This old body is betraying me today. Not only do I have a toothache, actually a jaw ache under a long-broken molar, I have the beginnings of a new shingles attack and an unexplained twinge in my chest.
I sound like a decrepit denizen of a nursing home, for which I apologize. The right knee is healing from the fall in the grocery store parking lot due to a hole in the asphalt (fixed the next day).
The cat is sitting in my doorway because she is psychic and knows I am hurting. I just got an email confirmation for my sudden whim, a week-long Alaska trip starting in late July. Feeling infirm does not inspire confidence in my stamina for this trip. I haven't had a real vacation for something like a dozen years. I have already paid for the 13-hour bus trip to Kantishna, 90 miles inside Denali National Park, where I was once the baker for a season.
Staying there one night is a little rich for my blood at more than $400. I can't even really afford the tour bus that stops for lunch at the Kantishna Roadhouse. Instead I am taking the Park Service shuttle, $54 versus $159, and will pack a sack lunch.
I used to bake my signature chocolate chip cookie recipe for the guests, hiker lunches, and sack lunches for the guests' road trip out. I also produced all the baked goods, including pies or cakes and my sourdough bread for the lunch buffet.
Here is my chocolate chip cookie recipe:
The Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever
Preheat oven to 325; spread 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans on large sheet pan. Toast about 10 minutes, stirring them around a couple of times.
Remove and add 2 T. unsalted butter, stirring it into the nuts. Set aside to cool. Put the oven temp up to 350.
Measure 1-1/2 cups cake flour, if you have it. Otherwise use all-purpose.
(If all-purpose flour is used, the cookies are crisper --- it’s the protein in the flour.)
Sift with 3/4 tsp. salt, 1-1/2 tsp. baking powder.
Cream 10 T. unsalted butter.
Add 3/4 cup brown sugar and 2 T. corn syrup (the latter makes them chewier --- leave it out if you like them crunchier) and beat together until fluffy.
Add 1 large egg,
1 T. real vanilla extract (I made my own, brandy and a couple of Tahitian vanilla beans soaking in it.)
Beat again. Gradually add flour. Add 1 c. good chocolate chips (Guittard or something similar) or small chocolate chunks, plus the pecans. Use a rubber spatula to mix.
Lightly spray sheet or cookie pans. (I used parchment paper to line pans.) Drop heaping tablespoons two inches apart --- a melon baller works great for uniform cookie size. Bake 12 minutes, or only until edges start to brown. Let sit for a minute then remove to racks and let cool. This version makes more than two dozen cookies. - Joanna
If you ever need it, I have the original recipe, which is for 25 dozen. I made that many every night when I baked at Kantishna. The pilots would drop by around 1 a.m. after the bar closed for a taste of the raw cookie dough.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Nights at the Red Rooster
I read about chef Marcus Samuelsson’s reopening a Red Rooster restaurant in Harlem near 125th Street. For a period of about six months from 1979 into 1980, I sang three and four nights a week at the original Red Rooster on 138th and Adam Clayton Powell, working in a quintet with leader and trumpeter Bucky Thorpe; Don Pullen, who played Hammond B-3 on the gig but was best known for his years on piano with Charles Mingus; drummer Bobby Battle, who was also playing at that time with altoist Arthur Blythe; and guitarist Roland Prince from Antigua, who left to tour Europe with drummer Elvin Jones and was replaced by the late Ted Dunbar, teaching at Rutgers at the time. I was the only white face in the club most nights. It was a pivotal experience — the music was great, and I was able to stretch out on some of the tunes. Since several of the players had West Indian backgrounds, we would stray into a calypso or island-tinged original some of the time, but it was pretty straight ahead. The club was owned by Buster, a numbers banker putting his beautiful daughter/club manager, Pat, through law school at Yale. The crab cakes were excellent; I think the cook was from Baltimore.
There was Jock’s and another place across the street where organ duos or trios, including the likes of Jack McDuff and Charles Earland, would play. We would take our breaks and head next door for a listen, and vice versa.
By the way, I often took the subway to my gig, walking from the stop at 135th Street on St. Nicholas. I was perfectly safe although I was dressed up because they knew I worked for Buster. The gigs were long, five or six hours a night, and I would either get a gypsy cab home or Bucky and several of us would drive through Central Park in the moonlight. It was quite magical.
Up a block or so on the corner (139th?) and Adam Clayton Powell was a place that sold the best little sweet potato pies.
That was also the area of the Striver’s Row blocks. I was friends for a couple of years with the pianist John Hicks, whose three generations of family members shared one of those brownstones, which were designed by Stanford White. His dad was a very respected Methodist minister.
There were — and still are — other pockets of elegance in Harlem. Bucky, who was a retired postal employee, lived in a beautiful building on Riverside Drive with quite an amazing entryway. The band eventually dissolved because Bucky had diabetic complications. He had one leg amputated, but was still able to play with his stump propped on a bar stool. Then he got worse, and lost the other leg. We had several benefits for him. Somewhere I have the tapes.
There was Jock’s and another place across the street where organ duos or trios, including the likes of Jack McDuff and Charles Earland, would play. We would take our breaks and head next door for a listen, and vice versa.
By the way, I often took the subway to my gig, walking from the stop at 135th Street on St. Nicholas. I was perfectly safe although I was dressed up because they knew I worked for Buster. The gigs were long, five or six hours a night, and I would either get a gypsy cab home or Bucky and several of us would drive through Central Park in the moonlight. It was quite magical.
Up a block or so on the corner (139th?) and Adam Clayton Powell was a place that sold the best little sweet potato pies.
That was also the area of the Striver’s Row blocks. I was friends for a couple of years with the pianist John Hicks, whose three generations of family members shared one of those brownstones, which were designed by Stanford White. His dad was a very respected Methodist minister.
