I'm sitting in our house listening to the after-effects of Hurricane Irene. She turned inland earlier, and we are now getting the windy side. The house sounds like a subway as the train is coming into the station. Earlier, we had an old maple come down next to the house, and when I say next to the house, I mean that it is touching the house. And it's a big tree. The kid woke up and wouldn't go back to bed for a while.
After a summer of relationship and PTSD hell, tons of transitions and personal learning, and a week of earthquakes and a hurricane that almost scuttled our trip up here, I am about ready for some respite. Some sense of moving forward. Cooking again. Talking about beer, literature, and whatever else seems cool again. New music. Time with the kid. New horizons, and maybe a trip or two this fall. Certainly, there is a puppy on the horizon, and that's as much of a new start as anyone could ask for.
In any case, Maine. I have a love-hate relationship with our history up here. As the youngest of eight grandchildren in an old New England family, warmth isn't exactly the first word I'd use when describing my memories of summers up here. Nonetheless, it's one of the places I know best and one of the places that has been most restorative at times in my life. Driving up from Boston yesterday after we had flown out just ahead of the hurricane, I spent a great deal of time remembering my visits here over the years — the food, the music, the beer, the company, the quiet moments, the joyful moments introducing the place to people. I remembered it in part because I had only ever been up here this late in the season once, 20 years ago, when I last experienced a hurricane.
More than that, the memories came at me because so much has happened this year, and because I am doing so much rebuilding. And this is a place that has allowed me those moments in the past. When we got here, I opened a Geary's Ale and watched my mother and the kid make crab cakes with the local peeky-toe crab meat. It's a delicate meat that has a softer, less buttery flavor than the backfin crab meat we get in Virginia. But in the past, taking over the preparation of the crab cakes and corn would have been my purview. This time, however, I was happy to sit back and watch grandmother and grand-daughter work as a team. Not only did it mean I got to relax after a long day, but it was a reminder that sometimes we can let other people do what they do well.
Even if I had an opinion about a touch of this or a touch of that in the crab cakes, the moment wasn't about control. It was perfect as is. And the food was perfect when we ate the corn, crab cakes, and local leaf lettuce (something we miss in VA right now) and tomato salad. Letting life be perfect and happy as-is (but with potential for greatness) is something I'm trying to remember as part of this rebuilding.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Friday Fun — A day late — Hurricane Edition
In honor of today and everyone in RVA (and beyond), I'll offer these few selections...
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
nostalgia in the present
It's like my youth and my present are colliding in one divine bit of hilarity...
Friday, August 19, 2011
Friday Fun
With apologies to friends who may not be Ani fans, this is just a delicious example of some of her best songwriting...
No video here, but this is an all-time favorite of mine from Ani's second album and the days before she was famous.
And just to prove that I'm not in a complete Ani mode, Wilco. One of their all-time best songs...
No video here, but this is an all-time favorite of mine from Ani's second album and the days before she was famous.
And just to prove that I'm not in a complete Ani mode, Wilco. One of their all-time best songs...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
A puppy update...
Has there ever been a cuter picture than this? If so, I haven't seen it.
Oh, and this little guy comes home in just over two weeks.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Breaking Away
On July 30th, Rockett's Landing was the site of the second annual Dragon Boat Festival in Richmond. I'd heard about last year's races through friends who rowed for the Mekong team. A couple of them had tried to get me to join this year's team, but sometimes I hate to commit to things so I pshawed the idea.
As the weekend approached, however, it was going to be one of my first weekends without the kid in a long time, and since so many other things had recently changed in life too, I was a little at sea with what to do with myself. Going out of town wasn't an option with gas as expensive as it is, and working on the house was still presenting an emotional challenge. Cheering on some friends at the Dragon Boat Races seemed like just the thing. Cheering on, I say.
When I arrived, however, Chief Beer Officer An Bui told me to register — in case they needed me. Minutes later, I was needed. Apparently, this had been the plan all along; they just didn't bother to tell me. I grabbed a life jacket and joined the other 20 members of our boat to wait on line.
Dragon boat racing has apparently become a popular fundraiser across the country. The company running the races comes down from Canada, brings the boats, paddles and life jackets, sets up the course, and brings coaches for the competing boats. Teams are formed by companies or groups who pay the entrance fees, much like any other athletic fundraiser. And much like any other athletic fundraiser, a lot of the people who are rowing look like avid athletes. Some even had their own gear and equipment, like paddles in zipped neoprene cases.
The Mekong teams? Not so much. We were a ragtag bunch of beer lovers, artists, beer distributors, musicians, farmers, and various and sundry others. We were the Bad News Bears to the spiffy teams around us. And we were there to have fun.
Dragon boat races are broken into heats of 500 and 1000 meters, and our group was broken in to Teams A and B. The key to moving the boat forward is more in weight distribution and finding a steady rhythm than in power-paddling. Of course, it helps if you have a strong team. Before each race, you have warm-up periods during which the coach and drummer work to find a good sync for the boat.
In the first heat, Team A came in second, and continued to improve through the next couple of races. They won a cup in the umbrella division and didn't lose again until the finals when they were down three people.
On Team B's first race, we lost by more than a boat length. We'd paddled hard, but the drummer and coach were out of sync. Over the next few heats, Team A continued to do well. We improved with a change in drummers — kudos to Rasta Russell whose booming voice and quick wit kept us moving — but we were still lagging in our races.
The final race we rowed was a medal and cup heat for the C Division. As we pulled away, a new coach asked us to show him our "set." The set is the position at which you hold your paddle. He immediately corrected our position so we used our backs more than our arms. Then he asked us to take three strokes. Russell counted off, and we took three strokes. He told us to slow down and get our paddle blades all the way into the water. We tried again, and this time the boat moved differently. The deeper, more measured stroke worked with the boat's natural inertia and propelled us along. We tried a few more times, and each one was better. We whispered to each other about being able to feel the difference.
