The Shakes

I know there are many many people who would disagree, but I think there is such thing as too much Shakespeare.

Currently, we are reading A Midsummer Night's Dream in my 5^th grade class. Previously never a huge Shakespeare fan, I was a little worried about teaching it. How would my students be able to make sense of his language? Would they pick up on the sexual innuendos? Racist comments? How am I going to handle the word ass being on every page of Act III?

I'm honestly so impressed with how they are progressing, and am really enjoying Shakespeare myself. The play is about love and it's complications—how “the course of true love never did run smooth.” This topic obviously makes the 10 and 11 year olds red-faced and giggly. The boy cast as Lysander for the day inevitably is wondering what girl (or guy—we embrace the Shakespearean model of having men play woman in high falsetto voices) will play his Hermia, and vice versa. I try my best to ask for serious acting so they feel less embarrassed talking about romance and love. I emphatically proclaim, “You are not Brooke declaring your love to Bottom who magically has the head of an ass, today you are Titania!”

Recently we discussed the concept of a “fool” and what behaviors and characters in the play we would deem foolish. I asked them to pick a character and write a paragraph supporting their argument. The standard answers went something like this:

“Helena, because she compares herself to a dog and follows around Demetrius even though he tells her that looking at her makes him sick and leaves her to be eaten by wild animals in the forrest.”

Valid answer. Oh Helena.

Or,

“Hermia because she is disobedient to her father and could be put to death or thrown in a convent for running away with Lysander.”

Yes, it pays to be obedient, class.

A couple, however, under what I believe to be the influence of excessive amounts of Shakespearean no-other-option-ism, aka The Shakes, answered thusly:

“I think Hippolyta is a fool because she is willing to marry Theseus even though he destroyed her town and people and family. She should've gone down with her town. But she decided to just go with him instead of dying. Even if she did have to go with him, she could've killed herself.”

And,

“I think Helena is foolish because it seems like the more she follows Demetrius the more he hates her. And she is foolish because she just should love Lysander because he now loves her and Demetrius doesn't. Why can't she just have a conversation with Demetrius and have Hermia in it and she could say, 'love me Demetrius or elts (else) I will kill Hermia!'”

*Above is verbatim from their adorable cursive-written papers.

As I mentioned earlier, I believe this is a manifestation of a oft o'erlooked malady referred to in the medical community as The Shakes. That is, the reaction when one is digesting more than the recommended dose of William Shakespeare's works within a certain time period. Akin to imbibing too much whiskey or a Celine Dion music marathon, the body has no other choice but to react in mysterious ways as it seeks homeostasis. The Shakes take many different forms, usually falling into the predictable yet appropriate categories of Comedy and Tragedy (including but not limited to fifth grade children flippantly entertaining murderous acts).

Other symptoms include:

Speaking in iambic pentameter.

Speaking in a manner that is unintelligible for the first two or three times heard. 

Tacit compliance to extreme and ill conceived plans.

Attraction to humans with one or more appendage belonging to an animal.

Thinking that humans with one or more appendage belonging to an animal exist. 

Markèd absence of marital trust.

Tough parental love, with manifestations such as death threats.

Inexplicable possessiveness over Indian boys.

Proclivity to enter into duels and then more duels.

Belief in fairies.

An ability to plop down and sleep anywhere at any time (not to be confused with narcolepsy).

Dry mouth, blindness, and sometimes, yes, death.

By my troth, I do urge thee--Shakespeare in moderation. 

SCHWEIZ is Twice as Nice

After a veritable whirlwind, I arrived in Zurich at 7:30 am Friday morning, local time. I had not slept the night before (my flight out of PHX was at 6am, which made for interesting banter at 4am with the cab driver—why did I use the word “adroit” to describe taxi drivers in NYC? At that hour? He did not understand, and being from Back East himself I believe he took offense) and thanks to a poor crying babe who did not relent from Atlanta until we were somewhere over Newfoundland, I did not sleep much on the plane. Whatever hours I did get, I thank Ambien and EAB. All this really did not matter, because I got a tremendous burst of energy when I got a glimpse at the amazingly beautiful country of Switzerland.

We dropped my bags off at Sarah and Christoph's flat and caught a train to Luzerne. We had great weather, and we explored all over the city. The first thing we did was sit at a cafe along the lake where I had my first of many cappuccinos. We walked across the famous Chapel Bridge, and scaled up and down the clock towers along the old city wall and wandered into many fantastically ornate churches where pipe organs were blaring their best and most haunting compositions. Lunch was wurst, sauerkraut and a deliciously opaque local beer. Bliss.

                    Christoph at the cafe. Oh, hello Alps.

