Pumpkin pie

I told you I had a couple of rotting pumpkins on my porch. Joel's (right) began as facial hair: eyebrows, mustache, soul patch. Now it just looks like an old man with kind eyes who forgot to put in his dentures, with a soul patch. Mine (left) started out as an evil laughing Jack o'Lantern. Now it's an even evil-er looking one, probably with emphysema to accompany its sinister laugh.

Why have these not moved from their post in the last three weeks? Because I don't want to pick them up! Gross. I fully expected the punk kids next door to have smashed them by now; it was their job! After all, they did earn it by carving "Smoke Weed" into the freshly poured concrete right in front of the house (oh, but little did they know that by using our clever letter adding skills, we would thwart the call to drug use by altering the message with a simple "t," therefore calling all those who walk past this house to burn all of their dapper suits and smart skirts. [Smoke Tweed! in case you hadn't figured it out yet]). This dirty job is theirs. But every day it grows less enticing, I suppose. And these pumpkins just sit there, dutifully waiting for the next holiday to arrive, poor things, saying hello to the mailman as he delivers the Christmas cards.

What shall I give you?

Here are your options:

1. Two rotting pumpkins on the porch steps

2. A one-pound bag of dirty Kleenex

3. Expertly stacked (empty) mini boxes of Junior mints

4. Vegetable soup I've eaten so much of I can hardly stand the sight of it (and there's so much left...gah)

5. A photo taken before the sickness took over, displaying the only Halloween costume I've put any effort toward in the last 10 years.


Option 5, you say? Fine by me!

Losing daylight and bad metaphor alert

We all know it is bound to happen. As of two nights ago, the horizon at 5:45 was nearing the end of its tube of toothpaste, so I came home and ran down the street to capture the last bit of light squeezed out over the top of the bluff. ( A total stretch. I warned you.)

Living in Spokane gets rough starting now. You wake up in the dark, you come home in the dark. You hope the roads are dry, and pray your car makes it up the hill when they aren't. It's cold till about April 27. Everyone whines. You pause on QVC when you're channel-surfing because shopping at home is the more realistic option (or because watching their featured "gem fest" sounds like it could be an all-out laughfest).

Living in Spokane also gets nice starting now. There's long underwear, for one (and tights! don't forget those), and that magical feeling-some call it relief-when your body thaws (and let's not forget nice, hot baths), and then there are all those girls like me who equate cold weather with hair dye and going dark. That's fun to think about, right? And finally, a chance to hole up in the house and just craft and bake and call all your old friends. There's that feeling of optimism that this cold WILL end, and while you wait, why not skip a day of work and go skiing? 

Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. For tonight, I've got a date with a swimming pool. Indoors, of course.

The gift of an afternoon off

I'm not sure which came first - my love of the name "Black-eyed Susan" or my love of the flower itself.

On a recent afternoon, I took advantage of a network outage at work to just enjoy the summer heat with a walk around Manito Park. There's something about walking around a park - or anywhere - by myself that makes my senses all the more heightened and my mind all the more curious. For instance, in the butterfly garden, I spent a good long time trying to figure out what inspired this mathematical equation, etched in the park bench. Thoughts?

And then I can never end a visit without going to the dahlia section. Man, I love these things. The petals are sometimes so tubular, and long and floppy, mangy even, it's impossible for me to look at them without mentally morphing them into a lion's head, like in Alice In Wonderland. And then, there are dahlias like these, that baffle you as to how they could belong in the same family. Beautiful.

Plaid to meet you

On a nearly 100-degree Sunday afternoon, having spent a considerable amount of time in the air conditioned bookstore, I toted Msr. Dumas, an iced Americano and my picnic blanket over to the park to find some shade. As soon as I sat down, I realized I had created a ridiculous plaid mess, wearing my plaid dress on a plaid blanket. In addition, I was about to read page 1 of a 1,400 page, 3 lb. book. 

