a long, strange trip back to *On the Road*

In a past life, I was a Jack Kerouac junkie. No, not in the Burroughsian sense of “junkie.” I mean in that, “wow, Jack was so cool and misunderstood, the voice of a generation, who was deeply romantic and henceforth tortured a la Heathcliff, and who was always seeking a deeper connection and real spirituality through whatever avenues were available to him, and he tried his hardest to live in the moment when really he was always simultaneously stuck in the past and already in the future, and wow, was he sexy when he wasn't looking so wasted...” That kind of junkie. I had a bit of a crush, really, and even went through a phase of digging Kerouacian fellows, or at least those who read Kerouac.

Well, those days are past, for various reasons, but primarily because writing a dissertation and focusing all one’s intellectual and therefore most other energy on a topic and a group of writers tends to lead to overdose. I needed a break. And I needed to find some fellows who never even heard of Jack Kerouac, much less read any of his works.

So. My scholarship turned towards romance novels, and fashion, and food. My fellows read John Grisham novels (okay, admittedly not an improvement, really. Where are the fellows who are, say, Michael Pollan devotees? That kind of fellow I could settle in with.)

From time to time I think of Jack and the gang and feel a twinge of something...not longing, but a sense of loss. Back in my doctoral days, I could’ve recited the publication dates of Jack’s novels. I could’ve rattled off some impressive anecdotes about the Beats. I could’ve told you which female Beats slept with which male Beats, and how those relationships ended (which they always did. end.)

So yesterday I received my NYTimes Book Review preview email and saw two articles about Jack and the 50th anniversary of the publication on OTR. I needed and wanted that paper, but wasn’t sure where in my new small-ish town I could locate the Sunday Times.

This afternoon, after whittling away at my foodie romance article, I braved the cold (62 degrees) and rainy day to head to Starbucks in search of liquid rejuvenation and my NYT. They had it! I settled into a comfy chair with the Kerouac articles and my tall non-fat misto (cafe au lait). As I read about Jack’s infamous first draft of OTR (the scroll), the Starbucks music shifted from a bluesy-jazzy mix, to something that sounded suspiciously like the Grateful Dead. “Cold Rain and Snow.” Followed by “Uncle John’s Band” and “Casey Jones.” How more Beat could it be? And how much more could I be propelled back into the past, say 2000-2003, when this particular mix of literature and music filled my days? I finished the Kerouac articles, picked up my American Lit anthology to prep for class and laughed out loud as the Dead gave way to Dave Matthews. “Stay or Leave,” from Dave’s solo album.

I sipped my coffee and waited for that pang of longing to be back in 2000, listening to Dave and the Dead (throw in a little Sarah McLachlan, Indigo Girls, and Shawn Mullins for authenticity) and reading about the Beat boys and girls, while living in sunny Alabama and at the zenith of intellectual prowess.

And the pang didn’t come. I was content to be in a Starbucks, which looked and felt like it could be anywhere in America, in my new lakeside town in Wisconsin. Happy to be preparing to teach American Lit. Thinking of how I could use these articles, and maybe even some of this hippie music when I teach Kerouac’s *The Dharma Bums* later this fall. Really, DB is my favorite of the few Kerouac novels I’ve actually read in their entirety. Rather than the frentic and at times completely alienating motion of the road, I always identified more with the Kerouac who longed to lay in green fields and free chained dogs. The Kerouac who didn’t want mystical orgies but wanted real soul talk between lovers (okay, in that case I’m back to OTR).

And so this, my 100th post on my little blog, is devoted to Jack, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the publication of OTR. The publication of which would alter his life dearly, and, if the insights of some of those who knew him best at that time are to be believed, an event that would begin his long, slow spiral downward, madly burning to be saved.

What I always loved best about Jack’s writing was the sense of wide-open possibility, of a never ending seeking, of a yearning for something transformative. It's that message that today’s readers, perhaps more than ever, need to hear. We’re still searching, still looking to see if “God is Pooh Bear,” still looking for our forefathers (and mothers) to show us some better ways, and still searching for personal and national redemption...

school supplies

This time of year, I'm overcome with giddiness when I see special aisles dedicated to brightly colored paper folders; packages of crayola markers and crayons; tubs of elmers glue and rubber cement; and trendy lunchboxes and backpacks. I always loved school, which is partly why I stayed in school as long as I could, and now work in higher education so I can still surround myself with the accoutrements of--and contribute directly to--learning. This year I purchased several sets of crayola markers, glue sticks, and safety scissors, placed them in clear plastic boxes, and brought them to my office. To engage different learning styles, we're going to do more visual/artistic representations in my classes this fall. We'll create identity collages for one class, food collages for another, and American Dream collages for the other. Do I worry that this seems too sophomoric for my first and second year college students? A little. But research--and my own experience--shows that engaging other areas of the mind can help strengthen our writing and help break us from the formulaic patterns we've absorbed in earlier writing experiences. I, for one, am thrilled with these projects. We'll also go high tech and create class blogs...

My personal school supply purchases this year include: a mini pink stapler, complete with PINK staples; a bright candy pink folder, the kind with the clear plastic pocket to slip in a collage to personalize the front; a fancy, imported from Spain notebook with a green cover with white hearts on it; two green pilot v5 precise pens, my favorite to grade with; a brown and pink paisley rug for my office. And then there's my gorgeous green leather HOBO "briefcase" that my dearest friends gave me as a send-off gift, filled with all sorts of goodies, from pens, to hankies, to a journal, and a Vosges Gianduja chocolate bar (which is long gone. I HAD to consume before it melted:)

I'm still working on that all important first day of school outfit...but soon enough I'll be all tricked out, ready to bring my love of pink, green, chocolate, and all things literaturey and foodie to my students and colleagues:)

of things vintage, new, and excluded

This is the famous Zingerman's, in Ann Arbor, home of all that is delicious and good. Oh, Zingy's, let me count the ways I miss you...

Today I'm conjuring up some of their Paesano bread in my mind, and dipping it in the fine Arbequina Olive Oil I recently bought from the Oilerie, an Olive Oil bar in Fish Creek, WI (the most touristy of the Door County towns). Fantasy bread and real olive oil. Hmmm.

And this is me in the photo, wearing a dress that used to be my Mom's, from the late 80s/early 90s, that I like to call vintage, but she doesn't like to hear called vintage.

This is me before I got my hair cut (note to any former students who happen to be reading this blog, yes, I know, I used that abhorrent word GOT)...which I had done right before moving, I'm sure subconsciously it was a symbolic act. I'm still adjusting to my sassy layers that just barely fit in a ponytail...last year this time my hair was flowing halfway down my back. Last year I was also training for a half marathon and confidently running up to 8 consecutive miles with limited difficulty. Today I'm lucky to manage running 1 consecutive mile before sucking air...

But I digress. Today's a day of memories and bits of the past that make me homesick mixed in with my new reality, which is thrilling and positively full of potential.

But. I really wanted to post a mini-rant today about the discrimination against RN's in used bookstores. I've frequented quite a few such bookstores lately, and have noticed that while they include special sections for all manner of odd and esoteric subjects (including the always interesting Circus Book genre), and include sections for other popular, mass-market genres of sci-fi/fantasy and mystery, ROMANCE is no where to be found. A few may be scattered in with the general fiction/literature, but these titles are teetering towards the slightly more "respectable" women's fiction. This exclusion made me mad. I've been formulating reasons in my head--i.e. there are simply too many RNs to even admit any because it is, after all the MOST popular/best-selling genre, and the bookstore would be overwhelmed. But wouldn't this also then mean that these books would come in and out of the store with greater frequency? Surely they could set aside a little shelf space for tales from the heart.

I suspect the exclusion has more to do with perceptions of high/low literature, class/cultural capital perceptions, and suspicion of those damned scribbling women, and their impressionable readers. Again.

fabulous frittata

Yesterday morning I drove to Sheboygan to sign my insurance papers, and decided to treat mytself to "brunch" at the previously mentioned Field to Fork. I ordered the vegetable frittata and wrote in my journal and jotted notes for my classes while listening to the chef prepare my brunch at the open kitchen beneath the loft where I was sitting. The swirl of eggs being whisked, the intoxicating scent of breakfast meats lingering in the air (not that I partook...I'm not that lapsed of a vegetarian. Yet.) heightened my anticipation. When my server set my plate down in front of me, my hands ached for the digital camera I don't yet have so I could share this beautiful creation with y'all...

The frittata was plate sized, with a thin, ruffled edge. Studded with sauteed vegetables--summer squashes, peppers, onions, and mushrooms--and topped with thin slices of crecenza (sp?) cheese, and topped with a salad of frisee, miscellaneous spring greens, cucumbers, more peppers, halved grape tomatoes, and a light vinaigrette, it was a sight to behold. Beautiful, fresh, and bursting with simple flavor. Delicious. I savored every bite, and ate to the point of fullness, munching on wheat toast spread with creamy butter, and sipping perfectly acidic coffee.

I picked up a can of San Marzano Tomatoes, a half pound of Guatamala Antigua coffee beans, and a 3/4 lb. slab of Wisantigo Strevecchio cheese (an aged Wisconsin parm-reg style cheese) and headed back home to the joyful task of unpaking and arranging my library. Then I met some of my new friends for cocktails and felt the welcome of new friendship and the joy of working and socializing with like-minded, fun-loving, thoughtful, and intelligent colleagues.

beginnings

photo courtesy of Wikipedia, taken by MadMaxMarchHare, licensed by GNU Free Documentation License

I can't remember when I've been this bone-tired for this many days in a row...packing, loading, driving, unloading, unpacking...it's grueling business, moving is.

My parents and brother L all made at least part of their journeys on the S.S. Badger, pictured above. I'm looking forward to making the boat ride across the big Lake myself one of these days. I can hear the ship's horn at my home, heralding departures and arrivals...and, I can see a fine film of the Badger's coal-fired black soot on my windows, blown there by a lovely lake breeze...

I'm pleased with my new home, and thrilled with the kind generosity of new friends/colleagues who appeared in droves to assist with my move. Life will be good here.

