Sweet potatoe pie

Bury me in a yard with a magnolia tree for shade and pecans to keep me satisfied. It's easy to feel grateful when you're seated at a long table filled with second helpings and unbridled laugher. Thanksgiving in San Antonio means Chris Carlson's home made pies and turkeys the size of small children. The weather took a decidedly fall feel with overcast skies that cast matte gray shadows on everything it touched. Old women with overcoats and kerchiefs shuttled to awaiting grandchildren with casseroles in hand. My family met at a cozy one hundred year old house on a quiet corner on a quiet street. Fabien poured me a glass of wine and I held Max in my arms parading around a busy room. Hand blown glass snaked around the crown of the ceiling and I gave thanks for all that I had.

Birthday Pie and Pink Champagne

Nancy Drew and the Pate Au Choux Caper

There's usually a point between the fourth and fifth egg when I start praying the rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, please let this pate au choux come together. It's a demoralizing thing to be defeated by a pastry and it doesn't happen until the very end. After you've weighed out the ingredients, after you've stood over a burner turning the dough so that it cooks, after you brave the spiral staircase of death and hoard the bowl that fits onto the mixer that you feel might work better, after all this it only takes putting an egg in too quickly to see it all unravel. Our kitchen worked well today, everyone in their places and working together to put food on the table. Mind you that this is perfectly crafted, perfectly balanced, perfect tasting food on a perfect table. But a table and food all the same. And three times tonight I made a pate au choux that resembled french eclair casing and not balloon weights or lead biscuits. I started ruining it a couple weeks ago after a fight with an old friend. Each time I watched as the dough separated into oily confetti and I'd hold my face in my hands over the mixer. I readjusted the scale and only used the coldest butter in the reach in. I stopped using the machine on the left because of it's apparent bad juju. And it felt as though with every trip down the stairs with the copper pot, a trip up the stairs without a pastry bag was the inevitable outcome. I lost the job after the third day and was remanded to parsley chopping duty. But after a couple weeks and a significantly stronger tricep from cutting leafy herbs down to powder, I was ready to try again. Because I'll be god damned if I get beat by that pasty yellow dough. It's not the first thing I've failed at. I have a hard time understanding why the person that knew me best has no desire to know me at all. That I've been erased from a life that I was sure I was a part of. But I relax and find myself outside on a warm day with the sun on my back and my friends around a wooden table. There's a baby on my lap with dark curls and soft blue eyes and a burger on my plate with cupcakes to come. Fabian is sipping a beer and Chris Spencer is reading his new book, a present for his going away to start a new chapter in his life. And this is mine. This is my adventures to come. It's easier to see that with the pate au choux in the piping bag and not in the garbage can.

Family Portraits

This is San Antonio, this is my kitchen.

I need a sole

Every Easter my mom sets up long tables in the back yard and the family eats dinner with the grass under their feet and home made applesauce on their plates. We stand in a circle and my grandpa leads prayer, thanking God for family and blessings as the kids squeeze each others hands until someone erupts in silent laughter. Then almost as if we have done it a thousand times, paper plates are distributed and a line forms without pushing or shoving up to the collective fruits of each adult’s kitchen. There are green beans with tiny caramelized onions, honey baked ham, soft white rolls with flour dusted on the tops, crunchy coleslaw, the spread is all packed onto the kitchen counter without the space for air in between it all. If food was meant for mere sustenance, than the joy of family would be enough and we’d eat pop tarts in between the egg hunt and the embarrassing questions about my tattoos. But food is more than just filling our bodies or showing off our skills with a casserole dish. We sit around tables with those whom we love- be it at Christmas Eve or family meal in a kitchen. This week has been very emotional for me, with Wednesday leading to me actually getting sick from the stress. Tallahassee will be very busy for the next couple of days and I am a thousand miles from it in every way. I don’t know if I have ever felt like this before, a feeling of disappointment and guilt and sadness and frustration, for the most part it has been the only thing that I can think about. But tonight before service when the kitchen was quiet and we were all preparing for the storm that was brewing on the books, I looked around and realized something wonderful. In that moment I didn’t want to be any where else but standing there peeling garlic. I’d rather be in that kitchen with those people running up those stupid stairs than any where else in the whole world. People would sit down and eat the food that we were cooking and it was going to change their life. We make the best meals that people have ever had. There’s something very special in that. For me food provides a stability that people cannot. Don’t believe the lies you tell yourself- that which you cannot control is countered by that which you can. At the end of the night when I take off my hat and fill the soap bucket to scrub the prep area Modesto will ask me "What you lookin' for, mamacita?" The answer he wants to hear is "Once y medio, abuelo." But after making fourty two people very happy all I can do is move the robot coup back into it's place and think to myself, I've already found it.

When you listen to Papa you don't fall down the stairs backwards

Fall is here without the tweeds or cardigans or hounds tooth jackets with blue linings. If you’re lucky, there’s a cool breeze around 8 in morning but it retreats into the shade in the afternoon. This is October and the beginning of my favorite month of the year, I’ll be 22 at its end. Another year has passed and 365 days will be available for a retrospective montage that would include the trip to Europe, southern roads, and the journey from Tallahassee to Texas. Women pass by the coffee shop tripping over their high heels and cheap pedicures. Sip is the best place for people watching, just count how many men still have their tags on their hats- maybe it’s the new thing these days. Texas is full of characters from the lady that preaches across from the sandbar with a radio around her neck and a long thin stick in her hand to the men who open up shop at the corner or Hackberry and MLK. After braving a left at an intersection that did not permit left turns, our caravan survived the commute from the restaurant to the argyle in one piece. It really was a beautiful building with green shutters and tea lights that hang from ancient shade trees. We were there to cook for an event alongside the hierarchy of San Antonio fine dining and guests in a foreign and gigantic kitchen. As soon as the door opened the sounds of the typical line spilled out. Steel pots clanged against burners and pots fell to the floor at the hands of hurried porters. One voice could be heard above all others, “Working hard, chef” we all looked at the red face man who was screaming his responses rather than calling them out. Erratic and sweating, he looked like a snot nosed kid with the sky caving in on him. We filed in and found a prep area to set up shop in. I felt like I had a bulls eye on my chest, who was this girl with the jcrew headband and pink lips just sauntering in to our boys club? Or perhaps it was reflection off of Chef’s James Beard nominated glow- I haven’t been apprised of San Antonio cooking politics. Men in crisp white jackets embroidered with logos stood around talking shop and checking in on everybody’s dishes. Looking around you’d think that my boys were Olympic athletes in contrast to the thick necks and round midsections sported by most other cooks. “Move it move it hot behind” the red faced man waddled past us with a hotel pan and an inappropriately raised voice. I missed the radio incident when I went back to get the cheese but apparently there was some scuffle between Chef and this guy that resulted in a high schoolesque stare down. And here he was again slamming his hand down over and over again on the paper towel machine like it just said something bad about his mama. Jeeze bro, take it down a notch. It’s just cooking. Relax and take it one at a time. His voice continued to be heard above all others through out the night and it was usually followed by snickering or rolling of eyes by everyone else. An hour or two later we were next in line for plating our dish, the china was placed out in long rows four deep and clean around the edges. Race start lines have a similar feeling, everyone standing around and stretching out their arms, thinking about the next three point one miles and the free t-shirt at the end. And before we knew it, it was over and we were left standing in a small circle drinking shiners and watching the dessert go out. Monday was over and a new week was about to begin. We all went home and fell asleep in our beds ready for five days of cooking without red faces or screaming just good food and hard work.

