A Little Autumnal Magic

Posted on November 23, 2011 by kathryningrid

I can’t help it: autumn brings out the nostalgia in me. Something about the solemnity of nature’s visible procession from summer’s excesses into a more profound state, one clearly aware of death yet always moving through its dormancy toward the revival of spring–it all calls forth recollections of seasons past, of holidays I’ve floated through without being quite conscious of how few of those loved ones around the room and around the table will be there at the next or the next one after that . . . .

The emptying-out that comes with the end of a season is in preparation for newness yet to come . . .

But the loveliness in this is that that knowledge of what lies ahead is not only the foundation, the underpinning, of awareness at the end of the year, it is indeed the purpose of this cooling down, going to ground, this tempering of high spirits. In part, it’s what adds piquancy and sharpens the joys of the winter holidays, whatever they are in one’s culture or part of the world. For us in the northern hemisphere, the descent into winter has begun and brings with it the knowledge of our mortality–but those of us among the truly fortunate know that it’s precisely that gift that leads us to live more vividly in the present. So we sing and dance and feast and laugh a little more wildly, and it brings out the imaginative child in us all.

Thanksgiving has always been a welcome celebration to me. I come from a family that counts its riches and revels in its blessings very readily, and certainly not just on the Official date designated by the state but with perhaps renewed vigor on that day. But sixteen years ago on Thanksgiving weekend I was gifted with a particular reason for deep thanks, and so the whole festivity took on a yet more personal tone. That was when the man who would become my beloved asked me out on our first date.

You all know by now that I am not very quick on the uptake, so I’ll just say right off that I didn’t even know we were going on a date. I just thought this interesting person was being wonderfully collegial. He’d asked me to collaborate on a project at the university; we’d had a meeting or two with other colleagues to begin the planning, and I’d already started work on my part of the process and was only very dimly aware that when he’d check in on my progress his questions were less germane than personal. I was delighted to go along with the plot when he invited me to go with him on Thanksgiving weekend and have dinner and then attend a performance of the Mark Morris Dance Company’s production of ‘Dido and Aeneas‘. What’s not to like! We had a fabulous salmon dinner at a local bastion of Northwest seafood excellence and discussed, among other things, whether either of us intended to have children; you will begin to understand the true depth of my obtuseness when I tell you that I have no idea how that topic arose on a first dinner outing, let alone did I twig to it that it might indicate the dinner as something more than collegial.

So there we were, eating and chattering and–oh yes–almost being late to the performance. For which Mr. Smooth Operator had in fact prepared the pit choir. His choral group was singing along with the orchestra for the program, and I came that-close to making him late. And found out we were sitting in the front row, center, of the sort of theatre where you can not sneak in surreptitiously. I was in a mild panic. I also had no clue at the time that a conductor might prepare the singers but not conduct the performance (as in this case, where the orchestra’s conductor took the helm), so I was both worried and mystified that my companion was calmly clambering over knees right alongside me to the middle of the stage-apron row. But suddenly there was a tiny, sneaking thought that this person was intending to sit with me throughout the performance and therefore might–just possibly–not have invited me strictly out of co-worker friendliness.

Well, I’ll just cut to the chase and end your suspense. Oh, that’s right, I already told you the fairytale ending! Opaque as my love-goggles are, and slow as I am to order my facts and realize the truly obvious, once I got the hang of all of this I wasn’t particularly behindhand in taking advantage of the situation. I may be silly, but I ain’t stupid!

So I got this ethereal dance/concert date under my belt and wandered a little foggily through the Christmas holidays, dodging my fears of the unknown rather handily for such a big scaredy-cat if I do say so myself, and by the beginning of the year was engaged to build a lifetime of ridiculously happy adventure with Mr Sparkly. And I call him that not just because of our shared last name but because, dang it, he brought and brings enormous amounts of sparkle to my every day. I can’t think of anything for which a person could be more thankful, at this or any time of year.

