tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75382363879199595072024-03-18T23:42:40.981-05:00Ritual and Rhubarb Piea blog about food, celebration, books and publication, a stage on which the spiritual and sensual can dance together. Why rhubarb pie? See Archive 2009 below. magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-30342850162466883342015-08-01T16:00:00.001-05:002015-08-30T16:57:15.993-05:00Martha's Vineyard Redux —the Eighth Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9lm5WIJ2iwUkaLnt7Zci9QMa6l4FHSOzQ5-rdK_EBuKST4kkESS43Vfi_nsJqJUgfREKTswPGbdRCxZbx7Vzndct-nGGkulkF2IlpHotw6fiKGe5uwktumZ_UseYvQ8RukL-usyVgUDP/s1600/Cape+Poge+panorama.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9lm5WIJ2iwUkaLnt7Zci9QMa6l4FHSOzQ5-rdK_EBuKST4kkESS43Vfi_nsJqJUgfREKTswPGbdRCxZbx7Vzndct-nGGkulkF2IlpHotw6fiKGe5uwktumZ_UseYvQ8RukL-usyVgUDP/s640/Cape+Poge+panorama.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Panorama from top of the Cape Poge lighthouse, Chappaquiddick, Martha's Vineyard, with Erica</span></h3>
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The Kast family week on Martha's Vineyard was just a wistful wish the year I turned 70. "You can have it," said my daughter, Erica, and I did. Our motley mix includes the progeny and friends of many marriages, ranging in age from 2 (great-grandson Avi and granddaughter Arisha) to 77 (me). Some come now and then, some every year, some came once and not again. Births and deaths have altered us, but the event perdures. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NptEcXdrouPYJanzAXsfY4mv5RV0cGWgcECc_LkdAKveCNxnMe4EizAA67DobPlFw7f6NKo2hNkjxm004ClZYIcBH1m4zmHsu40_fIYAsulG1j2FJ_KOvdUX64xjf9dOpmuXz5hKOgpH/s1600/New+Bedfor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NptEcXdrouPYJanzAXsfY4mv5RV0cGWgcECc_LkdAKveCNxnMe4EizAA67DobPlFw7f6NKo2hNkjxm004ClZYIcBH1m4zmHsu40_fIYAsulG1j2FJ_KOvdUX64xjf9dOpmuXz5hKOgpH/s200/New+Bedfor.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Containers, New Bedford</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Y1v371G782sCOdOQu0YajqHrg0Y1hqHLPi3TAXicw9q-4hRTscEleDiAHINdIoziPzeVIohLkTcmlAsPkK7KJr2Hh6RH_nWSycAZMT1RCanl2A303LwPtjU_s_kp8yLu-AWIYXnLMxE-/s1600/Cathy+%2526+Carter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Y1v371G782sCOdOQu0YajqHrg0Y1hqHLPi3TAXicw9q-4hRTscEleDiAHINdIoziPzeVIohLkTcmlAsPkK7KJr2Hh6RH_nWSycAZMT1RCanl2A303LwPtjU_s_kp8yLu-AWIYXnLMxE-/s200/Cathy+%2526+Carter.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathy and Carter</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpsHE_8cryihJ7KVLx4uODo_S-6ru7c2B7CX9oeAkbycQC87_R8-cdsKOHFtPwWZNgc2CzDMOGQKxg8Q6qgpX3bqMr0N8up3PeSC2uQyewclDp3G2y2Wdx4h4ilUWADF6vA-gc1HcvxFS/s1600/Carter+on+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihpsHE_8cryihJ7KVLx4uODo_S-6ru7c2B7CX9oeAkbycQC87_R8-cdsKOHFtPwWZNgc2CzDMOGQKxg8Q6qgpX3bqMr0N8up3PeSC2uQyewclDp3G2y2Wdx4h4ilUWADF6vA-gc1HcvxFS/s200/Carter+on+porch.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter doing Barre</td></tr>
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This year I spent the previous week with Carter Frank and Kathy Koch on
Cuttyhunk, a tiny island with neither cars nor stores just off the
Vineyard. Thus the crane in New Bedford hoisting containers of supplies
onto the Cuttyhunk ferry. Carter did a barre each morning on the porch,
followed by Cunningham 6's and Tai Chi. I wrote, all read and hiked and
swam.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJe4yh1shwUkzbGiji8TpGkJfRyFCygr5FQ0hBRwXuI3kf6vUv-VSf-Ab4z08gDUGL5AT04AueDVkqB7XIERyQS83A2DHCrpEPd9dX-dmfduAeOJwP29n1E19WNDVmgJYZmCz-Kks4WGV/s1600/Richard+%2526+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifJe4yh1shwUkzbGiji8TpGkJfRyFCygr5FQ0hBRwXuI3kf6vUv-VSf-Ab4z08gDUGL5AT04AueDVkqB7XIERyQS83A2DHCrpEPd9dX-dmfduAeOJwP29n1E19WNDVmgJYZmCz-Kks4WGV/s320/Richard+%2526+me.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Richard and Maggie on porch</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Staying in Matthew Deyo's East Chop house on Martha's Vineyard (the place we like the best), we cooked each night with produce from the West Tisbury Farmer's Market, swam on Jetty Beach (even Richard got wet once, and Avi loved the water). We kayaked on Sengekontacket Pond (Joan's first time), rode the ancient carousel, bought fish to grill in Menemsha and ate a lobster roll along the harbor.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHKcelldoXo6VOmnvyWrxZC_kJ1gFwIjUZN6AaS4mCuDR1QAI-ceB5Qkj6yLnGMb84t_rq_MiK6ZdKbJ4pKpBrKdw07Dj8GNnxVq8lCtrQoSqUPU2V2QzaxrzHpLbRTmj1HU284lfhXjT/s1600/Ari+%2526+Avi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOHKcelldoXo6VOmnvyWrxZC_kJ1gFwIjUZN6AaS4mCuDR1QAI-ceB5Qkj6yLnGMb84t_rq_MiK6ZdKbJ4pKpBrKdw07Dj8GNnxVq8lCtrQoSqUPU2V2QzaxrzHpLbRTmj1HU284lfhXjT/s320/Ari+%2526+Avi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ari, Avi and Oliver on Jetty Beach</td></tr>
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Kim, Joan and Erica loved the stronger surf on Longpoint Beach, and I, as you can see, preferred to watch.<br />
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My son, Anton flew six hours each way to join us for a day, just in time for the family portrait. Granddaughter Emma, interning for Bernie Sanders; had the fun but missed the portrait; Aza was en route to Asia; Tom and family had just settled outside Vienna and could not come. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAZXqGYC8a2lR_e3W7n2BPSzltCLLzwXf5pBtk9typIkTuB0UAabJB5RSontd9sB3uFg0t0DsaWZ1WfYqkM4cEkcFdgIQRFkYjGDGIsiZMdKsY5QYFn2XJgx0xfjSn_cBoM_SWnw6h3z8/s1600/me+at+Longpoint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnAZXqGYC8a2lR_e3W7n2BPSzltCLLzwXf5pBtk9typIkTuB0UAabJB5RSontd9sB3uFg0t0DsaWZ1WfYqkM4cEkcFdgIQRFkYjGDGIsiZMdKsY5QYFn2XJgx0xfjSn_cBoM_SWnw6h3z8/s200/me+at+Longpoint.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie at Longpoint Beach (photo by Erica)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioV1ynzxuD_ieRz8dYCix2AIAW4QLdRt8AHcQCJ2dea97UdS-v61w44dlvjFh9Rv3j3tlH-9r95AAKvxpbA_ujBCNnIWAc_ZC8Kmcp0HfytH73r1QowMZm9NhErBewBcgybb26ofrW332e/s1600/inside+Lighthouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioV1ynzxuD_ieRz8dYCix2AIAW4QLdRt8AHcQCJ2dea97UdS-v61w44dlvjFh9Rv3j3tlH-9r95AAKvxpbA_ujBCNnIWAc_ZC8Kmcp0HfytH73r1QowMZm9NhErBewBcgybb26ofrW332e/s200/inside+Lighthouse.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Cape Poge Lighthouse</td></tr>
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Erica and I made our first trip to Cape Poge, way out on the tip of Chappaquiddick, where Oyster Catchers feed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LJgQDO9OkMOR6E6yBmAZ9EN4LGqFxCacRGUfXRfJ25ZAt7lddwnwJPEameDqqd3DT6nRo5Q3gzZSnhmH5uxFRLVgHY_kwxDE1sdKPbPSaYc1VT90leeVg0rElwyiEOWnYD0t7lk-FhOS/s1600/oyser+catcher1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2LJgQDO9OkMOR6E6yBmAZ9EN4LGqFxCacRGUfXRfJ25ZAt7lddwnwJPEameDqqd3DT6nRo5Q3gzZSnhmH5uxFRLVgHY_kwxDE1sdKPbPSaYc1VT90leeVg0rElwyiEOWnYD0t7lk-FhOS/s200/oyser+catcher1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oyster Catcher</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMM9qTM6NwVxEiRUHK1mwyLScOjHxw-ueUl7TI_nRPaL7vcaWcl53b0bRzdnP-3deL7vVzLHVyxrBitGXxpwxShCCNlfakXYmfZipTZDfVTJ2Q1Ah2MWvh9TxEscnackfVw2_tUMOKWQh/s1600/familyportrait2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYMM9qTM6NwVxEiRUHK1mwyLScOjHxw-ueUl7TI_nRPaL7vcaWcl53b0bRzdnP-3deL7vVzLHVyxrBitGXxpwxShCCNlfakXYmfZipTZDfVTJ2Q1Ah2MWvh9TxEscnackfVw2_tUMOKWQh/s320/familyportrait2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica, Maggie, Kim, Eun, Joan, Oliver in back row; Anton, Avi, Ari, Richard in front</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyU34sHjVbhM6Wh2GQBDLLqGT-XNq22msDyqzo6WhGGTHWdR7wDmrm6ws3b0lEhC2ez7PGpSqGs1c-96lCtiXvl1sMbBzKuuqaNi9qbrY8pf3yiMzBQ58P6c2z9O2Kya0V_p_8Ud7ek09/s1600/Minemsha+panorama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="139" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigyU34sHjVbhM6Wh2GQBDLLqGT-XNq22msDyqzo6WhGGTHWdR7wDmrm6ws3b0lEhC2ez7PGpSqGs1c-96lCtiXvl1sMbBzKuuqaNi9qbrY8pf3yiMzBQ58P6c2z9O2Kya0V_p_8Ud7ek09/s640/Minemsha+panorama.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Menemsha Panorama, Kim and Maggie (photo by Erica)</td></tr>
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-17179261632865053842015-06-11T16:02:00.001-05:002015-06-11T16:03:16.105-05:00Climbing the Learning Curve<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJJU8PEfSLxxKPLx7m6AN60T_bA99DsO-M_zpaiyGvbRwqvUk3fOJ1X1u1nvSvxuqPbWtI8a6cotujG0rCurYea9H0ye4vVpXHIfPZkIcK6vq7Ze_6i1NRzfiioYk1zL35xd60l3jjSS-/s1600/adventure-climb-mountain-cordoba-argentina_31446_160x120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJJU8PEfSLxxKPLx7m6AN60T_bA99DsO-M_zpaiyGvbRwqvUk3fOJ1X1u1nvSvxuqPbWtI8a6cotujG0rCurYea9H0ye4vVpXHIfPZkIcK6vq7Ze_6i1NRzfiioYk1zL35xd60l3jjSS-/s200/adventure-climb-mountain-cordoba-argentina_31446_160x120.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
Over the last two or three days I've hoisted myself up a steep learning curve, one handhold after the other, and craned my neck to see the widening view. With terrific boosts from <a href="http://www.ilanmochari.com/" target="_blank">Ilan Mochari,</a> fellow <a href="http://fomitepress.com/" target="_blank">Fomite</a> writer and author of <a href="http://www.zinskytheobscure.com/" target="_blank">Zinsky the Obscure</a>; and from <a href="http://authors.simonandschuster.com/Lynne-Griffin/68450232" target="_blank">Lynne Griffin</a>, writer and faculty member of <a href="https://www.grubstreet.org/programs/the-launch-lab/the-launch-lab-details" target="_blank">Grub Street's Launch Lab,</a> I'm beginning to get it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpUaxt_yc5mRdrxK4v6Yxpk_Xw0215gj_1h2RIaLXcLKqWU3amkzFmy0mGFVop2-NaudpofYbLitRNyNkdXSAYWPiJZS7eRUwbjfKaeXG8wSpmsWEFOt53ddYosQkaZsSLroThmioHUBS/s1600/ERdrich+ARC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTpUaxt_yc5mRdrxK4v6Yxpk_Xw0215gj_1h2RIaLXcLKqWU3amkzFmy0mGFVop2-NaudpofYbLitRNyNkdXSAYWPiJZS7eRUwbjfKaeXG8wSpmsWEFOt53ddYosQkaZsSLroThmioHUBS/s1600/ERdrich+ARC.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Galleys labelled for submission</td></tr>
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In this landscape, two worlds intersect: the one of pre-publication reviews and the other of indie presses. Fomite Press has given me the advantages of skillful, personal editing and cooperative decision making, but cannot possibly do the marketing traditionally done by a major publishing house, where submission for pre-publication review happens automatically. In that scenario, the publisher recommends the book in glowing terms, prepares galleys in a set format that includes marketing plans, and commissions an in-house publicist to do the footwork: package the galleys with that enthusiastic letter and a press release and send them out.<br />
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The job of the writer with an indie press is to reiterate this process, playing the roles of publisher, publicist and author as well. In other words, write that hyperbolic letter, no matter how much it may make you squirm, put it on the publisher's letterhead (with their permission of course), send it to the publisher for signature and mail it out with a set of galleys. Most important of all, do this three to four months before the book's release date. Often galleys will have marketing plans on the back, and some will have additional information on a title page. If yours don't, you can include this information in your cover letter. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMoFKZd-zWSN2SZyp0q4TNt55Pgz1UaxQuypw-QOTwB9Yct8Z1bb6lWnIVtb1FRBshxzku3Bp2z9pqKc17rt-2GyGRmlRtkKO0EPKDw4NR6qlN-LGzJ9u9K5BPtT1ZQDp9gpSc4i0Zw0I/s1600/pre-pubmarketing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpMoFKZd-zWSN2SZyp0q4TNt55Pgz1UaxQuypw-QOTwB9Yct8Z1bb6lWnIVtb1FRBshxzku3Bp2z9pqKc17rt-2GyGRmlRtkKO0EPKDw4NR6qlN-LGzJ9u9K5BPtT1ZQDp9gpSc4i0Zw0I/s1600/pre-pubmarketing.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back cover with information on marketing campaign.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnMOe-9fiFnfhK3EzV4uQdphbeyhpR54KV6hB3Ww6XUjQ-Fj7zxvA6E5O9FiwdWJiIOtpndSdwAAz1RjpN7O7y9-XPZevhDl3r35RukdgJ3xu3ldqo5_GxCXw_xDJNTNIoPS-Pd-bMHd2/s1600/pre-pubtitlepage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvnMOe-9fiFnfhK3EzV4uQdphbeyhpR54KV6hB3Ww6XUjQ-Fj7zxvA6E5O9FiwdWJiIOtpndSdwAAz1RjpN7O7y9-XPZevhDl3r35RukdgJ3xu3ldqo5_GxCXw_xDJNTNIoPS-Pd-bMHd2/s200/pre-pubtitlepage.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This title page is hard to read but includes length, price and appropriate ages.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIWMsuPHFaNmXp7BH5hubqewKVDAQIVIi-0u9Qof8BH-ssHeTSFjy5R6Kt0-NFJfcR2zL1S1MdItu9JRgoqxXraSb6dxY-3ILKzOx_H-hSRSmDk_2kiCpipluENM1tIRuNIyK1qiJPsF8/s1600/pre-pubmarketing2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIWMsuPHFaNmXp7BH5hubqewKVDAQIVIi-0u9Qof8BH-ssHeTSFjy5R6Kt0-NFJfcR2zL1S1MdItu9JRgoqxXraSb6dxY-3ILKzOx_H-hSRSmDk_2kiCpipluENM1tIRuNIyK1qiJPsF8/s200/pre-pubmarketing2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another back cover.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Finally understanding this has persuaded me to defer my publication date so I can meet the four month deadline for Publisher's Weekly, Library Journal and Booklist. It doesn't guarantee that I will get reviewed, but I'm giving it my best shot. And before these three, I'll pay for a Kirkus review and hope I get a juicy or at least usable quote to use along with my wonderful blurbs, for which I am extremely grateful.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-59276285985042734342015-05-03T07:21:00.001-05:002015-05-03T07:21:44.801-05:00You Will Judge a Book by its Cover<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQenZ0dC4t4RSQpGpby2U92y9QCjqRmfoFPjIinZ88VT5pP_ORXD-AkSz3G-jAi46oBRHDod2QRRrn3W9_EacUemSKfKTlRLoKr1mo34IwbGz7_qniWCclTAZyMSg3KXZZbz5Sr1cuXuvd/s1600/Lucifer+at+the+Starlight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQenZ0dC4t4RSQpGpby2U92y9QCjqRmfoFPjIinZ88VT5pP_ORXD-AkSz3G-jAi46oBRHDod2QRRrn3W9_EacUemSKfKTlRLoKr1mo34IwbGz7_qniWCclTAZyMSg3KXZZbz5Sr1cuXuvd/s1600/Lucifer+at+the+Starlight.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucifer at the Starlight: Poems by Kim Addonizio</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You will judge a book by its cover, and so will every stranger who comes upon your book. Suddenly all those carefully crafted words must speak a visual language, must compress themselves into a single image. The cover on the left is one of my favorites for the way it integrates title and author's name into a single, clear object. It's hard to read in this reproduction, but the author's name is on the matchbox and the title on the ashtray. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptzwa7OHEhZ4xadXnXBEvlHEL4VmNrMYzFNLny19NYr6HYmY5LNefQnjUKT8Tz5I3bzrr4L3pw0EY1eUQUQUkrv0VcfkVLcU_mUZLuyJZON-O6zXzbgeNnZzisBcfimePetZCskOD8OQ8/s1600/KastCoverimage2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhptzwa7OHEhZ4xadXnXBEvlHEL4VmNrMYzFNLny19NYr6HYmY5LNefQnjUKT8Tz5I3bzrr4L3pw0EY1eUQUQUkrv0VcfkVLcU_mUZLuyJZON-O6zXzbgeNnZzisBcfimePetZCskOD8OQ8/s1600/KastCoverimage2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crack between the Worlds: Memoir</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My novel, <i>A Free, Unsullied Land</i>, will be published by<br />
<a href="http://fomitepress.com/" target="_blank">Fomite Press</a>, and Donna Bister, half of the Press' partnership, has asked for photos that represent the novel's three locations: Chicago, Alabama and New Mexico, as well as its time period, 1930. A central event is the protagonist's trip to Scottsboro, Alabama, to protest the unfair conviction of the nine so-called Scottsboro Boys.<br />
<br />
I'm looking at photos, but I fear clutter and confusion. I was blessed with the cover of my memoir, above, a photo of myself at thirteen. It speaks to the child that every viewer once was as well as a sense of movement shared by many. For my novel, I hope to find something equally simple and compelling. So I search among book-cover websites and try to define what I like. The best ones, to me, function as two-way icons. They represent the book to the viewer but also speak to something in the viewer, inviting him or her into the book.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKYlyc3WwzdUhhMNdLbWLDW7iBijXcVqbdfrVgZgad3JlnoOeC3n4wYTDT3mldnqt0Pc-VjYeDhU-HZeMqOQmmT_imcsMWhyvNsqgedzPxd0N1vCeBp8sqSzA0APF3wGjKyGzgrJpO8pf/s1600/against-happiness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKYlyc3WwzdUhhMNdLbWLDW7iBijXcVqbdfrVgZgad3JlnoOeC3n4wYTDT3mldnqt0Pc-VjYeDhU-HZeMqOQmmT_imcsMWhyvNsqgedzPxd0N1vCeBp8sqSzA0APF3wGjKyGzgrJpO8pf/s1600/against-happiness.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Against Happiness—<br />
