Monday, November 27, 2006
Thanksgiving.
I had a complicated childhood, the details of which are too numerous to try to explain here. What I can say is this: children need homes with two loving, caring, graceful and honest parents. They also need laughter in their homes.
I love to cook. I'm not sure where I cultivated this desire. Perhaps it was because my stepfather owned a restaurant. Perhaps it was because I work at a gourmet market. Perhaps its because my stepmom never let me in the kitchen. I love to cook and I love to cook for people that I love. Last night, I roasted pork with cranberries in a dijon, garlic and rosemary sauce. It was lovely to know that as I spent my day knitting and reading, that my oven was working on something delicious for Sarah, Ryan and Bryan.
Thanksgiving, for the past five or six years, has been somewhat difficult for me. I start marketing the holiday and writing about amazing recipes and unique products as early as August. And then I show up at my parents' house and eat the same old stuffing, the same old frozen butterball turkey, the same old crescent rolls from Pillsbury. No free-range turkey, no sage and apple and sausage stuffing. No buttermilk mashed potatoes. And no way that I would be invited or allowed or desired to help in the kitchen. That is my stepmom's territory and my hands would just mess up her kitchen. My role is to make small talk, to stay out of the way.
I like to feel useful. I like to be productive. To stand back, to not feel needed, crushes my spirit.
This year was different. A few months ago, Bryan's mom asked me to help her for Thanksgiving. She's an amazing cook, creative and passionate. She loves others by serving them food, by making them comfortable in her home. She's always offering a cup of tea, a homemade biscotti, homemade meatballs, whatever it is that her sons, husband and guests need to be just a little more comfortable. I adore her. I understand her.
It was such a joy assisting her in the kitchen last week. From rolling out pie dough (made from scratch by Bryan) to assisting in a last-minute Martha Stewart green bean casserole recipe, the two of us danced and laughed through the kitchen, miraculously not running into one another. I was being useful. I was being productive.
She let me set the table. She asked my opinion on recipes. When I asked to help, she said yes.
I feel like I got a glimpse of what family can be, what it was designed to be. It's not alienation and pefection. It's a dirty kitchen, a burned casserole and a small bowl of sage and apple and sausage stuffing, just for me.
I had a complicated childhood, the details of which are too numerous to try to explain here. What I can say is this: children need homes with two loving, caring, graceful and honest parents. They also need laughter in their homes.
I love to cook. I'm not sure where I cultivated this desire. Perhaps it was because my stepfather owned a restaurant. Perhaps it was because I work at a gourmet market. Perhaps its because my stepmom never let me in the kitchen. I love to cook and I love to cook for people that I love. Last night, I roasted pork with cranberries in a dijon, garlic and rosemary sauce. It was lovely to know that as I spent my day knitting and reading, that my oven was working on something delicious for Sarah, Ryan and Bryan.
Thanksgiving, for the past five or six years, has been somewhat difficult for me. I start marketing the holiday and writing about amazing recipes and unique products as early as August. And then I show up at my parents' house and eat the same old stuffing, the same old frozen butterball turkey, the same old crescent rolls from Pillsbury. No free-range turkey, no sage and apple and sausage stuffing. No buttermilk mashed potatoes. And no way that I would be invited or allowed or desired to help in the kitchen. That is my stepmom's territory and my hands would just mess up her kitchen. My role is to make small talk, to stay out of the way.
I like to feel useful. I like to be productive. To stand back, to not feel needed, crushes my spirit.
This year was different. A few months ago, Bryan's mom asked me to help her for Thanksgiving. She's an amazing cook, creative and passionate. She loves others by serving them food, by making them comfortable in her home. She's always offering a cup of tea, a homemade biscotti, homemade meatballs, whatever it is that her sons, husband and guests need to be just a little more comfortable. I adore her. I understand her.
It was such a joy assisting her in the kitchen last week. From rolling out pie dough (made from scratch by Bryan) to assisting in a last-minute Martha Stewart green bean casserole recipe, the two of us danced and laughed through the kitchen, miraculously not running into one another. I was being useful. I was being productive.
She let me set the table. She asked my opinion on recipes. When I asked to help, she said yes.
I feel like I got a glimpse of what family can be, what it was designed to be. It's not alienation and pefection. It's a dirty kitchen, a burned casserole and a small bowl of sage and apple and sausage stuffing, just for me.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Happy Things.
Blue State.
Okay. So Ohio isn't exactly a blue state now, but we're a blue-r state. And that gives me a glimmer of hope. I've never been so into midterm elections as I was this year. For the last two major elections, I woke up the next morning with disappointment. I remember the first time Dubya ran for president. I fell asleep on my couch in Athens, listening to National Public Radio, hoping, hoping. Hope paid off, perhaps a little late. But still.
Exit Poll.
