Just back from an impromptu camping trip that bequeathed four wholesome days and three nights without showering, being indoors, touching a keyboard, or looking at a screen. I feel refreshed, grateful, clean, and flummoxed. What do I do with myself? Take another walk? Photograph the exquisite wild roses growing by the back porch? Prepare to start teaching Hamlet tomorrow? Respond to e-mails? Blog?
Too many choices and commitments and distractions flood my life.
I love being away from all of it.
I love traveling more than anything (except writing)
(And M) 7 mos ago I wed him :)
There is a magic for me in experiencing life blow by blow, not knowing who or what or where or when. I'll never forget the terrible excitement of landing in Bangkok the first time, at midnight, without a plan of any kind.
I love the surprises of travel.
Even this long unexpected Easter weekend yielded a few...
... a super cheap and quiet campground for ten bucks a night,
that just happens to be on a military fort in the valley of the oaks,
a surreal place of army jeeps, camouflage, target practice, rivers, wildflowers, lone roads, and lots of merry cottontails, including one little rascal that raced our car.
... a remote mission where we went to Easter mass with a bunch of soldiers and cute squirmy babies, and where the first ever Christian marriage in California took place.
... our own Eden, just a short mile hike from the campsite: we bathed in a cool flowing river while swallows performed in the afternoon sunlight.
... a big ole hike at pinnacles, through caves and up steep deserted trails, watching our food supply dwindle right down to a humble evening meal of tortillas, veggies, cheese, instant soup, red vines, whiskey cokes, and of course, roasted marshmallows.
What I loved most was the fire.
Each night I'd just stand (stretch, dance, gyrate)
close by the fire,
watching it go from twiggy to fierce to smoky
to nothing but a bunch of sparkly orange nuggets
whose captured heat I took with me
into the cozy tent.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Fiction
I'm obsessed with fiction these days--writing it (or trying to), reading it, studying it, wishing I could use it to re-write my own reality. If I could, I'd edit out my allergy attack on Saturday, which left my eyes swollen and goopy, and the really gross enchilada I ate on Friday out of desperate hunger and thriftiness.
I'd alter a couple of things, too: less people at the packed roller derby match on Saturday so me and the Nonesuch kids could all sit together, and more money back on our tax return. Oh, and how about 9 comments on my last blog entry. (Okay, I'd settle for just 1...)
Still, the weekend also yielded a few story-perfect moments that need no revising: moon-light bright enough to burn, a tender new dahlia shoot, a new bike trail that led to a new journal-writing rock, a sweet bug-exploding hike with Zoe.
And today, on a misty gray Monday afternoon, there's the supreme satisfaction of clicking on www.shareable.net and seeing not one, but two pieces written by yours truly: one about how to throw a DIY wedding, another an interview with T.C. Boyle. Check them out!
I'd alter a couple of things, too: less people at the packed roller derby match on Saturday so me and the Nonesuch kids could all sit together, and more money back on our tax return. Oh, and how about 9 comments on my last blog entry. (Okay, I'd settle for just 1...)
Still, the weekend also yielded a few story-perfect moments that need no revising: moon-light bright enough to burn, a tender new dahlia shoot, a new bike trail that led to a new journal-writing rock, a sweet bug-exploding hike with Zoe.
And today, on a misty gray Monday afternoon, there's the supreme satisfaction of clicking on www.shareable.net and seeing not one, but two pieces written by yours truly: one about how to throw a DIY wedding, another an interview with T.C. Boyle. Check them out!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Ruined
On Tuesday evening I saw the play "Ruined" at the Berkeley Rep. It's about the civil war that continues to rage in the Congo, thanks to the tragic irony that one of the poorest countries in the world also happens to be one rich in natural resources: gold, diamonds, tin, copper, petroleum, and coltan (short for columbite-tantalite, which is used as a high-charge conductor for cell phones, laptops, and other electronic equipment). So as the world continues to crave Play Stations and digital cameras, miners dig through muddy pits at gunpoint (militias with AK-47s) and receive hardly any compensation even though the Congo exports a million dollars worth of coltan a day. But if you think this is the saddest part of the story, you're mistaken.
As "Ruined" beautifully reveals, the true casualties of the war are the women. In fact, the Democratic Republic of the Congo has been named the Rape Capital of the World because of the rampant abuse suffered by women who, as usual, are armed with babies instead of guns. Though the Pulitzer Prize-winning play, written by Lynn Nottage, is brutally honest in its devastation, it also manages to be funny, irreverent, and dare I say it, uplifting. Much like Dave Eggers' "What is the What," the story is so emotionally gripping that I couldn't stand for it to end.
