Living on the Wedge

This is absurd, even for me. Plus the sharp cheddar is blocking a couple stray sticks of mozzarella.

Tundra Sports

I spent the weekend in Bend, a pleasant little mountain hamlet in the middle of Oregon. I know I said I'd be strapping some strategically designed tennis rackets to my feet and traipsing through the Cascade range, but since there wasn't much new snow on the ground it made more sense to rent some cross country skis and explore the area around Mt. Bachelor instead.

I've always had a hard time with skiing. I tried downhill once, at Coffee Mill Ski Area in Wabasha, MN. Which you might not recognize as an alpine region, because it's a river bluff along the Mississippi. Nonetheless, it was formidable enough to scare me away from the slopes for 15 years. Then I moved to Oregon, a mere 50 miles from Mt. Hood, and decided that I should give winter sports another shot. So I strapped my legs to a snowboard this time and threw myself down a bigger hill. Results were not optimal.

This weekend I revisited skiing of the Nordic variety. About 5 years ago I was convinced to do a 10k ski race across a section of Lake Superior, although I had no previous experience. Guess how that turned out.

But this time I went back for a round two, and you know what -- this broad's not half bad on a couple of planks. And boy do I feel like an athlete. And by that I mean I can barely walk and until yesterday I had forgotten I had triceps.

What a lovely way to witness winter.

Things that are only poigniant if you're on your bike: Industrial Dusk

Enough said. Have a good weekend, everyone. I'm going snowshoeing.

It was Soupa! (Sorry)

Deborah Madison knows a thing or two about soup. I followed this recipe for "White Bean Soup with Pasta and Rosemary Oil" from her big cookbook. (As opposed to her soup-specific one.) But I should warn you - I chose this one in part because it was one of her less elaborate creations, and it took about 2 1/2 hours.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to point out that I enjoy meat. Really enjoy it. But sometimes it's nice to show the veggies some love. Or attempt to make your vegetarian friends feel comfortable in your home.

I give this soup a B. If I could do it all over again, I would be more conservative with the beans, and I would take Deborah's advice and blend half of it. And PS: beans are time consuming.

White Bean Soup with Pasta and Rosemary Oil

The Rosemary Oil:

1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 TB finely chopped rosemary
2 garlic cloves, sliced

The Soup:

2 cups cannellini or navy beans
2 TB olive oil
1 TB chopped rosemary
1 onion, 2 carrots, 1 celery rib, diced
5 garlic cloves, sliced
1/3 cup chopped parsley
1 cup diced tomatoes, and their juice
salt and peppa
1 cup dried pasta, shells, little elbows, whatever strikes your fancy
thin shavings of fresh Parmesan

Slowly warm the olive oil with the rosemary and garlic until the garlic begins to color, about 3 mins. Turn off heat and set aside.

Cover the beans with boiling water and set aside.

Heat the oil with 1 TB rosemary over medium heat. Add the onion, celery and carrots, cook until onion softens, about 10 minutes. Stir in garlic and parsley, cook for a few minutes. Drain the beans, add them with the tomatoes and 3 quarts of water. (That's 12 cups. I learned this on the internet.) Bring to boil, then simmer, covered, until the beans are tender, about an hour and a half. 90 minutes. A long time. At some point, add 2 teaspoons of salt to the mix.

Puree half the soup, if you please. Cook the pasta, strain the rosemary oil. Ladle it up, add some pasta and drizzle with oil and add pepper to taste. Top with Parm. Enjoy.

Another reason to learn how to sew:

I want to make monsters.

Thank you, pretty Portland.

I managed to leave my nest of sickness and despair home for the first time in a couple of days to putter around my neighborhood. It's a lovely day to make your escape.

Results of food challenge #1: Abort, abort!

Unfortunately, I had to put my Friday night entertaining plans on hold, to instead play host to the most vile stomach virus I've ever encountered. I think (hope) it's safe to say I've turned the corner, so operations will soon resume as usual.

But unless you're interested in an essay about the flavor subtleties of saltines, the evolution of jello since 1988 or season six of the Cosby Show, (which I just realized could sort of be interesting since Bill + Jello = best endorsement deal of all time... ) we'll have to postpone the show-and-tell until early next week.