So I voted this year at a Kroger in my old neighborhood. (Bad, I know. I need to re-register.) As I was leaving, CBS and the New York Times did an exit poll. I was *very* pleased to "throw" the statistics by saying that a) I voted for the D's, b) I voted against Dubya, c) I voted against Dubya last time and d) I consider myself a "born-again Christian." Take that right wing conservative Christians! I love Jesus AND am intelligent enough to think for myself!
Damien Rice.
His new album came out today. I'm currently listening to it for the first time. I've been kind of loyal to iTunes recently. Which explains how record stores are going out of business. (I read this morning that Tower is shutting its doors. The only time I've been in a Tower was in Seattle to buy the Decemberists albums directly after listening to them at Bumbershoot.)
My Mom.
A small army of us crashed at her new place in Northeast Ohio and I realized that this is possibly the first time since I was two years old that we both have our permanent addresses in the same state. It was so cool to see her, so awesome to have her interact with my friends, so comforting. I think that there must be something about mothers that provide immediate comfort for their children. I see it with Bryan and his mom, with my roommate Ryan and her mom. And now, I can appreciate it with my mom. I love her so much.
Broken Social Scene.
This concert, at the House of Blues in Cleveland, was, by far, the best concert that I've ever seen. That means that it tops front row seats for Tom Waits in Seattle, a rainy show with Damien Rice at Bonnaroo, and even a very intimate Canadian concert with Tim Friedman of the Whitlams a few years ago. We had balcony seats. When Do Make Say Think opened I knew the show was just going to get better and better. By the end of the show, at the edge of my seat, a few beers away from running on stage and dancing my ass off. Good stuff. So good.
Christmas Presents.
I did some internet shopping this year, and Bryan's Christmas presents arrived on my doorstep yesterday. I'm very excited about a) avoiding the malls and b) getting mail that isn't bills. Even though said "mail" is for other people. I feel like people have been doing internet shopping for years, and I'm a little behind. But still, it's fun and easy. It's going to be so hard not to tell him what he's getting, but I'll try to keep my mouth shut. (Chances are, if give me a beer, I'll leak the secret to you, dear reader.)
Rosemary Chicken.
I had roasted rosemary chicken for lunch yesterday and it was lovely. Rosemary is one of the most wonderful things in the world. That's all I got.
Blue State.
Okay. So Ohio isn't exactly a blue state now, but we're a blue-r state. And that gives me a glimmer of hope. I've never been so into midterm elections as I was this year. For the last two major elections, I woke up the next morning with disappointment. I remember the first time Dubya ran for president. I fell asleep on my couch in Athens, listening to National Public Radio, hoping, hoping. Hope paid off, perhaps a little late. But still.
Exit Poll.
So I voted this year at a Kroger in my old neighborhood. (Bad, I know. I need to re-register.) As I was leaving, CBS and the New York Times did an exit poll. I was *very* pleased to "throw" the statistics by saying that a) I voted for the D's, b) I voted against Dubya, c) I voted against Dubya last time and d) I consider myself a "born-again Christian." Take that right wing conservative Christians! I love Jesus AND am intelligent enough to think for myself!
Damien Rice.
His new album came out today. I'm currently listening to it for the first time. I've been kind of loyal to iTunes recently. Which explains how record stores are going out of business. (I read this morning that Tower is shutting its doors. The only time I've been in a Tower was in Seattle to buy the Decemberists albums directly after listening to them at Bumbershoot.)
My Mom.
A small army of us crashed at her new place in Northeast Ohio and I realized that this is possibly the first time since I was two years old that we both have our permanent addresses in the same state. It was so cool to see her, so awesome to have her interact with my friends, so comforting. I think that there must be something about mothers that provide immediate comfort for their children. I see it with Bryan and his mom, with my roommate Ryan and her mom. And now, I can appreciate it with my mom. I love her so much.
Broken Social Scene.
This concert, at the House of Blues in Cleveland, was, by far, the best concert that I've ever seen. That means that it tops front row seats for Tom Waits in Seattle, a rainy show with Damien Rice at Bonnaroo, and even a very intimate Canadian concert with Tim Friedman of the Whitlams a few years ago. We had balcony seats. When Do Make Say Think opened I knew the show was just going to get better and better. By the end of the show, at the edge of my seat, a few beers away from running on stage and dancing my ass off. Good stuff. So good.
Christmas Presents.
I did some internet shopping this year, and Bryan's Christmas presents arrived on my doorstep yesterday. I'm very excited about a) avoiding the malls and b) getting mail that isn't bills. Even though said "mail" is for other people. I feel like people have been doing internet shopping for years, and I'm a little behind. But still, it's fun and easy. It's going to be so hard not to tell him what he's getting, but I'll try to keep my mouth shut. (Chances are, if give me a beer, I'll leak the secret to you, dear reader.)