Now, I’ve been all mushy and reminiscent on you, and I owe it to you to say that it’s entirely the fault of the season. HAH! Of course that’s pure nonsense. But I must reiterate my thesis that Fall encourages such things in me. It brings out with its chill and darkening the contrasting warmth and light of home, hearth, holidays, and hope, with all of their spices and sweetness, their inviting doorways and gates to adventure, and all of the beauty that living in a time of Thanksgiving can bring. I wish for you all the same!

Can't wait to see what newness and graces lie on the other side . . .

Foodie Tuesday: Nothing Sexier than Proper Mise en Place

Posted on November 22, 2011 by kathryningrid

Ready for mirepoix-making?

Let’s face it, I’m as predictable as romantic comedies when it comes to many things, not least of all, choosing the path of least resistance when fixing food. If there’s a shortcut to the shortbread, lemme at it. If there’s a snappier way to trim snap peas, I’m on board with that. But if there’s one thing I know is worth any amount of trouble, it’s prep. It’s not glamorous, I’ll grant you, and sometimes gets mighty tedious, especially when there’s a sizable party or elaborate meal on the horizon. But there is nothing that makes the rest of the time in the kitchen more tolerable, even enjoyable, than having the best of mise en place at my fingertips.

I did my time as a house painter, back in the misty distance, and I learned tout de suite that there was no substitute for careful first steps when it came to a fine finished product; I spent some time laboring backstage and behind the scenes in theatres and found that what’s seen when the curtain’s rung up is about a thousandth of what’s been and being done for the production. Of course, my conductor husband works in a discipline where the inexperienced concert-attendee would be wildly off base to think that all performers do is get up onstage and wave arms or pipe on musical contraptions or flap tongues. Even if they have an inkling that rehearsals are necessary, they haven’t imagined the tiniest increment of blood, sweat and tears that went into a performance. And I’m fairly certain I haven’t come across any other field in which that doesn’t generally hold true. What goes on before-hand is such an essential and formative part of what comes out of the proscenium or oven that sometimes I think we’re guilty of assuming everyone would just plain intuit that. We need to tell the inexperienced what a beautiful thing is that dull seeming preparatory work, what glorious jewels are the salt-cellar and oil bottle and dishes of neatly diced Tasso and shredded Reggiano and chiffonaded basil.

Even the finished dish may not look particularly artistic, unless it’s something generally far more designer-iffic than what I’m likely to produce at my board, but it is an infinitely greater pleasure to prepare and serve food that was made easier to prepare and serve by having arranged for good mise en place in good time. There’s both the initial set of ingredients and tools that ought to be at the ready, and then there’s the lineup of Parts that precedes the final plating for presentation, and both serve to wonderfully streamline the efforts.

The cranberry-mandarin-maple relish that will add a note of piquancy to the Thanksgiving plate is nothing much to look at, but will add its own essential character to the plate . . .

Part of the effectiveness and pleasure of mise en place for a visual obsessive like me is that it allows me to ‘paint’ with the food, whether in creating the individual dishes or in building the presentation, modest though it might be, by considering not only all of the flavors and practical characteristics of the ingredients but also their colors, shapes, visual textures and other attributes that can contribute to the integrity and–God willing–deliciousness of the whole.

So this is why, on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I’ve been brewing broth for gravy, concocting relishes and garnishes, butterflying the turkey and brining it (tomorrow it bathes sous vide, Thursday gets its high-roast crunch on!), roasting potatoes so that they will make heavenly light mash despite the added gallons of cream and pounds of butter, and all of that other ‘peripheral’ stuff. It’s not much to look at, to be sure, but I think I’ll manage to get a pretty fair showing out of it all eventually, because I’m laying the groundwork and setting the foundations first. Amen, let’s eat!

That's it for today's sage advice.

Viewfinder

Posted on November 21, 2011 by kathryningrid

digitally doctored soft pastel and colored pencil

Home is located on Cloud Eight.

