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.

My Dinner Party with the Characters of Moonstruck

First off, I was careful not plan it on a full moon—too risky.

To set the mood, I have Italian Opera playing in the background, making sure to steer clear of La Boheme, lest the lovers become once again enraptured.

The table is set with no sharp objects, opting for plastic instead of glass and butter knives in lieu of anything sharper, in the likely event the table will be flipped over in a hormonal rage or for simply emphasizing a point.

I planned to have no bread on the table, as it a touchy subject. However, I don’t want to appear like a skimpy host, so I relented and put some out—pre-sliced.

I supply Nick Cage with an additional napkin for his chest hair.

The seating chart caused me many a sleepless night. Pop don’t like Johnny, Johnny don’t like Ronny, Grandpa is likely to bring his bundle of feral dogs—there is only so much bad blood you can smooth over with good bruschetta.

So. I know Pop would want to be at the head of the table, though it was my house. In efforts to avoid his piercing narrowing eyes behind those thick square frames, I obliged. (I also feel like he is the type of guy who carries spare copper piping with him everywhere in case the going gets rough. He’s an Italian plumber after all.)

I put Grandpa at the other end of the table, out of respect. I wanted to show him extra kindness because he himself has proclaimed, “I am old, and the old are not wanted.” Secretly he is my favorite, so I make the clever effort to contradict him. I went to FedEx and had a customized “WANTED” sign made with his face on it and a $1,000,000 price on his head. (You’re worth it Grandpa!) He actually nearly had a stroke when he saw it, perhaps rousing old memories, so I reluctantly took it down. Poor planning on my part, I will admit.

He fed the sign to the dogs.

Cher sat on one side, because she is enough woman for an entire side of a table. I crammed on the other side along with Rose Casterinni, who was sandwiched between Ronny and Johnny Camarerri. She acted as a powerful and calming presence between to the two feuding brothers. I felt confident she would keep the brawling to a minimum, as she is the caliber of woman who can shout, “i'll kick ya 'til your dead!” and mean it.

For the main course I obviously serve Chinese. There was no way I was going to try and compete with Casterinni cooking, a sure-fire way of making myself a sitting duck to the backhanded complements so scathing and subtle. I for one thought it tasted great. I think it was the Chinese flag that I stuck in the Lo Mein for flair that really set everyone off— I just felt credit should be given where credit is due, is all.

As the glances and hand gestures were exchanged, I began to wish I had served something simple, like Canadian food.

Grandpa’s eyes watered. “I’m confused,” he said.

I offer more Chianti. They are all takers.

The Lo Mein really was another bad call on my part. I press on.

A good host knows how to direct lively table conversation among her guests. I knew I had to tenderly navigate away from the subjects of (among others):

Marriage

Wolves

Slicers

Bus accidents

Tart’s named Mona

Bad Luck

City Hall

Death

Longevity of a certain mothers health
Cosmo's moon

Sicily

Pinkie Rings

The dinner went off rather well, all considered, despite the fact that one of Grandpa's dogs got ahold of Ronny's wooden hand and gnawed it to pieces. Regretfully, the whole disaster could have been averted if words, instead of hand gestures, were utilized.

Pop notices that some brownish greyish dog from the pack is chomping away on Ronny's hand, a rather ghastly sight. Pop makes forceful movements with his eyes and hands; he was obviously puzzled.

Ronny, unaware, “What's going on, Pop? I don't know what you're trying to tell me.”

Pop says, “I know you don't. That's the point. I'll say no more.”

“You haven't said anything!”

“And that's all I'm saying.”

By then the dog had all mauled all five digits.

Wood chips were everywhere, and they did a number on my vacuum cleaner, thank you very much.


 I tell everyone to save some room after their fortune cookies for a night cap. Nick and Cher seem to become loose cannons when whiskey is in the picture. 


Everyone's eyes roll as the table flips. I should have known.


Alla Famiglia!

                              VB Family Reunion 2011. Holla.

