Fragile Industries

Tending My Knitting

Home again, home again, jiggity jog.

As tacky as it is to admit, Vegas was the PERFECT anodyne to all that ailed me.  I billed my trip as "The No Compromise Tour."  I invented a fictional persona and inhabited it for the entire time.  I denied myself nothing.  I had one of the All-Time-Greatest-Meals of my life at Bouchon, Thomas "French Laundry" Keller's bistro at the Venetian.  I lucked into a lavish room at Planet Hollywood.  The bathroom was bigger than my first apartment, literally, and I looked over the Bellagio fountains.  I was alone when, and as much as, I wanted to be, which was most of the time, and the remainder of the time, I flirted shamelessly and -- even better -- got flirted back.  Saw great shows -- Penn and Teller are certifiable, and very entertaining.  I spent 4 hours the first day at the Planet Hollywood spa, three hours the next at Caesar's, and it really did unlock the chi.  Crashed a private nightclub, the lead singer handed me the tambourine and I busted a few spastic white-girl moves on the floor.  I probably danced like Elaine on "Seinfeld", but I felt like, uh, whoever is the cool girl pop tart of the moment.  Pretty much remembered the night before in the morning, so no shame, no regrets.  I'm just on the cusp of being too old for Vegas, and this was the perfect swan song.

When I got home, Mom was alive and well-cared for in my absence, and she remarked on my glowing skin.  "Something tells me that isn't all due to glycolic peels," she said meaningfully, wagging her eyebrows.  I would have wagged them back, but Botox prevented it.  I did, however, smile mysteriously the rest of the day.

Since my return, my mood has been good.  One of the first times I've gone on vacay and not come home to crashing depression -- one of those fun artifacts of bipolar disorder.  Have a good time, then do penance.  Maybe it was all that time in the spa.  Reflexology.  Good food.  Donno, but I'm grateful.

Also have had plenty of energy, so I finished my knitting project du jour, the 40" x 52" baby blanket to go with the baby hats I'm sending to Afghans for Afghans.  I cannot claim credit for all or even most of this great work.  My pal Ade had, years ago, completed dozens of perfect 6" squares in earth tones for a blanket she never finished when the room's color scheme changed.  I remember her knocking them out two or three at a time during Book Club meetings.  All wool, so when she heard of my new wool projects, she graciously sent me the squares and I assembled them with a tedious, row by row blanket stitch in a variegated yarn that almost matched, with pom-pom bits at the intersections.  It's now boxed up and ready to send in tomorrow's post.  I think it's rather nice, but Mom, who goes for a more vivid palette, curled her lip and pronounced it "ethnic" and "perfect for a refugee camp."  I don't think that's a compliment.  What do you think?  The hats, in progress, are here, below are views of the blanket:

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Hey, at least it doesn't show dirt.

Fun in Minneapolis? You Betcha!

Long absence, well spent time, many stories to tell.

One now:  I find myself in that hotbed of sin, that what-happens-here-stays-here city, that home of Norwegian Farmers' Sons, Minneapolis, Minnesota (say it all together in the local patois: Meen-eh-soh-tah).  Am I having fun?  You betcha, gosh darn it.

All right, we can all put on our "Fargo" accents, but really, it's darn nice here.  I've arrived in May, which I had been advised is the, er, most tolerable month for a California beach girl.  One month earlier and you're still at risk for scraping frost off the windshield and the odd tornado, one month later and it's already lethally humid, hot, and the sky is black with mosquitos.  I do not get along with mosquitos -- the skin has barely closed over the supporating, oozing sores decorating my legs after a mosquito swarm attack two months ago in Sunny So. Cal.  I am THAT allergic to the little bloodsucking bastards. And cold?  I like a cold ocean fog, I left my windows open all winter to the dismay of my mother, but that's mid-coast California.  I remember one short visit to Sioux Falls, SD, in March, crossing a parking lot without a hat, and my ears fell off.  They made a "ping" sound, rather like glass wind chimes, when they hit the asphalt.  So here I am in May, when, according to my friend who has a farm downstate, "it looks like Heaven, the Heaven they told you about in Sunday School."

