Music and Cats

We've moved!

2005-06-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

The cats, the fiddle and I are all moved in at our new place. Come on over to the new home of Music and Cats. (And, if you have linked to this site, please update your link.)

Thinking outside (but living inside) the box

2005-06-10T12:36:00.000-07:00

Paul and I sometimes joke that, were we ever to move back to the California Bay Area, we could afford to buy a refrigerator box under a highway. When we're feeling good about the value of our house in Seattle, we think that we could get a nice new box, from a large refrigerator, and that we could manage an overpass in a good neighborhood.

Today I read this article about an Australian architect who has designed a housing system that is made mostly of cardboard (with some plywood "framing"). The houses can be flat-packed, and therefore are easily shipped. It should be great disaster relief housing; plans are in the works to send several of the houses to East Timor later this year.

From the article:

Living in a cardboard box has never looked so good.

Melbourne architect Peter Ryan's clever but simple design for a house made largely from cardboard could prove revolutionary. With applications in temporary housing and particularly in disaster relief, the structures are inexpensive, easily assembled and surprisingly durable.

The concept of a cardboard house sounds almost inconceivable but it works. The basic structure is a series of pods made from plywood - cardboard panelling is used in the roof, walls and floors. The cardboard panels are the same size as a standard cardboard box, and the houses can be as small or as large as required; pods are simply added either up or out.

Read the whole article (without registering at yet another newspaper website).

According to architect Peter Ryan, these houses might be a solution for people who couldn't otherwise afford to buy in Melbourne's hot real estate market... or, I'm thinking, for those of us who might one day want to live in the Bay Area again.

Feline Friday: Watching and waiting

2005-06-10T00:07:00.000-07:00

The McKittens are waiting to see who will show up this weekend for the Carnival of the Cats, which will be here at Music and Cats on Sunday.

Will they hiss at the visitors, or run upstairs and hide under our bed? We'll see...

The Friday Ark is up at Steve's place long before the Carnival comes to town.

Happy birthday, Mr. Wright

2005-06-08T12:56:00.000-07:00

Google has done some wonderful themed variations on their logo. I have to say that this is just about my favorite. I particularly like the hand-rendered quality of the letters, with the consistent slant to the shading that architects learn in school... or did, before computer graphics became the rage.

Frank Lloyd Wright, a remarkably talented and extremely eccentric man, was born 138 years ago today.

The second "o" in "Google" looks like a construction of blocks from the Froebel Gifts, a series of educational materials that were important in Wright's early spatial development. Wright's Guggenheim Museum and Fallingwater are, like the man himself, iconic.

Honey bran muffins with dates and pecans

2005-06-06T19:45:00.000-07:00

Paper Chef is a food blogger's event that takes place the first weekend of each month. The ingredients for this month, Paper Chef #7, were buttermilk, medjool dates, honey, and eggs.

I did not want to make a dessert (I'm trying to cut back), but the theme ingredients suggested baking. Something for breakfast would be good, especially if it was easily portable for weekday breakfasts, which I often eat at work. I'm not particularly fond of the texture of dates, so I wanted a recipe in which the flavor of the dates would be fairly evenly distributed, without any large chunks of too-gooey sweetness. My friend Epicurious had no suggestions for all four ingredients, but the buttermilk-honey-egg combo yielded a winner: Honey Bran Muffins with Figs.

I halved the recipe, and modified it as follows:

I substituted dates for the figs. Because dates are sweeter than figs, and I like bran muffins that aren't extremely sweet, I reduced both the dates and the sugar by 1/3. Chopping the dates finely, and mashing them in the boiling water used to hydrate the bran, helped to distribute their flavor.

The recipe seemed bland (a failing of many bran muffins), so I added a dash of cinnamon, ground cloves, ground ginger and nutmeg to the dry ingredients.

Because I like nuts in bran muffins, I added 1/2 cup of chopped pecans.

The result was a light, tender, moist muffin, with a clear (but not overpowering) honey-date sweetness and the crunch of pecans.

A touch of sweet butter and a spoonful of homemade blackberry-apple jam were the perfect complements.

