Saturday, November 28, 2009

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Sunday)


You simply will not be the same person two months from now after consciously giving thanks each day for the abundance that exists in your life. And you will have set in motion an ancient spiritual law: the more you have and are grateful for, the more will be given you.

(Sarah Ban Breathnach)

image:  Old woman eating a mango. Dhaka (Bangladesh), Steve Evans from India and USA

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Saturday)



In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.

(Albert Schweitzer)


image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Uncle Les Leong, Hawai'i

 

Friday, November 27, 2009

Boston Again



Reflections on Boston.


image:  Christie B. Cochrell, Boston Window

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Friday)



I am thankful for Pierre Bonnard, and for the joy his paintings always give me, and the inspiration for the novel I've written about that joy and life-transforming color, Nude against the Light.

image:  Pierre Bonnard, Nude against the Light (1908)

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Thursday)




Happy Thanksgiving!

Native American - Navajo Song 
It is lovely indeed, it is lovely indeed. I, I am the spirit within the earth ... The feet of the earth are my feet ... The legs of the earth are my legs ... The bodily strength of the earth is my strength ... The thoughts of the earth are my thoughts ... The voice of the earth is my voice ... The feather of the earth is my feather ... All that belongs to the earth belongs to me ... All that surrounds the earth surrounds me ... I, I am the sacred words of the earth ... It is lovely indeed, it is lovely indeed.

image: Male north american turkey (Meleagris gallopavo), en:User:Lupin

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Wednesday)



I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

image: Christie B. Cochrell, Cloud (Lake Louise, Canada)

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Saint Cecilia's Day



Happy Saint Cecilia's Day—patron of music (and an only child).

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Tuesday)




We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. 
(Thornton Wilder)

image: Christie B. Cochrell, Koi (Kona, Hawai'i)

Thanks for Thanksgiving Week (Monday)




Every object, every being, is a jar full of delight. Be a connoisseur. 
(Rumi) 


image: Christie B. Cochrell, Ginger Jar (Cape Cod)


Saturday, November 21, 2009

Shopping Lists



My shopping list for today in Boston:

  • a lavender sachet
  • rain boots
  • apples
  • toothpaste

 Not originally on my list:

  • a purple striped Italian sweater
  • an antique map
  • a bundle of mountain firewood
  • an apartment in Beacon Hill with “sun-splashed” bedroom and wood floors
  • pink peonies flown in from Holland

image:  Vase de Pivoines (Vase of Peonies), oil on canvas painting by Henri Fantin-Latour, 1881, Honolulu Academy of Arts

Saturday in Boston


Good morning from Boston.

My 30th-floor room in the Back Bay looks out on a bit of the Charles River; the overgrowth of the fens; a lot of red brick and flaming fall leaves; six or seven typical New England church steeples and the big clunky Christian Science mother church; one of the colleges; and in it all, two tiny walkers along Huntington Avenue, passing in opposite directions.

The Peet’s French Roast is brewing in the bathroom, and all in all it’s a lovely November morning—except that I will have to spend the day indoors, setting up books for an exhibit and then selling them (or not).

Coming in last night:  a blood red line of sunset between two vast darks; a little crescent moon observing from the upper, somewhat below us on the plane.


image:  Acorn Street, Beacon Hill, Boston, Massachusetts. These houses were built in the late 1820s by Cornelius Coolidge. July 2005.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Letterpress



I've been thrown for a loop; I don't know what I think. I love the feel and look of letterpress type, and spent some of my happiest hours creating lovely things on the Mills College letterpress. The reason I never owned my own press, as I've written here before, was the weight and cumbersome logistics that would have plagued moves into and out of less-than-spacious apartments up long, spindly stairs.

But now Paper Source has come out with a lightweight, easily portable option, apparently easy to maintain . . . and has thrown temptation again my way. But am I really tempted? Or have I moved on, beyond any desire to work with slow, old-fashioned, hands-on methods involving ink and paper? Since I began this blog, and went happily digital, and learned the wonders of Blurb/Booksmart for producing book pages the way I want them (mostly), have I gone utterly into the ether? If so, that's rather sad, and I should pull myself back.

image: Printing press at the Roycroft Community campus (displayed in the Copper Shop), Dave Pape

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Quails




The quails are back this morning, twenty-three quails and a towhee. That effortless flow of quails across the drive, into the grass . . . A scattering of quails, a long skitter of quails . . . I’m always trying to find the right verb, the right collective noun. Bevy is too busy; Solemnity too grave—not taking into consideration the delightful sudden dash from one side to the other, the sometimes giddy syncopation of the otherwise stately procession.

A hawk sits watching, impassive. A bushy-tailed squirrel goes about its busy business in between.