It was time to line up at the start. We pulled up to the line and awaited the starting horn. When it came, we followed his advice but started behind. Before long though, the rhythm steadied. Little by little, we nosed ahead until before long we were completely into the rhythm, one body working together to steadily propel the long, flat boat. Russell was beating the drum and calling out the count as we moved into the final stretch, and we were all counting with him. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Until we crossed the finish line. With one of the best times of the day. A boat length and a half ahead of the second place boat.
From the shore, the rest of the Mekong crew was cheering us on, and shouting "1. 2. 3. Beer!" We were clapping each other on the backs, high-fiving, saying "Can you believe that? That was amazing." And so much more. The Bad News Bears had won the Little League World Series again, and the feeling of being handed those medals was oh-so-sweet. I thought as we were walking up from the dock that it was also the most work I had given my shoulder in more than four years — and it felt good.
I'll puzzle through the metaphors and lessons of all this later, but the victory felt sweet. So, too, did the truly zen feeling of working together and understanding in my tired arms and back the natural momentum of doing something the right way.
As the weekend approached, however, it was going to be one of my first weekends without the kid in a long time, and since so many other things had recently changed in life too, I was a little at sea with what to do with myself. Going out of town wasn't an option with gas as expensive as it is, and working on the house was still presenting an emotional challenge. Cheering on some friends at the Dragon Boat Races seemed like just the thing. Cheering on, I say.
When I arrived, however, Chief Beer Officer An Bui told me to register — in case they needed me. Minutes later, I was needed. Apparently, this had been the plan all along; they just didn't bother to tell me. I grabbed a life jacket and joined the other 20 members of our boat to wait on line.
Dragon boat racing has apparently become a popular fundraiser across the country. The company running the races comes down from Canada, brings the boats, paddles and life jackets, sets up the course, and brings coaches for the competing boats. Teams are formed by companies or groups who pay the entrance fees, much like any other athletic fundraiser. And much like any other athletic fundraiser, a lot of the people who are rowing look like avid athletes. Some even had their own gear and equipment, like paddles in zipped neoprene cases.
The Mekong teams? Not so much. We were a ragtag bunch of beer lovers, artists, beer distributors, musicians, farmers, and various and sundry others. We were the Bad News Bears to the spiffy teams around us. And we were there to have fun.
Dragon boat races are broken into heats of 500 and 1000 meters, and our group was broken in to Teams A and B. The key to moving the boat forward is more in weight distribution and finding a steady rhythm than in power-paddling. Of course, it helps if you have a strong team. Before each race, you have warm-up periods during which the coach and drummer work to find a good sync for the boat.
In the first heat, Team A came in second, and continued to improve through the next couple of races. They won a cup in the umbrella division and didn't lose again until the finals when they were down three people.
On Team B's first race, we lost by more than a boat length. We'd paddled hard, but the drummer and coach were out of sync. Over the next few heats, Team A continued to do well. We improved with a change in drummers — kudos to Rasta Russell whose booming voice and quick wit kept us moving — but we were still lagging in our races.
The final race we rowed was a medal and cup heat for the C Division. As we pulled away, a new coach asked us to show him our "set." The set is the position at which you hold your paddle. He immediately corrected our position so we used our backs more than our arms. Then he asked us to take three strokes. Russell counted off, and we took three strokes. He told us to slow down and get our paddle blades all the way into the water. We tried again, and this time the boat moved differently. The deeper, more measured stroke worked with the boat's natural inertia and propelled us along. We tried a few more times, and each one was better. We whispered to each other about being able to feel the difference.
It was time to line up at the start. We pulled up to the line and awaited the starting horn. When it came, we followed his advice but started behind. Before long though, the rhythm steadied. Little by little, we nosed ahead until before long we were completely into the rhythm, one body working together to steadily propel the long, flat boat. Russell was beating the drum and calling out the count as we moved into the final stretch, and we were all counting with him. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Until we crossed the finish line. With one of the best times of the day. A boat length and a half ahead of the second place boat.
From the shore, the rest of the Mekong crew was cheering us on, and shouting "1. 2. 3. Beer!" We were clapping each other on the backs, high-fiving, saying "Can you believe that? That was amazing." And so much more. The Bad News Bears had won the Little League World Series again, and the feeling of being handed those medals was oh-so-sweet. I thought as we were walking up from the dock that it was also the most work I had given my shoulder in more than four years — and it felt good.
I'll puzzle through the metaphors and lessons of all this later, but the victory felt sweet. So, too, did the truly zen feeling of working together and understanding in my tired arms and back the natural momentum of doing something the right way.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Friday Fun — Live
If you haven't discovered Bandwidth Sessions yet, I heartily recommend checking them out. Small acoustic performances by some great artists in random locations in Belfast. Good stuff!
The National - Slow Show (Part 2 of 3) from Bandwidth on Vimeo.
Lisa Hannigan - Ocean And A Rock from Bandwidth on Vimeo.
BANDWIDTH / BRENDAN BENSON / "Baby On A Rug" from Bandwidth on Vimeo.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
A Dog's Life
Last March, I sent my dog Reilly to live with my mother and stepfather in Dayton. He was getting older and slower and was having serious difficulty with the hardwood floors and stairs in my apartment. In addition, L and I were beginning to look at houses, and it dawned on me that he might not survive such a move, especially if there would be more floors and stairs involved. Since my mother and stepfather are retired and have a house with most of the living area on one floor and since they doted on Reilly, it seemed worth asking if they wanted to take on the responsibility of a senior dog.
I talked to my mother, and after a few seconds of thought, she said they would love to do it. The kid was against the idea; she thought Reilly would miss us. It was true, I allowed, but I pointed out the differences between our house and theirs and their life and ours. And then I asked where she thought he would have the better life.
And what a life it has been so far. He has gotten energy back and played with puppies and other dogs, had the best care and groomings you can imagine, and probably licked more bowls of ice cream than I would ever have approved. He has spent whole summers in Maine the past two years, and he's still kicking. There are the occasional health scares and notes from my mother about little declines, but — yeah — still kicking.