Which brings me to my question, readers: what stories (plays, novels, shorts, etc) have broken your heart lately? How about when you were in high school? I'm looking for the right book (preferably female-authored!) for my eleventh graders to read this spring, after a year of Tony Kushner, Tennessee Williams, Aristophanes, and Jonathan Swift. Help!
As "Ruined" beautifully reveals, the true casualties of the war are the women. In fact, the Democratic Republic of the Congo has been named the Rape Capital of the World because of the rampant abuse suffered by women who, as usual, are armed with babies instead of guns. Though the Pulitzer Prize-winning play, written by Lynn Nottage, is brutally honest in its devastation, it also manages to be funny, irreverent, and dare I say it, uplifting. Much like Dave Eggers' "What is the What," the story is so emotionally gripping that I couldn't stand for it to end.
Which brings me to my question, readers: what stories (plays, novels, shorts, etc) have broken your heart lately? How about when you were in high school? I'm looking for the right book (preferably female-authored!) for my eleventh graders to read this spring, after a year of Tony Kushner, Tennessee Williams, Aristophanes, and Jonathan Swift. Help!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Spring (finally) Breaks
A perfectly-timed spring break is upon us, and as I face down a bleak forecast of gloomy rain, and our Santa Barbara camping trip threatens to become a Half Moon Bay hostel over-nighter, I reflect on some of my more memorable spring breaks:
1. Nothing like March in New England to make California rain seem like a holy benediction. Freshman year of college I desperately needed to earn some dough for my upcoming summer backpacking trip to Europe. Why else would I have agreed to alphabetize and label my dad's cavernous wine cellar? A perpetual fifty degrees inside, dirty rotten snow outside, bright fluorescent boredom, and a never-ending cavalcade of Merlot at eight bucks an hour. Of course, I realize now (despite the dingy memories) how very privileged I was.
2. By senior year of college I'd seen the light of Alternative Spring Break, the civic-minded undergrad's antidote to tequila-soaked foam parties in Cancun. So together with a dozen other rosy-cheeked college kids, I headed south in a giant conversion van thick with the smell of Doritos and expectation. We spent the week hammering houses into being with Habitat for Humanity in beautiful Almost Heaven, West Virginia. I remember the monotony of the work sometimes broken by jokes and stories and local kids. It's those moments of young-adult bonding--Audrey and I performing a dance routine for the talent show, the video we all made using kitchen utensils and food scraps late one night--that still burn brightest in the sanctuary of my memory.
3. There was that time I went to Vero Beach, Florida, with my first serious boyfriend who played golf every day while I swam and jogged the flat beaches and got the worst haircut I've ever had (and which still elicits horrified laughter from my sisters who were later charged with the task of chopping down the mushroom that had grown atop my head). What can I say? I was 23, making Kraft mac and cheese for dinner, and reading 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.' Some things, thankfully, really do change.
4. I've spent a couple of spring breaks down in Louisiana, where Easter looms large, warm, and eternally sunny. Eggs are boiled, dyed, and pock-pocked (which means they are knocked together to see which one breaks first), and sometimes eaten. And then there's the annual crawfish boil (solid proof of my Cajun roots). The whole family sitting outside around newspaper-covered tables heaped high with steaming red boiled crawfish and corn-on-the-cob will always and forever mean spring to me. Ditto Mom's sumptuous calla-lilies unfurling dramatically all over the yard.
5. The last two years M and I have taken to the road with a car full of camping gear, books, maps, and vague plans. Each time we found adventure: old saloon towns, windy cliffs, salt flats, LA hot tubs, occasional fast food, and glorious desert. This year, armed with home-baked calzone and 'Madame Bovary', who knows what we'll do?
Last night the storm clouds obscured the biggest-in-18-years 'super' moon as Nonesuch rocked a sold-out benefit featuring David Grisman and the haunts of my boyfriends past. I had so much fun joking around the silent auction tables with the co-workers, students, and parents I've done this with for years, who have seen me grow into a married woman, who have become my community. I had so much fun taking tickets at the door, swaying to a legendary mandolin player, eating cake, and amusing the kids with my (wine-loosened:) southern accent.
1. Nothing like March in New England to make California rain seem like a holy benediction. Freshman year of college I desperately needed to earn some dough for my upcoming summer backpacking trip to Europe. Why else would I have agreed to alphabetize and label my dad's cavernous wine cellar? A perpetual fifty degrees inside, dirty rotten snow outside, bright fluorescent boredom, and a never-ending cavalcade of Merlot at eight bucks an hour. Of course, I realize now (despite the dingy memories) how very privileged I was.
