My mother looks over and smiles. More than just teaching me how to sauté onions, she has taught me her sense of humor. I turn my head to look her full in the face and laugh. She looks beautiful in her sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up, her hair in a sensible ponytail.
She teaches me the lessons she has accumulated in her life here, in front of the stove, with the light under the hood sticking in the wrinkles growing out from her eyes. She has veins of gold in her face when she smiles. I think she is more beautiful to me like this. I still have dreams of my mother to this day - we have not seen her in five years.
I see her face, gilt gliding across the lines as she tracks me down in my sleep and reviews what she taught me. Eugene Tarnow believed that dreams were ever-present stimulations of long-term memory. During waking life, an executive cognitive function interprets these stimulations and sorts them as memory. My mother is standing there at the stove, illuminated with the light over the range, under the hood.
“Mom, what the hell are you doing in my house?” I say, padding into the kitchen from my dark bedroom. “Fixing dinner, what does it look like, smartass.”
She looks like she’s swimming in the soft, yellow, light that catches her hair - the sides swept back to keep them out of the way.
“Are you actually here?”
“Does it matter? It smells like you burned dinner.”
“I guess . . . I don’t know. I just.”
“It took me forever to find where you live.”
I walk over to a suitcase on the table.
“What . . . Mom. What is this?”
“You’re gonna come cook with me”
Inside is a wooden spoon and the pan I burned onions in earlier - the silver surface stained the deepest back where the onions carbonized.
“Come on, let’s go.” She says, leaving to pool of light to walk towards the front door.
“You should put on some clothes, and start sleeping in pajamas.” She adds, turning around to look back at me, one hand on the doorknob.
“Oh, right,” I laugh quietly and creep back into the bedroom.
“Hurry up!” She shouts from the living room, and I hear her walk back into the kitchen.
I hear the hollow click of the range light as I push my feet into moccasins and head back to the kitchen.
“Ah, dreaming,” I say, walking out onto the dark linoleum
I turn the range light on and smudge a line through the grease splatters on the stove. I turn the light off with my greasy finger and walk back to my room, tracing a line down the wall - I crawl into bed and fall asleep with my shoes still on. My mother looks over and smiles.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Add Forty to the Number of Chirps Produced in Fifteen Seconds by Oecanthus Fultoni
The stain does not take to the wood evenly. He thinks it has something to do with the polyurethane added to it. Also with the fact that the polyurethane is fast-drying. It leaves streaks behind the brush, clots on corners, forms tiny stalactites suspended from the bottom of the boards.
Woodworkers prefer natural oils like linseed and tung which have a hard-rubbed luster as opposed to polyurethane’s shine. Polyurethane is durable, water resistant, hard and abrasion resistant. It was cheaper at the hardware store too. That’s the main reason he got it. Later, he spends more money at the hardware store buying sandpaper and wood stain. This time without polyurethane. He sands the boards behind the house on the back stoop. He sits on the steps scrubbing a board with the sandpaper.
“How long have you been out here,” his roommate asks, stepping out the back door onto the stoop.
“Don’t even ask me,” he says and stops sanding, rolling his head from side to side to stretch his shoulders.
His roommate sits down on the edge of the stoop and he swings his legs over the side of the stairs to sit parallel to him.
“And don’t tell me how ironic it is that the time-saving stain is costing me time.”
“Don’t need to, you just did.”
“It is ironic, though,” he says.
“I know,” the roommate replies
“And I can’t help but wonder,” he continues, “that doesn’t it seem to be that way in life?”
“Yes?” His roommate answers, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. He holds it out, saying,
“You need to calm the hell down.”
He takes the cigarette and moves the half-sanded board in his lap around behind him.
“No, seriously though, we develop technology, bond molecule to strange molecule, augmenting something we have found in nature to form a harder-working mutation.”
“Smoke that,” his roommate says, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand.
He continues, “We create something that accomplishes its goal with such dexterity and swiftness that it loses the feel of process we find in the natural. The sense that what you are enjoying has taken a long time to culture, to cultivate. That, that which is pleasing to your eye has been striving towards that aesthetic for some odd handful of time.” He stops and takes a drag.