As I'm sure the anticipation is just killing you, I'll offer a hint or two about what I have planned. It's soup, by Deborah Madison, and it has navy beans in it. Let your imaginations run wild.

PS: Happy Valentine's Day! Hooray for swooning!

A Note About My Hen

About a year ago I went on a trip to Kauai, to visit one of my favorite gals who was working and living on an organic farm there. (She was living in a pimped out bus parked in a tropical flower garden, to be precise, complete with bamboo floors and a hammock.)

Kauai is special for a multitude of reasons, but my favorite idiosyncrasy is that the place is overrun with wild chickens. Word on the street is that there was a hurricane awhile back that freed a bunch of birds from a chicken farm - and since then they've roamed free all over the island. And they are EVERYWHERE. This fancy dame and her crew of tinys were hanging out in Kokee State Park, but really - there are beach chickens, jungle chickens, posh resort chickens. It's amazing.

This is not ideal.

My cyclist spirit has taken a battering over the last couple of weeks. Monday brought my third flat tire in 8 days. This becomes trying.

I've pulled out the big guns and installed a high-tech "slime liner" between my tube and tire. Wish me luck. It's time to get back on the bike. Or the metaphorical horse. Whatever.

It's goal settin' time -or- Mixer Porn

Maybe "Kitchenaid glamor shots" is more appropriate. I just wanted a reason to get my pretty machine all shined up for a photo shoot. If you look closely, you can see a bottle of Windex being reflected in the flawless bowl. Classy, Martha. Nice one.

There is a point to this. I have a kickass mixer, and I should use it more. From this point forward, I vow to cook or bake something new every week. Yes, I realize most of you do this already. And I think a lot about it, but have trouble converting these thoughts into actions. That's where you come in, blog accountability.

In reality, probably about 20% of these adventures will actually happen in Big Red. But for some reason a centerfold of my crock pot doesn't seem to hold the same allure.

Stay tuned for the outcome of Foodie Challenge #1, results to be shared on Saturday. (And hopefully by then I will have come up with a catchier name for said project. Suggestions are encouraged. Operation Dish? 52 Spoons? Help.)

Sunday Meanderment

I went for a drive to Sauvie Island today, which is straddled by the Columbia River about 10 miles northwest of Portland - although to me it seems much farther away. Most of it is a wilderness preserve, but there's quite a bit of agriculture too - lots of sheep, emus, some beef cattle and one of the biggest organic farms around, that offers a market in the summer and a pumpkin patch in the fall that jams up traffic halfway back to Portland. But there's also a nude beach, rows and rows of rickety floating houses and a big-time buzzard overpopulation issue. Sauvie Island, you're sort of creepy.

But I appreciate creepy. Especially when it takes on the form of twisted, decrepit-looking trees that appear as though they were conjured up by Tim Burton. I am always fascinated whenever I see them and vaguely recall there being a whole hillside of them somewhere between Baraboo and Madison, WI -next to some abandoned military barracks, which does its part to amplify the unease. I'm not sure what kind of fruit they bear, but I'm wary of ingesting it.

Iron-Ons 101: D-

I've been smitten with this collection of Sukie Iron-On transfers for awhile now, but just recently decided to actually attempt shellacking them onto a garment or two. What an easy way to initiate myself to DIY culture!

Except I screwed it up.

That koolaid-esque blotch you see on my shirt was actually intended to be a doppelganger for the cute owl on the transfer paper. Things did not go according to plan. Here are a few tips on how NOT to apply iron-on transfers:

1. If the power indicator light on your crappy iron is blinking on and off and making strange popping sounds, go ahead and use it anyway. I'm sure it's just fine!

(Make sure you iron is very, very hot, and that the steam mechanism is turned off. Make sure the water cartridge is empty while you're at it. )

2. Use an ironing board, don't bother closely reading the directions. It's not like these Sukie people are craft experts or anything.

(Sukie recommends ironing on a flat board, or other surface capable of handling high temps without bursting into flame or melting, etc. An ironing board distributes too much of the heat and doesn't allow the temperature to get high enough.)

