On to Christmas

These $1.88 poinsettias from PayLess Drugstore will help get me in the mood, that is if they don't die in the next few days. Sometimes the cheap ones do that. Christmas is a big deal at our house. Buying a messy tree, pulling the boxes of decorations out of the attic, etc. And part of the holiday tradition is complaining about all the work.

My Christmas chores on Thanksgiving weekend are:

1. Pull the set of holiday china out of the laundry room closet and wash everything (mice?)
2. Take all the blue china downstairs so there's room for the Christmas dishes upstairs.
3. Find the box of Christmas Cd's in the basement, then try to find a place to put them.
4. Put lights on the outside arbor. Weather permitting.

Every year, something new happens to make putting up the lights aggravating. Now I expect it, so it isn't so bad. As soon as I had them connected and wrapped neatly around the arbor, a section of the first string went dead. I yanked them all down again through the clematis, and then gave the string a good shake which brought it back to life. For now.

(Vigorous outdoor exercise is good on Thanksgiving weekend. John and I were just noticing if a person drinks wine freely and eats three large meals a day including cheese, their pants can shrink in just 4 days. Of course we don't know any people who live like that.)

From the ladder, I had a depressing view of the garden. Everything had that soggy, messy, tramped down look that comes after snow. Or maybe the snow just made everything look pristine for a while? But it was an early freeze, and many plants were gray and rotting. So I spent some time raking, pruning and hosing down. It still looked bleak, but at least a tidy kind of bleak.
Then I pulled these sleigh planters out of the shed, shook out the spiders and filled them up with greens I scavenged around the yard. I bought the planters from my sweet, gruff farrier on a jolly winter day last year when he was out to shoe my horse. He made them in his workshop, and now they will always remind me of Sizzle.
Finally, I kicked the outdoor pots out of the laundry room and put them back in the basement stairwell. Two big jasmines, an immature olive tree, a scented geranium and a weird cactus thing I can't remember the name of that gets gaudy orange flowers. If it goes below 32 or so, I haul everything in and we trip over pots for as long as the freeze lasts. It usually works, although in a few days they look pretty bad and are happy to be released outside again. Outdoor plants hate a dark, warm laundry room almost as much as sub-freezing temperatures.

I hope your holiday preparations are getting off to a good start...

Heartland

We just watched the 1979 movie Heartland, starring Rip Torn and Conchata Ferrell. If you've seen the silly TV show Two and a Half Men, then you know the actress Conchata Ferrell as the smart mouthed housekeeper. As a younger woman, she was perfectly cast in this old movie. The movie producers knew the strong pioneer role would have been ridiculous for an anorexic wisp of an actress. Rip Torn was also marvelous as the man-of-few-words Scottish rancher, and each word he spoke sure counted.

Every detail in the movie seems natural, especially the isolation and cold of the devastating winter. You'll want to bury yourself under a warm comforter when you watch it. In the realistic scenes (butchering a pig, a calf being born) there's no film trickery or special effects. What you see really happened. The whole movie is understated and quietly beautiful.

And the story was based on real people and events. Elinor Pruitt traveled to Burnt Fork, Wyoming with her daughter Jerrine to take a job as housekeeper to rancher Clyde Stewart, whose wife had died in 1907. Shortly after arriving, she married him and starting writing letters about her life of ranch work, neighbors, scenery, weather and animals. Her letters were serially published in the Atlantic Monthly, then later in a book called Letters of a Woman Homesteader illustrated by N.C. Wyeth (father of Andrew Wyeth.)

I suppose many women wouldn't consider a long horseback ride restful, but here's how she describes a rare day off:

I have done most of my cooking at night, have milked seven cows every day, and have done all the hay-cutting, so you see that I have been working. But I have found time to put up thirty pints of jelly and the same amount of jam for myself. I used wild fruits, gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and cherries…We began haying July 5 and finished September 8. After working so hard and so steadily I decided on a day off, so yesterday I saddled the pony and Jerrine and I fared forth…There was a tang of sage and pine in the air, and our horse was deep in rabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smell like goldenrod.

Elinore Pruitt Stewart died in 1933, and some of her grandchildren have set up the website elinorestewart.com with photographs of the family and the old homestead, now in ruins.

Food memories

I know-- scary looking thing. It's a smoked whitefish from the Great Lakes. I got it last week at Costco, and not something you see often in the land of smoked salmon.

Anyway, John and I have the same childhood memories about our first taste of smoked whitefish. The ferry ride to Mackinac Island (and more likely) the smoked fish made Michigan memorable. I don't remember much else about the trip. Our family would have camped or stayed with friends, but there is a famous grand hotel on the island:

While waiting for the ferry, our fathers' must have bought some whitefish from a vendor, because we ate it in the car. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, and I remember looking over the back seat of the Suburban watching my mother dole it out to three drooling kids. I never forgot how delicious that salty morsel was. John didn't either. You have to realize what antiques we've become. Back in the 1950's, a taste of smoked fish was incredibly exotic.