       City Museum. Before we were kindly asked to leave the roof.

                      Where my Dad grew up. The red brick, oh the red brick.

You Can Find Me in St. Louie

The Van Brunt clan mobilized in St. Louis this past week for a family reunion. It was a great trip filled with appropriate balances of meeting cousins I have never met before, good times, and stress. (sadly, no Nelly sightings)  Over the 5 day period, I had the opportunity to observe a few things about myself that I feel compelled to share now:

1. I am not an easy flier. I absolutely love to travel, so this is an unfortunate discovery. I used to LOVE to fly, actually preferring connecting flights over direct so that I could get double the take off/landing thrill. I think I can trace the genesis of my phobia to a Ryanair flight from Barcelona to France, where the turbulence spilled my drink, caused a few mid-flight screams to burst out about the cabin, and induced a couple passengers to kiss the ground once we finally smacked back down to the tarmac. I have gone up and down with my extremes of fear (which arises from a just such a source) depending on the flight, but now  it appears I have digressed into frantically grabbing an obliging arm when we begin to bounce. (My mom, I am told, does the same. I was filled with mixed emotions upon hearing this news.) My mind goes in all sorts of directions—At certain points, I am even ready for the appearance of Snakes on the motha ‘effing Plane. This is a disturbing realization, and vow to seek help. And please don’t tell me the whole “just imagine the bumps are the bumps on a road” bit. Air is not a road. I can’t walk on it. 

2. The reliance on the shiny world of iphones was in full force for our maps/directions throughout the trip. Technology has given us so much, seemingly fool-proofed the methods of getting one from A to B, but somehow that could not keep the VB caravan from flipping numerous U’s at terrifying intersections. Suffice to say: Stubbornness—she get it from her Daddy.

3. My Grandma Chick is/was a peach. Years ago it would be hard to imagine a more tender side of the red-headed lady who raised 8 kids (7 boys!) and struck terror into my heart as a child. Yes, the woman who was constantly chiding me to “brush your hair!” “sit like a lady!” “don’t drink your water so fast!” just could not understand that as I child I was a boy who liked to gulp down water and spill it down my front. It could be that I have changed (am no longer ragged boy child) or perhaps the both of us, but I genuinely enjoy my Grandma Chick. I saw several pictures of the Irish Italian Gloria Chickey with glossy black hair in a cute two-piece get up playfully swimming with my grandpa Rut in the Ozarks while they were “courting.” She has achieved so much, traveled all over the world, still eats steak, encourages red wine for health, and can swing a golf club with the best of them.

4. I assume the countenance of a monster when low blood sugar hits.

5. I have seen the Promise Land in the form of a world class manicured croquet course, but was unable to taste of its fruits. This is going to take a while for me to get over.

6. Going down a 10 story slide when you are 5’9 is a slow, painful experience.

7. Being modest about ones athletic abilities is surely always a lie. I donned the White’s necessary to play tennis at G Chick’s club, being very clear about my tennis skills, “I am not very good. I have never really had a lesson.”  Family members responded, “Oh! That’s fine. I have not played in ages!” Only to be pelted by spicy mustard-style serves minutes later.

8. I have a huge thing for red brick houses. I caught myself about every two minutes envisioning/practically tasting the lemonade I would be sipping on the porch of my would-be absolutely stunning house. In retrospect, I  see no impediment to me actually doing so. I should have just supplied my own glass and set up camp. 

9. I made a pit stop to Schnucks at 11:30 p.m on a friday night with my parents. Our purchases? A rotissere chicken and grapes. It's really not what you think.

10. I love love my family.  And things have gotten so much easier since the days of loading up our van and using a spray bottle in lieu of AC. 

