Oh For Fuck Sake!

Photo Via the Times

Like many people across the world, yesterday I took note of Senator Wendy Davis as she fillibustered Texas SB5. I checked several times. Yes, it is 2013 America. And, our brothers and sisters in Texas get to fight a battle from another century, from the deep, dark past, yet again. Oy vay. I grow weary of the patriarchy. All over the globe the rage against our mothers, our sisters, our daughters, and the sick, fucking notion that they are chattle, flows on and on and on. 

Mrs. G offers her take on attempts to legislate the vagina here. I left the following comment and wanted to record it here, because not speaking out against sexism and attempts to legislate women's bodies is a grave mistake:

"Love you Mrs. G. As I watched Senator Davis yesterday, all I could think was how desperately I wished our beloved Molly Ivins was here to offer her hilarious and lucid commentary on the Texas lege. Texas is home to so many great feminists. In the land where the swinging micro-dicks shout down anyone without a big checkbook, women like Ann Richards, Senator Davis, Barbara Jordan, Spinster Aunt Twisty Faster, and Molly are too often the only rational voices of humanity in a screaming mantastrophe of rage against women. Thank you for raising your voice in defense of all the rights of all the pussies. I've reclaimed all the words - quim, cooch, nunny, cunt, beaver, fanny, muff. Freud had it wrong. The essential issue seems to me to be VAGINA-envy."

I know my Mama won't be happy about the swearing. She is an elegant, gentle woman. She is also my greatest role model, my touchstone, and an ardent, life-long feminist. She raised me to speak my mind. So, for fuck's sake, I am exasperated by impotent old men and their frightened bed-fellows trying to drag humanity back centuries. These people fear women and  they are afraid to be held accountable for their own bullshit misogyny. I'm over it. And, of course, I'm not over it. Because, like that sneaky pile of dog shit your kid trailed into the house, the  stench of sexism and the fear of the almighty vagina continues to stink and must be scrubbed clean and washed out-even if you have to do it over and over and over again. 

I love you Molly and Mama and all you all.

When I Rest In Peace

I just turned 50 in December. It is so very fine to be 50, especially when the alternative is to not be anything except, if you are lucky, a memory.

I write the following with no sense of morbidity. The first time my father almost died, I joked with him about what our obituaries or tombstones would say as he was recovering (some people might think that is a bit insensitive or odd, but it worked for us).

My mother and I have also talked a few times about what makes a great obituary. I have read a few that I loved. Mrs. G posted a wonderful obituary to her blog and this reminded me that I had been determined to make a start on my own.

It is a tremendously difficult task to create a portrait in words contained in just a few paragraphs. I do think it is a task worth undertaking when I think it may be the only "knowing" of us that a  descendant may have.

Here is my first shot at it:

Kelly is eternally grateful for the great sex, delicious food, music, books, and most ardently for her family especially her wise and beautiful children.

Her life goals included:

becoming half as good a woman as her mama

sharing the bleak Irish humor she inherited from her grandfather John Kelly with those she loved at the most importunate times

eating all the cake

being an O.K. - enough human being to merit the love of her many fine canine companions

keeping her teeth and hair

practicing patience and kindness and ecstatic mental yoga

being loud

Depending upon which of her friends or family you speak to, she was either a great success or an abject failure at achieving her goals. All will agree that she was trying.

I'm Slow Cookin' Darling!

Pulled Pork Sandwich photo credit goes to the Food Network 

Mrs. G let me mess up the kitchen over at Derfwad Manor- home to a grand group of soul sisters and Gary. Care for a pulled pork sandwich with some savory sides of mancake, moi, and poetry? Of course you do!

Valley of the Dutch Babies and Mountains for Cowboys

I've been away. Caretaking. Driving up and down between 5800 ft and 8000 ft in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado where my father lived until he rolled his car and changed his circumstances.

One day, driving home from the hospital I saw this scene at the local Denny's. We are not in Portland any more.

I can't sort out all the emotions, ideas, revelations, and resignations of this trip just yet. Still in the midst of figuring out the fine points.

When I drove home down that mighty and magnificent Columbia river  gorge and rounded a bend to find the tip top of  my sweet Willamette Valley I could finally breathe. I tasted the moisture in the air. I drove down an everyday street in this beautiful place and saw every sort of person in every sort of dress. No cow ponies or cows at Denny's. But I did see a goat mowing a lawn and my own fine dogs dancing with joy. And, best of all, the people that I love who make this place home.

In honor of the fullness of that I made a dutch baby that my baby and I just devoured.

 

Moan at the cliche if you will, there is no denying that, for me, there is no place like home. And home is a green, wet, fertile valley that terminates at its northern border in a confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and lies just a low, misty mountain pass away from the Pacific ocean.

To make a dutch baby:

Heat oven to 400 degrees f

Grab your cast iron skillet and cut up an entire stick of butter to toss into pan

Place skillet with butter in hot oven and melt

Meanwhile:

In blender or with a whisk and large mixing bowl beat 6 eggs, then add 1 1/2 cups milk, then slowly whisk in 1 1/2 cups flour and whisk/blend for a minute.

Quickly pour egg mix into melted butter in skillet. Place back in oven and cook for 20 to 25 minute. Dutch baby will puff up and become golden.

Top this golden goodness with a squeeze of lemon and powdered sugar or jam or maple syrup.

