Because sometimes you'd like to hide. And sometimes when you want to, you can't.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Weekly Kafka
A short tale with pictures. Humor me while I pretend to know exactly what Kafka is thinking.
Gosh I like the fall.
There are leaves on the ground. I like leaves. They are almost as tasty as sticks.
What is this? A stick? With leaves?
I had better try it out.
Say... this is good!
Soooo gooood.
Gosh I like the fall.
There are leaves on the ground. I like leaves. They are almost as tasty as sticks.
What is this? A stick? With leaves?
I had better try it out.
Say... this is good!
Soooo gooood.Within the past week Kafka has lost all of his baby canine teeth, and some molars too. He would be chewing on something (invariably something we didn't want him to chew on), and I would hear something skitter across the hardwood, like a little pebble. Then he would run after it and try to eat it. Yum. Teeth.
His new teeth are less sharp, and much more substantial than his puppy teeth. He is looking more and more grown, which is about right as this week he is five months old (I have no idea how many weeks he is any more because I have lost count and am too lazy to count again).
His new teeth are less sharp, and much more substantial than his puppy teeth. He is looking more and more grown, which is about right as this week he is five months old (I have no idea how many weeks he is any more because I have lost count and am too lazy to count again).
Friday, November 7, 2008
Still loving Obama
Karey lives in Jordan and writes beautifully, which makes me need to direct you to her sometimes.
Go HERE, because now is one of those times.
Go HERE, because now is one of those times.
Pr-I-vacy, please.
It's been a busy week so I'm sorry for the lack of updates.
In the meantime, I got an email from someone asking why I didn't talk more about my husband and, in particular, the Meep.
Not everyone is comfortable being an open book. I don't really mind, but JJ likes to keep it on the down low, so that's why there's not a lot about him.
But the Meep is different. He is our dearest heart. Our most prized possession. And so although once in a while I will throw out a little bone in the form of a story or anecdote, there won't be pictures like there are of the dog (believe me, my son is waaaaay cuter). He is my one secret of secrets, and I am protective of him. I love you Meepie.
Back to Kafka and art soon, I promise.
In the meantime, I got an email from someone asking why I didn't talk more about my husband and, in particular, the Meep.
Not everyone is comfortable being an open book. I don't really mind, but JJ likes to keep it on the down low, so that's why there's not a lot about him.
But the Meep is different. He is our dearest heart. Our most prized possession. And so although once in a while I will throw out a little bone in the form of a story or anecdote, there won't be pictures like there are of the dog (believe me, my son is waaaaay cuter). He is my one secret of secrets, and I am protective of him. I love you Meepie.
Back to Kafka and art soon, I promise.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Day of the Dead (2)
III.
I wanted to tell you a sort-of ghost story as part of the Day of the Dead, but truthfully, I struggled with how to do it. How can a Dia de Los Muertos ghost be only sort-of? If they're alive.
There once was a girl who didn't much care. Didn't. She didn't take care of herself or the people she loved the way she ought to. She took much of life for granted. She walked through it without connecting-- simply blind to much of what the world and life have to offer.
Then she became ill, and went down a long, painful stretch of time where the world turned inside out. Days bled together with uncertainty and frustration. People hovered. Breathing was hard.
Slowly, s l o w l y, the misery of those days began to chip away at the not-caring girl. Her eyes opened little by little, and that life-for-granted, self-indulgent, blind person was peeled off of her. That girl died, and beneath her skins, someone else began to draw breath. Someone for whom life was magical. Someone who somehow took quiet note of each moment as it passed with reverence.
Now, life isn't always nice. It's not clean. It can be mundane. People are horrible to one another. But life is possibilities. A moment can lead in a million different directions. In times of pain, there are still trees; still wind and mountains; still fancy cars speeding by and chocolate.