Anonymous, thank you for your heartfelt comment. Every new beginning means a farewell to what came before, an opportunity to challenge and grow and settle deeper into understanding of myself, and I welcome that change, which I sorely needed.

Soon I shall share the wonderful story of the Best Pizza I've Ever Eaten, my encounters with local color in area liquor stores, and tales from the road. For now, I crave sleep, sweet tea, and restorative yoga!

my favorite things about Michigan, a fond farewell

photo from wikipedia, taken by Lars Lentz, licensed under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 1.0

1. my family and friends
2. the beaches of Lake Michigan, with long slopes of sand and rolling dunes
3. foodie destinations: zingermans, trattoria stella, journeyman cafe, uncommon grounds, captain sundae, schuler books and music, simply wine, foods for living, Okemos farmer's market, Holland farmer's market
4. memories of the 26 years I lived in "the magical mitten"
5. two of my three alma maters, Alma College and Michigan State University...oh, and I suppose I should throw in my k-12 schooling at West Ottawa, places that all contributed to my eggheadedness:)

somehow a list seems incomplete, but if I think in full sentences this morning I'll focus more on the sadness of what I'm leaving than the exciting possibilities that await me in Wisconsin...

I'll catch up with you on the other side of the Lake...

last desserts

Friday's the big day: we load up the 16 foot Penske truck with all my worldly goods. There's much questioning about the size of the said truck: will it be large enough to hold all my boxes? I'll spend the night at my parents' home and then make the drive to WI on Saturday morning to unload with the help of my new colleagues/friends.

Yesterday I baked my last goodies in this kitchen that I've hated yet grown accustomed to, with its dark pressed wood cabinets and annoying refrigerator that insists on freezing my baby lettuces...

First I made a cute two layer six inch chocolate cake, which I'm just about to frost. I'm bringing it to Grandpa C, who loves sweets, but particularly chocolate cake. He's refinished a Hoosier cabinet for my new place and I promised to pay in chocolate cake.

Then I made an ultra rustic peach and blueberry galette, with Michigan peaches and my own family's blueberries (I have many stories about that to come). I had to dig my rolling pin out of the box it was already packed in, and attempt to maneuver it on the small counter space left free during the packing frenzy. The pastry crumbled and fell all apart, so I had to press it back together...It certainly wasn't the prettiest of galettes, but it was tasty.

My friend K came over to spend the night and we enjoyed the tart and tumblers full of wine (as I already packed my nice stemware). K and I are friends from college--we were the two highest officers in our--brace yourself--sorority (more on that another time:)--as well as editors on our college newspaper (she was editor-in-chief and I was Features). We caught up on college gossip and discussed the travails of young motherhood and single life, respectively. We're planning a visit for her family to come to WI and go to a Packers game (her husband is a HUGE sports fan)...we have to wait until Brett Favre retires to get tickets, but it will certainly be an adventure (especially for me, as I'm functionally football illiterate).

759 pages, 6 hours

I spent my afternoon with Harry and the gang. Won't write anything else 'til I know it's safe to discuss...but I have some thoughts on the form that I'm itching to discuss:)

One vastly overlooked benefit of completing grueling PhD comprehensive exams (think 3 subject areas, 150+ works to read and be ready to write about and discuss with unerring intelligence and eloquence) is the ability to read. Smartly. Lightning speedily. I may no longer remember the publication dates and corresponding historical significance of Nathaniel Hawthorne's great works; the allusions and influences of each of Pound's cantos; or the nuanced differences between radical, liberal, first, second, and third wave feminisms; but I have retained my ability to read at all speeds.

claudio corallo, chocolate god

Photo by Medicaster. Cacao tree in Hawaii Botanical Gardens. Wikipedia

I first read about chocologist Claudio Corallo in Chloé Doutre-Roussel’s delightful book, *The Chocolate Connoisseur: For Everyone with a Passion for Chocolate.* (note: I was fortunate to attend a chocolate tasting at Zingerman’s with Chloé, an event that transformed my relationship to chocolate). At the time of publication, Claudio Corallo’s chocolates were sold exclusively at Fortnum & Mason (where Doutré-Roussel is the chocolate buyer--what a job, no?), not available to chocophiles worldwide. Now, these amazing chocolates are available and...

But first, a bit of background on Corallo. According to Doutre-Roussel, Corallo was the creative force behind the plantation lines for Pralus, my previous number one chocolate. Corallo’s family’s small plantation in Sao Tomé e Principé is the site of their chocolate production, and Corallo is dedicated to keep chocolate plain, eschewing some of processing we’re used to in order to create chocolates that taste, well, like chocolate...

Last time I was at Zingerman’s I spied a new addition--a row of Corallo chocolates, but was unable to taste and buy at the time. This week I made my farewell visit to my favorite gourmety foodie mecca in Michigan, and decided it was time to purchase and to taste. I came home with a 75% bar--well, actually, when I opened the vacuum sealed packet (intriguing in its simplicity--silver vacuum pack with a white tag with limited info about the treat inside), I giddily discovered three bars. I snapped off a bite...well, as snappy as it could be given the less than ideal chocolate storing conditions here in my home...smelled its complex, warm wonder; and popped it in my mouth.

I nearly cried. Complex yet simple. Primitive. Wild. Rich, with a much less refined and creamy texture of most other chocolates, the flavor seeped into my whole being, and suddenly, poor Pralus was demoted to the number two spot. And I love the juxtaposition of the clean, modern lines of the packaging, and the old and otherwordly simplicity of the chocolate inside.

up north adventures: sassy scrams and tiny bubbles

artwork from wikipedia, 1915 English magazine illustration of a lady riding a champagne cork
From The Lordprice Collection, copyright license found at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/

Two years ago H, S, and I discovered the delicious foods at Kejara's Bridge, a little cafe smack dab in the middle of the Leelanau Peninsula. I still remember sitting out in the garden, dodging bees, and feeling more than a little windswept, as we ate our fresh, clean flavored breakfasts. H and I ate there twice this visit, talking about our dreams of buying the place (it's for sale)...a real dream since other lives and other jobs beckon, not to mention a serious lack of capital. But it's fun to imagine the possibilities of a different life.

The most delicious item on the menu, in my mind, is the Sassy Scram (which also happens to have the best name). Three eggs are scrambled with spinach, red and green pepper, red onion, tomato, feta, and white cheddar. Served with whole grain toast and fresh fruit, the concoction makes a lovely breakfast or lunch. I've made similar dishes at home on a random Tuesday when I don't feel like "really cooking," but somehow Kejara's is a bit more delicious, which I suspect has something to do with their much more liberal use of cheese.

The ambience veers towards the boho-hippy, with local art for sale on the walls, an eclectic range of vintage tables, and folksy music. We were lucky enough to listen to Bob Dylan (well, I was. H isn't a big fan of Dylan, but she softened towards his vocal stylings by the end of our lunch). There's something about Dylan's rambling narratives that comforts on days--like this one was--when all I could think about was the melancholy of leaving and moving on to new chapters.

On our last visit, H and I had the pleasure of serendipitously running into an old friend from college who's doing really important and great work.

As my time on the Peninsula drew to a close, H and I had one more destination in mind: the vineyards of Larry Mawby. As I've mentioned before, vineyards dot the land in this region. What distinguishes Mawby is that all his wines are sparkling. He uses the traditional methode champenoise, and his wines are effervescent and lovely. The tasting room rollicks with music that can only be described as *sexy fun*--selections like "Let's Get It On," "Lady Marmalade," and "You Sexy Thing." Between the tiny bubbles and the fun music, H and I were dancing in our chairs, reading all the poetic text on the walls describing the various wines. I bought a half-bottle of Talismon, an estate wine named one of the top 100 wines in the US, and Sandpiper, available only at the vineyard. H bought a bottle of Fizz, a demi-sec sparkler, and Sex, a wine rife with jokes. Add my new purchases to the bottle of Conservancy I bought when I visited last fall, and I'm ready for celebration!

up north adventures: the tao of lake michigan

Last Tuesday morning, I repacked my car and left my parents' home for a mini-break in Northport, Michigan with one of my best friends and her family (minus her husband, who had to return "downstate" to work). I decided to take the scenic route, following 31 up through the coastal towns of Grand Haven, Muskegon, Ludington, and Manistee, before angling over to the peninsula around Benzonia...the drive lulled me into calm joy interrupted with existential quadries about the sheer beauty of the land unfurling outside my car windows. Not being on a strict timetable, I stopped with every whim...for coffee in Manistee, for dried cherries in Glen Arbor, and more coffee and bread in Leland before arriving at the M's home.

The Leelanau Peninsula beckons with rolling dunes, verdant farmland, sumptuous Lake Michigan shores, and a smattering of small communities, each offering a new vista, a delicious eatery or two, and an individual ambience. I love this place. Why? I've been fortunate enough to spend a handful of days there every summer for the past 13 years, as the M's have graciously opened their home to H and her group of giggly, silly, rambunctious friends. Now we're not so rambunctious as we were at the beginning, but we're still giggly and silly, eating chocolate and talking about our dreams. We've grown up--some of us have husbands, some have babies, and some have drifted away. But the place remains, changing a bit with each year as a new winery pops up, or we discover a new favorite place to spread our silliness. This solitary visit didn't supplant the whole group visit, but was a chance for me to temporarily shake off the moving stress.

The Peninsula, and particularly the M's home, has always been my wonder spot, that place where nature's beauty soothes the stressful edges of everyday life, and the constant crash of waves in the background reminds me of the paradox of constant change/non-change.

On Thursday morning, I took a yoga class at the Leelanau Center for Contemplative Arts--yin yoga, which is deeply restorative--and the teacher concluded with a passage from the Tao te Ching, a text I used to read fairly regularly, the lessons of which are especially apropos now. Tears stung my eyes as my relaxation merged with the reminder of something familiar and strengthening.

sad ibook

I'm back from my vacation and have a trillion stories to share, meals to chronicle, and gorgeous vistas to describe. But first, a sad note about my trusty, beloved ibook...I closed the lid quickly, forgetting that my ishuffle cap was resting on my laptop (in retrospect, a really stupid place to set it), and cracked the lcd display. A lovely arcing line of pink and purple frames the right side of my screen. On the bright side, they're my favorite colors...and they're not yet spread to the center of the screen so it's still functional. Here's the ridiculous news about repairing the damage--it costs at a minimum $850 to fix ( well, I did find some cheaper places online but remain skeptical about shipping my ibook off to strangers). Now, a new ibook is $999. Does this make sense? (I'm sure to apple it does, ugh). With all the moving expenses, and not to mention stress, this is just too much for me to deal with now...

