tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33244482024-03-07T16:24:27.779-05:00Clara's WindowLiving the dream after trading a stuffy Silicon Valley cubicle for a rambling farmhouse on the coast of Maine. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.comBlogger319125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-90239851740936331992015-10-16T08:18:00.000-04:002015-10-16T08:48:53.066-04:00ConnectionsWe are a one-car family. Any time work calls me to destinations within a drivable distance, I just walk over to Congress Street and down towards Deering Oaks Park, past the imposing main post office to the Enterprise rental car office.<br />
<br />
I was doing this yesterday in preparation for my annual trek to the NY Sheep & Wool Festival at Rhinebeck. This year's car rental was a little more tricky because I needed a vehicle big enough to accommodate a rowing machine.<br />
<br />
No, I'm not such an exercise fanatic that I have to bring my equipment with me -- I was bringing it to give to my friend Jennifer Heverly, the eyes and hands behind Spirit-Trail Fiberworks.<br />
<br />
What you need to know about Jennifer is that she is very good at multitasking. Not only does she provide a solid anchor of parenting to her two teenage kids (i.e. she resists the urge to throttle them on a daily basis), but she also does the books for her husband's landscape business while expertly running a very successful hand-dyed yarn business nearly single-handedly.<br />
<br />
Jen's secret gift is that she can run on a treadmill while reading a book and spinning yarn. I'm serious. She runs on the treadmill, reads a book, and spins yarn (on an electric miniSpinner).<br />
<br />
<i>All at the same time.</i><br />
<br />
Now you may understand why I was immediately intrigued when she expressed an interest in my once-loved and now-languishing Concept 2 rowing machine. I needed to see just how many other things she'd be able to accomplish while rowing across her imaginary ocean.<br />
<br />
I was walking down the hill toward the car rental place when I spotted a young woman up ahead. She was crouched low to the ground, holding something in her hand. The knees to her jeans were torn. This particular street isn't that super, so I immediately wondered if I was witnessing some new kind of drug-taking posture. Was the body language furtive enough? Was she hiding something? Do people crouch in order to shoot up? Then I realized she was just holding an iPhone and framing a picture of the small patch of dirt surrounding a spindly sidewalk tree.<br />
<br />
She glanced at me, quickly stood up, gave a nod -- was it annoyance or embarrassment? -- and walked away.<br />
<br />
I was intrigued by the thought of her applying her filters and hitting the "share" button, causing ripples of smiles and likes and comments from a whole virtual community I couldn't see. All I saw was a person, a stranger, who made brief eye contact before disappearing. Was she friendlier online? Who did they perceive her to be? And who do people perceive me to be online? Am I that person? Am I being genuine?<br />
<br />
Further down the hill, I spotted another woman. She was cruising toward me in a zippy motorized wheelchair. She was smiling, basking in the sun, clearly enjoying the ease of the still-iceless, snowless sidewalks of October Maine. From a distance, our eyes locked in a smile that became words of greeting as we got closer. She was present, and I was present, and I no longer felt quite so confused or alone or doubtful of myself.<br />
<br />
At the car rental place, two well-dressed couples with heavy southern drawls were just returning their car and discussing their return to the cruise ship they had taken into town. "Kennebunkport was so naaaaas," said one woman to the other.<br />
<br />
My customer service guy asked if a Jeep something-or-other would be big enough for me. "I don't know," I replied, "it needs to hold a rowing machine..." He knew I was on a business trip to New York, and this threw him for a loop. Spotting his confusion, I said, "No, I'm not in the rowing-machine business, I'm going to sheep and wool festival. The machine is a gift for a friend." He nodded, and we completed our inspection of the car.<br />
<br />
And the rowing machine, it did fit.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-49864907267272732952015-07-03T02:14:00.000-04:002015-07-07T18:00:14.384-04:00What Might Have Been<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br>
Every year or two, we like to come back to San Francisco, walk our old streets, visit our old haunts, and dwell on that eternally unproductive question, "What if we'd stayed?" <div><br></div><div>For the last week we've been on one such Road Not Taken Tour disguised as a vacation, this time staying in a house (thanks, AirBnB!) just a few blocks from where we used to live.<br>
<br>
It's a sweet little place with plenty of room for us both. It's quiet, with a charming kitchen, huge back deck, a YARD, and a nice big office down below. Pretty much what we would've tried to get, many years ago, had we decided to stay in San Francisco and forget the whole Maine idea. I wanted to be in a place that would let us pretend, if just for a week, that we'd never left.<br>
<br>
We've spent the last week sitting out on the deck and talking about how we'd do the garden differently. We've gotten produce at our old market. We've had friends over for dinner. We've redecorated (in our minds) the living room. We've even eavesdropped on the neighbors and decided which ones we'd like, which ones…not so much.<br>
<br>
A few observations after a week in San Francisco:<br>
<br>
1. This no-mosquitoes thing is pretty nice. Ditto the black flies and horse flies and ticks carrying Lyme disease.<br>
<br>
2. Public transportation. So, so very nice. For $35 you can get a 7-day pass that gets you on all the buses and trolleys and cable cars. There is no better, more inexpensive way to see a city than by riding its buses.<br>
<br>
3. The drought is no joke. I've never seen it so dry here. The owners of our house are gone for weeks but left all the cushions on the patio furniture, explaining that they didn't see any rain in the forecast. Friends in Oakland can't remember the last time it rained.<br>
<br>
4. I don't know if it's gotten louder or if I've just gotten accustomed to the quiet, but this city roars. I sit in the sunshine on the back deck, trees and birds and flowers galore, surrounded by the Noe Valley millionaires, yet in the background, always, is a roar as if I were sitting next to the ventilation system for a large hospital.<br>
<br>
5. From our deck I can peer into at least 100 windows. I have to work to tune out neighboring conversations. There is no privacy. I realize how very lucky we are that, from our Maine porch, we look out across miles of fields, water, and woods, all the way to distant mountains, with nothing but the occasional blinking cell tower to remind us that other people are around. What a rarity.<br>
<br>
6. The Pride Parade. For me, the most moving moment came after the sea of Apple employees, after the Kaiser employees and AirBnB employees and the endless smiling waving politicians, when a single car appeared carrying <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Obergefell_v._Hodges" target="_blank">James Obergefell</a>. A cheer filled the street, people screamed, "Thank you!" And I cried.<br>
<br>
7. The food. Good lord, by the number of restaurants in this town you'd think nobody has a kitchen? Don't get me wrong, it's good. But...if an alien arrived on this planet and visited San Francisco it would think all humans did was eat.<br>
<br>
8. Those sinister silver and white tour buses that clog the roads, windows tinted so that nobody can see what's inside. They remind me of the time my brother and I passed a bus parked at the Emeryville Marina late one night, many years ago. We glanced up just in time to see a small light inside the bus illuminating a stripper, performing for the passengers.<br>
<br>
After a few days it dawned on me, ahhh, these aren't porn-seeking tourists from China. These are the infamous Google buses I've heard so many people complain about. They circle like sharks, back and forth, back and forth. Had those buses been around when I was commuting, I would've embraced them, I would've cheered their arrival, for I really, <i>really </i>disliked my daily commute to San Mateo.<br>
<br>
But now, there's something about them I find disturbing. It's as if a whole segment of the population has checked out of collective society and created their own little guarded, gated, tinted, air-conditioned, wifi-enabled community. The whole city has become a gated community. Only there's no gate, just money. To keep up, I'd have to pack myself into such a bus every day, only to be spat out again at sunset. Just imagining it fills me with an oppressive sadness. I don't want that life. Nor is it plausible that I could even achieve it. Time has passed, and a new generation boards the buses.<br>
<br>
Which brings me to:<br>
<br>
9. We used to tell ourselves that if this Maine thing didn't work out, we could always move back to San Francisco. But our week pretending to be Noe Valley millionaires has really made it clear that the city has slipped beyond our grasp. Entirely, and irreversibly. That imaginary safety net is gone. I know I broke up with San Francisco, but I didn't actually want it to marry someone else. But it has, she's gorgeous, and they're really, really happy together.<br>
<br>
I wonder what will happen to the artists and poets and writers, the hippies and dreamers who arrived with $20 in their pockets and made this city so magical? Even Armistead Maupin has confessed he couldn't move back here if he wanted to. And what about the bus drivers and paramedics and school teachers, where, exactly, will they live?<br>
<br>
The problem is real. I can't tell you the number of people who've said some version of, "If we lose our apartment, I have no idea how we'll manage to stay here." Bright, creative people who add spark and charm and genuine value to this place, one by one, they're being picked off. I grieve for the city I loved, albeit the city I chose to leave. It's rapidly disappearing.<br>
<div>
<br>
Which, at last, leads us to:<br>
<br>
10. Maine may have its problems (good lord it does), but it's still accessible to everyone, the artists and poets alike, the dreamers and starter-uppers, and even one very lucky woman who somehow managed to carve a career out of reviewing yarn. Maine has turned out to be a mighty fine place to call home, and I'd move there again in a heartbeat.<br>
<br>
But…<br>
<br>
11. Once January arrives, you know I'll be planning another trip to California.</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-59161019091239049622015-06-18T23:33:00.002-04:002015-06-18T23:35:58.501-04:00Plodding, Obdurate EffortI'm in the middle of Sally Mann's unexpectedly good autobiography, <i>Hold Still</i>. I say "unexpectedly" because, while I knew she was a stunningly gifted photographer, I had no idea she was also such a gifted writer.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her story itself is gripping. But I'm also finding her observations about her art, and about her creative process, deeply reassuring. Especially this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Art is seldom the result