If you are wildly inspired, during the intial butter melt, toss in a couple handfuls of thinly sliced apples and a handful of brown sugar and let this cook for a few minutes in the oven before pouring over your dutch baby mix. My oh my! how your mama doing?

In other news, this is lovely and again, not news to anyone, but such a wonderful reminder. Also, via the ever lovely, often poignant Miss Whistle our beloved Stephen Fry on Kindness something my glorious mother with her generous wisdom suggested as my mantra for the trip.

Here was the view driving back to Ouray every night for the past couple of months. Spectacular.

 

A Trip to Hulda's Garden

Ugh. Not so pretty "new" interface for the bloggists Blogger.What fresh hell? Must everything be "updated"? I am having a lot of trouble with change right now and this just looks like more bad news.

Guess I should just jump in dear reader and start where I am. On a blank page.

Beautiful time of year here in old PDX. Posie published a great list of things to do when you are in Stumptown. So go check that.

Photo by moi

Made a lovely visit to the Hulda Klager Lilac Garden with my own glorious mother and my beautiful baby boy. The gardens are open every year for a couple of weeks before Mother's Day to celebrate Hulda's legacy. When I discovered that Hulda lost everything in the floods of 1948 and had to start again at age 83, I was inspired to face my own neglected garden.

10 years ago, in a fit of rage, someone I loved took an axe to my own 100 year old lilacs in the backyard. They were at least 18 feet tall and 20 feet wide-a veritable lilac perfumed forest. I suspect they were just one more thing he could be jealous about.

My dear neighbor Hazel, who was born in the house next door, told me the lilacs had bloomed that prolifically all of her long life. My house is now at least 123 years old and the lilacs were here for most of that time. I have mourned them each spring and avoided my backyard (site of the massacre) for too long.

 My mother bought a beautiful Sarah Sands lilac, hybridized by Hulda, as a gift for me. So, I'm putting on my gauntlets and heading out to do battle with a forest of blackberry and residual heartache. Wish me luck.

For Mother's Day I painted my fingers. Early in the morning, before the temperatures climbed into the very un-Portland-like high 80's, we walked over to the Cartopia food carts on Hawthorne and ate crepes in the sunshine. It was a perfect day.

I think that you are aware my dear reader of how deeply grateful I am to have been gifted the mother I have. To share two beautiful, sun-filled days with both my mother and my son in a single week was so lovely. I do hope your Mother's Day was just as sublime.

Today's highlight, in addition to planting peppermint, pineapple mint, and CHOCOLATE mint (who knew?!) was a kind comment left by one of my longtime blog-crushes Janelle from Ngorobob House: Life From the Hill. You, my dear reader Red Tara, can imagine my fan-girl excitement! She had posted to her blog this morning after a bit of a break. Reading her post made my morning, so I stopped by hers to let her know.

Since the day I gave up monkey muffins, I have relied on writers who deliver the goods for my morning indulgence ( huge latte with honey and a google reader chaser). Janelle's blog is a favorite treat.

Another eagerly anticipated blog is Tania Kindersley's, Backward in High Heels. Like me, Tanya adores horses. She recently brought her red mare home to the far north  of Scotland. I have been planning to write about her experience with a commenter who suggested that readers were bored with her new found passion for the red mare. That she was too single-minded in her posts.

I tried to leave the following comment on her post:

Tania I wish I had commented on yesterday's post. All day my mind was humming with sympathetic joy for you and the red mare and the pony and the pigeon. I don't have an eloquent way to express it, but this coup de foudre has been what finally grabbed my attention and made me a daily reader after a long time of just occasionally visiting.

I am fascinated by people's passions. Especially those of women, as we have for so long been told to keep quiet about personal delight lest we call too much attention to ourselves.

I, too, have loved a horse and part of the joy of these posts has been the stirring of my own sweet memories. But greater than that has been the (admittedly voyeuristic) pleasure of following along as you throw caution to the wind and ecstatically follow your heart's desire. We should all be so brave and so lucky.

Thank you for such tremendous pleasure and for the honesty of your work on the blog which has come to feel like a delicious present I get to unwrap each day.I am so grateful.

For some reason I couldn't leave the post but I wanted to put it someplace to remind myself that what we love, what we are moved by, is the fuel of life. I feel so bogged down in the 'shoulds', the 'what-ifs', and sometimes even, oh the shame of it!, the 'what will they think of its?' that I need reminders and fuel.

To the women and men who write about their lives and passions and everydays I can only say thank you. And, I love you.

That's all for tonight. I'll figure out this new blogger trip another day.

I am working away on some new projects. If I can tear myself away from reclaiming my land, I'll be back to fill you in on the details.

I Fall In Love All The Time

Source unknown (possibly background fairy)

With music, with books, with making, with people, places, things. Lately, I'm in a fiery clinch  (yet again) with poetry. The death of Adrienne Rich accelerated this current conflagration. And from her work I turned again to Stanley Kunitz, Mary Oliver, Pablo Neruda, Sharon Olds, William Stafford (oh my beloved friend).

Here is a poem that plays over and over in my mind. Via 3Quarksdaily:

Grammar

Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she's a conjugated verb.
She's been doing the direct object
with a second person pronoun named Phil,
and when she walks into the room,
everybody turns:

some kind of light is coming from her head.
Even the geraniums look curious,
and the bees, if they were here, would buzz
suspiciously around her hair, looking
for the door in her corona.
We're all attracted to the perfume
of fermenting joy,

we've all tried to start a fire,
and one day maybe it will blaze up on its own.
In the meantime, she is the one today among us
most able to bear the idea of her own beauty,
and when we see it, what we do is natural:
we take our burned hands
out of our pockets,
and clap

by Tony Hoagland
from Donkey Gospel, 1998
Graywolf Press, St. Paul, Minn.

