Joy

Actually written while working at Glen Arden back in November.

Watching that mylar smiley face balloon rising up into the clouds, hitting air out of its way as it rockets towards the impossible, the smile that, independent of any thoughts I might have about the now bareness of Katie's fifth birthday, flies onto my face does not seem like it should be there. Eight ninety five down the drain. I've got to turn around and go straight back to get another or the party just won't be the same.

And yet, watching that balloon fly past my outstretched fingertips and buildings, snag for a moment on the branches of encapturing oak and then saor off on a breeze of opportunity and exploration, I cannot help but feel it. It's right here, right now.

It's joy.

I feel like laughing, but soon-to-be and already been shoppers are staring and curious about my outstretched arm and fingers. I let those relax a little, take a breath and burst out laughing. Turning around, an elderly couple physically moves themselves backwards, convinced of something sinister, and I head back into the store, still shaking my head and supressing those silly giggles that threaten to overrun my entire being like a shaken soda can that just won't stop frothing.

You say you've got joy, but your muted disposition and the expression on your face beg to differ. You haven't laughed in days, might even be a week, and your glow is somewhat dim of late. C'mon; let's go into the store. You can buy any balloon you'd like...maybe a smiley face, maybe a flower, could even be a Power Ranger. The choice is up to you.

Then we'll go outside and set that sucker free. It might linger for a moment or two, pushed around by some forces it has no control over, but before you know it, that balloon will be flying through the air, surpassing anything that is within our reach and then it's off, and before you know it, your lips are turning upwards, cracking a little from the effort that they haven't been exerting for a while and you might even feel a chuckle rising in your throat.

Don't supress it.

Let it rise up, laugh and feel it.

You've got it now.

It's not so hard when you don't think about it and let that balloon do all the work for you.

You've got it now.

It's joy.

My Beef With Bagels: A Response

Although there is nary a food I will actively and publicly criticize for any reason at all (except for lima beans, of course), the time has come to explain why bagels are a source of frustration to me. My beef with bagels does not stem from their unholy background as the illegitimate child of bread and doughnut. Nor does my grievance arise because of the way everything bagels’ taste hangs around in my mouth for entire calendar weeks. In fact, my love for bagels runs deep and strong. I can ignore the fact that the best bagels come from the worst-smelling delis. I can embrace the poppy seed in tooth for hours phenomenon. My problem with bagels and the source of this griping is not that I hate bagels. It stems from the fact that I am a bagel snob.

Although a hard admission, I am positive that I am not alone. Ask almost any New Yorker where their favorite bagel shop is and they will almost certainly have an answer. Ask any two New Yorkers where each of their favorite bagel shops are and prepare yourself to hear a very long argument regarding baking times, flavors and variety of cream cheese spreads. In classic eclectic New York fashion, delis that sell bagels, lox and beer out of the same storefront get bonus points, as do delis that sell yuppie cream cheese such as Low Fat, no Calorie Scallion or Organic Seaweed.

I know I shouldn’t discriminate against bagels from other regions, but the truth of it is, bagels are better in New York. There aren’t many things we do well in general (see recent headlines about our State government), but circular boiled and baked dough is one thing we can take pride in. Our bagels are so good that bagels from other areas can’t compare. Bagels from chain restaurants or bagels that come from the frozen section of grocery stores are practically a sin to eat. Bagels from pseudo-Jewish delis situated in other states (except for some parts of New Jersey) are actively shunned and often ridiculed by residents of New York who are used to a much higher standard of rounded dough.

Chalk our expertise on the huge number of competing Jewish delis if you will, but I believe it’s simply in our blood to create good breakfast foods. My favorite bagel shop is Not Just Bagels in the small town of Goshen, New York. It is owned by a practicing Presbyterian and could not be farther from the typical Jewish deli. Lox is not sold there, nor are any fancy-schmancy spreads. It is down-to-earth, friendly and most importantly, delicious. A large amount of my hard-earned money has been spent buying everything bagels toasted twice with plain cream cheese, although sometimes I spring for the extra thirty-five cents and get vegetable spread.

