recollected.

My so-called TV life.

What's that?--you want to know what I watch, week to week, on television? I thought so. Well, I am happy to oblige.

I feel like I'm maybe the only person in the world who still watches TV, as opposed to watching television shows via the internet, and likes it. This makes me feel a little like an old person, but the habit of regular TV watching can be explained: I believe it is due (a) to having come of age when watching TV was your only option, as there was no interweb, and (b) to liking the rhythm of a week being paced, in part, by the show that's on each night, if there is one. (I can feel your horror radiating all the way over here, through the tubes and onto my screen, because of how much TV you surmise I must watch. Well, horror away. I do watch that much TV. And I like it.)

So this means that, if the world is good, there's a show on most nights of the week that I like to watch. This is especially important for week nights. The world is most in balance if I can get through my working day on a Monday, for instance, and there's an episode of The Closer awaiting me at its appointed hour. That episode redeems whatever drudgery or difficulty or simply the long hours of the day that preceded it. On Tuesday, The Good Wife; on Wednesday, Modern Family; and on Thursday, the glory that is the NBC lineup, but especially Parks & Recreation. And 30 Rock.

Well, I have just named the television shows that are my mainstays at the moment. Like every other thinking person, I am awaiting the new season of Mad Men. I have several little DVD things lined up, because I either didn't have HBO, or I wasn't able to finish the series in real time (The Wire/In Treatment and Saving Grace, respectively). And I am about to go into mourning because The Closer is winding up its current stint, which will lead us inexorably into its very last episodes ever.

This summer, I started to watch Criminal Minds with my daughter, who is a huge fan of the show. I myself love a police procedural, and I came to appreciate the show. I am looking forward to the new season, which I will have to DVR so I can watch it later, as it is up against Modern Family, and the historian and I watch that one together. The DVR is hooked up to the downstairs TV. Currently, running son is residing in the downstairs lair, so it's possible that there may be a whole slew of Criminal Minds for me to watch sometime, when I don't feel I will be intruding on the whole lair-ness happening down there. Who can say.

I would like to have a bunch of new awesome shows to watch. I wish I had started Breaking Bad when it started. Ditto Men of a Certain Age and other stuff, like House. I guess. I guess I should have watched Downton Abbey, so maybe I'll try to catch up on the first season before new episodes start.

But I need to get this whole project organized. The television routine is part of what keeps everything else in its proper place, and I need that, the people. I need it, or everything else, and I, will feel crazy. Or maybe I might have to, what? do something else, like something productive. Write, or read.

But I don't want to get ahead of myself. I will be checking out a few things in the new season. And if you have something you think I should watch, something that's still broadcasting in the real world, in real time--on television, and not on my DVR--please let me know. I will consider it an act of generosity, and a kindness, which I shall never forget.

(thanks to Amelia, who pointed out this post on every day I write the book)

The good news is,

And lo, there was pie.

Archival research, the people.

I know of no one, and I mean no one, who is better at it than my husband, known to you as The Historian, whose book is now a real thing, printed on paper and bound in cloth, with a dust jacket and dedications, historical photographs and captions, fat chapter titles, footnotes galore, and an index that his co-author did himself.

Did I mention the archival research? This meant looking at microfilms of newspapers and minutes, then searching newspapers online, not to mention looking at all manner of other dusty documents with their relevant secrets well hidden. It meant trips to Special Collections and the LDS Church History library. It meant reading more socialist writing than you can shake a stick at.

It required patience and diligence and persistence and invention. It is the completion of a many years' long task, and it tells a story that almost no one knows about.

And it is a damn book, the people, and that--that is something to celebrate.

Find out more about it here. And the authors will be at the Book Festival on Oct. 22 (more information here).

Cooking & cleaning.

Well, mostly cooking. With a little laundry and dish-washing on the side.

In the cooking department, though, in a grand flourish, commensurate with the great wealth of fruits and vegetables at the market of late, I:

• roasted some squashes, some just on the verge of being not quite good anymore, along with some garlic, onions, and peppers;
• steamed some yellow beans;
• roasted some green beans with olive oil and garlic;
• made some corn salad;
• made some caprese salad;
• made a quinoa salad with some beautiful Rancho Gordo beans, and various herbs, greens, etc.;
• and roasted some potatoes, to eat as they are in their olive-oil-and-garlicked state, or with leftover harissa.

And what did I learn from this cooking extravaganza? Some things:

• you need a vat of olive oil when you start a cooking extravaganza.
• having already-made food in your refrigerator, the result of a cooking extravaganza? A truly excellent state of affairs.
• we buy a lot of food at the farmer's market, and it takes a detailed logistical plan to eat it all.

For instance, I have a giant bag of basil in my refrigerator right now. (Me, to farmer: Is that whole bag for sale, for real? Lady Farmer: The Pesto Bag? Yep. Man Farmer: We call that "the pesto bag," because that's about how much we use when we make pesto. Me: Gimme that.) I'm going to make pesto out of it. But I need to get on that right away, and after my cooking extravaganza, I might not have quite enough olive oil up in here.

I would also very much like to make, or at least have, a pie--and I have got the peaches, blackberries, and blueberries to do something pretty spectacular in neighborhood of pie. But I need to make pie crust, and you know--logistics. What I mean by this is, I wish there were already a pie crust made. But what with having extravaganza'd around in my kitchen for hours, my desire to make a pie crust is kind of diminished, from my formerly ambitious state. Can't have everything, I guess. Although, having now whined for awhile about this, I feel strangely in the mood to actually make a pie crust. Check back for further information on this very important topic!

(I should add to the "cleaning" portion of this post that I also cleaned out some sad greens and herbs and a handful of leftovers and whatnot from the refrigerator. So now the fruits of my cooking extravaganza labors fit in there. Barely.)

Three songs.

Yesterday, my son and I ran to breakfast (at Virg's, radagast, in case you're reading--it was dang good, so thanks for the recommendation!). Whilst driving there, we were listening to The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner, the last studio album of Ben Folds Five. The last controversial studio album of Ben Folds Five. Anyway. It has a great two-song sequence, beginning with "Army,"

which contains, near the end, these lines:

"and my ex-wives all despise me
try to put it all behind me
but my redneck past is nipping at my heels"

a song which is followed immediately by "Your Redneck Past":

which begins with these sharp lyrics:

"choose from any number of magazines
who do you want to be?
billy idol or kool moe dee?

if you're afraid they might discover your redneck past
there are a hundred ways to cover your redneck past"

(My son and I agree that those first three lines are some of the best beginning lines of any song, ever--"Billy Idol or Kool Moe Dee?" Ridiculous.) But all of this talk of rednecks reminded me of another song, called "My Redneck Friend," by Jackson Browne, from the album For Everyman, which I loved when I was in high school:

All of which made me think of how many ways we weave the connections between the things we loved in the past--I listened to this Jackson Browne countless times when I was young--and the newer things we encounter. Also, is there a thing about rednecks in popular music? Is redneckery the guilty secret of rock? Something to think about.