The quails gladden my day.


image: California Quail (Callipepla californica), Gary Kramer, Fish and Wildlife Service

Friday, November 13, 2009

Friday the 13th



As Walt Kelly's amiable turtle Churchy LaFemme would have said, from his cowering position under the nearest bed, "Friday the 13th come on a Friday this month!"


image: Walt Kelly, Churchy LaFemme, www.cartoonartoriginals.com

Bonnard Flowers



A Bonnard for a November Friday.


image: Pierre Bonnard

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Jujubes



Our landlady has given us a bag of jujubes—like tiny, intense apples, with a single seed resembling an olive pit. At first they looked like crabapples, which I used to hate as a child despite my mother's lovely jewel-hued crabapple jelly and pancake syrup, because they fell into the grass by the hundreds (tens of thousands!) and had to be raked up, often rotting soft brown by then and resisting the rake.

I see that the jujube is thought to come from southern Asia, between Lebanon, northern India, the Korean peninsula, and southern and central China, and was likely introduced later to southeastern Europe. Of the buckthorn family, it's also called Red Date or Chinese Date.

From Wikipedia:
 Chinese and Korean traditional medicine believe the fruit alleviates stress. An Australian jujube drink is recommended "when you feel yourself becoming distressed." The fruit is also used to treat sore throats.

 The jujube's sweet smell is said to make teenagers fall in love, and as a result, in the Himalaya and Karakoram regions, men take a stem of sweet-smelling jujube flowers with them or put it on their hats to attract women.

 In the traditional Chinese wedding ceremony, jujube and walnut were often placed in the newlyweds' bedroom as a sign of fertility.

 In Bhutan, the leaves are used as a potpourri to help keep the houses of the inhabitants smelling fresh and clean. It is also said to keep bugs and other insects out of the house and free of infestation.

 In Japan, it's given its name to a style of tea caddy used in the Japanese tea ceremony.

 In Korea, the wood is used to make the body of the taepyeongso, a double-reed wind instrument.

 In Vietnam, the jujube fruit is eaten freshly picked from the tree as a snack. It is also dried and used in desserts, such as sâm bổ lượng, a cold beverage that includes the dried jujube, longan, fresh seaweed, barley, and lotus seeds.

According to infohub.com:

Many scholars also identify the jujube as the biblical atad, mentioned in the "Parable of the trees" in the book of Judges.

After valuable trees such as the olive, fig and vine have all declined to be king, the trees turn to the atad and ask if he will rule over them. He responds thus: "If you truly annoint me as your king, come and shelter un my shade and if not may fire come forth from the atad and consume the cedars of Lebanon!" (Judges 9:15)

The jujube tree is common in Samaria, where the story takes place. While its fruits are edible, they are not exceptionally tasty and it is very much the poor relative of the other native fruit trees mentioned in the parable. It can grow very large, easily providing shade for these small trees.

I'm reminded of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky,

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
And sure enough, others are too—
"Since sound is such a significant feature of this poem, it seems justified to take the sound of 'jubjub' as being close to the word 'jujube,' a candy named for a fruit tree, and to assume an association with the sticky sweetness of the fruit the bird eats."

How fun to be given so much in just a little bag.


image:
Ziziphus_zizyphus_foliage.jpg: Júlio Reis
Azufaifas_fcm.jpg: Photographer: Frank C. Müller
Red_Dates.jpg: Richard from Vancouver, Canada

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Thought for the Day



Écrire est un acte d'amour. S'il ne l'est pas, il n'est qu'écriture.
(Jean Cocteau)

Writing is an act of love. If it isn't that, it is nothing but handwriting.



image: Love message on a wall in Italy, 8888jazz

Monday, November 9, 2009

Dieting




Starting a diet, I'm happy to have this list of Best Choices for Weight Loss (Ethnic Foods) from nutritiondata.com:

1 Cattail, Narrow Leaf Shoots (Northern Plains Indians)
2 Fireweed, young leaves, raw (Alaska Native)
3 Lambsquarters, raw (Northern Plains Indians)
4 Lambsquarters, steamed (Northern Plains Indians)
5 Sourdock, young leaves (Alaska Native)
6 Cranberries, wild, bush, raw (Alaska Native)
7 Chiton, leathery, gumboots (Alaska Native)
8 Fish, blackfish, whole (Alaska Native)
9 Salmonberries, raw (Alaska Native)
10 Plains Pricklypear, raw (Northern Plains Indians)
11 Melon, banana (Navajo)
12 Sea cucumber, yane (Alaska Native)
13 Cloudberries, raw (Alaska Native) [baked apple berry, salmonberry, yellowberry]
14 Rose Hips, wild (Northern Plains Indians)
15 Moose, liver, braised (Alaska Native)
16 Fish, herring eggs on giant kelp, Pacific (Alaska Native)
17 Stew, moose (Alaska Native)
18 Bear, polar, meat, raw (Alaska Native)
19 Raspberries, wild (Northern Plains Indians)
20 Blueberries, wild, frozen (Alaska Native)
21 Agave, raw (Southwest)
22 Mush, blue corn with ash (Navajo)
23 Walrus, liver, raw (Alaska Native)
24 Oopah (tunicate), whole animal (Alaska Native)
25 Fish, whitefish, broad, liver (Alaska Native)
26 Fish, whitefish, eggs (Alaska Native)
27 Stew/soup, caribou (Alaska Native)
28 Huckleberries, raw (Alaska Native)
29 Rhubarb, wild, leaves (Alaska Native)