of true genius; rather, it is the product of hard work and skills learned and
tenaciously practiced by regular people. </i><i>In my case, I practice my skills despite repeated failures
and self-doubt so profound it can masquerade outwardly as conceit. It's not
heroic in any way. To the contrary, it's plodding, obdurate effort. I make bad
picture after bad picture week after week until the relief comes: the good new
picture that offers benediction.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She touches the profoundly unglamorous truth of it all: the plodding, obdurate effort of making art. For me, it's writing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These days I feel like we're trained to focus on the end results, on the shiny cover, the hyperbole-laden press release, the accolades and lists. We're expected to maintain a beautiful lie across all social media outlets, a lie that suggests this life is easy, that these books were birthed fully formed with nary a moment's gestation. Because the truth is far less glamorous. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tenacious practice of your skills, that plodding and obdurate effort, they really <i>are</i> at the very heart of what writing is. The showing up day after day to work against odds that would make any sane person walk away. I'm comforted to know someone of Mann's caliber agrees. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Clearly I am not sane, because I'm still here. How I crave those brief moments when I feel like I've actually created something beautiful, when I get a hit of what Mann calls, quite simply, "the relief." I've been doing a <i>lot </i>of plodding, obdurate effort lately--more than ever before--and I've also been catching a few exquisite hits of the relief. I still have a way to go, but those transcendent moments make it all worthwhile.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-19547334575829140512015-05-22T11:04:00.001-04:002015-05-22T11:04:03.768-04:00Seventeen Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Seventeen years ago this week, we crossed the bridge into Maine and began our new life. That number seems surreal to me, both a blink of an eye and multiple lifetimes. I remember, in my 20s, zoning out when someone began a sentence with "17 years ago." That was, like, so irrelevant to now.<br />
<br />
And yet if you're really, really lucky, if you manage to keep waking up every morning, your reward is that you, too, can be one of those people who begins their sentences with, "Seventeen years ago."<br />
<br />
How exhilarating it felt to arrive in a place where we knew nobody. We had no strings in Portland, no ties, no history in this town at all. Our canvas was blank, we could paint on it whatever world we envisioned. I bought a state-of-the-art Dell desktop and set up shop in a sunny window overlooking our tiny courtyard. I took to the freelance lifestyle instantly.<br />
<br />
Two years later that very same month, I got an idea to start an online knitting magazine all about yarn. I bought the domain "knittersreview.com" and started working on the logo and layout. It all came quickly and easily. After years of using my skills for things that didn't resonate, it felt exquisite to pair them with my passion.<br />
<br />
Blink, and that was 15 years ago. From my work on Knitter's Review came books, years of traveling and teaching, several radio interviews, and even a gig on PBS. It's been a really rather beautiful gift, a grand adventure, none of which I could have possibly anticipated when we crossed the river and cheered the "Welcome to Maine" sign.<br />
<br />
Fifteen is a good number. It's odd but round, well past one decade but without the creeping sediment of 20. It's that roadside stop, the one at the crest of the hill, with picnic tables and blooming rugosas and a clear view of the road you've traveled thus far--and the possible paths ahead. It's a beautiful roadside stop, and I'm enjoying the rest, the perspective, the introspection. I've packed a picnic and may stay a while.<br />
<br />
Right after we arrived in Portland, we received a housewarming gift from my old colleagues in San Francisco--a clivia plant, which sported a cluster of orange flowers. This plant has kept me company all these years, accompanying me through… let's see… one, two, three, now four moves. It's a patient and friendly plant that deserves a lot more TLC than I've provided. Yet this week, 17 years later and right on schedule, it decided to gift us with another bloom.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-24591821067660250662015-05-15T11:53:00.003-04:002015-05-15T11:53:48.781-04:00I've Missed You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I have a notebook I bought on 24th Street, back when I lived in San Francisco. My first entry was dated some time in 1995, right before Clare and I moved in together, after I'd left my travel writing job and was struggling to find my way in high-tech.<br />
<br />
The early entries were full of frustration and confusion. Applying for jobs, being unhappy with my work, feeling like it was my fault, that if I just worked harder, I'd like it more. Then, turning the pages, I come to the spark of a dream to move to Maine. And then the move, and our early life here, the beginning of the farmhouse renovations, my launching of a new thing I called "Knitter's Review."<br />
<br />
As time passed, the entries slowed. I was happier, I think, so I needed the notebook less. But every year, twice a year, on New Year's Eve and my birthday, I would make a point of pulling out the book and adding an update. The notebook is now 20 years old and still has empty pages waiting for me.<br />
<br />
The surreal part is opening up this time capsule and reading what I wrote before, what was worrying me, what I was hoping to achieve, where I hoped to be. The angst seems to be subsiding, the humility and wisdom gaining, ever so slightly, with each year.<br />
<br />
Returning to this blog after a little more than a year, it feels like opening that notebook and reading the last entry. I'm glad it had to do with that chowder, because it remains one of my favorite go-to recipes. I made some just a few weeks ago. I still haven't tried it with fresh corn, but it's on my list of things to do this summer.<br />
<br />
Reading my words, looking at the pictures, I felt overwhelmed by a feeling of having missed it. I've missed you.<br />
<br />
Blogging is in a state of flux. Some have already declared the blog dead. We're all about blips now, about instantly disappearing Snapchats, videos on Instagram (15 seconds) and Vine (6 seconds). Words? Keep it snappy, 140 characters or less.<br />
<br />
What's happening to us? In 2014, the average American attention span clocked in at just 8.25 seconds. To put that in context, the attention span of a goldfish is 9 seconds. As a writer, I wonder where this leaves the written word. As an easily distracted person, I confess I adore scrolling through my Instagram feed, looping my favorite vines over and over again.<br />
<br />
I have no answers. All I know is that I've missed this place, and I've missed you.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-29200443479052404112014-04-21T13:36:00.001-04:002014-04-21T13:45:40.280-04:00A Magical Chowder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
You realize you've reached another stage in life when a new dryer vent makes you really excited. Not quite as excited as, say, a new car, but pretty much right up there with the nicest of new kitchen appliances.<br />
<br />
I am that person who always envisions the worst-case scenario. When I saw that our dryer vent had cracked and that lint was built-up inside, I was pretty sure the house would burn down in a matter of hours. (And to be honest, it's a legitimate hazard.)<br />
<br />
Ken the Wonder Carpenter came by this weekend to help. I figured the whole thing would take 20 minutes, tops. The more realistic Clare said two hours, which ended up being closer to the truth.<br />
<br />
The vent goes through a hole in the floor and into the farthest corner of the basement, along a narrow ledge over the concrete cistern that used to hold water for the house. You have to crawl, there's very little light, the angle was awkward, the aluminum tubing grumpy and cumbersome, and Ken's rotator cuff barely functioning and in need of immediate surgery.<br />
<br />
You see someone labor over your house, or something as mundane as a dryer vent, and you feel terrible. I asked if I could bring him some Claramels, a glass of tequila, <i>anything</i>. He politely declined. Then I remembered lunch. "I was going to make fish chowder, are you hungry?" It turned out he was.<br />
<br />
Upstairs I ran and set to work making one of my favorite simple soups. And because I have a book due this fall and should be working on it instead, I thought I'd share my soup recipe with you, thus making you complicit in my own procrastination. (Thanks, by the way.)<br />
<br />
<b>Haddock Chowder</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Loosey goosey ingredients</b><br />
Either 2 slabs bacon or 1 Tbsp butter<br />
Nice big onion<br />
Garlic clove (optional)<br />
One large potato per person + 2 for the pot<br />
Bay leaf, a dash of thyme, wee bit o'nutmeg, a soupçon of smoked Spanish paprika at the end<br />
Broth - can be water, chicken, clam juice, seafood, vegetable, or some combination thereof, enough to cover the potatoes<br />
Half and half - quarter cup or thereabouts, depending on the volume of the soup itself<br />
Medium white fish - I used about 3/4 lb beautiful haddock filets, which fed 3 people and provided leftovers<br />
<br />
So the principle here is to make an extremely easy and flexible soup base to which you can add pretty much anything you have on hand. You begin with a few nice slabs of bacon (or skip if you don't do the bacon thing), which you cut into small pieces and fry in a soup pot until crispy. Remove them with a slotted spoon and let drain on a paper towel.<br />
<br />
Next, get a nice big onion and dice it into little bits. Drop them all into the bacon grease (or a tablespoon of butter, if you're just starting), reduce heat, and slowly stir until the onions relax and become translucent. The act of standing over a pot of simmering onions is, in itself, bliss.<br />
<br />
During a brief break from your onion-stirring ecstasy, take out several potatoes (I like to figure one big potato per person, with two extras for good measure), scrub, and peel (if you like your potatoes peeled). Dice into small cubes - not as small as the onions, but easily bite-sized. If you're in a hurry, dice them smaller so they'll cook faster.<br />
<br />
When the onions are nice and relaxed, put the potatoes in the pan and add somewhere between one and two quarts of liquid. I like to add just enough liquid to cover the potatoes but still keep them visible, if you know what I mean? You don't want to have to go diving for your lunch.<br />
<br />
