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Today's subject line is from "Fanfare in D Major (Come, Come)," by Grant Hart, who died of cancer a few days ago. I'm listening to a bunch of his songs as I prepare dinner, and damn if his voice doesn't take me back to being 17, to one of the few aspects I care to remember. Warehouse: Songs and Stories holds a special place in my heart as one of the two record reviews I published (and earned checks for!) that summer. (The Replacements' Pleased to Meet Me was the other.)

Depeche Mode performs less than 3 miles from my house in about 24 hours, and 15 years ago I would have been raring to go, deadlines and sleep deprivation and budget notwithstanding. Instead, I'll go to a dance lesson if I can wrap up work in time, and hope to hit the hay before the concert's even over, and if those things don't happen, maybe I'll crank up "Where's the Revolution?" to an unseemly volume while I crunch through whatever needs to be catapulted through its hoops.

But, grumpy as I feel about not feeling up for things (this !@#%@ cough: !@#@!#!% it!), small pleasures abound. I spent part of my afternoon writing to the childhood friend who introduced me to Depeche Mode, and I had a baseball stamp to use on the envelope. I have a new batch of bread dough rising, and snipped thyme from my yard for fried rice. It is far simpler to contact public servants now that my phone plan has unlimited long distance. (The calls themselves don't rate as a pleasure, but it is nice not having to faff with Skype and other workarounds, or -- going further back -- constantly calculating how much each call was going to cost.) The rosebush is still blooming, as are the zinnias. There is a huge pile of ironing, and there is Italian wine in my glass. :)

This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/143821.html.
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The subject line is from P!nk's "What About Us":


September 17 is Constitution Day in the United States.

  • My friend Katy boosted the signal on the "We the People" jewelry by Slow Factory (proceeds to the ACLU, hoop earrings become available this Monday): https://slowfactory.com/

  • A certain medal pin collector tried to drag Kaep for not mentoring guys in the hood. That sound you hear is New York and Tampa clapping back:

  • I've given the NYT pieces of my mind at least twice this year, and link to them probably less than 1/8 of what I used to, because [profane rant redacted here], but the wedding section remains a guilty pleasure, in part to glimpse how other connections are made:

    "Melissa you’re going to like this guy," she recalled Amanda Lynch, a former Harvard roommate, telling her. "He has the preamble to the Constitution tattooed on his back."

  • At the New York Public Library (which will star in a documentary that comes to my town next month), there are people meeting monthly to write out the Constitution by hand. [NYT]

  • Andrew Johnson

  • Tennessee's Andrew Johnson was a very, very, very flawed man, but when I first learned about him (in my US Presidents coloring book), what the one-page biography stressed was his profound love of the Constitution, and how he was buried with a copy of it under his head.

  • political cartoon

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/143610.html.
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    This NYT photo essay on wagashi is cracking me up -- elegant portraits of sweets with cats:

    Sweets as Poignant as Poetry

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/412080.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    This NYT photo essay on wagashi is cracking me up -- elegant portraits of sweets with cats:

    Sweets as Poignant as Poetry

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/412311.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    There is a mental metric ton of paperwork I must plow through tonight, and I don't wanna, plus the US Open women's singles final was this afternoon, which means the garbage bins are significantly cleaner (and I even went at some of the grodier corners with q-tips), some ancient dog shmutz has been scrubbed off a kitchen window, some recent hackberry shmutz has been wiped off the car windows and handles, leftover tiles from our 2009 bathroom renovation delivered to Turnip Green, and assorted leftovers incorporated into tastier hodgepodges (the last of the white wine from the freak bottle that sent glass into my cleavage has been blended with bargain-bin oranges and fruit salad dregs; the asparagus I defrosted and then forgot about has been scrambled into some eggs), and while I shall desist from dealing with the nearly-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-compost-bowl potatoes until tomorrow (possibly putting them into a lazy woman's version of potato nik), there is bread dough rising on the other end of the kitchen counter.

