A grain and gluten free pastry that tastes delicious? Sounds like the stuff of dreams, but it turns out it’s the stuff of Ballston Spa, where The Sweetish Chef is offering some of the most delicious baked goods I’ve had in the area. If you hadn’t told me about the grain and gluten aspect, I’d have no idea – their stuff is that good regardless of the bonus healthy ingredients.
While I was on a recent trip to see my brother’s shop, a few doors down on Front Street was this cafe that advertised Keto and healthier pastry options, and when my brother later recommended it, I swung back and gave it a try. A sign on the wall gave the definition for the Swedish word fika: a social tradition and a break from the day to enjoy a hot drink, like coffee or tea, along with a treat such as a pastry or cookie. This sounded like a good theme for the rest of my life, and it seemed the happiest place to begin was somewhere between a cinnamon roll and a substantial piece of coffeecake.
Unable to decide between the two, I ultimately decided on both – devouring the cinnamon roll there and then, saving the coffeecake for home – and the plate seen here for being fancy. Grain free, sugar free, and low-carb – and somehow this I one of the most delicious coffeecakes I’ve had in years. Looks like I shall be returning to Ballston Spa more frequently…
My brother’s brick and mortar shop – Dead Wood Field & Furniture – just re-opened this past summer, and with Ballston Spa’s Farmer’s Market making a lovely splash right across the street on Saturday mornings, this is an ideal time to visit the handsome space. With a majestic wall of exposed brick and gorgeously ornamented high ceilings, the place is a chill location to hang and get ideas, with a comfy leather couch in the back, calming incense wafting through the air, and a turntable in constant rotation.
My brother’s rustic taste and keen eye for wooden accents imbues the space with a cozy and welcoming feel, the sort of thing one might find in a Restoration Hardware catalog without the insane price points and bourgeois pretense.
You can order a custom furniture piece to fit your space or lifestyle, and the storefront is an excellent place to find inspiration and ideas for how to create a similar look and feel for your place.
Swirling in silk scarves, wisps of perfumed hair, and curls of incense, the witch arranged the accoutrements of the evening. It felt good to have the nights cool again, the wind against a downy nape, the wind lifting a woolen cape. This is the fun part of fall – the cool anticipation, the first relief – by the end we’ll have hardened ourselves off to the cold, resigned and reconditioned to the numb about to come. For now, it’s exciting and dramatic, a turn from the carefree summer, a stinging bit of sweet poison that goes too easily down the throat.
Now here I go again I see the crystal visions I keep my visions to myself It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams And have you any dreams you’d like to sell? Dreams of loneliness
Thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know Oh, thunder only happens when it’s rainin’ Players only love you when they’re playin’ Say women, they will come and they will go When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know You’ll know You will know Oh, you’ll know
All fall magicks and enchantments, all mysterious Oud and intoxicating incense, all smoke and mirrors and silken scarves slipping so seductively around the neck, so soft and soothing you don’t notice the tightening cords as they so smoothly strangle the life from a soul so tired from summer.
Is it too soon for Christmas decorations? Of course it is, but if that’s what you need to get through the rest of this year, have at it. We need to stop stealing joy from others just because it differs from ours.
If I could make a wish I think I’d pass Can’t think of anythin’ I need No cigarettes, no sleep, no light, no sound Nothing to eat, no books to read
A cafe haunt provides the background atmosphere for the birth of a new project – one forged in the fall, when inspiration is high – when it’s been so low this feels especially powerful. I haven’t done a proper project since 2019 – and when you think of all the absolutely bat-shit crazy insanity that’s transpired since 2019, I have no idea what sort of creative dam is about to bust the fuck open, but stand back Buenos Aires or you’re gonna get something on you.
Peace came upon me And it leaves me weak So sleep, silent angel Go to sleep
It’s been such a long time since I worked on a project, and I’m only just beginning to put things together for the next one. Taking it as slow as I want, without any anticipated end date, I intend to enjoy these creative moments, to open myself up to the whims of the muses and the universe – they have always whispered and tapped me on the shoulder when I’m supposed to heed something.
Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe And to love you All I need is the air that I breathe Yes, to love you All I need is the air that I breathe
A fashion show sung by the great Celine Dion is a celebration of all that is cheesy, wrong, and doomed with the world – but Mr. Oud cannot be bothered with geopolitical commentary; for all his supposed vanity and self-glorification, he knows he is at heart an insignificant creature in the grand scheme of things. If you find this hard to believe, perhaps your view of your own importance is slightly askew too. That’s not a criticism, just an opportunity to examine, set to a dramatic version of ‘I’m Alive’ at a time when some of us are easing into middle-age without a lot of inspiration.
Mr. Oud moves too swiftly to be stifled by such contemplation. Quicksilver and lightning, golden handcuffs tightening, and a dark sky finally brightening, Mr. Oud flies between dusk and dawn. Pin pricks of sequined sparkle form constellations across a firmament of night. Celine knows sequins. Mr. Oud knows how to sparkle. Both know the power of a song.
