daily bliss: remembering

Low-key, calm Saturdays are rare these days, and their infrequency makes them all the more dear. Today I read the first set of rough drafts from my writing students, and dozed on the loveseat. I rested, and watched the fog dissipate, the rain dry up, and the horizon reappear as the gloomy day lifted. A single male cardinal landed on the wet, white porch railing, a spark of heat. Later, a fat robin perched on the shed roof, alone.

On 9.11.2001, I was alone, in Alabama, 900 miles away from my family. It was at that moment that I started dreaming of a way to be closer to home. I had nightmares about national chaos, and being stranded from my family.

Today, I read Meg Cabot's story of 9.11 for the first time. I cried.

G and I shared our where were you stories. I clung to him, remembering. I clung to him, glad to not be alone, to have someone to share my daily life with.

Love. Compassion. Remembering. Peace.

100 words: compost

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: rotten

Compost

rotten: bruised peaches dried coffee grounds blackened banana peels green grass clippings cracked egg shells twisted tree branches yellowed corn husks moldy bread spent tea bags squeezed lemons giant summer squashes horse dung carved pumpkins golden straw wrinkled apples multicolored leaves cow manure melon rinds flowering weeds sad tomatoes chicken shit blighted berries greening potatoes shredded carrots

flourishing microorganisms: fast fungi beneficial bacteria miracle microbes

turning turning turning: sifting lifting pitchforking

small scraps large pile hot core

worms: detritus digesting skin casting

feeding: rich soil prolific garden velvet lawn

transformation: making abundant life out of so much death and decay.

daily bliss: poaching and sipping and brainstorming

Tonight, the house smells like warm sangria. I heated a bottle of Black Swan Shiraz with sugar and citrus zest, then gently simmered five farmers' market pears in the ruby liquid. Tomorrow, I'll make a pistachio pastry cream, and a sweet buttery tart crust. I'll assemble a rosy and green tinged tart, a work of art in itself, to take to wine club. We'll be drinking Riesling. Mmmm.

Now, I'm sipping tea—Margaret's Hope Darjeeling, my favorite—and mulling over a new writing project. I've been searching for a topic to write for Wake, a journal of Great Lakes thought and culture. And tonight, a topic, touching on both sides of the Lake, appeared in the way great ideas often do: in a random moment, spurred by one image or word.

I'm inspired.

And tranquil.

And...sleepy.

daily bliss: chocolate art

Saturday morning in Paris—our last day—Grandma, K, and I stroll through the streets in the Sixth Arrondissment, searching for culinary treats to transport back home. About an hour after our breakfast at Bread and Roses, we pass Christian Constant, where fruited tarts beckon from the store windows.

We enter. We order. We enjoy.

And then, we look. The shop is filled with gorgeous tarts, and stacks of artisan, single-bean chocolate bars.

But mostly, we see the purses. And shoes. Crafted of chocolate. Created with love. Too beautiful to eat, too gorgeous to disturb. Edible aesthetics.

twd: peanut butter crisscrosses

Oh, for a peanut studded peanut butter cookie, with a glass of milk. Or a mug of coffee. Or a cup of tea.

I love Dorie's peanut butter cookies, and have made them several times for friends or family events. The last version included chocolate chips, which made them tricky to crisscross, and also made them a bit crumbly, but the flavor combination was worth the mess.

Because this is the first almost full week of school, I didn't have time to bake them again. And apparently I didn't take any photos before packing them up for parties and gatherings when I last baked them. Ooops!

Trust me, they're delicious. And they look just like a peanut butter cookie should look: golden, sugar dusted, and inviting.

Head over to Jasmine's blog, Jasmine Cuisine, for the recipe, and for her delightful story, written in both French and English!

daily bliss: new book lust

the sample covers for Jennifer Crusie's latest novel, Maybe This Time, from her website, arghink.com

So I've been blogging everyday this month because I challenged G to a NaBloPoMo to help us both keep writing regularly as our work lives pick up. The theme this month is art, a theme that should be easy to touch on in multiple entries. G's done a fabulous job linking to the theme. Won't you check out his blog?

