something in the Apple store) and Mom should take the car around the block to pick him up. Then he was gone. Mom looked amused, climbed over into the driver's seat, and began driving around. Crazy. Jammed. Loud. Broadway. We had only gotten half way around the block when we suddenly saw Dad running up (already done) and he hopped back in the car. Mom whirled around and said to Katie, "All the stories you heard about us were true."

We drove through Central Park (past the petting zoo and barred doors leading into the hillside, under overpasses, betwixt stone-walls). At some point during the evening we sang the George Washington Bridge song.

Then we were driving home... back upstate. The tall buildings turned to tall trees, parks turned to lakes, noise into the single melody of a Rascal Flatts song on a country station.

Sometimes I can hear this old earth shouting (...)

That's when I climb up here on this mountain
To look through God's window

Now I can't fly, but I've got two feet
To get me high up here
Above the noise and city streets
My worries disappear

Missing Peaches

Some of my favorite memories convene around peaches. I recall a summer day on the wharf in San Fransisco where we wandered a Farmer's Market taste-testing. I saw a store there which sold every  imaginable kind of mushroom. We had Gelato and I bought several small "refreshing" misting bottles- one the scent of Douglas Fir, another of Roses. 

Another memory is peach picking at a near-by farm. It was a rainy-weekend so the farm wasn't getting enough business, so we purchased twenty bags of fruit at a peerless price. The peaches were at their peak- they fell off the branches at a touch. We picked and we ate- and ate, and ate. I have never since tasted such perfection.

Peaches. I miss peaches.

But this eternal winter! Weeks of whiteness- then speckled gray. I had forgotten what the ground looked like. For a while there I would walk down something resembling tunnels at my school -the snow was nearly up to my shoulder. (Lest the image be exaggerated, I must here remind you I am vertically challenged.) My father thought the streets resembled toboggan runs. My brothers made a fortune shoveling driveways.

And now winter quakes. I remember the first day I smelled the earth again- wet, whimpering, gasping for breath. We have had times where it rained, sleeted, and snowed all in the same day- but still the  mail came and still the ice on the lakes turned from white... to a shivering gray... and now it is gone.

My uncle in California asked me if I can see the ground. Yes, I see lots of it. But I  also see great mountains of snow yet lingering.

I drove my brothers to church today in rain. Weather.com had a flash-flood advisory. On the way there we groped our way down mountain sides thick with fog. On the way back I had to cross the ever-glaring double-yellow-line to drive through the shallower portion of an enormous puddle.

All is wet. All is melting. The skies are doing a victory-dance.

I pray it is not a premature celebration. Because I long for thick grass, for picnics, for games in open fields, for wanderings barefoot through trees, for parties with music and food (where the sun is invited), for white clothes, for water, for fish on the grill, and for the sun rays and warm breezes caressing my bare arms and face. And I miss peaches- trees laden with the ripe and luscious.

[s]Crumptious Crinkle Cookies

Ah, it's been too long since I've touched on food! Around the time my mother gave birth to my first brother a women from the church brought her a box of beautifully stacked and powder-sugared dark-chocolaty brown Crinkle Cookies. My mom got the recipe and they’ve been a favorite ever since.

            No camping trip was complete without them.  Before we would leave my mother would bake a double or triple batch (store them safely in Tupper Ware), and we would be sure that at some point on the trip (I remember particularly the time we camped in DC) around the campfire (after red beans and rice) the container would be pulled out and we’d share in our favorite cookies.

           At least- they were MY favorite cookies (right up there with Girl Scout Thin Mints). My sister became their primary baker for some time- but for a while now I’ve been the leading producer. I’ve made them for birthday-gifts, thank-yous, and farewells. Today I made them for church.

            Once a month our congregation unites for a luncheon, followed by a special topical message by my pastor. It falls to our family's lot to bring a main dish- (stews, enchiladas, soups)- singles bring desserts.

            WELL, I thought. I am single. Cookies are in order! I whipped out the batter. My fingers nimbly worked off chunks of dough, rolled, and powder-sugared them single handedly. How long to bake the cookies for is always a bit of a trick. I’ve over cooked and undercooked- but never had one I didn’t like. But maybe I’m biased. ;-)

Below is another vanity picture.