But bagels aren’t the only thing we do really well in the category of breakfast food. Where else can you go to the neighborhood diner at three o’ clock in the morning on a Wednesday and order chocolate chip pancakes to settle your stomach after a heavy night of drinking? Where else can you drink you order a bloody mary with your Belgian waffle and not feel like you’re three steps away from rehab? No where but New York (and possibly some towns in rural Iowa).

Although there are culinary high points in every place I have lived, New York truly takes the cake when it comes to early morning sustenance. Whether it be a quick trip to Denny’s with the fam on Saturday morning, the weekly meeting with close friends at a diner for late-night waffles and cheaply brewed and since then scalded coffee, or a lone trip to the local deli for a bagel and juice-from-concentrate, New York is truly the best place to partake in breakfast delights of all sizes and shapes.

Admiring the Wrong People

June 6, 2009

If heroes are examples of exceptional courage and fortitude as my pocket dictionary claims, why are they the people we strive to be? It seems that by putting astronauts, humanitarian orators, or famous sports figures on pedestals and trying to emulate their accomplishments, we are only setting ourselves up for failure.

I experienced this form of disappointment in the spring of 2009 as an intern at Assateague Island National Seashore in Virginia. I felt that fully experiencing the area by doing everything the island had to offer was an important part of my internship. I had developed an addiction to outdoor nonfiction not long before I moved to Virginia, and was spending many evenings reading climbing accounts by Krakauer and other accomplished outdoorsmen. Those, coupled with my lifelong love for fictional epic journeys like those written by Tolkien and Lewis, my malleable mind started to become warped. Under the influence of adventure literature, I started to plan a backcountry hike up the island. Twenty-six miles on sand started sounding somewhat reasonable. Nay, it actually stated sounding fun! My narrative-saturated brain conjured up romantic images of me, my pack and an isolated beach. Ah; the open road! My brain convinced me that I walked, I would discover the meaning of life and I experience nature in a spiritual way, reserved only for those who enter the wilderness alone.

Alas, it was not to be. The night before my hike, I irresponsibly stayed up late into the night playing Scattergories and drinking lemonade, which put a damper on my early morning start. After packing, repacking, a trip to Wal-Mart and then packing once more, I finally made it to the beach. While I was getting water for the walk and camp, two separate groups of people stopped to ask me about hiking and of course, to as me how much my pack weighed. Their wonder regarding the forty pounds on my back bolstered my spirits and I was feeling pretty good when I started out.

The hike was wonderful at first. I sang songs to myself, strode quickly and brightly and paused only to pick up particularly striking shells or write abstractly inspirational words in the damp sand. “Free,” the first word said. A couple miles later and the spirit moved me to pen “discover” into the side of a dune. However, thanks to my late start, before long the tide came in.

The encroaching water forced me higher on the beach to soft sand and my ill-informed motivation began to waver, and then wane in earnest. I discovered nature alright. I communed with her up to my ankles in sand that filled my shoes and blew into my face and many other chinks in my raincoat armor. I experienced what she had to offer and I hated her. Walking on sand is tough. Not Everest tough or fighting a dragon tough, but tough all the same. My next work written in the sand was “ugh.” A few miles later, and all I could muster was “?,” after which I napped, using my dropped pack as a windbreak.

When I finally dragged myself into camp, I felt lied to by myself. My heroes are not people I relate to. While they thrive on challenge and adventure, I do not. Headwinds and two gallons of water strapped onto my already too-heavy pack are enough to send me through four of the five stages of grief. (I never seem to reach acceptance.) Fun to me is not agony. I prefer a good laugh with friends, a stimulating read or a relaxing jaunt on a well-marked path with my camera and lunch.

I don’t seek freedom like the characters in my books. I was not the victim of a hard childhood or spend my formative years itching to be on the road. While I like the idea of living like my heroes, it’s just not meant to be. Looks like I’ll have to be content with reading about outdoor adventures, leave the real ones to the authors and change my heroes to someone whose accomplishments are within my sights. Does anyone know a champion decoupager or collector of small random things I can read about? I’ve got some jars all ready.