Honey bran muffins with dates and pecans

1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoons baking soda
3/4 teaspoons salt
Dash each of cinnamon, ground cloves, ground ginger and nutmeg
1 cups toasted wheat bran (about 2 ounces)
1/4 cup finely chopped dates
1/2 cup boiling water
1/2 cup chopped pecans

1/4 cup (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, room temperature
1/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup honey
1 large egg
1 cup buttermilk

Preheat oven to 400°F. Line 12-cup muffin tin with muffin papers, or butter muffin tin. Stir together flour, baking soda, salt and spices in small bowl. Combine dates and boiling water in another bowl; mash together, then mix in wheat bran.

Beat butter in yet another bowl until creamy. Gradually beat in sugar, then honey, then the egg. Beat in half or buttermilk, half of flour mixture; repeat. Stir in bran mixture and pecans. Divide batter among muffin cups.

Bake muffins until they pass the clean toothpick test, about 20 minutes. If you're not going to eat them immediately, place on rack to cool.

On the endangered list

2005-06-06T08:30:00.000-07:00

On Thursday, the National Trust for Historic Preservation issued its list of America's 11 Most Endangered Historic Places 2005. Since 1988, the National Trust has published each year a list that spotlights "parts of the country's heritage that are threatened by neglect, insufficient funds, inappropriate development, or insensitive public policy."

This year's list includes:
Belleview Biltmore Hotel, Belleair, Florida.
Historic Catholic Churches of Greater Boston, Massachusetts.
Camp Security, York County, Pennsylvania.
Historic Buildings of Downtown Detroit, Michigan.
Eleutherian College, Madison, Indiana.
Ennis-Brown House, Los Angeles, California.
Finca Vigia: Ernest Hemingway House, San Francisco de Paula, Cuba.
The 'Journey Through Hallowed Ground' Corridor, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Virginia.
King Island, Alaska.
National Landscape Conservation System, Western States.
Daniel Webster Farm, Franklin, New Hampshire.

I was not previously familiar with most of the locations on this list. One of these places, however, I've known about for years.The Ennis-Brown House is one of Frank Lloyd Wright's masterpieces. Built in 1924, the house is the last of four unusual concrete block houses designed by Wright in the Los Angeles area. In a system known as textile block, identical pre-cast concrete blocks were designed to form an interlocking system, and were stacked dry without mortar joints. The textile block system integrated structure, ornament, and inner and outer walls. The house's striking, somewhat otherwordly, Egyptian-influenced design has made it popular as a set for movies, including a particular favorite of mine (and many architects and urbanists), Blade Runner.

The house has sustained much damage over the years, from improper maintenance, earthquake, mudslides and more. Estimates of stabilization costs run as high as $5 million, and full restoration costs are well over $15 million. Today, the site is unsafe, and is closed to the public. If repairs are not begun very soon, this important house may be lost... and that would be quite sad.

Market morning

2005-06-05T17:35:00.000-07:00

When I left home for the Ballard Farmers' Market this morning, I forgot something important: my camera. The market was awash in the reds of poppies and lilies, strawberries and beets, the greens of sugar snaps, garlic tops and leafy salad mixes, and a whole range of blues, pinks and purples in between. There were so many beautiful photos there for the taking, but not for me today.

My loot from the market arranged itself in unlikely alphabetical clusters:
Asparagus (last of the season)
Beets (with greens)
Chard (yellow-stemmed)
Delphiniums (a sentimental favorite, used with yellow roses in our wedding flowers)

Peonies (blowsy, pink, fragrant)
Rhubarb (whether for compote or crisp, I had to have it)
Sweet peas (sadly, the photo can't convey their heavenly scent)
Tomatoes (green, either for frying or an interesting soup recipe)

A book meme

2005-06-04T23:18:00.000-07:00

When Bakerina tagged me for this book meme, I wrote most of a response. Then I went to California on business, and spent most of yesterday in the Oakland airport trying - unsuccessfully for quite a while - to get home. As a result of this delay, my responses changed somewhat.

Total number of books I've owned: Around two thousand, I'd guess. My rough estimate of the books in our house at the moment (based on averaging a couple of typical shelves and multiplying by number of shelves) is 1200-1300. While some of these books technically belong to Paul, Washington is a community property state, so I'm including them. I've moved around a lot since college, and have shed books with each move. Of course, I'm always adding books as well. I imagine that I have parted with at least as many books as I now own.

I don't believe that one can have too many books. However, one can definitely have too few bookshelves, and we do.

The last book I bought: Kathy Reich's Monday Mourning, in the Oakland airport yesterday, an hour after learning that my flight had been delayed.

