My St Patrick's Day Included:
-a bagpipe moshpit
-obligatory green shamrock facepaint
-The 12 Toasts of Ireland, a rousing carol composed late in the evening/early in the morning, consisting of 12 verses. Unfortunately I can only remember the last: "-aand Irish Sea Shantyssss!"
In retrospect it would have been much better if March 17th did not fall on a Wednesday this year.
It is the homestretch of midterms and recital prep before spring break, and I am so glad. I don't really have time to write this right now, but I can't look at ANOVA tables anymore, so here we are. I've been working on my statistics projects all week, and the "F" statistic (the variance distribution of the ratio of treatment error over mean square error) has taken on a new meaning for me. I'm heading back to Kentucky over spring break, and I am relieved. Nothing sounds better to me right now than accidentally cleaning my paint brush in Earl Grey, falling asleep under the old oak with a novel in my lap, pickin till it's time for breakfast, and dancing blisters into the bottoms my feet.
Even with the mid-semester press, my friends are making sure I get out of the library and live when I can. I've never been more grateful for their encouragement than I was yesterday. The evening began at the ever-classy Quick and Delicious (a town diner that is exactly as charming as it sounds) with a "plate o taters," and ended in a red dress and low dip to the crooning of Nina Simone. This morning I fell asleep grinning after a night of shuffling/twirling/dipping/spinning/laughing at the blues and swing dances. My calves ache, I literally danced through the bottom of my stockings, and it felt great! I'm going to count both of these as marks of a successful night.
(Obies take note, there's more dancing to come: tonight (Saturday) at 8:30 Wilder Main for swing dancing, then from midnight to 2 at the Cat for blues )
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Dancing About Architecture, and Recipes
"Talking about Jazz is like dancing about architecture."
-Thelonius Monk
I'm going to try anyways.
Mingus said something interesting about soloing, and how it's like a conversation. He said 'you don't walk into a room and say "AHHHHHH!" You say "hello."'
Hello.
What do you say after that?
Three things scare the hell out of me right now. No, four. Well...ok anyways, some things scare me, and one of them is taking an improvised solo in front of people who know something about music. Until now I never considered it a disadvantage that nearly everyone at Oberlin knows "something" about music. Put another way, the house that I usually jam in is home to jazz majors. They have studied, played, and transcribed just about everybody, including Mingus. While friendly, they are extremely intimidating.
Look, Ma, I'm jumping in the pool with no floaties! I think I'll dog paddle for awhile. But there's big kids in here!
(Mom wouldn't say it exactly this way but the meaning would be the same: "Man up" or alternately "quitcherbitchin!")
OTHER NEWS:
I've been thinking recently about how intertwined everything really is, and how the things I do outside of music are not really outside of music at all. I'm not sure anything I do is really is. That got me thinking about how I might consciously bring my world to the practice room, the jam, the stage.
For instance, I've recently taken up yoga. Beyond the obvious strength and concentration benefits, yoga is all about using your breath constructively, and so is music. You have to breathe into and out of phrases, and with the motion of your body (especially with an instrument as physical as bass). Doris, my hot Austrian yoga instructor, often implores us to use breath to sink deeper into poses, to stretch longer, to hold firmer. Mr Sperl has given me similar advice, though he wasn't wearing a sports bra or balancing on his fingers/doing splits at the time.
How does your daily life inform your music?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Keep co-op healthy snacks:
Sweet potato spread:
Boil sweet potatoes until they are soft. When cool pull the skins off. Cut into cubes, spice with salt/pepper, curry, cinnamon, and whatever else you want. Add maple syrup. Puree in a food processor. Serve with bread/eat an entire bowl for breakfast before class.
Roasted Chickpeas:
soak and cook the dried chickpeas, or use canned. Toss with olive oil, salt, cumin, allspice, maybe cardamom, marjoram and/or whatever else you want. Roast in oven on baking sheet at 4:50 for about 25-30 minutes until crunchy and delicious.
Cooperation:
Combine strong opinions, loose alliances, and sugar. Set aside. In another container combine logic, precedent, and common sense. Mix thoroughly. Slowly add the second group of ingredients to the first, stirring after each addition. Taste periodically and adjust ingredients accordingly. Put on heat until solid.
-----------------------------------
Earlier today I looked at my clock and it said 11:11. 11:11 is special to me, because when I was a kid I used to make wishes at 11:11, about everything from ghosts to boys to hoping mom wouldn't find out who broke whatever I'd just broken. I'm not a kid anymore, and the magical status of my worldview is in flux, but today, just because, I made a wish anyways. Later I realized that since I set my clock five minutes fast, 11:11 wasn't actually 11:11 at all, and I had wasted my wish. Another day this realization wouldn't have been worth writing about, it might even have been kind of funny, but not today. Today all I could think was that even when I know I'm fooling myself, I'm still fooled. That's when I decided it's silly to make wishes.
-Thelonius Monk
I'm going to try anyways.
Mingus said something interesting about soloing, and how it's like a conversation. He said 'you don't walk into a room and say "AHHHHHH!" You say "hello."'
Hello.
What do you say after that?
Three things scare the hell out of me right now. No, four. Well...ok anyways, some things scare me, and one of them is taking an improvised solo in front of people who know something about music. Until now I never considered it a disadvantage that nearly everyone at Oberlin knows "something" about music. Put another way, the house that I usually jam in is home to jazz majors. They have studied, played, and transcribed just about everybody, including Mingus. While friendly, they are extremely intimidating.
Look, Ma, I'm jumping in the pool with no floaties! I think I'll dog paddle for awhile. But there's big kids in here!
(Mom wouldn't say it exactly this way but the meaning would be the same: "Man up" or alternately "quitcherbitchin!")
OTHER NEWS:
I've been thinking recently about how intertwined everything really is, and how the things I do outside of music are not really outside of music at all. I'm not sure anything I do is really is. That got me thinking about how I might consciously bring my world to the practice room, the jam, the stage.
For instance, I've recently taken up yoga. Beyond the obvious strength and concentration benefits, yoga is all about using your breath constructively, and so is music. You have to breathe into and out of phrases, and with the motion of your body (especially with an instrument as physical as bass). Doris, my hot Austrian yoga instructor, often implores us to use breath to sink deeper into poses, to stretch longer, to hold firmer. Mr Sperl has given me similar advice, though he wasn't wearing a sports bra or balancing on his fingers/doing splits at the time.
How does your daily life inform your music?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Keep co-op healthy snacks:
Sweet potato spread:
Boil sweet potatoes until they are soft. When cool pull the skins off. Cut into cubes, spice with salt/pepper, curry, cinnamon, and whatever else you want. Add maple syrup. Puree in a food processor. Serve with bread/eat an entire bowl for breakfast before class.
Roasted Chickpeas:
soak and cook the dried chickpeas, or use canned. Toss with olive oil, salt, cumin, allspice, maybe cardamom, marjoram and/or whatever else you want. Roast in oven on baking sheet at 4:50 for about 25-30 minutes until crunchy and delicious.
Cooperation:
Combine strong opinions, loose alliances, and sugar. Set aside. In another container combine logic, precedent, and common sense. Mix thoroughly. Slowly add the second group of ingredients to the first, stirring after each addition. Taste periodically and adjust ingredients accordingly. Put on heat until solid.
-----------------------------------
Earlier today I looked at my clock and it said 11:11. 11:11 is special to me, because when I was a kid I used to make wishes at 11:11, about everything from ghosts to boys to hoping mom wouldn't find out who broke whatever I'd just broken. I'm not a kid anymore, and the magical status of my worldview is in flux, but today, just because, I made a wish anyways. Later I realized that since I set my clock five minutes fast, 11:11 wasn't actually 11:11 at all, and I had wasted my wish. Another day this realization wouldn't have been worth writing about, it might even have been kind of funny, but not today. Today all I could think was that even when I know I'm fooling myself, I'm still fooled. That's when I decided it's silly to make wishes.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Throw Down Your Heart
(Picture By David Roswell, OC '13)
Coffee and sleep are the same right?
Well no, not really. I discovered that when I stumbled into what I thought was my morning class today.
I had my glasses off, because when I come in to heated buildings out of the cold (aside: it is STILL snowing) they fog up and I can't see anyways. Squinty eyed and slump-backed I feel for the door knob to the classroom and settle my glasses on my nose on as I walk to my usual seat. That's when I noticed the class was a lot smaller, and we had a different teacher today. I give my friend Adam a nod and weary smile and slip my purse off my shoulder-
-wait, Adam isn't in this class with me.
Not only did I go to the completely wrong class, I went at the wrong time. Which is why I am writing to you, because I now have thirty minutes before my actual class. Brilliant. (I would have had an hour, except when I realized what I'd done I went straight to the coffee shop for another hit.)
Trial and error. I Tried going dancing after the concert last night, and crawling into bed at 2 AM too tired to even preload the espresso machine. This was an Error. I found out exactly how much of an error it was in my 9 AM class this morning, as my pen slid off a page of notes I had no recollection or comprehension of. Appropriately for my little experiment, the class was research methods. In this case I don't think I need repeated trials to draw a strong conclusion.
Anyway this extra time does give me the chance to share something incredible with you.
The concert last night! You would have loved it so much! Bela Fleck and the Africa project came to Finney Chapel, and I think it's safe to say that nothing quite like this has ever shaken those ancient rafters before. The concert opened with the man himself calmly walking across the stage towards a suddenly hushed and expectant crowd. After greeting the eager crowd ("Hi, how y'all doin?") he selected a banjo from a rack of 5 and perched himself on a stool in the center of the giant stage. When the first notes of his high lyrical melody line reached my ears I had to check to verify that he was really playing. He was incredibly still as this music poured from him, only his fingers fluttering across the strings, hitting harmonics and picking out double stops, sliding and caressing. He was the embodiment of what my orchestra director in high school called "controlled power." His improvisational style was quintessentially Bela, but with undertones of compound rhythms and surprising harmonic elements that foreshadowed the acoustic journey that would follow. When the last notes of his solo faded away, there was a second of stillness before the audience erupted into raucous applause. The applause went on so long that he had to interrupt just to introduce the next musicians, Anania Ngoliga and John Kitime from Tanzania.
Did you know thumb harp can be sexy? It can also be humorous, despondent, pouty, joyful, and full of sorrow. I didn't know either, but now I do. Anania Ngoliga added his soulful baritone, and occasionally his playful falsetto and mad-sounding cackle (complete with hen clucks, imitating the voice of an old girlfriend) to virtuosity on an instrument I did not even know you could attain virtuosity on.
I came into this concert thinking it was going to be like nothing I'd ever heard before. In a lot of ways I was right. When the band from Mali began playing, led by the regal Bassekou Kouate and his captivating wife Amy Sacko, I couldn't even figure out what meter they were playing in for awhile, and still don't know how to pronounce the instruments they were playing. Some things were very familiar however. The improvisational conversations between Kouate (on a small gourd and bone/stick instrument that would have had the lead role of a trumpet in jazz or a mandolin in grass) and Fleck were reminiscent of two jazz greats talking back and stirring each other to greater heights. The vocal technique reminded me of the high and tense harmonies of some of the old bluegrass legends. At some points they were almost yodelling, pitching high and flipping falsetto across the thump of the bass. Then Anania would break through the texture with a low and powerful moan from somewhere deep inside. Though the scale was unfamiliar to me, there was definitely something of the blues in the way Amy Sacko talked to the crowd with her powerfully soulful vocal solos.
It was Bassekou Kouate who gave me my favorite moment of the whole concert, at the climax of one of his improvised solos. He was winding high, with Bela in perfect complimentary sync laying ascending chromatic notes in his rests. A strange mix of surging triplets against duples drove the sound forward, and as Kouate reached the top he rolled his head back across his shoulders in what looked like complete ecstasy. He stretched the rhythm and held on to just a few notes, suspended, as the rest of the band oscillated back and forth through chords beneath him, and from my seat in the balcony I felt the lift, tension, and opening up of his line as a physical sensation in my body.
I think it's worth noting that Kouate's gesture at that moment, when he rolled his head across his shoulders, was extremely familiar to me. The last time I saw it, however, I was in a bar in Kentucky, wearing cowboy boots, and I'm pretty sure someone responded by shouting "yeehaw." I'm smiling right now thinking about it. Just goes to show you everything really is connected.
That wasn't the only jaw dropping moment of the night. To open the second set Bela came out and played an entire piece of sliding double stops on his open strings, by rapidly retuning his banjo as the notes sounded. And of course there was Amy Sacko. If anyone knows how to throw down their heart for music, it is this woman. She sang her heart out in the second set, and the energy she commanded sizzled through the air to fill Finney chapel to the brim. When she finished, Bela commented "I don't know what she was singing about, but she really meant it."
There was a powerful driver behind the Malinese band, Ngoni Ba. I'm gonna try and tell you about his instrument, but I don't really know what I'm talking about. One man in the back of the band had what looked like a giant gourd, sawed in half lying on a table. Throughout the night he would alternately scrape his fingertips, rap his knuckles, slap his palms, or slam his fist into the gourd in a combination of rhythms that I could feel in my heart but had no hope of understanding. As the solos surged and pulled over top of this framework (another element that reminded me of bluegrass), he kept completely steady and cool, with forceful movements that seemed to come from his whole body. The poly rhythms of some of the songs in the second set became so infectious that I could not possibly keep my seat any longer. My neighbor and I looked at each other, and in one of those rare moments of perfect understanding between strangers, we stood and practically ran to the aisle where we danced the rest of the show. Later our fast and excited voices would find names and words, our hands would clasp in formal greeting, and we would do all those things that strangers do in our culture. But for the moment mouths were for grinning and our arms for dancing.
