Cake

Today M turned 42. We kept things mellow, but sweet.

A couple of walks that turned rainy--one to Safeway for powdered sugar, another just for the heck of it, through our neighborhood alleys. We learned how to play Peaceful Easy Feeling on the piano. Games and wine and coziness.

He played loud bass; I bought fresh daisies, crafted a card, and made my famous chocolate cake with vanilla butter-cream frosting. Everyone should make this cake, from the Moosewood cookbook, which you can mix directly in the pan, and which you would never, ever guess is vegan.

Here's how:

1. preheat oven to 375 degrees

2. Sift together: 1.5 cups white flour, 1 cup sugar, 1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 teaspoon baking soda, 1/2 teaspoon salt, directly into an un-greased 8 or 9 inch baking pan.

3. Mix together: 1 cup of cold coffee, 1/2 cup vegetable oil, 2 teaspoons vanilla extract. Then pour the liquid ingredients into the baking pan and mix the batter with a fork.

4. When the batter is smooth, add 2 tablespoons of vinegar (yes, vinegar; apple cider works great). The reaction of the baking soda and vinegar will make pale swirls in the batter. Stir until the vinegar is just evenly distributed.

5. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. Set aside to let cool.

You can eat it plain and still taste heaven. But you can also top with slices of fruit, whipped cream, ice cream, etc. I like to whip up a butter-cream frosting that is to die for, and certainly not vegan.

It's so easy: just cream half a stick of butter (softened), then, using an electric mixer, slowly beat in 2 cups of powdered sugar and 3 tablespoons of cream, alternating between the two. Beat in a teaspoon of vanilla extract.

Apply liberally to the cooled cake, and taste immediately.

Snow Trip

Night has fallen here in Tahoe, a hidden moon, an abundance of snow-light.

Sitting on a couch over-run with pillows, blankets, and exhausted teens, cozy in their post-dinner respite. One is reading, some look comatose, most are flocked around the pool table, shouting alliances and antagonisms. It's the third and final night of our annual snow trip. Everything's a mess, and no one cares.

Yesterday I skied a black diamond for the first time. The snow fell thick, my thighs burned, and my heart pumped me full of warmth as I struggled down the steepest slope I'd ever conquered. Afterwards, I went back to soaring down the blue runs, faster and faster, wetter and wetter.

Two hours ago I romped through the deep, thick powder on snow-shoes I hadn't worn since I lived in Vermont, nearly eight years ago.

Picture it: a forest of pines heavy with fresh snow, the last of the sun pinking a few wispy clouds, five of us huffing and stomping ungracefully up a hill to the most magnificent view of the stony lake. We stopped. We sent snow balls and discs rolling down the slant and watched the waves grow rough and dark. For those few moments, all we could hear was the crunch of the snow and the holler of our laughter.

A Nearly Perfect Sunday

A nearly perfect Sunday looks like blue sky sunshine after a week of stormy drizzle, cold enough for jeans but warm enough to sit out in the old cemetery with your iced coffee and ginger scone listening to your honey-pie's sweet voice mingle with the birdsong. Fancy footwork through the muddy paths and dewy morning grasses.

A nearly perfect February Sunday looks like streets rinsed clean and shiny, like windows opened up, dirt being swept down the steps, the comforter draped over the shrubbery outside. Four stacks of paperbacks on the sidewalk. It looks like air touches everything.

It looks like three writers at a coffee shop sharing their momentum with each other. Only writers could call it a submitting party, on a Sunday so nearly perfect because you release some stories from your lap-top, get a sore back from so much writing.

A nearly perfect Sunday smells of smoked Gouda and steamed broccoli and pine-fresh hardwood floors. It's the hot shower waiting at the end of the day.

It's the memory of what makes you cry, what made you cry just last night, and the shock of coming home and finding nearly all the books gone from the sidewalk, four stacks of paperbacks gone, given away, working their way now into other people's lives, hearts.

Clearly Beloved

Copy and Paste the link below to see my new cover story in this week's Bohemian :)

I had so much fun researching this piece--got to interview some savvy therapists, dear friends, and other people who just stumbled into my path. Also got to revisit Elizabeth Gilbert in her new book "Committed" which, I must admit, is quite good. All in all, a very satisfying way to bring in a few extra bucks.

And now, on this gorgeous Saturday afternoon, I'm heading down to the city for my good friend Raina's bridal shower. I was just reminiscing about the first time we ever hung out, a good seven years ago, at the Russian River Brewery. I cracked her up by ordering a root beer. I'm grateful that some things never change.


http://www.bohemian.com/bohemian/02.09.11/feature-1106.html

Quiet

I have the house to myself this weekend, for the first time in months.

And though I love the company of my husband, there is something luxurious about waking up, making tea and eggs, firing up the heat and opening up the blinds, in complete silence. I will read on the couch in the slant of sunlight. I might brave the local pool for an hour of laps. Or bike to the park with a journal and an apple in my backpack.