I've been remarkably restrained in my book-buying recently. Prior to yesterday's purchase, I last bought books at a couple of author readings that I attended in mid-April! They were Sight Hound by Pam Houston, Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks, and the Macrina Bakery and Café Cookbook. I have not yet read either Sight Hound or Bread Alone; they have taken their places in the queue. (This does not mean that they will be read in the order received; I'm not nearly that systematic when it comes to reading.) You may ask Bakerina what she thinks of the Macrina Bakery and Café Cookbook; it went directly to her. (Make that 151 cookbooks in her collection.)

The last book I read: Kathy Reich's Monday Mourning, in the Oakland airport, on the plane from Oakland to Portland, and in the Portland airport. I would have finished in on the flight from Portland to Seattle, except that I had an interesting aisle-mate and a complimentary glass of cabernet. I finished the book within an hour of getting home last night. Reichs' mysteries featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan are easy, engaging reads - perfect for a long day in an airport. I bought that book just after finishing Amanda Hesser's charming cookbook cum love story, Cooking for Mr. Latte, which I had thought would last me all the way home.

Five books that mean a lot to me: There are many more than five books that are important to me. These are the first five that came to mind, in the order in which I read them:
1. Misty of Chincoteague (and Sea Star and King of the Wind and...) all by Marguerite Henry.
2. Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties: Translations and Considerations of Rainer Maria Rilke by John J.L. Mood.
3. A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander.
4. A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest J. Gaines.
5. Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott.

You want to know why these books mean a lot to me? More on that later.

Tag 5 people and have them fill this out on their blogs:
1. my sister Melanie, in case she's reading anything other than picture books these days;
2. my blog daughter Erin, whose taste in music and food I know much better than her taste in books;
3. nina of nina turns 40, who promised not to read the books I've lent her in the bathtub;
4. Cowtown Pattie of Texas Trifles, who had very interesting responses to the last book meme in which she participated;
5. Isabella of Magnificent Octopus, whose writing about the books she is reading always interests me.

How I spent my Friday

2005-06-03T21:03:00.000-07:00

When my flight home this morning from Oakland to Seattle was delayed, and eventually cancelled, one of my coworkers suggested that I document my day at the airport. If you've spent any time in the Oakland airport, you'll know that paying attention to its details is not what one wants to do. I bought a mystery instead. However, I love taking photos from airplanes, so here are a few of my shots from the flights that I eventually got on.

Flying out of Oakland, five hours later than originally scheduled, past the Golden Gate. Destination: not Seattle, but Portland.

From Portland, a turbo-prop flight to Seattle. Sun overhead plus clouds below equals cool shadow of airplane in a rainbow halo.

Mount St. Helens and Mount Adams poking up through the clouds, with back end of striped propeller assembly.

Feline Friday: A Cat's Story

2005-06-03T20:45:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, minding my own business.

Read more...

Visit the animals at the Friday Ark.

Delivery

2005-05-31T23:03:00.000-07:00

Tonight was the reading for the students in the memoir writing classes that I just finished at the UW Extension Writers Program. For the reading, I reworked a piece that I wrote early in the year. Before taking this class, I had trouble writing multiple drafts. My teacher, Laura Kalpakian, and my classmates have, through their regular critiques of my work, helped me learn about that part of the writing process. Here's the piece that I read this evening:
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When Paul and I married seven years ago, neither of us knew this sad truth: I can't make a decent latte. Early in our marriage, Paul demonstrated, more than once, the process of transforming dark- roasted coffee beans and cold milk into a steaming, foamy, caffeinated treat. Standing by my side before the black and chrome contraption, he patiently guided me through the process of grinding, filling, tamping, steaming and pouring. The lessons did not take. Oh, I made a latte or two, but my lattes hissed and spit out of the espresso machine either too weak or too bitter. The barista who served me such a latte would not have been tipped.

One morning, when I requested Paul's assistance with the espresso maker yet again, he exclaimed in frustration, "I don't understand why you can't do this. You're good with machines... hell, you understand how most things work without reading the instructions. Do you have some sort of a brain injury?" This question, from the man whose pet name for me is Brains, struck me as absurdly funny. I burst out laughing, and Paul joined me. We stood in our kitchen, hugging each other, giggling.