It's a bittersweet victory, though. Some time over the past year, I realized how much I not only missed the pup, but how much I missed what a dog brought to my life. The time for walks with L and the kid melted little by little, as did my patterns. I no longer had the same incentive to get up and get my blood moving to greet the day. There was less incentive to walk off the thoughts of the day or reconnect over a half-hour's walk. Though Reilly had gotten too slow for the kinds of walks and hikes we used to take, I began to miss those too. Most of all, I missed the energy of having a dog around — the unconditional love, the comforting presence of him sleeping between our room and the kid's.
For practical reasons — time, money, extra hair around the house, a new dog wasn't in the picture until recently. The call of puppies became strong, especially with the opening of the farmers markets. And then word came that a friend had rescued an Aussie who also happened to be pregnant. As of September, there will be a new herding dog in our life. Named by the kid, L, and another friend, it's name is tentatively Snickers.
I talked to my mother, and after a few seconds of thought, she said they would love to do it. The kid was against the idea; she thought Reilly would miss us. It was true, I allowed, but I pointed out the differences between our house and theirs and their life and ours. And then I asked where she thought he would have the better life.
And what a life it has been so far. He has gotten energy back and played with puppies and other dogs, had the best care and groomings you can imagine, and probably licked more bowls of ice cream than I would ever have approved. He has spent whole summers in Maine the past two years, and he's still kicking. There are the occasional health scares and notes from my mother about little declines, but — yeah — still kicking.
It's a bittersweet victory, though. Some time over the past year, I realized how much I not only missed the pup, but how much I missed what a dog brought to my life. The time for walks with L and the kid melted little by little, as did my patterns. I no longer had the same incentive to get up and get my blood moving to greet the day. There was less incentive to walk off the thoughts of the day or reconnect over a half-hour's walk. Though Reilly had gotten too slow for the kinds of walks and hikes we used to take, I began to miss those too. Most of all, I missed the energy of having a dog around — the unconditional love, the comforting presence of him sleeping between our room and the kid's.
For practical reasons — time, money, extra hair around the house, a new dog wasn't in the picture until recently. The call of puppies became strong, especially with the opening of the farmers markets. And then word came that a friend had rescued an Aussie who also happened to be pregnant. As of September, there will be a new herding dog in our life. Named by the kid, L, and another friend, it's name is tentatively Snickers.
Friday, August 05, 2011
Friday Fun — Goin' retro
Going back in time for this week. How about a little Rosemary Clooney...
And truly amazing version of a Stephen Foster classic. Ladies and gentlemen, Mavis Staples...
Dig Nina's get-up in this live performance from the early 70s. Brilliant.
And truly amazing version of a Stephen Foster classic. Ladies and gentlemen, Mavis Staples...
Dig Nina's get-up in this live performance from the early 70s. Brilliant.
Thursday, August 04, 2011
Collateral damage
Warning: Navel-gazing post ahead.
One thing I have come to realize recently is just how toxic I became over the past few years. I took everything that had been thrown at me over the years and hid it away behind the pain and trauma of the shooting. Then, I took the pain and trauma of the shooting and hid it away. Unfortunately, I did so without adequately confronting what had happened and what it had done to me. As a result, I became the trauma.
One of the consequences of this, I've realized, is that I became a weight to bear for those around me. This weight didn't make itself known so much in big, overt ways as it did in small-but-growing compromises that I forced those around me to make. And it meant that they began to bear my weight. The scary part is that I not only didn't realize what I was doing — and probably didn't listen when confronted with it — but that I don't remember whole swaths of time from the past few years.
As I wrote in an earlier post, the feeling is that of waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. You're not quite sure what's real and not for a while. In fact there are whole periods of the past two years that I simply don't remember. I recently tried to remember when something happened at the kid's school. In my mind, it had happened this spring; in reality, it happened almost a year and a half ago. This wouldn't bother me if it was an isolated example, but I am regularly reminded of conversations I had completely lost, of things that happened that I had completely lost, of a rush of daily life that completely eluded me. This is not a fun feeling.
In fact, one of the most distressing parts of this process are the moments when I spiral backward. I don't necessarily beat myself up for things that happened or didn't happen; I realize I just wasn't there. In pieces and parts — when I most needed to — I'd break through the fog and show up for a few minutes, hours, days, or maybe even weeks. But by and large, life just carried me along with it while I fell farther and farther into myself.
In the end, a series of life circumstances and realizations started chipping away at the walls I'd built. And as the walls cracked, I started to lash out. When I had a brief glimmer of what I was doing, I shored up the walls. Until the shoring up started cracking too. All the toxicity that I'd been trapping behind those walls started dribbling out in comments and fights and anger.
Around the time this was coming to a head, my partner Kevin was injured by an exploding keg. I took him to the emergency room at MCV. It was the first time I'd been there since the shooting. Walking past the ambulance bays was difficult. And then two weeks later, the keg blew up at me — blew up at my heart. And the walls came down.
I started shaking that day, and haven't quite stopped yet. My life was in a shambles. My heart was in a shambles. My body was in a shambles. I had forgotten to bleed the pressure on the keg — and on my life. Collateral damage was all around, and I hadn't seen it for months, years.
Time to rebuild.
One thing I have come to realize recently is just how toxic I became over the past few years. I took everything that had been thrown at me over the years and hid it away behind the pain and trauma of the shooting. Then, I took the pain and trauma of the shooting and hid it away. Unfortunately, I did so without adequately confronting what had happened and what it had done to me. As a result, I became the trauma.
One of the consequences of this, I've realized, is that I became a weight to bear for those around me. This weight didn't make itself known so much in big, overt ways as it did in small-but-growing compromises that I forced those around me to make. And it meant that they began to bear my weight. The scary part is that I not only didn't realize what I was doing — and probably didn't listen when confronted with it — but that I don't remember whole swaths of time from the past few years.
As I wrote in an earlier post, the feeling is that of waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. You're not quite sure what's real and not for a while. In fact there are whole periods of the past two years that I simply don't remember. I recently tried to remember when something happened at the kid's school. In my mind, it had happened this spring; in reality, it happened almost a year and a half ago. This wouldn't bother me if it was an isolated example, but I am regularly reminded of conversations I had completely lost, of things that happened that I had completely lost, of a rush of daily life that completely eluded me. This is not a fun feeling.