So here I am, all grown up with a whole fish of my own. Talk about abundance. Anyway, I dispatched the head, fins, tail and skin, then lifted off big chunks and pulled out the bones. Not as much work as it sounds. There was quite a bit of finger licking.

We ate some of it for lunch with salad, crackers and cream cheese. And yes, it was good. But can anything ever replace the taste of childhood memory?

Maybe it was the brown paper wrapping.

Thawing out

I must have been tired from a day of non-stop cooking and eating, because I went to bed early last night and of course woke up too early this morning. Too early even for me. I listened to the rain washing away all the ice and snow (yea) but wasn't inspired to head to the mall with thousands of other people for the "early bird specials." I'll straggle off to my 8 am exercise class with the other over-eaters. Then boil down a pile of turkey bones for soup. Clean up the stove-top and the kitchen floor. Big exciting day ahead.

The snow was pretty, but good riddance. When it started to melt yesterday, I counted 12 robins on the leaf mulch looking for worms-- the poor things were hungry. The house sparrows and finches have been draining a feeder of sunflower seeds a day. And the crows are always hanging around, waiting for me to throw a stray pancake out in the yard. But I wish I knew where the robins go when it's truly cold.

I always take pictures of the garden when it snows-- I'm not sure why, since we have hundreds of photos all about the same. But the snow made cool "hats" on the bonsai plants:

And once again, a poor palm tree shivering in the snow:

A bleak frozen garden:

That will look like this again in a few months:

Meanwhile, it's been balmy in Seattle compared to eastern Washington, where Amanda and Tom have been trying to stay warm in sub-zero temperatures. Here's Nova with her dad, bundled up like the Michelin tire baby:

And who knows what the winter will bring?

Thanksgiving day

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Along with the abundance of good food today, we wish you joy and hope throughout the year-- whatever your efforts are.

Please send your thoughts and prayers to our friends Candi and Roger, who are spending several weeks in a Salt Lake City hospital while Roger undergoes a bone marrow transplant. John and I still remember the "Thanksgiving of Pies" we spent together years ago. It was the best ever! Get well Roger-- we're looking forward to laughing it up again soon, and eating too much cream pie with you and Candi.

You can follow Roger's progress on Candi's blog:
http://bonemarrowboogie.blogspot.com/

And speaking of harvests and honest labor, here's two beautiful and unusual paintings by the German artist Walter Georgi (1871 – 1924.)

Steampunks to the rescue

I had no idea what a "steampunk" was until a few weeks ago. Sometimes I'll bring home the free Seattle CityArts magazine, which then reminds us how old and uncool we've become. Anyway, the last issue had a cover story called the "Steampunk Frontier." I like a city where a lady dressed up like this one doesn't get a second glance in the grocery store. But...huh? What does it mean? Those goggles? The gloves? The long, heavy clothes?

A convention for 1700 steampunks was just held in Seattle; apparently there's a strong following here. The term "steampunk" was first used by author K.W. Jeter (b. 1950) He's written all kinds of dark science fiction for television and movies, and also wrote a sequel to H.G. Wells' story "The Time Machine" where he first used the word. Basically, steampunk is like Victorian science fiction, and they adore old hand-made technology like clock works, locomotives, pulleys and mechanical gadgets. And of course, time travel and Victorian fashions. It all sounds kind of sweet and harmless, like watching TV reruns of "The Wild, Wild, West."

Enter the Museum of History and Industry, a shrine to some of the antique technology steampunks hold dear. The 100-year old Carroll's Jewelery clock outside the front doors of MOHAI, with its golden ticking gears, is a perfect example of the movement's fetish. Last December, it was a cruel blow to the museum when thieves hacked through the casing in the dead of night and gutted the clockworks. But after the theft occurred, the local steampunks held a film festival, fancy dress ball and other events to raise the $10,000+ needed to repair the clock.

After walking by that empty case for months, it's nice to see the clock ticking away again. I will say, the new mechanical works seem to need some tweaking to keep accurate time, but that's no reflection on the generosity of the Seattle steampunk movement.

Kids, dogs and snow

Hard at play on a cold winter day.

It feels like we're living in the Yukon this morning. The wind is blowing the snow around, and our temperature is only 18 with a "high" of about 23 expected later. But Nova's little face will warm up the coldest day. Thanks Amanda for sending the sweet picture from the Methow Valley. I can just hear her saying her favorite first word: apple, apple, apple.

Some poor folks endured seven hour commutes last night, and when the freeways turned to gridlock they abandoned their cars and walked.