I can see that I will really lose a lot of weight with this quickly.


image: Fruits and vegetables from a farmers market. circa 2007, USA, California, Long Beach

Saturday, November 7, 2009

In Memoriam




O! fond farewell to savages and explorations!—and to the great explorer, Claude Lévi-Strauss, anthropologist, philosopher, and author (most gloriously, of Tristes Tropiques), dead this week at 100, who wrote about so many things, from face-painting to tribal magic and its sorcerers to scented rums; finding a better way of being, in the canny glances of a cat; hearing a fragment of a Chopin Etude in a foreign place that brings one's own beginnings back. His might well be a guide to the considered life. 

There's a wonderful tribute in The New York Times from November 4, "Other Voyages in the Shadow of Lévi-Strauss," by Larry Rohter, telling of his lasting influence on the tribes of the Amazon, not just on those of us who've been transformed by his profound and lyric masterwork.
__________________________ 

A tribute also to Wallace Stegner, whose hundredth birthday year this would have been. There's a nice article in Orion this week about his work in connection with the environment, "Putting Things Back Together," by Rick Bass. 

I am especially drawn to Stegner's work (especially Angle of Repose and The Spectator Bird), because I've been living and writing in his footsteps. Behind the Cathedral and its park in Santa Fe is the old St. Vincent’s Hospital, where I was born and where (though I was here by then, in his Palo Alto) Wallace Stegner was to die, after a car crash there in Santa Fe during a trip to give a lecture.

The allure of the little cottage where we live is its location—on a lane that has just three houses—in the Los Altos Hills. The township of Los Altos Hills was founded by Wallace Stegner and incorporated in 1956 (my birth year!). Strict zoning laws require every house to have at least an acre of undeveloped land around it. Altogether it’s eight and a half square miles of gently rolling hills and valleys, wooded areas with creeks and streams, vineyards and orchards, and seventy-five miles of walking, biking, and horseback riding trails.

Living here is almost like living in the country—or another country, even. There were sheep in the pasture beyond our fence when we moved in, and red clay tennis courts above, like some that charmed me in Aosta on my way to the St. Bernard Pass for the archaeology. Next door is a Jewish temple. The sheep are gone now, but a matched set of alpacas, like overgrown French poodles, has replaced them, and watch over the fence, hopeful for fallen pears.


image: Two indians of the brazilian Pataxó tribe, in traditional attire, during a demonstration ("O Abril Indígena") in Brasília, April 4th, 2006. Photographer: Valter Campanato/ABr.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Tea




I’ve just gotten an assortment of teas—
pear and white tea (white tea from China flavored with real pieces of pear);
Darjeeling Silvertips white tea (delicate, sweet, and balanced, “the most wonderful white we’ve found”— something I’ll have to compare with my favorite Snow Leopard);
Kir Royale (a mixture of various red berries and fruits, set apart by the tangy flavor of black currant);
Lady Hannah (no tea, just a mix of whole fruits— blackberries, strawberries, raspberries—and herbs; a “very refined cup with character”);
Rote Grutze, Red Groats (a wild herbal infusion blended with rose hips and dried fruits);
strawberry apple (real strawberry and apple pieces highlight this delicious fruit herbal tea).

All from
Tealuxe, the little shop in Boston (where I will soon be), where you can get grilled sandwiches and a pot of fragrant tea, escape from wading through snow on the Commons, warm your fingers, meet with a friend— currently writing her dissertation on medieval mystics, holed up in a vintage farmhouse in upstate New York.

In the meantime I drink Blue Mill sage tea from the Persian market in Mountain View where lamb and vegetables are often grilling, sending a fragrant cloud of smoke into the air.


I’ve often thought I would like nothing more than to start a Tealuxe franchise here, maybe a teashop and gallery in Allied Arts, with terracotta floors and whitewashed walls with matted photographs of favorite places, green French park chairs and tables set out in the courtyard; low ceilings and cushioned reading nooks like The Teahouse on Canyon Road in Santa Fe.


I wish I could embed fragrances and tastes in this blog, not just sounds and videos. Then I could throw a virtual tea party!



image: Christie B. Cochrell, Japanese Teapot

Flames




More flames, for the coming days of failing light—
(These in a monastery in Crete.)