Oysters on the Half-Shell

 

My brother and I with various relations set out

hand-in-hand down shadow-clasped lanes.

Clouds dancing with sunbeams, wind playing with my hair-

the day I first had oysters on the half-shell.

Whiffs of Eucalyptus, my mother’s smell to me

called us further into the valley,

till the great trunks, like sentries, as we passed bowed away

and we found ourselves on market street.

Tents, an encampment, lining the square-

their admirals busy selling their wares-

while civilians rushed, oblivious of war,

to buy peaches and strawberries and pears.

We wove our way, like cats in a kitchen,

through the masses and hubbub of happiness,

till one stand we came to, full of oysters on ice

and my uncle bought four to share.

They looked like old men (yes, they did), to me-

oiled and wrinkled with age.

But the murmurs of wonder, and licks of delight

caved my spirit, and I said, “I’ll try a bite.”

The sauce went on, the hand was held out,

and the oyster was put to my mouth.

SLURP! GULP! SQUEAL! SQUEAM!

Oh, horror! On the shell of an oyster!

The sauce was all gone, I’d have spit it out-

but ice bulk of the oyster filled my mouth.

I gagged and I gulped and I smiled through my tears,

my tongue massaging my teeth.

“Do you like it?” they asked. I don’t know what I said.

 I swallowed, murmuring something to pass time.

 And the next thing I knew, it was over and done

and we moved on under the smirking sunshine.

Gogyohka-Thursday [13]

I shiver

it is snowing

...just one more sip

of dark, dangerous

 mocha frappuccino

Cooking For Company

Mince the herbs, open the cans,

dice the potatoes, get out the pans-

Make a salad, (or maybe two)-

find for tonight a new recipe to do!

Whip it all out, and clean on the way

hurray! can you believe it? they're coming today!

Soup on the stove, potatoes crisping up fine-

ah! still so much to do to be done on time!

Get out the feta, lettuce, and tomatoes!

look! it's almost time to take out the potatoes!

Clean off the table, push in the chairs-

make it look like you where never there!

Put it all on the table and smile as if to say,

"Work? Why, I do this every day!"

Reformation Day

When all across America children don costumes, when the street I live on takes on a ghostly,  eerie, grave-yard resemblance, and spiders almost the size of me are stuck to walls and roofs (knowing my affinity for spiders, you can imagine how greatly I enjoy this time of year), it is then I know  that Reformation Day is upon us.

Our family has never been one to celebrate Halloween (for reasons I shall not detail here)- and we passed many years with rather  unsuccessful attempts at redeeming the day with various church and harvest celebrations. But then- (ah! then!) we learned of Reformation Day.

October 31st, 1517: Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-Five Thesis on the door of the Wittenburg church- sparking the Protestant Reformation - a revival which swept through Europe, denouncing heresy and returning to sola scriptura and (most importantly) the gospel: salvation, not by works, but by faith in Christ alone.

Our pastor was the one who introduced us to Reformation Day- and gave particular classes reviewing the Doctrines of Grace and (on Reformation Day) speeches pertaining to the Reformation, Martin Luther, and John Calvin.

Since being introduced we have developed our own family tradition (evolving from the Medieval study we happened to be doing one year). Every year we carve designs into  our pumpkins- leaves and words and crosses - and light up candles and decorate the dining room with them. We eat our dinner served on bread plates (i.e. large pitas) without utensils, and the courses consist of earthy foods such as roast chicken, apple-sauce, cheese, rosemary bread, and of course our own derivative of ale (aka sparkling apple cider, on occasion Manishewitz, or grape juice mixed with ginger-ale - ah! the mixed liquids do go down smoothly!). This dinner we eat by aforementioned candle-light with Gregorian Chant drifting in the background.

We finish off the night by watching the movie Luther, and remembering again the life of the man God used so heavily in sparking the revival in his church.