What kind of liquid, you ask? It can be anything. Sometimes I do a mix of clam juice and water, other times I'll do straight chicken broth. Vegetable broth would be wonderful. Water alone can be a little sad, but if that's all you have, don't despair. Just add more onion, perhaps a crushed clove of garlic or two. I also like to add at least one bay leaf. Sometimes, if I'm feeling wild, I'll add a dash of thyme, maybe even oregano. You can also add a few grains of nutmeg, but be <i>very sparing. </i>It can go from charming to overbearing in no time at all.<br />
<br />
Now, put on the lid and let everything simmer until the potatoes are soft. Once they're done, I like to crush a few of them with the back of my spoon to make the soup thicker, but it's entirely your call.<br />
<br />
This whole cooking process should take about 18 minutes. (I say 15, Clare says 20.)<br />
<br />
Our fish guy always tries to sell us on a pound of fish per person. For something like haddock, that's insane unless you're a competitive eater or are training for the Olympics. For three people, our two filets (probably 2/3 pound total) did the trick. Any white fish of medium constitution works well here.<br />
<br />
Cut the fish into reasonable chunks and drop them into the soup. Push them down into the liquid, turn the heat either off completely or to the barest wisp of warmth, cover, and let the fish poach in the hot broth. Usually I grow impatient and turn the heat up a few times, just to bring the soup back to warm, but you don't really want a rolling boil here. You want a leisurely poach.<br />
<br />
As soon as the fish has gone from translucent to white, but still has a soft, yielding texture, it's done.<br />
<br />
For the piece de resistance, I like to drizzle a little half-and-half over the whole thing, maybe 1/4 cup maximum. Enough to bring the whole mix together into something that feels creamy and decadent. This is a deep, smoky, flavorful broth with creamy overtones and magical healing powers. Sometimes at the very end I like to dip my finger in the tin of Spanish smoked paprika, then flick it over the top of my soup for an extra smoky zing.<br />
<br />
We enjoyed ours with a plate of sliced tomatoes. Ken the Wonder Carpenter lapped up two big bowls of it and was so refreshed, he promptly went outside and cut up the big spruce tree that had fallen in our side yard over the winter.<br />
<br />
Now it's your turn. Go forth! Let me know what you put in yours, and how you like it.<br />
<br />
p.s.-We had enough left over to enjoy a second bowl of soup yesterday, which is when I remembered I had a camera and actually took a picture of it. Sometimes, you need to eat first, shoot later.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-27525530787253323622014-04-15T10:00:00.004-04:002014-04-15T10:00:26.133-04:00Hacking other people's recipes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday just had that vibe, you know? That overwhelming combination of fatigue and distraction, an inability to concentrate that makes you useless for much more than making lists and doing stupid data entry.<br />
<br />
So I took myself out for lunch. At the next table, a woman stopped chewing just long enough to pull out her phone and call another restaurant to order nachos to go. "No sour cream, double cheese, please."<br />
<br />
I wanted to say, "You too, huh?"<br />
<br />
While waiting for my Vegetable Delight to arrive, I pulled out my phone and did the rounds in my bookmarks. Between my <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/horoscope/" target="_blank">daily horoscope</a> and <a href="http://yarnstorm.blogs.com/" target="_blank">Jane Brocket</a> sits <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/" target="_blank">Smitten Kitchen</a>.<br />
<br />
I've been a bit off the food blogs lately. They all seem so packed with noise, with heaps of implausibly esoteric ingredients, vamped-up "Look at me!" shots of meals in the making, high-resolution close-ups of the stack of cookies on a dark wooden board, crumbs so artfully intermingled with, what's that I see, vintage tea towels and sprigs of lavender. It all feels much more contrived than actually lived and enjoyed.<br />
<br />
But this time, I spotted a recipe for <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2014/04/dark-chocolate-coconut-macaroons/#more-11739" target="_blank">dark chocolate coconut macaroons</a>. Ahoy. I've got coconut, I said to myself. I have eggs, I have cocoa powder, I have sugar, and boy oh boy do I have chocolate. (Having <a href="http://www.somervillechocolate.com/" target="_blank">Somerville Chocolate</a> for a brother has its perks.) It became clear that what this day needed was the smell of chocolate and coconut baking in the oven.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2014/04/dark-chocolate-coconut-macaroons/#more-11739" target="_blank">Here is the original recipe in its entirety</a>. (Here's a question for you: Why is it ok for food bloggers to swap one tiny ingredient in a recipe and then reprint the whole thing on their blogs, with the words "adapted from," when if you even thought of doing this with a knitting pattern you'd be - and rightfully so - shut down immediately? I'm still not clear on this, which is why I'm not sharing the original recipe here. It just doesn't seem right.)<br />
<br />
Note: This recipe works beautifully exactly as written as long as you have 400g of sweetened, flaked coconut - the kind that comes in squishy bags in the baked goods aisle. But I don't like that stuff. I prefer to get unsweetened shredded coconut from my favorite Asian grocer. You get easily twice as much coconut per ounce, with none of the sugar crap, and for half the price.<br />
<br />
But because this coconut is dry, it weighs far less than the sweetened stuff. Which means 400g of this would be enough to stuff a pillow, and that would basically mess up the whole recipe.<br />
<br />
I took to the Interwebs. Lo, a few clicks later I found another macaroon recipe that was nearly identical to this one, minus the chocolate. It called for approximately 5 cups of coconut. There was my number.<br />
<br />
To compensate for the dryness of my coconut, I replaced the 2/3 cups sugar with 1/3 cup sugar and 1/3 cup Lyle's Golden Syrup. I figured the Golden Syrup would add an element of moisture along with a smoky hint of caramel (and Golden Syrup is 100% cane sugar, so you're still avoiding corn syrup).<br />
<br />
The only other thing I tweaked was the chocolate. She has you heat half of it in a saucepan, then add the other half and let it melt. Heating chocolate directly on a stove always makes me cringe, but I didn't feel like pulling out the double boiler. I did the next best thing: I put it in a Pyrex bowl and popped it in the microwave for about a minute, until the bottom was starting to melt. Then I stirred until the top pieces were melted. This is really a minor detail, but if we're reporting tweaks to the recipe, that was mine.<br />
<br />
They only bake for 15 minutes, and after about 10 minutes your house will already begin to smell VERY VERY GOOD. The kind of good that makes neighbors knock on your door and ask what you're making.<br />
<br />
Finished, these aren't the prettiest things in the world. The 12-year-old boy in me would call them raccoon poop. (Not that I even know what raccoon poop looks like, and no, I'm not going to Google it.) But looks aren't the issue here. Once cooled, sink your teeth into one of these babies and you'll be transported to that magical, timeless place where everything is perfectly a-ok.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-28607890061998885312014-04-11T15:35:00.000-04:002014-04-11T15:38:42.029-04:00Utterly delicious maple nut granola<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjQ9By5o1Aak-7_BdnhW6LmuDTbFkKUFNnilMArMIrPIlzOS4Nt1R5-2k59mNnQsOV08pdB068MGNe9t2zLHD350YZ2gzwZ_PAU65g_0k0zJ2TxragXvCDRp3bAL-wWBZN1ShVQ/s1600/granola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqjQ9By5o1Aak-7_BdnhW6LmuDTbFkKUFNnilMArMIrPIlzOS4Nt1R5-2k59mNnQsOV08pdB068MGNe9t2zLHD350YZ2gzwZ_PAU65g_0k0zJ2TxragXvCDRp3bAL-wWBZN1ShVQ/s1600/granola.jpg" height="248" width="400" /></a></div>
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During my brief but illustrious career as a baker, I was tasked with building the breakfast menu. Someone else provided the toast, bagels, sweet rolls, and croissants, but everything else was up for grabs. After weeks of churning through all sorts of biscuits and muffins and scones, it suddenly hit me… woah. We haven't even thought about granola. And not your average crumbled-suet-in-a-bowl kind of granola, but a really <i>good </i>one.<br />
<br />
I perused the Interwebs to figure out the basic ratios for fat/sweet/grain. Some recipes called for (<i>gasp</i>) corn syrup and buckets of sugary dried fruit, while others looked like a food fight erupted in the bulk foods aisle of your local co-op. Enough already.<br />
<br />
What I came up with was a mishmash of both, a really lovely blend that honors your craving for candy <i>and </i>your body's need for a bit of, well, roughage.<br />
<br />
While what you see here is my own personal definition of "perfect," it's a wonderfully flexible recipe. Not fond of peanut butter? Try almond butter or maybe even cashew butter. Want more nuts? Go for it! Sprinkle some flax seed on there while you're at it. Prefer dried cherries? Mix away.<br />
<br />
After a brutal winter that sucked most of my mojo for just about everything, I awoke last Saturday with a clear vision of how the day needed to progress -- and it involved two trays of this granola slowly roasting in my oven. It's the perfect sweet and nutty counterpart to these brisk April mornings. <br />
<br />
Without further ado, may I present...<br />
<br />
<b>Utterly Delicious Maple Nut Granola</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Preheat oven to 250 degrees<br />
<b><br /></b>
Ingredients<br />
<br />
Dry:<br />
7 cups whole oats (use good old-fashioned ones, not quick-cooking - they won't hold up)<br />
1 cup shredded coconut (can be sweetened or unsweetened or grated, your call)<br />
1 cup chopped walnuts (or any other nut you like)<br />
1 cup sliced almonds (ditto - go wild!)<br />
dash of cinnamon<br />
dash of salt<br />
<br />
Combine all dry ingredients in a nice big mixing bowl.<br />
<br />
Wet:<br />
1/2 cup canola oil<br />
1/2 cup peanut butter (chunky or smooth, your call)<br />
3/4 cups real true maple syrup (oh yeah, you heard me right)<br />
slosh of vanilla (about 2 teaspoons, your call)<br />
<br />
Slowly combine all the wet ingredients with a whisk. It will become a tantalizing slurry that, despite all that oil you just saw go in there, you will want to drink. Resist the urge.<br />
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<br />
Pour the wet ingredients over the dry and mix thoroughly. I like to roll up my sleeves and dig in with my hands. The goal here is to coat every single oat, nut, and bit of coconut with <i>some </i>of the slurry.<br />
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Spread this mixture evenly onto two sheet trays and place in a 250-degree oven.<br />
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<br />
Now, there are two ways you can do this. You can be sloppy and just let it bake for two hours. Or, you can do the right thing and check in on your baby every 15 minutes. Pull out the trays and shuffle the granola around. Flip the clumps, give everything a good stir. You want a slow, even roast.<br />