I wish I didn't love my ibook so much. But it's not the thing itself as much as what it holds--all my writings, emails, a smattering of photos, and a connection to the wider world. Ahhh. A good Buddhist--and many other faiths and philosophies--would use this as a lesson of being overly attached to "things." I'm afraid I'm not in an overly religio-philosophical frame of mind:(

tea parties, pimento cheese, and ratatouille

photo from Wikipedia; license available at http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/

Balmy. Sticky. Luckily, also breezy. Welcome to summer in the Great Lake State! This morning I ran on the Lake Michigan shores, straight into a driving wind kicking up two foot rolling waves. Exhilarating! My "vacation/last weeks in Michigan" continues with a drive up the shore of Lake Michigan tomorrow to spend a few days visiting my friend H, her daughter, and her parents, in my favorite summertime haunt: the Leelanau Peninsula. I hope to bake a cherry tart for my hosts, and maybe make a dinner from farm fresh produce from the market stands that dot the rolling hills and lake vistas...

This weekend my Mom and I hosted a tea party on my parents' porch for my cousins, aunts, and grandma. The porch is perfect for parties, complete with a cedar swing, lots of chairs, and little tables. My grandma and aunt brought flowers from their gardens--lilies, daisies, and hydrangeas. Mom and I made lemon angel food cake cupcakes, cucumber sandwiches, tomato sandwiches, and a variety of fresh fruits. Grandma brought mini cheesecakes in adorable heart print cupcake papers. My favorite tea party treat, though, is pimento cheese.

Pimento cheese is one of those Southern foods I never actually ate until I moved back North. Go figure. My grandma (who was born and raised in the South), recalls their version of pimento cheese when she was young, which revolved around Velveeta cheese (also a staple for the ubiquitous Rotel dip that peppered grad school parties). My version of pimento cheese is a bit more gourmet-ey, which is the cause for some teasing, but everyone eats it up just the same.

Pimento Cheese:
Grate equal amounts of best extra sharp white and yellow cheddars (now I use Vermont and New York, respectively, but I suspect this will change once I move to the other side of ye ol' Lake), mash with a fork, add a squirt or two of mayonnaise (I use Hellman's Light), and a small jar of diced pimentos (drained). Add black pepper and cayenne pepper (powder or sauce) to taste. Mash it up real good, refrigerate (preferably overnight so the flavors meld), and serve with celery, bread, crackers, pretzels, crostini, anything, really. Drink a glass of sweet tea on the side.

Today I took two of my cousins to see *Ratatouille,* which has received rave reviews from other bloggers AND the NYT film critics. What a fun, thoughtful film! Such a delightful foodie movie, and I'm so glad I could share it with my cousins.

happily ever after!

photo from wikipedia


Tonight I took a break from packing another round of boxes and drove to Stucchi's for frozen yogurt, with visions of Laura's French flower cones in mind (check out her blog at http://www.lauraflorand.com/blog/). Of course, my cone wasn't nearly as pretty, or probably as delicious as those farm fresh glaces, but YUMM. After tasting several varieties, I settled on toasted coconut--a vanilla base with chocolate covered toasted coconut. In an old school sugar cone. Ice cream is simply fun, and it's hard to be stressed or sad when you're enjoying the chilly treat. Especially when you're also watching a glorious sunset spread across the sky--big billowy cloud turned hot pink and orange against a deep blue backdrop.

I'm pleased to add some new visual details to my blog! Check out the neat library program at LibraryThing... My next step is figuring out how to add hyperlinks...I suspect this has something to do with my browser which I will switch when I have more time and a faster connection to download a new one, so please be patient with my old school links. Oh dear, I used "old school" twice already in this post!

Two exciting updates on the writing front: I wrote the HEA (happily ever after) for Sam and Lily today! This is monumental. Not because the novel's finished. (I wish! I've kinda been skipping around). No, it's huge because in the past I could never write the end. So to write a happy (albeit tearful) scene of reunion and potential bliss makes me feel like I've summitted some kind of mountain of my own (to follow through on Sam's mountain moment metaphor:)

And today I discovered that one of my scholarly articles is online! The article appears in *Searching the Soul of Ally McBeal,* published last fall and edited by the talented Elwood Watson. And now, someone has included my article on an online archive of sources about Bridget Jones (I look at Bridget and Ally together. And defend their search for LOVE. And defend their NEUROSES).

boxes, bob dylan, and bookaholicism

photo from wikipedia

This is the week I am forced to start packing. Seriously packing. 25 days 'til moving day. Since college, I have a history of not being completely packed when my dear family shows up to load cars, trucks, and trailers full of my belongings. Over the years, my possessions (mainly books and kitchen supplies) have multiplied, but my ability to be completely packed by moving day has not changed. I could recount many a tearful, stressful, and irritated scene, but will leave this to your imagination. I have vowed publicly that this time I'll be all packed. You know that song by Queen and David Bowie, featured in that film with the cute Josh Hartnett (whatever happened to him, BTW?), *40 Days and 40 Nights,* that's now feaured on various commercials where people are all stressed out, and the refrain is "under pressure"? That would be me.

During my post-prandial stroll (yet another packing stalling technique and sanity saver these stressful days), I listened to a little Bob Dylan, "Shelter from the Storm," which made me think of Sam on the mountain, and, more importantly, coming off of the mountain and finding Lily. "Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved. Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm..." (Bob Dylan, "Shelter from the Storm")

After walking, I picked up the novel *The Baker's Apprentice,* to read just a chapter before filling the empty boxes awaiting my prized possessions. I realized, several chapters later, that books are my drug of choice. Not exactly an epiphany, but something about my current situation and all the real work I have to do throws my quasi-addiction in relief. "Put the book DOWN, Jessica, and just walk away," I muttered more than once. Does my ability to actually walk away save me? Are books an inherently dangerous addiction? You know how those 18th century folks worried about the influence of novels on impressionable young women...

mojitos and men on mountaintops

photo of the Keyhole on Longs Peak, from wikipedia, taken by J. Benjamin Wildeboer

In some circles, I'm known as Martha, after Martha Stewart, for my cooking craft, and in other circles I'm known for making a mean mojito. One relative-of-a-relative actually calls me Mojito Martha. Last night I made the first mojitos of the summer with some gorgeous, fragrant mint from the farmer's market...this time I actually went to the little trouble of making a mint syrup, but you can just as easily muddle the mint and sugar in the bottom of a glass. Add a shot of golden rum, juice of one lime, ice cubes, and top off with club soda for a refreshing, painless drink. Painless until you realize you've downed two of them and these days one drink is enough to provoke tipsy laughter and true confessions. Have another drink and who knows what might happen...

So I've placed Sam, my RN hero, on a mountaintop. Cliche? Perhaps. But I realized I needed something BIG to provoke his romantic "come to Jesus" moment. Losing his job didn't do the trick, neither had moving back to his hometown. I drew on my own experience climbing Longs Peak, a "fourteener" in Rocky Mountain NP, for Sam's big moment.

Long's Peak can be climbed non-technically--that is, without ropes, harnesses, all of the trappings of "real" rock climbing. In 2001, I spent about six weeks working at Shadowcliff lodge in Grand Lake, CO, and planned a climb with my co-workers. In typical dharmagirl fashion, I read everything I could about the climb, and prepared physically and mentally. The books made the climb sound challenging but not difficult (if that contradiction even makes sense). In reality, the climb was grueling, a 14 hour event that saw several missteps, including losing my footing on a particularly steep portion of the climb, just yards away from the summit. Thank goodness for my friend N, the British bloke who pushed me back up and kept me from sliding into a rocky abyss. This climb was transformative--a testament to my resilience in the face of challenges, and a certain tenacity that isn't always apparent when I feel muddled with insecurity and uncertainty.

So what better experience to give to Sam, who needs something larger than life, larger than himself to propel him back to Lily? I have him stop his climb at the Keyhole, a definitive moment that all the guidebooks say is where most people who fail to summit turn around, as the immensity of the mountain becomes apparent. You have to step through a keyhole shaped opening in the rock to a narrow ledge on the other side to wind up closer to the summit. And this is all at 6.2 miles into the 8 mile hike to the summit...turning around when you're that close takes a certain emotional truth that I want Sam to realize and to redirect.

retro photo dharmagirl

As you can see from the camera I'm using in this photo, I'm still old school. Retro. Non-digital. Hence the text-only blogging thus far. I love the food, flower, and place photos in other blogs, so I'm--gasp--researching digital cameras. To purchase. Sometimes, even the best text cannot convey the visceral emotion of a photo.

caprese and affogato

A perfect salad consists of a balance of flavors and textures, a sense of proportion, and a delight of architectural aesthetics. I can name only a handful of salads that have come close to achieving my Platonic Ideal of salad:

1. A summer salad of bibb lettuce, fresh cherries, and some other ingredients I can't quite now recall, since I ate the salad last year. What I most remember about this salad is how perfectly it was dressed--the vinaigrette clung to the leaves and none pooled on the plate. That takes talent. Place: Trattoria Stella in Traverse City, MI. A slow food restaurant located in an old mental hospital...

2. Caprese salad of baby greens, grape tomatoes, mini fresh mozzarella balls (I know there's an Italian word for these but it escapes my mind this morning...), roasted red peppers, pesto, balsamic glaze, and parmesan frico. Not your classic caprese, and with such an array of ingredients the salad could devolve into confusion. But. The flavors were perfectly balanced. What a lovely treat. Place: Courthouse Pub in Manitowoc, WI.A super restaurant where the Chef walks around and checks on diners. A Wine Spectator Award of Excellence recipient. I had a glass of Crios Torrontes, a wonderful fresh, floral, complex, refreshing springy wine I bought for Easter dinner this year from Ed, the dreamy wine guy from Simply Wine in Birmingham, MI.