And yet for all this emphasis on the Medieval and Martin Luther- despite even my own love for the passionate, hot-headed man who married his "dearly beloved Kate"- it is not a man we are celebrating. We are not Luther-followers. For one thing- he wasn't right on everything. -He never got around to baptism (this year's Reformation Day topic). We forgive him, of course, (I am teasing my Presbyterian sister), he was awfully busy and must have just never finished reforming.

But then- neither have we finished reforming. We have never arrived- and will not arrive till glory. But just as we are commanded to preserve the ancient landmarks- to remember the works of the Lord- to never forget where we have come from nor where we are going to- in just that manner we  choose to set aside October 31st in memory of all God has done for the church, and is still doing- as he reforms each one of us into the image of Jesus Christ.

Attempt At Helping with an Ode to Kombucha

I was asked to "help" with a Haiku as part of somebody's Ode to Kombucha. On clarification, I learned it could be anything- traditional Haiku, lazy Haiku, or (yay) Gogyohka. Oh, and I wasn't helping- I was supposed to write it myself. I don't know what this person was thinking. They might as well have asked me to write sonnets to spiders. Well... here's what I wrote them back:

Haiku:

Kambucha mushroom
...(that translucent, jello, THING)
somehow becomes tea

Gogyohka:

Kombucha
had a mother
but not a father
no wonder
it turned out so bad

[alright. I'll try again.]

Kombucha, oh Kombucha
how wonderful indeed you are
I just wish
you didn't taste like
acids in a jar

Woops. I really was trying. One more chance. Just 17 syllables here:

I know my wife loves me
When she gives me Kombucha to drink.
TOUGH-LOVE!

[Yeeeah. Ok. Can you tell a Kombucha mushroom once sat in our cupboard for a LONG time and it's memory has scarred me for life?]

So now I'm curious. Does anybody out there actually like the stuff?

A Bowl of Raspberries

Today I painted. When I woke I was warm under my duvet. I tried to think about the day's Saturdayness and go back to sleep. But the ticking clock still won. I rolled out of bed, donned my well-worn painting clothes, grabbed my cereal, grabbed the keys, and headed out the door.

I drove the truck over to my grandparents- (yes, the truck I passed my driver's test on). I always wonder what people think of me when they see me driving it- what the older neighbor of my grandparent's thought as he saw my huge Suburban lumber down and chortle to a stop in his lane- and me- small and in paint clothes with braided hair- open the door and slide (yes, slide) to the ground. (Little girl, big truck. Watch out, world.)

My Nonna showed me my work. In their backyard they have a workhouse and a new shed- about 6' by 10' with a porch at each end. The porch needed painting- the beams, the side of the building, and the underside of the pitched roof. As I glanced up at my work- a dull fear began to dawn: spiders.

The sheds are, what Nonna calls, spider-hotels. Big ones. Baby ones. Dead ones. Mostly-dead ones. And very-much-alive ones.  

Uh, I'm terrified of spiders. Now stinging-things I can handle, (I'd make pets of bumble-bees if they'd let me), flies and mosquitoes I'll coexist with, and I freely admit that I have a certain fondness for snakes and frogs but spiders!- *shudder* -malicious, unpredictable, creepy-crawlies that they are- I hold them all in irrational mortal terror.

I watched as Nonna showed me how to use the ladder on the porch. She handled and mounted the web-embraced ladder with a nonchalance that made me squirm. I choked down my outbursts of, "THERE'S A SPIDER NEAR YOUR HAND!"

Then while she went and got the paint (yellow wood stain and white trim) I got the porch ready.  I'm glad she wasn't there to watch me. I jabbed at those webs and hid my head and squirmed and jumped and writhed and shuddered that porch clean. Oh-my-goodness-thank-heaven-it's-over.

I proceeded to paint the porch. Though my frequent use of painting ladders has abated my fear of heights, it still took a good hour for my dexterity to kick in. Dizziness was frequent today. Tripping and spinning and loss of equilibrium left me feeling like a sack of potatoes tied to a helium balloon blowing in an unsteady wind: I never knew if I was up or down.

Get to the raspberries.