Here's a little sequence I have been mentally connecting:

Rolling Stones - Paint It Black by SamFisher037

I'd be interested in hearing about your little three-song chains, the connections you make between your past and present through song.

Dear Bruiser,

Today, in the mail, I found the following:




I once believed--when I thought about it, which was not, truthfully, very often--that you could not read. But who knows? You're now getting mail, addressed to you. With some news for you, Bruiser!

I'm sorry to say, though, that the news is a little presumptuous. In this newsletter, there's a coupon:

I don't know what "senior" means in Dog, but around here, when we hear "senior," we demur. We protest. We flat out deny. I am speaking of myself here, obviously.

And when we were out walking today, I thought, how can they say "senior"? to Bruiser? Because you were cantering and prancing and, in fact, took me for a little drag when a small, yappy dog behind a wooden fence had a thing or two to say. It was impressive, B, I just want you to know I felt your vigor--was, in fact, moved by it--and I thought, I don't know if a so-called senior dog would have that kind of gumption.

I say, let the people keep their labels to themselves. Labels cannot contain you. (I am speaking of myself here, obviously.)

love,

htms

Crying at the movies: a memoir.

Last night, after my birthday movie, I came home to find myself tagged in this post on my son's wall:

"It turns out the lady was your mom." I will pause so that you may reflect.

Well, I do have a long and storied career as a movie cryer. Here are a few movies I have sobbed like a motherless child at:

• The Way We Were
• Terms of Endearment
• Stepmom
• The Notebook
• Marley & Me
• Titanic, obv.
• uh, every single Harry Potter movie, probably. More on this later.

I have also cried like crazy at indie movies, such as:

• Summer Hours
• Friends with Money
• Whalerider
• Into the West
• Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
• Things You Can Tell By Looking At Her
• Blue Valentine
• Bright Star
• The Fall

and probably a whole bunch more that I may or may not care to mention. The Sex and the City movie, for instance, after Mr. Big stands Carrie up, sort of, at their wedding and she looks so miserable. Or, like, parts of Superbad, which the relevant youngest son pointed out to me wasn't remotely poignant to him. Or Into the Wild, with director Sean Penn pulling the cry-now strings like mad.

My kids like to say that I cried at a Rugrats movie, and maybe at a Pokemon movie. I don't know. I'd like to see their evidence--we all know from about a billion Law & Orders that eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. But I will not deny that if a movie tugs at my heartstrings, I am generally happy to oblige, although sometimes if movies are trying to work me, I resist. I'm not that easy. Okay, I am. But sometimes the weep machinery is just too much, and in those circumstances, I stay dry-eyed.

Usually, though, I cry. And I don't particularly care. So what? Why bother to think of sports? I used to cry a lot about life-y things, and sometimes I still do. But these days, I just don't like it--it makes me feel bad, and my eyes get puffy, and it's all just too tragic. At a movie, though: crying at a movie lets you release feelings that need to be released (see: catharsis), but mostly in a limited, self-contained way. I don't usually cry too much (except for at Marley & Me, and Stepmom, and Terms of Endearment--I wept so much in those movies I had to take to my bed afterward to recover. And if one of them comes on on cable--forgetaboutit.), but frankly, it feels a little bit cleansing.

Anyway. In July, a bunch of people, including my daughters and me, went to see the most recent Harry Potter, I pretty much full-on sobbed when (seriously? you haven't seen/read it yet? what is wrong with you? spoiler alert) Snape died. After the movie ended, my daughter with the wicked wit said, "Are you okay?"

Yep. Just fine. Now leave me alone, I'm fishing for my Kleenex.

Today

was my birthday, so I

• acknowledged to myself that I am old(er) with a small but private and very limitedly miserable sulk, then
• opened birthday presents from the historian,
• wept over a sweet note from my oldest friend and a sweet note from my dad, after which I
• ate a birthday custard,
• took a quick birthday trip to Target (what. That's totally a thing.), and
• took a birthday trip to work that lasted a lot of hours, where I
• had a birthday interview with a student candidate for the editor of the literary/arts mag, then
• received a phone call wherein my grandson sang me "Happy Birthday," whereupon I
• spent a birthday hour in the Student Writing Center, whence I gave birthday help to a student, after which I
• fretted over a birthday lesson plan and a birthday grammar & style activity, and then
• taught, after the birthday fretting, a great birthday grammar & style class! I then
• ate my birthday sandwich and birthday potato chips, and drank my birthday Dr. Pepper, with my friend, while concurrently
• doing my birthday office hours online; then I
• went home before having a
• birthday taco and watching a
• birthday movie with the historian.

In conclusion, birthday birthday birthday! BIRTHDAY, oh yeah.

As Monday abolishes the weekend.

This weekend we saw Our Idiot Brother, which was charming and delightful. We enjoyed it very much. We bought peaches and tomatoes and onions and eggs and bread and beans and squash and grapes at the market. I ate a lot of watermelon. I just can't get enough watermelon. We also bought the most beautiful berry threesome: a basket each of blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. We went down to Utah Valley for a family gathering. I finished my Swedish thriller. I read a manuscript for the press I'm on the editorial board of (nice prepositional ending, eh?). Took Bruiser for several walks. Commented on the initial posts in my online classes. Watched two episodes of the old Adult Swim show Home Movies (streaming now on Netflix, highly recommended). Talked with running son, who jumped back into Utah life this past Thursday, surprising me in my office with a bag of Lays Classic Potato Chips. Read the New York Times sitting at the table under the cherry tree. Listened to a big cracking thunder and lightning storm last night.

Today, I have been in my office interviewing editorial candidates for Folio. And while I confess I wish the unstructured, wander-where-you-will qualities of summer, which often eluded me during the actual time I was off work, would last a bit longer, it's been kind of nice to listen to these potential editors talk about their ideas, their plans, their enthusiasms. The show-up-on-time qualities of fall are pretty good, too.

The last day of summer, technically: an FAQ.

Q: How's that prep coming?

A: Oh, swell, thanks for asking.

Q: Seriously.

A: None of your business.

Q: What'd you do today, the last day before school meetings start tomorrow morning?

A: Would you like that in a paragraph, or a bulleted list?

Q: Bulleted list, please.