Scromletted Eggs and other Cooking Mishaps

(originally written May 11, 2009)

As is the case with most young people, after the thrill of graduation from a higher education-type institute of great knowledge and insight has fizzled out and time spent at home eating animal crackers out of Longaberger baskets has begun to seem less than fulfilling, I decided it was time to move out. Wondrous independence aside, being out in the real world has its lumps. Usually they are found in my under mixed pancake batter, but occasionally they will turn up in other, more worrying locations. Like mid-chew into a soy meatball or towards the end of a gallon jug of concentrated orange juice.

All evidence aside, I’m actually a decent cook. However, the menu options are pretty limited. I make amazing chicken marsala and have made self-appointed haters of all seafood practically grow gills over the garlic and herb pollock I pulled out of thin are one night. However, there are things I would like to cook because I enjoy eating them that just don’t work. Take, for instance, a cheddar cheese, mushroom, onion and green pepper omelet. Just writing those words in that order make me want to hustle down to the kitchen and start cooking up a storm. I firmly believe, while seated in my desk chair, that my omelet will be one of photographic quality. I will carry this belief down the stairs, into the kitchen and all through the preparatory motions.

Belief in my self, however, does not change the fact that while a well-designed spatula in the hands of almost anyone with three or more digits can assist in the creation of culinary delights, in my hands acts as a combination sword and weed whacker. Images of well-rounded omelets shaped like big smiles usually swim before my eyes as I stare down at my plate and dig into scrambled eggs with lots of extra stuff floating around in them. I shouldn’t be surprised by such occurrences, but I always am. Logic says that simply believing in my cooking ability just won’t cut it. And my track record shouts exuberantly that I’ve always been a bad cook, which means the situation is most likely not going to be changing any time soon.

However, when I was around nine or ten, I had a brush with culinary glory when the banana bread I entered in the Orange County fair won first prize and the chance to travel to Albany, where it would be judged against all the other breads cooked by industrious 4-Hers state-wide. Large state that it is, the stiff competition my banana bread would face was very much on my mind as I assembled what I was sure would be New York State’s greatest fruit-based loaf. I mashed, measured and mixed with great care, and so intent was I on winning that I not only set the timer on the microwave, but waited around the kitchen, just in case I missed the beeping.

About an hour later, my creation was baked to perfection. Armed with pot holders, I extracted my prize from the oven, carried it to the thoughtfully placed cooling rack and skillfully flipped the pan over. SPLAT! My bread, missing the rack almost entirely, hit the counter at nearly the speed of sound, and proceeded to rush along the flat surface, off the edge and onto the floor, where it collected in a sopping puddle. “Ah,” all of you who fancy yourselves culinary detectives are saying, “You didn’t turn the oven on, you ninny.” Of course I turned the oven on! Indeed, the first line of nearly every recipe ever starts with the words “preheat the oven to…” Nay, input of heat was not the issue. The lack of flour was, however, creating several problems, including bread-battered socks, coupled with the realization that we were out of paper towels.

My only saving grace was that the judge from Albany was not standing in my kitchen to witness the debacle. As witness to my character (not to mention the visions of blue-ribbon-hood still dancing in my head) I did not siphon any floor batter up and into a Ziploc either. I didn’t refrain from that because I felt it was wrong, but rather because doing so would absolutely guarantee the placing of a green “we have to because you’re sensitive children,” thanks-for-playing, honorable mention ribbon under my name.

To avoid such shame, I cleaned up the kitchen, changed my socks and set about making a new loaf. Undaunted by my very recent total failure, it did not take long for me to convince myself that I was elbow-deep in blue ribbon greatness. The banana bread I sent to the state fair was indeed a loaf of unusually beautiful qualities. Browned to perfection, the center wafted delicious aromas towards the mid-summer sunset as I labeled and wrapped my entry. A few weeks later, I received my prize in the mail. A note, with a green ribbon attached to it. “Recipe calls for vanilla,” the note read. “What happened?” If only she knew.

memory poppin' up

I just thought of Professor Dempsey as I was typing up my "creature feature" on mosquitoes. And I started laughing all over again.

