Turn left to the north, and travel up a street filled with large trees whose branches bend and sway heavy with green leaves; those that live there benefit from the shade and air given. There is a house with strings of white lights intertwined amid the front bushes, a painted porch, and a driveway leading to the back yard where tables had been set with a clatter of ceramic dishes. So many platters and bowls, filled with early summer vegetables, pastas, olives, fruits, cheeses, and seasoned rice; immense casseroles held layers of spinach, ricotta, and wide, wavy noodles in luscious tomato sauce; a mushroom strudel introduced itself in a tender crust rolled and sealed lovingly. Wine was released, lemonade iced.
The crowd was happy and appreciative to the couple hosting this beginning summer soiree, clusters of conversation would gather, buzz and break apart again to regroup to the next circle in a slow waltz of interest and commonality. Heads nodded, deals were made, business reports, opinions, experiences, beliefs, memories, and curiosity spun syllables into an organic, breathing thing created when: people are invited and then shop and gather ingredients and cook and blend and bake and carry, or scurry to the store for a favored vintage, a sweet, a box of plastic utensils and then come together and share with hopes of elevating their friends and neighbors with tidbits and goodwill. What a nice thing to happen.
I met people that I had a vague connection to in many unseen ways; proximity of work, profession, experience with bureaucracies, friends of friends, I tell you it was amazing. The hosts were harmonious, splendiferous. She floated as she does, upon an ether that lifts her maybe a half inch above the ground; she is tethered to earth by her love of nature, including the humanity that swam around her green green yard. We thought we were full when the announcement was given that dessert was to appear approximately in fifteen minutes. The work of the host then promenaded forth in sugared layers, built with the eye of an architect, devised by a mind of a mad patissier who understands what is to be done with eggs, flour and chocolate.
I heard an audible gasp from one as a forkful of dark chocolate cake was absorbed; this was met by sighs of joy from those who assisted a carrot cake in disappearance. Both were sumptuous, both were layered by celestial buttercreams or maybe was that a custard? It was heaven, we thought, oh this could not be better, are we not spoiled, when, knowing the art of timing, the host brought out the lemon curd cake as held by tides of whipped cream, which bonded a nicely crumbed yellow cake, tender yet strong enough to support the weight of the curd and cream piled atop. No one begged off, we all undertook the challenge, and finally scraped our plates for last vestiges of lemon essence. There were bits of a raspberry cheesecake being elevated to minor sainthood, and a favored sourcream cheesecake of the hostess was also quickly coveted and cherished.
At the end, when all good people know to leave, I was given an inside view of the home by my friend, who has a heartfelt guardianship with the ocean. She dives, snorkels, swims with currents and salinity, brave girl. There are mermaids, shells, and other things both gentle and fierce throughout the home, and her joy is expressing her kinship with what these artifacts represent. Tonna galea shells are spread on her mantle, who have a method of dining that includes injecting the sea star prey with a dilute sulfuric acid. A small, whole coconut in a husk sits on an end table, a brown exclamation point to the myriad treasures captured by pirate she. It was an honor to see, to share, to be.
The night air had cooled, and I gratefully opened windows after a warm day. The ballpark near my own home was ablaze with colors and gunpowder, as the evening fireworks commenced war. The longest daylight of the year will be officially in two days, then time reverses and the days again grow shorter. We are still here after years of toil and shadowed evenings, to celebrate the light in a summer dance repeats a moment found in many histories of many eras, going back to stone and hill and hedge. So let us have cake and then a night of sleep, dreaming of waves and ocean, of fish and coral beds. Sleep.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Click
Because tomorrow is closing day for my parent's home, I stopped to get some cuttings of my mother's last rosebush in hopes of propagating the stems. The original belonged to my Aunt Doris, it being a vigorous, tall hybrid named "Aloha" that puts out scores of pink, fragrant flowers on long stems. I used one of Mom's old glass jars she used to start roses with and filled it with cuttings, some in blossom. Drove home, and carried the jar up with the mail from the post office, a cantaloupe I had forgotten was in the back seat from a day ago, a satchel filled with work, my purse, and a piece of masonite to be used as a paper support for paintings. I try to get in everything at once from the parking lot.
