The Desert Baedeker | arid colloquy

Winter Updates

2012-01-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

One would have thought that I would have more time for writing and updating during my winter break. But here, on my last day in Idaho, I realize that was probably a silly thing to assume, especially with the uncharacteristically warm days and the lack of snow on the ground. My dad and I put up goat fencing at the new farm acreage and did some clean-up. I've been cooking a lot of good food.

Here's a few tidbits for your pleasure of things that have recently caught my attention:
1. The Liberation, a film by Christoph Green and Brendan Canty.

THE LIBERATION is about a side of Washington, DC that is seldom acknowledged. DC is a city of contrasts. The upper class has limited interaction with DC's less advantaged citizens and knows little of the helplessness they feel. The rampant drug culture, poverty, and resultant criminal activity leaves many Washingtonians in the prison system for much of their lives, only to face corporate policies designed to exclude them upon their release. Recidivism is extremely common for ex-convicts. With nowhere to go and no jobs available to them, they return over and over again to drugs, crime, poverty, and prison. DC Central Kitchen and its culinary training program is helping to change the lives of these citizens who deserve a second chance.
DC Central Kitchen, located two blocks from the US Capitol building, and in the basement of one of the largest shelters in America, is a revolutionary training program that actively goes out searching for the people that need their help the most. These are people who have hit rock bottom, and who are truly ready to turn their lives around. Over 14 weeks, DC Central Kitchen teaches them how to get along with others, confront their demons, and how to cut and cook, cater and serve, and ultimately gain access to the nicest restaurants in DC.
Full employment is the goal of the program, but along the way there are plenty who don't make it. Drug tests, old habits and, self destruction are always the elephant in the room. The film will follow several of these folks as they work through the program and make an effort to beat the cycle of poverty, drugs, addiction and violence.
The directors are currently raising production funding through Kickstarter. Production money will help them shoot the entire 14-week culinary program this winter.
Please take a moment to watch the trailer and support production of this important film.

THE LIBERATION (on kickstarter)http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/895433958/the-liberation

THE LIBERATION (Official Web Site)http://trixiefilm.com/liberation/

2. More on SOPA, and how the copyright industry is conning congress.

3. Scared about 2012? Don't be.

As far as for me:

1. I am attending the Montana Pork Producers meeting in Great Falls next week to continue my oral history thesis work. They contacted me after hearing from other organizations. I am very excited about this, and excited that people find my project interesting and worthwhile!

2. Planning the details of a wedding is more exciting than I imagined. I have been promoted as co-Maid of Honor for my best friend, Morgan, and it's been fun picking out dresses and rings and tracking down a good pair of shoes. Who knew? I spent a few fabulous days in Phoenix with the happy couple (to be legally and lawfully wed)--and they are beautiful people.

3. I go back to Missoula tomorrow.

Fall Term 2011 - COMPLETION

2011-12-15T06:54:00.000-08:00

I officially turned in my final project last night, a half hour before midnight!
And, after all the random trouble I went through (my computer went suicidal last Thursday, I bought a new computer, and then my audio program crashed yesterday, supposedly losing all of my files to what the program's tech support team called "a very rare bug"--but I found all 450 minifiles in the wrong _data folder, so I was able to manually moved them back where they belonged), I have decided that I am going to play the lottery today. Since I'm leaving for Billings this afternoon, maybe I'll buy the ticket when I am (safely) there. Wish me luck in my last conference appearance.

So, this Lit final project was my first attempt at an audio essay. I suppose I probably did a more "artful" approach than what the kids at Stanford or Bowling Green do as their main project, but I felt a little uncomfortable with trying to put words or meanings in my interviewees' mouths, and I wanted to have it express itself without me explaining explicitly as much as possible. With some stories, maybe I under-narrated, but I didn't know if the last rancher I interviewed would be comfortable with me further explaining what I knew about his life (beyond what he told me, that is) to explain the "grief" element.

I suppose we'll see. I imagine I could have made it a bit longer, too, but truly, I was running on empty already by the time I turned it in to my professor.

If you're feeling the inclination, here's a link to listen to it. Hopefully you'll feel some semblance of connection with the people and the material, even though you haven't been to class or read my annotated bibliography. Let me know what you think.

The last days of classwork.

2011-12-08T09:55:00.001-08:00

My MacBook (birthdate Oct 2009) had an awful day on Thursday (yikes! And so close to when everything is due!) and, long story short, I am now on a new, student-discount approved MacBook Pro. Editing photos and audio is suddenly a whole new world!

Speaking of editing audio, I have been seeking out alternative sources for background, intro and outtro music clips in anticipation for the possible SOPA and Protect IP legislation, knowing that it will likely be used first against little music piraters and file-sharers. Today, when I logged into the Free Music Archive for my podsafe selection, I was ecstatic to find this news:

Megaupload is different from Rapidshare, Hulkshare, and other similar sites because they have this new song w/ video endorsements from P Diddy, Lil John (pictured), Will.i.am, Alicia Keys, Kanye West, Chris Brown, The Game, Mary J Blige, Kim Kardashian, Floyd Mayweather, Jamie Foxx, Russel Simmons...
It's a video that the participating artists' labels don't want you to see, because it doesn't fit with their depiction of Megaupload as a "rogue site". The RIAA and MPAA have already convinced Google to censor "Megaupload" searches, and if SOPA and Protect IP pass they'll banish megaupload from the web once and for all. Since this video seems to imply that some of the world's best selling musicians think differently, the major labels tried to censor it under the guise of a DMCA copyright infringement notice. They did not succeed. So go ahead and let the soothing sounds of this song-length mega-mercial wash over your brain, and/or check out the additional celebrity endorsements at Megaupload's website ...

So, there it is, power to the people, and a thanks to the hip-hop artists and celebrities that give a veiled finger to the corporations trying to control everything in the music world.

Audio, Audacity.

2011-12-06T17:41:00.001-08:00

I have been listening to podcasts for a long time, trying to piece together aspects of my favorite radio programs for my master's degree portfolio project portion on the oral histories of Montanan farmers and ranchers. I listen to podcasts as I drive, podcasts as I clean, and search for new podcasts whenever I run out of episodes. The work never ends.

My LIT 491 (Poetry, Perception, and the Brain) final project is due next week. The work of editing audio and listening to podcasts, as well as the constant jotting down names of usable music clips whenever I can (sidenote: will the new piracy act get me for that? I hope not) permeates my mind so much that I developed the crazy idea to do an audio essay for my final project; I'm writing on the importance of place in the narrative-self, and I have decided to incorporate clips from my interviews with people, as well as poems (which it appears I will end up reading myself), into the project.

Audio essays are not a new thing; in fact, my friend Michael Faris referred to audio essays in 2007 on his blog, which I was reminded of when I did a Google search for some sort of framework. I also learned in my search that there are rhetoric and writing classes (ie, at Stanford and Bowling Green State University) which are built around the construction of such essays. While the syllabi and clips were encouraging, there comes a point when too many examples restricts creativity--and I am starting to construct the script for the essay with little more direction, as of...right...now.

I am super excited because this project will give me the opportunity to go beyond the task of simply presenting oral histories in the truest sense of the word and cross over into science, reflection, entertainment, and, if you will, art. It will be fascinating to see what I can come up with. I am going to turn in both a script and an mp3 to Ashby on Monday. I'll link to an mp3 here, too, if your curiosity compels you.

Late November: How does a month pass so quickly?

2011-11-29T05:23:00.001-08:00

Merriam-Webster defines saturation as:

"a state of maximum impregnation: asa : complete infiltration : permeationb : the presence in air of the most water possible under existent pressure and temperaturec : magnetization to the point beyond which a further increase in the intensity of the magnetizing force will produce no further magnetization"

I am saturated. I honestly don't know how I could do any more than I have on my list.

11/29: ~~Final annotated bibliography due in LIT 491 (12 sources)~~
~~Meet Josh Slotnick to discuss Heritage Project~~
11/30: ~~Call farmers and ranchers~~ ~~set-up interview dates and times for weekend~~
~~Build powerpoint for weekend conferences~~
12/1: ~~Pick-up rental car and tech supplies.~~
~~LIT 491 Research Presentation on Final Project (25 minutes in-class)~~
~~after class, drive to Bozeman.~~
12/2: ~~Drive from Bozeman to Billings~~
~~Montana Woolgrowers Conference (presentation in afternoon)~~
12/3: ~~10a, Montana Cattlemen's Conference~~
~~Visit High Plains Women's Museum (possible collaboration for oral history project?)~~
12/3-4: ~~Interviews with farmers and ranchers near Billings.~~
12/5: ~~Drive to Missoula.~~
12/5 - 15: Turn in application for graduation and portfolio (thesis) proposal
LIT 491 Final Project due
Quillisascut Essay (& photo book) to Neva
Essay draft to Phil
Edit and polish Betsy Indreland interview
Write-up and send mid-term check-in to Matthew Hansen Endowment

That's a list in progress.

Oh! Good news about something I completed: I wrote an article for the Montana Natural History Center's magazine and it has been edited and approved! I gathered specimens for accompanying photos and got to see the layout of my pages--and it's stunning! The issue comes out next week.

Also, I have now have three interviews up at my website, and more to come. I think I am finally getting the hang of how to edit efficiently. (And, not gonna lie, I can hear some of the mp3s turning into This American Life-type podcasts someday!)
Go hear them at http://montanaheritageproject.com

Late October.

2011-10-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

I am sprawled out on the loveseat under a fleece blanket, distracted by the sky. The sun hasn't crested Mount Jumbo yet, but it has lit up the swift and scattered clouds from below in soft, silvery-gold effulgence. The young 'autumn blaze' maple out front holds the last of its leaves bravely, and cold drops of leftover rain hang from its skinny branches like crystals. It's a pretty Sunday morning, and I'm trying to enjoy it through my sleepy stupor, finally tired again after waking fully at half past 5am.

I've spent my dark and cold morning, up before the furnace clicked on, on this couch, drinking tea and tweaking my website, editing audio and expanding pages to include it. I've read 81 pages--43,015 words--in preparation for my Camas editorial board meeting later this morning. It feels unbefitting for me to be judging other people's writing, critiquing its merits and flaws, when I have hardly written anything recently. I skip over my submission I sent in after my seizure, something I wrote last year and didn't polish, a journal entry. I submitted it in a phase of nonchalance, not feeling confident as much as half-hearted. Now, in my weariness, I find my mind playing other tricks on me, and I try to temper myself.

Next weekend my conferences begin. I have booked all the hotel rooms I need, requested an official university vehicle, and tried to prepare myself for the onslaught so that I can perform interviews with clarity. Now is the time that the project reveals itself, for good, to my advisors.

My schedule for the next two months:

Alternative Energy Resources Organization Annual Meeting - Lakeside, MT: Oct 28 - 30, presenting Oct 29.
Northern Plains Resource Council Meeting - Billings, MT: Nov 10 - 11, presenting Nov 11.
Montana Grain Growers - Great Falls, MT: Press privileges Nov 30.
Montana Wool Growers & Montana Cattlemen's Associations - Billings, MT: Dec 2 - 4, presenting Dec 3.
Montana Stockgrowers Association - Billings, MT: Dec 15 - 17, presenting Dec 16.

As I imagined, it is completely up to me to complete the project. My project advisor informed me that he was not available to attend any of the meetings. It adds time-stress and craziness to my schedule, but that also means that I am able to retain all power over what the project turns into (a tension between "written" and "oral" narratives has been developing between him and I, and now I am able to follow-through with my audio interview technique and forego the forced writing workshop technique--the result will not be pretty, I think, when he finds out, but I'll try to worry about that when the time comes) and it's finally turning into something I'm really excited about.

I posted my first edited recording on the website, you can listen here. Let me know what you think. I tried to retain the original flow of conversation and also add some music to make things interesting.

Update.

2011-10-15T20:59:00.000-07:00

Hey all. I've allowed Blogger to convince me to enable what they call a "Dynamic Theme"--so you can choose what it looks like to you. Let me know if you don't like it, or what-not. I kind of enjoy change, so there it is.

In non-blog world updates...

I had an unfortunate day that included massive confusion, a headache, a swollen tongue, quick responding housemates, five EMTs in my room at once, an ambulance ride, a few hours in the hospital, and, alas, a very swore and exhausted body and mind.

I had a seizure this morning, after an unrestful night, a late sleep-in, and a dip in blood glucose. Luckily, Josh and Heather heard the ruckus (of me, on the floor, between my chair and my desk, and of Reiko, freaking out and jumping around as I convulsed) and kept an eye on me until the ambulance arrived (might I add, in less than three minutes).

Needless to say, it was a weird day, an exceptionally weird experience--but I am mostly fine now, other than the bump on my head, the ache in my body, the gash in my tongue, and somewhat wonky brain activity.

Nothing like that to remind you how important it is to take care of yourself, to slow down, and to sit still for a while (again, not that I needed any of it, or recommend it). I'm sure I'll be ruminating on what happened in my mind during it all (it's very dream-like and eventful, a hypersensory experience in an unexpected way) here soon.

Driving in Missoula

2011-09-30T18:28:00.000-07:00

Missoula, I've learned, has some of the worst drivers ever.

Now, this is really saying something, because I have lived in a college town before (where people drive drunk) and in Idaho (where people don't use turn signals), and driven in Utah (where people speed and don't observe lane rules) and Seattle (where people are just plain aggressive). Here, though, my road rage emerges every day. I am constantly yelling at people for their ridiculous traffic etiquette.
I can recognize that my road rage is not entirely healthy or safe, but I will assure you that yelling at people while in the car (and waving my arms occasionally) is not the same as aggressively tailgating or honking or flashing my brights. I don't do that. All I do is yell and call them names.

They run yellow lights constantly. They sometimes run red lights moments after cross-lights have turned green (I have learned not to go immediately). They drive like they don't know where they are going (granted, we get a lot of out-of-towners, I think). They drive like no one else is on the road. They pull out of parking spaces without looking. They wait in the left turn lane, hovering behind the crosswalk even if no one is there to cross, and then go after the light has turned red (because people going straight always run yellow lights) and cross in front of would-be oncoming traffic or, more aggravatingly, leave someone behind like me yelling at them about not pulling out into the intersection so I could not be stuck at the damn light for another cycle.

They get all grumpy about people pulling into a center turn lane when they want to pull into a left turn lane that doesn't even start for another hundred feet. They get grumpy and honk angrily when they weren't paying attention and you are easing into the center turn lane in front of them, dodging an oncoming car prematurely entering the turn lane ahead of them. They, apparently, don't know how to drive with a trailer (you're a heck of a lot longer when there's a trailer attached to your truck).

[Don't even get me started about the pedestrians. Apparently, they don't care if they are crossing an intersection in front of oncoming traffic with a green light; they just mosey along, not even looking at the snarled looks and white-knuckles of drivers who have to brake for them.]

I know I'm not the only one who gets aggravated. I hear horns honking and tires skidding from inside my house. I watch near-misses happen, and sometimes narrate them because I can't believe what people do. It's awful.

The other day, I was driving home from a long day at work and school, tired and sore and grumpy, and was coming up on a dog-leg in the road that has a road perpendicularly join into it. I saw the line of cars at the other road, stopped at the stop sign. I told them not to go, but one did, and then another, stomping their gas pedals down to get in front of me (the speed limit is 25, so i just took it down a few miles per hour and growled at them). Suddenly, the initial car decides to take the first left immediately after the dog leg, and the van that had sped in behind it had to slam on its brakes. I, already slowing down to let them in with some space, just kept braking, but the van driver got angry and laid on his horn. The car, which had to pause for an oncoming car to pass before turning, produced a very aggressive middle finger from its driver's side window as it finally turned off and then--randomly, gloriously--a floppy, brownish banana peel flew from the van toward the car's bumper and fluttered to the road ineffectually to the noise of the disappearing car's over-revved engine.

I laughed hysterically. It was the funniest damn thing that happened all week.

I mean, really, think about it: (a) If someone flipped you off, would you throw a banana peel at them? Who does that? (b) Who keeps a nasty old banana peel in their vehicle, anyway?

Quillisascut [Part 2] Photos+Notes.

2011-09-03T13:13:00.000-07:00

All photos © Sara J. Call

Plow at China Bend Winery

Aug 23, before sunrise: "I came to NE Washington a day early--to get away, to let it sink in...I drove up through Colville and into Kettle Falls...

"I remembered hearing about hearing about a winery somewhere--and, luckily, i found it on my [dusty] GPS device--and discovered that 'somewhere' was 18 miles northwest of town. I set off on an adventure.

"I took a tiny, winding road along a swollen side stream, a tributary of the Columbia once-river, made bloated into Lake Roosevelt by tons of concrete. I was within 15 miles of the Canadian border. I found the winery, nestled in a basin down a terrifying dirt road. It was an oasis. Grape vines and flowers and wooden buildings and walnut trees, lilies, a few massive lodgepole pines, and a big red gate to contain it all, guarded by a large black and white spotted dog [which] i would later learn is named Spot..."

The couple who owned the place and another couple, who were staying in the B&B room upstairs, plus a jovial neighbor were sitting down to a tasting session, and they invited me to join.

