February 3, 2015 § Leave a comment
We walked mitten in mitten, I could just barely feel the pressure of Mike’s hand underneath the pillowy mit. The snow was still falling quietly all around us. We walked, looking half-drunk, trying to keep our balance under the forgiving landscape of snow. Every once in a while one of us would lose our balance just enough to entertain thoughts of a haphazard face plant into the snow.
The sun, getting bored from hiding behind the clouds all day, had given up for the night just a couple hours before. And yet it felt eerily bright outside but in an other-worldly way. The yellow streets lights reflected off of each and every snowflake it came in contact with and it felt like we were inside a frozen oven.
In the distance we could see miniature silhouettes flinging snow with their shovels and snow blowers and every once in a while a passerby, peeking out from their winter garb cocoon, would nod, as if there was some special bond between us snow-walkers.
Mike and I talked about our day. We talked about our dreams and sometimes we were quiet, just content to hear the rhythm of soft crunching beneath our feet and the faint sound of the tiny slow blowers in the distance.
I didn’t have my iPhone, or any of my cameras with me. I didn’t need them. I took pictures with my eyes and heart and made words into them.
February 2, 2015 § Leave a comment
Sometimes, the world can seem so binary. So good or evil, this or that. I like to think of shadows as a transient world to explore where space is transformed and a whole other dimension is revealed. A world where patterns and shapes abound and endear without intention or function. Where the subtle and mundane become nuanced and bold. Where dark and light interplay. Where the stars and people collide and make art.
January 20, 2015 § Leave a comment
The rain was incessant; hell bent on hanging around for our entire three-night stay in the Guatemalan rainforest, and completely apathetic to our need to cross the river to continue with our next phase of the trip to Antigua.
So it kept going with the consistency and voracity of a percussion line.
One might think that after 48 straight hours of rain that it becomes white noise, retreating into the vast spaces of the forest. It was, rather, the opposite. Amplified by the innumerable and dense vegetation, the sound of the rain reverberated in our ears and bones. It was unhinging, save for a couple of hours on our last night.
My sister’s friend, who was also serving in the Peace Corp., had set up a dinner with one of the families that lived in the rainforest. We had to walk down a narrow path through the forest to get to their home – a one-room piecemeal wood structure. The host family welcomed us in with smiles as big as the rainforest trees. Sans electricity, the room was lit solely by candles, allowing only bits and pieces to come alive, the rest fell away into blackness. Our feet made imprints on the dirt floor as we settled into our seats, and the sound of the rain on the tin roof melted away like the dark corners of the house, as if it wasn’t there.
They served us eggs, beans, tortillas and coffee; simple and exquisite. We ate by the pulsing light of the candles. Stories were told in English and Spanish, with the majority of the sentences lost in translation and laughter.
Outside the rain carried on without our attention and the river engorged itself with those drops. But inside for those couple of hours it felt as if the world could wash away and leave what we had there and everything would be ok.
January 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
Lewis Mumford states in his seminal book on cities that civilization arose out of our ability to contain space. Vessels allowed humans to store things, which created continuity.
For Christmas break Mike and I piled our gifts, clothes and ourselves in the car and drove past calico landscapes of hibernation – black soil scattered with hues of browns and taupes – until we arrived in Kansas City. We’ve done this for the past three years – ever since we moved from Kansas City to Milwaukee.
I’ve put down roots in four cities: Saint Paul, Milwaukee, Lawrence (KS) and Kansas City (MO). And each new city I moved to meant I was leaving a city behind.
A couple days after Christmas Mike and I drove down the meandering, stately Ward Parkway through the Plaza and up Broadway – a route I drove almost every day for two years. Like a scientist I took inventory of what had changed and what stayed the same.
We passed the building where I used to work. There was a for lease sign in front and it was, by all accounts, empty. The tall, theatrical apartment building kiddy corner to my old place of employment looked the same with its art deco neon sign and its intricate cornices. It was the building I always looked at before I made my turn into the parking lot for work, not only because it’s a beautiful building, but also because it reminded me why I had undertaken a graduate education in urban planning – that beautiful, unique places are worth saving and making.
In Invisible Cities a young explorer, Marco Polo recounts and describes to the old, Mongol ruler, Kublai Khan, the cities he visited in the Mongol’s empire. The book is full of aphorisms that are clothed and embedded in physical descriptions of cities – “you take delight not in a city’s seven or seventy wonders, but in the answer it gives to a question of yours.”
We continued our drive north to the River Market, a market we frequently went to when we lived in KC, and found ourselves in the midst of closing time – vendors packing up their cars and a mostly empty parking lot. We ordered coffees in one of the stalls, and walked by the last of the vendors selling mounds of aromatic spices: anise, clove, turmeric. These were the smells I remembered. It was a few years before when a photography class I was in convened at the River Market. It was early morning and the vendors were just beginning to lay out their bounty. But that day it was not the smells I remember, it was the brilliant sun punctuating the human interactions that played out in front of my lens. It was me feeling, for the first time, free to be a documentary photographer – not as a profession but as an extension of my curiosity.
