Eden From Sweden

Ode to Winter

2012-01-07T18:24:00.000-08:00

My morning commute is with the sunrise, and evening with the sunset. There's two ways to picture winter: a pain-in-the-ass season of slogging through the rain on my bike, wet and cold - a blur of short, gray days and cold nights. Or, I can feel the acute cold on my fingertips, the icy rain stinging my face, and the grateful clarity of the rare day without rain - hot pinks sunrises and sunsets. Everything is intensified. This external experience brings a new freshness to my writing, too. With the short days the outside world shrinks, and the space for quiet reflection and creating stories swells. And that's pretty lovely.

First Winter Portland Farmer's Market

2012-01-07T18:19:00.000-08:00

Today was the first-ever winter farmer's market here in Portland. So instead of that dreadful time from Thanksgiving to April, when we could only dream of getting a jewelry box of multicolored eggs and having cheerful conversations with the mushroom man (I should really learn his name) we have all sorts of (surprisingly colorful) treats at our fingers: cabbages, kale, turnips and a crazy-looking black beer radish. It's nice to know that even when produce goes underground in winter, the damp and depressed citizens of Portlandia don't have to.

If you're curious...here's a few soups that have kept it cozy the last few weeks:

Nostrana's Tuscan kale, white bean, and ciabatta soup

Creamy sunchoke soup with fried parsnips and mushrooms (from Home Made)

The First Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T21:04:00.001-08:00

This year, I'll be cooking Thanksgiving Dinner for the first time. I've lured my parents over the windy 4-hour drive along the Columbia from Walla Walla to Portland, and I will be serving (perhaps a bit to the initial disappointment of my traditional, meat-loving dad) an entirely vegetarian meal. I was surprisingly nervous pulling together the menu - this is a notable right-of-passage in American lore, no? I'm thankful to be given the chance to show my family how much I appreciate them, and good food is usually the way.

~ Thanksgiving Menu 2011 ~

Wild Mushroom Lasagna

(from Yotam Ottolenghi's Plenty - here's another blogger's take on the original recipe)

Roasted Parsnips and Root Vegetables with Caper Vinaigrette

(also from Yotam Ottolenghi's Plenty)

Brussel Sprout Salad

(from the lovely Heidi Swanson of 101cookbooks.com)

A couple rustic baguettes from Grand Central Bakery

Some hometown, Walla Walla Valley Blue Mountain Cider from Bushwhacker Cider (yes, Portland has cider-specialty shop) and a bottle of red from L'Ecole 41, just down the road from my parent's house, which has now been taken over (in a pleasant way) by wineries...

A simple pumpkin pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert
(although if I were a richer lady, I would spring for a half dozen whiskey apple hand pies from Portland's Pacific Pie Co.)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Fall Back, Eat Soup.

2011-11-07T20:36:00.001-08:00

, a photo by Eden from Sweden on Flickr.

Happy National Coming Out Day!

2011-10-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

live and love

Remembering 9/11

2011-09-10T17:31:00.000-07:00

A younger me in Washington, D.C.

Like too many things in my life, I’ve told myself that one dayI should write down my memories of 9/11 and never did. And here we are, animpossible ten years later, a day to the anniversary. I tell myself I can stillmake it, I can still remember.

The impossibility of that day was amplified by my life at that time. I was a little more than a month awayfrom my 22^nd birthday. I had arrived in Washington, DC only six daysearlier – 9/11 was one of my first days as an intern at a legislative affairsconsulting agency. The prestige of the job was in sharp contrast to the mess Ihad left behind in the other Washington, my home of Washington State. I wouldnot be going back to school for my senior year – I was on indefinite break fromcollege, after my best friend’s death and the dicey year of being depressed that followed. By the time I came home from college for summer break,I had beat the heavy shroud that paralyzed me, but my parents, rightfully concerned, demanded I stay home and heal. But home was laced with memories and thepast. I knew that to move on emotionally, I had to escape physically. And so, Iran.

At 21-years-old, I was far to old to be considered arunaway, but my escape to DC had that feel about it. I announced to my parentson Friday that I would be leaving on Monday – they forbade it, I went anyway.One friend drove me to Portland, OR to catch the train (a plane ticket beingway to expensive) and another lent me $600 – the only money I would have forthe indefinite future.

So I got on the train, with a friend hastily arrangedfor me to stay with some college alumnae upon my arrival. The train ride took 3days. I don’t remember a lot of it. I do remember waking up to dawn andcrossing the continental divide, seeing buffalo and getting off to buy a cokein a small town in North Dakota, imagining not getting back on and what my new lifewould be like. I remember seeing Chicago and Philadelphia for the first time,rolling in and rolling out without exploring. To this day, stepping on thattrain against all common sense was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

And suddenly I was a resident of Washington, DC. I rented an stuffy attic room in a group house ran by a Chinese woman in Georgetown. Thehouse always smelled like Chinese food and I was the only non-foreign,non-graduate student there. Rather than get lost on public transportation, Iwould walk several miles across Georgetown to my new job in Dupont Circle. Sometimes in theearly morning, I would see deer wandering out of Rock Creek Park into thestreets. On one of my first days in town, I looked at the building in front ofme, hot and frustrated that I was lost again. “Where am I?” I thought. A minutelater I realized I was staring at the White House, and laughed at my ownstupidity.

In DC, every lobbyist has a small TV in their office, tokeep on top of media reports and what’s happening on the hill. My fellow internand I sat in a corner area with two desks and the copy machine, outside onelobbyists’ office. We had only been at work for about 20 minutes when shestarted talking about something that was happening in New York. A plane hadflown into one of the twin towers, but we didn’t know anything more. We watchedthe TV in her small office for a few minutes, then went back to our desks and triedto work. The lobbyist grew quiet and gradually more information was released.She had said goodbye to her husband just that morning – he was on a flightheaded for LA.

I didn’t comprehend the extent of what was happening forprobably too long. The initial images of the plane hitting the twin towers weredisturbing, of course, but the building was so large, dwarfing the size of theplane on the television screen. I imagined a small personal two-seater Cessna,and an office area with some blown out windows and lots of glass. I do think itwas the unbelievably beautiful fall day making it impossible to imagineanything serious was happening in those first few hours.

I tried calling my parents to let them know I was ok, but mymother was scheduled for a major hysterectomy operation, so they had been atthe hospital all morning getting her ready for surgery. When I finally reachedmy dad at the hospital, he seemed confused about why Iwas calling, and talked only about my mom’s condition.

The next 90 minutes increased the confusion. There werereports that the White House, only three blocks from our office, had been hit.We were advised to go to the roof and see if we could see anything, and thenthey thought we should leave the building, and then stay put. Finally, it wasdecided that I would go home with my fellow intern, who lived much closer towork than I did. I protested that I could just walk home, still somewhatenamored with what a nice day it was and the opportunity to leave work early,but was shook to reality when someone said, “No, you can’t. The city’s undermartial law now – you shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

The other intern’s apartment was at The Cairo in Dupont Circle – the tallest residential building in theDistrict, although still only 12 stories high. It had been infamously coveredin the news that summer for being where the intern Chandra Levy lived when shewent missing in May.

In one of the most surreal moments of the day, we satquietly in her apartment on the 9^th floor, in front of the TV that waspositioned in front of the tall living room windows. The windows looked outacross the neighborhood, and at the edge of the skyline, we could see thePentagon burning. At one point, we watched the national news, with PeterJennings reporting from his news desk, a small window in the corner of the TV screen with an imageof the Pentagon burning, while the real-life scenario hovered immediately behindthe television through the window.

The days and months after, as everyone knows, were equallyconfusing, unbelievable and hard to reconcile...can we ever, when terriblethings happen? I learned to love DC and feel safe there – despite Chandra Levydisappearing into Rock Creek Park earlier that summer, despite the unspecific terror threat that settledover the federal buildings and monuments after that day. But when I finally movedback to the west coast, after finishing my internship, college, and my firstpost-college job in DC, I did it without regret.

A Song for Your Supper

2011-07-29T11:51:00.000-07:00

Via 101cookbooks

Dirty Gifts

2011-07-11T20:17:00.000-07:00

I've been given lots of gifts from the garden lately. Basketball-sized sweet onions pulled from the field just for me, eight perfect stems of chard and a ruffled ball of butter lettuce. Strawberries from the foothills of the Blue Mountains that I roast with ground pepper and balsamic vinegar, a lentil chili made meaty with barley and a giant, prideful zucchini. Such simple, thrilling gifts.

Blog Resurrected for Easter!

2011-04-30T20:42:00.000-07:00

The great thing about having a blog nobody reads is that you have a platform for talking about things nobody would otherwise listen to. For Easter Brunch I made lox from scratch. I used this recipe from April's Food and Wine magazine. I was especially taken that it was a recipe from the chef of Sitka and Spruce, a restaurant in Seattle I always mean to visit but never do. Meanwhile, favorite pubs are hit repeatedly. Resolve!

So, here is my photo-journal of Eden's attempt at lox. I was pretty happy with the result (and really, really happy that nobody reported food poisoning).

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20th, 10 PM: Brine that mother!

I gathered fresh mint, parsley, cilantro and dill from the Portland Farmer's Market and spread the sprigs across the amazing marbled wild salmon I got for an arm and a leg from Whole Foods. Resolve!

One makes a salty mess with shallots, dill, anise and coriander seeds, and garlic, and drowns the salmon (well...).

You drape the mess in paper towels (or if you're a hippie like me, you don't have paper towels on hand so you use a very stained flour towel that you had planned on throwing away long ago).

You wrap the entire thing in plastic wrap. I refer to this step as the Salmon Mummification Project, but Food and Wine calls it something much less interesting. Pop it in the fridge and wait for 36 hours.

SATURDAY, APRIL 23rd, 9 AM: Peel that mother! Unwrap from the plastic, burn the flour towel and recover the dressed fish with (recycled, unbleached) paper towels that you sprung for, embarrassed that you ever thought using a flour towel was appropriate. Mentally apologize to Food and Wine (and, your guests for brunch tomorrow). Rewrap in plastic, place back in fridge.

SUNDAY, APRIL 24th, 9 AM: Hehasrisenhehasrisenindeed. Peel that mother! Again! Scrap the dressings off of your lovely fish and place it on a bakers rack in the fridge to chill out for two hours. The goal of this step, disturbingly enough, is a fish that's "slightly tacky". 'Where is that flour towel?' you think.

SUNDAY, APRIL 24th, 12:00 PM: The reveal! Of course, I failed to take pictures at this critical point. A picture of Andrea, protesting that she can't eat another bite and then stacking a bagel with more lox, is the best I could do -- and good proof, I think, of the project's success.

