Yesterday I had the pleasure of seeing 3 Penny Acre at my good buddy Brian’s house (making this a record-breaking two-house-concerts-in-a-week kind of week). They’re charming, talented, fun and lovely conversationalists.
I highly recommend checking them out if they’re coming to your neck of the woods this summer. Or else just buy a give them a listen and buy a CD.
Bayard Blane and David Glaser
This is just what I pictured my life would be like when I moved to the south.
Three Penny Acre
In hot weather like this, it’s nice to have cold meals. I made this one from Cooking Light with a few modifications (Pho for bean noodles and macadamia nuts for peanuts). Tasty, spicy and refreshing!
1. Cook Pho noodles according to directions
2. While noodles soak, combine vinegar and next 4 ingredients (through sambal), stirring until sugar dissolves. Combine chicken and next 5 ingredients (through mint), tossing well.
3. Drain and rinse noodles with cold water; drain well, squeezing to remove excess water. Snip noodles several times with kitchen shears. Combine noodles and chicken mixture, tossing well to combine. Drizzle noodle mixture with vinegar mixture; toss well to coat. Top with macadamia nuts.
To celebrate the very talented Marshall Ruffin’s concert at my friend Lila’s house tonight, I decided to make watermelon margaritas. Naturally, I had to taste the concoction before serving it to others and perhaps it was the delicious combination of watermelon, triple sec, lime and tequila that caused me to lock my keys in my car right before leaving.
I figured I might as well post the recipe as I wait for the locksmith. Don’t worry- I’ll still make it to the concert on time. And these margaritas are worth the $30 I’ll spend in locksmith fees.
I’m so happy to share my dear friend Elam’s words and images. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
Once upon a time there was a boy. His name was Elam. One of his first artistic act was melting crayons on the heating vents. He was a Waldorf child. At Waldorf school imagination was the sun. He orbited best he could. Elam believed all his childhood he would be an artist. That may be the one thing he regrets in his life now. Not going to art school and melting more crayons.
In college he almost completed a minor in Art but wasn’t interested in taking art history. Way to stick it to the man! Elam didn’t major in art. Elam’s major was writing long sorrowful poems about people who hurt his feelings. Then his friend John taught him an E chord on the guitar. Elam wrote an embarrassing song that night. He hasn’t stopped writing songs since then. They’re less embarrassing now.
One summer’s end Elam lived in NYC. In his grandmother’s brownstone in the Bronx. It was New York’s centennial. They were celebrating with free concerts everywhere. Elam saw many at the world trade center.
Whistle guy (sketch) was guarding a fountain. In the center was a sculpture Elam admired frequently. It survives today.
Occasionally Elam ventured out. He read more than at any other time in his life. He wrote many songs. It would be the last time he’d see his grandmother and call New York his ancestral place in this world. Those hot nights taught him to sleep naked. The unfurnished apartment taught him to take big steps and stare out windows. It was the last time he lived with his big sister who was upstairs in her apartment.
Elam loved to walk down to the dank basement where a turned over bucket served as a chair. He’d watch the world cup on the antique television. Amongst grandma’s art books and boxes.
Elam listened to many of his grandmother’s albums and went to visit her about once a week at the convalescent home. Where they’d play scrabble. Where they discovered their like for each other. Elam mostly sketches in the margins of things these days if he sketches at all. Mostly faces. Elam misses New York names like Van Cortland Park, Mosholu Parkway, Saxon Avenue and Grandma Jill.
Don’t forget to check out the ever-growing journal gallery.
Folks, the days are long and my energy is high. It’s times like this that I decide to stop screwing around and get serious about… something. Some days I think I should get serious about cooking. Some days it’s my (sadly long neglected) Etsy store. Lately it’s been writing.
I’ve been trying to cut out unnecessary time-sucks (remember the electron vacation?) and make better and more mindful decisions about how I spend my precious moments (the actual moments, not the creepy porcelain dolls), and Facebook happens to be a big one for me. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll go on to look at pictures someone’s tagged of me and end up wasting more time than I care to mention here figuring out which friends fed their virtual goats that day and which did not. During my fast, though, instead of going on Facebook, I decided to write about it. I read this piece at the Knoxville Writer’s Guild Open Mike (joining and attending Guild meetings are another prong of my “Write, for the love of God” self-attack). As part of my commitment to writing more frequently, I’m going to try to share short (you’re welcome) pieces of writing here at least semi-often. Here, my friends, is a little cautionary tale.