As for me, I have a doozy of a post in the works on techne and episteme (please don't run away. it will be interesting. and not hoity-toity academic. i promise.) But this post demands some serious writing time. And I've been re-entering the academic world, finalizing syllabi, shifting daily routines, spending time in front of the mirror deciding what to wear, all of which are preventing me from writing said post. I could pull it off tonight, except that I bought Jenny Crusie's newest novel, Maybe This Time, on Saturday, and have yet to dive in. I cannot wait any longer. The siren call of an unbroken spine, of pristine pages, of a narrative world from a favorite author yet unexplored is simply too much to resist. Ahhh, new book lust. Forever and always my weakness.

daily bliss: floating

Summer's last hurrah...

An afternoon at the beach...

Watching kites billow and soar in the crisp September air...

Among...family. 

daily bliss: indian cuisine

Tonight G and I ate dinner at Sai Ram, an Indian restaurant in a nearby town. Neither of us has much experience with Indian cuisine, so we were eager to explore the four page menu. I was positively giddy reading through nearly a page of vegetarian appetizers and entrees, finally settling on potato pakora and chana masala washed down with Kingfisher beer. As I ate a forkful of basmati rice with my spicy chickpea dish, the fragrant spices triggered a memory of my high school friend A. We participated in many of the same activities—school orchestra, town youth orchestra, and olympics of the mind (yes, i was a dork. yes i am a dork still.) We never spent much time at her house, but when we did I would inhale the unfamiliar scents of curry, which lingered on our clothes after we left. She would offer sweets that seemed coated with thin, aluminum foil. Her house, though outwardly suburban and "American" was altogether exotic.

I can recall moments when I thought subtly—and not so subtly— racist thoughts, such as when she was cast in the school production of Grease and I wasn't. I cringe at such memories and want to shake my younger self. I remember A gently asking us not to give her any more Christmas ornaments, as she didn't celebrate Christmas.

As I left my rather homogenous hometown and explored a broader world inside and outside of books, I realized many things about difference, about exile, about being a stranger in a strange land. I've often thought of A, and I long to apologize for my former self and insensitivity.

Now, threads of Indian culture weave through my lifestyle, from delicious food to literature (Jhumpa Lahiri is a favorite), to the ancient spiritual practice of yoga, to my eastern based philosophies of life, love, and human interaction.

I love how food forms a tangible bridge between cultures, and how for many of us, this is the first way we fall in love with another culture. New flavors and spices, textures and sites fill our plates, bellies, minds, and, most hopefully, hearts.

My heart overflows, and I pass some of this goodwill and compassion to my friend A, wherever she is.

100 words: letting go

Letting Go

Sarah holds her son in her hands, lifting up his peach fuzz head to meet the softness of her cheek. He smells altogether familiar, yet strange. She traces the soft spots on his skull, the indentations left by an arduous labor. His eyes flutter open and closed, unaccustomed to the harsh hospital lighting. She unwraps the swaddling blanket to marvel once again at arms and legs, spindly and perfect, hunched instinctively inward, then stretching long. Her fingers circle the umbilical stub, and he begins to cry. She hugs him tightly, feeling the separation already. “I cannot get you close enough.”


I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: fingers.

daily bliss: a tale of two meals

Last night, in an attempt to ward off back-to-school butterflies, I channeled my nervous energy into creating a delicious meal of eggplant and squash parmesan, roasted romano beans, garlicky bread, and chocolate ganache topped chocolate cupcakes. I even bought a bottle of Jargon, our favorite inexpensive pinot noir, for the occasion.

Slicing, whisking, dredging, dipping, baking, frosting...the sure steady rhythms soothed me, and my meditative state created a delicious meal.

(I adapted this eggplant parmesan recipe by baking the panko encrusted slices of eggplant and patty pan squash. I also used less cheese, and three different kinds: American Grana, provolone, and fresh mozzarella.)