Lest you think I am flighty or fickle with all this constant falling (I can assure you my loves endure), I offer this as explanation - I listen to wise people and I try and try and try:

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
~ Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

Daddy's Got a Gun

I left the comment below on Mrs. G's blog, but I wanted to put it here to remember. It fits in with a certain theme I'm vibing on. The comment was left in response to Mrs. G's request for thoughts on this video (which she said was sweeping the web and I had not yet seen-6 million viewers?):



So, Dad is quite angry. And he has a gun. And obviously, he is a parenting teenager newb. As the daughter of an angry man, I can tell you that public rants and humiliation do not forge strong parent/child bonds, healthy relationships,compliance with daddy's wishes, or respect.

We are seeing one angry dad's response to his child's teenage angst. Teenagers do that. They diss their parents. They feel "put out" by the demands their parents make. The are embarrassed and even disdainful of their parents. They can frequently be over-the-top asshats, cruel, thoughtless, and pissy mean.

This is normal human development. Normal = Not a shooting offense. Fear has no place in parent/child relationships. It is destructive to that which is most essential-trust. And, if handled correctly, (I liked to use long words about individuation and developing synaptic connections i.e. "your brain don't work so hot right now because you have a lot of synaptic connections to forge.") teenage asshatment can be talking points that enhance a teenager's sense of self and self-worth, which helps them develop connection and empathy, which makes aging parental ass-wiping highly probable (one among many of the highly desirable traits we hope to see in our offspring).

I don't advocate being a doormat for a kid, but I do believe we must show our children respect before we can demand it from them. Like all tough skills, becoming a tolerable human is a learned behavior. Takes trial and error and a very committed team routing for you to actually master the complex feat of growing up.

I have 2 beautiful adult children who at times did equally stupid, insensitive things (just as I, too, did when young-probably still do as we save all our best bullshit for those we love and trust. Sorry Mama.). I believe that they have learned how to be remarkable adult people through loving, honest, SAFE, (no cigarettes, anger, guns -heaven help us!) and respectful interactions with adults they could count on to establish boundaries and listen as often as they talked to teenagers.

I feel bad for this family. Where do you go to talk things out when the level of aggression is raised to such heights? And how can a cornered kid make a graceful retreat or attempt rapprochement when they are not shown how to handle disappointing behaviors which, let's face it parents, our kids receive from us as well.

So, that was my comment on the video. It makes me sad to think 6 million people think this is ok parenting. I call shenanigans. This dude is an amateur who could benefit from some education. I can only hope he was arrested for deploying hollow-point bullets in a residential neighborhood and that his arrest taught his daughter a little bit about how not to handle her disappointment and anger.

11.11.11 Today She Would Be Four

Photo of Maddie by her mama Heather Spohr

Today is Madeline Alice Spohr's 4th Birthday. Every day Heather and Mike have to navigate the treacherous waters of grief because their glorious girl with the golden curls is not with them. A birthday must be so very hard.

I have written a bit about Maddie and something of what I have learned from her brief and shining life. I love her parents. They are courageous, funny, honest, loving people. Together they created Friends of Maddie  to honor the life of their firstborn. You can visit Maddie's site  to learn about how you can team up with Maddie's people to make the world better for premature babies and their parents.

This year in honor of Maddie's birthday Mike recorded a song, "You are the One".  Heather sings backup and Madeline's little sister Annabel was in attendance in the recording studio to cheer her parents on. Buy a copy! It's a wonderful song written by Mike. 100% of the profits from sale of "You Are the One"on iTunes/Amazon will go to Friends of Maddie to continue Madeline's legacy as a brilliant light in the lives of so many. For the links and more information please visit The Spohr's Are Multiplying.

Mike wrote to Maddie (on the occasion of her 4th Birthday),  "So tomorrow I will try not to be sad. Instead I will focus on celebrating the day you brought color into my life. And while 11/11/11 won’t be as joyous as I had imagined when you were alive, there will be joy. Because it will be a day about you."

For everyone celebrating Maddie it is a day about a delightful little girl, a lovely family, unimaginable loss, and the exquisite joy of the day her parents met their beloved child. I will never forget her. Not ever.

Watching The Occupation

I'm live streaming the OWS protesters and NYC cops in Times Square. Guess the  broadcast networks can't be bothered to interrupt the football games. I learned that there were 60 to 70 thousand who joined them in spirit  in Madrid today. Here in  the Rose City we have our own OWS camp in the Park Blocks near Portland State. What to say? I feel so old and jaded.

When I was a child my mother took me to picket the City Club of Portland whose membership was not then open to women. And as a girl I saw that the efforts made by my mother and her friends were not wasted. The City Club began admitting women in the early 70's. Protest and assembly was a regular feature of my childhood as the daughter of two politically active, passionate people.

Sadly, in an age where corporations are people endowed with greater rights and freedoms than the people who granted them existence, protest seems so much more dangerous. I admire people taking action. I hope we can enter into a new era where the interests of the human person are considered of value, precious just as those our government so desperately courts and fawns over for the corporate "persons" currently calling the shots.