There were — and still are — other pockets of elegance in Harlem. Bucky, who was a retired postal employee, lived in a beautiful building on Riverside Drive with quite an amazing entryway. The band eventually dissolved because Bucky had diabetic complications. He had one leg amputated, but was still able to play with his stump propped on a bar stool. Then he got worse, and lost the other leg. We had several benefits for him. Somewhere I have the tapes.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Winter's Day Barley Soup
After three sunny days, returning winter rains are smothering all that joyful light. It's not that cold, but I decided it was time to make a cauldron of soup in my big red pseudo-Creuset. This batch turned out to be quite restorative.
To a 32-ounce box of low-salt chicken broth, plus another cup of water, add:
2 bay leaves
1 cup barley
2 carrots, cut up
2 stalks of celery, ditto
3 scallions, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/3 small cellophane packet Trader Joe's dried wild mushrooms, crushed up
3 crimini or other domestic mushrooms, diced
1/2 sweet red pepper, chopped
1 can Italian diced tomatoes
1 cup frozen green beans
1/2 cup white wine
1 chicken sausage, cut up
1/3 lb. chunk of ham, diced
1 tsp. Spanish smoked sweet pepper, plus 1/2 tsp. Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp. dried basil (1 tsp. fresh, chopped)
1/2 tsp. parsley (ditto)
1/3 tsp. dried tarragon, 1/3 tsp. dried marjoram
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Simmer until the barley and vegetables are done.
Adjust salt, add freshly ground pepper.
Serve in large soup cups.
To a 32-ounce box of low-salt chicken broth, plus another cup of water, add:
2 bay leaves
1 cup barley
2 carrots, cut up
2 stalks of celery, ditto
3 scallions, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1/3 small cellophane packet Trader Joe's dried wild mushrooms, crushed up
3 crimini or other domestic mushrooms, diced
1/2 sweet red pepper, chopped
1 can Italian diced tomatoes
1 cup frozen green beans
1/2 cup white wine
1 chicken sausage, cut up
1/3 lb. chunk of ham, diced
1 tsp. Spanish smoked sweet pepper, plus 1/2 tsp. Hungarian paprika
1/2 tsp. dried basil (1 tsp. fresh, chopped)
1/2 tsp. parsley (ditto)
1/3 tsp. dried tarragon, 1/3 tsp. dried marjoram
Dash of Worcestershire sauce
Simmer until the barley and vegetables are done.
Adjust salt, add freshly ground pepper.
Serve in large soup cups.
All in a day's work
I sat in the courtroom this morning listening to the chilling testimony of a nice guy, a cross-country skiing guitar player who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and lived to tell about it.
While enjoying his snowy solitude on skis near Dougan Falls the morning of Feb. 9, 2009, Kevin Tracy met up with the father and son duo from hell. They had been camping out in the snow, basically homeless. Dad was on the lam, a seldom-seen father with his punk kid in tow, hiding because he had failed to register as a sex offender. They were likely hungry and tired of camping in the woods, carless, in the winter, but there is absolutely no excuse for what they did. First they asked him for directions, then demanded his truck and told him they'd have to kill him because he could identify them. He tried to ski away, then kicked off his skis and tried to run, but he couldn't get away. Sixteen-year-old, Teven Collins bashed him on the head repeatedly with a club, knocking a hole in his skull. Then dad, Michael Collins, tried to garotte him. They stashed him under a bush in the snow and left him for dead.
Three Clark County students out for their twice-a-week hike, this time trying a new area, found Tracy clinging to a tree, bloody from head to toe and barely hanging on.
The Collins fled in Tracy's truck, first to California, then to Mexico, merrily posting photos on Facebook of their adventures on drugs and among the palm trees. An airing of 'America's Most Wanted' finally got them captured.
Now the kid is testifying against his father in exchange for an eight-year sentence. Dad is not quite 'three strikes, you're out' because his first sex offense occurred as a juvenile.
Listening to the testimony today, I kept glancing at Michael Collins as he sat next to his attorney, slumping in his seat. He looked young, and a little remorseful. How did he and his devil spawn think that whole deadly escapade was going to play out? Did they care?
Meanwhile, Kevin Tracy faces more plastic surgery --- an angry red line runs jaggedly from the top of his head down his face., and while the hole in his skull is healing, he will never be the same. His speech is a little halting, but his testimony was deliberate and damning. He survived. They are going to jail. The only better justice would be to take them to a tree in the middle of the woods in the winter snow, tie them up, and leave them there to die, just as they left Kevin Tracy.
While enjoying his snowy solitude on skis near Dougan Falls the morning of Feb. 9, 2009, Kevin Tracy met up with the father and son duo from hell. They had been camping out in the snow, basically homeless. Dad was on the lam, a seldom-seen father with his punk kid in tow, hiding because he had failed to register as a sex offender. They were likely hungry and tired of camping in the woods, carless, in the winter, but there is absolutely no excuse for what they did. First they asked him for directions, then demanded his truck and told him they'd have to kill him because he could identify them. He tried to ski away, then kicked off his skis and tried to run, but he couldn't get away. Sixteen-year-old, Teven Collins bashed him on the head repeatedly with a club, knocking a hole in his skull. Then dad, Michael Collins, tried to garotte him. They stashed him under a bush in the snow and left him for dead.
Three Clark County students out for their twice-a-week hike, this time trying a new area, found Tracy clinging to a tree, bloody from head to toe and barely hanging on.
The Collins fled in Tracy's truck, first to California, then to Mexico, merrily posting photos on Facebook of their adventures on drugs and among the palm trees. An airing of 'America's Most Wanted' finally got them captured.
Now the kid is testifying against his father in exchange for an eight-year sentence. Dad is not quite 'three strikes, you're out' because his first sex offense occurred as a juvenile.
Listening to the testimony today, I kept glancing at Michael Collins as he sat next to his attorney, slumping in his seat. He looked young, and a little remorseful. How did he and his devil spawn think that whole deadly escapade was going to play out? Did they care?