Rosemary Chicken.
I had roasted rosemary chicken for lunch yesterday and it was lovely. Rosemary is one of the most wonderful things in the world. That's all I got.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Filing System.
This is how I keep organized at work. Scotch tape, red walls and a few doodles here and there. The turkey is my favorite, I think. The photos are pictures that I took from a solo wedding jaunt to Cincinnatti. I got lost on my way to the wedding, as well as on my way to the hotel. The top photo is of wine bottles. I didn't take the photo, but I've used it in plenty of illustrations. If you look closely to the image of the man next to the photos, you'll see my most famous dance move.
This is how I keep organized at work. Scotch tape, red walls and a few doodles here and there. The turkey is my favorite, I think. The photos are pictures that I took from a solo wedding jaunt to Cincinnatti. I got lost on my way to the wedding, as well as on my way to the hotel. The top photo is of wine bottles. I didn't take the photo, but I've used it in plenty of illustrations. If you look closely to the image of the man next to the photos, you'll see my most famous dance move.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Craft Bee.
It's getting cold out and I've been finding myself with the urge to make things - warm things. Last night a few of us ladies got together and worked on our yarn projects while gabbing the hours away. (And, possibly, having a glass of wine and a cookie or two.) I'm definitely on a crafter's high, and I've decided that it's in my blood.
My maternal grandmother, from whom I received my middle name, Lateer (her maiden name) had looms in her craft room and a wall full of yarn. Wool was her medium and fortunately for her children and grandchildren, she always had a project or two going on. I have a few of her projects; a green woven diaper bag, a light blue baby blanket (that my mother set aside for me before it got ruined) and placemats. Every grandchild received a set of placemats as a wedding gift. When she passed away a few years back, I received mine in advance.
I always wanted to learn how to weave. When I was a teenager, I had reveries of going up to Constantine, Michigan and spending a summer with my grandparents so that I could learn the craft, and, eventually, inherit one of the looms. I never did make it up there and the looms - highly impractical to transport and store - were sold. But I've somehow still inherited her love for fiberarts, for the texture of yarn. I love to run my fingers over delicate wools, to dream about alpaca, cashmere, merino.
I have craftiness on my father's side of the family, as well. Every night, when I climb into my bed, I snuggle under a hand-sewn quilt made by my great grandmother. Granny Ford made large beautiful quilts that found their way to contests and bees. She left each grandchild a quilt and I received mine during my freshman year of college, with a whisper from my aunt to handed to me, "Granny wanted me to tell you girls that she wants you to use these. She doesn't want them to be put aside. They're meant to be loved." So my quilt is loved. I use it every night and dream that someday I might have the patience - and eyesight - to hand-stitch a quilt.
Right now, though, I'm working on a project of my own. I'd love to talk about it, but it's a secret. Christmas is coming, you know. And because I can't help it, I'm adding more links to the side. I've been stung.
It's getting cold out and I've been finding myself with the urge to make things - warm things. Last night a few of us ladies got together and worked on our yarn projects while gabbing the hours away. (And, possibly, having a glass of wine and a cookie or two.) I'm definitely on a crafter's high, and I've decided that it's in my blood.
My maternal grandmother, from whom I received my middle name, Lateer (her maiden name) had looms in her craft room and a wall full of yarn. Wool was her medium and fortunately for her children and grandchildren, she always had a project or two going on. I have a few of her projects; a green woven diaper bag, a light blue baby blanket (that my mother set aside for me before it got ruined) and placemats. Every grandchild received a set of placemats as a wedding gift. When she passed away a few years back, I received mine in advance.
I always wanted to learn how to weave. When I was a teenager, I had reveries of going up to Constantine, Michigan and spending a summer with my grandparents so that I could learn the craft, and, eventually, inherit one of the looms. I never did make it up there and the looms - highly impractical to transport and store - were sold. But I've somehow still inherited her love for fiberarts, for the texture of yarn. I love to run my fingers over delicate wools, to dream about alpaca, cashmere, merino.
I have craftiness on my father's side of the family, as well. Every night, when I climb into my bed, I snuggle under a hand-sewn quilt made by my great grandmother. Granny Ford made large beautiful quilts that found their way to contests and bees. She left each grandchild a quilt and I received mine during my freshman year of college, with a whisper from my aunt to handed to me, "Granny wanted me to tell you girls that she wants you to use these. She doesn't want them to be put aside. They're meant to be loved." So my quilt is loved. I use it every night and dream that someday I might have the patience - and eyesight - to hand-stitch a quilt.
Right now, though, I'm working on a project of my own. I'd love to talk about it, but it's a secret. Christmas is coming, you know. And because I can't help it, I'm adding more links to the side. I've been stung.