With that in mind, I scheduled for May14-21 a week of tutorials ending in a weekend intensive class on the art of the book.  Time to stop pussy-footing around.  I don't know that what I do is art -- that's such a loaded word.  But while art depends on inspiration, the judgment of others, the fickle winds of trend,  the craft of what I do requires training.  Book making, book binding, paper making -- these are all trainable skills that will impact whatever I do.  Learning those skills under the auspices of a Book Art center seems the right approach.  I don't want to work for a library conservancy organization repairing important 15th Century incunabula (earliest examples of printed text in book form) although that might have its attractions.  I want to learn these learnable skills and go from there.  I contacted the few major book arts centers in San Francisco, Manhattan, Minnesota, and the University of Alabama ("they call Alabama the Crimson Tide, they call me Deacon Woo" -- Steely Dan) and Iowa.  No response from Manhattan.  Of course.  San Francisco replied that they had many course offerings, and I should simply come to town when something of interest was offered.  Very egalitarian.  U of A and Iowa both sent form letters that set out their University offerings and no more.  I already knew I didn't want another fucking degree -- I wanted to know what they knew without the 3-year investment in time and tuition and beauracratic BS.  Minneapolis, blessed Minneapolis, home of People Pleasing People, sent back a personal e-mail, signed by an ascertainalby real person, asking, "What do you want to know?  We'll teach you."

Better than 3 wishes from a genie.  Imagine that -- a free exchange of knowlege.  It only took the entire continent and the miracles of the internet.  Said ascertainably real person received my effusive reply, and I set up this week.  Real person (aka: Jeff Rathemel) has arranged for four separate book artists to teach me Tues-Friday for several hours a day and the rest of the day I get to play in their fully stocked studio, applying what I've learned.  I'm humbled.  And excited.  For me, this is the golden ticket to the Willy Wonka factory, the key to the FAO Schwartz toy store.

Tomorrow, I learn from a renowned book artist for three one-on-one hours about off-beat book bindings and using found objects in said bindings and books, with an eye to altered art and altered books.  This is my jumping-off-point, because I do altered books and I incorporate all sorts of weirdness into them, but I want to go 3-D -- flat stuff is just a matter of eye and color and glue.  Try to work in a computer motherboard, or driftwood, or a primitive fertility carving, or rusty metal, then I need help.  We are going to her studio for this because this obviously involves

STUFF

which requires storage and transport and hell, Mohammed has to go to the mountain.  I am currently crippled with stuff.  I can't wait to find out how a Real Artist Deals With Stuff.  And, I get to jump into 3-D, which is where I need to be.

That's just tomorrow.  Jeff has built me a week of magic, exactly and intuitively according to my interests, which I described to him over long heartfelt e-mails.

Wednesday: Coptic Binding: one of the most ancient book forms: a stitching of pages into book form that is more of a weaving art than simple page assembly -- so beautiful in its result along the spine that to cover it seems a crime.  One practical advantage of coptic binding is that the pages lay flat at any point in the book.  No swirling pages, a perfect flat relationship from left to right.  I love that.  Hands free.  For a business-related application, think of wedding guest books -- how frustrating to inscribe one's good wishes for the happy (ha-ha: it's marriage, how can that ever happen, never mind me, sorry, the cynic escapes)  couple while wrestling with preceding or following pages.  Or any number of other applications.  It is lovely, a braided macrame (forgive me, I mean that nicely) spine.  It is also mind-numbingly hard to learn just from the book examples -- you really need a hands-on instructor.  And again, I get to play with it for hours afterward in the Book Center Studio.

Thursday:Papermaking with Jeff.  I have a confession.  About 8 years ago, I was asked for my Christmas list.  I held my breath till I turned blue, kicked my tiny heels and threatened a full public hissy fit meltdown unless I got a papermaking kit.  My duly intimidated spouse came through and got me the standard, $30 hobby kit for papermaking.  I was as excited as I could be.  The thing gathered dust untill well after the divorce and last year I finally broke down and used it.  The result was three pages of grey pulpy flat material that disintegrated upon any attempt to manipulate it, nothing stressful, just folding.  I love paper.  Obviously, half my garage is devoted to amazing examples of the paper maker's art.  Maybe I just go for cheap showmanship, but I love paper with inclusions -- flowers, leaves, legible chunks of the original junk paper source material.  When I first moved into my loft in SF, in '93, I decorated the huge walls with the biggest examples of this amazing stuff I could find at Flax Arts (the motherlode of amazing paper).  I thought these 3x4 foot pieces stood by themselves as art pieces, maybe with the mere addition of a swath of threads, stitched randomly, or a single dried rose.  I approach beautiful paper with reverence.  The real practice of this requires overalls, blenders and beaters, a great deal of mudpie mess, and I'm jazzed. 