Classic Dempsey:

"Rome's slaves weren't terribly happy and were plotting a revoltion. Now let's take a step back, pull a Nancy Kerrigan and ask 'whhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy?'"

Also, throughout the entire semester I had him for Roman History, he had a running commentary going with his exemplary Roman. His name, was (of course) Marcus Fibricious.

And if you did well on a test, he gave the boys batman stickers and the girls butterfly stickers.

Despite my best intentions, I seem to have let the updatery of the blog slide. I have been writing, and promise that once things are edited a bit and don't sound like the ramblings of a crazy person (an amazing feat, considering that's what they are), they will find their way here anyway.

Not that it matters, since I'm 99% certain no one reads this blog.

It's more for me.

And the fact that I always lose papers and journals, so digital copies of writings are always a safe bet.

current all-consuming thought

Driving vehicles with standard transmissions will be my white whale.

Callous missuse of grade school grammar.

An in depth study of the apostrophe.

Correct uses: An apostrophe is used to indicate possession.
Example: The queen’s tea was lovely.

An apostrophe is used when combining two words to form a contraction.
Example: I can’t understand your confusing computer jargon without a few stiff drinks.

Incorrect uses: To make anything plural. This includes advertisements in any form of media (magazines, newspapers, television and internet), books of intelligent or unintelligent matter and signs of any kind, including handmade and professional.
Example: Child-sized apples’ for sale. Razors’ included!

presidents, race, and apery

vs.

As a student of history and an involved citizen in general, I try reallyhard to understand the issue of race in this country. I get it. We've had a rough past. However, isn't it time to move on?

The cartoon on top was published in the New York Post to immediate outcries of "racist!" But how racist can a depiction of the President as a monkey really be when we've spent the last eight years comparing the president to a chimpanzee?

I think one of the main problems regarding race in this country is the fact that people want to get offended. Take the percieved racism out of the cartoon and read it again. Aha! Now it says that Washington is full of chimps who are bungling up the economy! I get it!

But that would not be enough. Let's make a big deal out of it. Of course, Al Sharpton had a few words to say on the subject. From an article on CNN: "Again, Al Sharpton reveals himself as nothing more than a publicity opportunist," he said, referencing a news release the civil rights activist sent out blasting the paper and demanding an apology."

And because that scathing commentary on Sharpton's practices regarding race in society was written by the author of "Listening to the Spirit Within: 50 Perspectives on Faith"and "Speak, Brother! A Black Man's View of America," it was OK.

To everyone in this country, regardless of color: CHILL OUT.

Farm

Growing up we didn’t have neighborhood ball games in the middle of the street that were put on hiatus to accommodate the passing fare. Growing up we didn’t have ice cream trucks parked between on the corner between to streets named for trees, diminutive customers lined up in the evening summer sun to buy drumsticks and freeze pops and those little Italian ices with mom and dad’s five dollar bills. We didn’t go to Girl Scout meetings or play dates with the neighbors. And we sure as hell never took outings to the country.

When people wanted country, they came to us. We ran barefoot through cow pastures, holding sticks and herding cows back to the barn at night. We built forts in patches of woods with entire fields as our front yard. We spent entire summers cleaning up and training cows to walk on a halter, then showing them in the fair. We built hay tunnels, had roving games of hide and seek that encompassed the entire farm and spent countless late afternoon summer hours sitting at the very top of the big barn, staring out of the hay loft into the setting sun.

The farm I grew up on stands alone in a vast wasteland of suburban refuse. Like an oasis in the driest of deserts, the lopsided barns from another century, the cow pastures and acre after acre of open fields are a testament to another time in the area’s history. To see cows standing around a barn yard chewing cud and flapping at the flies with their tails has transformed from commonplace to extraordinary and a car slow down drastically in front of the heifer yard is not uncommon. It’s easy to picture the suburban mother with her kids strapped tightly into her sports utility tank explaining the sights to the kids. “See that Evan? See those cows Emma? That’s where milk comes from!” Of course, the kids are less interested in the animals than what’s on TV in the backseat and who can blame them? They’re only interested in what they have been told is interesting and a large group of black and white animals standing in their own shit and chewing their throw up doesn’t fall into that category.

