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 

Choices 2

Today, unexpectedly, I heard from Q (that is indeed his name, or at least the way he signs things).

Less than two weeks ago I was on a train, with African air blasting away at Poland, creating furnace-like conditions throughout the country. After two weeks of savoring Europe, I was now returning home. I had already that Saturday traveled by car in the mountains with my ailing father, traveled by bus to Krakow, to connect now to Warsaw, returning within the next handful of hours back to Paris and then Madison. All this in the spin of one day. It was like pulling in an extended tape measure: you let it out slowly, slowly, and then press a button and it rewinds itself at ten times the speed.

Throughout so many of the days in Poland, I had been feeling increasingly…. empty. Like this country was moving away from me, or I from it, and perversely, I was feeling like this emptiness was traveling with me right back to Madison, where it would stay with me on my return. Yeah, it did just that.

But on this train ride, the one from Krakow to Warsaw, I met Q. It happened like this: I was in a hot compartment, reflecting on the Polish definition of air conditioning: an open train window. I was sitting with my back to the direction of travel. A young family with a toddler were facing me. As soon as the train started moving, the toddler got fidgety and the mom got up to close the window. Drafty – she said. I had just ran across Krakow’s Main Square with my bag and computer and so I was plenty toasty. Thus, basically, I wanted to strangle her, then her child, then her again. Instead, I left the compartment and stood in the hallway, gazing out and feeling empty.

Eventually, a guy from a neighboring compartment came out as well and we stood and talked. He was clearly an American and I welcomed that for once. His name – Q.

Half an hour later, standing was wearing on me. I reentered the compartment and endured for two minutes the willful toddler, who was now testing seats on both sides of the aisle. Then I bolted.

Can I hang out with you guys? I asked Q and his wife. And I did, for the rest of the trip. I sat there and listened, watching the same green fields, then golden ones fly past, the same ones I had watched a week earlier, and then again a week before that. What is that yellow field? I’d asked a fellow traveler on an initial spin through this countryside. Rzepa, for sure, he had replied. I did not translate it until now: turnips, they were turnip fields. Golden yellow, like mustard greens and golden lupine. But with the homelier turnip under the soil.

My American compartment “hosts” were the ones who were searching for a balanced life, living now in Switzerland, earlier in the Netherlands.

But today, Q wrote me about something else. He gave me tips on what to see and do when I some day visit Croatia

He had noticed that I have a Croatian name. I do – it belonged to my now deceased father-in-law. Q told me I really must go there – there are spots that are breathtakingly beautiful (I thought of his words today as on NPR, someone was saying about Poland: you can travel a great distance without seeing a single pretty thing... sigh...).

I’m looking at Q's list now, his descriptions and I am wondering if connecting with Croatia, someone else’s homeland, inherited artificially by me, through my name, will feel less empty than connecting with a homeland that was mine or a home that is now mine. If so then I should start making plans. Thank you, Q.

fields of rzepa, first time around 

Choices

I have a bike. I have not used it much in recent years. This week, my neighbor helped me fix it up. Yesterday, I rode it to work. An exhilarating twenty-five minute ride. All downhill. Yeah. Then there was the return trip. 11% grade hill included.

Undaunted, late in the day I rode it to the local café to pick up an afternoon latte. Thought process: it would be nice to work with a latte on the table, next to my computer. The café is a short 5 minute ride away. The latte will stay warm. It did stay warm. As it splattered all over everything on the ride back. Impossible to change gears riding a bike and holding a latte.

Daunted, in the evening I did not ride the bike downtown to meet up with some bloggers. We had a Crave-ing, each for something else. Someone was in the mood for crab cakes. Another was in the mood for strawberry shortcake. The third was in the mood for Cosmos. Not hard to figure out who wanted what, is it? (hint: see photos below)

In the end, there is always a setting sun and a boat to haul in.

two use a camera, one waits 

easy guess 

(Union Terrace) at the end of the day 

Outing Kep

Dear Ocean readers,

So Kep is me.

I mean really me. A literary construct, true, but not a totally fictionalized one. Everything he has said, I have thought or felt at some point in recent times. His events have been my events -- from getting toe rubbing (but not really toe rubbing) thrown in my face, and pining for a nick name, to listening to female orgasm talk in mixed company (mid-May, just as Kep said). The people in his life are variously drawn from the people – friends, loves, all important people – in my life, though with flipped genders and statuses, mostly. His stupid dilemmas have been my dilemmas as well (milky lunches, bitche-y holes in the wall, misplaced over-inflated degrees, comments on newsstories, all of it).