Tonight, in an attempt to avoid cooking after my first exhausting day of class, G and I headed to our favorite Italian deli, where we supped on marinara covered meat ravioli (G) and red pepper, onion, and artichoke pizza (me).

Sitting, chatting, sipping...the easy companionship, casual debriefing, and waitstaff service demanded just the right amount of energy.

Delicious food and delightful company eased my transition back to work:)

daily bliss: back to school

The playground fills with girls and boys. Many of the boys play an intense ball game, while two girls walk around the perimeter in their bright dresses layered over colorful pants. A cheerful din fills the air, as I walk my usual morning path.

On facebook, many of my friends post photos of their children, carrying backpacks and clutching lunchboxes, broad smiles and bright eyes shining through the screen.

So much excitement for the first day of school.

And so, tonight I pack my bag. I stand in front of my closet, weighing my options. I review what I will say to two classes of 24 students each, eager first years most likely nervous and scared to write. I know my role: exude cheer, confidence, friendliness, and knowledge. Above all, be kind.

Many of my students don't love school. Many of them have no idea what being a college student means. Many of them need more help than I can give them. Many of them have been told they're poor writers.

Tomorrow, I will start to show them that writing—and school—can be fun.

And I will swallow my nerves, face my fears, and lead the way.

But I still wish I was a student, all dressed up in colorful clothes, brandishing bright pens and folders, ready for the whole world to unfurl before me.

twd: espresso chocolate shortbread

Gilmore Girls.

Cafe au Lait.

Girl talk.

Espresso chocolate shortbread.

Saturday afternoon.

Hanging in my living room with my mom while G and my dad golf.

Happy.


thanks to Donna, of Life's Too Short Not to Eat Dessert First, for selecting this week's TWD pick. these cookies are tasty, buttery, crisp, and subtly flavored. 

daily bliss: all's (un)fair at the county fair

dried cherry almond oat muffins, chewy granola bars, banana cake

"I hate these papers. You never get things baked quite right when you use these," uttered the judge, as she peeled back the muffin liner, tore the muffin in half, peered inside, and then tasted a flake of muffin crumb.

No bite that combined toasted sliced almonds and plump dried cherries. No taste of the cinnamon sugar topping. She scribbled something on the tag, and moved on to the next muffin, the only other entry in the Health Muffin category.

These were not baked in papers.

These were awarded a first place blue ribbon.

Mine? A third place white ribbon. Despite being the only other entry in the category.

Disheartened, we wandered over to photography judging.

We watched as 19 close-up photos were spread out on the table. I spotted mine in the top left hand corner.

An artsy shot of cabbage. Savoy, all rippled and veined. 

As she moved photos off the table, mine stayed! A pink ribbon for fourth place!

When the judges took a lunch break, B and I wandered the fair grounds in search of drinks. We hit up an airstream coffee trailer, and posed with the Harley Hog. 

We stared at rows of tractors. 

We returned to the pavilion, walking behind rows of ladies with clipboards and photo printouts, on which they carefully logged their ranking, the number of entries, and what kind of photos won. 

Once again, my entry, a series of three architectural details, was placed in the top left-hand corner of the table. As the judge shifted the 14 other entries around, mine stayed put. I watched her write a 1 on my photo, and eagerly listened for her comments. She loved the clean lines and the clarity of detail. 

Arc de Triomphe

Eiffel Tower

cathedral in the Cluny Museum

A blue ribbon!

Not for baking. 

Not yet. 

My granola bars, confections of oat, honey, dried cherry, toasted pecan, and chocolate, were still waiting to be judged. They were the only ones in their category. I was confident. Two blue ribbons? For a first timer? Excellent. B and I headed home, needing a break from the pavilion. 

Later that night, G and I returned to the fair. As G scoped out the food choices at brightly lit booths and towering tents, I pulled him to the building where I'd spent my morning. I couldn't wait to see my granola bars and their blue ribbon. 

Er, red ribbon. 

Second place. In a category in which I was the only entrant. The word excellent was scrawled on the tag. 

A girl has to laugh. 