Scooting out of the elevator, the mail slid out of my bundle and fell piecemeal to the floor; with my arms full, I kicked the bits of mail forward with my sneakers, put the sodden melon on the doormat, and opened the door while balancing the precious roses. Put what I had in my arms down inside, turned to retrieve the sad melon and mail, bent down, and click. I am now locked out of the apartment. The door is leveled to swing shut, the lock is geared to close without forgiveness. The cats who had run to greet me now wondered where I went so quickly.
You stand up and take stock of the situation. No front pockets in these pants, so no keys. I only had a small toy attached to some string in one back pocket which offered no solace whatsoever. New management charges $25 for getting you back in, but then, it was 4:30 p.m. and the office was closed. No longer is there an engineer on duty, you need to call a far away central number and my phone was sitting next to my keys, locked inside the apartment. In a pinch, I could have called them from the store after begging money for the pay phone from the cashier, then waited for two hours for someone to show. However, there is always Plan A.
I give keys to trusted friends, and one of them lives just over a mile away. I set out for Ginny's, where I knew a key to my apartment door hangs. It is through a bit of a desolate area behind the Arena, through Bunny Town, past the old smithy, turn at the Malamute to the Swannie House, shortcut through Conway Park, past Master Market, and up her street. And this is when I noticed that every few feet lay a chicken wing bone. I felt like Hansel and Gretel following the trail of white stones Hansel dropped, as the stepmother led them into the forest. From where I live to the end, a bone appeared as a strange talisman, most likely because the path I took went by several bars that offer wings.
But think of this: does Buffalo have a higher rate of discarded wing bones than other cities? I would say Yes. Then in hundreds of years from now, will archaeological diggers be carefully scraping away dirt from wing remains after this vibrant, hot-sauce era closes? Again, I imagine layers of bones just as significant as the piles of clamshells found in the middens of early Native Americans. A midden is kitchen leftovers from domestic waste, found wherever people once lived. The Whaleback Shell Midden in Maine was in use from 200 BC to 1000 AD accumulating a thirty-foot depth in oyster shells with a length of 1,650 feet. What is further fascinating is that the shells at the very bottom are from 12-20 inches long, and become progressively smaller as the layers get nearer the top. Commercial human appetite decimated Maine's oyster population by 1875, when they were declared no longer native to New England. Imagine an oyster, almost two feet long.
I got to Ginny's, got the key and was given a sandwich. One of the men drove me back and kindly waited as I foisted myself upon my neighbors who let me in the apartment building, my security tag being attached to the key ring upstairs. The emergency key worked, the cats ran to greet me but not as interested as the first time, and I handed the double back to my friend, who would hang it back in Ginny's kitchen. Glad to be home, inside, artifacts in place.
Plans are twiddling in my head regarding the next time. It has happened three times in ten years, but this is the first without an all night engineer staff to let me in. I will secret a key away, perhaps secluded by a prominent rock at the shore, or squirreled under a local bridge, a railroad tie, or a significant piece of driftwood. Taped to it will be fifty cents for a phone call. A wee box to be buried with phone numbers, a pillow, and a blanket so I can sleep on your porch. Toss me a chicken wing, to be added to the pile of history this town is accumulating.
Time to turn in, the roses have filled the apartment with an essence so calming, so rare. I knew my Mom would stick her face into an open bloom and sigh with quiet delight at the beautiful fragrance. I could carry the immense jar into the bedroom for sleep, and so fall into a dream of garden gloves and clippers, thorns and petals, water jars and cabbage rose blossoms big as an open hand. Good night, good night, good, peaceful night.
Scooting out of the elevator, the mail slid out of my bundle and fell piecemeal to the floor; with my arms full, I kicked the bits of mail forward with my sneakers, put the sodden melon on the doormat, and opened the door while balancing the precious roses. Put what I had in my arms down inside, turned to retrieve the sad melon and mail, bent down, and click. I am now locked out of the apartment. The door is leveled to swing shut, the lock is geared to close without forgiveness. The cats who had run to greet me now wondered where I went so quickly.
You stand up and take stock of the situation. No front pockets in these pants, so no keys. I only had a small toy attached to some string in one back pocket which offered no solace whatsoever. New management charges $25 for getting you back in, but then, it was 4:30 p.m. and the office was closed. No longer is there an engineer on duty, you need to call a far away central number and my phone was sitting next to my keys, locked inside the apartment. In a pinch, I could have called them from the store after begging money for the pay phone from the cashier, then waited for two hours for someone to show. However, there is always Plan A.