In fact, one of the most distressing parts of this process are the moments when I spiral backward. I don't necessarily beat myself up for things that happened or didn't happen; I realize I just wasn't there. In pieces and parts — when I most needed to — I'd break through the fog and show up for a few minutes, hours, days, or maybe even weeks. But by and large, life just carried me along with it while I fell farther and farther into myself.
In the end, a series of life circumstances and realizations started chipping away at the walls I'd built. And as the walls cracked, I started to lash out. When I had a brief glimmer of what I was doing, I shored up the walls. Until the shoring up started cracking too. All the toxicity that I'd been trapping behind those walls started dribbling out in comments and fights and anger.
Around the time this was coming to a head, my partner Kevin was injured by an exploding keg. I took him to the emergency room at MCV. It was the first time I'd been there since the shooting. Walking past the ambulance bays was difficult. And then two weeks later, the keg blew up at me — blew up at my heart. And the walls came down.
I started shaking that day, and haven't quite stopped yet. My life was in a shambles. My heart was in a shambles. My body was in a shambles. I had forgotten to bleed the pressure on the keg — and on my life. Collateral damage was all around, and I hadn't seen it for months, years.
Time to rebuild.
Monday, August 01, 2011
Culinary therapy, pt. 2
This past Sunday, I invited one of my business partners over for a grilling session. It is the first time I've really had anyone over since the meltdown in June, and it's appropriate that it was him.
First off, his girlfriend has recently returned to Boston for job reasons, and they are splitting their time between the cities. Not exactly fun, but sometimes you do what you have to. Regardless, I know a thing or two about feeling at loose ends and not necessarily wanting to eat — one of our most important social activities — alone. Since the kid was spending an extra night with her mom, I was feeling a bit at loose ends too. The thing is I didn't want to go out or order in — or eat another frozen pizza or other pre-prepared meal. No. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the kitchen. And, second, we have some bizarre Boston connections.
The day before I had picked up spicy lamb sausage from Tuckahoe Farms at the South of the James Market, as well as some beautiful heirloom tomatoes and peaches. Kevin added corn, greek feta and a few good beers. Except for the salad, we threw everything on a perfectly searing grill. The corn was prepped with olive oil and coarse ground sea salt and black pepper. The peaches were prepped with balsamic and some fleur de sel.
I need to get better about taking pictures, like some of my fellow bloggers, however, because every part of the meal came off perfectly. Throw a good conversation into the bargain, and you have the beginning of a return to civility and sanity.
First off, his girlfriend has recently returned to Boston for job reasons, and they are splitting their time between the cities. Not exactly fun, but sometimes you do what you have to. Regardless, I know a thing or two about feeling at loose ends and not necessarily wanting to eat — one of our most important social activities — alone. Since the kid was spending an extra night with her mom, I was feeling a bit at loose ends too. The thing is I didn't want to go out or order in — or eat another frozen pizza or other pre-prepared meal. No. I wanted to reacquaint myself with the kitchen. And, second, we have some bizarre Boston connections.
The day before I had picked up spicy lamb sausage from Tuckahoe Farms at the South of the James Market, as well as some beautiful heirloom tomatoes and peaches. Kevin added corn, greek feta and a few good beers. Except for the salad, we threw everything on a perfectly searing grill. The corn was prepped with olive oil and coarse ground sea salt and black pepper. The peaches were prepped with balsamic and some fleur de sel.
I need to get better about taking pictures, like some of my fellow bloggers, however, because every part of the meal came off perfectly. Throw a good conversation into the bargain, and you have the beginning of a return to civility and sanity.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Friday Fun — The Live Edition
I love the energy in this track. Hell, they're even using the same synthesizer I once had.
Colin Hay brings this beautiful one to the table. It rings true for life as it is now. On top of that, he's playing a 12-string. Have I mentioned that I love 12-string guitars?
Here's an old favorite. It always grabs me when I hear it.
And one more from the classic singer-songwriter archives. Mister Browne, if you please.
Colin Hay brings this beautiful one to the table. It rings true for life as it is now. On top of that, he's playing a 12-string. Have I mentioned that I love 12-string guitars?
Here's an old favorite. It always grabs me when I hear it.
And one more from the classic singer-songwriter archives. Mister Browne, if you please.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Culinary therapy
The past few days and weeks, I've been trying to reconnect with the kid. Long-time readers may wonder why I say "reconnect," but the truth is that the effects of the PTSD as well as other life experiences lately have made me realize that I've been disconnected from life in general for a while now. In particular, I've been lost to some of my closest relationships.
One of those relationships, I now realize, was with the kid. To wit, I spent some time the other day trying to remember when something happened this spring. And then I realized it was last spring. Then I caught a picture of her earlier from her birthday two years ago. In it, she was showing off the new earrings I'd had made for her. In my mind, the gift had happened last year. Time has vanished in scary ways.
That said, I've been waking up lately and beginning to reconnect with her and others in my life. As part of this waking up, I took the kid and her best friend since they were three to Water Country USA yesterday. The past two years, we've had adult company on the trip — the first year another friend's mother and last year L. This year, I decided to go solo. Not only am I trying to reconnect with her and other people, but I'm trying to reconnect with myself. It was a brilliant trip — and as always full of horrible food. Afterward, though, we grabbed sushi at our favorite Richmond sushi place. It isn't the best, but it is good enough. And then the kid was treated to dessert at Secco with much of the restaurant singing "Happy Birthday" to her. It was a brilliant moment, thanks to some good friends.
The real therapy began in the morning, however. I finally started cooking again. And by that I mean something other than prepping the simplest pasta dishes. Nope. The girls had a sleepover, and in the morning, we capped things off with homemade buckwheat waffles from my grandmother's 1929 waffle maker. Then, this evening, I had crab from the farmer's market, corn, and beautiful heirloom tomatoes to use. And despite the impending storm outside, I was determined to do crab cakes and corn on the grill.