My supposed 'brain injury' became a recurring joke. Paul would marvel that my injury had impaired only my ability to tamp grounds and steam milk. I would nod in agreement, and comment that the workings of the human brain are not fully understood by modern science.

Once my condition had been identified, Paul shouldered barista duty at our house. Each morning he would bring me a latte in bed. One of the small daily pleasures of my life was waking to the sound of my husband walking into our bedroom, singing this short verse:

Coffee drink delivery service
Coffee drink, if you are nervous
About how youÂre going to wake.
Have yourself a coffee break.

In January of 2004, Paul was diagnosed with an oral cancer at the base of his tongue. The surgery to remove the tumor would be long and dangerous, the lasting effects on his speech and swallowing uncertain. A few days before surgery, Paul expressed concern about my morning lattes. "You won't have coffee drink delivery while I'm in the hospital. What will you do? How will you wake up?" While his tone was light, I heard the dark thoughts and real questions beneath the surface of his words: How are you holding up? I'm sorry I'm putting you through this. Are you going to be OK?

I could answer the surface question easily. Finding coffee in Seattle is simple. The espresso bar in the hospital lobby could meet my needs while Paul was hospitalized. We have five coffee shops within as many blocks of our house. I would not suffer from lack of coffee.

I had no answers, simple or otherwise, for the unspoken questions. Too many unknowns waited on the other side of Paul's surgery. Would he survive the surgery, and the cancer, or would I lose him? What toll would his illness and treatment take on him, and on our relationship? I believed that I was coping well, but I knew that might change. I didn't know whether I would be OK.

Several weeks after Paul's surgery, I woke, feeling cold, in our still-dark bedroom. Pulling the down comforter up to my ears, I turned to snuggle up to Paul. The hand I extended landed not across his shoulder, but on soft, warm fur. In an instant, I went from half asleep to worried. Why was Paul up so early? He had been out of bed long enough that our cats had claimed the warm spot against his pillow. Was he feeling ill?

I was about to call out his name when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and caught a whiff of coffee. Relaxing under the comforter's warmth, I waited. Paul's singing wasn't elegant that morning, but it brought tears to my eyes. The latte was the best I've ever tasted, the love with which it was made almost visible in its foamy top.

Folklife!

2005-05-29T23:12:00.000-07:00

For many musicians, dancers and craftspeople in the Pacific Northwest, Memorial Day Weekend is all about Seattle's Northwest Folklife Festival. Begun in 1972, the original festival's concept was to provide a public forum where the traditional and ethnic communities and artists of the Northwest Region of the National Park Service (Alaska, Washington, Oregon, Idaho, and Western Montana) could present their music and dance performances and crafts. The theme was presenting what people "make for their own use and do for their own entertainment."

Thirty-three years later, Folklife is going strong. At the Seattle Center this weekend, from mid-day Friday until Monday evening, over 6,000 musicians, dancers, and visual artists are entertaining and teaching an estimated 250,000 visitors.

I was at Folklife today fiddling for my morris dance team. Tomorrow evening, I'll be playing for a performance of English country dancing (think Jane Austen movies). I'll be back after the Festival's over.

Feline Friday: The Princess

2005-05-27T06:12:00.000-07:00

I am a princess... and, yes, you may pet me. Oh, no, I insist.

More cats - and other lesser animals - at the Friday Ark.

Potty parity passes in New York City!

2005-05-26T23:30:00.000-07:00

Today's New York Daily News has news women can use:

It's a go for 'potty parity'
By Frank Lombardi, Daily News City Hall Bureau

There were signs of relief - especially from the ladies - yesterday after the City Council unanimously passed a long-awaited "potty parity" bill.

New buildings and buildings undergoing major renovations will be required to install two toilets for women for every one provided to men.

The current law, enacted in 1984, requires a 1-to-1 ratio. But men can "zoom in and zoom out," while women end up waiting in long lines, noted Councilwoman Madeline Provenzano (D-Bronx), chairwoman of the Housing and Buildings Committee.

"This is a quantum leap into the 21st century," said Councilwoman Yvette Clarke (D-Brooklyn), chief sponsor and architect of the bill.

The bill approved yesterday is a compromise version of a proposal that would have required virtually all buildings - new and old - with public rest rooms to have two facilities for women for every one designated for men.

In a deal with Mayor Bloomberg, the original potty-parity bill was flushed because of complaints over its potentially huge cost to owners of bars, restaurants and theaters and to publicly owned facilities, such as stadiums.