Last night I enjoyed my first Affogato ("drowned"), in this case vanilla ice cream drowned with espresso. Good espresso--creamy, smooth, rich, and complex. None of those sharp, jangly edges that can come from poorly prepared espresso. Imagine the possibilities--cinnamon ice milk with espresso. Or coffee ice cream with espresso for a jolt of pure energy...as it was, the caffeine kept me awake on my drive home from Ann Arbor. Fireflies flitted over the expressway and congregated in the ditches to share their joissance...ahhh, summer.

field to fork

One of the most exciting finds from my Wisconsin trip is a restaurant/gourmet shop/foodie gem in downtown Sheboygan. After a day filled with frustration, tears, annoying calls from a quasi-stalker potential landlord, and a decision on a cute apartment a few blocks from Lake Michigan (not owned by aforementioned landlord), Mom and I drove down the coast to Sheboygan for lunch. I had seen an ad for Field to Fork in a brochure at a local coffee shop (more on that crazy place later), and hoped that the food, ambience, and grocery would be as wonderful as I imagined.

High expectations can be dangerous, and many, many a time this tendency of mine towards grand visions has ended in serious disappointment. I am, therefore, elated to report that Field to Fork exceeded my expectations. The restaurant has wide, old, knotty wood floors, an open grill, a handful of tables on the ground floor and an open loft with more seating. Our waiter was bubbly and kind, and the food! The food was delicious and well/ethically sourced. The philosophy of the place is to use local, sustainable foods where possible, but not to exclude other delectable gems from around the world (like the San marzano tomatoes in my Ceci bean soup). The grilled cheese feature Wisconsin cheeses, of course, and was a real treat grilled in butter (unlike the more healthful olive oil I use at home).

I ate a few bites of my soup (ceci beans--like garbanzo?, tomatoes, rosemary pesto) and felt the jangly edges of new beginnings and uncried tears soothed by the comfort of good food. I envisioned Saturday mornings spent driving down to Sheboygan for yoga classes, a delicious lunch at F2F, a quick shopping trip from their gracious cases (they have milk in glass bottles! and Italian pastas! and San marzano tomatoes!), and then meandering back up the lakeshore to settle in with a stack of student papers...okay, there is where my dreamy fantasy breaks down when faced with prosaic reality.

hot child in the city, er, country

I'm sitting in the air conditioned comfort of the Herrick Public Library in Holland, while outside hazy skies and escalating temperatures reign. Lake Michigan beckons with the promise of refreshing waves (well, since there's little breeze, the waves might be a bit hyperbolic, but a girl can hope)...which is why I'm still hanging out with my family and not boiling away in my limited AC apartment. I purposely left my laptop at home so I WOULDN'T hang out here, but you can see how well that strategy worked. And now I'm experiencing blogging and emailing withdrawal...with SO many stories from my Wisconsin journey to chronicle, and so many cliff hangers on other blogs, limited computer access is a serious inconvenience. So I'll give you a little preview, a little tease for entries to come (forgive my lapse from parallel structure--my free internet time is about expired): **list has been edited because the lack of parallel structure ruins the list, or so saith dharmagirl now that she's reunited with her trusty iBook**

1. My new home is cozy, charming, and located blocks from Lake Michigan
2. My new colleagues are wonderful--funny, kind, smart, and sociable
3. The drive through Chicago is helacious
4. The ubiquity of football helmet bars (Badgers and Packers) in my new town is humorous and frightening
5. The outlet shopping possibilities between MI and WI are amazing...and amazingly dangerous:)
6. The great foodie mecca Field to Fork in Sheboygan promises many a fine degustation
7. Good coffee and wine abound in my corner of WI
8. My new office is posh and non-institutional (a crucial distinction from the office I've recently vacated)
9. Phantom Deer cause much consternation and jubilation at 1:00am in Berrien County, MI
10.My Lady of Leisure Days are drawing to a close as packing, partying, and preparing shape my next four weeks

berried bliss

... a recipe to celebrate the eve of the summer solstice...

WASH and pat dry fresh, local strawberries at the height of ripeness...
MELT, in a small saucepan, over low heat, chocolate (any combination will do. I used a handful of ghiradelli dark chocolate chips and a smidgen of an *insane* 99% michel cluizel bar)...
POUR melted chocolate in a small bowl...
DIP berries into chocolate and savor while looking out the window at the fireflies cavorting in the blue-black night, which will likely cause the chocolate to drip all over the place, but pay no attention...
FORAGE other tasty morsels, like whole raw almonds or organic pretzel sticks to twirl in the cooling chocolate when strawberries are gone...
SMILE. FORGET that you're supposed to be reading Pierre Bourdieu, and instead rest up for the longest day of the year.

meta-narration

Happy Birthday to my Dad! I listened to Rascal Flatts' "My Wish" in his honor (he gave my brother and me the CD last fall because that song made him think of us, so sweet). It's an apt song for a time of transition...

Thanks to Laura's encouraging words and a long walk today when all I could write was page after page of dialogue (do these people never shut up?!?), I have developed a narrative structure to allow for the characters' place-based po-mo fluidity. Scarily enough, it involves drawing on some po-mo theory of identity/subjectivity/narrative...which will work wonderfully with a *surprise* meta-narrative device that fell into the story last week. And, Lily's (heroine) Mom happens to be a professor, so this structure can work into the existing character pool and plot...now, if I can only correctly remember the aforementioned po-mo theory from my grad school days when it was de rigueur...

Last night I cooked my first meal of the season using exclusively local produce! Well, not local by locavore standards, but from the greater Holland area where I bought my fruits and veggies at the outstanding farmer's market. I'm reading *The Way We Eat: Why Our Food Choices Matter* by Peter Singer and Jim Mason and thinking about the many implications, personal and political (which are inseperable, yes?), of what we choose to consume. I'll have a whole post on that soon enough. Anyway, the book is as transformative a read as Michael Pollan's *The Omnivore's Dilemma* was last year. Whereas Pollan made me more emotionally connected, Singer and Mason engage a much more complex, analytical perspective. They resist simple platitudes, like the "local, sustainable, organic" mantra, by exploring the multi-faceted ethical quandries such decisions pose.

Finally, my excitement grows for my scouting trip to WI this weekend. Serendipitously, my future colleagues are having a party so I'll have a chance to meet everyone again, this time without the pressure of an 11 hour interview. Yes, 11 hours. (I hope to convince my PhD Friends to blog with me about the insane rigors of The Academic Job Search, in which the full story of that day might be revealed, but I'm afraid our potential blogging will get bogged down in the act of naming. I'm fond of MLAgirl, but know that would only engender a discussion of girl v. woman v. womyn v. grrrl. I miss such debates!)

50 K

No, this isn't some insanely long race I'm training for, but rather the phenomenal news that I've *finally* crossed the 50,000 word count on my RN! Hoorah! I'm fully aware that it's rather arbitrary, and a mark of quantity rather than quality, but I'm pleased just the same.

The weekend was full of family--graduation party for 2 cousins and father's day celebrations. I'll miss my family dearly when I move across the Lake, a move that's becoming more real with every passing day and every packed box. I rented my moving truck today...and will (hopefully) find a new home when I visit WI this weekend.

Strawberries continue to feature prominently in my daily cuisine. Now I can add cherries, sugar peas, and summer squashes to the list of available local foods! Hoorah again! I know I'll be tired of the squashes in a month, but for now, they're a lovely new addition to my meals.

post-modern romance hero?

Thanks to Laura for her kind post to my "Lady of Leisure" musings. I read her book *Blame It on Paris* (loved it--I highly recommend it. The scene with her French beau and her brother shooting in the Georgia woods is hilarious, as is the scene with her friend "sampling" chocolates in a Paris chocolate boutique...I could go on, but I'll let you discover the book for yourself). Then, I wanted to find out more info on book and author, found her blog, and here we are. I love how this technology expands the words on the page into another world where writers and readers can connect and find a community of kindred spirits:)

I've been working on my RN, and I'm almost to that elusive 50,000 word count. Now, the story has all kinds of problems, mainly that it's episodic and the plot elements need real attention. Maybe this is my narrative style: create interesting characters, place them in geographical locations I love and know, allow them endless witty repartee, include minute details of desserts and clothing, throw in a little "yadda yadda yadda," and repeat...

Recently I read about the value of "flow"--that is, losing oneself in an enjoyable activity. And it had been a long time since I experienced writing "flow," but I did the other night when I decided it was time to take Lily, the RN heroine, to Alabama, where Sam, the hero, is originally from...I conjured up some of my favorite places, tried to remember the name of roads, and thought about a Yankee's first impression of the Deep South, which took me back ten years ago (!) to the hot September when I moved to Alabama.

An interesting thing happened to my characters, especially Sam. He changed into such a different person, because of the place and because of his family, it was rather uncanny. I want to keep this mulit-faceted aspect of his character, but how to make it ring true and not inconsistent?

And the academic side of me starts wondering how to write characters who represent post-modern fluidity in the romance genre, which hearkens back to more sentimental models of writing in which characters have a stable core...blah blah blah. If I somehow manage to pull this off I will be very proud:)

home is where the food is

The strawberry tart....mmmmm. Crispy, buttery, crumbly crust. Sweet, thick jam. Lush berries. Tangy creme fraiche. What's not to love?

I'm working on a scholarly article on Amanda Hesser's *Cooking for Mr. Latte* and did a little googling last night to see what a range of readers had to say about the book. People can be really mean! I found a forum on Chowhound that summarily dismissed the column and book because of unnecessary romantic details. Now, I never read the column, but the book clearly states in the full title (Cooking for Mr. Latte: A Food Lover's Courtship, with Recipes) that this is going to be a tale of courtship. How could one have a courtship story w/o love details? And then some of the romance readers diss the book's emphasis on food, which they think detracts from the love story. I throw up my hands in frustration for Hesser...but for my argument (that the book is creating a new hybrid genre), these vehement reactions work beautifully.

