Freedom

Freedom must be one of the most commonly used words in American English. It’s a constant in the rhetoric of politicians, educators, religious leaders, and—oh, yeah—of marketing professionals. And it means something different to every one of them, often to the same person at different times. Most seem to equate it with what they see as their individual right to do whatever-it-is that they wish to do, and give the word specially loud emphasis when what they wish to do is contrary to others’ rights, real or perceived, or to the law. In some ways, I tend to think of Freedom as a much smaller thing with a much larger personal impact: freedom from my own limitations.

That’s the freedom I seek, and I suppose, the freedom that only I can grant myself, but am persistently too fearful to dare. Afraid to consider, let alone accept. Amazing, when I reflect on it, that I’ve gotten to this ripe old age, let alone had such a full, joyful life, without being quite able to let go of my inborn fragility of spirit. But there it is. I limit myself to solo singing in an empty house, to dancing behind closed doors. It doesn’t really matter that nobody else would pay that much attention if I did this stuff right along with everyone else; it’s that I feel self-conscious and awkward and don’t like my self-image as singer or dancer or anything so near to being extroverted.

Does this make me unhappy? No. It’s more mysterious than upsetting…I love to hear good singers sing, watch uninhibited dancing. I admire people who are extroverted enough to do whatever they jolly well please without regard to how silly it might make them feel. I like to think I don’t care how silly it makes me feel. But I’m holding on to a modicum of insecurity about not wanting to make other people feel a teensy bit uncomfortable with my gross incompetence. Silly me. Really.

Go on, keep dancing, you over there! It makes me happy. No strings attached.Digital illo: Dance On

Playland

Digital illo from a photo: PlaylandIs there a place that’s truly Playland for you? Where, if you need respite from reality for a while, you can be and let go of all your worries, can stop having to be the designated Grownup, can be rested and at peace—even for just a little while? A place that, if you only think of it with great concentration and meditate on its virtues, you can almost feel yourself there and come away from it renewed?

I have a few of these tucked away in my head, some of them real and some entirely made up from the candy-floss and butterfly eyelashes of my imagination. There are times when it’s almost too much to bear that I can’t be there in the physical world, so dreary or tragic-seeming that I can hardly even allow myself to think of my Playland wishes lest they, too, be tainted by the grim reality around me, but when I finally unclench myself enough to believe it’s okay to retreat to that safe and kindly haven, I find relief and renewal there. When I have resisted too long and at last revisit its splendors, there is always such sweet goodness in the moment of solace found in its fond welcome that I ask myself what you, too, should perhaps ask yourself, if you dare:

Why don’t I visit here more often?

Getting in the Way of Focus

Digital illo: Getting in My Own Way

As always, the calendar teems with To-Dos and the brain busies itself with what-ifs and irksome things done and not done. End of summer, beginning of the school year, change of work seasons, all push against the calm of normalcy and pester for attention. I get too subdivided and distracted and forget that merely doing what I’m doing is, in fact, Enough.

Good to be reminded that if I let go of yesterday and let tomorrow come when it’s good and ready, I can see a clearer view of where I am, what I’m doing, and who I am meant to be in the midst of it all. Note to self. Yes, that’s Enough.Digital illo: Coming into Focus

Foodie Tuesday: Fine Cafeteria Dining

Photo: Don't Get All Fancy on Me

Doesn’t get simpler than that. Dill pickles and olives, sweet tomatoes, apples, and roasted almond butter to spread on the apples or just eat by the spoonful. Voila! Lunch.

Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it: Fine Cafeteria Dining. Most of us, at least, associate the word Cafeteria, like Buffet, with awful school-served food and cheap dives that serve a facsimile of prison or, only marginally better, high school or farm animal, slop, perhaps with just a dollop more of stale grease and a whole mess o’ chaos added. Of course, we’ve all seen (I hope) exemplars that defy such mean images; my favorite in recent times was the cafeteria or buffet at the fabulous indoor/outdoor art museum Artipelag just outside Stockholm. If you can get there, go.

