black + berry = delicious

I love blackberries. I love them a lot. I'd characterize it as more of a passionate, sparkling affair.

Vine-ripened, they are just about the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. They are summer, freedom, fun, giggling, adventure, end-of-a-hot-day sighs. Perfection.

Every summer (assuming I'm in the Northwest), I head out with my pails (typically a random assortment of plastic tubs). I dress in hardy clothing (if I don't, there will be blood). I wear tough shoes (again, with the blood). And then I pick. I pick a lot. Enough for pies and crisp, ice cream and breakfast (which is often crisp). I freeze it for later, and savor every bite. There is something about this amazing, weed-like vine (it grows like crazy out here!) offering nature's bounty that delights me to no end. If I don't make at least one blackberry crisp, I feel it as a loss.

Blackberry picking is the perfect combination of danger, tantalizing moments, sweetness, and effort. Danger because the thorny vines grab and poke and tear your skin (ask a friend who tried to wear shorts and sandals out picking with us last year). Tantalizing moments because the best, biggest, ripest berries are always just out of arms' reach. Sweetness, because, well, they're ripe berries. And effort for the hours of reaching, and narrowly escaping sharp thorns, for the hot sun, the little spiders, and the standing on tip toes or reaching from ladders. All of this is totally worth it.

This Labor Day weekend we (I had help) picked nearly 4 gallons of blackberries. We picked at a place I've been going since childhood, where the berries get so big that just two of them can fill your hand. I have to remind myself to eat them as I'm picking, because since the age of about 9 it occurred to me that if I didn't eat so many as I was picking, I'd have loads more to cook with and munch on later...

We made a cobbler. Then we made a crisp. We made vanilla ice cream to go with the crisp. We ate the crisp after dinner, and again for breakfast. It's delicious with yogurt. It's probably delicious with bacon and sandwiches.

My crisp recipe is one of the best. It has come from years of practice, having to make it up when I didn't have the recipe with me, adding more of this because we were out of that. It's best just out of the oven, when the crisp is still crispy and the berries still hot. It is a delectable combination of brown sugar, butter, old fashion oats, flour, and cinnamon. Sometimes I add nutmeg. With apple crisp I add a little bit of powdered ginger. With blackberries, I add almost no sugar to the berries themselves because the sweet topping and the sweet-tart flavor of the berries is the perfect combination.

After our picking extravaganza, I lugged a giant plastic bag of berries home with me and it is sitting in our fridge, taunting me with its potential. I put blackberries in my breakfast this morning. Tonight I might make jam.

photo credits:

Blackberry Crisp

Tiny crisp

Fresh Blackberries

here we go again

As the leaves start their autumnal procession (suddenly, shockingly beginning to change colors just in time to greet September) I am motivated by the urge to grasp every last moment of summer. Grilling, dips in the lake, sailing, walking under umbrellas of greenery, making fresh summer-things salads... These will all too soon seem a distant, shaded memory replaced with candlelight and rain, puddles, and piles of crispy leaves.

Have we come this far? Will I survive until next summer without bare feet or a sun-kissed nose? I'm not ready, I tell you.

the changing room

It was a hot weekend and we had a wedding to go to. Rather than sweat all the way to the hotel in our pretty dresses and three-piece suits, we decided to leave it for the last minute and change when we arrived.

We parked in a dim garage that was pretty empty (luckily for us) and spent a few minutes fixing hair and donning our satin and heels. Ours was a hippie changing room, reminiscent of silent-film-era movies when all the action is sped up. Cars rolled slowly by, their passengers giggling at these girls and boys madly changing out of their summer shorts into fancy suits and cocktail dresses. We used our Volkswagon pop-top camper to change, and we even had our dog.

At one point we took out a folding camper chair so I could apply my sister's makeup. An older gentleman walked by and chuckled. He teased the dog, who was watching patiently. I could almost hear him shaking his head, saying, "Silly hippie kids" and reminiscing about his past as the boy in the boxer shorts standing behind the van, pulling on his suit trousers, and knotting his tie.

scabs

You shouldn't scratch at them.