Friday: Japanese stab binding and other entry-level decorative bindings.  I'm not sure what this involves, although I decided to make a book in '94 and pulled a design out of my head that was in essence a Japanese Stab binding.  I spent days (and nights of creative dreaming) diagramming the threading.  I was, it turned out, reinventing the wheel.  This is the sort of gathering of pages that can use gorgeous fibers in a simple but neatly contoured web that never shoulc be covered. 

Hopefully the forgoing will serve as the intro for the Saturday-Sunday marathon of Bookbinding II, which gets into the technical areas of things that look like what we call regular books: stitching on linen, that lovely bit of embroidery between the spine's leather or bookcloth and the paper, especially the arcane piece that peeks over the back of the gathered pages into a lovely roll.  If you've seen really old books, the leather on the spine is rounded, with bulgy bits, little ridges that stick out.  That's about as formal as I want to get.  And that's the weekend lallapalooza that winds it all up.

So..... that's why I'm in Minneapolis.

There's more of this song to sing, more story of How Our Heroine Becomes Repeatedly Lost en route from airport, The Blood-Curdling Tale Of The Internet Bargain Lodging (bloody Q-Tip encrusted into carpet, etc.), and How To Heal A Lingering Ethical Lapse.  Stay tuned, I'll be checking in over the next week.  Let me just say that many prayers have been answered, the most pressing of which was whether May in Minnesota would cure me of a lifelong affliction.  Short answer: It did, in spades.  Fuck Lourdes, come to Minneapolis.  Gee, it's nice.

Back to Bakersfield-By-The-Sea

Got back to My Little Town late Tuesday night from a longish trip to the Bay Area, where I lived from 1986 until I was run out of town on a rail in 2004.  No, if I am going to be held to the standard that recovering substances abusers are supposed to uphold, apparently (ahem), I was not literally tied to a rail, tarred and feathered.  Leaving SF for My Little Town in 2004 was, however, a condition placed by the court on dropping the pending charges against me, without prejudice for further prosecution of said charges should I come back and raise more hell.  And that's, as Lily Tomlin would say, the truth.

Figuring that the statute had run and my hell-raising capabilities have been downsized, I have returned twice to SF.  My trip last spring functioned as a belated farewell to the City, to relinquish it as my home town, since my departure in 2004, unplanned and unceremonious, allowed little time for leave-taking.  Last spring's visit was bittersweet,  as I still felt hopeless about the future.  This time, it was a joyous return as a tourist to a city I have loved, lost, and know where to get a good burrito.

While there, I was shown amazing hospitality and slept on the most comfortable sofa in the Greater Bay Area.  No kidding.  I want to trade in my queen size bed for that divan. I stayed with Houston, who had given me the best Christmas present I could imagine: tickets to a concert by Dmitri Hvorostovsky, a baritone I stalk in a minor way.  Great seats.  Dmitri could have spat on me, should that have rung his chimes.  Apparently not, but I am such a wanton fanatic that I probably would have enjoyed his Siberian cooties. Instead, I merely luxuriated in his "warm, resplendent and sumptuously textured" (according to the usually acidic reviewer in the SF Chronicle) voice. Not to mention his incredible good looks and charisma.    A spectacular event -- Russian opera, Russian songs from "The Great Patriotic War" (pictured at left), and every Russian expat in SF.  I was in a special lather of excitement because Dmitri was scheduled to sign CDs in the lobby after the concert.  I purchased his most recent -- "Moscow Nights", a collection of popular Russian songs -- at the Symphony gift shop and waited in a very long  line, primping and rehearsing my spontaneous remarks, for an audience with the Great Man himself.  Houston had his camera-phone with him and filmed two twenty-second clips: 1. Me waiting in line, tossing my hair for that casual, just-out-of-bed look; and 2. Dimitri's face and my shoulder (I forgot to cheat towards the camera once I came face-to-face with my idol) as we chatted.  I mentioned that we had appeared on stage together in Don Giovanni a few years ago across the street in the opera house -- I purposely did not mention in what capacity, I was a mere extra playing a maid, let him think I'm a diva.  He looked at me closely and claimed to remember me.  It's possible.  I had spoken to him several times during the run, trying out my Russian, which I hoped translated in part as "I'm very pleased to meet you," and not "there is a penguin in my shorts."  This time, I wanted to learn "I'm a tramp and we don't have much time," but could only find it online in Cyrillic ("Я - неряха, и мы не имеем большого количества времени", for those interested in including it in mash notes), no transliteration available.  It all looks like "Kaopectate"; I don't know how to pronounce it.  So he remembered me, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  Oh, and he clasped my hand as it rested on the table.  My knees literally went weak.  Embarrassing video proof here (Download you_look_like_a_movie_star.zip) and here (Download dmitri_hvorostovsky.zip).