Even if you think you hate art and are bored by it, go. If you have any affinity with nature, the grounds are spectacular and wind with marvelous boardwalks and trails, and the main building is topped by a superb roof garden where much of the produce used ‘downstairs’ is grown. If you enjoy clever and serene modern architecture, the building that houses the cafeteria, a slightly more upscale cafe, and the art galleries is a delight, bathed in natural light, full of large glass walls that frame views as magnificent as any artwork, and clean-lined yet full of attention to detail, to the degree that the public restrooms are worth a visit on their own merit, feeling like magical caves and so peaceful you’ll want to install a bunk and just stay there. If you are attracted to art and design and craft, you’ll find both objects in the permanent collection and the changing exhibitions rich and highly characteristic of the wealth of brilliant visual influences Sweden, Scandinavia, and other centers of great art and design and craft (whose treasures are highlighted here) have had on world culture.

If you think you dislike all of that but are hungry, go anyhow. The cafeteria is stellar. Every dish, condiment, and drink is—unlike typical cafeteria or buffet food, beautifully made and dazzlingly fresh. It’s not fussy, but it’s full of the best sorts of traditional and contemporary flavors and textures and ingredients that rightly make Sweden and its chefs such stars of this era’s culinary scene. I hardly dared to look up Artipelag to put the link above for you, for fear of how homesick it makes me for Stockholm and how fearsomely hungry I get!

And it’s a reminder, in a more cheering sense, that I neither have to labor terribly hard nor be massively more skillful and clever in the kitchen than I am (not that either would be a bad thing) to produce something that can please hungry people, and each in his or her preferred way. All I have to do, really, is adopt and adapt the best parts of cafeteria food. I’ve talked about this before, but having more time and inclination to cook and prep meals at home in the last couple of weeks has brought this to the fore yet again. My simple cues: choose or make many small and simple things that go together reasonably well, and let the diners choose what parts they prefer and how they like to combine them or separate them. Cafeterias, for all of their myriad sins, may have gotten one thing more right than many high-end chefs and restaurants often do, in recognizing that divided food dishes can help lead to better portion control but, by coincidence, they also give succor to the huge number of people who like to keep the parts of their meals separate. I know it sounds a little infantile to people who enjoy the intermingling of foods with affinities or who think only kids have this preference, but I’d bet you a large chunk of change that there are far more “grownups” who like food better this way, too, than will necessarily admit to it in public.

Using a divided plate or a series of small dishes can serve several purposes beyond this purist drive, anyhow. If you want to be able to experience each item or preparation alone, to savor its unique merits, how better than to keep it isolated from wandering sauces or bits of other foods? If you like to mix things together to your own proportional likes, why not? If you like to keep crispy food crispy and let the slurpy food melt away, nothing makes it easier than physical separation.

Photo: Same Parts, Different Arrangement

Want a little more? Add some sugar snap peas, cantaloupe sprinkled with cardamom, and boiled eggs. Ready, set, dinner.

There are reasons we find tasting menus, tapas dinners, hors-d’oeuvres parties, and yes, even buffets appealing when they’re well done. The joy of discovering each small taste individually before deciding whether to let them join company anywhere besides in our innards is a privilege that is worth cultivating often. It lets everyone in the room play chef a bit. And it pretty much guarantees that no one will leave hungry. And isn’t that the point?

I Hate Politics

There. I just came out and said it, right in front of everybody. Do I need to be clearer? I’ll say it again, more slowly this time: I…hate…politics.

Photo: Wisdom Sleeps

Is it my imagination, or has wisdom gone to sleep?

In general, I would like to never even think of myself as a person who Hates anything, but of course, that’d make me more than human, and I’m not. I certainly prefer not to be a person who dwells on my hatred of anything, let alone advertises it, but lately I’m finding it more difficult than usual to show that kind of restraint. A large part of my resolve (and I’m confident that this is a relatively common trait) is highly susceptible to external cues. I prefer to keep my head in the sand about things I don’t like, disapprove of, and fear, but that’s easier to do when those things aren’t pouring down on me as though run through a hose, and let’s face it, sand is water-permeable. The omnipresence of political nonsense on the American scene these days is drowning me.