I give keys to trusted friends, and one of them lives just over a mile away. I set out for Ginny's, where I knew a key to my apartment door hangs. It is through a bit of a desolate area behind the Arena, through Bunny Town, past the old smithy, turn at the Malamute to the Swannie House, shortcut through Conway Park, past Master Market, and up her street. And this is when I noticed that every few feet lay a chicken wing bone. I felt like Hansel and Gretel following the trail of white stones Hansel dropped, as the stepmother led them into the forest. From where I live to the end, a bone appeared as a strange talisman, most likely because the path I took went by several bars that offer wings.
But think of this: does Buffalo have a higher rate of discarded wing bones than other cities? I would say Yes. Then in hundreds of years from now, will archaeological diggers be carefully scraping away dirt from wing remains after this vibrant, hot-sauce era closes? Again, I imagine layers of bones just as significant as the piles of clamshells found in the middens of early Native Americans. A midden is kitchen leftovers from domestic waste, found wherever people once lived. The Whaleback Shell Midden in Maine was in use from 200 BC to 1000 AD accumulating a thirty-foot depth in oyster shells with a length of 1,650 feet. What is further fascinating is that the shells at the very bottom are from 12-20 inches long, and become progressively smaller as the layers get nearer the top. Commercial human appetite decimated Maine's oyster population by 1875, when they were declared no longer native to New England. Imagine an oyster, almost two feet long.
I got to Ginny's, got the key and was given a sandwich. One of the men drove me back and kindly waited as I foisted myself upon my neighbors who let me in the apartment building, my security tag being attached to the key ring upstairs. The emergency key worked, the cats ran to greet me but not as interested as the first time, and I handed the double back to my friend, who would hang it back in Ginny's kitchen. Glad to be home, inside, artifacts in place.
Plans are twiddling in my head regarding the next time. It has happened three times in ten years, but this is the first without an all night engineer staff to let me in. I will secret a key away, perhaps secluded by a prominent rock at the shore, or squirreled under a local bridge, a railroad tie, or a significant piece of driftwood. Taped to it will be fifty cents for a phone call. A wee box to be buried with phone numbers, a pillow, and a blanket so I can sleep on your porch. Toss me a chicken wing, to be added to the pile of history this town is accumulating.
Time to turn in, the roses have filled the apartment with an essence so calming, so rare. I knew my Mom would stick her face into an open bloom and sigh with quiet delight at the beautiful fragrance. I could carry the immense jar into the bedroom for sleep, and so fall into a dream of garden gloves and clippers, thorns and petals, water jars and cabbage rose blossoms big as an open hand. Good night, good night, good, peaceful night.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Wind and Lake
The rocks are grey as are the low hanging clouds of this wind-gusted day. Rays of yellow cast through the low ceiling dully, creating vague memories of light across the lateral horizon. The water, stirred by a harried wind sloshes in rhythmic whipcracks against the rocks, piling further the driftwood, archaic in worn boneyard disarray. Gulls yowl above, hanging in air like Christmas ornaments, grey backed, unlit, wings tipped in black.
I pull out my small pad and am startled by the brilliant white in contrast against the murky colors surrounding me. It almost seems rude, out of place, for the white to be there like a star, a gnomon, a hole in space. My pen busies itself with laying out words in black ink, turning the pages from white to grey, beaten as stone.
Two fools in a rowboat lurch amid waves just within the safety of the inner wall, one seated at the stern, the other at the bow. They balance on some line of fate, keeping steady and upright as the wind pushes them towards shore, so they'll be fine if they remain alert. One stands now, plying a fishing rod upwards, the gulls cruising over to view what discards may occur.
A company schooner with red sails had earlier set out, cloth billowed tightly against the pressure of wind, held in the grip of current. Less than ten minutes have passed, and her sails are down while every person I see aboard is standing. She motors back up the Buffalo River, to moor at the new wharf. Here I am, seated on old rocks that saw living things before the dinosaurs, leaning into the fresh wind that smells of fish, seaweed, and silt stirred from the bottom.