<br />
In about two hours, you'll be ready to stop checking on your granola - and it should have achieved a lovely golden hue and satisfying crunch.<br />
<br />
But wait! One more step: FRUIT. You don't add these at the beginning because they'll heat too much and caramelize into little tooth-breaking bullets. Instead, you wait until now to add as many fistfuls of raisins and dried cranberries as you desire. Give it a good stir, then put everything back into the (now off) oven and forget about it. The residual heat will cause just enough caramelization for a satisfying chew without going any further.<br />
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<br />
Once the granola has completely cooled, pour it into a Mason jar and enjoy.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you how long it keeps because mine is always gone within a week. It really is that good.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-48158109245603141052014-04-04T13:53:00.000-04:002014-04-04T14:11:35.118-04:00Back on the Ground<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Wow. When we last left off, it was early October and I was on the cusp of hitting the road for my first-ever capital B, capital T Book Tour.<br />
<br />
All that optimism. All those nerves. What a poignant place it turned out to be. I don't really know how to bridge the gap between then and now. So much happened that even months later I'm still putting myself back together again.<br />
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<br />
Probably the biggest surprise was how much my sense of "enough" got distorted. Having waited a lifetime for this opportunity, I scolded myself for not savoring each moment enough, not remembering enough, not being grateful and humble enough.<br />
<br />
Each day I'd get emails from my publisher asking about the event, the number of books sold, the number of people who came, all of which prompted a whole other self-doubt about whether or not I was attracting enough people, selling enough books, making enough money for my publisher and for the bookstores that were hosting me. From here, it's a slippery slope toward re-evaluating one's entire self-worth. <br />
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I didn't give enough respect to the power of sleep deprivation and the compounded exhaustion of daily airport security checkpoints, take-offs and landings, cabs and shuttles, and empty hotel rooms, of entering a new bookstore each day, introducing myself, and hoping beyond hope that anyone would come.<br />
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I struggled with the dichotomy between what the tour <i>looked </i>like to the outside world and what it felt like inside, and with the feeling that even at the hardest moments, well, who was I to complain? I was lucky. Very, very lucky. Even at 4am, wheeling my carry-on down an empty hotel corridor toward the elevators.<br />
<br />
I learned to be prepared for things to fall apart the minute I thought they were together. I learned to scan for the word "problem" in email headers. Like when, in Minneapolis, the bookstore had mistakenly cancelled its order and had no books. <i>None. </i><br />
<br />
On the very last day of my tour, frayed at the edges and having almost missed my flight home, I made the mistake of glancing at my phone one last time to see how my book was doing on Amazon. (Yes, we do this.) That's when I discovered that someone had just given it one star. How Freudian, I thought.<br />
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BUT, and this is a very big but, alongside those low points were people. Kind knitters, readers, angels in human form, who appeared at each stop and made it all better.<br />
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<br />
Never have I realized how important friendship is, whether it was the friend who called in sick to play with me, or the one who drove out to the airport <i>before having coffee, </i>to meet my early flight.<br />
<br />
At each stop, more appeared. There was Felicia, whose whole family contributed to the Yarn Whisperer good-luck tour map shown above. Lorilee, who brought me cake <i>and</i> almonds on my first night. Jan, whose oatmeal cookies served as that night's dinner and<i> </i>breakfast the following morning. Shelley, who let me scrawl "boobs are good!" on her arm in red ink. Stephanie, who understood why I needed to walk around the block one more time before going into the bookstore. And Eunny, who knew exactly where to take me when I told her I needed "a bowl of something hot."<br />
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<br /></div>
The people are what I remember, which is as it should be. They are what humbled me the most, what kept it real. I remember their faces, their kindness, and I carry those memories with me as I contemplate throwing my hat in the ring, yet again, for another round.<br />
<br />
I've been thinking about all of this since I saw <a href="http://orangette.blogspot.com/2014/03/book-tour-housekeeping-you-will-now.html" target="_blank">Molly's tour announcement</a> for her much-awaited <i>Delancey. </i>I could feel a clench in my chest. I wanted to yell at the screen, "Look out! Behind you! He has a chainsaw!" I wanted to sit her down with a cup of tea and give her comforting words. Be early for everything, I'd tell her. Tip often and well, drink plenty of water, get to bed early, and always, always pee first.<br />
<br />
And for those of you with author friends? If your friend comes to town for an event, no matter how crowded you think it'll be and how little your presence there might matter, please know that it <i>does </i>matter. I beg of you, for the sake of all authors past, present, and future, GO<i>. </i>Get a babysitter, rent a car, quit your job if you must, but please, go.<br />
<br />
I promise, there'll be cashmere and chocolate waiting for you in heaven if you do.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-47721237578397724962013-10-10T00:45:00.003-04:002013-10-10T10:57:54.917-04:00Tour Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUbIr98hLRn9i_aTU2IbrPEV-MsYjihtaWHyckLkNPWUOcKpbhx-XPrOWZGOPWy1DdKFiLGcyNiCT449hKNOtq44B7FeIuh3uFZqcNmfhtcHIwefnE83iExNL9uNMpLye9w4ajA/s1600/2013-10-08+09.00.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMUbIr98hLRn9i_aTU2IbrPEV-MsYjihtaWHyckLkNPWUOcKpbhx-XPrOWZGOPWy1DdKFiLGcyNiCT449hKNOtq44B7FeIuh3uFZqcNmfhtcHIwefnE83iExNL9uNMpLye9w4ajA/s320/2013-10-08+09.00.15.jpg" width="240"></a></div>
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I'm off! First stop, Seattle. Then San Francisco, then Portland, then Pasadena, then Denver, then Minneapolis, then Chicago, then Nashville, then Rhinebeck, then Portland, Maine, then Toronto, and then I'm going to hide under the bed for A WHOLE YEAR until I'm able to form complete sentences again.</div>
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I've blathered about the tour everywhere, and I assume people are sick and tired of hearing about it, and I certainly feel rather dull talking about it all the time. But then someone will email and say, "What? A tour? When?" so I feel compelled to list the dates one more time, <i>just in case. </i></div>
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<a href="http://www.knittersreview.com/clarabooks/clara_on_tour.asp" target="_blank">You can find them all here.</a></div>
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On my flight to Seattle, a most amazing thing happened. I was waiting with everyone for our gate-checked luggage when a lovely woman tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Are you Clara Parkes?" This usually sends me into a panic. What did I do? How am I in trouble? Where will they interrogate me? Will I miss my connection?</div>
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I nervously nodded and said yes, and she reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of my book. She'd been reading it on the airplane. Probably at the exact moment I was snoring and drooling in my seat. That, my friends, is a moment I won't soon forget. </div>
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On the next leg of my flight, I sat next to a charming man from Nashville who works for Service Corporation International. He told me all about it, all the places he's lived and worked during his 25-year career there. It's the nation's largest funeral company if you didn't know. (I didn't.) Lovely man, pulled my suitcase from the overhead for me, likes his beer cold, and recommended I go to the bubble gum wall when I'm in Nashville. Apparently it's a wall where famous people stick their bubble gum. Yup.</div>
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In the meantime, tomorrow I formally launch myself into orbit at Third Place Books. Butterflies! Excitement! Two weeks of getting to hang out with knitters every day, talk with them, make them laugh, and hear their stories. Could anything be better?</div>
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Will I see you along the way?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">* Correction! Apparently the wall is here in Seattle. But still...why?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-75748532548267737482013-09-29T17:13:00.003-04:002013-09-29T20:36:07.401-04:00Get a load of them apples<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It must've been eight years ago when the box came. Tall, slender, from Fedco Trees. Inside were two twigs, their bases wrapped in shredded newspaper. Along with them, a piece of paper explaining that these were, in fact, apple trees. Cox's Orange Pippin and Black Oxford. A gift from my brother.</div>
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We dutifully chose some spots on the west side of the field, pretending we really believed these little twigs would survive and grow to become anything in either of our lifetimes. They survived the first year. The next year, just as they were sprouting leaves, deer came overnight and stripped the twigs of their tops.</div>
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Any ambivalence I'd had about those twigs was gone. I became fiercely protective, setting up little fences of deer mesh around each twig. The years passed, the deer mesh expanded, and these improbable little twigs began leafing out. Ever so slowly they got taller, from two feet to three feet, but never losing their Charlie Brown slouch. </div>
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Besides tending to their little fences once or twice a year, I confess I've pretty much forgotten about these guys. But lo, I recently had an urge to wander down past the struggling cherry tree and through the blueberries to check on my little twig prison. </div>
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And what did I see?</div>
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The Black Oxford twig, the one that had been most damaged by deer so long ago? It was bearing fruit. Like, real, true, three-dimensional apples. Not huge, but who are we kidding? I tugged one off, wiped it on my sleeve, and took a bite, pre-puckering in anticipation of crabapple tang. But no tang came forth, just a symphony of sweetness and flavor. Clouds parted, the angels sang, a worm poked out his angry head and yelled, "Hey, watch it!" (At least it was a whole worm, am I right?)</div>