"It was genius. Delicious, and informative. Accompanied by the matriarch's (Victory's) home-made, farm-grown pesto, it was perfect."

They fed me dinner, made me laugh, poured me more wine, and insisted that I park my pick-up just outside the gate; I slept well with sulfite-free wine in my belly and Spot guarding my truck all night.

Grape Vines

Aug 23: "The second time around here, I know where I can hide. I know the names of the animals I like best. I know what's in the garden...[but] there is so much i still have to learn."

The Sheep That Gave His Life

Aug 24: "Chef Kären...told a story about a chef who visited a farm, and at the conclusion of his stay, he shared a meal with the farmer and his family. The farmer told him, 'Now you're a part of our farm.'

'Well, thank you,' the chef said.

'No, no," the farmer insisted. 'You are a part of this farm.'

'I guess I'm not sure I understand,' the chef said uncertainly.

'You have eaten vegetables from our soil, and an animal that lived here; you have absorbed the minerals--you are part of this farm.'"

Bones and Flesh

Aug 24: "Things got weird...The lunch gong rang, we went in and sat around the table. I couldn't remember how to pass platters, started apologizing to everyone, and couldn't eat because I was fretting about my silverware being on the wrong side of my place setting. I didn't know if i should put butter and cheese on my bread, my bean soup, or my green bean salad. I was afraid of attracting attention. But, luckily, someone noticed. Chef Kären and Rick set a glass of fruit nectar in front of me--they said I was pale and acting confused. Katy got me a cold, wet towel to wipe the dripping sweat from my face. Someone shoved a cookie in my hand. I drank the juice, ate a couple bites of cookie, and buried my face in the towel and sobbed.

"Things started making sense again, and as the table was cleared, I finished my meal."

Steve the Bee Man

Meadow Lark Farm

Aug 25: "When John [of Meadow Lark Farm] said something to the effect of--

This is the future of farming. Not 25 acres, not 15, but much smaller--small operations are the future...

--I got introspective. In most circles, 100 acres is a very small farm. One hundred acres is too small for commodity crop reliance, and too big for small-scale, hand-worked specialty crop farming...I haven't really seen a farm that i can mentally click with as a possible framework for Green Dragon. It's gonna come down to creativity."

Aoili Dinner

Aug 25: "Dinner: Sage-infused chicken (so tender!), sliced fresh garden grub (carrots, fennel, pepper, kohlrabi), roasted beets and squash, AND garlic/sage aoili, pesto aoili, and chili pepper aoili. Plus whipped topping, peaches, snowberry honey, and shortbread with huckleberries."

In Lora Lea's Cheese Room

"I want to send beauty...into the future." -Lora Lea

"What's our story? We're part of the salmon nation, we just don't have any salmon any more, they can't get past Grand Coulee Dam. We have electricity, just not any salmon." -Lora Lea

"Once they outlaw raw milk, only outlaws will have raw milk." -Rick

Quillisascut Cheese-Making

Aug 26: "While I had felt on-par (and in the in-crowd) with everyone the first day, I felt my advantage slipping as days went on--a few things, like passable knife skills, substitutions of on-farm ingredients, and so forth, were culinarily keeping me, at least on some level, with the group. I don't know French terms, some names of techniques and accruements, but I can cook.
"Last night, Gina used my cajeta (which I had volunteered to make as a special project a day or two ago) on her crepe dessert. I was so proud and excited when people liked it. I felt back on-par.
"It's something to be proud of when you cook something everyone enjoys. There's been no shortage of that (for everyone) during this workshop."

Quillisascut Chevre

"We don't like discipline, it sounds so negative, but life is going to discipline us. We go into disciplines...The discipline of doing it [making cheese] everyday, probably more than I wanted, [and just letting go into 'this is my life']--it made me. It didn't just make cheese, it made me." -Lora Lea

Middle-Eastern Last Supper

Aug 28: "I escaped to the bakery while others worked on lunch and charcuterie--after I had whipped up some honey butter and cardamom-walnut-apricot jam compound butter--and talked with Giana while making my naan's final dough. It's quiet back there and I was acting under self-direction while taking Giana's advice:

'Use the time to knead your bread as time to connect with your bread...think of the people you are making it for...impart yourself to it...and if it doesn't turn out--' [Will the pastry chef chimed in here, too]
'--Say, okay, that was that, and try again.'
'It's a living thing, your bread.'"

Classes and Internship.

2011-09-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

I have officially completed my first week of classes. You know, it wasn't too bad, but I am looking forward to the long weekend so I can adjust to all my duties gradually.

Speaking of which--huzzah! I received the internship position at the Montana Natural History Center!

More about this Poetry, Perception, and the Brain class... For three hours, we (8 other grad students and 4 undergrads, all of the others are in the MFA or BA of literature-of-some-sort programs and therefore have the vocabulary to discuss things like quatrains without thinking twice about it) sit in a small room in the Liberal Arts building (a sad, old building with little or no climate control) to talk about neuroscience and poetry. Professor Kinch is a lively fellow with a definite passion for poetry (especially of the medieval type) and a fascination with neuroscience. He was upfront with us about how this course was based on a current interest of his, and how he was not completely invested in the idea that poetry and neuroscience can be inextricably linked. He has an endearing habit of telling us what we are going to study at some point (or not study) and then launching into an elucidation then and there. I appreciate his passion. I am trying not to be intimated by my perceived lack of literary qualifications. Then again, I may have something going for me: when I introduced myself, Professor Kinch said that I could bring an interesting perspective to class. I was doubtful, but he continued:
"Have you ever read David Abram, for instance?"
"Yes! One of my favorite authors."
"Yes, well, he's a definite phenomenologist, and we're not really going to go into it, but it could be a good topic for one of your papers. Anyone else read Abram?"
No one raised their hand.
"Yep, so there it is."
Not that I want to play up my differences too dramatically (my mom warned me about that, too), but I am kind of excited about it, now. I'm excited (ridiculously enough) about the papers. This is my only class this term with homework that I haven't assigned myself (which, come to think of it, may mean that I have less homework in this class; sad, isn't it?) and therefore is new, and surprising, and challenging intellectually in exciting ways.

Updates: Quillisascut [Part 2] and Fall Term.

2011-08-31T18:54:00.000-07:00

It's the first week of classes, and what a whirlwind it is!

I went to Quillisascut Farm School of the Domestic Arts again from August 23 to 29; it was more rigorous than the breads workshop, and I did way more (and was challenged more) than I ever imagined. Keeping up with culinary and pastry students (and graduates) was a doozy, and somehow I did it, even though I missed half the French references and felt awfully insecure much of the time. I got into the swing of things, though, and by the last supper (which was my group's responsibility), I was contributing my fair share through cardamom and apricot compound butter, hand-molded kibbeh balls, and fresh naan (prefermented and baked in the wood-fired oven).

I'll post more snippets from my notebook later.

As for now, I've been adjusting to the start of classes and the drastic reduction in museum duties. I thought ten credits this term would be a fresh and relaxing change of pace, but I have found myself frightened that I don't have enough to do, so I applied for a small internship at the Montana Natural History Center teaching outdoor education.

I haven't attended my most exciting class yet (it's tomorrow afternoon), so I'm really giddy about seeing what it is all about: this class is called "Poetry, Perception, and the Brain" and for our first day we were given the assignment to bring a poem that "exemplifies [our] interest in poetry." I chose one by e.e. cummings that has remained meaningful to me for the duration of my adult life. I had a hard time deciding among it, a Mina Loy poem (signifying a different life I had five years ago), and an Irving Layton poem (a new fascination). I'll let you know how the class goes.

My other classes include two independent studies courses (one revolving around my Quillisascut experience and the readings I assigned to myself about food culture and farming experience, and another involving my continued Montana Farmer and Rancher Writing Project efforts) and a PEAS Farm internship. For folks who aren't familiar with the PEAS Farm, it's a collaboration between my university department and a nonprofit which provides CSA shares and plentiful edible donations to the food bank. We first picked leeks and celery today, which was nothing too exciting. I got a good laugh when I joined the group in cutting freezing beans, and was "corrected" by my fellow [undergraduate] classmates...See, it went about like this:

Me: "Wow, there's a lot of beans here."
Student: "Actually, they're peas." [I look back and forth from him to the bean plants, wondering if I should point out that peas went out of season a good month ago and that these are most definitely bean plants--but I just start picking instead.]
Student, after we've filled the buckets with beans: "Should we shell these peas now?" [At this point, I laugh out loud, pick up a bean, and eat it, attempting to silently point out that that the "peapod" is indeed a bean.]
Me: "Nope, they're good the way they are. Let's bag them."[Let it be noted that no one acknowledged that they weren't peas, ever.]

Methinks that this term will be entertaining if nothing else.

Food in Photos.

2011-08-30T17:36:00.000-07:00

Grilled golden trout with lemon and basil, honey and lemon drizzle-dressing on baby chard, and oven-roasted Black Mission figs stuffed with goat cheese and drizzled with honey.

After a week of eating richly at Quillisascut, I decided to ease into simpler meals with a garden-fresh and river-fresh dinner. I still had the urge to plate it all aesthetically.

Just in case you ever wondered.

2011-07-22T07:19:00.001-07:00

I don't think I could have said it better myself. So, here it is, this is why I'm an atheist.

Of course, I concur with this article all the more because sometimes I find my brain craving a god or two, especially when I desire a "super-protector" because my corporeal support system fails to provide me with what I feel I need in the immediate moment. Yet, I cannot sustain any belief. I respect those who choose to believe in whatever god they see fit, but I am going to stick with critical reasoning, secular mystery, and non-supernatural imaginary friends.

Just in case you ever wondered.

Food in Photos.

2011-07-20T18:33:00.001-07:00

When the summer gets hot and you crave something light for dinner and don't have enough energy or time for something elaborate, the best thing you can do is make a Bindweed Sandwich.

I adapted this recipe from many afternoons eating lunch at Bindweed Farm. You can add and subtract as you desire.

Sandwich roll: My favorite is a sourdough blinkie from Bernice's Bakery. Toast it on the grill for extra goodness.

Greens: Naturally, my favorites are spinach and arugula, with extra arugula. I have been known to toss in some basil leaves and flowers, too.

Apple: I use Braeburn apples, sliced REALLY thin.

Spread: Canola mayonnaise turned into aioli--that is, stir in some lemon juice and crushed garlic. Since my garlic bulbs aren't quite ready, I used the scapes, which are simply amazing.

And that's basically it! Thanks, Ja, for the inspirations!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Here are some other things I've made this month, if you're interested:

Green tacos: Corn tortillas, black beans, celery sautéed in cumin and chili powder, homemade tomatillo salsa, and cojita cheese.

Port sautéed mushrooms with greens, ribbons of basil, sprinkles of goat cheese, and a slice of eggy bread.

Smoked salmon nachos sprinkled with sliced garlic scapes.

Ah, the joys of having teenagers stay at the house.

2011-07-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

Joshu's sub-adult cousins are visiting from Portland this week, and these are some of the perks of their stay.

Dreams and more broken bones.

2011-07-13T07:12:00.001-07:00

I had dreams last night of storms. I was huddled down in a grove of quaking aspens, and the sky was orange and pink and full of bright flashes and constant thunder. I watched the storm tear apart an apartment building. I remember feeling terrified that it had ripped apart my house. When I ran through the wreckage after the dissipation of the fury-filled clouds, I was relieved as the damage lessened the farther I got away from the place where I'd been crouched.

Last night there was a real thunderstorm. The sky was splashed with brilliant colors because the thunderheads were building just at sunset. There were a few minutes of heightened brightness in the mouth of Rattlesnake Canyon. We were all outside admiring the sky. The storm was moving in fast; the sky began crackling.

About then I received a text message from my dad. My mom had collapsed and broken her femur (her thigh bone, that is) and as i read and reread and my skin prickled from the sky's heightened electricity and my own body's imminent anxiety attack, I couldn't stop imagining the terror and pain that my mom and dad had suffered. My body wanted to channel all those awful feelings, the pain and the screaming and the long wait for the ambulance. I could see it all, and I was 300 miles away in a storm.

I don't know why my body insisted on dwelling and panicking. I sat outside on the front stoop, watching the lightning splinter across the sky until a flash so bright and directly overhead shocked my retinas and I had to blink away the momentary blindness as the sky boomed. Joshu told me that my mom would be alright, she was at the hospital, they had the dilaudid and morphine dripping intravenously and she probably couldn't feel the pain much anymore. My dad told me mom was muttering about still going on the river trip, about this being the worst pain in her life. My dad told me the seemingly random and rare fracture was possibly connected to her long-term use of the drug Fosamax. My sister told me to breathe.

It seems silly and pointless, now, to let my chest tighten and my mind go wild. I've gotten out of practice of accepting and being composed when confronted with something I don't like to hear and instead trying to connect it to my own choices. It's all the emotional responses I hate seeing in other people.

Maybe I'll go fishing after work. I think I need to do something of the self-soothing type that doesn't involve inebriation. Maybe my mind just needs some good old fashioned omega-3s. Because I know, deep down, that my mom will be just fine. This is sad and a massively big bummer, but she's a strong person and our family is no stranger to broken bones.

Truck Pictures.

2011-07-11T08:42:00.000-07:00

Here's a photo of the hood of my truck before it was repaired (it's tough to see the depth/extent of the scratches and dents, but let me tell you that it looks a heck of a lot better now that it is fixed!)

This is a sleeping platform i built yesterday in the bed of my truck; I tried to sleep back there over the weekend of the Fourth and it was terribly uncomfortable. Now I don't have to lay on ridges or hit my face on the wheel wells when i want to roll out my pad and sleeping bag without setting up a tent.

Also, I am happy to report that I used power tools for this project without any incidents. I even used an 18-volt drill--and didn't feel paranoid the entire time. (Of course, when it comes to five gallon buckets, things will never be the same.)

Weird Days in Missoula.

2011-06-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

There is no shortage of wildlife in Missoula. There is no shortage of wildlife in the mouth of Rattlesnake Canyon, where I live.

I have walked out into the alleyway and come upon a steaming pile of black bear scat. I have watched a white-tailed deer take a nap in my neighbor's yard. I have seen elk up on the side of Mount Jumbo.

I have never expected to have an ungulate vandalize my property.

A young white-tailed buck found its way into the yard this morning. I was home, and the screen door was open, so I heard it clip its hoof on the top of the fence as it came in. I saw it looking longingly into the garden. I saw it come right up to the garden fence and eyeball my pea plants. I yelled out to it. It looked at me, but was obviously in no hurry to leave.

Now, I think the garden fence is high enough to keep a deer out. It's about five feet high. But I spent four and half hours on Sunday tending the garden, weeding and staking and thinning rows. The lettuce is at its prime. The squash has blossomed. The garlic has put out its curly-cue scapes, and there is a seed-pregnant bulge ballooning at the crux. My pea plants are gorgeous. There was no way I was going to risk it. I wanted that lame-ass deer out of the yard.

Rather than risk sending Reiko out (for his safety more than the deer's), I stepped out onto the deck and yelled at it again. It looked blankly at me and side-stepped, turning away from the garden to get a better view of me. I clapped my hands. It did nothing. I stepped off the deck and yelled and waved my hands, and it slowly side-stepped toward the back fence.

"Get outta here, you peckerwood!" I yelled.

It glanced once over the fence toward the alleyway, where a friend of his was waiting, and I charged toward him--and in that moment, he sprinted toward the edge of the yard, diagonally, and I yelled louder because I saw where he was headed and couldn't believe it.

"I swear to god--" I said, but he leapt the fence and landed on the hood of my truck anyway, his hooves cutting into the metal, a terrible scraping sound as he tried to find his footing. As I look back on it, he truly appeared to be dancing--and as I retell the story, I find myself telling people that "he f*cking did the can-can on my hood."

I recovered my senses and ran toward him as he jumped off the hood and took off into the alley. I chased him as far as my neighbor's house, yelling obscenities and curse words at the two bucks until they stopped at the end of the alleyway and looked back at me, confused. Or, maybe, triumphant. I imagine them as teenage boys, hairy and hormonal and daring each other to prove their manhood. If I had a rifle, I would have shot the one that I caught trespassing. I imagine myself as a grumpy old man.

I returned to examine the damage. Deep dents and long, sweeping scratches were cut into the hood of my truck. There was no way I could allow for that. The truck is my pride and joy. It had been inexcusably vandalized.

I called my insurance company right away, and hadn't really had time to think about it all quite yet. I was unprepared for the laughter. After recovering from the shock of hearing the man on the other side of the country laugh about a deer stumbling around on the hood of my car, I realized how silly it sounded. After I got the story straight (no, i was not driving the car; yes, the deer jumped on it; no, the deer was not someone's pet) he assured me it would be covered. At the auto body shop, the mechanic found it hard to believe me, too.

"But these are definitely hoof marks," he noted. "It's just--no offense--it's so far-fetched."

"I swear," I said. "That's what I thought when I watched him do it."

"Gotta give him credit for his athleticism." He shook his head.

All in all, it's a three day repair job. They will replace the hood and fix the side panel where the deer jumped off and kicked my fender. Until next week, I'll have to live with it. It's perfectly drivable. It just looks ridiculous.

