Dear after the retreat,

I am feeling a little blue. It's to be expected, after a retreat, but somehow I never do expect it--after this kind of intense, focused experience, a little exhilarating, I come back to my life and I have questions like these to answer:

• what kind of writer am I, anyway?
• have I squandered all or just most of my opportunities?
• will I ever make anything worthwhile?

etcetera, questions I think we can agree are not particularly productive when asked in an after-the-retreat blue period.

So I did the sensible thing: I carried out a crafts-imperative. And no, I am not speaking of my writing craft, I am speaking of going to Michael's to buy gesso, acrylic paints, and a fixative so that I could turn a pair of uninspiring loafers into gold loafers. As in: I painted my shoes.

I bought the shoes below online. They are perfect in every way except the color which I somehow thought would be creamier, more delicious, more go-with-everything. Instead they were simultaneously mobster-in-Miami and grungy:

Practically, this means that I almost never wore these shoes. Yet I hesitated to give them away. They were--and this is meaningful in my shoe wardrobe--comfortable. Would the color grow on me? Would I fall in love with them over time? Could I somehow change their color? Could I paint them?

I looked it up on the internet, after having inquired of my daughter (who had spray painted some pumpkins in a brilliant and very shiny fashion at Halloween) as to whether she advised spray paint for shoes. She said I should look it up on the internet, which I did (see above). I found these instructions, which is what sent me up to Michael's.

Before I started, though, the historian called me out to see this in the front garden:

"I think it might be safer in the other flower bed," he said.

"I don't know if I like being married to a snake handler," I said, as he picked the snake up and put it in the ivy, where it flipped its tail in an insouciant manner as it disappeared.

Back to the shoes:

These (above) are gessoed. Gesso prepares the surface so it will take the paint.

I was going for a rose gold thing, so I bought bronze paint (iridescent) and some pink paint. No dice. This led to a dull bronze color. Lovely, but not quite gleam-y enough. So I added another coat of bronze:

I let it dry. Then I sprayed it with a fixative:

I know. I had mobster-in-Miami, now I have whatever this is. Which I am, honestly, in love with. Gold shoes! The best! 

After the retreat, I think wearing gold shoes will put me in a better position for considering my artistic future.

Sincerely,

htms

Is it May yet?

It kind of feels like it, and I am in the process of checking out entirely of the current moment, except to notice the crocuses, sunshine, light, and also the trees leafing out.

I bought some fabric about an eon ago because I have another life, a secret life, possibly a life that only exists in my brain, where I sew. Why? I don't know. But this week, I sewed three skirts. By hand. With a needle and thread. Why? I don't know. It felt like the right thing to do.

Also, I bought a sack full of orange dye because I need orange pants. Orange-orange, not salmon or peach or coral. So look out for orange pants, coming to a theater near you.

Craft Talk: Poetry, Revision & Research (in useful bullet points).

Today while revising my poem, I consulted

• thesaurus.com
• dictionary.com
• American Heritage's excellent list of Indo-European roots
• Marcus Aurelius
• Sappho
• Economy of the Unlost
• Eros the Bittersweet
• Ulysses
• the mythology of the Lotos-eaters, aka the lotosphagi
• a website about spiders

Also, I changed the title (from "little deaths" to the prosaic, and possibly Twilight-tinged, "Midnight."  Yes, it will likely change again.). Also, added a teeny epigraph (from the Lotos-eaters section of Ulysses).  

And now, I will watch some television.  And pet the dog.

Tom's ratatouille (as told to hightouchmegastore).

I got my technique for making ratatouille from Tom Colicchio, head curmudgeon from Top Chef, and author of Think Like a Chef. As if I thought any other way.

So tonight, when I made ratatouille without the book, Tom kept up a running commentary:

Me, in the refrigerator: What, this pepper, and these squash and this eggplant . . .
Tom: What is that, a Rosa Bianco eggplant?
Me, over at the table: . . . and these two tomatoes. No, three. No, two. Where's that basil? And also these two little cute eggplants.
Tom: Don't forget garlic!
Me, back in the refrigerator, triumphantly: And these leeks! (with a flourish)
Tom: Onions!
Me: Leeks will be awesome.

So the technique is--and it's a good one, so pay attention--you saute each vegetable individually, with a clove of garlic, minced, in olive oil, with salt and pepper, and a couple of sprigs of of basil at the end. Then, you put the vegetable you've just sauteed into a dish, and do another vegetable, with garlic &c. &c. Tom would also have you wipe out the pan between each vegetable:

Me, after the leeks: Okay, now the squash.
Tom: You're not wiping out the pan?
Me: Now the squash.

. . . because, seriously, the overwhelming fragrance in the dish is garlic, olive oil, and basil. Wiping out the pan so the lingering aroma of, what, squash doesn't contaminate the eggplant? That seems excessively fussy to me.

Tom: Fine, but your eggplant will be redolent of squash. Wait, are you grinding Sichuan peppercorns to season? Sichuan, seriously? In a Mediterranean dish?

Okay, I admit, that was a small heresy, but I had a little grinder full of those peppercorns, and I was full of adventure.

Tom: I give up.

But the thing is, when the eggplant and squash and tomatoes and peppers are at their peak, the whole thing is ambrosial, in a Mediterranean sense, and the every-vegetable-has-its-day technique means you really can taste the flavor of each thing, but symphonically, in relation to every other thing. So I salute Tom: his fussy technique gave us a luscious dinner. Add a soft polenta and there is no dinner better, even with the geographically incorrect peppercorns.