I can't believe I can still be in blushing puppy love at my age.

Had a great time with Houston.  He is my long-lost spiritual brother.  That's not too far from the truth (newly mandated memoir disclaimer: to my knowledge, we are not in fact siblings, don't sue me) because we were both raised by Dorothies.  I needed a little fairy dust in my life, a substance in very short supply in Bakersfield-by-the-sea.  Rumor has it that there is a gay bar in town, but no one knows where.  And it is generally believed here that lesbians are a myth.  The two things I miss most about SF is the gay community and opera accesible by public transit.  You find one in the other, frequently.

Other events: took care of old business (closed dormant bank accounts), shopped for art supplies at Flax (my favorite art store), visited the new De Young Museum (smashing), saw Brokeback Mountain (after reading the short story, on Houston's advice, powerful), attended a sponsor's gala for The Young People's Teen Musical Theater Company by happy accident (thought I was going to a screening for Art and Film Club For Teens, where Houston's roommate Huntley is a bigwig, got stranded at the wrong venue, and stayed for a memorable performance of musical numbers from Most Happy Fella by some very talented kids), went off my NutraSystem diet for fabulous food (a Mission burrito, excellent sushi, lunch at Chow, and Houston's delicious cooking -- mushroom risotto, eggs with bacon and grits, beet salad with smoked trout, to name a few great meals), visited with friends (Anna, my fellow opera extra, Adrianne, Karen), and, movingly, the memorial service at Laguna Honda hospice for my late friend Michael (his son designed commemorative T-shirts for all in attendance, shown at left).

The most healing event, and that for which I am most grateful (even more than the "Dmitri moment") grew out of Michael's memorial.  One of those attending was Karen, a woman I admire for her honesty and integrity and have known for about 15 years.  As a result of my bad behavior before I left SF in 2004, Karen did not speak to me for nearly two years.  I felt her snub keenly.  No one blamed me more for my indiscretions than I did, but the loss of her friendship seemed to affirm that I was a Rotten Person.  I've been trying to mend my ways, and no longer feel like such a failure, but I still ached to think of Karen.  This was the first time we'd seen each other since I moved to My Little Town.  When I saw her at the memorial service, I hoped it wouldn't be awkward, and I thought I would try again to talk to her.  She spotted me, smiled through her tears, and the moment the service ended, rushed to my arms.  It got pretty girly.  Tears, apologies, and promises.  Karen said, "there's nothing like tragedy to give you a new perspective."  All is forgiven.  I had nothing to forgive; I was never angry with Karen -- I agreed with her judgment.  We spent most of the my last day in town together.  I met her incredible dog, Turtle, "70 pounds of muscle and two ounces of brain."  He's a pit bull that thinks he's a lap dog -- pure love.  She has promised to come for a visit with Turtle in tow.  I don't know what to do with my cats, but we'll figure something out.  Anything is worth seeing Karen again.

I was very ready to come home.  I missed the cats, I missed the beach, I missed my new friends in My Little Town, and I had accomplished all and more that I had hoped.

Back to the diet.  Back to the homosexual-free-zone.  Back to opera on the radio.  But the beach, the beach is warm.