Meanwhile, Kevin Tracy faces more plastic surgery --- an angry red line runs jaggedly from the top of his head down his face., and while the hole in his skull is healing, he will never be the same. His speech is a little halting, but his testimony was deliberate and damning. He survived. They are going to jail. The only better justice would be to take them to a tree in the middle of the woods in the winter snow, tie them up, and leave them there to die, just as they left Kevin Tracy.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Mild but sloggy blog
I am grateful to be alive. Last Saturday was one of those times when everything is on snooze-bar, until a sudden rude awakening. I had nearly made it to Washougal when I felt the van's engine lurch and die as I was headed up the last hill. With little momentum and fading power steering and brakes, I had no choice but to head for a very narrow area of shoulder on the other side of the road, facing traffic. I was literally inches from the road, but managed to pull it off, literally.
I sat there shaking with the blinkers on as I thought about my situation. I had foregone breakfast in anticipation of a sushi lunch in Vancouver. Low blood sugar was exacerbated by adrenalin, the fight-or-flight of having to wrestle the van onto the shoulder, a snap second choice that easily could have ended in disaster with rock on one side and a very steep hard place on the other.
There were a couple of Mom's little apple juice boxes in the van. I gulped one down and got on my cell phone as each passing vehicle rocked the van. I could smell gas.
The Skamania County Sheriff's Office gave me the number for Reddi Towing, and Larry said he was on his way. It took him about 45 minutes to get there. Meanwhile, giant trucks passed within inches, and a phalanx of Harleys roared by. I had to pee. My coat was in the back, and I was afraid to climb behind the seat because of the oncoming vehicles. I was so close to the guardrail I seriously wondered if I could get out.
Finally, I spotted Larry's giant blue truck. It is not exactly nimble, and he had to maneuver to get it in front of the van, due to the hill and shrinking shoulder. He had to do a high wire act, balancing on top of the guardrail posts to get back to me. There was no room for him to work as he lowered the giant teeter-totter and winched the van onto the back, while balancing precariously on the downhill side of the guardrail.
He immediately spotted the problem --- the fuel line underneath the van had come off at the bottom of the hill, and what I had smelled --- and felt --- was spewing fuel that wasn't reaching the engine.
After I took Mom to the airport to go to Louisiana for a month, the van sat in the driveway two weeks. Before she left, we had taken it in for an oil change and servicing. The garage had replaced the fuel filter. Larry said they hadn't reattached the fuel line securely, and it had worked its way loose. A minor oversight --- and it could have had fatal consequences. Yesterday was the first time I had driven the van since Mom left. I had loaded the back with recycling, and intended to take some framed photos into Portland for the walls at Beaterville --- after my much anticipated sushi lunch.
Larry is a prince in my eyes right now. This is not the first time he has come to the rescue. He didn't charge me to fix the van, but it was $197 for the tow, and no AAA. The garage that did the oil change also did not bolt down the fuel filter, and it was "rattling around in there," Larry said. Meanwhile, I am calculating the cost of that tow. Right before heading to Washougal, I had mailed a $407.85 check to Skyline Hospital for costs not covered by insurance after my two-month bout of pneumonia. That bill was slightly more than the amount of my tax refund, direct-deposited into my account Friday. Easy come, easy go.
I am at the mid-point of my solitary month as Mom spends some time with Clyde in Louisiana.
The South has gotten hammered this year, and it has sometimes been bitterly cold, alternating with a few 75-degree days. We thought Mom needed to get away during what is usually the harshest time here. This time last year, the snow was piled up and Mom had a serious case of cabin fever. January and February are also months of painful reminders --- the anniversaries of Dad's birthdays and his death, plus her birthday and another Valentine's Day without him.
Since our sleety, windy trip to the airport, it has been relatively warm, an El Nino non-winter here. We had one good snowstorm, but Winterfest is cancelled (again) for lack of snow. The swans left Franz Lake a month early for their tundra nesting grounds, the sea lions are back at Bonneville Dam chowing down on sturgeon while waiting for their spring Chinook sushi fix, and there are are three brave pansies blooming in front of the house.
As a sop to my missed sushi yesterday, I made an early Sunday lunch/brunch:
Salute to Spring Smoked Salmon Pasta
Cook 1/2 package of multi-grain penne or fusilli very al dente, saving 1 inch of the salted water in the bottom of the pan with the pasta. Mix in one chopped green onion, two cloves minced garlic, 1 tsp. each smoked and Hungarian paprika, half a can of evaporated milk, 1/3 of an 8-ounce package of low-fat cream cheese, a dash of Worcestershire and Frank's Red Hot, plus 1/3 cup white wine. Crumble in 1/3 pound deboned hot-smoked salmon, and sprinkle on 1 T. parsley and 1 tsp. basil. At the last minute, add 2/3 cup frozen peas (no need to thaw), and a little milk if more moisture is needed. Finish with 1 tsp. balsamic vinegar and a couple of grinds of black pepper. Sprinkle with a little grated parmesan, if you like.
I sat there shaking with the blinkers on as I thought about my situation. I had foregone breakfast in anticipation of a sushi lunch in Vancouver. Low blood sugar was exacerbated by adrenalin, the fight-or-flight of having to wrestle the van onto the shoulder, a snap second choice that easily could have ended in disaster with rock on one side and a very steep hard place on the other.
There were a couple of Mom's little apple juice boxes in the van. I gulped one down and got on my cell phone as each passing vehicle rocked the van. I could smell gas.
The Skamania County Sheriff's Office gave me the number for Reddi Towing, and Larry said he was on his way. It took him about 45 minutes to get there. Meanwhile, giant trucks passed within inches, and a phalanx of Harleys roared by. I had to pee. My coat was in the back, and I was afraid to climb behind the seat because of the oncoming vehicles. I was so close to the guardrail I seriously wondered if I could get out.
Finally, I spotted Larry's giant blue truck. It is not exactly nimble, and he had to maneuver to get it in front of the van, due to the hill and shrinking shoulder. He had to do a high wire act, balancing on top of the guardrail posts to get back to me. There was no room for him to work as he lowered the giant teeter-totter and winched the van onto the back, while balancing precariously on the downhill side of the guardrail.