G and I walked through the pavilion, past huge squash and 4H posters, decorated cakes and afghans, and I decided that my ribbons made for a much better narrative than if I snapped up all blue ribbons. As we sipped Bud Light and ate kettle corn, talked to politicians and skirted religious zealots, I celebrated being part of this community. Joining in the long line of women who bake. Who shoot photos. Who create. Who compete, once a year, not for money, but for a small token of recognition. 

I'm proud of my ribbons, but my joy comes from feeding my family and friends sweet treats throughout the year. My joy comes from framed photos that I took decorating our home. My joy comes from sharing a bit of sweetness, a bit of perspective.

A moment of bliss. 

With or without paper liners and blue ribbons. 

100 words: all dressed up

All Dressed Up...

Quiet.

Finally. 

She smoothes the satin and lace that hide her from herself. She glances around the room at the piles of shoes and jeans and hoodies amassed on velvet-covered chairs. Cosmetic cases spill forth their creamy contents. White Rain and Love’s Baby Soft mingle in the air. She recites her vows under her breath, stares at the diamond on her hand. 

Steady. 

Ready.

A knock breaks her moment. She lowers the filmy veil, picks up the bouquet of pink roses and trailing ivy. Smiles widely.

Opens and steps through the door, walks down the corridor. 

To him.

Forever.

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This week's word: corridor.

100 words: such great heights

I'm participating in a weekly writing challenge: 100 words. Each week, Velvet Verbosity posts a prompt, and participants write 100 words, in any form, that evoke the word. This is my first week. The word is failed.

Such Great Heights 

She beats eggs until they billow above the lip of her bowl. They form shiny, stiff peaks. 

A chocolate custard, smooth, thick, voluptuous, bubbles on the stove.

She gently folds them together, until the white disappears.

Lovingly spoons the mixture into a ridged, round dish, capped with a parchment crown. 

Slides it into the oven. 

Waits. Glides quietly through the house. Hums to Chopin on the radio.

Opens the oven door and spies a lift so high, it rises above the parchment.

Giddy, she removes the souffle: Airy. Light.

Within moments, it falls. And sinks. And slumps: Dense. Heavy.

Failed.

twd: chocolate ganache ice cream

topped with coconut and pecans...

True confession time: though I'm an admitted chocoholic, I don't usually order/purchase/make chocolate ice cream.

My old-school favorite? Mint chocolate chip.

My grown-up favorite? Some kind of coffee flavor with chocolate accents (chips, fudge, swirl).

Both flavors feature chocolate, but do not overwhelm with a chocolate base.

HOWEVER, several years ago my mom introduced me to Palazzo's triple chocolate gelato. And I started to change my mind about chocolate based ice creams.

Then, in Paris this May, I ordered a scoop of Cacao Amer, a deep, dark chocolate, accented with a scoop of Caramel Sel Beurre (salted, buttered caramel) at Berthillon. Mmmmm.

Dorie's chocolate ganache ice cream delivers a velvety scoop, even when made with skim instead of whole milk. The combination of 62% Scharffenberger and 70% Ghiradelli provided a rich chocolate flavor, though a milkier color.

My custard making skills are improving, and now I have Mr. Chill in the basement, with room to store my ice cream making canister and containers of experiments. I envision improvisations on this, and other ice creams, in the future.

Thank you, Katrina, of Baking and Boys, for choosing this cool treat on a hot week!

daily bliss: bicycling

Tires crunch on gravel.

Warm pine needles send up their distinct fragrance.

A self-generated breeze envelops me as I pedal down our country road, pumping fast, and then coasting, hands-free, down the hill by the creek.

If I'm lucky, I remain upright, soaring through another summer day. Other days, my wheel catches small stones and I topple over, knees scraped and stinging.

Growing up in the country, we biked along bumpy streets, long before bike paths stretched out in endless parallels. Long before mountain bikes or hybrid bikes were popular, we tore through the woods on kid bikes with banana seats, or thin-wheeled ten speed huffys or schwinns. My brother and his buddy fashioned hydration systems out of two liter pop bottles and tubing, long before camelbacks were standard.