In Praise of Melancholy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>Against Happiness'</i> cover is a sort of visual pun. The viewer will have the joy of recognition, compounded by whatever positive or negative feeling she has about smiley faces.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDZAaKb9diEGvviZ2mtKT2qyDe2E1qVc1jMuv8qk5rZB_bCvFO7zEXB7tGqsP9UqZAKkdVvcRg2b_oURPzSz5QuLSSn9KOl5xvHFjR1m8QDjM8o0CFm4uYigrWDc0HWSvKObtJ1iXdqn1/s1600/the-disappointment-artist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYDZAaKb9diEGvviZ2mtKT2qyDe2E1qVc1jMuv8qk5rZB_bCvFO7zEXB7tGqsP9UqZAKkdVvcRg2b_oURPzSz5QuLSSn9KOl5xvHFjR1m8QDjM8o0CFm4uYigrWDc0HWSvKObtJ1iXdqn1/s1600/the-disappointment-artist.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Disappointment Artist: Essays</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i>The Disappointment Artist's</i> cover is a single visual example of the book's subject. It will awaken vivid memories of taste and touch as well as feelings of floundering in many readers. I like <i>The Road</i>'s cover best of all for the way it uses scale. It makes the viewer feel how small he is on the scale of trees and roads. My novel's title, <i>A Free, Unsullied Land</i>, suggests a vast landscape, but I shrink from the Southwest's gorgeous but well-known red-rock vistas. Perhaps a plain background with a sense of translucence and shading from top to bottom, like a sky without clouds. Perhaps a black-and-white image of a march protesting the unfair Scottsboro convictions layered in half-tone over part of the sky. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuSGrXQ1ZDYIE3baVQiVvmJUKYg03_6uP5nY8jFIon4KeaWdSqZ1bZgEszweIcqlhPp4Z4sJj4X0vUqgn6MXj2oujGezl6UIQqfO0FH0IzVNCFiqz_6YkceKrMLETQ-yszBZ_-nREtBEY/s1600/the-road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbuSGrXQ1ZDYIE3baVQiVvmJUKYg03_6uP5nY8jFIon4KeaWdSqZ1bZgEszweIcqlhPp4Z4sJj4X0vUqgn6MXj2oujGezl6UIQqfO0FH0IzVNCFiqz_6YkceKrMLETQ-yszBZ_-nREtBEY/s1600/the-road.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Road:Novel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Meg Wollitzer, in her essay <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/15/books/review/the-second-shelf.html?_r=0" target="_blank">"Second Shelf,"</a> wrote about the tendency to relegate so-called women's fiction to that lower shelf, and she talked about that genre's typical covers: "Laundry hanging on a line. A little girl in a field of wildflowers. A
pair of shoes on a beach. An empty swing on the porch of an old yellow
house." But I would not exclude any of those images or demand the big, bold type face often reserved for novels by well-known men, as long as I can find the right face to put on the body of my work. <br />
<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-71400377028446992902015-04-18T17:36:00.000-05:002015-04-18T17:36:47.160-05:00A Novel's Journey: Bringing What Could Have Been to Life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN23Iex1w9QGiw5dLkjkVPSf0q6BpyDLLqhLOnI2QXnKHMM0LQG2NU8do5RU71Ykda7uJVRiDMgxYJ3dX5rtnbJ-OoKloHaOmNHkJpgf3Q8T7cL3o08vZiNYttdPtQp0JkmmxPZ2xMVEaS/s1600/Easter,St.+Gert's+.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN23Iex1w9QGiw5dLkjkVPSf0q6BpyDLLqhLOnI2QXnKHMM0LQG2NU8do5RU71Ykda7uJVRiDMgxYJ3dX5rtnbJ-OoKloHaOmNHkJpgf3Q8T7cL3o08vZiNYttdPtQp0JkmmxPZ2xMVEaS/s1600/Easter,St.+Gert's%2B.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter Mass</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
After a joyful, dance-filled Easter Mass a few weeks ago I got on a plane and flew to Vienna, then took a train, fighting sleep, to the Austrian town of Klagenfurt am Wörthersee, near the Italian border. There my son Tom, his wife Katya and their two-year-old baby Arisha met me. "Hallo," she said, greeting me with the friendly wave she bestows equally upon friends and strangers. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1N0NF8LwH1xWd6V-EYPQxu21fD8qRnwkxHrLnwhLhL-oCf-KO1kjp12teiOohHQzmMh6EO5sbR0gKpzYQ8j1v0zmBBcbnKOZfp1ceMJqW2TisZ8iN-LiXfQO6XPpel5IgDMA302qTugZ/s1600/Arisha+eating+mango.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx1N0NF8LwH1xWd6V-EYPQxu21fD8qRnwkxHrLnwhLhL-oCf-KO1kjp12teiOohHQzmMh6EO5sbR0gKpzYQ8j1v0zmBBcbnKOZfp1ceMJqW2TisZ8iN-LiXfQO6XPpel5IgDMA302qTugZ/s1600/Arisha+eating+mango.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arisha and mango ice cream</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a week I responded to her invitation, "Mmplay?" each morning on awaking. She'd take my hand and lead me to her room, where we'd take a bus, go to Europa Park and have a picnic, all without leaving home.<br />
<br />
When I returned to Chicago, I was sucked into the maelstrom of pre-publication for my novel, <i>A Free, Unsullied Land,</i> forthcoming from <a href="http://www.fomitepress.com/" target="_blank">Fomite Press.</a> I arranged the launch October 16, 7:30 pm at <a href="http://womenandchildrenfirst.com/" target="_blank">Women and Children First Bookstore, </a>5233 N. Clark St., Chicago, and marveled at the bumpy journey the book had made from conception to launch.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiad7MDCa8jOI2v1TRAt69uQILyowahtQ2wSmtsOLE2UVX_UMB0KASmctGa4Ow9SXorqyWCzeC5fu1nU_HM4_DkITaIqRuuxMek21zdV8lZSbQQcOTBxiEXvWGfj947yuOglZ0EjL2i91KP/s1600/Kast.Coverimage(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiad7MDCa8jOI2v1TRAt69uQILyowahtQ2wSmtsOLE2UVX_UMB0KASmctGa4Ow9SXorqyWCzeC5fu1nU_HM4_DkITaIqRuuxMek21zdV8lZSbQQcOTBxiEXvWGfj947yuOglZ0EjL2i91KP/s1600/Kast.Coverimage(2).jpg" height="143" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crack between the Worlds</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In 2007, thinking my memoir, <i>The Crack between the Worlds: a dancer's
journey of loss, faith and family</i>, would never see the light of day, I
traveled with writing friend Tsivia Cohen to Tepoztlan in Mexico. We
spent a week in the beautiful house and around the pool of my long-time
friend Silvia Pandolfi, writing mornings and exploring the markets and byways of the town afternoons. As I wrote, I was sounding out the subject matter of my parents' time and place, Chicago 1930, to see if I could make it into fiction. It was like taking depth measurements, asking: can I probe this moment or this feeling and find its living heart?<br />
<br />
Three years earlier, my mother had died, and I'd acquired correspondence from her youth. In those pages I met a young woman I'd never known. She was smart, irreverent, in love with poetry and word-play, but also fragile, oppressed by her own dominating mother and dangerously affectionate father. The mother I knew growing up had already sacrificed that young girl's saucy daring for stability, and she'd raised me and my sister with calm care. Reading the letters I wanted to give that girl a chance to enter into the struggles of her time, find her voice and speak her mind, to do the things my real mother never dared. In Tepoztlan I tried out moments, scenes and feelings, searching for the ones that rang a bell. I ended up with text like scrambling eggs, lumps of specificity barely taking shape in a thick and formless muck.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLq2a4qEgnUhImUr5u1UMZzbiu5M_ij_Qa2b169EwiiZxh0HOk1zAiT74pXfUZBSjHEiqvL0k_3rEx2i1JYFzlEsv2f60xKZCd-PCAHD052qryNQCc3EXFiTG9y0z0FQYmia6d3CBYBTK/s1600/Arisha+&+me,+first+warm+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCLq2a4qEgnUhImUr5u1UMZzbiu5M_ij_Qa2b169EwiiZxh0HOk1zAiT74pXfUZBSjHEiqvL0k_3rEx2i1JYFzlEsv2f60xKZCd-PCAHD052qryNQCc3EXFiTG9y0z0FQYmia6d3CBYBTK/s1600/Arisha+&+me,+first+warm+day.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arisha and Maggie in the back yard, Klagenfurt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
in 2009 my memoir was published, and a year of book promotion
followed. Meanwhile, my novel simmered acquiring two narrators, a man
and a woman. I read Douglas Glover, Charles Baxter, E.K. Brown and
others on the novel and took an early version of the story to my writing
group and friends who volunteered to read. The best advice I got was
to drop the male voice and leave the story to my sassy protagonist, and
this I did. But the book-in-progress had promises to keep and miles to
go.<br />
<br />
Flying back from Austria less than a week ago, I only wished Arisha
could have joined the jubilant children at the Easter Mass, dancing in
the aisles and on the stage at the back of the gym. But I can take a
page from her book of adventures, where Europa Park is no less exciting
in her room than in the real world. For the distance between what could
have and was is precisely what first lured me to my mother's letters and
now fills the pages of my novel.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGhWFcW-3Dg3lbR1sWR1fBQ8D33eh4luLW5jJTsx_ImoXz0cbAkcKaTKhb_fvNVYXCvgJUFeooQShJOP_S4XzUYZI9lMt5g-0fM_3zWznq1pQKK0UNOaqPw0itg-IR9WUwd_wAYZJZhE_/s1600/Waterworks,+Europa+Park.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcGhWFcW-3Dg3lbR1sWR1fBQ8D33eh4luLW5jJTsx_ImoXz0cbAkcKaTKhb_fvNVYXCvgJUFeooQShJOP_S4XzUYZI9lMt5g-0fM_3zWznq1pQKK0UNOaqPw0itg-IR9WUwd_wAYZJZhE_/s1600/Waterworks,+Europa+Park.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterworks in Europa Park, Klagenfurt, where children can build damns, pump water, create and empty lakes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-69432742884064405462014-07-17T10:01:00.003-05:002014-07-17T10:05:08.255-05:00Seventh Summer Week on Martha's Vineyard<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXR_47yZYC-Ad6l847NRSIh8zl2DB-BxIYClO9ZwKChBSr8WQGnUXua02t1-P9Jec9HiQ5eEqebcY3x4R5ZLUeG5lOTtZ7AIUcaML8tVomKFbeBN3_Edmro7Tmqs70b4wOCTIhpHNSJF1r/s1600/egret.Senge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXR_47yZYC-Ad6l847NRSIh8zl2DB-BxIYClO9ZwKChBSr8WQGnUXua02t1-P9Jec9HiQ5eEqebcY3x4R5ZLUeG5lOTtZ7AIUcaML8tVomKFbeBN3_Edmro7Tmqs70b4wOCTIhpHNSJF1r/s1600/egret.Senge.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egret on Sengekontacket Pond (photo by Jordan Miller)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WeQA8v2R4eBuFpoS425AfrvHo6XflRydtOENoykhMtwhw4rfZgLKNCClUPiiRLneH7Qrh-mJ7olf3Bc1rR52u4bvw1bdJrrlOsfSLROMZnH-Ya35LvwL2UuTaQvE01grSv7U9kb4ajqB/s1600/LolaBeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WeQA8v2R4eBuFpoS425AfrvHo6XflRydtOENoykhMtwhw4rfZgLKNCClUPiiRLneH7Qrh-mJ7olf3Bc1rR52u4bvw1bdJrrlOsfSLROMZnH-Ya35LvwL2UuTaQvE01grSv7U9kb4ajqB/s1600/LolaBeach.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lola above Inkwell Beach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowOdyjA_UCLZdteyxKUMG07SY0gMtbOmIIdsVK0JSAIxzu-tOQiOxAlL_utmTMgwUgIaNuW0y8F_B-rBHCv6HbitbbpU9NykPkXi6_UD9DXY-E50QTuK8W-2g9H3g2WmKioPuM1gyC8HR/s1600/AntonLolain+Menemsha.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowOdyjA_UCLZdteyxKUMG07SY0gMtbOmIIdsVK0JSAIxzu-tOQiOxAlL_utmTMgwUgIaNuW0y8F_B-rBHCv6HbitbbpU9NykPkXi6_UD9DXY-E50QTuK8W-2g9H3g2WmKioPuM1gyC8HR/s1600/AntonLolain+Menemsha.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lola and Anton in Menemsha</td></tr>
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Lola Morell, my granddaughter, was reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Counting-7s-Holly-Goldberg-Sloan/dp/0803738552" target="_blank">Counting by 7's</a> when the extended Kast family assembled for the seventh time last week on Martha's Vineyard. Seven, fourteen . . .it's hard, but no harder than explaining how and why we convene, fourteen of us this year. We have the usual measure of jobs lost or found, divorces threatened or accomplished, lovers abandoned or sought, babies borne, illnesses survived. Most of us share a last name, but there the common features end. Some travel all night to spend two days. Some come once or twice and not again. Some stay the week. Some swim. All cook. Most men play chess at night and sleep by day. <br />
This year they did the dishes daily.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QN4fJHQYDoDYRIR7f7Oy8iTy6v6fY_p8Iy2UpjZSmhqIn2aeYKVKP3u3i_FvQ3RhGa5_u5eaVEAyvGpZdveVDyXbDvKZCcV5b6OlkOftUAMp9sbwi4KXC7ODHVDmFPi80tFm0kBo6AQ3/s1600/groupshot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7QN4fJHQYDoDYRIR7f7Oy8iTy6v6fY_p8Iy2UpjZSmhqIn2aeYKVKP3u3i_FvQ3RhGa5_u5eaVEAyvGpZdveVDyXbDvKZCcV5b6OlkOftUAMp9sbwi4KXC7ODHVDmFPi80tFm0kBo6AQ3/s1600/groupshot.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">left to right: Erica, Maggie, Ari, Avi, Byron, Oliver, Richard, Kim, Eun</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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Perhaps the family's origin in conflict knits our shaggy group together. I was the third wife of Eric Kast, an Austrian Jew kicked out in 1938. The sons of his first two marriages married once or twice and produced four children altogether. My bio-children total three, with three grandchildren from the lot. We are four generations in this photo, from me, the oldest, seventy-six, to Avi, seventeen months.Avi's dad, at forty-one, is five years older than his aunt, my youngest daughter, Erica. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQn027mic-vvpZFUgYURunE1IXmf7IbLd0a4COIL27MNsgjoqLjSSlrGcNQYyXjOhe-7a9odzm7xwSjIyQ2K9R61mEcTMFDZXoPzbR-70icX6VzekMnin3aHTL289z1Hq3jcqiWhvJ7p8/s1600/Ari+&+Avi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQn027mic-vvpZFUgYURunE1IXmf7IbLd0a4COIL27MNsgjoqLjSSlrGcNQYyXjOhe-7a9odzm7xwSjIyQ2K9R61mEcTMFDZXoPzbR-70icX6VzekMnin3aHTL289z1Hq3jcqiWhvJ7p8/s1600/Ari+&+Avi.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ari and Avi</td></tr>
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<br />
Missing from the group photo: Anton and Lola, friends Sasha and Jordan. (Just try herding cats.) Twenty-one, twenty-eight, thirty-five.<br />
<br />
Seven years ago I wished for a reunion for my 70th birthday. Thrown together, far from land, the family sensed utopia, a noplace where the days lacked names, and hours took a break. It's still that way for me, but my time out is located in a very real and complicated place—<a href="http://mvgazette.com/sections/vineyard-habitat-network" target="_blank">an island threatened</a> by drowning in the rising waters of its sea as well as the rising prices of its land. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2YUGKK1qjruWpmYvTRIaJ1d2I0baFb-BBGb5pq7nSC1QsT50qYLgZvpi1LK0-VrlA_SLKo8SB5okpc-f-rCAfV1hnoj4JWGYGLQLjgLi_Iy5U3ey4j3OtaIr-o8Gh1ICsI5UOCqNysxb/s1600/TI+Mappe,+AMERICA+SEPT+OBJECT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2YUGKK1qjruWpmYvTRIaJ1d2I0baFb-BBGb5pq7nSC1QsT50qYLgZvpi1LK0-VrlA_SLKo8SB5okpc-f-rCAfV1hnoj4JWGYGLQLjgLi_Iy5U3ey4j3OtaIr-o8Gh1ICsI5UOCqNysxb/s1600/TI+Mappe,+AMERICA+SEPT+OBJECT.jpg" height="155" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Terra incognita</td></tr>
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For others in our group, the towns, wild lands and beaches of the island are still <i>terra incognita</i>, the week delimited by a room, a chess board and a bed. Forty-two, forty-nine, fifty-four. Our distinct interests lead us on separate paths. I think this is what keeps us coming back. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWgFAn_u-Yy7B_SqZ0934QMDPpHT6RbWrLnb5qUhO_h5656zq7TcJwvXRRJMQDBcKjxrejaJnow2DF36mT-OCL5YCG26V-A1X6NA8iWJ9II1rsEtmjKFWsJQZ9SgQnB9Av9UixDWJeR1Q/s1600/ivicoveredVW.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilWgFAn_u-Yy7B_SqZ0934QMDPpHT6RbWrLnb5qUhO_h5656zq7TcJwvXRRJMQDBcKjxrejaJnow2DF36mT-OCL5YCG26V-A1X6NA8iWJ9II1rsEtmjKFWsJQZ9SgQnB9Av9UixDWJeR1Q/s1600/ivicoveredVW.JPG" height="149" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VW covered in ivy, Oak Bluffs</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVV7e8roE8S1P29cDHoWhK6lVWL9qO2k8rvg6WRbZClE_4k6ya6437Favqq7vNJWk0jDNu_zTFNt7lVXLrX9mDkyX_i3b6I25rWUv036_HUVCWw-3Ird6UOUjekjAS5zT_hYmhjVVUF8qg/s1600/Sasha&Erica2Senge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVV7e8roE8S1P29cDHoWhK6lVWL9qO2k8rvg6WRbZClE_4k6ya6437Favqq7vNJWk0jDNu_zTFNt7lVXLrX9mDkyX_i3b6I25rWUv036_HUVCWw-3Ird6UOUjekjAS5zT_hYmhjVVUF8qg/s1600/Sasha&Erica2Senge.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sasha and Erica on Sengekontacket Pond</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lp6Lemb15EHlJNRar4qPCpFQuGr1iCYSqy9N5jaTI-qyjN803URB8sWHQ1enL00AW7Lmi4Eldnn7y6FsXpF_KxbpHg0WAFQeBnPHiaLMYWtqrx0gfwt7bUxBq57qPagqK5SheqryVobG/s1600/EricaKimLongpoint.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Lp6Lemb15EHlJNRar4qPCpFQuGr1iCYSqy9N5jaTI-qyjN803URB8sWHQ1enL00AW7Lmi4Eldnn7y6FsXpF_KxbpHg0WAFQeBnPHiaLMYWtqrx0gfwt7bUxBq57qPagqK5SheqryVobG/s1600/EricaKimLongpoint.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica and Kim the furthest out at Longpoint Beach</td></tr>
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-15873729159771226762014-07-04T14:42:00.001-05:002014-07-17T10:05:40.608-05:00You Can Get Away From It All—and Find It Too on Martha's Vineyard<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRftc6waRhsWycIDu8vZ94JbpAPbQ363gVctS8-No5WcEOum0YWvFoKeRFdsXedwXVt5IIRd00Ids-fmbQCSjTR5nA3ZB91bNRTiJbiEeWoVeUIO97EqjoeSZHH_pumzpTirKmcAPpjpy/s1600/view+from+deck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPRftc6waRhsWycIDu8vZ94JbpAPbQ363gVctS8-No5WcEOum0YWvFoKeRFdsXedwXVt5IIRd00Ids-fmbQCSjTR5nA3ZB91bNRTiJbiEeWoVeUIO97EqjoeSZHH_pumzpTirKmcAPpjpy/s1600/view+from+deck.jpg" height="640" width="476" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View of Pond from deck of Lewis Camp</td></tr>