                               Lemon Ricotta Pine Nut Tart                ...Yummmmmmmmmmmmmm

Buddy, Fondant, and the Indisputable

When I say I don’t really watch TV I mean it. It’s mainly because I don’t understand my new television, and cannot figure out which of the 7 remotes I need to use to make it give me a moving picture. I am aware this statement savors strongly of a geriatric-style rant and puts the feather in my Luddite cap, but I wish to redeem myself by stating that I do have one show that I just really enjoy. The quality, the thought provoking, the inspirational,

The Cake Boss.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. If it were to be made a drinking game, and a sip was in order each time Buddy shouted the word "Fondant!" everyone would be delightfully sloshed on cheap Italian wine within minutes. For bearing the name Buddy with so little visible symptoms of self-angst and shame, you have my esteem. For maintaining that high level of intensity and pitch in your voice, you have my amazement. For using pounds and pounds of edible sweets to make unorthodox figurines on cakes, never to be actually eaten, you have my astonishment. And anyone who can make a life-sized cake in the image and likeness of your own wife and stomach the sight of it, has my congratulations.

People think it is easy to be The Cake Boss. People think his hair just looks like that when he gets out of the shower, and that the Jersey accent flows naturally. People think that making a cake that looks and flushes like a real toilet is old hat. Work, it all takes unimaginable amounts of work. Let me tell you, the only unrehearsed thing about the show is the nature of Italian drama. If Moonstruck has taught me anything, (and don’t even try to tell me it hasn’t) it’s that Italian hands move independent of the brain, if you are not yelling about something you are lying, that families are tight-knit, and bad-blood can rip your heart out and your hand off—and that Nick Cage, at one point in time, had real promising talent.

People used to think that cakes were for eating, and that asking for “chocolate” was more than enough of a sufficient description. The Cake Boss astutely maneuvers through all of the antiquated ideas of sweets, shattering them with a rolling pin and an Italian Momma-style cheek slap, and recreates the norm to a level of pyrotechnics and fresco paintings.

If you are still in doubt about the unique talent of this TV Show, let me finish convincing you with a few choice episode titles and descriptions:

“Museum, Mistakes, and Mother Mary”

“The shop goes to the American Museum of Natural History to acquire reference for a prehistoric mammal cake; a sweet 16 cake proves to be more work than anyone planned on; Frankie makes and decorates a cake all by himself for Mary's daughter's dance recital.” 

“A Blindfold, A Bikini, and Breathing Fire”

“A customer orders a tiki cake that emits fire and a cake for his sister-in-law's bridal shower. Also, Mauro challenges him to ice a cake blindfolded, lest he be forced to come to the bakery dressed in a grass skirt and coconut bra.”

"Aquarium Adventures and An Announcement"

“Buddy adds live fish to an underwater-themed cake ordered by an aquarium to celebrate its birthday. Lisa and Remy make a special announcement to Buddy, who can't wait to tell the rest of the family.” 

"Tournament of Knights and a Tasty Tiramisu”

“Buddy's Italian speaking skills are put to the test as he has to make an authentic tiramisu  for a client who has family visiting from Italy. In addition, a knight from Medieval Times comes to the bakery to ask for a cake for his king and queen, and challenges Buddy to a joust .” 

"Chopped Head and a Crazy Cravings Cake"

“Buddy has to make a cake for a  Marie Antoinette party, a "cravings" cake for his sister, Lisa Gonzalez, for her baby shower. Mauro faces a short health care crisis. The rest of the clan is concerned while Mauro claims it to be ‘no big deal.’”

"Hieroglyphics, Hearse and Happy Parents"

“A funeral hearse is made for a surprise cake. A mother and daughter cannot agree on a theme for a Sweet 16 cake, with one desiring an Egyptian theme, and the other a more girlish fashion-oriented theme. An animal-themed cake is made for an Indian baby shower.”

"Barbers and Bulls"

“Buddy wants to make a cake for the barbershop where he has been getting his hair cut since he was a kid in honor of their anniversary. Also, Buddy and the team are asked to create a mechanical bull cake, complete with movement.”