I'm just glad this guy arrived to add his stripes to the pattern ensemble. We were quite the sight.

oh-m'goodnuh: sweets and sweets and kids looking for sweets

A few weeks ago I ventured just east of downtown on 3rd to visit the Alpine Deli. It was a Saturday, and I had just spent the morning with Whitworth alumni who were on campus to celebrate their 50-year reunion. I was famished after walking and talking and showing alumni how their campus had changed, and for whatever reason, a greasy sandwich sounded really good. The Alpine Deli has a variety of meats and wursts, cheeses, pickled things and beer, so I knew it would be perfect. I talked to the guy behind the counter, asking him what various meats tasted like, and most of his answers were, "It's a little like bologna." He let me sample some - he was right! Ultimately I decided on a roast beef sandwich with a little bit of sauerkraut. Maybe not the best sandwich I've ever had, but it was called "The Putz," and that alone was worth it, even though the bread was über-greasy.

While I was waiting for my sandwich, I looked around at all the chocolate (Rittersport!) and packaged goods. They also had a variety of cassette tapes on sale for a dollar.

Have you ever thought to make a silhouette cake featuring your favorite composer and mine, Josef Haydn? Lucky for us, Germans have. Because a decadent treat should never be without a bit of music appreciation (and that's why we have Mozart balls). I picked up a package of Kathi's Lucious Silhouette Tart mix and had a little fun that afternoon. Haydn might have been appalled to know that I was listening to Steely Dan while I was dusting the cocoa to create his silhouette. Sorry!

Next sweet: rhubarb crunch. What a pretty color. My friends found a corner of their garden running rampant with this stuff, and who was I to refuse such a tart treat? What's more is that this was one of the rare occasions when I had all the ingredients ready to go - no trips to the store. Just roll out of bed, make rhubarb crunch. Easy.

Finally, a kid I had my eye on at Elkfest. These photos do not do justice to undoubtedly sticky chin and hands, or the way he communicated to his mother that he wanted more treats with the simple tug on her arm and pouty look. He was getting into everything. He paused here for a moment, perhaps to see if this bin was filled with Kool-Aid. I don't know why I found it so funny, but I did. There was just something so Willy Wonka about it all.

Scenes from lunch

My first honest-to-goodness picnic with myself all year.

That's sunlight glowing through my bag of chips.

The students have suddenly reappeared. Hadn't seen them around since, oh, mid-October.

And while these guys pursue their undergraduate degrees with piles of papers and deadlines and required reading (suckers!) (but I support and admire you greatly), I found it only appropriate to appreciate mine, reading the non-required, like the selected writings of Kurt Vonnegut.

"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only rule that I know of, babies -- 'God damn it, you've got to be kind.'" (from God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater)

Natural alarm clock

I haven't any need for a snooze button these days, because about 15 minutes after my alarm goes off, this hits my eyes.

 

I would happily give up sleeping in if 2/3 of mornings were guaranteed to be just like this each week, beckoning me to take a walk with my (non-existent) dog, or ride my bike to Madeleine's just because that would be the most adorable thing to do, to eat slightly sweet pastries when you're feeling this blissful.

 

Everyone is talking barbecues, Bowl and Pitcher, basil, bossa nova, bonfires, bocce ball, etc. We are in such a good mood.

Main St.

 

 

Dear David Byrne,

Let it be known that I resisted your music for quite a long time. That one summer when I worked at a potpourri-scented Hallmark was enough to make me turn away from you forever. Each time a customer walked in and the Singing Billy Bass would wake up, I wanted to drop-kick that fish and curse you. “Take Me to the River,” at least 15 times a shift.

Coincidentally, that summer job paid for my first computer in college, the computer on which your song “Look Into the Eyeball” was part of the Windows Media Player package. Only a lame musician would get mixed up in that marketing arrangement, I surmised.

Then, a complete change of opinion - or a new pair of ears. A mere two years after poo-pooing all that you contributed to this world, I was sitting in a friend’s living room and he put on an old Talking Heads album. All he had to do was to turn up the volume, and my entire perception of you changed. With those African rhythms backing voices calling out peculiar lyrics, we were soon putting down our fruit punch and pretzels and all three of us in the room were up on our feet, dancing around. I couldn’t tell you which album it was, but the point is...