(THE REST OF THE MENU: besides the lox, on Kettleman's bagels with whipped cream cheese, red onions and capers, Easter brunch included a spinach and goat cheese quiche, a rhubarb jam with red chile and lemon, a sweet cream cheese with honey and hazelnuts, a fabulous dressed salad with crunchy greens, and plenty of mimosas with raspberries.)

Creepy Christmas TO YOU.

2010-12-10T11:51:00.000-08:00

Recently my sister complained that I hadn't updated my blog in sometime. I'm thinking that this writing platform might've run its course. The good news is not that I've stopped writing altogether, but I am busily writing more substantial things - articles, short stories and of late, even a (short) film treatment. Exciting. So, just to keep the masses happy (and by masses I mean my only reader, my sister, who refuses to comment on my blog except as her dog) this photo. Merry Christmas, all.

Fall 2008

2010-09-29T16:01:00.001-07:00

Fall 2008
Originally uploaded by Eden from Sweden

Sweet summer.

2010-09-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

Seriously, that's it?

This will go down in history as the summer that never was (my East coast friends had the opposite problem, it was the summer that was Too Damn Hot.) That said, I did have some nice moments, even if I was wearing long sleeves when I had them. I'm listening to the rain fall outside in the pitch black (even though it's only 8pm) and I know I need to face the facts. Summer's out, Fall's in. And, against all common sense, I'm a little excited.

So, here's scenes from my too-quick, too-cold summer in redux. Onward!

(top to bottom, more on my flickr page) A week in Maine with my favorite people; Newport, Oregon with my mom; a documentary on the cemetery shown in the cemetery; Hitchcock's Blackmail shown on the rooftop of the Hotel Delux, looking over downtown Portland; A lovely spur-of-the-moment day trip to Seattle with my sister, and a hike to Falcon Cape (near Cannon Beach, Oregon) with Canela the Explorer.

Dinner, July 18, 2010

2010-07-18T19:29:00.001-07:00

Dinner, July 18, 2010
Originally uploaded by Eden from Sweden

How do I forget again and again that cooking makes everything better?

Maine is not a pile of books by Stephen King.

2010-07-14T22:09:00.000-07:00

Cranky Sue's Crabby Cakes, now defunct.

I have a very distinct memory of sitting on the Mouse House porch-couch a few summers ago, clutching an "Eyewitness Vietnam" guide and explaining how most of the fun of travel - for me - is the relaxing armchair travel. The imagining was the thing.

I meant it, but I also realized that it sounded sad. Obviously, all the books on the history of the Eiffel Tower cannot measure ten minutes of standing in the crowds and summer heat, with its arches like a steel halo over your head. I can't deny this. But I also know that in travel, something always surprises you. One of my strongest memories of Paris in July is the stench of dog poop. Caught off guard (that wasn't in the guidebooks) I wasn't prepared to shrug it off. It was also an earned memory, not borrowed from a book.
My love of arm chair travel means I have several piles of travel writing and guidebook editions to places I've never been. Fifteen dollars, in my mind, is a cheap placebo when you can't finance a summer in Sweden.

In two weeks I'll be in Maine for the first time. My only literary GPS markers for Maine are Bill Bryson and Stephen King, which is unsettling. I've lived in New England and know that the trees grow thick and right up to the edge of the lake. I know Anne of Green Gables lived a few hundred miles northeast. I'm pleased with the holistic route that comes from traveling from Portland to Portland, on opposite coasts. I'll continue to dig into the books and blogs and I am excited about what I'll find.

But I'm sure nothing will match that moment when I see a lobster struggling in a cage in the water, or hear that elusive Maine accent for the first time, or, or, or...that's the part that I have to discover for myself by going, by getting off my proverbial porch-couch, that my books can't experience for me. And if I run into Stephen King when I'm out berry picking, well, I'll be prepared for that too.

When summer isn't sunshine.

2010-07-05T18:50:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was the 3,000 straight days of rain and cold and gray. Even though the weather has edged toward and hinted at summer, this fifth day of July, and weathermen are promising it'll completely flip the switch over to 90 tomorrow (from 65 today)...still. Something broke, or at least became undeniable to me. Everything is too tight. Job, little apartment, neighborhood haunts, the city -- and probably if I could afford to escape it, the state and the region. Mama needs a change of pace before it's fall and the gray sets in again, for real.

How to fix this? I'm not sure.

I ironed a giant pile of shirts, for distraction.

I mopped the kitchen floor, for clarification.

I joined my sister on a hike on the coast, for a new perspective (but it was gray there, too).

When mass exodus from your life isn't an option, Oprah-types suggest you hug your tired life in a new way, try to see new details in the old. So. At the beach I examined shells, coves and tidal pools. At home, I rearranged and purged. Still, I feel stuck. I'm thinking maybe I should start doing things backward, for a new perspective. That's how stuck I am. I'll report back, hopefully from a more sunny place.

I Love Portland In the Summer.

2010-06-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

Mt. Tabor in the summer

I haven't been so complimentary about Portland lately. And it might seem a bit late in the season for a "things to do this summer list" but in my defense, we're still holding our breath for any sign of it here. It's been cold and obscenely, unrelentingly rainy. But the weatherman promises that's all changing this weekend, when we'll hit 80 for the first time this year, mid-June. So, here it is; My summer wish list, to make sure I appreciate every non-work gorgeous summer minute I'm offered, if the season does manage to present itself.

PLACES TO GO:
Portland, Maine / Newport, OR / Chicago, IL / Vancouver, BC / Seattle, WA

FOODS TO MAKE:
basil, lavender, rosemary gelatos / weekend brunches / whole trout / artichokes

HAPPY HOURS TO HIT:
Nobel Rot / Bakery Bar / Pok Pok / Navarre

THINGS TO WRITE:
a short story with a thunderstorm / a dream / a food cart interview / a little creative nonfiction

THINGS TO SHOOT:
my ladies in maine / the ocean / summer meals / walla walla vineyards / bike trips

PLACES TO HIKE:
Laurelhurst Park or Mt. Tabor (every day) / Pacific Crest Trail (at Skamania) / Vancouver Island, BC / Cape Perpetua Scenic Area (Newport) / Mt. Hood

BOOKS TO READ:
Too Much Happiness (Alice Munro) / Little Children (Tom Perrotta) / We Tell Ourselves Stories In Order To Live: Collected Nonfiction (Joan Didion) / The Last Summer (of You and Me) (Ann Brashares) / A Gate At the Stairs (Lorrie Moore)

April Showers Bring May Monsoons?

2010-05-29T09:56:00.000-07:00

In the last few days, Portlanders have turned against the rain. Normally rainy weather's biggest champion (Portlanders gush about it and wax nostalgic about evenings forced to stay inside the way others recall perfect summer days of sunshine and heat) we've reached the limit. My boss stands at the office window and makes sarcastic comments about the beautiful day. Another friend -- generally agreeable and laid back -- threatened to fly back to his home town in Illinois and rip the arms off the next person who commented on how much rain they've been having. What do you know of rain!? he cried. I personally think of it as a semiofficial agreement between us and the sky. After all, we bear eight months of chill, dampness, and gray for four perfect months of Portland summer and fall. The deadline has come and gone, sky. The charm of falling asleep to the sound of rain on the rooftop has long past. Sun: reveal yourself!

Take what you can get and leave the rest.

2010-05-04T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today I might be staring down yet another grant application inside and a wild wall of weather outside, but I'm secretly drawing on the inspiration of film makers and food writers. Bright spots in an otherwise gray little day.

Yes, indeed. Itty-Bitty.

2010-04-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

When I get stressed I nest.

I cook and clean and search for pretty things. And I adore decor blogs - they're my happy place. The queens of this category are, in my mind, Sfgirlbybay and Design*Sponge. I'm changed quite a lot from my college days, of believing that focusing on domestic things and your home kept you politically cut-off and neutered. These days -- especially in Portland but undoubtedly elsewhere -- I see how locally, domestically-focused social and environmental movements are what's making a true difference in our community. People with their urban farms and gardens, buying local art directly from the artist, celebrating the bounty of locally-produced meats, vegetables and cheeses. Freecycle. It makes me feel thrilled at the possibility of something big starting, and that it starts in my home. That's very empowering.
That said, while my studio apartment is big in ambition, it's itty-bitty in size. I'm constantly holding item X in my hand and asking myself, "Is it worth pushing this around the apartment twenty times a year if I'll only maybe use it one or twice?" Almost always, the answer is no. Having a shoebox-sized apartment is serious exfoliation for the materialist. Today I entered my apartment in the Apartment Therapy blog's Small, Cool contest (teeny-tiny category). I probably won't make the cut, but it was fun taking pictures of my living space (my apartment, in carefully edited picture form, not its regular pile-of-laundry-and-unwashed-dishes form, makes me feel a bit glamourous.) So, using the freedom of self-publishing and self-indulgence, here are a few of my apartment shots. Find more on my flickr page.

Truth in Advertising

2010-03-31T22:10:00.000-07:00

“The old cathedrals are good,
but the great blue dome that hangs over everything is better.”
-- Thomas Carlyle

Sweet Surrender.

2010-03-17T16:09:00.000-07:00

My television (the most incredible sort: a framed in fake-wood hand-me-down from my parents from early-early childhood) has started to give up the ghost lately. The good-looking characters on Grey's Anatomy reruns have started to get darker and harder to see. They're melting into Zombie-doctors of late, and their suddenly glinty eyes (to see anything "contrast" has to be fully dialed up) are scary enough to make me keep the lights in the living room on. But I digress.

Without television, I've had to turn my attentions elsewhere. A better person would pick up a book, go for a run, or regularly clean out the cat litter box. While noble, my requirements are less so. After a long day, I need something that can pass the time and use as few braincells as possible (this explains the glass of wine that accompanies my new-found activity, just in case it isn't enough.) And I've found it. And thy name is Doodle Jump.

Doodle Jump is the brain child of some evil genius in Germany (actually, no idea, and does it matter? The dude's getting rich off of this perfect and ridiculous little game. It's the most downloaded iphone game app on, like, the entire planet.) You jump your little Doodle man from platform to platform, waving your iphone to do so. Sometimes he bounces on a spring. Sometimes he's swiftly propelled upward via a magical beanie hat. Seriously.

As someone who's always been loathed to give up control and fling my controls around like I really care with Nintendo games and more recently, Wii, I was alarmed at how quickly and dramatically I gave everything to propelling my little Doodle upward. And, have you ever felt yourself do something totally against everything you thought made you you? Maybe in your case it was knocking off a bank or lying to Grandma Mimi, but for me it was when I cried out the first time my little Doodle missed a platform and whistled toward the ground (luckily, they never show the bloody result). My cry was sincere and generally one reserved for seeing someone kick a puppy with a steel-toed boot. And it chilled me to the bone.