He immediately spotted the problem --- the fuel line underneath the van had come off at the bottom of the hill, and what I had smelled --- and felt --- was spewing fuel that wasn't reaching the engine.
After I took Mom to the airport to go to Louisiana for a month, the van sat in the driveway two weeks. Before she left, we had taken it in for an oil change and servicing. The garage had replaced the fuel filter. Larry said they hadn't reattached the fuel line securely, and it had worked its way loose. A minor oversight --- and it could have had fatal consequences. Yesterday was the first time I had driven the van since Mom left. I had loaded the back with recycling, and intended to take some framed photos into Portland for the walls at Beaterville --- after my much anticipated sushi lunch.
Larry is a prince in my eyes right now. This is not the first time he has come to the rescue. He didn't charge me to fix the van, but it was $197 for the tow, and no AAA. The garage that did the oil change also did not bolt down the fuel filter, and it was "rattling around in there," Larry said. Meanwhile, I am calculating the cost of that tow. Right before heading to Washougal, I had mailed a $407.85 check to Skyline Hospital for costs not covered by insurance after my two-month bout of pneumonia. That bill was slightly more than the amount of my tax refund, direct-deposited into my account Friday. Easy come, easy go.
I am at the mid-point of my solitary month as Mom spends some time with Clyde in Louisiana.
The South has gotten hammered this year, and it has sometimes been bitterly cold, alternating with a few 75-degree days. We thought Mom needed to get away during what is usually the harshest time here. This time last year, the snow was piled up and Mom had a serious case of cabin fever. January and February are also months of painful reminders --- the anniversaries of Dad's birthdays and his death, plus her birthday and another Valentine's Day without him.
Since our sleety, windy trip to the airport, it has been relatively warm, an El Nino non-winter here. We had one good snowstorm, but Winterfest is cancelled (again) for lack of snow. The swans left Franz Lake a month early for their tundra nesting grounds, the sea lions are back at Bonneville Dam chowing down on sturgeon while waiting for their spring Chinook sushi fix, and there are are three brave pansies blooming in front of the house.
As a sop to my missed sushi yesterday, I made an early Sunday lunch/brunch:
Salute to Spring Smoked Salmon Pasta
Cook 1/2 package of multi-grain penne or fusilli very al dente, saving 1 inch of the salted water in the bottom of the pan with the pasta. Mix in one chopped green onion, two cloves minced garlic, 1 tsp. each smoked and Hungarian paprika, half a can of evaporated milk, 1/3 of an 8-ounce package of low-fat cream cheese, a dash of Worcestershire and Frank's Red Hot, plus 1/3 cup white wine. Crumble in 1/3 pound deboned hot-smoked salmon, and sprinkle on 1 T. parsley and 1 tsp. basil. At the last minute, add 2/3 cup frozen peas (no need to thaw), and a little milk if more moisture is needed. Finish with 1 tsp. balsamic vinegar and a couple of grinds of black pepper. Sprinkle with a little grated parmesan, if you like.
Friday, January 8, 2010
No animal protein, no regrets
Surviving a necessary trip to town today --- freezing rain, wind, a sewer project that has engulfed Northwest Portland --- Mom and I returned home with a sense of relief. Mom's macular degeneration is on hold and she doesn't have to go back to the specialists for six months. We have a new tiny spider web crack on the windshield of the van, thanks to a gust flinging ice from a tree into a corner on the passenger side. We made it home, just as the ice pellets started piling up on the stairs.
While Mom was having her eyes dilated and delved into with all-seeing electronic instruments, I cruised the aisles at Trader Joe's just off 23rd, scoring many of my favorites, including low-sodium soy sauce, dried mushrooms, wild rice pilaf mix, dried figs, crackers and a package of heirloom cherry tomatoes. The latter I rinsed and sat out in a bowl, like grapes, as I made our simple repast, being much too tired for anything too complicated. I steamed a whole head of cauliflower and made a low-fat cheese sauce with fat free half and half, evaporated milk, smoked paprika, two kinds of low-fat cheddar, parmesan, onion powder, white wine and a little cornstarch. "Dessert" was a corner of a giant hunk of baked squash, donated to Mom at church last Sunday by my former neighbor, Mary Lee, grown from seeds I gave her nearly a decade ago.
It wasn't until we finished dinner that I realized that our meal was totally vegetarian, ridiculously healthy and actually delicious. I have been one of those people who thinks a protein product from a formerly living animal is necessary at nearly every meal, or I have been slacking and something is lacking.
Perhaps I should relax a little and enjoy our simple life. My doctor would agree.
While Mom was having her eyes dilated and delved into with all-seeing electronic instruments, I cruised the aisles at Trader Joe's just off 23rd, scoring many of my favorites, including low-sodium soy sauce, dried mushrooms, wild rice pilaf mix, dried figs, crackers and a package of heirloom cherry tomatoes. The latter I rinsed and sat out in a bowl, like grapes, as I made our simple repast, being much too tired for anything too complicated. I steamed a whole head of cauliflower and made a low-fat cheese sauce with fat free half and half, evaporated milk, smoked paprika, two kinds of low-fat cheddar, parmesan, onion powder, white wine and a little cornstarch. "Dessert" was a corner of a giant hunk of baked squash, donated to Mom at church last Sunday by my former neighbor, Mary Lee, grown from seeds I gave her nearly a decade ago.
It wasn't until we finished dinner that I realized that our meal was totally vegetarian, ridiculously healthy and actually delicious. I have been one of those people who thinks a protein product from a formerly living animal is necessary at nearly every meal, or I have been slacking and something is lacking.
Perhaps I should relax a little and enjoy our simple life. My doctor would agree.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
A new year. A new decade. With 2010 comes feelings of mortality having something to do with being 60, and having an entire decade slip by since Y2K. It has been awhile since I posted anything on this blog. I have had pneumonia in my right lung, and a cough lingers, keeping me awake sometimes at 3 a.m.