“Toilets and Textiles”

“A plumbing supply company asks Buddy to make a toilet bowl cake with one special condition -- the cake must actually flush. A nightclub owner who's a fan of denim requests a baby shower cake -- that looks like denim. Meanwhile, someone in the bakery has accidentally made a tiered cake with uneven tiers; with the cake on a deadline, Buddy demands who's at fault.” 

I rest my cake?

In the Gadda

I have long associated gardening with failure. The few attempts I made as a kid in Arizona withered and died the minute I put the seed in the ground or second I took them out of the black plastic holder. It’s like I almost heard the plants say to me, “are you kidding me? I’m not meant to survive here. And neither are you, really, you freckled thing!” Ours was not a caring relationship, plants and I.

The only gardening success I have ever been involved with, I was only involved in the enjoying part. My roommates in college planted a garden in our backyard. They tended to it, and it grew beautifully in the unlikely setting of an under-utilized yard behind a sub-par house in the middle of a college neighborhood. I maybe helped water once or twice.  Even more beautiful was the time I spent picking off cherry tomatoes by the dozen and eating them up.

When my mother asked me to accompany her to Lowes today, I had instantaneous flashbacks of the last time I was at that store, in Fairfield, Connecticut, with my green-thumbed roommate. I impatiently followed my indecisive companion all around the store. He would pick up a type of flower and put it in the oversized carts they have at those places, we would circle through the aisles, and then he would take the flowers out of the cart and replace them with another. This happened every two minutes. Offering no real help, I only made strong comments about what color of pots I liked best. He did not listen. I was happy when we could finally leave, even though our exit included me lugging a 30 lb bag of manure-ish stuff in my arms.

My trip with my mom was decidedly different. I was so amazed to see all the various types of plants that could apparently grow in AZ. (with loads of borrowed water and TLC, obvi) In her typical fashion, my mom knew exactly what she wanted, got it, and we left. As we were unloading all of our newly acquired plants, I for some inexplicable reason got giddy with excitement. The next thing I know, I have slathered on SPF 60, changed out of my dress and sandals into work clothes and tennis shoes, and have a shovel in my hand. I am digging holes with vigor a la John Henry’s railroad race with the steam powered machine. (In the scenario in my head, I cream the hole-digging machine, and remain living victoriously, shovel in hand. I kick the lousy defeated machine over, and bury it in the big amazing hole I just dug, resolute to never water it, and deny it even a drop of Miracle Grow.)

I remember when I was younger I loved to get unnecessarily messy when doing projects. When baking bread with my mom, I used to smother flour all over my face like in the movies. When helping my dad paint, I used to make sure that I got splatters all over my “paint clothes.” And I am pretty sure my feet have consistently been dirty ever since the day I discovered I really don’t care for shoes. Gardening and working in the dirt rekindled that messy urge. I had dirt everywhere, as I made no effort in the least to stay clean. I even had that mulch stuff that I know has organic materials that might include animal excrement caked on all over. (The swarms of flies were having lunch on my legs. ‘Twas poop.) It felt great.

It also felt like my mom and I were performing some great civic duty by planting. Neighbors who drove by honked and waved, and we even got a few thumbs up. No joke, a police man even stopped, got out of his car, and complimented our work. He even went so far as to ask candidly “how everything is going for you?” and, “if you have any concerns, here is my card.” Thank you, officer. I'll name this rosemary plant after you.

Then, a parade come thundering down the street, with dancing bushes and bagpipe playing shovels.  Scantily clad vegetables strut down the street shaking what the dirty dirt gave ‘em. (my mom covered my eyes) Various other gardening tools were twirling batons to the beat played by watering cans. As they passed our house, a fight broke out because apparently one called the other a “hoe.” Really?

Okay, but there really should have been a parade.

The test will really be to keep those plants alive. It’s a tough world out there, in AZ. I’d like to think that I have instilled them all with the fundamentals: courage , self respect and furtile soil. I guess all I can do, I guess all  any gardener can ever do,  is just to watch my babies grow.