Bits of News

So I fly back to Indiana tomorrow, for Christmas with my family.  We're all going out to our favorite Italian restaurant that evening, assuming the weather accommodates my flight plans.  This restaurant has been the go-to place for our family celebrations for as long as I remember.  This occasion will be the first time we've all gone since James' death.  There will be plenty of such firsts this season, of course, and for the next year.  Goody.  But as Mary says, the only way out is through, and we'll toast him, eat some good food, tell some favorite stories, laugh and cry.  When Dad first mentioned this plan to me, he said "We probably won't be the first guys sobbing in the men's room."  I agreed.  It's an Italian restaurant, after all, even if it's in the stoic Midwest.  I doubt we'll bother hiding in the men's room, frankly.  Why start now?

Huh.  That wasn't what I got online to tell you though.  First off, I did a bit of house-cleaning yesterday on this here bloggerino, adding some fun new links, and updating old ones (finally, Greg, I'll be sending people directly to the Midnight Garden).  If any of my links don't work, please do let me know.

One of the new links is called Queer New York.  The illustrious, intriguing, and ever-productive Father Tony started a new blog focusing on life in New York from a queer perspective (did you pick up on that from the name?), and much to my delight he invited me to be one of the contributers.  Initially I was unsure if I should accept for a few reasons: 1) I haven't exactly been burning up the interwebs here at my present blog, why add another blog to ignore, 2) I rarely managed to go anywhere or do anything even remotely New York City-related AND 3) I didn't seem to know more than, oh, let's say three gay men in New York, and maybe six world-wide.  Starting this blog actually doubled the number of gay men I interacted with on a regular basis, and I haven't even met all the local ones face to face.

(Okay, if I didn't link to you in the paragraph above, don't take it personally, it was just taking all day, and I have other things I need to do.  Did I mention I'm flying to Indiana tomorrow?  I will also admit that if you haven't posted anything on your blog for two or more months, I didn't link to you.  Doesn't mean I don't love you, I just figure you didn't need the pressure.)

Fortunately my natural tendency towards gluttony won out though, and I accepted Tony's invitation.  I only have two modest posts up at this point, but I anticipate this being a fun endeavor to be part of.  There's some wonderful stuff there, and I'm looking forward to seeing what else comes down the pike.  Tony has assembled an eclectic mix of men and women (though he still wants to find more queer bloggers of color, so contact him if you fit the bill, or know someone who does), and has, with only a small number of caveats ("this won't be the place to post pictures of your cat") encouraged us to post anything we like.  Reviews of various kinds are making a big showing at present, but no doubt some of the fun with this venue will be seeing how it shapes itself over time. If there is a mission at this point, I'd say it would be to give out of towners the inside scoop on LGBT life in NYC.  PDQ.  RSVP.  BTW.  LOL. (OMG did I just type LOL?  Seriously?)

Huh.  Don't know why I thought that was necessary.  I do feel like progressive politics tends to involve a LOT of acronyms, not that there's anything wrong with that.  And don't you love the caps button?  I sometimes wish I had one in my daily life, though the fact is city living would probably benefit from fewer caps buttons running around the joint.  Just in general.  Did I mention I'm going to Indiana tomorrow?  Have I mentioned before that I usually spend the first two days of my visits to Indiana sleeping, or wanting to sleep?  Sixteen hours at a stretch is not unheard of.  I call it the Richmond Coma, and I think the sheer dearth of NOISE (caps intended) has a physical effect on me.  My nervous system, which in cities is probably more nervous than is healthy, simply collapses. I usually come out of the coma ready for long walks and some serious dog-romping, though, and conveniently, there is a dog who loves to romp.  I might actually get some video footage of that, if Fang is amenable.  Amenable is her normal state, if not organizing principle, so I'm optimistic.  Whether or not I actually turn that video into something worth seeing, that's the real question here.  I'm less optimistic on that front, but not completely without hope.

Wow.  I DO go on.  I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted anything here.  I don't know about the rest of you bloggers, but this process has evolved into a fairly useful processing tool for me.  I feel the lack when I don't do it.  Babbling on paper (what Dad calls 'bilge-pumping') is fairly necessary to my mental well-being too, but I think I've been reasonably good about not putting that stuff out on the internet for all and sundry.  Sundry gets really cranky about that kind of thing, and who can blame her?

I'm shutting up now.  But I've missed you, and hope to be writing more regularly, here at at the new house.

Regaining Perspective.

Friday evening was one of those occasions when I felt like Manhattan was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that there was. no. room. for. me.

I was expecting the commute home to be tricky. The school I work at most often, the Pratt Institute, is deep in Brooklyn. I live at the north end of Manhattan, in Harlem. What this means is a) the commute can take anywhere from 40 to 90 minutes on average, one way and b) I will be going with rush hour traffic for most of the ride. These are the constant irritations to the trip, and I think I handle them pretty well.

But then Friday, you see, there was some moisture in the air. I don't mean there was actual RAIN, mind you, though it had been predicted. Okay, to be fair I think there had been some in the early afternoon. At 5pm, when I was getting on the train in Brooklyn, however, it had been dry for a while. As I think I've written before, any kind of precipitation, indeed even the suggestion of precipitation makes the trains and a substantial portion of the population go spare. Fridays often have their own special craziness, for reasons I've not quite figured out. There just always seem to be more people on the trains on Fridays. This one was no exception.

So we all see where I'm going with this, right? I managed to make it to 59th ST (just past the mid-point of my journey) in reasonably good time, and what's more, I had been able to sit most of the way. Score! For those of you who don't know, 59th St Station is a major transfer point. When I went to the platform for my train home, it was packed to the rafters with people, to a degree that told me a train had not been along in some time. This actually happens a lot during rush hours, particularly the evening rush, in my experience. Something goes wrong with the train, that delays it even a few minutes, which means that the crowds on the the subsequent stations have time to get bigger than normal. When the train shows up, the vast majority of people will force their ways onto the already packed train, and in doing so delay it even more. Often the conductor will tell us that another train is RIGHT BEHIND THIS ONE, but for some reason only a few people believe this, or think it's worth waiting for. As you may have guessed from my snide tone and sarcastic caps, I am one of those few people. If I'm not in any hurry to get where I am going (and usually at the end of the day, I'm not), I routinely let as many as three trains pass me by before getting on. Usually the first one will be, as I said, jam-packed and lethargic, crawling from station to station, collecting more and more surly people, so even once you've made it on, you know that the trip is only going to get slower and more uncomfortable. The next train (and often it is right behind the first one, though sometimes the conductors lie, which is probably why most riders don't believe them) will still be pretty packed, the riders still pretty surly, and the ride still slow because it, of course, has to wait for the first one to clear the station. Usually by the third train, there will be seats. It will still be a slow ride, since now you're behind two slow trains, but sitting down changes everything. You can get off your feet, read, write, basically treat the time as your own in at least a few small ways.

I was fully prepared to adopt the 'minimum three train' policy on Friday. I left for work Friday morning knowing that I would probably have to adopt this policy. When I got to 59th St that night, however, I knew immediately that this was not going to be a three-train wait. Nope, I was prepared to wait for at least five, and the gaps between them would be extra long because there were that many more people getting on.

40 minutes later, after train number seven came and left bursting at the seams, Mr. Crankypants was firmly in charge, and now I would not be riding the train UNTIL I could sit down. By train number nine, I was able to, in part because I didn't mind sitting near the only slightly whiffy homeless guy who had built himself an enormous nest at one end of the train with trash bags.