Just look at what these hands have made

"Taste this and tell me what you think this is." I took the spoon and closed my eyes. How many components does it have? Two. I let it sit on my tongue for a second and then took another bite. Does it have butter? He looked up, yes one of them is butter. I knew that it was a trick question because he was staring straight through my skull into my brain as I tried to figure it out. Cream? Goat's milk? Chevre? God, I have no idea. At least I got butter. "It's boiled white onion." A smile crept across my face as the reality hit me. I couldn't taste onion in the slightest bit. It was smooth and creamy composed of white froth that stuck to the back of the spoon. But it was onion all the same. That's the thing about food. Take away the extra large portions of garlic mashers with white gravy and the three pound hamburgers that drip grease down your fingers and give people the chance to enjoy food again. Why as a country of family diners do we constantly substitute basic well cooked ingredients for fast unhealthy options. We had a family tonight come into the sandbar and one of the little girls ordered the octopus seviche. She must have been seven or eight and there she was having a glass of water and cooked octopus tenticles dressed in lime, cilantro, and red peppers. I remember growing up and wanting to taste everything, if it was on a menu and I had never heard of it before that was what I ordered. I'm so tired of hearing that so and so doesn't eat that. Or the duck didn't taste like chicken at all. Or why can't we just get a pizza. Food should bring a smile to your face every once in a while. It should suprise and uplift you, remind you of places you've been or people you have been in love with. And for pete's sake, if someone askes you to taste something without telling you what it is, please just put it in your mouth and take a wild guess. It might be onions.

I'll follow you into the dark

Slowly San Antonio is changing into a place that I will grow older in. I'll be 22 next month and it's funny how I judge that age against Micah's experiences. I was 18 when we met and he was 20- now with every new year I see it as a reflection of where we were at that age. I remember how his 21rst birthday was spent, with root beers and campfires, and how at 22 he ran away to Italy to find something he thought he lost only to find it at a Tallahassee soccer game. I've lost a lot recently and one of the hardest things to let go is my friendship with him. I'm torn between always being available to him and saving myself from the inevitable letdown and I'm not sure which is more right as opposed to which is more noble. After the basketball game today Spencer and I were sitting on the bleachers, sweat framing our backs and the victory plastered across my face, the agony of defeat tightening the muscles of his back (I just kiiiding). But he told me in respect to life that the hours will pass whether you want them to or whether you're prepared for them. The hours will go by and you can either sink or swim. San Antonio is providing me a place to grow into the person I want to be on my own. Only after you've lost everything can you pick up the pieces and reasemble them into the picture you want to look at for the next couple of years. I want to buy a bar-b-q grill and an inflateable kiddy pool, maybe I can stretch Summer into September and October and make up some of those Sundays I missed. I won't be in Tallahassee next month because I wasn't invited to the wedding. Not that I'm suprised I was given up on a long time ago. But for now I'll look forward to this life I have created with my half full kiddy pool. France in January with team sommelier, Monday basketball games, being president of the under 20 club and the only member of the under 26ers, Matt Pond PA, Rilo Kiley, Lyle Lovett all in October, Sunday afternoon cowboy game viewings, working everyday at a job that challenges and interests me, Autumn and Winter, it's all right around the corner and I'm going to keep my head above water.

The preamble to the fall.

I am cutting fruit into perfectly uniform lines, each time measuring out the millimeters between with my eyes. The kitchen is quiet as usual no jokes, no lighting people's pants on fire, just straight faced men shuffling about with an intensity that I have never known. Brioches in the oven and foie gras torchon hanging in the lowboys, everywhere there is food and cook ing but no eating. I am starving and the day is 5/12 over. There is a red spiral staircase that connects the kitchen to the prep and dish area and every time I go down it I imagine tripping and falling down to the tile below maybe with a knife stuck in my throat. I finish the fruit and begin to arrange it on the platter. It's a small task but this is the first time Chef is trusting me to do it on my own. There are two ways that this can end. He can either shake is head and look at his shoes, all while letting out a sigh "sheeesshhh, Kate no no let me see it." or he can nod in approval and the tray goes out as it is with my hands as the creator. I lay down lemons and limes, the grapefruit goes into a spiral pattern in the middle and the oranges create a wall between the citrus and height. It's just a fruit tray. But this is a different kind of kitchen. I remember the first time I ruined something. It was x-amount of minutes before service when Brian decided that my potatoes were undercooked. One only had to take a bite and find the large lumps of starch beneath the layers of decent taste. Pot on the stove, old mash in the garbage, new spuds in the water, lid on, and tears. I sat outside crying with my head at my knees crying over my mini-disaster. He came out and in a very Brian way addressed me as "Bud" and went on to give me advice that I carried with me through David's condescension and burned croutons, "It's just cookin'" And until this point that notion had served me so well through it all. But now as I finished the tray and held it up for inspection those words retreated to Tallahassee where they came from. Here perfection is paramount. Chef looked at it and nodded, I let my breath go and relaxed if only for a second. Next time it would be a "sheeesh, Kate. No no. Let me see it."

One nation under texas...

I live in an air conditioned world. From the car to the gym to the kitchen to the store- my skin is protected by a bubble of preprocessed air and comfort in the understanding that I no longer work in the thunderdome. But things are changing around here and it's high time that I get started on the journey.
The mailbox was full the second time I called. Everything around me was crumbling into ruins of a once glorious and fulfilling life and with every message that didn't make it onto Chef Weissman's answering machine seemed to suck the remaining hope from my mind. Dead end job, dead end relationship, one cat who bit my face when I slept, friends that never called- what in the hell was I doing. It rang again and again there was no room for me on that machine or in that town or in anyones lives. It was getting bleaker and I was getting more and more anxious. Until the vietnamese food and caller i.d. changed everything. Four missed calls. BJ was trying to get back to me about where exactly this place was on broadway and what time I wanted to eat. I passed "Vietnam" on my way to work, passed the Whitte Museum and before Trinity somewhere mashed between a mexican taco joint and a thai/chinese franchise. But four calls seemed excessive even for someone that may or may not be lost in yuppy downtown on a motorcycle. Calls received. LBJ, Andrew Weissman. Something strange happens to you when you first talk to someone famous. You've seen their picture, heard them speak, read their work all without ever shaking hands. But when they address you by name, call you even, there's something electric in the confidence it transfers. How was Williams Sonoma, are you still living on the northside? Would you like to come work for me in my kitchen? You see I enter the army tomorrow. I'm signing my papers and handing my life over to a man and his idea of perfection. My mantra for this experience is "mental control and concentration". When I started cooking there was one thing I've always worked for and that is complete control over all that is chaotic. The tickets are spit out one after another and the oil in the pan is on fire, the scallops just got sent back because the lady thought that oysters were scallops and the other way around or something. Everything that can go wrong will and usually does. But Chris knew a guy once named Javier who worked sauté and even when it was all coming down on him with satan's fury he never looked out of control. I never met him, only heard about the incident when he burned joey potatoes with a pan because the kid didn't say "behind" once when crossing the hotline for something. The stories indicate that he was a bad bad man and I believe them. Tomorrow I start with a menu meeting and I'm looking for a way to balance what little confidence I have with humility and grace. It's about mental control and concentration mixed with the usual quality and class. Here to for this is a kitchen log and it will be filled with all that I learn, see, do, ruin, and redeem. Don't think for one second that this is no longer about life- because from this point on the kitchen is my life.