Contemporary America is a highly politicized land. Everything is treated as political fodder and the subject of constant shouting, most especially those ideas to which we impute moral or ethical value, and the number of such ideas seems to grow exponentially by the minute. Additionally, we allow less and less room for anything other than Right and Wrong, Yes and No; everything worth discussing is a matter of polar opposites, and if Your answer is not like My answer, then it’s not only an obvious falsehood but patently evil and an attack on my person. Probably on my race, my culture, my sexual identity, my religion, my favorite football team, and my country. This is the environment in which all discussions must be arguments, and all arguments, wars.

If it weren’t real, it’d be hilarious.

The way we treat each other over differing viewpoints is bad enough. The way we treat each other over differing beliefs is worse. So if what began as a discussion about fiscal responsibility gets turned instantly into the idea that ‘Your Party’s thoughts on what’s wrong with the national economy and what would be better are Evil and My Party’s are Holy’—which has nothing to do with the demonstrable facts in the matter, let alone with either side offering any suggestion of how to fix what both could have agreed were the biggest problems—then why not just skip the discussion and appeals to reason, and get right on with punching each other’s lights out? And what should begin with the recognition of each other as fellow humans, all susceptible to our imperfections yet all, potentially, respected equals if not allies or friends, instead starts out with an assumption of all others as our inferiors, as damaged, or as willfully wicked. Even some of the most well-meaning politicians and their supporters often cross the line between being opposed to a practical, legal, or political precept and condemning all those who fail to fully agree with or support them as being immoral and/or stupid.

Photo: Masked Marauder

No matter how we may try to mask them, our true natures come out when politics get going.

I understand about passionately held beliefs and feelings. And I understand that many people in my country equate their passionately held beliefs and feelings, since these have often been arrived at by means of heartfelt thought and study or even, frequently, by what they are sincerely certain is some form of direct communication from a Higher Power, also know in their hearts and minds that these must be the governing directives of the nation. But as much as they might love to live in a theocracy, this country is officially not that, and in fact was founded in fear of and opposition to the idea that one specific religion should not only dominate but control or outlaw all others. As much as those whose beliefs and feelings tell them this should be officially a godless country might wish it so, that too would oppose the founding precept that one’s religious inclination, or leaning entirely away from religion, was not the defining factor that should govern the nation. I don’t hate religion or religious people, nor agnostics, nor atheists. What drives me crazy is people who confuse or conflate their moral systems with the functions and dysfunctions of American law. And that it gets in the way of what could so often be less hostile, more productive discourse.

Along with deistic religions and anti-religions, we are a country full of secular religions, which in my view (!) comprise not only the commonly referred to ones like ‘alternative belief systems,’ say, non-theistic philosophies, but also major social and educational and fiscal ideologies, and most especially, the pursuit of power and wealth. Whether the latter two come through the romanticized American ideal means of being honest, hard-working, and clever or by means of being successfully manipulative and lucky may again be the matter of much debate, most of it driven by our own takes on morality. But we give great leeway to those who achieve one or the other, and most of all, to those who garner both. And then we revile them for having risen too high.

Photo: Not to be a Big Pig about It...

I can’t help feeling like we’re a bunch of wild pigs, and I, the worst bore among them.

So we find ourselves in the throw-hat-into-ring stage of pre-election politics, as we get to do every four years in this country, and are more than ever inundated with that outpouring of purulent political sputum and venom that makes us all resemble some kind of hideous mutated hybrid, Homo sapiens Ultimate Fighting x Grand Theft Auto, rather than reasoning rhetoricians in debate and the pursuit of a nation’s better future. I suppose that it’s only natural we Americans should so commonly say that candidates for public office here have thrown their hats into the ring, given the phrase’s pugilistic origins. But it’s an unpleasant characteristic of ours, to say the least, that we seem to prefer combativeness to dialogue and action to diplomacy or contemplation.