Nor should you talk about how scratchy that flaky patch on your arm is while you're working at a cash register.

It's just a thought, but I'm pretty sure everyone would agree with me. And your neighbor? Why is she mumbling that it's unsanitary and that she's leaving for 10 minutes and is hoping that when she comes back you're not itchy anymore?

Is it contagious? Should you really be at work touching my legal size envelopes and those pens that I'm about to hold with my bare hands?

This was my enchanting adventure on a quick trip to the office supply store today. Usually my walks up and down the aisles filled with organizing bins and special-tip pens leaves me feeling happy and inspired. This time was different. I really really need to find some more hand sanitizer. I used all mine.

PS When you're using hand sanitizer or hand soap, try using one without your typical anti-bacterial. It's bad for the environment.

dig in

The Epicurean gods guided my hands yesterday as I hunted through our cupboards and that bottom drawer in the fridge. I can show no false modesty, I'm too excited! What emerged from this rather random assortment of vegetables and foodstuffs was a delicious, satisfying meal. It is vegetarian but full of protein and has a nice balance of textures. I'm calling it (for lack of any further inspiration) "white bean and cabbage salad with lime-yogurt dressing."

Here's the recipe in case you're interested. We made about half this much for two people, and had enough leftovers for my lunch today. Delicious! I hope you think so, too.

White Bean and Cabbage Salad

w/ lime-yogurt dressing

In a large mixing bowl combine:

1/2 head green cabbage (sliced thin like slaw)

1 12oz can black olives (chopped smallish)

1 12oz white Northern beans (rinsed, high in protein)

1/4 bunch (or to taste) chopped cilantro

2-3 leaves kale, chopped super thin (adds iron, fiber)

1-2 limes, juiced (start with one, to taste)

1/2 c. plain, lowfat yogurt (Greek style if desired, adds protein)

8-10 slices jar/mexi style jalapenos, diced tiny (to taste)

Enjoy! And I apologize for the photo, it is not what you would call "professional" or "good." I would have liked to rearrange the cabbage a little to reflect a more chic cabbage presence, but it said no.

jarry eyed

There's nothing quite like using an every day item as a special decoration. I like to put rocks in jars, and candles: what a lovely idea!

Candle light is de-light-full. Even in the middle of summer (when we get daylight in the Northwest until after ten) I like to light candles and listen to Thievery Corporation or Norah Jones. I'm drawn to restaurants and cafes that have candles on their tables.

"I don't mind much what food you're serving, but I see you have candles.... "

And so, I settle into my afternoon. Ready for the weekend and a whole lotta stuff to do. Painting, cleaning, prepping, and hopefully at least a little time romping with the Pup.

I'd like to come home to flowers in jars and candles everywhere, but it's almost as good when I do it myself.

Almost.

you should prolly know about

Never heard of them before today, pretty adorable and very talented. My first glimpse was the very French-California video on DesignLoveFest. Dreamy song choice, a longing peek into a simple life filled with perfect moments like toast, kisses, resting, dancing, and pondering 'things.'

If you were getting married, wouldn't you want a SharkPig video of your day? Or even just a regular day? They'd make it pretty. They'd make it seem un-ordinary.

And now I must go and find myself a silver-sequin skirt.

SharkPig Blog

Gettin' Hitched - SharkPig

Left Bank Louche - SharkPig

and because I can't resist: The Cream ('for a rad wedding')

brain eat brain

I read an article about how our brain cells start eating themselves when they're undernourished and overworked. They also start eating themselves when they're over-nourished and underworked, or rather over fed. For instance when a person has Type 2 diabetes.

Seems like finding the middle ground is more important than we thought: be healthy, eat and play. Or your brain will eat itself.