The day progressed. A cold wind brushed against my sandaled-feet. I listened to classical music which made my brush feel like a conductor's stick and my troublesome, ever-thirsty wood an artist's easel. I was painting like Monet and the yard was Paris, the sky was blue forever. Then I listened to a rather disgruntled country singer. I would have turned her off but it was far too troublesome what with being up on a ladder with my head in a roof and my hands covered in paint.

Nonna made me a simply lovely lunch of hamburgers and french-bread and artichoke-spread and we talked about school and (can you guess?) weddings. (She started it!)

I worked away. The sun wasn't so bright. Acorns were falling- crashing to the ground. My head was swirling- and my paint was splattering. Everything was fading and falling. I worked at every which angle- reaching under eaves- resting precariously on unpainted and painted boards alike- leaning, feet on the ladder, backwards- my head resting on the spider-free underside of the roof.

I took a break. I was a mess. I looked like the canvas of a modern-artist. I looked like I'd been communing with birds. I looked, as Nonno laughingly said, like an Indian in war-paint.

Now for the raspberries. 

Nonna poured a whole package of beautiful red raspberries into a bowl- and directed me towards the ice-cream. I plopped big scoops right on top and went out on the porch- Nonno joined me with his bowl of blackberries.

We sat on the porch and ate. Oh, delight. The raspberries were rich, succulent bursts of flavor, the ice-cream thick and sweet and cold- the sky was again blue. The spiders and the aches and the dizziness and the stickiness of paint clinging to my face and hair and clothing faded away.

My spoon cut through cream- it dove for berries- and Summer kissed me in my bowl.

That was my bowl of raspberries. That was my day of painting. The lunch, the music, the outdoors, the sounds of falling acorns, the lunch, my grandparents, and the money all were great. But the raspberries- the raspberries made my day.

I Am Frances

"When the bell rang for lunch Frances sat down next to her friend Albert. "What do you have today? said Frances. "I have a cream cheese-cucumber-and-tomato sandwich on rye bread," said Albert. "And a pickle to go with it. And a hard-boiled egg and a little cardboard shaker of salt to go with that. And a thermos bottle of milk. And a bunch of grapes and a tangerine. And a cup custard with a spoon to eat it with. What do you have?" " - Bread and Jam for Frances

I have been Frances for three years now. It began the fall of 2007 when I was selecting an interpretive speech to compete in for NCFCA. I picked up A Bargain For Frances and instantly I could hear my voice, see my expressions, and within minutes I had pre-blocked the whole speech. I didn't have to try. I was Frances.

Granted, I hadn't been six years old in a long time. But her wide smiles, confusion, and insightful (and often spiteful) rhymes resonated with me. I went on to compete and go to Nationals in the speech. It was the only speech I ever consistently enjoyed giving - the only one where I didn't have to think. Just be.

I don't know if it was I giving voice to Frances- or Frances giving voice to me. As the years have passed she has become a strange, silly sliver of who I am. My mother still stops me on occasion to say, "That was a Frances expression." "You said that like Frances." (You can all be happy I didn't mold to Thelma.)

This week I saw more evidences of Frances. On Wednesday one of my classmates sat with me during lunch. My mother packs me a fantastic meal. And as I ate it was as if a tiny bell (I'm not sure I was even fully conscious of it) was ringing in the back of my head. An urge. A voice.

I wanted someone to ask me, What do you have for lunch?

"I have home-made spicy black-bean soup made with chillies. And a handful of dried cranberries. And a bag of snap-pea chips from Trader Joes. And a thermos of orange juice. And a whole, ripe nectarine with a knife to cut it up with. What do you have?"

I kept my impish glee to myself. But yesterday when I ate my lunch I couldn't help but think Frances thoughts.

And she made the Triskets and the whole-grain crackers and the Cambozola and Parmesan and the bag of apricots and the thermos of grape-juice all come out even.

NYC

- New York City -

We have a love-hate relationship. I think I'm a bit of a city-girl at heart - having spent my first six years in the suburbs of San Fransisco and the rest a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from NYC.

I love the the thousands of smells- [fish... curry... garlic...] -which meld in the crisp, heaviness of the wind. I love all the black trench coats and knee-high boots (the fur ones make me laugh). I enjoy transforming into an extrovert and bewildering people with a wave and a smile. "Hello, it's crowded here, isn't it?"