    This morning I volunteered for the dragon boat festival, a fundraiser for the Cumberland River Compact. I ended up helping one of the Buddhist temples set up their tent, distributing oars, helping rowers in and out of boats and (un)tying said boats from the docks, and ferrying lifejackets to and fro. It was a good fit for what my brain and body needed after this week (which included one editing push that went past 4 a.m. and another work-thru-lunch-and-dinner haul yesterday), especially since I'm still coughing too much to dance or go to shows. After my shift, I played cornhole with one of the "Best Little Oarhouse in Tennessee" paddlers and a mother-daughter pair, and watched some of the dance-offs. One emcee was beside himself when a temple team busted into a rehearsed version of The Wobble. Next year I'll try to plan the day so that I have time to fly a kite.

    It was likewise tempting to continue avoiding the paperwork put in much more time on the yard, but I confined myself to adding water where needed and clearing enough of a bed to plant the "whirlwind" anemone into its new spot (as well as putting the rosemary and thyme into proper pots):

    When I checked on planting distance and depth, I had to look up the word "friable." Which was enough to get a new poem going as well.

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/143137.html.


    Sep. 4th, 2017 09:01 pm
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    ...Audrey had approached her husband, Grey, in the kitchen of their Ludington Lane house to say that she planned to marry Ted. She realized that "something was lacking" in their marriage; she considered Grey self-sufficient, she told him, "but Ted needs me." The cardiologist had stood silent for a moment as though he were thinking all this over.

    "Who," he asked finally, "is going to do the driving?"

    "Why, I guess I will," Audrey replied, astonished.

    "Good," he said. "I don't want any wife of mine marrying a man who drives the way Ted does."

    - Judith & Neil Morgan, Dr. Seuss & Mr. Geisel: A Biography

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/411763.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    I am annoyed about being sick, but also fine with how it simplified my weekend, and relieved that I heeded my gut in refraining from making plans to head east, even though I'd looked with longing at the Old Farmer's Ball program for today (Mount Hills! Good Man of Cambridge! Picking Up Sticks (which contains sheepskin heys, which one teacher regards as proof "that hallucinogenic drugs were available in the 17th Century")!). Instead, I got up early, fried pancakes and eggs, and then went back to bed. Then the rest of the day was split between making phone calls, cleaning, tennis-watching, and catching up on some of the yardwork. Having belatedly read the full tag for the "Sky's the Limit" rosebush, I shaped its water basin and tied the two longest branches to stakes; admired the new yellow buds and the green tomatoes nearby; planted the geranium, tomato, and cactus cuttings; yanked and clipped and dug and hauled...

    The subject line is adapted from Dawn Potter's recent post about Keats. "Dirt has its beauties" also would've worked, come to think of it.

    My plan for dinner had been to make a tomato tarte tatin, but that was before I realized the box in my freezer contained not puff pastry but regular pie crust. Plus, after I finished dealing with the onions, I was feeling less inclined to follow the rest of the steps. So instead I shifted to Emeril's recipe for an onion and tomato pie, and while I didn't have most of the ingredients on hand, it provided enough guidance to get things good enough for my dinner plate. The final mash-up was along these lines:

    * Chop one onion plus a couple of slices salvaged from a chunk in the crisper. Sautee in butter until soft.
    * Defrost one frozen pie crust in microwave. Frown at soggy mess, abandon attempt to unroll it, and mash it across bottom of pie pan.
    * Dump foil and pie weights on top and bake at 375 F for ten minutes or so.
    * Chop half of a tomato. Realize the recipe probably advises slices instead. Sure enough. Slice other half. Season with the dregs of thyme-laced salt a friend had given me for Christmas two years ago, plus some black pepper.
    * Startle the bloke reading in his car just outside my driveway (I'm guessing a tourist) as I scamper out in my nightgown to snip some basil and thyme.
    * Mix one egg with the dregs (about 4 T) of Duke's mayo from the fridge. (Today was a great day for using things up; I also pitched some ancient spices into the compost bowl and shredded the iffy salted lemons in the sink.)
    * Gingerly pour pie weights (aka old beans I've used for more than a decade -- probably nearly two) into mixing bowl and collect the ones hopping onto the floor.
    * Scatter some panko over the crust.
    * Lay the slices of tomato on the crumbs, in a pattern like a quilted star. Spoon half of the cooked onion bits into the spaces between.
    * Scatter herbs and a heap of gorgonzola cheese over the veg. Drizzle with half of the egg-mayo sauce.
    * More tomato. More onion. More sauce. More breadcrumbs. Some olives.
    * Bake for 30 minutes? I set the timer for an hour, but took it out earlier when it looked and smelled done enough. And then ate half of it.

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/411474.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    Today's subject line comes from a letter Elizabeth Bishop wrote to Robert Lowell on July 18, 1950:

    Just had a visit from the Dutchman who works here & writes poetry incessantly. I hope he wasn't one of your problems too. One poem this time is about his soul fermenting in a barrel of sauerkraut. He's so grateful to God for sending him such marvelous ideas, but personally I'm afraid God is playing tricks on him.

    My head cold is now a chest cold, so no ASL-interpreted Winter's Tale for me tonight. Also, deadlines. But there are happy and spirit-lifting things as well:

    * My 86-year-old neighbor blowing a kiss back to me as I unloaded groceries.

    * Crabcakes.

    * Jaime Anderson's My Body, My Choice, which appears on page 26 of Teen Vogue (Volume III 2017) as background to a Mad Libs-style poem by Nadia Spiegelman.

    * Speaking of artists, check out the turtles, kitties, etc. at You're Awesome Design Machine (full disclosure: the artist is my big brother's partner).

    * A friend from Brooklyn replied to a text with a galloping unicorn. I would normally block that sort of thing faster than you can say "Roy G. Biv," but I am in fact LMAO.

    * Progress on divesting from three problematic companies.

    * Vary the Line is ramping up again. New posts by Sherry Chandler, Dawn McDuffie, and Lisa Dordal, as well as my first draft of Aubade.

    * The sun tattoo in the photo with the poem is still on my arm, as are the moon and stars.

    * The ACCURATE Nashville Statement, y'all. And Downtown Presbyterian doing its thing (among its many other fine doings).

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/142852.html.
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    On my way home from this morning's workout, I stopped at Bates Nursery, mainly because I have a large Christmas cactus frond, one tomato cutting, and one geranium-from-Desire offshoot waiting to be established in fresh soil. I was not planning to acquire any plants, since I could easily occupy myself for several years with the weeding and trimming that needs to be done, but their English thyme looked great and as long as I was buying herbs, why not some golden lemon thyme and rosemary as well? But it was the "Whirlwind" Japanese anemone that I picked up, put down, walked past, and then came back to claim:

    Japanese anemone

    Japanese anemone

    [I am out of practice with both blogging and taking photographs, not to mention a great many other things. Please to bear with me...]

    [ETA: FFS, the images looked fine in preview mode. I'll get the hang of the sizing specs someday...]

    What is growing again or anew with/for you?

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/142826.html.
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    I am near to howling with frustration and anxiety on multiple fronts, but there has been massive progress on others, and splendid things do abound. My hands are scented with the coriander I accidentally harvested tonight. (I'd forgotten planting it in its quadrant of an herb pot, and absent-mindedly assumed the out-of-control fronds belonged to some weird variety of parsley until I took a closer look at them inside. Some experimenting with the berries is now in the cards...) Some aging onions and carrots have been simmered with bay leaves from my big sister for later-this-week soup, and tonight's salad included a slice of preserved lemon, also from big sister's yard.