You will not be the least bit surprised to know that my lifelong residence on Cloud Eight is situated as close as possible to the proverbial Cloud Nine, where all is perfection and the joys of every ideal are quite simply the norm. You may not even be shocked to hear that I have no need, intention or desire to relocate permanently to Cloud Nine. Frankly, I’m afraid that living there full time would blow my gaskets. Too much ecstasy, constant adrenaline and a permanent state of bliss sound dangerously close to hysteria and collapse. Further, I fear that such excess would find some way to become dull, lacking the contrast of subtler and more refined things.

I have no desire for pain and suffering, mind you; I am very well adapted to my happy and near-perfect life, and I am far too un-evolved to handle the demands of a trying existence. I am quite content to be, well, contented. And on Cloud Eight, there are just enough unforeseen twists of the road, moments of sorrow or fear or illness or what-have-you that, when they have passed, become salt: a seasoning valued so highly because in addition to its own flavors it highlights and enhances the other flavors around it. The piquancy and clarity and intensity of joy is only fully possible, I suspect, if one knows a hint of contrast. Maybe that’s just another iteration of my love of black and white imagery.

In the meantime, as I say, goodness and happiness have their own complications, not least of all a jaded or surfeited attitude brought on by over-indulgence. I find pessimism and paranoia dreary and tiresome companions, but a little part of me needs to stand at attention and be alert to their opposites so that I don’t drift along, bleary, blind to the beauty and inspirations all around me. If I fail to see the marvels in my own (albeit somewhat raggedy) garden, the humor in a child’s uninhibited playfulness, the drama and magisterial artistry in a lightning-streaked sky–why, then, there’s no point in lounging around on the everyday cloud most proximal to the place of perfection, let alone taking the occasional jaunt over ‘next door’ for that welcome hit of delirium, is there!

With that in mind, I make it a point to revisit my own environs with a different point of view or a revitalized attitude whenever I can, lest I lose sight of the wonders all around. If I should lack for a blog post idea for a moment, what’s to blame but my own failure to adjust the lens, to improve my focus. To see and revel in what’s right in front of me. I should take every opportunity to pause and refresh my senses, and then I can’t imagine that there won’t always be a new idea, a dazzling insight or maybe just a friendly reminder of how great the seeming old-familiar can be if I let it.

If I tire of the view, I ought to change my perspective . . .

Lullaby Ten Thousand

Posted on November 20, 2011 by kathryningrid

A meditative calm is settling on me this morning as I think about the week ahead and all of the things that fill my life with thanks-worthy graces, so I shall sing you a lullaby to try to put you in a similar frame of mind. (Please make the tune as sweet and pretty as it suits you to hear!)Lullaby Ten Thousand

Lie asleep, my languid love, with muses ’round your bed

To whisper dreaming in your ear, lay garlands on your head,

To kiss your cheek with zephyr lips, your heart fill up with peace,

And when the daybreak comes again, sing gently your release

From nighttime and its starry net, to draw you up, away

Into ten thousand leagues of joy, renewed, into the day

The Latest Dance Craze, and I Do Mean Latest

Posted on November 19, 2011 by kathryningrid

Tarantella* for Arachnophobes

I’m told a lizard ought to find

small creatures of arachnid-kind

as tasty and desirable

a treat to make the tummy full

as anyone could wish to munch–

but I hate them, that horrid bunch!

Spiders, to me, are crawly, creepy

creatures; make me frightened, weepy,

send me under my bed, my couch,

in a zipping zing or a crunching crouch;

they make me itch in my lizard pants,

in my reptile rooms, until I prance

around the house in a manic dance!

I try to shake my whole belief

that they’re attacking; no relief

is found when I am faced with grief

from eight-legg’d monsters or their kin,

and then such dancing must begin!

I’m forced to writhe and wriggle madly,

spin and struggle wildly (sadly),

and last, because the fear remains,

tromp out a tarantella, badly!

O, would that I could simply snap

my jaws on that small hairy chap

the spider, show no fear of death;

instead, I lose my very breath

and shrivel, like the brink of doom

has entered in my living room!