What a night!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Entomology and the Workout Mix
An hour and approximately 18 minutes and 23 seconds ago I stepped outside and glared at the sky, a dull gray featureless shroud incessantly spitting cold wet misery. I squinted my eyes shut and grumbled my way across the parking lot, pulling the hood of my dirty white coat close around my face to try and take the bite out of the wind. I passed several other Eskimos on my way, also bundled up tight. Their backs were just as hunched, their faces as scrunched as my own, but I felt no kinship with them. We played tug-of-war with Ohio, each of us trying to hold our warmth close into ourselves against forces that would suck it away. Why did I leave my room? When will this snow stop? Karmi says it's going to snow all week. What am I doing?
Five minutes ago I stepped out a different door, into a different snowfall, a different Ohio. I saw the snow catching in the lamplight as I crunched my boot into the sidewalk, and I had to take off my headphones. I stopped to listen to the muffled stillness of heavy snowfall, the odd way that snow sounds are simultaneously dampened and amplified, and the crunch of my boots into the soft white. Flakes clumped together and swirled gently down through the yellow glow, a few of them drifting to rest on my upturned cheeks, and I let them linger until they melted on my skin. I sucked a lungfull of brisk air into my nose and let it bite before blowing a misty cloud around my face. I paused under that tree at the corner of North Quad, the one with the twisted branches, and admired every sparkling twig. For the first time since it started snowing this Friday, I looked at the clean softness of Oberlin in February and smiled. Though I'll still never be a Northern girl at heart, for now, Ohio, you are beautiful.
What is the source of this dramatic difference in perspective? I went to the gym. Why does an hour of sweating, rock music, and moderate pain make you feel so fantastic? I do not know. But I like it.
Other Questions:
-Why are my "Angry" and "Workout" playlists interchangeable?
-What should my new Workout Mix be?
-How can I get a cardio workout in my room every time I need to go outside?
-WHEN WILL IT STOP SNOWING?
So obviously I am back at school. I should have known when Daniel and I drove through a literal blizzard getting here that it would be a shock to my sensitive southern system. Still took me by surprise.
Enough about the weather.
A lot has happened in my life recently, and some of it is awesome. I moved into Keep co-op. That's one of the awesome things. Oberlin co-ops are student run cooperative houses, where everyone in the house has a house job (like cleaning showers or stocking toilet paper), and people take turns cooking and cleaning up the kitchen. Because all decisions are made by consensus, people living here feel real ownership and pride in the quality of the house and take care of it (and each other). I love the community here, it is very supportive, and the energy is palpable. Right now I am missing a jam session in the lounge to write to you (that's ok though, because there will be another one tomorrow. And probably the night after that, and the night after that...). All the food so far has been vegan and delicious. I've had at least ten vegan orange ginger spice cookies in the last two days. My room mate, Karmi, is awesome, she wants to be an entomologist (study bugs, yeah I looked it up) and bee keeper. She brought an art book with her that is full of beautiful drawings of shells and jellyfish, and when I came in to meet her she was listening to one of my favorite albums. We sang in harmony before we knew each others names, I think that's a good sign. Our room is very welcoming, and stocked with tea and chocolate (hint hint visit me).
In other news, I recently turned 21, or "twenty-fun" as Helena likes to say. I have celebrated this about five times, with another party planned this weekend (The Feve, Saturday night for you Obies, everyone is invited).
Highlights of Turning Twenty Fun
-playing a bright green aluminum upright bass with a string band
-getting tipsy enough to be the only ones dancing in the bar and not care
-inviting the bartender to "surprise me"
-toasting to things like "seventh chords" and "indulgent aunts"
-being at a show where yelling "yeehaw" is completely appropriate
So that whole class thing, which goes along with the whole Ohio thing, means I have to go do homework. Then hopefully I can get some of that sleep stuff, which I hear is pretty great.
I hope you are doing so much better than well and fine and ok. Hugs all around. Write me a comment.
XOXO
Erin
Five minutes ago I stepped out a different door, into a different snowfall, a different Ohio. I saw the snow catching in the lamplight as I crunched my boot into the sidewalk, and I had to take off my headphones. I stopped to listen to the muffled stillness of heavy snowfall, the odd way that snow sounds are simultaneously dampened and amplified, and the crunch of my boots into the soft white. Flakes clumped together and swirled gently down through the yellow glow, a few of them drifting to rest on my upturned cheeks, and I let them linger until they melted on my skin. I sucked a lungfull of brisk air into my nose and let it bite before blowing a misty cloud around my face. I paused under that tree at the corner of North Quad, the one with the twisted branches, and admired every sparkling twig. For the first time since it started snowing this Friday, I looked at the clean softness of Oberlin in February and smiled. Though I'll still never be a Northern girl at heart, for now, Ohio, you are beautiful.
What is the source of this dramatic difference in perspective? I went to the gym. Why does an hour of sweating, rock music, and moderate pain make you feel so fantastic? I do not know. But I like it.
Other Questions:
-Why are my "Angry" and "Workout" playlists interchangeable?
-What should my new Workout Mix be?
-How can I get a cardio workout in my room every time I need to go outside?
-WHEN WILL IT STOP SNOWING?
So obviously I am back at school. I should have known when Daniel and I drove through a literal blizzard getting here that it would be a shock to my sensitive southern system. Still took me by surprise.
Enough about the weather.
A lot has happened in my life recently, and some of it is awesome. I moved into Keep co-op. That's one of the awesome things. Oberlin co-ops are student run cooperative houses, where everyone in the house has a house job (like cleaning showers or stocking toilet paper), and people take turns cooking and cleaning up the kitchen. Because all decisions are made by consensus, people living here feel real ownership and pride in the quality of the house and take care of it (and each other). I love the community here, it is very supportive, and the energy is palpable. Right now I am missing a jam session in the lounge to write to you (that's ok though, because there will be another one tomorrow. And probably the night after that, and the night after that...). All the food so far has been vegan and delicious. I've had at least ten vegan orange ginger spice cookies in the last two days. My room mate, Karmi, is awesome, she wants to be an entomologist (study bugs, yeah I looked it up) and bee keeper. She brought an art book with her that is full of beautiful drawings of shells and jellyfish, and when I came in to meet her she was listening to one of my favorite albums. We sang in harmony before we knew each others names, I think that's a good sign. Our room is very welcoming, and stocked with tea and chocolate (hint hint visit me).
In other news, I recently turned 21, or "twenty-fun" as Helena likes to say. I have celebrated this about five times, with another party planned this weekend (The Feve, Saturday night for you Obies, everyone is invited).
Highlights of Turning Twenty Fun
-playing a bright green aluminum upright bass with a string band
-getting tipsy enough to be the only ones dancing in the bar and not care
-inviting the bartender to "surprise me"
-toasting to things like "seventh chords" and "indulgent aunts"
-being at a show where yelling "yeehaw" is completely appropriate
So that whole class thing, which goes along with the whole Ohio thing, means I have to go do homework. Then hopefully I can get some of that sleep stuff, which I hear is pretty great.
I hope you are doing so much better than well and fine and ok. Hugs all around. Write me a comment.
XOXO
Erin
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sushi as Road Fare
Day 3 or 4. Sorry, I know this is all over the place
I'm here in Sara's house in Austin, TX, and I feel like I'm back at Oberlin, plugging away in the Robertson practice rooms. Upstairs trumpet blasts from Miki and Mr. Sasaki's rooms compete for dominance over the delicate strains of Sara's violin. She's splitting time between Stravinsky and Skaggs (Ricky, that is). I think if I wasn't myself occupying (kinda practicing in) the piano room Mrs. Sasaki would be at it as well. I half expect a tour of prospies to peer through the door as the tour guide brags about practice rooms and steinways and something called "internal climate control." It's a nice feeling, being enveloped in so much music, I always wondered what it would be like to grow in a house full of musicians. The overlapping strains are surprisingly comforting. Occasionally dissonant, mostly welcoming, like Austin itself.
I asked someone in the Houston airport yesterday where in Austin I could go to hear good live music on a week night. Apparently that question is akin to "where is there air" in Austin. The young man could only stare at me in disbelief, but my neighbor, who'd been listening, helpfully piped up: everywhere!
They were right.
We pulled all the stops--
(SIDE NOTE: Did you know the phrase "pulling all the stops" comes from pipe organs, because you have to pull the stops out to get the bigger pipes to resonate? Well now you do.)
--performing for Austin crowds. Because live music is such a regular part of their diet we had to bring every ounce of energy left over from travel to the stage. Getting such a cool (carefully avoiding the term jaded, oops I just said it) audience to clap, sing, and yell with us was a challenge, but Helena loves a challenge. By the end of our first show, she got the whole house on their feet, and even if they didn't sing or dance I like to think they were tapping the toes of their hearts.
The other challenge was choosing where to go on our night off. 6th street is lined with clubs and music. We would have spent weeks, and all the budget, partaking there if the itinerary let us. The Sasakis sent us on our way with hugs, best wishes, and homemade vegetarian (thank you!) sushi complete with chopsticks (Mrs. Sasaki, like Sara, thinks of everything).
Numbers:
-States: 4
-Hours in the car: 17
-Trucks who honked at us: 13
-Number of times we heard Lady Gaga on the radio: TOO MANY
-"260: How many miles Helena drove while y'all bitches were sleeping" (Helena told me to include that)
---------------------------------------------
I'm gettin tired. Maybe more about Austin to come? Is anybody reading this?
I'm here in Sara's house in Austin, TX, and I feel like I'm back at Oberlin, plugging away in the Robertson practice rooms. Upstairs trumpet blasts from Miki and Mr. Sasaki's rooms compete for dominance over the delicate strains of Sara's violin. She's splitting time between Stravinsky and Skaggs (Ricky, that is). I think if I wasn't myself occupying (kinda practicing in) the piano room Mrs. Sasaki would be at it as well. I half expect a tour of prospies to peer through the door as the tour guide brags about practice rooms and steinways and something called "internal climate control." It's a nice feeling, being enveloped in so much music, I always wondered what it would be like to grow in a house full of musicians. The overlapping strains are surprisingly comforting. Occasionally dissonant, mostly welcoming, like Austin itself.
I asked someone in the Houston airport yesterday where in Austin I could go to hear good live music on a week night. Apparently that question is akin to "where is there air" in Austin. The young man could only stare at me in disbelief, but my neighbor, who'd been listening, helpfully piped up: everywhere!
They were right.
We pulled all the stops--
(SIDE NOTE: Did you know the phrase "pulling all the stops" comes from pipe organs, because you have to pull the stops out to get the bigger pipes to resonate? Well now you do.)
--performing for Austin crowds. Because live music is such a regular part of their diet we had to bring every ounce of energy left over from travel to the stage. Getting such a cool (carefully avoiding the term jaded, oops I just said it) audience to clap, sing, and yell with us was a challenge, but Helena loves a challenge. By the end of our first show, she got the whole house on their feet, and even if they didn't sing or dance I like to think they were tapping the toes of their hearts.
The other challenge was choosing where to go on our night off. 6th street is lined with clubs and music. We would have spent weeks, and all the budget, partaking there if the itinerary let us. The Sasakis sent us on our way with hugs, best wishes, and homemade vegetarian (thank you!) sushi complete with chopsticks (Mrs. Sasaki, like Sara, thinks of everything).
Numbers:
-States: 4
-Hours in the car: 17
-Trucks who honked at us: 13
-Number of times we heard Lady Gaga on the radio: TOO MANY
-"260: How many miles Helena drove while y'all bitches were sleeping" (Helena told me to include that)
---------------------------------------------
I'm gettin tired. Maybe more about Austin to come? Is anybody reading this?
The thing about Leezard
(Day Question Mark. When we drove from Dallas to Nashville.)
Helena had the cruise control set high as we flew through the barren purple landscape that is Fate, Texas at six AM.
Somewhere in that line there is a metaphor. I can't decide what it means that we had the cruise control on while driving through Fate. Was she meant to set the cruise control, or did she choose it? Cruise control isn't that hard to get out of either, you just have to tap the break right? That's got to mean something. Does the fact that is was beautiful change anything? What about the cruise control being on 80 or so? Fate zipped by, for sure. Somewhere in there I'm sure there's a lesson about destiny, love, and long journeys, something deep and central. Right?
Hell if I know, I'm just the bass player. Today we saw the sunrise in Texas and the sunset in Tennessee. From the soreness in my abs I'm guessing we spent most of the time between laughing. That and belting out bad pop music with whatever radio stations we could pick up along the way. I would be snobby about the music, except that all three of us knew most of the words. The wonderfully awful "shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't get out" is a melody in my head that I can't get out, right now as I write this. About two cups of coffee and three bawdy jokes into the drive we remembered what we forgot: the ipod adapter. It could have been worse, we could have forgotten Sara's bag of shoes.
Dallas was one of my favorite stops on the tour, mostly because of Mama T. I now know where Helena gets her nurturing side, as well as her prowess in the kitchen. The Thompsons not only warmly welcomed seven hungry (and slightly smelly from the road) college students, all their instruments and nightly jam sessions, and the impressive amount of luggage we spread through every room, into her house; Patricia Thompson also cooked us some of the most delicious southern food I've ever had the pleasure of eating. I am hungry again just thinking about her grits and biscuits. Then there was the high school teen-movie-like sleepover that took place on her floor. From the amount of giggling, inside jokes, and bro love that went on in that room after midnight, you'd swear we were all high in the sky on something illegal. We were just high on Carlos' wonderful/terrible puns really. And Helena's innuendos. And Danny's resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. And Alex's leezard boots (he's got "good taste, for a yankee" apparently).
From sleeping in that room I learned that:
-One of the gentlemen on our tour, who shall go unnamed, talks in his sleep, occasionally has nightmares about a giant evil butterfly named Mama Coochin, and will never live it down.
