Christmas in Baltimore

they just don't make party dresses like they used to

happy birthday carri

driving somewhere you can touch

We needed gas.
Pulled over in Louisiana, it was a busy little overpass.
I looked up, and in disbelief saw the sign, little chamber
buttons and sure enough, the name of the place where I
was born, Denham Springs.

I could not abide the coincidence. I had seen miles of Mississippi
and the overhangs necessary in the South to not bake but let in
the evangeline breezes.

Sunset fire in Baltimore. This was no random stop-
So I asked the clerk in the quick-n-shop
"do you mind if I ask you a question."
"sure" she said
"well," I said with as much tenderness as I could,
"I was born here. And I don't know anything about this place.
can you tell me in one or two sentences what it's like?"

She thought. For a good spell. Enough time for me to size
her up. A teenager. "It sucks" I was sure I'd hear. But no!

"It's just like the Andy Griffith Show. With more busybodies."

I stood transfixed. Hot damn.

"... And an antique row that used to be Main Street.
And there's the high school
there down the road, and the junior high over there. Shoot, my
Dad and I had the same chemistry teacher, and they still talk. It's
a miracle. Cause he burned all his tables in the lab..."

Welcome back.

polka dot

Show me your polka face.

Blob's Park

Nope, not kidding. Please do make your way
over to Blob's Park one fall evening
to enjoy Polka and German fare.

We happened to have been there the night a 15-time
grammy award winning hop-til-you-drop polka band
took the stage. We had many pitchers of Heifeweitzen
and even more sausage- so much in fact that I must troll
the web for the NAME of this band and write a proper
review, with photos. Until then- grab your partner.

a cold comfort

I am thankful for the presence of the cold current at the kitchen door
for now I bake with abandon at three in the afternoon
the bread
the pies
the promises
and only crack a window, and a smile at the clever efficiency of it-
venting the excess heat from this hearth if there were any left over
from my hands, all flour dust flurries and marks on a red apron
full of yes.
I am so thankful for November.

learning how to fall

happy halloween

"I'm a secret agent man. In polka dots."

BEST LINE of the night - I only wish I had more
candy for the tiny little man of mystery, for making
me smile.

Our neighborhood is beautiful, diverse, and full of
kids that "take one" and say thank you, smile and
wave at me through the french doors. I saw an astronaut,
carmen miranda, elmo, the scream guy, and various princesses,
fairies and dinosaurs. But no witches, mummies or frankensteins.

Perhaps in our day different sorts of characters elicit fear..

On to sweet November.

polka dot

Show me your polka face.

Blob's Park

Nope, not kidding. Please do make your way
over to Blob's Park one fall evening
to enjoy Polka and German fare.

We happened to have been there the night a 15-time
grammy award winning hop-til-you-drop polka band
took the stage. We had many pitchers of Heifeweitzen
and even more sausage- so much in fact that I must troll
the web for the NAME of this band and write a proper
review, with photos. Until then- grab your partner.

what wine pairs with twinkies?

It is no secret in certain circles that at one notorious
office Christmas Party I received a Twinkie Making Kit
during the secret santa exchange, and that the culprit
responsible for this heinous gift kept her identity
a secret until through a diligent process of
elimination I was able to find her out, and promise revenge.
And it turns out, revenge is sweet.

I had forgotten how fake-angry I was until Carri's
daughter Eva pulled out the lady-fingeresque bake
pan from one of my cabinets along with the little
half-twinkie-half-cowboy plastic figurine/twinkie
storage device and said "whassiss?" Whassis, indeed.
Whassisdoinginmykitchenstill? The recipe booklet
fell out of the cabinet. I picked it up, expecting:

Ingredients
Enriched Wheat Flour - enriched with ferrous sulphate (iron)
B vitamins:
Niacin
Thiamine mononitrate [B1]
Riboflavin [B12] and
Folic acid
Sugar
Corn syrup
Water
High fructose corn syrup
Vegetable and/or animal shortening containing one or more of
Partially hydrogenated soybean
cottonseed or Canola oil
lard and
beef fat
Dextrose
Whole eggs
Contains 2% or less of:
Modified corn starch
Cellulose gum
Whey
Leavenings:
Sodium acid pyrophosphate
Baking soda
Monocalcium phosphate
Salt
Cornstarch
Corn flour
Corn syrup solids
Mono and diglycerides
Soy lecithin
Polysorbate 60
Dextrin
Calcium caseinate
Sodium stearol lactylate
Wheat gluten
calcium sulfate
Natural and artificial flavors:
Caramel color
Sorbic acid (to retain freshness)
Color added (yellow 5, red 40)

But instead, "flour, sugar, eggs, milk, baking powder."
Seriously? We had to try this. Of course, the recipe is
not THE recipe, so we were making twinkie-shaped
yellow cake, but it was fun to pretend.
Turns out I converted my baking supplies to
organic a while back, so as an added insult to Hostess,
they turned out to be Organic Twinkies, and we made
a chocolate sauce instead of the white...stuff.

This made me think: "I'll bet Hostess does this in
the next year or so. Cause everyone else is."
Even Wal-Mart is "going organic". As if.

Twinkie-making made for a nice evening.
We (the adults of course) drank a nice
Cabernet and had a good giggle about the whole thing.
In fact, the evening was so pleasant that I
consider my grievances aired and will not, in fact,
place a tofu and spinach- filled whole wheat version
of this otherwise harmless (ok, not harmless..)
treat outside the door of the sarcastic ms. claus.
This does not, however, preclude the best re-gifter
ever. And there are many culinary options to be had
in the aisles of Toys-R-Us. Many options indeed.






Oh this thing doesn't really work. I just felt like I was violating the poor thing.



Zelda and Eva wait patiently for dessert to be served.

embracing pink

I was walking through cross street market and saw them.
The pale pinks, the deep rosy tones, the scarlet, which I passed on-
buying red roses for oneself is...well I don't like them anyway..

Pink is important in the second or third week of April, when the
cherry tree out front blooms, sighs, and sheds its rosey robe like
a burlesque queen. I walk under the heavy boughs and marvel at
the tissue paper sensuality in that particular shade of blush.

And speaking of blushing. Very important in many arenas: when one
blurts out an indescretion, admits a mistake, or realizes, upon a glance, or
an almost imperceptible brush of pink-laden limbs, that one has fallen in love.

And then there's the "four-cheek blush." As seen on babies, and "polar bear" swimmers.

And besides all that, pink makes me feel 'sportif.' Thank you, pink.





Something to Consider:

"Here is the crux of the problem, the single greatest obstacle to American literature today: guilt. Guilt leads to the idea that all writing is self-indulgence. Writers, feeling guilty for not doing real work, that mysterious activity, turn in shame to the notion of writing as "craft." "Craft" solicits from them constipated "vignettes" – as if to say: "Well, yes, it's bad, but at least there isn't too much of it." ~Elif Batuman

consider n+1

the last of the summer peaches

no by-the-side-of-the-road strawberry stands for me
no sir
all-ferocious peach off the tree
juice down my chin and down to the bayou
barefoot on gravel
right before the bitterness sets in
and never frozen
and always in august
sticky sweet first kiss
and the fuzz stings a little
on my cheek

in the kitchen

In the kitchen
You prepare life
drinks
dinner
breakfast
scones and laughter
In the kitchen
no matter how wide or narrow
You can cram everyone in there
and they'll smile and drink wine
until it is done
and the belly aches
from laughter
not that apricot cream cheese
or even the bean dip
no matter how gassy it gets in there
from loose buttons and metaphors
what we all share
love is that meal-




When she was little she had little jars
in which she collected the beans from
bean bag chairs.

authentic stripes

authenticity is tricky.
a cat has no choice - nothing inauthentic about eating, bathing, and sleeping-
blending into the carpet.
but when we stop to ponder, there's the rub, and it's uncomfortable.
often against the fur. ick. an uncomfortable truth.

ponder, in the cool breeze of early fall, the difference between
living an honest life, and living an authentic life-

everyone on the count of three!