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Fast-forward to this afternoon, one of those perfect Maine fall days where the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the crickets are cricketing, the leaves are turning colors, and you realize that the house needs to smell like apples and maple and cinnamon and fall. Time to try that recipe I just clipped out of the newspaper.</div>
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I'd like to say that today's custard was made with these same Black Oxford apples, but there weren't enough yet. I used Honeycrisps after Googling "best apples for baking" in the produce aisle of my grocery store. </div>
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The recipe was in this week's Ellsworth American, credited to Super Chilly Farm, which happens to be one of the folks helping out with the Out on a Limb apple CSA <a href="http://claraswindow.blogspot.com/2011/09/going-out-on-limb.html" target="_blank">I've talked about here before</a>. </div>
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It couldn't be simpler. </div>
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Preheat your oven to 375 and grease a nice deep pie plate.</div>
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In a bowl, mix together:</div>
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4 eggs</div>
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3/4 cup maple syrup (the real stuff, please, don't even mention Aunt Jemima)</div>
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1 cup yogurt (I used full-fat yogurt because, hell, it's the weekend)</div>
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1 tsp vanilla (or if you're me, a generous slosh)</div>
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1/2 tsp cinnamon (pausing to sniff the open jar and marvel at how much you love cinnamon)</div>
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Peel, core, and slice 2 cups of apples. (Years ago, my sister-in-law got me <a href="http://www.williams-sonoma.com/products/820373/?catalogId=48&bnrid=3120901&cm_ven=Google_PLA&cm_cat=Cooks'_Tools&cm_pla=Fruit_&_Vegetable_Tools&cm_ite=Apple_Peeler/Corer_%7C_Williams-Sonoma&srccode=cii_17588969&cpncode=30-275166642-2" target="_blank">this contraption</a> which makes tasks such as this a breeze. You'll want to double the recipe just to continue playing with your toy.)</div>
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Evenly distribute the apples along the bottom of the pie plate and pour the custard mix over. I chopped about 1/2 cup of pecans and sprinkled them over the top. </div>
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Slide it into the oven for about 45 minutes, until it's nice and puffy and the edges barely begin to pull away from the sides of the pan. It'll continue to cook a while longer.</div>
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Wait as long as you can before giving up and cutting yourself a slice--which will slither and jiggle and tumble in that custardy way that inspires you to go back and get a little more, then a little more, "just to tidy up that edge," you say. </div>
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-- Update! First, I'd probably not use Honeycrisps again. This dish benefits from an apple that's willing to go soggy faster. And second, in comparing this recipe to the golden standard from Moosewood, the Apple Honey Custard Pie, I discovered that this <i>is </i>that recipe, only minus the pie crust and substituting maple for honey. Once again proving that there are no new recipes in this world.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-5103582299839720762013-09-20T10:47:00.001-04:002013-09-20T11:50:17.904-04:00Heirloom breakfast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It always begins with a seductive "gotcha" photo followed by an evocative story about, say, when the writer was 8 years old and her Italian grandmother handed her a ripe tomato in the garden. Probably Tuscany. Flavor bursts, time standing still, blah blah blah.<br />
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Then we fast-forward to today, a farmer's market in, say, Brooklyn or maybe Seattle, where the writer stumbles upon a basket of <i>that very same tomato</i>. The mere fragrance brings back a rush of memories. She impulsively buys the whole basket, balancing it on the back of her Vespa or British bicycle or perhaps lugging it on the subway, to the envious stares of fellow riders. When she reaches home, a tiny yet impeccably charming sunny apartment kitchen, she sets about re-creating some amazing recipe from the past. Documented in high-resolution photographs with the contrast turned up as high as it can go without cracking your screen.<br />
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This <i>not </i>being a food blog, I'll simply tell you this: We have tomatoes and I've been enjoying them. Lots of tomatoes. Such is a rarity for Maine, where the first frost usually kills the plants and leaves me with bags and bags of green tomatoes that never ripen and that I never fry the way you should and, instead, end up dumping guiltily on the compost pile.<br />
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I've taken to slicing one, oh what the hell two of these beauties every morning, dousing them in salt, pepper, and olive oil, shredding a few basil leaves and leaving them to rest in a little glass cereal bowl while I put on a pot of water. In goes an egg, still in its shell. It boils for two and a half flips on my grandma's hourglass timer. (No idea. Six minutes? Eight?)<br />
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I hold the egg under cold running water for a minute or so, just long enough to cool it down so I can peel it. Which I do, then I plunk it whole on top of the tomatoes, drizzle more olive oil, more salt, more pepper, and then take out onto the porch to eat. The egg is still soft enough to burst slightly when I cut into it with my fork, but not so much that it evokes any "eww" in the eater. The flavors and colors and textures are pure heaven.<br />
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I have no photographs, because I'll be damned if I spend my morning photo-styling my breakfast. But you'll have to trust me, it's delicious. Years from now when I'm strolling through that market in Paris and I spot these tomatoes, you can be sure I'll buy the whole bunch, race them home to my charming apartment, and put on the water to boil.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-59870628967969417712013-09-11T09:28:00.001-04:002013-09-11T09:28:29.547-04:00SignsMy first book signing is this week--Friday the 13th, to be exact--and I have butterflies. Until now, my books have translated into workshops that I could travel around the country and teach. Sometimes those events would include a book signing, where I'd stand at a table giving people directions to the restroom. <br />
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This is the first time I've showed up with nothing but a book. No suitcase of samples, no hand-outs, no props. It feels liberating and terrifying.<br />
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Tell me, if you were coming to <a href="http://www.knittersreview.com/goto.asp?goto=YWTour" target="_blank">one of my readings</a> (and I dearly hope you will, even if just to ask directions to the restroom), what would you like the evening to be? What should we talk about? The Bale? Biscuits? How we all manage to navigate this big, awesome, scary world every day?<br />
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Our time together is an opportunity. How can I help?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-62599901380350878402013-09-07T22:53:00.001-04:002013-09-07T22:54:32.541-04:00Fait accomplis<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVLHz-0K6psYt7ZMJUuJNKAZzswYDuHx-n4sUyCztXDVa0ymFqsdFd73r0PbNTYYAyG6JuLyfQKcUijYlkj2lqSoKYHxR9C1vlH_WiwYn5dGSlGYvyOmkKSdUlLMmhSCu93PpKg/s640/blogger-image-1590061353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEVLHz-0K6psYt7ZMJUuJNKAZzswYDuHx-n4sUyCztXDVa0ymFqsdFd73r0PbNTYYAyG6JuLyfQKcUijYlkj2lqSoKYHxR9C1vlH_WiwYn5dGSlGYvyOmkKSdUlLMmhSCu93PpKg/s640/blogger-image-1590061353.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The bag of shame. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-55196565107347378552013-09-06T15:40:00.000-04:002013-09-06T16:05:08.670-04:00The sound of goodbye<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHtKtdCLsNZuCfdRzya0wJhGwZWqJGMonPfkUVgHRxVTTuXJY0iFsI67QtrFQ8NZXCY-30ZShIkt7juRcRUJUGUxMYOGIXxCu1QvzFHfzx1AcM_QDM1lPxaRT6qAyuOXSur3AjA/s1600/the_road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHtKtdCLsNZuCfdRzya0wJhGwZWqJGMonPfkUVgHRxVTTuXJY0iFsI67QtrFQ8NZXCY-30ZShIkt7juRcRUJUGUxMYOGIXxCu1QvzFHfzx1AcM_QDM1lPxaRT6qAyuOXSur3AjA/s320/the_road.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
then, in what feels like the blink of an eye, they're gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before the
last trucks have pulled out of the Blue Hill Fairgrounds, the summer visitors have pulled up their dinghies, taken in
their mailboxes, emptied out their refrigerators, and headed south. The
children were loaded into their cars and whisked away, gazing out the windows
from their comfy car seats, oblivious to what they're leaving behind. The older they get, the longer they pause to inhale that last sweet breath of Maine air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So
painful were those late-August goodbyes that I finally decided to stop making
them. Now we live just a mile up the road, otherwise at most three hours away,
and can always traipse down to say hello to the place, even in the dead of
winter (and usually with a thermos of coffee and thick slabs of cake to fortify
us for the long trek uphill toward home).<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Initially, there's a sigh of relief. Trying to work among the retired and vacationing is always a challenge. But then comes sadness. Without their noise and fuss and bustle, the manufactured
flurry of the temporarily idle, the place feels utterly empty. Almost
haunted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before they go, somewhere after settling up at the market and putting in their forwarding notice with the post office, they pull up in front of my house. Their own houses, devoid of
electricity and inaccessible by car six months of the year, must be emptied of
anything that might rot, burst, or attract vermin.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These may be second homes, but their owners are nothing if not true New England
frugal. It bothers them deeply to throw anything away, even that half-used
bottle of diet salad dressing, those two potatoes. Instead,
they pack them up and bring them to us.<br />
<br />
In the days leading up to closing time,
we receive a steady trail of visitors with boxes and bags of "perfectly