Jezebel

I live at 1204 S. Hackberry Street about a mile away from the tower of the americas in Downtown San Antonio. I live there with my cat, Roosevelt and a book shelf that I spent about an hour yesterday assembling. I work as a sous chef at a crappy restaurant until September. I practice my Spanish and I have seen improvement in the fluidity of my sentence making. I have a mom and a dad, a sister and a brother, and two step sisters and a step brother. I like them all a lot. I have a friend or two here but I miss the ones I had in Tallahassee. I think more and more about being a mesh of northern east coast influences and southern bible belt pride. It's a little bit of post 9-11 guilt and a little bit of the south will rise again. These are the things that I know for certain. Everything else belongs in a category that I don't worry about. Because daughters of the south suck it up and soldier on.

Melissa

I think that if my Aunt Nancy had known that Chris would never be able to call her first born daughter by her real name, she would have chosen something other than "Marissa". But even with all of our pleading, all of our coaching and exaggerated mouthing of the word he has never said it correctly.

The fabric of society.

Top Five meals of all time* in no particular order

5. Sushi with Mark at Masa right before moving to Tallahassee from New York. First time I ever had uni. First time I spent a rent check on a dinner.

4. Cooking for my birthday wine dinner at cypress. Oysters rarebit, greeting a table for the first time in whites, pumpkin bread pudding, kissing my boyfriend on the cheek before heading back into the fire, seeing my friends happy with their food.

3. Smoked salmon sandwiches and a bottle of Cabernet table wine in London. We watched the lunar eclipse, the next morning I woke up and went for the greatest run of my entire life.

2. The night George and I made fried chicken in my apartment. It was my introduction to southern hospitality and Hawaiian rolls. He taught me the finer points of the cast iron skillet and helped me get over my fear of water at Wakulla Springs.

1. The night Hunter Savage cooked for us all at the boys house. I can't remember what he made but it involved pork and large shiitake mushrooms. We sat around the table I would come to love so much and ate like a family.

*To be amended later.

Tonight we dine in hell.

Tell her, I'm sorry I don't have any duck apple sausage. I can substitute it for the Italian Robiola. Who is it for? Oh yeah, she'll want that more probably.
Last night we did over a hundred. There was no executive sous chef because he was at a fair or disney world (aka his mother's funeral). Fisher was on the line at grill, Fred and I split duties so that I could expedite and fill in every available hole in the place. I pulled groupers from the walk in, I ran glasses to the bar, I ran myself until I couldn't run anymore. But there was a distinct difference in the way service was ran and for the first time I caught a glimpse of what it would be like to run the show. "So all day I need, 2 cob, 3 specials, a honey soy, and a five cheese. Knock out those salads first and I'll start the creme brulees." Instead of hearing, "For fucks sake can I get a god damn cobb!" cooks and servers alike heard, "Great job, Freddy are you ok? I just need a cobb to sell, big boy. Spot on. Caroline, I pulled your silverware it's on the line all you need is the vinegar water." The tickets rattled off like machine gun fire. I was calling out five tops and four tops at the same time, it felt like we weren't catching the break that we deserved. There were no newports smoked behind the fence, no carrots tossed at the back of dishwashers heads. The boys were focused on feeding the hoards that continuously lined our door, craning their necks for a bar table. What the fuck is going on out there? Where are these people coming from? By the time we heard that it was over and the cleaning up could begin, my body ached and my throat was sore from yelling. Jason and I sat outside on the cooler with our heads against the wall in defeat or victory, at the time I couldn't tell. But the truth was the night went as smoothly as it could, and everyone was happy- back of the house, front of the house, customers, and bar flies. We killed ourselves to do it, but in the end it was worth it.

Woke up this morning, and bought yourself a gun.

Wake up Silvio, Tony's dead. The Sopranos are over and Sunday nights are now left to doing something less productive than watching a tv show that I only recently got addicted to (thank you A&E reruns). The boys are all up in arms and I don't blame them. If I dedicated eight years to watching America's favorite crime family justify it's life, only to be perplexed by it's maybe/maybe not end... yeah, there'd be hell to pay. But it's done and I guess I'll just wait for the movie.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The countdown to funfetti cupcakes begins. It's strange to know that this is my last week in tallahassee. I'm having brunch with the ladies on Sunday as a little farewell and there's talk of a finnegans bash but we'll just have to see. It'll be here before I know it, and all that could have been will change into what is.

Cold Beers, Hot lights, my sweet romantic teen age nights

That's it, I'm giving my notice. Two weeks and I'm outta here. Dave chuckled and passed me the bottle of syrah as if he knew that I needed it. We were at the bar talking about menu changes and how Walter used to change David's diapers, Brian made some comment about getting his shot gun from under the seat and I questioned the legality of that statement. The story about the fight with the melting pot guys apparently amused Liz to the point of tear masked laughter. But even in the midst of the "incident" I knew that it was going to make a great story- seeing as though I'm 5'2, a girl, and at the time pretty drunk. It was Ian from Finnegan's birthday and the boys and I were out at Gill's celebrating with him and toasting yet another unmemorable night, I was carrying two drinks which in my defense were very full when oops, I spilled one. The stereotypical cries of party foul from my boys, Ian making a comment all of which I dismissed with a smile. That was until the following:

Melting pot DB: I guess that's the kind of service you get at Cypress.
Me: Excuse me?
DB: (Turns his body as a sign of disrespect or shame)
Me: Oh, yeah, the melting pot, must have had a long day of opening bags of cheese.
(Bends down until face is inches from ear, lowers voice to a whisper)
If you're feeling froggy. Then go ahead and jump.

And that's the last time I'm going to tell that story, because frankly I'm a little tired of it. Not of the high fives I get by strangers who know me as "the little girl from cypress that got into that fight with the melting pot", but of the glorification of my legal intoxication. But I know that I'll look back on this entry and smile to myself one day just in knowing that at least for one night, I Kate McCabe was a bad ass.

In the past I have used this forum to ellaborate on all the experiences that I have loved so much. When Chris had his accident I broke that tradition, but even in the grief there was still joy and admiration. I have five minutes before I have to go to work and my only hope is that when I open the door and step into the kitchen I can forget about everything that's happening. My dad is very sick. I have worked so hard on this relationship agianst the advice of a lot of people. In a lot of ways it was my most proud accomplishment, staying in contact all this time despite his obvious unwillingness to be a father. Things changed recently and I felt for the first time that it was paying off. We have been closer than ever before, which isn't very hard to do when you go without speaking for years. But what now. God damnit I am so sad and I can't tell anyone. I don't have anyone left.