-Phantom tickling becomes much more effective after 3 am.
-Helena is the only one of us who isn't ticklish. She is also one of the most merciless ticklers. I believe this is unfair.
-I would rather sleep on Mama T's living room floor with these dorks than in any luxury suite in the world.
---------------------------------------------------
I'll let you in on a secret: I'm writing this from my Dad's upstairs office in Kentucky, ten days after I'm pretending to write it, and two days after my girls left. I wouldn't tell you that, except I wanted to tell you this: the rain is hitting the skylight and I'm listening to 'skip, hop, and wobble' and except for the fact that this cupcake is stale and I'm kinda lonely, things are pretty great. This is the first time I've really heard skip hop wobble all the way through, and I like it a lot. Hymn of ordinary motion is pretty glorious. Just to let you know.
Helena had the cruise control set high as we flew through the barren purple landscape that is Fate, Texas at six AM.
Somewhere in that line there is a metaphor. I can't decide what it means that we had the cruise control on while driving through Fate. Was she meant to set the cruise control, or did she choose it? Cruise control isn't that hard to get out of either, you just have to tap the break right? That's got to mean something. Does the fact that is was beautiful change anything? What about the cruise control being on 80 or so? Fate zipped by, for sure. Somewhere in there I'm sure there's a lesson about destiny, love, and long journeys, something deep and central. Right?
Hell if I know, I'm just the bass player. Today we saw the sunrise in Texas and the sunset in Tennessee. From the soreness in my abs I'm guessing we spent most of the time between laughing. That and belting out bad pop music with whatever radio stations we could pick up along the way. I would be snobby about the music, except that all three of us knew most of the words. The wonderfully awful "shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't get out" is a melody in my head that I can't get out, right now as I write this. About two cups of coffee and three bawdy jokes into the drive we remembered what we forgot: the ipod adapter. It could have been worse, we could have forgotten Sara's bag of shoes.
Dallas was one of my favorite stops on the tour, mostly because of Mama T. I now know where Helena gets her nurturing side, as well as her prowess in the kitchen. The Thompsons not only warmly welcomed seven hungry (and slightly smelly from the road) college students, all their instruments and nightly jam sessions, and the impressive amount of luggage we spread through every room, into her house; Patricia Thompson also cooked us some of the most delicious southern food I've ever had the pleasure of eating. I am hungry again just thinking about her grits and biscuits. Then there was the high school teen-movie-like sleepover that took place on her floor. From the amount of giggling, inside jokes, and bro love that went on in that room after midnight, you'd swear we were all high in the sky on something illegal. We were just high on Carlos' wonderful/terrible puns really. And Helena's innuendos. And Danny's resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. And Alex's leezard boots (he's got "good taste, for a yankee" apparently).
From sleeping in that room I learned that:
-One of the gentlemen on our tour, who shall go unnamed, talks in his sleep, occasionally has nightmares about a giant evil butterfly named Mama Coochin, and will never live it down.
-Phantom tickling becomes much more effective after 3 am.
-Helena is the only one of us who isn't ticklish. She is also one of the most merciless ticklers. I believe this is unfair.
-I would rather sleep on Mama T's living room floor with these dorks than in any luxury suite in the world.
---------------------------------------------------
I'll let you in on a secret: I'm writing this from my Dad's upstairs office in Kentucky, ten days after I'm pretending to write it, and two days after my girls left. I wouldn't tell you that, except I wanted to tell you this: the rain is hitting the skylight and I'm listening to 'skip, hop, and wobble' and except for the fact that this cupcake is stale and I'm kinda lonely, things are pretty great. This is the first time I've really heard skip hop wobble all the way through, and I like it a lot. Hymn of ordinary motion is pretty glorious. Just to let you know.
Riley misses you.
It's Friday afternoon in Kentucky, and I have the stereo turned up full blast to drown out the silence. The house is dull and lifeless now that Helena and Sara have gone back to Texas. My dog, Riley, and I are in perfect agreement on how to feel about this newly empty house. He wandered around all morning sniffing hopefully for his playmates. Eventually he gave up and lumbered over to lay his snout in my lap, with a disgruntled doggy sigh. I can only scratch his ears in agreement. I miss the soft soulful blues of Alex's Martin in the morning, the stomp of Sara's red pumps as she whips off another fiddle tune, the full bodied laughter and shuffle of dancing feet in the kitchen. The house seems to sag on itself with the sudden removal of Helena's strong presence. The only signs that six extra warm bodies recently filled this house are the guitar picks on the piano, and the Blue Moon in the fridge. Well, that and Helena's hair that I just cleaned out of the sink.
I just realized that I sound like a teenager that's just been dumped. I can't help it though, I miss them! It gets even more pathetic; I've been walking around with Helena's pick in my pocket all day. Every now and then I pull it out and rub it absent mindedly. It's worn away at the point from hard strumming, and you can't really read the inscription any more.
Ok, emo fest is over.
So everybody is gone and the question remains: what the hell do I do with the rest of my month?
.
.
.
What the ---- I will do with the rest of my month:
-make lists
-call Sara and Helena on the road, reminisce about tour, sing Cowboy Take Me Away on phone
-drink last Blue Moon at exactly 7:00 pm EST, while they drink other two I put in car kit
-test new recipes
-transcribe bass/banjo and bass/mando duets.
-listen to great records
-get paint on my clothes (and maybe on some canvases too)
-go: to shows, dancing, to my grandma's house to see her orchid which is blooming
-pick and grin
-turn 21. flirt with bartenders. order a white Russian in a bad fake accent while wearing Daniel's faux fur hat.
-reacquaint self with real world. (Hello real world. You suck.)
-wear Sara's cardigan over the clingy clubbing shirt I usually can't wear in public. Miss my Belles some more.
Note: if you are in Louisville, and these sound like things you would like to participate in, you should call me.
I just realized that I sound like a teenager that's just been dumped. I can't help it though, I miss them! It gets even more pathetic; I've been walking around with Helena's pick in my pocket all day. Every now and then I pull it out and rub it absent mindedly. It's worn away at the point from hard strumming, and you can't really read the inscription any more.
Ok, emo fest is over.
So everybody is gone and the question remains: what the hell do I do with the rest of my month?
.
.
.
What the ---- I will do with the rest of my month:
-make lists
-call Sara and Helena on the road, reminisce about tour, sing Cowboy Take Me Away on phone
-drink last Blue Moon at exactly 7:00 pm EST, while they drink other two I put in car kit
-test new recipes
-transcribe bass/banjo and bass/mando duets.
-listen to great records
-get paint on my clothes (and maybe on some canvases too)
-go: to shows, dancing, to my grandma's house to see her orchid which is blooming
-pick and grin
-turn 21. flirt with bartenders. order a white Russian in a bad fake accent while wearing Daniel's faux fur hat.
-reacquaint self with real world. (Hello real world. You suck.)
-wear Sara's cardigan over the clingy clubbing shirt I usually can't wear in public. Miss my Belles some more.
Note: if you are in Louisville, and these sound like things you would like to participate in, you should call me.
The Right Amount of Give: Meditations on Gluten
I have a very dear pet that I've never told you about. This pet can almost always make me feel better. It goes to school with me in the fall, and comes back to Kentucky in summer. Unlike Riley, it smells great. Also unlike Riley, it only needs to be fed once a week, though it grows faster than any puppy or little boy.
I am talking, of course, about my sourdough starter.
(WARNING: This post may contain snobby bread jargon. Readers cautioned.)
I first attempted sourdough bread because Eugene, who is from San Francisco, needed a little bit of home to come to him. I read everything I could about yeast and flour and the ideal conditions (not a dorm room, turns out) before I was brave enough to take that First Step.
The first step to making sourdough is very complicated:
1.) put some flour in a jar
2.) add some warm water
3.) let sit.
Even that proved a challenge. I had to throw out four trials because they started to mold and stink. The putrid smell of my first failed attempts filled my tiny dorm room and made it hard to hide the surprise from Eugene. ("Hmm, not sure what that smell is, guess I need to do laundry today..." "Why don't we meet at your room?") Finally, I found success with White Lily bread flour, patience, and luck. It was like that country song about how every failed relationship that broke his heart lead to finding the perfect woman, do you know that song? That's how I felt about my starter. When I finally had a one that grew, smelled right, and wasn't green, I felt such an intense satisfaction that the I was completely hooked on the project. This was MY starter, and damnit I was gonna keep it and feed it, and we would make beautiful warm loaves together and live happily ever after.
(Later Eugene would offer to keep the starter in his fridge, as I was moving to a co-op. I politely declined. Or I might have said "hell no.")
Today I need to make some bread. I've already taken my starter out of the fridge and given it with some extra food. It is happily puffing and bubbling into a springy spongy batter. I carefully set aside a bit of this sponge to go back in its jar for later. To the rest: flour flour flour (and some Other Stuff). I work it in the only way that is satisfying, with my hands. When it can ball up without being too sticky, it's time for my favorite part: kneading the ---- out of it. The way I see it, if at the end of this process there is not flour all over myself and this table, I have failed.
I don't appreciate failure.
My favorite kneading technique is the half turn palm push. I like it because I can put all of my body weight, all my frustrations and frazzled energy, directly into the dough, and still keep it balled up completely under my hands. Sometimes the dough pops, which is pretty satisfying. I know this loaf is going to fluffy and soft.
F--- these things which I am frustrated with, which I will now transfer to this innocent loaf:
-the rigidity of con requirements (I had a better phrase for that, instead I pound my phrase into the dough. Take that! The table hits the wall with a thunk)
-uninspired job-track orchestra players
-all the math I have to learn next semester
-complicated relationships
-drama
-job resumes and recommendations
-going through the motions
This dough did not stand a chance. I roll my palm forward decisively. I slam the dough down with confidence. I punch it down again with a brash whoop of triumph. With assurance and bravado I sling flour across the table and roll pound chop until the dough is soft and pliable with just the right amount of give. My fingers know when the dough is done before I do. There's a moment, as you're working the dough, when the consistency changes from tough and resistant to perfectly pliant and cooperative. I pinch a piece and demonstrate yet another therapeutic thing about bread making: the predictability. I know that if I stretch this piece of dough out thin enough to see light through it, and it doesn't break, it is ready to rise. Every time. It stretches-it's ready. Professor Darling says its got something to do with stretching chains of gluten molecules, something like that. I like to think that if you just massage the dough long enough it is coaxed into stretchy supple submission.
There are a few things that could make this more perfect, of course. For one, Danny Kaye could be alive in my kitchen, wearing Grammy's green apron and doing impressions of my least favorite professors. While I'm dreaming, Chris Thile can come over and put those nimble fingers to good use kneading the knots out of my shoulders, crooning mountain ballads in my ears.
Almost perfect.
--MANY HOURS LATER--
So guess who forgot that there was dough rising, and let it quadruple in size? Guess who was looking for things to do three hours ago (coincidentally exactly when the bread should have gone in the oven) and now would like nothing better than to sleep? Guess who shot up in bed and dashed to the kitchen in horror?
Yeah, that would be me.
Oops.
So I forgot about the bread. I think I just wanted to knead it anyways, I'm not really hungry. Still, if I kneaded it I want to bake it, damnit! I'm going to try anyways. This could have several consequences:
-I do not get enough sleep tonight.
-The bread is too sour OR
-the bread takes on a new concentrated sour flavor unlike any loaf I've ever made, and this becomes my new recipe. (hopefully this one)
-Mama stumbles into the kitchen for water, sees me still awake, and makes fun of me for forgetting the bread.
-I fall asleep at the kitchen table and burn the house down.
I'm trying to avoid that last one by writing to you.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES TWENTY SECONDS LATER
it is ready. I knocked on the bottom: perfectly hollow. Pressed on the crust: perfectly firm, bubbly yet smooth (it will be chewy). I can tell, the way it popped open and spread out like a lily that it's going to be soft and fluffy inside. It smells like heaven. I wish I could share it with you. No one is even awake to appreciate it right now.
Why am I still awake?
Goodnight.
-----------------------------------------------
Simple Pleasures:
-Billy Joel's 'The Stranger' on vinyl
-black coffee
-blooming orchids
-bread making
I am talking, of course, about my sourdough starter.
(WARNING: This post may contain snobby bread jargon. Readers cautioned.)
I first attempted sourdough bread because Eugene, who is from San Francisco, needed a little bit of home to come to him. I read everything I could about yeast and flour and the ideal conditions (not a dorm room, turns out) before I was brave enough to take that First Step.
The first step to making sourdough is very complicated:
1.) put some flour in a jar
2.) add some warm water
3.) let sit.
Even that proved a challenge. I had to throw out four trials because they started to mold and stink. The putrid smell of my first failed attempts filled my tiny dorm room and made it hard to hide the surprise from Eugene. ("Hmm, not sure what that smell is, guess I need to do laundry today..." "Why don't we meet at your room?") Finally, I found success with White Lily bread flour, patience, and luck. It was like that country song about how every failed relationship that broke his heart lead to finding the perfect woman, do you know that song? That's how I felt about my starter. When I finally had a one that grew, smelled right, and wasn't green, I felt such an intense satisfaction that the I was completely hooked on the project. This was MY starter, and damnit I was gonna keep it and feed it, and we would make beautiful warm loaves together and live happily ever after.
(Later Eugene would offer to keep the starter in his fridge, as I was moving to a co-op. I politely declined. Or I might have said "hell no.")
Today I need to make some bread. I've already taken my starter out of the fridge and given it with some extra food. It is happily puffing and bubbling into a springy spongy batter. I carefully set aside a bit of this sponge to go back in its jar for later. To the rest: flour flour flour (and some Other Stuff). I work it in the only way that is satisfying, with my hands. When it can ball up without being too sticky, it's time for my favorite part: kneading the ---- out of it. The way I see it, if at the end of this process there is not flour all over myself and this table, I have failed.