A: Excellent choice:

• picked up one grandson from his house at 9 a.m.
• picked up other grandson from his house at 9:25 a.m.
• drove directly to Target, where we purchased 2 varieties of Spiderman (Arctic Attack Spiderman and Spider Sense Spiderman), various snacks including Kung Fu Panda Fruit Roll Ups, and a pair of shoes for me (I really needed them!).
• drove home, where we engaged in long bouts of Spiderman play, interspersed with discussions in which we parsed the various features of the two Spidermen.
• had Happy Meals for lunch. Bruiser finished off the last chicken nugget neatly, when it was left unattended and, one can safely assume, therefore unwanted. Except by a dog.
• watched Iron Giant. Our viewing was enhanced by a video chat with an auntie in Scotland, and discussions about whether the giant was a good guy or a bad guy.
• resumed Spiderman play.
• built a Spiderman garage with blocks.
• took Bruiser for a very short walk.
• had a snack.
• had a little rest with some Wonder Pets to amuse and inspire us.

Why, what'd you do?

Q: How on earth will you be ready when classes start on Wednesday? Don't you have long meetings tomorrow?

A: What's a long meeting and a laptop for?

Weekend stats.

Peaches: 16, from two vendors.

Nectarines: 3 exorbitantly priced ones, from our fruit guy, who has a very high opinion of his fruit in general, and his nectarines in specific.

Movies: 1, unless you count watching A Few Good Men on AMC for the zillionth time, in which case: 2. Wait! also significant portions of The Misfits on TCM, because it was Montgomery Clift day, which we watched while laying around this afternoon and also reading portions of a Swedish mystery novel.

Pants purchased on sale at the Gap: 4 pair, cute if I do say so myself.

Successful technology challenge sorted: new charger for my Macbook Pro, which was (I bet you can guess this:) failing to charge.

Dollars spent to sort technology challenge: 0. That is "zero." That's because of the brilliant Apple Store Genius, Tomasi, who figured out, I guess, that my charger was still warrantied, or something? Anyway, Tomasi was awesome. Tomasi is a solutions provider.

Syllabi finished, worked on, or started: 0. That is also "zero." I have no further comment to make on this point.

Fantastic culinary adventures: 1. I made harissa, to go with roasted potatoes omg it was aMAzing. It was for my poetry group.

Birthday girls who ate pancakes with us: 2. At Dee's! --a brief panegyric on Dee's: unpretentious; full of cheerful folk but still with a table to be had, without any waiting whatsoever; with the best hash browns I've had in quite some time, and, judging from the several bits I stole from one birthday girl's chocolate chip pancakes, with an excellent chocolate chip pancake.

Rating, on a scale of 1-10, with 1 being "hideous" and 10 being "stellar," of the weekend overall, thus far: pretty much perfect.

Dear Movie Studios of America,

It was certainly our own fault that we chose One Day as our Friday night movie option. However, having now viewed this film, we have the following constructive criticisms to make, in the spirit of better movies for everyone:

1. You should hire somebody who can tell you how to make a movie better, because pretty much any fool could have told you what you should have done to make One Day a better movie.

2. No amount of bad haircuts, Doc Martens, and wire-rimmed glasses will make Anne Hathaway the "plain" girl. Also, sorry and no offense, but Anne Hathaway's accent sucked. Shoulda hired a British actress.

Sincerely,

htms.

Let us review.

I think it is healthy, salutary, to pause at the end of something to assess what one has accomplished. What one has learned, if you will. And it is in this spirit of self-assessment that I offer firstly a consideration of what I thought I might accomplish this summer; secondly an enumeration of what I did indeed accomplish this summer; and thirdly, a reflection upon what the two data sets, compared, might reveal.

Firstly. I said I would make movies, write poems, revise a couple of manuscripts. I said I would "Gather my wits and be the happy genius of my house" and that I would lay "hands upon a will, a desire to start again, an urge from which I will not be diverted." I also had ancillary plans to organize and order my house.

SECONDLY. What follows is a detailed but not complete listing of my accomplishments since I turned in my grades in May:

1. I organized the footage for exactly one video, as yet incomplete.
2. I did a radical and far-reaching inventory of my poems, both manuscripts, to better understand what my poetic project is and what my poetic means are.
3. I did a revision of one of my manuscripts, but that was before item 2 above. So I don't know what I think of this revision. Also, the version of this manuscript that prompted the revision--it had had, to a very recent point, seemed to have absolutely no traction--no one was interested in it. Yesterday, I heard from a competition--this no-traction ms was a finalist. God. This possibly leads one to wonder what revision even means.
4. I traveled hither and yon, here and there, far and wide. L.A., NoCal, Idaho, the wilds of Nevada.
5. I spent lots of time with my daughter who has since departed for Louisiana. I did not anticipate that she would spend quite a bit of time here this summer, as she moved out of her apartment in anticipation of the big move. We also took two of my grandsons (her nephews) to Idaho in advance of their parents' arrival.
6. I saw a fair number of trashy movies, and some of them twice. One of them three times.
7. I read a pile of police procedurals and some other books, even some good ones.
8. We got a new roof.
9. I have not yet lain hands upon a will, a desire to start again, an urge from which I will not be diverted. At least not consistently.
10. I recently wrecked our car.
11. I have written no new poems. None. Whatsoever.

finally....

I have found the recurrent cycling in and out of my house of my youngest two children to be more of an emotional event than I would have predicted. Or maybe that's not true. Maybe I really expected it, but it has still hit me hard. I miss them, and I know that missing them is no tragedy, rather a necessary step that comes before whatever's next. Still.

Even so, one of the great pleasures for me--and one of the most meaningful--was to have spent that time with my daughter. I did not expect it, but I will remember this summer as the summer my daughter left, and before she did, she lived here, we talked every day, we ate together, we watched endless episodes of Criminal Minds because it is her current favorite show. I loved that. I am still watching it, because it makes me feel connected to her.

I am still finding my way back to writing--the act of writing. My friend Renaissance Girl says that everything, for a writer, is writing--walking out in the green world, thinking about things, mourning them. And I think she is right. I would like, though, to be back at making the things. This last week, I have been collecting notes for a couple new poems. I think they are poems. I'm going to try to make them into poems. We'll see.

The lack of blog in the last several months--the paucity of posts, certainly, but also a failure of delight in making them--is indicative of something, and I want to see if I can do something about it.

One day--the day after I had finally articulated my own depletion to myself--I said, aloud, to myself whilst walking the dog, Just be happy. Why not just be happy? And this sort of seemed like an answer. For awhile, anyway. I just want to assert my words, my little words, into the world. Just let them have their say, let them work their way to the surface, let them become these statements, poems, whatever. I want to keep trying.

No art.

Tomorrow morning, my daughter is leaving.

She had to find a home for her bunny.

This summer we've had colts in the back field.

We had a party to see her off.

And on the Sabbath day,

I made jam, because it was apricot day at the market yesterday. It might be apricot day again next week, but you can never tell, really, so it's good to seize the day.

I like to use citrus instead of commercial pectin. It makes the fruit taste more like itself, and also like sunshine. I am not kidding.

It's half a lug of apricots, about 2 c. of sugar, juice of 2 oranges and 3 lemons. Bubbling away.

