Shades of Gray

I'm listening to Laura Shay's "First to Fall" and it's soothing. There's a faint pitter-patter-pit-pat of rain against my window and the wind has gone from howling in frustration, to simmering in undulating disappointment.

The world, as I see it, is not simply black and white. Neither is it in gray or color. It's marbled, textured, a blend of everything we see. A single ripple on the surface of the lake results in the same reaction in the world. Ridges and lines swirl and twist, invisible hands with fingerprints that leave marks we instinctively feel in this world.

This is what it means when something is a shade of gray. It is not always disappointment. It is not always nonsense. It is not always an answer.

Image courtesy of acidcow.com

Beautiful

I saw this piece of graffiti while I was in Montreal and I loved it. To some extent, I agree. To another, I say: If you like it, that's all that matters.

4th of July

So, the 4th is coming up. The idea of INDEPENDENCE has changed from the Founding Fathers. Now, it's no longer the Red Coats, it's the Privacy Acts that have people worried. There's no more Paul Revere on a horse, it's all about information getting out online.

Still, it's good to remember your history. The patients at the VA hospital need a little thank you from someone other than family who visit them all the time. The homeless veteran could do with a meal instead of a pitying look. There are men and women who gave up so much to defend not a nation per-say, but a belief.

Beliefs are exactly like ideas: they live on far longer than any one man or woman. And this belief is the belief of FREEDOM.

I'd like to wish everyone a Happy 4th of July. May it be filled with fireworks, punch, laughter, kids and all those things that remind you why it's good to be alive.

Image courtesy of the Madison Online Archive

June 5th

June 5th, 2011. Sunday. It's 6:26 according to my clock, but I've learned it's a devious little jerk who changes when it suits itself.

In history, Adam Smith, economist, was born this day, as was Pete Wentz, of Fall Out Boy. Harriet Beecher Stowe began the weekly serial publication of Uncle Tom's Cabin, while Ronald Reagan died.

For me, today is the day when I mastered roasted tomatoes with butter and brie. :)

The original recipe can be found here: http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/2008/07/roasted-ricotta-roma-tomatoes/

What I did differently: I used 1 and 1/4 cup brie and 1/4 butter, removed the garlic and herbs, and instead used an Italian spice mix that I got from my friendly co-op!

I made my own bread crumbs, and with the addition of some more Italian spice in them, they are glorious!

Here's a picture of the final 7. One seems to have mysteriously vanished...

Life is Beauttiful

Strawberry Wine

I went to the farmer's market today and it was gorgeous. Bright colors, delicious flavors, but the weather was wilting and hot.

Still I bought some strawberries, raspberries, a mini watermelon and some almonds. Yummy!

Add a little bit of a vinaigrette and you have a nice dessert!

~*~
Vinaigrette

1 part orange juice
1 part wine (I used white)
1 part champagne
1 part wine (Peach wine)
4 parts olive oil.

Combine! It's better to use two kinds of wine, especially fruit if you don't have that many fruits in your fruit salad to start off with. Smooth and cheery for a summer's day!

Sepia Tones

I bought a box the other day. Not just any box, but a faded cardboard box covered in modge-podge and lace, a modge-podge covered box filled with photographs, photographs faded and done-up in old black-and-white, contrasting shades mellowed out by sepia tones.

I don't quite remember why I bought it, or who I bought it for. I do remember looking through it, pausing at this bundle of glossy paper. There was one that just made me stop and stare. It was a woman, dressed up, standing in front of a microphone. Thin hands for a figure that fills the picture are loosely wrapped around the stand. Her lips are dark black in the color, parted as if she's just finished a line in a song, and her eyes are drawn upward and off, towards a person who isn't in the photograph. She's wearing sensible heels, sturdy soles and thick clasps.

Somehow, I feel a strong connection to this woman who I don't even know. I want to know her story, want to know where she was, why the back of the photo says "Ruth. December", who she's thinking of and why she's in ten other photographs, looking sadder and sadder as I flip through. Who was this dark-haired woman, what is this proof that one Christmas season so many years ago, she sang a song for a man who wasn't even there?

The last picture makes my heart clench and my eyes tear a little. She's in the background, watching a couple dancing. The couple is both strikingly beautiful, the type of All-American look that comes from being born with it. The man's wearing a hat, suspenders and long black-blue-maybe-charcoal pants. His shoes are far too clean, scuff marks all dressed up and only the gleam of the camera's flash let's you know that he was wearing shoes. The woman's eyes are staring at his and she's laughing, her skirt flying back, kicked up as he seems to pull her up out of a dip. Her hair's longer, pulled up in a ponytail, with a scarf hanging off the end.

And suddenly, I understand. Ruth's the one on the outside, wanting in. She fell in love with this man: James, Eric, Andrew, whoever. But he fell in love with this girl: Susie, Elle, Kathy. Her name's far too bright, new, fast-paced and her character's even shinier than Ruth can keep up with. Ruth's tradition, formal dresses, glasses of wine and perfect etiquette. This other girl, she's fast cars, cigarettes, the new glamour of Hollywood and neon lights.

Image courtesy of Liverpool Museum