beautiful, right? 

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine*

Which day in the calendar stands out for a northerner? Which one has “revel” written all over it? Which one has you in an apoplectic state toward the third week of December, because it seems So Very Far Away?

Obviously it’s tomorrow. Summer solstice (this year it happens on June 21st, early in the morning). When daylight (in Madison) will stretch luxuriously for 15 hours and 23 minutes (with visible light extending for 16 hours and 34 minutes).

Full moon tomorrow. A long hot day. Windows open. Breezes making their way through, from one end of the house to the other.

Midsummer. Dreamy, crazy midsummer.

*Shakespeare: Midsummer Night's Dream

this morning's rose: color so intense, it radiates 

I feel better: my yard is less chaotic than Owen Woods

So here’s what happened: on Friday, I had a visitor who was here specifically to give feedback on how I was managing the upkeep of the house. His words: the yard looks like you are a woman in despair. You need to hire someone [translate: at a minimum of $40 an hour] to help you deal with it.

It stunned me. I mean, here I’d been trying to stay on top of things and I got this slap: woman, you are a failure! You talk big about perennials and plants but your yard looks so overgrown that even rabbits are staying away for fear of losing their way in the jungle that you call a garden.

Crap. Something needed to be done. First, I hovered under my quilt (this is my response to pretty much anything problematic these days). Then I took B out for a spin. Then came the walk in Owen Woods. Finally, as dusk was turning into darkness, I took the shears to my yard and started hacking away. I made progress. It now needs 9 people with 49 hours and extra sharp shears and blades to take care of it. But I feel complete. Like my coping skills are no longer subject to challenge.

Owen Woods at dusk 

my front garden: you know, all those green stalks will eventually produce blooms. just you wait. 

What was I thinking – first in a series of posts indicating that I basically have lost the ability to draw inferences of the sort: if A, then B.

Here’s a story from last night which, if not offering definitive evidence of the above, certainly is suggestive that my brain has crossed wires and unsound connections within:

In the early evening I biked over to Rowley Street (maybe a half hour away, toward downtown Madison). I intended to drop in on a get together of sorts, even though I knew only a small number of people in attendance. And because I knew only a small number of people in attendance, I thought I would surely drop out pretty quickly. And bike home. With maybe a stop over at a blogger’s house, because she appears to be okay with drop-bys and she lives near there.

It didn’t happen. Turns out there were four people who, in their second (or first?) lives played guitars very very well, and one who played harmonicas very very well and as night set in, the Beatles songs accompanied by multiple guitars came forth and people sang and ate and yes, drank beer and – this is a new one for me – organic cigarettes were passed around and although I did try a puff so that I could later brag that I’ll try anything as long as it’s legal, I wasn’t much into the smoking. But I am a sucker for people singing together, outside, late at night and so it was close to midnight before I left.

But wait, what was I thinking? If A, then B. If you take your bike out late at night to a gathering on the other side of town, then you have to imagine yourself capable of riding it back. I did attach a nice little cateye to Mr. B, so I was fairly certain I could see the road, but others thought I was insane to be riding the hilly roads at midnight.

I retorted that at midnight the roads are emptier than at noon and besides I can always hop on the sidewalk if I feel uncertain. I read the rules for bike riders, I know what is permissible. At which point someone said that the alcohol limits are placed on bikers as well and of course they are correct, but I had been doing more singing than drinking so I felt I was safe there.

What got me finally was someone’s description of what it’s like to ride on the sidewalk at night with even just one beer under your belt: you feel every bump even if you do not see it. It’ll knock your insides out.

So I caved. Which was okay. Someone took me and my bike home and during that car ride I found out that they sailed regularly and so out of the evening I got a lot of Beatles, some promises of joint bike trips from those who were boggled (not necessarily in a good way) by my determination and at least one sailing adventure, if I promised to work the ropes, or whatever it is that one does on sailboats.