Sharpies were made to label jam jars. True story.

So this is about 2 half pints and 10 little quarter pint jars. I might give one to you if I really like you.

After the jamming--which will continue into tomorrow after I buy more lids and rings and probably more jars--I had plenty of apricots left to make a blackberry apricot galette. The blackberries were because yesterday, it was also blackberry day at the market.

Magical household.

My washing machine did heal itself. Apparently, it just needed a little break from its job, much like the rest of us do. Shortly after I posted yesterday, and after I had tentatively switched a few breakers on and off like I knew what I was doing, which I patently did not, the washing machine drained itself and went into the rinse-and-spin cycles. Like the champ that it is.

Now, if my household would just

• vacuum its own rugs,
• clean out its own refrigerator,
• hang up its own clothes,
• sort its own excess,
• clear the kitchen table of its mail and books and whatnot, and
• do the thinking for me about my poetic project, so that I can
• revise my manuscript into the winner I know it can be,

then I would

• solve the debt ceiling crisis.

I don't think that's too much to ask.

Mundane update.

Today, a day mostly at home, I washed clothes until I (apparently) broke my washing machine; washed dishes; made bread; made dinner; contemplated my own poetic project as well as my poetic means until I felt a little dizzy; walked the Bruiser; felt just fine.

A day mostly at home is pretty swell. But I wish my washing machine would spontaneously heal itself.

After a long walk, we arrive at the water's edge.

Early in the evening.

Fields of wildflowers on the mountain.

Awhile ago, when my daughter decided what day would be her very last day of work as a manager of sandwich artists, we planned a trip to Idaho, her last before pressing the eject button on her Utah life, landing in Louisiana for her shiny new full-of-possibilities life. I checked to see if the other kids and grandkids could come, too. They could, but a day or two later than her possible dates.

Then a brilliant thought occurred to me: what if she and I drove up a day or two early with the oldest two grandsons? Then their parents and the historian could join us, after we'd had this small adventure. All agreed to this splendid plan.

So this morning, my daughter and I scurried around: she cleaned out her rabbit's quarters. I wrapped a birthday gift for a soon-to-be seven-year-old who lives in Scotland. I packed, she went to buy rabbit food and mail the package. I gathered together a bunch of comestibles. We picked up one grandson. His mother affixed his car seat into our car; we stashed his little suitcase and plush puppy. We drove to the other grandson's house across the valley. Car seat, back pack, Spiderman action figure. A quick trip through the Wendy's drive-thru, then we were on our way.

The boys chatted back and forth to one another, occasionally exchanging toys (good sharing, boys!). We talked about where we were going and what we would do there. Along the way we pointed out horses, cows, farms, motorcycles, trucks, lakes (reservoirs), the huge sprinkler pipes in the fields. We stopped in Malad for a bathroom-and-snack break. In Ashton we bought some sundry groceries to add to the mountains of food in the trunk. In the grocery store, the boys made a break for it after hours in the car; we raced after their shrieks, collected them and had our only stern--brief--moment of the day.

When we arrived, I showed the boys how to turn the water to the cabin on. We took out the store of antique toys to play with. We ate dinner, we walked over to the park, we gave the swings a whirl. My daughter and I served as regulators of the teeter totter.

When it was time for bed, we took the boys upstairs. They hadn't slept all day, and they were both tired. With the smallest of protests, each nestled into his bed. The younger, Will, said, "I want my mom and dad." I told him that for tonight, it would be just us--his aunt, his grandma, his cousin, and himself--and in about a minute, his breath slowed, evened. Asleep with the plush puppy in his arms.

The good things.

Having my daughter home for a few weeks before she launches into a big brand-new adventure.

Cherries in the fridge. Iced tea morning noon and night. Lemonade. Toast.

AC in the afternoon. The breeze sifting through the trees in the morning. Windchimes. Sitting on the patio for an hour or two, writing.

A beautiful, big, wonderful dog who wants to go on a walk, morning noon and night, and who greets us at the door with a whole-body wag.

Realizing that I have the doldrums every single summer at the exact same time, a realization which allows me to mitigate it, even if a little, even just by writing a list of the good things.

Writing, always. Always.

An old friend, a new friend, the oldest friend.

Daughters and sons, hither and yon.

The beautiful, loyal, funny and smart historian, who is always on my side.

Open letter to my depletion.

Dear My Depletion,

Did you happen to know that I lost my agenda when we got back from Idaho? --by "agenda", I mean my actual, physical calendar, but now that you mention it, the word could refer to the figurative thing as well.

This past week was crowded: with dinners and breakfasts and lunches, LMS trainings, focus group meeting, writing group, date nights and family Harry Potter, shopping and movies. All of these appointments and their various delights I kept in the agenda of my brain, because the actual calendar was gone. Often, My Depletion, the calendar and its busy agenda are harbinger, the very symbol of you. This week, however, you hummed in the background of all these events and reminded me:

you are not writing

summer is almost over

you are not writing

something is so very wrong with you

I literally hate your song, My Depletion. But I have not been able to come up with a substitute.

I have notes on slips of paper, that say things like "Monday: house stuff! film." or "T: write 500 words." And who knows? Maybe Monday or Tuesday--maybe Monday and Tuesday--will be the days I hop out of bed and take Bruiser for a walk when the morning is still cool, and say pish to the internet, whip out my sewing machine or catalog my film clips or even write 500 words! I can see, theoretically, that this is possible. Saying so, maybe, makes it more likely to be so.

But nothing like this will occur unless--it must be said, My Depletion--you stop humming that goddamned song. It is getting on my last nerve.

Sincerely,

htms

Lazy, a little bit. Or a lot.

Well,

After getting back from Idaho on Saturday, and on Monday having the Fourth of July barbecue at my daughter's (fun!), and on Tuesday, having a haircut and a meeting and some hours writing a little bit strenuously and sweatily and not very attractively, I'm telling you, and then seeing a movie and meeting with my book group (fun!),

I have settled into the following routine:

• wake up not very early.
• loll around until later than that.
• make breakfast, or
• possibly whine about the fact that there is no bread for toast.
• take Bruiser for a walk when it's less cool than it would have been if I'd taken him earlier, when I was still (a) waking up not very early, or (b) lolling around until later than that, or (c) making breakfast, or (d) possibly whining about no bread, or (e) all of the above.
• take a shower.
• look at who knows what on the internet while
• contemplating what else I could/should be doing.

It's not very productive, I am forced to admit. I am "writing" and "making a film," but the measurable outcome is infinitessimal. Like, for instance, if someone were making a documentary of my summer writing/filmmaking, and they did time-lapse photography, maybe over the course of several days you might see a half of a haiku emerge.

Not really. It's more like a big messy spill of bleah, out of which might be excavated a haiku. But no one really wants to see time-lapse photography of that, do they? Or do they? I wish, maybe, I could make that movie.

