Blog
January 2nd, 2012
Well, Happy New Year indeed. This is how I’m kicking off 2012 (not actually kicking anything for some time, methinks); nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, I guess.
I was out walking Jessica’s dog Brown in my neighborhood yesterday, when I got hit by a car. It happened at one of those double-T intersections where the cross street ends, then picks back up again further down the block. I was on the main road, approaching the near T-junction, when I saw a the car stop at the far T ahead. He had his blinker on to turn right onto the main street, and I made Brown stop and wait until I was sure of what he was going to do. He turned, and then it appeared he was going to continue straight, right on past me, so I started crossing the street at my T-junction. At the last second, without using his turn signal, he veered to the left, right into my intersection. I yelled for him to stop, but he never saw or heard me. I tried to run out of the way, but he was accelerating, so he hit my left leg before I could clear his car. I went flying forward, crashed on the pavement (with my glasses landing a few feet away) and dropped the leash, Brown spooked and kept running, and the driver screeched to a halt and jumped out of the car. He was just a kid—sixteen, according to the police report—and even more shaken up than I was. I told him to call 9-1-1, and while he did that, several witnesses ran up to help me out of the street and bring Brown back. The emergency crew was there within minutes, and I had to laugh when the EMT checked me in at the ER and gave the official accident code to the techs: Car vs. Pedestrian. Maybe if the car had been a Smart Car and the pedestrian a Sumo wrestler, the score would be tallied differently.
I keep thinking of all the ways this could have been worse. If he’d been driving an SUV instead of a compact car. If I’d been one second late in crossing. If I’d been two seconds late in crossing. If he hadn’t stopped. If it had been raining, or dark outside. If there hadn’t been anyone nearby to help. All things considered, I’m mostly okay, and very lucky to be so—but it’s bad enough. I’ve got some sort of knee injury that x-rays couldn’t determine, and I can’t call to make an MRI appointment until tomorrow (happy New Year). I’ve got an impressive collection of scrapes and bruises, and while there’s no walking or driving (stick shift) in my foreseeable future, there are a lot of phone calls to make.
So all of a sudden, all I have in the world is time. I’m trying to fill it with joyful, quietly productive things, because it makes the waiting easier. And I’ve never been more glad that we traditionally don’t take the Christmas tree down until Twelfth Night.
As I sit, and sip, and stitch, and sit, I wish more and more for some way to thank the unknown Tacomans for their kindness yesterday. The man who helped assess my injuries, lent me a phone to call home, and retrieved Brown. The woman who kept me talking in case of a concussion. The fireman who was so kindly and apologetic about the logistical questions he had to ask. The EMTs who assured me I wasn’t silly, and insisted I accept the “fuss” of an ambulance ride. The police officer who came to see me in the emergency room. Even the shaken teenager who knew enough to do the right thing.
And I wish for everyone else behind the wheel out there to stay present in the moment. Because sometimes looking both ways isn’t enough.
December 25th, 2011
I love it when a journey is required to bring Christmas home.
Hoping yours is holly-jolly, merry and bright.
December 23rd, 2011
The three days Nicole and I spent in Victoria were star-studded with beauty and color, but nothing was quite so breathtaking as the Butchart Gardens, just a few minutes north of the city.
Now a Canadian National Historic Site, the Gardens were the private grounds surrounding the home of Robert and Jennie Butchart. So the place didn’t feel like your average botanical garden or arboretum. There were no exhibit signs, no identifying plaques next to the different flower types, nothing that created the feel of a museum—instead there was the perfect illusion of taking a stroll around the grounds of a palace, or traveling back in time to the days of manor houses and perfectly-maintained estates. Yet this was no exclusive world; the estate is named “Benvenuto” (Italian for “welcome”). The Butcharts welcomed to their home any visitor who wanted to see it, and they were famous for their hospitality. Jennie had reportedly served 18,000 cups of tea to friendly strangers before her family convinced her to charge a nominal admission fee.
It wasn’t hard to see why the visitors came in droves. Nicole wandered off to admire the variety of blooms, but I stood mesmerized by the light.
Usually gardens in the Northwest have a somewhat otherworldly glow, what with our silver skies and rainy mists. But in full sunshine, the place was an absolute riot of color.
I could have spent the whole day just losing myself in the jewel tones all around me.
But Jennie Butchart’s garden is so much more than a flashy display of color: it’s also a staggering feat of environmental design and land reclamation. Jennie was way ahead of her time.
You see, the Butcharts’ land began as a turn-of-the-century limestone quarry, which supplied Robert’s cement company with raw material. When the quarry was exhausted, all that was left was a barren pit. It was Jennie who had the idea to transform an industrial wasteland into a thing of beauty. She had many tons of topsoil brought in by horse and cart, and over the course of several years, she gradually, patiently reclaimed the land and shaped it into a thriving garden.
