Saturday, December 31, 2011
Ringing in the New
This year, my goal is to try one new thing every day, and write about it. While this is not strictly a new idea, I find it exciting and inspiring. Stay tuned my 5 and 1/2 loyal readers, we are going to have some fun this year!
Friday, December 16, 2011
Showing Up
It is 8:45 pm on a Seattle Thursday night, and I have been staring at this blank page for forty-five minutes. I made an appointment with myself to write tonight, and I am both punctual and full of integrity. My father says I am indeed full of it, and I like to call "it" integrity. My very, very dear friend, whom I will call Nell (because that's her name) calls me "tenacious." I know this is her delightful, Southern, classy-lady way of saying I'm just like a dog with a bone. Oh good lord. Did I just compare myself to a dog? Really? Are these the visuals I want to plant in the heads of my readers? Anyhow, I made an appointment with myself, and here I am. I show up.
Oh, sure, I spent half of that time looking up words, including a full twenty minutes spent on the word "braise", which, should, by the way, NOT be confused with saute, which I confess I did until I researched it. In case you were wondering, braise involves searing the food in question (usually meat, mushrooms, or occasionally root vegetables) at a high heat to seal in the juices, and create a carmelized, crusty layer of deliciousness, some of which will stick the pan. We'll get to that in a moment. This process is called the Maillard Process. Just saying that makes me feel prepared to go toe to toe with Julia Child.
After the Maillard Process is complete, you are ready to add your liquid, and eventually reduce that liquid into a sauce by cooking off the water (a sauce reduction). The liquid should have an element of acidity, such as balsamic vinegar, tomatoes, lemons or ideally, wine. The acid works on the carmelized sugars to deglaze the pan. At the end, to finish the sauce and round out the mouth-feel, a bit of butter or cream is added. The acid breaks down the milk solids to make it smooth. It's a complex, delicious dance of organic chemistry that makes it all work, and I feel a better person for being clear on the exact difference between braise, saute, and simmer. I mean, it comes up. I wouldn't want to confuse one with the other, because let's face it, that would just be embarrassing.
If I'd had any sense tonight, I would have taken my laptop down the street to a coffee shop to write, or maybe a restaurant or happy hour. I would have encouraged strangers to tell me their stories, so I could break them down and put them together into something heroic. I would have sipped a Ginger Martini instead of hot ginger tea, tears of laughter would have been dabbed with monogrammed handkerchiefs instead of Puffs Plus, all the men would have looked like Gabriel Byrne and at no point would I have inadvertently written myself into a word corner by comparing myself to a dog.
These are the things I do, at 8:45 pm on a Thursday night in Seattle.
It ain't pretty. But at least I showed up, and stories are written by those who show up.
Oh, sure, I spent half of that time looking up words, including a full twenty minutes spent on the word "braise", which, should, by the way, NOT be confused with saute, which I confess I did until I researched it. In case you were wondering, braise involves searing the food in question (usually meat, mushrooms, or occasionally root vegetables) at a high heat to seal in the juices, and create a carmelized, crusty layer of deliciousness, some of which will stick the pan. We'll get to that in a moment. This process is called the Maillard Process. Just saying that makes me feel prepared to go toe to toe with Julia Child.
After the Maillard Process is complete, you are ready to add your liquid, and eventually reduce that liquid into a sauce by cooking off the water (a sauce reduction). The liquid should have an element of acidity, such as balsamic vinegar, tomatoes, lemons or ideally, wine. The acid works on the carmelized sugars to deglaze the pan. At the end, to finish the sauce and round out the mouth-feel, a bit of butter or cream is added. The acid breaks down the milk solids to make it smooth. It's a complex, delicious dance of organic chemistry that makes it all work, and I feel a better person for being clear on the exact difference between braise, saute, and simmer. I mean, it comes up. I wouldn't want to confuse one with the other, because let's face it, that would just be embarrassing.