 

THERE I WAS last Thursday, clapping and whooping and smiling. And you - in a tutu! And I will never forget it, and I am

Forever yours,
Elizabeth

Conversations, Hearts

Happy Heart Day - Because even if you don't have a valentine, you can still have a happy heart.


My friend Ginger let us use her house for a glorious valentine-card making soiree last night. To be honest, I've never been a paper-craft girl, but I felt pretty good about my ability to use glue and doilies and pre-made birds for something simple and cutesy. (You may recognize this as the same location for my Obama/Biden finger puppets on election night.)

 

There are a few things that I really like about Valentine's Day:

1. The colors pink and red together. I am one of the few in this world who enjoy this combination. It has to be the right pink and the right red, though.
2. Conversation hearts. Since as long as I can remember, I've closed my eyes before reaching into a pile of these candies, thinking, "This is what thinks of me." Today's conversation heart fortune told me that Joel thinks I'm a Cutie Pie.
3. Classic r&b/soul. I know it's not really tied specifically to Valentine's Day, but just go put on a Sam Cooke record and you'll understand.

Christmas Presence

'Twas several days before Christmas, when all through the Poplar,

 

We watched the snow fall (and the weatherman's doppler).

 

The stockings were hung on the French doors with care,
Before getting shipped to Boise by air.

 

The table was ready for dinner with friends
Aha!, here they come, just sliding 'round the bends.

I ran to the kitchen to cook up the gnocchi
And we drank schnapps and wine just to get extra joke-y.


Our after-dinner games are known to invoke so much laughter

We'll remember these nights for years and years after.

(stay tuned for more corny Christmas poetry rip-offs!!)

Snow days

When it snows like this, people come out to gawk.

 

They walk in the middle of the road, because normal cars certainly won't dare to pave the way through a snow tunnel. They say hello as you walk by them, because we're neighbors, and we're in this together. If they decide to say more than "hello," it's usually a joke, like "How's that for a light snow?"

 

And when your car is buried, they come out again with a shovel, or jumper cables, or maybe even a thermos with warm spirits, all in the name of being neighborly.

 

As much as I've looked down on snowmobiles for their harm to nature and polluting of the air, I witnessed a sweet moment as I walked out of the Rosauers parking lot: an older woman was standing on the corner with a couple grocery bags, a scarf around her head, boots that went up only to her ankles, her nylon-ed legs and long-ish skirt and long coat surely not providing much warmth. Another woman zipped around the corner on her snowmobile and stopped in front of the older woman and asked if she'd like a ride. The older woman hemmed and hawed for a second as she glanced over this motorized beast, probably imagining what she would look like riding on it, and then figuring that anything would get her home more quickly than walking, she said, "Well, yeah. Okay," and climbed on.

Going to the grocery store suddenly became the thing to do. You would think people were stocking up on water and batteries to weather whatever could come next, but most people I saw were buying brownie mix, beer, and rotisserie chicken. I used this particular trip to the store to buy potatoes to make gnocchi. Because if ever there's something to make when you have oodles of time on your hands to do something tedious, you might as well make 6 1/2-inch wide dough ropes and cut them into inch-long bits to resemble something like tiny pillows.

 

Greenbluff gems

It isn't truly fall until you've made that 30 minute drive north, forgotten which road on which to turn, and stumbled upon your favorite farms at Greenbluff. Ever since my first fall in Spokane, I've come up here, flirted with the idea of picking apples, and then, like this bee, decided that all I really want is a little nibble.

 

And then I think about how cool it would have been to have grown up on an orchard, having all those trees to myself, and being free to just mozey around and look to see which apples are ripe, then pick one and walk back home, chomping on it.

 

And it also makes me think of the purpose of gourds. What the heck are these things for? You don't really eat them, you just kind of stare at them, make a comment about how gnarly and weird they are, "ooh, no wait, look at THIS one!", and then buy a few to stick in a basket on a table, until it's winter, and squash doesn't seem so novel anymore.

 

But as long as you're at Greenbluff, calories definitely don't count, there's no such thing as an apple overdose, and you wonder how anyone could ever work behind a counter and stare at these things all day, letting them glisten and watching customers' mouths water (like mine) over the sheer genius that is complex sugars enveloped by polymerized confection.