I retweeted ReformedBroker -Downtown Josh Brown's comment:

"But they paid back TARP!" Great, where's everyone else's interest-free, second chance loan? Where's everyone else's debt forgiveness?

Good question. And what further indignity will it take to make the majority wake up and ask the same question? What moves Americans these days? I shudder.

Also, I run into this picture all the time:

 

I think I've mentioned my personal political heartbreak. This picture, every time I see this picture, I remember why I voted for Hillary. I am no longer naive enough to imagine that this photograph proves she is a more compassionate person than our president,  nor do I suffer from any illusion that her scruples would have prevented her from executing Bin Laden as he has done. But I do believe she has  maturity and the strength of character to value substance over style. I can't help but question the sitting president on this. She was so much less invested in branding, pop art portraits, and taglines. The change we all wanted to believe in sounded so good. It was like believing in the tooth fairy and Santa. And sweet children that we are, we tried to keep up a good front after someone spilled the beans. Ain't no tooth fairy. Santa is yo mama.

I just float around in dread of the 2012 election cycle. Devastated that Supercilious Slutlicious Sarah chose not to  run. If anyone could unify my people, it is the Thrilla from Wasilla. We'd all be heading for borders north and south and the truth that our culture is bleeding out would be a global statement of fact.

Despite a lifetime of interest, I try desperately to let go of any illusion of a participatory democracy and find a new outlet for my poor, weak mind when it turns it's focus to humanity.

I have this book on hold at the library. Thanks to  MissWhistle I found it via this article. 

I think for mental health purposes the scope of my activism will grow smaller - so tiny in fact that it will be invisible. For now. I promise if we are in the same place you will feel it.

My Sweet Tooth To The Rescue

So, this week is all about change. Change and English Toffee. I find that toffee assists in the many small discomforts that accompany change.

I've never been a skilled candy maker despite my excellence as a candy consumer. My friend Jessie spent a good amount of time trying to teach me the delicate art of toffee making. This elaborate ritual involved candy thermometers and a marble slab. I never seemed to be able to achieve success. My best effort resulted in something very like a soft praline, but never the crisp, rich snap of toffee.

One day I was cruising through a variety of pages at Instructables when I saw a link to The Infamous Benson Family Sinful Almond Roca recipe.

Intrigued by the idea that an infamous family was sharing such a recipe, I clicked through and discovered that I was a master confectioner.

The recipe is fool-proof. I have added some twists on occasion (malden salt, mixed nuts, chili powder) and each and every batch has turned out beautifully.

I note this here solely because in my rash decision to reduce my consumption of sweet things I had neglected the recipe for months. When I tried to recall it from memory it had vanished. This worries me as it takes just 5 simple ingredients to make a perfect batch. Here's the list:

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1.5 tsp water
almonds about a cup
chocolate pieces

Melt butter, sugar, and water in a heavy pan over medium high heat.
When mixture begins to boil stir constantly with a wooden spoon for 5 minutes or until bubbling gooeyness is a caramel color..
Pour over nuts placed on a parchment lined baking tray.
Cover with chocolate (I use chocolate chips most of the time-about 12 ounces).
As chocolate melts spread evenly over toffee.
Cool in fridge.
Snap into pieces and eat-or like the infamous Benson's give as holiday gifts or party favors

I Love You

I was married to a man who told me that I said "I love you" too much. That to say it cheapened the emotion (quick aside dear reader-major red flag-just trust me on this one). This man was not my first husband.

My first husband was a sweet, loving young man who took delight in me, cared for me, a kind man who did willingly abide me and my hysterical youth, my confusion of drama for passion. He was a patient person who had a deep faith in life's goodness. Naturally, I had to get away from him. I was so young. I love you Scott.

No, the husband who insisted that one could over do "I love you" simply by stating it more than once was my second, my last husband. The one who was invited in to shatter my heart. The one who helped me grow up by being so much a child. He probably still believes that I love you's should be carefully doled out like penicillin or anti-retroviral therapy. Maybe once per relationship. Never between parent and child. That I endured with him is testament to my foolishness and my vanity as he was oh so beautiful to me. What woman in her right mind would tolerate such ridiculousness?  I love you Vivek.

Recently, I started reading Cherry Menlove's blog which is very sweet and right now a bit sad as her beloved struggles with cancer. She signs off every post with "I love you." Sometimes she adds something else too like, "thank you for visiting" or "I want to wish you joy in the small things." At first, I was a bit struck by the sentiment. I wondered how she could be so sure she loved me.

Now I know that Cherry is on to something and that I had just a few little kinks left over from a failed marriage to work out.

As my son can attest, I have always been lavish with "I love you's" despite the dire warnings and asshat censorship. I am fond of kissing and clinches. But I openly loved just a small circle of people. As my heart reassembled into a new and better organ, I began to feel certain that it's well-being, it's joyful thrum was enhanced by my ability to love in a bigger, better, faster pussycat, more, more way. It is also entirely plausible that one can love the unknown and accept that the truth of love is in the pitching, not the catching.

I am grateful to Cherry for the love. And I love you.

I Remember Her

 Maddie's Portrait by her Mother Heather Spohr

Today I am honoring the big, bright, too brief life of the lovely  Madeline Alice Spohr? I am thinking of her Mama and Daddy. Two years. They should not have to be without their darling girl. No one should suffer so. And yet, every day, everywhere we do suffer such unimaginable loss.