Tonight, on a run with my trainer Amy I had a unique encounter – or, rather, a couple of unique encounters. We were making our way up Federal Hill and were met by a group of youngish people, one of whom thought it would be precious to lollygag behind us making sounds like a monkey. Monkey sounds. Seriously convincing monkey sounds. He kept after us for about a block, until he was tired, presumably – of acting like a monkey. Who wouldn’t be? It’s quite a workout waving around like that, oo—ooing and ah-ahing.

On the way down the hill, as we passed two men standing beside their crusty blue TAY-ota pickup, one of them decided it would be a grand idea to show us his junk. Not the junk in the back of the truck, folks. The dropping of drawers, not from an old chiffarobe in the back of the truck but from guy #2’s incomprehensibly gleeful shimmying hips was timed precisely as we passed. Truthfully, I didn’t see anything (typical middle aged white guy, no rhythm) – just felt the telltale “whoosh!” of denim as I passed, and, briefly, his smile. He smiled a Cheshire grin, like a mischievous three year old engaged in the same sort of activity, only creepier and with a glint in his eye that could only come from someone who gets his jollies from brushes with the indecent-exposure law. I laughed through a sudden onset of gastrointestinal discomfort and Amy and I exchanged nervous glances. It is not, in fact, a full moon tonight. But there was a full moon in Federal Hill.

authentic gotham

I was transfixed by the view from the back of the train. I'd never chosen the last car. I felt as the first videographer - am I watching my very life slip away down the tracks, my eyes could not hold onto the thread of changing light that
trailed away from me. Les images qui bougent... I can understand how the locomotive was a terrifying technology. The idea of speeding up life was so new at one time, and now we have gone from rocketing our bodies through space to the impossible speed of the disembodied
persona - and something named after an innocent wild fruit has replaced pen and paper, telephone, and certainly time otherwise spent processing the billion pieces of infomation our brains take in each day. Gotham has arrived, but not so romantic as we'd all hoped.

"oh, you're there, I thought I'd get your machine and leave a message." Your machine. Everyone used to have one, the thing that captures voices in the ether - no longer exists either. Machines are now as transparent as skin. As I float along at 110 miles per hour, I think, "this could be faster" and all my slow particles beg to return to stillness.

holding breath and hands

9.11.2006

I am thankful to speak in my own voice today, to move it around my body, to convince or cajole or support or comfort, to say nothing in particular. From my train window this evening, I see a brilliant sun-painted façade, and purple anemone wisps in an otherwise clear early fall day. This September 11th is more significant an anniversary than every other September 11th only due to our collective experience of learning to count in multiples of five. Year five doesn’t hurt any less than year four, or year six. But it is the five, the ten, the twenty, the twenty five that we mark with heavier hearts, and even heavier marketing, in the name of our collective American Pain. Lest we forget, the media shall remind us, “now more than ever.” What did stick out to me was that this particular September 11th was a meteorological gem. Temperature in the sixties, a light wind, a not-so-toxic smell, a fine mist from the fountains at Columbus Circle, and a very similar crisp atmosphere to the September 11th five years ago. I lamented not having time for a walk in Central Park. Perhaps someone thought the same thing, with more purpose, and abandon, back then - and went to gaze into the lush canopy. A day before looking up meant something horrific had occurred.

In acting class, we work on breathing. Really breathing. Of course, while speaking complicated text – and for forty seconds on one sustained breath. One can seem suspended in time, above the need to breathe, perhaps. When I was small I would hold my breathe under the tub water and pretend that I could just stay there all day, if I wanted to. The trivia of it seems at once profound and ridiculous to me, considering what happened to breath and to voices and to all that render those involuntary and voluntary acts into the beautiful complexities of nearly three thousand human lives. Their parents and children and spouses and neighbors all held their breath that day. When I watch the documentary images, a child’s little hand counts off in my head.. one-two-three-four-five years ago. Five? Can you count to one hundred in fives? Five years, perhaps, is just long enough. You know you could stay a little longer, if you wanted to. But eventually you have to come up for air.

all the songs to know by heart

Sheryl Crow and John Mayer played Nissan Pavillion on Sunday the 3rd.
There was a buzz in the air, and it wasn't over whether or not Jessica
Simpson was going to make a surprise appearance and duet with her
new beau, although we spoke of it in hushed voices, hoping it would not
happen while expressing a certain morbid curiosity regarding the possibility.