I love marble. And shiny glass windows. And enormous vases of flowers. I love exotic, renown, expensive, highly-guarded pieces of art. I love plays and ballets. I love mocha frappachinos. And Free Trade chocolate- and canvas sacks sporting their echo-friendliness. I really like black leather gloves. And hats, too. Even if I never wear them. I love seeing restaurant names in Italian, Turkish, and Spanish... and looking up to see the word "Indus" and immediately being transported half a planet away...

And face it, I love sidewalks. I like the way boots and heals clip-clop along. [I fell in love with the way feet sound on pavement when I watched The Red Balloon (Le Ballon Rouge) and listened to Pascal's feet trip along the Paris cobblestones.]

The city, for me, continues to weave itself into my being in an culmination of countless childhood, now adult, memories.

I see Carnegie Hall- tuxedos, white walls, and the mesmerizing piano which marks a turning point in my life...

I see The Cage, known for its amateur basket ball players... across the street from the hole-in-the-wall Mamoun's -famous for its killer Falafel and Shawarma.

I see The Metropolitan Museum of Art--- where when I was little I saw the Egyptian exhibit one too many times and where on my last visit, loosed for hours, I spent my time staring at enormous oil-on-canvass paintings... Death Of Socrates, Graziella, Cypresses.

I see Flora De Mayo where from my first time in the city we went for dinner and have ever since, always ordering the same things. Always spectacular. Always just right. The older waiters recognizing us and asking where our missing family members are.

I see the Botanical Gardens (conservatory, trains, my baby sister in a blue dress), and Bryant Park (where the plane tree leaves hit my head while eating a chocolate croissant), and Central Park (open fields, kissing couples, The Gates -which made us want to write scathing articles)...

I see my Lady Liberty, blazing against the brilliant sky... I remember being six years old and waiting those long hours on the winding staircase, my grandmother rewarding every few steps of progress by popping Mentos into our mouths.

I see Arthur Avenue where we buy coffee Italian ices, where we have pizza New York style, where we go into the corner deli my great, great, grandmother shopped at every week, and where at the cheese store we buy a slab a foot long of heavenly Ricotta.

I see Rockefeller Center where we went ice skating, my brothers dancing with abandon to the rock music, drawing smiles from the policemen... across the street from Radio City where I have twice seen the Rockettes and St. Patrick's Cathedral where my great uncle is buried under the alter.

The breathless exhilaration which I feel when I hear the thousand feet echoing on the marbled floor of Grand Central Station, or when I walk on the damp streets down Madison Avenue and stop to buy outrageously expensive (and positively to die-for) tiny pieces of dark chocolate is almost (though not quite) as dear to me as the bubbling of springs and the musty smell of old books in sumptuous libraries, or the spring breezes which play with white skirts and the pages of books and fast cools peppermint tea.

In my heart there have always been two loves which rage: one which longs for the solitude of the sea side and the quiet of deserted fields, and the other which has fallen for Modernity, which reacts against the romanticism of the pastoral, and finds in the city both a unique form of community as well as a singular sense of solitude.

There is a peculiar watching-and-being-watched aspect to the city. A certain autonomy. Yet a certain annihilation of self.

You can lead a crowd- you can also disappear in it.

They say sunglasses hide your identity. But they also reveal other people's. I think I like my dark shades not so much because then people can't "see" me so much as then I can watch other people unreservedly. I can notice all those things which are so easily missed in intermittent, polite attention.

There are plenty of people to watch in the city. Where else can you find so many cultures reacting, retaining, and creating? I am always fascinated by the thousands of souls- thousands of stories- hopes, dreams, and heartaches which are passing me by. What makes a man do that to his hair? What does that color and cut of coat say about the girl pouring over a self-acclaimed best-seller while paying precious little attention to her steaming knish? They are telling me about themselves - if only I would look long enough to understand.

In this is heart-beat of the city: the flash of the lights, the turn of the heel, the wish of scarves, the long black coats, the exotic hair, the puffs of steam, the blare of horns, and the last refrain of a violinist.