I look at life differently. I look closely. I wish things were different for all of Madeline's loved ones. I know it never gets better. I rememeber Maddie every day. She is indeed with the stars.

A Third Birthday

Madeline Alice Spohr, the girl with the golden curls, would be three years old  today. Heather and Mike's sweet, firstborn child- I will never forget her.

Heather wrote a beautiful post about preparing a memorial for her Aunt Kathy who passed away this summer. Her aunt traveled the world and when she was in a particularly exquisite place she liked to imagine her beloved people, those who were no longer alive, in that very place. She would imagine their joy in being there. While she was visiting New Zealand she felt Maddie close and wrote to Heather about what Maddie would have seen and loved.

This must be an excruciating week for Maddie's family. When I saw the pictures Heather took of Maddie and her little sister Annabel visiting the same beach on different occasions I lost it. The picture of Maddie looking out into the sunshine, her tiny arm resting on the fence, her windblown curls, it's breathtaking and heart breaking and I am reminded of the great love and strength her parents live daily. Their grace, honesty, and simple humanity are so very moving. I believe they are deeply inspiring people. Maddie's folks would make her proud.

Madeline's yummy little sister Annabel and her sidekick Rigby have made a series of wonderful films during the short time Annie has been "in the industry". They are a high profile Hollywood duo-think Affleck and Damon with serious acting chops and unparalleled comedic timing. They will make you laugh out loud. They will make you want Heather Spohr to be your very own mama. You will know that it would be big time fun to share a dream come true with a daddy like Mike.

In honor of Maddie's third birthday the Spohr's are making a special DVD of The Adventures of Annie and Rigby available to benefit the Friends of Maddie the non-profit organization founded to honor their daughter. Friends of Maddie is making a difference for premature babies and their families. It's a little present for her big sister from Annabel. Actually, it's a gift to the entire universe!

You too can be a friend of the glorious girl with the golden curls your own fine self. Celebrate a brief and bright and shining life. Help NICU families through some scary times. Step up. Be there. Let Annie be your guide. From litle things (and tiny people) great things come-LOVE.

Boys and Beauty

A mighty fine mama

Elizabeth Cady Stanton with her daughter Harriot

Shout out to all my mama peeps. You make the world go round. You are the center that holds. I love you.

I also love the William Morris quote, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."

I must re-focus on this as my house is filled with dog hair and paper. Things functional, but not so beautiful.

To turn our minds to useful beauty, a brief round-up of my recent blog trippin'.

Sweet Paul has a magazine!

Amaretto-baked French Toast with Pecans! Heavens! I'm making the Papaya and Citrus Salad with Maple Syrup Dressing this weekend.

It is all, every inch of it, glorious. I am old school re: electronic readers and eZines, but Paul's magazine is so visually rich, filled with practical, real-life-possible grace notes- I'm sold. I'll forgo the paper and bliss out laptop-wise.

Thank you Sweet Paul for your inspiring, delightful blog and the reminder that beauty and simplicity are at hand every day (and meant to be shared).

photo from HartsFabric.com click to buy

Dear Kaffe Fassett I love you.

I am working on a prototype and need some voile (I say "Vwall" like Toile- chicks at Fabric Depot say "Voyal" like Toil or Soil-so odd). This Orange Jungle Paisley makes me happy. Your magic ways with form and color are a constant inspiration. Besos Kaffe!

Humane writing from Mig. This post came at an important time for me and I return to it again and again: Careers in Science: Balneology.

I was in my crazy tree and it helped me come down. One of the most resonant, beautiful, and kind things I've read in a long while.

Thank you for so many beautiful metaphors, valentine limerick contests, leads on blogs I can't imagine having missed, 10 years of Metamorphosism. When I despair of huMANity, I think of you like a touchstone.

Stephin Merritt

The Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs is beautiful, hysterical, sad, sweet (gifted to me by my sweet brother ptj). I listened to it non-stop during a long family road trip through Mexico several years ago. I sing to it constantly. "Hey lady day can you my save my life again? My only love has gone away. Will you be my only friend?"

Stephin your voice is big and deep and masculine and fragile all at once.

Sweet Paul, Kaffe Fassett, Mig, Stephin Merritt, and all the creative men that inspire me (especially my lovely brothers who are such fabulous adventurers and collectors and makers and daddies), I wonder what you would say about the inspiration and influence your mamas had on you.

In their presence and in their absence, their love and their devotion, their neglect and their distance mothers are absolutely influential in our lives. As my obnoxious father says, and I often quote, "You gotta dance with the one what brung ya." The dance between mothers and their babies is sometimes sweet, sometimes excruciating. They made us, those mamas. I thank yours and mine for the invitations to the dance.

One Year Gone

I don't know how Heather and Mike have survived this first year without their daughter Madeline. I think it remains a mystery to them as well. How can such a devastating loss not kill you? Throughout this most difficult year they have written about their grief with grace and honesty. Thankfully, there has been great joy for them too with the birth of Maddie's little sister Annabel. But their pain will always remain unfathomable to anyone outside of Maddie's family. As Heather has written, it is the daughter who should be present when the mother breathes her last. Never the other way round.

Despite the worst of all possible losses the Spohr's continue to create a beautiful legacy for Maddie while making a difference for babies and their families. I admire them endlessly and wish them peace and so much love.

To learn more about the girl with the beautiful curls, the famous Madeline Alice Spohr and her equally remarkable parents please visit Heather's blog The Spohr's Are Multiplying and the Friends of Maddie website.