But I swear to god, if I see that deer again, I'm bringing him home for supper. (Note: the venison in the previous post was shot legally during hunting season last fall by my housemate. This deer would be a slightly different story. But he would taste the same. Though I would enjoy eating him more.)

Food in Photos.

2011-06-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

"As cook in your kitchen you enjoy an omniscience about your food that no amount of supermarket study or label reading could hope to match...No, in the eye of the cook or the gardener or the farmer who grew it, this food reveals itself for what it is: no mere thing but a web of relationships among a great many living beings, some of them human, some not, but each of them dependent on the other, and all of them ultimately rooted in soil and nourished by sunlight."

--Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food, p. 200

White wine and butter sauce over linguine with sautéed celery and onion, topped with goat cheese and house-caught pan-roasted venison (a housemate collaborative; a bonding experience)

Roasted garbonzo bean and tomato burrito with goat cheese and caramelized onions, topped with salsa verde

Quillisascut [Part I] Pictures

2011-06-26T09:09:00.000-07:00

I had an amazing time at the Quillisascut Farm School of the Domestic Arts. It is a phenomenal place. It is so easy to bond with people with whom you share common passions and spend every day baking and cooking together.

Here's a collection of pictures.

Quillisascut [Part I]

2011-06-18T06:24:00.000-07:00

I am headed up to Quillisascut Farm School for the next five days and am not taking my computer. I have promised to take good notes and plenty of pictures, which I will share upon my return.

The written work on my final portfolio (thesis-like) begins.

Food and Future

2011-06-17T08:52:00.000-07:00

I've been reading Michael Pollan's book In Defense of Food, and I've been appalled and grateful at any given moment--appalled at our Western assumptions and relationship with food (myself included) and grateful that I love food as an aesthetic and pleasing entity, not just as a bundle of nutrients and numbers of "good" and "bad" components (though having diabetes often encourages this perspective).

This brings me to the three most annoying things I've heard said about food in the last six months.

1. "I like eating healthy, I just can't afford it."

This was said by a woman leaving the Good Food Store as she looked over her receipt. Sure, the Good Food Store (and Wild Oats, and Trader Joe's) seems to be more expensive than other grocery stores, but shopping there doesn't equal healthy eating (though it does make it more easy). For instance, I could shop at the Orange Street Food Farm for cheap and still manage to eat really healthy (that is, minus processed food, all fresh ingredients, etc--not necessarily low-fat or low-whatever); I like shopping at the Good Food Store because a) the bulk section is stellar, b) they have 'exotic' ingredients i like to use (ginger, galangal, key lime leaves, Asian and South American ingredients, goat cheese and yogurt, etc), and c) they tell me where it came from and how it was produced, which is something I have grown accustomed to expecting to know. And can one afford not to be educated or healthy? Silly question. It would be cheaper if she knew how to cook--just saying. Ingredient lists rock.

2. "Go ahead and eat without me."

I do not like eating alone if I've cooked a meal (an act of love!) for others to share with me. I have a hard time not taking it personally; but above all, it's sad. We have lost the culture of "eating is a communal activity". Eating has, for many people, become a chore, something to do simply because we understand we need fuel, not because food is pretty or it's something to share or it tastes good. Of course, food is fuel, but it is so much more. Sharing it makes it all the more wonderful. Cooking it, as aforementioned, can be an act of love, and for someone to simply ignore is hurtful for someone who sees food as something to be appreciated and enjoyed. (At some point, I'll have to analyze the whole gourmandizing effect, and why people who take pleasure in food--especially 'fine' food--are often criticized in America. Is it our puritan roots resistant to the pleasures of life--food and sex, for instance? Or is it something else? Why do Americans associate 'guilt' with chocolate cake and the French associate 'celebration'?)

3. "Is there a way to use less butter [or insert other fatty or demonized food here]?"

In the immortal words of Ja Sabin, "I love fat." Not only does it add a certain depth to the flavor of food, but our bodies need fat. What surrounds our eyes, our hearts, and every other vital organ? Certainly, Americans are known for overindulgence, but fatty foods do not necessarily make us fat. Michael Pollan agrees; he points out that as we (Western culture) get more obsessed with "healthy eating" (he calls it Orthorexia Nervosa), we also get less healthy--that means more overweight with more health problems. Processed foods that tout themselves as "healthy" or "full of certain nutrients" have proven to lose the effects of the often healthy, nutritious [real or whole] foods we modeled them after (or plucked nutrients from)--in other words, that food-like weight loss shake doesn't actually have the same effect on your body as the tomato (lycopene), the fish (omega-3), and the glass of red wine (antioxidants and resveratrol). Nothing beats real food. And, damnit, nothing beats butter. (That margarine is completely and disgustingly made in a test-tube, with vegetable oil. That's gross.)

There it is. I recommend the book.

A link.

2011-06-16T16:53:00.000-07:00

I direct your attention to a blogpost that has a similar theme to the book I am currently reading (In Defense of Food by Michael Pollan): see The Feast Nearby: The Ingredients You Eat Without Knowing It.

Rainy-Day Lunch.

2011-06-08T11:46:00.000-07:00

Port-Sautéed Mushrooms and Egg Over Toast with Basil, Goat Cheese, and Caramelized Onions

I taught a gaggle of kindergarteners today--grubby, grabby, insistent little monkeys that were a bit draining. Who knew building marble runs and taking turns using them was so difficult? Needless to say, after the field trip I was craving something classy and civilized for lunch.

3 crimini mushrooms

1 egg

1 slice of good bread, pan-toasted with butter

port

caramelized onion slices (I had some in the fridge from when I made pizza a couple days ago)

chiffonaded basil leaves

It should be said that when caramelizing onions, you have to have self-restraint; slow and low, let them go. Onions caramelize best when on low heat for a tormenting long while, and you shouldn't move them around. Sprinkling a little sugar in the pan with a touch of butter and oil will help the process move along.

I have a relatively cheap Port wine I keep in my fridge; it doesn't have a strong flavor, but it adds a subtle sweet richness. When sautéing with butter, it makes a killer sauce around the mushrooms when you add it to the hot pan with the slices of fungus that have already been cooking for a minute.

I generally don't like eggs--but I've rediscovered the simplicity of egg sandwiches. I beat an egg and add it to a hot pan with a tiny bit of butter and flip it before it browns and I put cheese (i.e. medium white cheddar) on top, let the bottom of the egg brown and crisp, and fold it over to fit on the bread.

Sigh. I love goat cheese. It makes everything amazing.

Birthday notes.

2011-06-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

After sitting in the hot sun all day, I was ready to get away from the yard. I could see a storm brewing at the mouth of the Bitterroot [Valley], but I went west knowing there was a spring-fed lake i could put my kayak into 15 miles away in Frenchtown. The storm paralleled me. I found the lake--it smells of fish and algae--but the storm caught up and I left my boat in the truck. The sky darkened--everyone packed up and left, fishing poles shoved in trunks and boats thrown on cars--but i stayed. A cool wind picked up, the rain came, and above the whir of traffic on the interstate and the rumble of a passing train I heard the grumble of thunder. Lightning shimmered in the clouds and I let the raindrops smatter my sunburn.

The sky is still growling, though the rain is slowing and the storm is skirting along the edge of the valley.

I said once that the first thunderstorm marked my favorite day of the year. I guess that makes my 24th birthday my favorite day thus far.

I can see across Missoula Valley--all the way east to Mount Sentinel and Mount Jumbo, the white concrete M and L lit up by sunshine as the breeze pushes me in the direction of the heavy, thick clouds. It missed the house. I'm glad I met it here, its grumbling clouds in constant chatter, the cool, pushy breeze, the tiny drops of rain that smell like moss, pine planks, and actinomycetes.

The storm has grown to the west, it's blending into the darkened mountains and sending shards of lightning to the valley floor. I could chase it, you know. I would like to. The thunder is pounding its way toward Coeur d'Alene, a huge and hulking blue-grey mass roiling over the hills. I crave being in the thick of it, the little hairs on the back of my neck prickling with static and the lightning begging incredulous gasps for its sheer, bright power.

A bolt grips a near hilltop and flashes a few times in the same vein--I realize I've held my breath through its duration. It flashes like a burning out bulb and disappears; another flash occurs further away, then the wind gusts and wets my back with trailing rain--fat drops following behind.

But wait--no. As downpour ensues, I realize two storms are colliding--it becomes deafening under the roof of the sheet metal gazebo I've retreated to--the storm I've been watching and another from the northeast are merging just overhead, tearing open and letting loose a torrent. Fisherpeople across the lake appear and huddle under a low, spreading maple. One of them stubbornly casts into the pond, hunching against the rain. I watch stray drops evaporate from the concrete, fading away...

The rain slows--then stops, and I walk to the truck through the intermittent curtain of drips from the rood of the shelter, my stomach growling like the rain-heavy clouds.

It smells amazing. I see cyan blue skies to the east.

Birthday Steelhead.

2011-06-04T13:24:00.000-07:00

I turn 24 on Monday, and to celebrate both my birthday and that I successfully had hardware removed from my foot, my parents spent the weekend in Missoula with me. I happily offered to cook some meals.

Lemon Curry Grilled Steelhead Trout with Purple Sticky Rice and Watercress

Serves 3

3/4 cup uncooked purple sticky rice

1 lb Steelhead Trout, marinated for 20 minutes in lime juice and lemon curry powder

Watercress, rough chopped or chiffonaded for garnish

Start the sticky rice first; it takes 30 minutes to cook and, after fluffing, needs to sit under a towel for 10 minutes. Grill the marinated trout on the barbeque, pouring leftover liquids over the fish after it is turned. Medium thickness cuts should take 15 - 20 minutes to cook (both sides)--don't overcook it! When it begins seeping white, it's plenty done (you don't want to see white--which is the albumin--seeping out the top, though you may see it on the sides; albumin on top means it is overcooked).

Presentation matters--I love how a plate can look. I love color. Cooking is a highly sensual experience, and it should smell amazing. I know I've done well when my housemate (Joshu) or anyone else at the house wanders into the kitchen to lean over the pan or plate and sigh.

I believe my parents really liked it, too. It was a phenomenal way to celebrate.

Summer Promise.

2011-06-03T11:17:00.000-07:00

I haven't been writing nearly as much as I'd like to be. Even though the weather isn't entirely summerish, the fact is that it's summer--I have no university classwork aside from my independent study and I don't work every day and I need to be in the habit of writing before I head off into the great world of Quillisascut Farm School--and I should be writing.

So, here's the deal: I will, every few days or so, post a concoction of rambling notes and supplement with blogging about meals I cook (with photos) in an effort to get in the groove while I can. Rain or shine. It's a promise.

Updates: On the Foot and Spontaneous Decisions.

2011-05-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of Ralph Maughan

Yesterday was the day I've been counting down to, the day when I could meet my foot surgeon 14 months after my initial surgery and tell him how i was doing (and how horrible the winter treated me). I was incredibly nervous. I talked to my mom the entire 2.5 hour drive from Blackfoot, ID, to Layton, UT. I got all sorts of philosophical, told her about dreams and what my old friends were up to and how it felt to be single (over 18 months now outside of a committed relationship, and longer since I truly felt committed to making things work with someone for a long-haul) and observing others in their relationships. In case you're wondering, it's an odd feeling. When Ian or Morgan call to talk or Joshu tells me his experiences, I can give an in-depth analysis, can implore them to not sacrifice their sleep or their energy, can tell them they shouldn't have to worry about keeping someone happy or be afraid of losing them with every interaction, can appreciate their joy and excitement and stability--but I am left wondering, can I do it for myself when the time comes?

Anyway, the drive down was gorgeous. It was the first warm, sunny day in weeks, and the foothills were green and appeared soft and lush. The fields were beginning to fill with the tiny specks of seedlings. The pivots and tractors were shiny and the sagebrush was bright. There was still a shock of snow on the mountains. The creeks were full and fat and dirty.

Photo Courtesy of Mel Lewis (Utah Travel Council)

We ate at Mimi's Cafe. It had lost some of its New Orleans-inspired charm, had been pushed closer to simply "French cuisine." I was somewhat disappointed, but the cappuccino was delicious and the artichoke dip was amazing, the mahi tacos were brilliant and the key lime cheesecake was divine. We wandered around Lowe's looking at kitchen designs and skylights--and flooring for the wet rotted area of my trailerhouse soaked by the fried and leaking hot water heater.

The receptionist recognized me at the office. "It's been a while," she said. We sat in the exam room waiting for a long time. I had removed my shoes and was staring at my feet side by side when I realized I urgently needed to use the restroom. Must have been the nerves, or maybe the spinach artichoke cheese dip didn't agree with me as well as I had thought. When I returned, Dr. Johnston was looking at my X-ray in the exam room.

"I think it's time to remove that hardware," he said smiling, his perfect teeth beaming.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it will make your next winter go better, and you won't have the rigidity of the plate against your bones. Plus, it may be irritating some nerves and taking it out will help your tingling. When are you available to come back?"

"Well, what have you got open tomorrow?" I joked. He looked seriously at me.

"Actually, we could fit you in before the scheduled surgeries."

"Really?" My mom's eyes widened as she realized I was scheduling my surgery right away.

"Don't you have work?" she asked.

The truth is, now was the best time. I am not scheduled to work at spectrUM summer camp until June 24, and I have my first Quillisascut course June 18 - 22. I have my birthday June 6, which my parents were coming to visit for anyway. I explained that I could stay an extra week in Blackfoot, drive caravan-style to Missoula June 3 with my parents, and have my stitches taken out on my birthday before they left (my dad is a great stitch removal expert). Walking is allowable within a few days, as tolerable. My mom still seemed shell-shocked. Dr. Johnston was on top of things.

"Alright then. I'll call the hardware company for the tools, and you'll get a phone call from the surgical center for your info. Be at the office at 6 in the morning." I was beaming as bright as his teeth.

My mom and I got a Motel 6 room (she had her pomeranian and the nicer lodgings were full anyway) and we watched TV for a while. I got a little irritated by the cheap furnishings and static-laced screen, but really, I think I was suddenly realizing what I had decided. I mean, this surgery wasn't major, but I hadn't really prepped myself completely for the experience of needles and IVs and urine samples and those lame gowns and being ridiculous when the anesthesia kicked in. Mom and I bought overnight goods and filled a pain med prescription, then she took me to a Smith's grocery store so I could choose my dinner. I got rolls and the nicest swiss cheese I could find, an avocado, and my favorite flavor of Sobe Lean. This was happening.

When I walked out and found my mom in the parking lot, she had her cell phone in hand and a devious smile on her face.

"Want a pedicure?" Kimly-Nail Salon was across the parking lot, and she had nabbed an appointment for us both. The cute little Asian women scrubbed and soaked our feet, gave us leg massages (and I am sure chattered about my hairy legs in Korean), and painted our nails funky colors. I got a flower on my big toe. It was amazing. We went to bed early.

At 4:30 a.m., I was wide-awake. The alarm wouldn't ring for another 45 minutes. I took a hot shower and put on the sweats that I had bought the night before, and we made it to the surgical center before the sun was up. The nurse did well putting in the IV. I joked around with Dr. Johnston and his PA Justin before the anesthesiologist started to knock me out. I helped them move me onto the operating table, and I don't think I said anything silly before I looked up at the operating table light and shut my eyes.

A sweet recovery room nurse soon asked me to open my eyes, and she handed me a cup of lemonade and some saltine crackers. I felt pretty damn good. I was in a bit of pain at first, the nurse gave me some intravenous pain meds and a pill, and since then I haven't had any pain. My foot actually feels better than it did some days during the winter. My toes are chubby and still sparkly. I slept for most of the drive home. The dizziness has dissipated, and I feel pretty dang okay.

And that's the most spontaneous I think I have ever been.

2011-05-21T13:51:00.000-07:00

My apologies for being absent in the blogworld.

I survived my first year of grad school. It was pretty epic. I survived, and then, shell-shocked, sunk into illness (again) and now, finally, am beginning to feel more normal.

Last night, I spent time with two men I've befriended in the last 9 months. My EVST cohort Alex Johnson, a very recent graduate and amazing writer, and his partner Pete are officially two of my favorite people. They both are smart, kind, creative, and amusing. We mixed up a crazy recreational concoction (rum, coconut milk, organic chocolate syrup, and peppermint tea, anyone?) and watched random episodes of shows on Hulu and laughed rambunctiously--and for the first time in a long time, I felt included and comfortable. It was phenomenal. It was silly. It was great. Alex and Pete are leaving in a few days to spend the summer paddling 2,000 miles down the Yukon River. It was satisfying to spend time with them before they left. It was just what I had been wanting and needing (though I probably needed more sleep than I got last night).

So, there it is. For now.

Notes.

2011-04-22T18:51:00.000-07:00

Blacksmith Brewing Co. - Stevensville, MT - 4/22

I've been listening to the Mumford and Sons album the whole time I've been driving around the Bitterroot Valley--I finally shut off the iPod and stand alongside a field, a "for sale" sign sunk into its soil, the tell-tale partial channels emerging from slumps in the ditch bank. It smells fresh. It is what I've been looking for; it is far away from Missoula Valley.