We’re even expert at redefining all sorts of things; it makes it easier to take sides when we make sides. So not only do we have a supposed bipartisan political system—a concept problematic enough, if anyone actually intended to encourage and support any attempt at accurate representation of a wholly diversified national population—but the reigning parties are called Republican and Democratic. At face value, sensible enough, considering that this country is theoretically a constitutionally limited democratic republic, by definition. Yet neither party’s identity is fully congruent with the concept for which it’s named, nor perhaps was it ever so. The present version of each party is dramatically different from its own historic identity in many ways, too, because the national population’s majority and minority concerns and desires have continued to change over time. And don’t get me started on how different, how varied, are the definitions both parties and individuals give to words like Conservative and Liberal in pursuit of political ends. No worries; masses of us who are too lazy or foolish to examine the evidence or question the sources will simply fall into line and start passing on the same stuff as though it had any validity, spreading it on thickly and dispersing it far and wide.

Photo: All We, Like Sheep

Follow the herd, or you’re un-American!

What it all means to me is that my normal level of intense distaste for all things political ratchets up higher and higher with every moment that puts us closer to any election, but especially, to presidential ones. Every day seems to add another clownish, insecure, angry, prejudiced, reckless, self-aggrandizing, high-powered fool of one sort or another happy to thoughtlessly throw gasoline on the fires with word and action, without regard for all of us other clowns. Keep a good thought for all of us: this country, that we might somehow rise above all of our petty normalcies, and yes please, for me. That I don’t just go crazier than usual myself before all of this quiets down a bit again.

Photo: It's a Real Head-Scratcher

Am I crazy, or is this whole thing just a serious head-scratcher?

Our Mountain

Digital illo: Our MountainMy many years spent as a lucky resident of the Pacific Northwest were dominated, as are many such fortunate souls’, by The Mountain. Mount Rainier can be coy, hiding behind not only her customary jaunty little beret of lenticular cloud but veiled further in the often hazy skies of Western Washington state. She can be mighty capricious, being after all a volcano whose natural habit is to lose her temper occasionally, diva that she is.

If you click on any of the site links above, there’s plenty of information to tell you far better than I could just how alive and powerful this entity is. So it’s not surprising that many of us refer to Mt. Rainier merely as The Mountain. Or, just as often, My Mountain. She owns us, in many ways, for when she makes an entrance, dominating the horizon with her granite glory, bedecked in a dazzling gown of white snow and fur-trimmed in, well, firs—we can’t help but be in awe. Such presence. Such beauty. Such danger, too, though we can’t think about that too closely, since we don’t know when or how; even if we did, there’s little chance we could do anything about it. But yes, deserving our respect. And in some ways, perhaps, because of this understanding along with the tremendous beauty, we feel an intense connection to the perpetual presence standing above us. So we call her Ours.

The valley where I lived for seven school years, and my parents remained resident for longer, is one of the most logical outlets for the lahar that would follow a pyroclastic flow from a Rainier eruption. That will likely wipe out much of the valley, whenever it comes. From our house above the valley, I stood out front in 1980 and watched the massive plume rise when Mount St. Helens, about seventy miles directly south of us, blew her lid, and that mountain also sits on the same Ring of Fire as the whole seismically busy left coast of the United States. Tiny amounts of volcanic ash drifted onto our neighborhood occasionally for a brief period thereafter, the same ash that was both ethereal looking grey ‘snow’ in a wide swath around the mountain and in traces across the continent, fully nine hundred miles across. St. Helens started at something slightly under ten thousand feet (3000m) high before the blast; her taller sister Rainier is a bit above fourteen. Mt. Rainier could have a smaller eruption…or be more powerfully, radically, explosive yet. Meanwhile, stunningly gorgeous. But isn’t that just our life all over? Precarious, yet all the more exquisitely precious because of that very tenuous quality. The Mountain owns us, and we in turn look on her as Ours.

This summer’s short visit to family and roots, naturally, gave us both the urge to visit Our Mountain, too, and Mom and Dad S—also longtime admirers of the magnificent mountain—joined us for that wonderful earthly element of our roots tour. Rainier smiled benevolently as we approached, doing that magic trick of hers where, as foreground terrain changes, that peak looks like you could just reach out of your car and stick your hand in the snow; you go around the corner a mere tenth of a mile ahead, and the mountain looks incredibly remote, hours away; just over the next rise, everything has shifted once more and you realize that you’ll be entering the national park at the foot of Rainier in a few minutes, the trees rising up like a cathedral colonnade through which we process onward for our audience, our reconnection.