If I'd had any sense tonight, I would have taken my laptop down the street to a coffee shop to write, or maybe a restaurant or happy hour. I would have encouraged strangers to tell me their stories, so I could break them down and put them together into something heroic. I would have sipped a Ginger Martini instead of hot ginger tea, tears of laughter would have been dabbed with monogrammed handkerchiefs instead of Puffs Plus, all the men would have looked like Gabriel Byrne and at no point would I have inadvertently written myself into a word corner by comparing myself to a dog.
These are the things I do, at 8:45 pm on a Thursday night in Seattle.
It ain't pretty. But at least I showed up, and stories are written by those who show up.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Silent Nights
Tonight, as I crawl into bed for my first night of writing in weeks, I am listening to the traditional music of Advent, O Come Emmanuel (Veni, Veni Emmanuel). The weeks of Advent are about waiting in anticipation of the fulfillment that is to come. It is about clarifying, focusing, and clearing out one's soul in preparation to receive. The words to this hymn were written in the 9th century, the music in the 15th century, and it fits my mood tonight.
For weeks, I have heard little but silence in my soul. I have experienced such a period of intense outward change that my core, writer self has simply been hanging on for dear life, both hands to the pole and screaming into the wind, as the changes, (hereafter referred to as The Great Atlanta To Seattle Move-Tornado of 2011) picked up my little bag o' bones, blew them across this great nation of ours, and deposited them in a completely new life. It was my fourth transcontinental move. That won't sound like much to some of you, and the first three times, it wasn't difficult for me. I was much younger then.
But as I sit here tonight, trying to tie thoughts to paper, I begin to feel less shell-shocked, less brittle, more at home. My Christmas tree is glowing, the warm white lights reflected off of the teal and plum ornaments, colors that make me happy when I look at them. Remnants of my old life, a print of poppies that reminds me of France, a print of a winding path that calls me back to Italy, and sepia photographs of Crete and Florence blend with new modern elements, curiously pewter and silver seem to be my new favorite colors. A cascade of sprout green raw silk, bedroom drapes that shut out the Atlanta night and cocooned me as I wrote, remind me now of springs and growth yet to come here in Seattle.
The night is silent, yet gratefully, after much waiting, my mind begins to come alive. The ticking of the clock, the black and silver Baby Ben that my Grandmother wound every night, ticks beside me, like her comforting heartbeat when she hugged me goodnight. I am in a good place, a place that demands work, offers love, and invites peace. My captive thoughts have at last been ransomed, and I can write again. No more silent nights.
For weeks, I have heard little but silence in my soul. I have experienced such a period of intense outward change that my core, writer self has simply been hanging on for dear life, both hands to the pole and screaming into the wind, as the changes, (hereafter referred to as The Great Atlanta To Seattle Move-Tornado of 2011) picked up my little bag o' bones, blew them across this great nation of ours, and deposited them in a completely new life. It was my fourth transcontinental move. That won't sound like much to some of you, and the first three times, it wasn't difficult for me. I was much younger then.
But as I sit here tonight, trying to tie thoughts to paper, I begin to feel less shell-shocked, less brittle, more at home. My Christmas tree is glowing, the warm white lights reflected off of the teal and plum ornaments, colors that make me happy when I look at them. Remnants of my old life, a print of poppies that reminds me of France, a print of a winding path that calls me back to Italy, and sepia photographs of Crete and Florence blend with new modern elements, curiously pewter and silver seem to be my new favorite colors. A cascade of sprout green raw silk, bedroom drapes that shut out the Atlanta night and cocooned me as I wrote, remind me now of springs and growth yet to come here in Seattle.
The night is silent, yet gratefully, after much waiting, my mind begins to come alive. The ticking of the clock, the black and silver Baby Ben that my Grandmother wound every night, ticks beside me, like her comforting heartbeat when she hugged me goodnight. I am in a good place, a place that demands work, offers love, and invites peace. My captive thoughts have at last been ransomed, and I can write again. No more silent nights.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)