Dan has told himself he will not look at Facebook. He tells himself this as soon as he gets up each morning, each time he sits down to his computer at work, and each time he opens the door to his dark apartment at the end of the day. But every night, after thousands of tiny exercises in self-control, he types his email address into one box and his password into another and clicks to her profile, feasting on it like a gooey midnight snack.
Here’s Maya holding her cat, left arm reaching off the screen to take their picture.
Here’s the back of Maya’s head at a baseball game. She’s wearing her favorite purple shirt. Dan remembers how he hated that shirt. Now he kind of likes it.
Here’s Maya behind a plate of tacos and a giant margarita glass here eyes are droopy and Dan can see she’s buzzed. He studies the elbow next to Maya’s and tries to decide who it belongs to. It’s female- that’s certain and comforting. If it’s Susan’s elbow, they probably finished their meals and went on home. But if the elbow is Jenny’s, Dan is certain she pushed Maya to have another and go out dancing. Jenny has never been good for Maya.
Dan stares at Maya’s profile. He does not write on her wall, he knows better than that. he does not poke her.
Dan blinks hard when her status tells him she’s just four blocks from his house, at the neighborhood bar Maya had always talked about wanting to try. Dan stand and reaches for his coat. The update is from eleven o’clock. Maybe she’s still there. Surely she’s still there. He puts his coat on. She will be there and Dan will see her. He takes his coat off. He sits down.
Dan knows he won’t be able to pretend he just stopped by for a drink at midnight. Dan doesn’t do that sort of thing and Maya knows it. Dan clicks to his profile, tries to see it through Maya’s eyes (if Maya ever looked, but Dan is sure she doesn’t).
“Dan is tired”
“Dan decided on frozen pizza again tonight. Three for three.”
“Dan is bourbon on ice and this shitty recliner. It could be worse.”
He changes his status.
“Dan is happy.”
Even he doesn’t buy it. He writes it again in all capitals.
“DAN IS HAPPY.”
Happy doesn’t suit Dan. On Maya it’s natural and cute. On Dan it’s desperate and defensice. That was always Maya’s problem with him.
At 12:30, Dan turns off his computer and rubs his eyes, promising not to sign on again, to delete his account, to find another girlfriend like Maya, to make her love her like Maya did, to keep her from leaving like Maya did.
He goes to bed. he still uses the purple sheets she bought him, even though he hates them.
I just got back from a trip to Minneapolis and White Bear Lake, Minnesota for my grandparents’ 60th wedding anniversary party. It was a lovely time and reminded me of all the Minnesota traditions that make me love the Scandinavian Midwest- people saying “oofta,” fresh walleye, and my favorite, hotdish. For those of you who don’t know, “hotdish” is Midwestern for “casserole.” It’s easy to point out the differences between Southerners and Northers, but one constant between my Midwestern roots and current Southern existence is this multifaceted creamy baked concoction. No, it’s not seasonally appropriate, but it’s never to hot for hotdish in my book.
Chicken and Biscuits (via Epicurious)
Ingredients
For biscuits
For chicken
Make biscuits:
Put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 450°F.
Blend together flour and butter in a bowl with a pastry blender or your fingertips until mixture resembles coarse meal with some small (roughly pea-size) butter lumps. Stir in milk with a fork just until a sticky dough forms.
Turn dough out onto a floured surface and gently knead 7 or 8 times. (Do not overwork, or biscuits will be tough.) Pat dough into a 9- by 6-inch rectangle on a lightly floured surface, then cut into 6 (3-inch) squares. Arrange squares 1 inch apart on an ungreased baking sheet and bake until almost, about 12 minutes. Cool to warm on baking sheet on a rack.
Make chicken dish while biscuits bake:
Cool oven to 350. Cook onion, carrot, celery, salt, and pepper in butter in a 10-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are softened, 8 to 10 minutes. Sprinkle flour over vegetables and cook, stirring, 1 minute. Stir in broth and thyme and bring to a boil, stirring, then boil over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, 2 minutes.
Add half-and-half and chicken to gravy and gently simmer until chicken is heated through, about 3 minutes. Stir in lemon juice.
Assemble and bake:
Place chicken mixture in 8×8 baking dish. Sprinkle with fresh Parmesan cheese if desired. Halve biscuits horizontally and place over biscuits. Bake for ten minutes or until biscuits are golden brown.