good" things that they couldn't bear to throw away. In accepting this
food, we're helping them leave with a clean conscience. So we say "oh
sure!" when presented with that squeeze-bottle of key lime juice, the box
of generic Rice-a-Roni. When they leave, we promptly walk the bag into the barn
and drop the most offensive of the give-aways, the crumb-coated sticks of
butter that smell of refrigerator, straight into the garbage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These
cast-aways offer a clear economic indicator, and if this year's harvest is any
indication, economic recovery has finally reached us. After years of generic, years of feeling the need to rescue that last egg, that last drop of lukewarm 2% milk,
people were reaching for the name-brands and throwing away all but the pristine. Campbell's
soup, Premium saltine crackers, Heinz tomato ketchup. Even the diet salad
dressing was Wishbone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There
was one generic item, though, I'm guessing an impulse buy to please young
visitors who chose not to partake: Marshmallows. Generic or not, those are my
Kryptonite. I will have them, four at a time atop a steaming mug of hot
chocolate, until either they or I am gone. Let's hope they go first. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-25316219280653038822013-09-03T20:04:00.005-04:002013-09-03T20:04:45.087-04:00Waiting for the echo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv_oHDaTTXOV-ligenr1qJEjeZzQyYfKLwttRSzbty6SZZKRnLrULsSQOP93tWM7KGHHYqBiXP1J_uRkyWzQO1EZlRUVitFNlKCp8m6sYsLPXYqgALUB23yPofjvX16iDjWMn0w/s1600/on-sale-day-cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirv_oHDaTTXOV-ligenr1qJEjeZzQyYfKLwttRSzbty6SZZKRnLrULsSQOP93tWM7KGHHYqBiXP1J_uRkyWzQO1EZlRUVitFNlKCp8m6sYsLPXYqgALUB23yPofjvX16iDjWMn0w/s320/on-sale-day-cake.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Writing a book is like standing at the edge of a cliff overlooking a giant abyss whose edges you can't even see. You stand there, take a deep breath, and then you yell. It takes a long time to get it all out. You begin with early notes on paper, which, for me, became a series of Scrivener files, then a giant Word file, then several thick print-outs, then PDFs, and finally a single bound copy that my publisher sent and that I'm still keeping hidden in its padded envelope.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
All the while, the ideas and stories are still safely yours, shared with just a handful of trusted people. They haven't complained too much, so you keep loosening the line and letting the stories fly further and further away.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then comes what they call "on-sale day," when the book goes from being listed as a pre-order to the day booksellers are actually allowed to sell it. Amazon times its shipments to arrive on people's doorsteps on this day. It's the day you take a big pair of scissors and cut that cord. Now, whatever happens is completely beyond your control. Terrifying, exhilarating, liberating.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
From here, people begin to have their own opinions of your stories. And of your writing. And of you in general. And there isn't a goddamn thing you can do about it. I was trying to explain my angst to my friends Don and Robert (see the "Making Martha's Sandwich" essay), and everything I said made me sound more and more neurotic. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"What's the worst thing that could happen?" asked Robert. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As I pondered various doomsday scenarios, Don chimed in, "I think the worst thing for me would be if people said my life was <i>dull." </i>We agreed. I wondered if I hadn't added enough sex and drugs to the book. Then I remembered I hadn't added any.</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In college I was tasked with writing my autobiography. It was for a women's studies class taught by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diana_E._H._Russell" target="_blank">Diana Russell</a>, and the whole time I was writing I thought, "Boy, how much would it stink if my life got an F?" Thankfully, it didn't. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Still, all day long I've been doing laps in the kitchen, driving both Casey and Clare crazy. Like a chicken that doesn't know where to lay its egg.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm at the edge of the cliff and I've finished my yell, and now comes that exquisite, awful, tentative, interminable wait before an echo comes back. Of course what comes back won't be my voice at all, rather the canyon's response to it. Which is, in itself, another exquisite sound.</div>
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In the afternoon my mother came. We had tea, and I made a Busy Day Cake (from Edna Lewis, <a href="http://www.lottieanddoof.com/2009/05/busy-day-cake/" target="_blank">adapted here</a>). It's an easy, soothing, trustworthy recipe that does the trick every time. It's not a keeper. You don't make it for a rainy day, you make it <i>on </i>a rainy day, and for that day alone.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-32589532885999738912013-08-29T14:44:00.001-04:002013-08-29T14:44:56.434-04:00When life gives you tomatoesIt's a surreal and heady and off-kilter time right now as I wait for what was private to become public, part of a new collective experience of sorts. <div><br></div><div>So let's look at something else, shall we? From the farmer's market. Sometimes it all just comes together. <div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2KoXiRO6fV8HzfCFSg84vB7ORflN-KPr0FZGlOzH3DcFZLwgGE4mgSeQvdtmCkbgrWRAUoB_a9dKJrcP6HGzBVsNZoMAWj1CIxIiSi_LAtLbVIsc6O_6Gdd1-V1Z5YvE_uLp0g/s640/blogger-image--1042332537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn2KoXiRO6fV8HzfCFSg84vB7ORflN-KPr0FZGlOzH3DcFZLwgGE4mgSeQvdtmCkbgrWRAUoB_a9dKJrcP6HGzBVsNZoMAWj1CIxIiSi_LAtLbVIsc6O_6Gdd1-V1Z5YvE_uLp0g/s640/blogger-image--1042332537.jpg"></a></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-68025713268673209462013-08-28T10:20:00.001-04:002013-08-28T10:20:41.426-04:00Did someone say peaches?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGaunnKsGpbT-K0Or7Fooga2Nq3uads9gnzzv5lphwDmh4EUVylXNf7VEskods9HKEuG5ucE_Wmn1VeZUpo7eCu-hSc-W8w_fLe7PGIoONw6D1ubZmHwRv92xwyePUd9jG0O5jA/s640/blogger-image-171672956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGaunnKsGpbT-K0Or7Fooga2Nq3uads9gnzzv5lphwDmh4EUVylXNf7VEskods9HKEuG5ucE_Wmn1VeZUpo7eCu-hSc-W8w_fLe7PGIoONw6D1ubZmHwRv92xwyePUd9jG0O5jA/s640/blogger-image-171672956.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">They may not be from my tree, but they're still local, their fuzz tender, their fragrance intoxicating. I've got a six-pound bag by my side, destined to become jam this weekend. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There are many schools of jam. Some believe in leaving the fruit as close to jiggly raw as possible, letting high doses of sugar and pectin do the trick. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Me? I love the reverse, boiling pure peaches (and less sugar) almost to the point of caramelization, into the 240 degree range. Only then do I ladle the goo into sterilized jars and give them a proper hot-water bath. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">It's a different kind of jam, thicker, visually less reminiscent of the fruit itself. But the flavor knocks you over with a great big POW, which is exactly what I like on a dreary February morning when I need a little sunshine on my toast. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Up next, we're counting down to Concord grapes. Have you seen any in your market yet?</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-38984277199305332352013-08-27T15:58:00.003-04:002013-08-27T19:40:36.715-04:00Catching Up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe41w2vRdYBezl72-T1SOxs-KCAyVmiNenBHe19EFPVnroHZmgD0zErjE-nz7fthDGF8yv8LgKKojCHhPoyPZSZUxEdrMMZlxt-guXn3QpwY5T7kEM5PCTNTbPdz0lP3NWrOaxXQ/s1600/casey_porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe41w2vRdYBezl72-T1SOxs-KCAyVmiNenBHe19EFPVnroHZmgD0zErjE-nz7fthDGF8yv8LgKKojCHhPoyPZSZUxEdrMMZlxt-guXn3QpwY5T7kEM5PCTNTbPdz0lP3NWrOaxXQ/s400/casey_porch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We meet again!<br />
<br />
Another summer has come and shall soon be gone. The ferns in the field have begun to turn brown, and the treetops across the pond have the fintest tinge of red to them. Can it be?<br />
<br />
Of course here in Maine they're already quoting the Farmer's Almanac. "Gonna be a bad one this year," says the woman at the antique shop on Congress Street. "They say heavy snow starting in October," she says, only it comes out as "stahhhting" and "Octobah." She continues, "They says it'll be snow through April."<br />
<br />
We stare at each other silently, each picturing our own version of cold winter gloom.<br />
<br />
I'm not ready, I never am. But we already have our bushels of potatoes, harvested from the garden and curing in the barn. I'm waiting for the onions to bow their heads in final surrender, which should come any day now. The peach tree, so fecund in the past, yielded just a handful this year. The green beans made up for it, prolific enough they were to feed a family of six.<br />
<br />
We abandoned it all last week, speeding away suddenly in the dark of early morning, bags barely packed, to be with Clare's sister in the hospital. We both packed black, but by all forces of grace and luck, we didn't need to wear it. <br />
<br />
Now comes the grand end to the summer, the Blue Hill Fair. Its creaky Ferris wheel punctuates the skyline, beribboned quilts and tomatoes and gourds proudly on display, hawkers urging you to step right up, just give it one try, win a prize for the little lady, one toss is all it takes. The bumper cars are my milieu, and I have big plans.<br />
<br />
This is E.B. White's fair 62 years later, the outlines somewhat changed but the heart still intact. Last year I even spotted two plump happy little pigs snoozing in the shade. Wilbur?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-22288033661467027832012-09-03T10:34:00.001-04:002012-09-03T16:38:53.128-04:00Falling into Fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg757Gbt8TEXPAMJ6-nDh2uthQwoNdHETv9N6yFPaf7JSruyUH9OUzyvAV5jhbh-nlkORxkQhDvfGzFPGRfr2aMMPeo2CVNX3wHz9UffJliZGFLYs9-jcwHJJHXuwlfETd2wi8u_g/s1600/sparkler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg757Gbt8TEXPAMJ6-nDh2uthQwoNdHETv9N6yFPaf7JSruyUH9OUzyvAV5jhbh-nlkORxkQhDvfGzFPGRfr2aMMPeo2CVNX3wHz9UffJliZGFLYs9-jcwHJJHXuwlfETd2wi8u_g/s320/sparkler.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Wait, huh? September 3rd? Did you see that thing go by? What was it, anyway? A bird? A plane?<br />
<br />
And so another summer appears to have drawn to a close. An utterly beautiful, whirlwind summer of family visitors, splashing in ponds, sailing in the ocean, pulling sweet-smelling things out of the oven, taking deep breaths and repeating, again and again, "It is just... so beautiful here." Few gifts are as precious as a full Maine summer.<br />
<br />