Many of the streets in the River Market were torn up so once we found a way out, we curtly made our way back to downtown. Like a skipping stone, it takes large (car-powered) leaps to go from the northern-most point in the River Market to the central business district to Westport and then to the Crossroads. I never liked the disjointed nature of KC’s greater downtown but on that day the time in the car had been fertile ground for remembering.
If déjà vu had a cousin I think it would be the moments when you repeat a routine you did years before. Driving down Broadway felt familiar in a visceral sense, and yet the reason I was there, my whole life, in fact, was completely different. For as long as I can remember, I’ve known that the passage of time is imbued in cracked paint, vacant buildings, new buildings, and torn up roads. But in the car I started to understand that time demands to be seen when we go back to the spaces we once inhabited – the places we once thought were ours in some small way. Those places are the vessels that contain our movement. They enfold the questions we once asked and spotlight the answer to those questions – ourselves.
We passed through my favorite intersection in Kansas City, Pennsylvania and Westport Road, and took a right on Pennsylvania and parked outside of Californo’s, the restaurant where we had our wedding reception. We went inside and were greeted immediately by a server. We told him that we had our reception here and could we look around? He showed us around describing the rooms and, again, I told him we had our reception here and were familiar with the layout. He continued his informational tour and I gave up on the expectation that going back to this place would feel like it was ours again, that it would feel the same. We were inside for maybe five minutes and then we pressed on as the sun set and we grabbed a drink at the new bar on the corner.
January 6, 2015 § Leave a comment
It’s quite rare to see a city from the perspective of its foundations – to be below it’s entryways and streets. On our last night in Amsterdam we stepped down into a boat with our friends, Bryan and Danielle, and Danielle’s parents, and meandered through the canals of Amsterdam. It was a stark contrast from both our 4th floor canal house that we were staying in, and our daily walks – both vantage points were thrilling – but to float below the canal houses and through the bridges afforded an unrivaled peace in this flowing, effervescent city. So, if you go to Amsterdam, pick up some cheeses and salami, two bottles of wine, and get yourself on a boat an hour before the sun sets, ok?
December 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
That dish that you will never live down? For me it was an Asian peanut sauce for a stir fry. It comes up every time Mike refers to me as the baker in the family – implying that he is the cook. It’s the only dish I remember cooking during my college years possibly because it was the only dish I cooked during my college years, but most likely because I totally botched it. It probably wouldn’t have been as memorable if I had made an ordinary portion of it but I managed to not only not measure the peanut butter in my sauce, but also not measure the noodles, carrots, baby corn, and snap peas because there was enough to feed my apartment floor, and their friends and pets.
Let’s just say I got ahead of myself. Recipe? Precise measurements? Who needs that, especially someone who has never really cooked so much as eggs and grilled cheese? But I had watched my mom and dad cook thousands of meals growing up! One of my favorite dishes my dad cooked regularly was his stir-fry. Baby corn always made an appearance in his stir-fry and I adopted it fully into my definition of what stir-fry was (and probably subconsciously figured if it was present all was good).
No amount of baby corn could rescue an Asian sauce that was 80% peanut butter. Also, apparently no amount of water and soy sauce could rescue it either. At the end of the day, the first step in my dad’s culinary shoes was a failure.
I botched two cookie recipes this weekend. Too salty. Too peanut buttery (the damn peanut butter again!). Both direct results of not measuring. There is a method to my madness, though. I see a future where I hardly measure things. I’ll still use those helpful vessels called measuring cups and spoons but I don’t want to rely on them. And I’m not talking tried and true recipes. I’m talking anything I want to make. What’s the quote? Shoot for the moon and if even if you miss you’ll land among the somewhat edible. Or something like that?
I’ve always felt that adhering to strict measurements warps the senses and strips away intuitive inklings on balance and proportions and what feels right. It leaves no room for mistakes, which are those little guys that are clothed in disappointment but underneath their seemingly cruel facade are really those kind but stern teachers that nudge you to be better and try harder so you can fine-tune your senses and build your intuition. And sometimes they’re comedians that follow you around and remind you how hilariously stupid it was to make an Asian peanut sauce that was 80% peanut butter.
“The things that used to make us feel safe are, in fact, now risky.”: A mighty eloquent On Being interview with Seth Godin on not being a cog – might we extend this line of thinking to the kitchen? Hmmm?
Pastry Chef and Restaurateur Zoe Nathan Loeb embodying everything I feel and love about baking in 1 minute and 28 second video
The Ovenly cookbook that I recently purchased is 1) so fantastic – the flourless chocolate cake with salted caramel sauce is THE BEST 2) such a great reminder to grow some balls (see Zoe Nathan Loeb’s video) and try different flavor combinations, a.k.a PLAY, HAVE FUN, and add salt.