I know the last postcard arrived a couple weeks ago, but I am still reveling in the variety and riches of a month of postcards from around the world. Yes, I received postcards from Canada, UK, and Australia as well as from within the U.S.! And of course I sent that many out into the void, sometimes with exhuberance and sometimes with a little trepidation. But borrowing from William Stafford’s sage advice, I lowered my standards as needed. I also discovered some new companions in poetry whose presence on Facebook and professional webpages allows me to cultivate a continuing rapport. The ‘void” is actually inhabited–who knew?
This brings me to my “take-away” for this year’s postcard poetry fest. Maybe because this was my third year, it felt more personal. I tracked the names on my list as the cards came in, ticking off each name and trying to connect each name to the poem in hand. I had a lot of fun making the postcards epistolary , that is, inserting “you” into the text which often strengthened the impact. It tickled me to allude to these imaginary connections.
I am happy to share that I have been invited to the APPF Portland reading for their 2016 anthology of poems: Mother Foucault’s Bookstore, Oct. 27–that’s a Friday, at 7:00 p.m. Come join us and take some of the anonymity out of an event you might really enjoy as a participant. (Registration begins in mid-July via Paul Splabman–just google August Postcard Poetry Fest and you are on your way.)
After admiring the wild flowers up the trail yesterday, it’s a bit surprising to wake up to a frost, and no piddling dust of ice—I have been up an hour and the “white wash” of grasses is holding. The sun has yet to make it over the ridge; this cabin rests in the vale, as N. tells me, which means the sunlight comes late.
We found the heater late in the evening, disbelieving we would need such a thing. The “solar” kitchen-dining radiated tremendous warmth earlier in the afternoon. But by nightfall, it had all been sucked through the floorboards. I sat under a wool throw, reading until my teeth began to chatter. Then we headed for our respective bedrolls and tucked in.
The quiet out here is such a gift. Road noise is distant and intermittent, mostly drowned out by the rush of the creek. I was surprised I didn’t sleep more soundly. I may have to crawl back under the covers to warm my toes. Perhaps we could break some chairs into kindling and light a fire? Shades of Doctor Zhivago… No, I don’t think it will come to that.
N. and I are finding our way through the quirks of hospitality vs. privacy, taking turns wandering the trails or writing quietly and, alternately, sharing insights and exchanging stories. She sat out on the bridge in the early morning while I breakfasted and set to writing. Then I stepped out to wander the trail at the end of the drive, a slow curve upward, hugging the ridge. I wanted to see the trees and flowers in the morning light which was just showing itself in the meadow at the base of the trail. I took photos to add to my collection of green and turned around when the trail began to descend.
Wet shoes and socks bake on the sill in the sun as the frost burns off the grasses in a cloud of drifting vapor. I sit down in the arm chair to read and can’t keep my eyes open so I slip back into bed for an hour without explanation. None needed.
Per the plant guide on the table, I’ve seen larkspur, yellow wood violet, bleeding hearts, false Solomon’s seal, columbine, and one unidentified pink flower—five-petaled on what almost looks like a raspberry plant with pointy serrated leaves. I’ll ask N. when she gets back. And let us not forget the giant leaves of the trillium, blossoms already spent. (Early or late, this is still the Trillium Project.)
I have been berating myself for not getting out, even in my poetry. And here I am, in the woods where I belong. Home and not home. My only clock is on the corner of the computer screen and when I glance in that direction I am often surprised. Times moves differently here, or perhaps I move differently when I am outside of time—no schedule but my own and the rise and fall of the sun.
It is a luxury to inhabit this large clean open space without interruption. Green all around me, I begin to take pictures as I walk–insurance against the fickle nature of weather. As I look into the viewfinder, I see more closely the interrelationships of plant to plant, plant to flower, plant to tree, tree to tree to tree… . Their limbs are lines to me today; I look for striking compositions—parallels, diagonals, intersections, repetitions.
In the orchard, the fruit trees’ scabby bark bends, one limb around another. Flexible problem-solvers, they find their way to nourishment and fruition.
The maple are clearly about the rise. They drop their arms under the weight of moss, while their crowns soar into the blue.
The ferns crowd the understory in disarray, old and dead gathered with hearty green standards and nubile fiddlehead in a raucous profusion.
Cottonweed goes a-sailing across the green and sea-blue sky.
Hum of insects is drowned out by the sounds of running water as I approach the bridge over the creek. Tree branches airily screen the view with delicate branches and a smattering of leaves. Light glimmers between leaf shadows; water rushes.
As the year crashes headlong to a close with the dark siphoning the serotonin from my brain in 7-11 Big Gulps, and the promise of Sostice only a week away, I wonder will I muddle through my pile of mending before the new year? What about the sister collages waiting for edges?
