Gifts

The girls next door believe in leprechauns. They showed us a tiny dwelling the other day that surely belonged to one. It looked like a bird house, but it was bright green (the same color as their garage door, oddly enough), and carpeted in rose petals. I'd move right in, if I were a leprechaun.

They also believe in magical fairy gifts. On more than one occasion, we've answered a knock at the door, realizing en route that it was best to rein in our distance vision and act surprised, and found a spray of flowers or a painted rock on our doormat. Most recently, it was a pair of stones, each wrapped in a leaf and tied with pink string, with a shell balanced on top. Later, a deconstructed coda: a rock in a leaf in a shell. Art is all about exploring your medium to the fullest.

Today's my birthday. It's an off year; I'm 61. Unlike most days, the friend calls outnumbered the telemarketers by about 8 to 3.

Jer and I acknowledged a while back that birthdates are arbitrary; we give each other gifts all year long. He cooked waffles from scratch last week, and chicken tagine served over bulgar with green beans almondine, and an incredible veggie dish consisting of shiitake mushrooms in a pinot noir sauce with asparagus and polenta. I'd requested salmon for my birthday dinner, and he made this amazing rendition with fresh basil, tomatoes and onions, cooked in foil on the grill. Sort of like a stone wrapped in a leaf, only much more succulent.

More Messy Art Fun

I've spent the last three days in a workshop at OCAC, playing with thickened dyes. We've done some stamping and silk-screening. We've made marks on fabric using found objects like plastic nursery trays, circuit boards, bubble wrap and the highly coveted orange construction fencing. My favorite technique, though, is one I'd heard about but hadn't had an opportunity to try before this week -- painting fabric with potato dextrin, a paste that crackles as it dries. I'll document the process after school is out tomorrow and I have a finished product or eight to show. Gerrie, with whom I'm carpooling, has some good info on her blog, too. We used corn dextrin as well. It's a useful resist, but not nearly as interesting, behaviorally, as its sister in starch, potato.

This is one of those workshops that click in part because of the students. It's a great collection of people. Jeannette Meyer, the instructor, pictured above in surgical garb, is a goddess. We're all middle-aged women with the exception of Tamera, a gorgeous young woman who makes rugs. When she asked about dyes for flesh tones, something clicked in my mind. Sure enough, she was the artist whose "bare skin" rug I'd read about in the Oregonian. It -- I mean she -- was stolen from a gallery show and, three months later, recovered. What a saga!

Gerrie got a photo of me on the first day of class, and here's a shot of her with her signature lime green accent.

My turn to drive tomorrow. I think I'll have to line the car with plastic tarp in anticipation of all the wet dye-laden goodies we'll be packing home.

While I was out messin' around with art stuff, Jer was creating a masterpiece at home. This is polenta layered with heirloom tomatoes, mozzarella, grilled eggplant and pesto. It's supposed to be heated on the grill, but we're affeared that all those layers might topple into the flames, so we'll do it in the oven instead. Fresh snow peas from the farmers' market on the side. It's literally 100 degrees outside, but our little ranch house is relatively cool, and I'm looking forward to dinner.

County Fair and Other Amusements

Yesterday started out sunny and warm. The newspaper said it would probably be the best day, weatherwise, of the three-day holiday weekend. Jer and I seized the opportunity, and rode our bikes to the Multnomah County Fair at Oaks Park. It felt so good to get back on my bike again, and the ride along the Springwater Trail and the streets of south Sellwood was a joy (for me, anyway -- Jer came back with an aching tailbone; must do something about that seat).

The fair itself was a schizoid blend of traditional -- home ec skill competitions, midway and carny rides, animal exhibits and trials -- and (ick) modern, as in vinyl window sales come-ons (I counted four of those), obscure specialized appliance vendors, insurance and real estate agents, really tacky souvenir vendors, and so on.

Next time, if there is a next time, I'll know to avoid the mercantile tents at the south end and focus on the animals and the judged events. These included a smattering of quilts and other needlework, an aisle or two or fresh flowers and prize produce -- very slim pickin's, considering how early it is in the growing season -- and a couple of dozen flower arrangements. Aren't these two charming? Click to get the full effect. Another one of my favorites consisted of a pair of cowboy boots, a walking stick, and a bird of paradise).

There was a bountiful assortment of baked goods and home-canned foodstuffs. Look at all those ribbons. One entry was labeled "curried prunes". Mmm, mmm, good.

Butter making dirt babies? I don't want to know.

