Monthly Archives:

October 2015

The Eve of All Hallows

It’s said that All Hallows’ Eve is one of the nights when the veil between the worlds is thin – and whether you believe in such things or not, those roaming spirits probably believe in you, or at least acknowledge your existence, considering that it used to be their own. Even the air feels different on Halloween, autumn-crisp and bright. ~ Erin Morgenstern

It began with a trek across the street to one of our favorite neighbors, the traditional first stop in our Halloween trick-or-treating adventure. Each year they took the time to turn lollipops into ghosts – each Charms Blowpop or Dums sucker was wrapped in a tissue, then dotted with two black eyes and strangled with a ribbon. In the summer, they had a magnificent rose garden, which I’d visit on my own. As the first stop on Halloween, it was always the most memorable, before the houses began to bleed into one another, and darkness blunted the sharpness of my memory back then. Our Mom would talk with the neighbors for a bit while we got antsy and eagerly made motions to continue on our candy-toting way.

We walked up Pershing Road, not yet minding whatever get-up we had got-up in – plastic masks or blinding hoods be damned. Shuffling along from house to house, it was less about the candy for me and more about the fun. Peering into the lives of other people in our neighborhood, if only for the briefest of looks and portals, satisfied my voyeuristic nature, while the drama of walking along fall roads as evening descended appealed to my soap-opera-like yearning for measured danger.

The candy was a nice bonus, but there were years when I took a few pieces, hid it away in a desk drawer, and forgot about it for months on end. For that one night, my brother and I were bandits in the night, as my Mom or Dad walked a little ways behind us, and that mattered to me more than a sackful of sugar.

Continue reading ...

Halloween, or My Day Off – Part II

“I think if human beings had genuine courage, they’d wear their costumes every day of the year, not just on Halloween. Wouldn’t life be more interesting that way? And now that I think about it, why the heck don’t they? Who made the rule that everybody has to dress like sheep 364 days of the year? Think of all the people you’d meet if they were in costume every day. People would be so much easier to talk to – like talking to dogs. ” ~ Douglas Coupland

Continue reading ...

Halloween, or My Day Off – Part I

When you dress in relatively outrageous attire on a regular basis, a day like Halloween is like a breather. It’s a bit of a relief to see everyone else finally put as much care and concern into making an impression as I try to do on a daily basis. For that reason, I usually sit Halloween out – or if I do go to a party or event, I tend to be considerably subtle about it. (A hooded cape is the most you’ll usually get out of me.)

For those who want a bit more, here’s a sampling of what I wear throughout the year. These are various get-ups for holiday cards, grocery shopping, work, and the day-to-day hum-drum existence of a casual blogger. This is why I’ll be in sweats and a t-shirt today.

PS – Don’t even think about ringing my doorbell.

Continue reading ...

The Turning

Only vaguely do I remember reading ‘The Turn of the Screw’ in one of my college courses. Henry James did very little for  me. Sometimes emotional constipation can’t help but seep into a writer’s work (surely this blog has been in need of an enema more often than not) and while it makes for an interesting tension, it’s a tension that I’d rather do without. Still, he knows how to build suspense, and on this eve of Halloween, that is wonderfully apt.

“It may be, of course, above all, that what suddenly broke into this gives the previous time a charm of stillness—that hush in which something gathers or crouches. The change was actually like the spring of a beast.” ― Henry James

“I could only get on at all by taking “nature” into my confidence and my account, by treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course, and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair front, only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue.” 
― Henry James

“Of course I was under the spell, and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was. But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and I had more pains than one.” 
― Henry James

“I take up my own pen again – the pen of all my old unforgettable efforts and sacred struggles. To myself – today – I need say no more. Large and full and high the future still opens. It is now indeed that I may do the work of my life. And I will.” 
― Henry James

Continue reading ...

DO NOT FEED OR ATTEMPT TO RESCUE

Here’s a warning I really did not need:

“Please do not FEED or otherwise attempt to rescue my CHILD.”

Is this the most disturbing thing you’ve seen today? I’d rather a real child was in danger than see this atrocity. I will not sleep well tonight, or ever. Previously, only bunnies gave me pause. Now I have to reassess my view on clowns. Thanks Obama.