That can be a good thing. Last night, I was tuned in to the BBC on the little radio next to my pillow, and heard a half-hour segment on the layered meanings of "Hallelujah" on "Heart and Soul," a 'programme' that explores concepts of various faiths in a very British way, eschewing dogma.
It segued from the "Hallelujah Chorus," which always manages to cause a frisson, especially when I am singing it, to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I looked up the rest of the lyrics after the verse about little David and his harp, and they were another thing entirely. It is actually a song about the failure of a relationship, and the imagery, while stunning as only Leonard Cohen can be, is celebratory of something other than religious ecstasy.
Cohen's song was covered by Jeff Buckley, released posthumously. Over Christmas, Phil and his new girlfriend, Erin, were here with my sister Lois, and we enjoyed some great musical interplay (he on my funky old classical guitar and me on conga) as well as musical discussions.
He likes to delve into my past musical associations, and was intrigued to learn that I once hung out all night with Tim Buckley, Jeff's dad, at Nancy's house in Eugene. I was living with William then, and we were on a holiday trip. It was not too long before Tim's death by heroin overdose, though that night we were indulging in a 'stimulus package' of another sort.
Jeff Buckley, who drowned in a river while quite young, was nearly as talented as his dad. Late in life, Tim was in a jazz phase influenced by Leon Thomas and other vocal improvisors. It made him unpopular with his hippie-folkie fans.
It was quite amazing that Phil and I once again connected musically, this time on an intuitive level I haven't experienced in some time. He has an interesting chordal sense, which ties back to the first verse of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."
I have been home more than usual due to the holidays and my illness (a CAT scan after the first worrisome x-rays did not show anything more sinister than bone spurs on my spine).
This sign of decrepitude seems to fit in with the lingering snow in the yard and aches in the night.
I have been using a program called Dynamic Auto Painter, which alters photos to resemble watercolors, chalk or pencil drawings, even Van Gogh's "Sunflowers." For Christmas, I assembled a Columbia Gorge DVD slideshow with music using the 'paintings,' offering to print and frame any favorites. (I've had no takers.)
Veering away from the scenic subject matter, I've been experimenting with a few old photos. One is of Alan, taken by Dad. It shows him seated on a woodsy wall somewhere here in the Gorge, probably around the time that Mom and Dad were building their house and we came up on occasional weekends to help.
It is hard to look at that photo --- he is revealed in all his casual but blinding beauty. The son of a Finnish sailor, he had impossibly beautiful bones, blonde hair and strong yet languid limbs. Morphing the photo through the filters of one of the program's settings created an image so startling I had to immediately delete it. One-half of his face turned into a luminescent skull, as though his death by hanging was foreshadowed.
Somewhere his beautiful bones are at rest, unless he was cremated.
I will post the best of the transformed photos. It is all I have left of him, other than a silk scarf he gave me.
That can be a good thing. Last night, I was tuned in to the BBC on the little radio next to my pillow, and heard a half-hour segment on the layered meanings of "Hallelujah" on "Heart and Soul," a 'programme' that explores concepts of various faiths in a very British way, eschewing dogma.
It segued from the "Hallelujah Chorus," which always manages to cause a frisson, especially when I am singing it, to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." I looked up the rest of the lyrics after the verse about little David and his harp, and they were another thing entirely. It is actually a song about the failure of a relationship, and the imagery, while stunning as only Leonard Cohen can be, is celebratory of something other than religious ecstasy.
Cohen's song was covered by Jeff Buckley, released posthumously. Over Christmas, Phil and his new girlfriend, Erin, were here with my sister Lois, and we enjoyed some great musical interplay (he on my funky old classical guitar and me on conga) as well as musical discussions.
He likes to delve into my past musical associations, and was intrigued to learn that I once hung out all night with Tim Buckley, Jeff's dad, at Nancy's house in Eugene. I was living with William then, and we were on a holiday trip. It was not too long before Tim's death by heroin overdose, though that night we were indulging in a 'stimulus package' of another sort.
Jeff Buckley, who drowned in a river while quite young, was nearly as talented as his dad. Late in life, Tim was in a jazz phase influenced by Leon Thomas and other vocal improvisors. It made him unpopular with his hippie-folkie fans.
It was quite amazing that Phil and I once again connected musically, this time on an intuitive level I haven't experienced in some time. He has an interesting chordal sense, which ties back to the first verse of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah."
I have been home more than usual due to the holidays and my illness (a CAT scan after the first worrisome x-rays did not show anything more sinister than bone spurs on my spine).
This sign of decrepitude seems to fit in with the lingering snow in the yard and aches in the night.
I have been using a program called Dynamic Auto Painter, which alters photos to resemble watercolors, chalk or pencil drawings, even Van Gogh's "Sunflowers." For Christmas, I assembled a Columbia Gorge DVD slideshow with music using the 'paintings,' offering to print and frame any favorites. (I've had no takers.)
Veering away from the scenic subject matter, I've been experimenting with a few old photos. One is of Alan, taken by Dad. It shows him seated on a woodsy wall somewhere here in the Gorge, probably around the time that Mom and Dad were building their house and we came up on occasional weekends to help.
It is hard to look at that photo --- he is revealed in all his casual but blinding beauty. The son of a Finnish sailor, he had impossibly beautiful bones, blonde hair and strong yet languid limbs. Morphing the photo through the filters of one of the program's settings created an image so startling I had to immediately delete it. One-half of his face turned into a luminescent skull, as though his death by hanging was foreshadowed.
Somewhere his beautiful bones are at rest, unless he was cremated.
I will post the best of the transformed photos. It is all I have left of him, other than a silk scarf he gave me.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
You can't beat beets
It was a kick to listen to NPR this morning. It was Liane Hansen's 20th anniversary producing Weekend Edition, the Sunday version. I had entered a ginger recipe contest, not knowing it would be part of this broadcast. I knew from a couple of emails from producers last week that my recipe was one of the three (actually four) finalists.