Savannah Revisited

Let's make some doughnuts

All my things are in piles on my bed. There are clothes to throw away, clothes to give away, clothes to keep, all in preparation for the inevitable procrastination that is to come. Last night was a good wednesday- hospitality night at poor pauls. I am pretty sure that the one free drink you get and the $2 jack and diets should make up for the fact that you work in a hot kitchen or with rude customers all without a healthcare plan. Yes, it evens out in the end. I'm softening up towards the end of my tenure, realizing that I am going to miss people I didn't expect to. Lila Dodd? Who is going to give me health advice and teach me about the evils of caffine and sugar? It's taken me a while to consider these people my friends, I didn't jump right into it saying "You, you will be my friend and we will gallop through feilds of green and ivory". It was a slow progression full of respect and quiet resolve. But as the day draws near when I adopt a new home town and move on to the next step there is nothing in my mind but excitement and hope, and that in and of itself makes me happy.

A cooks tour revistited

It averages about 120 degrees in the summer time if you take the air temperature before and after you turn on the grill. That kitchen is a death trap and sooner or later one of us are going to go down. There's too much fire, too many sharp objects, too long hours. It's bound to happen. I love my job and the people I work with but it's summer time and our lives are falling apart and being sewn back together. Last night we threw the irish wake for Brian's mother and all night I had no idea what to say except "Yeah, I'll have another" or "Paula Abdul, get me some ping pong balls". Everybody hurts right now. Jason lost someone, Brian has to endure mothers day, and I still feel like part of me broke on April 19th. I'm having a hard time with this and summer has only just begun. It's only going to get hotter from here on out. There is so much I want to say but I just can't explain it.

Real, that which I thought to be a dream.

So this is Philadelphia. It's cold and the rain hinders the visibility so that I can see to the tree line and then past it only white and gray. We are going the wrong way but we've been awake since yesterday and it only makes sense that after an 8 hour work day, a couple hour drive, and one plane ride, that the directions would start to look as hazy as the sky line. I rested my head on his shoulder during the flight like I always imagined I would- all those plane rides when I was alone and on my way to or from New York. Those were the days when I wanted to look at the person next to me and maybe brush my hand across my forehead to tell them we'd landed. Some where in Delaware we stopped for coffee and directions. An hour later we were in Allentown PA, population: one less family since the Dierkes clan moved to Florida. The streets were framed by unique row houses, there were rocking chairs and old kids toys dotting the porches and the street seemed to snake through sections of ethnic neighborhood and then revert back to Americana within feet. We drove by the old house. It's yard missing the remnants of BJ's childhood. The fence that sealed the house from the corner of the street. The two trees that once provided shade. And I think that there was a swing set but I may have made up that detail. There was neighborhood that he rode his bike in and the houses of friends long since moved on and away. There was the corner store they used to walk down to for candy and the woods that I think he once smoked in but again, I could be making it up in my mind. I imagined him as a kid and how much I would have liked him. He has these big innocent eyes and on an smaller adolescent face, they would do no less than captivate and charm. I think we would have been friends or that I would have been secretly in love with him. Next was Vesuvios Pizza, with it's long veneer counter top and hand tossed white pies, the smell of garlic and olive oil hanging in the air. A short while later I fell asleep in the passenger seat, surrendering to the weight that tugged at my eye lids. When I woke up there was a donut in a wax paper bag. It had peanuts on top with vanilla frosting and a smooth cherry jelly center. PB&J. Adorable and delicious. The best donut I have ever had. This was the Pennsylvania BJ wanted me to see and it was an adventure I was eager to embark on.

Buck-0

I've seen a picture of Chris holding me as a baby. He had a brown mustache, the same he has now except without the gray streaks in his hair. He probably held me softly and told me that I looked beautiful. He's been saying it ever since, sometimes ten times in one morning, "Sister, you're looking beautiful." And of all the times I've ever heard that in my life, I've never believed it more than when Chris says it. You see Chris is the object of my affection, my favorite. I once told BJ that of all the people in my family I thought Chris was the most special. He's 44 years old now. But really he's still 10. His body moves forward, compelled by the perpetual march of time. Wrinkles have formed above his brow and around his eyes and a belly has formed where one did not exist before. Somewhere there are trophies in a box, probably an attic somewhere, from when Chris lifted weights in the special olympics. I remember thinking that he was so strong and holding his trophies, seeing their shiny gold men triumphantly holding pose was something I wanted to achieve for myself. If you were to hug him, I'm sure it's the first thing you'd notice, he's very strong. I've always been very proud to be his niece. He is truly my favorite. I just don't see how this is fair. I'm so angry right now. And I feel so alone. You are so beautiful. Peace.

Best Easter Ever -or- He is Risen: The Holiday that Brings the Rock

Every where I go there is left over pastel candy. Easter morning brought bagels and a road trip. We passed church parking lots filled to the brim and little girls in matching pink plaid jackets crossing the street with their equally put together parents. Men in pleat fronted khakis parked suburbans and smoothed out their striped ties. BJ and I listened to xm channel 42 liquid metal and kept the windows up. The radio read our mind but we had no idea what it was thinking when it played children of bodem again for the thousanth time. I have taken to singing dragonforce really loud and playing accoustic drums on BJ's knees. It's the evolution of affection and you'd be suprised how quietly it marches on. Yes you can listen to Shai Halud, I'll just close my eyes for a bit, I love you.
We pulled into the neighborhood and down the street that I used to ride my bike on. The yards were so perfect. As if every lot was in a constant competition for shrubbery of the month. You know, a nice one, not too expensive. My grandparents were there, the rest of the family to follow. Nancy showed us her new car as enthusiastically as any person could before their head explodes. It's a red acura. Mine was a mazda MPV van. Hers wins. I brought Dave's dulcimer back and picked up one for myself. It has flames carved into the body and the neck to hide a deformity in the wood somewhere. It works, I have no idea where the wood begins and ends. My grandpa is an excellent dulcimer builder and I aspire to one day become an average player. I've got twinkle twinkle and When the saints go marching in down. Next stop carnegie hall.
My grandma made the coleslaw we love so much. There were pulled pork sandwhiches and asparagus and home made applesauce and a rasperry vinagarette salad and on and on and on and into my belly. The kids sat on the picnic table across from eachother talking about the decemberists and how skinny jeans make your hips look big. Bri and I talked about California and the man that she's fallen in love with. After dinner the dam broke and my grammy could no longer hold in her questions... Katie, are those real tattoos. No they can't be. Can you scrub those off? Why did you do that? How long have you had them? How have you kept them from us for so long? Why did you do this to your grammy? You have more? Is is catholic? Ave Maria? I don't understand? You're so beautiful how could you mark your body like that? If you need the transcript, it's easily found- my mom taped the whole thing on the family video camera. It's all there, the look of shock and horror the follow up of Bri saying that it looked as if the torch of dissapointing grandchild had been passed to me, the prodigy has fallen short and life can resume with the star faded. It's all there.
BJ and I tied our right and left foot together and practiced walking through the back yard for a while getting the cadence down. A three legged egg hunt was about to begin and we were all paired off and looking ridiculous. With the exit of all the baby boomers into the eschelon of puberty and beyond, my mom came up with a way to bring the tradition egg hunt from the playground to the battlefield. Ready set go, pushing and shoving and falling all over the place. I laid on my back and sank an inch into Saint Augustine lawn. Get up get up, I can't. I'm tied to you, remember? We stuffed eggs into our arms and hobbled to the next, with every step BJ growing more determined to take out our various cousins and aunts and uncles. Bigger steps, Katie, you're walking like a weiner dog!!! We ended the game in third place. $1.58. At least we had a place on the podium. This was easter and I held him tighter because I didn't want it to end.