Curious, I played again. And again. And again - all with the same humiliating and overly dramatic result. As soon as the Doodle started his swift decent, I sobbed and cursed my cruel carelessness. And then immediately laughed at my own idiot self (sort of like when I watch Grey's Anatomy reruns, I suppose). I realized Doodle Jump offered exactly what I needed, exactly what my television used to offer: a sense of accomplishment and zero-obligation drama. Oh, and I will never, ever, play Doodle Jump in public.

Just Because.

2010-03-11T15:28:00.001-08:00

T.G.I.Fatties.

2010-03-05T19:47:00.000-08:00

I'll make a point to be more of a wordie and less of a picture person tomorrow. But for now it's Friday night and after brilliant sushi at Yuki (insert obvious joke here), I'm happy to have nothing planned until brunch tomorrow. In fact, I'm feeling a bit like Bee here.

Unravelling winds down.

2010-02-25T10:31:00.000-08:00

...this is a metaphor for who I am now: cracked open after a long winter, fresh air blowing, excited to see what comes next. Thank all of my fellow Unravellers for making this such a lovely experience...

Winter in Portland is notoriously grey and long. It rarely gets unreasonably cold or snows (in fact, I start to get unreasonably jealous upon hearing about a D.C. snowpocolypse, or recalling my scenic snowy college days in rural New England.) It's simply a long, muted wait for spring. So, it's a real gift that the last 8 weeks have been made so much brighter and more interesting by the Unravalling challenge with lovely, inspiring London-based photographer Susannah Conway.

I was a bit skeptical about a global, online class with nearly 200 female participants (and such a touchy-feely premise to boot), but it was completely engaging. As an adult, the chance to feel that you're part of any definite community beyond your family can be tricky, so gatherings like this are special. And I learned to see myself, my writing and my photographs in a new light, and made virtual friends with interesting ladies all over the world. {The next Unravelling begins March 8th, so there's still time to register if you're interested.}

Unravelling - Week Six

2010-02-17T19:13:00.000-08:00

It's so lame to say that this assignment is incomplete because I couldn't be bothered to do some good old-fashioned dress ironing, but there it is. My alter-ego is a grown-up who irons, too, I suppose.

Be Still My Heart.

2010-02-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

Let’s pretend it’s a work of art / Let’s pretend it’s not my heart

- The Magnetic Fields, “I’m Sorry I Love You”

Oh-so-happy valentine's day, y'all.

Unravelling - Week Five

2010-02-02T18:41:00.000-08:00

I actually made a sound of disgust as I read about this week's assignment. I HATE having pictures taken of me and would never take them of myself. So I spent 20 minutes with the photobooth feature on my mac and snapped away to get it over with. My opinion of self-portraits hasn't change, but I do have to say that in the back of my mind my protests were met with the knowledge of LAST week's assignment, when I saw so many photos of myself that I had felt self-conscious about (or outright hated) at the time, but looking at them now, I felt sort of proud of that girl in the photo, and wished she had been confident enough to feel proud of herself. So, there's that that I'll keep in mind as I cringe at these shots.

Unravelling - Week Four

2010-01-31T19:55:00.000-08:00

Unravelling - Week Three

2010-01-23T21:47:00.001-08:00

Fireman. Nurse. Unicorn.

2010-01-21T22:34:00.000-08:00

from the nytimes article, "architect, or whatever"

An iconic staple of an American childhood is being ask what you, the little one, wants to be when you grow up. The answers can be grouped as either extremely pragmatic or highly impractical (never anything in between) and are recalled by your family long into adulthood (even as the information seems an absurd folly best attributed to a complete stranger: your four-year-old self). Fireman. Nurse. Unicorn. I wanted to be an architect (this was also my dad's idea, so either it was a shared dream, or a transferred one). So when I saw the article in today's New York Times on young architects that were finding new angles for their dreams in this rocky economy that seems to be hating on jobs for architects (notes to architects: join the club), it made me think. What do I want to be when I grow up (i.e. right now)? Many of my friends have taken definite paths that seem to suit them: politicians, pr executives, lawyers, PhD's in obscure topics.

I've pursued this and that, but what am I? My response to this article was surely influenced by a day spent updating my resume, an obscurely professional part of adulthood that - when done correctly - doesn't look like me at all (at least not the parts that I'd like to meet at a dinner party). Which makes me think that maybe the most savvy thing I can do in this new economy - like these young jobless architects are discovering - is be myself. This can't be an excuse for dalliance. I must commit myself to the varied things I'm passionate about, as determined as my friends who study for the bar or their orals or campaign for public office. I need to stop seeing my mix of interests as a deficit and start seeing its value. Because I suspect that professional resilience and diversity will be staples of this new economy. And that's pretty exciting to imagine, especially since being an architect never worked out.

Unravelling - Week Two

2010-01-17T13:08:00.000-08:00

Unravelling - Week One

2010-01-12T11:09:00.000-08:00

Unravelling

2010-01-12T09:53:00.000-08:00

The adage "a picture is worth a thousand words" used to ruffle my feathers. As a writer, they're fighting words, really. But over the last few years, I've been taking more and more pictures. My eye will be drawn to something, and I won't know why, but I'll start shooting. Only later, like a Roshak blot, will I understand what I was looking for in the shot, what I saw. As Anais Nin said, "We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are." A long walk with a camera has become my own version of visiting a psychic for clues about my future. I'm taking an 8-week self-exploration workshop with London-based photographer Susannah Conway called Unravelling. So I'll be posting some of my assignment pictures here each week. If you want to see more, find me on Flickr.

Genesis

2010-01-09T13:22:00.000-08:00

My word for 2010 is honesty. In the spirit of being honest and sharing myself freely, I'm sharing a piece of fiction writing I did last year that seems very much in the spirit of a new year with fresh possibilities, that I never felt was "good enough" to publish. In this post's comments, you can read the letter I wrote to the amazing author of Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg, thanking her for her inspirational words.

Genesis

He helps her climb the steps of the bus. She curtsies prettily for the driver, who shoots her a grin. He fumbles with the change for bus fare, and then herds his little girl toward a pair of open seats. This routine is new to them both.

Her woolly tights start swinging even before her tulle-covered skirt hits the seat. She kicks sporadically, like an irregular heart beat trying to correct itself.

“Daddydaddydaddy.” She tugs on his jacket sleeve. Staring out the window, he’s a helium balloon in danger of breaking away in the wind.

“Let’s play a game, ok? The alphabet game with food. A is for apple.”

He smiles but doesn’t turn away from the window, “B is for brioche.”

She squints at him as if she’s skipping and he’s trying to trip her up. She forgives him instantly. “C, candy.” She waits for him to come back to her.

He finally registers her silence as others would a scream. The game has left her mind like a cloud blowing across a patch of sky. Her eyes rest upon the homeless man sleeping draped over his two-wheel cart. She is briefly aged and intense, and then she’s back.

He watches her nervously.

“Daddydaddydaddy.”

“D is for diakon radish.”

Years from now when she’s 16, he might be disappointed that she wears short skirts (with no hint of the woolly tights) and refuses to eat anything but baked Doritos and carrot sticks. Three years before that he’ll be quietly proud of her stalwart veganism, even as her angry silence and severe makeup confuse him. Everything will seem fallow for a while.

One weekend during college though, she’ll come home to him. They’ll quietly cook together, and find unspoken solace in their shared history. Over the years their family will have contracted and expanded like a lung. A new mother will come into the family and take root over the years. A young half-sister will bolt around the kitchen, too.

But today is the genesis of it all; just him and his little girl, sitting on this bus. He’s 23 years old and raw, his heart cracked open. He’s doing what he can. He’s playing the alphabet game with food, passing on a hopeful vocabulary of community gardens, precious family dinners, ethical citizenship and exotic flavors to this squirrelly five year old. His offspring, he realizes with a start.

“U is for Unagui,” he says.

“Una-gee?” She stops fidgeting and studies her father.

He nods, his eyes firmly planted on her now. “An eel. An oily fish that looks like a water snake.” Raising an arm covered in tattoos – a messy cartography of his heart – he breaks the air between them, miming a snake, hissing and leaning in to tickle her. She winkles her nose and shrieks with delight as the bus lurches toward the next stop.

Todaytodaytoday. He’s digging up the dirt and praying like hell it produces.

The creative grass is always greener

2009-12-17T16:02:00.000-08:00

( via the New York Times)

I'm one of the few people who was never under the impression that working for yourself is less stressful than working for The Man. My day job, ironically, confirms my world view. The insanely talented writers I work with on a day-to-day basis are (for the most part) struggling to make ends meet. And, I know, I know, money isn't the only consideration, but it's big. It's what keeps me excited to go to work for The Man (who is very reasonable, by the way). So I write before work. I write on the weekends. I dream about having weeks on end with nothing to do but write (in Sweden on a sheep farm, if you're wondering). But I leave it at that - a daydream - as I click away at my Excel spreadsheet.

This NYTimes story on Etsy.com crafters who've taken their hobby big time, then, was verrry interesting. The lady who appears to be being smuggled by her own creation in the photo had this to say, "Etsy saved my life." And..."this is the hardest job I've ever had."

Good work, if you can get it.

Muse-it to me.

2009-11-03T11:31:00.000-08:00

Fester, fester, fester. Rot, rot, rot.*

I've been an MIA blogger for the past two months. Fortunately, this does not mean I've been an MIA human for the last two month. Life goes on, and busily (I have a button that says 'here before blogs' - I concur.) However, I'm looking forward to returning to a regular life-and-blogging schedule (The clouds and perma-grey season that's rolling into Portland will support me in this endeavor).

But, my excitement over publishing this first post in a couple months has left me frantic and without a single idea. Suddenly, my fingers are all thumbs. "This better be good," I tell myself. Then I fester.

So, this ramble is an attempt to break down the writer's block (or whatever you'd like to call it). Here, in no particular order of importance, are some experiences I've had over the last two months.

Storm Large (randomly) reminded me how important it is to have confidence and take chances. She managed to do so while showing quite a bit of cleavage. / My grandpa died just short of his 65th wedding anniversary. The only thing I've been able to conclude from this is that sadness and loss has a quiet beauty. / I turned 30, which I'm celebrating wholeheartedly, as my 20's did not go according to plan; I'm hoping I can scrap the false-hopes and disappointments, and use the "lessons" as fuel for something bigger and brighter, and unimagined. / Speaking of brighter, I saw Bright Star last week, directed by Jane Campion. A stunning, lovely film. / This has taken up most of my time the last few months, and was pretty damn successful. And I started to see myself as a leader (maybe this, too, is something that I needed to be 30 to realize is possible?)