                    Sarah on top of the Old City Wall.

                    Lake Luzerne. Awk tourist shot, yesiree.

                   Lake Luzerne is famously beautiful, and there are swans floating all over. The seagulls are  hanging out at the less pretty lakes, no doubt.

I'm so happy to be here! My sister and her husband Christoph live in a delightful little town called Urdorf just 15 minutes outside of Zurich by train. It's quaint and beautiful.

 
                    They live to the right from this picture.

My visit has the unfortunate purpose of attending to Sarah who needed surgery to remove fibroids. She went under yesterday and has begun her recovery. Everything went successfully! She is such a trooper. She has a really cute doctor, which amuses us both. I ran into him today, though rain and haste caused me to have a most unfortunate outfit. I mean bad. Something I imagine Billy Chrystal would wear.

The hospital where she is at is less than a 10 minute bike ride away, so I am able to pop over easily. Visiting hours do not begin until 1:30 in the afternoon (13:30!), so I always have my mornings to explore the numerous trails in the woods behind their flat, go to the bakery, have one more espresso at the cafe, try and get into the Dickens I brought— and tomorrow, I will be catching a train to Basel.

Being out in nature is so good for my soul. I never realize how much I miss it until I'm back in it again. I was on a trail run yesterday and Hoppípolla by Sigur Ros came on my Ipod on random. I was so overwhelmed with beauty in each of my senses—I could have burst. I ran fast and hard up and down hills, surrounded by bright emerald—so much so that my tongue went numb, a strange and alarming sensation that I have not experienced since my High School Track days. Ha, but don't be alarmed both lady and tongue are quite well now.

From my walk today. I found myself taking pictured of things like leaves and bark?

                   Christoph says that you can tell by their color where they are from. These are German cows.

                        Real Talk.

    I see remnants of WWII in the woods that look straight out of Lost. It's fascinating. Here are blocks to stop a hypothetical tank invasion.

And I love traveling—and anyone who knows me knows that I always wish to do more of it.

One of my favorite aspects of traveling, there are many that I love, is food. (duhh) There is a completely different attitude about food and health here that I find amazingly refreshing. This is my third time spending an extended amount of time in Europe, but this is the first time I've really comprehended the difference in attitude towards eating and bodies. Bread, dairy and chocolate are ubiquitous. The biggest meal is lunch, the equivalent of our dinner. It's a great big break in the day, and it's a great big meal. Dinner is light, just bread, meat cuts, butter, and cheese (yes please). Alarms were going off in my head initially, I should not be eating this much bread and cheese! And then dessert came, I should not be eating my second dessert of the day! BUT I feel that if I am not eating, I am exercising. I'm walking or biking to get to where I need to go, or I am hiking off in the woods. The food is all local and natural. I have so much energy. It just works, and people are generally slim here, where low-carb and low-fat products seem asinine. You really don't hear anyone talking about their special diets and such. People just eat well and then move. I almost got outrun by a man who appeared to be in his 70's on the trail yesterday. I did a serious double take.

So, there is butter on everything, Glory Alleluia. And there are cows everywhere. I see the delightful connection.

                       The sweet source of all things good and delicious.

I was reading Newsweek today and it mentioned that one method of decreasing Methane flatulence out by cattle is by putting curry or oregano in their food (because you and I were both so curious). I though it was so interesting, so I told this to Christoph, and he laughed. It would ruin the milk! He says he can tell the difference in taste of cows milk that has eaten hay from one that has been out to pasture. He claims that he can even tell the difference in taste between the season, as the cow is eating different things at different times of the year. So interesting.

                    A cappuccino enjoyed at Bremgarten after our hike along the river on Sunday.

More to come! Tschüss!

Cheer Up

Yesterday evening my dear friend Rachel offered me a free ticket to see William Fitzsimmons at the Crescent Ballroom. I was familiar with his name, but had never really listened to his music before. Never one to turn down an opportunity for live music, especially when it is at my favorite music venue in Phoenix, and most especially when given a free ticket, I happily accepted.

As a gesture, I offered to make Rachel dinner. 'Twas a Gnocchi Disaster.

Moving forward.

We arrive and the area that is usually wide open for dancing and overall revelry was sparsely situated with tables and a few chairs. That was our first tip off that this was not the kind of rowdy concert you want to stand for. William Fitzsimmons would agree. It's far more comfortable to cry while in the seated position.

People were standing along the edges, trying to appear as if they were not annoyed at their not having a seat. Women of action, we spotted two unoccupied chairs, asked the folks near them if they were available, got the two free chairs in question and sat in them. The standing herd looked at us with a little bit of envy as our legs dangled freely from the highly set chairs. The hipsters, with their feigned nonchalance (now laced with desperation), were telling us with their eyes that asking if a chair is open is too mainstream.