And if I bring a little music I can fit right in

The room is beautiful and quiet. We lay on the bed with our eyes toward the ceiling, neither one of us getting to our feet. There's a bathroom with fresh towels and a shower with hot water. It took us a second to figure out how to turn the lights on, the woman at the desk had to tell us to put the room key in the light switch. The room was illuminated in an instant. There were side table lamps that extended out of the walls, a large round bulb that was mounted in the ceiling, and several recessed lights all filling the room with a soft white glow. We laid there for a while enjoying the calm and the crisp sheets our hands at our sides or on the others arms. BJ discovered the mini bar and the tiny diet coke in a glass bottle. There were no grocers in Madrid, no bodegas or fruit stands. Where did these people get their food? Don't they cook for themselves ever? We eventually left to explore the rows upon rows of restaurants and bars that made up the city. We had a beer in a cafe and then found a place that seemed a bit quieter than most. I ordered the day's special- a trio of toast- one with ham, the other with spanish casserole, and the third with a blue cheese mixture. We drank very large San Miguel's and took funny pictures of each other. I got pretty drunk and started in on my usual, "I love you I love you I love you" routine. At one point I steadied myself long enough to make the trek to the bathroom in the back, and again pretended to soberly walk back. I'm sure it was obvious but BJ let me be drunk and didn't make fun of me for it. On the way back I wished for a beligian waffle dipped in chocolate, like the one in London. It had this doughy texture like it hadn't been fully cooked and the chocolate ran down your fingertips obscenely. That was perfect late night food. But here there was only a walk back to the hotel and a minibar to be raided. It was final, madrid lacked the proper late night snack joint but it made up for it in cheap beer and cold wind.

The door to the sun

The Madrid International Airport looks like it was designed by Ikea for giant sized travelers. There are giant circular lights hanging from the warehouse style ceiling, one row right after another as far as the eye can see. We pass glass encased escalators and walk over a buffed cement floor. I just woke up- BJ says I slept through a period of turbulence, three countries, and some snow capped mountains. I was awake to hear him order a coke and maybe rest my head on his shoulder for a while but other than that I fell asleep in London and found myself awake in Madrid and the labyrinth that is their airport.
We took an escalator to a wide open space, line to customs, escalator, escalator, bus to terminal, escalator, escalator, bus to terminal 1, moving walkway, wide open space, lost again, ask for directions, el metro no esta aqui, bus to terminal 4, escalator, metro station, train to puerta del sol.
I sat down and put my hand in his. I guess I wasn't expecting the casual way in which he spoke to the security guard or how easily we navigated the entire maze or how delicious that chocolate bar was that I bought from the pescoe in nottinghill. But it was all true and I was filled with a pride that kept me awake the rest of the day. That and the knowledge that upon arrival to our hotel there would be hot showers and a building titled "El Museo de Jamon" (The museum of ham).

We are here, this is our stop. We gather our things and step off the train and make our way to the stairs, being careful to follow the signs. Salida, this way. Up the stairs and into the sun. Men push flyers at me and I use my skills from growing up in Manhattan to ignore their advances. The square is huge and we stop to look at it for a second. Streets feed into it like tributaries carrying cars and people to and from it's core. No one is speaking english. No one is wearing sperry topsiders. No one can be in love more than us. This is Spain and it's frustrating and exciting and we're lost again. BJ is starting to get sick, he said he had a cough in London but it's getting worse now. And every second that we prolong our not finding the hotel is making him wheeze and cough and wipe sweat off his brow. We walk up and down streets looking for the one that leads us to clean sheets and towels. We ask police officers, but their answers only serve to confuse us more and it's not clear if we're ever going to find a place to lay our bags down. It's getting dark and the lights of the city are coming on. The Plaza mayor leads us to our destination and I give BJ a high five and kiss him on the cheek. He is the navigator and translator, I am the cheerleader. Spain is unlike anything we've seen before.

Rothko and Respite

We walk two by two down the sidewalk. We all read the "Look left- Look right" signs before crossing. It saves us on more than one occasion. It's raining now and my toes are getting wet through my shoes. They say it's cold here, and I say they're right. London acts as the frame to our pictures. Micah and Abby are there in fine form, one hand on top of the others with matching black jackets. Once in a while she'll push him near a puddle but he never leaves her side with the umbrella. He is her shelter from the slow gray drizzle and she is the one that makes him smile.
Across the bridge and over the river is the factory where we look at art. I put my hands behind my back and lean in. BJ cocks his head to the left, and then to the right. My feet are beginning to ache, but at least now they are warm and my socks have a chance to dry out. The Rothko exhibit is dark and quiet, each wall is covered by massive canvases of blocked color. We sit for a second, enjoying the respite and the smooth wooden bench. Across from us a man and a woman mirror what we remember to be the perfect first kiss. He places his hand on her knee. She tosses her hair back and then rests close to his face. He smiles at her and she smiles back. He seems to stop talking in the middle of his sentence as all momentum shifts to each of their noses moving closer to the others. And then it begins, his lips on hers in a sloppy uncomfortable action that forces me to believe that when first kisses work, they must be treasured. Here was the perfect setting, and the delivery fell short. Next time you find yourself on a benign walk to the car, you should take the love of your life with you just to see where it leads.

Summer will come with al green and sweetened ice tea

It was a Sunday, that's why there was no one on the roads at 7 in the morning. Is that runner an american wearing purple leggings and orange shoes? I stopped at the Church of England just to look in and see if there was any activity. It was dark except for that gray falling from the stained glass. I ran through empty streets and past quiet homes with Aston Martins parked in the drive. This was the material wealth in a country rich with culture and I wasn't sure that I belonged in either. The houses are all white and sit in rows of ivory save for the occasional miami pink one. They have red and green doors and three stories of fortitude. Men in tweed jackets begin to emerge- strolling by with rolled up newspapers under their arms and pleasant nods of good morning. A woman at the bus stop cheers me on, "There you go love, way to stay motivated past new years." I ran until I wanted to walk, and I walk until I wanted to eat. Back at the hostel I had breakfast with a man named Teddy. He was there doing research on his graduate dissertation on the history of evolution from 1850-1950 in the National Archives. We talked for a while about his life in the world of academia. And at the end of it, I felt like I knew everything about him. Undergrad at Duke, raised outside of Atlanta, wears tortoise shell glasses. I think I might look him up when I get back to the states. A new day has dawned and weary travelers are making their way downstairs for rice krispies and glass cups of hot coffee. Meet you down there.