3. Make sure you are multitasking while applying your transfer. Go ahead - watch American Idol auditions, throw a pizza in the oven, and prematurely write a blog post in your head about your successful iron-on results while simultaneously throwing a wrench in the works.

(Valuable lesson should be self-explanatory.)

Check out Simple Sally's successful Sukie results.

I love the Swedes.

I moved into my own little apartment a couple months ago, and have been routinely pillaging IKEA every 10 days or so. I'm particularly found of this little flower pot, the "Kakao," which means "ceramic bucket of wonder" in Swedish. Just kidding, it probably translates to "meatball" or "majestic fjord." Nevertheless, I adore it.

Nannerpus

This kills me. I almost fell off the elliptical machine at the gym.

Things that are only poigniant if you're on your bike: The underbellies of overpasses.

Soon after moving to Oregon I decided that I wanted to be a bicycle commuter. And I’ll be honest, my motivation was fueled by poverty. The other factors didn’t hurt – a chance to shrink my carbon footprint, trick myself into regular exercise, and take advantage of what is likely the most bike-friendly city in the country. But really, it was about being broke.

Over time I’ve come to realize another benefit, and it’s that from the helm of a two-wheeler, ordinary things sometimes seem remarkable. When I’m pedaling away, making shopping lists in my head or replaying important conversations, I realize I’m looking at something I’ve seen a million times, and thinking about it in an entirely different way. Like the regal freeway overpass, for instance. Have you ever realized how gigantic these structures are? Have you thought about how people actually had to build them? It hadn’t really occurred to me. No, I haven’t been taking bong hits. You have to admit they’re pretty impressive.

Point being, instead of a commute, biking feels more like an “experience.” And I’ll admit, when I’m getting pelted in the face with jagged sleet at 30 mph, I’d happily settle for just a “commute,” but most of the time, especially after a long day, the ride home is an opportunity to defrag, and buffer my time between work and home. I catch myself having these Zen moments, planning my dinner menu while theorizing about LOST (Who the f is Jacob?) – then realizing suddenly that I’m home, and I got there via my own quadriceps.

Anyway. A benefit of slowing down: large scale concrete appreciation. More amazing bicycle insight to come.

So, here's the deal.

A couple of days ago I wrote a long-winded exposition about my blogging goals and motivations, but decided to save it for my memoir and instead just present to you an outline. If you turn out to be a regular visitor, you’re going to learn more about me than you’d prefer soon enough.

I’ve started blogs before, and abandoned them. Not this time. Why? Because I spent about 9 hours crafting my sweet chicken masthead. And besides that, this time feels different. I feel as though not blogging isn’t an option.

There are, however, a few things you should know.

• I grew up on what is now a 4th generation family-owned and operated dairy farm.

• About 3 ½ years ago I moved from Eau Claire, WI to Portland, OR, and somehow weaseled my way onto the marketing team at Powell’s Books.

• I am capable, at any given time, of envisioning and yearning for drastically different ways of life.

It’s true. I teeter between wanting to move to New York or San Francisco to pursue writing or publishing - or - packing it up to find a plot somewhere in South Dakota where I can tend to my goats, bake chicken pot pies and be left alone to my needlework and seed catalogs. I experience both extremes multiple times a day. I have yet to seek therapy over the matter. I’ve chosen to blog instead.

I’ve also taken on a goal or two. As a way to tide myself over while I hash out what exactly it is I want for myself, I want to learn how to create things that I’d normally buy. I want to sew, polish up my baking skills and figure out a thing or two about making plants grow. I want to be a metropolitan homesteader. At least until I find my own little piece of earth. I want to complicate my life in order to make it more simple. Make it harder in order to make it easier. It’s complex. I tried to warn you.

So there it is, a mission statement of sorts. I have proclaimed my intentions. It’s likely that this blog will be sprinkled with the occasional book review, political rant or “look how cute these loafers are” notification. I’m open to whatever shape it takes, unless I wake up one day to find it severely lame and self-important. But I promise, at the very least, to make it entertaining. Humor me.