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I just ended a week with Carter Frank and Jan and John Leary in the Lewis camp on Deep Bottom Cove of Tisbury Great Pond. During the '40s I spent some summers on this pond, and the biggest change I noted is in the regrowth of trees, so that cabins are now hidden deep in foliage, connected by rutted dirt roads that keep them free from the Vineyard's infamous crowds. The island has more enclaves, ponds, forests and reserves than I could discover in a lifetime, and I am grateful to organizations like the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/">Trustees of Reservations</a> and the <a href="https://www.blogger.com/">Land Bank Commission </a>for keeping them safe from development.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqI-UmHE-VliuetPk_2oEsbWQCbeky7cdRwHo0m001bjZ05u_PBKmwOEsR9NaSQsyhZ5CbhfxtD_Rge98_jZmrVPWEbKVpCuPqWWWzgRo6EahFwDKguY_LS-XsO4QgAU0bVVhpf6yk-UU/s1600/Carter+swimming+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqI-UmHE-VliuetPk_2oEsbWQCbeky7cdRwHo0m001bjZ05u_PBKmwOEsR9NaSQsyhZ5CbhfxtD_Rge98_jZmrVPWEbKVpCuPqWWWzgRo6EahFwDKguY_LS-XsO4QgAU0bVVhpf6yk-UU/s1600/Carter+swimming+(1).jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter swimming</td></tr>
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Carter and I were once modern dance colleagues. Now she's a swimmer, Tai Chi practitioner and photographer. I do yoga and write. Jan also writes. John paints and takes photos. The four of us planned to work half the time and play the other.<br />
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The first night, eating scrambled eggs by candlelight, we learned to light the camp's gaslights over the stove and to wash up in the dark. After that it was battery-powered lanterns or candles to light the way to bed and nothing but sleep from sundown to dawn. As an early morning riser and writer, I led the way both down and up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9sfuOCCsF0y6X1VwiRDfmDICYLoJI4IFfuMF6ZzEx2be5KEVzTJC5ODFtmCWzsHckUe-hcojsGjTk36zmpZq-K9HnkWeHRdMJZOoxCWhWGYwsKsugoKxP-GDi4yFIbrX86qLh3b3LDjL/s1600/dining+room,+Lewis+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji9sfuOCCsF0y6X1VwiRDfmDICYLoJI4IFfuMF6ZzEx2be5KEVzTJC5ODFtmCWzsHckUe-hcojsGjTk36zmpZq-K9HnkWeHRdMJZOoxCWhWGYwsKsugoKxP-GDi4yFIbrX86qLh3b3LDjL/s1600/dining+room,+Lewis+camp.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dining room table with candles.</td></tr>
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Quickly we all adapted to life without internet or TV, though all had better cell coverage than I and stayed in touch with kids and friends. The days began to flow, with trips to the West Tisbury Farmers Market for Carter and me and runs to Menemsha for John and Jan, yielding great dinners of striped bass, cod, and mammoth shrimp and scallops. Baby zucchini and turnips on the grill were John's special treat. I've never spent a week with such easy sharing of cooking, shopping, and cleaning up. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Nr6Skh-029_rNEiGs3AMSaQrNl_ZuaSTpFFsfyoCq2WwpKenHia8IoeSiWkMQBu-5irELiLGC55BGwfzYTiI86WDII-zm6_nus79A4Mxs7HKWpFo9dacACyvCvkIGXpP27DdoUjd63lz/s1600/Carter+in+kayak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Nr6Skh-029_rNEiGs3AMSaQrNl_ZuaSTpFFsfyoCq2WwpKenHia8IoeSiWkMQBu-5irELiLGC55BGwfzYTiI86WDII-zm6_nus79A4Mxs7HKWpFo9dacACyvCvkIGXpP27DdoUjd63lz/s1600/Carter+in+kayak.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter in kayak</td></tr>
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The brackish pond is separated from the ocean by a narrow strip of land, and Carter took a kayak twice the whole way to the beach.The rest of us made smaller, easier water forays and walked the distance to the ocean through the Longpoint Wildlife Refuge. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbcpjekiCsnhVvUVSkOIgUbBULd8dM1EXGY-l2eMBmU99nrjKczCpRYvXxTfB9pCchezx9BIqbGsAWcMHMzoRM84wr3sieX2VjGYK9f21LG0mgxcWeur-xtQTowWraY44r07V_T0OccM8/s1600/W.+Tisbury+Farmers+Market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsbcpjekiCsnhVvUVSkOIgUbBULd8dM1EXGY-l2eMBmU99nrjKczCpRYvXxTfB9pCchezx9BIqbGsAWcMHMzoRM84wr3sieX2VjGYK9f21LG0mgxcWeur-xtQTowWraY44r07V_T0OccM8/s1600/W.+Tisbury+Farmers+Market.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter and Jan at market<br />
market</td></tr>
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Longpoint Beach, sparsely populated, abuts its own pond, so you can look in one direction out to South America and in the other take a calm, stillwater swim.<br />
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We all swam in the pond off our own slim sandy beach. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMzMsboHokbh14OjRl_WuMnbsTjHvqDc1_2Ux25VpNACKCJ8GAy4U9G-wqlbEcxp05w0SfLh0SxasaWcd1KaS8xeqaXlwz6J2mC7f7LtDI6NGksZgkWOeTAv1755TJ5Xy8kOZzZiOLj92/s1600/Carter,+Longpoint+Beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUMzMsboHokbh14OjRl_WuMnbsTjHvqDc1_2Ux25VpNACKCJ8GAy4U9G-wqlbEcxp05w0SfLh0SxasaWcd1KaS8xeqaXlwz6J2mC7f7LtDI6NGksZgkWOeTAv1755TJ5Xy8kOZzZiOLj92/s1600/Carter,+Longpoint+Beach.jpg" height="200" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter on Longpoint Beach</td></tr>
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In August, when the pond is opened to the ocean, tides flow in and out, and this beach gets long and flat. The practice of breaching ponds goes way back, and in my memory it was done by men with shovels in the '40s. All helped out. A video of the cut at Edgartown Great Pond can be viewed on Facebook at <a href="http://on.fb.me/1j3hMPo">http://on.fb.me/1j3hMPo</a>.<br />
<br />
Pond and ocean breezes kept our decks free from bugs, and often we were happy to spend hours reading books (or Kindles). Unlike some summer rentals, the Lewis camp was full of family lore: photos, artifacts, kitchen <i>batterie</i> to die for, cookbooks, books for children, games we didn't even start to play. I accomplished what I hoped: to prepare a novel manuscript for Kevin McIlvoy's "novel workout" in the fall, and Jan also finished one whole revision of her novel. Carter could be seen each morning doing Tai Chi on the deck, and John's camera on its tripod was set up indoors and out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrJkohmF92LWm1frh8TtG73q1yImp_O-L6k6veKdfguXYlVI9cwWIeXX58HiiKL3V9G2i0EmQfJYdZ2HTceQvpr_Am206uHGj1E_ytHISsbdIj69ToBQhvtynZPhyphenhyphenejHggI-F_RPTzktX/s1600/stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrJkohmF92LWm1frh8TtG73q1yImp_O-L6k6veKdfguXYlVI9cwWIeXX58HiiKL3V9G2i0EmQfJYdZ2HTceQvpr_Am206uHGj1E_ytHISsbdIj69ToBQhvtynZPhyphenhyphenejHggI-F_RPTzktX/s1600/stairs.jpg" height="200" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stairs to second floor</td></tr>
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At such a place you feel a guest in someone's home. I want to do the whole thing once again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr2AXomFaWLnJBmZgZpYTmtHJz9Bo5BncU7vwAY206qz-VAIV4YcosOt9R7YAT3iyOgigroudOS_MDA117axQoiPKQ9mNjSzfB6-slLskbBscuYSMWKyMfODQW555xOPyTewj1g3QYRnj/s1600/deck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHr2AXomFaWLnJBmZgZpYTmtHJz9Bo5BncU7vwAY206qz-VAIV4YcosOt9R7YAT3iyOgigroudOS_MDA117axQoiPKQ9mNjSzfB6-slLskbBscuYSMWKyMfODQW555xOPyTewj1g3QYRnj/s1600/deck.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deck, Lewis Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUVoev40U6OMvEi0stBn_iUWmoyGAmi2LgeoJZ_fzb5Uia6CiDfhyphenhyphenvG2Gimsg5p9KiUvQLzeySUHpVXhQiMVcLVhyXmHySatod4JtQOlftsxJPz_L7HydW6y06nLNmmUKSWWLFoUa7Xt2/s1600/living+room.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUVoev40U6OMvEi0stBn_iUWmoyGAmi2LgeoJZ_fzb5Uia6CiDfhyphenhyphenvG2Gimsg5p9KiUvQLzeySUHpVXhQiMVcLVhyXmHySatod4JtQOlftsxJPz_L7HydW6y06nLNmmUKSWWLFoUa7Xt2/s1600/living+room.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">living room, Lewis Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-6374725785110378342014-01-13T12:09:00.000-06:002014-01-27T16:59:12.572-06:00Puerto Rico Redux<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDyExCYXoOxh8lsX_mwpJmUdRrOJZ86QM8g1b7NvoYjtqQNOWLwaFwvwVpewmXNUj0H1f11UDNlMA52l2nBsCjBxr3i4EbdKbEJ3FHtS27_SLvZM0FtkqjxxrFMpXjC-cZBfS1Z5pcv61/s1600/San+Juan+street.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDyExCYXoOxh8lsX_mwpJmUdRrOJZ86QM8g1b7NvoYjtqQNOWLwaFwvwVpewmXNUj0H1f11UDNlMA52l2nBsCjBxr3i4EbdKbEJ3FHtS27_SLvZM0FtkqjxxrFMpXjC-cZBfS1Z5pcv61/s400/San+Juan+street.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calle del Sol in Old San Juan</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I was a college student in the '50s I visited San Juan for a few weeks, and last week I was back, attending the "resident" part of a <a href="http://www.vcfa.edu/" target="_blank">Vermont College of Fine Arts</a> low-residency MFA—Writing program, of which I am an alum.</span> <span style="font-size: small;">Even sixty years</span> <span style="font-size: small;">can't change the narrow, cobblestone streets of Old San Juan or the Spanish colonial architecture, the 16th century citadel of El Morro or the closely packed crypts and statues of the Cementario Santa Maria Magdalena. But traffic now chokes the streets. Signs indicate ongoing projects to improve La Perla, the infamous slum, but brilliantly colored houses still conceal poverty and drug trade, all washed by ocean surf.</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30MALCNIsVv6nG_qg9E6H7zGIg7CcvdqUQ-jJagL532nFb2h9bYOWExIWWHmz_UFu-zIiTlG8KK7r4YUHP-ef3Q2D2GczCZz0rkDITIXdwHlQjJq-kODVDDrWNI0SmEmPYgn4fRuNzQlU/s1600/El+Cemenario+at+dusk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30MALCNIsVv6nG_qg9E6H7zGIg7CcvdqUQ-jJagL532nFb2h9bYOWExIWWHmz_UFu-zIiTlG8KK7r4YUHP-ef3Q2D2GczCZz0rkDITIXdwHlQjJq-kODVDDrWNI0SmEmPYgn4fRuNzQlU/s320/El+Cemenario+at+dusk.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cemetary Maria Magdalen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh4ydMRmW0c929UiXgx9w_s9r4MS2sxtqZ1LuCN9yXa-neLEV3bdYaTlRfKqVltip-8Q7_1TlfRQP_b3zvL8JtOtLfdQP7PowlC4x-Yrp7pTmalvDboHn4g_Z0NpwxhyphenhyphenO6VmVc9v28VAS/s320/La+Perla.jpg" height="320" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="239" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Perla</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
U.S. fast food and clothing chains have invaded Old San Juan, and diamond merchants have proliferated, shop after shop catering to the flood of tourists that pour from giant cruise ships each day. To feed these travelers, San Juan's restaurants serve "Latin fusion," as the guidebooks call it, but really it's placeless, homeless food that shoves aside the native <i>comida criolla. </i>In Old San Juan I yearned for remembered beans and rice flavored with sofrito, a mix of ham, root vegetables and native achiote; soupy <i>asapao</i>; green plantains fried crisp and ripe ones stewed to a sweet caramel.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGCY8HIIoSh8_S8u1XlVCVOq_n9erULf3g1c7RRfQBNegkVBImx0mV1yJDcgj-QA1NMeOrtpIkt8zUuXbjL3fgtdNf6bs_VTQCs7MDjqIieX0gDVapoJQHDUT3En76XuKULnxIYA05YI0u/s1600/El+Casa+del+Libro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGCY8HIIoSh8_S8u1XlVCVOq_n9erULf3g1c7RRfQBNegkVBImx0mV1yJDcgj-QA1NMeOrtpIkt8zUuXbjL3fgtdNf6bs_VTQCs7MDjqIieX0gDVapoJQHDUT3En76XuKULnxIYA05YI0u/s320/El+Casa+del+Libro.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casa del Libro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIDlkry4gpWojpmM9RSpFC4ZM3A6WxVesAPl1Apmxkd8Qz0ShymUEZkqIy3WfcVg9umUpyuLsStG99lPOv5N7DTbXm_wK5gxEJlWjT1Wbxcjj0_io2iYmmn0aQGAFGoT44hMa6Xj0kNic/s1600/El+Libo+y+su+Encuadernacion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIDlkry4gpWojpmM9RSpFC4ZM3A6WxVesAPl1Apmxkd8Qz0ShymUEZkqIy3WfcVg9umUpyuLsStG99lPOv5N7DTbXm_wK5gxEJlWjT1Wbxcjj0_io2iYmmn0aQGAFGoT44hMa6Xj0kNic/s320/El+Libo+y+su+Encuadernacion.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">El Libro y su Encuadernacion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJreuUl1AjAcQGQE_pY729IqhegyoljsOEG_q8Htq8zSaeJ_Adc-IOs88r5xMMcSBXZA_Ljk3GgJ3AwMLUatvjlx4me4QWAJfIR0oqr0LEMFfWtbZ35jNpmpQPvsMesFR_ySnoB27rlKR8/s1600/Creacion+del+Mundo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJreuUl1AjAcQGQE_pY729IqhegyoljsOEG_q8Htq8zSaeJ_Adc-IOs88r5xMMcSBXZA_Ljk3GgJ3AwMLUatvjlx4me4QWAJfIR0oqr0LEMFfWtbZ35jNpmpQPvsMesFR_ySnoB27rlKR8/s320/Creacion+del+Mundo.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's Book: Creacion del Mundo/Creation of the World</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Beneath the glitzy, Americanized surface, leading Puerto Ricans lead their lives with depth and dedication. We visited the <a href="http://www.lacasadellibro.org/" target="_blank">Casa del Libro,</a> founded in the '50s, a museum housing a collection of rare books published from the 15th century on and preserved from the ravages of tropical climate. This history is told in a gorgeous volume called <i>El Libro y su Encuadernacion, The Book and its Binding</i>. An exhibit of artists' books from many lands included a beautiful illustration from the biblical Song of Songs: "I sought him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but I found him not." <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJagTAbxOFBNyDS_n4mQz1vCvSxSvSLP03MrQRoejJqBpYBhXbdVTp5DDfFy4z6T5YvaFNzsekikn3ZMWM205aRd3bB0jAE8SP2r_pCwf-tyfwRpeDhhLnO8adh6x9ZFL_aJj2XyQ0iJ_/s1600/Song+of+Songs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaJagTAbxOFBNyDS_n4mQz1vCvSxSvSLP03MrQRoejJqBpYBhXbdVTp5DDfFy4z6T5YvaFNzsekikn3ZMWM205aRd3bB0jAE8SP2r_pCwf-tyfwRpeDhhLnO8adh6x9ZFL_aJj2XyQ0iJ_/s400/Song+of+Songs.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's Book: "I sought him, but I found him not."<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Workshops and lectures with faculty <a href="http://www.richardmccann.net/" target="_blank">Richard McCann</a> and <a href="http://www.maryruefle.com/" target="_blank">Mary Ruefle</a>, outstanding writers and teachers, were held daily wherever we were. We were privileged to meet Hector Feliciano, world citizen and author of <i>The Lost Museum: the Nazi Conspiracy to Steal the World's Greatest Works of Art. </i>Hector invited us to his airy, spacious house and up to his roof, telling us the story of his long search and the obsession required to unearth each vanished work of art. Equally contemporary was Yolanda Pizarro's passionate attention to the stories of Puerto Rico's enslaved black women, told in her book, <i>Las Negras</i>. Lecture became workshop as she urged us to consider our own names, their origins, meanings and the ways they define us. She asked us to write a short poem about the names. I wrote:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">My middle name is Helen, hides</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">My grandma, also Helen, who conceals</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">In turn the girl who shamed her by </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Her girlish birth, while</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Wedging her name between my first and last.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">These lines turned out to encapsulate my novel, I Never Knew You Had a Girl, in which the protagonist, based on my mother, suffers the self-loathing that comes from h</span>aving a mother who doesn't think much of girls.<br />
<br />
<b>El Yunque</b><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgho-zcVNhvxbw3ovSDQsuu6sPyccDLpMu56H0GQw9ZPw_NVD-lBqs25PT0myRsFx6yqI7r6lOaZSTNFSV-cVWBh7ovWUFO-7FoKeQWt-ZuRcF7P-hg6yU3-uBhjr83xcVveyTY5x4vRjjP/s1600/morning+sun+on+bamboo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgho-zcVNhvxbw3ovSDQsuu6sPyccDLpMu56H0GQw9ZPw_NVD-lBqs25PT0myRsFx6yqI7r6lOaZSTNFSV-cVWBh7ovWUFO-7FoKeQWt-ZuRcF7P-hg6yU3-uBhjr83xcVveyTY5x4vRjjP/s320/morning+sun+on+bamboo.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morning Sun on Bamboo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Americanization ends at the edge of El Yunque, the rainforest, where we
spent the second four days. Though a U.S.National Forest, El Yunque is
also a world unto itself, a place where bamboo whispers, life-giving
water flows day and night, and plants win. Excellent local guides, Robin
and his son Daniel, have befriended the plants and know the names and
habits of each. They break off bits of edibles for us to crunch and
offer pods of bromeliads for us to nurture back home. Waterfalls tumble
down the steep mountains and pool in cool basins, one just below the <a href="http://www.casacubuy.com/" target="_blank">Casa Cabuy,</a> the Ecolodge where we stay. There cook Carmen prepares marvelous <i>comida criolla</i>: papaya and mango for breakfast as well as eggs and <i>avena</i>,
oatmeal cooked with milk and sugar, served soupy. For lunch and dinner
we eat beans, rice and fish or chicken, once pork, always plantain,
green and crisp or ripe and mellow.<br />
<br />
Who would have thought a writing residency would require rock scrambling
skills? I didn't, and didn't believe it until I stripped to my bathing
suit (No phone? No photos?), noticed my glasses ("I'll take them," said
Mary, and stuffed multiple pairs into a plastic bag, the bag into her
swimsuit), and edged bleary-eyed down a mud path to slippery rocks and water.