I stopped into the Blacksmith to people-watch and write. As the bar filled and my beer glass emptied, and i filled up four pages of notebook paper, someone cranked up Mumford and Sons. It must be Mumford and Sons day. I periodically glance up at a man seated down the bar alone, his Carhartt jacket bunching up around his neck as he texts. I've accidentally and fortuitously left my cell phone back in Missoula. I do not work up the courage to sit next to him and have a conversation by the time he leaves. I spend too much time thinking about what I'd say, and what he might say back.

I've seen a man in a black jacket and black cowboy hat cross a fallow field backlit against the Bitterroot Mountain Range shrouded in snow clouds, his black and white dog bounding ahead through the grasses. Maybe he was making his way toward the old green and red farm machinery at the edge of a plowed parcel of land. The view made me stop the truck and wonder. I wished I had a camera. Nothing could have captured that moment, though. I crave the rural moments. Effective people doing useful things? Or maybe real people doing effective things? Anything but the idiocy I perceive in a college town full of hipsters and students I can't relate to. Anything but.

Notes.

2011-04-07T08:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve been slowly working my way through the packet of writing sent to me in preparation for the Environmental Writing Institute. It’s coming up next week--it seems like everything is--and so I’m marking notes and questions on the essays as I sip my tea.

My classmate and another attendee, B-Rab, noted last week: “It’s interesting to see that even though many of them have a PhD or have been published for a decade, they still struggle with the same problems we do with our writing.”

I get to my essay and start reading it just for kicks. I can’t finish. It’s awful, I think, horrible, terrible writing. I want to throw it away--but fourteen other people and an award-winning author have already received the packet and probably read it. The thought almost makes me ill; i’m humiliated.

I thought that being in Idaho would help me face my stress and self-loathing. For snippets at a time, I feel calm and relaxed--but the stress remains and leaks out.

My parents have this silly ceramic cardinal on a stake that, years ago, they stuck into a hole atop the porch railing. It has faded from a bright red to a dark maroon, and on this gray, rainy morning it almost looks black.

Two roly-poly red-breasted robins sit next to the ceramic cardinal. I wash my breakfast dishes and laugh out loud at how ridiculous they look. They remind me of old, fat men in trenchcoats, smoking, standing a safe distance away from a mannequin they are under the impression is a real, hyper-attractive woman. I laugh out loud because I imagine the cardinal as a drag queen. I am easily amused.

I’ve been told that I have a unique perspective in my writing. I’ve been told that it’s worth sharing. Every time I hear it, it makes me feel better; and it haunts me when I sit down to write later. Rereading things I’ve written, I am frustrated that I’m not writing as well as I feel I can, that I’m not expressing fully and articulately the emotions, observations, and thoughts I intend.

Maybe heralding back to the days when every journal entry was unsafe, every note to myself was read and used against me in an argument, when I thought putting a password on my computer was enough to protect my thoughts and was wrong--I’m afraid to write down anything that I don’t want read. I end up bottling up, still, even after all these years of convincing myself that I don’t want to bottle--so, every once in a while, a flood of misdirected fury and frustration gushes out and stains all the writing that had solid potential and turns it into something else.

I’ve been telling myself that I don’t have to berate myself for all this, that multiplying the derision does nothing, that I can be a better writer and it doesn’t mean that I write fantastically and articulately all the time. I can tell myself a hundred times but it isn’t ingrained yet.

While driving to Sun Valley (just what I needed over break, a reminder of how awesome some jobs can be and how the best conversations can happen driving across Craters of the Moon), Ja told me that the only difference between a glance and falling in love is a few seconds. If you can hold someone’s gaze for a few long moments, you can develop feelings for each other. Ja told me of when she locked eyes so many years ago with RT--”I saw his soul”--and realized then how much she cared for him.

I thought of how i’ve been saying that I’m ready for the universe to provide me with someone to connect to, to navigate a relationship with, to re-explore the possibilities of connection instead of rehash all the past experiences I’ve had--and yet, I can’t hold someone’s gaze for more than a split second. The confidence, the self-assuredness isn’t there--the self I fought for over the years hasn’t been attended to in a while. I thought of the last time I felt flooded with emotion by locking eyes with a stranger--he was in a dark blue Mazda and had sandy brown hair and deep blue eyes, and he held my gaze for probably 3 or 4 seconds as he turned a corner and I remember melting, flushed and giddy, and exclaiming to my companions that I had just fallen in love. It had to have been years ago. I still remember.

Last night, after yoga, a few of us went to the Wine Garden for drinks. I had been warned that CareBear would be there, and I felt okay with the possibility--nervous, but okay, because I had been through every scenario in my head and i knew that she wouldn’t want to engage with me. She was in the parking lot when we arrived. I tried not to look her way, but I could hear her voice, and as it trailed off I glanced toward her and we locked eyes for a second. I ducked through the doors and found myself feeling shaken, as if a few months had not passed between the phone call that ended my euphoria of emotional and physical connection and now. I wondered if a long glance had the power to cripple one’s defenses. It did. It does. I’m a sucker for it.

It’s not the end of the world. I know I’m still young and there are plenty of possibilities. I know I have plenty of opportunities to express myself, on the page and in the world. It’s just difficult to accept that every action or emotion doesn’t define me as someone I don’t want to be.

Updates.

2011-04-02T16:17:00.000-07:00

1. I got funding for work study over the summer, AND got a position for spectrUM Discovery Museum summer camp educator!

2. I am in Idaho for spring break. The wind here is as strong as ever, and the weather shifts and changes on whims. Joey (my parents' three-legged pomeranian) and I are bonding despite our mischievous relationship, and he will even take naps with me. House-sitting for my parents while they are in the middle of their Grand Canyon trip is exciting--I am doing lots of yard and farm work and not nearly enough classwork. The weather seems to be shifting for a cold, wet turn, so that may change. Luckily, I am not lonely and have been having wonderful meals with Ja and RT. Love them.

3. Poor Reiko somehow fractured his tail. Idaho is rough on us, and while my foot seems to be holding up, his little tail is just hanging limp. No more frolicking outside for a while.

Weekend / Anniversary.

2011-03-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the weekend that marks the one year anniversary of the tumble that changed my world--the tumble that gave me the compound Lisfranc fracture of my left foot.

I am hereby naming tomorrow a holiday. I will call it Foot F*ckdom Day. Since that will probably not be appropriate to say, nor will it likely make it on anyone else's calendar thanks to its uncouth essence, it will be nicknamed and otherwise known as Foot Day--not to be confused with April 1, which is Foot Redemption Day.

Now, of course, I am attempting to make this a positive holiday, because Shiva knows I have squandered enough negative energy over all this. So, here's the plan:

March 26 (FFD Eve): Get dressed up and attend a Garden City Harvest Benefit at the 10 Spoons Winery.

March 27 (FFD): Attend International Food and Culture Festival at the University of Montana. Eat yummy food. Appreciate being able to walk around.

April 1 (FRD): Get a massage from Rene while in Idaho for spring break; do farm work and thank goodness I've made it a year.

Submissions.

2011-03-14T18:55:00.000-07:00

I have been on a writing submission kick. I'll keep you posted on what's been rejected/accepted as time goes on.

As of now, I have the following essays sent to the following publications:

"The Manipulations" to Earth Island Journal -REJECTED

"Place and Paradox" to Terrain.org

"Place and Paradox" to Whitefish Review

"Place and Paradox" to High Desert Journal

"The Flood Irrigator's Guidebook" to Camas REJECTED

Pictures.

2011-03-13T09:33:00.000-07:00

A few pictures from the past weeks.

Day Off.

2011-03-13T08:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I took a day off.

I packed a day bag and a lunch, loaded my dog into the truck, and drove southwest. I took Highway 93/12 out of town (and marveled that the megaloads had made it from Lewiston up this road), drove west from Lolo on Highway 12, and climbed Lolo Creek Road to the Hot Springs.

I had it all to myself.

I floated in the mineral pool (it smelled slightly like sulfur and had a pH of 9.3), hovering around the rock outcropping in the corner of the cement tub where the water first came out of the ground. I stayed, soaking in the 102°F water for over an hour. I moved around and stretched my foot. When I heard children's giggles in the dressing room, I left.

I ate lunch at the crest of Lolo Pass, at the Idaho-Montana border. There was still 6 foot walls of snow on either side of the road, but I parked in a chain-up area and sat on the tailgate of my truck without a coat. An Idaho state patrolman stopped to chat with me, and gave me the status of Jerry Johnson and Weir hot springs as "crowded."

"The trail is treacherous," he added. I decided against tempting my fate and ruining the good feel of my foot. Instead, I drove back down to Lolo and headed south into Hamilton.

Let me just say, I love Hamilton. It's a town of less than 5,000 people. The whole Bitterroot Valley holds maybe 10,000 people, with plenty of open space. I appreciate the wide, sweeping floodplain of the Bitterroot River, not unlike the Snake River near Blackfoot. The valley is higher and more open than in Missoula, and the weather is better and the air is fresher. They are only 40 miles apart, but I consider Hamilton an escape. Plus, the Bitterroot Brewing Company has good food and beer. I ate dinner there.

By late in the afternoon, I was ready to head home. Missoula's stale air and congested neighborhoods beckoned. Reiko was sick of being in the truck. I had used a half of a tank of gas, and I needed to conserve as much as possible.

Driving back up the highway, I caught a glimpse of a dark shape perched at the top of a cattail in the marshy median between the pavement and the railroad. I hit the brakes and backed up on the shoulder, rolling down my window. Sure enough, the dark shape puffed up and I saw a flash of red, then it sounded a full-bodied "Conka-la-REE!"

I freaking love those red-winged blackbirds. I listened for a few minutes as the birds called to each other.

I was glad that I took the day off to drive around and soak. And, even though I've been lonely, I'm glad I did it with only my dog. I had told someone about my plan earlier, a classmate, and she wanted to tag along, and someone else wanted to, and then someone else, and another person, too--but I knew that it would be different, I wouldn't have as much fun. Plus, no one has been very good about following through on plans, which makes me wary of making social engagements. So I made no effort to further solidify plans with them, and sure enough, no one has followed up. It's not a problem--not in this instance especially--and I'm not implicating anyone. I just know that I'd rather spend time with those I can rely on--myself, and Reiko. That's about it.

Cappuccino Moment

2011-02-15T14:58:00.000-08:00

I wish I could write out the comfort that the warm, spicy, invigorating scent of a fresh cappuccino sprinkled with nutmeg.

This is a moment I am in love with.

These moments have been hard to find. Among the chronic foot pain, the loneliness, the lack of academic challenge, the political insolence, and the constant barrage of being reminded of futility (my reading assignments hit me hard--"no mental place of sanctuary exists" p145, Elizabeth Ammons, Brave New Words)--I have not been able to feel hopeful. The little things stack up: my housemate comments on the attractiveness of a thin and chiseled magazine model, my classmates giggle in their offices at jokes I can't hear, my readings tell me somber facts I already know, my lottery applications for river trips are denied--and I forget what a calm, loving moment feels like.

I haven't found my favorite place to get coffee and sit yet. I haven't found a favorite place for drinks. But every once in a while--and if I keep shaking things up, I'll bet--I stumble on a moment of intrigue and quiet hope--

The woman taking notes and smiling to herself, the luncheon ladies, the man throwing a ball for his dog in the parking lot while his toddler looks on...

The sky, threatening a return to winter which, right now, I accept.

Connection notes.

2011-02-02T09:28:00.000-08:00

A guy in front of me lights his camel cigarette, a woman laughs, someone’s boots tap out a steady beat on the pavement. Inside, the sounds echo off the high walls of the common area. A dark-eyed, dark-haired stranger catches me staring at him from across the coffee shop. A woman bumps my shoulder as she pushes past the people waiting for espresso and goes out the door.
People flow.
There’s a concept of yogic meditation that centers on withdrawing oneself from the mind--that is, one allows oneself to become an observer of the mind, not an author of thoughts, but a witness.

I am meditating all the way across campus. I am witnessing 15,000 thoughts weave through pathways, each breath a white cloud in the cold morning air.

---------------------------

I want something to be diagnosable. I know something is wrong.

I go to the clinic with bad stomach cramps and a recurring pins-and-needles sensation in my chest and left shoulder. They do a urine test, draw blood, poke and prod me. They ask me questions. I answer.

There’s nothing abnormal, they say.

But this is abnormal, I return. I don’t normally feel like this.

Maybe it’s the loneliness. Maybe it’s the anxiety. Maybe it’s the seasonal depression.

There's nothing physically wrong, even though I have physical symptoms.

I hate feeling like this.

I hate how unengaged i feel in my classes. I hate how isolated I feel. I hate how inept I feel. I hate how cynical I feel. I hate the dreams I have. I hate the 20 pounds I’ve gained since I broke my foot. I hate how I am not strong enough to do everything I used to do. I hate the cold, the lack of excitement, and how many times I have to say, “I can’t do it.” I hate myself, the sound of my voice, the things I say without thinking about it. I hate myself for hating myself.

I don’t appreciate how ineffectual I feel.

I should have become an auto mechanic. I love doing that stuff. I love thinking and arguing philosophically, engaging in discussions, having homework, reading so many books--but when it comes down to it, what are we even getting done?

Nothing. Nothing yet. Nothing but conjecture.

Environmental Writing Institute

2011-01-31T13:42:00.001-08:00

One of my applications paid off!

I have been formally accepted, as well as approved for department funding, to the Environmental Writing Institute in April. Author Rick Bass is facilitating this year's conference, and it takes place in Missoula.

From the website:

Now in its 20th year, EWI is distinguished not only by longevity, but also by the consistent quality—in teaching and writing—of its workshop leaders, and by the quality of its writing participants and its inspiring and beautiful setting in a writer's town: Missoula, Montana.
EWI participants each year (15 maximum) include both aspiring and accomplished writers--essayists, journalists, scientists, outdoor writers, natural historians, students, and teachers from around the country. Participants are published and unpublished writers whose concerns range widely and wildly from the preservation of biodiversity to the conservation of community, from the ecology of high mountains to the wildness in vacant urban lots. Some participants, familiar with other genres—from poetry to scientific writing—may be trying the personal, narrative, or natural history essay for the first time.
...
EWI opens with a welcoming dinner Wednesday evening. Thursday through Sunday mornings are four-hour workshop classes led by 2011 EWI leader Rick Bass. Classes meet in the Alumni Board Room at the U MT University Center with a spacious mountain view and markets, shops, and lounges only down the hall. The workshop classes give participants the opportunity to receive thoughtful response and advice, to test their essays on an audience both sophisticated and encouraging, and to generate new work. Rick will also arrange brief individual conferences with the participants during the afternoons to discuss individual writings and the writing life. EWI ends Sunday with a farewell lunch.

So, in short, an essay I wrote about my foot injury and the subsequent healing, which included getting to know my place in a new way (observatory v. participatory), is deemed acceptable and worthwhile--which makes me feel exceptionally well about myself right now.

That is, until I got to campus and was casually asked by a few of my cohorts if I had been accepted, and after my enthusiastic nod was answered with a shrug and nod and informed that a few others had been accepted to the 2011 Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment conference in Indiana.

Actually, I rescind that comparison.

The ASLE conference will be huge, and there will be no one-on-one with an author. It's all bigwigs and formalities--and flying. I hate flying. I don't think I like Indiana. It's a large campus. I don't like being alone in big cities. There are more people in Bloomington than in Missoula, and 63% of the population lives within 2 miles of the center of town. I don't like the sound of that.

So, despite my initial reaction to compare and despair, I conclude that there is no comparison. I am pleased with my accomplishment, and excited.

Dealing with Rejection.

2011-01-24T09:28:00.000-08:00

It could be said of me that I do not handle rejection well.

I think I'm starting to work through it, though.

Dear Sara:

The pool for the Montana Good Works Fellowships was very competitive and the faculty faced difficult decisions in the process. I regret that we were not able to award you a fellowship.

We do value you and your work highly. I would encourage you to continue to seek scholarships and sources of support we offer in EVST.

I totally support the two people that received the fellowship positions; they are both fascinating, hard-working, and motivated people. I am not devastated. I am very wary about getting excited about other applications I turned in, for scholarships and for conferences.

There was a handwritten note at the bottom of my letter.

Sara- this was a very difficult decision. You are also highly deserving. I am committed to funding your attendance at Quillisascut this summer, so let's work on that together.

Neva

Neva is one of my advisors and probably my greatest advocate in the program. I appreciate her immensely, and I trust that she'll help me out with my goals.

One of my favorite things about graduate school is that everywhere you turn, you have people really rooting for your success and interacting with you as an equal. I had fantastic mentors and professors available at Oregon State, and this support system is like having that one multiplied and all grown up. I like it.

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

2011-01-23T19:49:00.000-08:00

Yay for a massive pot of coconut, spinach, and carrot dal. This will feed me for a few days!

Books.

2011-01-22T10:17:00.000-08:00

Faced with the undeniable end of winter break and the beginning of classes in two days, I have began to read recreationally with a fervor.