John was late getting home and I thought he was stuck, but it turned out he stopped at the state liquor store to pick up our annual bottle of Christmas brandy. Yes, a few weeks early-- but judging from the lines at the cash register, he said plenty of other people had the same idea. We're not used to this weather in Seattle. Almost all the schools in western Washington are closed, and everyone who can stay home will. Unless I hoof it to the grocery store that's where I'll be, since John drove Beep this morning.

And here's Dave's golden "Lucy," another happy winter face. Snow? What snow? I love this!

Bundle up, Seattle

Monday morning commute in Seattle

They were all worked up on the early news this morning, because the temperature won't go above freezing today or tomorrow. There's light snow falling and John just went off to work. I see he took his pick-up, even though I offered him my Honda for the day. Men!

Luckily I don't have to go anywhere in Little Beep this morning. Everyone complains about those "other people" who have no business driving in the snow. I'm one of them, but at least I'm smart enough to know it. Even an inch of snow is a big deal in Seattle so I'm staying home and making beef stew.

Here's a couple of autumn pictures from a website called Rosebud Archives:

Jack Frost
John Tinney McCutcheon (1870 – 1949)

Rosebud Archives sells prints, posters, framed art and other things related to vintage comics, old magazines and advertising. If you like cartoons and unusual illustration, you should check it out. Candi, you would love it.

The Hunters Moon
John Tinney McCutcheon (1870 – 1949

To market, to market

I don't mean to sound insensitive about people who are truly in need, but it's hard to understand how anyone could go hungry in this country. And in fact most Americans have the opposite problem-- we're just too fat.

Sure, prepared food and restaurant meals are expensive (for what you get) but I bought a twenty pound turkey for $6.50 yesterday. I also got a pound of Tillamook butter for $2.50 and five pounds of potatoes for 99 cents. Throw in a few cheap yams and you could have a massive dinner for about $10.

Sorry to bore you with my grocery list, but I think about this every Thanksgiving when the specials are on and food is so cheap...aren't we are lucky? Of course I helped Kroger's profit margin with a few impulse purchases, but still.

The grocery workers may strike in Seattle next week. From what I've read, I don't blame them, but this would bring havoc to holiday food shopping because most people do it at the last minute. Ha! I won't need to cross the picket lines because our enormous turkey is already defrosting in the fridge.

The wine time of day

How do babies get so smart, so fast? More than anything this week, I miss hearing Nova's little voice in the morning. First thing, she would run through all her words, and then add the new ones she learned the day before: moon, Gampa, Nana, book, happy, "neigh-neighs," and wine. Yes, wine. As Amanda and I were walking around Trader Joe's in the wine section with Nova riding on her back, she distinctly said "wine" in her baby voice when she saw all the bottles. The TJ clerk asked how does she KNOW that?
Well...she's gifted ;-)

Have a good weekend and if it's your thing, pour a nice glass to keep the chill away.

The Glass of Wine

Verneer

Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes to golden.
Autumn has come, but never fear
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear,
And fields stand deep in violets...

Theodor Storm

from, A Song in October

Bacchus
Caravaggio

Rain, wind and snow?

This big mess is the bottom of the fig tree. From year to year, I forget how dismal November can be, but maybe that's a good thing. It's too early to get excited about Christmas, although the stores are sure trying hard. There is the distraction of a nice food holiday next week, then the neighborhood lights come out to get us through dark December. After that, the first signs of spring arrive in Seattle late January, just when winter is getting started in other parts of the country. Lucky us.

Yesterday was a good day to do important things inside, like figure out why my crocheted granny squares always turn out round at the corners instead of perfectly square. Well, life wasn't quite that boring-- I finished my latest museum project, made Thanksgiving lists, did assorted housework, laundry, shopping and cooking. But at exercise class this morning, the retired people were taking about their trips to Hawaii, Mexico, Arizona and such. I tried not to listen.

Meanwhile the wind came up, the rain fell hard in the lowlands and snow piled up by the foot in the mountains. The furnace ran all day. If I'm completely honest with myself, there are days when I don't miss going out to a cold wet barn to take care of a horse. By sunset at 4:30 there was a peek of clearing sky off the the west, meaning a chilly night ahead.

Thursday	Friday	Saturday	Sunday	Monday
45° F | 36° F	43° F | 36° F	43° F | 31° F	40° F | 29° F	36° F | 25° F
Rain Showers 70% chance of precipitation	Rain Showers 70% chance of precipitation	Chance of Rain 50% chance of precipitation	Chance of Rain 50% chance of precipitation	Chance of Snow 50% chance of precipitation

Pomegranates

Last year, my sister Marji mentioned she had pomegranates growing in her Las Vegas backyard. Sure you do, I said. And so she promptly mailed me a box of them, to prove she was right. In case there was any doubt remaining, she sent us more this fall. Of course I'm happy about it-- we like pomegranates and they're expensive at the grocery store.

