You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September, 2008.
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| From the deepest south |
When people hear that I am from Missouri, an instant mental picture forms: square-framed farmhouse, white picket fence, a red barn placed tentatively in the background, and a view of the horizon miles away across the broad, flat land of waist-high crops. And I feel almost guilty, taking a pin to this serene thought bubble. But myths are made to be busted and so it is with a heavy heart that I tell them that Missouri, at least the southern half, isn’t all that flat. Riding a bike requires exerting a bit of energy. Sledding is a popular winter activity. We even have a couple of hills we pass off as mountains just because we can.
But southern Florida… now that is flat.
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| From the deepest south |
Hopping on an airboat across the Everglades, I was struck at how like Iowa or South Dakota this strange, slow river appeared at times. Missouri may not be the flat prairie land folks imagine it to be, but the Great Plains still hold many memories for me. Looking out, I was transported back to summer afternoons spent reading Little House on the Prairie or driving across Kansas, scanning the horizon for the mountains that I knew awaited me on the other side. Visions of corn and wheat danced in my head. Sunday drives and softball tournaments. I had to fight the compulsion to jump out of the boat and seek out the first available copy of a Willa Cather novel. I kept looking at Bre, my fellow Missourian, wondering if she felt as transported as I did.
And then an alligator swam by. Pop! A reptilian pin taken to my own rampant thought bubble.
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| From the deepest south |
You may be curious as to why I titled this post To Read. I have in fact been known to claim on more than one occasion to more than one person to have read this book. Please note, that as a rule I don’t make a habit out of lying about what books I have or have not read (I assure you that I read every page of Moby Dick and Vanity Fair, am stuck halfway through Underworld, and never finished Middlemarch), but for this one book I took exception. It was a bit too Oprah’s Book Club for me without Oprah having anything to do with it–too popular, too many people rabidly telling me to read it. I like my books a little more obscure, my authors a little more British, my plot a bit more post-modern.
Can I tell you what got me in the end?
This new cover. It is stunning. I love just holding it in my hands. I want to read it if only for an excuse to carry this beautiful work around for a few days, a reason to have it on my shelf.
And if afterwards, I begin rabidly telling you that you need to read it… Well, you can always lie and say that you already have.
It may have had something to do with the word “pit.” I’ve stayed away from certain foods (or entire food groups) for stranger reasons. The idea of pit fruits wasn’t a good one for me. Pits, as a rule, don’t have the most delectable of conotations and paired with fruit…. Right.
Canned peaches were a fence food for me. I was expected to eat three slices when they were on the table. Some nights this was fine. Some nights this wasn’t. For the most part I could go either way, unless you could see the rusted color on the edges with slightly different texture where the fruit and the pit once met. Gag-worthy.
Full disclosure: I have no recollection of ever eating a non-canned peach. Until last month, I wasn’t even sure how one went about this. Did you just bite it? Through the furry peel? Really? Really?
This brings us to Sunday. Sunday was the sort of day when you roll over and take that first hopeful look out the window and instantly know that you can’t be in bed a moment longer. The blue sky gives you a guilty stare, making it clear that you will regret every new moment from that moment on that you are inside. Shrugging off the homework that was giving me an equally guilty stare, I tossed on my corduroys and headed out into the cool fall morning (which was technically the last day of summer). My book and I spent an hour in the sun at the coffee shop and then decided a walk was in order.
My feet found their regular Sunday path to the farmer’s market. I contemplated the jams, taste tested the cheeses (yum), considered the late season raspberries, paused to enjoy the live music, and then stopped dead in my tracks. The sun rays had found a plate of freshly sliced peaches. People were picking them up unthinkingly as they walked past. I studied their chewing faces–expressions of pleasure and enjoyment were the overarching response. My gaze swung back to the peaches. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. Peaches. Freshly sliced. The fur still on the edges. Be brave.
I reached out tentatively, made my selection, and walked away as casually as possible. Could people tell this was my first real peach? Should someone be photographing this moment? Should I be photographing this moment? Were all these sophisticated foodies laughing at me–26 and never bitten into a peach, didn’t even know this was peach season?
Days later I’m still processing the firmness, the texture, the taste. It was too much to take in right there. By the time I decided I liked it, the market was closed. But I think I’ll go back next week, cash in hand. If only because I started my day reading about grilled peaches with honey ice cream and can now think of nothing else, for even if I can’t fully imagine honey ice cream, I can now definitely imagine a grilled peach, and I think it might just be delicious.
Browsing Craftzine this morning (what? it’s Friday… you expected me to be working?), I came across a link to this post at Elsie Marley: how to make popcorn balls. Hers are orange and oh so festive! And it makes me happy to know that popcorn balls can be made without oil fires and first degree burns, because to be quite honest, I wasn’t sure.