I did clean up my poetry page, if you care to check out the quick links to my published poems.
I did find a magazine for my first published short story (The Muse, The Last Line Magazine, Winter Edition, from Blue Cubicle Press). Small victories. 🙂
And my poetry students did read and share their completed chapbooks on December 6th–that’s a big victory! Kudos to Steve Blevans, Sandy Lizut, Carolyn Sparling, Nancy Jamieson, Karen Jones, Linda Gelbrich, Linda Varsell Smith, Freda Fredriksen, Jana Seeliger, and Pam Wilson!
Freda FredriksenLinda GelbrichKaren JonesLinda V. Smith
I wish each of you a gentle transition through the potential mania of holidays to the promise of new in the new year. Be kind to yourself and remember, you are enough.
A wealth of apples has yielded a shelf full of apple sauce, a freezer box of more apple sauce, dried apples that vanished faster than I could stash them in the pantry, a miserable attempt to can apple pie filling, and lastly, today’s Pie-O-Rama: one tart, two crumb-topped pies, and one double crust apple pie deluxe. No, I have not run out of apples, so this may not be the season’s final apple post…
Scheduled as a team event with three aspiring cooks disguised as foreign exchange students, it became a simple apprenticeship with one student, Trang. At home in the kitchen but new to American cuisine, she was eager to learn all about pies, translating the recipes in her mind to what her Viet Nam coffee shop might be able to duplicate. (So sad to hear that apples were out of reach—too expensive to import. She would have to manage with mango or papaya—oh, the sacrifices an artist must make !)
apple butterapple rings
I began early with an apple tart loosely based on Martha Stewart’s recipe (Pies and Tarts, 1985). I found a rectangular tart pan hiding on the shelf above the washer and a jar of apple butter from last season in the freezer. Also, I snaked a jar of cherries in their own syrup from the back of the fridge (gift from a friend)—the syrup would make a great finish to the baked tart!
The food processor allowed me to whip up a double crust recipe (Pate Brise, Martha Stewart’s Pies and Tarts), and then wrap and rest /refrigerate the two discs of dough before rolling out one for the tart. After lining the crust into the tart pan, I warmed the apple butter just enough to melt a tablespoon of added butter, then spread it over the bottom of the crust. I selected the rosiest apples, skins on for added color, sliced them thinly (about ¼ “) and spread them in an alternating pattern on top of the apple butter.
tart goes in the oven
Dusted them with granulated sugar. Then into the oven. After 40 minutes, I pulled the tart out and brushed on a light layer of cherry syrup just to keep the apples moist and to add a little tartness. Voila! A very beautiful display of yummy appleness!
add the enrichment–butter!
Trang arrived in time to begin the second round of crusts which we stowed in the fridge while we prepared the crumb topping. I selected a gluten-free topping because of the nuts–I’m not averse to a bit of nutrition in my desserts as long as it doesn’t compromise the flavor. So we used almond flour, chopped pecans, oats, browns sugar, and a few tablespoons of butter. Trang learned just how much they might affect her mix—the butter bits started to glom together into a single crumb–but we were quick to set the mix aside until we needed to use it.
pecans, almond flour, and sugarwarm hands can be troublesome…
Then we took the crusts out of the fridge and began to process the apples.
right tool for the job–imagine: a hole for your thumb!
I cored as she peeled and we continued to peel and slice until we had enough for two pies—I had to add a couple more apples to be sure there were enough; I like a heaping pie of apples! We added a couple tablespoons of sugar, some lemon juice, and cinnamon, to each of our bowls of apples. Then it was time to roll out the dough. I want to mention that it was very useful for me to model what Trang was to do, just before she needed to do it—riding in tandem without the bike! We took pics to record the process so she could share it with her friends.
are you sure this is going to be round?heaping pile of apples–yum
The dough for the crusts was easy to handle, thank goodness. I told her I have cried over pie crusts before, but that was a long time ago before America’s Test Kitchens and food processors. Meanwhile, we checked the thickness at different edges and made adjustments. Pie plates were lined and filled with apples. Time for the crumb.
I reminded Trang that when the apples bake, they will sink a bit which will allow the topping to cover more efficiently; her larger crumb will come right in the oven.
crumb goes on the pie–not on the counter!
We topped both pies and put them in to bake. Very satisfying so far!
Our final endeavor was to make a two crust pie, Ken’s preference. This time, after coring, peeling, and slicing three varieties of apples, we added a couple tablespoons of agave, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and two tablespoons of butter bits. I rolled out the bottom crust and filled the pie. Trang rolled out the top crust and together we applied it, folded and fluted the edges, vented the top with slits, and put it in the oven just as the other two pies were coming out. The house was filled with the most wonderful aroma!