The opening act was a brother sister duo that I actually saw perform in Spokane a few years ago. They said they lived in Seattle, but I (and everyone who refers to Wiki for sound information) knew their secret; they were from Centralia,Washington—the Eastern and exponentially less cool part of the state. Noah & Abbey Gunderson have beautiful voices that I decided after going home and listening to their album sound better live. Their harmonies were so spot on you would have thought they were of one blood...I was actually on Noah Gunderson's mailing list for a bit. Why? I used it as an excuse to go talk to him after the show all those years ago in Spokane. Yes, I approached him under the clever guise of the mailing list, and characteristically un-slyly asked them where the afterparty was. I don't know what would posses me to do such a thing. Well, if you saw his jawline you may understand. I was nicely told they were heading home for the night, sorry. Then I got sporadic e-mails for a while reminding me of how little game I had.

William Fitzsimmons came on stage rocking the denim on denim, and beard like you wouldn't believe. A beard that is every man's dream come November, a beard that would be Utopia for a bird to nest in—nay, for an Eagle to nest in— a beard that would make Karl Marx jealous.To say that his music is chill is an understatement. To say that his music is hopeful is like saying Lana Del Rey has more than one facial expression. His dulcet voice coupled with very personal lyrics left some of the once standing hipsters weeping on the floor.

                         Noah, Abbey Gunderson with William Fitzsimmons & Crew (thank you Rachel for the photos)

What I appreciated about William Fitzsimmons was that he acknowledged this fact and embraced it, even poking fun at it. He blamed large amounts of Jim Bean, but he started saying things like,

“I'm going to tone it down a bit now, I know I can get pretty loud.”

and,

“I'm going to play a happy song; but don't worry folks I'm going to get back to that depressing stuff right after.”

As Rachel and I were walking to our car to head home, we spotted him in the back alley having a cigarette. We walked over to say hello. Yes, that beard is very real. I checked. I mentally tugged it with my eyes.

                                      I would like to draw your attention to the smile. Rachel does this to people.

                                                                      That is significant, folks.

We talked to him a bit, and he was really nice. He said his upcomming album is going to be more upbeat. I patted his arm and told  him to “cheer up.” No joke. I don't know what came over me. And with that, we parted ways.

                                                  Not pictured: the other half of his Canadian Tuxedo. 

Back to Butter

I had never thought too much about Madeleines, delightful cookies that they are, until I found a Madeleine tray at my favorite thrift shop. I was first attracted to it because of the beautiful metal shape. I later found out that the cookie was quite delicious as well. It includes a good amount of butter, which of course makes me drawn to it all the more.

(I realize with all my butter talk one may peg me with a stage 5 Paula Deen-style fetish. I guess I am asking for it. I will concede that Paula & I have a lot in common, except for a few notable exceptions: She has better teeth, and once threw the opening pitch at a Washington Nationals baseball game. I've never done that. But yes, other than that, people often cannot tell us apart. It's actually one of our favorite party tricks!)

                 To make a proper Madeleine (I have also seen it referred to as a French Butter Cookie!) you need a tray:

                                                                                 Isn't it pretty?


I have all my favorite recipe's written out in my cookbook, a gift given to me by my wonderful college roommate Sierra. We Tree House ladies loved to cook, and spent most of our time together in the kitchen, either cooking or sitting on the floor drinking wine while watching someone else cook. As a gift to all of us, she collected the recipes of our house specialties and printed them out in a spiral bound book. One of my favorite gifts.

 

(pardon the misspelling...)



Recipe taken from allrecipes.com

Madeleines

2 medium eggs

½ tsp. vanilla extract

½ tsp. Lemon zest (I have also used orange zest and loved it)

1 c. powdered sugar

¾ c. sifted flour

¼ tsp. Baking powder
pinch of salt

½ c. butter melted, cooled

In a medium bowl beat eggs, vanilla and lemon zest with an electric mixer on high speed for 5 minutes.

Gradually beat in the confectioners' sugar. Beat for 5 to 7 minutes or until thick and satiny.

Sift together the flour and baking powder. Sift one-fourth of the flour mixture over the egg mixture,

gently fold in. Fold in the remaining flour by fourths. Then fold in the melted and cooled butter.

Spoon batter into the prepared molds, filling 3/4 full.


*from my experience make sure the molds are well greased and floured!

Bake at 375 degrees F for 10 to 12 minutes or until the edges are golden and the top s spring back. Cool in molds on a rack for 1 minute. Loosen cookies with a knife. Invert cookies onto a rack and cool. Sift confectioners' sugar over the tops or melt semi-sweet chocolate chips and dip the tips in the chocolate.