It's a curious thing this cannibalistic behavior. Every once in a while a story comes out about some guy who wanted to eat a person, and found another guy who wanted to be eaten. Then there are the wild tribes of yore (long ago and far away) who ate outsiders and other enemy tribes. I'm sure it tastes like chicken, but my thinking on the matter is, "ew."

Why? We humans are pretty much known for eating all manner of creature, big, small, bug, and cricket (crunchy, slimy, salted and grilled). Apparently the appetite for human flesh (typing those words actually made my skin crawl a little bit) really is taboo. So much so that it pretty much never happens. Ever.

Which I'm pretty happy about.

PS 'Mountain of the Cannibal Gods' was the least disturbing image that came up when I googled "Cannibal." I don't recommend it (the web search, I haven't actually seen the movie). And I'm a little afraid of the consequences if the authorities should ever decide to check my search history: lady bugs, glitter, fairies, design, fashion, and cannibal. It won't look good.

toast

It's crunchy and delicious, I like to use butter and jam. My favorite toast is an English muffin with berry preserves and salted butter. It's part of my Saturday morning breakfast, and includes leaving a little corner free of sweet spread so I can dip it in my poached eggs. I always ask for Poached Medium, but it's always Poached Rare. I don't mind too much. It reminds me of being a kid, feeling goofy as I try and try to scoop it up with my fork, forever failing but always entertaining myself. That's kind of the best part.

All that is beside the point, though, because really I just wanted to tell you a little bit about this soiree I'm planning. The details have been forming over the last six months, and I'm only a week away from implementation! There are trays to fill and things to chop, colorful papery things to find, and a bride to toast.

I am picturing this beautiful woman in a lovely summer dress, her honey hair shining in the sunlight, surrounded by warm smiles from dear friends who love her and want to celebrate with her.

She may not like it, she may feel a little awkward at being the focus of so much attention. But we won't make it too hard. We'll decorate like Martha Stewart and offer her gifts and champagne. Lots of champagne.

laura gordon photography

sniff sniff

I love old buildings. Houses, lofts, warehouses, cottages, barns, castles, huts; the older the better. I like to imagine their histories, the lives playing out within, the candlelight, the re-wiring with electricity and all the little adds and restorations that happen over the years.

I've lived in both old and new apartments and houses, and have always been more enamored of the old. Even with their creaking stairs, the strange low ceiling in the pantry, and the oddly shaped walls where some landowner decided the house would rent better if there was a wall here or there to create a bedroom where the dining room used to be.

Now I find myself in a big, old house built in 1925. It's a rental. It has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a basement, a large kitchen and a garage (for the tinkerer, the mechanic, the One with all the Tools). It's great for lots of reasons: It's cheap, it's near a great part of town, it has a wrap-around yard, a laundry room, and lots of windows.

It also stinks. Like really. Not all of the time, but especially when the weather is hot and the doors have been closed for a couple of days. I picture a grumpy old man with thin, bony fingers who's only happiness is restoring antique curio cabinets in his basement.

While smoking.

A lot.

I picture his yellowed fingernails, and his wispy hair. Imagining is easy because I can smell him in the walls. This great old house with it's 1960's oven and ancient windows has moved on to younger tenants, but oozes those olfactory stimulators. There are even spots coming through the paint (in the few spaces we haven't reached with a paintbrush, yet).

And now I come to the question that all of this ranting stemmed from: If I have a house guest (a respectable, older sort of person with taste and possibly money and expectations) should I worry too much about the fact that even though our home is nicely decorated, and welcoming, and cozy... it smells a little funky?

Should I spend the next two weeks painting like a madwoman, emptying each room and using a sealant-slash-primer in the hopes that this will finally neutralize the odor?

I suppose I shall, if for no other reason than I live there, and it really is a wrinkle-your-nose sort of encounter. Not every day, but just one is enough to say, "enough."

My mind runs in all directions with thoughts of the renovations and restorations that could happen with old houses. Including the one in the photo...

(I know, it's crazy.)

photo courtesy