I love how much deeper the colors of the blooms that come this late in the gardening year become. Partly due to the lower light in the sky – a light that burns with more focused intensity due to its dwindling potency – and partly due to its more precarious rate of survival – any frosty night could swiftly end the spell – the color switch may be in my head, but its beauty is no less for that.
Here is a pink ‘Endless Summer’ hydrangea bloom, just coming into its own while its brethren have long since dried and withered away. A toast to such resilience.
After fifty fucking years I’m dead-ass exhausted of mustering main character energy to carry this fucking show. Somebody else needs to take the wheel, and don’t dress like it doesn’t matter.
When dealing with an invasive vine like bittersweet, show no mercy. At this point, there is more of this plant than anyone wants, so if you want to harvest its fruit for decoration, have at it. The trick and key is to pick your stems while the berries are golden but fully intact and not yet open – once cut, they will open up fully indoors. If you pick them after they’ve opened, and already sowing their bright orange guts, it’s too late, and they will shed all their golden shells everywhere, making an annoying mess.
When you’re saddled with an annoying vine that is sucking the life out of more delicate native plants, be ruthless, but try to harness the beauty if you can. (Get it from the roots after you get it from the top.)
Today marks the first super moon of the year – usually the Hunter’s Moon but this time it’s the Harvest Moon – and this Virgo will attempt to lay low while embracing and harnessing whatever positive energy may be released. At times of tumultuous astrological events, it’s usually best to go with the flow rather than fight or resist the chaos. Framing the day in that light is generally a good way to deal with whatever disruptions erupt. Expectation leads manifestation, whether we realize it or not.
At this point in the year, every swim could be the last swim, so I celebrate each one with that in mind. Looking at the next few days of weather, it is quite likely that yesterday marked that final swim of the season, and while my body laughed at the idea of skinny-dipping (skinny?!) I went ahead and doffed my pesky clothes for one last pool dunk. Summer lives in the heart – and yesterday it lived in the sun and warmth – on with the weekly blog recap because technically it’s already fall…
A door to a memory corridor has opened. Allowing in just a little light, it is enough to navigate the first few feet of space, the first few memories. Dusty and musty, with cobwebs to tickle the ears, the place is dim, but if I concentrate enough and focus, I can find my way along the darkened hall, reaching portals to more distinct memory planes. Excavating such passages is sometimes dangerous work ~ there is something to be said for leaving things in the past. How does the saying go? When you dig up the past, all you get is dirty…
Twisted all my limbs for you Two of them in knots and two of them in loops Ribbons tied around like a noose Wonder if I’ll ever get it loose
Sometimes one needs to get down in the dirt, to play with the past so as to make sense of present predicaments. This is the year for nostalgia too, as we celebrate milestone birthdays and anniversaries, including the 30th anniversary of when I found the Boston condo and convinced my parents to invest in it (which turned into the most lucrative investment of their lives). Fall brings Boston back to mind, and with it countless memories of decades ago, when living there alone made a warrior out of me.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
Being a single gay guy in Boston in the 90’s was very different from what it must be like today. There were no social media or online hookup apps, so connecting with other gay men on the prowl was a game of hunting and gathering, with the high-stakes pay-off of not having to spend a night on your own. Back then the only way we had to connect was to pick up on a knowing glance, a look held just a little longer than normal, a smile and the crinkle of a kind pair of eyes. A dance of desire would ensue, usually ending up in someone’s apartment, an awkward introduction and quick dismissal of roommates, and the frantic frenzy of a desperate act of sex in the search for love. I wish I’d known then that sometimes the chase and the sexual act were a means and an end all of their own.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held Out a gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, oh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
Twisting all my bones like screws Stretching my self-worth, just like you usually do Caught you like the cold or a flu Praying that I’ll someday be immune
Got me like a bad tattoo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Always under skin, even when it gets removed (ooh) Never get a chance to undo (ooh-ooh-ooh) Positions that you forced my way into (ooh)
On rare occasions I did understand this, and on those evenings I could let down my persistent guard, give in to the sheer abandon of the night, and indulge in a primal release that would rival the tentative steps to love I was usually so careful to make. The body would give in to its pleasure, sensations falling around us like the petals of a peony that let go all at once ~ a cascade of orgiastic ecstasy, sending ripples deeper and deeper into the night. Come the morning, the only danger was in risking an emotional connection by sharing something raw and tender, something easily prevented by a hasty exit and utterances of empty promise.
Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (pushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (lovin’ me) Blood is pumping, blood is pumping (pullin’ me) Feeling nothing, feeling nothing (fuckin’ me) Bones are crushing, bones are crushing (crushin’ me) Bodies touching, bodies touching (touchin’ me)
More often I was alone then, it being against my nature to be forward enough to invite anyone over with any regularity. I’d twist my internal justifications around in my head, contorting my feelings into something manageable, and almost convincing myself that it didn’t matter. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely, and I determined and insisted that I was only indulging in the former. To admit loneliness would have been to admit defeat. Ever the contortionist, even then, the mind led the body, and the body followed – undefeated.
I’m done, I’m done, done doin’ back bends, I break and I snap It’s no fun, no fun, pushed myself into a box while you held out A gun, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah I’m done, I’m done, ooh-ah, ha-ha, ha, ha, ha-ah