Food, love. All about coming home to oneself, to another.

Writing has become more difficult, as I'm trying to take my moving preparations more seriously. The chaos of books and bags of paper to be hauled to the recycling center are cluttering my physical and psychic space. Yesterday I finally finished paring down my foodie magazine collection--years of Bon Appetit, Gourmet, Food and Wine, a few scattered Martha Stewart Living, Cooking Light, and Vegetarian Times added to the mix. I flipped through the magazines, tearing out recipes that made me want to head to the kitchen, and dumping the rest of the magazine in the increasing pyramid of printed material to recycle. Eight trips up and down the stairs, my G6 is filled with food writing...and my home is a little less chaotic, if less filled with myriad food possibilities.

And then there's the mental distraction of not having a home in WI yet. I've called a few places and have a least one solid lead, but now I need to go see it in person. Next week! I'm trying to decide whether to go a bit cheaper to allow me to save more $ to buy a place of my own sooner. Somehow that seems more responsible and grown up, which is both heartening and a little scary. I've started dreaming of my ideal home, and my dreams always begin with the kitchen...

of tarts and liquor

Today's my favorite kind of Saturday--slow, sleepy, and filled with sensual delights of food! The farmer's market was bustling with beautiful greens and herbs and berries today. I bought baby swiss chard, spinach, spring onions, lemon thyme, tarragon, asparagus, and more strawberries (My Mom brought me some berries from my fave berry farm yesterday).

I'm making a new strawberry tart...it's from my favorite baking book *Baking: From My Home to Yours* by Dorie Greenspan. It's based on a tart from La Palette, a Parisian Cafe. The tart is utterly simple and looks delicious--will let you know tomorrow! The crust is a sweet, shortbread-esque pate sucre. You bake the crust, and when ready to serve, spread with the best strawberry jam (I made a quick jam for this purpose), topped with halved and lightly sugared strawberries, touch with freshly ground black pepper (!) and creme fraiche.

Today I also completed the next step of my homemade limoncello...I added the sugar syrup, strained out the zest, and stuck it in the freezer for a month. I can't wait to check it out in the beginning of July.

My friend N. called this morning to swap strawberry recipes--which are amazingly in season both in Oregon where she lives and here in Michigan. And then my friend L. called, who I haven't talked to since before Christmas. What a lovely time to catch up and feel connected with my college friends.

waitress

It's humid here in Michigan and my old window AC unit circa 1970 just can't keep up. Yesterday I escaped to the movies and saw *Waitress.* I could quibble with some of the characters' cliched tendencies, but I loved the film. The pies are magnificent--and I loved how they became a character and a presence all of their own. The glistening chocolate, the bursting-ripe fruit...delicious. And I loved the idea that food showcases creativity, provides comfort, and functions as a barometer for others' characters...how someone reacts to a gift of home cooked dessert says something about their personality, values, passions...

As for me, I love that quiet that can descend when blissfully lost in something delicious...the unself-conscious smiles of pleasure speak more than words:)

lady of leisure

So my friends and I like to joke about being "ladies of leisure" during the summer months when we're not teaching. Of course, I don't really feel like a lady of leisure--champagne laced luncheons with other LoL, meetings with a hunky personal trainer, and eating bonbons freely whilst wearing a peignor are not part of my days.

But. Maybe I'm just living the LoL life at a quieter level. Each day features three "hot" meals and several delicious snacks that I have the liberty of preparing at will, one or two walks a day, at least a few minutes of yoga/stretching a day, and my zingy's coffee and bits of chocolate from my secret stash.

It's restorative to have this time to explore side projects--whether the dreaded scholarly articles, fun novels, and non-fiction pieces...and to read and write with a calmer pace and with a more personal compass. I'm not constantly thinking of how everything I read and write relates to the classroom. But yet the work I do in the summer does make me a better teacher. As I struggle to write and find my voice everyday, working on such disparate projects, I can better empathize with the student who gets stuck and doesn't know where to go...I read works that I'll never teach but may be able to recommend to students seeking to expand their reading...

And so I suppose this is a justification of my current status as lady of purposeful leisure...

My chocolates await:)

afraid for the fraise and pondering the francophiles...

June begins with relentless rain...and thunderous storms. I have to be in just the right mood to enjoy a storm, and I haven't been this storm season. The roaring thunder and sharp cracks of lightening simultaneously shrink my sense of self and magnify the capaciousness of the universe. I can appreciate this from a spiritual perspective, but ahhh, such daily reminders can become too much.

And during the storm, besides thinking of my smallness in relation to everything else, all I could think about were strawberries, becoming waterlogged and floating on pools of standing water around their beds. In my defense, I was reading *Alice Waters and Chez Panisse* and so the significance of food was further magnified...if "how we eat can change the world," as Waters says, and what we most want to eat at a given moment (my Michigan strawberries) is in danger, perhaps you can sense my despair.

I skimmed a bit of Pierre Bourdieu's *Distinction* today...interesting ideas about our relationship to consumption and culture and how our notions of taste are intertwined with qualities like education and class. But then I start the same train of thought...why are literary scholars turning towards French philosophers and sociologists time and again to explain American Lit? I'm not saying this isn't a valuable theoretical enterprise BUT I do think it can become rote and meaningless. I'm not anti-theory, but I wonder why there's a need to justify literature with other disciplines...I do know many of the reasons why, but sometimes I just want to read and have my own theoretical take on a work of art, without qualifying or legitimizing my own views with those of someone else.

And this French influence connects with the Chez Panisse story too, the deep links to French cuisine and culture that inspired Waters and so many of the chefs who have cooked at CP...what is it about the French aesthetic that becomes so seductive to so many of the writers, foodies, and idealists I encounter? I think it largely is that attention to aesthetics as an important component in and of itself, not aesthetics in the service of say, capitalism, but an attention to beauty for it's own sake. Idealistic, yes. Elitist, maybe. Pragmatic, not necessarily.

And I love this aesthetic orientation to life. Even if--and perhaps because--life is suffering, as the Buddhists proclaim, why not combat and dispel this suffering with a heady does of beauty? Recognizing, of course, the fleeting nature of beauty in its material manifestions...those poor water-sodden *fraise* and my favorite peonies, bent to the ground, petals dragging in the dirt...the beauty enhanced by its very transience...

And I can't seem to escape philosophizing and qualifying today. Perhaps it's a good day to work on my scholarly article after all:)

strawberries, peonies, and *manhunting*

Hoorah! It's strawberry and peony season! Yesterday I delighted in the first plush berries of the season. I made a "grown up" strawberry shortcake, following a recipe from the current issue of Bon Appetit, which features chocolate biscuits, strawberries touched with sugar and cointreau, and an ersatz creme fraiche topping. Wow. The rich fullness of chocolate pairs well with sweet berries and tangy cream.

And peonies, my favorite flowers, are falling over everywhere due to intermitten rain showers. I bought two stems of flowers and scattered them around my apartment. I love their lush fullness and how I can watch the progress of a blossom over an afternoon.

When I marry, it will be in early June, just to include these two lovely favorites. Of course, early June in Michigan isn't the best time for a beach wedding, but practicality be damned!

And, as for *manhunting,* I'm referring to the Jennifer Crusie novel, which I read Friday and loved. I believe it was her first novel, and it showcases classic Crusie traits--smart, snappy, quick dialog; a smart, strong heroine; and a sexy hero who tries his damndest to stay detached, but of course can't. Love it!

Now I'm avoiding Pierre Bourdieu's *Distinction* in favor of a book on Alice Waters and Chez Panisse that's making me nod vehemently with nearly every sentence.

Today I'm off to Zingy's with S and H...yumm!

a little light reading

I recently read two novels by VERY popular romance writers...I don't usually read their work, but the books were at my disposal, I had a little extra time, and I was in between trips to the library. I was also curious to see what qualities made their books so very popular, and I was eager to see what writing tips I could learn as I continue to plod along with my own RN.

I have to say, I was disappointed. In the case of *Irish Dreams,* a collection of two novellas by Nora Roberts, the characters were decently developed but the plot seemed thin. This may be a function of the shorter form. And in the case of *The House* by Danielle Steel, the plot was medium thick, but the character development was lagging. And one analogy Steel used really seemed inappropriate to me: she compared a crucial moment in a relationship to "their own twin towers" (a loose quote, but the reference was there). In a side note, I've been keeping my eye on how post 9/11 novels deal with this defining cultural moment, and this was jarring and distasteful.

As for what I learned, my reading confirmed what I already know. I tend to prefer character development--I want to feel connected to the people I read about. I want to know some intimate details, silly preferences, and personality quirks. Real vulnerabilities, strengths, and ideologies make characters real to me and make me invested in their story. As a fiction writer, I often struggle with plot issues--wanting my plot to seem fresh and not contrived, but also wanting to allow my story to have that HEA if it cries out for one. This would be a large reason why I didn't fare so well in a grad level fiction writing class in which the emphasis was on high stakes circumstances. I can see now that I wanted to write RN in that class but knew that was not the venue, so I would create all these odd plot twists to seeem eccentric and not so, well, sentimental. Famous Beat Writer/scholar Ann Waldman memorably told me my fiction was too sentimental and I needed to "cut it up!" a la Burroughs during a seminar at Naropa University, but that's a story for another time.

In contrast, what I love about Susan Elizabeth Phillips' RNs is that they are so complex--great plots match well-developed characters (even the supporting ones). In my humble opinion, someone like Phillips should be selling more books than the aforementioned super stars.

s'more

Yummy, sticky, sugary, gooey, crunchy...what could be as kitchsy and lovable as a s'more? Yesterday my family grilled a late lunch/early dinner and I was craving that old campfire treat, so I stuck two jet puffed marshmallows on a long skewer, held it over the dying charcoal coals until the marshmallows started a precipitous slide toward the grill grate, and then sandwiched them with graham crackers and a chunk of hershey's milk chocolate. And though I really don't like the aforementioned "chocolate" anymore (I will refrain from my sharing my chocolate tasting notes and sounding ridiculously snobby), there's something classic about the flavor combination...(though next time I'd love to use some dark 70% valrhona and see what happens...)

the bee season

No, this isn't going to be post about the novel of the same name (though I read it several years ago and very much enjoyed it). Here in blueberry country (I'm spending the holiday weekend at my parents'), the bushes are blossoming and most of the local farmers, including my family, "rent" bees to be brought to the fields to work their pollinating magic. Apparently the bees around here have not been going missing like they are --so scarily--in other places. Usually I like to stroll around the fields instead of walking along the country roadds, but the bees have declared the acres of blueberries their domain and so I take to the streets.