Door to door, my commute took two hours, twenty minutes.

Any thought I had of going out again that evening was snorted at derisively. I also realized there was an insistent little voice in my head saying I now deserved a treat, perhaps several treats, as consolation for my miserable ride home. Said little voice seemed of the opinion that such treats should include a large order of General Tso's chicken from the local Chinese take-out (if you're not familiar with this dish, it is basically a whole lot of deep-fat fried chicken nuggets swimming in a rich, sweet, oily sauce; I'll usually get it with brown rice. You know, to make it healthy), a truck load of cookies, and I'm talking 18 wheeler, AND a vat of a nice Shiraz. Not a truck of wine, that would be tacky.

When did I become the person who cheers himself up by hardening his arteries and destroying his liver? I swear to god I never thought that way before living in NYC. I've always loved food, mind you, in all its varied and glorious forms, but I don't think I went about medicating myself with it. Maybe my memory is faulty, but I really don't think I did.

Having identified this course of action as perhaps not in my best interests, I decided I would buy a box of Entemann's chocolate-chip cookies and some chicken quarters which I would cook (gasp!) WITH THE SKINS ON. I decided against the wine; I really don't think using alcohol as a means of breaking me out of a cranky mood is a habit I want to get into. I want to enjoy my booze when I have it. Besides the liquor store was too far away.

This compromise with my little voice then led me to think "when did I become the guy who obsesses about chicken skin?" Sure, one reaches a certain age and has to recognize that cholesterol is a concern, that excess pounds gained are harder to lose, that heart attacks do run in the family, that being a grown-up means recognizing consequences... but I mean come on.

Well, navel-gazing aside, I followed through on this plan, and had a great time. I had hoped to have my roommate's assistance with at least the cookies, but he was out, thus leaving me to do some serious damage to them on my own.

And it did help. I was much more cheerful an hour later, as I shoveled cookies into my mouth and contemplated having the whole apartment to myself for another week. What also cheered me up was looking at photos I took last Sunday, during a walk with my sweet Melissa. Her new place is right across the street from Inwood Park, which is all that remains of the old growth forest that once covered this whole island. Just the idea of that thrills me. Then when one walks in it, it's very easy to forget the city is all around.

This is my sweet girl just after we've entered the forest. Already all buildings are out of sight, and most street noise is gone.

(Don't you just want to squeeze her? She gets that a lot.)

This was a carving in the rock we both liked. Despite the sharpness of the edges and the uniformity of the shape, we're both certain this was formed naturally. There is no sign of tools, and besides, why would anyone bother?

Here's a closer look. In Ireland this would be some sort of sacred well, with an ancient name and a thousand year history of magical healing.

I don't know what these flowers in the foreground are, but I can't wait to find out. That's the Hudson in the background. I'm also rather fond of that larger tree. I seem to be turning into my mother. Like her, I now feel compelled to hug trees on a fairly regular basis. One of the odd benefits of living in a big city is, when I was doing this in Central Park a few weeks ago, I knew I didn't have to worry about ever seeing again any of the people who looked at me oddly as they went by. Lately I'm particularly fond of oak trees for some reason. Mom's morning walk includes visiting, and hugging, a catalpa and an ancient pin oak.

At one point, Melissa and I found a clearing in the trees where we got incredible views of the river. The picture on the left is looking north, the one on the right looks south.















These two shots are taken in almost the same location; I've just stepped forward about two paces. Suddenly you can see the city. Again, the left one is north, the right one is south. In the latter, you're looking at George Washington Bridge. My place is just about twenty blocks further south.
This is a picture Melissa took of me, while I was taking one of the pictures above. She took this with her camera phone. That's a damn good phone. Or Melissa really knows how to work it. I'm getting a better average number of focused images with my digital baby, I just don't know how I'm doing it. Generally taking two or three shots seems to be useful; the latter ones are almost always better. My camera's ways remain a mystery to me, and contrary to his original assertion, Tommy is no help. Still, I'm having fun. You just may not want to enlarge any of my photos, if blurry images make your eyes go all wonky, like they do mine.


So once again, it's trees to the rescue in my world. I could ask myself if this is something that needs closer examination, but for now I'm just grateful to have so many places nearby that help me regain my sanity, and such good company to do it with.

A Day Late

March 15th is my dad's birthday. Sadly I wasn't able to be there for the festivities, I wasn't even able to call during dinner as is my usual habit (fortunately everyone will be gathering at Mary's and Tony's tonight for Irish stew and twice-baked potatoes).

I can be reasonably certain how the party happened though. Dad, Mom, James, Mary and Tony all gathered in the dining room of Laceyland, joined by both the dog and the cat. Everyone held hands for silent grace, with Fang insisting she be a part of it too, so people on either side of her each took an ear. (The cat is largely uninterested in grace.)

The smells of Dad's chosen birthday meal -this year it was roast beef, mashed potatoes, and salad- wafted in from the kitchen, making mouths water (probably all seven of them; even I, who don't really eat beef any longer, would revel in the aroma.) Mom brought it out, James opened the first bottle of red wine, and everyone set to. In amongst talk of everyone's day were memories of trips taken, other occasions celebrated, a lot of wonderful meals remembered. We talk about food a lot, my family. A second bottle was probably opened, though none of them would drink much more than two glasses. We like being nicely oiled, or as my sister puts it "goofed up," but not more than that.

The volume and speed of the conversation probably rose a bit, but not to a mind-splitting degree. The lights were turned off, and Mom fetched the birthday cake. White cake, chocolate frosting, sliced bananas and frosting in between the two layers, this is Dad's favorite cake, the one fond memory he has of his mother's cooking. That wasn't really her thing. He blew out the candles (with the baby of the family turning 40 in June, any attempt to put the 'right' number of candles on the cake ceased decades ago), and Mom immediately took them off and dunked them in cold water, to save for the next birthday. Some frugal, Quaker farm-girl habits never die, but she takes the ribbing ('run! run! Get them to the sink! Aiee!') with a good nature.

The cake was sliced, tea poured, tonight the rule about seconds on dessert was relaxed, then it was time for presents. Dad has always been hard to find presents for. From what I hear, this is a condition common to dads. Not sure what the hell that is about. It's gotten worse as he and Mom have gotten older, because they need nothing now, and don't have much in the way of wants either. Even books, the fool-proof present in the past, now are chosen with greater discrimination, though the absolutely perfect ones are not by-passed. Mostly he got nice wine, cheeses, other fine comestibles, since those are always appreciated. Second cups of tea were poured, the news watched on TV, then everyone went off to his or her respective homes and evening chores. Part of what made this evening so special is the fact that it isn't that rare. Mary and Tony may not join them for dinner every night, but family meals still happen a few times a week, even if they're not always this fancy. I feel some envy at not being able to participate, but mostly I feel delighted knowing this quiet family ritual is observed so often.