I did not win --- that went to the ginger martini recipe that was the fourth unacknowledged finalist that somehow materialized at the last moment. Booze will win every time, and this was no exception. However, it was very cool to hear people trying the recipe over the air and to have it published online.
Just for the record to the people who posted on the blog afterward comparing my Ginger-Orange Pickled Beets to other recipes, it's totally original. My neighbor Mary Lee brought me beets from her garden one day, and I happened to have the ingredients on hand. I liked the results, so I wrote it down. Last summer, I gave the recipe to the coordinators of the Gorge Grown farmers market, along with a few other recipes using produce offered at the various stalls.
Liane and the other judges didn't think it was gingery enough. I don't think they used enough ginger, but here goes:
GINGER-ORANGE PICKLED BEETS
6 beets, trimmed of tops and taproots
1-1/2 inch ginger root --- use a potato peeler and you don't need to peel it. (I freeze it --- it keeps for months that way --- and use a knife to scrape off thin shavings while it's frozen)
3/4 cup unseasoned rice wine vinegar (or white wine vinegar or cider vinegar)
1/3 cup sugar, or the equivalent amount of Splenda or erythritol
salt and pepper to taste
1/2 cup orange juice or 2 rounded T. orange juice concentrate
2 cloves garlic, chopped fine
1/2 Walla Walla sweet or other sweet onion, sliced into rings.
Wash the beets, trim and bring to a boil in salted water to cover; cook about 25 minutes. Cool, peel and slice thinly into non-reactive kettle, adding the other ingredients. Bring to a boil, then simmer about 15 minutes. The beets should be about covered; if not, add more orange juice or vinegar. Put into a covered glass container or a disposable/reusable storage container. Refrigerate at least three hours before serving. The beets will keep at least a week refrigerated. Beware of midnight refrigerator raids due to the likelihood of beet stains on your pajamas.
I am glad others can now have the recipe. The pickled beets will be one of the things I'm taking to our family Thanksgiving dinner.
What else can I bring? Hmmm....
That pear-ginger upside down cake sounded good.
Cranberry chutney?
Sourdough rolls?
Meanwhile, last night I had an inspiration. (It was more likely indigestion.) Remember Doris Duke in that movie, and a certain '50s hit song?
Que syrah, syrah?
It's been a shiraz for me.
Australian grapes, you see, make a fine shiraz.
When you have wine and haute cuisine,
forget the shiraz, drop it tout suite.
Ordering shiraz earns you disdain,
and the wine snobs proclaim:
It's syrah, syrah.
Your palate is indiscrete.
Shiraz is so, so last week.
It's syrah, syrah.
Heaven forbid a wine is fruity.
Sonoma tutti
oaky tartare.
Vintners convince you
you are naive
if shiraz hits your lips.
It's syrah, syrah.
The kangaroo's obsolete.
The boxes are incomplete.
Que syrah, syrah.
What will be, will be.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Falling out, falling in
We had our first frost this morning. The east wind, usually the scourge of most Columbia Gorge residents while it brings joy to kiteboarders and windsurfers, switched directions right before dawn. The thermometer plunged to 26, Mom said. I was up before 9 and it had warmed to 31.
The garden looked droopy. It means saying goodbye to the few remnants of bounty remaining. Still in my long flannel nightgown, I went out with a knife and bag and cut all the eggplant but one little straggler.
I sliced them into a glass casserole with a large can of chunky tomatoes plus some onion, garlic, fresh oregano, thyme, parsley and a little white wine, and baked them in the hot oven along with a chicken breast and dressing casserole for our Sunday dinner.
Mom stayed home from church today. She feels like she has the flu.
We drove into Vancouver yesterday and bought a circulating oil heater from Bi-Mart, on sale for $29.95. I had already given her mine to use in her bathroom for extra heat when she takes a shower.
I am not looking forward to this winter and the spiraling cost of electric heat. We set up the new heater in the living room next to her loveseat this morning, and she is cozily watching TV with the cat snuggling up to her and the heater.
I wanted to get her one of those snugglies, the fleece throws with sleeves to help her feel warmer, but that turned into a disaster. I found one in one of my catalogs, but the burgundy ones were on back order, and she didn't particularly want a sage one. I did a search and it popped up on one of those "as seen on TV" sites. I used my credit card (there was a choice of several colors and two for the price of one --- such a deal) and also ordered a spacesaver set of hangers for my cramped closet. Caveat emptor. Lo and behold, when the order had gone through and I tried to print out the final copy, the shipping was more than $30! I did a Google on the company and found a rattlesnake's den of complaints, with horror stories about orders not arriving, e-mails and phone calls ignored, items not ordered being billed to credit cards --- I immediately sent an e-mail trying to cancel the order, but the blogs I read said those were ignored. I got on the phone with my credit card company and tried to stop payment, and was told that it couldn't be done before it had posted, and once it posted, it would have to be a dispute. One online diatribe suggested the only solution is to cancel the card immediately, before the company could put it in for payment. That's what I did. With a second phone call (once again to an East Indian customer service rep), the deed was done. I cut up the card and will get a new number in the mail. This, too, shall pass. But it will be awhile before I order something online.
Some quiet Sunday afternoon. Meanwhile, the sky is graying, it's still kind of chilly, and I am worrying about getting the heater/defroster fan fixed on my truck before the weather gets worse.
There are still a few green tomatoes not ripe enough to tempt the deer, who wiped out nearly all my Cherokee Purples. I will leave the remaining paste tomatoes and grass-green heirlooms on the vine and hope a few get some color. It is supposed to start raining Tuesday.
I am bracing for the coming storms by taking more vitamin C and buying warm socks. New boots are next. And I feel like I may be getting Mom's flu. Gargle, gargle.
The garden looked droopy. It means saying goodbye to the few remnants of bounty remaining. Still in my long flannel nightgown, I went out with a knife and bag and cut all the eggplant but one little straggler.