2. By senior year of college I'd seen the light of Alternative Spring Break, the civic-minded undergrad's antidote to tequila-soaked foam parties in Cancun. So together with a dozen other rosy-cheeked college kids, I headed south in a giant conversion van thick with the smell of Doritos and expectation. We spent the week hammering houses into being with Habitat for Humanity in beautiful Almost Heaven, West Virginia. I remember the monotony of the work sometimes broken by jokes and stories and local kids. It's those moments of young-adult bonding--Audrey and I performing a dance routine for the talent show, the video we all made using kitchen utensils and food scraps late one night--that still burn brightest in the sanctuary of my memory.
3. There was that time I went to Vero Beach, Florida, with my first serious boyfriend who played golf every day while I swam and jogged the flat beaches and got the worst haircut I've ever had (and which still elicits horrified laughter from my sisters who were later charged with the task of chopping down the mushroom that had grown atop my head). What can I say? I was 23, making Kraft mac and cheese for dinner, and reading 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.' Some things, thankfully, really do change.
4. I've spent a couple of spring breaks down in Louisiana, where Easter looms large, warm, and eternally sunny. Eggs are boiled, dyed, and pock-pocked (which means they are knocked together to see which one breaks first), and sometimes eaten. And then there's the annual crawfish boil (solid proof of my Cajun roots). The whole family sitting outside around newspaper-covered tables heaped high with steaming red boiled crawfish and corn-on-the-cob will always and forever mean spring to me. Ditto Mom's sumptuous calla-lilies unfurling dramatically all over the yard.
5. The last two years M and I have taken to the road with a car full of camping gear, books, maps, and vague plans. Each time we found adventure: old saloon towns, windy cliffs, salt flats, LA hot tubs, occasional fast food, and glorious desert. This year, armed with home-baked calzone and 'Madame Bovary', who knows what we'll do?
Last night the storm clouds obscured the biggest-in-18-years 'super' moon as Nonesuch rocked a sold-out benefit featuring David Grisman and the haunts of my boyfriends past. I had so much fun joking around the silent auction tables with the co-workers, students, and parents I've done this with for years, who have seen me grow into a married woman, who have become my community. I had so much fun taking tickets at the door, swaying to a legendary mandolin player, eating cake, and amusing the kids with my (wine-loosened:) southern accent.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Ten Year-Old Tomfoolery
There's a little boy on a bike at the stoplight. He can't be more than nine years old, maybe ten. I pull up behind him in my car--three hours of Saturday country driving and I'm hungry, ready to get home.
The light is taking its sweet time, so I notice a few things: he's wearing glasses, thin-rimmed it seems, and he's got ear-buds in both ears. No helmet. Khaki pants, short-sleeves, fat mountain bike tires. He's so small! Do his parents know he's cruising the busy Rosa streets, sans helmet? How can he possibly hear the bleat of a horn?
Green, finally. His front tire goes wobbly as he rises on his pedals. We each give a cursory glance as I drive past him. Just a little boy. In the rear-view I see him gaining momentum, pumping fast. Charming. I ease over and shift into reverse, the perfect parking spot. M and I are worried, about his safety, his hearing, his (lack of?) parental guidance.
But just as I turn off the ignition with an afternoon sigh, he comes sailing past, hands behind his head, feet propped on the handlebars, steering. A daredevil on wheels; the freedom of a Saturday afternoon. We laugh so hard we tear up.
The light is taking its sweet time, so I notice a few things: he's wearing glasses, thin-rimmed it seems, and he's got ear-buds in both ears. No helmet. Khaki pants, short-sleeves, fat mountain bike tires. He's so small! Do his parents know he's cruising the busy Rosa streets, sans helmet? How can he possibly hear the bleat of a horn?
Green, finally. His front tire goes wobbly as he rises on his pedals. We each give a cursory glance as I drive past him. Just a little boy. In the rear-view I see him gaining momentum, pumping fast. Charming. I ease over and shift into reverse, the perfect parking spot. M and I are worried, about his safety, his hearing, his (lack of?) parental guidance.
But just as I turn off the ignition with an afternoon sigh, he comes sailing past, hands behind his head, feet propped on the handlebars, steering. A daredevil on wheels; the freedom of a Saturday afternoon. We laugh so hard we tear up.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
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.
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.
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