If the current was mentioned I didn't hear it over the rumble of
cascading water. Nearly across I saw the bank retreat and called for
help. A stranger dragged me and two others over the wet and moss-covered
rocks to the shore. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk61rMXrs182oAALofUdvJSAjY0-wDEySQue65CvR4m5L6CxutNd98UB2X6PVtJlJQetKanFirsn7m6N6boYGCmuo9xZYOfeE4fMRvvIsG-lXkOjAcewJY3jQanIbZ7RyUb-4PLlBXbK6Z/s1600/Carolyn,+Richard,+Jude.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk61rMXrs182oAALofUdvJSAjY0-wDEySQue65CvR4m5L6CxutNd98UB2X6PVtJlJQetKanFirsn7m6N6boYGCmuo9xZYOfeE4fMRvvIsG-lXkOjAcewJY3jQanIbZ7RyUb-4PLlBXbK6Z/s400/Carolyn,+Richard,+Jude.JPG" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carolyn, Richard and Jude, waterfall at Casa Cabuy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFnPtQAxuzLQZEbrXHuXkdwQubtNMmx8cEcNxyEoZte0iiWlacxLTnjh4MilxSj_fVlLXfCCevwt_8FcYayQn9aS-08twQeJG1OAR9XOjbFnNcjLGKBNTH6v95Kb0wXbpqezatuatEtyhY/s1600/Mary+at+the+waterfall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFnPtQAxuzLQZEbrXHuXkdwQubtNMmx8cEcNxyEoZte0iiWlacxLTnjh4MilxSj_fVlLXfCCevwt_8FcYayQn9aS-08twQeJG1OAR9XOjbFnNcjLGKBNTH6v95Kb0wXbpqezatuatEtyhY/s400/Mary+at+the+waterfall.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary at the pool below Casa Cabuy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQU7qMQPCl59tN-LhZK_eRB4OceRp-2TFPUT91dhERTS8i7k_-vQ4kvYNp1xfc0rT4Nva2HRzQ1hn9txFRJ85J3IvbdqxU7PYwPyNjw2uoOe8tz0UiY91wwOHAVn_j-0bxOjLjOUqpw_MS/s1600/Rainforest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQU7qMQPCl59tN-LhZK_eRB4OceRp-2TFPUT91dhERTS8i7k_-vQ4kvYNp1xfc0rT4Nva2HRzQ1hn9txFRJ85J3IvbdqxU7PYwPyNjw2uoOe8tz0UiY91wwOHAVn_j-0bxOjLjOUqpw_MS/s400/Rainforest.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall in the Rainforest</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Picture ascents where there's nothing to grasp and footholds are slippery
even when dry. Imagine steep descents of eight feet on one's seat,
where only the total compression of knees can resist the insistence of
weight. My knees don't compress and wrist tendons resist the helpful and
needed assists that I got. A world unto itself, indeed! So well known
to Robin that he saw no need to warn or explain, but knew the best move
for each rock on the path. Our goal? Taino pictographs, attributed to
first inhabitants. "They look better at dawn," said Robin, swiping them
with a wet towel. "Look now, when they're wet. Use your imagination." He
suggested a dive neath a thundering waterfall and hinted that those
undesired are sometimes thrown in. We still had to return the same way
that we came, and Mary and I exchanged a big hug at the finish.<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b>Luquillo Beach</b></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
A day on the beach capped our week, romping and swimming and eating at the beach's famed sixty kiosks with our fellow students, Richard, Mary, and our organizational guru, poet Pam Taylor. The camaraderie of all was just as infectious and lively as the workshops and lectures had been perceptive and challenging.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">VCFA Encampment on Luquillo Beach: Sophfronia, Mary, Shanalee, Carolyn, Partridge, Lillian, Richard</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evidence: I was there</td></tr>
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magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-87628550131350759252013-10-02T08:14:00.002-05:002013-10-02T14:11:57.985-05:00From Drawer to Store: the Birth of a Novel<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michigan Avenue near Chicago Writers Conference</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The October issue of the funky online magazine, <a href="http://www.defunctmag.com/" target="_blank">Defunct,</a> has just gone live with my flash non-fiction piece, "Ghost Alive." You can read it in less time than it takes to brush your teeth, so please support this charming journal about all things out of date. Speaking of which, I've taken down my website. A new one will be up before long at the same address, www.maggiekast.com, but meanwhile I'm putting current information here on the blog. See the sidebar and below for links to publications.<br />
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After seven years of writing and revising, critique from my longstanding writing group, fifteen months with Fred Shafer's wonderful novel group, and critical reading by many generous friends, I've put my novel, <i>I Never Knew You Had a Girl</i>, in a drawer and started the agent search. Research seven agents. Send targeted query letters that specify their interests or books they've represented. After seven rejections, revise the query letter and send seven more. That's the strategy I learned at Chicago Writers Conference 2012 from Chuck Sambuchino. So far I've received several positive comments: "substantial pleasures," "vibrant characters," "poise and polish," "stood out from the many we receive,"two requests for the full manuscript, but no acceptances. <br />
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<b>My First Pitchfest at <a href="http://chicagowritersconference.org/" target="_blank">Chicago Writers Conference 2013</a></b></div>
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Here's what I learned:</div>
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1. Practice and time your pitch.</div>
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2. Wait in clammy silence with your fellow pitchers, avoiding eye contact, in the cold, dark back of <a href="http://brandoschicago.com/" target="_blank">Brando's Speakeasy.</a> You'll have exactly four minutes to sell your wares and four for response. </div>
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3. Greet your agent/publisher and tell your story.</div>
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4. Discover that they want not you nor your book but your subject matter, your genre (as in litfic, women's, historical), and your audience, one each.</div>
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5. Your singularity is not a value. Your similarity to other books is. Find them, marry them to each other, and hope your book is born. </div>
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6. There's always many ways to tell a story. Skew your pitch a dozen different ways and try them out.<br />
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<b>Links to Older Publications</b></div>
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<b>"</b>Liberal Catholicism<b>" </b>in <a href="http://americamagazine.org/issue/612/faith-focus/liberal-catholicism" target="_blank">America Magazine</a></div>
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"Artist of the Month" in <a href="http://imagejournal.org/page/artist-of-the-month/maggie-kast" target="_blank">Image Journal</a> (with link to "Contemporary Choreography: Retaining the Sacred")</div>
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"Writing and Dancing" in <a href="http://www.chicagoartistsresource.org/artist-stories/maggie-kast" target="_blank">Chicago Artists Resource</a></div>
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"Symbols: Forest of Ambiguity" in <a href="http://numerocinqmagazine.com/2013/02/01/symbols-forest-of-ambiguity-maggie-kast/" target="_blank">Numero Cinq</a></div>
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"The Hate that Chills" video of <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7538236387919959507#editor/target=post;postID=2234721619143988392;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=12;src=postname" target="_blank">reading a story</a> excerpted from my novel, recorded at Tuesday Funk</div>
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magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-92061920358362995822013-07-18T15:27:00.001-05:002013-07-18T15:27:10.549-05:00Martha's Vineyard Redux, Vinalhaven, Avi Kast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Kids grow up and get jobs; babies arrive, couples form and split, but Kast family week on Martha's Vineyard brought a remnant together again this year for an action-packed week of surf swimming on South Beach and Aquinnah, kayaking on Sengekontacket Pond, paddle ball on Vineyard Sound, shopping at farmer's markets and farms, and always cooking and more cooking. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica, Phil & Lola at South Beach</td></tr>
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The children, grandchildren and great grandchildren of Eric Kast now range in age from four months (Avi and Arisha) to 75 (me). They live in San Francisco, Chicago, New Jersey, Vermont and Omsk, Russia. Eight of them (including partners) made it to the Vineyard, and I visited Ari, Eun and baby Avi on the way home. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Avi Kast</td></tr>
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But names and places can't express my delight on arriving, after a full
day flight delay, to find that Erica had moved in, organized shopping
and met Anton and Lola, who had flown in from San Francisco. After that the week was a whirlwind, as Erica and Phil did the hilly "Run the Chop," a five-mile course, and lived to eat lobster rolls from Net Result,<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica & Phil after Run the Chop</td></tr>
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while Lola discovered the joys of chasing (and being chased by) ocean waves; Phil grilled chickens and made greens, bacon and eggs for breakfast, and conversations moved quickly from the mundane to the personal, a year of living compressed into seven days. Richard, the second oldest, physician and cancer research, commissioned Lola to find six equal-sized stones, the result the mobile in the video above. And it's not the Vineyard without a ride on the Flying Horses. Erica captured Anton, Lola and me with that nostalgic music in the video below. Richard and Kim's daughter Emma arrived fresh from a summer in Brazil, just in time for a rough surf swim on South Beach. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emma and Kim</td></tr>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dytSzU-TTwb77T-JN7VmTtQAJU4GIJBkoRU_6bd4tpgfOSRdT4fo-D8K_rYdKqWcX8KyQlbwtCidAmHhzISbA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Exhausted by a wonderful week, I rode two ferries and three buses,
drowsing all the way, to the lobster-fishing island of Vinalhaven off
the rocky coast of Maine. There I joined old friend, Carter Frank, and
new one, Priscilla Moody, for a restful week of writing, hiking in
wooded preserves, and swimming in a granite quarry. Carter led us in Tai
Chi on the porch, where we focused on the gorgeous view. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from cottage, Vinalhaven, Maine</td></tr>
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-85847306329096099242013-06-21T10:09:00.000-05:002013-06-21T10:09:16.354-05:00Why Flash Mobs?Flash mobs proliferate, and the great ones burst into daily life, lending their beauty to the hustle and bustle in the midst of which they blossom. If you haven't seen Sam Sabadell, take a look. Time seems to stop in the face of such an overload of meaning, and it moves me to tears each time I view it. The quiet beginning with the single, somber, bass player in concert dress and then the equally formal cellist, empty can in front of the two. The little girl who drops a coin in the can. Soon the string section rushes onto the square (from where?) dressed casually, like the crowd. When the brass arrive it's almost as though they were storming the plaza, and suddenly an entire chorus is singing the Ode to Joy from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in their native language, Catalan. And the audience: the kid who climbs a lamp pole to get a better view and all the children conducting with such joy. <br />
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I recently saw a gallery performance of excerpts from "Core of the Pudel: Gutting the Legend of Faust," Thom Pasculli's collaborative work of physical theatre. No flash, no mob. I stood sipping wine in a public room of Chicago's Aqua building, surrounded by big, glass windows, when suddenly violin and brass began to play. Just outside the window, a parade, and one person walking horizontally along the glass. The actors entered, singing in foreign languages, and then wrestled each other in slow motion with ferocious intensity or rushed about, hunched and muttering over the books in which Faust placed his faith. The actors were literally in our faces. Their intrusion, like the flash mob at Sabadell, suddenly charged our chit-chat and munching with a higher level of meaning, as though we too were walking on the walls. Take a look or two.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/62180835" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <a href="http://vimeo.com/62180835">Core of the PUDEL</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user6140274">Kyle Niemer</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/62180834" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <a href="http://vimeo.com/62180834">Core of the PUDEL</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user6140274">Kyle Niemer</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-80224278420465115012013-02-10T14:54:00.000-06:002013-02-12T14:47:39.077-06:00Touches of Cuba: a Week with Art Encounter and Hedwig Dances<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Habana Vieja</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<b>Scroll to end for slideshow of photos of Cuba with music by Pablo Menendez and Mezcla.</b><br />
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Art galleries, dance studios, artists' homes and the private restaurants called paladars swirl in my mind a week after my return from Cuba, refusing to locate themselves on the grid of the real. From the moment we landed and climbed into an air-conditioned, Chinese bus, we were bombarded with images, information and impressions. Slowly the din of perceptions filtered my preconceptions and new understandings emerged.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plaza de San Francisco</td></tr>
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1. Cuba is not isolated. We are. The fabled Hotel Nacional, where we stayed, was bursting with tourists from all over the world except the U.S. The hotel's huge and generous breakfast buffet is designed to fit the early-morning habits of every culture: rice and curries; vegetables, potatoes and meat; all kinds of eggs, including some translated as "embezzled;" gorgeous fresh fruit, cereals, and a dozen different sweet breads.<br />
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2. Cuban art is not "outside." Visual art ranges from works shown in the world's major exhibitions, like the Venice Biennale, to neighborhood mosaics such as these by Juan Fuster, whose Homenaje a Gaudi (Homage to Gaudi) decorates whole blocks of Jaimanitas, a Havana suburb. The upraised hand you see on the far right of the photo below is a tribute to the five Cubans imprisoned in the U.S. since 2001 for attempting to prevent attacks on Cuba launched from Miami.<br />
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3. Cuban dance goes way beyond the typical Cuban show. It owes its unique fluidity and energy to the state-supported training in ballet, modern and folkloric (Afro-Cuban) techniques that dancers (and other artists) receive from middle-school years through university. You'll be able to see this training in action at Hedwig Dance's upcoming concert June 20-21, 2013, at Chicago's Atheneum. This company's Cuban dancers move with the spirit of their first home, and Cuban modern company Danzabierta just might make a guest appearance. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pais Deseado (Desired Country) by artist Tonel at La Factoria </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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4. Cuba is not dangerous. It's safer than most U.S. cities and you can eat and drink everything served in paladars, government restaurants and hotels. While the U.S. office of Foreign Asset Control requires you to follow the itinerary for which your tour group is licensed, no one checks, and in fact you can go where you please. Taxis are cheap and plentiful.<br />
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5. Cubans have not given up religion. Though most of Cuba's Catholic churches are no longer used for services, there are temples where members of our group attended lay-led Friday services, and Santeria, the Yoruba-derived religion, is alive and well. A million people attended mass celebrated by Pope John Paul in the Plaza de la Revolucion when he visited in 1998.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chair art at La Gaurida, a paladar</td></tr>