***
In graduate school, I tried to avoid the daily costs of parking in city garages by biking to class. My apartment was on the southeast corner of campus; my classes met on the northcentral part of campus. At Michigan State, this was a considerable distance. And quite challenging, as pedestrians, rollerbladers, and renegade squirrels vied for sidewalk space. More often than not, I left my bike at home and drove, paying a few dollars for parking. (and a cup of coffee and lemon poppyseed muffin at Espresso Royale Cafe).

***
For the past three weeks, I've eagerly awaited G's arrival home from work. "Biking?" he asks. I nod, and strap on my chaco sandals. I grab my amphipod, stuffed with a few dollars, a house key, benadryl, and an epi-pen. As he slips his speed-distance-weather computer on his bike, I buckle my helmet, toss a water bottle and amphipod in my bike basket. We're off.

For the first few blocks, we go slow. We assess the previous day's soreness. We test the wind. As we fly/brake down the big hill leading us to the lake and to the multi-use trail that curves the lakeshore, I feel the day's stresses drift away.

We take turns leading, pedaling into or against the wind. We weave through neighbors and tourists, who walk, bike, roller blade, or jog along the popular trail.

"Hey guys! You should try my tandem sometime," our friend N shouts as we wheel past.

My bike bell comes in handy, as couples, groups of women, and families crowd the trail, impeding the flow of two way traffic.

The trail curves close to the lake in places, with flowering weeds tumbling out of the wooden guardrail that saves us from a rocky precipice. Waves ebb and flow, boats float at a distance, a forked tree branch bobs toward shore, and a red buoy marks the site of a century-old shipwreck.

The trip from our home to the end of this trail and back measures 11.8 miles. We're steadily increasing our speed. Next, we hope to increase our distance, and hook up with another trail, leading us through a state park, up and down hills, and through cool forest.

On weekend afternoons, we pack beach essentials into my bike basket and G's backpack, and ride just past the trail's end to a city beach of vast expanses of sand. We prop our bikes along dune shrubs, spread our towels, and rest after a good ride. When the sun becomes unbearable, we brave the water. On this side of the lake, in particular, the temperature is unpredictable. One Saturday my ankles were instantly numb, and the next weekend I somersaulted through the waves, frolicking like my younger self.

When hunger starts to rumble, and the sun lowers in the sky, we're back on our bikes, ready to fly through the breeze, challenging quads and hams and calves, reaching for that moment of delicious summer outdoor exhilaration/exhaustion.

We climb the hill near our home, shifting into lower gears. We take turns encouraging each other, riffing on Salt-n-Pepa's "Push It." A woman walking down the hill joins in, shouting "pedal! pedal! pedal!" At the top of the hill, we bump fists, and shift back into a higher gear, counting the blocks until we're home, where cool water and snacks and air conditioning await.

***
Tires flow on asphalt.

Lake water send up its distinctive fragrance.

I'm lucky; my favorite lake glimmers beside me, G steadily pedals ahead of or behind me.

I may wobble, I may tumble. But in the next moment, I'll soar.

daily bliss: summer vegetable tart

Summer days, once my summer class ended, have a certain, perhaps enviable, rhythm:

wake
practice yoga to a swirl of incense
eat breakfast, drink coffee, and read sections of the Sunday Times on the deck
water plants
walk four+ miles, listening to Splendid Table, This American Life, or Fresh Air podcasts
work on writing projects
think about, make, and eat lunch, perhaps while watching Giada or Rachel or Ina
work on writing projects or class prep or placement project
think about dinner
read
prep dinner, listening to All Things Considered or Fresh Air
debrief with G
ride bikes 10+ miles along the lake with G
eat dinner
clean up
read, internet, etc.
sleep

I spend considerable time, perhaps not reflected here, thinking about supper. This time of year, my culinary decisions are determined by seasonal produce, temperature, and energy level. We're right on the edge of summer abundance, and these days the fridge is stocked with summer squashes of all sorts, lettuces, cucumbers, swiss chard, onions, corn, and beans. The counter is filled with peaches, garlic, potatoes, and tomatoes. The deck is fragrant with basil, thyme (french and lemon), sage, lemon verbena, parsley, mint. The possibilities are endless.