Continue reading ...

The Burning of Fall

Burning leaves carried on the wind, the smell of smoke both a warning and a comfort. The dry words of Henry James, a most-dissatisfied writer by many accounts, were recalled to my mind. ‘The Turn of the Screw’ and its haunting mind-fuck of a tale somehow became part of the day. A brittle walk into November, over a carpet of dry moss and dead leaves, not usually a thing of dread, suddenly turned darker. That gray light of mid-fall, muffled and dim and sad enough to suck the joy out of the brightest countenances (of which mine is certainly not one) descended as the day advanced.

Shadows deepened and the birds grew quieter. The bustling of the chipmunks and squirrels died away, the fear of the nocturnal hunters had set them into hiding.

Goblins appeared in the gnarled trunks of trees that had seen more years than I had. Exposed roots, like the knuckles of ghouls, grasped the ground and sought something more – escape or surer-footing perhaps. The forest casts a strange spell in the fall.

A stand of ferns had turned a ghostly pale yellow. They would fade and fade until they disappeared completely. In the woods, in the fall, that sort of thing happened. They went missing. One day a toadstool was resplendent in speckled salmon, the next it was gone. Torn from its foothold by some hungry marauder or felled by a hard frost, it was impossible to tell – it simply ceased to be where it once was. Holding onto a space in the forest, no matter how small, is tenuous stuff. Even the most ferocious raptor can be pierced by a bullet. That cuts both ways, though, and the forest takes back hunters and wanderers- the trespassers and the lost – with equal recklessness.

A fallen apple, like fallen grace, stilled in momentary beauty, would soon rot, and all the world around it would crumble too. The winter loomed ahead.

Continue reading ...

Fallen Leaves, Fallen Countenance

For many years, fall was the season of doomed romances for me. They blossomed, mostly in my head, from the simplest and smallest of gestures, then grew – fed by desperation, an insatiable need for love, and a desire for companionship – before erupting in raging flame, burning those closest to me, singeing those in furthest proximity. Like the season itself, their beginnings were beautiful and kind, cozy and warm, but they soon turned cold and bare, empty and barren, as hollow and destitute as a faded, rotten jack-o-lantern.

When I was very young, long before I knew the heartbreaks that would unfold for me, I used to walk in the forest in the fall. The smell of leaves – still fresh, not quite wet with decay or rot – was invigorating, the crunch of them, enmeshed with coppery-hued pine needles, a happy accompaniment to a solitary journey. Dappled sunlight, brilliantly illuminating the flaming tree leaves still held aloft, lent the woods a lighter feeling than the dim green of deep summer.

That false lightness, however, is deceptive. When the fall day turns, sooner than it does in summer, the forest changes. It happens quicker than you expect, too, falling with sudden grace, but not quickly enough for you to notice right away. It’s a more insidious way of lowering the shades – not enough to eradicate the light, not until it’s too late.

This is when the ghosts of Hester Prynne and the Headless Horseman come to my mind. The breaking of a twig, the rustling of leaves, and any change in the wind signals danger. Fall adds the impending weight of winter to any load, no matter how far off it may be.

Continue reading ...

Fall Bye OGT

Our time in Ogunquit was over much too quickly, as is always the case, but the end of the fall trip is always the sadder of our two departures. In spring, there is the promise of a return at the close of the season, along with the whole of summer in-between. In fall, there is nothing but the long trudge to and through winter to which we can look ahead. That’s trying enough with the lengthy half-year time period until we meet the Maine shore again, made doubly so by the wretched weather that will occupy much of that stretch. Still, there is beauty in a goodbye, no matter how sad it might be.

There is also beauty in a New England fall, as seen in the accompanying photographs here. While I’ve never been a fan of chrysanthemums for my own yard or garden, I do enjoy seeing the rainbow of colors being produced by hybridizers these days. The dahlias are another highlight that I have yet to grow in my garden – they will go like fireworks until the harder frosts strike them down. It would be too heartbreaking to see a show like that felled by the onslaught of freezing temperatures, but in other gardens I can admire and appreciate them without having to witness their demise.