So, there it is. A completely self-absorbed, fairly pointless post. But we're clearing the stage for that damned muse, remember? Reveal yourself, now, please.

* There it is, the only time I will every quote Meg Ryan, or the movie French Kiss. Promise.

HALP!

2009-08-27T11:19:00.001-07:00

HALP!
Originally uploaded by simple moth (taking a break)

My mind's been completely on work for the last month, and will be for the next. So, they say a picture's worth a thousand words; there it is. I am that cat. Back in October.

Not an idiot.

2009-07-24T14:44:00.000-07:00

Lost in the language. Or is it a ghost?
(Photo by Philipp Klinger)

When it comes to learning other languages, I'm hopeless. Mostly it's the talking. I never sound right. Terrified, I hear that in Vietnamese (a tonal language) "ma" can mean horse or rice-seeding or mother or ghost. Add a " 't " to "ma" and you're cool or lost...and I feel hopelessly bound to my mother tongue forever. This example, of tonal meanings in the English language, made me feel a bit better. I mean, this is complicated stuff. And I've got it down. In English. Stop laughing!

(from Melancholia)
This sentence has seven different meanings, depending on the stressed word:

I didn’t say she stole my money — someone else said it.
I didn’t say she stole my money — I didn’t say it.
I didn’t say she stole my money — I only implied it.
I didn’t say she stole my money — I said someone did, not necessarily her.
I didn’t say she stole my money — I considered it borrowed, even though she didn’t ask.
I didn’t say she stole my money — only that she stole money.
I didn’t say she stole my money — she stole stuff which cost me money to replace.
See? I'm brilliant.

Grandma Graffiti, 2 of 8

2009-07-14T09:41:00.000-07:00

{photo by seetwist}

2 of 8

Five days later she was out of the hospital, back in her shoebox 1-bedroom, l-level home. The home had been a present from her accountant-son and her daughter-in-law – a bargain foreclosure purchased when she moved to Portland from Montana. Though it had a small and pleasant-enough garden she occasionally tended to, it had the unfortunate of being in a twilight neighborhood – safe enough during the day, but the longer the shadow on the sidewalk, the more likely a homicide or drive-by-shooting became. She only ventured beyond the deadbolt door accompanied by her daughter-in-law, or if she ran short on groceries, like she did the day of the accident.

Having left her mother-in-law with a full bottle of horse-pills and a cupboard of groceries, the daughter-in-law waved goodbye from her bumper sticker encrusted Subaru. The rainforests, it seemed, were in a cheerful fight for their lives.

The grandma allowed the curtain to fall across the window, and double-checked the deadbolts. She turned inward towards her living room and felt light headed. Resting her hand on a pile of bright afghans, a wave of nausea hit her. This Portland home of hers – for eight months now, since she had been pried out of Helena – was her life in redux. Pieces of her half-century in Montana, where she had been a wife, mother and the Helena community’s only librarian were represented, like in an under-funded museum. The lamp her husband had made her from elk antlers, her award for 50 years of service to the library, her great grandma’s mahogany tea hutch. The effect made the grandmother feel trapped, as if the days in the antiseptic, practically designed hospital had affected her vision.

The hot, rotting orb in her back began to intensify, so she took a pain pill. She couldn’t stay, not here. She carefully pulled her raincoat across her shoulders, and packed a chunk of wrapped cheddar in her purse. When she opened the front door, springtime sunlight flooded her face. She closed the door behind her, leaving the lock and deadbolts untouched.

The industrial hum and tall ceilings of Office Depot immediately made her feel at ease. The pain pill had really taken effect now, and had softened the edges of the box store interior into a nest of grey down. She floated down the aisles, certain of her mission. She stared lustily at the Sharpee choices before her. There was the 12-pack, a rainbow of colors. Pastel pack. Neons. Poster tip, regular, fine, ultra-fine. Her eyes fell on a 2-pack – metallic limited edition – gold and silver traditional tip. She shivered as she reached up and took the item in her hand.

And it happened quite organically, really. On her way home she came across a beautiful yard with a swing set and two children's bikes strewn across the lawn. Hanging from the tree next to the sidewalk was a glass cylinder bird feeder. She tested the silver pen on her fingertip to get the pen’s juices flowing. She waved the birds away and steadied its surface with the palm of her hand. The moist fiber of the pen running across the smooth glass was sweeter than she ever could have imagined. The birds impatient tweets were amplified to operatic levels. An off-duty police officer drove by, barely registering the old lady on the sidewalk. And then: G.G. she tattooed, in silver cursive. She didn’t hurry away from the crime, but lingered and enjoyed the view. As the sun began to set, she headed home. On the way she unwrapped her cheese. Her appetite, it seems, was back.

92 Days 'til Wordstock

2009-07-07T14:37:00.000-07:00

I was just updating the Wordstock author list (!) and this video started playing. Lovely, done by Stephen Giem at W+K 12

Grandma Graffiti, 1 of 8

2009-07-06T18:36:00.000-07:00

Dear gentle readers: this July I am participating in Declaration Editing's Super Short Summer Serial Contest (S4C). While everyone I know goes on breezy cool vacations, I will be here in Portland, so I thought I'd make good use (or, use, at least) of the month. This will not be my finest work, and will mostly be produced between the hours of 6 and 8 AM (because I have a job) and written the day of each serial's deadline, Monday's and Wednesday's (because I am lazy). And, I had to look up "serial story" because I only understood it to be something Chekhov did to milk a story for all its worth...so I think I get it now. You'll know if I don't. And, finally, I dedicate this story, in its sure-to-be fluxuating instances of success and failure, to Kristy, because she emails and yells if I don't post, and doesn't take "I'm lazy" for an answer.

INSTALLMENT 1 OF 8:

She was two blocks away from Safeway before she realized she’d been stabbed. It was an event that would later be replayed on the evening news, and even three years later on America’s Most Amazing Crime Stories: grainy, silent footage of a grocery story robbery. The cashier and shoppers cowered and raised their hands above their head. In the moments leading up to the robbery she hands her check to a nameless cashier, who accepts it and turns toward the register. A flat looking teenager – whose only description anyone can recall later will be his loose tank top looped around his narrow shoulder and arm pits like stretched taffy – debuts in the upper left corner of the surveillance tape, pushing past four protesting customers. She was returning her wallet to her purse when he appeared behind her, wrapping her in a rough bear hug and demanding that everyone give him what he asked for, or the old lady gets it.

Afterward, with the police, she could only articulate the loud buzzing in her ear. Realizing she was useless, and with plenty of opinionated Safeway customers lined up to tell their versions of the story, they gave her the nod - she was free to go. She slowly gathered up her groceries that had spilled during the attack. Retrieving an apple that had rolled across the floor and under the lotto machine, she grimaced.

She shuffled down 82nd with her bag. Cars and buses flashed past, unrelenting. The late-afternoon heat danced above the sidewalk, and she struggled to take off her sweater. Two young boys snorted and sighed, impatient for her to move. She leaned over and folded her sweater, putting it atop her bag of groceries. One of the boy’s eyes widened and he hit his friend’s arm.

“Lady, lady…what the fuck’s in your back? Oh my gawd.”

Her heart started to beat faster, unsure of the boy’s motives. She leaned over intent on picking up her groceries and moving on but felt a blinding pain – and the buzzing intensified. The fall forward and two stinging scrapped knees was the last thing she recalled.

Later at the hospital she learned that during the robbery she had indeed been stabbed between her shoulders with a small butterfly blade. Despite the pain, she refused to make a fuss when her lower back started to swell and pulse as if angered. The cut had measured 2 and 1/2 inches deep, and only became visible when she had removed her loose sweater and turned her back to the delinquents on the street.

Her noisy and partially deaf hospital mate ran the local news channel day and night, and she found herself being pulled into a multi-day breaking news story about a graffiti epidemic that had swept Portland that summer. Gangs of faceless teenagers -- motherless or with a deficit of role models in their lives -- were to blame, the ageless blond newscaster reported from the field (the alley-side of a Plaid Pantry on SE Morrison and 12th), her voice carrying the confidence of the news channel's careful, in-depth research. The grandma slowly chewed on one of the peppermint taffy treats her daughter-in-law had brought her from the family's recent trip to the coast. She chewed, and considered this.

NEXT INSTALLMENT COMING ON 7.8.09

Nothing's hipper than a Portland hipster

2009-06-29T14:47:00.000-07:00

Fashion + Food Carts. Welcome to Portland.

I think our little laid-back democracy here, come-as-you-are (creatively!) vibe Portland gives off is personified best out on the streets. I'm so excited that this lady has started a Portland street fashion blog, celebrating our collective fashionable street sense (how many ways can umbrellas and goulashes turn trendy? Watch and learn).

School's out (for the summer)

2009-06-16T16:07:00.000-07:00

Congrats to my little sister, who finished her first year of teaching America-style today (the long, thankless hours, the photocopies, the dizzying bureaucracy, the looming budget cuts). The insanely impressive part is this: she taught 23 wiggly little 5 and 6 year-olds to speak fluently (as fluent as a five-year-old can be) in Spanish.

The best part of this story, I think, was her honest surprise (and panic) when she realized she'll be doing it all again, with a new crop of kids, next year.

Buena suerte, mi hermana.

Book Review: The Song Is You

2009-06-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

The Song Is You: A Novel by Arthur Phillips

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Nietzsche once said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." The Song Is You is a beautiful tribute to this. A man lost in a failed marriage and the death of his young son tries to make sense of his life through his guarded relationship with an up-and-coming singer. The prose throughout the book is electric, exactly how life feels sometimes but can so rarely be properly expressed in words (that's where the music helps). The author is talented enough to emote the joy of both words and music, and I found the book inspiring, (not at all one-note - ha).

View all my reviews.

A Moment for Mouse House

2009-05-22T21:25:00.000-07:00

Sunday Mornings on Mouse House Porch

Can I tear up a little? Tonight is the last night I'll spend in the little house on Belmont that I've lived in for the last four years, which has come to be known as Mouse House (the temporary mouse problem was solved, but the name stuck). When I first saw Mouse House in March 4 years ago, I had moved from Washington, D.C. and was living with my parents temporarily. My sister had graduated from college, and the next day we took a road trip from Spokane, WA to Portland, OR. Knowing nothing of Portland, or Oregon, I found the address, the cross streets, and the house without too much difficulty. Kristy was sitting on a stool on the porch without her shoes on (no porch-couch at this point) reading a thick book, and I thought, this will do for a few months.