    I spent last weekend with my honorary big brother, which was absolutely what I needed holiday-wise. Hot yoga, smoked bourbon, Blue Stallion Radler with Bavarian pretzels and dinner at Kentucky Native (where the rest of the table was amused at my selection of kale salad as one of my "pick two" orders and cinnamon rolls as the other), a movie (with a "bourbon cocktail" that turned out to be straight bourbon, which provoked further amusement), brunch, plant-shopping at Louie's Flower Power (because big brother is getting ready to sell his house and the realtor wanted him to raise the curb appeal by Tuesday), and plant-fluffing back at the homestead. I naturally couldn't resist picking up a few things for myself, including a rosebush ("The Sky's the Limit") and two Paula Janes--fuschia plants that have since delighted me with their bubble-to-trumpet groove:

    Paula Jane

    Paula Jane

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/410779.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    [The subject line is from Carly Simon's "Let the River Run"]

    My lunch reading today: Rivers of London - Body Work (graphic novel)

    What introduced me to that world: Philomytha's enchanting Of a Feather, a fic in which a character from Rivers is key to a scene in Sayers's Murder Must Advertise.

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/410472.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    [subject line is from "Shady Grove," which The Ripples meld with "Water Under the Bridge," and which they played Sunday afternoon]

    [Here's a clip of them and some of the other dancers in action. I danced most of the dances, but I don't see my turquoise tail twirling in this segment, so I'm guessing I'd gone for water or leftover waffles and bacon, having skipped the scheduled part of brunch in favor of some writing that didn't want to wait.]

    Three nights in two cheap hotels = exactly the right length of time away from home. I needed the break from housework and paperwork and work-work, but I am so very glad to be reunited with my own sheets and towels and kitchen.

    I wasn't expecting the tub in the second hotel, but was immensely grateful for it after the four hours of waltzing on Saturday and twelve hours of contra on Sunday, at Contrathon XXI. There really are people who make a point of dancing every dance (I danced the final contra with one of them, Jay, an older gentleman who has accomplished that feat several times and this year was determined to do so because it would confirm for him that he had fully recovered from surgery), but that was never within my sights. I mainly went because I want to waltz more and to waltz better. This was the second Scott Baxla workshop I'd attended; it was great to watch Jan Luquire in action this time, and to dance the first open waltz with her. Another goal of mine is to become confident dancing both roles, so the next workshop I attend, I'll probably make a point of practicing lead.

    Saturday's festivities included a wedding -- Bethany and Ben. The bride's father was the officiant, and there were mountain flowers and roses in her hair and her hands and around the cake, which had been baked and decorated by a fellow dancer, and another dancer played fiddle. It was short and sweet and I sat through it next to another Nashville dancer who had officiated at her sister's East Tennessee wedding the day before.

    There may well have been the highest concentration of Asian American dancers I've seen in some time -- my guess is that three of the guys I danced with were Indian, one was likely Japanese, and I chatted with one who was half-Korean. At least two gentlemen of Middle Eastern descent as well.

    As with other gatherings of advanced dancers, there were quite a few men in skirts, and little overlap between that subset and that of men choosing to dance the follower's role with other men or women, and zero fuss about any of it within my sight or hearing, other than the occasional query to mixed couples to verify that they were role-switching on purpose. (I've learned not to assume, but given the presence of newer dancers, collective sleep deprivation -- many of the dancers had camped overnight on the farm, and there had been a heck of a frog-strangling thunderstorm the night before -- and complex figures, I can't blame anyone for double-checking.)

    I got to practice lead during a couple of dances, including one where my partner and I deliberately switched roles several times during the dance. There were several no-walkthrough dances, including a medley with four or five different callers taking the mike. One dance had same-sex balance-and-swings in the choreography, which amplified the chain-yanking between some of the dancers who go way way way way back. (It occurs to me that contra has been a good fit for me lately because it calls to (so to speak) both halves of my wiring: my left brain grooves to the precision required to end up in the right spot at the right time, and my right brain lights up at all the room for improv and clowning and sass.)