The result is the stunning Sunken Garden, a masterpiece of earthworks and living sculpture. I was expecting the Queen of Hearts to appear around a bend in the path, a flamingo tucked under each arm. The perfect English garden.
As I continued along the path, suddenly I found myself transported to Versailles—
—and then to Japan.
Lest I lose my bearings, though, reminders that this is the Northwest were ever-present.
Jennie’s garden has evolved far beyond a labor of love. It’s truly a national treasure, and an international curiosity—we heard well over a dozen different languages spoken that day, and struck up conversations with people from five different continents.
Yet despite the flocks of travelers, it was never difficult to find a moment of peaceful, contemplative solitude. I can’t wait to return, and eventually visit Jennie’s garden in every season of the year.
December 20th, 2011
No stay at the Empress is complete without sitting down to Afternoon Tea.
Now, I love a good cuppa no matter where I am, but leaning back in a squashy chair and gazing upward at something like this makes every sip a little more special.
The Empress has been pouring tea every afternoon since it opened in 1908—it was the first venue in Victoria to offer it to the public.
For over a century it’s been one of the city’s biggest tourist draws, but it was easy to forget all about the crowds. Somehow it felt like a quiet, private meal at the home of a dowager aunt. Not normally my, uh, cup of tea, but I loved how unexpectedly cozy it was.
The scones made me miss the Tailor. He would have loved them—and then tried to figure out the recipe.
The savory course was to die for. It was a curious, perfect mix of England (curried chicken, cucumber finger sandwiches) and the Pacific Northwest (best smoked salmon ever). Two months later, I can’t even look at this photo without the memories flooding my taste buds and making me salivate.
The Inner Harbour just outside the window, a good friend across the table, and a seemingly endless array of flavors to hand: the perfect recipe for a relaxing Sunday afternoon.
December 18th, 2011
Yeah, I know. It’s a week before Christmas, and Hanukkah starts tomorrow. Our tree is up, and we even had our mega-huge holiday party last night (62 people—a new record!). But somehow, my mind is occupied with red-gold maples, not flocked evergreens. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone’s lawns are at their greenest at this time of year. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that once these Festivals of Light are over, there’s still a whole lot of actual winter darkness and that Northwestern silver-grey pall to overcome before the sun returns. Whatever it is, I’m not quite ready to let go of autumn yet. So in between the holiday records and the hall-decking, I find myself poring over my fall photos.
Autumn is always my favorite time of year, and this was a particularly good one. We had more sunny days than we have any right to expect in the Northwest, but that’s not the half of it. This was my thirtieth fall, so for me, there just seemed to be a hint of celebration in the air.
And so to start our next decade off with a bang, my friend Nicole (who also turned thirty this fall) and I spent three glorious days in Victoria, British Columbia.
In order to catch the morning ferry to Vancouver Island, we had to leave T-Town at oh-dark-thirty to reach Port Angeles at sunrise.
With view like this as a reward, though, it was hard to complain about the pre-dawn slog.
The tall cups of hot, strong coffee—and knitting!—keeping our hands warm didn’t hurt, either. After a ninety-minute crossing over the Strait—
—and a tight squeeze through the snug Inner Harbour—there we were.
We checked into our hotel,
and then set out to see the sights—those just around the corner,
and a few slightly farther afield.
We couldn’t have asked for better weather for exploring the city,
or better light for showing off its photogenic side.
And whenever our overstimulated brains needed a break from all the grandeur, we could turn our attention to sights both quaint—
—and cute (as a button).
My favorite thing about Victoria, though, was discovering a visual melting pot of Old World and New World,
and of East and West.
When I think of the American West, what usually stands out in my mind are dramatic natural vistas with little or no human presence. So standing on the other side of the border, and seeing an English-style Parliament complex just a stone’s throw from rugged mountains and First-Nations totems was a little jarring at first glance. But then I realized that Victoria isn’t necessarily a city of contrasts, but something else altogether: a blend of all the best parts of the cultures and environments that have come together here. It was both comfortably routine and utterly foreign at the same time.
And I remembered that all my experiences in Canada have been like that: an unexpected twist on something very familiar. Always at hand is the feeling of great adventure in a strange land—and the sense that home is just around the corner.
December 4th, 2011
The Tailor and I were talking today about holiday traditions. In his family, it’s standard fare to find an orange in one’s stocking on Christmas morning. He’s originally from Kansas, where the tradition hearkens back to the days when citrus fruit was an exotic luxury. I remember my grandmother telling me a similar story about her childhood Christmases—she grew up on a farm in Nova Scotia, and an orange in the 1920s Maritimes must have been about as singular as it would have been in, say, Laura Ingalls’s stocking.