I don't appreciate failure.
My favorite kneading technique is the half turn palm push. I like it because I can put all of my body weight, all my frustrations and frazzled energy, directly into the dough, and still keep it balled up completely under my hands. Sometimes the dough pops, which is pretty satisfying. I know this loaf is going to fluffy and soft.
F--- these things which I am frustrated with, which I will now transfer to this innocent loaf:
-the rigidity of con requirements (I had a better phrase for that, instead I pound my phrase into the dough. Take that! The table hits the wall with a thunk)
-uninspired job-track orchestra players
-all the math I have to learn next semester
-complicated relationships
-drama
-job resumes and recommendations
-going through the motions
This dough did not stand a chance. I roll my palm forward decisively. I slam the dough down with confidence. I punch it down again with a brash whoop of triumph. With assurance and bravado I sling flour across the table and roll pound chop until the dough is soft and pliable with just the right amount of give. My fingers know when the dough is done before I do. There's a moment, as you're working the dough, when the consistency changes from tough and resistant to perfectly pliant and cooperative. I pinch a piece and demonstrate yet another therapeutic thing about bread making: the predictability. I know that if I stretch this piece of dough out thin enough to see light through it, and it doesn't break, it is ready to rise. Every time. It stretches-it's ready. Professor Darling says its got something to do with stretching chains of gluten molecules, something like that. I like to think that if you just massage the dough long enough it is coaxed into stretchy supple submission.
There are a few things that could make this more perfect, of course. For one, Danny Kaye could be alive in my kitchen, wearing Grammy's green apron and doing impressions of my least favorite professors. While I'm dreaming, Chris Thile can come over and put those nimble fingers to good use kneading the knots out of my shoulders, crooning mountain ballads in my ears.
Almost perfect.
--MANY HOURS LATER--
So guess who forgot that there was dough rising, and let it quadruple in size? Guess who was looking for things to do three hours ago (coincidentally exactly when the bread should have gone in the oven) and now would like nothing better than to sleep? Guess who shot up in bed and dashed to the kitchen in horror?
Yeah, that would be me.
Oops.
So I forgot about the bread. I think I just wanted to knead it anyways, I'm not really hungry. Still, if I kneaded it I want to bake it, damnit! I'm going to try anyways. This could have several consequences:
-I do not get enough sleep tonight.
-The bread is too sour OR
-the bread takes on a new concentrated sour flavor unlike any loaf I've ever made, and this becomes my new recipe. (hopefully this one)
-Mama stumbles into the kitchen for water, sees me still awake, and makes fun of me for forgetting the bread.
-I fall asleep at the kitchen table and burn the house down.
I'm trying to avoid that last one by writing to you.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES TWENTY SECONDS LATER
it is ready. I knocked on the bottom: perfectly hollow. Pressed on the crust: perfectly firm, bubbly yet smooth (it will be chewy). I can tell, the way it popped open and spread out like a lily that it's going to be soft and fluffy inside. It smells like heaven. I wish I could share it with you. No one is even awake to appreciate it right now.
Why am I still awake?
Goodnight.
-----------------------------------------------
Simple Pleasures:
-Billy Joel's 'The Stranger' on vinyl
-black coffee
-blooming orchids
-bread making
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
And they're off!
DAY ONE: Airports, Minivans, and Texans, Oh my!
Every time I fly I think about how similar taking off in an airplane is to a great first kiss. First off, it seems like you have to wait forever for it to finally happen. When you start to move you become hyper aware of every nerve in your body. You gather momentum, close your eyes, and no matter how long you've been thinking about it the moment of lift off still takes you by surprise. All the sudden your stomach floats up and you're weightless. You might chance a peek out the little side window and see the world you knew falling away. If you're flying at night, like I was just a few hours ago, you can see the cars and buildings become little pinpricks of light sparkling out of the black as you soar higher. Then when if feels like you'll just float away forever or pop like a bubble, you're back in your body. You're bones flow into the seat and you release the breath you didn't realize you were holding. Finally you settle in, and you're coasting thousands of miles above "g'mornin" and "y'all come back now, y'hear!" You're flying towards someplace new and exciting, maybe a little bit scary, and it's fantastic! Takeoffs are often my favorite part of the journey.
For me, landing is much less like kissing and much more like concentrating on not throwing up on the large man next to me as a baby squeals two rows up because she doesn't like the pressure change. Two bumps and a lurch later I'm grounded, and a soft tired sounding voice crackles on to the intercom. "Welcome to Houston."
Honestly, considering the bumpy landing I just had I'm not too upset that my flight from Houston to Austin is delayed another hour. Now I have time to write to you, and to calm the coffee-salad slush churning in my stomach. It's 9:37 (10:37 where you are, and 7:37 for you), and I am on my way to Adventure, my first ever tour! The Black River Belles take on the southeast this January: Austin, Dallas, Nashville, Columbia, and Louisville. We've decided the tour motto is "kickin ass, takin names." (I kinda thought it should be "love, booze, and other important things" but that didn't have the same ring to it. "Tour" makes this sound a lot more professional than what I think the reality is going to be. Our "bus" is an old minivan, (decorated with window art by yours truly), out hotel the couches, floors, and recliners or our generous friends (and in a pinch the floor of the minivan). We do have roadies though, or at least we have some friends crazy enough to road trip across the country with us. That would be Rue, Danny, Carlos, and Alex.
Oh, I haven't introduced the band! Ok, I'm going to say it just the way Helena always does on stage:
"Allright well, for y'all that weren't here before, we are the Black River Belles, and we're gonna play some music you you tonight (sometimes she says "songs about love, murder, and whiskey" or just "porch songs"). Over here to my right we've got the illustrious Ms. Sara Sasaki on fiddle, from Austin, Texas. Well, clap! (people clap. You can't not listen to Helena). Good. And holding up the low end, Miss Erin Lobb from Louisville Kentucky. (She usually draws out the Lou in Louisville and asks me if she said it right. She never does, but I tell her she did anyway). I'm Helena Thompson, and I hope y'all have as much fun as we're about to. This next one is about murder with a whiskey bottle/spooning/working on a railroad/love in the kitchen."
If my plane ever takes off I will get to see Sara soon. I anticipate an inappropriate amount of giggling and hugging, and I can't wait. What Helena didn't tell you about Sara is that in addition to being a kickass fiddle player, she is also a prolific organizer. She makes the calls, the deals, and the exacting itinerary, and if necessary she makes the Face (the no-nonsense, this is what we agreed to and that's how it's gonna be Face). She is 5 people concentrated into a 5' person (5'1 she'll be quick to tell you. She describes herself as "fun size"). Her knack for details is as exacting as her ear for pitch (she was born with perfect pitch), and though she swears she owns six pairs of jeans, I can't recall ever seeing her in anything but brilliantly colored minidresses.
Flight 1533, that's me! We're boarding now, hopefully they put me next to someone interesting. See you in Austin.
---------------------------------------
Spell check thinks "kickass" is not a word. This is incorrect.
Every time I fly I think about how similar taking off in an airplane is to a great first kiss. First off, it seems like you have to wait forever for it to finally happen. When you start to move you become hyper aware of every nerve in your body. You gather momentum, close your eyes, and no matter how long you've been thinking about it the moment of lift off still takes you by surprise. All the sudden your stomach floats up and you're weightless. You might chance a peek out the little side window and see the world you knew falling away. If you're flying at night, like I was just a few hours ago, you can see the cars and buildings become little pinpricks of light sparkling out of the black as you soar higher. Then when if feels like you'll just float away forever or pop like a bubble, you're back in your body. You're bones flow into the seat and you release the breath you didn't realize you were holding. Finally you settle in, and you're coasting thousands of miles above "g'mornin" and "y'all come back now, y'hear!" You're flying towards someplace new and exciting, maybe a little bit scary, and it's fantastic! Takeoffs are often my favorite part of the journey.
For me, landing is much less like kissing and much more like concentrating on not throwing up on the large man next to me as a baby squeals two rows up because she doesn't like the pressure change. Two bumps and a lurch later I'm grounded, and a soft tired sounding voice crackles on to the intercom. "Welcome to Houston."
Honestly, considering the bumpy landing I just had I'm not too upset that my flight from Houston to Austin is delayed another hour. Now I have time to write to you, and to calm the coffee-salad slush churning in my stomach. It's 9:37 (10:37 where you are, and 7:37 for you), and I am on my way to Adventure, my first ever tour! The Black River Belles take on the southeast this January: Austin, Dallas, Nashville, Columbia, and Louisville. We've decided the tour motto is "kickin ass, takin names." (I kinda thought it should be "love, booze, and other important things" but that didn't have the same ring to it. "Tour" makes this sound a lot more professional than what I think the reality is going to be. Our "bus" is an old minivan, (decorated with window art by yours truly), out hotel the couches, floors, and recliners or our generous friends (and in a pinch the floor of the minivan). We do have roadies though, or at least we have some friends crazy enough to road trip across the country with us. That would be Rue, Danny, Carlos, and Alex.
Oh, I haven't introduced the band! Ok, I'm going to say it just the way Helena always does on stage:
"Allright well, for y'all that weren't here before, we are the Black River Belles, and we're gonna play some music you you tonight (sometimes she says "songs about love, murder, and whiskey" or just "porch songs"). Over here to my right we've got the illustrious Ms. Sara Sasaki on fiddle, from Austin, Texas. Well, clap! (people clap. You can't not listen to Helena). Good. And holding up the low end, Miss Erin Lobb from Louisville Kentucky. (She usually draws out the Lou in Louisville and asks me if she said it right. She never does, but I tell her she did anyway). I'm Helena Thompson, and I hope y'all have as much fun as we're about to. This next one is about murder with a whiskey bottle/spooning/working on a railroad/love in the kitchen."
If my plane ever takes off I will get to see Sara soon. I anticipate an inappropriate amount of giggling and hugging, and I can't wait. What Helena didn't tell you about Sara is that in addition to being a kickass fiddle player, she is also a prolific organizer. She makes the calls, the deals, and the exacting itinerary, and if necessary she makes the Face (the no-nonsense, this is what we agreed to and that's how it's gonna be Face). She is 5 people concentrated into a 5' person (5'1 she'll be quick to tell you. She describes herself as "fun size"). Her knack for details is as exacting as her ear for pitch (she was born with perfect pitch), and though she swears she owns six pairs of jeans, I can't recall ever seeing her in anything but brilliantly colored minidresses.
Flight 1533, that's me! We're boarding now, hopefully they put me next to someone interesting. See you in Austin.
---------------------------------------
Spell check thinks "kickass" is not a word. This is incorrect.
Monday, January 18, 2010
An Organizing Mood
It is a mark of how many cities, couches, and air mattresses I've graced in the last two weeks that as I rose out of sleep this morning I literally had no idea where I was. Without opening my eyes, I took account of my surroundings. I wasn't sinking into a partially inflated air mattress or smelling Mama Ts heavenly southern cooking, and no one was mumbling about giant butterflies, so not Dallas. I didn't hear anyone practicing-no trumpet arpeggios or Bach sonata's from down the hall, so not Sara's house in Austin. I felt like I was in a bed, but Helena's leg wasn't slung over me, in fact I couldn't feel any person-sized warmth on either side, so probably not Nashville. By the time I had run through all the possible permutations of beds and cities, I was awake enough to force my eyelids apart. I was greeted by the bright turquoise walls of my own room in Louisville. Daisyduck, bright yellow with her pink flower hat, stared back at me from approximately where I had expected the person shaped warmth to emanate from. I smiled at her, and at the walls, and the plants on the window sill that my mom has been keeping alive, and for that matter I smiled at my mom, even though if the sun slanting through my windows was any indication she had gone to work hours ago. I was home.
It's been two weeks and five cities since Sara, Helena, and I started on this mad adventure. In all the ways that I'm measuring, the Black River Belles first tour has been a resounding success. No, we haven't made a lot (any?) of money, BUT we've gotten 13 semi trucks to honk at us, Sara has worn all but one of her 23 of her dresses once, we have started a jam session in every city we've visited, we sweet talked our way into the best bluegrass show I've ever seen in my life, Helena has shocked at least 150 people, and the whale joke has been told 7 times. Oh, and we painted a flaming fiddle, crossed bass and guitar necks, a cowgirl in polka dots, and the tour motto (kickin' a**, takin' names) on the old minivan. That sounds like victory to me.
"I was in an organizing mood" says Sara, about how we decided to spend the month of January road tripping and performing across the Southeastern United States. Her "organizing mood" got us gigs in Austin, TX, Dallas, TX, Nashville, TN, Columbia, TN, and my hometown Louisville, KY (and an itinerary that includes details such as "get dressed"). As Helena would say "thank the baby Lord Jeezus!" for Sara's organizing moods. I've had the time of my life, making music, jokes, and "dank" food with some of my favorite people in the whole world.
---------------------------
I haven't had my computer, so I haven't been able to update you in real time. I kept an old fashioned pen and paper journal though, so I'm gonna type up some of those entries here in the next couple days. Pretend like we're time traveling.
Also: I miss you.
It's been two weeks and five cities since Sara, Helena, and I started on this mad adventure. In all the ways that I'm measuring, the Black River Belles first tour has been a resounding success. No, we haven't made a lot (any?) of money, BUT we've gotten 13 semi trucks to honk at us, Sara has worn all but one of her 23 of her dresses once, we have started a jam session in every city we've visited, we sweet talked our way into the best bluegrass show I've ever seen in my life, Helena has shocked at least 150 people, and the whale joke has been told 7 times. Oh, and we painted a flaming fiddle, crossed bass and guitar necks, a cowgirl in polka dots, and the tour motto (kickin' a**, takin' names) on the old minivan. That sounds like victory to me.