If I were to summarize the evening in one sentence, I would say that it reminded me a lot of my earlier trip peddling west: I sang and sang and talked out of some kind of desperation, hoping that something would snap and then I could just glide and be done with it. I can’t say that anything snapped and I certainly did not glide in any shape or fashion, but the process of peddling and/or singing feels better than staying home under a quilt – which is the way I had spent the first half of the day.

How far?

Letters I wish I could write:

To someone far away --
Remember last year at this same time when you shared a song with me? When you, in your life out there somewhere had been listening to How Far and decided that I may enjoy it and I did, only I am such a music baby that anytime I hear a plaintive voice, I get too choked up?

And to another --
Remember when last year we listened to Pokarekare Ana on a blanket outside? And how you did not know then that you’d be hearing it in New Zealand a year later? And that I’d be composing imaginary letters on Ocean? Because one just cannot know these things and I am basically your terrible predictor anyway. So much so that I am prone to asking others about what they think next year or the year after will look like, because I typically have no idea and in my Polish angst about each day, I always assume that by tomorrow life will topple and I will find myself wasting away in some state of discombobulation in a Benedictine abbey in southern Italy, or, horrors of horrors, digging ditches in a Russian kolkhoz with a burly фермер standing over me telling me to dig harder.

How far, how far do we go each day, how far did you travel? Did I?

Today I took the bike out and, in a straight line, headed west. Everyone talks of doing that. Driving, running, without stopping, until you run out of steam, breath, or gas. Well what if you biked? How far can you go before you encounter the first corn field? Farmland that rolls onto itself with no end in sight? A red stable with horses? The end of the road?

The thing is, however far you take yourself, you always have to figure out a way to get back. Leave yourself enough gas, or, with a bike – enough energy to peddle those hills again and head home.

The first cornfield these days is many miles out... twenty-six years ago, when we first moved to Madison, our apartment looked out onto a cornfield -- an interesting experience after south Chicago. 

right away you notice the quiet... 

oh, a visitor, all the way out here! let me trot over and check her out. 

Ocean author reaches out to horse. Hey horse, did anyone ever tell you that you sort of look like a donkey?

the end of the road. 

Holding a hand

I was in Paris a year ago, waiting to cross the street and I looked up to see this small scene. My camera was out and so before the light changed, I took the picture. Today I remembered it. Oh, that look on the man’s face! The girl seemed a little sad as well. But he – he had all those additional years of haunted worry. The look comes through just a little on the photo here:

if only... 

This morning, I was imagining the course of a simple conversation between a mother and a child, one that all parents have at somepoints, many points, in one form or another, and as I was thinking of it, I remembered another photo – one that I took last month on a Warsaw playground. Here are both, the imagined conversation and the photo:

Mommy, what’s a cloud?
It’s a bunch of tiny droplets of water and ice, suspended in the air…

Oh. Why is it covering the sun?
It has to do with the wind and the movement of air. Imagine it being pushed and pushed until it can’t help but cover the sun.

Can you unpush it? Can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.

How about my sore knee from when I fell down because someone pushed me on the playground, can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.

Mean people, mashed turnips..
I can probably do something about the turnips…

But mean people, bullies that push you?
No, I cannot. Listen, I can’t even make the weeds go away in my front garden. Look at it: It is a jungle. Out of control! It would take ten strong people with fifty long hours and shovels and shears and who knows what else to make this yard look pretty again.

I don’t care about the yard. I want you to make the tiny droplets of water and ice go away.
I cannot do that.

On a Warsaw playground: tangled up in ropes

To be blunt

In an interesting development, I went to the movies tonight with neighborhood friends, but could not really actually make myself go in through the movie door. This had never happened to me before. Typically I see a door – I go through it.

We had been eating dinner earlier and I knew it was coming – that inability to go through the door. So I left.

One person in this group said to me -- I know how it is about doors and June 15ths, so you go right ahead and return home and I’ll check on your attitude about doors after the movie.