Throughout it all, there will be gourds and winter squash, heaped upon one another in piles of textured, colorful flesh that hides the kind of goodness that lies in wait to be roasted. Along with soups, roasted winter vegetables will be filling our toasty kitchen this fall, the kind of cozy comfort food that warms the home and the soul. It makes departing Maine only slightly more bearable. We will return… with the spring.

Continue reading ...

Ogunquit Haiku

Along the Marginal Way, the breeze is biting but the sun is warm. We walk along this well-traversed stretch of shoreline, pausing to admire the rocky coastline, waiting to absorb the beauty of the day. A couple of seagulls fly overhead, while other water birds float in the distance. On the sea, shards of sunlight bounce off the tips of waves – the effect is of some sparkling blanket, undulating in the darkest of blues.

There is a sense of grounding whenever I find myself on the crux of land and ocean, and upon planting my feet and feeling the power of the place, I look up into the sky and beam at the soaring of the gulls.

In the midst of our annual fall trip here, our Marginal Way walk, en route to lunch in Perkins Cove, is a calm highlight in a long weekend of calming moments. If you stand there for a while, listening to the waves lull with their lullaby-like dirge, you will feel the spell the sea casts on all who pause to hear it. It’s a spell that the land echoes, with its rocky soil that affords only the hardiest of roses a foothold to unfurl their rugged beauty. Even at this late stage of the season, a few Rosa rugosa blooms manage to perfume the salty air.

By the time we round the juniper-shaded corner to Perkins Cove, my stomach is ready for a warm bowl of chowder, and maybe a fish fry. The cove is quiet today, the water relatively still, mirroring the sky and begging for a haiku.

Indigo ocean

beneath playful sky hosting

non-threatening clouds.

Continue reading ...

Ogunquit Riches

Some people think spring is where you’ll get a riot of color, but when it comes to richness of shades, I’ve always known that autumn brings saturation like you’ve never seen in the early cool days of the growing season. It’s as if the removal of such direct sunlight allows colors to develop more fully, with far less fading. Flowers just glow more brilliantly at this time of the year. Here, a few of the floral sights in Ogunquit in the golden hour of the gardening calendar. I find them just as striking as the first blooms of spring.

Continue reading ...

Whimsical OGT

The quick, photo-heavy posts of our latest jaunt to Ogunquit begin here, with some lovely shots of one of my favorite stores in that fair town: Spoiled Rotten. It’s one of those neat retail establishments that comprise almost an entire house, where tiny rooms open onto others, creating a jewel-box-like enchantment that is matched only by the exquisiteness of the gifts on display. The entry way opens immediately to a stair-case that leads to rooms filled with candles and kitchen accoutrements, artistic works in glass and ceramic, stationary, potpourri, colorful quilted bags, and all sorts of gorgeous wreckage that collectively casts a most pleasant spell.

For someone’s who’s done his retail time, the mere thought of doing an inventory in such a packed place both exhausts and impresses me. Godspeed, good people. In the meantime, the rest of us will reap beautiful enjoyment from the sights, scents, and sounds on the scene.

The locality plays a major role in the items and merchandise on display, and much of it ties into Ogunquit or Maine, or the sultry seasonal fare of New England. To that end, something is always changing and evolving in the store, and every time we visit there are new delights to be discovered.

Echoes of the sea, refractions of the light, and every conceivable charm of the season find expression here.

From the outside porch that spills over with gourds and squash and fall amusement, to the innermost room that hides the most gorgeous velvet pumpkin, Spoiled Rotten glimmers with the whimsical rustic charm that marks the best of Ogunquit.

Continue reading ...

The Last Recap of October?

When next we recap things, it will be November. If that’s not enough to set a chill into your time-stopping hearts, I don’t know what is. Where did the days go? Where did the time fly? Where was I in the last five days? Let’s re-examine what went on here.

It was a week of Hunk requests, and Roman Reigns reigned as the week’s first Hunk of the Day.

Some of us celebrated Andy’s birthday (I gave him the gift of time – in an hourglass).

The Liberal Party swept through Canada, riding on the sexy coat-tails of newly-elected Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. Everyone keeps saying that he is the sexiest PM, but I have ask: what exactly is the competition? I mean, can anyone name one other sexy PM?