Our dinner last night was a lot more appetizing than either of those. Jer made individual puff pastry tarts filled with asparagus and shiitake mushrooms, gruyere, creme fraiche and tarragon, and an edamame, green bean, orange and marinated red onion salad with a tart-sweet dressing.

I took this photo of the western sky just before we settled down to dinner and a movie. Thunderstorms were forecast, and they hit not long after. We abandoned Across the Universe to take in the spectacle from our porch. The light, warm rain drew us out, and we ended up walking around the block, flashes of lightning and rolling thunder accompanying us every step of the way.

It was a delightful day.

Signs of spring

Jer made this gorgeous, essence-of-spring soup: asparagus, potato and fresh herbs -- fennel, basil, dill and tarragon -- with a garnish of hard-cooked eggs and asparagus tips. The recipe is from the New England Soup Factory Cookbook via Lynne Rossetto Kasper's Splendid Table newsletter:



New socks! I bought this very fun three-pack of mix-and-matchers on my trip to Tillamook a couple of weeks ago. I can only wear two at a time, but I suppose that's the point. The third is also little doggies but in colors that match the striped one. I'm already compulsing about how to ensure that they all get worn and washed equally. Funny, considering that the image they're going for is spontaneous and devil-may-care:


Don't click to enlarge or you'll be able to discern my leg hairs. Spring hasn't advanced that far yet.

Paper cuts and final cuts

A couple of interesting exhibits at RAW (Reed Art Week), which ended Sunday. I went especially to see Nikki McClure's mind-boggling papercuts. I hadn't heard of her til I picked up a calendar last fall in the Contemporary Craft Museum gift shop. Now I'm totally smitten with her work.

In the room next door was an installation called The Last Supper Table. The artist, Julie Green, had illustrated Death Row inmates' last meal requests on blue-on-white ceramic plates, each stamped with their date of execution. Twelve plates (out of the 300 or so she's done) were set around a table with wood, institutional-style chairs, the kind you'd find in a 1940s prison visiting room. A card, propped like a placecard behind each plate, described the meal as requested.

I was fascinated by the individual selections. Some were quite specific: hot and spicy chicken breast, two slices of sausage pizza with extra cheese (why not?), a slice of German chocolate cake, French vanilla ice cream, and a Dr. Pepper. Or steak with A-1 sauce, jalapeno poppers with cream sauce, onion rings, and a salad with cherry tomatoes, ham chunks, shredded cheese, bacon bits, and blue cheese and ranch dressing. The unexpected combination of steak, asparagus, brussels sprouts, feta cheese, cake and watermelon. The sheer "bring it on"-ness of BBQ turkey legs and BBQ brisket, plus avocados and a bowl of cheddar cheese. Cheese cheese cheese cheese. Not too many vegans on Death Row.

No doubt planning your last meal gives you something to focus on and anticipate, besides the obvious. A couple of plates, much smaller than the others, expressed the desire for no final meal at all. If I were facing execution the next morning, I think that'd be my choice, too.

But I'm not sure; those onion rings sound pretty good.

Birds in the 'hood

I took advantage of my new camera's super zoom to catch these exotic creatures in their native habitat. Flamingos in Oregon; who knew? The vulture, I assume, is a leftover from Hallowe'en; if not, I wonder about the folks in that house.

Speaking of avian leftovers, Chef Jerub tried a new chicken recipe a couple of nights ago. It turned out to be an exciting evening at Casa Jereva. You stuff herbs under the skin and roast the bird at a very high temperature in a preheated pan. Our smoke alarms went crazy, the oven was coated with charred grease, and our enameled roasting pan will never be the same.

The recipe is an adaptation of a Zuni Cafe dish, and would be far less disruptive to prepare in a restaurant kitchen. If you'd like to trash your house, or perhaps have an industrial-strength exhaust fan in your kitchen, it was published in The Oregonian food section on October 9th, 2oo7 (the link will only work for six months from pub date) and in Judy Rodgers' Zuni Cafe Cookbook. We annotated the clipping with the appropriate warnings, and probably won't risk making it again, at least not in our house, which still smells like hot chicken fat. It was delicious, though. And heating up the leftovers won't be nearly as traumatic.

Happy Meal

Chef Jerub takes his breakfast seriously. But how can you not smile at such a cheerful-looking meal?

Great balls o' fire!

I spent most of yesterday in an air-conditioned car riding to and from air-conditioned Astoria with my art-quiltin' STASH buddies. It was a welcome respite from Portland's heat wave. Tuesday was a record-breaking 102; temps have gradually moderated down into the high 80s. But still: HOT.