What was my fateful youthful sinning

set my head and heart to spinning

like a dervish when one shows,

to tearing my poor lizard clothes,

sneezing out of my reptile nose

and stretching like a garden hose

to flee arachnids; why do those

bring fear into my scaly soul?

I only know my utter goal

when spiders enter into view

is: dance until they set on you.

* Just so’s you know, I do realize that this poem in no way conforms to any of the traditional Tarantella forms, nor will dancing whilst reciting it actually cure you if you should be gnawed on by a spider, but it might possibly frighten away any proximal tarantulas–as well as humans–if you dance in an appropriately bizarre fashion during your recitation.

Totentanz

I shall sing you a ditty, you fine dead folk;

dance along to it if you like; no joke:

for naught’s so right in my heart and head

as to pay respect to the honored dead,

who have earned the ease of their Late condition,

but also deserve deep recognition,

and might be glad to take part, perchance,

in a little postmortem song and dance.

In limpid blue and livid red

but nary a drop of gloom or dread

I’ll dress my act for each measured measure,

creating a funerary pleasure

to honor the love, in my death-knell song,

of those dear departed, the moved-along,

and move, if I can, each girl and boy

to dance a jig of unceasing joy,

remembering all you dead-and-done

with fond frivolity, every one,

dancing our socks off, slow or fast,

as we sing and swing to the very last,

and when ghost-persons join, their haunts

bring cheer to the perfect Totentanz.

Cave Painting for Dummies

Posted on November 18, 2011 by kathryningrid

Who was it that first looked at a rock and thought, "Now *that'd* make a great TOOL"?

I’m fascinated by pioneers, inventors and explorers. Such minds are truly alien to me; how is it possible for a person to look at the same world that every other person has been looking at for ages and see something entirely different, something new? It’s nothing short of astounding that, when presented with what might be the deeply familiar, one person’s distinctive set of synapses suddenly makes a new constellation from the assorted bits of seen-before information to create a completely new idea–and out of this there is a new object or a new skill or a newly discovered country, in that one event changing the known world into a whole different thing.

I’m quite excited but not intimidated by doing that sort of inventive stuff artistically–in imaginary terms–but it’s quite another thing to consider pulling that sort of stunt to get a practical outcome. Those people able to envision a useful and purposeful way to take advantage of existing stuff have provided innumerable advances for human culture. I’m especially amazed by the intrepid andcourageous (or foolhardy) folk that break trail, build roads, cross unknown oceans and so much more, to open up new concepts and ideas to shift our entire understanding of our universe.

Who stacked the stones that made the very first wall? The first road between walled places? The first trek that plotted the course of the road?

What gives me courage is that not only are there stronger and braver souls than li’l ol’ me to do all of the serious exploring and adventuring and discovery, but that somewhere along the line someone had the inspiration to make melodious sounds and so, sang. Made a drum from a log. Painted with blood or powder or crushed plants on a cliff side or a cave wall. It’s a wonder and a grandly glorious gift that these superlative scientists-of-delight chose–or were compelled–to create dance and drama and song and pictorial beauty, and the more so because they decided, somewhere along the line, to pass along their newly discovered links to yet more undiscovered worlds. They taught the next generation to do the same. On the strength of this wonder, we are the long-time beneficiaries of these marvels, and as it happens, the torch-bearers by whom this will be carried into the future.

So I’m not the heroine who’ll be discovering an unknown species of beneficial insect, finding the previously unseen river, designing the DNA modification that cures Alzheimer’s, or changing the course of history in any way, shape or form. But I will be using shape and form, along with color and texture, character and text, to see what I can bring to this world as we know it, to see how a measly twerp with less sophistication than your average cave-dweller might be able to be an inventor and discoverer of my own sort of thing.

. . . and I'll keep my eyes open for inspirations wherever they may be . . .

Brace Yourselves! Commissioned Salesman Ahead

Posted on November 17, 2011 by kathryningrid

I am not fearless. There are so many things, situations, creatures and people capable of putting me right into a state where I quiver all over like Billie Burke‘s ‘Glinda‘ vibrato that you’d be harder pressed perhaps to find anything that doesn’t scare me. I may possibly be the biggest nervous Nelly alive.