It’s no wonder, then, that small farms like the one I grew up on are a dying breed. People just don’t care. When you go to the grocery store, you pay a price for milk. That price, however high it may be, however, does not reflect what the farmer is being paid to produce the milk. When asked what formula is used to determine the price of the milk the farmers sell, government agencies usually respond with “it’s a complicated formula.” I’m a pretty smart person: try me. But they never do. So the small farmer suffers. Right now, to produce a gallon of milk costs two cents more than it can sell for. Producing thousands of gallons of milk every single day can add up pretty fast. Planting ornamental grasses and sod and selling the cows as fast as you can find buyers is a more fiscally sound option, and one that many small dairy farmers are opting to do.

Selling the land in the current economy isn’t a viable option, but something will have been lost once the cows are gone. Sure, they smell. Sure, they’re a lot of work. But when it comes down to it, they are the farm. Imagining walking down the road to the farm two years from now at feeding time and not hearing those desperate “feeeeed meeeeeee” moos from the calf barn creates a pit in my stomach. Thinking that I will have to wait with the rest of them for an open farm day somewhere in the county to pet a newborn calf and let her suck on my fingers makes me want to cry. And spending my late afternoon summer hours in the top of the hay loft looking out over pampas grasses or a blue fescue does not seem a good substitute for watching cows trudge slowly back home after a long day of eating and relaxing in the warm summer air.

If ever there was someone to keep me at home it would be you.

question

Will Condy McCain join the 'Dancing' cast?



God, I hope so.

I really do.

could've been

I received an invitation to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding last year and decided to bring an extremely good looking man to the reception as my guest. The only problem is, Mike knows me too well. “How much did you pay for this one?” he asked coyly. “He’s my live-in boyfriend. We’ve been dating for over a year,” I announced to the entire table. With eyebrows all around raised, several awkward seconds pass before I, of course, cave and share the truth because it’s something we would have laughed for hours about over coffee in the morning, in a different world. I motioned him inwards and whispered in his ear, “He came with a deep discount because of the prosthetic leg.” Mike recoiled, trying to suppress the mad giggle I know far too well. Looking over at my date, his eyes traveled downwards and then back to me. We locked eyes for a moment and both had to duck into ourselves, checking outright laughter. This is, after all, a formal occasion. Red-faced and still sputtering, he heads back to kiss the little Mrs. when the champagne glasses start ringing. I can’t help but notice that he glanced over his shoulder at me as he walked away.

thunk

It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen. Right up there with my father carrying one sixth of the casket of his best friend’s daughter and cracking up crying when someone says “it’s not a very heavy load, at least” and old men sitting alone and expressionless on park benches.

It breaks my heart to see it, but I keep turning the porch light back on and going over to see it, the little broken neck turned grotesquely into the snow that fell just this morning. The streak-free shine of the transparent murder weapon, blocking out the winter chill. I heard the bang on the patio door earlier in the afternoon, when I was watching the birds pick seeds one at a time out of the feeder we hung from the silver maple out front. I said to no on in particular, “stupid bird just hit the window” and went over to investigate. The poor little thing was on the ground, writhing, twisting it’s brown striped and freckled wings without effect.

“Daddy!” I cried, as if I were six again. “Daddy! It’s suffering!” Silence responded from the other room like a punch in the mouth. “Daddy!” I tried again, “shouldn’t we do something?” Still, no response. Finally the little bird ceased to move anymore and lay still. “I think its dead.” I announce, still talking to without regard to who’s listening. “Maybe it’s just stunned,” my mom interjects, unhelpfully. “It might wake up and fly away.” Several hours later and it’s still there. The sad little twisted bones and the possibility of flight cut short by an invisible foe. The tail feathers erupt at an odd angle, suggesting catastrophe.