Hey isn't this our song? That one time we were dancing?

This place is beautiful. I keep saying it over and over again in my mind. This truly is a grand adventure. Yesterday lasted for some forty hours or so. Micah fell asleep in the British museum sitting up somewhere in the Enlightenment exhibit. We saw the Jade masks of the Aztec empire, the ones that I read about as a kid and had been imprinted on my mind. The British Museum is awesome. And free. But mostly awesome. It spirals around a massive atrium that extends past reality and lets this incredibly white lite filter through. We saw the Rosetta stone encased in glass and holding every secret of hieroglyphics on it's sacred surface. I thought about crying when I saw it. I remembered the stamp sets with the ancient symbols and the books my mother got me for Christmas that recounted the time of the pharaohs. And there it was in all of it's massive glory. I thanked it before moving to the next room and hoped that the whole thought of crying bit was from exhaustion (If not, I'm queen of the nerds).
The vast amount of priceless pieces were breathtaking, and captivating, and awe inspiring and a thousand other words that could fill this notebook and my days for years. I haven't gotten used to looking right before left at the street corners. Last night Abby and I shopped at TopShop- just like Sienna Miller, sans the smoking and the skinny jeans. We all sat on the steps of the National Gallery as the night wore on, praying that we would catch the proverbial second wind and make it a little longer. Micah and Abby yielded to the pressure that sleep deprivation seems to put on ones body but BJ and I soldiered on, undeterred by the mere mortal need to rest. We bought a cheap bottle of wine, a smoked salmon sandwich, and found a quiet corner on which to relax and enjoy our first night in a new world. We watched the earth's shadow slowly blanket the moon in total darkness while men in cable knit sweaters and women in pea coats snapped pictures of the first lunar eclipse I ever saw. A man named Marion Plohgeski- I mean a very drunk man named Marion Phlohgeski engaged us in a very close, very loud conversation about coral gables, and sarasota, and flying planes. It was time to go and we headed back to the hostel and our bunk beads.

-Written the morning of March 4, 2007 at 8:00 London time.

There will be pictures to illustrate and more to come.

You keep waving at the taxis they keep turning their lights off

I wanted to get through all our trips before heading to spain. And I'm almost sure that I've written them all down, even if they aren't in any descernable pattern. I missed talking about the Loretta Lynn gift shop with it's samuri swords and incredibly racist Aunt Jemima figurines right next to the racoons. The library is so hot right now, and not in a Paris Hilton way, I mean the temperature is uncomfortably warm. Every time I'm in here I see kids working on science and math (this is the science library by the by) and I get a quiet satisfaction in knowing that I don't have to even think about phonological science and it's distinctive features. But when I sneeze they say "God Bless you" and that's cordial enough for me.
I'll see BJ tomorrow night if he gets off of work early (hint hint). I really hope he does (hint hint).

Light strikes a deal with each coming night

I wonder what 50 degrees farenheit feels like in Spain. Should I bring my coat? Will it be sweater weather? How does it feel when it gets cold. Does the wind cut through you like you were never even there or does the sun make the top of your head hot? I'll know soon enough.
Spring is in Tallahassee today and it's a little bit early. Boston is knee deep in snow and New York is battling freezing rain and sleet, and here girls on the green are stretched out on pool towels and lathering themselves up with oil. It doesn't seem fair. How is it that we get the reward of an early spring complete with bathingsuits and dreams of the springs and the rest of the country struggles with the still frozen cold of winter. I think central park deserves the bathing beauties, not us. We've done nothing to deserve it. I haven't shoveled snow or been iced in or had to dress in nine layers of clothing just to get the newspaper. And yet I plan on scheduling some time tonight for a run after dark, when it cools down. And maybe tomorrow going for a swim. I'll walk home and sweat in the heat wishing all the while those beads sweat would turn to ice and I could have the winter just one more day.

One time, you bought me winter remember? It was the first day I had the occasion to wear a sweater. We bought purple tights from the american apparel store in down town and walked hand in hand the rest of the afternoon past old houses that looked like they belonged in the royal tennenbaums. You bought me a freezing wind and cold fingers and toes. I think you just did it for a chance to be so close and I won't be upset if that was your reasoning. And now that it's over, and summer is waiting to cast us into the fires of mid-day, we should go one more time to find the cold. I hear it'll be 50 degrees farenheit in London. I think that should do splendidly.

May 1, 2005: A time capsule.

Well, I'm sitting here on a back porch in Florida, watching a carefully crafted fire and listening to Nancy practice her violin. Pretty soon we'll turn on the old crow medicine show and talk about something profound, like the vastness of the universe or the possiblity of time travel. There's nothing like hearing a fourteen year old's take on determinism. I'd sit here for hours if it meant I never had to step foot into an introduction to philosophy class. I swear they talk just to hear their own voices.

I haven't been able to break the smile that's been plastered across my face since sometime yesterday afternoon. Yes, the show was awesome. I am not sure what else can be said. I want to write some brilliant discourse on the words that filled the room, but I suppose all I can say is that when I hear it I feel comfortable. Like a blanket that keeps your whole body warm in the winter or a pair of mittens that you find when you're fingers are about to freeze.

Instead of studying the other night Tom and I watched The Thin Red Line. And I believe that the closing paragraph of my cultural anthropology final echoes the tone of the monologues that dot that movie. Mr. J. Hellweg, thank you for this year. Thank you for speaking julu. Thank you for bringing a gun to class. Thank you for making the Another Brick in the Wall joke. Thank you for looking like a slightly paler, sweaty, conan o'brien with john lennon glasses. You have seduced us all.

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What is this great evil? How did it steal into the world? From what seed, what root did it spring? Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known.

take take take

Old men comfortably wearing tweed jackets
and round midsections hung lights on the iron fire escapes and trusses
that bridged the pre-wars together across Mulberry Street. Alice stepped
onto the sidewalk and buttoned her pea coat to the top. The sun sank
below the skyline, casting cold shadows on the street. She'd walk uptown
to union to catch a cab. She wanted to feel the seasons morph from the
Autumn hues to the rapidly approaching Winter freeze. The money she kept
in the jar on her counter was full. It was the cash she would have spent
on cigarettes, but now was going to a new coat and scarf from Bloomingdales.

Quality and Class- the Anthony Bourdain Affair

I raced home today from school with the specific intention of watching as much of the No Reservations marathon as I possibly could. In two weeks I'll be in Europe for the first time, we'll go to sleep on Friday in Detroit and wake up on Saturday morning in London. Our caravan met for spaghetti and pre-destination planning this weekend. Micah broke out the map and Abby tried her hardest to convert currency from dollars to Euros. For all our planning and all our fretting about the details, I am not worried about missing out on anything due to poor groundwork. I know what I want to experience and I doubt it will cost a dime.

The travel guide Kansas gave us for Christmas says to stay away from whiskey at bars in spain. BJ- How are we ever going to make it a week???