My <a href="http://claraswindow.blogspot.com/2011/06/13-years-and-counting.html" target="_blank">lovely little dogwood</a> bloomed for me again. My cakes rose, my granola turned crispy and brown. The strawberries were succulent, peaches smaller but sweeter, the entire kale crop devoured overnight by a mysterious garden visitor. The tomatoes have never been more abundant or flavorful - these, along with the jalapeño plants, are the only ones that really enjoyed the hot dry weather.<br />
<br />
Now, pitchfork after pitchfork of goat manure is being mixed into the soil in preparation for another long winter's nap. They say it's going to be a cold, wet one this year.<br />
<br />
In August, I took a hard look at my calendar and realized that I needed to back away from my baking job. It was utterly sad on so many levels, but my grown-up self knew it needed to be done. I need baking to be my avocation, not my vocation. I wasn't doing anyone a service by drifting in and out of the kitchen, forcing their schedule to bend to my ever-tightening one.<br />
<br />
They quickly absorbed my departure and hired two new bakers. The world goes on. But it was one of the best things I've ever done, and I am forever grateful to Cathy for saying "yes" to my improbable request, and for giving me a chance to try something new. We should all be so lucky.<br />
<br />
And now, I'm taking a deep breath and preparing to dive under the giant wave that is fall. In one week, I travel to Cleveland to shoot the next season of <a href="http://www.knittingdaily.com/blogs/kdtv_series_900/home.aspx" target="_blank">Knitting Daily TV</a> (pardon the annoying pop-up - their site, not mine). And in two weeks? <a href="http://knittingiceland.is/2012/01/12/the-clara-parkes-iceland-fiber-experience/" target="_blank">Iceland</a>. I can barely believe it.<br />
<br />
From there, more and more awaits. Big things, woolly things, meaningful and vulnerable wordy things, all pulling us forward to the future.<br />
<br />
Shall we dive?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-87662459892238342482012-07-09T09:22:00.004-04:002012-07-09T09:22:49.560-04:00WanderlustLast year at this time I was packing for <a href="http://www.knittersreview.com/goto.asp?goto=11kn" target="_blank">Knit Nation</a> - a week in London, comfortable shoes, a new camera, and an insatiable appetite to devour every moment of my precious time in that city.<br />
<br />
Maine is at its most glorious right now. Stunning. The air almost knocks you over, so rich and thick and sweet is its fragrance. We've waited all year for this.<br />
<br />
Yet in my fickle mind I'm back in London, taking pictures of wisteria-covered windows I wish were mine...<br />
<br />
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And people going about their daily lives, unaware...</div>
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I'm sipping a short cappuccino at <a href="http://www.monmouthcoffee.co.uk/" target="_blank">Monmouth</a>...</div>
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And I'm still enchanted by this little orange car that I spotted in a Notting Hill restaurant window.<br />
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You know how you can be in a room full of people and feel utterly alone? For me, that's how wanderlust works. It usually hits when I'm at my happiest and most settled, surrounded by the kind of beauty that is Maine in July. </div>
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Does that ever happen to you? And where would you go? </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-91665565514547828382012-07-02T11:11:00.002-04:002012-07-03T08:44:33.634-04:00Seeking Stability<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Your comments about lessons learned were so beautiful and inspiring. I am honored to think that such good people come here - voluntarily, no less - to read my own mutterings. Thank you.<br />
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I went to TNNA, that big trade show for fiber folks, and returned as I always do: inspired yet somewhat muddled. It's a challenge to be someplace where everyone's radio frequencies are turned up so high. I can't help but pick up lots of static where I'm used to getting a strong, clear signal all my own. It's as if I came back with about six heads sticking out of my own. Removing them feels like thinning seedlings from the garden, but it must be done.<br />
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I've planted too many ideas for the future, and they simply cannot all grow in the space allotted to them. I always wish I could ask a neighbor to come over and thin my seedlings for me. Right now I rather wish some wise person could stare at the mess in my brain, say, "That one, that one, and that one," pluck out the rest and toss them on the compost pile before I can protest. Of course that's the absolute worst way to make decisions, so I'll continue to muddle my way through and trust rightness to prevail. Self-doubt is a mighty foe.<br />
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In the meantime, the strawberries are already done. How did July get here so quickly? I picked the last harvest and am making some ice cream for family that arrives this evening. It's always grounding to be around kids. You're too busy making fart noises and grabbing fragile things out of small, swift-moving hands to dwell on bigger questions like, "What should I do with my life?"<br />
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Plus I no longer need to dwell on that particular question, because the answer has come to me in the form of STABILIZED WHIPPED CREAM. I'm not a huge fan of regular buttercream frosting. It's always too thick and goopy and buttery for summer. Even for me, it's just too much butter. But whenever I try to do a simple whipped cream concoction, it always goes runny on me.<br />
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Well, my friends, professional bakeries have a trick. If you didn't know already, they stabilize their whipped cream with gelatin. I experimented a few days ago and am in love.<br />
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Dissolve 1 teaspoon of gelatin in about 4 teaspoons of water, let it sit until it gets goopy, then heat it on the stove just until dissolved. Whip 1 cup of cream like you normally would, but just as the cream starts to thicken, drizzle the cooled gelatin into the cream. If you're really gluttonous, add a dollop of lemon curd.<br />
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With stabilized whipped cream you can do things like this, and it won't instantly topple:<br />
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I was so fascinated the process that I over-whipped the cream (you can see it's a little globby) but HOLY COW, between the extra texture and the lemon curd I was ready to bathe in this thing.<br />
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I think I'll set aside some strawberries and try pureeing them and folding them into some stabilized whipped cream. Ohhh, maybe alternate lemon and strawberry creams in a trifle? Oy, my arteries are hardening just imagining the possibilities.<br />
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What about you? Were you hit by the horrible storms earlier this week? Is your power back on? What's on your stove, in your oven, or chilling in the fridge? And how do you thin your own mental garden? Please, I'd love to know.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-11213100739358702282012-06-18T11:18:00.001-04:002012-06-18T11:23:32.673-04:00Lessons Learned?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgYibuYWWh6I2MD-3sJgXaMOtxPYPVOjrGpLjk9FUcLE4lQpClE10YGvZp3hYwJUBV7TYnviMxmzLuhXnF4MGX6xBat9buA1PykEHzqybmgunwzcKuHPOTwel6W4vDLFGnhWDL-w/s1600/dogwood2012_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgYibuYWWh6I2MD-3sJgXaMOtxPYPVOjrGpLjk9FUcLE4lQpClE10YGvZp3hYwJUBV7TYnviMxmzLuhXnF4MGX6xBat9buA1PykEHzqybmgunwzcKuHPOTwel6W4vDLFGnhWDL-w/s320/dogwood2012_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It's a chilly Monday morning and June is already half over. Am I the only one feeling sideswiped by the speeding-up of time? I long for the days when I was 12 and summer vacation lasted f-o-r-e-v-e-r. Actually, no. You couldn't pay me to go back to life when I was 12. Except maybe for a day, just so I could take back all the power I'd handed over to undeserving people.<br />
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Lately I've been trying to view my life through a lens of "lessons learned." Pausing mid-stream, looking around at where I am, and asking myself what I've learned from this experience, or what I may be in the process of learning. Sometimes there's an answer, sometimes just a blank cartoon bubble and that frustratingly aimless feeling.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuR7wN3lnWvdd-LRSYp3TsOFWOqvYDjmjSlWcAbiIK97ciYrdiXXM0qQqrWGTEW6lUlq3YzEHTy877KqUqOorMesZicYjJe2lXGWeDOab316eCfsXQfjCOIHWbJLpE69uGrfKCg/s1600/crema_cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuR7wN3lnWvdd-LRSYp3TsOFWOqvYDjmjSlWcAbiIK97ciYrdiXXM0qQqrWGTEW6lUlq3YzEHTy877KqUqOorMesZicYjJe2lXGWeDOab316eCfsXQfjCOIHWbJLpE69uGrfKCg/s320/crema_cake.jpg" width="240" /></a>Already I can tell you I've learned a lot from my days off as an impostor-baker. I've learned how to make granola - a really, really good granola that gets me out of bed every morning - which has, in turn, taught me that I actually like granola.<br />
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I got to <a href="http://www.wmtw.com/Morning-Menu-Crema-Coffee-Company/-/8792672/12195934/-/14x0yvvz/-/index.html">be on TV</a> and share my buttermilk drop biscuits, where I learned that if your pre-measured baking powder sticks to its little cup, just pretend it didn't and keep going. Well, I also learned - re-learned, let's say - the importance of laughing at myself and moving on.<br />
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I've learned that it's one thing to serve beautiful baked things to friends and family at home, quite another to serve them to customers at a coffee shop. At home, I can coerce people into eating and enjoying what I make. They can claim, "Oh that's too pretty to eat," to which I can reply, "I know! And I'm cutting you a piece right now. Dig in!"<br />
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But at the coffee shop I have to watch people pass these things by, enviously declaring them "too pretty to eat." As if we weren't worthy of beauty. I can't protest, cut a slice, and shove it in their face. By the end of the week, I end up dumping my masterpiece in the compost bucket. People seem more comfortable with slightly sloppy sweets, the irregular cookie, the simple cupcake, and I've adjusted my menu accordingly.<br />
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I've had a lot of firsts already. I've cooked with rhubarb, made quiche and blanched almonds and whipped egg yolks into a frosting that was so good, I literally had to ask one of the staff to dispose of the leftovers. I've enjoyed the company of young people who are still gazing into the world with fresh, optimistic eyes. And I was called "chef" by a man who'd worked at a restaurant I reviewed in San Francisco 20 years ago. He gave me his resume. I nearly imploded from mortification.<br />