A couple of Ocean readers wrote to tell me that they found Kep annoying. “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” said one. Maybe. So I guess that makes me the female version of one, since I think that I’m capable of sulking at the store clerk and being culturally confused and annoying, and manifesting all sorts of misplaced behaviors when the world feels mean and rotten. And the emails I can write then! Yeah! Oh, believe me, Kep was a tame dude by comparison.

A far larger number said that they were entertained. Some even recognized the not-so-thinly-veiled sadnesses in Kep’s posts (three separate people picked up on the sadness of writing daily and losing my reach of so many close to me people who read, but assume that they owe no message in return).

A few kept saying Kep writes too much about me. I think if I were asked to jump into someone’s personal (as opposed to commentary) blog, I’d feel inclined to do the same. Wait. That’s just what I did! That’s right, I forgot. Kep is me (as is regular joe, tadpole, nina – hello Sybil!). It’s a tough assignment: no one knows or cares about you, yet you’re there, helping your pal entertain readers who are totally not used to you. Or rather -- me as him.

Of course, the vast majority of Kep-readers was silent, just as it is in regular daily posting. One has to get used to the silence that follows blogging. So I flipped on the meter for the week that Kep was writing. Perversely, Kep numbers kept shooting up, even as in general, Ocean numbers move up very incrementally. At some point I had to wonder whether the Kep voice is a better voice than my regular writing voice. [There is some delicious irony in the fact that, even if I wanted to -- and I don't -- I could not write as directly about myself as Kep wrote about me!]

Whatever it did for you, it was good for me to release a side that was less audience-driven, that could write crudely, childishly, realistically, that could more freely deal with the brassier side of any issue.

Why did I do it? For any number of reasons, you may find yourself facing a set of days where you cannot keep writing in the same way that you have in the past. You don’t want to pick anything from your current state to put on the blog. You don’t want readers to read you face-on. During such times you can step back and look at yourself from some other vantage point. That’s what I did.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to another was intentional. You would not have been fooled unless you had a vision of someone who also would be trying hard not to sound like him or herself. The toughest part? Not to inadvertently insert my usual (foreign-born) language idiosyncrasies. You would have guessed right away then. Though I did post a caveat that Kep might try to mock my Eastern European tone, in case I absolutely could not keep it out of his posts.

God, I miss him already!

Kiss and make up for all those who felt offended by the Kep week? Here, some flowers for you to calm you down:

There are close to a thousand plants and blooming flowers in my yard, each and every one planted (somewhat wildly) over the years by me. Am I attached to them (even through periods of neglect)? Of course! 

guest post 16

More from Kep:

Hey, a message from tadpole (with minor editing by me): Kep: I promised that I would not keep you blogging for more than a week and my week is up so you can go ahead and write your last post. Save the disclosure for me. Sometime this afternoon I’ll let my readers know more about you. Some of them do know you, so you can go ahead and hide to avoid their wrath for some of the things you’ve said. Thank you thank you thank you for stepping in! I needed that. A lot.

My last post! Am I happy? Not at all. It was awesome getting on Ocean daily and writing from under the kep shield. If I had my own non-kep blog I would worry to death about the topics and comments I would put on it. I am sure as hell that I’d be so worried, it would paralyze me and I would turn into a clump of twisted matter, slouched in a fetal position, unable to write more than one or two sentences about the weather.

Because my colleagues might be reading. And (gulp) Jill. What about Jill? I would have to layer over all the stuff I do not want her to know about me right now. I could not even type out the words f-e-m-a-l-e o-r-g-a-s-m in the blog, even though it was a legitimate news story, because Jill would find my writing about it grossly irritating. So I’d have to adjust my tone. I would have to bring out the side of me that is for her eyes. At the same time that I would have all those other non-Jill readers. And what do they know about my dealings with Jill? Or with katie? Or tadpole? Hey, how do you do it, Nina, how do you write for all your friends and family, the bosses and students, strangers, all mixed up, expecting you to be one way or other, looking at you with their own sharp eyes, ready to dig in and feast on your remains if you step out of their idea of what you should be like on any given day?