This morning I took a yoga class at Lakeshore Yoga Center in Grand Haven and I can't say enough good about this yoga center. I haven't practiced in many studios (outside of gyms), but it will take a special place to bump LYC off the top. The teachers are kind, knowledgeable, and encouraging. I leave the classes feeling like everything in my life has been reconnected, and I know I have to give credit to the teachers for creating that transformative space. Namaste!

pappa al pomodoro: italian comfort food

I just made my first bowl of pappa al pomodoro, a tomato bread soup that I had at Cafe Spiaggia in Chicago a few weeks ago. My home attempt didn't match the creamy, smooth perfection of Spiaggia's, but the soup was still tasty and brought abundant comfort, along with that warm happy feeling in my tummy that I attribute to good bread and accoutrements. There's a simple recipe in this month's Gourmet magazine, and I loosely followed that. This made about two servings, and before adding the bread I divided the broth in half and only added bread to the portion I would eat today.

Add oil and two cloves minced garlic to a cold saucepan. Turn to medium and heat until garlic is softened and sizzling. Add tomatoes--I used half of a large can of crushed San Marzanos. Add salt, pepper, and allow to bubble until thickened slightly. Add 1 cup of water, allow to simmer a bit longer. Add diced bread cubes--from the center of a good italian loaf (the kind with a chewy, crisp crust--though you don't want to use the crusts. Eat them with cheese while the soup finishes) and basil. Stir until soup thickens and the bread absorbs the tomato base. You can add more water if the soup is too thick for your liking. Serve with plenty of freshly ground pepper, a pinch of salt, drizzle of olive oil, and shavings of parm-reg. Cherish the bliss that spreads through your body, mind, and soul while eating!

'07 heaven

Yesterday I met H. at Zingy's in Ann Arbor for a delightful afternoon. I forget how chaotic Z's can be, and yesterday, after a quiet week, the loud noises (Queen was blaring over the radio), pushing people, and overly-solicitous Z's workers jangled my nerves. But H. and I found a quiet corner to settle into and have a heart-to-heart talk over delicious Stewart's Farmer's Hash (a blend of spinach, piquillo peppers, red skinned potatoes, mashed sweet potatoes, and crispy shallots). We chatted until the silence was broken by a screaming child, and headed to Kerrytown to visit our favorite boutique, Vintage to Vogue, where H. bought an adorable romper for baby S and I purchased some rather sparkly brown flip flops to replace my straw JCrew flipflops that have worn down through the straw bed.

We headed back to Z's after shopping to check out the chocolate--I bought a mini Cluizel, a 99% "Noir Infini" bar that I have yet to test. Talk about intense! We then split a slice of the astoundingly tasty '07 Heaven Cake: 2 layers of chocolate cake, 2 layers of buttermilk cake, all separated by coconut buttercream. The whole cake is then enrobed with milk chocolate buttercream and garnished with toasted almonds. Wow--talk about amazing. We also order vanilla lattes--and the barista used--quelle horror!--whole milk. It was a luscious treat, but I have to say I do prefer non fat milk in my lattes--the fat in the whole milk takes over the flavor profile and the clean cut of espresso is lost.

Then last night I joined friends/colleagues J, A, J, K, and little E. for a cookout, and we enjoyed each other's company, beer, and good food. I brought Miller high Life Light, and was quite pleased with the drinkability of the beer, denoted "the champagne of beers" on the paper carrier.

A lovely end to a rather emotionally tumultuous weekend, as I start preparations for leaving and set my new life in motion...

be yoga

What an amazing week simply because it was so unstructured and I could spend my time however I felt at any moment. I used to feel guilty about this freedom that the academic life can provide, as friends and family outside of the ivory tower do not have this luxury. But, this is one of the perks to my career, and one of the reasons I'll never be decked out in Marc Jacobs and Nanette Lepore. I'm okay with that (though I still love, love fashion).

And, I've been working. I've been writing and revising both my novel and my non-fiction piece, been doing a little research for my SAMLA proposal, and I've been reading, reading, reading. Check out the list o'books that I've made my way through...pleasure reads but also instructive reads to help me shape my own RN.

I've lined up two friends to be readers of my RN draft, but now I'm too nervous to send them the opening scenes! Today I plan to revise that section and send it off. At this point, I want to know if my characters are interesting and believable and if anyone cares about what happens with them.

Another discovery this week is Shiva Rea, a yogini par excellence. My friend N. mentioned one of her DVDs to me, and I was able to check out another one from the library--a short Core sequence-- and I was hooked. I bought her "Yoga Trance Dance" and it's like no other kind of yoga I've ever practiced. Or, as Shiva would say, we don't practice yoga we ARE yoga. She blends asana and breath work with meditation and trance work, which is all movement based. So there I am, flailing my arms about and undulating my hips across the living room. I *should* feel silly, but in fact I feel fully alive and I get what she means about being yoga.

romancing the South

I'm eating the last piece of Florida Pie and drinking my first cup of coffee for the day. Before you indulge yourself in a fit of envy, I should mention that I've already trekked 5 miles, with 10-12 pounds of books on my back. I've decided to limit my driving this week--most places I need to go can be reached on foot, and if I'm trying to walk 4-5 miles/day anyway, why not combine some of those fitness jaunts with errands? By the time I returned home, sweating (it's actually HOT today) and with tired feet, I decided that checking out Tom Wolfe's tome *I am Charlotte Simmons* today wasn't the best decision, as that book alone must weigh about 4 pounds...I actually (dorkily) hopped on the scale with my backpack still on to discover that I was carrying around an extra 12 pounds. Not the 30+ pounds I carried when I used to backpack, but a considerable weight just the same.

So now here I am, clean, caffeinated, desserted, and ready to write for the day. I'm working on a non-fiction piece about my "romance" with the South for possible publication, or if not, than just for myself. And I'm revamping my RN--yesterday I sketched out some character background (some big changes there, from physical details to geographical details) and so I'm trying to work them in. I also began a RD (rough draft) of a proposal I might use for both the SAMLA conference and a longer article for a romance collection.

Speaking of my romance with the South, I just found out another proposal was accepted for a conference at my alma mater, Auburn University, next February. To give you an idea of how much I miss that place, I started sobbing when I read the emails--one from my friend/co-collaborator, and another from the conference organizer. I realized that when I go it will have been nearly 3 years since I was last there, at the loveliest village on the plains. Yes, I know I romanticize most everything in my life, and my 7 years in the South weren't all sweetness and light, but the loss of that place has left an empty room in my heart that even my beloved Michigan (and hopefully, my pending home of Wisconsin) just can't fill. I'm going "home" twice--to Atlanta in November and Auburn in February. That room feels a little less empty with the promise of Southern warmth to come...

happy mother's day!

Yesterday L and I made brunch for my Mom (and Dad) for Mother's Day. L and I cook well together, especially when our parents aren't around and when we're not in their (parents') kitchen. We made a frittata with asparagus and spinach (both from the farmer's market--hoorah the return of seasonal, local veggies!), and a few strips of roasted red pepper for garnish. We also made cheddar grits, and a soft salad with baby lettuces and baby carrots (both from the farmer's market too), tossed with a lemony dressing. The piece de resistance was the Florida Pie I made...from Dorie Greenspan's *Baking: From My Home to Yours,* which is quickly turning into my favorite baking book. I made two versions of the pie--one following the recipe, with a graham cracker crust, a chewy cocount cream layer, topped with a simple lime custard, and a layer of light meringue. The other version, for Dad and L who don't like various elements of the aforementioned pie, left off the coconut and meringue layers, and included a circle of garnet strawberries, oozing juice onto the yellow custard. It--I should say they--we're delicious, one of the best pies I've ever made. As Mom said, it has the right balance of flavors and textures, which makes it quite a treat. We drank sweet tea (loosely following the recipe in *Two for the Road*), a Trebbiano, and my luscious intelligentsia coffee.

In other news, I've been drawing inward as I read novel after novel in quick succession and spin out my own novel plot. thanks to reading the well-written, fully and complicatedly plotted novels of Susan Elizabeth Phillips, I've thought of several ways to deepen the plot in my *Surprise Developments* novel. The real task now is to move from swirling ideas in my head to words on the page, not always one of my strengths. This week is blessedly open, with the whole week in front of me to work on writing, and I intend to take advantage. I also need to write 2 abstracts, a letter of reference, and work on this mystery piece that I need to submit to a journal by the end of June.

One of the most seductive qualities about the writing I'm doing now, whether literary non-fiction (or I should say with aspirations to be literary) or fiction is how I can share parts of myself that really no one else knows through the stories I create and the words I use to shape those stories. Not that everything I write is ME, especially not in my fiction, but it's an outlet for the way I see the world, or the way I might like to see the world. It's difficult to describe, but there's something about the creative force that feels very authentic even when what I'm creating is totally fanciful.

inner disarmament

Warm breezes, a slight sticky humidity in the air, swirls of pollen, and the lilting of birdsong accompanied my morning stroll. I thought of the Dalai Lama's talk on Sunday, "Finding Inner Peace in a World of Turmoil." And his message is really quite simple--we need to begin with inner disarmament, to carve out peace within ourselves which can then have a transformative effect on the world as a whole. It's a lesson I've read numerous times, and its simplicity belies its difficulty. How often do I forget that I can change how I act, think, and feel, instead of being so reactive to the stimuli that life throws my way? It's a lesson from yoga too--to focus inward, to find the rhythm of the breath and to steady oneself.