I winged it on the crab cakes. I took in pieces I'd used from Joy and from Alice Waters, and made my own take on the cakes. Mayo, grain mustard, smoked paprika, lemon, parsley, sauteed carmen peppers and garlic in butter (sauteed in one of my new pans), and panko. A touch of salt. Just enough flavor to round out the crab and let it shine at the same time. Follow this by slow-cooking on foil over a wood-fired grill, add grilled corn and a simple tomato salad. Brilliant summer meal, right?
And it was, except for one thing. I changed the recipe with a tired kid in the house. Half a crab cake in, and she said they didn't taste good. At least she ate the half. Next time, I don't change the recipe if she has tired eyes.
One of those relationships, I now realize, was with the kid. To wit, I spent some time the other day trying to remember when something happened this spring. And then I realized it was last spring. Then I caught a picture of her earlier from her birthday two years ago. In it, she was showing off the new earrings I'd had made for her. In my mind, the gift had happened last year. Time has vanished in scary ways.
That said, I've been waking up lately and beginning to reconnect with her and others in my life. As part of this waking up, I took the kid and her best friend since they were three to Water Country USA yesterday. The past two years, we've had adult company on the trip — the first year another friend's mother and last year L. This year, I decided to go solo. Not only am I trying to reconnect with her and other people, but I'm trying to reconnect with myself. It was a brilliant trip — and as always full of horrible food. Afterward, though, we grabbed sushi at our favorite Richmond sushi place. It isn't the best, but it is good enough. And then the kid was treated to dessert at Secco with much of the restaurant singing "Happy Birthday" to her. It was a brilliant moment, thanks to some good friends.
The real therapy began in the morning, however. I finally started cooking again. And by that I mean something other than prepping the simplest pasta dishes. Nope. The girls had a sleepover, and in the morning, we capped things off with homemade buckwheat waffles from my grandmother's 1929 waffle maker. Then, this evening, I had crab from the farmer's market, corn, and beautiful heirloom tomatoes to use. And despite the impending storm outside, I was determined to do crab cakes and corn on the grill.
I winged it on the crab cakes. I took in pieces I'd used from Joy and from Alice Waters, and made my own take on the cakes. Mayo, grain mustard, smoked paprika, lemon, parsley, sauteed carmen peppers and garlic in butter (sauteed in one of my new pans), and panko. A touch of salt. Just enough flavor to round out the crab and let it shine at the same time. Follow this by slow-cooking on foil over a wood-fired grill, add grilled corn and a simple tomato salad. Brilliant summer meal, right?
And it was, except for one thing. I changed the recipe with a tired kid in the house. Half a crab cake in, and she said they didn't taste good. At least she ate the half. Next time, I don't change the recipe if she has tired eyes.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Friday Fun — Redemption land
Tom just kills it with this one. I don't have enough words to say about the vibe, the lyrics, and the brilliant storytelling.
And this may be one of Ben Folds best tunes in an ouevre of truly excellent songwriting.
I saw Michelle Shocked perform this at The Bottom Line in New York in 1994. She'd just broken with her record company and was touring behind "Kind-Hearted Woman" and selling the CDs at the shows. The first half of the show, she played "Kind-Hearted Woman" all the way through. The second half she took requests from the audience. When she played "Anchorage," the friend who sang at the wedding mentioned in the song came up on stage with her. They sang for nearly 12 minutes. Utterly brilliant and one of the most honest performances I've ever seen.
And a classic from the Avetts that, of course, references New York.
And this may be one of Ben Folds best tunes in an ouevre of truly excellent songwriting.
I saw Michelle Shocked perform this at The Bottom Line in New York in 1994. She'd just broken with her record company and was touring behind "Kind-Hearted Woman" and selling the CDs at the shows. The first half of the show, she played "Kind-Hearted Woman" all the way through. The second half she took requests from the audience. When she played "Anchorage," the friend who sang at the wedding mentioned in the song came up on stage with her. They sang for nearly 12 minutes. Utterly brilliant and one of the most honest performances I've ever seen.
And a classic from the Avetts that, of course, references New York.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Friday Fun
I've been veering in a couple directions this week, so I don't really have a clear theme. But such is life.
No video with this, but it's an old Tom Waits track I'd forgotten about. Nice, quiet, bittersweet song with some great piano playing and before he really took on the "persona."
And the Avetts are always good for melancholy moments...
Then, as I was also thinking about the lyrics of The Avett Brothers "I and Love and You," I started thinking about Brooklyn, and this one came to mind. My friend Phil put it on a mixtape when I left the borough for grad school in Arkansas. It was a hell of a tape for a hell of a departure.
No video with this, but it's an old Tom Waits track I'd forgotten about. Nice, quiet, bittersweet song with some great piano playing and before he really took on the "persona."
And the Avetts are always good for melancholy moments...
Then, as I was also thinking about the lyrics of The Avett Brothers "I and Love and You," I started thinking about Brooklyn, and this one came to mind. My friend Phil put it on a mixtape when I left the borough for grad school in Arkansas. It was a hell of a tape for a hell of a departure.
Friday, July 08, 2011
Friday Fun — Songs that pricked up my ear edition
Putting some patterns back in place here...
A great one from E. Cool little illustrated video too.
And a little two-fer...
A random Pixies moment...
And The Hold Steady. Interesting acoustic version of the track...
A great one from E. Cool little illustrated video too.
And a little two-fer...
A random Pixies moment...
And The Hold Steady. Interesting acoustic version of the track...
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Serious Matters
After my mopey Friday Fun and a variety of leading Facebook and Twitter posts, I've had a lot of friends express concern for what is going on. It's nice to feel a community around, but it is strange at the same time. I am not typically a public person with my feelings and tend to be somewhat secretive about life in general. And yet, now I want to run out and scream at the world.
Last weekend, I was cleaning a keg during our usual Sunday brewing session. I had gotten out of the city the two nights before to clear my head after some pretty torrential life changes at home. I was still distracted, but I was following the mantra of keeping busy to keep my mind from exploding all over the place. The keg in question is an old style that is sealed with a wooden bung pounded in a hole in the side. To remove the bung, you screw a wood screw in and pop it out with a hammer.