"I was in an organizing mood" says Sara, about how we decided to spend the month of January road tripping and performing across the Southeastern United States. Her "organizing mood" got us gigs in Austin, TX, Dallas, TX, Nashville, TN, Columbia, TN, and my hometown Louisville, KY (and an itinerary that includes details such as "get dressed"). As Helena would say "thank the baby Lord Jeezus!" for Sara's organizing moods. I've had the time of my life, making music, jokes, and "dank" food with some of my favorite people in the whole world.
---------------------------
I haven't had my computer, so I haven't been able to update you in real time. I kept an old fashioned pen and paper journal though, so I'm gonna type up some of those entries here in the next couple days. Pretend like we're time traveling.
Also: I miss you.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
On Dedication: Types and Degrees
It took passing 2 jocks in fishnets, a guy riding a bike in neon orange short shorts with matching tube socks and pasties, and a girl wearing a shiny dominatrix outfit (as much as a few inch wide straps of pleather can count as an "outfit") complete with chains for me to remember that tonight is Safer Sex Night.
Definition Time! Safer Sex Night is an annual Oberlin celebration of skimpy costumes, loud music, alcohol, and (often) glitter or pleather (because we love the animals). Oberlin students journey to the 'Sco wearing almost nothing in order to celebrate their sexual freedom.
I might add that I was on my way to the library.
It is currently 31 degrees and dropping.
Questions:
Who is more dedicated?
Does Oberlin hold this event in November on purpose?
In other news, I should be working.
Definition Time! Safer Sex Night is an annual Oberlin celebration of skimpy costumes, loud music, alcohol, and (often) glitter or pleather (because we love the animals). Oberlin students journey to the 'Sco wearing almost nothing in order to celebrate their sexual freedom.
I might add that I was on my way to the library.
It is currently 31 degrees and dropping.
Questions:
Who is more dedicated?
Does Oberlin hold this event in November on purpose?
In other news, I should be working.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
I'm not dead.
B is for Bluegrass.
Other things B is for:
-Badass
-B Major
-Blues
-Bass
-Awesome! Wait, no...
I'm not dead. I'm in fact more alive than I've been in a long time. I do, however, fail at updating you about my life. You'll be happy to know (at least I hope so) that the reason I fail at updating you about my life is because it's been so good lately.
Things in My Life That are Good, in no particular order:
-Music
-Friends, bandmates, and friends that are bandmates
-My wonderful pancake-making, hug-giving, sharp-dancing California Honey
-Environment and Society class. Obies, if you have a chance to take this, do.
-Sunshine. Like peekaboo, today I see you, tomorrow it will snow.
Things I know about Hexachordal Combinatoriality:
-My teacher said this word a couple times in music theory class. No one but me snickered.
-This word is too long.
-Bill Monroe didn't know what this was.
------------------------------------------------------------
How the Black River Belles Came to Be -OR- We Were Bored
Me: Hey Sara, you ever played fiddle? Wanna start a band?
Sara: Sure.
Winter in Ohio is a terrible thing. Imagine a LOT of snow that doesn't go away, with no footprints in it because it's too miserably cold to go outside. There is no sun, and everyone is bored. This, incidentally is the perfect condition in which to create a band with your girlfriends.
Black River is actually a creek. It thinks it's a river, so everyone humors it. Many things in Northeast Ohio are named after the Black River and several of them are awesome.
Awesome things named after the Black River:
-Black River Cafe
-Black River Antiques
-Black River Lanes (bowling)
-Black River Pirates (Sullivan, OH high school football team)
-Black River Belles.
So my girls and I started a folk/bluegrass band. It makes me very happy.
We are:
Helena Thompson, on vocals, guitar, beauty, and haircuts
Sara Sasaki, on fiddle, vocals, adorableness, wardrobe, and organization
Erin Lobb, on bass, vocals, and bad jokes.
Places You Might See Belles:
-Agave
-The Cat and the Cream
-Tappan Bandstand
-Science Center Atrium
-Cracker Barrel
-J-House
-Outside your window RIGHT NOW! (haha, you looked)
The Belles are good friends with the Outhouse Troubadours. If fact, Belles love Troubadours so much they gave them a bassist...
Wait that's me!
I also joined an established campus band with some really great pickers and singers to serenade the outhouse. It's a lot of fun:
Every now and then I scream "I LOVE MUSIC!" in complete seriousness and sobriety. At least 7 people agree with me.
-------------------------------------------
Here's a link to download a recording of the April 19th show the Outhouse Troubadours played at the Cat in the Cream (with me on bass!):
http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=7b5bd021150ab69391b20cc0d07ba4d2a6f24f56d5aa9e8d
In Other News:
-I got eggs from under a chicken, and they were warm! She pecked at me!
-The tulip trees are beautiful.
-Thunder Over Louisville was last weekend. Daniel stole me an official No Stopping-Special Event sign. I knew I liked that kid.
-It was great to see my family last weekend. Now-back to work!
Other things B is for:
-Badass
-B Major
-Blues
-Bass
-Awesome! Wait, no...
I'm not dead. I'm in fact more alive than I've been in a long time. I do, however, fail at updating you about my life. You'll be happy to know (at least I hope so) that the reason I fail at updating you about my life is because it's been so good lately.
Things in My Life That are Good, in no particular order:
-Music
-Friends, bandmates, and friends that are bandmates
-My wonderful pancake-making, hug-giving, sharp-dancing California Honey
-Environment and Society class. Obies, if you have a chance to take this, do.
-Sunshine. Like peekaboo, today I see you, tomorrow it will snow.
Things I know about Hexachordal Combinatoriality:
-My teacher said this word a couple times in music theory class. No one but me snickered.
-This word is too long.
-Bill Monroe didn't know what this was.
------------------------------------------------------------
How the Black River Belles Came to Be -OR- We Were Bored
Me: Hey Sara, you ever played fiddle? Wanna start a band?
Sara: Sure.
Winter in Ohio is a terrible thing. Imagine a LOT of snow that doesn't go away, with no footprints in it because it's too miserably cold to go outside. There is no sun, and everyone is bored. This, incidentally is the perfect condition in which to create a band with your girlfriends.
Black River is actually a creek. It thinks it's a river, so everyone humors it. Many things in Northeast Ohio are named after the Black River and several of them are awesome.
Awesome things named after the Black River:
-Black River Cafe
-Black River Antiques
-Black River Lanes (bowling)
-Black River Pirates (Sullivan, OH high school football team)
-Black River Belles.
So my girls and I started a folk/bluegrass band. It makes me very happy.
We are:
Helena Thompson, on vocals, guitar, beauty, and haircuts
Sara Sasaki, on fiddle, vocals, adorableness, wardrobe, and organization
Erin Lobb, on bass, vocals, and bad jokes.
Places You Might See Belles:
-Agave
-The Cat and the Cream
-Tappan Bandstand
-Science Center Atrium
-Cracker Barrel
-J-House
-Outside your window RIGHT NOW! (haha, you looked)
The Belles are good friends with the Outhouse Troubadours. If fact, Belles love Troubadours so much they gave them a bassist...
Wait that's me!
I also joined an established campus band with some really great pickers and singers to serenade the outhouse. It's a lot of fun:
Every now and then I scream "I LOVE MUSIC!" in complete seriousness and sobriety. At least 7 people agree with me.
-------------------------------------------
Here's a link to download a recording of the April 19th show the Outhouse Troubadours played at the Cat in the Cream (with me on bass!):
http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=7b5bd021150ab69391b20cc0d07ba4d2a6f24f56d5aa9e8d
In Other News:
-I got eggs from under a chicken, and they were warm! She pecked at me!
-The tulip trees are beautiful.
-Thunder Over Louisville was last weekend. Daniel stole me an official No Stopping-Special Event sign. I knew I liked that kid.
-It was great to see my family last weekend. Now-back to work!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Illusions
Last night I watched a 3D movie without 3D glasses. The movie was my life. I saw my world in one piece, normal and together. First I was walking alone on a path. As I walked the scenery started to change with increasing rapidness, mostly between different places I've lived or spent a lot of time, like I was inside a television whose channels kept flipping. Sometimes there were other people on the path, but they weren't there for very long.
Then things started to separate. Everything around me dissolved into its double picture the way 3D illusions do when you take off the glasses and look with just your eyes. Everything was doubled, but not just doubled exactly. It was as if there were multiple overlapping versions of the same thing. It was all moving and overlapping and sometimes I could see the insides of things...it was very confusing. Then suddenly I knew. I knew, the way you just know things in dreams without knowing why you know them, that this was the way the world really was. The pieces I glimpsed underneath everything were the real truth, and the togetherness I usually saw was just an illusion.
As I started to surface from my dream this morning I still believed it was real. Before I opened my eyes, I thought I could choose which version I was going to see today.
I couldn't decide.
---------------------
I'm writing to you from northern Ohio. It's very cold, and has been snowing persistently for a few days now. Someone, I don't know who, has made an igloo outside my dorm. Maybe they're in there.
I'm in an orchestra this month. We're playing:
Mahler's 1st symphony
Beethoven's 4th piano concerto
Huang Ruo (an Oberlin alum) Hanging Cliffs
Rehearsal is going well, and even our terrifying conductor seems pleased. The Huang Ruo, however, is a disastrous mess of sloppy writing and painful dissonance. Luckily it's a premier, so no one will know whether or not it's really supposed to sound that terrible (it is) and everyone will be afraid to appear old-fashioned by criticizing it. After the disaster that is Hanging Cliffs, however, the remaining audience members are in for a real treat. The Mahler is frightening, glorious, funny, tragic, and heroic at once. The Beethoven concerto is the sort of beautiful that can only be described in musical form, and pianist/professor Angela Cheng gives her interpretation to each listener like a loving gift between intimate friends. If every audience member does not have a musicgasm by the end of this concert it will not be our fault.
I'm enjoying the peace and quiet in my little northern hideaway. I think I probably have a few neighbors left in the dorm, but I haven't seen them. Sara and I have been cooking up plans and rich food, and are very excited about the possibilities once our singer is healthy again and we've bought more buttermilk. The snow is more pristine than it is allowed to be when 3000+ people live and work here, and the top layer has crystalized and reflects the sun as I look out my window. My bike is frozen again, but I find I don't need or want to go anywhere that a leasurely walk can't take me. I am quite content, and as always remain
yours,
Erin
--------------------------------------------------
For an amusing video of composer Huang Ruo explaining his Great Vision for "Hanging Cliffs," see:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XO1wqQNVPXY
Then things started to separate. Everything around me dissolved into its double picture the way 3D illusions do when you take off the glasses and look with just your eyes. Everything was doubled, but not just doubled exactly. It was as if there were multiple overlapping versions of the same thing. It was all moving and overlapping and sometimes I could see the insides of things...it was very confusing. Then suddenly I knew. I knew, the way you just know things in dreams without knowing why you know them, that this was the way the world really was. The pieces I glimpsed underneath everything were the real truth, and the togetherness I usually saw was just an illusion.
As I started to surface from my dream this morning I still believed it was real. Before I opened my eyes, I thought I could choose which version I was going to see today.
I couldn't decide.
---------------------
I'm writing to you from northern Ohio. It's very cold, and has been snowing persistently for a few days now. Someone, I don't know who, has made an igloo outside my dorm. Maybe they're in there.
I'm in an orchestra this month. We're playing:
Mahler's 1st symphony
Beethoven's 4th piano concerto
Huang Ruo (an Oberlin alum) Hanging Cliffs
Rehearsal is going well, and even our terrifying conductor seems pleased. The Huang Ruo, however, is a disastrous mess of sloppy writing and painful dissonance. Luckily it's a premier, so no one will know whether or not it's really supposed to sound that terrible (it is) and everyone will be afraid to appear old-fashioned by criticizing it. After the disaster that is Hanging Cliffs, however, the remaining audience members are in for a real treat. The Mahler is frightening, glorious, funny, tragic, and heroic at once. The Beethoven concerto is the sort of beautiful that can only be described in musical form, and pianist/professor Angela Cheng gives her interpretation to each listener like a loving gift between intimate friends. If every audience member does not have a musicgasm by the end of this concert it will not be our fault.
I'm enjoying the peace and quiet in my little northern hideaway. I think I probably have a few neighbors left in the dorm, but I haven't seen them. Sara and I have been cooking up plans and rich food, and are very excited about the possibilities once our singer is healthy again and we've bought more buttermilk. The snow is more pristine than it is allowed to be when 3000+ people live and work here, and the top layer has crystalized and reflects the sun as I look out my window. My bike is frozen again, but I find I don't need or want to go anywhere that a leasurely walk can't take me. I am quite content, and as always remain
yours,
Erin
--------------------------------------------------
For an amusing video of composer Huang Ruo explaining his Great Vision for "Hanging Cliffs," see:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XO1wqQNVPXY
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Conclusions
So I'm trying to decide whether or not today was a good day. As you may know, every decision in my life involves lists. Let's take a moment to compare:
Today Sucked, Winter Sucks, Ohio Sucks, and School Also Sucks (and I Hope Tomorrow Is Better, Though I doubt it):
-It snained, slushed, and hit me with ice balls. And it's cold. And grey.
-I lost my ID card and keys.
-Five minutes before class I remembered to do my Aural Skills homework.
-Music Theory and Aural Skills. Must we really? 9 semesters? Really?
-I have way too much to do and I'm stressed out.
-Freshmen Composition Module Concert.
-I'm nervous about a favor I agreed to do for a friend that involves me being hypnotized in a circus show.
-I didn't get to go to the lecture I really wanted to go to on the neurobiology of decision making.