No matter how long I live, The Mountain will outlast me; whether that next, inevitable, eruption comes during my tenure on this planet, whether it’s when I’m near enough to be killed or directly affected, or that this particular cataclysm finds me distant and leaves me unmarked, there will still be traces of Mt. Rainier for eons after I’m forgotten dust. I just found out, to my surprise, that it’s possible to get permits to scatter funerary ashes in Mt. Rainier National Park, and that seems like a delightfully apropos gift to give to an entity whose own ash will most likely someday blanket much of the Northwest. But I hope that my turn at that, should my survivors choose that option, is in the distant future. For the present, I happily remain an admiring acolyte of the splendid wonders of my mountain. Our Mountain.

Strangely Enough

Practice makes me better at what I do. Not perfect; not even superb. But better.

What it utterly fails to do is to make me a better person. Not meaning morally superior or that I believe it should make me a genius or give me magical powers. Not that any of that wouldn’t be dandy! But really.
Digital illo: But I Repeat Myself...

Thing is, new knowledge or skills gained through practice are not in and of themselves transformative. I still have the same silly obsessions, ideas and ideals, and flaws and fears. I’m still attracted to the same colors, patterns, textures, and shapes, not to mention that I have recognizable signature styles of line work and abstraction and the like. So I learn how to use new tools and materials, like my little iPad and its friends the art apps. And I still kind of draw the same thing over and over. Variations on a theme. That sort of thing.

And strangely enough, I don’t mind. It remains true, along with all of my other perpetual characteristics, that the end product of my art work is less important than the process. That’s the essential part. Does it make me boring and predictable? Very possibly. Does it mean I’m unteachable and irredeemable? Hope not. Does it matter in the grand scheme of existence? Not likely. The universe has more important things to do.

I do not.

Foodie Tuesday: Just Shoot Me (Said the Food)

No, my friends, I’m no longer feeling so terrible with the flu that the thought of even writing about food repels me; I am, I believe, fully recovered already. No need to bump me off. Whew! But my appetite is still slightly limited and my interest in slaving over a hot stove, nil.

Lest you be too confused by today’s post title, I am not making a personal request either to be executed or made into a photographer’s portrait subject. Not crazy about either idea. I’m also, for the record, not overly fond of getting shots (except for the knowledge that they usually are meant to help me be healthier), and I can’t recall ever drinking shots. All such nonsense aside, my teasing post title only means to tell you that I’m thinking about food photography and meal-time hunger and how incompatible they are.

Photo montage: First, Find Pretty Food

*SOOC*? Almost. Light-adjusted for clarity and slightly more accuracy, straightened if necessary, and cropped. But the foods were already pretty attractive. Hence, my firing off a shot or two, tossing the camera aside, and getting down to the real business at hand. Eating and drinking. Wouldn’t you do the same?

Left to right, above: Flavored honeys at the farmer’s market in Halifax; a cinnamon apple napoleon with vanilla custard and pomegranate glaze at an unknown restaurant in Seattle; a glass of Pilsner Urquell enjoyed near its ‘birthplace’ at a neighborhood eatery in Prague.

Pros don’t need tons of time or patience to suss out the situation, set their cameras on the ideal settings, frame the shot, take it, and abracadabra!, they’re done. Great art, now let’s get down to eating. So unfair. Of course, that’s arguable, because if I spent the time and effort to learn and train properly in how to use a camera of any sort, I might conceivably get decent enough skills to save myself a few frustrations, not to mention gut rumbles.

Fool that I am, I have always let my natural intimidation around all-things-technical (plus, admittedly, fear of a certain unpleasant would-be teacher in years past) scare me out of getting serious about cameras. I’m generally content to let the camera do all of the work for me, at least until I get photos onto my computer where I can play with them endlessly as artworks or, at the least, adjust them so they better fit my idea of what I saw or am trying to convey. Part of my artist persona has always been to edit, tweak, second-guess, and fiddle with images, so it’s not as onerous to me to figure out how to make a photo into what I want it to be—I’m far less interested in documentary accuracy and straight-out-of-camera [*SOOC*] “honesty” than in getting my story told. All photographs were, and are, still only images of what the photographer chose or was able to show us, despite the popular notion that they are “truthful” in ways that other visual forms of data are not. And while I like a Pretty Picture or a dramatic image, what I’m always in search of is illustration that enhances and furthers my storytelling, whether with words added or not.