Enjoy with a cup of coffee!

  

Like Clare in the Runners Den

Today I went to go buy a much needed new pair of running shoes. The store was called the Runners Den. A dark, devious den it was.

I left with an incredibly comfortable new pair of shoes, though, and I am really excited about them.

They are turquoise and I spent way too much money. But these are the kinds of things that happen to you when you enter the Runners Den.

Running in the mornings is one of my greatest delights. It wakes me up and energizes me for the day. I think the clearest when I am running. I am fairly certain I once mentally mapped out a flow chart on the appropriate occasions to wear running shoes with jeans, but when I got home and was stretching, it vanished.

Runners Den is staffed by knowledgeable, eager, and experienced runners. I'm not trying to say that serious runners are crazy, but I sort of am.

I walked in and immediately had a chirpy employee approach me and ask if I had had my gait examined by their special analysis machinery which they for some reason decided to call the “Shoe Dog.” I said yes (I had gone through the experience the weekend prior, but got overwhelmed and left before I bought shoes—but that is another story). On a large computer screen, we pulled up all of my information. Clare Van Brunt: size 9½, pronates, very high arches, runs heavier on her right foot, enjoys stimulating the economy.

The “Shoe Dog” became the third party in all of our dealings from there on out. When browsing I picked up a shoe; the employee promptly said, “Oh, the Shoe Dog recommends you select something with more stability,” and “the Shoe Dog recommends you achieve optimal hydration with these high-quality water bottles that fit nicely into this runners fanny pack.”

The (really nice, well intentioned) employee literally hovered over me asking questions like,

"Do you ever get pain in your hips?"

"Well, I guess every once and a while when I..."

“I knew it! That's because you don't have our custom-made insoles. Your arches are probably caving as we speak!"

"Yikes! I see. How much are they?"

"$75"

"I'm going to hold off on those today."

She became very sincere and said,"I don't even care if you get them from the Dollar Store, you need insoles! Seriously. We at Runners Den care about your arches. Plus, the Shoe Dog recommends it, too."

Then she told me that I am really rolling the dice running in cotton socks. Athlete's foot is lurking within every stride! At Runners Den, they only carry synthetic socks. I could sense the Shoe Dog threatening to chew up the cotton socks that I had brought with me for trying on shoes. I nervously recoiled my feet under the chair, out of sight.

I entertained the thought of running out of there (reveling in the irony) without buying their shoes. But there is just something about the Runners Den that throws you into a state of hypnosis—like being bit by an opinionated mechanized dog and injected by a mind-altering serum that resembles something like GU energy gel which sells for $24.99 for a pack of 20. While within its grasps, you want to take out your credit card and buy all the accoutrements that once in your possession, will make you run floating a foot above the ground.

The day eventually ended in victory, which is all I am choosing to focus on.

                                                                         Here they are! BAM.

Cilantro and Kale and Carrots, Oh My!

                                                                             The Materials.

                                                                     The man behind the magic.

                                                                                        The finished product. 
                                   (Thank you Ike for the photo, and thank you Instagram for making even dirt look nice.)

Recently I learned how to semi-competently operate a drill, and less than competently operate a power saw—but I learned all the same. My father, numbed and freshly off the dentists chair, patiently consented to teach me. I greeted him at the gate with all the materials already splayed out on our basketball court. I told him matter-of-factly that I had Youtubed how to build a raised garden bed, but that I may need a few tutorials just in case. Perhaps it was providential he was numbed. After years of doing his own home improvements and repairs (some ill-fated; Dad, please just call a plumber), he picked up the tools and used them as if the were extensions of his own body. I watched, asked a lot of questions, then it was my turn. What he made look easy took a considerable amount of muscle and precision. He initially inspected my handiwork over my shoulder, stopping me short as a few sawing attempts went awry. Finally, with a nod he went to go recline in the Arizona sun while his Novocain wore off and the soreness in the back of his mouth set in.

This past year I have become a huge fan of gardening, and have been involved in a community garden with a few friends. Emboldened by our gardens success, I decided to build a few raised bed planters of my own. Fresh vegetables, with their irregular looks, and most importantly their rich tastes, give me so much joy.

I went at my task, telling myself that I was going for functionality not aesthetics—it does not have to look perfect—knowing full well that I am a huge fan of the latter. From the flat of his back, my father would occasionally yell, “change the drill bit!” or, "check your screw!" after he heard the drill wail for a prolonged period of time without change.