I picked up Confessions of a Barbarian, the journals of Edward Abbey from 1951 (he was 25) to 1989 (the year he died). I have always liked Ed Abbey's books, especially his nonfiction, and I respect his spunk and appreciate how uncouth he could be. Someone I would like to have been friends with, though never his lover. Yikes.

Within the first few entries, I found this section:

" I have made a few good friends in my first twenty-five years...but it's all kind of vague. I haven't really ever had much to do with any of them. Except for my women, I have been alone for most of my life so far. And sometimes it seems strange to me that this should be so, for I have felt for quite some time, for years, that I am ready to love my fellow-man--a few of them, I mean. Why must my love be restricted to women? I have enough love in me, not only for two women at once, but also for others, other women or men. By love, in this context, I mean simply a powerful and intimate friendship, a joining of minds and spirits in affection and comradeship. I imagine myself ready--but it doesn't happen.
Why not? One obvious reason--I make no move myself. Because I generally feel indifferent to other people--interested in them as phenomena of great philosophical interest but little more. My behavior is consistently neutralistic. I make no effort to make friends...I wait for the other man. And of course he often doesn't show up. In fact, he hasn't showed up yet. " [my emphasis]

What?! This means Ed Abbey and I are more alike than I thought!

I also have been looking into Ayurvedic cooking. It's an intriguing philosophy, though I don't subscribe to all of the woo-woo (Joshu's phrasing), it is based on solid ideas.

From http://www.sanatansociety.org/indian_vegetarian_recipes/ayurvedic_cooking.htm :

Ayurvedic foods are appetizing, flavourful, and aromatic and a way of offering love, becoming healing when served in an inspiring atmosphere. The cleansing of toxins that have entered the body and the electrochemical vitalising of the body are main objectives. Ayurvedic cooking thus is an art and a science at the same time, when cooking becomes alchemy and food becomes Tantra.

The basic principles of Ayurvedic cooking are: the five Elements, the three Doshas, the three Gunas, the seven Dathus, and the six Tastes. It also attaches a lot of attention to the effect of the cooking method on the quality of the foods, the importance of the vibrations of the cook and of the surrounding atmosphere, the compatibility of food, the right time for cooking and eating, the cycle of the seasons, and the effects of foods on consciousness.

So, basically, it's about seasonality, self-awareness, and self-care. I support that.

Pictures of Walks

2011-01-22T09:32:00.000-08:00

I've been walking *nearly* every day since I've been back in Missoula. I've taken a few pictures; here are the best ones.

Most are taken inside Greenough Park. Mount Jumbo is the big hill in the background.

Letdown.

2011-01-19T17:09:00.000-08:00

"Heartbeat" - Nneka

I once promised myself that I would no longer breach the realm of any details of relationships on my blog. Let it be noted that I am breaking that pact.

I had forgotten what it felt like to care for someone enough to feel devastated when things didn't work out. I had forgotten how much fun it was to stay up late and talk on the phone for hours on end, laughing and being vulnerable. I had forgotten the feeling of being hurt by someone choosing to focus their love and energy on someone else.

That being said, I understand things from her point of view, too. I mean, I've been in the cycle, the cycle of wanting to work things out. No matter that relationship was one built on fiery tempers, fleeting passion, and codependency. No matter it was abusive and toxic. I wanted resolution.

But being on the other side, the side where I watch someone I care about reenter the fray, wherein I'm asked to back away to reduce the complication and foreseeable jealousy, I hate it all. I had a shot with her at having something beautiful and healthy, something we built from the ground up. This was a connection that helped me examine myself thoughtfully, that made me want to be a better person and a better partner. We weren't technically in a committed relationship, not yet, but as she said one night, "If this isn't it, this is what it should be."

And then, a flick of a switch. A realignment. I'm suddenly on the sidelines. I told her that if this was happening a couple years ago, this is when I would step back and become invisible for a while, I would let the world happen and let her dictate the future. I would let myself be cut off. "I don't really like that idea now," I said.

"Maybe it's for the best right now," she said.

My heart sunk. I tried not to be hurt, but there's no way around it. I accepted her apology. We said goodbye.

I don't know when she'll talk to me again. I don't know how or when or if she'll work things out. Who knows what will happen or how things will be later. All I know is that I am sad and disappointed. And I'm bummed that this is what adult relationships can be like, and I hope she figures things out satisfactorily.

I hope I do, too.

Letter to my reactive body.

2011-01-17T20:15:00.001-08:00

Dear body,

I do not appreciate your random decision to apparently and violently react to shellfish. Spending two and half hours in the emergency room is not my idea of a good time. And while I think that it may just have been something in the brand of imitation crab, I am still upset with you for scaring me away from some of the only protein for which I have an appetite.

Capisce?

Okay, thanks-
S.

My theme song, as of late.

2011-01-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

"recoil" by Ani DiFranco

come home and my guitar
has nothin to say to me
i recoil from all my friends
and then i'm in misery
been so long since i've been held
really since i was his
probably just need to be held
that's probably all it is

course, then i think of my dad
who time travels mostly now
back to when he was free
and holding out hope somehow
who sits all day in a line
of wheelchairs against a wall
inventing ways to play out time
like us all
like us all

to all the people out there tonight
who are comforting themselves
if you should happen to see my light
you can stop and ring my bell
i'm just sittin here in this sty
strewn with half written songs
taking one breath at a time
nothin much going on
nothin much going on

little flashing zero
on my answering machine
rats scratching at my brain
brain shuffling its feet
yes i have my father's heart
it may or may not keep on trying
can't really tell you what it is
keeps me this side of that dark line

but i'm not there to take care of him
and i'm not here to take care of me
i'm going outside to watch the house burn down
across the street
i'm going outside to watch the house burn down
across the street

to all the people out there tonight
who are comforting themselves
if you should happen to see my light
you can stop and ring my bell
i'm just sitting here in this sty
strewn with half written songs
taking one breath at a time
nothin much going on
nothin much going on

Cooking notes.

2011-01-11T12:17:00.000-08:00

At 9 this morning, I began cooking.

I baked the acorn squash first. When my housemate emerged from his room at 10am and I pulled the squash from the oven he asked, "Are you having squash for breakfast?" I laughed.

"No," I said. "Probably closer to lunch." I knew I was making squash and black bean enchiladas with Veracruzan mole, and it would take me hours.

Mole is a dish that always gives me trouble. If mole was a car and I was Nicholas Cage and we were in a movie called "Gone in 60 Seconds," mole would be my Eleanor: an elusive, dangerous 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500 that is gorgeous and packs a punch, but always seems to kick my ass.

Reiko seemed to see what was going to happen; he slinked over to the door and stayed there, scared to venture in the kitchen.

See, last time I embarked on a mole adventure by myself, I burned up my stainless steel skillet, scorched my arm in a splatter of overheated oil, and, at various stages of the recipe, I erupted into curse words. I forgot an ingredient early in the process, and ended up incredibly discouraged at the end of it all. The result was not mole.

I carefully prepared all of my ingredients to cook successively in Nadia, my enamel-covered cast iron go-to pan. I heated the oil (I didn't have duck fat) and tossed in the chiles. I waited for the sizzle to shift to a popping, but the chipotle pepper accidentally charred a little. I moved on. Cashews, in and out. Sesame seeds, in and, in an explosion of sesame seeds of death, out--that is, all of the sesame seeds i could scoop with a slotted spoon--how the heck do you remove sesame seeds, anyway? I growled at the tiny little buggers. My oil was browning and I needed to act fast; I threw in the onion and garlic, and substituted pumpkin seeds for peanuts. Perfect; that is, except for the smoke-filled kitchen.

"What happened?" I heard my housemate inquire from the other room.

"Everything's fine!" I called back. I ground my spices with a morter and pestle (seriously harder than you would think) and roasted them in Nadia for a few seconds. The kitchen smelled like peppers, onion, cinnamon, cloves, and toasted nuts with a hint of char, and I started to get hungry. I pulled out my hand blender, added wine and broth to all the sauteed ingredients, and set up for puree action.

"Now," I said. "In theory, this will all be contained when I blend it."

"Well," said my housemate, "I just want to be able to see it when it explodes everywhere."

Well, turned out the hand blender did nothing to blend the sauce into a puree, it just made a lot of noise. After a few minutes of clicking my tongue and sighing, I dug out the juicer and transferred it all over.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Ready," he said.

I flipped the switch. Nothing happened. I switched outlets. Nothing. I was starting to be agitated. All this work, and no mole?

But wait--we had a tiny food processor in the drawer that could possibly do the trick. I switched everything over again, and flipped the switch.

By two hours into the ordeal, I finally had something that resembled mole, despite its overly chunky appearance. I stirred a few chocolate chips in and dipped in my finger to give it a taste.

My eyes welled up instantly and my throat burned. I had not removed all the seeds from the peppers, and I was paying for it. My housemate stuck his head in the kitchen when I didn't stop coughing for a few minutes.

"Everything okay?" I gulped almond milk straight from the carton and nodded.

"It just needs more chocolate!" I sputtered.

I added more chocolate and stirred. The mole was thick and dark and smelled amazing. It was still spicy, but I liked it. I was getting tired and hungry, as it was nearing 12:15, so I filled up tortillas with squash, cumin, and freshly cooked black beans, rolled them up neatly in a pan, covered them with cheese, and smothered them with mole.

Twenty-five minutes in the oven at 350°F, and voila! I finally had mole enchiladas!

They're spicy, but nothing a little yogurt (in lieu of sour cream) can't fix. All in all, I guess I did pretty well this time. I didn't burn the house down, I don't have any new scars, and, even though the juicer is dead, I managed to puree it without repainting the house.

YUM!

New Year.

2011-01-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

I went for a walk this morning and stood in Greenough Park, eyes closed and hands stuffed into my rain coat pockets. After visiting SE Idaho during the holidays (for 3 weeks), I'm back in Missoula, and it feels almost like time has stood still here. That is, except for the extra foot and a half of wet snow, my housemate's significantly thicker beard, and the new kitchen drawer just for towels and fancy napkins.

The man on a bike with two dogs in the park, the smell of pine, the babble of Rattlesnake Creek, the hum of the Interstate, the clear tracks of deer, the air thick with more oxygen and humidity--these make Missoula so much different than Blackfoot, and though I feel guilty in admitting it, I missed this place.

Now, though, I miss the Wine Garden and knowing everyone there. I miss cooking with Ja. I miss talking with RT. I miss my new cuddle buddy CareBear and her lightning quick wit.

I used to drive from Oregon to Blackfoot in one trip, 12 hours straight through. Now, even though the drive is only 5 hours, I'm nearly wrecked afterwards, and I wake up the next morning confused concerning my whereabouts and why I managed to dream about all the stuff I didn't do while in SE Idaho.

But I have a to do list as long as ever, and I'm going to do start working on it right now.

Final Essay Work Notes

2010-12-14T15:35:00.000-08:00

1) I am madly in love with a barista at Break Espresso. Makes for a pleasant time sitting here, but is generally unproductive as I spend much of my time staring off into space toward him, imagining his laugh and wondering if can afford to buy something else so I can talk to him some more.

2) Working on final essays is maddening! My mind has (obviously) already checked out.

3) I love coffee.

Survival.

2010-12-14T07:31:00.000-08:00

I was attempting to wait to write about the completion of my first term of graduate school until I was completely done with all of my final coursework. Alas, that may take a few days.

The good news is that I survived! Yay! I feel that, in the end of it all, this is a worthwhile endeavor.

So, I have already designed my next term. Monday and Wednesday are my regular class days.

There are only two people in the Publishing course--a more custom time will be designated for that class.

The Independent Study will take place over the course of the term as Josh Slotnick (PEAS Farm director) and I attend farmer / rancher winter meetings and compile stories.

The culinary course is only a month long, and it's through the Continuing Education sector of the University.

Also, ~~I got a job~~ I'll be a special projects unpaid intern at spectrUM Discovery Center, an on-campus interactive science museum. I'm going to be part-time, mostly Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays. ~~My first day is tomorrow!~~ (So it goes.)

I sure know how to overbook myself--but it's so dang exciting!

Long days, too long of nights.

2010-12-03T19:48:00.000-08:00

I've refilled my tea cup with royal green tea for the umpteenth time. Upon realizing that it's 8:45pm, I return to the kitchen to add a hefty dose of rum to the cup. I need to sleep at some point.

I've been working on my Commodity Chain Analysis since I woke up--I feel like everything takes longer than I planned for it to, and that scares me. I don't have enough time for everything. I berate myself for being an idiot and not being able to handle the stress.

It doesn't help that my rum-tea hybrid beverage tastes terrible.

December Notes

2010-12-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

1) Fantastic idea someone had in Pittsburgh and put into motion: a take-out place that only serves food from places that the United States is in conflict with--hence, Conflict Kitchen.

2) Physical therapy always makes me feel sad. I am discouraged each time I leave.

3) Poetry slams and hip-hop events aren't like they were in Oregon. I mean, this is to be expected--different place, different experiences. But it makes me miss the cultural diversity and sensitivity present in the Black Poets Society in Corvallis.

Late nights, early mornings.

2010-11-19T07:03:00.000-08:00

I am going through a period of acceptance.

It has taken me this long to realize that my foot isn't going to heal quickly. I may have permanent nerve damage. I am going to have to work for my strength to return, and I'm going to have to work through chronic aches and pains.

I have attempted to integrate this acceptance into my daily life. That is, I am trading in my troublesome Outback for a vehicle with an automatic transmission. I am acknowledging my foot injury in conversations. Sometimes, I feel like I unnecessarily slip it into an exchange, because I haven't really figured out when it's appropriate yet. But I say it, and I feel the emotions that go along with saying it, and I move on. At least, in theory.

I am also accepting that I am in Grad School. I had no problem telling people that--but now, it's about buckling down and enjoying what I'm doing. Really enjoying. I've got great professors, and fascinating classes, and I can design my degree. Seriously! Let's do that! I don't have to just do the classwork--I can shape the classwork! I can accept my classmates for all their faults (as I can hope they do for me). I can be comfortable in my own depth and emotion, and damnit, I can be funny and be content when I make my peers laugh, even if I can't seem to connect in other ways.

P.S. Here is a picture of my new truck!

Yeah. I feel hardcore.

Dream Blog.

2010-11-12T07:52:00.000-08:00

I had the craziest dream to go along with my arm falling asleep last night.

I was working a circular saw, cutting sections of planks for something (I never caught why). My arm started to fall asleep with the vibrations and weight of the saw, so I tapped a guy on the shoulder and had him take over. A woman, standing nearby, clicked her tongue. "That woman just can't handle it," she said, making eye contact with me. "She's as useless as a Barbie or something." I tore off my work glove, cocked my arm back as I charged toward her, and my fist explosively connected with her face--and I woke up to the pain of my arm regaining its blood supply.

Hate to say it, but it was kind of awesome. I dare that dream character to ever insult my ability again!

On a side note, I have significant projects and papers due in every class both this week and the next. Only four more weeks of the term, and it's a freakin' landslide!

Post-Election Day.

2010-11-03T08:17:00.000-07:00

Otter and Crapo win again.

ID Governor

(100% reporting)

33% Allred

59% Otter

ID US Senate

(100% reporting)

25%

71% Crapo

Fuck!

Though, I guess I should have known.

Otter is looking to dismantle and disengage the state from the federal ESA. Example would be his (literally) targeting of wolves for hunting. He seems intent on dismantling state agencies that have oversight on natural resources, such as water and environmental quality. The State Ag dept. is likely to become the regulatory agency for CAFOs, creating a HUGE conflict of interest. He's promoting "nukular" energy - not necessarily a bad thing, but without oversight of water rights and environmental quality, could be disastrous. On his latest trip to China (what a boondoggle), he spent his energy promoting the extractive industries in the state (mining and logging) while at the same time is seemingly rolling over as the state's education system is eroded in efficacy and quality. I guess all we'll have left are a few folks who can operate a chainsaw and tractor...

Allred is largely unknown to the general population, but does have a history of creating bipartisan working groups to pass key legislation. That said, the state legislature is arguably the most extreme right wing body in the US, and his successes at passing legislation in the recent past have been few. Even Otter is at odds with the legislature who are a bunch of party hacks with limited vision other than re-election. The state is toast.

(David Wilkins, GRIST magazine, "Guess Who's Favored, Win A Potato!")

After the Republican landslide and John Boehner's (soon-to-be-Speaker-of-the-House?) vow to revoke health care legislation, I'm once again seriously--and I mean, seriously--considering a move to Canada. Sometimes, you just don't have enough money or energy to fight for what you believe in. Gah. What can be done?

/verysadface.

To Do List of incredibleness

2010-10-22T08:07:00.000-07:00

For the weekend, through Monday/Tuesday.