Four years later, I'm leaving. I've endured some great roommates, some miserable roommates, and some roommates who I thought I didn't know at all, but when they left their absence was felt like a missing favorite picture on the wall. I grew a garden, which grows thick in the backyard under the tallest pine in the neighborhood. I know which stair is randomly short, so I fall down it less. I know how to be quiet like a ghost in the morning, and how to slam the door so the house feels like it's about to fold in on itself.

I'll miss Movie Madness across the street, Belmont Station with its 1,000 beer choices, being within walking distance of Powell's on Hawthorne, Zupan's for its overpriced but magnificent produce, walking up to Mt. Tabor and its reservoirs (the only metro volcano in the country), Laurelhurst Park, despite the creepy woman whose death in the pond last summer was never explained...Red Square cafe where I got my coffee each morning before catching the bus. The #15 bus line. The way the kitchen is warm and sunny in the morning, even when it's rain and clouds. I'll miss you all.

I'm happily moving on. It's time. But if college equals my formative educational years, 4 years of Mouse House equals my formative, practical grown-up years. Here, I learned to cook with passion. I wrote with passion. I learned to not make excuses for doing what I loved. I learned to ditch the D.C. mentality of anxious, narrow-minded ambition. I came a few painful inches closer to my authentic self. In a falling apart old house sharing my life with a rotating group of semi-strangers. I honed me. And for that, Mouse House, a tear.

Time to Fly

2009-05-12T21:52:00.000-07:00

...like the earth he carries his atmosphere with him...

Letter from Robert Lowell to Elizabeth Bishop, 1956

Book Review: Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper

2009-04-26T23:20:00.000-07:00

Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper: A Sweet-Sour Memoir of Eating in China by Fuchsia Dunlop

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

View all my reviews.

Eat This Not That.

2009-04-26T21:34:00.000-07:00

So, my ode to National Poetry Month has been a dismal failure. Last year I was so into it, but this year I can't even bring myself to read the poem-a-day emails sent by Knopf, which gives you a poem, poet's bio, biblio and poem analysis in 250 words or less. Nope.

Rather, I've been...living. I've been out walking, hiking or at least reading on the porch-couch until it's too dark to see. We even started a garden! Anyway, being outside has definitely made me feel more alive, so to hell with being behind on the blog posts. I'm sure Mary Oliver would approve, too.

When I saw these exotic looking fiddleferns for sale at the farmer's market, I thought "eee!"

My practical side said beware. The little coiled beasts reminded me quite a lot of my potted fern house plant, the one Belvedere chews on for fiber. A popular phrase "eat this not that" came to mind, so I went for it. I ate this (ferns from the market) not that (ferns from the bookshelf).

I improvised a crunchy stir fry of fiddleheads, shitakke mushrooms and a minced scallion, which reminded me a bit of eating the floor of an old-growth forest, but classier looking (and still surprisingly bawdy.) Summer fare? Bring it.

Book Review: God Clobbers Us All

2009-04-22T21:19:00.000-07:00

God Clobbers Us All by Poe Ballantine

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
Poe Ballantine is scum. Poe Ballantine is my hero. He's so amazingly honest and down to earth, his characters are intensely human. And because I know *this much* about him (I took a workshop from him called "How to Write the Lost Years") I appreciate how brave he is to write. It's inspirational. And damn funny and devastating to read. Which, if I understand anything about life, is that it's funny and devastating. So, four stars! Because only Alice Munro gets five.

View all my reviews.

Quick as Lightning

2009-04-08T14:30:00.000-07:00

Photo by Vangelis

Yes yes. National Poetry Month is flying by, and I'm too distracted with spring to celebrate. Ironic, hmm? Something more in depth soon but for now, here's a sweet little poem from the great Sherman Alexie, who hails from my homeland of eastern Washington. I snagged this via the Seattle Times.

"How to Create an Agnostic"

Singing with my son, I clapped my hands

Just as lightning struck.

It was dumb luck,

But my son, in awe, thought

That I'd created the electricity.

He asked, "Dad, how'd you do that?"

Before I could answer, thunder shook the house

And set off neighborhood car alarms.

I thought that my son, always in love with me,

Might fall to his knees with adoration.

"Dad," he said. "Can you burn

down that tree outside my window?

The one that looks like a giant owl?"

O, my little disciple, my one-boy choir,

I can't do that because your father,

Your half-assed messiah, is afraid of fire.

— Sherman Alexie

This, That and the Other

2009-04-01T17:03:00.001-07:00

Sylvia, front and center on my bookshelf.

April is National Poetry Month (!) and I will be posting about our poetry-related world at least once a week for the rest of the month. And poems, but not my own. Never my own.

And, I think I might've just found a vocation that suits. Did you know that the New York Pubic Library has a full-time Culinary Librarian? I think I've found my dream occupation. You can read the lucky lady's blog here.

I am an April Fool

2009-04-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

Ooh, new feature: Gmail Autopilot.

Congrats, gmail. You got me.

Delicious Democracy.

2009-03-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

The amazingly talented Maira Kalman has a lovely op-ed in today's New York Times, which covers Democracy's progression from France's guillotine days to the New World to P.S. 47 in the Bronx.

Nightmare Nalgene

2009-03-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

At the end of the month, I'm losing both my roommates. I'll miss them, but it also opens up the opportunity for me to question what actually happened above. Several weeks before Thanksgiving, my purple Nalgene bottle disappeared from the dish rack in the kitchen. My Nalgene adorned with both femme and feminist stickers, and glittery stars. Did I mention it's purple? And that both my roommates are straight males? So, it goes. Like many roommate matters, one doesn't want to bring something up (or cause a scene) unless it's worth the drama. Because I have a back-up Nalgene, I wait. Weeks go by, so many that it seems ridiculous to mention the Nalgene that disappeared before Thanksgiving. So, I give up the purple Nalgene ghost.

I mourn the loss, I move on.

Fastforward to a few days ago when I wander into the kitchen and balanced precariously atop a pile of dirty dishes, it sits! Purple Nalgene. My heart beats faster, of course, but I know enough about guys and hygiene to assume that something that has been out of my sight for several months is probably out for the count. Nightmare Nalgene, I think. Against my better judgement, I grasp it tightly, twist the lid and smell. It smells pleasantly of mildly chlorinated city water. No funk here. And then my finger catches on something. Immediately below my KEEP ABORTION LEGAL orb is a weathered, 3 inch tall sticker of a grizzly bear, growling at me with his sharp, bloodied teeth. Where the hell did that come from?

Where has this Nalgene been?
What stories it must have to tell!

The new economy, in short.

2009-03-10T21:20:00.000-07:00

"Duria Antiquior (An Earlier Dorset)," by Robert Farren, circa 1850

Go, go rainbow.

2009-03-05T12:22:00.000-08:00

Portland's rain bring plenty of lovely rainbows
Photo by WooJay

My response to this is this; and to this is this.

Read it. Eat it.

2009-03-02T14:16:00.000-08:00

Collage by sethurner

I just sat down with a fresh cup of tea, a stolen cutie, and fifteen minutes of free time. I checked out one of my favorite foodie blogs (Stickyrice - it's my dream to live in beautiful Hanoi and just eat my way through the city like these folks do). Stickyrice mentioned their blog's presence on a list of the "50 best food blogs in the world" curated by The Times in London (included in the top ten were two of my favorites: Orangette and 101 Cookbooks.) While I doubt it's a perfect top 50 (aren't the best foodie blogs still undiscovered or underappreciated?), I'm excited to chew on their choices. After work, of course.

Microsoft Windows to World: I'm a child on a PC, you're an idiot.

2009-02-23T20:37:00.000-08:00

This is a slap in the face to anyone born before 1970.
Jan's-of-the-World, don't watch!

Digging deep.

2009-02-19T12:12:00.000-08:00

Photo by Raginglily

Maybe it's a throw back to when I was small, and worms were such a big part of the day-to-day experience of being a kid. Dares to eat the worms, murderously cutting them in half to see if they would continue to wiggle across the sidewalk with each half going its separate ways. The battle cry of misunderstood children everywhere - NOBODY LIKES ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME, GUESS I'LL GO EAT SOME WORMS. I noticed today's New York Times' article on composting not for its useful information (which it had), but for the hilarious readers' comments.

Somewhere, in the process of stepping up and doing their part for mother earth, people were deeply traumatized by this immediate throwback to childhood and the most organic circus of all - urban composting. And, immature at heart, I could only giggle and shriek at the thought of it all.

Here, then, are the best of the readers' comments:

"I took my then 5 year old son along and when we opened the bin I was horrified to see this disgusting rotting swamp. My gag reflex immediately engaged. I was glad to have my son along to fish out the worms which seemed like a perfect boy pursuit. Soon after he reached in however, his hand covered in a plastic bag, I heard him very silently murmuring, "It's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream." When worm bins go bad, they do so in a big way."

"My roommate and I attempted to compost with a worm bin in our kitchen starting last summer, and have made attempts with three batches of worms, all with the same results: worm death...we always came home to find worms spread out, dried and dead, all over the kitchen floor. Too hot, too wet, too dry, too much citrus, not enough ventilation, too much frozen food, too much fresh food, or a combination of these factors led us to give up after the third tragic attempt."

(Some good news) "Worms eat the bacteria involved in decomposition, they cannot "chew".

"My roommates and I put a worm bin in our kitchen (off to the side) and successfully composted for a few months with no bad smells or problems. We didn't have to take the trash out as much and it was wildly entertaining. Unfortunately, disaster struck one fateful day in August when the temperature of our kitchen killed ALL of our little worm friends. R.I.P fellows. It also killed any desire for indoor composting."

"My fatal error was spritzing the top of the bin with water each time I fed it...Two days later, the floor around the bin was littered with dried corpses. Desperate to save the few remaining worms, I tore up several cardboard boxes and newspapers and mixed the shreds into the stinking wet waste. Unfortunately, this activated the compost pile. The whole bin grew hot to the touch. It steamed for several days, and the few brave worms that had survived the flood cooked."

Happy President's Day

2009-02-16T15:05:00.000-08:00

Love him!

Today, when we celebrate President's Day, we can celebrate President Obama and the possibility of real change. We can celebrate authentic, civic-minded leadership in all its forms. When I was attending a Woodhull Institute for Ethical Leadership writer's retreat in upstate New York, I was lucky enough to meet a bunch of amazing women, including the Woodhull Institute's inspirational executive director, Wende Jager-Hyman. She recently penned a letter* to us Woodhull alums, which should remind us all about the power of thoughtful (not mindless) patriotism. The namesake of the Woodhull Institute, Victoria Woodhull, was the first woman to ever run for President of the United States, before women even had the right to vote. George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, President Obama - and countless other examples of ethical leaders who will never be president, like Victoria Woodhull - they are what truly makes the United States powerful.