I've said in other entries that trying to describe why you love a person is hard to do without sounding insipid and trite, or resorting to lists of fine qualities. I think that problem is only worsened when you're talking about a parent. I can talk about all the good I've seen Dad do in the world, as a teacher, counselor to students and colleagues, and now as clerk for The American Friends Service Committee, which has him gallivanting all over the world in his seventies, doing things we would have never imagined like going up the sides of mountains in Columbian war zones in trucks with benches bolted in the back... but this wouldn't tell you about his goofy side. I could mention that in hearing the news about Eliot Spitzer he speculated about what one would get for $4300 an hour, and decided he wouldn't settle for anything less than a trampoline and an off-stage accordian player (and comments like these from my parents have long since ceased to traumatize me, if they ever did), but that wouldn't tell you about his ferocity... I could talk about when I was a student at Dad's college, he and I frequently found ourselves going after the same administrators, so my 'teen rebellion' years got to be spent with my dad in the same trenches...but that still wouldn't give you a full picture of him. I might mention his special bond with babies and dogs, his desire to have a pet penguin and baby elephant that he would take for walks, the way he taught us to that literature and art matter in the world, but didn't let us get precious about it (In a copy of The Joy of Cooking he gave me, he quoted Bertolt Brecht, writing "First food, then rights!"), his love of Benny Goodman, Beethoven, the Beatles, Yeats, Keats, Levertov, Austen, Eliot, of dancing... okay, so I'm making that list I said I wouldn't. And I've barely scratched the surface.

Suffice it to say, I think he's been a force of love, vision, humor, and celebration in the world and he's just been a hell of a lot of fun to be around. We have had our problems, of course. Human beings will, after all, and fathers and sons may almost be required to... but in all the ways that mattered, he has always been behind me.

Below is a poem of his that I'm particularly fond of, and perhaps does a better job of showing his character than my scatter-shot approach above. If you're not familiar with the Dickinson poem he's responding to, it's included at the bottom of the entry.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love thee.






Another Slant of light


This afternoon’s sun is not yet at the horizon,
and it has bathed the unmarked snow fields
a mellow pink. The sun has set a joyful scene, dear Emily,
not like that New England winter light you praised
and mourned, a century ago.


Now more gold has
entered the light, and the snow invites us to urge
the dog’s happy leaps in and out of the drifts. Were
I not too old and stiff, too self-conscious
at looking foolish, I would make snow angels
in the trackless field or roll down the hill
below the meetinghouse. Like the dog, I would bathe
in this light, the brisk cold, the soft-tinged snow.


I hear a different heft of music, Emily,
this winter afternoon: the perfect cathedral tune,
Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,and the triumphant last movement of St. Saens’
organ symphony. Listen to the opening bars:
dah dah dah dah / da da da da DAH! /
Da da da da, /da da da dah Dahh!
Oh hum along, Emily, wave your hands.


I always want to dance to that tune,
Emily, all around the room, though it
also makes me look foolish beyond my years.


But I don’t just hear organ music. The light
makes me imagine the dancing harpsichord
driving Artie Shaw’s Gramercy Five
on "Summit Ridge Drive" and "Back Bay Shuffle."
(A couple of Boston tunes, Emily.)


The day will darken toward more somber hues
and tones when the sun dips below the horizon,
but for now there is no heavenly hurt, no gouging
into the heart to find the meanings. It is cold, it will
grow dark, yes, as always, but now the light
is soft, golden, pink; the snow receives it as decoration,
as barrel-organ honky tonk, splashy
show-off tunes, as the body’s pleasure
in the triumphal, long-shadowed winter light...

Paul Lacey.



(258)
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons -
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us -
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are-

None may teach it -Any -
'Tis the Seal Despair -
An imperial affliction
Sent us on the Air -

When it comes, the Landscape listens
Shadows - hold their breath -
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death -

Emily Dickinson 1890.

All About Me

This is Megan.
She's a koala.
She's eating eucalyptus leaves.




(We had just been exercising in the Sheep's Meadow under a hot summer sun. I'm sweaty, red-faced, and blotchy the way you're supposed to be. She looks like she just stepped out of the shower. Maybe she's glowing. A bit. God, I hate that bitch.)


This is Jeff.
He's a clown.
He's wearing a rubber nose.
Also a hat.




(It's all right, he's a good clown, he won't hurt you. Seriously, he's really funny. Okay, okay, breathe...No no, the T shirt is a name, not an instruction...yes, I understand but- uh huh... look, he's also a great actor, and he doesn't wear the nose then. Usually. Does that help? ...All right, if you would just come over --look, will you calm down-no... no... Seriously dude, would you CHILL? Jesus Christ on a Bicycle!)




Jeff and Megan have known each other since high school in Northern Virgina (NoVA, to the cool kids, and believe me, these kids are cool), were sweethearts for a while, and managed to maintain a friendship throughout college and the years after. Well, last Tuesday the Koala and the Clown decided that their duo was too good, too right, and should be made a permanent thing. I couldn't agree more.


I've been trying all weekend to explain why this makes me so deleriously happy. The funny thing about trying to explain why you love people is it so hard to do without sounding like a Hallmark card, or just listing their fine qualities. On top of that, the entry about their engagement kept becoming all about me, and why I wanted this to happen. I don't seem to be getting anywhere though, and what the hell, it IS my blog, so here are just a few of the things that make me happy about all this.


I met Jeff doing the original play Significant Circus back in spring of 2001, and he was but one of many precious gifts I took away from that experience. I tend to treat straight men like timid woodland creatures when I first meet them, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to startle them, in the hopes that maybe eventually they'll feel safe enough to eat from my hand. Initially Jeff seemed like a prime candidate for this policy, but I soon found I was selling him short. You have to understand, in this play, while Jeff was playing a human being, I was playing a dog. A talking dog. Nor was this my first time (see, all about me...). We only had a couple of scenes together, and our characters didn't really interact much, we were usually just there as parts of crowd scenes. At one point we had stopped while the director attended to some other problem, me crouched at Jeff's feet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. It took me a few moments to notice that Jeff was petting me absent-mindedly, scritching me behind the ears... Just petting the dog. I doubt he was even conscious of it; like I said, it had been going on for some moments before I was. If that hadn't been enough, I knew we were going to be friends when he, I, and two other (hot!) actors decided to run our extremely physical, acrobatic, full-body-contact fight call in our underwear. Just 'cause. It was that kind of play.


He is one of the most disciplined, hard-working people I know, and at times I feel like he's driven, and too self-flagellating (like life in New York Theatre doesn't beat you enough). I'll tell him to lighten up periodically, yet I'm also awed by how much he gets done. Generally he's juggling roughly 493 projects at once, in three states and two countries (I'm not kidding), but even then, if you ask him to help you move, he's there. I swear, if I suddenly needed to move while he was working in Italy, he would find a way to be there that day, and still miss less than an hour's rehearsal. And you have to understand, we're talking about moving IN NEW YORK CITY. No place to park, five floor walk-ups with no elevators, doors and staircases that are too small for TV sets, let alone actual furniture... nope, he's there, and usually taking charge.


I met Megan a few years later, when she moved to New York as their relationship rekindled. As with Jeff, I initially thought she was sweet, lovely, a bit shy and reserved, a southern gal I might easily scandalize accidentally. I was just as wrong with her. While she and I haven't wrestled in our underwear (yet), I quickly learned she was actually a hot dancer, a rocker-chick with a serious Guns N' Roses fetish and several tattoos. At first I thought it odd someone like this was studying library science, but it just turned out I hadn't met enough librarians. She can drink me under the table, which granted isn't that hard these days, but she IS a lot smaller than me. Of the two of them, she's far more likely to be the one causing trouble in public, and she gets away with it because she can turn on the Bambi eyes, and just look like a sweet young thing. I adore this about her. I also adore the fact that when she's writing papers, she wears bunny ears because "they help me think." When she has her glasses on she looks like she's the librarian at the Playboy Mansion. She and I bonded when we learned each of us has a Muppet Dance (Jeff likes to make us sit on the same side of the booth in restaurants, so he can watch us do them simultaneously). Her sense of humor is often wicked, and I adore this about her too.