Exactly ten years ago, on Dia de Los Muertos 1998, I went to the hospital and descended into the strange world where doctors don't have answers and illness and uncertainty become routine. And when I came out of that time, I had changed. It wasn't easy, and I'm certainly not saying that now I'm perfectly in tune with everything and everyone (I had a sharp reminder this weekend of that), but I do know that all in all, I am better off for living through it. The ghost-girl is gone. And although this day is meant to celebrate the life of those who have passed on, today I celebrate that it has been ten years, and I did not pass on. I grew strong, got educated and started taking note.
This is not sad at all! This is part of what made me who I am and I would not give it up for anything.
And so I celebrate that I am, like so much of my art, a work in progress.
So go here to learn a little about something that affects approximately 1 in 5,000 people.
www.hht.org
And remember to open your eyes.
I wanted to tell you a sort-of ghost story as part of the Day of the Dead, but truthfully, I struggled with how to do it. How can a Dia de Los Muertos ghost be only sort-of? If they're alive.
There once was a girl who didn't much care. Didn't. She didn't take care of herself or the people she loved the way she ought to. She took much of life for granted. She walked through it without connecting-- simply blind to much of what the world and life have to offer.
Then she became ill, and went down a long, painful stretch of time where the world turned inside out. Days bled together with uncertainty and frustration. People hovered. Breathing was hard.
Slowly, s l o w l y, the misery of those days began to chip away at the not-caring girl. Her eyes opened little by little, and that life-for-granted, self-indulgent, blind person was peeled off of her. That girl died, and beneath her skins, someone else began to draw breath. Someone for whom life was magical. Someone who somehow took quiet note of each moment as it passed with reverence.
Now, life isn't always nice. It's not clean. It can be mundane. People are horrible to one another. But life is possibilities. A moment can lead in a million different directions. In times of pain, there are still trees; still wind and mountains; still fancy cars speeding by and chocolate.
Exactly ten years ago, on Dia de Los Muertos 1998, I went to the hospital and descended into the strange world where doctors don't have answers and illness and uncertainty become routine. And when I came out of that time, I had changed. It wasn't easy, and I'm certainly not saying that now I'm perfectly in tune with everything and everyone (I had a sharp reminder this weekend of that), but I do know that all in all, I am better off for living through it. The ghost-girl is gone. And although this day is meant to celebrate the life of those who have passed on, today I celebrate that it has been ten years, and I did not pass on. I grew strong, got educated and started taking note.
This is not sad at all! This is part of what made me who I am and I would not give it up for anything.
And so I celebrate that I am, like so much of my art, a work in progress.
So go here to learn a little about something that affects approximately 1 in 5,000 people.
www.hht.org
And remember to open your eyes.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Day of the Dead
I.
My mother's mother loved margaritas. We called her Clancy, although her real name was Lois Meagher. She came from a big family and grew up poor in Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee. "Clancy" suited her better than "grandmother," although I'm not sure why I called her that. She sang like a bird. She could be as silly as a girl but undoubtedly the word I've heard most to describe her, in any circle, has always been "classy". She wore ironed gloves and her hair was always perfect. She was infinitely poised.
She was beautiful. Really beautiful, with a killer smile.
My mother has told me that when she was little and they would visit Tennessee, the moment my grandmother's foot touched southern soil a southern accent would spill into her speech like honey. When I was young and we were alone for a day, she would watch All My Children with me and let me paint my fingernails with her army of polishes. She fed me Dixie cups of mini marshmallows and had the cleanest house I have ever seen. She would take me to the pool to swim and would look Fantastic. She always had plenty of cheddar Goldfish crackers. She collected owls.
She died gracefully, which was not easy, but my grandmother was the strongest woman I have ever met.
When we see rainbows we say, "there is Clancy," and at my wedding, the weather ran from blustery to foggy to rainy and hot, but she made an appearance after dinner, reaching from one end to another across the sky-- a pure stretch of almost solid color against the steel gray of the clouds. It was so vivid. I didn't even think to make sure someone got a photograph. But I'm not upset about it. It was still a perfect moment.