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6. Socialism doesn't have to mean dreary. Our first stop, the monumental Plaza de la Revolution, is dominated by a tower memorializing José Marti, the 19th-century hero of Cuban independence from Spain. Besides the Mass mentioned above, the plaza is used for big social dances and other community events. Signs for CDF's, Centers for Defense of the Revolution, are ubiquitous (see slideshow below) and recall times when these block groups were used for ferreting out anti-revolutionary sentiments, but now people seem to speak freely. There is no free press in Cuba and many lacks: food, medicine, pencils, paper, and books, partly caused by the U.S. embargo. Posters advocating "<a href="http://www.freethefive.org/" target="_blank">free the five</a>," symbolized by the upraised hand in the mosaic photo above, are common. Cubans neither own property nor pay rent, but individuals can improve their dwellings, and the artists' homes we visited were gorgeous: thirty-foot ceilings, elaborate tiled floors, art on all the walls. <br />
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<b>Click below to see a slideshow of photos of Cuba with music by Pablo Menendez and Mezcla</b>.<br />
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Give it plenty of time to load on your computer.<br />
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-78343350608825309772012-12-10T14:08:00.000-06:002012-12-10T14:09:31.956-06:00Kyoto—Kaiseki Dinner at Next<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Japanese Maple Forest: Appetizers for Four</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burning branch and moon</td></tr>
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According to a scroll curled delicately on the table at <a href="https://www.nextrestaurant.com/" target="_blank">Next Restaurant</a>, "Kaiseki layers the literal, hidden, and subconscious representations of nature and humanity in food in order to transport the diner." On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, four of us were transported.The art of the meal was impeccable, with more exquisite cultural references than I could take in or remember.<br />
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Named for the warm "bosom stones" Buddhist monks used under their robes to make them feel full, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/">Kaiseki </a>has come to mean a series of small courses served prior to strong, bitter tea. The dining experience is now elaborate and complex but still culminates in rice, soup and pickles, followed by tea. For the first time at Next, Erica and I were joined by friends, Harriet and Lou. The evening began with lighting of a branch, symbolizing autumn, hung from a sculpted moon.<br />
Our first course was a sweet and smoky cornhusk tea, uniting Japanese tradition with midwestern produce. A sort of tofu made of chestnut and miso carried the aroma of burning hay into the next course. <br />
Japanese Maple Forest (above) was a spectacular assortmant of small appetizers, a sort of autumn, Asian counterpart to the "Winter Woods" course on Next's Childhood menu. Among the delicious morsels were shrimp heads, bodies and legs, each prepared separately, fish roe on fried soy milk skins, and fried, shaved parsnip. Two sashimi courses followed, accompanied by a shiso dipping puree and red sea grapes. A "lidded" course came next: a rich broth, "maple dashi," once again smoky and garnished with tiny shimeji mishrooms.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled Barracuda</td></tr>
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Substantial chunks of grilled, skewered barracuda provided more substantial food, served with a delicate wasabi leaf dip and an egg-yolk-soy sauce. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matsutake Chawanmushi, Pine Needle</td></tr>
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The delicate, savory custard called chawanmushi came next, while pine
needles on a hot stone in the center of the table added aroma. The tiniest tempura imaginable were made of fried chrysanthemum, shiso
leaf and eggplant, perfectly crisp. Sakes of increasing complexity
accompanied each course, with a specially brewed Haptera Ale from
Chicago's Half Acre for the barracuda. The last savory course was the soup, rice and pickles that once were added to the kaiseki stones as prelude to matcha tea. For the second time in the meal, I felt that I was eating sustaining food, in addition to absorbing art and culture. But the art was still there, in the form of gorgeously arranged vegetables in the pot over which a broth was poured. Sticky rice and shochu "kakushigura," a barley whiskey, accompanied. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparation for Soup, Rice, Pickles</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"First Snowfall"</td></tr>
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"First Snowfall" was sweet, with an edible maple leaf, a fuyu persimmon half stuffed with persimmon mousse, a fried soy milk skin, soy ice cream and a deeply caramelized carrot. The long-anticipated tea and a gelatinous "warabi mochi", eaten in blobs speared with a stick, finished the meal.<br />
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Though autumn had ended, the moon made a farewell appearance at the end, and I felt the season had never been so closely observed or deeply celebrated. But I confess I ate a piece of squash pie when I got home.<br />
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-20558399958080703632012-11-28T16:17:00.000-06:002012-11-28T16:18:14.519-06:00Turkey Trot Redux—Asian-Tinged Thanksgiving<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica after the Turkey Trot</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica making stuffing</td></tr>
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Erica ran it again this year and finished ecstatic, free of the shin splits that had plagued her. Gloria Zager and I awaited her at the finish line, where cold wind whipped our hair.<br />
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Back home we continued a two-day cook-a-thon, in which each traditional
Thanksgiving dish was flavored in some Asian way: star anise in the
stock; green beans dry-fried with ginger, garlic and salted, fermented
black bean; kale salad with fish sauce in the dressing; ginger in the
cranberry sauce. Erica had discovered the colorful <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2012/09/crispy-kale-salad-with-lime-dressing" target="_blank">kale salad</a>, which combined fine-sliced, marinated leaves with crisp baked ones. She also aced a sesame-bacon brittle that garnished <a href="http://www.bonappetit.com/recipes/2012/03/twice-baked-sweet-potatoes-with-bacon-sesame-brittle" target="_blank">miso-flavored sweet potatoes. </a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EBTH8IIvCuWKV-wEx_XKC6nkrAWRYpZC62D2anBeHpFhbo30-SR3kp8BcvvKZus6B76unaAgbYBUkNY_qpuEBPPtVFOeyrUpmRcT5CDkpPtLCMH4qxNoXdOqCAJrwbNN-UptouC86VKT/s1600/cranberry+sauce,+kale+rosettes,+bacon-sesame+brittle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9EBTH8IIvCuWKV-wEx_XKC6nkrAWRYpZC62D2anBeHpFhbo30-SR3kp8BcvvKZus6B76unaAgbYBUkNY_qpuEBPPtVFOeyrUpmRcT5CDkpPtLCMH4qxNoXdOqCAJrwbNN-UptouC86VKT/s320/cranberry+sauce,+kale+rosettes,+bacon-sesame+brittle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cranberry sauce, bacon-sesame brittle, kale salad</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl30tFPzKWu7JqcB7Xp4fwksHc7a4Buzz3IZKmA-2SIRAShTopmcT7tDqewbjiOhb7wFvcOM9KtydjC7eNmg3PT4Q63UNIt35iGe0MD4Fa8oYgQ7Q2aKQ_-jxHxkCPTSxaVXZISTLAHuBf/s1600/kale+salad+closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl30tFPzKWu7JqcB7Xp4fwksHc7a4Buzz3IZKmA-2SIRAShTopmcT7tDqewbjiOhb7wFvcOM9KtydjC7eNmg3PT4Q63UNIt35iGe0MD4Fa8oYgQ7Q2aKQ_-jxHxkCPTSxaVXZISTLAHuBf/s320/kale+salad+closeup.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kale salad close-up</td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.cavenyfarm.com/" target="_blank"> Caveny Farm </a>provided a Bourbon Red, free-range, heritage turkey, and <a href="http://www.food52.com/blog/2713_russ_parsons_drybrine" target="_blank">dry brining </a>assured a tasty, moist bird. I tried once again for perfectly crisp Brussels sprouts, but all agreed I'd have to start again next year to raise that Sisyphean rock. Tired of watching the <a href="http://wednesdaychef.typepad.com/the_wednesday_chef/2008/01/pichet-ongs-squ.html" target="_blank">Kabocha Squash pie </a>disappear every year at the holiday party before the cooks have had a taste, we made it for this smaller group. The recipe is by Pichet Ong, and it's the best of kind.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyjhBsvZRzuhUl8B4PlEBWT-LnmHQtFxtZSh_2HSWGJxgh5gSsh-yefVv8bWYSD0bqGSR4AvUuI278i4aNu787P0dOAye4x-AO8VfKwWr6f6ojD9dD8d7upb4hI_vvUhY1trf70b7baKL/s1600/Kobacha+Squash+Pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyjhBsvZRzuhUl8B4PlEBWT-LnmHQtFxtZSh_2HSWGJxgh5gSsh-yefVv8bWYSD0bqGSR4AvUuI278i4aNu787P0dOAye4x-AO8VfKwWr6f6ojD9dD8d7upb4hI_vvUhY1trf70b7baKL/s200/Kobacha+Squash+Pie.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kabocha Squash Pie</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Joan Kast, having just quit a horrible job, sat poised on the brink of<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3tYgDykBjatxS3asjBahiftwYgXwAWTnRycZ6JLk9kbxQonB8pHNQyf0Fvpb234tqKX_q0WZff-PLK91pTsJ38LzwCFm8Qgi9ZGJQ0gXlmP0Ax4ERU_F3-Rvoit36Q8i5jyOC1NG4Wm-x/s1600/Joanhappy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3tYgDykBjatxS3asjBahiftwYgXwAWTnRycZ6JLk9kbxQonB8pHNQyf0Fvpb234tqKX_q0WZff-PLK91pTsJ38LzwCFm8Qgi9ZGJQ0gXlmP0Ax4ERU_F3-Rvoit36Q8i5jyOC1NG4Wm-x/s320/Joanhappy.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joan Kast</td></tr>
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an open-ended future, looking happy and relaxed as you can see.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-68855391975406895982012-07-30T12:56:00.000-05:002012-08-09T13:49:11.690-05:00Endangered Island—Martha's Vineyard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winged creature on Lambert's Cove cottage door</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ferry to Martha's Vineyard</td></tr>
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I take a deep breath of salt-laden sea air on the ferry from Wood's Hole to Martha's Vineyard and catch a whiff of the island's stories: its first Wampanoag people, Puritan settlement, vanished culture of sign language and persistent Portuguese language, sweet bread and other traditions. The smell fills me with peaceful anticipation and piques a hunger to learn those stories, to help preserve the island from modern exploitation and mainland uniformity. This time perhaps I'll explore the endlessly complex ancient ways or paths, a labyrinth that underlies the choke of modern traffic the way the funky fish smell and tacky stick of salt thicken the ocean breeze. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Fisher Road</td></tr>
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I came here first as a child during World War II and returned five years ago for the first of five reunions of the children, grands, partners, spouses (and now a possible great-grandchild) of Eric C. Kast, my late husband. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypgzQYpKHrhv6c5oPvApfzy3ASLZWbxvd5XnAQm1ikZANjxYeb1qQgmKo80rMv2eUJeRb_xtxsxO5PU8LovgCvJ8GOLctox37USgC08YTKXvR37BTOLGI08C19k2tLfH3eqBHuXBdg8Vz/s1600/Carter+on+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypgzQYpKHrhv6c5oPvApfzy3ASLZWbxvd5XnAQm1ikZANjxYeb1qQgmKo80rMv2eUJeRb_xtxsxO5PU8LovgCvJ8GOLctox37USgC08YTKXvR37BTOLGI08C19k2tLfH3eqBHuXBdg8Vz/s320/Carter+on+beach.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter on Lambert Cove Beach</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7Mvq4iHtOXlWo-eWIzu-rRKm9uBVUyZWY1wlXJprF7JTptAeVF5LvyiQiFnFt9fPDisq3_liJIWg3JxQH8YlaPRYq21TpJinNpecy5qpGVsiFvNzVyaX1wJkswJtIRY454HOOzHx7-cd/s1600/Ice+House+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7Mvq4iHtOXlWo-eWIzu-rRKm9uBVUyZWY1wlXJprF7JTptAeVF5LvyiQiFnFt9fPDisq3_liJIWg3JxQH8YlaPRYq21TpJinNpecy5qpGVsiFvNzVyaX1wJkswJtIRY454HOOzHx7-cd/s200/Ice+House+Pond.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica in Ice House Pond</td></tr>
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This year I planned a first, writing week for myself with Carter Frank and Erica Kast, and we stayed in Hidden Village on West Tisbury's Lambert Cove Road. Nearby we came upon Dr. Fisher, a dirt road whose buckles rival ocean waves. Our house was deep in woods and gave me a room with desk where I worked on my novel manuscript for several hours each day, while Carter and Erica swam long distances at Lambert Cove Beach. Nearby we discovered Ice House Pond, a fresh water kettle pond preserved by the <a href="http://www.mvlandbank.com/52manaquayak_preserve.shtml" target="_blank">Martha's Vineyard Land Bank,</a> one of many organizations that strives to save land from over development.<br />
An afternoon trip to Aquinnah (formerly Gay Head) gave us gorgeous views of the bright, clay cliffs and a glimpse of Wampanoag jewelry made form wampum, quohog shells. A winding path down to an ocean beach offers surf and a walk below the cliffs. There traditional nude bathing persists. I remember this from childhood visits to the island and was delighted to see that natural simplicity still lives, just slightly tucked away from T-shirt shops and chain store fudge. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SyAwTuH85_vmPs1NOeQfcfD0JwiIvylRsXHQD4fD9rRk1QBuk0olx4T84UCQZQPbNKULH4BFK-yYlxfnOKcmfX6Deliq6Q4VE8uw2YQfEfNJoKeMJml02cP8Zg5q5dFWhSLWlZ5X4uvd/s1600/Maggie+%2526+Carter%252C+Senge+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5SyAwTuH85_vmPs1NOeQfcfD0JwiIvylRsXHQD4fD9rRk1QBuk0olx4T84UCQZQPbNKULH4BFK-yYlxfnOKcmfX6Deliq6Q4VE8uw2YQfEfNJoKeMJml02cP8Zg5q5dFWhSLWlZ5X4uvd/s320/Maggie+%2526+Carter%252C+Senge+Pond.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie and Carter on Senge Pond</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The <a href="https://www.massaudubon.org/catalog/short_results.php?sanctuary_code=9&exclude_camps=checked&selected_page=1" target="_blank">Mass Audobon Society </a>offers great kayak tours of Sengekontacket Pond, an excellent way to see the birds, crabs, plants and animals of the Felix Neck Wildlife Sanctuary as well as to support one more necessary effort to save the island from clogged roads and urban sprawl.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carter with spider crab, Sengekontacket Pond</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elijjah (Aza) and Emma on East Chop Beach</td></tr>
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Our second week on East Chop in Oak Bluffs brought together some family members who had never or almost never met: Anton, Emma, Elijjah (Aza), Lola.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdA-DrCNrTEsCVV3GdzqYquHdl_P5N3ILwrS1a4Y5lr9oYfOK_wwkcdyCQPwf80n7HhGRvOxLaeZca3dSWcAc77iDj5a51Zt8lqGuVZmf1uKxUE1GPZ4kbFySecuw39kdd2Drl80nz2v5/s1600/Emma%252C+Anton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcdA-DrCNrTEsCVV3GdzqYquHdl_P5N3ILwrS1a4Y5lr9oYfOK_wwkcdyCQPwf80n7HhGRvOxLaeZca3dSWcAc77iDj5a51Zt8lqGuVZmf1uKxUE1GPZ4kbFySecuw39kdd2Drl80nz2v5/s200/Emma%252C+Anton.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anton and Emma on the porch</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lola in the water</td></tr>
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We reveled in the West Tisbury Farmer's Market, cooked and ate communally (10-13 peeps each night), and played games from Bananagrams to Settlers of Cataan to Ticket to Ride. We sunned and swam and played paddle ball on the East Chop Beach and indulged in Mad Martha's ice cream, Moon Magick fudge and Back-Door Donuts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West Tisbury Farmer's Market</td></tr>
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Five years is a long time, and people grow up, as the quantity of beer bottles we recycled attests. Some of the young people grew restless without bikes or car and a limited bus system, so Erica and I resolved to develop a survey to assess each person's priorities for location and activities. Her arts management studies come in handy!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Final night dinner</td></tr>
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The results will affect the reunion's future, but I'll always return to the Vineyard. There is so much to learn for an off-island, seasonal visitor, so many paths to wander, so much history to explore. As I contemplate the island's future, my sense of satiation returns to hunger, and I fear that the island I love cannot endure.<br />
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The <a href="http://www.mvdonors.org/" target="_blank">Martha's Vineyard Donors Collaborative </a>is a consortium of island non-profits that aims to use their collective strength to sustain the Vineyard. Understanding the problem is a first step, and their excellent (downloadable) pamphlet addresses the problem with a clear, severe, but humorous and well-written warning: do something now or forget a future for the island. If you've ever lived there, visited the island or wanted to, <a href="http://www.mvdonors.org/" target="_blank">download the pamphlet, watch a video</a>, and choose your mode of action. There's something for everyone to do.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lola, Elijjah (Aza) and Joan blowing bubbles.</td></tr>