As my earlier post indicated, I think, I did not much like June 15th. Something happened on that day that was perhaps the lowest of low points for me. I cannot explain it now, but someone told me later that they would analogize it to seeing your name spelled out on a gravestone. I think that is an apt characterization.

My previous post was meant to correct the impression that this week (and especially June 15th) has been calm. I have a handful of people living far away whom I care about deeply who should not think that the days flew by in some kind of enchanting bike ride, with a tickled tattoo and a smile at Bluephies. The post below was really, more than anything, for them.

How to write… kep said it well when he reflected how Ocean seems to convey an over-simplification of a mood sometimes (a friend emailed me this thought as well recently, even as I really mean for Ocean to be more bland these days). I suppose I am more frightened than ever of conveying something incorrectly. Still, I remain vague. I have been variously told by so many now that I am being oblique, elliptical, etc. I’m sorry – I do not know how else to write. It is my way.

How well do you know your Ocean blogger?

A quiz, to test how closely you’ve been tracking this blog (or perhaps how tedious it has become to barrel through it ever since kep left and I took up with B) (correct answers are highlighted for the clueless):

1. which photo from today creates the perfect image of where I am at:

a. this one (in my backyard so bright, cheerful, smiley, so... ??)

b. this one (I keep it in my office year-round. today it just looked so ... me)

2. which June 15 is my favorite ever, of all time?
a. 2005
b. some June 15 between 1953 and 2004

3. how many Poles does it take to drink a whole bottle of wine in one evening?
a. Poles prefer vodka
b. one

4. if I were to look out front, what would I see?
a. a beautifully kept up front yard with perennials springing forth in rapid succession
b. something that someone described today as a nightmare, or jungle or maybe it was a disaster, tended to by a person who has basically given up.

5. which word best describes my mood these days:
a. lugubrious
b. sprightly

So where am I and what am I doing?

The nice thing about this world is that when you ask for time from these particular* friends, they deliver.

But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.

* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!

blue at Bluephies 

Limp evidence

Men? Prefer impotence to lack of hair? It is so stated. Check it out here.

But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.

B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).

butt-r: it's all about making the butt smoother 

Postcard from the edge

Today I received a postcard from someone whom I care about, but who has demonstrated an intermittent kind of interest in our dealings with each other over the years, oftentimes being absent and unavailable, when I really would have appreciated consistency and concern (no, no, ms. sometimes-smart-ass-herself, it’s not your card and most certainly it’s not you!).

And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.

It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.

And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.

That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.

A tale of two cities, birds and houses

As if I haven’t written enough about my feelings toward Warsaw and Krakow, I yet again encountered the phenomenon of deep Warsaw derision and so here I am, returning to what would appear to be a beaten horse: why bother going to Warsaw, when you've got Krakow just three hours away?

Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.

After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.

I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”

For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.

Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.

props

For where no hope is left, is left no fear, pt.2

No, the previous post is not meant to be a statement about losing hope in all things that matter and plunging ahead now without fear given this great loss of hope in life. It is about… writing. You can go ahead and read additional stuff into it if you want, but if I wished to place that kind of subtext into it, then I would do it way more elliptically than that. I would not, for example, put the Milton quote right into the heading. That would be too obvious for me, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?

For where no hope is left, is left no fear

If John Milton has it right, then I should (fearlessly) plunge into the (hopeless) world of writing. Not blog writing. Real writing.

I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.

Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.

It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.

Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.

Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!

Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.

So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.

I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.

As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.

And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?

If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.

Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.

Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.

yesterday evening, at Borders 

An ode to olive oil

I would not be the person I am today without olive oil. I worship the places where it is made. Cold pressed. Virgin. Extra virgin. Sexy words for a sexy liquid gold. A deal-breaker for me: I could not have affect for anyone who did not also like, nay, love olive oil.

Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:

my gift to me, from France 

One of your own kind…

So B and I have been spending a lot of time together. We are not inseparable, but when I need to go somewhere, I usually call on him to go with me.

