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.