Sex. Just Sex. (Ok, and Erotica.)

Requested Hunks like Tyler Posey make me feel old.

Knee-deep into fall, the turn has been made. The past is in the past.

Austin Armacost had his second crowning as Hunk of the Day.

Never one to let another guy get all the ass-glory, David Beckham put his best bottom forward.

But when it comes to banging butts, the edge has got to go to Kayne Lawton. Sorry David.

Hotel primping.

I’ve already declared this The Year of the Soup.

Soup it up, baby. We have a long road ahead, and we need all the inner-warmth we can find.

Another request for a Hunk was honored in the appearance of Teddy Sears as Hunk of the Day.

Coming up this week is a quick recap of our latest Ogunquit jaunt, and a few other surprises for the Halloween season… until then, one more shot of Kayne Lawton.

Continue reading ...

A Very Savory Soup

My newly-kindled love affair with soup is in full-effect with this entry. I’ve declared my obsession with Lidia Bastianich from the Create Public Television station (don’t get me started on one man’s unhealthy fixation on JoAnn Weir) and one of her Italian cookbooks features a section on soups that has transfigured the entire notion of that liquid love.

Most of my former issues with soup revolved around the idea of it being rather insubstantial starter fluid, light of heft and lacking in anything fully filling. An ill-fated cabbage soup – made mostly of water and cabbage, and devoid of flavor or broth – did nothing to help my disdain for the dish. Yet there are ways to bulk up any watery concoction – from the simple amendments of noodles or rice, or more decadent additions of coconut milk or cream. When all else fails in thickening up a big pot of the stuff, simply boil it down for an hour or two – even the clearest of liquids will eventually condense into flavorful richness. Oh, and when even that doesn’t managed to turn it something good, drop in a few bay leaves – the greatest secret of many a cook.

Lidia suggests the making of a big batch of vegetable broth base, from which you can create virtually any kind of soup. Still holding onto a few strong threads of doubt as to how flavorful a soup could be made from water, potatoes, celery and carrots (not even an onion or clove of garlic!) – I forged ahead and did as instructed.

The most difficult part of this is the peeling and cubing of two pounds of potatoes – but this is the work that keeps one occupied on a cold day, the mundane routine of the kitchen that, when coupled with music and a glass of red wine, can turn into something wondrous instead of woeful. It’s the cozy preparation that lays the groundwork for a spectacular bowl of goodness that will warm the oncoming night. I’m getting ahead of myself. First, the recipe, from ‘Lidia’s Family Table’:

SAVORY POTATO BROTH

Ingredients:

  • -        ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
  • -        2 ½ pounds russet potatoes, peeled and diced into ½ inch cubes (approx. 6 cups)
  • -        2 teaspoons salt
  • -        2 stalks celery, finely chopped (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        2 medium carrots, peeled and grated (about 1 ½ cups)
  • -        3 tablespoons tomato paste
  • -        4 quarts water, heated to boiling
  • -        3 bay leaves
  • -        1 or 2 pieces outer rind of Parmigiano-Reggiano or Grana Padano cheese

Preparation:

In large cooking pot, heat oil to medium-hot, but not to the point of smoking. Add potatoes, sprinkle on 1 teaspoon of salt, and toss in oil. Cook until lightly crusted and caramelized (about 6 minutes). Lower heat to prevent burning, and stir so they don’t stick. As potatoes start to leave a crust at bottom of pan, add celery and carrots. Stir well, scrape up any potato crust, and raise heat until vegetables are hot and steaming. Push aside to clear a hot spot in center of pan and drop in tomato paste, cooking it a bit before integrating it into the vegetables.

Pour heated water into pan, drop in bay leaves and cheese rind, grind 1/2 teaspoon black pepper, add salt, and stir well. Cover pot and bring to a soft but steady boil for an hour, stirring occasionally.

Uncover pot and cook for another hour or so, still at low bubbling boil, until it has reduced to 4 quarts.

After an hour, remove the bay leaves and let cool. Divide as you wish, or use as a simple soup on its own. Oddly enough, I didn’t happen to have the outer rind of a big-ass block of cheese lying around, so I omitted it – though I can see how that would add another layer of richness to the affair, and may find a smaller piece in the future for just such a purpose.