Narnia Fans -- I Know You're Out There, I Can Hear You Doing Your Reepicheep Imitation

I raised an early flag for this conference, in Nashville, of all places.  Past Watchful Dragons, Fantasy and Faith in the work of C.S. Lewis, November 3-5 at Belmont College.  There will be tons of theological types bumping into fantasy dweebs and I fall into either type or none.  It will either be awful or hella fun, with a great band and a symphony scheduled to boot.  Performances.  And probably a lot of virgins in heated discussions of whether Disney will change one iota of the Chronicles of Narnia in the forthcoming movie.  (It's Disney.  C'mon, whaddaya wanna bet?)  Hell, if it sucks, there are all the big hair palaces of Nashville, and a side trip to Graceland in Memphis couldn't be that hard and would wrap up the weekend in proper surreality.  Talk to me, all 3.13 of you, or I'll be alone eating humble pi.

Deep in the Redwoods

"Writing," says Claire Nouvet, "leaves the trace of an original disaster which was not experienced by the first person precisely since it ruined this first person, reduced it to a ghostlike status, to being a 'me without me.'"  I read that yesterday in a preface to a very good collection of poems owned by my host here in Forestville, Sonoma County, up a dirt road, Gorgeous Seclusion, U.S.A.  (The book, BTW: Playing Basketball with the Viet Cong, by Kevin Bowen.)  After sitting in the hot tub with an occasional drizzle on my head, watching the ghost drifts of mist trail through the endless redwood vista, I was in a reflective mood, ready for spirit metaphors, impermanence.  There's a philosophical conclusion, sort of a literary Schrodinger's Cat, that I want to draw, about the changes themselves changing one, and then the writing or communication of the experiences changing the experience itself.  I can't quite wrap my brain around it now, but it's there to be thought about, a little something to chew on upon my return.

Obviously, I'm having a cliche (or at least textbook) Northern California Moment up here, in this wet, green beauty, in a art-filled hand-crafted cabin with a crackling fire, a fringed-eared sweetheart of a cat named Nemo, and my dear friend Gregory.  We're going out tonight to an early dinner at Willow Wood, backroads gourmet, and then back for more hot tub, champagne (we're inaugurating his new tub and deck for same) and catching up on our long friendship.  We see each other about three times a year and he's such good company.  Now I learn he's a wonderful host as well.  He'll have to turn a gun on me to get me out of here.  But leave I must, and I start back tomorrow, probably to return on Sunday.  More (and pictures, but none nude, P & T) then.  I am a much happier person than I was. 

Texas Pecans

On my recent departure from Texas, my hostess Evelyn was gracious enough to give me a gallon freezer bag stuffed with fresh pecan halves.  Her two trees produced a bumper crop this year, and as fast as she and her companion Russell can eat them, they mount up.  Russell, who will be 80 this July, enjoys sitting in a worn ladder-back chair under a lean-to in the back yard, not far from the trees, shelling pecans for hours at a time.  As he works, he watches Ratzy and Angel, their cats, play with Snickerdoodle, a pint-sized dust mop of a dog.  The bird feeder draws all types of birds from the nearby Brazos, including the brilliant startle of cardinals.  The view is green this time of year as far as the eye can see from the back yard, which overlooks the Brazos flood plain.  A fine green tracery softens the stark mesquite and sage, fragrant on the ever-present plains wind.  The temperate weather of spring is a precious commodity in Northwest Texas.  All too soon, the heat will drive them all indoors.  There is a history to this tableau: Evelyn's father, Doyle, used to spend time in his yard in Huckabee and other points in Texas shelling pecans from his own trees.  I believe Evelyn finds this simple tradition comforting.  As she put it in her recent letter: "Dull is GOOD."

One can't say the same for pecan recipes.  They are a ubiquitous nutmeat in Texas and other points South and found in all courses.  The following appetizer is a perfect cocktail bite, and comes from the Seymour High School senior class fundraiser cookbook.  I'm powerless over my compulsion to collect regional fundraiser cookbooks; in between the recipes for Velveeta fudge and cream of mushroom casseroles you can find some good eats.  Even Evelyn, one of God's perfect creatures but a terrible cook, makes these frequently.