The Dalai Lama also spoke of the importance of hope--another seemingly simple concept to grasp, but also with the power to change the world. He spoke of our modern culture's reliance on the material world to distract us from the inner world that is so often in turmoil. Instead of turning to the outer world, the material world, as a means of transformation, we need to begin within. Not be so distracted, so distanced from ourselves.

His message of non-violence, of using dialog as a point of connection between individuals and warring nations, struck a strong chord with the group of people assembled. I appreciated his emphasis that ALL sentient beings desire to avoid suffering. We (humans) are simply another species in the interconnected web of life, and we have the advantage of a more complex brain that allows us to engage these questions.

And the most delightful aspect of his talk was his own presence--he sat lotus style, and as the cool breezes gusted off of Lake Michigan he quipped, "it's cold here!" and wrapped his crimson robe more tightly around his body. He conducted his talk in English, with a translator ready to offer the English word to the Dalai Lama or to translate whole sentences to us, the eager audience. But the most delightful quality of the Dalai Lama remains his infectious laughter, even when discussing serious topics--a reminder to not take ourselves so seriously, and to find delight in the midst of suffering.

intelligentsia

I am SO behind in my posts...so I will chip away with many short posts instead of creating one long novella length update. Sunshine streams through my windows, promising a day of soft, warm breezes, a beautiful May day. I'm kicking off with this lovely Monday with a mug of french pressed Intelligentsia coffee...mmmmm. I finally found the Millenium Park intelligentsia coffee shop on my brief jaunt to Chi-town this weekend, and experienced a coffee revelation. My home brew lacks some of the depth of that I enjoyed at the coffee shop, but I can still taste a superior bean at the base.

I knew I was in a coffee shrine when I ordered french press coffee and was given a choice of which beans I wanted. I told the barista I liked a full, darker roast, a sumatra style, and he suggested a Kenyan coffee that he described as "purple." Furthermore, they have a sophisticated system that surpasses the french press mehtod and brews an individual cup of coffee quickly and and expertly. I was even able to drink it straight up, unlike my usual milky and raw sugary beverage.

We returned to the cafe yesterday morning, en route to see the Dalai Lama, and H. and I both enjoyed big bowls of latte, artfully poured with a classic leaf shape in the foam/crema layer. Paired with buttery, flaky candided ginger scones, it was a lovely and decadent departure from my usual oatmeal breakfast.

I have to admit that Intelligentsia now reigns as my favorite coffee, placing Zingerman's in a close second. Because Intelligentsia's sole focus is coffee, I believe they're able to make their whole approach more artful and all around more aesthetically and socially appealing. (like Zingerman's they too deal directly with the coffee growers, bypassing fair trade for the higher standard direct trade).

And so I linger over my coffee a bit longer before setting out on my path today...

perfect joe

Just a quick post today, which will likely be the situation for the rest of the week/weekend/early next week until all my end-of-the-semester grading is over. I've already graded 12 research essays since class yesterday, so I'm quite proud of myself for being on target (I devise an elaborate grading schedule!). This morning I managed to make the perfect cup of coffee--the right strength, with plenty of body, a touch of sweetness, and just the right amount of hot milk. And I enjoyed a slice of pumpkin chocolate chip bread from Great Harvest Bread with my coffee...I love those free slices of bread they give out. I always choose something decadent even while the bread I'm buying is anything but (honey whole wheat).

Now I'm off for a short stroll before I start preparing for my afternoon on campus.

Tonight Mom and I are going to see Elizabeth Berg at a local school--I'm looking forward to hearing what she has to say about the art of fiction:)

beware the giant iced mocha...

Last night I met up with some former students for a reunion of sorts, and I can't remember the last time I had so much fun or felt like I was back in college myself. The evening was one of those balmy spring evenings, and we sat outside along the main strip adjacent to campus and chatted, giggled, ate, and were all around silly. I drank a giant iced mocha--apparently ordering the wrong size--which was delicious, but come 1, then 2 am, when I still couldn't wind down and fall asleep, was more of a curse. Then I felt old:) I wouldn't really want to be 19 again, but for an evening it was delightful pretending I was younger than I am.

Now today the research paper grading madness begins...ugh. On a positive note, in a week the semester will be done and I can start my new writing routine...I'm anxious to dig into my novel again with a singlemindedness. Well, besides packing up my life, that is:)

be here now

My tea party yesterday was delightful: the best of friends, delicious treats, and one mesmerizing baby! My friend H is an amazing mother, and little S is about the sweetest baby I've known. I can't wait until she can join in the fun by eating the treats too. For now, her palate is limitied to Similac.

H, S, and I enjoyed Sweet Potato Biscuits, Pimento Cheese ('menna cheese) on thinly sliced Zingy's baguette rounds, grape tomatoes and carrot sticks with parsley and mint, cucumber sandwiches, and a classic sponge cake with strawberries and vanilla whipped cream. My tea party fare this time around had a pronounced Southern flair...

And this morning I think of sweet Auburn, Alabama with the greatest affection. I remember my charming home there, with its 10 large windows, screened in porch, and lovely hardwood floors. I think of the smell of sandalwood incense filtering through the rooms, the focused brain power as I stumbled my way through my dissertation. I romanticize the place and the time, and wish for a moment or two that I could go back, just for a day or two, for one of those fun grad school parties, or a meeting of the Jane Austen Reading Group (which inevitably devolved into conversations of men, fashion, and gossip. I think Jane would approve). But I'm not the same, I'm sure my former home isn't the same, and I know my friends have changed--and moved on too. And I try to remember the truth behind the new-agey statement to BE HERE NOW, as these days will likewise fade into memory, and I'll be waxing poetic about these few rooms, with fewer windows, but quiet, tree-filled views..from my new vantage point, wherever that may be.

Last night I joined friends at J and A's house for a soiree, meeting new people and enjoying the first glass of Rose of the season and fresh conversation.

Today I've been cleaning my home, trying to keep the endless pieces of paper from taking over every room, especially on the eve of reaserch paper submission day. Ugh.

Now it's time to head out into the 75 degree sunshine and revel in the gentle breezes and sun rays gathering intensity, while ignoring the persistant pollen that's beginning to cling to cars, sidewalks, and my clothes.

string cheese incident

I just finished thoroughly enjoying a mug of coffee, with a smidgen of sugar and a glug of milk, and a buttermilk biscuit with honey...yummmy. I need something sweet and caffeiney after meeting with at least 20 students today to review their essays before the big due date on Monday. Sometimes I wonder where I find the patience to keep my face calm, positive, and engaged, when really inside my head I'm screaming "why didn't you get this the 12 times we've discussed this in class?" I actually said something akin to this statement to one student who has been chronically absent. He said that it was his frat "hell week" and so if he was in class he was sleeping. A big W-E (whatever) to that! I did have a student deliver a book he'd borrowed and a string cheese. Very funny and charming. The cheese came in handy when the line of students was curving around the hallway and I had eaten all the chocolate on my desk.

So, the Dalai Lama shoes are going back to Zappo's, as they're too big--slidey around the heels and gappy on the sides.

And the soiree last night was pleasant but disappointing, as our fearless captain, the department chair, was sick and missed out on the fun. This party was meant to celebrate his new position (he's leaving the department), and without him there, the power shifted subtlely yet noticeably.

On the reading menu for the weekend are a few favorite fun authors: Jennifer Crusie, Meg Cabot (who I met last summer!), Susan Elizabeth Phillips, and a novel published by Red Dress Ink, an imprint of Harlequin that I'm considering as a publisher of my novel.

new shoes to see the Dalai Lama

I'm stalling before heading out into a grey, gloomy world for my morning constitutional. The weather has us Michiganders on a seesaw--warmish and sunny, cool and wet. I'm holding out for warmish and sunny so I can delve into my fun and flirty spring wardrobe. I just ordered a new pair of fun, preppy green Ked's skimmers to trek around this summer. Truth: I needed a comfy yet stylish shoe to wear to Chi-town in two weeks when I go to see the DALAI LAMA! I'm so excited. He's speaking in Millenium Park and though I know I won't really be able to see him from my vantage point on the lawn, I can't wait to be in the presence of someone with such a clear and open heart and mind. H and I are going down for the weekend, which will likely include a visit to Bloomie's, Vosges Haut-Chocolat and maybe lunch at Cafe Spiagga...and this time I'd like to find the Intelligentsia coffee shop. I also hope to see M and B briefly, before they move away from Chi-town to their new digs in PA.

I decided yesterday that I for one could not watch *The Matrix* in class after the VT tragedy...I distinctly remember watching *Heathers* in a grad class right around Columbine, and feeling seriously disturbed. So, we had a little chat about why I decided against the movie and then proceeded to write fun pass around stories. I forgot how exercises like that really open up students' minds and sense of fun with writing...even if their stories feature in large part kegs, pot, and nudity. Today we're--they're--reading their creations aloud and then we're going to do Mad Libs. I suppose some might think it retro/middle-schooly, but sometimes, especially at the end of the semester with research papers, exams, and presentations looming, it's good to lighten the load a bit.

And tonight is the annual departmental party, with a fancy cheese and fruit tray, a whole salmon (yuck to me, but a big draw for many), awkward speeches, awards, and presentations. It promises to be an interesting soiree...

the cruelest month...

I always think of T.S. Eliot in April, pondering that opening line of *The Wasteland*...is it the unrequited/unfulfilled desire of which he speaks? The existential morass of modern life? The shock of waking up from winter to see the sublimity of life (okay, there I'm hearkening back to the Romantics...). Either way, this year the line echoes the tragedy at VTU yesterday...I found out from one of my students during class, and caught a CNN update on the TV in the lounge of the dorm/classroom wing where I teach. Talk about surreal.

As wise people remind me, tragedy can strike anywhere and one can't be prepared for anything. But there's an eerie feeling when such tragedy strikes in the kind of place you call home. My thoughts are with everyone at VTU as they try to make sense of that which is senseless...

hope, necessity, and luxury

A brisk walk after breakfast and before writing helps awaken my creative energies. Spring is here--the forsythia's blooming, the snow is blessedly gone, and the myriad shades of new green are peeking through on every leaf and blade. Ahhhh...there's nothing quite like spring to help re-ignite hope and possiblility...