Then there are all the things I love about them that they have in common: their writing skill, their empathy, their ability to switch from serious to silly on a dime (and not belittle either one), their love of books, art, dance, theatre, music, good food, red wine -all the things that make for wonderful friendships and amazing conversations, but perhaps not particularly good stories. They've challenged me, supported me, and maybe best of all, helped me make my work better. I feel blessed by my time with them, hearing, being heard, loving, and being loved.



They're also both smokin' hot, and not afraid to give me smooches when I need 'em. (Which, for the record, is CONSTANTLY. Probably half the reason I went into theatre. All about me.)



The road to this point has been a long one, and what with them being human beings and all, not always easy. They were split up for a time, a few years ago. I've had good couple friends break up before (who hasn't) and knew I would have no trouble maintaining a friendship with each of them. So why was I so upset by the break-up? Sure I was sad that they were both hurting, that made sense, but this seemed like something more. Gradually I began to realize that I felt strongly that they were SUPPOSED to be together. Unlike in previous cases, I had an opinion, dare I say, an AGENDA even, in this.



I was good. I behaved. I did not breathe a word of this to either of them, because what the hell did I know, it wasn't my decision, I wasn't involved, I didn't know all the things that had come between them, and besides I know better than to advise people on much of anything but especially romance, yeah, let's look at my track record, and no one wants advice when they're in this much pain anyway, and they DEFINITELY don't need me pursuing my own AGENDA for god's sake, what kind of moron would risk alienating both his friends by meddling in their affairs like this because HE wants them to reconcile...?



(All about me.)



Nope I didn't say a thing (right, guys? I didn't, did I? I was good, right?). And I worked at picturing them with other people, starting new relationships, building different lives. They were mine, I wasn't going to lose them, and since it's all about me, that's what mattered.



BUT... I was thrilled when they reconciled, saw that if anything the bond was stronger and healthier now, maybe in some way the split had been necessary. It was good. So glad you two finally saw sense and did what I wanted, ya pinheads. (Me. All. About.) I'm sure I'm only one of many people saying this to you. Together and separately you have inspired, delighted and supported me. I hope you'll let me return the favor, whenever I can.

Frolic in the Meadow

So, it seems I'm not as good with this digital camera as I may have thought. If I'm trying to capture scenery on a day with brilliant light and diamond-sharp shadows, apparently I can manage not to fuck things up too much. If I'm trying to photograph people, or pets, however, I turn into a drooling moron. The camera insists on flashing, regardless of light or setting, and I don't know how to turn that off (if it's even possible; it must be, right?). It often doesn't really understand what I want to be focusing on, so when faced with this problem it focuses at random on an object of its own choosing. We're working on our communication, though I'll admit I don't always behave like a grown-up and will sometimes remove its batteries in a fit of pique. That doesn't seem to accomplish much, but it makes me feel better. Yes, I'm just that petty. I hate being defeated by inanimate objects.

What is my evidence for all this? See that picture above? Out of all the photos I took of Jess, Marc, the dogs (none of whom have blogs yet), the house, the train-ride, that photo there is the best one I got out of my visit to East Meadow. I mean, you can actually see who it is I'm photographing. The others, all of them, don't know what the hell happened there. Yes, I know you can look at the little screen after taking a shot, see if it came out, then try again if necessary, bite me okay? Yeah, I didn't do that. Like, ever. I blame Marc really. He made this amazing blackberry (yes blackberry) cosmo that is without a doubt the most delicious mixed drink I've ever had. Not too sweet, beautiful color, it went down like water, so I really can't be held responsible.

So, lacking the extensive photo journal I was hoping to share with you, I'll just have to tell you about my lovely day. Oh, that above is Mandy. She is of the devil, apparently. In my own defense, Jess says that effect always happens with her eyes, so again, it's not my fault. She was coming over to smooch me, by the way, not chew off my face, as it might appear. I get those looks confused a lot.

After a relaxing train-ride out (I love trains), Jess was there to pick me up at the station. The conversation started up without any awkwardness, as between familiar friends, as I guess we were by that point. At the house I was greeted by the dogs first. Bernice and Mandy were effusive and affectionate from the start, competing a bit with one another for my attention. Dodger was courtly and gracious, but made clear he was reserving judgement pending further evidence. I can respect that.

Finally I got to meet Marc as well. Both gentlemen were every bit as charming, funny and welcoming as their blogs, comments and emails had led me to expect. What I hadn't gotten to experience directly was the loving banter between them, which started up immediately. They seemed as amazed, amused and delighted with each other as if they had just met, and it was lovely to bask in.

First order of business, I requested a tour of the house. Marc had before pictures to give me a sense of how extensive their renovations had been. Jess grew up in this house, so the renovations helped to shape the house more to their tastes and needs, while also perhaps banishing a ghost or two. The home they've created is both elegant and cozy, taking advantage of some wonderful original features (black walnut trim!), and antiques from their families, combining them with beautiful new marble or granite in the kitchen and bathrooms, wonderful light fixtures, and a variety of rich, soothing colors. Throughout there were several large beautiful photographs hanging and only later did I learn that Jess had taken them. The house throughout sang of the two of them, and of their relationship. After turning to smaller bedrooms into one large one, they decided to make it the new master bedroom. Jess felt he was never going to be able to see the original as anything but his parents' room. Talk about a recipe for chastity. I would have made the same choice. Periodically one of them would point to what I thought was a small, tastefully arrayed collection, and say "sorry about the mess."

They are never, ever coming to my house.

So much of the furniture or collections (there were actual ones too) came with family stories, so one sensed the history of these two men in a way that I have rarely found with Americans. I got to hear about some of their relatives -Jess's mom and grandmother, Marc's mom- triggered perhaps by a collection of silver pieces, a surprisingly valuable couch (that narrowly missed being left on the curb) or a great old cabinet.

Jess and Marc then began preparations for dinner in the kitchen, while I sat in the living room, peeking through the large window there, sipping my cosmo, and petting any dog who stopped by to say hi. Dodger seemed to be warming up a bit. All five of them had been in Vermont over the weekend with friends, so Iwas informed the dogs were a bit more sedate than usual, due to being tired. I was comforted to hear this, since I was starting to wonder if I should be offended by the fact that Mandy had not yet lived up to her nickname -Moose- by trying to climb into my lap.

Just so you know, if you say to these gentlemen "please don't go to any trouble" what they hear is "please order gulf shrimp from a company in Texas that provides next day delivery." Jess tried to make it seem like that was all Marc's doing, but I didn't detect any evidence he had tried to stop him.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Jess made a delicious scampi, while Marc sauteed asparagus, and buttered garlic bread, periodically checking on the state of his cheesecake. He then topped up my drink, discreetly provided me with a tarp the size of a circus tent to deal with my drooling, and the six of us sat down to eat in the sunroom. The meal was every bit as wonderful as you're thinking it was, topped only by the company and the conversation. I learned more about Jess's parents, and regretted that I would never get to meet them. The love they shared for over forty years had clearly shaped Jess, his siblings, and the home in ways too many to count; one felt it radiating out of the walls, surrounding us with a warm, gentle glow.