But from what I hear in your email, you are back at it later today. Welcome back, taddie! After a week of riding this boat, let me tell you, I forgive you in advance for all your future posting mistakes and misfires. And if anyone tells you you’re too this, or too that, shrug it off and call me. We’ll drink some Cosmos and I’ll let you bitch about the AC.

guest post 15

More from Kep:

I regret the time I was rude to a sales clerk. She was a moron, I was in a hurry, the moment was tense, but still, I regret it.

I do not think that I am generally moody with clerks. But I don’t go out of my way to kiss their noses either. Have you ever gone to a store with Nina? She can be over the top obsequious. Or worse, try sharing a cab with her, like in Madison maybe, with failed poets and aging hippies behind the wheel. She gets all engaged in getting at the hidden story of the driver. Whatever for? Man, who cares about the cab driver! Give them a huge tip if you have this guilt trip going about your station in life versus their station in life. I’m for big tips anyway. But taxi time should be shut-your-mouth-already-and-get-me-there-asap time.

I asked Nina once if she has some warped insecurity problem that leads her always to engage that person behind the counter. Is it that you’re looking for validation, or what? She told me that it’s a Poland thing. (That word again! Dust off the roots and find all sources of personality dysfunction among your ancestors.) But no, really, she says that in Poland, you can divide people engaged in the exchange of services into two camps and two camps only. No one is straddling the fence and there is no third set of miscellaneous others. You are either a rude bitch/bastard or you are an engaging, caring, curious soul. And if you are the latter, that then is your style and you carry it with you everywhere.

And where would I fit in? I did not ask her that because I fear, after my last rudeness, I crossed the line, putting me forever out of touch with my engaging, caring and curious inner self. Brace yourself, here comes that mean bastard again, give a little squeeze to the egg carton so that he gets home to some leaking cracked shells, ha ha ha, he deserves it, that arrogant jerk face.
Even though I am really sorry I acted like such a wiseass.

guest post 14

More from Kep:

So I thought that Nina’s willingness to tamper with the template signaled her return to blogging but I got an email from her saying thumbs down to that. A few more posts from you, kep, please – she writes.

Okay. So long as it’s sweaty hot outside, why not stay indoors during my lunch break and pound away at the keyboard. I mean, it’s not as if I would be doing something useful instead, like learning a language.

It was mentioned that I might try my hand at news story commenting. That I should pick something that pulled me in this morning and blog about it. Truthfully, the story that was most interesting to me was on the female orgasm and a blogger already wrote about it here. Why should I jump in on that one? It would be dicey for a guy to write extensively about what he thinks of the female orgasm anyway. I can see getting myself into hot water with it. I remember when in mid May, the New York Times printed its story on the evolutionary purpose of the female orgasm (there was none, it was argued), a discussion about it among pals quickly degenerated into the women outshouting each other on the issue (raised in the article) of whether it was even possible to have an orgasm without external stimulation. I felt pretty left out. Though I did run through, in my head, my encounters with this and came to the conclusion that, at least theoretically, I had something to contribute to the topic. But I kept quiet.

I am not anti-news stories, by the way. I read newspapers and magazines: I want to know who got busted and what crap happened while I was sleeping. And sometimes I shred them out of anger and other times I make paper funny hats because I know how and it’s a neat thing to do. But my thoughts about what I read are for myself. Sure, people can engage me in a political discussion, but they wont do it easily. I don’t like to sound off on things that are outside my own backyard. I know my own backyard damn well and there are things I can say about it that would astonish you – things you would never believe could be true: festering and rotting right there for me to see if I look out my window. Cool things too, like there is a flower. Maybe even two or more flowers.

But place me in front of a paper and I feel I am reading about someone else’s backyard and that I should take it in, rather than spit it out. It’s not happening to me, I’m thinking. The Supreme Court decision about growing pot in your yard? It’s interesting, but it’s not my story. I haven’t worried about the Commerce Clause in years: I figure that commerce will keep on moving this way and that and I stand to lose or gain, sure, if it does move this way or that, but I can’t worry about everything. I am already obsessing about global warming ever since that New Yorker series on it this spring.

And I can’t really immerse myself on the other side of the issue either – you know, the side of the person growing corn for his own use or pot for her own malady because at this point I don’t think I have any wasting disease and so I would be lying if I were to claim that my pot was to keep me from freaking out. If I grew it, it would be for my own pleasure and I don’t really care for pot pleasure unless it’s the pot of gold kind of pleasure: I am not above spending big money to have a nice time with a friend. Or with Jill the Pill. Or with plain old tadpole.