~~Pack backpack for Helena~~
~~Cook for Helena (Dal? Brownies? Brownies. Definitely.)~~
~~Wash fleece, pack.~~
~~Read portions of Stephanie Mills book for essay~~
Chapters 6 -7 in Eric Higgs' Nature By Design
~~Make tortilla chips for snackies on drive to Helena~~
~~Manage not to wake up exhausted housemate while packing, cooking, and doing dishes.~~
~~Write 5000 word essay for Environmental Writing~~
~~Write Higgs critical response essay for Ethics of Ecological Restoration~~
Read remainder (100 pages) of Hewitt's The Town That Food Saved
~~Research benefits of overhead irrigation for Agroecology debate, email partner~~
~~Research fish kills in northern lakes for Ethics of Restoration, prepare discussion~~
Drink stockpiled beer [responsibly, gradually] so housemate does not come to think I have a problem with hoarding alcohol. (Oops. This sounds terrible either way...I just kept forgetting I already had some beer at home.)
~~Register for next term's classes (Monday at 12noon)~~
~~Read essays and prepare for CAMAS Magazine editorial board meeting (woot)~~
'~~Cooking with Winter Squash' class (Tuesday, even though none of the squash survived).~~
Survive.

Food Notes.

2010-10-19T20:17:00.001-07:00

It's amazing what food can do.

The smell of onions caramelizing in ghee, the scent of cardamom pods simmering, the aroma of paneer browning in spices--that's a good way to flip my mood around.

Of course, that doesn't even touch on how happy I feel eating beautiful, good food.

My cooking class tonight was amazing (Everyday Indian). And the coolest thing is that I have all the ingredients to make most of the dishes myself at home (except I still can't bring myself to buy meat--but if i had brought my camera to the class, I could have shown you that I ate a lamb [shoulder] and spinach curry andkindofenjoyedit; alas, my digestive system is slightly perturbed). I am so excited for Peas Paneer and Mili Moong Aur Masoor Dal (Lentils with Caramelized Onion)!

I'm sorry; there are no pictures even close to what we made tonight. I'll just have to make it again and post pictures for your enjoyment.

Sigh.

In other, perhaps entertaining news, I was amazed to experience door after door today being opened and held by men. It was bizarre--I mean, I had begun to think I was invisible or something, or that chivalry was finally dead!--until I remembered I'm ovulating. TMI? Sorry. I just thought it was rather curious...Sigh, again.

If you're up for some politiks.

2010-10-19T16:30:00.000-07:00

Hehe...heh...hehehe...

Oh man. These people just make me giggle.

I love how the Law Students derisively laugh and have ongoing commentary. Sigh.

Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/oct/19/christine-odonnell-church-and-state-gaffe

Food in Photos

2010-10-17T12:41:00.000-07:00

Look! Homemade tortilla chips--from scratch!!

Hmm...now I need some tomatillos...

Dreams, SEJ musings.

2010-10-17T10:08:00.000-07:00

After a night spent in a gunfight dream (and, by the way, I believe I won; I absolutely destroyed an ex-boyfriend and his two friends--graphic, disturbing, and yet I felt I was in full control for once) and a day in the garden, planting garlic and mulching (I hope my housemate returns pleasantly surprised), I rode my bike up Rattlesnake Canyon until it was too dark to see, and returned via the bike path, catching mule deer in my headlight's beam.

This morning I snuck into the second to last session of the Society of Environmental Journalists. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of Kathleen Dean Moore, an inspiration and one of my favorite professors during my undergraduate years. I was asking the desk attendent for directions, and when I turned around, KDM was standing directly behind me! I grinned and said hello, and she smiled warmly in return, but didn't seem to recognize me. I was suddenly shy, so I moved out of her way and went to the conference room to wait to hear her address the crowd. (I feel now that I should have re-introduced myself, I should have thanked her again--but I didn't want to interrupt her, or make her late, or make things awkward...)

It was beautiful--William Kittredge and David James Duncan also spoke, and all were full of passion and witty remarks.

My favorite part was during the question and answer portion. A journalist stood and asked how we could hope to reduce the human footprint in the West. The panel asked for clarification. "Well," she said, "How can we make sure the population is kept under control?" I snickered: something-something about bucolic expectations, about the "wild west," about population booming everywhere being the problem. 7 billion blah-de-blah---

David J. Duncan cleared his throat into the microphone. "Uh, use a condom every time."

I could have died of laughter. It was perfect.

Entertaining, and satisfying to see KDM still raising the banner of thoughtfulness (and appealing to our sense of morality). I am happy to have had her in my life.

On "Sustainable."

2010-10-15T07:16:00.000-07:00

Ben Hewitt, "The Town That Food Saved":

There is very little about agriculture that is truly sustainable. At its core, agriculture is a human manipulation of a natural process. Is there a version of agriculture that is truly sustainable? Probably so. Is there a version of agriculture that is truly sustainable and able to feed 7 billion people? Almost certainly not.

I make a conscious decision to avoid using the word "sustainable." It is, like "organic" and "green" and "natural," incredibly corruptible.

Evidence?

Wal-Mart creating a "sustainability index," maybe? Or should I just be satisfied that Wal-Mart is beginning to move in a 'locally-minded' direction?

What scares me is this: "It will also provide training for the farmers and their laborers on how to choose crops that are in demand and on the proper application of water and pesticides."

Everyone tells the farmer what to do; what happened to just trusting the farmer to do what's best for her land and herself!

(for more, read Wendell Berry, "Whose Head is the Farmer Using?")

PS: Bicycle pictures.

2010-10-06T15:36:00.001-07:00

My bicycle.

Collide.

2010-10-06T14:11:00.001-07:00

I pumped the pedals and stood up in the seat. I love my bike, I thought, weaving in and out of texting pedestrians. I should probably adjust my brakes, though; they seem a little iffy. I took the sloping sidewalk down, and merged into the parking lot to join the bike path back home.

But a white truck didn't make the turn through the campus parking lot with the rest of traffic. He stayed straight, crossing my trajectory, headed for a drop-off zone parking space. I gripped my brake lever, and my back tire squeaked and squealed, skidding. I wasn't going to be able to stop.

As I approached the truck, which was slowing down directly in front of me, I quickly assessed my options. I could swerve around him, but would probably go down hard, risking getting road rash while headed directly into the rest of traffic. If I kept straight, I would hit him, and I would just have to hope I didn't fly over the handlebars into the bed of the truck and end up hurt, or worse, on YouTube.

I locked up my brakes and gritted my teeth, tensing. I swear to god, I thought, if I break another bone I'm going to have to be put out of my misery.

I hit his back tire, and subsequently my upper body collided with the handlebars and the bed of the truck in quick succession. He stopped--but he didn't get out, he just glared at me via the rear view mirror. I caught my breath, ducked my head, and carried my bike to the sidewalk to put my bike chain back on the gear.

The girl he was picking up called out and asked me if I was okay.

"Sure," I said in a squeaky voice I didn't really recognize.

"You have to be careful," she said, but I didn't notice if she said it to me or the man in the truck; I didn't bother to look at her, I just reconnected the chain and got back on the seat.

Eff-word. I'm sore. But I'm glad I didn't have another freak accident that required surgery. I've had enough of that.

If you're up for some politiks.

2010-10-05T09:27:00.000-07:00

If you're up for some politiks, look no further than here:

"A hall full of elderly white people in Medicare-paid scooters, railing against government spending and imagining themselves revolutionaries as they cheer on the vice-presidential puppet hand-picked by the GOP establishment. If there exists a better snapshot of everything the Tea Party represents, I can't imagine it....Vast forests have already been sacrificed to the public debate about the Tea Party: what it is, what it means, where it's going. But after lengthy study of the phenomenon, I've concluded that the whole miserable narrative boils down to one stark fact: They're full of shit. All of them....At root, the Tea Party is nothing more than a them-versus-us thing."

Incredible article about the Tea Party. If you subscribe to the Tea Party belief system, you should read it anyway. Seriously. Please.

When I say...

2010-10-03T10:33:00.000-07:00

When someone says:

"I always think you look so cute and funky. I love your necklace, I love your skirt, I love your style."

I say:

"Thank you!"

In my head I say:

"I just kind of got dressed and this is what happened. Style, indeed! Ha!"

When I say, "I don't know why we are going to pull fence all day for my Ethics of Restoration course," I mean, "I hate not being able to do all of the physical activity I want to do. Having a healing foot sucks."

When I say, "I hope to see you soon," sometimes I mean, "Wow, that was an awkward experience, I hope next time is better." Sometimes I mean, "I really would just like to hang out with you tomorrow, and the next day; I will think about you a lot until we hang out again."

When I say, "I wish I could afford to buy a pound of the best coffee I've ever had from Black Coffee Roasting Co.," that's exactly what I mean.

Sometimes I wonder why I say anything at all.

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

2010-09-14T21:17:00.000-07:00

Salmon cakes with watercress and rice.

Broiled brown turkish figs with honey and goat cheese; also, couscous and mushrooms in the background.

Holy time budget.

2010-09-14T20:58:00.000-07:00

You know you're busy when you have a conversion rate figured out for each class in order to know how much time you need to do readings and written work. I could make pie charts everyday, and a very small slice of that pie would be labeled "free time."

My classes are engaging, and often fun; I do have some frustrations with teaching styles and coursework (I don't know, for instance, why a full day of fence removal at a local ranch is part of my Ethics of Restoration course), but overall, things are going well.

It's fascinating to enter periods of acute awareness of my adjustment back into academic life. Like, oh my, see here; I have a very specific method of entering information into my date book, so it does not get cluttered and I will not forget to do something. Wow, how meticulous. I also can't help but notice how there are no dates in my date book. That is, I am still avoiding social engagements--not that I have had the opportunity for them, beyond a smile to my neighbor from my front porch, or a nervous exchange of glances between a pedestrian and me as we navigate a busy sidewalk and I try desperately not to hit someone with my beastly borrowed bike.

I do have plenty of peculiar social interactions, though. Fascinating ones, really.

But no real connections. Not yet.

I landed a paid position with a local firm, the Clark Fork Watershed Education Program. I will be teaching middle-schoolers a place-based curriculum, starting with three lectures about the Clark Fork (and the newly removed Milltown Dam) and ending with a day-long field trip to the restoration sites. Exciting, right? I think so. I could use a little hope in the future. Plus, it's a fantastic opportunity to watch the progress of this whole project--the history is incredible, what with the dam that was 100 years old and all of the toxic and semi-toxic mine waste that was washed down from Butte's copper mines and Anaconda's smelter. It's mind-blowing to see the actual impacts (and required efforts) surrounding this area and its remediation (and restoration, which I'm intrigued by).

Oh yes, it's all very fascinating.

But, naturally, I never get enough sleep these days. Sigh.

On the brink of school, again.

2010-08-29T09:23:00.000-07:00

It's been two years, nearly, since I went to classes and did homework and had class projects. I look forward, certainly, to the structure and challenge inherent to returning to an academic life. I also somewhat dread it--the professors can be long-winded, sometimes going on rants; self-purported importance masquerading as passion. I find myself surprised that I am one of two incoming students from the rural west--the other is a woman from Idaho Falls, and she is awfully quiet and doesn't smile very much. (Side note: an adjunct professor who is heading a trip to Big Timber [a small rural area southeast of Missoula] said, "It's important to get to know those people, the people who raise cattle and have homesteads near public lands." Those people? I come from those people!) The rest are people from California, Michigan, New York, and the like.

I'm frustrated. I suppose, in part, it's because no matter how tolerant we think we are, we still find it irritating to watch people go through (acting in a similar way) the same shit we once did. I watch fresh undergrads nervously trying to fit in without looking lame, unsure of who they are yet, their parents still following (or leading) them around town, shopping for beds and notebooks.

I find myself already somewhat disenchanted by the world of higher academia--and I haven't even attended classes yet. I don't want to end up stuck running in circles like some professional academics do--gaining their sense of superiority in education, like the Philosophy junior professor I spoke to, or the woman who used "I have two bachelor's degrees and a master's!" as proof of her place in the world. I want to be out in the world, doing something, creating something. I want to be useful and thoughtful, but not only because I believe myself to be. I find it a strain to be surrounded by so many people. NOTE: This is in no way an accusation--I should say that i know so many good, inspiring, humble people in the academic world. Many of them were my professors, and continue to be my inspiration. This frustration with academia comes recently from having had some conversations with people (mostly my classmates) that seem to indicate they truly believe their education and a subsequent plaque on their desk makes them fit to rule over the "less educated" people. It rubs me the wrong way. I don't know how else to explain it.

I continue having visceral, emotional, draining dreams; dreams about power and control, anxiety, frustration, alienation. They're fascinating explorations into my psyche, but they sure make it difficult to feel rested.

Despite all the upheaval, I'm starting to feel a little excited, too. I am going to design my own program. Even though I will not be able to get my Certified Culinarian degree (regulations of the College of Tech and U of M credit requirements), I will be able to transfer a certain amount of credits from another institution: I'm looking into the Quillisascut Farm School, or maybe do a semester abroad (Italy? Thailand?).

I'll let you know how it goes.

Links: Politics--no, small houses.

2010-08-29T09:12:00.001-07:00

I was going to post a couple links to articles illustrating how insane and idiotic Mr. Glenn Beck was this weekend--he doesn't make any f**king sense!--and an article on the billionaires funding the oppressed, white, middle-class Tea Party. Instead, I have decided to try to shed myself of the negativity a bit, and instead direct you towards this, which I find fabulous and encouraging.

The McMansion fad is fading. What's more, people are opting for smaller homes. And there's less focus on stuff and capitalist concepts of growth and prestige.

As they downsize, the LaTrays will make room for the things that are important to them. Chris LaTray is a writer, so the new home will have built-in bookshelves. But the move into a small house will mean getting rid of a lot of stuff, too.
"If you have the space, you fill it."

I must say, though: I look forward to the day that I design a home with a large kitchen and Shoji sliding doors. Mhmm. And I will, most certainly, live outside of town.

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

2010-08-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Note: I used to eat Tom Yum soup with a romantic partner, and it always tasted so complex and special and I found that I craved it as a comfort food when things got really stressful or I got lonely (it's funny how food can sometimes satisfy loneliness). Well, a) I made the soup by myself from scratch the other day, and b) it's really a simple thing to make. I'm sure I could pull some very philosophical wisdom from this experience. Really, though, it got me thinking about all sorts of stuff: how food can evoke emotional response, how we work through things over time, how simple complicated matters can turn out to be...Or whatever. Here's the pretty soup.

Also, I attended a Oaxacan (Mexican) cooking class based on the novel/movie "Like Water for Chocolate" last evening. The smells were amazing, and, note this, I tried every dish. Mole with cabbage and corn tortillas, quail in rose petal sauce, watermelon on ice, chile rellenos with walnut cream sauce, and churros with hot chocolate. The chile rellenos had a touch of pork in them (and the little Hindi and Jew in me cried together), but I tasted it anyway. I fought with the little quail-bird on my plate like I knew what I was doing. And I didn't really like any of it (I've have better food, for sure, than that), I knew what it tasted like, smelled like, and what everyone else liked--and I feel accomplished for trying it.

Now, the trick will be to cook it.

Food in Photos

2010-08-22T18:47:00.000-07:00

I have a problem. I have discovered that I cannot stick to a budget when I shop at the Good Food Store. There's always something that catches my eye, and either simply must go into my basket and reusable canvas shopping bag, or leads to a whole set of other ingredients to buy for a dish.

Tonight, I decided to put a major dent in my stash of ginger and galanagal, dried chiles, and paprika. I cooked West Sumatran Salmon Curry, with a recipe from Iza Indonesian Restaurant of Missoula, Montana (goddamn, i love these cooking classes i'm taking).

Hmm, I always get kind of distracted doing prep work, because I find that the smell of freshly chopped garlic is an aphrodisiac. So I took a break (and smelled the garlic, silly, it never got more serious than that).

I made my own curry paste--from scratch.

Then, I heated up the pan --

note, here: peanut oil burns very easily.

I stirred in the homegrown curry paste and some coconut milk,

put the salmon fillet in and covered it, along with some cinnamon basil leaves,

note: I used this time to make a killah margarita, as seen in the background.

Mmmm...

and after about ten minutes of simmering, I served it over quinoa! Saren for the WIN in the kitchen!

-----------------------------------------------------------------

On a side note, I walked up our sweet little alley way the other morning, and found something much like this (my alley is pretty brushy, too):

At first, I thought it was kids or something, causing mayhem. But when a neighbor saluted me and said, "Well, looks like we had a bear around last night," I realized just how much I live on the interface between the wild and the urban worlds. It's pretty exciting.

FOX News, a terrorist organization.

2010-08-20T13:07:00.001-07:00

*evil laugh here*

Jon Stewart for the WIN against the most idiotic "news corporation" in the world.

A) OMG! The logo!!!

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

A Farewell to Arms

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

"Yeah, you be the judge. We're just letting you know about some bullshit thing we saw, saying this is a coded message to the Muslim world...So, it turns out, it's worse than we thought. It turns out the people at the white house aren't secret Muslims, they're nerds."

B) The Money Trail--how does Glenn Beck or--um--funny dude with the highlighted flash cards miss this?

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart

Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c

Extremist Makeover - Homeland Edition

www.thedailyshow.com

Daily Show Full Episodes

Political Humor

Tea Party

"It's a dangerous game of guilt by association you could play with almost anybody... Is FOX News a terrorist command center? ...Clearly I'm being very fair."