On this lovely Saturday, hours spreading their wings before me, I have no real plans other than to seek stillness in my solitude.

Up Here

Blog-neglecting busy lately, but in the best possible way!

For the first time ever, I feel like a real writer, and though I know that blogging and journaling and poetry are all valid forms of writing, there is nothing like seeing my name in print. Fingertips smudging the words I labored over at my kitchen table for days. Even more thrilling: getting to conduct interviews, chase down stories, sort the truths from the half-truths in the deep well of Internet research.

On Tuesday afternoon (thanks to a glorious day off of school) I got to interview Pulitzer Prize-winning nationally-recognized animated cartoonist Mark Fiore, at his studio in an undisclosed location in San Francisco. I thought I might melt with anxiety and anticipation. We talked for an hour, my papers sprouting notes like weeds, and when it was over, I drove straight to a cozy cafe and pounded out my story. Now it just needs some serious tinkering, which my obsessive mind sometimes takes a wee too seriously. I know I'm being overly dramatic here, but I don't want to wind up like poor Joan Rivers, driven to do nothing but work for some idealized perfection, too consumed to enjoy the fresh air and birdies.

Luckily, my other life as a teacher keeps me grounded and humble. On Monday we took a field trip to San Francisco and had a grand time cruising the botanical gardens in Golden Gate Park before heading to the marina beach and the hyped-up House of Air, a giant warehouse filled with interconnecting trampolines. We jumped until we were sweaty, played trampoline dodge-ball, then jumped some more. By the end of our hour-long session, I'd learned how to literally jump off the walls. Afterward, on the way back home, In and Out Burger never tasted so good.

The pinnacle of relaxation happened a couple of weeks ago, when M and I went to Osmosis spa for enzyme baths (the perfect wedding gift). We drank tea in a private meditation room overlooking a Japanese garden with a waterfall. Then we sank into a hot bath full of pencil-shavings (not really, but that's what it looks like) heated to 130 degrees by the natural fermentation of enzymes eating away at the sawdust. Like fancy, detoxifying, skin-enriching compost. An attendant came by with cool cloths for our faces and sips of water. Afterward I felt light, smooth, and ravenously hungry.

We ate a four course Italian meal at Negri's restaurant in the perfect 19th century village of Occidental. I sipped grenadine and munched on salami and pickled cauliflower and felt like I was on vacation. We climbed the hill above the white church, breathing hard in the cool evening fog, a huge lit-up peace sign reigning over everything. No success in the world like feeling peaceful and content in your own body, your own life.

Exploding Myths

In 2011, let's hear it for myth-busting. Yep. I'd like to challenge my dearly-held beliefs about myself and my life to a round in the ring.

“I don't like the cold.” It's true that I am a summer creature at heart, but this should not mean that each winter Saturday that dawns gloomy must besmirch my mood. No more letting myself succumb to interior rainy weather just because the sun refuses to shine. Yesterday I took an epic muddy bike ride all around Spring Lake, came home with icy hands and ears, but felt amazing.

“I have no time to write.” Just a week into the new year and already this one's been knocked about. If I have deadlines, I have (I make!) the time to write, and somehow I always end up finishing something I'm at the least not embarrassed of, but often that I really like. Now, I know those literary magazines out there are not waiting around for my essays, so I've got to figure out a way to impose deadlines on myself, to actually finish tinkering, and release my words by submitting them.

“At 32, life is ripening too rapidly, I'm getting too old to...” This is just poppycock lunacy that I succumb to in my worst moments, like when I feel wiped out after a late night in San Francisco. I refuse to go gray-hair searching in the mirror just to make myself feel bad anymore! And: if I can learn Auld Lang Syne on the piano by reading the notes, I can still learn all kinds of songs.

“There is nothing to do in Sonoma County.” After nearly eight years in this county, sometimes it feels like I've explored every last forest meadow and beach cove, have seen the same bands too many times, have strolled the same neighborhood streets in the same little towns over and over again. And yet. I know there are still plenty of rocks to overturn. Just this past Friday, in fact, I took some students hiking at Shiloh Regional Park, a wholly new slice of green foggy goodness, and M and I discovered the Schulz museum's movie night: Alfred Hitchcock and candy bars for only three bucks each.

“I lack discipline for rituals.” Maybe it's my Catholic upbringing, but I absolutely love ritualistic living, prayers before meals and reading before bed-time. I want to take my spiritual exploration to new heights in order to better ground myself and enhance my marriage. Focusing on intentions and releasing worries are things that are easy to talk about, harder to actually do. Last Sunday, finally home after our harrowing travel experience, M and I took all of our travel-related documents and set them aflame atop our altar in the garden. Then we took turns throwing poppers on the pavement and shouting our good-byes to the junk of last year.