"I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous for windows,
Superior for doors--"

Emily Dickinson (from memory, so please excuse any mispunctuations and capitalizations. I would never attempt to standardize Ms. Dickinson's delightfully idiosyncratic poetic form).

My "party" with my former students--pizza and cupcakes--was lovely, though I came home feeling sad and feeling a need to steel myself for this life-changing move. I suppose all moves are life-changing, but somehow this one seems really big, on par to the cross-country move I took when I started my PhD program. I hope this is a bit easier than that was...

Last night I dabbled in a few projects at once, which also watching *Desperate Housewives.* I was in one of my dilletant-ish moods. I worked on some background character sketches for the H/HN (hero/heroine) of *Surprise Developments,* my RN that's more "traditional" rather than Chick Litty. I'm starting with this one rather than the other because I think it will be simpler to finish. I'm going to need a little help on some of the technical goodies--like info on construction/building ordinances/and whether or not there's such a person as a building consultant. The H is someone who travels around the country "consulting" on downtown renovation projects (though--here's a little plot lead for ya, he really wants to be the builder but doesn't think it's high profile enough--one of his demons with which to wrestle).

Then I was thinking about my *Cooking for Mr. Latte* paper, and what theoretical inroads I can make with all this consumption stuff. Someone at PCA suggested the importance of pleasure, which reminded me of Colin Campbell's book *The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism*--one of those books I read and go, A-Ha! Check this out:

"There appears to be general and widespread agreement that modern consumption is characteristically 'luxury' consumption, and whilst that word has been variously defined, it does typically possess two different, if related, connotations. The first is the idea that 'luxury' is in some sense a superfluous item, something which is desired yet is additional to need...The second of the two meanings found in the word 'luxury' is the reference to sensuous or pleasurable experience. Here the emphasis is upon the verb rather than the noun, and upon activities rather than objects...From this perspective luxuries constitute the means to pleasure, whilst necessities are merely whatever is needed for the maintenance of existence, a state best described by the word 'comfort.'" (59)

Yes! This will be so helpful in talking about the world created within chick lit and foodie texts--how the food writer seeks out pleasure, and how we, the intrepid readers, are able to vicariously share in that pleasure.

don't be so bulgar

Last night I made a bulgar salad, loosely following one recipe and improvising as I'm wont to do. It was delicious--like a dressed up tabbuoleh. Bulgar, mint, parsley, lemon zest and juice, olive oil, bulgar, grape tomoatoes, red peppers, scallions, and feta cheese. Yummy!

The only other time I've had bulgar in something other than straight tabbouleh was a delicious bulgar salad with dates, walnuts, and celery that my friends M and B made. They packaged up a neat container for me to take on the Amtrak back from Chicago after my half-marathon. It was delicious, and I have fond memories of swaying trains, sore quads, a tired but exhilerated mind and body all associated with bulgar.

Now, if I was like most literary conscious writers this would be the moment I would casually mention Proust or madelaines or both, depending on how obtuse I'm trying to be. And I suppose by even mentioning it I am doing it, but I would LOVE to put a moritorium on the whole damned Proustian association. It seems everything I read that uses food as a vehicle for memory feels honor bound to throw out the connection, and frankly, it's so last century (or even the century before). Let the food and memory stand on their own and if your readers know Proust, they can make that connection in their own minds.

reading binge

I've been thinking of the consumption of reading since this topic came up on the academic romance blog, teach me tonight. I had been experiencing novel withdrawal myself, and so I checked out 4 novels from the public library yesterday, including a few romance novels by authors mentioned (or met) at the PCA conference last week. After zipping through all my must-do's yesterday, I settled in with Susan Elizabeth Philips' *Match Me if You Can,* which proved to be a wonderful and smart modern romance novel...

But something stranged happened part way through the reading. I realized why I stopped reading RN's (romance novels) for a time...they just seemed so unlike real life, or sadly, at least the bulk of my romantic life. The beauty of the RN is that the hero and heroine overcome any obstacles--the primary obstacle often involving one party's hesitancy to commit to love. Somehow, they have a grand revelation and love reigns triumphant.

It's for this reason that some critics feel RN's are dangerous, setting women readers up for disappointment when their own relationships don't always so nicely resolve themselves. And, as anyone with a failed relationship knows, the tears and pain are not always assuaged with the hero's return. Rather, they're ofeten soothed with other material goods (chocolate, ice cream, wine, MAC lipgloss, strappy sandals--all the chick lit cliches) and long thoughts/discussions with friends about what went wrong. But I digress.

But as I tried to suspend my cynicism mid-novel, I thought that RN's also offer readers something really powerful: HOPE. While a real world relationship won't likely be as smooth (or as quirky or beset with so many obstacles) as the RN version, the RN whispers in our ear not to give up hope that there is a real love possibility out there for everyone. And that small lesson sometimes needs to be heard...especially by disillusioned idealists and erstwhile romantics:)

Anyway, I set my cynicism aside, gave myself over to the story, breathed in the promise of hope, and finished the story, happy for Annabelle and Heath (the main characters).

Then, in true reading binge form (think of *Literacy and Longing in LA*), I picked up yet another novel, Jenny Crusie's *Anyone But You* and tucked in for the rest of the night. I finished that one about 2am, without the same critical diversion mid-novel, and then settled into sleep, sure that I would wake up with a reading hangover, but delightfully, I didn't.

I have new critical thoughts--wanting to explore the consumption within and of RN's and what they might tell us about the relationship between readers and authors and narrative worlds....stay tuned as I develop these ideas...

As for more literal consumption, today I will make a mediterranean feast for a girl's movie night, as well as deep chocolate cupcakes topped with a marshmallowy meringue frosting for a little party with some former students tomorrow. Hoorah!

on cadbury cream eggs

I'm a chocolate connoisseur. I admit that my tastes run to the dark, pure, complex wildness of a Pralus Colombie or an Amadei Toscano...fairly rare stuff to find these days. Check out chocosphere.com if you want to venture into this land of luxe chocolate. And yet, every spring, I look forward to the overt sweetness and silly kitchiness of the Cadbury Creme Egg. The milk chocolate hollow egg isn't nuanced, and neither is the dual-dyed fondant center, but there's some inexplicable pleasure of the giddy sugar rush these candies bring me. I remember savoring these Easter candies until last, after the coconut nests and the malted eggs disappeared from the pile of soft pink Easter grass lining my basket. I still eat these candies slowly and near reverantly, waiting for that jolt of sugar energy to wake me up and then let me softly crash when it wears off. They remind me of the joyous surprise and pleasure of the world waking up after a long, cold winter.

climate change is no joke...

I sit here drinking pot after pot of tea (darjeeling, straight up, though I'm thinking of switching over to a rubust chai next), looking out the window at a slushy world of white. I'm confused. It is April, isn't it? I haven't somehow dreamed the past month and a half, have I? Today has a very February feel of frustration with the nasty-persistance of wintery weather. A friend joked today that global warming must be a lie because here we are, about 20 degrees below normal...but I can't help but think that the idea of climate change is that the weather gets wacky, unpredictable, fickle, and unstable.

The big news is that I'm going to be spending my summer, my first summer ever since embarking on this professor business, not teaching. Hoorah! My plan is to seriously work on my romance novel(s) and aim for publication. This will be my "job" along with packing and paring away for my move to Wisconsin come late July/early August. I couldn't dream of a much better summer (honest moment: okay, so I could, but this is a pretty good start:)

return from hibernation...

So, to recap the past 5 months:

recovery from half-marathon
4 job interviews, 3 job offers, 1 new job (hoorah!)
several holidays
1 birthday
several trips (to aforementioned job interviews, and to Boston for a conference)
some delicious new foods (lime chiffon cake, a de-constructed german chocolate cake)
many books read (most recently, *Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously*)

Many stories are begging to see the light of the internet, but I will save them for another time...because, believe it or not, I'm back, with ideas overflowing and masterpieces to be written.

Stay tuned...

pie fest preview

15 November 2006

Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, beckons. I feel I must make an academic disclaimer that I’m not celebrating the whole mythical feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans (or First Nations People, to be au courant), but rather the deeper meaning of a harvest festival, dedicated to sharing food with others, to celebrate the abundance of the season, and to begin to hunker down for the cold winter to come. What other holiday is so food-centric?

My Mom recently read an article where the writer’s family dubbed to holiday Pie Day, because of the profusion of pastry. Our family is no different. We usually have a ratio of 1 dessert for every 2 people. Chocolate pie for my brother (usually Grandma makes two), low-fat/low cholesterol pumpkin pie for Grandpa, classic Apple for all of us, and pecan, for those of us with serious nut-love and super-sweet teeth. The past 2 years my Aunt S and I both baked pecan pies, using different recipes. Sadly, she and her family will be spending the holiday with other family, and so we’ll only have one pecan pie. This year I plan on experimenting with Maple Bourbon Pecan. Yumm.

In preparation for the pecan pie, as well as to stock our proverbial larders/pantires/freezers (or in my case, borrowing space in my parents’ freezer), we have placed our annual order for pecans from Lamar Pecan and Peanut in Auburn, AL. 37 pounds! Are we obsessed or what? I anticipate the caramelly, buttery goodness of these jumbo pecans.

I’m also contemplating making green bean casserole, the mid-Western tradition, from scratch a la Martha Stewart. Then again, today’s NYTimes food section featured a simple recipe for crunchy green beans with ginger and garlic that might be an even nicer break from all the creamy softness of the other side dishes (which was exactly the writer’s point). So many decisions!

Also in The NYTimes today: an article on the growing popularity of buying food from small, local, and sustainably-run farms and families. I hope that these businesses continue to thrive and not be swayed by the allure of larger markets and more lavish profits, which has happened to many such farms as they’ve exploded on the food scene, only to be bought out by larger corporations. On the one hand, this can be seen as positive, as the organic mindset spreads, BUT, as the article carefully denotes, organic no longer means small, local, and sustainable. Monoculture organic agri-business is only marginally better than conventional agri-business...I could start a full-fledged impassioned argument here, but I'd rather dream of all the pies yet to come in one short week:)