I won't be having a margarita, but I will be drinking some wine. I also will be cooking a full dinner, which she did almost every day. It's a real rarity for me. I love you Clancy. She also made the best pecan pie, and I thought you might like to have the recipe for it yourself. It's ridiculously easy and always tastes like a dream.
Clancy's Pecan Pie
3 cups whole pecans
1 cup light corn syrup
2/3 cup dark brown sugar
3-4 eggs (depending on size)
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
Preheat oven to 375 F. Line pie pan with dough and refrigerate. In a large bowl, lightly mix all of the ingredients except pecans. Once they are well blended, fold in pecans. Pour into the chilled pie crust, and bake on the lowest rack in the oven for 50-60 minutes. Let cool for 5-6 hours.
I don't know why there is the whole unsalted butter/additional salt thing going on, but I do know if you use salted butter it doesn't taste the same.
II.
Brian made me laugh when I was feeling my most geeky and alone (ninth grade). My all-girls school and his all-boys school had a mixed show choir and that's where we met. We were both awkward. He had a beautiful deep voice. He loved to cook.
Years later, I ended up hanging out with Brian on an almost nightly basis. He still made me laugh and feel at ease. He still loved to cook. He had a huge heart that he wore on his sleeve. He did not give himself credit, and he didn't allow himself a break, although he deserved one.
My mother's mother loved margaritas. We called her Clancy, although her real name was Lois Meagher. She came from a big family and grew up poor in Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee. "Clancy" suited her better than "grandmother," although I'm not sure why I called her that. She sang like a bird. She could be as silly as a girl but undoubtedly the word I've heard most to describe her, in any circle, has always been "classy". She wore ironed gloves and her hair was always perfect. She was infinitely poised.
She was beautiful. Really beautiful, with a killer smile.
My mother has told me that when she was little and they would visit Tennessee, the moment my grandmother's foot touched southern soil a southern accent would spill into her speech like honey. When I was young and we were alone for a day, she would watch All My Children with me and let me paint my fingernails with her army of polishes. She fed me Dixie cups of mini marshmallows and had the cleanest house I have ever seen. She would take me to the pool to swim and would look Fantastic. She always had plenty of cheddar Goldfish crackers. She collected owls.
She died gracefully, which was not easy, but my grandmother was the strongest woman I have ever met.
When we see rainbows we say, "there is Clancy," and at my wedding, the weather ran from blustery to foggy to rainy and hot, but she made an appearance after dinner, reaching from one end to another across the sky-- a pure stretch of almost solid color against the steel gray of the clouds. It was so vivid. I didn't even think to make sure someone got a photograph. But I'm not upset about it. It was still a perfect moment.
I won't be having a margarita, but I will be drinking some wine. I also will be cooking a full dinner, which she did almost every day. It's a real rarity for me. I love you Clancy. She also made the best pecan pie, and I thought you might like to have the recipe for it yourself. It's ridiculously easy and always tastes like a dream.
Clancy's Pecan Pie
3 cups whole pecans
1 cup light corn syrup
2/3 cup dark brown sugar
3-4 eggs (depending on size)
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter, melted
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
Preheat oven to 375 F. Line pie pan with dough and refrigerate. In a large bowl, lightly mix all of the ingredients except pecans. Once they are well blended, fold in pecans. Pour into the chilled pie crust, and bake on the lowest rack in the oven for 50-60 minutes. Let cool for 5-6 hours.
I don't know why there is the whole unsalted butter/additional salt thing going on, but I do know if you use salted butter it doesn't taste the same.
II.
Brian made me laugh when I was feeling my most geeky and alone (ninth grade). My all-girls school and his all-boys school had a mixed show choir and that's where we met. We were both awkward. He had a beautiful deep voice. He loved to cook.
Years later, I ended up hanging out with Brian on an almost nightly basis. He still made me laugh and feel at ease. He still loved to cook. He had a huge heart that he wore on his sleeve. He did not give himself credit, and he didn't allow himself a break, although he deserved one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