Spiced Pecans

• 1/8 C (2 Tbsp.) Worcestershire sauce
• 1 tsp. Tabasco sauce
• 5 C pecan halves
• 1/8 tsp. garlic salt
• 1/8 C (2 Tbsp.) melted butter or margarine
• (1 tsp. cumin, optional)

Mix all ingredients together and coat pecans well.  Spread out on cookie sheet.  Bake at 350 degrees for 10 to 15 minutes, shaking pan occasionally.  Do not let burn.

Catfish is a favorite local dish.  At the Rock Inn diner in Seymour, you can get yours any way you like as long as it's thickly breaded and deep-fried.  This is a slightly different treatment from a cookbook I picked up in Dallas called Cordon Bubba. I haven't tried it yet but it "reads good."  If the notion  of catfish creeps you out I imagine it would be just as good with chicken breast fillets.

Pecan-crusted catfish

• 1/3 C coarse mustard
• 1/4 C Dijon-style mustard
• 1/4 C dry white wine
• 2 large cloves garlic, finely minced
• 1/2 C seasoned bread crumbs
• 1 C coarsely ground, lightly toasted pecans
• 1 lb. catfish fillets

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.  Thoroughly mix mustards, wine and garlic in small bowl.  Set aside.  Mix bread crumbs and pecans together in a large flat plate.  Pat fillets dry with paper towels.  Dip each fillet in mustard mixture, then press into the pecan/crumb mixture, creating a heavy crust.  Place on a flat baking pan.  Bake 30 to 40 minutes, depending on thickness of fillets.

This isn't a Texan recipe, but is similar to many pecan cookies I've found in my various cookbooks from that region.  I first tasted these at a Mendocino bed and breakfast and demanded the recipe, practically at gunpoint.  They make a nice Christmas cookie, but be warned, make an extra batch or you'll have none to give away.  They're that good.

Pecan Crescents

• 1 C pecans (4 oz.)
• 2 sticks salted butter, softened
• 1 (1-lb.) box confectioner's sugar (or less)
• 1 Tbsp. water
• 1 tsp. vanilla
• 2 C sifted all-purpose flour (sift before measuring)

Pulse pecans in a food processor until finely ground, being careful not to grind to a paste.  Remove from processor and set aside.  Add butter to processor and pulse until smooth and creamy, then add 5 tablespoons sugar, pulsing in 1 tablespoon at a time.  Reserve remaining confectioner's sugar.  Add and pulse water and vanilla, then flour and nuts in 2 or 3 batches, pulsing just until a dough is formed.  Chill, wrapped in plastic wrap, until firm, at least 2 hours or, best, overnight.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Roll level teaspoons of dough into 3-inch ropes, tapering ends.  Curve each roll into a crescent and arrange crescents 1 inch apart on greased baking sheets.  Bake in batches in middle of oven until pale golden, 12 to 14 minutes.  (Tip: be sure to keep unbaked dough cool and let baking sheets cool between batches so cookies do not spread.)

The recipe calls for gently tossing the baked cookies, while still warm, a few at a time, in the remainder of the confectioner's sugar sifted into a bowl.  I find this creates too thick a coat of sugar, and prefer to sift the confectioner's sugar lightly over the cookies while still warm, and once again before serving, letting the buttery pecan flavor predominate.

Finally, the best pecan pie I ever made comes from a non-Texas source, and isn't even a pecan pie, strictly speaking.  As it is widely available, I won't repeat it here, but simply direct you to Paul Prudhomme's Louisiana Kitchen (his first cookbook), pp. 319-320, the decadent Sweet Potato Pecan Pie.  It's a pain in the ass to make, and one could simplify the crust process without too much damage to the final product (God bless Pillsbury ready-made), but look at that color photo facing page 321 and tell me that doesn't look worth it.

Happy vittles.

recipes

Heads up, C.S. Lewis / Narnia fans

A scholarly conference on C.S. Lewis, with emphasis on his fantasy writings will occur this fall.  Details here.   I am seriously considering attending.  It will either be the geekfest of all time, The Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons times 1000, or hella fun.  Who am I to cast stones -- my inner geek is strong.  I learned to read "chapter books" through the Narnia tales, read to me by my maternal grandmother.  I really like prog rock bands like Genesis and Yes, so Glass Hammer, one of the musical attractions, has great appeal.  I'd love to hear from anyone attending (or similarly on the fence) to discuss it.

books travel