Today Was Awesome! I Love Going to Oberlin, it's So Pretty and Everyone is So Nice! WOoh Exclamation Points!!1!1!one!!
-Snow!
-Sara found my ID card and keys and gave them back to me.
-Freshmen Composition Module Concert (Eugene played Graham's piece)
-I put together my Halloween costume: I'm going to be a Southern Belle! (I think the fact that I'm just wearing the clothes I wore on Derby day last year/what I wear to every contra dance undermines my protests when Graham and Eugene point out that I am already a Southern Belle.)
-The theatre department had a costume sale.
-I got a package from home! Containing: love. (Also a "Someone in Louisville Loves Me" t-shirt, and candy/baking supplies)
-I have a pumpkin to carve tomorrow!
-Swing Class was awesome, we learned the "rock-step down clap step step snap ba-dum."
When I first wrote these lists, right after aural skills, I was going to conclude that the only conclusions I can draw here are that I am too busy. I've since decided that today was an wonderful day. This is because I am now factoring in some pretty awesome wild cards.
Reasons Why No Matter What Goes Wrong It's All Right:
-You.
To my family back home: Hope things are going well, I miss you, don't worry I'll call soon,
love,
Erin
Today Sucked, Winter Sucks, Ohio Sucks, and School Also Sucks (and I Hope Tomorrow Is Better, Though I doubt it):
-It snained, slushed, and hit me with ice balls. And it's cold. And grey.
-I lost my ID card and keys.
-Five minutes before class I remembered to do my Aural Skills homework.
-Music Theory and Aural Skills. Must we really? 9 semesters? Really?
-I have way too much to do and I'm stressed out.
-Freshmen Composition Module Concert.
-I'm nervous about a favor I agreed to do for a friend that involves me being hypnotized in a circus show.
-I didn't get to go to the lecture I really wanted to go to on the neurobiology of decision making.
Today Was Awesome! I Love Going to Oberlin, it's So Pretty and Everyone is So Nice! WOoh Exclamation Points!!1!1!one!!
-Snow!
-Sara found my ID card and keys and gave them back to me.
-Freshmen Composition Module Concert (Eugene played Graham's piece)
-I put together my Halloween costume: I'm going to be a Southern Belle! (I think the fact that I'm just wearing the clothes I wore on Derby day last year/what I wear to every contra dance undermines my protests when Graham and Eugene point out that I am already a Southern Belle.)
-The theatre department had a costume sale.
-I got a package from home! Containing: love. (Also a "Someone in Louisville Loves Me" t-shirt, and candy/baking supplies)
-I have a pumpkin to carve tomorrow!
-Swing Class was awesome, we learned the "rock-step down clap step step snap ba-dum."
When I first wrote these lists, right after aural skills, I was going to conclude that the only conclusions I can draw here are that I am too busy. I've since decided that today was an wonderful day. This is because I am now factoring in some pretty awesome wild cards.
Reasons Why No Matter What Goes Wrong It's All Right:
-You.
To my family back home: Hope things are going well, I miss you, don't worry I'll call soon,
love,
Erin
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Smug Blue Rooster
Last night I met a beautiful Spaniard. Santiago was his name, and I shall never forget his eyes: dark, mysterious- and wide with fear and surprise.
You see I- uh- well... I threw a shoe at him.
It was an accident! I was dancing with the tall red-bearded fellow who always lifts me in the air when we swing, and my shoes kept falling off. I had 2 1/2 beats between my do-si-do and balance-and-swing. I'd planned it during the last allemande: in the next free moment I would gently kick off my shoes to the side of the set and dance the rest barefoot.
No sweat.
Of course anyone who knows me knows I rarely do anything "gently." The thud with which the second shoe hit the wall (three feet from Santiago's beautiful head and about 15 feet from the other shoe) was startlingly audible over the 13 piece band, 60 dancing people's stomps, and frequent raucous "yee-haws!" As Red-Beard lifted me off the ground he laughingly remarked that he'd never had a partner try and kill anyone in the middle of a dance before.
My flush at that moment cannot be attributed entirely to the exercise.
The "kicker" was getting the shoes back. The first was in a corner by the door. The second posed more of a challenge. I made brief eye-contact with my near-victim as I bent to pick up my worn out red flat. Keren is of the oppinion that the next thing I said to Santiago-the-beautiful-spaniard qualifies as a pick-up line. I disagree. You be the judge.
"Sorry about that. You know, I promise I didn't throw a shoe at you to ask you to dance but...would you like to dance?"
That's totally not a pick-up line. Right? Right?!
So we danced. Either Mr. Beautiful-Eyes was traumatized by his near-disfigurement, he has a jealous girlfriend he doesn't want to cross, or he's just naturally very shy (hence his position in a chair in the path of my shoe). Regardless, he was quiet through the last dance, and we ended the night with a rather tame but well coordinated swing.
I laughed all the way home.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Today I saw a terrible painting by a wonderful painter. The proportions were off, the brushstrokes haphazard, the eyes looked creepily asymmetrical, inhuman and cold, and the light was confusing. My primary reaction: inspiration. If Mary Cassatt, one of my favorite painters, can produce something like this, then I figure it's ok when my paintings are terrible.
I went to the SPEED museum with my mom today. Did you know we have a Chagall there? It's pretty cool too, with the characteristic bright yellow cow, smug blue rooster, and busty bride floating over a red and purple village clutching bright yellow and red flowers. I've never seen a Chagall in anything but books before, and I kinda expected the paint to have more texture. The strokes seemed meticulous and deliberate, not at all what I was expecting. There was also a Cezanne still life of (what else) apples, some Matisse line prints (naked women), a Monet view of a cathedral in Normandy, and a beautiful still life of peaches and raspberries that made me so hungry I had to leave. Overall a successful trip.
----------------------------------------
Only two more days till I go to California!
You see I- uh- well... I threw a shoe at him.
It was an accident! I was dancing with the tall red-bearded fellow who always lifts me in the air when we swing, and my shoes kept falling off. I had 2 1/2 beats between my do-si-do and balance-and-swing. I'd planned it during the last allemande: in the next free moment I would gently kick off my shoes to the side of the set and dance the rest barefoot.
No sweat.
Of course anyone who knows me knows I rarely do anything "gently." The thud with which the second shoe hit the wall (three feet from Santiago's beautiful head and about 15 feet from the other shoe) was startlingly audible over the 13 piece band, 60 dancing people's stomps, and frequent raucous "yee-haws!" As Red-Beard lifted me off the ground he laughingly remarked that he'd never had a partner try and kill anyone in the middle of a dance before.
My flush at that moment cannot be attributed entirely to the exercise.
The "kicker" was getting the shoes back. The first was in a corner by the door. The second posed more of a challenge. I made brief eye-contact with my near-victim as I bent to pick up my worn out red flat. Keren is of the oppinion that the next thing I said to Santiago-the-beautiful-spaniard qualifies as a pick-up line. I disagree. You be the judge.
"Sorry about that. You know, I promise I didn't throw a shoe at you to ask you to dance but...would you like to dance?"
That's totally not a pick-up line. Right? Right?!
So we danced. Either Mr. Beautiful-Eyes was traumatized by his near-disfigurement, he has a jealous girlfriend he doesn't want to cross, or he's just naturally very shy (hence his position in a chair in the path of my shoe). Regardless, he was quiet through the last dance, and we ended the night with a rather tame but well coordinated swing.
I laughed all the way home.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Today I saw a terrible painting by a wonderful painter. The proportions were off, the brushstrokes haphazard, the eyes looked creepily asymmetrical, inhuman and cold, and the light was confusing. My primary reaction: inspiration. If Mary Cassatt, one of my favorite painters, can produce something like this, then I figure it's ok when my paintings are terrible.
I went to the SPEED museum with my mom today. Did you know we have a Chagall there? It's pretty cool too, with the characteristic bright yellow cow, smug blue rooster, and busty bride floating over a red and purple village clutching bright yellow and red flowers. I've never seen a Chagall in anything but books before, and I kinda expected the paint to have more texture. The strokes seemed meticulous and deliberate, not at all what I was expecting. There was also a Cezanne still life of (what else) apples, some Matisse line prints (naked women), a Monet view of a cathedral in Normandy, and a beautiful still life of peaches and raspberries that made me so hungry I had to leave. Overall a successful trip.
----------------------------------------
Only two more days till I go to California!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Wish
Today I did not write any papers. I did not work, and I did not make any effort to look nice. I did not go anywhere, I did not put on shoes, and I did not get up early.
I did, however:
Did I mention the part where I LOVE SUMMER?
-------------------------------------
I did, however:
- sleep in
- wear my ratty (read: well loved) multicolored, funny-collared paint smock with entertaining silver snaps
- play bass
- eat black raspberry chip ice cream
- wipe Prussian Blue and Yellow Ochre on my legs and smock
Did I mention the part where I LOVE SUMMER?
Wish
12x16, Acrylics, fingerpaint + brushes
8/5/08
Fender
7x9, acrylics
(for Eugene)
7/21/08
Calm Before The Storm
7x9, acrylics
7/30/08
12x16, Acrylics, fingerpaint + brushes
8/5/08
Fender
7x9, acrylics
(for Eugene)
7/21/08
Calm Before The Storm
7x9, acrylics
7/30/08
Monday, August 4, 2008
Sparkles
I’m haphazard about most things, but when it comes to choosing books I am meticulous to the point of obsession. When I go to the bookstore with my mother, she knows me well enough to plan for more hours than seem sensible, and when the critical decision has been made I can always find her patiently engulfed in one of the overstuffed chairs in the history section. For all my careful combing through summaries and frustrated flips through first chapters, though, it seems that somehow the book I need to read always finds me when I need to read it. It’s a very rare favorite that finds me by my own careful choosing. The latest in this string of necessary books only ended up on my bedside table because as I halfheartedly meandered through the overflowing aisle of Book and Music Exchange I happened to see sparkles on the spine (and happened to be intrigued by sparkles, and happened to be feeling impulsive).
The title of the following list was going to be Books That I Needed to Read, Which You Might Also Enjoy For Your Own Personal Reasons, which is a really terrible title and too long anyways. Besides, once I made the list, it was clearly a list of-
Books to Empower (anger, touch, and ignite) Young and Old Women:
Please add to, rip apart, and denounce this list in comments, and as always, I'm thinking of you.
Yours,
Erin
--------------------------------------------------------
Panna Cotta*
(Inspired by St. Antons near the convent in Arrezzo)
3 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon powdered gelatin
4 cups heavy cream
1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
(or approx. 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract)
1/2 cup sugar
Mixed berries
Satin Chocolate Sauce:
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
4 1/2 ounces semisweet chocolate
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/3 cup hot water
In a small bowl, combine the water and gelatin and let soak about 10 minutes (don't stir). Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, heat the cream, vanilla and sugar to a simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally to dissolve the sugar. As soon as it simmers, turn off the heat and add the gelatin mixture, stirring to dissolve the gelatin. (If the gelatin doesn't completely dissolve after awhile, return the mixture to the heat and warm gently until dissolved.) Pour the mixture into 6 to 8 dessert cups (or muffin cups in a muffin pan..a muffin pan, a muffin pan).
(If you want honey almond panna cotta, fill the bottom of the cups with honey before adding the cream and chilling. The honey ones stay together better if you chill them longer, maybe overnight)
Chill, uncovered, 2 hours.
Satin Chocolate Sauce: In the top half of a double boiler, combine the 2 chocolates over simmering water. Stir constantly until melted, then whisk in the syrup and water without removing the double boiler from the heat. Whisk until smooth and shiny. The sauce can be made up to 24 hours in advance and refrigerated. To rewarm, stir over low heat or heat in a microwave.
To serve , dip the cups in hot water for 10 seconds, then turn the panna cottas out onto dessert plates (or, serve in the cups). Arrange the berries on top and drizzle with the chocolate sauce.
(option: instead of the chocolate sauce put two tsp honey in the bottom of each mold before adding the cream and refrigerating, then top with honey and toasted chopped hazelnuts or almonds.)
The title of the following list was going to be Books That I Needed to Read, Which You Might Also Enjoy For Your Own Personal Reasons, which is a really terrible title and too long anyways. Besides, once I made the list, it was clearly a list of-
Books to Empower (anger, touch, and ignite) Young and Old Women:
- The Awakening, by Kate Chopin
- The Secret Garden, by Frances Burnett
- Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte
- Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood (whoever borrowed that from me, I want it back)
- Little Women, Louisa May Alcott
- Girl With the Pearl Earring, Tracy Chevalier (also Virgin Blue and The Lady and the Unicorn)
- The Painted Kiss, by Elizabeth Hickey-the book that inspired this blog and list. It details the affair of Gustav Klimt (who painted The Kiss and Judith and the Head of Holofernes) and Emilie Floge, as Emilie grows from a naïve young art student to one of the most important independent women in Europe. I’m not done yet. If the ending’s terrible, this entry will be edited. (The ending was a little anticlimactic, but it's still a good read. That's the problem with historical novels I suppose: you already know the ending.)
Please add to, rip apart, and denounce this list in comments, and as always, I'm thinking of you.
Yours,
Erin
--------------------------------------------------------
Panna Cotta*
(Inspired by St. Antons near the convent in Arrezzo)
3 tablespoons water
1 tablespoon powdered gelatin
4 cups heavy cream
1/2 vanilla bean, split lengthwise
(or approx. 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract)
1/2 cup sugar
Mixed berries
Satin Chocolate Sauce:
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate
4 1/2 ounces semisweet chocolate
1/4 cup light corn syrup
1/3 cup hot water
In a small bowl, combine the water and gelatin and let soak about 10 minutes (don't stir). Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan, heat the cream, vanilla and sugar to a simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally to dissolve the sugar. As soon as it simmers, turn off the heat and add the gelatin mixture, stirring to dissolve the gelatin. (If the gelatin doesn't completely dissolve after awhile, return the mixture to the heat and warm gently until dissolved.) Pour the mixture into 6 to 8 dessert cups (or muffin cups in a muffin pan..a muffin pan, a muffin pan).