Or not.

Actually, I am reasonably happy making the movie I'm making. It has lots of parts to it, and many pieces of footage, and decisions to make about what goes where, and what I should say in my voiceover, and so forth. So away I go, to look at the footage some more and take a few more notes and maybe write the other half of that metaphorical haiku. Or maybe just a half of the other half. I don't want to rush it.

In case you're interested, I am making salad for dinner. And toast. Because now there is bread, which around here, we like to call "progress."

Fine, Fourth of July.

More evidence that I am a holiday-hating crank: ugh, fireworks. Unless I can watch them without any effort on my part, to wit: driving to a giant park; parking in a giant parking lot; hanging out with the humanity while we wait FOREVER for the fireworks to start; watching the fireworks (the good part, for sure--I totally concede this); gathering up your damp blanket and your whatnot and surging, slowly, with the humanity toward the exits; finding your car; getting into your car and burning up fossil fuel FOREVER while everyone else exits before you; getting home exhausted.

Go ahead, judge me. I can hear you from here: (A), take the train, why don't you? (TWO), what about freedom? and independence? and so forth? (c), grouch. (I respond: (A), good idea! why don't YOU take the train?, (TWO) freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose (or something like that), (c), don't I know it.)

The best recent fireworks happened up in Idaho the last couple of years, where we basically drove two minutes down the road, sat on a blanket on top of sagebrush while the owners of the Grub Stake Market put on a swell fireworks show across Highway 20. There was no "Proud to be an American" hoo-ha, just lots of light and gunpowder drift and so forth, oohing and aaahing from both sides of the road, and when it was over, we drove two minutes back home. It was awesome. Basically, all the good parts and almost none of the grouchy parts.

But hey! We're having a BBQ at my daughter's house, so that will be great. And here's a photo of the Idaho fireworks from last year:

And here's a little mix of relevant America songs, courtesy of Scotland daughter's mixing talents:

And in conclusion, some American things I love: the Gettysburg Address; Frederick Douglass's autobiography; the Declaration of Independence; blueberries; watermelon; ice cream; Title IX; basketball; the movies; hot dogs (don't get me started); Target; Yellowstone; the great rivers of the West; the Idaho bluebird and the Western tanager; community colleges (for real); my whole dang family; and the persistent hope, however slim, of the electoral process.

Happy Fourth, everyone, however you celebrate.

Fauna (with no pictures).

At the end of the day, in Yellowstone:

The historian: (steering the Camry of Power into a pullout, so a speedster can pass us) I don't think I should be going much faster than this, do you?

Me: No. I was just reading (brandishing the ample documentation, newsletters, maps, warning leaflets, and whatnot that they give you when you drive into the park) that every year, 200 large mammals are killed on the road. Because of speeding. So 45 is perfect. Those guys are assholes.

The historian: ...and speaking of that,

Me: A WOLF! (which is sauntering down the middle of the road. It glances back at us, then crosses to the shoulder and down into a meadow.)

The historian: Think that's a wolf? Probably a coyote.

Me: Awwwwwwwww, let's say it's a wolf. (wrestling with my camera and its long lens, trying to point in the right direction, as we drive slowly by)

The historian: No, maybe it is a wolf. Looks too big to be a coyote.

Me: A WOLF. (failing failing failing to get the wolf into the frame)

The historian: Do you want me to stop?

Me: No. . . I missed it. I didn't get it. (camera all bulky and not really my friend yet, acting like it's a little too good for me in my fumbly hands.)

The historian: You sure? We can stop.

Me: No. Let the wolf be. (All of a sudden, wise in the ways of nature. Philosophical. Zen-like. Turning to The historian:) The WOLF.

The end.

This week, I've read the final novel in several detective/police series. I just finished The Troubled Man, Henning Mankell's final novel in the Kurt Wallander series; I also read the last novels in Robert B. Parker's Spenser and Jesse Stone series. On hand, I also have a new novel by Ian Rankin, whose final Inspector Rebus novel I read a while ago. I'm thinking about these final gestures--the final novels of the Rankin and Mankell series were decisions by the writers, who had, I'm guessing, come to feel these characters and the constraints surrounding their stories as a burden; Parker died last year, so these books were the last ones in the pipeline, (although I guess there's another Spenser novel that is "finished by" an assistant or something).

I found the experience of reading the Mankell novel to be unexpectedly upsetting, moving and sad, but also disturbing. I hope I'm not giving anything away when I say that Ian Rankin's Inspector Rebus simply retired from police work in the final novel, but the fate of Wallander is not as straightforward (no spoilers here). I had to stop reading The Troubled Man for a little while this afternoon, because I realized that while I wanted to experience the resolution of the plot--what, after all, did become of the missing man, and who was he really?--I was not ready to say goodbye to Wallander, even though I found him to be a fairly frustrating character.

In the case of the Parker novels, and the character of Spenser specifically, I experienced something else again. I began reading his novels at another part of my life entirely, twenty-five years ago now. I always got around to reading the new novels as they appeared in my local library. After awhile, I knew that none of them would blow my mind, but the books were reliable in this sense: Spenser's voice was consistent, always; Parker knew and loved the great oeuvre of American hard-boiled; and he had a set of ideas to work through, about masculinity, about loyalty, about love, even. There was enough interest for me--and evidently for a lot of people, since he wrote dozens of books--that it felt like a small, if limited, delight to revisit the character, his scenes, his associations.

When I read that Parker had died, I felt a loss, personally. I read the last Spenser novel in the spirit of elegy, and in that regard, the experience of reading it was enhanced, or at least affected. (If you want to get a sense of how other crime fiction writers regarded Parker, read here and here.)

I am interested to know what my fellow Mankell-reading compatriots think of the final Wallander novel. It put me in mind of a wonderful B-movie-ish movie directed by George Romero, The Dark Half. (I loved that movie so much I bought it--in VHS!--but I did just discover in the course of my internet "research" on The Dark Half that both Siskel and Ebert could not recommend it. Tragic.) In the film, a writer who publishes literary fiction under his own name, but pulp novels under a pseudonym, writes what he hopes will be his very last pulp novel, then ceremoniously, and publicly, conducts a mock funeral for his pseudonymous "other half." It will not surprise you to know that, since the original story is written by Stephen King, the other half does not stay buried, and havoc--non-literary havoc--ensues.

I wonder, I wonder: will Mankell miss Wallander? Will the writer be sorry, finally, that his relationship with this long-time character, perhaps his other, has ended?

Sights.

Idaho stats.

Purchases: butter, cheese, Coke, potato chips.

Reading: British police procedural; 200 pages of The Bridge.

Wildlife: osprey taking a fish from the river; bluebird; unidentified ground creature, just out of sight; possible bats.

