Tuesday, May 19, 2009 | Cooking, Play, Spring |
Have been worrying about how I’m going to balance the multiple demands of that delicate witching hour, 4-5, now that the weather is gorgeous and my toddler wants to play outside with the big kids. Can’t be in two places at once. Well, this may be my fate (and our neighbours’): me shouting every minute and a half out the open windows, “Who can see CJ??” Thank heavens for good fences.
On the other hand, my shouting is probably the least of our neighbours’ noise concerns, given the cacophony of construction orchestration going on outside our front door. This is the clearly marked “Road Closed” sign, which I ran out just now to photograph because it WILL NOT LAST. In fact, Kev informs me that the line-up of pylons has already been dismantled by some enterprising driver in a hurry. I am striving not to let it bug me lest I morph into one of our neighbours, whom I shall refer to as The Mayor of W Street, who lives to be the bearer of bad news, and is on a quest to smite those who commit all and any minor by-law and traffic infractions. He’s also sometimes generous, and this afternoon left for us, without a word of explanation, this little red wagon.
Monday, May 18, 2009 | Kids, Spring, Writing |
Monday, May 18, 2009 | Writing |
Writing day, and I’m afraid to tackle this opening story. The project feels close to its end, and rather than filling me with delight, I’m slowing down, dragging heels, aware of enchroaching emptiness.
I almost never watch television, so it seemed fated that last night, while folding mountains of laundry, I should switch on the glowing box and be immediately confronted by gorgeous, haunting black and white photographs, swept into the middle of a documentary on Sally Mann, a photographer whose body of work has been intensely personal, and controversial. Her own three children were and are her subjects, as is the land she lives on. The documentary follows her journey to create a new collection called “What Remains,” which is about death; the show is planned for a major gallery in New York who cancel at the last minute. The camera captures her shock and self-doubt and grief at rejection, and her husband’s grief too, and his silence, how he has no way to comfort her other than to listen and be present, and I turned to Kevin and just stared, struck dumb. She was saying the same words I say, at low moments, yet how could she possibly doubt, when what she’d created was so obviously of merit and worth and beauty? That moment also gave me a glimpse of what it must feel like to be the one absorbing that grief, on the artist’s behalf. Later, as she walks with her son in the woods, she says that it doesn’t matter if what she’s making is going to sell, she has to make it. She has no choice. I was in tears. It felt very close to the bone.
Her photographs are eventually shown in a museum in Washington D.C., and well-reviewed and celebrated.
My stories … well, it’s presumptuous to compare myself to someone who has succeeded as an artist; my success feels transient, and sporadic, and there’s no telling whether these years of work will this time add up to something of beauty and merit, but I felt a kinship watching her struggle, mourn, reflect, create. It’s a blessing and curse to want to translate experience into art–not just to want to, but to do it. The work involved. Working toward an end you can’t see until you find it. Will it be whole, or still-born? All these infinitessimal choices along the way that shape the final artifact, that leave you wondering–why this and not that? So much room for criticism, self and other. There’s the artifact created, and the one intended, and the multiple ones that might have been.
At times I question whether I’m too patient, too painstaking. A year feels like nothing to me anymore, writing-wise. Will I rest, at peace with this project, or will I keep chasing the ones that might have been? How will I know when I’ve arrived? Is it only when someone else tells me so? (Hair Hat might never have been finished either, in my mind, had it not been picked up for publication). Can I accept and find an ending in solitude?
The answer might be … no. Which is terrifying. Which is why I’m typing this, and not that.
Saturday, May 16, 2009 | Local Food, Soccer |
That previous post was too long. Note to self: no drinking & blogging. Above, our first local food of the season … green onions grown in neighbour Nina’s garden!! Wow. Things this tall and edible are growing in gardens around us right now. I hadn’t realized how starved I was for fresh and green–woke bright and early to fantasize about market morning and to make a list–then sent my hobbling husband with two children. And here this post shall end, perhaps too soon; but it’s soccer in the park. Which means it must be raining. Or just about to.
Friday, May 15, 2009 | Local Food |
Local food round-up … wow, that’s really fallen off this blog’s radar, and the truth is in the evidence: we really haven’t been eating very much local food. That’s because March and April may well be the worst months for local eating in our neck of the planetary woods. The root veggies are wilty, pitiful, diminished, the cans have dwindled, and ain’t nothing coming out of the earth; yet. Except now we”ve reached May, and I keep hearing rumours of fiddleheads! asparagus! baby greens! So this Saturday my list-to-accomplish will include to market, to market, to get us some fresh-picked edible spring greenery. Thankfully, Nina’s buying club starts up again May 29th.
That’s my last bag of frozen tomatoes, pictured above, cooking in a pot earlier this week, with tofu, onions, garlic, and spices (only the garlic is local, too). Last bag! We would have arrived here earlier had friends (thanks, friends!) not brought us meals during The Knee episode, now thankfully disappearing in our family’s rearview mirror. (Have I mentioned how much easier EVERYTHING seems with Kevin upright and bendable again? Everything. And I still take the recycling and trash out sometimes, just because I like how tidy it looks when I’m in charge of arranging the … good grief, perfectionism is a curse … please explain how I can possibly experience a thrill of satisfaction to glimpse through the front window the garbage can-recycling bin-recycling bin trio, taking pride in their well-ordered contents).
Now, that was an aside.
So. Er. Local food. Last tomatoes. Tomatoes, we knew you well, we ate you often, now you’re gone.
Strawberries and rhubarb, not so much. How few desserts did I make this winter starring strawberries and rhubarb, that loveable duo? Apparently fewer than anticipated. So
here’s a link to a pleasant rhubarb muffin recipe, should any readers be in the same boat (you can add more rhubarb than the recipe suggests). I made them for playgroup. No photos. Shoot. Someday I’ll take pictures at playgroup and share the happy chaos, the muffin crumbs, the over-caffeinated adults.
Another rhubarb and strawberry recipe worth sharing (Fooey and I made this together earlier in the week) comes in loaf form. I’ll call it Strawbarb Loaf. Because I’m drinking a glass of red wine right now, that’s why.
Strawbarb Loaf (adapted from Simply in Season)
Mix together 2 cups flour, 1 cup whole wheat flour–or all whole wheat, if you wish–3/4 cup brown sugar, 3/4 cup white sugar, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon baking soda, 2 teaspoons cinnamon–more if you like the flavour. Add 2 and 1/2 cups rhubarb and strawberries (combined total; frozen fine), 1 and 1/3 cups oil, and 4 eggs. Stir just until combined. Pour into two greased loaf pans. Bake for 1 hour at 350 or till done.
I’m guessing any fruit would be suitably substitutible. That’s so not a word. I’m not even going to spellcheck it.
Enjoy.
Have been worrying about how I’m going to balance the multiple demands of that delicate witching hour, 4-5, now that the weather is gorgeous and my toddler wants to play outside with the big kids. Can’t be in two places at once. Well, this may be my fate (and our neighbours’): me shouting every minute and a half out the open windows, “Who can see CJ??” Thank heavens for good fences. 