Popcorn balls were added to my Pumpkin Carving Party menu two years ago. What is it about these treats that we associate with Halloween? I’m not sure. I didn’t grow up eating them. We loved our popcorn, but it was an unseasonable love–we ate it in January and June and November and any old time in between. For the most part, we did it microwave-bag style, but my dad enjoyed popping it the old school way on the stove. And when it came time to introduce popcorn balls into my life, I thought dad’s way was the way to go.
I quickly learned that I should have paid much closer attention to his technique. The first batch went well. Perfect actually. Turns out that was beginner’s luck. In retrospect I should have added more oil between batches, because by midway through the second batch, I had a full fledged oil fire on my hands. The entire debacle is a bit of a blur. My roommate did some quick thinking and extinguished the flames, while I was seeking breathable air on the floor and army crawling to the windows in hopes of giving the smoke an escape route.
By the time all the smoke was gone, I had already made my way back to the store for some microwaveable bags.
I assumed that at this point I was in the clear. The stove and I may have our issues, but the microwave and I are lifelong friends who have never led one another astray. And with this rediscovered sense of confidence, I moved on to the corn syrup step of the process about which I have only this to say: When the recipe says let it cool before forming the balls, please, by all means, let it cool. I guarantee that picking up those popcorn balls with the syrup still piping hot will put you off this treat for life… and leave you with some very red and very sore palms.
And that, good readers, is how not to make popcorn balls this October.
I would love to take one of these gorgeous bags with me. It would probably mean not eating for the whole week, but… [The Leather Store]
Hoping my new passport case arrives in time! [Designed by Amy Ruppel for tinymeat]
A new bookstore to explore. [Shakespeare & Company Booksellers, Vienna]
Orla Kiely travel bags. A girl can dream.
And on a non-travel note:
I really, really love this print. [From The Black Apple]
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| From the deepest south |
Thanks to a disturbing segment one night on the evening news, I’ve had an irrational fear associated with sleeping since a very young age. I like there to be a heavy blanket and a nice thick wall between me and the outside world at all times when I’m off in dreamland. A barricade of stuffed animals is an added bonus I discovered during many childhood thunder storms. Sleeping in a tent with the flimsy fabric around me is pushing it. Sleeping outside with only a thin sheet between me and… well… the world is taking it to a whole new level.
Still, I was swayed. I was on vacation. My heart was ssentially pumping pure Bud Light through my veins at this point. And the prospect of the ocean’s waves as a soundtrack and the breath of heaven as a fan were too tantalizing for me to put up much of a fight. Being on a third floor balcony with a thick wall of cement and plaster around me didn’t hurt either.
There I was. Shivering. Cuddling up to my best friend. Trying to distinguish the crash of the waves from the roar of the passing cars. Happy as can be.
I missed the sunrise, but I soon felt the morning sun. Warming my body. Reaffirming my existence. A reminder that sometimes life takes us places we never expected to go and sends us experiences we never sought to have, and oh thank goodness that it does.
Strand Bookstore is a regular stop for me on trips to New York City. My friends go out to work at the market, and I go out to get lost in the stacks. Here was my introduction to the independent bookstore. After years of Borders and Barnes & Nobles and Hastings, this store was like a cup of hot apple cider on a cool fall day. (Speaking of which, can that be arranged?)
And though my pilgrimages to New York are not nearly as frequent as I might like, I enjoy staying abreast on the latest goings ons of one of my favorite city oasises, which means in this day and age that I am on the Strand’s e-mail list. Usually full of author signings and events I long to attend, last week I received an e-mail of a more bittersweet variety announcing the closing of the Strand Annex, a smaller, saner version of the flagship store.
BUT…
… this is Strand we’re talking about here, people. And they would not leave me without something to ease the pain. God bless them. Not that I need another tote bag (even if it does have an excerpt of one of my favorite Murakami novels on it). On the other hand, I most certainly need a 2009 Moleskine Planner at 25% off, because the Blackberry will never take over that special place in my heart no matter how cute its buttons may be.
I love these autumnal prints from The Haunted Hollow Tree.
There are some things with which I may never fall out of love no matter how old I get: Laura Ingalls Wilder, corduroy jumpers, Olympic gymnastics, and grilled cheese sandwiches, to name a few. But topping this shortlist are happily ever after movies. Will this confession tarnish my cynical realist veneer? Darn right. But in the name of full blogosphere disclosure, I’ll admit that a part of me would still very much love to be princess for a day or even settle for just marrying a less-than-royal James McAvoy. Until one of these dreams comes true, I have Netflix to feed my fairy tale fix.
My trip to Miami was planned as a way of brining a bit of home to an old friend who had recently been relocated rather than out of fascination with place. As a rule, I am more interested in the other corners of our fair country: Maine, Washington, California… Florida is that funny finger jutting out at the bottom; a bit of a distant cousin, perfect for holidays but not a daily part of your life.
I went expecting neon lights, lively bars, and sunshine. I got all that and so much more.
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| From the deepest south |
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| From the deepest south |
classic neon
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| From the deepest south |
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| From the deepest south |
art deco madness.
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| From the deepest south |
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| From the deepest south |
on the beach: 80s typography and crystal clear water.