The sandbar is a brown streak of water to the north of two buoys; nearer to the water intake, the Emerald Channel covets all the green created by clarity and the light that reflects off the bed of limestone beneath. We have a startlingly green river because of this limestone, most evident at Niagara Falls where the minerals and salts picked up by the water catch the light as they tumble over the crestline of the cascade.
And, ye gods, just when sense had taken hold and most boats returned to berths, a small, one-masted vessel manned by two new fools cuts out into the forces. The pilot's knees bend to keep his footing, as the prow goes airborne before diving into each trough. They jibe and tighten in, the railing to starboard now skimming the surface of the rough water at a perilous clip; with only two aboard, they are getting a riotous sleighride, and narrowly miss the side of a larger craft whose sails are down. I heard shouting and saw people on the bigger boat waving arms, not in a Hello There way. The two yahoos battened down, trimmed sails, and shot forward like a bat out of hell.
I am again astounded when realizing that I sit on the edge of two worlds, after I turn my head and see the unmoving, lush lawns and gardens of the marina behind me, a steady, solid counterpoint to the liquid glacial turbulence that is raising temperamental Cain at the foot of the city. As punctuation, a solitary Canadian goose paddles by, his well-oiled fanny bobbing along just like Sunday and what's the fuss?
I have no jacket and am chilled. Heading back, clambering over rocks and debris, I trot with the wind at my back, to home and supper, pushed forward by atmosphere. The air remains cool, and evening has brought calm evidenced by the tree tops standing still. I have been looking for Baltimore Orioles, for a few nest around the area and I would like to see one; I have seen five in my life, and find it a surprise each time, a small happiness.
Time for closing windows and curtains, turning out lights and checking locks. Sleep well, all. Morning comes.
I pull out my small pad and am startled by the brilliant white in contrast against the murky colors surrounding me. It almost seems rude, out of place, for the white to be there like a star, a gnomon, a hole in space. My pen busies itself with laying out words in black ink, turning the pages from white to grey, beaten as stone.
Two fools in a rowboat lurch amid waves just within the safety of the inner wall, one seated at the stern, the other at the bow. They balance on some line of fate, keeping steady and upright as the wind pushes them towards shore, so they'll be fine if they remain alert. One stands now, plying a fishing rod upwards, the gulls cruising over to view what discards may occur.
A company schooner with red sails had earlier set out, cloth billowed tightly against the pressure of wind, held in the grip of current. Less than ten minutes have passed, and her sails are down while every person I see aboard is standing. She motors back up the Buffalo River, to moor at the new wharf. Here I am, seated on old rocks that saw living things before the dinosaurs, leaning into the fresh wind that smells of fish, seaweed, and silt stirred from the bottom.
The sandbar is a brown streak of water to the north of two buoys; nearer to the water intake, the Emerald Channel covets all the green created by clarity and the light that reflects off the bed of limestone beneath. We have a startlingly green river because of this limestone, most evident at Niagara Falls where the minerals and salts picked up by the water catch the light as they tumble over the crestline of the cascade.
And, ye gods, just when sense had taken hold and most boats returned to berths, a small, one-masted vessel manned by two new fools cuts out into the forces. The pilot's knees bend to keep his footing, as the prow goes airborne before diving into each trough. They jibe and tighten in, the railing to starboard now skimming the surface of the rough water at a perilous clip; with only two aboard, they are getting a riotous sleighride, and narrowly miss the side of a larger craft whose sails are down. I heard shouting and saw people on the bigger boat waving arms, not in a Hello There way. The two yahoos battened down, trimmed sails, and shot forward like a bat out of hell.
I am again astounded when realizing that I sit on the edge of two worlds, after I turn my head and see the unmoving, lush lawns and gardens of the marina behind me, a steady, solid counterpoint to the liquid glacial turbulence that is raising temperamental Cain at the foot of the city. As punctuation, a solitary Canadian goose paddles by, his well-oiled fanny bobbing along just like Sunday and what's the fuss?
I have no jacket and am chilled. Heading back, clambering over rocks and debris, I trot with the wind at my back, to home and supper, pushed forward by atmosphere. The air remains cool, and evening has brought calm evidenced by the tree tops standing still. I have been looking for Baltimore Orioles, for a few nest around the area and I would like to see one; I have seen five in my life, and find it a surprise each time, a small happiness.