(If you want honey almond panna cotta, fill the bottom of the cups with honey before adding the cream and chilling. The honey ones stay together better if you chill them longer, maybe overnight)
Chill, uncovered, 2 hours.
Satin Chocolate Sauce: In the top half of a double boiler, combine the 2 chocolates over simmering water. Stir constantly until melted, then whisk in the syrup and water without removing the double boiler from the heat. Whisk until smooth and shiny. The sauce can be made up to 24 hours in advance and refrigerated. To rewarm, stir over low heat or heat in a microwave.
To serve , dip the cups in hot water for 10 seconds, then turn the panna cottas out onto dessert plates (or, serve in the cups). Arrange the berries on top and drizzle with the chocolate sauce.
(option: instead of the chocolate sauce put two tsp honey in the bottom of each mold before adding the cream and refrigerating, then top with honey and toasted chopped hazelnuts or almonds.)
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
La Cucina di Paola
As I mentioned, in Arezzo I lived with the foxy babes in the nunnery. Of course, I love my convent girls, and I'm not implying that I don't. But listen to this: my friend Marcelo lived with an Italian family near the train station. Marcelo liked to complain about the fact that, living with this family, he did not get to eat out with the group very often- because the mother cooked traditional Italian breakfast and dinner in the house for him. Every day. From scratch.
Obviously at that point I took Marcelo's drink and biscotti from him. Then I told him about the convent.
He didn't complain about his living arrangements any more after that.
He did, however, bring me to dinner one evening. That was when I met Paola, Goddess of Kitchens and Sass.
From the confident slant of her hips as she proffered the serving bowl, to the grin which met the moans of pleasure at her mushroom penne in wine sauce, it was evident that Paola was a woman who knew exactly how to wield her feminine power, and did. She quickly arranged everyone at the table to her liking and decided who would have the privilege of fetching the bread with the cool nonchalance of someone used to being obeyed. When she entered the room I no longer wondered at the boldly colored modern art prints, the safari patterned pillows and strange trinkets dancing along her shelves. In fact, my only question at that moment, which I have no shame in relaying was: 'how do I become this woman.'
Step 1: Cook Like a Goddess
It was surprisingly easy to get Paola to reveal her culinary secrets to me. I shyly asked after her recipe for ragu, which, if the raptures with which Marcelo described it are any indication, is more than edible. (the recipe is included in the list below) Once she started rolling, excitement building as she shared her passion, there was no stopping her. Her daughters were sent running in and out of the kitchen, not for recipe books, since everything was streaming straight out of Paola's head, but for the italian-english dictionary. The rest of the table never had their mouths empty long enough to throw more than the shortest affirmatives on the exchange.
Many minutes, a writing cramp, and several flips through the dictionary later, I was left with these fine gems of the culinary arts, scrawled and heavily corrected in my Italian notebook. I now present them to you, so that you too can make offering to Paola at her stovetop alter.
*stars (and suggestions) denote recipes I've tested since returning to the states. Untested recipes have notes.
If you figure out how to put these recipes in the post so you click on the post if you want to see them and everyone else doesn't have to scroll, drop me an email or comment here. Also, if you try any of the recipes in this blog I'd love it if you'd comment and tell me how it worked, and if you did anything different with it. Happy Cooking!
Fettuccini Alfredo*
18 ounces fresh fettuccine
2 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
12 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups grated Parmesan
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
ground nutmeg to taste
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to the bite, stirring occasionally, and drain.
Stir 2 cups of the cream and the lemon juice in a heavy large skillet to blend. Add the butter and cook over medium heat just until the butter melts, stirring occasionally, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat.
Add the pasta and toss. Add the remaining 1/2 cup of cream, and Parmesan to the cream sauce in the skillet. Add the lemon zest, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Toss the pasta mixture over low heat until the sauce thickens slightly, about 1 minute.
Optional: Saute veggies in butter and toss with pasta before serving. Maybe sweet snap peas, asparagus, or peppers.
-------------------------------------
Tiramisu*
8, with yolks and whites separated
1/3 cup sugar
1 pound mascarpone cheese
1 cup heavy cream
2 cups cooled espresso
2/3 cup brandy (or rum)
30 lady fingers
2 ounces grated bittersweet chocolate
cocoa powder
Mix the sugar into the egg yolks. Add a little mascarpone at a time to the egg yolk mixture, and mix until smooth. Set aside.
In a separate bowl, beat the whipping cream until stiff peaks form. Set this aside as well.
In another bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. (start whipping on high right away, else the eggs won't form peaks no matter what you do)
Fold the whipped cream into the egg yolk mixture, then fold in the beaten egg whites.
Put the espresso and alcohol in a bowl so you can dip the lady fingers.
If you want, you can layer the cream in the bottom first. Paola likes to put the lady fingers in first though, cause it's prettier. So, dip the ladyfingers in the espresso/alcohol mix, (quickly so they're coated but not soggy!). Layer them on the bottom of the pan, and sread the cream on top. repeat until you have as many layers as you want with cream on top. Top with grated chocolate and cocoa power. Enjoy.
-----------------------------------------------------
Basil and Pine Nut Pesto*
2 cups packed fresh basil leaves
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup pine nuts
2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino cheese, or Parmesan
(options: substitute some fresh tarragon for some of the basil, by preference.)
-----------------------------------------------
Tomato-Basil Bruschetta*
(not from Paola's kitchen, but keeping with her almost reverent attitude towards fresh basil)
1 (32-ounce) can whole tomatoes, drained
1 cup fresh basil leaves, washed and spun dry
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled, plus a couple more
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large French baquettes, sliced 1-inch thick (about 36 slices)
1 1/2 pounds fresh mozzarella cheese, sliced 1/4-inch thick
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
In the bowl of a food processor, add drained tomatoes, 1 cup basil leaves, olive oil and 2 cloves garlic. Pulse until smooth, but somewhat chunky. Season with salt and pepper.
On a baking sheet, line up baguette slices. Toast in oven until light golden brown. Remove from oven and rub peeled garlic cloves on the toasted side of each slice, then lay a piece of mozzarella on top. Place bread back in oven and melt cheese slightly. Remove from oven and spread one tablespoon of the tomato mixture on each piece.
-------------------------------------------------
Paola's Famous Ragu (untested, but heartily and unanimously recommended by all at Paola's table)
1 lb sausage
1 lb ground beef
olive oil
whole garlic cloves
(optional thinly sliced carrots and celery)
Cook the olive oil, garlic, and carrots in a pan for about 2-3 minutes. add the meat and cook until brown.
Boil water, drop in 6 whole tomatoes and cook for about 5 minutes.
Take the tomatoes out and remove the skin. Slice, and add to the meat.
Add fresh basil and salt/pepper to taste.
Obviously at that point I took Marcelo's drink and biscotti from him. Then I told him about the convent.
He didn't complain about his living arrangements any more after that.
He did, however, bring me to dinner one evening. That was when I met Paola, Goddess of Kitchens and Sass.
From the confident slant of her hips as she proffered the serving bowl, to the grin which met the moans of pleasure at her mushroom penne in wine sauce, it was evident that Paola was a woman who knew exactly how to wield her feminine power, and did. She quickly arranged everyone at the table to her liking and decided who would have the privilege of fetching the bread with the cool nonchalance of someone used to being obeyed. When she entered the room I no longer wondered at the boldly colored modern art prints, the safari patterned pillows and strange trinkets dancing along her shelves. In fact, my only question at that moment, which I have no shame in relaying was: 'how do I become this woman.'
Step 1: Cook Like a Goddess
It was surprisingly easy to get Paola to reveal her culinary secrets to me. I shyly asked after her recipe for ragu, which, if the raptures with which Marcelo described it are any indication, is more than edible. (the recipe is included in the list below) Once she started rolling, excitement building as she shared her passion, there was no stopping her. Her daughters were sent running in and out of the kitchen, not for recipe books, since everything was streaming straight out of Paola's head, but for the italian-english dictionary. The rest of the table never had their mouths empty long enough to throw more than the shortest affirmatives on the exchange.
Many minutes, a writing cramp, and several flips through the dictionary later, I was left with these fine gems of the culinary arts, scrawled and heavily corrected in my Italian notebook. I now present them to you, so that you too can make offering to Paola at her stovetop alter.
*stars (and suggestions) denote recipes I've tested since returning to the states. Untested recipes have notes.
If you figure out how to put these recipes in the post so you click on the post if you want to see them and everyone else doesn't have to scroll, drop me an email or comment here. Also, if you try any of the recipes in this blog I'd love it if you'd comment and tell me how it worked, and if you did anything different with it. Happy Cooking!
Fettuccini Alfredo*
18 ounces fresh fettuccine
2 1/2 cups heavy cream
1/2 cup fresh lemon juice
12 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups grated Parmesan
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
ground nutmeg to taste
Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
Cook the pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water until tender but still firm to the bite, stirring occasionally, and drain.
Stir 2 cups of the cream and the lemon juice in a heavy large skillet to blend. Add the butter and cook over medium heat just until the butter melts, stirring occasionally, about 3 minutes. Remove from the heat.
Add the pasta and toss. Add the remaining 1/2 cup of cream, and Parmesan to the cream sauce in the skillet. Add the lemon zest, nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Toss the pasta mixture over low heat until the sauce thickens slightly, about 1 minute.
Optional: Saute veggies in butter and toss with pasta before serving. Maybe sweet snap peas, asparagus, or peppers.
-------------------------------------
Tiramisu*
8, with yolks and whites separated
1/3 cup sugar
1 pound mascarpone cheese
1 cup heavy cream
2 cups cooled espresso
2/3 cup brandy (or rum)
30 lady fingers
2 ounces grated bittersweet chocolate
cocoa powder
Mix the sugar into the egg yolks. Add a little mascarpone at a time to the egg yolk mixture, and mix until smooth. Set aside.
In a separate bowl, beat the whipping cream until stiff peaks form. Set this aside as well.
In another bowl, beat the egg whites until stiff peaks form. (start whipping on high right away, else the eggs won't form peaks no matter what you do)
Fold the whipped cream into the egg yolk mixture, then fold in the beaten egg whites.
Put the espresso and alcohol in a bowl so you can dip the lady fingers.
If you want, you can layer the cream in the bottom first. Paola likes to put the lady fingers in first though, cause it's prettier. So, dip the ladyfingers in the espresso/alcohol mix, (quickly so they're coated but not soggy!). Layer them on the bottom of the pan, and sread the cream on top. repeat until you have as many layers as you want with cream on top. Top with grated chocolate and cocoa power. Enjoy.
-----------------------------------------------------
Basil and Pine Nut Pesto*
2 cups packed fresh basil leaves
2 cloves garlic
1/4 cup pine nuts
2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1/2 cup freshly grated Pecorino cheese, or Parmesan
Combine the basil, garlic, and pine nuts in a food processor and pulse until coarsely chopped. Add oil and process until fully incorporated and smooth. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in cheese.
(options: substitute some fresh tarragon for some of the basil, by preference.)
-----------------------------------------------
Tomato-Basil Bruschetta*
(not from Paola's kitchen, but keeping with her almost reverent attitude towards fresh basil)
1 (32-ounce) can whole tomatoes, drained
1 cup fresh basil leaves, washed and spun dry
4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
2 cloves garlic, peeled, plus a couple more
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large French baquettes, sliced 1-inch thick (about 36 slices)
1 1/2 pounds fresh mozzarella cheese, sliced 1/4-inch thick
Preheat oven to 375 degrees F.
In the bowl of a food processor, add drained tomatoes, 1 cup basil leaves, olive oil and 2 cloves garlic. Pulse until smooth, but somewhat chunky. Season with salt and pepper.
On a baking sheet, line up baguette slices. Toast in oven until light golden brown. Remove from oven and rub peeled garlic cloves on the toasted side of each slice, then lay a piece of mozzarella on top. Place bread back in oven and melt cheese slightly. Remove from oven and spread one tablespoon of the tomato mixture on each piece.
-------------------------------------------------
Paola's Famous Ragu (untested, but heartily and unanimously recommended by all at Paola's table)
1 lb sausage
1 lb ground beef
olive oil
whole garlic cloves
(optional thinly sliced carrots and celery)
Cook the olive oil, garlic, and carrots in a pan for about 2-3 minutes. add the meat and cook until brown.
Boil water, drop in 6 whole tomatoes and cook for about 5 minutes.
Take the tomatoes out and remove the skin. Slice, and add to the meat.
Add fresh basil and salt/pepper to taste.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Check Your Neck
Our numbers are growing. The first time I went, I was rather shy about the whole thing, but was put at ease when I saw a friend from high school there. The next week, a few more trickled in, and word started to spread. When people began bringing their families, that's when the whole thing really took hold. I'm optimistic about this summer's initiates, and I think our the group will continue to grow and take in new members.
No, I have not joined a cult. It's even better than that. I am now one of the few folks in town who plan the week around Monday nights, own more than three garmets made predominately of crinoline, and shop for dresses based on twirl circumference. I am a Louisville Country Dancer (see also: SUPERCOOL).