I sliced them into a glass casserole with a large can of chunky tomatoes plus some onion, garlic, fresh oregano, thyme, parsley and a little white wine, and baked them in the hot oven along with a chicken breast and dressing casserole for our Sunday dinner.
Mom stayed home from church today. She feels like she has the flu.
We drove into Vancouver yesterday and bought a circulating oil heater from Bi-Mart, on sale for $29.95. I had already given her mine to use in her bathroom for extra heat when she takes a shower.
I am not looking forward to this winter and the spiraling cost of electric heat. We set up the new heater in the living room next to her loveseat this morning, and she is cozily watching TV with the cat snuggling up to her and the heater.
I wanted to get her one of those snugglies, the fleece throws with sleeves to help her feel warmer, but that turned into a disaster. I found one in one of my catalogs, but the burgundy ones were on back order, and she didn't particularly want a sage one. I did a search and it popped up on one of those "as seen on TV" sites. I used my credit card (there was a choice of several colors and two for the price of one --- such a deal) and also ordered a spacesaver set of hangers for my cramped closet. Caveat emptor. Lo and behold, when the order had gone through and I tried to print out the final copy, the shipping was more than $30! I did a Google on the company and found a rattlesnake's den of complaints, with horror stories about orders not arriving, e-mails and phone calls ignored, items not ordered being billed to credit cards --- I immediately sent an e-mail trying to cancel the order, but the blogs I read said those were ignored. I got on the phone with my credit card company and tried to stop payment, and was told that it couldn't be done before it had posted, and once it posted, it would have to be a dispute. One online diatribe suggested the only solution is to cancel the card immediately, before the company could put it in for payment. That's what I did. With a second phone call (once again to an East Indian customer service rep), the deed was done. I cut up the card and will get a new number in the mail. This, too, shall pass. But it will be awhile before I order something online.
Some quiet Sunday afternoon. Meanwhile, the sky is graying, it's still kind of chilly, and I am worrying about getting the heater/defroster fan fixed on my truck before the weather gets worse.
There are still a few green tomatoes not ripe enough to tempt the deer, who wiped out nearly all my Cherokee Purples. I will leave the remaining paste tomatoes and grass-green heirlooms on the vine and hope a few get some color. It is supposed to start raining Tuesday.
I am bracing for the coming storms by taking more vitamin C and buying warm socks. New boots are next. And I feel like I may be getting Mom's flu. Gargle, gargle.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Breakfast symphony
Using the freshest ingredients in season often involves improvisation, which to me is like music. It's something acted upon immediately and perfect when it's right. The other morning I awoke at 6:05 with a priority --- four large ripe pears --- although I had to be at work before 8:30. The pears with a perfect blush on their skins were beckoning. I had traveled to Hood River to pick up my mother from a week-long trip the day before and didn't have time to deal with the pears then.
Breakfast was improvised, and I don't have a recipe written down, but here goes:
The four large pears were cored and chopped into a thick kettle, not peeled, with one-third cup of white wine and a squeeze of plastic lime ( I know). From the freezer, I took out a giant knob of frozen fresh ginger knob, shaving off about 3 T. of the knob with a paring knife. I added about one-quarter cup of cranberry juice with Splenda and one-half cup of dried cranberries, plus a good squeeze of agave syrup, then put in probably one-half cup of fluffy Splenda (sorry --- that's how I roll. Erythritol would have been better, but I was out.).
I brought it to a boil, then put in one package of Ball low-sugar pectin, stirring constantly. Bringing it back to a boil, I timed it for a minute. Meanwhile, I had taken three pint jars and put them and their lids into hot water, bringing the water to a boil in another deep kettle.
The jars boiled at least a minute before I fished them out one at a time to fill the jars, using a rubber-lined jar lifter I found at Goodwill for about a dollar.
I filled two pints and put the sterilized lids on. There was half a jar left over to use immediately (although the lid popped like it had sealed, too.)
I made sourdough cornmeal pancakes, using the starter I have in the refrigerator for sourdough french bread. I added about one-half cup white cornmeal self-rising southern cornbread mix (fifty cents at Grocery Outlet because it was outdated) plus about three-quarters cup of starter, and one egg (I used Eggbeaters) plus enough buttermilk to thin it to the consistency of pancake batter. I usually put in about one-quarter teaspoon of soda and a little salt and agave syrup to give it balance.
The pancakes were the lightest, perfect with the still warm pear/cranberry/ginger jam remainders.
I still got to work on time, having taken no more than 45 minutes to put up two pints of no-sugar jam for the winter, plus making a gourmet breakfast for my 83-year-old mother.
Maybe microwave oatmeal is easy, but this wasn't that much harder.
Breakfast was improvised, and I don't have a recipe written down, but here goes:
The four large pears were cored and chopped into a thick kettle, not peeled, with one-third cup of white wine and a squeeze of plastic lime ( I know). From the freezer, I took out a giant knob of frozen fresh ginger knob, shaving off about 3 T. of the knob with a paring knife. I added about one-quarter cup of cranberry juice with Splenda and one-half cup of dried cranberries, plus a good squeeze of agave syrup, then put in probably one-half cup of fluffy Splenda (sorry --- that's how I roll. Erythritol would have been better, but I was out.).
I brought it to a boil, then put in one package of Ball low-sugar pectin, stirring constantly. Bringing it back to a boil, I timed it for a minute. Meanwhile, I had taken three pint jars and put them and their lids into hot water, bringing the water to a boil in another deep kettle.
The jars boiled at least a minute before I fished them out one at a time to fill the jars, using a rubber-lined jar lifter I found at Goodwill for about a dollar.
I filled two pints and put the sterilized lids on. There was half a jar left over to use immediately (although the lid popped like it had sealed, too.)
I made sourdough cornmeal pancakes, using the starter I have in the refrigerator for sourdough french bread. I added about one-half cup white cornmeal self-rising southern cornbread mix (fifty cents at Grocery Outlet because it was outdated) plus about three-quarters cup of starter, and one egg (I used Eggbeaters) plus enough buttermilk to thin it to the consistency of pancake batter. I usually put in about one-quarter teaspoon of soda and a little salt and agave syrup to give it balance.