After cleaning the keg and pushing sanitizer out through the tubing, I moved it into position to rack the beer from the fermenter. After pushing the liquid out, you need to release the CO2 pressure in the keg. I was distracted. I forgot to bleed the pressure. When I pulled the bung, it blew out at me with the force — and sound — of a gunshot. More than a week later, I can still feel the spot on my sternum where the bung hit. What's worse is my head.
Every part of the explosion forced me to re-experience the shooting. I melted down, stumbling into the yard behind the brewing garage, sobbing. Thankfully, a friend was there who happens to be a counselor at the VA. He stood with me for a while, until I was calm enough to join my partners again.
Everybody was very quiet after that. Except for a friend of a friend who said I should just meditate and readjust my attitude about the trauma from the shooting. I don't remember his exact words, but that was the gist. I snapped at him that it wasn't that easy, and he didn't understand.
In truth, I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to scream, DON'T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND? NO. BECAUSE NO ONE FUCKING UNDERSTANDS. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. And I would have repeated it over and over until I couldn't scream any more.
That's when I realized I had never really faced down and dealt with the trauma from the shooting. I had covered it over with a therapist who never really tackled it head-on, and I had covered over it a year and a half ago when I decided I would just let it go. Except I hadn't. It was far from gone, and small things triggered my fight-or-flight responses — small things I never tied to the experience. All I knew was that I was just under pressure and stress and snapping at the people around me.
Thanks to the friend who stood with me that morning, I began to realize what I hadn't recognized for the past four years. I jump at small noises. Big noises are impossible. I snap far too easily when the kid does something she shouldn't. I get jittery if I'm cornered or trapped. Crowds make me very, very uncomfortable. Sharing a space too closely is very difficult for me. And more. Sometimes I would react to things; sometimes I would just swallow the feeling.
In the end, then, I became that keg. I never released the pressure. I might bleed a bit as I was talking to my therapist and others, but what was really happening was the pressure was building up and building up. When I did release it, I still didn't recognized what was going on, so the pressure just began to build up again.
And in the end, I'm left wanting to scream at a random acquaintance: NO ONE UNDERSTANDS.
I hate the fact that I am re-living this trauma — and will need to go back into a different kind of therapy to tackle it. I hate the fact that writing this has left me trembling. I hate the fact that I see that keg and that gun as the same thing. I hate the fact that a popping balloon nearly left me in a puddle yesterday. I hate the fact that I am even jumpier around people than I was before.
But I'm grateful for it, too. It's like waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. I've been shown an important lesson. The hard part will be learning it, but maybe just maybe I'll remember it. And maybe I will be able to make other people understand better, because I will understand it myself.
Last weekend, I was cleaning a keg during our usual Sunday brewing session. I had gotten out of the city the two nights before to clear my head after some pretty torrential life changes at home. I was still distracted, but I was following the mantra of keeping busy to keep my mind from exploding all over the place. The keg in question is an old style that is sealed with a wooden bung pounded in a hole in the side. To remove the bung, you screw a wood screw in and pop it out with a hammer.
After cleaning the keg and pushing sanitizer out through the tubing, I moved it into position to rack the beer from the fermenter. After pushing the liquid out, you need to release the CO2 pressure in the keg. I was distracted. I forgot to bleed the pressure. When I pulled the bung, it blew out at me with the force — and sound — of a gunshot. More than a week later, I can still feel the spot on my sternum where the bung hit. What's worse is my head.
Every part of the explosion forced me to re-experience the shooting. I melted down, stumbling into the yard behind the brewing garage, sobbing. Thankfully, a friend was there who happens to be a counselor at the VA. He stood with me for a while, until I was calm enough to join my partners again.
Everybody was very quiet after that. Except for a friend of a friend who said I should just meditate and readjust my attitude about the trauma from the shooting. I don't remember his exact words, but that was the gist. I snapped at him that it wasn't that easy, and he didn't understand.
In truth, I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to scream, DON'T YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND? NO. BECAUSE NO ONE FUCKING UNDERSTANDS. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS. And I would have repeated it over and over until I couldn't scream any more.
That's when I realized I had never really faced down and dealt with the trauma from the shooting. I had covered it over with a therapist who never really tackled it head-on, and I had covered over it a year and a half ago when I decided I would just let it go. Except I hadn't. It was far from gone, and small things triggered my fight-or-flight responses — small things I never tied to the experience. All I knew was that I was just under pressure and stress and snapping at the people around me.
Thanks to the friend who stood with me that morning, I began to realize what I hadn't recognized for the past four years. I jump at small noises. Big noises are impossible. I snap far too easily when the kid does something she shouldn't. I get jittery if I'm cornered or trapped. Crowds make me very, very uncomfortable. Sharing a space too closely is very difficult for me. And more. Sometimes I would react to things; sometimes I would just swallow the feeling.
In the end, then, I became that keg. I never released the pressure. I might bleed a bit as I was talking to my therapist and others, but what was really happening was the pressure was building up and building up. When I did release it, I still didn't recognized what was going on, so the pressure just began to build up again.
And in the end, I'm left wanting to scream at a random acquaintance: NO ONE UNDERSTANDS.
I hate the fact that I am re-living this trauma — and will need to go back into a different kind of therapy to tackle it. I hate the fact that writing this has left me trembling. I hate the fact that I see that keg and that gun as the same thing. I hate the fact that a popping balloon nearly left me in a puddle yesterday. I hate the fact that I am even jumpier around people than I was before.
But I'm grateful for it, too. It's like waking up from a long, boozy, bad dream. I've been shown an important lesson. The hard part will be learning it, but maybe just maybe I'll remember it. And maybe I will be able to make other people understand better, because I will understand it myself.
Friday, July 01, 2011
The return of Friday Fun — Mopey Edition
Impolitic Eye may be a little more active in the near future. For now, my heart is heavy, but it's been a long time since I kept this going the way I meant to.
I've posted this before, but can't resist it this time.
Oh, Billy. You're so good. The lyrics. Listen to the lyrics.
And how well do these guys capture the fight between our better and worse natures? Brilliantly.
And finally a track that echoes for years for me...
I've posted this before, but can't resist it this time.
Oh, Billy. You're so good. The lyrics. Listen to the lyrics.