But there are few fears that compare, in my catalog of terrors and trembling, with unwanted attention from anybody trying to sell me anything. Even, sometimes, things I might actually want. I dread confrontation of any kind, and will gladly spend the afternoon crouching uncomfortably behind a large spittoon if it means I can evade the silky admonitions of a time-share agent. I could easily be persuaded to skip bail and dodge out of the country incognito if I think I’m being pursued by an eager pamphleteer or community activist, no matter how praiseworthy I think her cause.

My ideal world is one in which, when together, we all cheerfully agree 100% on every concept and construct governing the universe and our little souls within it, and it doesn’t matter a tenth of an iota that in our hearts we know that to be a false front. We can just make nice for the nonce, skip around giving each other sweet-natured high fives, sing charming campfire songs until we begin to feel faint or peckish, and then meander off, comfortably believing whatever it is each of us needs to believe when we get back to our own happy huts. Okay, that modus operandi may be a bit of a push, and I really don’t want to force the idea on you, since that would belie my whole premise. (AWKward!) But still. Can’t we all back off on the urgency of our personal agenda sales pitches just a little?

Know Your Audience–and Your Auditorium

When proselytizing,

You may find it surprising

That all are not moved

To be so improved

As you might hope,

Be you the Pope

Or Guru wise,

So proselytize,

Whether thinly or thickly,

With an eye on the door for exiting quickly.

Pardon My Parsnips!

Posted on November 17, 2011 by kathryningrid

You and Your Old-World Charm

I sigh, I wrack my soul with darkest sorrows

for yesterday’s delights, not for tomorrow’s;

I’m dancing backwards all the time you’re near

in fear that all my romance only borrows

–or steals, perhaps–from something far too shining

and too refined for wasting on repining,

those salad days we ought to hold so dear

instead of wasting happiness with whining . . .

I will stop whimpering like boobs and babies,

and let go of the wherefore-nots and maybes;

instead I’ll let your elegance and charm

revive me from this case of “retro-rabies”,

reminding me time’s such a grand invention,

a Golden Age not lost to this dimension,

as long as boulevardiers remain,

like you, aptly distracting our attention

with courtly kisses and such furbelows

and petals hung on every breeze that blows,

bringing the romance back into the present:

yes, I can fall in love with all of those . . .

Pardon My Parsnips

Parkinson’s particular

pet pudding’s par-cooked parkin;

his partner’s partial to parfait,

that paragon; yet hearken:

those sub-par parabolic parts

of almonds, partly parted–

not fully sliced, par excellence—

make Parkinson hard-hearted,

for those same partial nonpareils

leave his poor partner parched

for parsley tea to the degree

you’d pardon if he marched,

parade-like, past, departed hence

to parsley gardens, fast,

in search of same to quench the flame,

–apparently aghast–

and Parkinson in repartee

imparted their remorse:

“Though sparse, the parcels of our thanks

are thus par for the course.”

Then Parsons, partner to the man,

now almond-paroxysed,

creaks out a tea-tinged parable

of why he’s paralyzed;

and both the partners no parfait

or parkin now partake,

but parsnips parsimonious,

and pears, for safety’s sake.

Let Out the Waistband a Little, Wontcha

Posted on November 15, 2011 by kathryningrid

Big as All Outdoors

Though she’s partial to the taste

Of homely things, she would not shun

A lobster tail or truffle, waste

Fine wine, or insult anyone

Who’s made the effort to provide

Her with the best the fecund earth

Produces, so she opens wide,

And so maintains her striking girth

My paternal grandfather was a fabulous person, a super-grandpa. He was also a well-rounded man. He used to tell us kids he had a ‘watermelon’ stashed under his belt, and we had little reason to doubt it. Clearly a man so full of joie de vivre could have no worse burden than being shaped like the centerpiece of a summer picnic. Unfortunately in combination with an imperfectly functioning ticker this particular element of his physique probably led down a fairly direct path to his early death. But honestly, I can’t say it’s likely he’d’ve traded for more years of life if it meant giving up any serious amount of the good food he adored. He didn’t seem too distressed when laughingly relating his trip to a clothier where he’d been rather imperiously informed by the tailor that he was Portly and would require a bit of special attention to be well fitted.