If you mostly subsist on local, seasonal produce, those old tales mean a lot more than they would otherwise. After all, all the Florida oranges and Chilean strawberries in the supermarket don’t matter much if you choose not to partake of them. So today, when I cut into the huge, beautiful avocados Sarah and Jesse had brought with them from California when they came for Thanksgiving, I think I knew how Nana, and the Tailor’s ancestors, and Laura Ingalls must have felt all those years ago. Jesse bought them green, directly from the farmer, so they’d have time to ripen for us here. Sarah wrapped each fruit individually in paper, and packed them carefully in a tin. And then together they journeyed for two days to give them to us in person. I can’t think of a more precious gift than that.
We’re just finishing up our Christmas lists this weekend, and planning the final round of gift shopping. I know the Tailor will be expecting the annual orange in his stocking, just for tradition’s sake. So maybe I’ll ask Santa for an avocado in mine.
November 24th, 2011
The last of our guests will be arriving any minute, and then today will be complete.
This year we have visitors who made a thousand-mile trek, bearing gifts of California wine and citrus—as well as callers just a short neighborhood stroll away, wrapped in scarves against the damp chill in the air.
Each friend is a gift, and we raise our glasses to them in gratitude and love.
Wishing you a bountiful table with friends at every place. Happy Thanksgiving.
October 23rd, 2011
Commencement Bay from the North End, Tacoma, WA
Pumpkin patches, Vancouver Island, BC
First squash haul of the year from Zestful Gardens, Puyallup, WA
Cranberry harvest, Long Beach, WA
Japanese maple, Butchart Gardens, Brentwood Bay, BC
Proctor District in the rain, Tacoma, WA
St. Johns Bridge, Portland, OR
Have I mentioned that I love autumn in the Northwest?
September 17th, 2011
Many of my favorite towns (Boulder, Missoula, Portland, the other Portland, Duluth, Tacoma, Providence, etc.) seem to be kindred spirits to one another. There’s something about the coming-together of historic architecture, blue-collar grittiness, a population full of creative types and surrounding natural beauty that … well, for which I’m a total sucker. So based on all the reports over the years I’ve had about Asheville, I knew it was going to be my kinda place.
When Jessica and I were there last month for the Ladies of Letterpress Conference, we made sure to give ourselves plenty of extra time to go exploring.
Asheville is nestled in the thick of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which turned nearly every direction we looked into a beautiful panorama.
The lush, southern climate gave us the feeling that we were walking through an urban greenhouse. Everything was in full bloom and living color.
The city’s history is visible around every well-preserved corner.
Unfortunately, that preservation is often an accidental outcome in towns that are slowly withering—but that was far from the case here. Despite an economically troubled past, Asheville is a vibrant, active city, complete with a fierce sense of local pride. We saw some variation of these signs in every shop and restaurant window, over and over again. (Hint, hint, Tacoma!)
But above all, there was a comfortable sense of down-home warmth in every quarter. Everyone we met was sweet as pecan pie, and the whole place seemed to invite us to settle in and relax. And the rocking chairs! I swear, we saw them everywhere—even at the airport! That’s a tradition I can get behind—I mean, sit down upon.
I could go on and on all day about Asheville’s charms as a city, but what I really want to talk about is the food. Oh, the food. And I know that saying so doesn’t exactly make me your typical Yankee, but I have a real thing for Southern cuisine. And after trying a new restaurant at every interval for five days, I’m convinced that it’s nigh impossible to have a bad meal in Asheville.
I’ll never understand the point of chain restaurants. When I travel, I’m not interested in the generic food you can get anywhere in America—I want local flavor. When in Rome, you know? So whenever I’m in a new place, I usually order whatever the restaurant is particularly known for, which is often some sort of local specialty. It’s never steered me wrong yet.
So at the Early Girl Eatery, I had the shrimp n’ grits. What’s more Southern than that? And more importantly, what could possibly be more tasty? As if that weren’t enough, the garnish on the grits was the fact that everything on the menu was locally source, and whenever possible, organic. Plus, they served the real, no-kidding, hard-core stone-ground coarse grits—the ones the Tailor and I love so much that we actually order them from a North Carolina mill and have them shipped out west as one of our staple grains. (Yes, I know we’re weird.)
The Southern boasted both local and seasonal fare (and terrible lighting for photographs, sorry), and their peach, pecan, goat cheese and honey salad was like summer on a plate.