MONDAY NIGHTS-contra dancing, with live music, live callers, and *twirling*
7:30 beginner lessons 8:00-11(ish) dance
Church of the Advent on Baxter (near Bardstown Rd)
(I hear you get a +10 circumstance bonus to Cool every time you do-si-do)
I'm rediscovering the charms of Louisville (Also, the charms of a to-do list that includes napping). It really is a beautiful city. I didn't realize that until I left, I think. I've been reconnecting with my friends from high school, and spending a lot of time with my wonderfully crazy family (mostly cause they feed me). This weekend my whole family, cousins, aunts, uncles, and Grammy included, are going out to Cumberland Falls. Agenda for the weekend includes:
-catching lightning bugs, (and covertly handing them to my mother by getting her to "hold this for me")
-telling campfire stories (that make my brother easier to frighten later in the night)
-eating s'mores till there is chocolate all over my face
-convincing my youngest female cousin that she snores louder than any of the dads
-making up our own constellations and telling stories about them
-making sure mom is not so distracted watching birds that she walks off a cliff
-stockpiling memories to last through Fall semester.
In other news:
Daniel's home, finally. Because his nicknames at GSP included Heart-Throbb Lobb, and his facebook now consists of 500 pictures of him and "some girl" grinning at the camera, I've taken it as my solemn duty to call him "squirt" and ruffle his hair as much as possible. He loves it. Amazingly, despite the fandom he's gathered because of his music and stunning good looks (it runs in the family), he's returned home without the huge ego you would expect in a 17 year old heart-throb. He even let his dumpy old sister take him out for brunch! He's written some new very creative songs that would be a pleasure to listen to even if I didn't get to say "that's my brother!" Still, I can't help it if a little irony leaks into my voice when I suggest that you "check out his MySpace."
From August 15th to the 21st I'm going to be an honorary dudette in the surf capital of the world, Santa Cruz, California! I'm visiting my Oberlin friends, Graham and Eugene. Oh, and I get to hang out on the beach and go to San Francisco. You know, everyday stuff....Ok, not gonna lie, I'M SO STOKED! Or is that "I'm hella psyched, dude!"? I'm also hoping to get some surf lessons while I'm there, although Daniel has prepped me not to be dissappointed if I fail spectacularly. He seems to doubt my natural grace. Considering my agility walking and remaining upright on solid ground, and my love of rocking boats and churning waves, I'm sure I will have no problem balancing on a moving board that looks, to great white sharks, like a plump seal. Yeah I know, you don't need to give me that look. There's a bet involved, is part of it. Also, though, I'd like to give it a try. It seems as "california" as hippies and avocados, and I want to say I got the full experience.
Anything else I should try to do in the San Francisco/Santa Cruz area?
I promise I'm going to post some Italy stories soon, I just haven't gotten around to it yet. And no JeNie, it's not because I'm figuring out which parts to tell you about, either. At least, that's not all of it (jk, mom).
Give yourselves big hugs from me, and give me a call if you're in town,
yours,
Erin
-------------------------------------------------
Contributed by Mr. Jeff Foxworthy:
You Might Be a Redneck If....
No, I have not joined a cult. It's even better than that. I am now one of the few folks in town who plan the week around Monday nights, own more than three garmets made predominately of crinoline, and shop for dresses based on twirl circumference. I am a Louisville Country Dancer (see also: SUPERCOOL).
MONDAY NIGHTS-contra dancing, with live music, live callers, and *twirling*
7:30 beginner lessons 8:00-11(ish) dance
Church of the Advent on Baxter (near Bardstown Rd)
(I hear you get a +10 circumstance bonus to Cool every time you do-si-do)
I'm rediscovering the charms of Louisville (Also, the charms of a to-do list that includes napping). It really is a beautiful city. I didn't realize that until I left, I think. I've been reconnecting with my friends from high school, and spending a lot of time with my wonderfully crazy family (mostly cause they feed me). This weekend my whole family, cousins, aunts, uncles, and Grammy included, are going out to Cumberland Falls. Agenda for the weekend includes:
-catching lightning bugs, (and covertly handing them to my mother by getting her to "hold this for me")
-telling campfire stories (that make my brother easier to frighten later in the night)
-eating s'mores till there is chocolate all over my face
-convincing my youngest female cousin that she snores louder than any of the dads
-making up our own constellations and telling stories about them
-making sure mom is not so distracted watching birds that she walks off a cliff
-stockpiling memories to last through Fall semester.
In other news:
Daniel's home, finally. Because his nicknames at GSP included Heart-Throbb Lobb, and his facebook now consists of 500 pictures of him and "some girl" grinning at the camera, I've taken it as my solemn duty to call him "squirt" and ruffle his hair as much as possible. He loves it. Amazingly, despite the fandom he's gathered because of his music and stunning good looks (it runs in the family), he's returned home without the huge ego you would expect in a 17 year old heart-throb. He even let his dumpy old sister take him out for brunch! He's written some new very creative songs that would be a pleasure to listen to even if I didn't get to say "that's my brother!" Still, I can't help it if a little irony leaks into my voice when I suggest that you "check out his MySpace."
From August 15th to the 21st I'm going to be an honorary dudette in the surf capital of the world, Santa Cruz, California! I'm visiting my Oberlin friends, Graham and Eugene. Oh, and I get to hang out on the beach and go to San Francisco. You know, everyday stuff....Ok, not gonna lie, I'M SO STOKED! Or is that "I'm hella psyched, dude!"? I'm also hoping to get some surf lessons while I'm there, although Daniel has prepped me not to be dissappointed if I fail spectacularly. He seems to doubt my natural grace. Considering my agility walking and remaining upright on solid ground, and my love of rocking boats and churning waves, I'm sure I will have no problem balancing on a moving board that looks, to great white sharks, like a plump seal. Yeah I know, you don't need to give me that look. There's a bet involved, is part of it. Also, though, I'd like to give it a try. It seems as "california" as hippies and avocados, and I want to say I got the full experience.
Anything else I should try to do in the San Francisco/Santa Cruz area?
I promise I'm going to post some Italy stories soon, I just haven't gotten around to it yet. And no JeNie, it's not because I'm figuring out which parts to tell you about, either. At least, that's not all of it (jk, mom).
Give yourselves big hugs from me, and give me a call if you're in town,
yours,
Erin
-------------------------------------------------
Contributed by Mr. Jeff Foxworthy:
You Might Be a Redneck If....
. . . on Thanksgiving Day you have to decide which pet to eat.
. . . your idea of high-quality entertainment is a six-pack and a bug-zapper.
. . . you think the last words to The Star Spangled Banner are “Gentlemen, start your engines.”
. . . you’ve ever been to a wedding reception at the Waffle House.
. . . your dog has ever brought home something that you cooked for dinner.
. . . you’ve ever hollered, “Rock the house, Bubba!” during a piano recital.
. . . your kids’ favorite bedtime story is “Curious George and the High Voltage Fence.”
. . . your favorite restaurant has a gas pump in front and the word “eats” anywhere in the name.
. . . your baby’s crib mobile is made out of beer cans.
. . . your wife has a set of earrings that you use as a fishing lure.
. . . your chili’s secret ingredient comes from a bait shop.
. . . there is more carpet on your toilet than on your floors.
. . . your mailing address includes the word “holler.”
. . . your favorite fishing lure is TNT.
. . . you tell Grandpa he has something in his teeth and he takes them out to see.
. . . there is a trophy in your house with the word “spitting” on it.
. . . you think the stock market has a fence around it.
. . . your flashlight holds more than four batteries.
. . . you own a flamingo with buckshot holes in it.
. . . your favorite mixed drink includes Yoo-Hoo.
. . . there are four pairs of pants and two squirrels hanging from your clothesline.
. . . your local newspaper has a front-page feature called “Cow of the Week.”
. . . you’ve ever committed a crime with a lawn mower.
. . . your bridal veil was made of window screen.
. . . your favorite cologne is Deep Woods Off.
. . . you think safe sex means putting on the emergency brake.
. . . you use old auto parts as a boat anchor.
. . . you have an above ground pool and you fish in it.
. . . your doghouse and your living room both have the same shag carpet.
. . . you think fast food is hitting a deer at 65 mph.
. . . you save cooking grease in a coffee can.
. . . you have ever tried to use food stamps to mail a watermelon.
. . . your spring wardrobe mostly involves using scissors.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Good Stuff.
(What I'm about to say is going to sound incriminating, so let me premise it with: I was making tiramisu.)
So I was cleaning out Dad's liqueur cabinet last night, looking for brandy, when I found a very curious artifact. It stands about 1 1/5 feet tall, fat and practical, with murky green glass dirty with dust and handprints. When I hold it to the light, I can make out the dark outline of more than a gallon (but about half capacity) of liquid. The red screw-on cap still has an orange clearance tag on it ($14.40), and agrees with the brittle paper label that this is a jug of "soft red wine." I'm more inclined to believe the second label, however, which is handwritten (Nana's writing?) on masking tape. It says only "Good Stuff, 2-10-00."
I feel like the punchline to one of those "you might be a redneck if..." jokes.
After a cautious whiff (my sinuses are now clear) I believe the Good Stuff is either straight bourbon whiskey cured in somebodies basement, or pure Kentucky moonshine. I don't know why, but this strikes me as very funny. Every time I look at the jug (now proudly displayed on the kitchen table) I giggle a little bit. Not sure which is funnier, the fact that we have such a jug, or the fact that we don't have half its contents.
I know I've been terrible about posting. I'm gonna catch up, I swear! After all, I haven't got much better to do. Not that I'm bored! You know I love being home. It's just not as active as I'm used to being in Obieland. Anyways, yes, expect updates soon, one with Italy stories, and one with "since I've been home" stories (most of which involve dancing and food).
Briefly Since I've Been Home:
My brother has called a few times. I think I can count on my fingers the sentences we've exchanged. He's perfected the "hi-gotta go" routine to a T. He seems to be having a blast though. He's taking astronomy and some class about Bob Dylan and activism in the 60s. If we gave him the choice, I don't know if he'd ever come home. Fortunately, I'm not giving him a choice. I'll be there that last Friday, whether he likes it or not, and we're getting pie, damnit!
"Long lines, go forward and back, swing your partner on the side of the set!"
Music to this girls ears, such wonderful words had not been spoken to me for six weeks, can you believe it?! Apparently they don't contra dance much in Italy. Go figure. Since I've been home, I've been seizing every opportunity to get dizzy and wear out the soles of my shoes.
New Recipes for alfredo sauce (with nutmeg and lemon), tiramisu, tomato-basil-garlic bruschetta, and Ragu to be posted soon!
I miss you.
XOXO
Erin
--------------------------------------------------
"Nonsense, you don't miss me. You just miss my Derby pie, is all."
Derby Pie
Preheat oven to 325
Mix:
1 c. sugar
1/2 c. flour
2 eggs
1 stick butter
1 tsp vanilla
1 c. pecans
1 bag semi-sweet chips
Pour into crust.
Bake approximately 45 minutes, until it's just starting to turn golden brown, and there's a nice sugary buttery crust on top. (To keep the crust from burning you can cover the pie with a foil pie dish with a mug-size circle cut out the center.)
Enjoy.
(yeah, it really is that easy. I'm holding my chili recipe though.)
So I was cleaning out Dad's liqueur cabinet last night, looking for brandy, when I found a very curious artifact. It stands about 1 1/5 feet tall, fat and practical, with murky green glass dirty with dust and handprints. When I hold it to the light, I can make out the dark outline of more than a gallon (but about half capacity) of liquid. The red screw-on cap still has an orange clearance tag on it ($14.40), and agrees with the brittle paper label that this is a jug of "soft red wine." I'm more inclined to believe the second label, however, which is handwritten (Nana's writing?) on masking tape. It says only "Good Stuff, 2-10-00."
I feel like the punchline to one of those "you might be a redneck if..." jokes.
After a cautious whiff (my sinuses are now clear) I believe the Good Stuff is either straight bourbon whiskey cured in somebodies basement, or pure Kentucky moonshine. I don't know why, but this strikes me as very funny. Every time I look at the jug (now proudly displayed on the kitchen table) I giggle a little bit. Not sure which is funnier, the fact that we have such a jug, or the fact that we don't have half its contents.
I know I've been terrible about posting. I'm gonna catch up, I swear! After all, I haven't got much better to do. Not that I'm bored! You know I love being home. It's just not as active as I'm used to being in Obieland. Anyways, yes, expect updates soon, one with Italy stories, and one with "since I've been home" stories (most of which involve dancing and food).
Briefly Since I've Been Home:
My brother has called a few times. I think I can count on my fingers the sentences we've exchanged. He's perfected the "hi-gotta go" routine to a T. He seems to be having a blast though. He's taking astronomy and some class about Bob Dylan and activism in the 60s. If we gave him the choice, I don't know if he'd ever come home. Fortunately, I'm not giving him a choice. I'll be there that last Friday, whether he likes it or not, and we're getting pie, damnit!
"Long lines, go forward and back, swing your partner on the side of the set!"
Music to this girls ears, such wonderful words had not been spoken to me for six weeks, can you believe it?! Apparently they don't contra dance much in Italy. Go figure. Since I've been home, I've been seizing every opportunity to get dizzy and wear out the soles of my shoes.
New Recipes for alfredo sauce (with nutmeg and lemon), tiramisu, tomato-basil-garlic bruschetta, and Ragu to be posted soon!
I miss you.
XOXO
Erin
--------------------------------------------------
"Nonsense, you don't miss me. You just miss my Derby pie, is all."
Derby Pie
Preheat oven to 325
Mix:
1 c. sugar
1/2 c. flour
2 eggs
1 stick butter
1 tsp vanilla
1 c. pecans
1 bag semi-sweet chips
Pour into crust.
Bake approximately 45 minutes, until it's just starting to turn golden brown, and there's a nice sugary buttery crust on top. (To keep the crust from burning you can cover the pie with a foil pie dish with a mug-size circle cut out the center.)
Enjoy.
(yeah, it really is that easy. I'm holding my chili recipe though.)
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