Last night, after it cooled off a bit, Chef Jerub prepared a lovely dinner of grilled chicken and veggie skewers, served over rice with a side of sauteed greens. We'd finished eating and were watching a Jerry Lee Lewis tribute concert on the PVR, when we heard what sounded like thunder. Strange; there was no rain in the forecast. We paused Jerry Lee and came upstairs to check out the scene: More thunder, lightning, and finally a steady downpour that went on for an hour or more. Several of our neighbors were out on the sidewalk, too, or sitting on their front steps. We talked for a while, illuminated by flashes of lightning, enjoying the mild summer storm.

The plants seem to've appreciated it, too, after all these days of artificial watering. Several of the grasses are flowering, all but one of the transplanted rose bushes (rose sticks, really) are leafing out, the ground covers are spreading. Some of the plantings are actually starting to touch each other, yay.

Our Sea Ranch friends Bill and Claire visited last weekend, and bought us a carnivorous pitcher plant (sarracenia) at Saturday Market. Its requirements are completely counterintuitive: it wants a nutrition-free growing medium, since it gets its nourishment from the insects it eats, and, as a bog native, as little drainage as possible. It seems happy so far, in a pot in the garden. We're resisting the impulse to name it Audrey.

I might never eat again. Yeah, right.

This has been an eat-ier than usual time for me. I spent a few days at the beach last week, on retreat with some art quilt friends. I ate a substantial breakfast and dinner every day we were there. Three days out of four, I had two scoops of Tillamook ice cream -- at the creamery, which made it taste even better -- for lunch. I'd intended to stay off the scale til I'd gotten back into more normal eating for a few days, but curiosity and habit got the better of me. Gulp.

And yet, one more indulgence loomed: Last night was Taste of the Nation, a fundraiser for Share Our Strength, an organization that deals with ending childhood hunger in America. The ballroom and foyer at the Convention Center were filled with food and drink booths. We sampled dozens of fine wines and uncountable bites of unusual and delicious snacks prepared by top local restaurants. Many of the chefs were there, prepping and presenting. It was exactly the event that we'd hoped last summer's way-too-corporate Bite of Oregon would be. We justified the ticket price because it was a benefit, with most of the proceeds going to SOS. If it were simply a culinary pigout, I doubt we would have indulged.

The truth is that, even when we're eating "normally," we eat very well. Starting in late afternoon, Chef Jerub toils quietly and uncomplainingly in the kitchen, prepping culinary delights both casual and more refined. Here we have half a turkey burger garni, catfish with a cornmeal crust served with lentil stew and fruit salad on the side; salmon piccata with asparagus and a tart filled with layers of caramelized onions, sauteed spinach, and chevre; a spicy Thai shrimp and rice dish with a side of Israeli couscous pilaf (two intensely flavored dishes that played off each other nicely) and a simple green salad for relief. The motto around our table is "nobody eats like we do," and I'm convinced that that's true. It's our version of saying grace.

While I'm on the subject of food, here's a photo of a batch of rugulach that was my contribution to an Easter-Passover potluck, just because it looks so pretty. Ditto the festive-looking drinks, which are grasshoppers that Jer whipped up to celebrate St. Patrick's day. They're made with green creme de menthe, of course.

Starting tonight, we'll eat more sanely. This is not a sacrifice if you dine at Casa Jereva.

Squirrel Wars and other Feeding Frenzies

Our friend Rita passed along an amusing and educational DVD called Squirrel Wars, suggesting that it might help solve our Easter bulby mystery. Well, yeah. It also offers a myriad of helpful hints on how to stop bird-feeder and other household predation. Stella Luna found it particularly gripping.

We've also been watching Planet Earth, another one of those grand, sweeping David Attenborough-esque series on the glories of the world we, as a species, are in the process of destroying. Jer and I are suckers for stuff like that -- nature porn; yum. So is Stella Luna, apparently. She's right there the minute we queue up an episode. It takes very little to get, and hold, her attention. She was particularly taken, the other evening, with scenes of predation -- sharks feeding on seals, tigers stalking a herd of ungulants, skuas swooping menacingly through a penguin rookery. And, porn or not, that baboon colony clearly got ol' Abs in the mood.

Speaking of the survival of the fittest, Chef Jerub has outdone himself lately. Pesto-crusted salmon with French lentil stew, asparagus; his adaptation of Nigella's roast chicken with garlic and lemon. Yeah, he's good. Every time I post about his culinary prowess I remember the caption that appeared under John when the Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show: "Sorry girls, he's married."

Eating In

Oh, woe is me; dinner at home again.