Naps: very satisfying.

Stillness: vast.

Stars: without end.

In Idaho,

where we have only just arrived in the dark, the sky is full of stars. The river is very high. It is cold, but warming up. I have already opened my arms wide wide wide the better to take in the big breath of the air. We are here.

On not writing.

The people, I am not writing. Not currently. (sparing you the obvious caveat, that I am writing, writing this. Not writing poetry. I think you knew that's what I meant.)

Why? That's the question on the lips of the people. Or of me, one of the people.

Here's my latest assessment of the--I'm not even calling it a problem, not yet:

• sometimes you let writing get far away from you. (by "you," I mean, obviously, "me.")
• when that happens, you have to be patient while you find your way back to it.
• "finding your way back" means agreeing to be a rank beginner again, facing your lameness, pressing on. You've got to be strong for that business. Or resilient, same thing.
• I don't worry--much--that I won't find my way back. I've been here before. I know how to get there.

In the meantime, I am working on feeling good most of the time. This means, for me, right now, walking with Bruiser, taking my bike for a spin, reading, cooking, stepping out into the green world, cultivating a feeling of unhurry, and most of all, letting go of the belief that if I'm not working really really hard, things are falling apart.

Philip Levine once said that if you take care of poetry, poetry will take care of you. Maybe that means, at this point, letting myself be open enough to it; making time and space for it; then getting down to it.

For heaven's sake.

Well, the people, I have notes for a fancy ass blog post that would probably take like nine pages to get out, because it is complex and intertwine-y and full of philosophical pauses so that you may reflect. But when I went to write it, I thought, gaaa! blah blah blah, I don't have the time left in my allotted years to write that post, which, I may still write it. But not tonight. Tonight, I am going to say the following: today, I

• returned some red shoes I ordered online which did not, as it turns out, fit my IRL feet, to Urban Outfitters, and bought two cute and probably slightly junky rings with the return-o-money (that's a special category of money, in case you haven't heard of it);
• had lunch with a friend;
• left my cell phone AGAIN at a place that required fetching it (the historian was the designated fetcher), but did not realize this fact until later, see below;
• gathered facts and data for two reports I still need to write (can you believe that? me either.);
• met with a student who's doing an independent study book-making project or projects, we shall have to see how it all turns out in the end;
• and only then realized that I had left my cell phone hither and yon;
• and through my superior powers of detection and superb memory, realized where I had probably left it;
• and stewed about it while I drove home, where I could call the place at which my cell phone was most likely residing in its lostness;
• and called, and confirmed, and then called and e-mailed the historian to beg that he deploy his powers of goodness to retrieve, aka fetch, the roustabout phone, which is evidently filled with the desire to be lost;
• and went to the movie with my daughter, because that was the plan, and a little item like a lost phone can't interrupt a movie plan.

The movie was excellent, the phone was retrieved, we had burritos and fresh salsa for dinner, and then took a neighborhood spin on our bikes.

Fill this in with complex intertwinery and some pauses, and you pretty much have my other post, I think, so I think I'll go ahead and skip it. Check in tomorrow for new possible cheap jewelry, a-la-minute dinners, facts and data, and shoes, probably red, and hopefully that fit.

California sketches.

Day 2: Lunch at Neiman Marcus in Union Square. There are ladies there, of the "who lunch" variety. They make, for the lunch special, a crab sandwich, Dungeness crab on a soft sourdough roll, with wholegrain mustard, arugula, and a peach compote. When you ask the server to find out what's in the peach compote, he returns with the following list, written on a folded piece of paper in black ink: "white peaches, thyme, lemon zest, orange juice, honey, white onion, salt & pepper." You can, and should, eat every single possible bite of this sandwich, and tuck the peach compote list into your wallet.

After lunch, downstairs, when you attempt to purchase a Chanel lipgloss in a neutral, non-sparkly color by the name of "Giggle," you will need to have a Neiman Marcus credit card, an American Express card, or cash, because the MasterCard and/or Visa you actually have in your wallet is too déclassé, too gauche, too cru, not enough cuit, apparently. But that's all right. That sandwich makes it all right, and you happen to have the cash.

Day 3: Cake. Because it is your friend's birthday, cake must be obtained. This means that, after your excellent lunch (for her, an egg salad sandwich, with tomato and olive tapenade and smoked salmon, on semolina bread; for you, ancho chili braised pork shoulder on the creamiest polenta ever devised by human hands), you go back to the counter and order up two cupcakes (for her, chocolate with chocolate frosting; for you, a banana cupcake with cream cheese icing). Each is wrapped in its own little white box. Because we are no longer hungry (sandwich/pork/polenta), we bring the cupcakes with us. And then we go hither and yon, here and there, checking out this and that, until cupcake time arrives.

But the sun has also arrived, and the heady crown of icing on the chocolate cupcake is a slick of melted butter, leaving only a little glisten of chocolate on the cake itself. Alas.

But because you are in Sonoma County, great bakeries abound, and thus all is not even close to being lost. Also, your quick-witted friend, the birthday girl, happens to know where cake is to be obtained. A chocolate cupcake for her, a coconut cupcake for me: happy birthday! And then, it is high time to catch a late afternoon showing of Bridesmaids. Cheers to that.

Day 4: this, that, departure, arrival. We get up and eat a medley of toast--cinnamon toast and meyer lemon rosemary toast. Berries and creme fraiche. Because, two days before, I had mistakenly thought that I didn't really need this book, we go back to Copperfield's to rectify that error, where I also buy another detective novel, a book about cake, a copy of Boom, and a book of poems. Lunch. Then on the shuttle to Oakland.

In San Rafael, travelers to Oakland de-board the bus, then step onto another, a transition that takes but a few minutes. At the platform, there are a dozen, or six, young men, boisterous, in good spirits. I think to myself, I am not one of those people who find boisterous young men to be threatening. But I feel a little cautious, all the same.

At the Oakland airport, which joins a small but select list of small airports that are a pleasure to fly to and from, one of the Delta people comes and, before I can get my confirmation number out, checks me in at the kiosk and prints out my boarding pass. At security, there are exactly two people ahead of me. We saunter through. I take off my rings and put them in the bin. A young man tells me, in a friendly advisory way, "Rings won't set it off. You don't have to take them off. Unless you're wearing a ton of them." I buy noodle salad and read my magazine.

And now I'm home. I woke up this morning feeling dehydrated, and also as if I'd had bad dreams. Also, disoriented. I forgot about a meeting I was going to have this morning--my colleague and I had agreed to meet on the Thursday of the second week of June. Is that now? It's, like, week 1.5, was my feeling this morning. By one o'clock or so I more or less had my bearings. And now I know I'm home because, for dinner, (a) I made soup, (b) I baked bread, and (c) I am baking a cake as we speak.

OKAY.