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</div>magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-6632704983041637122012-06-08T15:31:00.000-05:002012-08-09T12:23:46.206-05:00Sicily at Next<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XHM2g6iji5e1PSLVTYOq4HXc57dDf5tGKDjHtVUec51VMGXO92PvkwWCBrivUpFuRwvjfGkvmvO5ed2NJFdOUh-OEFphcDXdsLV3rUKs5vOwJWkzUDHCsQQG8zH7kh-GElxyidmncCjP/s1600/plae.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3XHM2g6iji5e1PSLVTYOq4HXc57dDf5tGKDjHtVUec51VMGXO92PvkwWCBrivUpFuRwvjfGkvmvO5ed2NJFdOUh-OEFphcDXdsLV3rUKs5vOwJWkzUDHCsQQG8zH7kh-GElxyidmncCjP/s640/plae.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of many gorgeous plates. To see them all, go to <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Next-Restaurant/114693845229862" target="_blank">Next's Facebook</a> banner photo.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6gUrzJNh8Euk5ctq1wJMSXQKL6UcLvrKj-YWXp8Goik5aywwM9g0aHaBVFr9kaEWI4zUwPMSWzPs1RR2Dcyyz1VEuZNuvu1KQS3t33bQB8OZOFKVU6Zh6HM0iJIEXYjPHXD2iBUZiOASA/s1600/plate+and+quote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6gUrzJNh8Euk5ctq1wJMSXQKL6UcLvrKj-YWXp8Goik5aywwM9g0aHaBVFr9kaEWI4zUwPMSWzPs1RR2Dcyyz1VEuZNuvu1KQS3t33bQB8OZOFKVU6Zh6HM0iJIEXYjPHXD2iBUZiOASA/s320/plate+and+quote.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The German poet Goethe, shivering in his somber Lutheran land, longed for Italy. "Kennst du das Land wo die Zitronen blühn?" he asked in "Mignon's Song." Do you know the land where the lemons bloom? I've always shared Goethe's "Italienische Sehnsucht," the longing for Italy, and now Next has brought me Sicily, introducing the evening with a line from Goethe's Italian Journals: "To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily is to not have seen Italy at all.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grilled Artichokes</td></tr>
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Next's menus each capture the spirit of various times and place, but each one also explores a specific aspect of the culture. Paris 1906 was haut cuisine, the pinnacle of an art form. Taste of Thailand contrasted a fancy form with street food, served on Thai newspaper. Childhood was Chef Achatz's reincarnation of a Michigan childhood, from lunchbox to campfire, with an edible walk in the woods in between. El Bulli was an homage to one man, Ferran Adriá, and his thirty-year practice, again the pinnacle of an art form, but a contemporary one.<br />
With Sicily, you are in the home of your Italian grandmother, if she's the mother of all cooking Sicilian grandmothers. Her food seems particularly well suited to the uniquely casual but educated and expert style of service that Next has developed and refined.<br />
Our four antipasti: arancini, grilled artichokes, chick pea fritters and
caponata could have made a meal. "Each household has its own version of
caponata," explained the water. Our grandmother's was intensely sweet
with tomato but had none of the condensed "red sauce" flavor that
migrated to the U.S. Celery, capers, pine nuts and other vegetables
joined the mix, each one still crisp. The artichokes had a soft center
you dig out with a spoon. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gemelli with fresh anchovy, bread drumbs and dill</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0EI0OtGQMhyphenhyphenuW0bEXEwxv_YgG_tzjjQ6vX_DL6YIkmAu1ZO-Ca_-gHd4NbD5r_AUX5zbHhLMFFHxEI-cLNNsqpkqCA53LNuTedVJknE7HRrrglk4Q6_ED5R7O715YtlL0jcNGoeFdgZQR/s1600/arancini.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0EI0OtGQMhyphenhyphenuW0bEXEwxv_YgG_tzjjQ6vX_DL6YIkmAu1ZO-Ca_-gHd4NbD5r_AUX5zbHhLMFFHxEI-cLNNsqpkqCA53LNuTedVJknE7HRrrglk4Q6_ED5R7O715YtlL0jcNGoeFdgZQR/s200/arancini.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arancini, rice balls stuffed with lamb</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoUsy4bc-ZR22hX5I07Jue4mL3fckiDCEmWqWBfAky9Rzl5EZQj9IPDpy7Pze_Zh-IxjkEBN7mNd8ny91bB37L7lt57G4Xcrcp1KtwhV7JBrPo-BpK1oEOA_8Qs1wXcMS8ET0okE1oU5V/s1600/swordfish,+mint+pesto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisoUsy4bc-ZR22hX5I07Jue4mL3fckiDCEmWqWBfAky9Rzl5EZQj9IPDpy7Pze_Zh-IxjkEBN7mNd8ny91bB37L7lt57G4Xcrcp1KtwhV7JBrPo-BpK1oEOA_8Qs1wXcMS8ET0okE1oU5V/s200/swordfish,+mint+pesto.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swordfish with mint pesto</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWTms5s2Nk755ioV9G0NckFZRANn_Zs8TC4Uhyc7UcF-Jk1Dwir7yPSoPSj9JNz6O74Q_AH7v7bIKkMbsvb2cKG-FiK4EtkYqHb49DpCU8x0prfqe-PDBAoyoGSLh7RLqQPGf7oHyG3AN/s1600/chick+peas+w%253A+romesco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmWTms5s2Nk755ioV9G0NckFZRANn_Zs8TC4Uhyc7UcF-Jk1Dwir7yPSoPSj9JNz6O74Q_AH7v7bIKkMbsvb2cKG-FiK4EtkYqHb49DpCU8x0prfqe-PDBAoyoGSLh7RLqQPGf7oHyG3AN/s320/chick+peas+w%253A+romesco.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chickpeas fried and mashed with romanesco broccoli</td></tr>
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Two pasta dishes followed, fortunatly small but still filling: Thick, chewy bucatini with butter and the dried fish roe called bottarga; and gemelli with a sauce of fresh anchovy, tomato and fried bread crumbs. Swordfish cooked perfectly, just rare in the center, was served family style with the chick pea dish to the left. I could eat this heavenly combination daily for the rest of my life. Although subtle in flavor and garnish, it tasted like what it was: fish, mint, chick peas, garlic. Grandma knew ingredient-driven way back. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWX26nnBGKiE9uFrZdLPPj8-L7lfA7NgEaypbqdg5r9k5P51N6Mmg10p6Na7hyyBhBDmoszRRRjmXxDhjBU3E5WejEFFqXqSJ7y3htG5BxVnzzg60hRTxuj90FXLJ6JsupuQBm7s4gWqCc/s1600/pork+shoulder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWX26nnBGKiE9uFrZdLPPj8-L7lfA7NgEaypbqdg5r9k5P51N6Mmg10p6Na7hyyBhBDmoszRRRjmXxDhjBU3E5WejEFFqXqSJ7y3htG5BxVnzzg60hRTxuj90FXLJ6JsupuQBm7s4gWqCc/s400/pork+shoulder.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pork shoulder with tomato sauce</td></tr>
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And she roasted pork shoulder in tomato suace until you could cut it with a fork and spoon, and we did. How does this tomato sauce manage to taste as much of meat as of tomato? Only Grandma knows.<br />
We were unable to do justice to either fish or meat courses and resorted
to taking home leftovers, which Next generously accommodated. We
greeted with pleasure and relief the sight of a small coupe of blood
orange granita, the texture like snow, the flavor pure fruit. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2iBxWzZiYcRYhFX_0mbCSE011jEuHI9ddj2eJpYltJFTo4uQ3rfx7suafWnbWQlsNhyYyVKenza3z8UYQCWb3VEyNDpQsvc8uWnVxgKfilIJuXITQjNqNsuEEXTqG-aKFOPj1Lf6ZwQT/s1600/blood+orange+granita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2iBxWzZiYcRYhFX_0mbCSE011jEuHI9ddj2eJpYltJFTo4uQ3rfx7suafWnbWQlsNhyYyVKenza3z8UYQCWb3VEyNDpQsvc8uWnVxgKfilIJuXITQjNqNsuEEXTqG-aKFOPj1Lf6ZwQT/s320/blood+orange+granita.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica Kast and granita</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-xRt3uMD3wryZeBM2_brJ_mCeJ1sQ3O6DKdmyf7osBkPDpOmRIp2tcc_Amp7joJWPiWLCgk5ofI3IF8g6hJMUgcAXOwMfEAFgB9ttvNjh0ZUJjpL01r8xZQCzAjXt5RnAtNZ7cUvirQy/s1600/cassata+slice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-xRt3uMD3wryZeBM2_brJ_mCeJ1sQ3O6DKdmyf7osBkPDpOmRIp2tcc_Amp7joJWPiWLCgk5ofI3IF8g6hJMUgcAXOwMfEAFgB9ttvNjh0ZUJjpL01r8xZQCzAjXt5RnAtNZ7cUvirQy/s200/cassata+slice.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slice of cassata, candied fruits</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cannoli, sweet fried ravioli, cookie</td></tr>
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Slices of cassata filled with sweet ricotta were served with whipped cream flavored with nocino, a walnut liqueur. Candied fruits, miniature cannoli and tiny, chewy sesame cookies were the icing on the cake. <br />
Next's non-alcoholic pairings are well worth trying, and we had one of these and one wine pairing, sharing both. Most interesting was a green-tomato-celery-garlic-white pepper drink served with the fish. If only I could do it all over again!<br />
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</div>magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-76483955623132642582012-05-31T16:59:00.003-05:002012-06-02T14:30:46.509-05:00Remembering Everything on Memorial Day<br />
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"The History of Everything," a performance piece by the Belgian group, Ontroerend Goed, co-created by the Sydney Theater Company, compresses the history of the world into ninety minutes. I saw it with theatre scholar Natalie Schmitt on Memorial Day weekend, upstairs at Chicago Shakespeare Theater, and it fascinated me by its combination of text, action and prop, working together or at odds to tell a story. The piece begins with a young woman addressing the audience and explaining that the expanding universe will one day contract, ending the world as a black hole. She's not afraid, she says. As the universe contracts, she anticipates living each moment in her life again, but in reverse order. Then, with a new big bang, she'll start all over again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene of The Enlightenment from The History of Everything</td></tr>
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Following this monologue, the cast of six begins enacting a speeded-up history of the world in reverse, beginning with the day and place of performance. For us it was Chicago, May 27, 2012. The stage floor, as you see in the video, is a Mercator projection of planet earth, and the style is taken from Chinese opera. Assasination is accomplished with small flags reading "Bang." Toy airplanes bomb cities or run into towers; sprinkled flakes bring on Ice Ages; spray bottles squirt out hurricanes. Wars, political upheavals, natural disasters and pop culture events receive equal and sometimes satiric attention, as when colonial powers discover Africa and compete to see who can snatch up which parts, planting their flags and uprooting those of others. The performance ends with the big bang, but before that a performer reflects on whether he would like to come back as a horse and another contemplates gratitude. Both of these led Natalie and me to wonder what the director had in mind with the piece as a whole. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">7 am sky on Memorial Day</td></tr>
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According to a program note, director Alexander Devriendt starting by contemplating the small part humans play in the overall history of the universe. Agreed. Searching for a phrase to express his insight, he writes: "And if we fuck up, we weren't that important." Next he turned to Richard Dawkins and quoted from Dawkins' book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Unweaving-Rainbow-Science-Delusion-Appetite/dp/0618056734" target="_blank"><i>Unweaving the Rainbow:</i></a> "We are granted the opportunity to understand why our eyes are open, and why they see what they do, in the short time before they close forever." I've not read Dawkins, but I would substitute "how" for "why" in that quote. Science shows us how things work to ever-increasing degrees, but sages, mystics and philosophers of all traditions have been pondering the "why" for as long as humans have been sitting around the campfire, telling stories. I think Devriendt realizes this in his final paragraph, where he says, "A show about history is always a story. . . the beauty lies in how you deal with it." Perhaps he was trying to soften Dawkins' reductionist view with the monologue about the horse (was he contemplating reincarnation?) and the one about gratitude, one of the most pervasive human wellsprings of religious feeling.<br />
Considering the director's tagline for the show, Natalie said: "And if we manage to make everything so radioactive or so hot that earth is uninhabitable? Or, if we use up all the resources? Our ability to fuck up is very important. And, for that matter, why not make it as good as can be? So, my life has no meaning. I'm so small a part of time that no timeline can show me. So what? I can try to make it good for myself and other living things nonetheless." <br />
Near the end the woman who spoke the opening monologue, making the whole show in a sense her story, said "We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones." It didn't make much sense to me at the time, but research showed this to be a quote from Dawkins. In context he seems to be saying that many lives are physically possible but only a few actually get lived. Our death shows we had the luck to live. Now we're back to the "why." Whether it's luck or providence or something yet to be understood that's responsible for our existence, we'll go on telling stories about it, just as Devriendt has done. To quote Lawrence Weschler, "The thing that's scarier than the scariest story is that there is no story." We continue to tell them, using text, action and prop.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wlumY8tDQBLWf544A8ywMvYLj-iJiIIrqrDBUBT0E1parFQ1rG5sk3m7Hl3XRi5GRl1vCpu5JD2hU4ceEFWSJl20npPx5qVXWegIBTZrja-VU6ETo7xY-GOLdwBrw_QlcKMK-rbjyezC/s1600/Lola's+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wlumY8tDQBLWf544A8ywMvYLj-iJiIIrqrDBUBT0E1parFQ1rG5sk3m7Hl3XRi5GRl1vCpu5JD2hU4ceEFWSJl20npPx5qVXWegIBTZrja-VU6ETo7xY-GOLdwBrw_QlcKMK-rbjyezC/s400/Lola's+story.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nine-year-old granddaughter Lola's story about urban chickens</td></tr>
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And we'll continue. Here is my granddaughter Lola's story about urban chickens published in the Valencia Bayfarer, put out by Dave Eggers' free writing workshop for kids, <a href="http://826valencia.org/" target="_blank">826 Valencia.</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyzXpbiDbp-e8aByoP0q_FsN6gcV4IRf8icQIjQHdE93Zn6LoA4bnaUwrl-jBjf2Cpoh5-GCZ1-Ew-uUUu41Gk9o4Cq3awGzUrHOcaDYjM32YfRaUE8GKdS1_4PNZwhF_Xbr4QBQm35lJ/s1600/penguin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyzXpbiDbp-e8aByoP0q_FsN6gcV4IRf8icQIjQHdE93Zn6LoA4bnaUwrl-jBjf2Cpoh5-GCZ1-Ew-uUUu41Gk9o4Cq3awGzUrHOcaDYjM32YfRaUE8GKdS1_4PNZwhF_Xbr4QBQm35lJ/s320/penguin.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Penguin from unspun wool by 12-year-old granddaughter, Iris</td></tr>
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Props? Granddaughter Iris made the penguin below from unspun wool, using a technique she learned at a Maker's Faire.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-22347216191439883922012-03-30T10:10:00.000-05:002015-04-01T08:49:09.858-05:00Reading From My Novel, Tuesday Funk at Hopleaf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/xb9kMNlCZTU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
A scene in which Henriette, the protagonist of my forthcoming novel, <i>A Free, Unsullied Land, </i>performs as the Spirit of Haymarket at a May Day rally at Haymarket Square. She gets stage fright, panics, and then resolves to embark on a seriously dangerous journey.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-21814666067056101452012-03-16T10:51:00.000-05:002012-05-31T16:34:41.468-05:00Remembering Everything<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BTv5JR8UxFRgFLqW85wYl9e8M0zaeRU7Z8gdRldoykSDVFqQsoBq9WebHleajwqI5tHxX8ZRb561aYSv2XMWCGk42L4W0Czk9H3dgTXJtBpnF5g-Ngn3YmviXwOxtwErWGiQVgMgKPU9/s1600/Cauliflower+couscous+&+aromatics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BTv5JR8UxFRgFLqW85wYl9e8M0zaeRU7Z8gdRldoykSDVFqQsoBq9WebHleajwqI5tHxX8ZRb561aYSv2XMWCGk42L4W0Czk9H3dgTXJtBpnF5g-Ngn3YmviXwOxtwErWGiQVgMgKPU9/s400/Cauliflower+couscous+&+aromatics.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deconstructed tagine: cauliflower couscous, campari jelly</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObOVUZkQ1NvrJni_TknFSpD_IMVqf-QwMfaXxBuTy3lMRa-3fekVDAS8iQm8OhmwiaOFOIN9TKNSIz-wQG4_VnEPtYmp6gv9I-9EVu8cx1uMCIBapHfVrNxhwqWPlSo7IjKVbM1WbKQUb/s1600/balloon+and+hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObOVUZkQ1NvrJni_TknFSpD_IMVqf-QwMfaXxBuTy3lMRa-3fekVDAS8iQm8OhmwiaOFOIN9TKNSIz-wQG4_VnEPtYmp6gv9I-9EVu8cx1uMCIBapHfVrNxhwqWPlSo7IjKVbM1WbKQUb/s320/balloon+and+hand.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frozen gorgonzola sphere</td></tr>
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Last night Erica Kast and I scored a same night table at <a href="https://www.nextrestaurant.com/" target="_blank">Next</a> and ate twenty-nine tiny courses, each taken from a different year in the life of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferran_Adri%C3%A0" target="_blank">Ferran Adrià's</a> El Bulli in Roses, Spain, now closed. Though season tickets are sold out and same night tables, posted on Facebook, sell within minutes, El Bulli at Next is much more than a fad or phenom. It's a challenge to taste, a thought provocation, as technically accomplished and emotionally satisfying as the term, "techno-emotional," implies. More playful than food called "molecular" and just as avant-garde as "modernist" indicates, it's dinner as theatre, food as art.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqucMx5o7FqImGxAbeD0c5PPPApVTKHPr9Op17suri6rxOYmJH-dUXnTI1u49XtVZSU22rUgQbF8WmgTmc1QziVF2LOBMP9JHk5HrYS4hjaGtIFZSgurgxJQ6zLmBpTCMiMXfkJ2ZtCnj/s1600/carrot+foam+&+coconut+milk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqucMx5o7FqImGxAbeD0c5PPPApVTKHPr9Op17suri6rxOYmJH-dUXnTI1u49XtVZSU22rUgQbF8WmgTmc1QziVF2LOBMP9JHk5HrYS4hjaGtIFZSgurgxJQ6zLmBpTCMiMXfkJ2ZtCnj/s320/carrot+foam+&+coconut+milk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carrot foam with coconut milk, one of the most delicious tastes</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvjO8nNNtmmeLm3J9wB60OssKR-9_8ZC4TEghrQcBzAWE8xoDGjcKrNukgkRJzkA7iiIxjZR6_FY5KQNJs0V1crdmqf7BvuyV6e2GjPUvJBlyF5zL7y7CjQ6BrbqO1UjpNgGR3n1KBjY1/s1600/espumo+de+humo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMvjO8nNNtmmeLm3J9wB60OssKR-9_8ZC4TEghrQcBzAWE8xoDGjcKrNukgkRJzkA7iiIxjZR6_FY5KQNJs0V1crdmqf7BvuyV6e2GjPUvJBlyF5zL7y7CjQ6BrbqO1UjpNgGR3n1KBjY1/s200/espumo+de+humo.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Espumo de humo, smoke foam, food for thought</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21NAiGIrgECazPsdQsL2vzj-LZEfSsbLWtTuqXpUJf-S4P0ucvj26hoOFwgsrna-dUA7Qab2zlwT3d8b9kOUdaw-r58MoFlgY-3NAiBuxIvloVv_C4He8rFisF5Cu2UYPwzHU09PQB2MT/s1600/cuttlefish+raviolo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21NAiGIrgECazPsdQsL2vzj-LZEfSsbLWtTuqXpUJf-S4P0ucvj26hoOFwgsrna-dUA7Qab2zlwT3d8b9kOUdaw-r58MoFlgY-3NAiBuxIvloVv_C4He8rFisF5Cu2UYPwzHU09PQB2MT/s320/cuttlefish+raviolo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cuttlefish & coconut raviolo, paired with Kanbara saki</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNfTrkaVx4-vessjZ-Mv1RARJRKUF1ep9NnEcqxcUL5g0C5tcYY2veiUP06T5BwE8Fi6CLV7wPwHYer0r_YiTuFh3ffVLQ9HYoTcpjkOb7qTZzA650HFe482Z9W6EYQLfTFIJTZpYRROl/s1600/inside+out+iberico+sandwich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNfTrkaVx4-vessjZ-Mv1RARJRKUF1ep9NnEcqxcUL5g0C5tcYY2veiUP06T5BwE8Fi6CLV7wPwHYer0r_YiTuFh3ffVLQ9HYoTcpjkOb7qTZzA650HFe482Z9W6EYQLfTFIJTZpYRROl/s200/inside+out+iberico+sandwich.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside-out Iberico sandwich</td></tr>