Stretching out my biceps muscles that were starting to feel like jelly, I heeded his advice. What I really wanted to do was to slap that screw into place. But, I made the conscious decision to not let the present aggravation with the knot in the wood take over. I followed my Dad's instructions and they worked. I was amazed; he knew what the problems were just by listening. And he just taught me Construction 101 half doped. I resolved to learn more about the art of building. I also resolved to start doing push ups. I was embarrassed by my shaky arms.

The planter began to take its rectangular shape—the most elemental of shapes—but I was very pleased nonetheless. As I inspected my work, I thought that wood has never looked so shiny and raw. How beautiful! I mentally thanked the staff at Lowes for helping me after I was targeted wandering aimlessly through the lumber aisle with a list and wide eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. I'd like some lumber."

"What kind of lumber?"

"...the kind you build with."

I cleared a 3x8 ft. area in my brother Ted's backyard, exposing good soil and freeing it of weeds and cumbersome deep-rooted bermuda grass. Wielding a shovel and pickax a mere hour after using a saw and drill made me feel so satisfied; I loved teaching my hands and muscles new things. Never mind how I actually looked while using them, and my intermittent stretch breaks. This was all new territory. I laid the planter in the cleared area and filled it with a mixture of dirt and compost. After settling the seeds into their new homes with care, I superstitiously said a prayer. I gave the earth a final tamp, looked at what I had done, and got in my truck and drove home. 

Dirty, smelly, sore and so happy. 

OLD HAT

Yesterday I believe I found the missing link to World Peace. Beauty Pageant hopefuls, listen up.

As I was in the car leaving the Safeway, I spotted a person coming out of the automatic doors about to make his way into the white striped cross walk. I lawfully paused. I was in a rush, and slightly irritated because I feel it always takes me longer to get out of the parking lot of the supermarket than to do the actual shopping. (Note: I really love food shopping. It’s a privilege & a pleasure.) Thankfully I looked up at the man striding across the pavement in time to realize he was a dapper older gentleman in a vest and tie. We locked eyes, and with a slight nod of his head, he lifted his hat, and walked on.

THE HAT TIP.

All irritation gone. All worries for how late I was going to be to work because I got lost in my crossword that morning vanished. The coffee stain in my pants seemed to have disappeared. All considerations for the fact that rhubarb was out of season and hence unavailable ceased.  Honestly, the gesture really struck me.

Why did it affect me so? My hunch is to say because it is a lost art (And I do mean art—there was pizzazz and fluidity in his motions). First off, No one really wears hats out, thought it would greatly behoove them in places like Arizona. Another thing to consider is that you really cannot wear stylish hats without a dapper outfit to match. Are the people nowadays able to handle such hounds tooth, tweed, and seersucker? Secondly, we are not taught it in school. I can pledge allegiance to the flag, was forced to read books like Jude the Obscure, but I am 60 years too late for the lesson on hat tipping.

 Having a hat tipped in your direction would have been common courtesy to someone like my grandmother, but when it happened to me yesterday it stopped me dead in my tracks. The tipping of the hat is a sort of blind courtesy displayed to a stranger, an acknowledgment of their presence, even if for a fleeting moment. A person feels validated, and pleased as punch. Indeed, a person starts using phrases like being pleased as punch.

Thoroughly convinced of its powers of placation, here are a few situations I would like to introduce a Hat Tip into; the outcomes will be sure to amaze:

Woe, that  Mercutio Tipped his Hat, rather than bit his thumb at Tybalt.

Simon and Garfunkel might get back together.

Black Friday may have fewer greed-driven casualties

Ban Ki-moon, just Tip that Hat.

Brett Michaels' hair would fall out.

If the Sharks would have included a solid Hat Tip in the general direction of the Jets somewhere within their routine of pirouettes and prances, we may of had a happy ending there, replete with an encore dance scene of bee bop/Latin fusion.

If Bono would have Tipped his Hat at that fateful tree?

A Tip of the Sombrero on the Arizona border? 

If Tiger Woods would have…nope. Not even a Hat Tip could have helped him out.

Dr. Phil. That guy could use a good Hat Tip like he could use a good shave of that mustache.

There would be fewer bar brawls/deaths over the contentious argument of Ketchup v. Mustard.

The 99% and the 1% would merrily join hands. (...)

Supermodels would all gain 10 lbs. 

Everyone on The Real Housewives of New Jersey would share a laugh, a cannoli, and only one gaudy mansion among the lot of them.

Scrooge would have bought a whole lot more fatted geese in the window a whole lot sooner. 

Airlines would pay you to check your luggage.

Chocolate would have zero calories.  

Humans would achieve the power to fly.

We would live forever. 

Simple as that, folks. Tip that Hat.