Time for closing windows and curtains, turning out lights and checking locks. Sleep well, all. Morning comes.
Cream of
Just for fun, looking for an old sign to hang, could really make one myself, entered the phrase "Clam Chowder" into eBay's search engine. Do you know that some genius is offering cans of Campbell's New England Clam Chowder, three for $6.75 plus shipping? Am I in another country or what? Every American grocery should have clam chowder on its shelves. Buying Campbell's soup from eBay is plain weird, just go get a can of clams, add milk, potatoes and pepper. Done.
If I knew how to work eBay, I could clean out the cupboard and make some change. Campbell's is no mystery, and they expect you to get 2.5 portions out of one can, which means about 1/2 cup of soup per at 650 milligrams of sodium. One. Half. Cup. Raise your hand if that's all you can manage, so you know that if you will take on the entire one and a half cups times the sodium by 2.5, this guarantees your blood pressure will satellite through the ceiling.
Go to the website and there is plenty of woofing about nutrition and health. I scanned the brands of condensed soups and noticed several familiar ones were missing, namely the tripe-based Pepper Pot, the muttony Scotch Broth, and Black Bean. Amazon offers waiting lists for Pepper Pot and Scotch Broth, when they become available, for you folks hankering for cow stomach or ye old leg of.
Pepper Pot, however, connects with American history in that the soldiers at Valley Forge sustained themselves with soup made of tripe and vegetables. Apparently, the local farmers sold to the strong British dollar, and the leftovers were then afforded by the weaker economy of the Continental Army. Philadelphia Pepper Pot was later offered by street vendors throughout the 19th century, till the Atomic Age produced condensed soups and everyone could then go play bridge with the girls instead of cooking tripe for 2 1/2 hours.
Soup is always good, but to develop flavor requires at least a half hour of simmer and a preferable overnight stay in the fridge. Rivvels tossed into a broth smartly bulk up the recipe if other ingredients are sparse, and add chewy satisfaction to the meal. I can't say that I don't appreciate a can of soup in a pinch, and keep a few on hand. But selling soup on eBay? Is it a regional thing?
Well, here's to soup, soup, beautiful soup. Chowder, broth, bouillon, mulligatawny, burgoo, stew, porridge in a bowl with a heel of bread or a handful of oyster crackers afloat. My supper's done, time to end the day. Thank and bless all, tuck head under wing, dream of bowls and spoons.
If I knew how to work eBay, I could clean out the cupboard and make some change. Campbell's is no mystery, and they expect you to get 2.5 portions out of one can, which means about 1/2 cup of soup per at 650 milligrams of sodium. One. Half. Cup. Raise your hand if that's all you can manage, so you know that if you will take on the entire one and a half cups times the sodium by 2.5, this guarantees your blood pressure will satellite through the ceiling.
Go to the website and there is plenty of woofing about nutrition and health. I scanned the brands of condensed soups and noticed several familiar ones were missing, namely the tripe-based Pepper Pot, the muttony Scotch Broth, and Black Bean. Amazon offers waiting lists for Pepper Pot and Scotch Broth, when they become available, for you folks hankering for cow stomach or ye old leg of.
Pepper Pot, however, connects with American history in that the soldiers at Valley Forge sustained themselves with soup made of tripe and vegetables. Apparently, the local farmers sold to the strong British dollar, and the leftovers were then afforded by the weaker economy of the Continental Army. Philadelphia Pepper Pot was later offered by street vendors throughout the 19th century, till the Atomic Age produced condensed soups and everyone could then go play bridge with the girls instead of cooking tripe for 2 1/2 hours.
Soup is always good, but to develop flavor requires at least a half hour of simmer and a preferable overnight stay in the fridge. Rivvels tossed into a broth smartly bulk up the recipe if other ingredients are sparse, and add chewy satisfaction to the meal. I can't say that I don't appreciate a can of soup in a pinch, and keep a few on hand. But selling soup on eBay? Is it a regional thing?
Well, here's to soup, soup, beautiful soup. Chowder, broth, bouillon, mulligatawny, burgoo, stew, porridge in a bowl with a heel of bread or a handful of oyster crackers afloat. My supper's done, time to end the day. Thank and bless all, tuck head under wing, dream of bowls and spoons.
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