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The movie, <a href="http://elbullimovie.com/" target="_blank">"El Bulli</a>," which we saw in advance, is great preparation for the meal. Adrià's team analyzes flavors and experiments with methods in his Barcelona lab kitchen for six months out of each year, and you see them taste and try and try again, challenging preconceptions about liquid and solid, sweet and savory, inside and outside. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LdKPjOzOnDEPK5Bv26e8do8uzxIyN4RgIfU7U83kwDS0vHQzYLwhLBtNzwcd1ZCs5r_DzNl9y-O2g8MIZkABnBgIwJIcLcdE4CBtGNm327lqyjXUTq-tzDd-SgKRhKEDsR5f_3Dl6Fxx/s1600/spherical+olives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LdKPjOzOnDEPK5Bv26e8do8uzxIyN4RgIfU7U83kwDS0vHQzYLwhLBtNzwcd1ZCs5r_DzNl9y-O2g8MIZkABnBgIwJIcLcdE4CBtGNm327lqyjXUTq-tzDd-SgKRhKEDsR5f_3Dl6Fxx/s200/spherical+olives.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spherical olives, liquid inside</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLalQfxUYaM9VooUXrc7QlzCr74kxYGkWCuOuNQe3klRd2g2x-I9lFBlpsNiRP8_3XsQ9shWyVqTu7vqtuPNaaK7jTMFuOqak1jItiGMUpjcAhYSVoriWcivGYeFXZz0d2vuGUbC_dP9VZ/s1600/spice+game.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLalQfxUYaM9VooUXrc7QlzCr74kxYGkWCuOuNQe3klRd2g2x-I9lFBlpsNiRP8_3XsQ9shWyVqTu7vqtuPNaaK7jTMFuOqak1jItiGMUpjcAhYSVoriWcivGYeFXZz0d2vuGUbC_dP9VZ/s320/spice+game.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spice game</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtJ_8O_qecDyGDvTQ4a8MC-IyL0xHAe0idVTOib3UygejgdoBo_sgCbbeaoZyltdBUHmg5OJuCJUlSZbY7kvDvq_QwPKSvdL90Ghy93j0tuWYvHmsgsLclDOxqFJSAS5vPVPzwddmClMg/s1600/spice+plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxtJ_8O_qecDyGDvTQ4a8MC-IyL0xHAe0idVTOib3UygejgdoBo_sgCbbeaoZyltdBUHmg5OJuCJUlSZbY7kvDvq_QwPKSvdL90Ghy93j0tuWYvHmsgsLclDOxqFJSAS5vPVPzwddmClMg/s320/spice+plate.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spice plate</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZhLtXSHM0t0v4xUcyWwJv5HH5WqaCFXxBn35gkWyuMNIWvzeTAmwVDLjOyF6JjLvtHb0djw1SgzVUwteqzfpCB0cTx95tIHNZ_qLAx5xodhINu0s9pnpqpX7hPZg85GPogZLJWhog-Vj/s1600/passion+fruit+marshmellows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZhLtXSHM0t0v4xUcyWwJv5HH5WqaCFXxBn35gkWyuMNIWvzeTAmwVDLjOyF6JjLvtHb0djw1SgzVUwteqzfpCB0cTx95tIHNZ_qLAx5xodhINu0s9pnpqpX7hPZg85GPogZLJWhog-Vj/s320/passion+fruit+marshmellows.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wobbly hands waved goodbye over paassionfruit marshmellow</td></tr>
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Knowing the night would require stamina, we opted for one alcoholic and one non-alcoholic pairing and shared. Both kinds threw flavors into relief, so that the salt of cold trout roe encased in hot tempura pointed up the sweet fruit of a litchi-coconut-lime juice flavored with saffron and celery, and an oxidated Palo Cortado sherry set off a rich Catalan stew of shrimp and potatoes.<br />
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A dessert of chocolate in multiple textures satisfied eye, touch and taste, though we couldn't finish, and chocolate "doughnuts" surprised with a liquid filling of coconut cream.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiC3I2_k2Ylt_ZqcteQIIbNi16S5NdzDr6PeFwwwkSGrDZRgbJO5_nQ8xHT4pMXuLJcbp8GFO5zJYmaZt2cOxzRkd8_lUYiL7NbQMtSPT-OcCukN5PXtTw-gmJr8QNIWNKwkyIu37aMhaq/s1600/chocolate+textures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiC3I2_k2Ylt_ZqcteQIIbNi16S5NdzDr6PeFwwwkSGrDZRgbJO5_nQ8xHT4pMXuLJcbp8GFO5zJYmaZt2cOxzRkd8_lUYiL7NbQMtSPT-OcCukN5PXtTw-gmJr8QNIWNKwkyIu37aMhaq/s320/chocolate+textures.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate textures</td></tr>
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For fun near the end, a spice plate and score card invited us to identify twelve little samples arranged like a clock. Chewing the bits between her front teeth, Erica identified every last one, surprised by a jolt of tongue numbness that gave away Szechuan pepper.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-18051767105446707392012-03-09T11:15:00.000-06:002012-03-09T11:15:33.332-06:00Lion Dance, Hustle, Hopleaf and Thaw<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzcw6yfMA_OqtZUo58tifPHmKX3KkiZXbsUTgSDUQAQg2IdLhw5neIWgj2umcUXBdL_2Ee81D-gIKrv3gEKz1ywYtA3scGKgWy-UZNz2tui1U3TAw_yTkXRK2k7OQUC506kNdN7GHppzo/s1600/Aquarium+of+the+Bay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzcw6yfMA_OqtZUo58tifPHmKX3KkiZXbsUTgSDUQAQg2IdLhw5neIWgj2umcUXBdL_2Ee81D-gIKrv3gEKz1ywYtA3scGKgWy-UZNz2tui1U3TAw_yTkXRK2k7OQUC506kNdN7GHppzo/s400/Aquarium+of+the+Bay.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jellyfish, Aquarium of the Bay<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">For eleven days in February I stayed with my granddaughters, Iris and
Lola, in San Francisco while their parents went to Barcelona, a
first-time vacation without children. <span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">I cooked, soothed tears, watched the Grammys with twelve-year-old Iris
and helped her with knitting; played board games and made Valentines
with nine-year-old Lola and took them both to <a href="http://www.aquariumofthebay.com/" target="_blank">Aquarium of the Bay</a>
to see the giant octopus. All this plus school and playdates by car,
all over the city and down the peninsula, was for me a feat of way-finding. A
highlight was Lola's performance in the Lion Dance, celebrating Chinese
New Year, at <a href="http://www.kdbs.org/" target="_blank">Burke's</a> school. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQ31N4B8cONUQmKc6Lr-Df7h2JMI76axlnMwdXTEXssS3_dFew5hRRALLvOyBtTOnh-KZP4y2fhHN_z50GRIgABHC7drHErALuYjuLzc4wnpkXrjJvkJ-ViqnVIXEvJXJFT1Nb7au9mVM/s1600/Lola&+Iris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQ31N4B8cONUQmKc6Lr-Df7h2JMI76axlnMwdXTEXssS3_dFew5hRRALLvOyBtTOnh-KZP4y2fhHN_z50GRIgABHC7drHErALuYjuLzc4wnpkXrjJvkJ-ViqnVIXEvJXJFT1Nb7au9mVM/s320/Lola&+Iris.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tulips and granddaughters on Pier 39</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-MGjMWJoSifkPuWxGEO4nH9NekEVSY8ypHMVJD3YClZq0sIWAPa3LZuYis3PujMfuugnaLPjZl1OYMMVq70laWzfu0wcZcTU-38hu7WZWZE6bFghikP52_A7OqfKayHQCN-IjzTI8qsj/s1600/Lion+Dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-MGjMWJoSifkPuWxGEO4nH9NekEVSY8ypHMVJD3YClZq0sIWAPa3LZuYis3PujMfuugnaLPjZl1OYMMVq70laWzfu0wcZcTU-38hu7WZWZE6bFghikP52_A7OqfKayHQCN-IjzTI8qsj/s200/Lion+Dance.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lion Dance at Burke's School</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWOCQfflPkY_qfHSmJRyhmryySPBKqKI8Rs8WKzMKqetWbI7auAlQTFIjaaJZLe5IDdaazjgjqO0mj5FoPNTtkCttKEPnmDDYGSm66CYSQC2nm2FHtUpVsM4hQ3Fby3urCgZgfrkuxQ_d/s1600/IMG_0097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgWOCQfflPkY_qfHSmJRyhmryySPBKqKI8Rs8WKzMKqetWbI7auAlQTFIjaaJZLe5IDdaazjgjqO0mj5FoPNTtkCttKEPnmDDYGSm66CYSQC2nm2FHtUpVsM4hQ3Fby3urCgZgfrkuxQ_d/s200/IMG_0097.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica at the MCA</td></tr>
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On February 26 Erica <a href="http://hustleupthehancock.org/" target="_blank">Hustled Up the Hancock</a>,
1632 steps in 24 minutes,
and I rode the elevator to cheer her and 4000 other climbers, supporting
respiratory health. I found her not even breathless. Brunch at the <a href="http://www.mcachicago.org/" target="_blank">MCA</a> was a great sequel.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3g89izGIQUIlNNosVPvTVYK_avdWtVoOb-xpq6Sx-gwbEpgbaPWaS8IliZmXv20RNDdVlaf9ixhuL875tdXI6ZyUDWV9G5LUxDdRTri8LvETHTx4Sqwxlx_HonQuEhiZW6oNoN7Fng8DI/s1600/Hopleaf3.6.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3g89izGIQUIlNNosVPvTVYK_avdWtVoOb-xpq6Sx-gwbEpgbaPWaS8IliZmXv20RNDdVlaf9ixhuL875tdXI6ZyUDWV9G5LUxDdRTri8LvETHTx4Sqwxlx_HonQuEhiZW6oNoN7Fng8DI/s320/Hopleaf3.6.12.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reading at Hopleaf, photo by Erica Kast</td></tr>
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<a href="http://awpwriter.org/" target="_blank">AWP </a>met in Chicago this year with 10,000 attendees. I loved seeing friends from <a href="http://vcfa.edu/" target="_blank">Vermont College of Fine Arts </a>and others, but the size made it exhausting despite interesting panels on fiction and life, letters in fiction and the realism of Alice Munro. <br />
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On March 6 I was honored to join Hallie Palladino, Joe Weintraub, Bill Shunn and others to read at <a href="http://www.tuesdayfunk.org/" target="_blank">Tuesday Funk,</a> a reading series celebrating its 43rd edition and held at <a href="http://hopleaf.com/" target="_blank">Hopleaf,</a> Chicago's excellent Belgian bar and restaurant. I read from my novel-in-progress, set in 1930, and later enjoyed the best mussels ever and great beer. For video of the reading, click the Tuesday Funk link.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5AeZcJWjOLV9I0MrmvdZ8tUHfeooz2QIkvjMTkq5N1O19E1-4dN16ffRIyN_H4kPspOCRCTnbmEKMyTvjy5TdFyRkg-sbAIz1nFwZcHWVrk6XF-KW6nDUKx32Fp3Dq82LLKukvvS4xvQF/s1600/LinksThawdetails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5AeZcJWjOLV9I0MrmvdZ8tUHfeooz2QIkvjMTkq5N1O19E1-4dN16ffRIyN_H4kPspOCRCTnbmEKMyTvjy5TdFyRkg-sbAIz1nFwZcHWVrk6XF-KW6nDUKx32Fp3Dq82LLKukvvS4xvQF/s400/LinksThawdetails.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Now I'm excited about <a href="http://linkshallthaw2012.eventbrite.com/" target="_blank">Thaw: a Night of Hot Ballyhoo</a>, a benefit for Link's Hall coming up on March 22. A blast and a bargain, at $30 in advance, $40 at the door for a night of performance, food and drinks included. Click the links for details and hope to see all my friends there. </div>
<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-71335821959741571262012-01-26T11:55:00.003-06:002012-01-26T11:55:58.383-06:00One Bowl at a Time<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3ot_yQhojy5x3eskAeVHI-d-UaIAqBWPLspuO7jF7OcEyQgHWgwyDbkvM1Tp6tD08AHeqE67ShnJ45fXrwbYYw6GrWe7s1kdFMEMRfefHZpu6AmHJt091QVl9Qh6Gvbi1adR3EJh85iO/s1600/Bread+sticks+%2526+Guacamole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj3ot_yQhojy5x3eskAeVHI-d-UaIAqBWPLspuO7jF7OcEyQgHWgwyDbkvM1Tp6tD08AHeqE67ShnJ45fXrwbYYw6GrWe7s1kdFMEMRfefHZpu6AmHJt091QVl9Qh6Gvbi1adR3EJh85iO/s320/Bread+sticks+%2526+Guacamole.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bread sticks, guacamole & chips</td></tr>
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There's nothing like making soup for Martha Bayne's <a href="http://www.soupandbread.net/" target="_blank">Soup and Bread</a> at Chicago's <a href="http://www.hideoutchicago.com/" target="_blank">Hideout</a>, 1354 W. Wabansia. Where else can you give away gallons of soup and pounds of breadsticks to people reveling in free food, while benefiting an agency that feeds the hungry? Martha's slogan is "building community, one bowl at a time," and that must be what makes it such a kick. You ladle out soup while checking out the other cooks' contributions—there were seven kinds last night—and then have one of the Hideout's excellent draft beers and chat with friends and strangers. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODpSQ9PEfeBDrlQJ7LXTnlPs74CbSvWP33qJvSomJi1MquEU66KbAMwRjZjw1-zNiYk_tFaKegvcLDqXPX7qSdkOzTXwrolzRZAKrO7Zj9cnNZn0xKY2pDjsIjIOfLFcDl8BCSBqY8nkw/s1600/lentil+%2526+sausage+soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgODpSQ9PEfeBDrlQJ7LXTnlPs74CbSvWP33qJvSomJi1MquEU66KbAMwRjZjw1-zNiYk_tFaKegvcLDqXPX7qSdkOzTXwrolzRZAKrO7Zj9cnNZn0xKY2pDjsIjIOfLFcDl8BCSBqY8nkw/s400/lentil+%2526+sausage+soup.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lentil & sausage soup</td></tr>
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Martha makes sure there's always one for vegetarians: last night, curried ginger and carrot and green chile pozole, the latter made by a young woman from Texas who brings back armloads of Hatch chiles when she visits. For meat eaters there was an elaborate pork mole with home-pickled jalapeños and the best sign of all, see Holy Mole below.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh331OzAhCaUxjKVqAXWlxWYcT0YnsJoP8hw0b6KjP_vbYGygJfRZGYYxDxhQPn5wpMeLf8NMU7ljt1841gGecxSqqB0wXMehYRn9Zmrx1Jj3WzJfEBDOfDhrzvPC8y8fNJBhBL-cmAPWsZ/s1600/pork+mole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh331OzAhCaUxjKVqAXWlxWYcT0YnsJoP8hw0b6KjP_vbYGygJfRZGYYxDxhQPn5wpMeLf8NMU7ljt1841gGecxSqqB0wXMehYRn9Zmrx1Jj3WzJfEBDOfDhrzvPC8y8fNJBhBL-cmAPWsZ/s320/pork+mole.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pork mole</td></tr>
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For meat eaters there was a ham and split pea soup featuring meat from the cooks' family farm, a creamy Seneghalese
chicken stew crunchy with coconut, and a Moroccan spiced lamb soup. I made the lentil and sausage soup, invented by AntoniaJames, that won a prize on <a href="http://www.food52.com/" target="_blank">food52</a>, using Kielbasa from <a href="http://www.cdfamilyfarms.com/" target="_blank">C and D Family farm</a>. They sells their formerly happy pork, beef, chicken and more at farmers markets throughout Chicago. I switched up her ketchup for harisssa, providing a little heat, but not enough to prevent one-year-old Anna from gobbling down some lentils. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNBzowKtDzoYbbd2LVw4a0kIIAW9hYd1GOjZNsQXuPX307bcesmlZHVxOco3Asq4x9ekwkMkEKL-yrOVJmGwbV-p7Qc3rOoY5BgsyDPTEz6Aey9GCcjVozOoVwgMysv1Dcm7EMXpIBs0A/s1600/Senegalese+chicken+stew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVNBzowKtDzoYbbd2LVw4a0kIIAW9hYd1GOjZNsQXuPX307bcesmlZHVxOco3Asq4x9ekwkMkEKL-yrOVJmGwbV-p7Qc3rOoY5BgsyDPTEz6Aey9GCcjVozOoVwgMysv1Dcm7EMXpIBs0A/s400/Senegalese+chicken+stew.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
The event takes place every Wednesday until spring, 5:30-7:30, and
benefits a different community agency each week. It's a cozy respite
form winter any time, but for me, it's best when I cook.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soups set up</td></tr>
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-79006509812670285262012-01-02T09:03:00.000-06:002012-01-02T15:55:28.744-06:00Peace at Christmas<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DE2k6w5ca6Y/TwHBZizmu_I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/uftW0_sm7Ho/s1600/fish+%2526+chips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DE2k6w5ca6Y/TwHBZizmu_I/AAAAAAAAAgQ/uftW0_sm7Ho/s320/fish+%2526+chips.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish and Chips<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The fall semester at Columbia College hurtled to an end in
mid-December, and suddenly my last class was over. I was on my way—by
windy hike over the Halsted bridge and along Fulton Market—to Next
Restaurant. Their Childhood menu transformed each kiddie favorite into a
riff on itelf, from fish and chips rendered as a child's drawing to a
winter walk in the Michigan woods that looked like an artful pile of
twigs and tasted of parsnip and pine. A deconstructed sweet potato pie
offered filling, crust and ice cream before a tabletop campfire (visible
in the background).</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7bYJX_1eHs/TwHBeU1UktI/AAAAAAAAAgo/tHyDXVde0oc/s1600/Winter+Wonderland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L7bYJX_1eHs/TwHBeU1UktI/AAAAAAAAAgo/tHyDXVde0oc/s200/Winter+Wonderland.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter Wonderland</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s1Rkg3VkzfM/TwHBccr2ZZI/AAAAAAAAAgg/p5bYxtsUjNg/s1600/sweet+potato+pie+%252B+campfire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s1Rkg3VkzfM/TwHBccr2ZZI/AAAAAAAAAgg/p5bYxtsUjNg/s400/sweet+potato+pie+%252B+campfire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet Potato Pie and Campfire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My daughter, Erica, and I cooked all day the next day, and one day
later forty people aged ten months to seventy plus assembled at our house
for hot cider, wine, squash soup, myriad cookies and Christmas carols.