I will always remember your darling girl Heather and Mike. Always.

Sunflowers and Blue Skies

Photo of Elspeth by Tanza Smith from her website

Some days I wake up grieving I know not what. There's always plenty to sigh and storm over. So, most often, I don't puzzle on it too much. It is what it is or maybe it is nothing.

Today there is something. After reading Mig who wrote about justifying one's own existence (or not), I was reading Yarnstorm at Jane Brocket's little slice of the world. Jane wrote about the sad news of Elspeth Thompson's death.

Elspeth sort of enchanted me ( and I mean that in the "moved by magic" way it sounds) with her beautiful blogs, books, and columns.

I read a comment left in condolence by arusa that quoted a poem:

Why did you vanish
into the empty sky?

Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.

- izumi shikibu -
woman poet of the Heian period, Japan

And then another comment that is one of my beautiful Mother's favorite poems by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

And lastly, I recalled this from Kathleen Raine posted by Elspeth on her own blog here:

I BELIEVE NOTHING

I believe nothing – what need

Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,

This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,

Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother’s flower,

Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,

Yet media-people ask, “Is there a God?”

What does the word mean

To the fish in his ocean, birds

In his skies, and stars?

I only know that when I turn in sleep

Into the invisible, it seems

I am upheld by love, and what seems is

Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,

This inexhaustible, untidy world -

I would not have it otherwise.

Elspeth had that extraordinary ability to appreciate and nurture the exquisite in the ordinary and untidy. Sometimes extraordinary skills demand an excruciating sensitivity.

So, to make sense of the painful impermanence of the beautiful we can try words, frail though they be.

I like to look at my child's eyes. From his early days to now they are made of sunflowers and blue skies.

click on photo to see the sunflowers up close

They are as miraculous as anything I've known.

What is enough? Enough to convince us to stay. To see things through. To believe that there is something ahead of us or something right now that requires our presence.

To steady my gaze on the now, I claim the natural world, these eyes, and a quote that I believe originated with Pam Houston in Cowboys Are My Weakness:

"A death wish is a life wish, as love is the flip-side of fear."

And I will not judge another for their own conclusion.

Madeline Alice Spohr should be two today

Photo of Madeline from her mother Heather Spohr's blog The Sphor's Are Multiplying. Once again, I'm hoping Heather and Mike wont mind that I borrowed a picture of their Maddie.

Today is Maddie's second birthday. She was born early at 29 weeks. She survived and thrived for 514 days. I can only try to imagine the sadness of a birthday celebration missing such an enchanting birthday girl. In her honor, as her birthday gift consider donating to Friends of Maddie and The March of Dimes on the March for Maddie page. You can see pictures of her teams marching all over the country last spring on the March for Maddie Flickr group.

Mike, Maddie's Daddy and Heather, her Mama have channeled their grief into acts of such generosity - supporting NICU families, leading the March for Babies in their community, speaking in Washington D.C. and so many other places. They have miraculously, honestly, and with great beauty shared the process of grieving their glorious daughter with their readers. So, I love them and wish them well and want to offer support for their mission to continue Maddie's legacy of love.

Oh Poor Me...

Hello Dear Reader Red Tara. Long time no typing. I did go to Reno for the big pizza and wine fest and retirement shindig. See proof above. The pictures are a bit wonky because I was jumping on the beds of our Circus Circus West Tower 7th floor 2 queens room with my three nieces. We were all wearing our princess dresses, cowboy boots, and tiaras. You should have been there!

Boy howdy...circus circus...I could write forever about why I am not a casino kind of girl. Cheap rooms and limited space at PTJ's are my excuses for the location. Serious good times were had without a step into a "casino". Casinos, dear reader, are where poor people go to spend their very last quarters so that they can drink free, watery rum and cokes or 7-n-7's.

Reno deserves discussion. I judged it harshly based on a devotion to the Comedy Central show Reno 911. It is actually gorgeous and retro-funky. Many of the houses are constructed of beautiful red brick and shaped uniquely. My favorite looked just like a hobbit house with a little divided front door and a wild, curly black roof. Alas, no picture. I had to be physically restrained from jumping out of the truck to offer the hobbits all my gold rings for their beautiful wee little house in Reno, Nevada. Happily, my people recognize that I am not a hobbit and that Nevada and I are just getting to know each other. We shall have to see.

Nevertheless, Reno is amazing. You are practically swimming in Lake Tahoe or skiing -whatever blows your skirt up and weather depending. It suns and rains and snows and blows and blazes all in the span of an hour. The astounding mountain ranges that surround you actually take your mind off the Donner Party those same mountains so successfully trapped. For this distraction by their sublime beauty I am eternally grateful as I tend to obsess unpleasantly about those poor starving souls when in the neighborhood of the Sierra Nevadas. And, as we are speaking of starving, significantly, Reno has two In-N-Out Burger joints. There are zero In-N-Out burger joints in Oregon. Have you ever been? I do not eat fast food. I do eat double doubles animal style.



Anyway, today I was just going to whine a bit about poor me waking up Monday morning stone deaf in my right ear. Perhaps I would type a bit about how this might be the way I am forever and what that means to a woman who loves music. Even the sound of my son's beautiful voice is different. And I am panic-stricken and such. Meh.