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The pretty stuff? I'm already looking forward to releasing all that pent-up creative energy on family when they all visit next month. They'll be hit with so much pretty they won't know what to do. "Worldwide Gluten Usage Quadruples," the headlines will read. "Sources cite Maine baker as cause."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZWuaB_r003IlSGFLyNHwtAmDKmyQtvwMv4nTRWnagdGjOXjcb9kbalfYokGtpEUwm-xoZoExHTLBRmfrkJ7Gxr7T4EA0_64rPo2t19ORnz3V3k_IH3_p5ykjq94xIRdEpo26Bw/s1600/crema_claramels2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7ZWuaB_r003IlSGFLyNHwtAmDKmyQtvwMv4nTRWnagdGjOXjcb9kbalfYokGtpEUwm-xoZoExHTLBRmfrkJ7Gxr7T4EA0_64rPo2t19ORnz3V3k_IH3_p5ykjq94xIRdEpo26Bw/s320/crema_claramels2.jpg" width="320" /></a>What have gone over well are the Claramels. I love making them - I especially love the luxury of being able to wander over to the giant shiny La Marzocco machine, previously off-limits to me as a customer, and pour my own steaming shots of espresso. I love hearing people come in and ask if the Claramels are ready yet.<br />
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How refreshing to communicate with people in a primal, nonverbal way. Don't get me wrong, I'm a writer, I love words. But I also love seeing someone take a bite, pause, close her eyes, and go somewhere you can't possibly lead with words alone.<br />
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And the book? Weirdly enough, the very day I asked myself what I was learning from the writing process was the the day I finished the manuscript.<br />
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It's still a teenager barely out of high school. Much work remains. This is the Knitter's Book of Clara*, by far the most meaningful and personal thing I've done to date. I'm proud of it and terrified at the same time. I've made something that's very real in my mind, but just a handful of trusted people have even seen it or reacted to it yet. The road is still long. I don't even know what the book will look like or when it will be published, and lord knows I have no idea if you'll like it or not. I so hope you will.<br />
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For now, it's in the best possible hands, so I'll try to let go and keep moving forward. I'm noodling on something big and exciting to do with wool, which I hope to be able to announce in the coming months. With it? I imagine a slew of lessons ahead, just waiting to be learned.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-yD6yN82a61fs1Kab_otjMAc5S79__vr9T1lY5Z1qy8Z18XSbr29BTzM5U4fbk_DFQtG7-AaWtaRWBib8MqFGLt-uDThaUujNcctJFYDhdEYdObLDmlHpt-sBKo5lR-3E20Sg/s1600/clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn0-yD6yN82a61fs1Kab_otjMAc5S79__vr9T1lY5Z1qy8Z18XSbr29BTzM5U4fbk_DFQtG7-AaWtaRWBib8MqFGLt-uDThaUujNcctJFYDhdEYdObLDmlHpt-sBKo5lR-3E20Sg/s320/clouds.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a><br />
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What about you? Has life taught you any lessons lately?<br />
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<i>*No that's not the real title</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-31830101817486611872012-04-07T19:34:00.000-04:002012-04-07T19:35:12.771-04:00Clara's Day Off<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What a ride!<br />
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The trip to Cleveland was fantastic. The Knitting Daily TV filming went really well. Which is to say I didn't say anything <i>too </i>stupid, I didn't choke on my own tongue, and my hair didn't spontaneously combust. It turned out to be a lot easier than I thought. Put me in front of yarn and I can talk for days. Lucky for you, the segment only lasts five minutes at a time.<br />
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While I was in the Cleveland airport I happened to walk past a very tall, handsome man and think, "Hey wait a minute, he looks familiar." I suddenly realized it was Michael Ruhlman. Someone I happen to think is perfectly splendid. His 3-2-1 pie dough recipe from Ratio singlehandedly helped me achieve a lifelong goal of mastering pie dough. Sounds like a little thing, but when you live in Maine in a farmhouse overlooking 27 acres of <i>blueberry fields</i>, pies figure prominently.<br />
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I made a nodding, bobbing, blushing fool out of myself but did shake his hand, and he was most gracious about the whole thing. It felt like a good-luck omen for the days of shooting that followed.<br />
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So now I'm back home, working hard on the next book, tending my beloved Knitter's Review, juggling other writing and teaching and speaking projects. Yet in the midst of it all, something rather wonderful has just happened. Wonderful in a completely random and potentially crazy way.<br />
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By now you know I love to bake. I also love to make caramels, dark murky moody ones that shut people up and put faraway gazes on their faces. This is my therapy. When life gets tough, when I've run out of adjectives and need a break from my writing, I go into the kitchen, pre-heat the oven, and take out some butter to soften.<br />
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Until now, the biggest problem has been in simply finding enough people to consume all that I make<i>.</i> I give things to friends and neighbors, I fatten my family when they're visiting, I even haul bags of Claramels to conferences and festivals. Yet still, I produce more than I can consume.<br />
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I also love a good cappuccino. There's one place here in town, when I'm in Portland, that has been my home base all these years. I've written practically every Knitter's Review there, its tables have helped me write three and a half books. Somehow I think better when sitting at one of their tables, nursing a perfect cappuccino with a heart drawn in its foam. The buzz of people around me is just enough distraction to keep that annoying voice in my head (the "Thinking is hard!! Let's go get ice cream!! You can't do it!!" voice) at bay.<br />
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A few weeks ago they opened a second outpost called Crema. It's in an old brick building across the street from the Portland harbor. It's beautiful, wide open, all brand new. And it has a kitchen. Not a huge one, but a kitchen nonetheless. With a beautiful baker's oven.<br />
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I came to find out that they'd recently had a falling out with their longtime baker. They were struggling to keep up. They were stressed out, spread thin. They had breads and scones and such figured out, but what they really needed was...someone to make beautiful, delicious, special things. Well hello.<br />
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I love these people and I owe so much of my career to them. Which may explain why I found myself saying, "Can I help?" and why, starting next week, I'll be spending my day off in that little kitchen.<br />
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I'll be making pretty cakes and absurdly overdecorated cupcakes and stirring, cutting, and wrapping individual Claramels. Complete strangers will come up to a counter, point to something I've made, and pay money for it. This will be a first. They may love it, they may gobble it without tasting a thing, they may take one bite and spit the rest out. I'm hoping that having three books published has prepared me for the negative review. Like one complaining that, which one was it now, The <i>Knitter's</i> Book of Yarn, didn't have enough crochet in it.<br />
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This whole thing may not work out, or maybe it may only work out for a while. I don't know what the future holds, so for now I'll just hold onto the excitement.<br />
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But let's get back to the more important topics: What should I bake on my day off? Do you have any favorite recipes? I'm all ears.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3324448.post-80955909388929692732012-03-15T10:34:00.004-04:002012-03-15T13:24:39.200-04:00A Letter from Maine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And so we find ourselves knee deep in a March that has no piles of dirty snow, no roads thick with lingering sand. Our boots are still lined up by the front door, freshly polished and ready for a call to duty that never really came. Strange.</div>
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In typical fashion, people around here are couching their enthusiasm with a sense of foreboding. Mother Nature has a mind of her own, they say. Gloat too much about the gentle winter and we'll surely have icebergs blocking the harbor by August 1st. I tend to agree, if only out of principle. It's never good to think you've outsmarted nature.</div>
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The mild winter has helped balance my internal roller-coaster of volatility and risk. I'm writing another book, you see. Number four on my whirlwind <i>tour-de-bookshelf</i>. It's a completely different beast than the first three, much more intimate. Utterly dear to my heart, which puts far more at stake. Even on the days when I'm feeling moody and peevish and stuck and terrified, though, I'm savoring the process. If nothing else, it seems like life should be about taking risks, yes? Leaning into the wind.</div>
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In the same spirit, I'll soon add "television personality" to my non-existent resume. Knitting Daily TV has invited me to be their resident yarn person for all 13 segments of the next season. It films in Ohio next week. I think it's a grand idea, and the whole thing is so vast and unknown that I don't even have a framework for being nervous. In the meantime, my home has become a veritable swatchery as I prepare sample after sample. You can't say, "This yarn is most exquisite in lace," and point your freshly manicured hands to an empty table, now can you? Well I suppose you could, but not for this show.</div>
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The promise of spring, and then summer...that excites me. The return of spring peepers, then the crickets and frogs, the fireflies, the long melodious song of the hermit thrush from deep in the woods. Opening the windows, letting in fresh air again. Moving out onto the porch, tending my garden. Then my family arrives and I get to shower them with buttery cakes and sweet pies still warm from the oven.</div>
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Those are my rewards at the end of a particularly challenging run. "All writing is launching yourself into the darkness," Paul Theroux once said, "and hoping for light and a soft landing." I won't know the landing for a long time to come, but I shall keep putting one word in front of the other and see where it takes me.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15741341637773341804noreply@blogger.com11