Once the humans had eaten our fill, Bernice and Mandy intensified their campaign for scraps, and were rewarded with some pieces of garlic bread. Dodger has to be invited to partake, such a gentleman he is, but he didn't require too much coaxing.

Jess and I continued talking while Marc disappeared for quite a while in the kitchen, until I began to feel like we had abandoned him. "Don't worry," Jess assured me, "he would much rather we stay out here for the moment." Far be it from me to disturb an artist in process.

Eventually we retired to the living room with our cheesecake with strawberries (heaven!) and our coffee. This is the one room in the house where the dogs are not allowed. Bernice and Mandy accept this without complaint (or at least they did that night). Dodger, on the other hand, utilizes the debate of legal minutiae so popular with dogs and teenagers. He'd lie just outside the door, only his snout crossing the border into the living room, testing to see if the judges felt this honored the spirit of the law. That having gone well, he tried the reverse, placing his entire body in the living room, except for his snout, which also helped his case, since he was facing out of the room. When this began to look like he'd push too far, he also stretched both forepaws to the safe side of the border. Eventually Jess told him to leave, and he did, with no evident disgruntlement.

Perusing some of the Adonises (Adonisae?) hot guys in Jess's high school yearbook -he was the editor, so had a certain amount of say in who got multiple shots- led to a discussion of opportunities missed because we were too young, timid and closeted. This led somehow into a discussion of whether there is life after death. Trust me, in the context that jump made sense. Actually you probably can come up with your own links without much trouble, can't you. I learned about the trip they took with Marc's mom to Europe, getting her out of the country for the first time in her seventies, for what was clearly a wonderful time for all three of them. Jess says they have a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy for her sake, but occasionally she forgets, and calls him 'son'.

A phone call from a friend led us to the TV room (Oh, I neglected to mention the Bose surround sound system throughout the house!) so said friend could get Jess's expert opinion on some guns being evaluated on the Antiques Road Show. Marc suddenly thought it had been cruel to keep me in the living room, no dogs allowed, when I had come out in part to see them, but he needn't have worried. The company in both rooms had been a delight, I didn't feel deprived in the slightest. This did however give Dodger a chance to deliver his final judgement, which he did by playfully wrassling with me, biting ever so gently. Jess informed me this meant I was in.

We were all looking at early starts the next day, so I elected to get on the 9:30 train back to Penn Station. The three of us drove to the station, which meant I got to save my hugs until the very last moment with both of them. As they drove off I appreciated the fact that three rough looking guys were standing next to three fabulous young gay boys (one of them in a sequin-covered vest, a fedora, and just a touch of eye-liner) without any evident animosity. Even the 'burbs of New York tend to have a live and let live attitude most of the time.

The train arrived right on time, and after I had been riding for a bit, I thought to turn my phone back on. There was a text message and a voice message from Jess. The voice message said "Marc wanted to know if you'd made your train all right--OW. I just got hit. Okay I was worried you might have missed your train, it's the Jewish mother in me..." I called back immediately to reassure Mama, and thanked them again for a lovely day.

I was home before eleven, which gave me time to make a full report to Nicky, and to learn that my photos were for shit. I guess that just means I'm going to have to go back for another visit, after I've beaten the camera into submission-I mean learned all its fine nuances and needs. It's rough, but for you, my readers, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. No need to thank me. Its just the kind of guy I am. I'm a giver.

Thanks again, Guys, it was wonderful. It's my turn to host next, which I'll find some way to do without letting you see the state of squalor I generally live in.

Another Good Excuse for Spinach Dip

Last night I joined Jeff and Genna at their apartment in Astoria along with several other nice folks, to celebrate Jeff's 27th birthday. Genna and I became friends in the Winter of 2001 while working on a play, and we've been friends ever since. Jeff entered the picture a few years later, but the connection was as easy and comfortable with him as it had been with her from the get-go (at least for me, I should let them speak for themselves).

Every year Genna tops her previous year's cake, and this was no exception. Made only with chocolate and eggs, it was a slice of mousse-like, fudgy goodness, garnished with red raspberries; she was heart-broken later when she realized she'd forgotten the fresh whipped cream, but frankly I think what we had was perfection itself. The cake of course followed a mountain of other goodies, including Genna's spinach dip. I'm not the only one who looks forward to this dip; late comers to the party sighed with relief when they arrived to find it had not yet run out. The dip reminded me, if I hadn't noticed it already, that Jeff and Genna have been part of every important celebration in my life for a few years now. Just in the past six months we've celebrated Thanksgiving, New Year's and now Jeff's birthday together, each time with good food, red wine, a nice mix of friends, conversations ranging widely in topic and tone, and yes, some spinach dip. We also have no qualms about creating a celebration whenever we feel the need. Having these two as part of my New York family has been a blessing, helping to root me in a place where I so often feel rootless. We may go months without seeing one another, life here being on the frantic side a lot, but when we reconnect, it's as if no time has passed. We weigh down another groaning table with goodies (even when it's just the three of us, we cook for an army), crack open another bottle of wine, and pick up where we left off with the conversation.

Happy Birthday, Pal. Thanks for sharing your celebrations, thoughts, questions, confusions, frustrations, silliness and cooking with me. My life is the richer for it.

Taking Stock

Melissa comes over after her half-day of work, and we began discussing the menu.  We didn't want to make a meal, but wanted the food to be more substantial than chips and dip.  Melissa and I bond in many ways, but food is one of the nicest.  I know people who just don't care about food; for them it's nothing but fuel.  Taste, presentation, all of that is irrelevant.  I do not understand these people.  I don't judge, really I don't, but I don't think I can ever be close to them.  Respect, value, enjoy, admire, I can do all that... but we're never going to be close.  How would we celebrate?  Dancing can work, but even it's better with a meal, or a glass of wine.  

ANYway... we begin discussing dishes.  Melissa wanted to experiment by making up new ones.
"What if we took a cracker, cover it with a piece of lox, then top it with a blueberry? I think it would look beautiful.  No idea what it would taste like."  

"Um, okay, we could try that."

"Oh, then what if we took blue cheese and strawberries, rolled them up in a tortilla, maybe fry it, then cut it into bite-sized bits?"  

"Sure we could do that too, but--"

"OH and then what about..."

Eventually we agree that we'll try one experimental dish, but also make some dependable stand-bys, just in case.  Nine sweet, forgiving people are coming over, but we'd like there to be one or two sure hits.  

A trip to the grocery store is always more fun with someone, so this is already a rare treat for me.  We stock up on nice cheeses, a mix of fancy and everyday, melon, blueberries, turkey burger, the ingredients for pizza, bread, and something the recipe calls congo squares, but we both consider blondies.  

My kitchen is decent by New York standards, but you have to understand that still means we have exactly one counter, about the size of a bread-box, and a good sized table that can be a work surface, when it's not a storage space.  All in all I think Melissa and I do quite well navigating around one another.  I am perhaps just a bit too excited to be using my new mixing bowls and other rarely used ceramics, but Melissa shares my enthusiasm, or at least does a bang-up job pretending. She doesn't really drink, and I have forgotten to get any wine, but we are confident we can count on our guests for that.   