* I attached this letter as a comment to this post...

Writing on fire

2009-02-14T13:47:00.000-08:00

photo by Mukumbura

"We do this because the world we live in is a house on fire and the people we love are burning."
- Sandra Cisneros, on her passion to write at 26
(from her forward to the 25th anniversary edition of the House on Mango Street)

What Would Philip Roth Do?

2009-02-11T10:05:00.000-08:00

They descended on the stage, teeny and shoeless (the teeny part probably had a bit to do with my upper tier, upper balcony (up up up) seats) and folded themselves into two giant arm chairs. Elizabeth Gilbert and Ann Patchett, together for only the second time in their lives, compliments of Literary Arts' Arts & Lecture series. They sat across from one another and chatted, like the girlfriends they were (on stage in front of several thousand people, mind you). Elizabeth Gilbert claimed that if she stopped writing, she'd just find something else to do, it wouldn't cause her to go into crisis. A pushy boutique salesperson would be good, she thought. Ann Patchett would make complex, minute dioramas, which seemed fitting to the detailed care she gives to characters in her novels. Neither said anything too revolutionary, but both were smart, funny, and self-deprecating. They talked about the demands of being female and a writer. Ann Patchett's agent, she shared, had made her an apron that said, "What would Philip Roth Do?" So today, I suggest we all mutter that to ourselves, as we go about our day. Thanks, A & E.

Let there be lemons

2009-02-08T12:07:00.000-08:00

Sunshine!

Popular words in this Sunday's New York Times: Despair, foreclosure and downsizing. So I threw down the paper and headed to the kitchen, where three gorgeous and glowing Meyer's lemons had sat patiently all night, waiting for their chance to shine.

Butter!

The world seems to go to great lengths lately to remind me it's only mid-February, the grayest stretch of winter in Portland. Not just the news. The mood has managed to saturate my kitchen, too. My plans to make some spicy green garlic gnocchi were thwarted when a Pastaworks employee admonished me that the greens wouldn't be ready locally for at least a month, maybe two. Feeling cranky and rebellious against it all - people, the economy and limited produce - I purchased three spendy and decidedly not local Meyers lemons.

And this morning, I turned the lemons into a tangy curd. My mood, and my kitchen, moved a little closer to sunshine, too.

Zest!

Jackpot!

2009-01-28T19:07:00.000-08:00

According to StatCounter.com, I hit the milestone of 5,000 unique viewers today, 393 days after I first posted.

Thanks to everyone who reads Eden from Sweden!

Agree to proceed

2009-01-26T19:36:00.000-08:00

Lovely photo courtesy of Jennifer Spires

I had a modest spiritual experience reading this article in February's Esquire over a spicy Mexican mocha at Common Grounds, as the barista turned up the stereo playing, perfectly, Modest Mouse's Float On.

I demand you read the entire article, but if you absolutely can't, here's the first 250 words:

There is this thing we do. It's a small thing. It's a formality, at worst an annoyance. We do it every time we buy a computer or a device requiring software. We do it when we download software online, and then when the software is updated. We do it in order to buy things. We do it in order to sell or share things. We do it in order to find dates and to expand the universe of friendship. We do it in order to express ourselves in writing or film or song, and then we do it in order to read and to watch and to listen. It is the act of everyone, and it involves everything. And what it is — what we do — is this: We agree. We agree to the terms and conditions of service. We agree to use a product that is not our own — that is licensed, not sold. We agree to entrust and, if our trust is broken, to forgive. In what might be called the opposite of the moment of truth, we are given a choice, to accept or to decline, and we accept. We are in the habit of assent, and so the world we live in is the world we have helped bring into being. It is the power of our powerlessness. Our virtual signatures are everywhere, and yet we lost track of them long ago and have no idea what liabilities they might entail — what we've given up and to whom we've given it... (continued here)

The Guiding (Left) Hand

2009-01-20T10:20:00.000-08:00

Ooobama!

Here's to Obama, finally secured as the President of the United States. And apparently, he's my kind of people:

Lefties in Power | 1:04 p.m. Mr. Obama is now signing the guest book in the Capitol. He uses his left hand and was a bit scrunched up, saying his hand was cold from being outside. Senator Feinstein, standing next to him, notes that she was a “lefty,” too. Nice little window into the idle chitchat that preoccupies national figures at a moment like this.

[From the NYTimes minute-by-minute blogging of the inauguration]

Party of One.

2009-01-13T18:37:00.000-08:00

The turn of the new year has also been a catalyst in my modest little life, I think. I was watching a cute little romance-comedy (no, really), and heard one of the characters say that their life needed a paradigm shift. Having never ventured into the philosophy department beyond Logic 101, I didn't know what she meant, exactly. But even not knowing...it sounded right.

A paradigm shift, if you're not in-the-know, is a fundamental change in theory basically demanded by outside forces. Outside forces demand that you understand the world differently. Those forces have been at work - probably in more subtle ways - for years. But the economy, my age, my surroundings, are all making me sit up and respond now.

So I was presented with an amazing opportunity. I was fed very strong martinis and then sent on my way. I got home and with my mind too busy to sleep but not sober enough to read I watched an old episode of Party of Five. I hadn't seen this show in at least 10 years, and was alarmed by how young all the characters seem now. Charlie Salinger (played by Matthew Fox), the wise and sexy but impossibly older brother, when last I saw him, was now my age - MY AGE. Bailey Salinger (played by Scott Wolf) raged about his relationship troubles, which seemed odd for a fetus. Seriously, I wouldn't have trusted the kid to babysit, and as the episode progressed, I watched him deal with the wreckage of his last relationship, a new relationship, and his newly found friends at Alcoholics Anonymous. All while in high school. A fetus!

Ok, so this post is starting to read like I'm drinking down the martinis as I write, but I'm not. I'm sober and taking stock of the events of this new year and the opportunities for change. It's a paradigm shift for sure. I'm ready, and not too young to miss my chance or too old to use age as an excuse. Charlie Salinger, brother, you know what I mean.

Simply 2009.

2009-01-01T11:52:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, Lovelies.
Here's to a year of paring down

and focusing on what really matters.

Imperfect yet magical. Like life itself.

2008-12-29T19:10:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was nerdily buried in the Sunday New York Times, reading and reflecting on my first Christmas away from my parents. Following this revere was (besides a fabulous pot of french pressed Stumptown coffee) a lightly philosophical article about the end of Polaroid film; about the end of a form of photography that was exceptional because it hinged on that element of surprise. This was contrasted with today's trusty digital cameras, where imperfection can be carelessly deleted in a split second - maybe, just maybe, missing a shot of unexplored genius.

This got my already sentimental (and over caffeinated) mind running. Is life these days that different? Sometimes I find myself editing out the past because it doesn't fit the narrative (I'd elaborate, but that's fodder for my fiction). Why?

It also got me thinking of my grandpa Swede, the only person I ever knew to religiously wield a Polaroid camera. As is with the holidays, you miss the people who have passed on. But I was comforted, and more than a little amused, to flip through my Polaroids from him. His loving, warm and imperfect gaze comes across in each shot. It really warms my heart to think about it, him, my family. And that's why I'll always have a soft spot for that clunkynoisyarmygreen camera... and imperfections.

Stumptown Christmas

2008-12-21T15:37:00.000-08:00

A bus stop, a skiing family and a bicycle.
Merry Christmas from Portland!

Birds of a Feather Shop Together

2008-12-16T13:25:00.000-08:00

Don't venture beyond the pasta aisle when he's hungry
(photo from Dave Gorman's flickr page)

I just found out there's a bird living in a Safeway downtown*. He's been there since early summer and survives off the millet and grains that are spilled from the dry food bins. I watched him today, singing above the sale pomegranates.

*The exact location is being withheld, to protect the innocent (bird).

A little closer to fine.

2008-12-14T15:30:00.001-08:00

Things have taken a turn for the worse (but not yet worst) lately, so I'm cooking through it. Much like pushing through it, but with leeks, currents and monk fish. And cookies, my god, the cookies. Here's what the weekend looked like, in culinary creations:

1) Grilled butterflied monkfish with a sweet runner bean stew (from Jamie Oliver's Jamie at Home), with a side of rosemary and sea salt roasted Oregon Yukon potatoes (improv'd);
2) Norwegian pancakes (from Kitchen of Light) and a chard & shallot frittata (loosely based on Alice Water's frittata recipe in The Art of Simple Food);
3) Oatmeal and current cookies (The Art of Simple Food, Alice Water);
4) Leek Confit, on toast with goat cheese (Molly Wizenberg for Bon Appetit);
5) Cannellini and Butternut squash soup (The Art of Simple Food, Alice Water).

So far, so good. Obviously, I'll have left overs until 2009. But it's nice to remind myself that the kitchen is my own little kingdom, even if I'm not so lucky once I step out the door.

'Tis the season

2008-12-08T19:44:00.000-08:00

There was the typical morning news. Landslides, fires and neighborhood robberies. Bush, nearing the sunset of his reign of terror, inarticulately apologized-but-not-really-apologized for one single harmful event of many, at Abu Ghraib (he was technically in charge - of course he wasn't there, but he should've (they've told him), take some responsibility, so he is. Taking responsibility. Sort of.) Me wearing one sock and yelling at the television screen.

And then the usually cheery guy at the coffee shop handed me my morning coffee and told me about kids in Africa who are crushing HIV anti-virus pills and smoking them mixed with pot for the high.

Later in the morning I got a google alert that the owner of the Chicago Tribune and the Los Angeles Times was filing for corporate bankruptcy. I felt the grip tighten on my job, the jobs of friends finishing up MFA programs or looking for journalism jobs. I thought, "The sky is falling."

I skipped lunch and went to the gym to work out my worries. One, and then all four of the gym televisions flashed breaking news of a fighter jet crashing into a residential area of La Jolla, California. I left the gym. The sky was falling.

I haven't felt like writing. I've started four blog posts this month, but never made it far before giving up. I couldn't figure it out, couldn't begin to put my anxiety into words. Then I read this and this on Hezbollah Tofu (even the ridiculous name puts world events into perspective, right?) Basically, it's about us going to hell in a handbasket and how, if we're even slightly sensitive to that and at all greatful for the things we do have, we need to show compassion for all the peeps that have it worse than we do. And celebrate that we're all in this together.

Thanks to Hezbollah Tofu for making more sense than the world ever could at the moment.

And for clearing the blockage, so to speak.

Post-Tofurky Wrap Up

2008-11-28T10:42:00.000-08:00

Walla Walla, WA
Wish you were here. To entertain me.