Every time I think about the thunk and the show of death it performed I feel a little more dead on the inside; like the sadness is washing over more of me with each thought. And yet I know I’m going to walk back over there once again before I climb under my covers, flick the switch back to the on position and look at that little bird one more time.

the edge

I've heard it said that you've got your whole life ahead of you. Though all of a sudden, the rest of the crew has surged forward to center stage and I'm left standing alone in the back, trying to remember which foot is supposed to move where and wondering whether its worth it to try to catch up, or if it would be better just to run off stage and console myself over a basket of greasy fries in the cafeteria.

Of course, there remains the question of whether or not its really worth smothering my face in cooking oil when the zits start popping up. All of a sudden, center stage seven beats behind doesn't seem like such a bad option after all.
On the other hand, there remains the problem of trying to do something I was never cut out for in the first place. Turns out that during rehearsals, my mind was on the fryalator the entire time.

However, I am worried that if I don't do something, I will spend my entire life wondering who it was that put the toliet paper roll on backwards before realizing the only person it could have been was myself, then analyzing the whys and whatfors of backwards toliet paper for the rest of a wonderful evening with only myself and my basket of pimples for company.

juncture

New Year's Resolution.

Write.

You say that I can. That it's a natural talent given to me by the one that created and creates and cares and destroys, but I don't utilize it like I should. You say that when my thoughts flow out into letters that create words seaming into rivers of sounds, patterns of expression and conclusions it means something to those around me, but I choose quiet introspection and a silent inner commentary of the lives around me over communication.

I've wished to be talented my entire life. I wanted to draw cartoons of the nasty teacher and make my classmates laugh, but my artisan apprenticeship fell short with a few lines and circles. I wanted to be an athlete, running like I was born to, dodging defenses with the ball dancing at my feet, but my stardom fell short with a few clumsy passes and zero points. I wanted to be in movies, on stage or spend time behind a microhpone, but my inclination towards enternainment fell short when I realized I'm not entertaining.

I've wished to be good, to be famous, to be accomplished at anything, but discounted my ability to compose passages that mean something to someone. Ignoring the one thing I can do without wondering if I'm good enough. Blocking out the one thing I can do without having to constantly second guess myself. Ignoring my ability to put feelings into words, onto paper and spread. I'm done wishing for something that isn't going to happen. I'm done wondering why I'm not good at anything that counts, when something I am good at is right in front of my nose. Writing counts. Writing is my talent. I can't change it or make it count for less or more. Writing is.

New Year's Resolution.

Write.

I am an eight year old boy.

Yes, I know I haven't updated about Colorado, but really; no one reads this blog anyway, so it doesn't really matter, now does it?

I promise that I'm in the process of making something cool for this blog about my trip, but all of a sudden, things got really busy and I haven't been able to finish it yet.

But I absolutely could not resist this. I was reading the news and came upon my new favorite person in the world:

"Schools Secretary Ed Balls told Sky News Mr Brown had taken "a risk" - but said it was the right decision.
He insisted the new business secretary was "devoted" to public service.
Mr Balls said: "Of course it's a risk, but at the same time, it's also a great opportunity for our country and our government."

Hee hee: Ed Balls. Mr. Balls.

payback in all its glory

Ernie knew what he was talking about.

On A Hill

She sits in a lonely field somewhere in upstate New York, the busy farm in the valley below suddenly quiet as the minute and hour hands meet together at the peak of the clock face. A solitary being seems to make sense.

With only the birds and the light breeze as distraction, suddenly the anxiety and business everday life brings melts away. Baking for a while in the sun to the satisfaction of the freckles whose existence sunshine births, she moves suddenly into the shade of the ancient maples lining the peimeter of the field. Surpsising, as she does, a rabbit and black bird out of their exclusive thicket.

She places her worn pack on the remains of a rock wall and takes a drink of sun-warmed water. Reluctantly taking note of the time, she shuffles through her pack, pulls out a book and settles down for a blissful two hours before being forced to re-enter the world of schedules and distraction.