Yes. And then, Charlton Heston. I do miss the days of logic. I used to think I absolutely despised Charlton Heston; but in all actuality, I have realized that I miss him, and I think we could have been friends.

Rough Morning.

2010-08-20T09:06:00.000-07:00

Some mornings are just rough.

Some mornings, my mind stirs from sleep fitfully. I don’t know where I am for a few moments after I open my eyes and fix them on the yellow wall and white linen drapes fluttering inches from my face. Sometimes I wake up to pain from a dream fading; this morning, as others, I wake and feel the realization of aches and pains settling. My muscles are tender; my head is still swimming. My mouth is dry, so I swallow, and the taste of sweet stale food makes itself known, still lingering from 3am.

3am: I had stumbled out into the kitchen, half awake but recognizing my hypoglycemia. I had lost my pajama pants sometime before, and was drenched in sweat, breathing laboriously and having trouble walking straight. I remember being glad my roommate wasn’t home.
I drank straight from the giant jug of apple juice. Eight glugs, then breathed deeply. I pulled a testing strip from the vial of my glucose kit, pricked my finger without flinching, and steadied my bleeding finger with my other hand so I could direct the drop of blood onto the strip--difficult when your hands are both shaking.

Numbers can have such power for being just lines and concepts. Some people worry about numbers on their bathroom scale, or numbers smeared on a barroom napkin. I worry about numbers on a tiny little machine. Forty-two. 42. I sighed--sometimes, even when I know my blood sugar is low by the way my body is acting, the numbers can serve to make me feel worse.
I ate cheese and crackers to pass the time until my hands would slow their shaking and I wouldn’t feel so clammy. Sometimes, it’s hard not to stop eating when you’ve been woken up by a low blood sugar. I know this, so I put away the crackers and cheese--and retrieved a handful of chocolate chips from the freezer. I made myself eat them one by one, and by the time the last three were the ones left in my palm, I started walking back to bed.
I knew I’d have a spike from all this, so I set my pump to deliver a small dose over an hour, to cover the extra sugar I’ll eventually absorb.

The taste in my mouth when i wake, the one of stale sweet snacking, is one I recognize from childhood nights--actually, I don’t remember many of the nights. My mom or dad would come to my room and check my sugar in the middle of the night, and if I was low, they would gently feed me graham crackers, or something, in my sleep. I’d know if I had been low in the middle of the night if i woke up with that peculiar taste in my mouth. I don’t know if you have ever just let a piece of graham cracker dissolve on your tongue and then swallow the remains--inevitably, that must have happened to some bites as I ate in my sleep--but that’s what the stale sweetness tastes like; and it seems to be a similar taste even if I ate crackers and cheese with apple juice and chocolate chips in the middle of the night.

It’s late in the morning when I’m remembering this--I’ve slept in. The taste is lingering, and the shaky feeling of a low glucose dip is, too. I groan and stretch. Some mornings, it’s hard to kick the feeling--it’s like you’ve got a low blood sugar hangover. Your brain lags behind, your body protests movement, you’re thirsty and a little hungry, and you’re sore and, as today, maybe a bit grumpy.
But you’ve got to keep moving. The thought of sweet tea to wash the staleness out of my mouth gets me to swing my feet off the bed, and I go to take my first step--but my left foot screams and protests, then malfunctions and I plop back down, frustrated.

Damnit. But there’s tea in the kitchen! C’mon, body! Work with me here!

Neogeography and Mama Grizzlies.

2010-08-18T07:42:00.000-07:00

RE: The Agnostic Cartographer - John Gravois

To quote Life of Pi:

“It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation” (36).

But I'm not going to talk about religion; I'm linking to an article on cartography. Can cartography be compared to religious belief? Well, yes and no. Of course, as much as "Pi" is biased toward belief, I am biased toward disbelief. That is completely irrelevant tangent, I suppose brought on by what the author of the aforementioned article chose as a title.

What I mean to point out is that cartography has changed. We have less mystery in our landscapes, and more disputed territories. Perhaps, also, "superpower countries" are a thing of the past (relatively speaking) and hence we have more independent nations, governments, and borders. One map, apparently, is not enough, especially for Google.

Google's "open source" map technique allows for many different versions of the world. What does this mean for people? Well, I don't really know yet. For now, it's a source of controversy. Nonetheless, I find myself tending to believe that political boundaries won't be agreed on by consensus. We had universal maps because a) the people who made maps usually ruled most of the world, b) not many people explored most areas and/or c) nobody bothered to ask people who lived in many 'uncharted' places what their place was like--nor did we have satellites or open source technology.

I guess I really miss the days when maps weren't just lines and colors--but topography and landmarks with less solid lines. Now, it seems, I need to crack open a guidebook to find the nature of a place.

------------------------------------

Boo for Sarah Palin--again. C'mon, woman.

She twittered (tweeted? titted? Tweedle-deed?:

"Who hijacked term:"feminist"? A cackle of rads who want 2 crucify other women w/whom they disagree on a singular issue; it's ironic (& passé)"

Wait-what? Hijacking? Oh, snap! Crucifixion? Dear lord! A cackle? ...Umm, whatever does she mean?

Now, I suppose it should stop bothering me so much that almost every time I witness a political / personal / philosophical disagreement, I realize all over again how many people don't see things the way I do (and therefore purport doing something about it that I totally disagree with). It seems to me that EMILY's List (watch their movie) made a clever, satirical, and allowable/agreeable political statement, using Palin's Mama Grizzly metaphor (and they said: Sometimes you need a little humor to help get out the real story – and to show just how backwards-looking the policies of Sarah Palin and her candidates truly are). Why she has to call them out as radicals she can't take seriously seems ridiculous. I'm exhausted by all the rhetoric and fiery tempers. Nobody hijacked anything this time around. And, damnit Sarah, the last thing you should do is play victim here. And--wtf--why resort to gender slurs when claiming someone else is antifeminist--that is, um, assuming that by calling them a "cackle," she meant cackling witches--or something...Gasp! Maybe that's her whole ploy--to change the English language and make us all confuzzled! I refudiate! (It's enough to make me consider changing my name, though--seriously.)

Ugh. I'm just going to pretend all these crazy people are simply trying to make us laugh--or at least trying to be (self) satirical. [Really though, I do want to protect my right to hibernate with anyone I choose, dammit!]

In the mean time, I'm going swimming in the creek near my house, far away from anything of human origin (though it is quite decidedly mapped).

Sipping a margarita in the back yard.

2010-08-14T18:55:00.000-07:00

Notes: The roommate and I had an enlightening conversation regarding energy and the role of mystery in the world--over breakfast.

I bought a helmet today! Yes, it says "nutcase" across the front. No, it is not pink. It's salmon--no, tea rose. Anyhow, i like it. It's fun. And it protects my brain. I braved the 'basement' of the house today and all of its hobo spiders and retrieved a bike left by J's cousin--and i test rode it. It's exciting to ride a bike again.

I decorated a tiny (seriously, tiny) lamp i scored at a thrift store.

More people notes, and notes of me.

The slope of a jaw, the flick of hair, the wide, slow yawn of a man the next table over--the details flood my brain. I've seen so many people i forget what i might look like until a member of my table waves a hand in front of my face and imitates my expression.
The smell of evaporated sweat, sweet and pungent like--well, like weed. Oh--wait--it is weed, wafting from behind the patio wall.
An embrace, the sigh and furrowed brow of a waitress.
...
If anyone bothered to ask, I'd tell them i get my inspiration here--sitting at a table, alone--or with borrowed friends, people I don't really know.
I get fashion advice, fantasize about what people are like. I imagine sitting with that man, or why the guy over there is on the phone, doubled over, head resting in one of his hands.
I watch an insect explore a woman's back, her shirt a world of folds and wrinkles that might make it seem like a mountainous landscape, shifting with every gesture she makes.
I catch the eye of the dark and long-haired cook, out for a cigarette break. I glance away as a flush floods my face, and when i look back, he's gone.
I realize i'm not just a fly on the wall when a guy at a nearby table laughs and smiles at me as I watch him. Busted. I'm human--I'm not invisible. Damn.

hot summer days..and stuff.

2010-08-05T11:03:00.000-07:00

Note: I am still learning not to look street vendors or vagrant panhandlers in the eye.

I also apologize if my latest posts seem melancholy. I can't deny that sometimes the mood strikes me. I have my good days, too, and i can always laugh at random things that amuse me. Such as the fact that I see about 20 other green Subaru Outbacks a day. That's a conservative average.

Here's my living space.

It's hot. I don't really do much during the day. Yesterday afternoon we took a roommate-partner-houseguest outing and tromped around Kelly Island (stream crossing and log crossing--and then swimming--counts as my physical therapy) and swam around for a while before getting Gyros in town and eating ice cream afterwards. The ice cream shop even gave Reiko his own cone, which he thoroughly enjoyed.

Connection notes.

2010-08-02T10:06:00.000-07:00

Who knew the simple act of walking would be so mind-boggling? My foot trembles, unsure what to do. I coax my toes into bending, and I move ever-so-slowly forward. My muscle memory is gone. It’s amazing how much our muscles remember--and how they can forget. Cradling a child, tossing a basketball, kissing a lover--or taking a step. The exaltation in doing so--even rigidly--after so long, or even what will seem like so short, it’s incredible.

--------------------------------------------------------

I’m learning to walk again, and I’m learning to live near people again. My neighbors fascinate me. They sit on their front lawn every evening, drinking cheap beer and yelling at their big dogs, revving their modified engines, listening to Phish and other uninspired musicians. I watch them warily. With them I take an offensive stance; I don’t bother to look over at them until their laughter peaks, and then I glare.

With my new roommate, I am submissive. I watch his movements and let him pass through the kitchen first. I make eye contact, but break it occasionally, and laugh quietly. I am cautious, but it’s different with him--I am afraid to send an offensive message.

With the kind coffee barista--face pierced to an unnerving degree--who gives me a chai even though I can’t pay, I smile and say, “Thanks, darlin’,” but I instantly regret it. I am afraid she will receive a message of attraction--as the butch woman at the bar assumed. I find myself suddenly and overly aware of the messages I send--and how little control I have over how they are received. I feel like I’m learning to walk amongst people again. It’s hard to be centered when you’re not used to not being alone.

The neighbors call to their dogs. Igor and Humma--Humma, as in Humma Kavula of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Hmm. If so, it’s a misnomer; unless perchance they just say “Hummer” with a Montana drawl. I want a better look at them, a chance to see what I’m in for living next door. What’s the etiquette for back yard to front yard social relations? If a woman sneezes in her parking area behind her house next door, should I say “bless you” from behind the slatted fence? Am I really just a disembodied voice to them, too?

I guess people get accustomed to living around so many people by realizing how little the other people notice them. I must be too sensitive to surrounding human beings and their needs. I’m too curious, too interested, and perhaps too worried about what they perceive me to be. There’s so little that I have control over--their perceptions, their goings and comings, their blaring laughter or ridiculous music. Worrisome, really, that I worry about it at all. I keep trying to remember how I dealt with it all before--if i would have worried about it all had i not been so distracted by the black hole of a suicidal roommate and a manipulative boyfriend or two.

My neighbor paces in his backyard, his voice loud and obnoxious as he chatters into his cell phone. “Fecking this and fecking that, feck feck feck; we’ll be fecking wookies en bribe a guard, unless you have sum bulllllshit you wanna do bafore that...” A motorcycle warms up a few houses up; Reiko’s ears twitch and swivel constantly. My attention fades momentarily; I feel like I have so much to do, and no idea how to do it. I wonder how people manage, especially in a college town, with all the moving and a high neighbor turnover rate, all the figuring out who to call and where to go. How can people have any real connections? How do they stay sane?

“Like I said, ah-mean, don’t stress out about it; we’re gonna be vary cool house guests. It’s just good to talk to you, man, en it’ll be cool to stay with you. Sorry it’s been so feckin long since I called--I just been feckin busy, ya know? Okay, kewl. So how you been lately, enniway?”

---------------------------

This coffee barista is slight and his voice is quiet. His feathery blond hair cradles his jaw and musses over his head. I smile at him as I hand him my debit card; he pauses. “Wow, I’ve seen that clutch [wallet] before--i bought it for an ex-girlfriend at an import store. I thought I would never see it again.” I laugh, considering an apology. Instead I shrug and hold his gaze before walking away and saying, “Oh, well. Thanks. Have a beautiful day.”

At first I’m flattered he noticed me, noticed my wallet and connected via his memory. Then I’m slightly put-off--was I simply a bearer of past remembrance, my wallet functioning as a reminder of his ex? It doesn’t matter, really, i suppose. I’m just testing the water before it lets me dive in. These interactions don’t really mean anything yet, right?

Missoula: the move.

2010-08-01T15:28:00.001-07:00

Reiko, we're not in Blackfoot anymore.

Yep. I'm in Missoula now. After a few fantastic goodbyes--and some not so pleasing missed connections--I got myself moved up to the city. It's quite an adjustment, going from living in the country outside of a town of 12,000 people to living just outside the downtown of a city of 60,000 people.

There are a lot more people, and there are a lot more lights. I had to get my hands on some thick tapestries to cover my windows at night. I can't walk around my room naked--not only do I have a roommate, I have actual neighbors.

But these are minor adjustments. I mean, how can I dwell on those changes when I also have Butterfly Herbs and Liquid Planet (two amazing coffee shops just down the road), four breweries in town (and you can extrapolate just how many bars that means), ACE Hardware half a mile down the street (mmmm, yay), the Good Food Store--okay, let me pause for a moment and expand on just how awesome THIS is. The Good Food Store is HUGE. It is also local, and nonprofit (although still has some majorly expensive items, even though the other items make up for this). The bulk section, cheese section, and fish counter is to die for--especially the bulk section. Never have I seen so many amazing options for such good prices. WinCo comes close--but I'm sold. So anyway, in Missoula there are also really good places to eat, nice places to play (hello, 6 acre dog park), and I'm 1.5 miles from campus. We have four community gardens--and the PEAS Farm, connected with the university. We have the highest per capita nonprofit organizations. And there are A LOT of attractive people wandering these streets.

I'm trying to hold back a bit, be an observer for a while. I'm trying where my favorite places are, and how to spend my time. Lately, it's been spent cooking, chatting with my roommate and his girlfriend (who are very cool people), chilling in the backyard, and trying to stay present. I spent so many weeks before now with one foot in Idaho and the other stepping toward Montana--and now that I'm here, I've slept better, but I find myself skimming the surface of social situations.

I have so much to do! I need to find a reasonably good massage therapist (my foot and back are bickering with me), build a bike at Free Cycles, figure out the job situation--and get myself a bit more grounded.

I find myself extremely awkward around people here, and I don't like that. I've reverted back to some weird animalistic tendency to let other people define their place before I define mine. That's sometimes okay--but sometimes not. For example, today I was cooking pasta for lunch and my roommate et. al. were at the table eating and I found myself stepping around them and getting nervous about them watching me cook--like I was doing something wrong. It was pasta, for hecky's sakes. Pasta with reconstituted morels, garlic, fresh onions (like, I picked them from the garden and cooked them), chard (blanched and sautéed, mmm), and kale in a olive oil sauce. It was yummy. Why be nervous?

I'm figuring it out.

I miss you all. I'll post pictures soon.

Rant on legacy.

2010-07-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

I simply can’t help it. When a friend of mine looks blankly at me at the mention of Rachel Carson, my heart plummets like a poisoned hawk.

“What?!” I squeak.

“Well,” she says matter-of-factly, “I wasn’t a natural resources major. I bet you’ve never heard of nor care about the sedimentologist John Schmidt.”

“I actually have heard of him,” I say quietly. “But that’s not the point.”

Rachel Carson is the epitome of interdisciplinary studies and the passion involved in science. I assumed that this friend, of all of my friends, would know of the feisty maidenhead of environmental protection and the banning of DDT, not to mention the inclusion of female experts--and indeed, everyone--in science, and the depth of beauty and emotion that could be present in scientific inquiry. Silent Spring brought environmental ethics to the forefront of our nation’s mind; her other books emphasized beauty of the natural world and nonanthropocentrism. She saw connections in the world that many people and scientists were unwilling to acknowledge. We are part of the world we live in, she advocated, and said, “[I]t seems reasonable to believe--and i do believe--that the more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race.”

Certainly John Schmidt the sedimentologist contributed to our knowledge of the natural world, indeed down to an infinitesimal degree, but did he do it passionately? Did he present it from the view of the particles of silt and sediment, from the perspective of the creatures it affects and interacts with? Or was it simply “straightforward,” with all the technical jargon to cloud any laywoman’s understanding, an anthropocentric dissertation of use and measurement?

I know she would understand Rachel Carson; although, especially if Ms. Carson had written a book about desert waterways. My friend does scientific surveys down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, our shared place of wonder. I know she feels passion for the place and her studies; when she speaks of the shifting sediment loads and the impacts of the dams both upstream and down of the canyon, her voice gets higher and stressed and sometimes cracks as her hands wildly swing in front of her. She believes a crisis is at hand--not for our sake, but for the sake of wilderness, and for every other creature that lives there, in that canyon and the canyons around it and the canyons buried by the sludge ponds we call reservoir recreation areas.