    During the evening's last band/caller change, both Clinton and Charlotte stood at mics, with four sets -- Clinton calling for the two at stage right, and Charlotte the two at stage left. The method behind their madness became clear several phrases in -- the two halves of the room were dancing different figures to the same tune, and Clinton and Charlotte synced their calls so that when the instructions happened to be identical, they spoke together.

    Charlotte cheerfully told terrible jokes, including one about what Star Wars and church have in common, and two about equines walking into bars.

    I learned a bunch of new-to-me holds and spins from more experienced partners, and my heart damn near melted all over the floor during poussets with a young man named Michael. Clinton tried to teach a hands-eight dance that didn't survive the walkthrough, even with demos. Some other dances were ... messy. Fun as hell anyway, and it's satisfying to have learned a dance quickly enough to recognize exactly when the trains will veer off the rails and to allemande them back on. My reward for attending dances more frequently is manifesting itself in more partners on the floor (from both TN and NC) and more conversations on the side.

    The intersection of dance and progressive interests was visible on some buttons and shirts (one of my partners wore a beautiful "Water Is Life" tee), and I introduced two environmental scientists to each other (having met both just the day before, and liking each enormously). While I packed my favorite dance dress, I ended up wearing an orange yoga bra and long shorts under a beach dress and long shorts, which handled the hot day and night than the dress would have.

    A Johnson City Kroger had a sale on heirloom cherry tomatoes, which were accepted with alacrity when I offered them to various picnic-table companions. An economist shared his sugar snap peas, and there were crackers and cheese from I think a Virginian, and another brought to me a slice of the wedding cake.

    I recognized some pop hooks within some bridges and medleys, and the next-to-last contra was to Prince's "When Doves Cry." One of the medleys included a tune named "_____'s Chaturanga," in honor of the composer's wife. And there was a waltz that I eventually identified as Jonathan Jensen's "Candles in the Dark."

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/142452.html.
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    Well. My Astrotwins horoscope urges me to sleep in and then declutter, and as it happens, an insufficiently screwed-on cap resulted in nail polish remover dousing most of the toiletries I hurriedly tossed into a grocery bag in my haste to hit the road before sundown. Which clarified right quick what I truly wanted to keep, which was not the too-chemical SPF lip balm or the solid organic sunblock that like too many other sunblocks stays too white and sticky on my skin for most professional or social situations. I forgot to pack insect repellent and itch cream, but the antihistamines are in tow.

    Also in said horoscope:

    Later in the day, when the moon shifts into Cancer and your social third house for the rest of the weekend, you'll be eager to connect with friends and shift into party mode. Your festive mood stretches into Sunday, when expressive Mercury in your sign connects with compassionate Neptune and gives you entree into a variety of groups. You could widen your social horizons by hanging with a different crowd tonight.

    Good thing I'm heading to a waltz workshop and then a contrathon. Though I was up late sipping from my thermos of Whirling Dervish cider (which turns out to me Not My Thing, but finding out that sort of thing is a thing I love about deliberate downtime) and reading Teen Vogue (to which I subscribe -- just $10 for a year -- because they are doing way, way better than most of mainstream media in speaking truth to power, and I want writers like Lauren Duca to keep doing that), so the odds of me hauling myself to tonight's contra and blues sessions are slim to none.

    Oh, and I was making Roland Garros picks, of course. My selections for the "wooden spoon" contest:

    1. Quirine Lemoine
    2. Ana Bogdan
    3. Irina Khromacheva
    4. Risa Ozaki

    1. Ricardas Berankis
    2. Quentin Halys
    3. Alexandre Muller
    4. Daniil Medvedev

    At the forum I frequent, conventional wisdom seems to be favoring Halep and Svitolina, with some votes for Stosur. Being the proven specialist in "out there" selections, my answer to the poll: "Pavlyuchenkova for the win; exacta box with Bacsinszky and Mladenovic." On va voir. Now to finish touching up my nails (new coat of Indulge My Whim on top of Secret Agent and Alter Ego) and filling out a full bracket...