And how well do these guys capture the fight between our better and worse natures? Brilliantly.
And finally a track that echoes for years for me...
Sunday, June 05, 2011
A couple updates
A couple months ago, I wrote about our experience taking the Coldwater Cru to Russian River Brewing for their Sour and Barrel-aged Beer Symposium. The beer was described as "sick" and young. Yvan de Baets of Brasserie de la Senne explained that in approximately three months, the slickness brought about by the pediococcus would disappear and the flavors would shine.
He was right. We uncapped a couple of bottles recently and were pleasantly surprised to discover that the sourness and oakiness of the beer shone. It was all the proof we needed to begin planning for more of these, and it's exciting to think about a barrel-aging room in the brewery.
**********************
As we move closer and closer to having the business plan finalized and ready for potential investors, we've begun to circle back around to questions of identity and branding. One question in particular that has been coming up is which beers to call our flagship brews. Piloting on the Brew-Magic, we've been able to get at least six recipes down that we're happy with, but obviously that is too many beers to lead with. Four is the max. Two might be even better.
But what to do when you like all of the beers, and they could all be great year-round drinkers? What beers do you lead with? Do you lead with the beers that are closer to commonly enjoyed styles? Or do you hit the market with beers that push the envelope? Ultimately, we're trying to find the right balance between popular styles (IPAs) and rustic styles that are more in keeping with our more creative brewing interests.
That said, dear reader, what are your favorite styles? What beers do you seek out AND return to? Let's hear it.
He was right. We uncapped a couple of bottles recently and were pleasantly surprised to discover that the sourness and oakiness of the beer shone. It was all the proof we needed to begin planning for more of these, and it's exciting to think about a barrel-aging room in the brewery.
**********************
As we move closer and closer to having the business plan finalized and ready for potential investors, we've begun to circle back around to questions of identity and branding. One question in particular that has been coming up is which beers to call our flagship brews. Piloting on the Brew-Magic, we've been able to get at least six recipes down that we're happy with, but obviously that is too many beers to lead with. Four is the max. Two might be even better.
But what to do when you like all of the beers, and they could all be great year-round drinkers? What beers do you lead with? Do you lead with the beers that are closer to commonly enjoyed styles? Or do you hit the market with beers that push the envelope? Ultimately, we're trying to find the right balance between popular styles (IPAs) and rustic styles that are more in keeping with our more creative brewing interests.
That said, dear reader, what are your favorite styles? What beers do you seek out AND return to? Let's hear it.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Swallowtail
I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. Even writing that sentence stalls me out for the next thought.
Abbie was a sweet and feisty kid. She devoured hot dogs, strawberries, cherries, cherry tomatoes, salmon, mac and cheese, steak, you name it. She was tall for her age, or at least she was before the cancer hit. She swam like a fish, and her dad and I reveled in tossing the kids in the pool through the summer. That's where we saw them most of the time, the pool, since the girls attended different elementary schools and life had a bad habit of keeping all of us busy through the rest of the year. If I have a single regret after Abbie's passing, it is that I let the busy-ness of life keep us too far apart from them between September and May.
So, yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. Word of a mass in her abdomen came at the end of the summer two years ago. We had a last Sunday dinner at the pool the week before she was due for the next round of tests and surgery. It was a blustery September afternoon two weeks after Labor Day, and I was determined to close out the pool season despite the weather. Abbie and her parents came, as did a few other families. The kids played, getting wet and cold one last time for the season, and then plowed through hot dogs, pork chops, salads, fruit and who knows what else. Abbie had been introduced to her therapy dog, and we all knew things didn't look good. It didn't seem to matter, though. She was as feisty and strong as always.
A week later, the news was that she had stage IV Rhabdomyosarcoma Embryonal. Stage IV. Those words stop me as much as the first sentence.
Abbie's strength rushed behind her as she fought a tough battle that fall, winter and spring. The surgeries went well, though. The cancer had done damage, but hadn't gone as far as it could have. The chemo brutalized her body. There were tough times, and we saw them occasionally. But a year ago, the kid attended Abbie's eighth birthday party. She was pale and had lost her hair, but the spunk was knocking that damn cancer out of her body. You could see it. And when pool season hit again, she had had the chance to ring the bell at the cancer clinic signaling the end of her treatments. She was clear, and by the end of the summer, the chemo port had been removed and she'd been able to swim again.
She demolished more strawberries. More cherries and tomatoes. Cupcakes at the kid's birthday party. And we all looked at her as the miracle kid. She really was. And her energy and spirit were a gift to everyone around her.
A few weeks later, though, the tide turned. On a routine check-up, they discovered part of her lung had collapsed. Within two weeks, the tumor they found was putting out 200 ml of fluid or more a day. It was almost exactly a year after the first surgery. And this time the cancer was back with a vengeance. The kid and I visited her in the pediatric ICU one evening to say hi. Abbie was groggy but insistent that we stay and talk to her, even though the nurses made us promise to make it a short visit.
Over the months since, I kept tabs on her progress through the caringbridge.org site they used to communicate with family and friends. They went through every possible chemo treatment and multiple surgeries. The cancer ravaged her body, but she kept fighting back through a Make-a-Wish Disney cruise, through a trip to New York, through hospitalizations. We weren't there at the end, but she had asked her friends to come visit the day after the doctors decided there was no further medical intervention. they gave her a manicure as she wore an oxygen mask and couldn't speak. That night, she let go and passed away in her parents' arms, listening to her favorite songs by Justin Bieber.
The kid asked about her often as we got word of the worsening struggles. I made mental notes that we should see them more, take them things, do something. But time and the busy-ness of life and job transitions always got in the way. I kick myself a bit for letting that happen. Scratch that. I kick myself a lot for letting that happen. The kid and I talked about it, and she is glad she got to see Abbie before things really trailed off, when that spunk will stay in the memory rather than tubes and medication and pain. I worry that this reaction skirts the grief I want her to feel, but the night after the funeral and the celebration at Abbie's school, the kid climbed on my lap and fell asleep.