But how can you not know Rachel Carson, Edward Abbey, or John Muir? I thought they were as prevalent as Kafka, known even if you'd never read them. But then again--I guess fewer people than I realize know even Kafka, Sartre, and Kierkegaard. I mean, I guess I see them on every Barnes and Noble bookshelf and assume they are part of our society's intellectualism. Maybe I'm all wrong. Maybe no one knows anything about the people who initiated movements that began before they were born. I have realized that few people know any part of history that is outside their "realm of study," even if it's part of their lives (Environmental Protection Agency legislation) or their loves (wilderness and coexistence). That's extremely depressing.

Cleaning up and packing out.

2010-06-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

It's pretty incredible what you discover when you clean out storage boxes and sort through the mementos you kept in boxes and on shelves. I cleared out so much stuff, stuff I was amazed I had kept. Stuff that reminded me what sort of state of mind I was in when I decided to box it up instead of throw it out. Stuff that I didn’t know why I had kept; the memory had been sifted out over the years, and the items no longer meant anything.

A significant amount of the stuff I discarded consisted of diminutive souvenirs of happiness during times when things were rough--wine bottles from giddy nights (which now serve to illustrate how much alcohol had served as a band-aid in relationships), love letters (that make me gag or laugh uproariously when i reread them), tiny gifts from friends and lovers (cheap, mostly; but a few that were very thoughtful or handmade), random fortune cookie fortunes (generic words of encouragement or hope).

It was refreshing to throw so much of it away, knowing that there was no need for it to stay in my life. Looking back, I feel so emotionally advanced; so far removed from all those petty troubles, short-lived memories, and experiences. I feel so grown-up.

I had also kept a large bundle of heart-felt letters from family and friends: letters from my sister after she got back from treatment and more from after Kiva was born; letters from my dad after I had moved to Oregon and he had absconded from the LDS church; letters from Ian and Alicia, telling me about the new experiences they were having. I will keep the letters. As I re-read them, I felt the encouragement and affection that I had felt the first time I had read them, whether it was ten or two years ago. The letters stay relevant. I can remember being so excited the days I got mail from people. I can remember the excitement in writing back, decorating the pages with sketches and dried leaves. That’s the stuff that lasts, and the bonds that will last without the wine bottles and shoplifted keepsakes.

I’m packing my boxes for Missoula; and I’m so excited for all the new people and experiences—and especially for the bonds I hope to create with people. It’s exciting to be moving to a completely new place again, and this time with a sense of self.

I’m excited to get letters from the folks I care about, back in Idaho and elsewhere. So, please write. I’ll always write back.

Published!

2010-06-03T13:06:00.000-07:00

IDAHO magazine is this glossy, thick-paged magazine published in Boise and distributed all over the state of Idaho. It describes itself as:

"...a uniquely "Idaho" perspective on Idaho life. Published by, for and about Idahoans covering a broad range of topics including natural history, personal and family stories, architecture, geology, outdoor recreation, cowboy poetry and ranching to name a few."

Yours truly will have an article in the September issue, paid as a freelance writer. This is my first paid piece! I have moved up in the world, heretofore having been published, unpaid, in a self-made zine, a university-wide art magazine, and a city-wide publication. Now, the writing goals I have made over the years seem suddenly much more doable. How silly, I think, that i was once daunted by submitting my work to a magazine! How simple it was, indeed! How hard could it be to write a book and get it published? Only as hard, I realize, as writing it as well as I can and submitting it.

The editor of IDAHO magazine said: "I enjoyed your story a lot. It’s full of heart, very real, and it unfolds at a nice pace. A lovely slice of life...I can see there isn’t much editing to do, as it is carefully written."

Ah, to have someone appreciate your work, to feel as if you've succeeded in reaching an audience! What a wonderful feeling! I understand, now, how it feels to be "out there." I don't expect much of a response from this--but it certainly does do a number for my pride and confidence. What a funny story to have entombed in the archives of IDAHO magazine. Lola, nearly killing chicken, sets a string of events into motion that ends with me, in pj pants and a lacy camisole, covered in chicken feces, hugging my otherwise reticent neighbor, Lynn. Look for it in September. It includes the word "shit"--and I'm proud of that.

In completely unrelated news, I deleted my Facebook account. Damn that social networking crap, anyway.

Also, I can bear 80% weight, as of today. I began driving again, happily. Good, except my foot often feels as if it is asleep. Hello, neuropathy.

Also, happy birthday to me on Sunday. There's a gathering in order. Huzzah.

Almost June.

2010-05-30T14:36:00.000-07:00

Having moved back home, I haven't had my own internet connection. Hence, the break. As I have reached the point in my foot's healing that I can put some weight on it, and I am on the precipice of being able to drive my manual transmission Subaru again, I am getting around a bit more and bit more easily.

Passing the time hasn't been easy. The weather has been kind of weird, more like i remember April to be instead of late May. And there's been rain, lots of rain. I spend much more time in the greenhouse now that I am back in my own house, and that's been extremely pleasant.

I've been writing quite a bit. Every day, I try to write something--something coherent and accessible. Most of the time, it just turns into a moody piece that would take a bit of work to be anything worthwhile to someone else. I've been having trouble sleeping again, and my emotional state has been on the dark side of the moon--leads to fascinating bouts of self-discovery, I suppose. Certainly in the kitchen; some good (though mostly bad) recipes come from times when one needs interesting food to entice her waning appetite.

I'm so ready to meet and spend time with new people once I'm all healed up and in Missoula. It's the interim that is really lame right now. And yet i feel like i should be much more happy about everything that's going on, right now, but I'm really not. I just feel crappy.

Boredom, Tyler. Boredom.

2010-05-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I wish I had actually kept more friends my age. You know, friends you didn't get much from, but you could call up and say, 'Hey, will you drive me to the bar? You don't even have to stay, you can just drop me off and pick me up three hours later. Or never! I could get someone I care about to take me home! Then we don't have to navigate through awkward conversation!'

It is likely the most frustrating thing not being able to decide for myself where to go and when to do it. It is frustrating enough not being able to do what I would have be doing had I never injured myself--but to not be able to do anything on a whim is infuriating! In moods such as the one I find myself in now, I would have ordinarily picked up some fancy beer (maybe had one at the bar and chatted with Serena), packed a picnic, and drank slowly until sundown out on the desert.

It's not, per say, the absolute loneliness that bothers me so much; although, it's certainly part of it. I enjoy doing yoga alone, reading, and writing--but i hate watching movies alone, not having anyone to discuss a book with, and--well, let's face it, I hate not having my own cupboards and kitchen in which I can keep and pour a drink, cook a lavish meal, and wind down, dancing to music I never let anyone know I have on my hard drive. I argue with myself about actually calling someone--and then defer because I know my own selfish motives, even if they run deeper than just getting a ride to the Wine Garden (say, chatting it up and feeling important because I have something to say and someone to listen to me), may end up hurting someone's feelings when I heal up and can go back to being independent and in a better mood--and, I assume, no longer 'needing' certain someones.

I hate bothering the people I usually would be spending time with on matters such as these. See, I'm hoping this is a passing state. I miss the people I usually spend time with; but those people have plenty of other stuff to do than listen to me moan, or waste time socializing at the Wine Garden. Part of it, i'm sure, also involves my embarrassment in having people I respect see me so desperate. So instead I consider calling people I, at one point, deliberately phased out of my life for their less endearing qualities--and then recoil at the prospect of very likely having to do it again and also likely upsetting them later with my perceived shallowness, despite that at this moment they sound inviting, even for all their vices.

I will myself to let it pass, grit my teeth and distract myself. I wonder if that's better than, say, rolling with the urge. When is it good to be spontaneously given to hedonism, and when is it not? There's no handbook of rules on my bookshelf. I can name off rules for when to use whomever and whoever, the placement of a comma or a semicolon, and i know the difference between APA and MLA citation formatting--but there's only "I," I don't know where to place my energy, and I don't know the difference between using someone and asking for their help.

I guess, if all else fails, I could call the LDS single's ward girls and have them take me to the bar. They offered to drive me anywhere I needed, right?

Update: Entering Week 6 of Pain and Broken Bones.

2010-05-04T14:57:00.000-07:00

I can wiggle all of my casted foot's toes as of yesterday morning. I don't think there is any way of expressing the excitement in this.

I've been writing; just not writing anything readable. You know how it is: rants, strings of consciousness, etc. I'm bored out of my MIND.

I went to see the movie "The Losers" with my friend Dave. It was a good two hours of adventure and laughing. He was kind enough to make sure I didn't eat asphalt and we shared a Butterfinger on the drive home that was incredible. (That is *not* a euphemism, by the way. I seriously haven't eaten a Butterfinger in years.)

I tried to dye my hair. It didn't really make the change that I wanted. It just looks tinted, light red. I wanted something--more dramatic?

As far as food, see this comic:

The weather hasn't been especially warm. It's been raining or gusty for the past few days, so I don't fret too much that it's difficult for me to go outside. I have, however, placed my high hopes on the idea that next week I will get a progressive weight bearing cast / move back into my own house / get out more / begin attempt of driving as the weather warms back up. Mostly, these hopes are based on the facts that a) i can wiggle my toes, damnit! b) it will have been 6wks since my surgery c) i misstepped again and pushed off my casted foot to regain balance and the only repercussion was some swelling that night. I mean, there was was some pain, but only immediately after.

---------------------------

Here's an excerpt from something I'm working on related to expressing my--uh--recent emotional state. I'm playing with a line here; but I'm sure someday I'll be able to talk about it comfortably (who knows if that makes any sense? sorry).

She sighs and says, “Goddammit, everything has come down at once, hasn’t it?” I feel my vision blur and my heart leaps into my throat--i struggle to swallow. My head starts to swim and I feel dizzy--my body feels like it did right before my first kiss, my first break-up, the first time i spilled my shameful secrets to a friend. I realize I’ve said nothing, and I force a nod.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice quiet as my head slowly stops spinning, and I say good night and lean into my crutches as I go out the door.
...
A slip, a fall. Moments before, trust had been placed, in full belief that things would happen the way I expected them to happen. The way I imagined them to happen. And weeks--life-altering weeks, painful weeks--follow and remind me that precautions have to be taken, that some things can’t be trusted. It’s that broken trust, the betrayal, that hurts the most.
...
I joke I can never be comfortable around an orange Home Depot bucket again--that it will take years to hold a Dewalt drill in my palm without fearing it--but when the laughter drifts away, I find the list of fears expanding, the lack of trust flooding my senses.

World Schtuff.

2010-04-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

Using phrases such as "unprecedented crisis" and "unprecedented disaster" to describe the effects of Iceland's volcanic eruption on air travel seems to me to be a serious misinterpretation. Just because people chose to fly somewhere and now are stuck in various places all over Europe is not a crisis. Just because all the grounded flights are losing millions--in revenue--and might even be costing companies--gulp--billions does not make this a disaster.

What can they do?!

Nothing, unless they want to risk being the first plane down. The sick side of me that delights in destruction at the hand of Nature wishes a plane would go down, even though we should have learned the lesson when two planes nearly went down in the 1980s.

The first was in 1982, when British Airways Flight 9--a Boeing 747 aircraft--unknowingly flew through a volcanic ash cloud from Mount Galunggung in Indonesia. All four of the engines failed, the plane was diverted to Jakarta (it was flying from London to Melbourne), and it coasted down beneath the ash cloud. The crew was able to gradually, one by one, restart the engines (although one failed again soon after) and land safely in Jakarta (if they hadn't restarted the engines, they would have likely smashed into the mountains of Indonesia). Imagine, as the cabin fills with sulfuric smoke, the engines flame-out, and you begin coasting at 36,000 ft above the Earth in complete silence, your captain announces:

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get them under control. I trust you are not in too much distress."

I would call that a crisis. Note: even though the sky was clear, they had to land using only the flight instruments because their windshield was so severely sandblasted. Captain Moody's as cool (if not cooler) than Captain Sully, eh?

A similar incident with a Boeing 747 and an ash cloud happened in 1989 with KLM Flight 867 over Alaska. Legislation was passed and Volcanic Ash Advisory Centers were established to monitor ash cloud particulates; since volcanic ash is dry, it doesn't show up on aircraft weather radars.

There's good reason so many planes are grounded. If we're so shallow to make such a fuss about economic repercussions and being grounded at a European airport (Think! You could go explore Paris or Amsterdam!), then I suggest we shut our eyes and imagine coasting down, engines failing, into the Atlantic Ocean. Hundreds of lives are being protected for every flight that is cancelled. You'll get home eventually. You'll get wherever eventually. It's better to err on the safe side. Just enjoy the disruption. You can't expect life to run completely glitch-free. We don't control the planet. So get over it.

[By the way, only one article got the description of what's going on most accurate: Charlie Leocha of the Consumer Traveler called this a "natural disaster with unprecedented consequences." ]

starling connection.

2010-04-16T14:53:00.000-07:00

Starlings shit on my car.

I mean, I swear, they aim for it. They chatter like little gossiping housewives, talking over each other, side by side every morning on the electrical wire. They mimic sounds they hear; mocking me whistling for the dogs, a random hoot and holler, an animal call.

But, alas, my interspecies moral code supersedes these irritations.

My mom and I have found a dead robin in her indoor grill cupboard once before; but this time, the bird who had somehow plummeted down the chimney was putting up quite a fight. The dogs were frantic. I called animal control and the Fish & Game office--but both of the operators simply failed at attempting to mask their laughter and told me grab some gloves.

So I did. But my mother, being a worrisome sort of person, refused to help me and kept jumping around and exclaiming oddly inhumane sentiments whenever she heard the bird move. "We'll just have to wait until it dies! Oh! Maybe just close it in near the chimney! Maybe it will fly out if we leave it alone!"

I waited until my mom left, then I used my leg caddy to scoot over to the grill. I donned the gloves and retrieved a wooden spoon. I opened the cupboard doors.

The poor thing was crouched down in the corner, watching me. I chased it back and forth with the wooden spoon across the back of the cupboard until it appeared tired, and stopped flapping and hopping around. I reached in and grabbed for it--

and it struggled free!

It flew to the kitchen window, and looked at me from where it gripped the screen. It looked terrified, but curious. I set myself up on my scooter and rolled toward it; but at the last minute it lept from the window to the screen door, bashing itself against the glass and flapping frantically. The dogs came running; fortunately, I reached it first. I grabbed it tight around its wings as it took a short rest in the corner, and gently rolled toward the door.

Starlings look absolutely magnificent up close. It had an iridescent shine, like I would expect only a hummingbird to have. Its wings had golden-brown flecks, and its eye was blacker than obsidian. It stared up at me in wonder, silent. I paused, staring back. It was beautiful, that bird in that moment. I half expected it to say something, to tell me something important. But I opened the door, and threw the bird toward the sky. It flapped away, purrp!-ing to its friends, and nestled in a nearby spruce tree, chattering incoherently.

I wonder if creatures remember things like that, or 'feel the connection.' I wonder if they simply fly away believing it was a near-miss, a lucky escape--or if they ever piece together that sometimes humans are just helping. Was the curiosity I swore I detected simply fear? Do they think anything of it, or do they simply move on, living completely from moment to moment?

The Desert Baedeker | arid colloquy

Blogroll.

Winter Updates

Fall Term 2011 - COMPLETION

The last days of classwork.

Audio, Audacity.

Late November: How does a month pass so quickly?

Late October.

Update.

Driving in Missoula

Quillisascut [Part 2] Photos+Notes.

Classes and Internship.

Updates: Quillisascut [Part 2] and Fall Term.

Food in Photos.

Just in case you ever wondered.

Food in Photos.

Ah, the joys of having teenagers stay at the house.

Dreams and more broken bones.

Truck Pictures.

Weird Days in Missoula.

Food in Photos.

Quillisascut [Part I] Pictures

Quillisascut [Part I]

Food and Future

A link.

Rainy-Day Lunch.

Birthday notes.

Birthday Steelhead.

Summer Promise.

Updates: On the Foot and Spontaneous Decisions.

Notes.

Notes.

Updates.

Weekend / Anniversary.

Submissions.

Pictures.

Day Off.

Cappuccino Moment

Connection notes.

Environmental Writing Institute

Dealing with Rejection.

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

Books.

Pictures of Walks

Letdown.

Letter to my reactive body.

My theme song, as of late.

Cooking notes.

New Year.

Final Essay Work Notes

Survival.

Long days, too long of nights.

December Notes

Late nights, early mornings.

Dream Blog.

Post-Election Day.

To Do List of incredibleness

Food Notes.

If you're up for some politiks.

Food in Photos

Dreams, SEJ musings.

On "Sustainable."

PS: Bicycle pictures.

Collide.

If you're up for some politiks.

When I say...

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

Holy time budget.

On the brink of school, again.

Links: Politics--no, small houses.

Cooking and eating: simply pictures.

Food in Photos

FOX News, a terrorist organization.

Rough Morning.

Neogeography and Mama Grizzlies.

Sipping a margarita in the back yard.

hot summer days..and stuff.

Connection notes.

Missoula: the move.

Rant on legacy.