The pancakes were the lightest, perfect with the still warm pear/cranberry/ginger jam remainders.
I still got to work on time, having taken no more than 45 minutes to put up two pints of no-sugar jam for the winter, plus making a gourmet breakfast for my 83-year-old mother.
Maybe microwave oatmeal is easy, but this wasn't that much harder.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
What you see...
I heard a discussion on KGO tonight of how graphic images in the media should be, what is appropriate. This anniversary of 9/11, I saw fewer horrific examples of the carnage of that day, although I heard a recounting by an eyewitness of people jumping from the twin towers. It was on the radio, yet it was to me as disturbing as the earlier photos of bodies hurtling through space, possibly more so. A recently publicized shot of a dying Marine, his leg shot off in Afghanistan, was used by KGO talk host Pat Thurston as another example. Perhaps the public needs to be reminded of the realities of this war, but his family has objected to its use in newspaper around the nation. Where do you draw the line?An editor of an Oakland newspaper called in, and said there are different standards in each community. He referred to photos of the deaths of 15-year-olds due to gang violence --- there are so many examples happening on his turf that these decisions are made nearly daily. He referred to the "cereal test" --- what could be tolerated in print over breakfast without losing your appetite. As editor of a weekly newspaper, I have no editorial board. I have had to work through many of these decisions on my own. On an early assignment around 1986 as a photographer/reporter covering a fatal accident on Highway 14, I blithely snapped away as the remains of a pickup were removed that had been flattened by bins of fruit when a load shifted. I was jolted into the reality of the situation when someone told my that the driver was still in that 18-inch tall wreckage. I stood nauseated by the side of the road, not taking photos any longer, as his limp body, every bone broken into fragments, was extracted. It was a lesson I have never forgotten.
It is hard to balance a family's wishes against the image that may tell the story better than 1,000 words. I once took a black and white photo of a little wheelchair against the backdrop of the blackened ruins of a home. The father, a PUD lineman, had been killed in a house fire trying to save his handicapped son, who was still in elementary school. The mother and daughter came home from a volleyball game to discover half the family gone, along with their home. Members of the family who had seen me take the photo called the publisher, asking that the photo not be used. I thought it told the story in a very powerful, tragic way, but the newspaper owner and I conceded to the family's wishes. I now understand. I know the then-high school aged daughter, and I lived two doors down from the location of that home for several years; the house has since been replaced.
If the scanner goes off and it is a motorcycle crash, I will not go. The carnage is inevitably too great to depict in print. I have run some photos that were possibly problematic due to their subject matter. A woman once jumped off the top of Beacon Rock in a suicide attempt, only to become lodged on a ledge one-third of the way down. Her rescue involved a helicopter, which was buffeted by wind shear as it attempted to come to her aid, and a Vietnam vet, who was able to rappel down the rock to her position to administer first aid. She was dressed in white, and I ran an image of a tiny white speck on the rock, with a helicopter hovering. She lived, although she had a broken pelvis and many other injuries.
I generally do not include accounts of suicides unless they involve use of public resources in some way, such as the search for a man who jumped from the Bridge of the Gods, leaving his car's motor running halfway across.
I am now 60 years old, and have been doing this a long time. I am much less likely to use a disturbing photo these days. I am also much older than the preponderance of J-school grads who do the equivalent of my job, likely for much more money.
I have to live here. I run into their families every day in the grocery store and at the post office. However, there is something to be said for publishing images of things that should be disturbing --- the results of gang violence, or the horrors of war.
My nephew came back from a year of service in Iraq with photos that were truly upsetting. The most horrific to me was a photo of him standing with his weapon cocked against a ruined wall while on patrol, with giant graffiti of a skull wearing a helmet behind him. It illustrated what he saw every day, no blood necessary.
It is hard to balance a family's wishes against the image that may tell the story better than 1,000 words. I once took a black and white photo of a little wheelchair against the backdrop of the blackened ruins of a home. The father, a PUD lineman, had been killed in a house fire trying to save his handicapped son, who was still in elementary school. The mother and daughter came home from a volleyball game to discover half the family gone, along with their home. Members of the family who had seen me take the photo called the publisher, asking that the photo not be used. I thought it told the story in a very powerful, tragic way, but the newspaper owner and I conceded to the family's wishes. I now understand. I know the then-high school aged daughter, and I lived two doors down from the location of that home for several years; the house has since been replaced.
If the scanner goes off and it is a motorcycle crash, I will not go. The carnage is inevitably too great to depict in print. I have run some photos that were possibly problematic due to their subject matter. A woman once jumped off the top of Beacon Rock in a suicide attempt, only to become lodged on a ledge one-third of the way down. Her rescue involved a helicopter, which was buffeted by wind shear as it attempted to come to her aid, and a Vietnam vet, who was able to rappel down the rock to her position to administer first aid. She was dressed in white, and I ran an image of a tiny white speck on the rock, with a helicopter hovering. She lived, although she had a broken pelvis and many other injuries.
I generally do not include accounts of suicides unless they involve use of public resources in some way, such as the search for a man who jumped from the Bridge of the Gods, leaving his car's motor running halfway across.
I am now 60 years old, and have been doing this a long time. I am much less likely to use a disturbing photo these days. I am also much older than the preponderance of J-school grads who do the equivalent of my job, likely for much more money.
I have to live here. I run into their families every day in the grocery store and at the post office. However, there is something to be said for publishing images of things that should be disturbing --- the results of gang violence, or the horrors of war.
My nephew came back from a year of service in Iraq with photos that were truly upsetting. The most horrific to me was a photo of him standing with his weapon cocked against a ruined wall while on patrol, with giant graffiti of a skull wearing a helmet behind him. It illustrated what he saw every day, no blood necessary.
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Pause that refreshes
taken at Trout Lake Arts Fest