Seriously, Chef Jerub is on a roll. The night before last, he made halibut piccata with oven-roasted potatoes and zucchini. It was superb; the fish was cooked perfectly, the veggies crisp yet tender on the inside.

Last night, it was a melange of chicken parts seasoned with honey, mustard and fresh thyme, and roasted with turnips, red onions and pears. I hated turnips as a kid because my dad did; now I think they're one of the most under-rated vegetables in the universe (along with Brussels sprouts). Jer used red Anjou pears instead of the Boscs that the recipe called for, and the color pushed a beautiful presentation into the "spectacular" zone. And we have leftovers to look forward to.

Speaking of leftovers, I've been working, the last week or so, on a quilt I began in a workshop several years ago. One of my New Year's not-quite resolutions was to finish or re-purpose my UFOs (un-finished objects, for the non-quilters among you, my vast readership). I have a bin full of quilt tops, fused appliques, giant acrylic-painted vegetables, and what-have-you, most of which I started in some class or other and then set aside, thinking, "well, now I know how to do that..."

At the time, this one felt quite daring because the colors -- rust, gold, burgundy, orange, brown, even pink -- were so far outside my blue-green comfort zone. Actually, now that I look at it, they complement last night's dinner beautifully. Here's what it looked like before I started quilting the hell out of it. I'll post some details when it's finished, which should be soon; it's ready for binding at this point.

Aside from dealing with my UFOs, I want to make more new art this year. Quilting for me is often more of a meditative than an experimental process, which is fine, but I need to give myself permission to play more. A few weeks ago, several fiber artist friends and colleagues put up photo-collages of their 2006 output. Ay yi yi. They accomplished more in one year than I've done in five. I realize it's not about quantity, creativity isn't a competitive sport, etc. etc. But still, it's only January; I can do more than four pieces this year.

A Champagne Kind of Week

It's been a week for cozying in. Abbie has the right idea.

Last Saturday, though, began with a backstage tour of Portland's magnificent Central Library. After that, I hooked up with Jer at the Art Museum for a preview of the new Egyptian antiquities exhibit, the Quest for Immortality. Sounds cheesy, but it's very well done, with some exquisite pieces and, at the end, a full-size replica of a pharoah's tomb.

Sunday, our friends Jen and Drew -- in town for parents' weekend at Reed, where Jen's daughter Laura is a freshperson -- came for brunch and stayed through the afternoon, poaching our wi-fi, even unto dinner and beyond.

***Too Much Information alert*** Monday I had an invasively productive (productively invasive? That works, too) doctor's appointment involving a steroid injection in my wrist (yes, it hurt) to relieve the carpal tunnel-related pain in my thumb. Preliminarily, I'd say that the localized, motion-related pain is mostly gone, but the seemingly-random macro pain (like, up my arm when I tilt my hand a certain way) has increased. That might be a function of the injection itself, who knows. But that's not all! I also had the doc look at the three big moles on my back (thank you, teenage sunbathing), reassure me that they weren't cancerous, and freeze 'em with nitrogen. I expected them to shrivel up and fall off, just like that, but it hasn't happened yet, though they do look a little...disturbed. I'll be sure to keep you posted.

So. Tuesday the Democrats took back the House. And apparently the Senate.

Wednesday we made sure about the Senate.

Thursday evening we drank champagne with our good friends Libbi and David, who came for dinner (chicken-mushroom ragout and nearly-incinerated-on-purpose brussels sprouts, the latter recipe from Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires).

Friday, I finally got back into working on my commission piece, a landscape quilt, layering it in preparation for actual quilting. No pix til it's finished and delivered to the client, which will be weeks from now. I'm happy with how it's gone so far.

Friday was moving day for Carol, whom we know from The WELL. She recently bought a house on 31st just north of Powell. We brought champagne (again; it's been that kind of week) and snacks, did the house tour, toasted close of escrow and the Democratic victory, and then went in search of dinner. Lauro Kitchen forecast an hour's wait, so we ended up a few blocks away at the Savoy, a friendly place with a reasonably-priced and tasty menu. That stretch of Clinton, where the road takes a little jog, felt so much like a provincial square someplace in Europe. Dinner was okay, but the neighborhood atmosphere was delightful.

That brings us to this afternoon. After a modest bout of quilting and another Sisyphusian struggle in the backyard, armed only with leafblower and rake, I headed out with Jer to a Move-On victory party in Carol's general 'hood. As we left our house, a brilliant rainbow arc-ed over Rural Street to the east; a propitious omen. At our destination, we opened another bottle of champagne, our third this week, and toasted the return of the light in the USA. Here's hopin', anyway.