I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.

I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.

B's world 

Where I politely decline

There is a list of law profs who blog going around. I read that if we put all five blogging profs from our Law School on it, we will boost our position to second place in the country. And we’ll boost the distressingly low numbers of women law profs who blog.

My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.

Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:

work break: playing with the camera 

So, no listing for me, thanks. But I applaud those (here and here) whose efforts are in line with what is expected of a law prof. Their texts are noble vintage. Mine – it’s table wine, nothing more.

Confession

I read with interest Oscar’s deliberations about buying a cup of coffee in Germany. He was posting away at a Berlin Starbucks and assuring us that mutter necessity (really: a better than average brew, in a smokefree environment) drove him to it. Me, I’d do it for the sleek and comfortable looking ambience. (Scroll down to the second photo here.)

I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).

But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:

1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.

I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.

Spit spat

B and I have had our first ugly little spat. Things had been running oh so smoothly and then yesterday I suggested an evening run to Borders. Once there, I did indeed intend to leave him to his own devices. At Borders, I like to be unencumbered. B took offense. Something about liking to be by my side – chained is the way I viewed it. Well okay, but I’m not a chainer. I trust that at the end of our separate time, B will be there and I will be there for him and we’ll do our thing and the world will be a cool place.

I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.

This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.

By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.

Where I am still preoccupied with a yukky phone conversation from yesterday

I read this wonderful book called 2016. Did you read it?
No.

You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.

No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."

You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.


But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:

People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.

Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.

Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.

The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.

There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Where I again do not have kind things to say about my encounters with the phone

You’re home? I thought you’d gone away for the week-end.
I’m home.

You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
I’m home.

Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).

I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).

I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)

So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.

You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.

And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.

Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.
Phone nonconversation.
Wee hoo!

On how I managed to look anti-French even though I was riding a bike and had a baguette slung over my back

It’s the latte. No French man or woman would take their coffee on the run like that, or rather on the ride. In spite of past experiences that should have taught me lessons on how not to ride a bike uphill (with a skinny mezzo, extra hot), there I was again, sweating and cursing and holding on to that precious latte during my rendezvous with B, continuing with my resolve to make this a (virtually) car-free summer.

If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.

At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.

So if I am such dedicated cook, how come the last time I cooked a full dinner was over a month ago?

Yes, yes, I’ve been gone, I’ve been gone, but I’ve also been back now – for two weeks! And it’s early summer, my absolutely favorite time for working with produce – the light greens are what fresh and honest* is all about.

No excuses. Today I cook. First though, came the marketing and if ever there was a perfect morning for it, today was it. So, I'm throwing in just three photos, to show off that color that I so completely associate with June markets.

* okay, everyone knows that this is my set of words for describing what I like to find in restaurants or at any dinners. I’ll eat and love anything, no matter how simple or how artful, so long as it is f & h.

only half done. I need another basket. 

a June meal without these? not possible. 

what every kitchen table needs 

Puzzle

Last night, at a meeting of the neighborhood Sad Liberals (would you believe it, there was not a small amount of disagreement amongst us, triggered by my recounting of the discussion taking place at Marginal Utility), I took this photo. I did it for a post today, of that I am certain. However, I have no idea (anymore) what it is nor what I intended to say about it. Here it is, whatever it is:

?? 

Dear B,

I love you, I really do. You suddenly came back into my life and I was ready for you. And I don’t mind going public – sooner or later people will see us around town.

This morning when we went out together at dawn and you showed me how a gentle breeze can tickle my tattoo*, I was in heaven.

I let you go all the way, full speed ahead, even though we’ve been going out together for just a few days. I felt that I used all the proper precautions. I felt safe with you.

Is it only a summer fling? One of those short lived romances? I hope not. Oh, but I do adore you, no matter what, it will have been worth it.

N.

* It's not that low, for Pete's sake!

meet Bianchi