Dear Mr. Bourdain,

Thank you for airing that special marathon this President's day. Watching you get tattooed by Malasian headhunters or resting in an Icelandic mudbath was a real treat for a monday morning. I went ahead a made rice and black beans for dinner tonight if you're in town, but I must say that with these months apart things have changed. It's not that I no longer have feelings for you, it's just that those feelings have changed. Over the years we've grown apart. You seem to be on the road constantly and when I need your arms wrapped around me in a cigarette and liqour induced fog, you're never there. I missed the days when we would get drunk after work with the boys in the kitchen and then ride our bikes through down town tallahassee. Oh, that wasn't you. Anyways, it's over. I'm sorry but there's someone else. Don't bother asking who it is, just know that I love him. I hope we'll see eachother soon. I'll buy the drinks and you pay for the cab, just this time it's going to make two stops instead of one.

Love always,

Katie

I've never been to Spain, but I kinda like the music.

My favorite people in the world are the ones who are up for it, no matter what IT is. Basketball games on Sundays, running during the week, washing cars at 7 in the morning on weekends. Do you remember the time that we dranks bud lites at the cheesecake factory when I was 19? Or the time that we took the skateboards down to the tallahassee skate park? I hung my legs over the side and watched you weave in and out of kids- it was so hot that summer. Was it just us left in town? That's how I remember it. Or the first time we met, that party in melbourn. Or the second time we met, in times square. Or the third?
Savannah, New York, Tennessee, down the street, across the atlantic. I'll see you in March and we'll be speaking a different languages but we'll both understand. It's the future, and it's nothing to be afraid of. The past was just so much fun.

Chehalem Shalom

It must have been the most perfect dinner I'd ever seen. Finger foods on tiny plates, nuts in tiny bowls, and wine in very large glasses. We sat around getting over the initial shock of meeting for the first time, snacking through the meal and talking about ourselves. I liked Sue and Charlie right away. BJ held my hand and I did my best to sound like I was the right person for the job of "your son's girl friend". Eventually it became a family affair with Uncle Biff and Aunt Liz, Grandma and Grandpa all coming over to behold this novelty. And although I knew that everything I did was being studied, I felt comfortable and funny. Charlie took our picture from every angle like a photojournalist in the field. I wish I could remember more from what was said that night. I should have written it down. Just one sticks out, BJ's grandma with her fabulous hats and wine cork sniffing, "Katya, what is this kinky sex?"

You pick a place and that's where I'll be

He must have worked on that fire for hours. I could hear him swearing at the dying flame or gathering more straw to start all over again. I made a joke about asking a boyscout for help. They had a tent villiage by the water with portable gas stoves and plastic cylinders up in the trees to measure rain water. Fathers and sons sat around the campfire no doubt telling ghost stories and planning upcomming hikes. It must have been thirty five degrees and I was wearing my red hat for the second day. BJ's mom had stuffed a copy of Bon Apetit into my stocking and I took the chance to read the article about braised short ribs while my mountain man of a boyfriend worked at his fire. When I wasn't in the tent, I helped with stokeing the flames and making turkey sandwiches. We drank the Jack Daniels we picked up in Lynchburg out of red plastic cups and talked about vacation. I walked over several times and kissed his forehead in an attempt to soften the blow of his slow yet undeniable failure. I missed the fire that night. It started sometime after I had gone to sleep but it served as warmth on the coldest of nights. When I woke up there was only one log left and a half of a bottle of whiskey. We made it through the night on account of the flame I never saw.

This place with it's old plantations

Micah had his hands full with a baby, explaining to it the finer points of art and what it means to the collective consciousness of middle america. He looked comfortable with that little thing bouncing on his knee or being held face forward in awe of the giant orange box. The light seemed to reflect off the painting and onto his face turning it a sickly pumkin color despite the ever present look of wonder. We all drank red wine out of plastic cups and ate our lasagna with the fine silver from the top drawer. We talked about beards, motorcycles, chicago, jobs, cooking, the future, italian food, life. BJ put his hand on my leg and I felt warm all over again. Apparently, in the last three houses Micah has lived in there has been an unused fireplace and twenty degree nights. Abby made jokes that had me in stitches. She has a dry delivery which is unexpected and delightful. At some point the baby accidentily slammed his head violently agianst the surface of the table. We all stopped, not wanting to encourage a scene. Perhaps we had absolutly no idea what to do in the presence of a crying child. It was awkward but the baby recovered nicely and all went back to talk of renting choppers for the weekend and making it to Savannah and back. After dinner the gentlemen retired to the living room as the ladies sat across from eachother talking shop and drinking the end of the chianti. We couldn't stay long, BJ and I were dog sitting and it was getting late. As the guests began to bid good night, I squeezed his hand and kissed his shoulder. It was time to go.

Hopes for Spring

We've been friends long enough to see eachother age in photos.

So how did it feel when you and batman were in that room together?

You show your id and then pay your three dollars and there's the keys to the castle. It's Thirsty Thursdays and students around here tend to get a bit parched around 9-12 pm. They belly up and order their cranberry and vodkas. Only the best for Mrs. Nixon's baby boys. Last night I saw a girl on some dudes shoulders singing along to a coverband's rendition of a tenacious d song. I was about three minutes from seeing boobs, I could just feel it and for most of the dudes in there it was awesome. Jack and diet, jack and ginger, yuengling. You can guess which was mine. I like to be health conscious and plus I'm pretty sure that I'm addicted to the sweet nectar that is Diet Coke. And whiskey truly is my medicine. Ladies please understand that the weather in the outside bar at bullwinkles is the exact same as the weather outside anywhere else in tallahassee. So if you do the math and it's 39 degrees at your apartment = it's going to be 39 degrees at bulls. Wear a jacket. Your mother is dissapointed in you and there's nothing sexy about hypothermia even if you are wearing a tank top.
No 8:00 classes on fridays. And today thanks to our teacher being absent on Monday... no recitation today. So it's the library and the green and all that comes with college in it's most magnificent form.

Stompin' our feet on wooden boards

Dinner will be ready at 7. I'm making spaghetti and meat sauce. I packed his lunch and kissed him when he left for work telling him that he was going to be late. He'll call around 2 or so to check in. I'll be doing homework or on the walk home. The door will open a little after the meal has gotten cold but it'll taste fine anyway. We'll talk about his day and what's to come. We'll go see a movie at the student life center, come home, set the alarm, and fall asleep watching the daily show or reading. And in all honesty, that's perfection.

Does his company make light of a rainy day.

She looked beatiful when the music started. Very much like a woman in love. It was as if the whole world revolved around the two people walking towards eachother. One foot in front of the other with eyes wide open until the center of the alter was dripping with tears. I watched when they took eachothers hand, when he slid the ring on her finger. I heard her voice shake through her vows and the congregation sing out with joy as they kissed. It had been too long since she had felt this, this lump in the back of her throught as she proclaimed her intentions to love him forever. Love is a dress that you made, and hers was ivory and perfect. I held my breath and before I exhaled, a family was born.