Perhaps it is the the very speed of exchange of the city which both draws me to it... and leaves me so very disoriented.

I always leave the city exhilarated... and then... asking questions like, "Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?"

In the search for identity there is a constant crisis.

The city is like a web page where everything, and every person is an add. If you want to, you can click on them and learn where they shop, where they live, and everything they've ever thought.

But is knowing everything you can know about someone the same as actually knowing them?

In this image-conscious culture I find myself looking for a mirror and finding the world staring back at me.

The city makes me feel defeated. Is it because I realize how small I am? My own insignificance? Or my own potential and lack of initiative? ...My own vulnerability?...

Could I become a protesting, tee-totaling liberal who goes to writing workshops and cafes to read poetry, who decorates her house with strange ceramic shapes (which look vaguely like something familiar), who wears earrings made from refurbished tin and bracelets which support craftsmen in Indonesia? YIKES.

..."Can one go upon hot coals, and his feet not be burned?"...

Or is it simply a sadness? There they are. Just a hand's reach away. What words could I use to draw them to Him who is the way?

..."They will know you by your fruits"...

I feel my own fruit being crushed under the masses of passing people. All they can see is my long black coat (which looks just like theirs) and my cute heels (which sound just like theirs) and I find when they have passed me and are (and now truly are) gone... that if they saw anything- learned anything- took anything away... it was my smile.

Can a smile preach the name of Christ?

Truly, I have no idea. But I tend to think that when a stranger smiles at a stranger they learn more about each other than the gods they serve.

And so I am sad. And disoriented. And I love the city. And I weep over it, too.

- - - - - - - - - -

I am a member
of a family of strangers
who by common consent
remain silent

I am a participant
in a communal conspiracy
to ask questions
but never give answers

I have sworn
by the clothes I wear
to be silent
in the face of materialism

I have joined my hands
with deniers
though when they prayed
I did not bow my head

Can I stand to be silent
as they fall around me?
Can I continue to live as they die?
Having lived with the dieing
I find myself asking,
is their life somehow tied to mine?

- 2/15/10 - 7/20/10

FRENCH BREAD ~

Today I baked my first batch of French Bread!!! I'd been wanting to make some for quite some time. It was a romantic adventure. (What could be more fun than busying about the kitchen making bread and getting dreamy on the ozone fumes?)

They tell you it takes a good four times to get the knack of it. I still have trauma leftover from the last time I tried making bread from a Secret Garden book I was given for Christmas. I had set the dough out to rise and it NEVER rose... I waited and I waited and the next thing I knew the dog had eaten the dough. [He couldn't eat for three days on account of a distended stomach and got the nick-name "Dough-boy," I got two empty bowls and a fear of stubborn dough. ;)] In addition to this paranoia I had to worry about having had to use deviations on two of the four ingredients- and having added a fifth. ;) So you can imagine what hope it gave me when my dough began rising. Ah! lovely dough! Soft and spongy. :)

Everything was going well till I put my French Bread in the oven. I had been instructed both by my book and by my video to steam the oven when putting in the bread- to literally take a 1/4 cup of water and THROW it in the oven.*** The video showed me the resulting steam. ;)

Well. I threw water in. It steamed. I put the bread in. And the steam was gone. So I quickly grabbed some more water and hurled it into the oven. BAD IDEA!!! I threw it on my bread!! (AAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

Thankfully the egg-coated crust was a deterrent and it only landed on one loaf and I kinda tipped the cookie sheet and it all slid off and added to the much needed steam. whew

Around this time my brothers began complaining about the bread "taking all day". Uh, yeah. ;) I told them they should pity women who once had to do it every day. Dad reminded us that that was only French women. ;) [No wonder they revolted. :P]

Well, the bread made it safely out of the oven and looked lovely. I put it on the table along with chicken soup.

a tavola! 'Come to the table. We prayed. We buttered our bread. And the ensuing chorus of mmmmms made it all worth while. :)


Above: a picture of my loaves... along with my beloved Indian steel cups. :)
.*** [In some ovens can be dangerous. Don't try at home. ;)]

- 6/12/10