We specify the party starts at 8pm, knowing that will mean people will show up no earlier than 8:30, but as 9:30 rolls around with us the only celebrants on hand, we begin to think that the mountain of food we have already is going to be enough.  Our attempt to make at least one non-wheat and milk-products dish for a friend with allergies ends in failure when the corn tortillas refuse to stay closed no matter how much egg batter we use. Ultimately the spirit of experimentation brings us to use wheat tortillas to great success, but only after we've been cooking them for a while, do we realize we lost the original intent.  Next time we'll get bigger corn tortillas, the little ones are two small and thick.  We liked them because they were blue. The wheat tortillas work a treat, however, and turn into a kind of egg roll shell after being fried.  Yup, this event is going to be lots of dough, cheese and meat, and we both couldn't be more delighted.  We had agreed from the beginning that we would still have fun if it were just the two of us, but we probably would have cooked on a smaller scale.  

Around 10pm every single guest shows up in quick succession, in the space of about fifteen minutes, as if they were all waiting together somewhere and thought they should trickle in so as not to seem suspicious.  As they arrive I realize that no single guest knows more than three other people in the room, and one brave soul only knows me.  Even I am meeting two new people.  Despite this, everyone begins talking the instant they arrive, with none of that awkward sitting around in silence that often can mark the beginning of even the nicest gathering.  Melissa and I had failed to make clear we would be making food, so everyone comes having had dinner already.  Must remember that for future events; if you say 'party', especially for New Year's Eve, people understandably expect no more than chips, dip, a carrot or two, some cookies and a whole lot of booze unless you say otherwise.  As we had predicted, our lovely guests had brought wine, juice and champagne, so along with the house Ginger Ale, everyone seems reasonably content with the beverages.  Genna and Jeff have indulged me by bringing their spinach dip, which I devour as if I hadn't just finished the batch they brought for Thanksgiving.  

My living room is a very odd shape.  It's long, thin, and always wants to divide itself into two spaces, no matter how I arrange the furniture.  I wonder if that was how it was built originally, there are some structural elements to suggest it.  And of course my furniture is a hodge-podge of things, my design concept for the whole apartment having been "Are you done with that?"  Hand-me-downs and street-side salvages provide a futon couch, papasan, easy chair, and plenty of wooden chairs.  By funny coincidence, there are exactly as many seats as there are people.  The room dividing means that three to five conversations are going at any one time, but we soon discover that eleven is just about the right number for everyone to join into a single conversation.  Naturally we discover this when someone telling a story to a small group says into an unexpected silence "so he sat down beside me, put his hand on my knee, and said, 'let's have sex.'" As the evening progresses, we bounce back and forth between one conversation or many; the papasan, sitting in the center of the room like a throne seems to dictate this pattern.  Often the person who instigates a group discussion will be the one presently occupying this seat.  

Midnight creeps up; for some odd reason I am unable to get the remote control to turn on the cable and TV at the same time until just the moment when the ball drops, but we all watch, cheer (hearing it all through my neighborhood) kiss or hug whether we've known each other for decades or hours, (though of course there is kissing, and then there's kissing,) champagne is poured (oh goody, there are just enough extra glasses and rarely used ceramic cups so everyone can have a clean vessel!), and we toast the new year and one another. 

Melissa bakes the blondies, and our guests bravely soldier on, making a serious dent in them as they have all the food, not wanting Melissa and me to feel bad about our efforts.  That's just how classy this crowd is.  More conversations big and small, silly and serious, then around 3am, the realities of long commutes on holiday trains (the bane of New York socializing) catches up with people, and they leave as they arrived, quickly in twos or threes.  I hug Keong a little longer and tighter, since in a few hours he's leaving New York for good, off to a promising career in LA.  He's been a part of my life since I moved here, and has been confidante, cheerleader, inspiration and bitching-partner  for the last twelve years.  I'm not as sad at our parting as I might have been in the past though; by now I've learned that you cross paths with the good ones again, often sooner than expected, and the conversation picks up where it left off.  In fact I'm in the process of doing just that with another friend in the room, Cheryl, after a gap of twelve years.  On another day I might be sad about the fact that my loved ones get spread farther and farther away, the gaps between contact gets longer, and in particular more of my theatre peers are leaving town (I'm the oldest person in the room by at least six years, and as many as thirteen), but tonight, nestled among loving friends old and new, I feel only gratitude for Keong, and many others.     

Melissa and I clean up, leaving the place looking better than it did at the start, then we fall asleep at 4am.  Breakfast comes around 11am, with bread and melon that was overlooked or forgotten, eggs and of course, coffee.  LOTS of coffee.  We continue our seven year old conversation about love, sex, art, finding a way to live in the country but work in the city, (where the hell IS the teleportation technology, already?), funding our work, and seeing our friends more than once every six weeks.  

This apartment warms up when it hosts social gatherings, and this morning the energy in the place is still vibrant and cheerful.  Melissa is working on an important grant in the living room, and I'm about to go discard dead plants, and plan what to do with the dirt and planters.  It feels right, with the moon waning on January 1st, that my first tasks of the year be purging excess and discarding things that have served their time.  The drumsticks never made it into the oven, and there are still some left-over pizza, cheese, and bread, but luckily Tommy and Ellen are home now to help eat.  Coltrane has already patroled the space; I think he smells that there were lots of other people here, as he vacuums up tidbits we missed in our late-night cleaning.  Turkey burger can get away from you easily, so we're fortunate to have such a diligent and low-slung presence in the place.  

It's already 5:30pm and the sun is down again, but I don't feel my usual guilty dread at having missed so much daylight.  It was a good party.  I met two wonderful new people,  reaffirmed my love for old friends, and maybe best of all, got to watch many of them discover new connections with one another.  Warm interactions at parties don't have to mean more than that, I am old enough to appreciate that they have their own worth, whether long term friendships result or not.   I needed this.  My ambivalence about NYC is always highest just after I've visited my family.  It's too easy to contrast the concrete joys of family and surroundings there (and vacation time of course) with what is often just potential here; potential work, potential community, potential income.  Being with these folks reminds me just how wonderful it is when I manage to turn the potential into reality, no matter how briefly.  
 

That's Fang, Christmas 2004, once again being encouraged in some bad behavior.  Everyone in my family is  pretty lax when it comes to dog discipline.  I like big dogs that are willing to wrassle.  One could take that sentence so many ways (yeah, tell me you didn't).  

It is looking like I will be flying out of Newark today after all, heading back to Indiana for two weeks with my family.  Two weeks of noisy talks and laughter over amazing food, often having just a little bit too much wine, accompanying Mom and Fang on their walks (Dad when he can) as we go by to visit my mom's tree friend (she hugs a catalpa every day, and I believe she's going to introduce me to a new tree this trip), watching Fang incarnate joy as she runs and runs, all long lines and ground-eating bounds, bowling with my baby brother (who is 39 years old, 6'1" to my 5'8", but I CAN STILL KICK HIS ASS), who loves Tweety-bird so much he has him on his bowling ball, watching bird TV (ie. the bird feeders outside the dining rooms) with cats Cleo (at the parents) and Eddie (at Mary's and Tony's), staying up too late and laughing till we weep with my sister, visiting  'my' woods, where maybe I'll see deer, and great blue herons, among other less startling fauna, touching base with some old friends, meeting my friend Rebecca's 
BABY GIRL, falling into a coma the first 36 hours I'm there because my body can't believe how quiet it is, seeing stars at night.... oh joy joy joy....  I may be able to check my email periodically, but I don't know if I'll be able to blog again before the 30th... I wanted to say thank you to my new blogging community.  Your humor, sympathy, insight and appreciation has leavened my odd little Autumn.  Special thanks for the joy that is Cooper for introducing me to so many of you,  and an early Christmas goose for him and fellow Elf Joe (have you heard his sonnet reading?  Now a sexy voice to go with the face), hope this season is a time of blessing and renewal in whatever way you're hoping and needing.  