I don't know why I found it surprising they grow well in suburban Las Vegas. It is a desert after all, with an Iranian climate: scorching hot summers and short, mild, dry winters. Wikipedia says they've been grown in the middle east for thousands of years, and were introduced into California by Spanish settlers in about 1769, along with many other fruits we now think of as American.

Iran is probably the land of pomegranates, and 760 species are shown at the Iranian National Pomegranate Collection in Yazd. That is a sight I'll never see, but it's interesting to think about.

Making healthful juice at a street stand

The only down-side to pomegranates is it's messy and tedious to open them. First you score it with a knife and break it open. (Get out the Spray n' Wash, because you'll be splashed generously with red juice.) The white seed casings are called arils, and with effort these separate from the peel. The little seedy fruits are held in fussy membranes.

If you have a white kitchen like me, it won't be white for long. I once read in a magazine you should pull them apart in a deep bowl of water, because the seeds sink, the white pulp floats, and the juice stays in the water.

Then it's an easy matter to skim the membrane and drain the seeds through a colander.
They're tasty plain or mixed with other fruit, but I like them best sprinkled on green salad. They have a sweet crunch that's good with a citrus vinaigrette dressing.

Thanks, Marji!

A sad, sad fig

John said I should take a picture of our fig tree, and I guess it is beautiful in a droopy sort of way. But it's not the Garden of Eden around here in November, and soon I'll have soggy raking because it will drop the leaves and (inedible) green figs all at once. Yesterday afternoon a storm came in and the wind blew through Seattle like a hurricane. It's still pitch dark, but when I look out this morning I expect the leaves will be down.

Here's a wonderful little poem John found in the NYT last weekend:

Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends, into a rich mash
in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don't say
it's easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

Mary Oliver
author of "Swan: Poems and Prose Poems"

A concert of contrasts

Prokofiev looking "baleful"
c. 1918

Yesterday afternoon at the symphony we heard Prokofiev's Third Symphony and Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto, played by pianist Stephen Hough. Click here to read to Hough's personal blog entry about his visit to Seattle. He likes Seattle (who doesn't?) and wrote about his plan to walk from his hotel to Benaroya Hall for his performances. When we were parking the car, John spotted him on Union street headed for the concert hall. He had on red gloves on to protect his beautiful hands and was carrying an umbrella. Just an ordinary man, walking down the street. Who would have guessed he is an internationally famous concert pianist? Such is "celebrity" in the classical music world-- any silly starlet would have an entourage of fifty.

A local reviewer wrote in the newspaper that the popular Tchaikovsky piano concerto was the audience's reward for sitting through the baleful and turgid Prokofiev Third Symphony. Other words he used to describe poor Prokofiev's music were vehement, hysterical, muddy, and sheer unrestrained violence. Also rebarbative. Well, he made up that word. But baleful we should use more often. It means: something that is menacing or foreshadows evil. As in, a baleful look.

But soon it was over, and Hough was on the stage. I've never been to a performance of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto when the audience didn't jump up at the end for a standing ovation. In Seattle, they usually they clap after the first movement, too. Everyone loves it and the melodies are so familiar.

The picture above is the guest conductor Pablo Heras-Casado. He was born in 1977, if you can imagine conducting a major symphony orchestra at his tender age. We sit in the 4th row and have a good view of the stage, conductor, and soloists.

It was a nice afternoon, marred only by the automated parking machine that charged John $9.58 and refused to give him a receipt. It was one of those November days where it feels like a gray, cold blanket is wrapped around Seattle. You couldn't even see across Elliot Bay. Goodness, it felt good to get safely home through the murk, open the wine and eat pasta and meatballs for dinner.

Hamburger buns

Red Star "quick rise" yeast is great. I made a double batch of Betty Crocker recipe bread last week and the dough rose in record time. Of course, the whole point of baking bread is not to be in a hurry-- but I think the quick rise also gives better volume, and I had this fluffy bowl of dough in about an hour.

So much dough! But I divide it up and make small loaves for the freezer.
Back to hamburger buns. Making a good burger is the easy part on the grill or in a cast iron frying pan, but a good bun is another story. Even those expensive "premium" hamburger buns are too spongy and don't hold up to a homemade burger. A hamburger bun should be soft, but not that soft. And gnawing through a hard, crusty roll isn't any better.

So, I try and remember to shape a few sandwich rolls when I made white bread. I learned through trial and error to form them almost flat before the last rise. After baking, they'll have enough height to cut, but not be too thick to get your mouth around :-)

After they rise, just bake them on a cookie sheet along with the loaves.

Here they are-- golden brown and ready to slice in half.

Now, the hamburger. You can't go wrong with a skillet and fried onions on a dark fall night.

Toast the bun, a little ketchup and mustard...

And you have a bun that is tender and yeasty, but won't fall apart or squish flat in your hands. With baked beans and a few potato chips, we polished them off in a hurry.