Me, I can’t say I’d find it easy to choose differently than he did. Because food is a grand part of my joie de vivre as well. I’m more likely to reenact his slightly sheepish yet cheery confession when Grandma caught him almost literally with his hand in the cookie jar and he told her “I only ate fourteen.” Or I’ll quote his favorite refrain about virtually anything edible: “Wouldn’t this be great with some chocolate ice cream!”

Whether the menu du jour is old-school comfort food like lemony shellfish over butter-steamed beet greens, a cheeseburger-meatloaf or an egg salad sandwich, or is some fantastic concoction full of exotic ingredients (probably made by more skilled hands than mine, in that case), count on me jumping into the buffet line right away. Hey, I give myself aerobic credit for the jumping, for starters. The exercise’ll help improve my odds, right Grandpa? I’m always going to have a little Grandpa-angel on my shoulder, of course, reminding me to be moderate when I can stand to be, so I won’t follow too exactly in his genetic footsteps, but if I can keep up with the total-immersion happiness he seemed to find in sitting down to a great meal with his loved ones I’ll be glad to consistently have that aspect of my role model in mind too. Just thinking of our many fantastic times with Grandpa makes the food taste that much better, as it is. Hey, you over there, sneak another scoop of that Tillamook Mudslide ice cream into my dish while I go change into my elastic-waist stretch pants, all right?

Highfalutin Company

Posted on November 14, 2011 by kathryningrid

Otto von Münchow is a very nice man. But I don’t have to tell you that, if you’ve done any looking around the web. I’ve never even met him–in person–but it took very little time looking at his blog and ‘conversing’ with him in the process before I saw how much help he offered not only me with his photographic and creative-production insights but also shared with all of his other readers and correspondents. And then he went and shared a Versatile Blogger Award with me. I’m humbled, and I’m touched.

Yes, there are those who would say I’m tetched. It’s how I got where I am today! And where I am is in truly rarefied company, as I’ve been learning over the last number of months here in Bloggerville. I am surrounded by deeply gifted and incredibly generous fellow bloggers, some of whom have taught me more in my short stint as a web denizen than I learned from many an arduous class project and long years of practice. (Okay, I’ll still say the years of practice made it possible to actually understand and make use of some of the good stuff I’m learning here, so no, my young friends, don’t skip that part!) I know I’m one seriously fortunate person, surrounded by, as my good friend Nia aptly identifies them, a glorious cloud of “angels and muses”.

Sankt Synnøve, an appropriate patroness for adventurers!

The Irish/Norwegian saint Synnøve is one of a select group I chose to make mixed media portraits commemorating for a collaborative program with organist David Dahl a number of years ago. The fabulous Dr Dahl agreed to create a performance program with me, and despite his renown as a Bach expert, even agreed to plunge into French Romantic literature to please my whim–something he not only performed with superb fire and panache but taught me a lot about in the process. I loved the preparations: David would join me in the organ loft for a flurry of ‘howzat’ samples he played from a number of great composers in a wide variety of styles and moods and colors within the fantastic treasury of my dream realm. He told me about the background of the pieces, how and why and when they were written and by whom–and who that composer studied with–and so on. Gradually we winnowed down the possibilities as I began to talk, in return, about what sort of imagery these evocative pieces inspired. I fell in love with each and every song and movement, and with the genre yet again.