On the street by the beach, or the places we used to go

School has started again and it's time for basketball games and 8 am classes. We're all back to the routine of passing eachother on the green or taking quizzes without properly reviewing the information. It's getting colder outside, finally. I pack my lunches so that I don't have to eat pollo tropical with the rest of the university. A turkey sandwhich with mustard on wheat bread, an apple, a granola bar, a jello cup, and a diet coke. I space it out so that lunch basically takes up three hours of individual delights, each time pulling something new out of that plastic publix bag. I can't say I don't enjoy it. There's something about a packed lunch that reminds me of elementary school when my mom would write a note on a huge paper "K" she had bought just for me. It was before Nancy could even talk (she was so dumb then, couldn't order for herself in a restaurant, couldn't cheer for the noles, you know- real dumb.) and I was the big sister in a three person family. It was Methodist School center with Drew Taylor and Brent Loman and Erin Eppely. Every year we put on a Christmas play and the only one I remember was when we were all birds that were there to welcome the baby Jesus. I was the flamingo. Apparently I had flown all the way from somewhere exotic to witness the birth of the savior. It's amazing the animal instincts on those things. If we were to know eachother then, I'm sure we would be friends. Flamingos are a very affable creatures.

The blend of valor and swagger

It rained for the four days that I was there. One afternoon, one morning, and one weekend. There was something different in this trip, not like an exploration or a journey, more like a try out. So this was San Antonio, and I was there for my interview. We went to the river, walked along as it snaked through down town. We waited underneath bridges or in a restaurant drinking margaritas as the rain came down harder. It looked more like an amusement park than a city. Where was Santa Anna? Where was Jim Bowie? When I was a kid one of my favorite movies was this wonderful world of Disney picture starring Fess Parker as Davey Crockett. It was made in 1955 and featured such heartwarming tales like "Davey Crockett knife fights Cheif Redstick" and "Davey Crockett kills bear with own hands" you know- the kind of stuff a five year old girl just dreams about. I imagine that every man in Texas when asked the question "Who are you?" responds the same: I'm half-horse, half-alligator and a little attached with snapping turtle. I've got the fastest horse, the prettiest sister, the surest rifle and the ugliest dog in Texas. My father can lick any man in Kentucky... and I can lick my father. I can hug a bear too close for comfort and eat any man alive opposed to Andy Jackson. That is the Texas I am looking for. I may not have found it in the miles upon miles of shopping malls or in the coffee shops on every corner. But it's there. And I'm looking forward to meeting it. More to come.

You sir, you are my Johnny Cash

We must have walked through them backwards. In the beginning was the waltz. Just over the bridge with the snowflake lights and the thousand foot drop, before the irish pub next to the dollar store, near all of that were the feet. They were bronze shoe prints with numbers and lines set into the concrete. If you placed your feet on top, and followed the directions, you were dancing. It was the waltz. We stepped into the bronze shoes and started to count. One two three four...... five.... uh.... siiiixxx.. It was twister without the spinner, but neither one of us fell down. We just held a little tighter and looked for seven. A little ways down the sidewalk was the tango. And then we reached the end. The first, our last, was just two feet facing each other. No steps, no numbers, just one left foot across from your partners right foot. One right foot across from his left. It was my favorite. The most alive I've ever felt while dancing.



Chattanooga.

I like my whiskey old and my women young.

We stopped at a rest area to watch the sunrise but it was too cold not to wrap my arms around him. I jumped off the picnic table a couple of times to work off the energy stored up from the traffic and self induced cramped leg space. We watched as the day slipped behind the mountains and the night rose above the city. Tennessee had been blessed with rolling hills and aging red barns anchored by tin silos and grazing cows. Everywhere we passed on the way to Lynchburg looked like a page out of a calendar. Old pick up trucks from the greatest generation rested in pastures and farm equipment that relied on horses dotted the front yards of brick houses. - You take your two fingers of whiskey in one hand like so... your glass of water in the other. You drink the whiskey and throw out the water. Cause ya'll don't need that shit.- We had been to the motherland and seen the spring from which all good things come. There was a pipe that BJ pointed out to me- it read "Spring Water" and led from the cave to the distillary signaling the beginning of the journey- the trek that ended with three ice cubes, splash of diet coke, a plastic cup, and our lips. This was Tennessee and it was beautiful.

The first Noel

It was Christmas day, and we had been awake and out of bed for less than thirty minutes. Sue asked me if I wanted a drink. It was 10:00 in the morning. I declined. She said she had Sam Adams light. I changed my mind. As I said, it was Christmas.
There were kids opening presents and stockings being passed around. Mine had my name in cursive painted on it with gold sparkle fabric paint. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The boys would open a package, tear the wrapping paper, remove the sword with flashing lights and realistic battle sounds out of the box and totally forget that the living room was littered with presents. They were done. They had their swords and readied themselves for combat. There was a baby also, with blond hair and footie pajamas. Actually I think they were all wearing footie pajamas. At first I was positive that the baby was probably dumb. It couldn't talk or add and subtract or order for itself at a restaurant. But he let me hold him and I changed my mind.
We ate cheese and crackers and drank eggnog. It was perfect. BJ's grandma went on to tell me never to fake it with him. It only gave him a false sense of confidence. And she wasn't talking about a smile. There were snow flurries the night before but only the cold remained. Sue played Oh Night Divine on her guitar and the boys watched as she sang. I held the baby on my lap and sipped my sam adams. My boyfriend kissed me on the lips and brushed the hair out of my face.

So this is the new year...

When we got to the cabin it had been almost 14 hours of driving and traffic and ham n' cheese sandwiches and xm radio and windshield wiper blades and confederate flag license plates. It was dark and we had found this tiny wooden house by sheer luck. No cell phones, no directions, no address, just Charlie's very capable instructions, which as time passed we slowly lost hope in. But down the drive way next to the sign and two mailboxes, it was right where he said it would be. A tiny one bedroom cabin with a fireplace, eat in kitchen, and fixture above the southwestern ranch style bed appropriately labeled "mood lighting". Sue had left a basket on the table with a hand written note and a bottle of wine. On the label there was a picture of a knight on his stead taking the hand of a fair maiden. The note read something like, enjoy the hot tub. She stopped short of leaving a copy of "What to expect when you're expecting" or a wedding magazine with pages already earmarked. I wouldn't put it past her. It was the bottle of wine that put it over the edge, it may have been called moonlight encounter, I still have the bottle somewhere. But we had arrived and the welcome was perfect. Quiet. Pure unadulterated peace. Noel Noel. And the angels sang. It was Christmas eve and the temperature was dropping outside. It all seemed the beginning of something new rather than the end of another year. 2006 was coming to a close and yet I didn't feel any different. I made no resolution, no cry of regret. BJ and I talked about goals we have. He wants to learn to pick locks, I want to run a marathon. I want to go to Vermont again. I had a dream last night that Kansas and Erin met us there because it was someone's wedding. Then Kansas told me about pickled peanuts that burned people's mouths off and would BJ like to go have some in Alabama some time? What dreams may come. We'll be ready. But no pickled peanuts for me.

Sherman's march to the sea