This is the savory vegetable broth base from which I made two variations on a couple of Lidia’s recipes: a parsnip and fennel soup, and a bok choy and scallion soup. Basically I chopped up the additional ingredients and boiled them for 45 more minutes or so. The russet potatoes somehow remained solid enough and didn’t fall apart – not sure if this was due to the initial cooking in oil part, but whatever the reason, it’s a happy one.

Though it’s a simple recipe, it does take time – but that’s cooking time, not active preparation and work time, so once it begins you can sit around writing silly blog posts while the heat works its magic. You can also speed things along by upping the heat and boiling factor, but the slow nature of the cooking process is, for me, part of its cathartic empowerment. One of the best lessons of all is to be found in the making of soup: patience.

Continue reading ...

Of Soups & Stews

One of the few saving graces of the arrival of the colder seasons is the opportunity for comfort foods. The downturn in temperature practically demands it, and it’s the one instance where I’m happy to oblige. This is the time of the year when I enjoy cooking. It’s cozy to be in a kitchen warmed by simmering stews and soups or a tray of winter vegetables roasting in the oven. I’ll attempt a chicken at some point in the coming months, but for now it’s just soup, as evidenced by the feature photo.

This one is a bowl of Won Ton soup, procured at a Malaysian restaurant in Chinatown. Suzie and I ducked in just before closing time on a late September evening a little before midnight. The winds were starting to bite, and we were only about half-way back to the condo, so we took refuge in the almost-empty restaurant. A novice to the Asian noodle scene, I vowed to make this the fall and winter in which I sustain myself with their heat-miser magnificence. I chose one of the first soup entries on the menu – something with pork dumplings and scallions that sounded plain enough to enjoy as an entry-way to more extreme bowls down the line. It was amazing.

The broth was light but flavorful, and the pouches of pork dumplings were like pungent little pillows, providing their spicy protein in puffs of perfectly-puckered pulchritude. Scattered with scallions, the soup was layered with several levels of flavor, even as the main broth was relatively clear. The noodles were just the right amount to sustain without overfilling, and substantial enough to be more than satisfying for a full meal. Up until recently, I’ve always considered soup to be s starter or an accent, not the main course, but I’ve changed my mind. With noodles and/or rice, a soup can be a hefty dinner unto itself, and this fall I’m making it a staple dish in the seasonal repertoire. Stay tuned for more soup tales…

Continue reading ...

Hotel Primping

A bottle of Byredo Parfums stands sentry on the vanity.

A white robe hangs on the wall, white towels litter the tile floor.

A soapy mist, cut by a bit of cologne, peeks out of the bathroom.

This is the art of getting ready, a significant moment in time that many of us too quickly discard. For me, it is everything. All the hope and possibility of the evening is there in that jewel of time. It is always better than anything can ever truly be, and I’ve always prized it for precisely that reason.

While on tour, these are the moments that matter. The in-between magic that happens in hotel rooms, the preparation for a night on the town, the act of dressing up for an event – all of it is imbued with something extra, some additional sprinkling of fairy dust that lends it a sparkle I miss when not on tour.

The simple act of taking a shower – so mundane and commonplace – can be made into an indulgent act of pampering when given the proper respect and attention to detail. (Granted, an extravagant hotel suite helps, but how often do any of us get to experience that?) It’s far better to bring something special into a daily way of life – the happiness and joy spilling into otherwise routine behavior – than to reserve it solely for those rare occasions.

Then, in the mirror, a sudden contemplative flash of self-examination in the midst of the conjuring of glamour. Bereft of any sartorial armor, save a towel or pair of underwear, there is no hiding from yourself. How many times do we look at ourselves in the mirror and truly see the person staring back? We study the lines, the wrinkles, and the gray hair, and we pick apart our faults and flaws and fuck-ups.

We then do our best to hide them, whether that’s literally covering up in a flashy jacket or simply accentuating our strengths. How much of our lives are spent in such masks? How many minutes and hours have we devoted to such preparation? How much have we loved it? 

Continue reading ...