Thanksgiving brings you together with your friends (intentional) or family (biological). I don't think there's anyone out there who is spending the holidays with the latter who hasn't thought (in the most appreciative of ways): "Who are these people? How are we possibly related? How can families be so complicated?" My dad watched several Tivo'd Hallmark channel movies and my sister an episode of a reality show that follows around a family with 8 kids, while I stared at them both, bored and contemplating the ties that bind. It was even more confusing when we weren't staring at the tv, but attempting conversation. Trapped in the countryside of a small eastern Washington town with my blood relations, I wondered how the rest of America was faring. If the NYTimes most seached for keywords is any indication, they were as confused about the meaning of family and Thanksgiving as I was...

Keywords most frequently searched by NYTimes.com readers.

1. obama
2. bush
3. turkey
4. citigroup pays for a rush to risk
5. cancer
6. november 5, 2008
7. citigroup
8. sweet potato
9. thankgiving
10. china

* photo courtesy of jfranklinwillis'

Portrait of the artist's girlfriend on the couch.

2008-11-20T13:27:00.000-08:00

If you see a dramatic improvement in my photographic composition after tonight, it's because I'm going to see Literary Arts presents Annie Leibovitz. And if you don't notice a difference, I blame the nose-bleed seats!

Eeeee eee eeee indeed.

2008-11-13T20:42:00.000-08:00

What an odd, perfect combination.
Tao Lin interviewing Joy Williams over at Book Slut.

* photo courtesy of Lele's flickr page

First Storm

2008-11-11T21:32:00.000-08:00

The beauty of the rain is how it falls, how it falls, how it falls (Dar Williams)

Tonight the first big storm of the Oregon rainy season is supposed to hit. I can't really muster feeling worried, though, when rain drops are spattered across my window like stars, or diamonds, or tears.

Closed Book.

2008-11-10T13:21:00.000-08:00

Mission Accomplished!
Photo courtesy of Careenin

After a hundred-plus hour work week, Wordstock 2008 has come to a fantastic end. Sex dreams were discussed with an Oregon children's book author. An emergency run to Office Depot was made to ensure John Hodgman had an orange sharpee (the only pen he'll sign his books with). I found the most unlikely crush, a 90 pound poet in a red stocking cap who rocked both the sold out Poetry Slam and Live Wire. I spent every second of the last five day feeling so lucky to be a part of something that brings my favorite things in the world - books and writers - to my favorite city in the world, Portland. And to Wordstock's core volunteer team (who've lent hundreds of hours of their time), and the hundreds of Portlander's who've simply lent some of their weekend to the cause...you knocked my socks off. And now, Belvedere and I agree, it's time for a nap.

onetwothree...nanowrimo.

2008-11-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

photo from m.bibelot's flickr page

National Novel Writing Month (or, to those of us in its hackles, who don't have enough time in the day for the next 31 days, we just short hand it NaNoWriMo). National Novel Writing Month is a mad experiment heavily dosed with quantity over quality. In short: you agree to write your "novel" every day for a month, with the finish line being November 31st, and 50,000 words. Revision (and there will be a lot of it) comes later. Much, much later. I'm heading into this knowing that our biggest work event of the year, Wordstock Book Festival, is happening next week and I'll be working 15 hour days for a while.

I have two visuals to cling to when I feel crushed by the impossibility of this task: Zadie Smith wrote White Teeth during her final year at Cambridge, she wrote the last few chapters during finals. In the living room of her parents house. Because she had just broken up with her boyfriend and had to move somewhere. Yikes.

The other is this incredible timelapse video of the route of the New York City Marathon, condensed down to 3 1/2 minutes; because one type of marathon or another, it's all about moving one foot forward, again and again, till you hit that sweet finish line.

You can follow my NaNoWriMo progress here.

Alice In Wonderland

2008-10-28T21:41:00.000-07:00

Angst much, Alice?
Alice Neel: Self-Portrait

This weekend I rented a documentary about the legendary portraitist Alice Neel. With extensive interviews of her sons, the fruits of her genius and neglect, the film seemed to be a parade of Alice's extraordinarily affected portraits set to the soundtrack of her sons' actively arguing and reworking their own narratives. For the woman who said that "whether I'm painting or not, I have this overweening interest in humanity. Even if I'm not working, I'm still analyzing people," she seems to have thoroughly confused her children in the process. And then there's the allusion to the daughter left behind in Cuba, who as an adult killed herself. Interviews with Alice reveal that she was fascinated by her children as subjects, but she seemed so focused, absorbing the essence of those immediately in front of her easel (which she did, beautifully) that you have to wonder what was missed as a result of her myopic focus, or what any artist misses, squirreled away working on their art? Is the artistic sacrifice honorable, and whose humanity are they furthering? Alice was hailed as a ground-breaking feminist artist, through she shrugged the title. I wonder why.

Ma, the turkey's dry.

2008-10-23T21:45:00.000-07:00

Boiling wool into shapes is a completely useless and fascinating trend. I mean, what goes into the cute little fuzzy bowls you keep bringing home from crafts night? Fuzzy cheerios you make the next week, maybe? This didn't keep Knit/Purl, an inspired little knit shop at my streetcar stop, from making this darling Thanksgiving setting, made entirely of boiled wool.

That's a turkey this veggie can get behind!

Two Weeks To Wordstock!

2008-10-23T14:53:00.000-07:00

A funny little commercial for Wordstock Book & Literary Festival

I've said it before. Poets are word magicians to me. And if they can belt it out on stage like Anis here? Swoon. If you're in Portland, come see six of the world's best Slam Poets at McMenamin's Baghdad Theatre on Hawthorne, Thursday evening, Nov. 6th, for Wordstock's opening night event. Tickets are $15, and all the money raised goes to COW, doing our part to keep the kiddies literate. Buy your tickets here.

Paulrus Is Dead.

2008-10-20T21:38:00.001-07:00

Paulrus Is Dead IV
Originally uploaded by skomra

My best thinking is done on the bus. Somehow my brain synapses fly freely twice a day when the bus lurches to a halt every block and a half for 60 long ones. Some run for clarity. Some yoga. I public transit.

Of course, not all my thoughts are brilliant. This evening, for instance. For the hundredth time, my eyes caught a PAULRUS IS DEAD graffiti tag. I'm sort of in love with the brainchild behind PAULRUS IS DEAD.

Some theories:

Paulrus is what an overly sensitive, acne-covered 16 year old's bully brother had taken to calling his little brother Paul following a particularly creative trip to the zoo. Paulrus spent a summer working out at the local YMCA gym a la Rocky, read plenty of Philip Roth and grew three feet in a summer. Paul emerged and was accepted early-admission to Vassar, but didn't go before righting his big brother's wrong all over town.

Someone is out to get Paulrus. Yikes. Paulrus is marked. PAULRUS IS DEAD.

Paul thought he and Russ were solid. They even adopted their namesake, a show pug named Paulrus. Forever haunted by the boy that came between them, the dream of PAULRUS IS DEAD.

I'm not the only obsessive. PAULRUS IS DEAD has a devoted Flickr group.

Respect the cupcake!

2008-10-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

Heaven in a wrapper - Toasted Coconut Cream!

I never got more web traffic than I did a few months ago when I posted a singular picture of a lemon cupcake from Saint Cupcake. That was cool, though, because I love them too. One of my favorite blogs (and daily haunts) is sfgirlbybay. I was thrilled to see that today's guest blogger (sfgirlbybay's on vacation in Thailand) is Mrs. French, a fellow PDX blogger. And for her first guest blog, she did a lovely interview with the folks at one of my favorite places on earth, right down the street from mouse house - Noun (also home to south east Portland's branch of Saint Cupcake). Speaking of Saint Cupcake, it's somebody's birthday soon...so, mind the cupcake.

Words Change Everything

2008-10-07T16:03:00.000-07:00

So much to do, and only 30 days till Wordstock. Even my dreams seem to be monopolized with website updates and hunting down author photos (when I was a temp, I used to have dreams that I was filing documents alphabetically, or trying to fill out an endless Excel doc. Am I the only one?) Then a Wordstock Google alert pinged my email this afternoon. Justin had posted this Wieden+Kennedy ad made for Wordstock last year and I paused for a second, realizing how lucky I am to do what I do. And now, back to it.

A (sort of) Island Escape

2008-10-05T18:32:00.000-07:00

Canela digs Saturday morning on Sauvie Island so much more than the Pilates class we blew off to get there. And a bucket of U-Pick flowers for ten bucks can't be beat.

Food Fight

2008-09-30T20:43:00.000-07:00

{cutie photo from Rakka's flickr page}

I read a lot. You know, looking for enlightenment regarding my calling; or what a friend and I jokingly, frantically refer to as a Life Plan. Something undiscovered that will mean a lot to me, to couple with friends and family that already do. Lately I've been looking to the queens of the kitchen, and have (ahem) consumed a biography on Alice Waters and the letters of M.F.K. Fisher (both recommended, although the "authorized" biography of Alice Waters is a bit easy on Alice.) But I've fell hardest for Julia Child's book My Life in France, for a couple of reasons.

1) Julia didn't find her life calling (buttery Frenchie food) until she was 37!

2) She's obsessive (and as a result, a little neglectful) like me. For example, she had to know what made mayonnaise work or fail. "By the end of my research, I believe, I had written more on the subject of mayonnaise than anyone in history...but in this way I finally discovered a foolproof recipe, which was glory." And she nearly failed her Le Cordon Bleu test by concentrating on the advanced, tricky recipes, meanwhile forgetting the Cordon Bleu Basics pamphlet that they drew the test questions from. Oops, and done that.

3) She was a tall lady. I often fill awkward when faced with new challenges. But is it possible to feel more awkward than Julie looked, towering at 6 feet, 2 inches, over the petite European stoves she learned on, deboning a palm sized quail with her giant hands? Probably not, and she managed to own it (lesson to the ladies!)

...oh, and when she sent her recipes off to friends in America all she got was silence. (This really has nothing to do with anything, except, dear Eden From Sweden blog readers, leave comments, so I know you're out there, breathing and supportive)...

Making my way through the pages, a feeling's crept up on me. When something strikes your fancy, you need to push it forward. Julia's ascent wasn't exceptional. It was just hard work, honesty and a fabulous sense of humor.

Muppet Moment: Tonight's Debate!

2008-09-26T13:42:00.000-07:00

Thanks to a dedicated reader (let's call her Muppet Manic in Brooklyn) for bringing this witty New York Time's Op-Ed to my attention. I'm happy to see that that NYTimes has once again committed itself to letting voices from marginalized communities be heard.

{Apologies for the low resolution. Someday I'll learn how to use my Adobe Photoshop software without getting a headache.
Until then, click here for the full image}

Sorry. My Give-a-damn's busted.