So, this week has included, thus far:

1. vacation Monday, which ended with

2. ceiling collapse/need a new roof Tuesday.

3. roofer consultations and bids galore.

4. visit to grandchild's classroom for class opera The Friends (excellent, by the by).

5. lunch with grandchild and fam.

6. second lunch with colleague and friend.

7. book group.

8. breakfast with daughter and grandson.

9. food shopping for

10. baby shower for other colleague and friend.

As full of delights as this list is--and it is full! heaven knows, busting out all over with delights!--I need to get to work.

The historian and I just had a little midday phone call, because (a) more roofing talk, and (b) I left my phone at a store across the street from where I had breakfast this morning. He said, "So what have you got to do today?"

To which I replied, "I have a whole list":

1. straighten (this verb includes a myriad of stuff and messes)

2. wash (the whites and the sheets)

3. make videos (which I owe, in a sense, my college...therefore, I have procrastinated and resisted--one of my small handful of key, signature moves)

4. sew (I have inventoried the piles of fabric I have accumulated over the years. I am going to make things out of this fabric. Some things.)

5. cook @ 4. For the baby shower.

So it's time to get cracking.

Notice how there's no writing in that list? I wonder: what's that about?

Would you rather...

...fall asleep at the appointed hour, in good spirits, having almost finished your crossword puzzle,

OR

at the very same appointed hour, hear your husband say oh. my. GOD. upon going into the hall bathroom, to find that the ceiling has caved in and the room is full of insulation and soggy wall board?

Would you rather...

spend the day quietly working on your manuscript, fending off the ancient voices saying what is the effing POINT, instead finding the satisfaction in reconstructing the manuscript's narrative, its arc, its aesthetic, and whatnot,

OR

do this same whole manuscript deal shut in the bedroom with your dog, who is quietly whining in a voice full of pathos because he cannot fully inspect the roofing guy, who is here, there, and everywhere, about to give you an estimate for which portion of your fortune you will part with so that your roof will not leak?

River.

The Wet Spring That Was is also occurring in Idaho. My dad called to say, a few hours ago, that a severe weather watch was in effect in eastern Idaho, with as much as a dozen inches of snow predicted for Island Park. Snow! This has put a serious crimp in the unrolling of my grand plan, which occurs in this order:

• Finish the semester (check)
• Finish grading (check!)
• Go to L.A. (check)
• Come home and cry a little (also check!)
• See a dubious comedy @ Brewvies, with Dr. Write et al (hi Jane & Pam!)(also, hello Shroom & Swiss Gardenburger with fries!)
• Gather my wits and be the happy genius of my house (in progress, but check!)
• Drive up to Idaho with my folks to open the cabin and spend some quality time with them. (weather-related wrench in the gears!)

After that, there was to be, and still will be

• Go to the west desert with singing son for a music weekend
• Go to NoCal to see my oldest darling friend
• Return to Zion, then drive north with the historian to Idaho

Well, time, fortune, and the weather will sort themselves out. One way or another, we'll be in Idaho, oh YES WE WILL BE IN IDAHO sometime in June.

But until then, perhaps a few pictures of the Glendale Narrows section of the Los Angeles River will cheer us all up. If we needed cheering up, which, around here, actually, we don't:

The visit.

I can't remember if I ever wrote about how, when we tried to go to the Watts Towers a year and a half ago, we drove around Watts with only the sketchiest of directions for awhile, an hour maybe, until, like, the third time we were driving through the housing project, our eyes cast upward, because we thought that surely those towers would manifest themselves because after all, weren't they towers, as in, tall? I said to the historian, you know, they're saying to themselves, "Those white people (in their Camry) are trying to find the Watts Towers."

We did not find the Watts Towers that day. But we definitely found them this time.

To the desert:

Here, it is hot during the day, as one might expect. At night, it cools down. Here, in this house high on a hill, just north of Joshua Tree National Park, late in the day, we open the doors and windows to let the cool in. Because it's a house I'm not used to, I wake a few times in the night. The windows are uncurtained because the house is remote, and I can see the changing face of the sky. A three-quarter moon. An airy tree. At six, a sky all blue and bright with sun.

In this desert house, there is no television, and more, I need less diversion. Diversion from what? There are art magazines and books. In the past, when I've subscribed to art magazines, they often just felt like pretentious noise. This was especially true when what I needed more than anything was diversion. I am thinking about diversion a lot, because I realize, what I've been seeking to be diverted from is my life, my actual life. I thought the stress emanated only from the job, but that's because the job felt like it was my only life.

But that's done. Today, I wrote a million ideas. Not ideas for diversions, and not ideas for my job. Ideas for my work, my work and my life.

In the desert, like everywhere else, there is a history that lives in the layers of things. Today, we found out about the sea that covered the California deserts. There are artifacts left from the people who lived by it, near the Pinto Mountains. And all over the desert there are oases, where California fan palm trees grow. Yesterday, we hiked up Palm Canyon, outside of Palm Springs. Palm Canyon, part of a complex of canyons known as "Indian Canyons," are not too far from a golf course and resort. All of it is owned by the Agua Caliente band of the Cahuilla tribe. You can't believe how beautiful and how peaceful.

According to the tribe,

With our language dying, our ceremonies fading and the younger generation leaving the old ways, the death of our Tribal leader brought the past and future together in a momentous way. The elders determined that there was no one left among us to serve as the people's teacher, to preside over meetings, rituals, rites of passage, and wield the power of the Um na'a as had been done since the creation of the world. They came to the painful decision that no one would be named as our new net and that the traditional ceremonial house would be burned. As fire engulfed the structure, so went many of our ancient ways. It was time, they said, to look to the future.

I have been looking to the past, to try to understand my own and how it intersects with this particular landscape. Here, in a place where there are so many ruined houses, so many abandoned sites of enterprise and human artificing from every possible era, I'm laying hands upon a will, a desire to start again, an urge from which I will not be diverted.

Lots of pretty people there, reading Rolling Stone, reading Vogue.

At Rockn Fish, in Manhattan Beach. We are sitting on the patio; the historian has his back to the door, which means I am in precisely the spot to observe the comings and goings:

Me: You can't see the exceedingly well-groomed people coming in and out of here.

The historian: Really? (continues eating his artichoke.)

Me: Yeah. Like, just now: tall guy, eyebrows clearly professionally groomed, airbrushed tan.

Velvet blazer. Very well-fitted.

The historian: That could be me.

Me: ...yet tragically, it is not.

Fancy.

Today, after we got up, ate breakfast, returned to our room with every intention of going down to the beach to contemplate the vastness of things, but instead took a little post-breakfast nap, we then got up in time to pursue part 2 of our agenda, which was getting in the car and driving to the Miracle Mile, aka Museum Row, aka the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, aka LACMA, and it was so great.