Love,


Patrick
(Written in about 90 seconds with no proofreading so forgive me if I don't make any sense.)

Remembering, Regretting, Releasing

For a number of reasons -some of which are no doubt obvious- I've been thinking about gratitude a lot for the past three days. I've also been thinking about my strange reluctance to accept gifts. Steven at Sooo-this-is-Me has me thinking about regret, self-recrimination, time and opportunity lost -and the dangers of losing myself in them. He also has me noticing how easily I still step out of life sometimes, in the mistaken belief that it will make things easier, if not better. Somewhere Joe and Cooper have me thinking about the ways in which remembered blessings can trigger present gratitude.


As these thoughts roil around in my head, I find myself looking again at a piece I wrote and performed a number of years ago. I performed it several times, sometimes by itself, sometimes as part of a larger piece. For at least four years however, I've felt no connection to it, or the character who performed it. Sometimes that just means the piece has served its purpose, and needs to be put aside. That certainly may be true with this piece. I think though that my lack of connection with the piece reflects a deep disconnection from simple yet significant truths in my life. So I'm re-examining the piece today. Maybe I'll find my way back to it, and the character, maybe not. I don't really know where any of these ideas are taking me. I'm not worried about that right now. Today I'm just remembering.

The Toasts of Bromios

I'd like to propose a toast... For cheese and chocolate, and good red wine, for fresh hot bread and garlic in olive oil, for sour apples and sweet grapes and the salt of a lover’s skin, for these tastes and more, praise, all praise.

I'd like to propose a toast...For lilac and roses, and fresh brewed coffee, for the air near a waterfall, or after a storm, for cedar, and cinnamon, and the first cut of a lemon, for these scents and more, praise, all praise.

I'd like to propose a toast...
For the wind through pine trees, and the crashing of water, for thunder and hailstorms and the silence that follows, for crickets and cellos, and the purring of cats, for cheering and birdsong and really hot dance music, for a lover’s moans and sigh of contentment, for these sounds and more, praise, all praise.

I'd like to propose a toast...
For violets and fireflies and windblown pasture, for horses and dogs and all creatures who dance, for lightening and ice storms and Spring-thaw rivers, for the light of a candle reflected in eyes, for the sprawl of a body sleeping tangled in sheets, for these sights and more, praise, all praise.

I'd like to propose a toast...
For the caress of silk and soft summer breezes, for dry towels after a hot bath or cold rain, for strong hands cradling your head and pulling your hair, for the crash of a wave that makes you gasp with cold, for the lover who knows where, when and just how hard to bite, for these touches and more, praise, all praise.

I'd like to propose a toast... For hard work and dancing and the good sleep that follows, for solitude and companionship and the shoulders of friends, for new sights and old homes, and the travel between them, for being surprised still, every once in a while, for growing old gracefully - or kicking and screaming every step of the way, for all of you here, each of you luscious as grapes, I give you praise, all praise.

Margaret Smith Lacey's Zen Bread

When I was ten, my family lived in London for a year. As a family of adventurous eaters, we all had a wonderful time exploring new-to-us cuisines. My first tastes of Indian, Greek and French happened there, just to name a few. But we also found ourselves seeing old favorites in new lights. Mom, Dad, and I all found we much preferred the peanut butter we got there, because there was no added sugar. In 1977 Indiana, it wasn't easy to find unsweetened peanut butter when we got back, though somehow Mom managed it. My brother and sister both preferred the sweetened stuff like Jiff, which has led to an ongoing good-natured battle to this day. Lunch on peanut butter day is likely to include the following exchange.

Person A: "Please pass the peanut butter.... no not that stuff, the REAL peanut butter."
Person B: "This IS the real peanut butter."
Person A. "No, that is peanut JAM, gimme the peanut butter."
Person B: "Oh, the LIBRARY PASTE. Here."

It's important for families to have traditions.

One thing we all agreed on however was that the bread we got in London was vastly better than the stuff we could buy at home, even Pepperidge Farm, our previous staple. Lots of things were different, but here again, sweetness, or lack of it, was key. When you've gotten used to no sugar, even a small amount is overwhelming.

This led Mom to start experimenting with bread recipes. As cooking has become more popular in the last few years, some of the mystery has been removed from the process, but in the late 70s bread-baking was seen as an esoteric ritual somewhere between brain surgery and voodoo. Recipes required all sorts of odd, non-negotiable things. You had to have a brick or stone in the oven, a bowl of water for steaming, the dough had to be protected from drafts and noise while rising and baking, one had to bathe in Mare's milk and dress in clean white robes before approaching the flour, the dough had to be kneaded for at least twenty minutes, always in a clockwise direction, and you never baked during a full moon in the year of the horse.

I'm not exaggerating nearly as much as you think I am.

So, one of the first things Mom discovered as she experimented was how much of that was bullshit. No bricks, no bowls of water, no need for tiptoeing around the dough while rising or baking. Best of all, NO SUGAR. Trust me on this. I'll have more to say on this subject in later.

This has been the daily bread of my family for thirty years. Bread options, indeed all food options, have improved in my hometown in the last few years, but Mom still bakes two loaves every two days. I've been baking it too for years now (though mostly just when I'm having guests), and it usually gets a very strong reaction. A lot of them call it Patrick Bread, but I feel it's important to give credit where credit is due. Later I'll explain why Mom calls it "Zen Bread."

This is the recipe.


2 and 1/2 cups warm water (not too hot)

2 teaspoons salt

1 package yeast (or 1 tablespoon, if you buy it in bulk)

6 cups of flour

In a large mixing bowl, dissolve the salt in the water. Add the flour and yeast in any order you like. I typically will add three cups of the flour, then the yeast, then the remaining flour. After about four cups, you will find it easier to knead the flour in, rather than mix it with a spoon. Basically though, I don't think there is a bad way to combine these ingredients, as long as the water isn't too hot when the yeast goes in.

When it comes to kneading, this is where the Zen comes in. Mom discovered that she could knead a lot (as all previous recipes demanded) or not much at all, and not only did it not matter, often the bread tasted BETTER if she barely kneaded it. Her feeling is that the more you ignore this dough, the better it turns out. As long as most of the flour has been incorporated into the water, you've done what you needed to do. I actually enjoy the kneading process, so I often do it for a while, but I never do it longer than is fun.

For those new to baking, when you knead, you want the work surface and your hands to have dry flour on them, so as to prevent the dough from sticking to you or the surface.

Cover the dough (Mom uses just a paper towel, I use a dish towel, we're not talking airtight by any means), place it in some out-of-the-way area and let it rise for 1 and 1/2 hours, or until double in size. I usually put it in my gas oven, where the pilot light keeps it warm, but not so hot that the yeast gets killed.

After it has risen, punch it down again, kneading as much as you feel like, then if you want standard loaves, cut it in half, shape the two portions into loaves, and place them in greased bread pans. If you want to make French loaves, I find I can get six loaves out of this dough, and I place them on two greased cooking sheets. Don't be worried if the French loaves look too skinny, because they're going to rise again. You can also make rolls if you prefer. It's up to you how many you want, and how large you want them to be. They also go on greased cooking sheets.