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/410244.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    Via [personal profile] el_staplador: Share the final line of five of your fics ...

    [Yes, it's been a while. These are neither most recent or most favorite - merely what comes first to mind tonight.]

    [Yes, I do intend to write some more someday. And to record more audio. Which reminds me that I have been horribly remiss in not-yet-mentioning Rhea's podfic Ten Hats and Gallon (FAKE). Podfic! Wheeyay!]

    In the meantime - meme!

    And since he was alone - the rest of his family already asleep, as he himself should have been - Alexander buried his face in his hands and silently wept.
    Everything Necessary to Procure (Political RPF - Hamilton/Laurens)

    "Let us begin, then."
    D'Accord, D'Accord (Harry Potter - Snape/Lupin)

    And as the other man leans into him -- eighty-five kilos' worth of affection, passion, and challenge -- Roger begins to fingercomb the exclamation points out of Rafa's thick, dark hair.
    Interrobang (Tennis RPF - Fedal)

    She pours herself another bowl of cereal while I punch the button on the hot cocoa machine, and once we're sitting across the table from each other, we're exactly where we're supposed to be.
    The Cafeteria's Got Everything (Dar Williams's "Alleluia")

    The light fades.
    One is One and All Alone (The Dark Is Rising)

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/409992.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    There's a funny story in John Richardson's biography, A Life of Picasso. Pablo Picasso was notorious for sucking all the energy out of the people he met. His granddaughter Marina claimed that he squeezed people like one of his tubes of oil paints. You'd have a great time hanging out all day with Picasso, and then you'd go home nervous and exhausted, and Picasso would go back to his studio and paint all night, using the energy he'd sucked out of you.

    Most people put up with this because they got to hang out with Picasso all day, but not Constantin Brancusi, the Romanian-born sculptor. Brancusi hailed from the Carpathian Mountains, and he knew a vampire when he saw one. He was not going to have his energy or the fruits of his energy juiced by Picasso, so he refused to have anything to do with him.

    -- Austin Kleon, Show Your Work!

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/142248.html.
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    In the course of thanking Bishop for some Brazilian champagne that helped rescue a party with thwarted matchmaking and sullen guests:

    I sound like notes for a Mary McCarthy novel. Have you read her last in which Mary (divorced and remarried) is seduced by Wilson (divorced and remarried) after a Wellfleet reading of Racine's Berenice? In the last chapter Mary driving to Boston for an abortion is run into and killed by a red-headed Millay-like Cape poet driving on the wrong side of the road. Who can doubt that Mary really lives in her books? If she ever loses her mind, she'll never know which parts of her life she lived and which she wrote. She is somehow rather immense without her books ever being exactly good form or good imagination.

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/409804.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    The technique of barbecue is actually very simple, but it takes years and years to master. There's an intuition that you only gain through the repetition of practice. Aaron [Franklin] told me that he trains all his employees the same way, but when he cuts into a brisket, he can tell you exactly who did the smoking.

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/409525.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.
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    The subject line is from "The Church in the Wildwood," a hymn Ann Green apparently used to sing whenever she went back to Mississippi. Made a cheese ball with pickled peppers for her service (because, by the time I got around to figuring out what to pull together on a school night, it was too late to get started on benne wafers, and I have in fact lived long enough to recognize that), and brought sweet potato crackers to go with it.

    Lawd, this week.

    Transplanted the geranium from Desire to my front yard a week ago. Three days later, every leaf but the smallest one looked infected. Can't tell if that corner is fungally cursed -- last year's results were wildly, weirdly mixed -- or if said geranium just doesn't like Tennessee clay, even though I aerated the hole and mixed in some compost and tried not to get its feet too wet. The French hollyhock a few feet away survived the winter and now looks glorious. Perhaps it's yet another chapter in the universe's attempt to school me in not trying so damn hard that I get in my own way. (Which, not incidentally, is what a waltz partner told me at the Orange Peel a couple of months ago.)