Reason 1 it was great: I have apparently become expert at navigating the Los Angeles freeways and byways. So we drove to the LACMA like it was our job, and we just got merit pay for doing our job very very well.

Reason 2 it was great: upon arrival, we ate at Ray's, which is kind of a fancy restaurant for a museum. But lucky you, I have taken extensive notes on our dining experience for your delectation and delight. We saw some other great stuff today, believe me, and I wouldn't say this lunch trumped them all. But this lunch was damn good.

First of all: we love to eat at museum eateries. On this we agree. But it turns out that the historian prefers a more democratic eating experience at museums, whereas I like all kinds of eating experiences, but if pressed, must admit that I often enjoy a fancy lunch. This means that, when we both say, "We love to eat at museum cafes," we have different experiences in mind. This is a lesson, by the way, in the instability of language. Woe!

So when we walked in and it was clearly an order-from-the-menu, sit-down type of experience we were about to have, if we decided to stay, the historian briefly demurred. But I clearly had the tragic air of a person about to be denied her heart's desire, so instead, we sat down.

The first item I saw on the menu was this: "Foraged Lettuces."

I said, "Look, we can mock the menu."

The historian said, "No, this is fine," because he had made up his mind to enjoy it no matter if he would rather have had a lovely sandwich with perhaps a fancy bag of chips alongside. And though I felt mildly guilty for my fancy preferences, I thought, oh what the hell. So we turned to serious menu-reading, after ordering drinks (iced tea for me ["We have two kinds ice tea. Plumberry--it's black--or green, it's ginger and peach."] and water for both of us ["Sparkling or flat?"]). See? Fancy.

When they brought my iced tea, they also brought this:

The people, that is four kinds of sugar. FOUR. And all of a sudden, I knew this lunch was going to be awesome. So here is what we had:

The historian ordered a cold artichoke soup, with goat's milk yogurt, fried mint, and some food item that started with a "v" that I can't remember, sadly. It was tart and beautiful. He also ordered a flatbread for us to share, which turned out to be a pizza, a very very delicious pizza, made with taggiasche olives, what must have been the freshest ricotta in the universe, some broccolini, and black pepper.

I ordered an albacore salad, which was a variation on a Nicoise. It had cannelini beans with a little bit of broth, rare seared tuna, haricots verts, chopped piquillo peppers, shaved red onion, and--wait for it!--black olive aioli. That aioli was so good, it just about blew my mind.

Also, that iced tea was just about the best iced tea I've ever had, and that's with no sugar added. The sugar was just iced tea scenery. It was iced tea ambiance, and a very good ambiance it was, as it turns out.

So our guy, who is about the most charming waiter known to man, says he hopes we've saved room for dessert. Fat chance, we say to ourselves, but he is charming. So we say, sure, we'll look at a menu. And on the menu, under the name "Citrus," is this:

That is, for your information, an orange marmalade cake, with grapefruit curd, then a little meringue, topped with thinly sliced mandarinquat. With a little fancy sugar. And by its side, a suave spoonful of bergamot sorbet. BERGAMOT. I am not kidding you. It was without peer, and I say this as a person who has made lemon verbena ice cream which is, up until this afternoon, the best ice cream I ever tasted. Also, this is a video because I forgot to set it on a photo setting, and it is sideways because I don't know why. Just accept it, okay? Bergamot sorbet, for crying out loud.

Lastly, although actually this was more like firstly, the utensils and napkin were contained in this manner:

In conclusion: the people, why not go to Ray's?

With a side of carbs, please.

At Mangiamo's, after a long day of driving:

Server: ...and another appetizer special, sweet potato gnocchi, in a sage butter sauce, with roasted garlic, and finished with asiago cheese.

Us: We'll have some of that...

Me: ...and I'll be ordering from the special pasta menu--carbonara.

Server: ...and for your salad?

Me: [puzzled. Please to explain?]

Server: I don't know if you knew this, but since tonight is special pasta night, you also get a salad, like a dinner salad? or a Caesar?

Me: Caesar!

The historian: I'll have the puttanesca. With the dinner salad, and bleu cheese.

Server: So, with those salads, do you still want the gnocchi?

Us: Sure!

Server: And how about bread?

Us: YES.

I'll even kiss a Sunset pig.

Signs of life.

Sunday, Mother's Day, we had a big gaggle of family over for a barbeque in the rain. To prepare for this, we mowed the backyard and did a ton of yardwork in the front, so that we could all mill around inside and look out. At the rain. It was so much fun.

Monday, the day after Mother's Day, I took my son to the airport. Then I came home to the quiet of the house, to grading. We ate leftovers from the party.

Tuesday, yesterday, I stayed home all day, grading. I made dinner, with lots of vegetables. I finished my grades and prepared for the next day's meetings.

Today, I had meetings all day. I came home and started a batch of bread and made soup. I took a nap. I baked the bread and we ate it with the soup. Outside, the light is perfect. The hydrangea, daisies, geraniums and pelargonia, lemon verbena, lavender, rosemary and basil we planted on the weekend gleam in their pots.

Open letter to the vegetarian option.

Dear The Vegetarian Option,

Because there was no fish option, which is what I usually opt for at the occasional institutional dinner event, you and I met again last night, The Vegetarian Option, at the round table on the far edge of the room, the giant ballroom filled with dignitaries and rich people and a bunch of us employee types, who were there to season the conversation and decorate the event. I keep thinking that things have changed--that "vegetarian" is actually a cuisine, maybe, at this point. I know I've eaten vegetarian food that has the imagination, the inventiveness, the je ne sais quoi of cuisine, that still fits the criterion "vegetarian." I cook this kind of food all the time.

But not you, The Vegetarian Option. No, there you sat in the bowl, all overcooked penne and saucy sauce, and cut up green-and-yellow summer squash and the occasional incongruous carrot chunk.

First of all, penne pasta: you are not optimal for this non-optimal dish. You are hefty where you should be subtle, and you are tubular and in general, suitable for other treatments, such as baking in cheese. Al forno, penne pasta: you are optimal for that.

Second of all, green-and-yellow summer squash: you are not currently seasonal, and you are in fact usually tasteless. You are a veritable place-holder of a vegetable. Not even the fancy decorative cut-outs in the shape of leaves with leaf-vein divots on the tops of them can address your deficiencies, vegetable-wise.

Thirdly, carrots? I love carrots. But a carrot, particularly in chunk form, is not--how shall we say?--relevant to this dish.

But most of all, The Vegetarian Option, you are lousy with thoughtlessness, rife with lack of care, with I'm-just-here-to-fill-a-dish-ness. You imply that the vegetarian, because she does not care for meat, does not care about food at all. I am taking it personally, The Vegetarian Option. From henceforth you are my nemesis and I shall not rest until you, The Vegetarian Option, behave like actual food, rather than the fodder you actually are.

I mean it,

lisa b.