And it occurred to me that maybe the kid's reactions weren't so much detachment as fear. She's seen a lot in her years, from divorce to my shooting to her mom and me struggling to iron out our parenting relationship to Abbie's death. I suspect she has learned a lot, and that some of these lessons will take years to sort out. Lord knows I'm still sorting out my own lessons — including the one about not letting the mundanity life get in the way of important things.
So yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. At the end of the funeral, the kids were given butterflies to release. Each had a monarch in an envelope, and Abbie's parents were given a swallowtail to release. The monarchs flitted through the church courtyard, but the swallowtail landed on Jeff's hand and stayed there for a long time. After a couple of pictures were taken, the yellow swallowtail launched itself up and flew out of the courtyard and over the roof. That afternoon, Abbie's school closed down for a celebration of her life. Everyone had their nails painted, there was a dance party in the gymnasium, the yard was full of moon bounces, the kids got snow cones and popcorn, and a little after 3:00, while the school choir sang "Hallelujah," the kids released hundreds of purple, pink, and white balloons into the sky and chanted her name. the boy who had broken down in tears when he tried to speak at the funeral earlier, who was Abbie's earliest friend as a baby, found his voice and the microphone and thanked the entire school for making her life wonderful.
Abbie is gone now, but she touched more lives than anyone can count. And that means she'll live on forever.
Abbie was a sweet and feisty kid. She devoured hot dogs, strawberries, cherries, cherry tomatoes, salmon, mac and cheese, steak, you name it. She was tall for her age, or at least she was before the cancer hit. She swam like a fish, and her dad and I reveled in tossing the kids in the pool through the summer. That's where we saw them most of the time, the pool, since the girls attended different elementary schools and life had a bad habit of keeping all of us busy through the rest of the year. If I have a single regret after Abbie's passing, it is that I let the busy-ness of life keep us too far apart from them between September and May.
So, yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. Word of a mass in her abdomen came at the end of the summer two years ago. We had a last Sunday dinner at the pool the week before she was due for the next round of tests and surgery. It was a blustery September afternoon two weeks after Labor Day, and I was determined to close out the pool season despite the weather. Abbie and her parents came, as did a few other families. The kids played, getting wet and cold one last time for the season, and then plowed through hot dogs, pork chops, salads, fruit and who knows what else. Abbie had been introduced to her therapy dog, and we all knew things didn't look good. It didn't seem to matter, though. She was as feisty and strong as always.
A week later, the news was that she had stage IV Rhabdomyosarcoma Embryonal. Stage IV. Those words stop me as much as the first sentence.
Abbie's strength rushed behind her as she fought a tough battle that fall, winter and spring. The surgeries went well, though. The cancer had done damage, but hadn't gone as far as it could have. The chemo brutalized her body. There were tough times, and we saw them occasionally. But a year ago, the kid attended Abbie's eighth birthday party. She was pale and had lost her hair, but the spunk was knocking that damn cancer out of her body. You could see it. And when pool season hit again, she had had the chance to ring the bell at the cancer clinic signaling the end of her treatments. She was clear, and by the end of the summer, the chemo port had been removed and she'd been able to swim again.
She demolished more strawberries. More cherries and tomatoes. Cupcakes at the kid's birthday party. And we all looked at her as the miracle kid. She really was. And her energy and spirit were a gift to everyone around her.
A few weeks later, though, the tide turned. On a routine check-up, they discovered part of her lung had collapsed. Within two weeks, the tumor they found was putting out 200 ml of fluid or more a day. It was almost exactly a year after the first surgery. And this time the cancer was back with a vengeance. The kid and I visited her in the pediatric ICU one evening to say hi. Abbie was groggy but insistent that we stay and talk to her, even though the nurses made us promise to make it a short visit.
Over the months since, I kept tabs on her progress through the caringbridge.org site they used to communicate with family and friends. They went through every possible chemo treatment and multiple surgeries. The cancer ravaged her body, but she kept fighting back through a Make-a-Wish Disney cruise, through a trip to New York, through hospitalizations. We weren't there at the end, but she had asked her friends to come visit the day after the doctors decided there was no further medical intervention. they gave her a manicure as she wore an oxygen mask and couldn't speak. That night, she let go and passed away in her parents' arms, listening to her favorite songs by Justin Bieber.
The kid asked about her often as we got word of the worsening struggles. I made mental notes that we should see them more, take them things, do something. But time and the busy-ness of life and job transitions always got in the way. I kick myself a bit for letting that happen. Scratch that. I kick myself a lot for letting that happen. The kid and I talked about it, and she is glad she got to see Abbie before things really trailed off, when that spunk will stay in the memory rather than tubes and medication and pain. I worry that this reaction skirts the grief I want her to feel, but the night after the funeral and the celebration at Abbie's school, the kid climbed on my lap and fell asleep.
And it occurred to me that maybe the kid's reactions weren't so much detachment as fear. She's seen a lot in her years, from divorce to my shooting to her mom and me struggling to iron out our parenting relationship to Abbie's death. I suspect she has learned a lot, and that some of these lessons will take years to sort out. Lord knows I'm still sorting out my own lessons — including the one about not letting the mundanity life get in the way of important things.
So yeah... I attended a funeral for a nine-year old the other day. At the end of the funeral, the kids were given butterflies to release. Each had a monarch in an envelope, and Abbie's parents were given a swallowtail to release. The monarchs flitted through the church courtyard, but the swallowtail landed on Jeff's hand and stayed there for a long time. After a couple of pictures were taken, the yellow swallowtail launched itself up and flew out of the courtyard and over the roof. That afternoon, Abbie's school closed down for a celebration of her life. Everyone had their nails painted, there was a dance party in the gymnasium, the yard was full of moon bounces, the kids got snow cones and popcorn, and a little after 3:00, while the school choir sang "Hallelujah," the kids released hundreds of purple, pink, and white balloons into the sky and chanted her name. the boy who had broken down in tears when he tried to speak at the funeral earlier, who was Abbie's earliest friend as a baby, found his voice and the microphone and thanked the entire school for making her life wonderful.
Abbie is gone now, but she touched more lives than anyone can count. And that means she'll live on forever.
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