Before driving by blogger, I stopped in to check on Maddie's mama and daddy. 514 days. It broke my heart all over again. So, nothing profound here. Except my otolaryngologistically determined Profound deaf-ness. And being half-deaf, well it sucks, but not as much as being all deaf. No where near as much as Maddie and her loved ones having only 514 days.

So, upon reflection, I feel a bit silly whining about being somewhere around 17,094 days old with a profoundly deaf right ear. So what. I'll cry about it later. In the privacy of my closet. Or, perhaps publicly if anyone else asks me what they can do, because that is so sweet and how the feck do you not cry when you have to tell some sweet person who wants to help you that there is nothing they can do. Heather and Mike must be out of their minds with that particular grief too.

I have noticed one interesting symptom that I will share with you in the fine tradition of digression that I must observe. I have developed what I refer to as Natasha syndrome. So named because in the episode Attack of the 5 Foot Ten Woman (hey I'm 5 Foot Ten too!) of Sex and the City where Carrie is feeling inferior to Big's new hot big wife, she regains the upper hand reading a thank you note written by Natasha wherein she of the Five Feet Ten uses"their" when she should use"there". Carrie reads this note with the incorrect spelling over the phone to Samantha or Miranda or the wasp one and says "she's a big idiot" or some such.

Yeah, I'm lame. I watched the entire series in one cosmo-fueled funk spent in my jammies with the dogs looking on sympathetically. I am Natasha and their is nothing sadder than half-deaf peoples who have lost there ability to use their and there appropriately. It makes plain my disability. I suppose I should mention, though it pains me to do so, that my doctors do not agree that this symptom can be attributed to my new deafness. Another reason I look upon most physicians as quacks -they tend to disagree with me on so many fundamental and obvious things. But, as part of my healing therapy, I fully embrace my diagnosis of Natasha syndrome. Their. I have confessed my shame.

But fear not intrepid one, I promise I have love stories to tell about so many things.

A quick list in case I forget:

1. My Beloved Son in college.

He will not thank me about the picture here. First day of school pictures are a tradition. I should probably ask..but hey, I've done it before. And just you hold up little Miss tidy driveway, back off about the recycling bins! It was garbage day!!!I seem to remember a 40 foot pile of bark dust that lived in front of your house for like TWO years! Plus, my neighborhood is gentrifying at an astonishing rate. I have to do my part to defend the urban farm vibe.

Wait, I am too sensitive. You don't judge me. This is why we are pals of the first order. Nevermind.

As my devoted imaginary friends across the globe who have traveled the distance with me from ingenue to world weary homeowner of now going on 22 years will observe...the stairs, they are still a problem. What I wouldn't barter for some fancy new stairs, a screen door without tears, and an un-leaky roof! Scandalous!

But this young man...he makes every day a special day by just him being him (holla Mr. Rogers!). Sometimes the quickest glimpse of him makes it hard for me to breathe and then I can't see very well because I weep liberally at his pure exquisiteness. I have never gotten over the profound joy of his arriving. He is here! And, HE IS IN COLLEGE! Oh! and I love Posy even more for this post. Oh heavens! the LOVE! Thank goodness he is a patient and fine old soul.

2. An amazing 4 days away alone with my glorious Mother in Rockaway and all over the flat-out crazy beautiful Oregon Coast where we hiked through bogs, under and over huge root balls of fallen giants, up tall mountains, and deep into primordial forest to visit the largely unvisited oldest/largest western red cedar pictured below with said glorious mama (don't tell her I put her picture in my blog. She is very modest. But I mean really, the woman is a Goddess).


Aren't they beautiful...I told you true red tara. And all the while we were in sunshine and green it drubbed down rain upon my little Portland town. How curious was that?



3. My obnoxious father's big hootenanny half way between his San Diego house and my Portland house at babiest brother Patrick's in Reno. A ball was had by all. When said obnoxious father wasn't busy making out with strange chicks he'd just met at his party (That's how we roll), he was head pizza chef. Here he is passing on the family pizza making legacy to the youngest of the many princesses present(most of us were still in formal dress). Kneading the dough is tough work for princesses.


Daddy is in charge of thick crust "Gutbustium" style, whilst his ex-wife, my mama with the good sense makes wicked nummmy New York style. The pizza of my youth - and I can make them both!

Ah! and here be the 2 and only brothers of mine checking out John-John's recent engine swap. We traveled south to the soiree in his beloved VW Hank- not to be confused with his Loretta who is a fire engine red hottie like his wife sfj. I was proud to claim passage on Hank's inaugural road trip. J-J had just completed a multi-year long vanagon engine to subaru engine conversion BY HIMSELF!!! I think he had some huge posse of geeks on a message board or whatever it is the cool kids communicate over these days serving as advisors. That boy (I suppose he is a man to almost everyone else having just turned 45 yesterday. But not to his big sister!) gots the skilz. Babiest brother ptj (seen here climbing into the engine compartment in hysterical joy) is beyond impressed...expect conversion of his vanagon someday soon. The boys so loved my old school VW Bus (white over turquoise named OttO) that they have garages full of VW Vans. I can take credit for everything being the eldest.


4. Summer left me all loved up with bee stung lips and a smile and I am so grateful for it.

Ah Honeysuckle!

Nobody here but us servantless American cooks...thanks to Julie Powell

Yesterday my gorgeous Mother and I kept a date we had made with each other at least a month ago. We hopped off to see Julie & Julia. Delightful. Not only because it was a Monday and we were at a matinee together!