(There are ways of shaping the dough to get a standard, even shape, but I thinking trying to describe that here would be too confusing, and give too much weight to the idea. Trust me, even if you end up with eccentric looking bread, it's going to taste just fine. If you really want to know how to control the shape somewhat, I'll have to show you in person sometime.)

Let the loaves/rolls rise for 1 hour.

Bake in a 400 F. oven. Apologies to my Dutch and Canadian friends, I haven't a clue what that is in Celsius (maybe somewhere around 170/80C?). The standard loaves will bake for 40 minutes, the French loaves and rolls will need about 20 minutes. With the standard loaves especially, you can check to see if they're baked all the way through by turning them out of the pans, and thumping them on the bottoms. If they sound hollow, they're done. If they make a wet, heavy, thunky sound, they're still raw in the middle; return to the pans and bake for at least five minutes, maybe ten.

So that's it. It may sound more daunting than it is. Sure, as with anything, your ability to read the process will improve the more you do it. I've found over the years that I can finesse the rising times if necessary, or even stop the process in the middle by shoving the dough in the fridge. I've usually allowed the loaves to come to room temperature before baking them, but on at least on occasion I've taken the loaves straight from the fridge to the oven, allowed a little more time to bake, and gotten good results.

Obviously this will taste great hot from the oven. The lack of preservatives means the bread will dry out after just a few hours, but then it makes amazing toast. If you're not going to finish it in two days, keep it in the fridge, to prevent or at least slow molding.

Mom, my sister, and I have found this dough to be remarkably versatile. We've added a little olive oil to it (no more than half a cup) and used it for pizza dough or foccaccia. I also found a recipe in the Moosewook Cookbook for pita, and realized that once I removed the unnecessary sugar, the dough was simply a half portion of this recipe. Go check out the book if you're interested. Mom has even doubled the yeast and used this recipe to make bagels. That is WAY more work than I'm willing to do, with the boiling and all, but if you know how to make bagels, this dough will work for it.


Now, the sugar issue. Many times friends have tried the recipe, and told me later "well, it was okay, but it didn't taste as good as yours. It just wasn't the same, somehow." So I'll ask them to describe what they did. They'll be talking me through it, and say "then I added the half cup of sugar (or honey)-"

"-Wait, what? You added sugar? This recipe doesn't use sugar."

Well, I figured you just forgot to write it down. Yeast needs sugar to rise."

No. No no no no no. Yeast needs gluten to rise. It will be perfectly happy with sugar, honey or high fructose corn syrup, it's true, but it is just as happy with flour. Sugar won't destroy the recipe, but it won't give you the same result. For my family, getting rid of the sugar was the whole POINT. So, if you want it, fine, just don't expect it to taste the same. (My mom had one supercilious houseguest announce that it simply wasn't possible for yeast to rise without sugar, and this twit was EATING THE BREAD AT THE TIME. I don't know what was going through her head. Did she think Mom was lying? What on earth would be her motive to do so? People crack me up.)

Now on the subject of flour types, I have to admit I have never gotten good results when I've used 100% whole wheat. I've ended up with twenty pound bricks. They were edible, but they didn't please as much. One felt terribly virtuous, perhaps, but it wasn't necessarily all that enjoyable. My best results have had half whole wheat, half unbleached white. Maybe whole wheat does require sugar since the gluten is harder for the yeast to access through the kernel. Maybe doubling the yeast would help. Maybe one HAS to knead 100% whole wheat dough for more time. I know one can also buy wheat gluten, I just don't know how to use it, whether it replaces some of the flour, or is additional. I would recommend making the recipe above a few times with no more than half whole wheat to get the hang of it, then start experimenting (and let me know what you discover).

You can also add up to half a cup of leftover oatmeal (or any cooked cereal), oat bran, some ground flax seed (I'm still experimenting with this, I wouldn't recommend more than a few tablespoons), fresh herbs etc. I almost always add uncooked oatmeal too. I've yet to experiment with non-wheat flours, but I would expect that anything which likes yeast will work.

I have this theory that this is the first dough, the one that was discovered at the dawn of time, as people began switching from nomadic to agrarian lives. There are a gazillion different variations, but they all start with this dough. Everything else is just ornamentation. When I'm making it, I feel connected to some deep, archetypal activity. Over the years it's become a form of meditation, and a prayer of gratitude, for my friends, my food, my working hands and body, even just the fact that I have a roof over my head.

So go, experiment, have fun. Feel free to send questions, and let me know what you discover.

And even when you become master bread-bakers, I hope you'll still come to my house for dinner sometimes.

Creeping, Creeping...

Over the years there have been a number of times when decisions of mine I deemed personal and of no interest to others would garner very passionate responses. I first noticed it when I was vegetarian (I'm not really, anymore, though I still avoid eating mammals). Okay this one didn't surprise me too much, I know it's a controversial issue bringing out strong feelings from lots of folks, but I wasn't interested in other people's decisions, I was just examining my own. I rarely volunteered this information, it never came up because I was preaching or judging the choices of others... but people often reacted like I was. They'd launch into diatribes about how it wasn't healthy or safe, or how it seemed like a good idea but they could never do it because they loved meat too much, or it sounded way too extreme, and why is killing a plant less cruel than killing an animal anyway (this despite the fact that I never claimed animal cruelty was the reason for my vegetarianism) and besides, who the hell was I to judge their lives? Often they'd turn into Prosecuting Attorneys, exerting a huge amount of effort trying to show how my choices were inconsistent ("well, do you wear leather? Do you eat eggs? Cheese?"), I guess so they could prove that I was a hypocrite. I was never sure what that was supposed to accomplish. You've established a personal (and highly rigid) definition of what true vegetarianism is, then shown how I fail to live up to it, so that means I have to go back to eating meat? Why do you even give a shit? I quickly learned that engaging in the discussion at all was rarely a good idea, because that would only increase the sense that I was looking down on them.

The best example of this was when I was in my local grocery store in Seattle. I was buying butter, something else, and tofu pups. I didn't really know the cashier all that well, but we had kind of a chatty relationship. He looked at the tofu pups, had never seen them before, then launched into the defensive dance, making sure that I knew that butter came from cows, so how could I be buying tofu anything if I was simultaneously buying butter. Dude, I don't care if you eat beef by the truckload, just don't invite me to dinner.

Like I said, this reaction wasn't all that surprising to me. What did surprise me (at first) is how strongly people reacted when I said I don't really like ice cream. I can't tell you how many people got insulted by this. I was deemed downright un-American more than once. I know the show Friends used this to comedic effect at one point, but the thing is, those reactions of shock and horror were exactly like the ones I regularly get. Again, I don't care if other people eat ice cream until their eyes bug out, I'm just not likely to pull out a spoon.

So why am I bringing all this up now? Because I am now typing this entry via my brand new cable modem. Yes, I've been using dial-up all this time, and occasionally, when I've mentioned that, people have looked at me like I've just pissed on their shoes. Okay, pity I could understand, derision even more so, but barely contained disgust? At times I thought I was going to be asked to leave the premises. So... yes, I am now cable-ized. Whoopty-do. Sure, things have downloaded faster, I see that, I just didn't have too many objections to how quickly they downloaded before. Generally "because it's faster" isn't a good enough reason for me to do anything, and it's precisely this attitude that causes people to look at me with absolute incomprehension. Or disgust, like I said. You know who you are. So, my technologically more advanced (*cough -addicted*) friends, you no longer need to shun me. One more step, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century for me.

I am NOT going to spend all day watching YouTube.