Yesterday afternoon I made a summer vegetable tart, baking it ahead of dinner and chilling it, so we could eat it after our evening exercise without prep time. After surveying the interwebs for recipes, I created my own.

And it was delicious. G made many bold exclamations of just how tasty it was. And I agree.

Summer Vegetable Tart
Pre-bake a pastry crust. I used my favorite pie crust recipe and draped it in a 9 inch tart pan. I only baked it about 15 minutes, but next time I would bake it longer, as the final product wasn't crispy enough.

Survey your stock of fresh produce. Here's what I used, but you can definitely improvise.

1 clove of garlic, roasted
1 medium cranberry red potato, very thinly sliced
1 small zucchini, thinly sliced
2 big leaves of chard, pulled off the stem, cut into ribbons, and sauteed until cooked down
1/2 of a red onion, caramelized with fresh thyme
1/2 tomato, thinly sliced
several sprigs of fresh thyme
2 eggs, lightly beaten with a bit of milk, salt, and pepper
shredded wisconsin parmesan style cheese

Rub the roasted garlic on the bottom of the crust. Sprinkle some parm all over the crust. Line the crust with a layer of potatoes, then zucchini. Sprinkle the sauteed chard and caramelized onions over top. Arrange the sliced tomatoes in a lovely pattern, place the thyme over top. Pour the egg mixture over the entire pan, tilting the pan ever so slightly to make sure the mixture is evenly distributed. Sprinkle another layer of parm.

Bake at 350 or 375 until egg mixture is set and cheese is browned, about 50 minutes.

*notes: you could use more eggs if you want this to be more quiche-like. I only had 2 left, hence my decision. Also, fewer eggs means that the veggies shine more. I also used just a skiff of cheese as an accent, though you could add cheese between all layers if you wanted to.

You can eat this tart hot, warm, or chilled. We ate it chilled, with salads, and iced tea. Later, we enjoyed fresh blueberry peach crisp with whipped cream.

Ahh, summer. You're so utterly delicious.

twd: chewy, chunky blondies

What to bring to a holiday weekend gathering Up Nort, where the beverage of choice is Miller Lite, and the days stretch long into the evenings (nights, next mornings...)?

Cookies and Brownies? (been there, done that).

Chewy chunky blondies? (perfect).

Nicole, of Cookies on Friday, selected this recipe, a perfect fit for a lazy, sun-filled weekend of laughter, sunscreen, Boone's Farm carbonated fruity malt beverage, and the ubiquitous Miller Lite.

These bars have bits of deliciousness—walnuts, butterscotch chips, chocolate chips, and coconut—baked into a scotchy, buttery dough. They were a touch too buttery (read: greasy) for my taste, but I suspect that could be easily adjusted next time I make them. And, yes, there will be a next time.

For they pair so nicely with adult beverages, that I suspect they'd be even better with coffee. Or milk.

daily bliss: walking at midnight

A recent Friday night in our little city: I need whipping cream to top the delectable La Palette Strawberry tart I made earlier in the day. G and I set out on foot for a nearby gas station that stocks dairy necessities (this is, after all, Wisconsin). The air is warm, the sky is dark but pricked with starlight. We decide to wander, curving down by the river, crossing the bridge, and walking past the newly restored courthouse. We see people: walking a dog, walking hand in hand, smoking outside of empty bars (Wisconsin just enacted an indoor smoking ban—hooray!). We circle around to the gas station, an hour after leaving the house for this simple, quick errand.

I shake the small container of cream as we head onto the dark street close to our home. We duck under hanging branches, listen to the laugh track of the TV or the whir of a fan from low windows opening out on the sidewalk, make our shadows wave and move.

Still. Sultry.

I squeeze G's hand and am thankful for his presence, for this night, for these city streets that I don't dare to walk by myself at night.

Once again, I reflect that a whole other world has opened up to me when I decided to share my life and strike out on a new path, together.