    Lawd, this week.

    Anyway, I binned all the leaves except for that sweet little leaf at the tip of one stalk, and we'll see if what emerges -- if anything -- looks better. My car reeks of pine chips because I've been too busy to unload eight cubic feet of mulch from it. I would probably do best to compost the mallow seedlings in my sunroom because I waited too long to transplant those, but it's nice to know that the dozens more in the pet food tub are likely still viable.

    I am sipping Hild Elbling Sekt and snacking on Milano salami at this hour, because a gal's gottta unwind. Some good dancing tonight. I was tempted to road-trip to Blue Moon later today, especially since there is a waltz workshop on the schedule, and because Jed-who-drives-up-from-Huntsville is a favorite partner, but there is too damn much to do right here at my kitchen counter (so much that I'm going to have to skip a choir thing already on my calendar). Maybe next year...

    A singing thing that did happen this week: singing backing vocals on a video, at Jeff Coffin's studio, and chatting with him about his upcoming trips to Tuva and Myanmar. And he's the second person I talked to in person in Nashville this week about Tuvan singers. I do like my life.

    My Garden & Gun subscription has kicked in (read, frequent flyer miles from an airline I don't fly that frequently on), and Roy Blount Jr.'s column has beautifully paired opening and closing sentences. The opening sentence: "I'm walking up Dauphine Street in New Orlenas when a man turns the corner carrying a tuba and walking an enormous hairy dog, simultaneously."

    A message I sent to a friend in Asheville yesterday: "PUT THE PHONE DOWN and go ogle art at Blue Spiral or eat a marshmallow at French Broad Chocolates or pet the crocheted coats on the cats near Laughing Seed Café."

    Wall Street, Asheville

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/142045.html.
    pondhop: white jointed mannequin in glass door (Default)
    An unexpected milestone tonight: I called "Cat in the Window" during tonight's English lesson, after learning and dancing it one time through the recording. We were a small group tonight, and me calling the second pass [with one other dancer wanting to rest] allowed two other people to join the set.

    It was not a flawless call -- for some inexplicable reason, my default was set to saying "right-hand turn" instead of "two-hand turn," and mixing up waltz vs. single steps here and there, but I'd noticed that the cues the dancers most needed were the middle-couple casts over left/right shoulders, and those I did have down. I also now realize that I'll want to know other dances cold before attempting to call them, because trying to read the instructions -- to a dance I'd just danced! -- resulted in brain cramps.

    That said, I was looking up some possibilities later (specifically "The Pharmacist's Pleasure") and came across a piece called "P.S. Nobody Likes You," which includes a figure described as "Partners gypsy meltdown." I might be giggling.

    This entry was originally posted at http://zirconium.dreamwidth.org/141683.html.
    pondhop: white jointed mannequin in glass door (Default)
    Something I really enjoy about adulthood is being as messy as I want while cooking. The frozen blueberries the BYM bought some months ago weren't quite right for what he had in mind, so this morning I folded some into pancake batter, and afterward admired the swirls and gradations of color left behind:

    after the pancakes

    I've started the rice for tonight's effort, an adaptation of an okra casserole from Southern Living. First, though, there's a bathtub to be scrubbed, and weeds to clear out of the way so that I can transplant the mallow seedlings currently in the sunroom. The plant that survived the winter is doing well. Here's how it looked on my birthday:

    French hollyhock (mallow) French hollyhock (mallow) French hollyhock (mallow)

    This entry was originally posted at http://bronze-ribbons.dreamwidth.org/409108.html. I see comments at DW, IJ, and LJ (when notifications are working, anyway), but not on feeds.


    pondhop: white jointed mannequin in glass door (Default)
    Peg Duthie

    September 2017

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