Erica displayed her handmade, blown-glass ornaments and sold quite a
few. </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tX48RzBEr5U/TwHEl4QkSVI/AAAAAAAAAg0/kQ3MIwAPLJs/s1600/Erica%2527s+ornaments.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tX48RzBEr5U/TwHEl4QkSVI/AAAAAAAAAg0/kQ3MIwAPLJs/s200/Erica%2527s+ornaments.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica's ornaments</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kh6SF3ZOjt0/TwHFaead7iI/AAAAAAAAAhA/7cIEtqAAdDE/s1600/Cookies+%2526+oranges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kh6SF3ZOjt0/TwHFaead7iI/AAAAAAAAAhA/7cIEtqAAdDE/s200/Cookies+%2526+oranges.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cookies, Christmas party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, a week before Christmas, I settled into a deep peace. The party finished, I had only minor preparations to make for the holiday. Time's slowing was almost palpable: some knitting here, cooking there, reading things the semester's rush had not allowed. Revisions on my novel each morning.Watching the news, I lucked into PBS's lovely rendition of Mark Doty's poem, "Messiah: Christmas Portion." <br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TP8fFYYHbJE" width="560"></iframe> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cfjE73_zAis/TwIjDRpQavI/AAAAAAAAAhM/N4TeOtQFae4/s1600/Erica%2527s+lampwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cfjE73_zAis/TwIjDRpQavI/AAAAAAAAAhM/N4TeOtQFae4/s320/Erica%2527s+lampwork.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica's lampwork beads</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Joan and Byron Kast joined us for Christmas Eve, when we preserve the tradition of acting out gifts: the recipient must guess before the gift is given. Joan made little bags of stocking gifts, inviting us all to trade with much hilarity. I sacrificed peanut butter cups and clung to my sardines. Erica and I exchanged gifts on Christmas morning, including this beautiful lampwork necklace and earrings she made for me. Through with the joys and obligations of ritual festivity, we went our separate ways, then joined when darkness came to watch Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." What fun to meet F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein and eat genuine Thai food from Sticky Rice.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-61364424183257003062011-12-11T08:16:00.001-06:002011-12-13T13:26:09.149-06:00Advent: Promise and Preparation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcB7_5rjNaKmn5Dy5ESXg1qXuRiSYY_IWQMmf7QvpuF6JgaZ-XaM0vz7V0d-clwm4O-DcAhzP0-QMdPY08AU6jjFvP75YBoUq_LaXNSBe1N926J8n1-e5cqC-1lUwExTmy_2Yeu8RiMke2/s1600/O+Cebreiro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcB7_5rjNaKmn5Dy5ESXg1qXuRiSYY_IWQMmf7QvpuF6JgaZ-XaM0vz7V0d-clwm4O-DcAhzP0-QMdPY08AU6jjFvP75YBoUq_LaXNSBe1N926J8n1-e5cqC-1lUwExTmy_2Yeu8RiMke2/s200/O+Cebreiro.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie at O Cebreiro</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjhoXQewHfU-x9eBgqeSYJJtJsEYlQLPZGxGosPzW9BkLE9N-qZPMLxIHnrhjdDj4Cgj78I7Of1s6liWe7_LqzMoYs7UWU6sIORw9UCUQJagkPebufZrtWT3tKLq46U4oKleQnNdOGTbQ/s1600/O+Cebreiro+9th-cent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUjhoXQewHfU-x9eBgqeSYJJtJsEYlQLPZGxGosPzW9BkLE9N-qZPMLxIHnrhjdDj4Cgj78I7Of1s6liWe7_LqzMoYs7UWU6sIORw9UCUQJagkPebufZrtWT3tKLq46U4oKleQnNdOGTbQ/s200/O+Cebreiro+9th-cent.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Maria la Real</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In late summer I joined a novel-writing group/class led by Fred Schafer, a Northwestern professor. Besides reading and critiquing the work of members, we read and study all the novels of Colum McCann over the course of a year. Even before the first review of my work, Fred's insight into sentences and plots pushed me to new places in my novel, radical action for my protagonist and more immediate ways of telling her story. Something about the challenge to my existing words on the page and the promise of breakthrough in plot (change it!) plunged me into Advent preparations. When writing's confabulation threatened to drive me crazy, I turned to making Christmas cards, hunting up a photo I took last summer in the 9th-century church of Santa Maria la Real in O Cebreiro, Spain. The image of Madonna and Child felt right for Christmas, and recalling my walk to Santiago last summer seemed to anchor the year. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2AfDywbAyw3CUIy-IEQuQSqa1pCLpjPb-4dtDE3CHz-lCzNWkzn_QiANXHVCNP5J_8wnLpMS4rbFax_ZPQ90B_i2iIiXfbthE6eX1gunih3lt2bx-59C268ELvmsEJEDGXJvqu-J7JUY/s1600/hats+for+kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2AfDywbAyw3CUIy-IEQuQSqa1pCLpjPb-4dtDE3CHz-lCzNWkzn_QiANXHVCNP5J_8wnLpMS4rbFax_ZPQ90B_i2iIiXfbthE6eX1gunih3lt2bx-59C268ELvmsEJEDGXJvqu-J7JUY/s200/hats+for+kids.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harvard & Brioche hats</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAJ6sGcVTCt-MXmtHJ8byMD7Pvro-HpjSNV4pAE_F2dDIxGcHPr3Jvf4FiteD55nsUcCK7iKtqeN1Un5A_0pz6Eu1AwtHJT_eNZ4pDEAdOcxh3sWdH9NiLgNPqOs-482MUH2LSFYWXZ1n/s1600/marshmellow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAJ6sGcVTCt-MXmtHJ8byMD7Pvro-HpjSNV4pAE_F2dDIxGcHPr3Jvf4FiteD55nsUcCK7iKtqeN1Un5A_0pz6Eu1AwtHJT_eNZ4pDEAdOcxh3sWdH9NiLgNPqOs-482MUH2LSFYWXZ1n/s320/marshmellow.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas marshmellows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIimrkN5WRjPxjjVlsaGGMQsdNpzOBPRPHTignH_wNXPdYU6qLnSqN_mCpz-TG71nHOug_5wPnZ4kyaYmvtdBAfDXCLPvMcPP6QMTd1FIFNJKCOWxWWMfZxZy954rTzG5L3348n6Azn1kG/s1600/stars+%2526+gifts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIimrkN5WRjPxjjVlsaGGMQsdNpzOBPRPHTignH_wNXPdYU6qLnSqN_mCpz-TG71nHOug_5wPnZ4kyaYmvtdBAfDXCLPvMcPP6QMTd1FIFNJKCOWxWWMfZxZy954rTzG5L3348n6Azn1kG/s320/stars+%2526+gifts.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shortbread Stars</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As the days got shorter and colder, I started knitting hats for my kids and grandkids, intrigued by pattern and stitch. I'm still searching for the perfect warm, all-encompassing style I'll make for myself after Christmas. And preparation means baking, this year, lots of old Christmas favorites: German Lebkuchen, Vanille Kipferln, homemade oreos and more.<br />
<br />
A disappointing semester teaching Writing and Rhetoric II at Columbia College Chicago (four students out of eighteen failed) came to life with Occupy Columbia, a protest against higher education's reliance on part-timers—a ubiquitous practice—as well as escalating student debt. And my class also perked up with one student's discovery of Kirby Ferguson's marvelous video, "Everything's a Remix," a sort of visual analogue to Jonathan Lethem's "The Ecstasy of Influence." Tracking it down, I came upon this great video he made for CNN, called "The Language of Christianity," based on Marcus Borg's <i>Speaking Christian.</i> Take a look below—it's short.<br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/19447662" target="_blank">"Everything's a Remix"</a> runs ten minutes, but if you're interested in how movies combine and transform to create new ones, check out the link. How wonderful the ways we give to and borrow from one another. <br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="374" id="ep" width="416"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" />
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<param name="movie" value="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=living/2011/07/29/language.of.christianity.cnn" />
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<embed src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=living/2011/07/29/language.of.christianity.cnn" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="416" wmode="transparent" height="374"></embed></object>First, light snow has turned Chicago white this morning. As daylight gets paler and briefer, Advent's search for illumination narrows to expectation of birth in a circle of light, warmed by a fire that we keep feeding while cold circles, heavy, outside.magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-25518272027585510352011-11-26T15:17:00.001-06:002011-11-26T15:51:54.647-06:00Lessons Learned This Thanksgiving<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmPsCiCrAHbVRB8EotgcUhLO8-oqpsVTrTRX6Lzt3bbWFvluws2dLVmV8RMiDx9ZHvV_8J411ZwMbM1sY7YGXD2a0fwh_9HMFO9TGk1G43zHau_RhxbwE9z1dF-M-xyamopCpcF6ub3ri/s1600/Erica+post+run.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmPsCiCrAHbVRB8EotgcUhLO8-oqpsVTrTRX6Lzt3bbWFvluws2dLVmV8RMiDx9ZHvV_8J411ZwMbM1sY7YGXD2a0fwh_9HMFO9TGk1G43zHau_RhxbwE9z1dF-M-xyamopCpcF6ub3ri/s400/Erica+post+run.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Erica Kast after 8 K Turkey Trot</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
What's all this talk about gluttony, somnolence, and turkey coma on Thanksgiving? It's not necessary. You can have much more fun without it. Here are some lessons I learned this Thanksgiving:<br />
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1. Start the day with a physical challenge. I didn't, but daughter Erica ran the 8 K Turkey Trot, beating her previous time, and we all stood on the sidelines and cheered, though it took cell phones to find her among the 8000 other runners. Next year, maybe yoga for me.<br />
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2. You can do all the cooking in twenty-four hours—with enough planning and hands. People who cook all day do not want to stuff themselves at night, especially if you . . .<br />
<br />
3. Remember to feed your cooks! Lunch is necessary, light and ample. Maybe tuna salad with apple, celery and Greek yoghurt.<br />
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4. Dry brining is much better and easier than wet. See the <a href="http://bit.ly/ruJRLc" target="_blank">"Judy bird"</a>, though it takes three days. Our heritage bird from Caveny farms was tender and delicious, even after the carcass turned into soup. <br />
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5. Speaking of soup, <a href="http://nyti.ms/vuTfth" target="_blank">Squash Bisque </a> is a restaurant recipe (courtesy of Eleven Madison Park) easily a adapted to home, and just exotic enough (from star anise and green cardamom) to make sure everyone stays awake. <br />
<br />
6. Broiled Brussels sprouts get new life from a sauce of 1 T. Sriracha sauce, 3 T. honey and juice of a lemon discovered by Merrill of food52 when she ate them fried as bar food. I wouldn't try frying them on Thanksgiving, but the sauce is great.<br />
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7. If summer's herbs are still alive, fresh rosemary and sage give a special lift to bread stuffing.<br />
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8. You can ditch long-time favorite traditions! Our dearly beloved cranberry pudding gave way to unctious apple slices dipped in caramel (nothing but sugar, cream and honey cooked to 253 degrees) and then in vanilla soaked cashews. I admit the caramel preceded the twenty-four hour window.<br />
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More food was left this year than ever before, and people took leftovers home. Eight of us ate and nobody slept, roused by running and cooking's adrenaline.<br />
<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-68640353398171516912011-09-15T08:56:00.000-05:002011-09-15T08:56:50.583-05:00Next Restaurant: Tour of Thailand<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIdUDcO7yDbWkdqFzhso5othoSb9lzl6LwH-OdSBushTuNFmM82lzxJKMOmK9kg6TLkAEcWpkS-XzTUZf5fwoVbuStmfujbUHYoBUml5NMJXMBrkHbBIajhSDoQCZLVTlS1A0heLXBeRn/s1600/modernist+dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIdUDcO7yDbWkdqFzhso5othoSb9lzl6LwH-OdSBushTuNFmM82lzxJKMOmK9kg6TLkAEcWpkS-XzTUZf5fwoVbuStmfujbUHYoBUml5NMJXMBrkHbBIajhSDoQCZLVTlS1A0heLXBeRn/s400/modernist+dessert.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modernist coconut dessert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Next Restaurant's Tour of Thailand is a romp, a chef's romp from street snacks to a modernist interpretation of an Asian coconut dessert, and you're invited along. After Next's formal excursion back to Paris, 1906, their first offering, Thailand was a hitchhiker's jaunt, and you're invited along. How great to be on board at the most creative stage of an enterprise, when chefs are trying out concepts, dishes and pairings, rethinking what a restaurant can be!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHSB_Pqo8L9hrObnwUyMItZn0ea7qJDQJU311P-aB3aSd5KB68Kko894uN_oriwr2uO_NCGd0fgutHwuTaHPn-WFWXqVOKtrlex9Rb0HZyPk2MjYyMQRsYxj1iPKKdR_32-s_7BnQzDnAw/s1600/Tom+Yum+soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHSB_Pqo8L9hrObnwUyMItZn0ea7qJDQJU311P-aB3aSd5KB68Kko894uN_oriwr2uO_NCGd0fgutHwuTaHPn-WFWXqVOKtrlex9Rb0HZyPk2MjYyMQRsYxj1iPKKdR_32-s_7BnQzDnAw/s320/Tom+Yum+soup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Snacks are served on Thai newspaper with authentic plastic glass and spoon: chewy, funky fermented sausage, fried prawn cake, crisp and heady with lemon grass. You scoop the roasted banana (above) with a spoon, and dumplings are filled with green curry. Pink punch looks sweet but tastes fruity, juice enlivened with brandy and sparkling rosé.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fJPXpSvSOwrcfo20VEy4uTdM4NHHE4WR4MTJnIj0TbQHyNwrh7KcJKvkSgxpu8XjWoyWQaRWuG1tNBWp3zVi3zGYnNz9sGe9Faj2nfC2gEtT_duw7e3-XdXAGO_6e6ntNjoe_d_OJe6f/s1600/five+sauces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9fJPXpSvSOwrcfo20VEy4uTdM4NHHE4WR4MTJnIj0TbQHyNwrh7KcJKvkSgxpu8XjWoyWQaRWuG1tNBWp3zVi3zGYnNz9sGe9Faj2nfC2gEtT_duw7e3-XdXAGO_6e6ntNjoe_d_OJe6f/s200/five+sauces.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
The burn of Tom Yum soup made with pork broth is soothed by chunks of pork belly and accompanied by a cocktail you can inhale as well as drink. Fragrant chrysanthemum, like chrysanthemum tea, is mixed with gin, sweetened with lychee. <br />
Rice comes next, accompanied five sauces you mix and match: spicy, funky, eggy, sour and crunchy. The sauces remain as catfish filets are presented, covered with flowers, accompanied by a Basque white wine, the first wine of the evening.<span id="goog_118735298"></span><span id="goog_118735299"></span>magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7538236387919959507.post-5617973477487154592011-09-15T08:55:00.001-05:002011-09-15T08:56:21.462-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIdUDcO7yDbWkdqFzhso5othoSb9lzl6LwH-OdSBushTuNFmM82lzxJKMOmK9kg6TLkAEcWpkS-XzTUZf5fwoVbuStmfujbUHYoBUml5NMJXMBrkHbBIajhSDoQCZLVTlS1A0heLXBeRn/s1600/modernist+dessert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIdUDcO7yDbWkdqFzhso5othoSb9lzl6LwH-OdSBushTuNFmM82lzxJKMOmK9kg6TLkAEcWpkS-XzTUZf5fwoVbuStmfujbUHYoBUml5NMJXMBrkHbBIajhSDoQCZLVTlS1A0heLXBeRn/s400/modernist+dessert.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modernist interpretation of Asian coconut dessert</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZx1XyiBEdTS6u90Dh7hJC9c1SUbX6dviNJgN87AZhdL6k1AoLvueU_ET2UZI5g73KHWQ-LiN9Lz_xwS4ObSeagsR1g-jdMWh5trtHiU4OS6HLLkTuJBqZBBX625qURKxTFGbVlCrTBlM/s1600/dumpling+%2526+baked+banana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUZx1XyiBEdTS6u90Dh7hJC9c1SUbX6dviNJgN87AZhdL6k1AoLvueU_ET2UZI5g73KHWQ-LiN9Lz_xwS4ObSeagsR1g-jdMWh5trtHiU4OS6HLLkTuJBqZBBX625qURKxTFGbVlCrTBlM/s320/dumpling+%2526+baked+banana.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roasted banana, green curry dumpling</td></tr>
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Next Restaurant's Tour of Thailand is a romp, a chef's romp from street snacks to a modernist interpretation of an Asian coconut dessert, and you're invited along. After Next's first offering, a formal excursion to Paris, 1906, this trip is a hitchhiker's jaunt. How great to be on board at the most creative stage of an enterprise, when chefs are trying out concepts, dishes and pairings, rethinking what a restaurant can be. The choreography of service remains an intriguing mystery at Next, as servers appear out of nowhere just in time to present and explain each dish. I thought their informative, informal style fit better with Thai than with Paris. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYuLJu3PrGAO7xxnKtjPKK-ASW6LhNxq2roO1_-7viT15xXPqdmZAUzAzCK1TSx_n_cwDKK2hI6BVT6o4tMtdc3absFyBnB7wbxNC8GF3bdAC7XgHdKPkbHeqRfD4E-ngge3N35wBaoWb/s1600/Tom+Yum+soup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJYuLJu3PrGAO7xxnKtjPKK-ASW6LhNxq2roO1_-7viT15xXPqdmZAUzAzCK1TSx_n_cwDKK2hI6BVT6o4tMtdc3absFyBnB7wbxNC8GF3bdAC7XgHdKPkbHeqRfD4E-ngge3N35wBaoWb/s320/Tom+Yum+soup.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tom Yum soup</td></tr>
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Snacks are served on Thai newspaper with authentic plastic glass and spoon: chewy, funky, fermented sausage and fried prawn cake, crisp and heady with lemon grass. Pink punch served alongside looks sweet but tastes fruity, juice enlivened with brandy and sparkling rosé.<br />
The burn of Tom Yum soup made with pork broth is soothed by chunks of
pork belly and accompanied by a cocktail you can inhale as well as
drink. Fragrant chrysanthemum, like chrysanthemum tea, is mixed with
gin, sweetened with lychee.<br />
Rice comes next, accompanied by five sauces: spicy, funky, eggy, sour and crunchy. The sauces remain as catfish filets arrive, covered with flowers, accompanied by a Basque white wine, first wine of the evening.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hN9vNT33piwl-SV1n1CCerZLytl5ezq3hVta96zaoQ84EFWtkEp7NvGGrBraW7JowTZF6voKIcJAyc_2AgmtUT7JhacYn6UfmXmYdankZXVQhczwX9Sau5DbGXH6qbyDyZJDlf0fREY4/s1600/five+sauces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9hN9vNT33piwl-SV1n1CCerZLytl5ezq3hVta96zaoQ84EFWtkEp7NvGGrBraW7JowTZF6voKIcJAyc_2AgmtUT7JhacYn6UfmXmYdankZXVQhczwX9Sau5DbGXH6qbyDyZJDlf0fREY4/s200/five+sauces.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five sauces</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFmWtPj6VzVdHl8xcDBGMEkV45LzgKv1c2gnzTwhrAkXBfqjtb77NMn-8Yklurd67EAR193hwmlP0bVDUEjtSVc4tSg46VL8CCvyzlvbCTPgdPUvFquQiQQHfo5SGpHZCYyuXxaOgg3Q5/s1600/catfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxFmWtPj6VzVdHl8xcDBGMEkV45LzgKv1c2gnzTwhrAkXBfqjtb77NMn-8Yklurd67EAR193hwmlP0bVDUEjtSVc4tSg46VL8CCvyzlvbCTPgdPUvFquQiQQHfo5SGpHZCYyuXxaOgg3Q5/s320/catfish.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catfish in caramel sauce</td></tr>
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Who knew beef cheek could be so rich and tender? Served in a peanut curry, the meat fell apart. Chicago's own Half Acre brewery made Horizon Ale specially for Next: a light, slightly sweet beer to go with the beef. Modernist magic appeared in the form of a non-alcoholic, clear shot of watermelon and lemon grass, a flavor blast. And that merely hinted at the complexity of the the two-part dessert: coconut sorbet in half of a coconut and the other filled with a mix of corn frozen with liquid nitrogen, mango, tapioca and more: crisp, creamy, sour and sweet. It sounds like a science experiment, but was, in fact, a perfect dessert. Could there be more? A perfect half of a dragon fruit with a rose infusion, served with a rose, and a milky rooibus tea served in a bag with a straw. Back to the street.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqqIgpFKdczftX_DphyuxOv85bkR-WAWJGhX4rREyIgNAZv0GHgjJZSFdFZ33SdpOOCQcy7k9FHYOwGQEd2zSmOcGt6ODtEDh1jTGj8BnlPQY5UpGoPfJ8Csq1kgpgaCDG2VFEh0NuJ-v/s1600/dragonfruit+with+rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqqIgpFKdczftX_DphyuxOv85bkR-WAWJGhX4rREyIgNAZv0GHgjJZSFdFZ33SdpOOCQcy7k9FHYOwGQEd2zSmOcGt6ODtEDh1jTGj8BnlPQY5UpGoPfJ8Csq1kgpgaCDG2VFEh0NuJ-v/s200/dragonfruit+with+rose.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dragonfruit with rose infusion</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RTbH2W-JF24z_f-7n0gnbaqdW5cAvFdrai0rQ9IQyL-MmH5Uy7EhZ1ApzDIGUxQXq5ZrVuG32NPX8rw_RN-P84e-5fU-JCSXgY4ZDKlNpasFPWIo3gCFetdYsg-AGmUs-Eu_cvmA7SAw/s1600/rooibus+with+palm+sugar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1RTbH2W-JF24z_f-7n0gnbaqdW5cAvFdrai0rQ9IQyL-MmH5Uy7EhZ1ApzDIGUxQXq5ZrVuG32NPX8rw_RN-P84e-5fU-JCSXgY4ZDKlNpasFPWIo3gCFetdYsg-AGmUs-Eu_cvmA7SAw/s320/rooibus+with+palm+sugar.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rooisbus tea with palm sugar and milk</td></tr>
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Next next year: Childhood. I can't wait. <br />
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<br />magdance@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04750065015748075509noreply@blogger.com0