I shall light candles everywhere. At evening table, in orange-painted mission churches, in glass hurricane globes reflected in the glass of a cold window, against the night.

A bumper-sticker asks, how do you measure a life?

Maybe through the light it sheds on others, I wonder? In hundreds of thousands of kilowatts, if one lives faithfully and well.

I am reminded of Buddha's teaching, too—how do you weigh an elephant?

How can you weigh a large elephant? Load it on a boat and draw a line to mark how deep the boat sinks into the water. Then take out the elephant and load the boat with stones until it sinks to the same depth, and weigh the stones.

How do you weigh a life, then? I think the answer must be much the same. Stone by stone. Word by word. Or, igniting, flame by flame by flame.


image: Arkadi Monastery / Moni Arkadiou. Candles in the church. Photo by Wouter Hagens.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Fall Fruit




Some pears in honor of the season, with grape leaves yellowing in the vineyard across Arastradero from the end of our driveway, and sun coming dappled through backroad trees late in the afternoon, between visiting writers (two this week) and Pilates at the barn.

And for a quiet clearing in a busy week, a Billy Collins poem to savor like one of the perfect pears.

Thesaurus

It could be the name of a prehistoric beast
that roamed the Paleozoic earth, rising up
on its hind legs to show off its large vocabulary,
or some lover in a myth who is metamorphosed into a book.

It means treasury, but it is just a place
where words congregate with their relatives,
a big park where hundreds of family reunions
are always being held,
house, home, abode, dwelling, lodgings, and digs,
all sharing the same picnic basket and thermos;
hairy, hirsute, woolly, furry, fleecy, and shaggy
all running a sack race or throwing horseshoes,
inert, static, motionless, fixed and immobile
standing and kneeling in rows for a group photograph.

Here father is next to sire and brother close
to sibling, separated only by fine shades of meaning.
And every group has its odd cousin, the one
who traveled the farthest to be here:
astereognosis, polydipsia, or some eleven
syllable, unpronounceable substitute for the word tool.
Even their own relatives have to squint at their name tags.

I can see my own copy up on a high shelf.
I rarely open it, because I know there is no
such thing as a synonym and because I get nervous
around people who always assemble with their own kind,
forming clubs and nailing signs to closed front doors
while others huddle alone in the dark streets.

I would rather see words out on their own, away
from their families and the warehouse of Roget,
wandering the world where they sometimes fall
in love with a completely different word.
Surely, you have seen pairs of them standing forever
next to each other on the same line inside a poem,
a small chapel where weddings like these,
between perfect strangers, can take place.

Billy Collins

(from PoemHunter.com)

image: Christie B. Cochrell, Pears (Lake Como)

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Chicken, Flaming



To follow the flaming cocktails, and amidst a blaze of autumn leaves, here is a favorite recipe for (momentarily) flaming chicken, the garlic softened and mellowed in cooking.

Baked Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic

(slightly modified from Mediterranean Light by Martha Rose Shulman)

3 or 4 pounds skinless chicken pieces

2 tablespoons olive oil

salt and freshly ground pepper

40 large, meaty garlic cloves, unpeeled

1 ¾ cups dry white wine

4 thyme sprigs or ¼ teaspoon dried

1 rosemary sprig or ¼ teaspoon dried

2 tablespoons Cognac

chopped fresh parsley for garnish

toasted slices of baguette or Italian bread


Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Heat oil over medium heat in a heavy-bottomed flameproof casserole wide enough to accommodate the chicken in a single layer. Add the chicken and salt and pepper lightly. Saute for 5 minutes, then turn over and saute another 5 minutes. If the bottom of the pan scorches a little, don’t worry, it won’t affect the flavor of the dish. Remove the chicken pieces from the pan.

Add the garlic and saute, stirring, for 3 to 5 minutes, until beginning to brown. Again, don’t worry about scorching. Spread the cloves in a single layer and return the chicken pieces to the pot. Add the wine, thyme, and rosemary and cover tightly.

Place the casserole in the oven and bake 45 minutes. Check the chicken after that time. It should be tender and fragrant. If it isn’t quite cooked through or very tender, bake another 15 minutes.

Remove the casserole from the oven. Heat the Cognac in a small saucepan and light with a match. Pour over the chicken and shake the casserole until the flames die down. Taste the sauce in the pan, adjust seasonings, and sprinkle with parsley.

To serve, place a couple of pieces of toasted bread on each plate, a piece of chicken or two, topped with some of the sauce in the pan, and several garlic cloves, which your guests should squeeze out onto the bread.


Enjoy!


image: Christie B. Cochrell, Fall Leaves

Monday, November 2, 2009

Flaming Cocktails




Welcome November—and the mad, gay time of year of flaming cocktails!


image: Nik Frey (niksan)