As a cook, I am in the same category. I love to eat delicious and, sometimes, complicated foods. I enjoy goofing around in the kitchen and, occasionally, discovering something I can make that’s delicious or, rarely, complex. But the very idea of having good technical skills as a cook—never mind chef—is just as unattainable, between my aforementioned phobias and my laziness, as going pro with a camera.

The results of all of this? I blog about food; as an aficionado but never as an expert, I am limited in what I can tell you about food not only in technical terms but in how I show it to you. I shoot as well as I’m able, and if it’s really imperfect, touch up what I shoot until it’s at least marginally post-able. Then I use it. And I blather about what I do and don’t like, how I make dishes or fail in the attempts, stuff I like to eat when I’m out and about, new treats I’ve learned to adore, and other food-lust topics, just as though I had any business doing so. I happen to like documenting my foodly obsessions.

The other thing I do is try to learn along the way. Food tricks, perhaps. Learn from my mistakes. Photographic ones, mostly. Couple of things I’ve learned: find pretty foods to shoot (see above montage). Better chance of getting a good portrait, if you have a good-looking subject, whether conventionally beautiful or just wonderfully interesting. Use as much natural light as you can get. The food can be moved a little to catch the light better but the sun can’t be so easily moved to better suit the food. Don’t get fancy. The food’s already attractive—okay: or horrible, if that’s what I’m documenting, so it’s at least meant to be an interesting subject. No reason to do a lot of fussy setup and presentation extras, since I have limited supplies of tablewares and glamorous shoot venues, so I tend to pay more attention to details of the ingredients or go for a tight shot of the plate rather than overdo extraneous things.

That’s about it. Because, as I intimated in my opening salvo here, even the littlest bit of time spent on the photographic part of the posts is time taken away from my pursuit of eating. Digital cameras are a boon in this regard, of course. Fast, efficient, no waiting. My little old smartphone is helpful as well. As techno-dull as I am, I know very little indeed of what my phone can or can’t do, let alone how to make it do anything for me. But I know how to take the simplest of snapshots, and my phone camera knows how to send them to my waiting computer, and that speeds up the process just one helpful little bit more. So glad to get to the table faster.

Photo montage: Phone-to-Table Eating

The middle photo was taken with a regular point-and-shoot digital camera, and the flanking shots (a little later) with my cell phone camera. I think I’m getting incrementally better along the way. More importantly, faster to the table. Most importantly, the food tasted rather good. Mission accomplished, I guess.

Left to right, above: Zucchini frittata with salsa, olives, and crispy bacon; roasted chicken breast with guacamole and coleslaw; skillet-cooked steak and mushrooms with pan-fried  mashed potatoes, balsamic deglaze, tomatoes, and strawberries. All home cookery.

Inspiration in Waiting

Digital illo: Muse 1Quiet Companion

In the cooler corners of my crooked little room

There gleams an iridescence that defies the chilly gloom,

The pale enchantment of an eye that never shuts in sleep

Or wavers in its glowing gaze, whose watch is wont to keep

A careful, mystic, present love that guards me from all harm

And teaches me her secrets when I curl beneath her arm

So I can rest in confidence with this companion, whose

Great beauty is to fill my soul, for that she is

my Muse.Digital illo: Muse 2

Drawn to Dragons

This is yet another of my obvious addictions: the otherworldly or fantastical. I can’t stay away from dragons and faeries, aliens and archetypes, for any great length of time.

Thankfully, I seem to be in good company in this regard. So I doubt I’m either shocking anyone or even likely to bore them with it too terribly, since those not equally smitten will happily ignore or delete my many posts containing such curiosities. I’m also happy that, because of the very unfettered nature of the topic, I will never run out of subject matter for my drawings when I feel it’s time to get back in that gear.

It might be that I am something of a fantastical creature myself, of course, so perhaps that helps to explain my affinity with other denizens of the unknown realms. (Grins to self, scribbling away as usual.)Drawing: Enter the [Spaniard's] Dragon