I can’t say enough about how much I love picnics. It combines three of my favorite things: eating, relaxing and being outside. We went on a camping trip with some friends this week (to Hungry Mother State Park in Virginia). I took lunch duty and packed us a little picnic, which we ate under a gazebo in Abingdon, Virginia. Umm, how cute is that?
Menu
On a cutting board, work garlic and 1/4 teaspoon salt together with the flat side of a knife, until it forms a paste. Add the garlic-salt mixture to the eggplant. Stir in the parsley, tahini, and lemon juice. Season with more salt, to taste. Garnish with additional parsley.
Whisk olive oil and red wine vinegar in large bowl. Season dressing with salt and pepper. Mix tomatoes, cucumber, bell pepper, red onion, radishes, and parsley into dressing. Stir in feta cheese. Using slotted spoon, transfer salad mixture to pita bread halves. Serve sandwiches immediately.
I know I’ve been doing a lot showing off on the blog lately, and I do promise to start posting more projects and recipes soon, but please allow me just one more little virtual demonstration of pride as I tell you that I can now add “Back-up Dancer for “Weird Al” Yankovic” to my resume. Not only can I add it, I most certainly will. There is no job worth applying for that will not see my back-up experience as a tremendous boon. Perhaps you have a few questions about my experience. I will endeavor to anticipate and answer them here.
Q: Dale, how did you get such an amazing gig?
A: I’m very important and sought-after. Some will tell you that it’s because a friend of mine manages the venue at which the Weird Al concert took place, but don’t believe this people. I got this gig through sheer ambition, talent, and stunning good looks (thanks Kevin).
Q: So are you going to start touring with Weird Al?
A: Sadly, no. Mr. Weird is a lone stallion who much gallop off into the distance on his own, finding new back-up dancers in every town (This is true. His rider requests two ladies with black tennis shoes and leotards in pigtails and goth make-up. Imagine being able to request PEOPLE in your rider).
Q: Who was that amazingly good looking lady dancing with you?
A: That, my friends, is the smart and talented Cassie. She is a classically trained cheerleader whose precision and technique balanced out my wackiness and inability to think of dance moves that didn’t involve wild swinging of the hips. Aside from an amazing back-up dancer, Cassie is a community organizer and sister to a member of “Color Me Bad,” with whom she toured as a teenager.
Q: When did you learn the dance?
A: We didn’t learn the dance. We CREATED the dance. We arrived at 4:30, were shown a video of previous back-up dancers at a concert and told that we had three hours to make up our own dance. They showed us where we were to place ourselves onstage, then left us in our dressing room with a CD of “Smells Like Nirvana,” a trunkful of cheerleading uniforms and pom-poms, and set about making magic. We practiced until we heard the concert starting, never making it through the entire song without stopping to remember the next move. When we performed onstage, though, we managed to make it through without any serious hitches.
Q: Was it fun?
Q: Are you stupid?
Q: Did you get paid?
A: Yes we did.*
*In concert tickets for us and two guests, plus more drink vouchers than we needed.
And now, without further ado, I present to you our dance.
Videography by Shawn Poynter
Once again, a million thanks to Kevin for giving us this opportunity.
When summer began, I had visions of spending my free time laying in the backyard with iced tea and a good book for hours on end. I thought if I was feeling really ambitious I’d take the occasional quarry swimming trip, but would for the most part literally lay quite low.
That hasn’t been the case, almost ceaseless travel, unexpected opportunities, and home improvement projects have managed to usurp my lazy dreams and instead of bemoaning my lost lazy days of summer, I’ve decided to switch gears and just fill the summer with as many experiences as possible (That’s really what summer’s for anyway, right? I’ll relax in the winter with a bowl of stew and a sickening romantic comedy).
In that spirit, I convinced my sweetheart to take an aerial dance class with me a few weeks ago (though I called it “learning the trapeze” so as not to make him feel that taking the class would compromise his manliness). While Shawn did in fact feel that his manliness was bit compromised and probably won’t return, he did have fun. I didn’t feel that my manliness was compromised at all and plan to start going to the weekly classes downtown whenever I can (Knoxvillians, they’re at urbhana.com). We learned a bunch of moves in a short amount of time and I got a wicked upper body workout and I’ve already got myself a 6 class pass (the only time I’ve ever bought a half-off deal online, but it entered my inbox this morning just as I was about the write this, so I figured it was fate). I’d suggest looking around to see if you can find a trapeze/circus/aerial dance class in your neck of the woods. Manly or not, it’s worth a shot*.
*I believe this should be the official aerial dance slogan.
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