“Are you stoned? Are you high, Claree?”
“Whatever, I’ve just been out here sanding for hours, just thinking about wood stain,” He says, rolling his eyes.
“Well, shut up and smoke that cigarette. You’re completely right but also out of control. You just need to stop thinking and be quiet.”
The night moves in around them as their silence gives it space. The thick black edging in at the pool of yellow thrown out by the back light.
His roommate stands and turns out the light, the grit of the concrete scraping quietly as he turns to reach the switch.
“Better,” he says, sitting back down.
Crickets call in the thickness of the backyard, interrupted by the whining of the tree frogs. The sound of the legs, one rubbing against the other sounds silver in the darkness, moving in a chorus of a thousand thousand.
“I was just thinking how the crickets sound like sleigh bells,” he says.
“Actually, me too. Now quiet and finish your smoking. “ His roommate says, a flame flaring in his cupped hand as he lights his own cigarette.
Woodworkers prefer natural oils like linseed and tung which have a hard-rubbed luster as opposed to polyurethane’s shine. Polyurethane is durable, water resistant, hard and abrasion resistant. It was cheaper at the hardware store too. That’s the main reason he got it. Later, he spends more money at the hardware store buying sandpaper and wood stain. This time without polyurethane. He sands the boards behind the house on the back stoop. He sits on the steps scrubbing a board with the sandpaper.
“How long have you been out here,” his roommate asks, stepping out the back door onto the stoop.
“Don’t even ask me,” he says and stops sanding, rolling his head from side to side to stretch his shoulders.
His roommate sits down on the edge of the stoop and he swings his legs over the side of the stairs to sit parallel to him.
“And don’t tell me how ironic it is that the time-saving stain is costing me time.”
“Don’t need to, you just did.”
“It is ironic, though,” he says.
“I know,” the roommate replies
“And I can’t help but wonder,” he continues, “that doesn’t it seem to be that way in life?”
“Yes?” His roommate answers, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and lighting it. He holds it out, saying,
“You need to calm the hell down.”
He takes the cigarette and moves the half-sanded board in his lap around behind him.
“No, seriously though, we develop technology, bond molecule to strange molecule, augmenting something we have found in nature to form a harder-working mutation.”
“Smoke that,” his roommate says, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand.
He continues, “We create something that accomplishes its goal with such dexterity and swiftness that it loses the feel of process we find in the natural. The sense that what you are enjoying has taken a long time to culture, to cultivate. That, that which is pleasing to your eye has been striving towards that aesthetic for some odd handful of time.” He stops and takes a drag.
“Are you stoned? Are you high, Claree?”
“Whatever, I’ve just been out here sanding for hours, just thinking about wood stain,” He says, rolling his eyes.
“Well, shut up and smoke that cigarette. You’re completely right but also out of control. You just need to stop thinking and be quiet.”
The night moves in around them as their silence gives it space. The thick black edging in at the pool of yellow thrown out by the back light.
His roommate stands and turns out the light, the grit of the concrete scraping quietly as he turns to reach the switch.
“Better,” he says, sitting back down.
Crickets call in the thickness of the backyard, interrupted by the whining of the tree frogs. The sound of the legs, one rubbing against the other sounds silver in the darkness, moving in a chorus of a thousand thousand.
“I was just thinking how the crickets sound like sleigh bells,” he says.
“Actually, me too. Now quiet and finish your smoking. “ His roommate says, a flame flaring in his cupped hand as he lights his own cigarette.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
a link to the stitch
check out this amazing cross stitch by servotron.
four months of work.
amazing.
the merger of my two greatest loves. thread and video games.
i probably would have ripped out my eyeballs , but i admire the dedication
Monday, March 16, 2009
dessert alchemy.
made some desserts last night.
taro root in sweetened coconut milk. (not me, farmer's market)
pineapple pistachio custard
blackberry meringue pie.
pineapple pistachio custard.