The numerous criticisms of the "Julie" part of the film were a bum rap. Who, I mean really think this through, who could compare or compete with Meryl Streep channeling Julia Child at her most delicious in Paris in love with Paul Child and with food? No one.

That said, I adore Amy Adams. If you have not seen Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day you have missed a scrumptiously effervescent performance. I can't think of another actor who could bring Delysia Lafosse so exquisitely to life. It looked effortless. A bubbly, pink confection of yum.

Also, I am here to tell you that those "cobb salad lunch" pals exist in all of our lives, as if you didn't know dear reader. Score-keeping and it's squirm-inducing paranoia have spurred on many a genius (and not too few average types too). Ms. Adams did her real-life alter-ego proud I am sure (Julie Powell says so in her new blog What Could Happen? ). In the film, I especially love the melt-down in the kitchen as she attempts to stuff a chicken with a cream cheese-based stuffing. Oh! And the lobster killing session accompanied by the Talking Heads Psycho Killer. Fabulous! Go see it now! And then read Julia Child's My Life in France .

After the film, we nipped over to Costco for a roasted chicken, dog food by the ton, and organic, fair trade coffee. There we also picked up the aforementioned book to share. Because, as previously mentioned, I am a spoiled child, I get to read it first. Once I've savored every word, I may just tackle the epic biography Appetite for Life. What a title! What a woman!

I appreciate Julie's Julie/Julia Project blog for so many reasons, chief among them being that she reminded me of a childhood spent enthralled with Julia Child. A great deal of my imaginary play centered on creating foods for my own television show inspired by Mother-approved public television viewing (the only tv allowed in our household except Friday night Star Trek and an early hour of Saturday morning cartoons- hello Sid and Marty Krofft!- before it was time to "Go outside and Play!"-the maternal mantra of my youth).

Mimicking Julia, I would instruct my audience in the fine art of making chocolate milk with red hots or dirt and rock pies, green grass salads with sorrel and dandelions scavenged from the yard, and once, ably assisted by my lovely sous-chef and brother John-John, a fantastic, blue soup concocted from the contents of my Father's medicine chest.

Julia Child, Graham Kerr, and later Bob Ross (say Thalo Blue with me in the softest, most reverant voice ever folks) and Nancy Zieman (I never feared zippers again Nancy!) helped form me into a maker of things. Bless them and bless PBS and viewers like you for bringing them to me.

Gotta fly! Baking with Julia is on Create right now and then I'm off to attempt Posie's Cherry Clafoutis as promised.

Scones & A New Pinny!

Happy August!

I am making/baking/cooking something new each week. This has been going on for a while now with mixed results. Crock pot cooking? Not so much. New shelves in the kitchen? Oh yeah! Lemon drizzle cake, henceforth known as lemon explosion cake, necessitated oven cleaning. Silver flower ring with bezel set carnelian. Supa Kewl! So much to learn! Life is beautiful.

Today, whilst simultaneously drinking molasses-thick french pressed coffee and cream, lolling around in freshly washed white sheets, reading Barbara Pym, and watching Martha I decided to take on the English scones Martha's friend in Ireland makes. Kind of strange that an Irish baker makes English scones no? I am sorry I do not know the friend's name. She runs a cooking school. I'm sure Martha has covered that someplace in her Omnimedia empire. You should look it up and then go there. They have real Irish butter. You know how you get about real Irish butter.


I've never made scones, but I do love them. My beautiful Mother always has a strawberry scone (and Tillamook ice cream from the Dairywomen's stall) at the State Fair. So, to some people scones may mean drizzly days and cozy fireside teas, but to me scones scream, "STATE FAIR! COWS! BABY PIGLETS! HORSE SHOWS! QUILTS! THE STATES BEST GREEN BEANS! TRACTORS! COWBOYS AND COWGIRLS! RIDES! THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY of OREGON BOOTH!" (Oh! I am pissed at Senator Wyden. I am one pissed off liberal) Whoa. I am screaming....apologies. I love the state fair.

Having just survived the 2009 summer of scorching heatwave - endless days of 90+ temperatures with 3 or 4 100+ degree days thrown in to test our mettle- I am relishing the mid-80s. Seems almost frosty. Time to put on my new pinny and commence with the baking.

For those of you playing along at home (Red Tara, a.k.a. Red Taffy, my loyal reader!) you can find the recipe here.

As I baked , I was listening to my Vienna Teng Pandora radio station. Perfect. I have to thank the delightful Anna Maria Horner for writing about Pandora on her blog. I am the last person on the innertubes to know about it. It is a miracle! I have stations for every mood, every activity. Who knew technology could be so fabulous?

The recipe was perfectly straight forward. I should have channeled my inner Pioneer Woman and photographed the process. Alas, my eight year old digital camera makes photography a challenge best left out of the baking process. The cutting in of the butter with my pastry cutter was so satisfying. I think I may have used just a bit too much liquid as I had to add flour at the end to make the dough less sticky. I used an egg wash and turbinado sugar sprinkled on top and voila!

There were scones...perfectly sconey scones just begging for strawberries and devon cream! Oh you can almost see my new pinny in the mirror there. Hmmm...It was a present from my Mama and it gives me super-baker spidey skills! For Realz!


As for making/doing/cooking/baking new things...dig those new white shelves! It's all good. The failures make the successes so sweet. Next time I am going to make Alicia's Cherry Clafoutis. I have some gorgeous Bings.

Tea Time!