I also decided, as the good Doctor played, that the exquisite and potent Finale by César Franck was reminiscent of a solemn procession of saints, so I decided it was a good excuse to play around with a series of portraits, beginning with figuring out which ones it would most interest me to envision. My main criterion was simply that I was on the hunt for saints famous for more than martyrdom. While I recognize that being willing to die for your beliefs, whatever they are, my school of thought tends to be more impressed with how incredibly challenging it is to live for your beliefs. So I looked for people beatified and sanctified for their deeds rather than their being dead. The princess Synnøve certainly seemed to fit the bill, what with evading an oppressive forced marriage, adventuring off on the wild open sea to who-knows-where and landing in remote Norway, creating a community there, and then fending off pagan attackers. As well as a few other attributions that become even more mystical and magical. In all, a history that says this was one tough Celtic character who went to great lengths to shape her own destiny, and in so doing shaped others’ as well. Eventually she was joined in the recital processional by a number of other intriguing worthies–educators, hospitalers, rescuers of the poor and builders of bridges among them–and I found a large quantity of inspiration, not strictly artistic either.

That’s what I find in this new endeavor of mine too. A long parade of angels and muses that bring to me new knowledge of art, of self, and of life. And I am ever so grateful for the gifts!

We who are inducted into the Versatile Blogger community are tasked with telling you friends a little more about our selves and then sharing the gifts of the award with others whom we deem deserving as well. I’ve done this twice before (thank you, dear Cecilia and Nia!), so I’ll try to be succinct.

Saints Valery and Finian, leaders, builders-of-things, and my birthday brothers (I was born on their feast day). (I'll take my inspirations wherever I find them.)

Versatile Blogger Award protocol:

1. Nominate 15 fellow bloggers.
2. Inform the bloggers of their nomination.
3. Share 7 random things about yourself.
4. Thank the blogger who nominated you.
5. Add the Versatile Blogger Award pic on your blog post.

So here’s that Pack of Facts about me:

1 – I’m one of those awful excuses for a human being that doesn’t like blueberries. There are a number of fruits I’m not crazy about for texture but in the juice or coulis form I’ll slurp ’em right up. Not blueberries. Don’t like the scent or the flavor any more than the texture. Yet the blueberry bush is a plant I happily put in my garden because I think the shrub is beautiful year-round, and even the berries are very pretty to look at. Go figure.

2 – Even a complete non-athlete (there are few who can begin to compare with me for lack of skills) can have a Sports Injury. My only-ever stitches are hockey related. Too bad I wasn’t making a brilliant goal play at the time, but at least I got a little scar to show for it.

3 – The dentist is my friend! I am something of a rarity, not only enjoying visits to the dentist but also hitting the 50-year mark without ever having gotten a cavity. That’s thanks to good dental care on top of a bit of good luck: my parents both have “normal” teeth, so it was clearly not straight-up genetics that gave them four caries-free kids.

4 – Besides some costume design and construction for theatrical productions, ecclesiastical vestments, and other clothing design/construction projects over the years, I’ve had a few evening gown commissions–favorites are probably the plastic-garbage-bag (Hefty Steel-Sak) gown in silver and black for a costume party (I labored over the hand-cut lace edges) and the plastic wedding gown made for an exhibition (that one had plastic doilies for its lace).

5 – No cigarette or smoking device of any kind has ever touched my lips. Wait: I did try a couple of bubble gum “cigars” in childhood (banana was my favorite of the chewing gum flavors, I think), does that count? But thankfully (for both my lungs’ and my wallet’s sake) I never had the remotest urge to experiment with smoking.

6 – I think my husband has one of the most beautiful singing voices I’ve ever heard.

7 – Many of my art projects arise from random exposure to topics, objects and ideas I encounter whilst “on the way somewhere else”. Ah, serendipity!

I know that some of my favorite bloggers have received Versatile Blogger recognition before, and I do know that it takes a great deal of time and effort to meet the requirements of acceptance, so for the following blog-stars, I personally exempt you from any of the responsive requisites, but I want to recognize publicly how much I admire your work.

Today’s Sparks Blogroll of Honor:
The Bard on the Hill

Sweet Caroline’s Cooking

The Seven Hills Collection

Patridew’s Perfect World

Aspire. Motivate. Succeed.

cfbookchick

Nine Lives Studio

Daily Nibbles