I did it, Mom!–a picture to send home
Clock was ticking and tummies were rumbling, so Ken and I scrounged for some lunch nibbles—he even shared his Alaska reindeer sausage—we ate leftover roasted rosemary green beans and carrots, yesterday’s baked salmon, some sweet potato crackers, and raspberries thick as my thumb,(as an aside, if you can imagine! And aren’t leftovers wonderful?!) It was not so much that we didn’t dare to have dessert before the meal as that we were waiting on another friend, a tart baker in her own right, and didn’t want to slice the tart without her.
mine, all mine…not!
Party in full assembly, the tart consumption was an event laden with superlatives. Will I ever be able to duplicate the apple butter or the perfectly tender crust? It was a great closing to a very active morning in the kitchen. Trang took one crumb pie home; I will take the other to another connoisseur later this afternoon. Pie-O-Rama, indeed! So much more fun with an adept apprentice!
For one week, I kept my own company off the grid—no emails or net-surfing, just the blank page, scads of delicious vegetables, and the companionship of green outside the window. I did wander under the canopy of oaks during my morning walks which strengthened me in the old way, as if I were still walking in the woods of my childhood. One evening, I sat on the terrace with my hosts, Michael Hoeye and Martha Banyas, listened to their stories of the land and of their art and read to them a little from my work in progress. The clarity of intention was visible in every nook of the gardens as well as in the beautifully maintained house, studio, and cottage. Continue reading Far Lookout Writing Retreat, Oak Grove→
Deluge of summer visitors has cramped my writing time just a bit, but thanks to Paul Nelson’s August Postcard Poetry Fest,
I am writing a postcard poem a day and receiving many postcards from writers across the nation. Check back in September for some wonderful examples. Meanwhile, enjoy the last of a beautiful summer! I am canning applesauce, dehydrating apple slices, and learning to make apple pie filling for those dark days of winter. Next week: Far Lookout Writing Retreat in the Portland environs–a small cottage all to myself! happy writing 🙂
Shades of the old country I have only known through literature: my living room filled with family, the encampment of the Olympians (a.k.a Sequimmers) lasted for three days. Shades drawn or opened, we rested and rallied in pleasant self-directed cycles reminding me of the “nap room” in the old house in Batavia where as tired grandchildren we slithered under light blankets, the slats of double-tiered wooden shutters unfolded and drawn closed in a startling clackity-clack to block the light of mid-afternoon.
My brother’s wife dead-headed our roses and planted petunias with her quiet attention to green; gifted me with berries
and tools so that we could make jam together; and voiced her appreciation of the good food generously and often, her smile full of light. My little brother walked in and breathed a sigh, three times expressing his pleasure in the calm and comfort of my home; ventured out with my spouse for maple bars and fresh donuts which he ate with gusto; and shared recipes as together we concocted a fresh apricot and olive chicken. Their lovely daughter entranced the dog (a mutual admiration), prepped veggies with me, and watched her dad closely as he and I walked back in time through the haunts of our earlier lives.
We sent them off this morning with a sheaf of poems, a flat of tomato plants, my husband’s landscape photograph from Egegik, and a disc of dog clips which threaten to inspire a launch of The Red Dog Blog.Their gift of peace rose blossoms in the jelly jar at the table mark an opening for continued conversations.
In my part of the country, my part of the state, the flowering trees rage into spring and early summer in generous blankets of color, always a welcome sight after the uniform overcast of winter. But this spring and early summer, the roses have it. Our rash of warm and sunny days has inspired extensive blooming; sprays of blossoms taller than a man hang over fences or climb garden walls. My garden’s small contribution has expanded to four varieties and all of them are very happily opening and opening as if that is what they were meant to do.
For myself, this extra ration of sun so early in the season has spurred me on unexpectedly. I fling myself pell-mell into a full bouquet of expanding projects, eat late, and get to sleep even later, wondering where the time went. I know this feeling well. I remember the power surge of the summer light when I lived in the far north, all that yang energy coursing though my veins like a drug I couldn’t get enough of. And, as the consecutive winters took their toll, the contrast between “dormancy” and “awake” grew even greater. I moved to the northwest to find some moderation, but not this season. The roses are singing and I hum along in harmony; I am fluent in rose.
from my brain in 7-11 Big Gulps, and the promise of Sostice only a week away, I wonder will I muddle through my pile of mending before the new year? What about the sister collages waiting for edges?
easant self-directed cycles reminding me of the “nap room” in the old house in Batavia where as tired grandchildren we slithered under light blankets, the slats of double-tiered wooden shutters unfolded and drawn closed in a startling clackity-clack to block the light of mid-afternoon.