2008-09-24T21:28:00.000-07:00

tightened nerves, rusty curves
photo by force majeure studios

"Sorry, my give-a-damn's busted."

This was my co-worker's explanation for her bad mood today. Neither of us (her, suburbanite; me, leery of country music) quite knew what it meant, but the sentiment rang true enough, so we googled the phrase "my give-a-damn's busted." Guess it's a country song sung by Miss Jo Dee Messina that spent at least some time on Billboard's top 100 in 2005. We enjoyed watching the music video, and then got back to the work at hand.

Work. I must clarify, my give-a-damn's not busted, I'm just very busy and will be for the next six weeks. Check out our new website, though. It's spiffy, if I do say so myself. So, let me borrow and tweak Miss Jo Dee's declaration. My give-a-damn's tested. And that I can handle.

When you fall down the rabbit hole, you find more weird my give-a-damn's busted trivia:

Wiki Entry
Give-a-Damn's Busted Line Dance tutorial
Lion King Give-a-Damn's Busted Music Video
Aristocats Give-a-Damn's Busted Music Video

Aargh. Friday, yet?

2008-09-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

yo ho ho and batten down the hatches (until friday)
photo from mimi k's flickr page

Forgive me for scouring Wednesday's freshly printed Willamette Week for weekend activities when we've got two more days until TGIF, but it was One. Long. Day. I wasn't disappointed in the results (I love Portland). This weekend, I can mix up my regular farmer's market visit with "Medieval Market Day" in Beaverton, attend the Scappoose Sauerkraut Festival (seriously), or the Miss White Trash Pageant at Dante's. Friday, I'm ready.

Oh, and the Portland Pirate Festival at Cathedral Park. Obviously, I'll be there.

{...and pleasepleaseplease, if you enjoy indie press, help save BITCH magazine, another Portland treasure. They need a pretty penny to make it to press this month.}

Stump(town) Speech.

2008-09-17T19:58:00.000-07:00

mmm. taste obama's juicy undertones.

Breakfast at the Bipartisan Cafe in the Montevilla neighborhood means you'll might be seated next to an actual Floridan Voter's Booth used in the 2004 election - wait, did I just vote for Bush or Gore? You'll have a five foot tall McCain cut out learing at your lox and garlic bagel from his place near the window, while Nixon and Kennedy battle it out on the wall. So, of course I had to pick up some special edition "Obama Blend" coffee from Stumptown.

Obama Blend: "As a salute to Barack Obama, this blend combines coffees from Kenya and Indonesia. We use one of our Latin American coffees to bind the flavors toether making this a well balanced blend. Fresh cut cedar in the aromatics lead to milk chocolate tones and cherry cordial flavors all tied together with its juicy texture."

And come on now! Of course Stumptown makes a McCain Blend, too. The Bipartisan Cafe would accept nothing less.

A Tale of Two Atlases

2008-09-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I came across a thick, mint condition 1979 Reader's Digest World Atlas at a Mt. Tabor yard sale. The yard sale proprietress asked two bucks and suggested I deplume the thing page-by-page, country-by-country to use for stationary, or arts and crafts. I was appalled at the idea. Firstly, it was a lovely book. Secondly, it was published the year of my birth. Defacing a book is slightly easier for me than cutting the whiskers off a cat or kicking a puppy.

Today it was a yard sale off Burnside that caught my attention. This children's atlas had seen better days. The pages, or what was left of them, were stored in the cover but completely detached. The book's cover boards were held together with duck tape. I knew this meant, although it was almost sixty years old, that the book was worth zilch. This, I thought, is a book of maps I could use for stationary, for arts and crafts.

I asked the price.

The proprietress of this yard sale was a late-fifties Asian woman with a proper, stern look. She asked what I wanted it for to which I responded, "Stationary, maybe? Arts and crafts?" She looked pained. I said it was very interesting and she brightened up. "You're a teacher? Show this to your students?" I shook my head. Not a teacher. "How much?" I asked again, irritated that I was negotiating not only the price of the book, but its fate.

"Five dollars," she said. I started to put it back, ready to leave, and she touched my wrist. She explained that she was selling all her things, that she was moving to Hong Kong, to take care of her mother who was old and ill. This book, she said, is what her mother used to show her and her sister the world, and their place in it, when the family arrived in Portland from Hong Kong when she was little. I imagined her as a girl trying to reconcile the world by tracing the route from page 4, China and Hong Kong, to page 6, where Portland was circled in pencil on the United States map. And now in middle age she had to leave what had become her true home, Portland, to care for her mother who had never wanted to leave Hong Kong in the first place. So I paid the five dollars, said goodbye, and felt the weight of the broken book in my hand all the way home.

holylovablehavoc

2008-09-08T18:31:00.000-07:00

meet belvedere

This weekend I adopted a three-year-old cat whose owners were leaving Portland for an uncertain future in Nashville, Tennessee (meanwhile, he left plush suburbia for an uncertain future with me). For the first 24 hours, he hid in the back of my closet. But he's out now, baby, he's out! Meet Belvedere. For American kids of the 80's, Belvedere brings to mind the television show Mr. Belvedere, about the "humorous adventures of an English housekeeper working for an American Family." Members of the cast went on to do great things, like star in Dragstrip Girl (TV) and Mirror, Mirror 2: Raven Dance (also TV). Belvedere is also the leading manufacturer of beauty salon furniture. We can only hope this B's as industrious, but so far he's only interested in unsuccessfully scaling my bookshelves like an obese Spiderman, consuming unbelivable amounts of weight-control kibbles, shedding and scratching up what few pieces of decent furniture we have. For this handsome mug, I'm happy to oblige.

A culinary, crafty, and anti-McCain buffet

2008-09-04T20:31:00.000-07:00

Oh man! The news today was Just! So! Interesting!

Culinary Update: Endangered Cupcakes
Best quote: "...the cupcake appears to be at a tipping point. There are signs of a cupcake backlash - both from schools concerned about childhood obesity and from foodies who can only maintain nostalgia for so long."
My thoughts: Viva Saint Cupcake!

Crafty Update: DIY Nation Goes Corporate?
Best quote: "Her “gateway drug” into the handmade life, she said, was the zine culture of the underground punk rock scene. That world, with its vegan anarchist collective restaurants and plywood punk houses, its handmade record covers and hand-lettered, stapled newsletters, and its network of fans connected by old-world skills like letter writing, was a Luddite’s paradise of 21st-century homemakers and do-it-yourselfers."
My thoughts: Viva Etsy!

Anti-McCain Update: Where to begin?
Best quote(s):

My thoughts: Viva Obama! And John Stewart!

Edna and The Boys, 1941

2008-08-31T19:22:00.000-07:00

"Esther, Mom, Alga" (May 1942, La Crosse, Wisconsin) and "Untitled"

As a writer, you appropriate other people's lives like skins. You live in them for a while and suppose what they'll do next. That's why I was so excited to come across a vintage suitcase full of "Instant Relative" photos at SMUT (So Many Unique Things) on SE Burnside. Digging through a trough of pictures that - at one time - truly meant something to someone is a bit creepy and voyeuristic, but thrilling. But, like I said before, we're writers. It's what we do.

More instant relative choices:

"Untitled" and "Dad, January 26, 1954"

"Untitled" (top) and "Untitled (Jan '59)" and "Christmas 1966"

Spotted: Soup Sense

2008-08-26T22:02:00.000-07:00

let them eat soup

Rock'n'roll is dream soup. What's your brand?
- Patti Smith

I'd been hearing a rumble that a fledgling soup enterprise CSA (community supported agriculture...er, soup, natch) was soon to roll into town (on bike wheels, of course.) Excited to see that both my home and my office were on the soup route (identified as Souplandistan on the map), I looked forward to the grand voyage. At the Hawthorne Street Fair, I came face-to-face with the Soup Cycle mastermind, and wouldn't you know it, it was my old next-door-neighbor, Jed. He's a really nice guy and quite a cook. And what's better than fresh, warm soup during Portland's grey season?

Fat Purple Figs.

2008-08-18T21:32:00.000-07:00

fig! mama's on fire!

After several days of 100-plus degree heat in Portland, I awoke this morning to heavy thunder and - yes! - a chilled rain. If you live in Portland (and enjoy it), you share my sick love affair with rain. And it's been so long. So tonight after work, I celebrated being able to cook in the kitchen again, without feeling sweaty and faint. I tore up the kitchen, kids. Both Zucchini Stuffed with Marco's Pistou and Tomatoes Stuffed With Pasta Salad (giant 1.5 pound babies I procured at the Hollywood Farmer's Market on Saturday). Tomorrow, since the 70ish temperatures are sticking around, I'm tackling the Grilled Rainbow Chard with Fava Beans and Oregano, and this *swoon* recipe for Fig and Port Ice Cream (did I mention I got my hands on an almost-new Cuisinart ice-cream maker this weekend at a neighbor's yard sale for seven bucks, which means I can rationalize buying port for a recipe?)

Oh man, Martha. Be jealous. Very, very jealous.

Sunday's Cultural Report

2008-08-17T13:18:00.000-07:00

Did St. Francis really preach to the birds? Whatever for?

If he really liked birds he would have done better to preach to the cats.

- Rebecca West

Sure, It's Less Obvious Than Solitaire...

2008-08-13T14:37:00.000-07:00

Work can be fun again!

Ha. Blog of a Bookslut posted yesterday on this literary-heavy office procrastination feature, compliments of the New Zealand Book Council. Says Bookslut:

As my homeboy Julian Novitz puts it, "Basically it takes you to a fake windows desktop containing folders of short stories and poems that have been formatted into powerpoint slide-shows (complete with bullet-points, pie-charts, graphs, incongruous media images, etc), the idea being that you can then read them safely in the workplace, while still appearing to be vaguely industrious for the bosses." There's Tolstoy and Wilde and Dickinson and Novitz and lots more reading bound to be more interesting than that budget projection from Frank in accounts.

I'm already a fan of the New Zealand Book Council. They're partnering with Wordstock (my lovely day job) to bring New Zealand author Rachael King a million miles to Portland for Wordstock. Yip. But that they would offer up deceptive ways to read Oscar Wilde at work, that's really something special...

{...somewhat unrelated, but the picture above was taken by manyfires, of a soapbox cubicle at the 2006 Mt. Tabor Adult Soap Box Derby in SE Portland. This year's races are happening Saturday August 16th, from 10-4 pm, 60th and Salmon. Be there or be square.}

Political Poultry or Cheeky Chickens?

2008-08-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

In anticipation of Obama announcing his VP running mate before the DNC Convention later this month in Denver, a little pro-Obama scenery from a chicken coop in NoPo.

...and I hope the comic doesn't ruffle feathers with any of y'all.