When a large group of letterpress folks joined us at Salsa’s, Southern cookin’ wasn’t exactly on the menue, but I stuck with my rule-of-thumb about the house specialty, and as usual, it was the right choice. This time I ordered their famous molcajete, a traditional Mexican mortar-and-pestle carved out of basalt, heated to something like earth-core temperatures, and filled with a molten and unbelievably delicious stew. The secret ingredient was goat cheese again, which is always a-okay with me. Besides, for someone who loves nerdy scientific things like specific heat, this dinner took the cake—even though it was nearly an hour before I could eat it without my face melting.
(Jessica was a fan of the molcajete, too.)
Now, I like lemonade, sweet tea and unsweet tea as much as the next gal, but I’ve always been a coffee drinker. And after three years as a transplanted Northwesterner, I’m a total convert to the coffee culture; a late-morning walk just doesn’t feel right without a cuppa. It was 95 muggy degrees outside, so an iced Americano hit the spot—and at the Battery Park Book Exchange, they’ll serve it to you in snazy wine glasses and let you while away the whole caffeinated day paging through the impressive North Carolina section.
One of the people we befriended at the conference is an Asheville native who let us in on the secret about where to get the best dessert in town. Handmade chocolates. ‘Nuff said.
Still, it was the Southern classics I was the most hungry for—like this gigantic sweet potato pancake at the Tupelo Honey Cafe. It came garnished with spicy pecans and escorted by a side of grits with—you guessed it—goat cheese. Like nearly every other meal I had in Asheville, it was light and deftly made (though impossible to finish!), and completely unlike the heavy, greasy stereotype people have in their heads. With each bite I was more and more baffled by the idea that anyone could dislike Southern food.
Of course, no sojourn below the Mason-Dixon Line would be complete (for omnivores, at least) without a taste of authentic, heart-attack-inducing Southern barbeque. To get our fix, Jessica and I headed for Luella’s.
Neither of us could decide, so we ended up eating family-style and sharing everything. I picked the giant stuffed baked potato with everything plus the kitchen sink and a coronary on top (shown here with a bit of Jessica’s spare ribs). Which was fantastic, truly, but it was the hush puppies that stole the show. Best. Freaking. Hush puppies. Ever. I think the secret is in the shape—greater crispy-to-fluffy ratio. Yum.
But my favorite meal of the trip was one that will probably live in my all-time top ten forever: fried-green-tomato eggs Benedict (with a side of grits, natch!) at the Over Easy Cafe. I still dream about that one.
I’m also still dreaming of that blue haze. Whether it’s for the local flavor or the letterpress gals, the hush puppies or the hills, you can bet I’ll be back.
September 10th, 2011
All this week the radio, the blogs, the instant media, and I’m sure the television, too, have been blaring with recaps and riffs and reflections and rage, on repeat, about that day when we all learned a little more about the nature of fear. And it’s not that I’m avoiding thinking about it—it’s that I don’t need any help from the talking heads to process my thoughts. So while I’m mindful of that terrible anniversary, there’s another, more joyful one that’s closer to my heart. You see, it was ten years ago today that I moved to Rome.
It was my third year of college, but it wasn’t your average study-abroad program. Because my school owned a (haunted!*) house in the middle of the city, and the program was based on independent study, I was able to experience true immersion in the culture and language.
*Built c. 1590, the place was home to Beatrice Cenci, who was infamously executed for the murder of her abusive father. I’m not the superstitious type, but all I’m sayin’ is … well, weird stuff happened in there.
Even at the time, I was aware of just how dumb-lucky I was, not only to have arrived there safely from New York the day before the world turned upside-down—but to have nearly an entire year in which my only responsibility was to experience and absorb the world around me.
That, and to get it down on paper—which proved to be the hard part.
Not that I didn’t try. With flawless weather almost year-round, it was easy to spend every waking minute outside. And with cheap, frequent trains bound for nearly every town in the country, I had no shortage of freedom to roam (sorry). But I’m the obsessive type. I needed to see everything, and though I knew how impossible that was, I think I came about as close as any one person can do. And I have hundreds of drawings as testament to that.
The drive to make the most of my time there was maddening, in the best possible way.
I didn’t know when or if I’d ever have an opportunity like this again, so I did my level best to commit as much of the place to memory as I could. For once, the camera went into storage (I think I shot a grand total of about three rolls of film—remember film?—in ten months), and I left the maps at home. I stuck to paint-and-paper, and my own two feet—and as a result, my memories and mental map of the place are still the clearest, the most vivid of any other place or time in my life.
Needless to say, it was awfully hard to leave. Instead of going home, it felt like I was leaving it. And when I arrived back in the States, thanks to the tragedy that took place the day after I left, everything had changed.
But then again, so had I. And that made all the difference.
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