Sheryl had an anti-war message to transmit, and it was neither
too wimpy nor too aggressive for my taste. Just right, Sheryl.
She mentioned her battle with cancer. No bitter diatribe about ance-Lay...
She was so.. peaceful. A kind Sheryl. Not angry at the world,
just calmly resolute about her place in it - maybe befuddled
a bit at the choices made by the powers that be- but
calmly, soothingly resolute.

And she rocked. Rocked well. Rocked on.. and she closed with ZED ZEPPELIN..and
after this very fine show, on behalf of her peacefulness,
I was ready to wrestle Ann Coulter to the ground and give her
a big zerbert.. So whatever subtle political magic she's weaving,
it worked, and worked well. At least on me.

It was that kind of show.

But that's not all. Even though I don't routinely listen to her on my
pink iPod, (yes, the color matters) I found myself singing along. The
proof of her staying power as an artist was not only in the nearly full
house (and it's a pretty damn big house..) but in the fact that I and so
many other single voices in the mass - not all diehard fans -
knew the words to her ballads, her folky tunes, her delighful poprocks.
Heartache, forgiveness, compassion,
gettin' drunk at ten o'clock in the morning - and at least 5 of my top
10 values for surviving in this insanity we're calling the
American Way of Life these days... well, it was all there, and the words
came, and we all sang these melodies together. She gave props to the
crowd. "Who's in the yard!? hey y'all, we like y'all alot why don't y'all
quit your jobs and come on tour with us?"

Oh girl. Just as soon as I get done beatin' up on Ann Coulter.

fall finally fall

But seriously.

Was this the stickiest summer ever on the East Coast?

I've been ready for fall since... spring.

Yea fall!

Or rather, yea Ernesto. It's not really fall.

But yea fall!

More soon..

when to stop dancing

I picked up the canvas bag. It says, "bolsa del mercado"
on the side, and my sister's name is written in an early
eighties purple paint pen, bubbly letters, on the strap.
They spill out, in one pale peachy pink scratched up
broken and wistful "humpf!" they hit the wood floor.
I hear some taps. I had tried to muffle the tapping by
banging and darning and softening the puckered
bottom one inch near the toe with water. They smell bad.
Real bad. Sweat that's older than my 9 year old sister, and
with as much to say.

Point shoes. They do you no good on the street.
One grand battement to the face and they're a weapon.
But somehow, with much ado about being strong and supple,
they're silent and you're flying. And getting caught up
on that tip in a pirouette or an arabesque feels better than
just about anything. And at 32, I've finally got some comparisons
to make. When it was good, It really was THAT good.

My contemporaries are retiring, or thinking about it.
They're going to college, maybe grad school. Some left when
I did, and have only the memory of long summer classes and some
hey-days in college and one last stab of the feet into these damn
satin promises, that we wanted so badly at ten, then eleven..

In your thirties, it just feels a little ridiculous.

Point shoes are part of the reason I was mystified by ballet.
In the early eighties, the sun had not yet set on the superstars
of that golden era, we didn't know about the cocaine and the
surgeries and the anorexia and the mayhem, and every little
girl wanted to put on a pair and pique', or hurt herself
trying. The frequency with which these too-shiny hard slippers
had to be purchased would rival any shoe spree on Sex & The City.
They're expensive, they break in the matter of a few classes, and
each pair had to be jury-rigged 'just-so' for each foot, each dancer,
which was a ritual that took time, bloodied fingers, and made me feel
...different than other girls. And we know how important
that is to a teenager.

I still dance. Out of joy, out of desperation, at weddings, in
my living room (hey neighbors!) to classical music, to jazz,
to swing, to brass hop, to crickets.
Now, I dance on architecture. As much as possible.
When I can, I dance naked. Preferably in a valley, in the rain,
and with abandon. Ok I don't have many opportunites
to do that. But once is better than never. Watch out Colorado.