you'll need to first make a simple custard. scald two cups of milk (slowly, don't you dare burn that milk) with a dash of salt and half a cup of sugar. i used confectioners, but i'm sure plain white would work as well. just before the milk boils, turn off the heat. pour a little of the milk into five beaten egg yolks. then pour the mixture back into the pot with the custard. heat til thick. stir stir stir. and i always cheat and throw a package of gelatin in with it to ensure setting. cool.
once that's taken care of and in the fridge, just throw together a pack of pistachio pudding, add some chopped pineapple, and mix with the pudding. chill til you like it. it's delicious. promise.
blackberry meringue pie.
prepare a simple pie crust. about two cups of flour. a stickish of butter. blend together with a pastry cutter or two knives until you get frustrated, give up, and just start doing it with your hands. once that's mixed well, sprinkle fourish tablespoons of ice cold water and mix with your hands til dough forms a ball. wrap and refridgerate.
in a small saucepan, combine two cups of blackberries, some butter, 1/3 cup of sugar, 1/4 cup of flour and spices as you see fit (cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, garam marsala!?). you could also throw in some triple sec or grand ma. heat and stir and smash till you've got a lovely dark purple mash.
pull your dough back you. roll it out to 1/4 inch thick, cut a circle with your pie plate as a guide, fold the dough in half, place in plate and unfold. spoon in your lovely dark purple mash and then bake uncovered for thirtyish minutes at 400 or until you see bubbling. while the pie is cooking, i'd take those five egg whites you have from making the custard and put them in a chilled bowl with as much sugar as you like and some cream of tartar. beat it slow. get some peaks. and spoon onto your blackberry pie after it has cooled from its stay in the oven and then throw that pie in the oven again just long enough to get some nice browning. i usually have run out of time at this point and bake it for a minute and then throw it under the broiler while i count to fifteen.
let it all chill. put it on a plate. enjoy your purple green platter.
c'est bon, clean up the splatter.
taro root in sweetened coconut milk. (not me, farmer's market)
pineapple pistachio custard
blackberry meringue pie.
pineapple pistachio custard.
you'll need to first make a simple custard. scald two cups of milk (slowly, don't you dare burn that milk) with a dash of salt and half a cup of sugar. i used confectioners, but i'm sure plain white would work as well. just before the milk boils, turn off the heat. pour a little of the milk into five beaten egg yolks. then pour the mixture back into the pot with the custard. heat til thick. stir stir stir. and i always cheat and throw a package of gelatin in with it to ensure setting. cool.
once that's taken care of and in the fridge, just throw together a pack of pistachio pudding, add some chopped pineapple, and mix with the pudding. chill til you like it. it's delicious. promise.
blackberry meringue pie.
prepare a simple pie crust. about two cups of flour. a stickish of butter. blend together with a pastry cutter or two knives until you get frustrated, give up, and just start doing it with your hands. once that's mixed well, sprinkle fourish tablespoons of ice cold water and mix with your hands til dough forms a ball. wrap and refridgerate.
in a small saucepan, combine two cups of blackberries, some butter, 1/3 cup of sugar, 1/4 cup of flour and spices as you see fit (cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, garam marsala!?). you could also throw in some triple sec or grand ma. heat and stir and smash till you've got a lovely dark purple mash.
pull your dough back you. roll it out to 1/4 inch thick, cut a circle with your pie plate as a guide, fold the dough in half, place in plate and unfold. spoon in your lovely dark purple mash and then bake uncovered for thirtyish minutes at 400 or until you see bubbling. while the pie is cooking, i'd take those five egg whites you have from making the custard and put them in a chilled bowl with as much sugar as you like and some cream of tartar. beat it slow. get some peaks. and spoon onto your blackberry pie after it has cooled from its stay in the oven and then throw that pie in the oven again just long enough to get some nice browning. i usually have run out of time at this point and bake it for a minute and then throw it under the broiler while i count to fifteen.
let it all chill. put it on a plate. enjoy your purple green platter.
c'est bon, clean up the splatter.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
why is there not a jam?
took apart a tv. i have pictures. promise to post. i'm just out of my mind right now
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