Do I give up the shoes? Of course. Will I ever stop getting caught
doing grand jetes in front of random mirrors in public? Never.

Promise.

leave room for chocolate cake

Hopefully I won't go straight to h*ll for sharing this, y'all.

2 1/2 cups cake flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup butter
2 1/2 cups brown sugar
3 eggs + 1 egg yolk
1 tsp vanilla
1 cup milk
6 T cocoa

blend brown sugar and butter together
blend eggs & vanilla in
blend powders together in separate bowl

alternate powders and milk
blend until creamy
makes 3 9" circle pans (greased well & coated with flour)
bake 350 for 30 to 35 minutes, check at 15 minutes

Frosting (you're making a layer cake, kittens..)

1 lb powdered sugar (around 4 cups..)
1 stick butter
enough dutched cocoa to plaster a wall

Beat the stick of butter
Add the sugar
Add the cocoa until you can't take it anymore - should be
spreadable... Add a little milk if it's too thick. Just a little!
and a teeny, tiny bit of salt, about 1/8 tsp. Make sure it's
not too runny..

Let the cakes cool, set the first one down on your favorite plate, and
schmear away...

one foot in the bayou

There are moments when one gets caught up
in the kind of nostalgia that calls for an afternoon
of porch cleaning and brass-hop listening,
red beans in a pot and teary-eyed memory.
It is Sunday, and I terribly miss the fair and decadent,
unacceptably humid and charming city that we
called home for six years.

And what is there? November will bring an opportunity
to visit for the first time in too long, and find out.
I imagine, that with every passing day, and with the
promise of a cool cleansing fall, New Orleans will
continue to be reborn. I look forward to finding out,
even if it means just a small slice. If it's a languid Sunday,
filled with the old smells and sounds, we might
just have to come get our clothes and stay awhile, as they say.

'she got one foot in new york city,
one foot in the bayou'
-File'

close to the bone

Anyone going to see World Trade Center?
Are we ready for this?

tea with zelda bijou

I highly recommend Sarah and Desmond's Organic Cafe in Ellicott City, Maryland if you're in the
area. Good food, nice atmosphere; and, at least while I was there - WiFi (probably from a neighboring
network...)




Zelda Bijou my African Queen

"Hello Ruby Hobby Newbie. How are you booby cat?" I chirp as I walk through the front door.
"hey girl, killed some stuff today." I hear Zelda’s voice as a thirty-something African-American woman, my earthbound angel and voice of reason. She’s brown and beautiful and striped like the grass cats of the African veldt, and she knows about me. She knows about my last nerve, the one that needs to be calmed down after a day of bosses and clients and misunderstanding. The nerve that needs healing, the one we all have. I can see it in her liquid eyes, she's licked the frying pan from breakfast, eaten some bugs and thrown up $15 worth of organic cat food under the piano bench. It’s all good.

She wakes me up twice a week for a physical. She makes her silent entry into the bedroom, and pads lightly on my back with one paw. Wake up, sleeping-huge-hairless-food-giver. I turn over and greet her with a scratch on the head. If I don’t, I get a backrub under the shoulder blades. “Goooood Kitty.” Today, I turn. She starts at my hips, gesturing at my organs, finding the energy, and works her way up to my breasts. She lingered this day, making biscuits, her delicate pads were concerned, and she grumbled and purred, sitting at my waist. You are not well. Where do you hurt? She nudged, and insisted. Tears came, she was right. My heart ached, and I cried for her tenderness to say my name and reassure. I wanted so badly to know why I hurt, to find a salve, to pet my Zelda on the head and change my life. Cats know this.

flanked

Who flanks you? Who is at your side,
at the ready, honest and willing to
divine words when none will come,
or celebrate with you when they flow freely?

Andria, the founder of Flanked (www.flanked.org)
used prize money from an award (unheard of!!!)
to start this conference, a diverse group of women,
a fabulous group of writers who
have inspired and moved, cajoled and
conjured together this weekend..

And so I carefully glance around now
for who does, and who will flank me.


Our literary guest speaker tonight was Tayari Jones, author of Leaving Atlanta and The Untelling.
Phenomenal..