The bill approved yesterday, 50-to-0 with one absentee, mandates the 2-for-1 rule only for new buildings and existing ones that undergo renovations whose costs exceed 50% of the value of the building. The law could take effect as soon as the fall.

"If there was ever a bill I was afraid to be on the wrong side of, it would be this bill," quipped Councilman Erik Martin-Dilan (D-Brooklyn), whose district is 60% female.

This new ordinance will change the look of building plans, which have long been designed with back-to-back restrooms providing equal numbers of plumbing fixtures for men and woman along a shared plumbing wall. I imagine that there are already NYC architects at work developing layouts that are similarly efficient, but provide the newly required "potty parity." I'm sure the women of NYC will appreciate their efforts.

What we did on our seventh anniversary

2005-05-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

As I wrote elsewhere last year, Paul and I spent our first two wedding anniversaries out of the country, the first in Italy and the second in Canada. We joked after the second trip that we would leave the country each year for our anniversary, but events - some chosen, others forced upon us - have made that playful plan impossible.

For our anniversary this year, we got away for a brief but thrilling adventure. We went to see Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

Paul met me after work on Monday evening, and we walked the several blocks down 4th Avenue from my office to the Cinerama Theater. Built in 1963, Seattle's Cinerama is one of three remaining venues in the world capable of showing three-strip Cinerama movies such as "How The West Was Won" and the 70mm Cinerama classic, "2001: A Space Odyssey." In the late 1990's, the theater was in danger of demolition or conversion into a clumbing club. One of Microsoft's bigwigs - a fan of movies as well as rock music and football - purchased and beautifully restored the theater, which reopened in 1999. I dislike most of this man's grandiose gestures in Seattle, but this is a spectacular movie theater, and I'm glad that he saved it.

We arrived 40 minutes early for the 7:00 p.m. show; already a line of excited fellow travellers snaked halfway around the block. This was not the line to buy tickets, mind you, but the line for ticketholders waiting to get in the door. We'd bought our tickets on Saturday, so we joined on the end of the line.

Twenty minutes later, the line began to feed into the theater. Once in the door, Paul and I made our way up to our favorite spot in this theater: the middle of the balcony. I then headed back to the lobby for treats. I asked Paul what sort of candy he wanted. As neither of us knew what would be available, he told me to choose. When I returned several minutes later, Paul gestured toward a couple of teenagers making calls on their cell phones. "We're an older generation," he said. "After you left, I realized that I could call your cell phone to find out what sort of candy they have... but that just seemed silly." Fortunately, Paul was happy with my selection.

There are plenty of other people writing about this movie, and I'll leave that to them. I will say that we enjoyed the movie very much. We cheered, we hissed, we laughed, we cried (at least I cried a bit, but as Paul will tell you, I cry at anything). We had a wonderful time.

After the movie, we walked back up 4th Avenue to my car. We passed a half-dozen or so of Seattle's young pierced and tattooed, all carrying plastic light sabers, clearly on their way to the next showing. They looked about the same age that Paul and I were when we saw Return of the Jedi in 1983.

As we walked, Paul asked, "Does this count as leaving the country? We did go to a galaxy far, far away." I squeezed his hand, and we laughed.

Strengthen the Good

2005-05-24T23:14:00.000-07:00

Some months ago, I ran across a weblog called Strengthen the Good, which describes its mission thus: "Using the power of weblogs for open-source charity. Don't just fight evil: Strengthen the good." Occasionally, STG highlights what its founder Alan Nelson refers to a micro-charity, "a small, inspiring charity, one with a real face, where $1 makes a difference."

The most recent STG post is about Susan Tom, a single mother raising 13 children, 11 of whom she has adopted, many of whom are handicapped or have chronic diseases. She sounds like a remarkable woman, with an amazing family. Please take a look.

Seven years ago today...

2005-05-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

...Paul and I married, at Savannah-Chanel Vineyards in Saratoga, California. One of the readings at our wedding was this excerpt from Anne Morrow Lindbergh's A Gift from the Sea:

A good relationship has a pattern like a dance and is built on some of the same rules. The partners do not need to hold on tightly, because they move confidently in the same pattern, intricate but gay and swift and free, like a country dance of Mozart's. To touch heavily would be to arrest the pattern and freeze the movement, to check the endlessly changing beauty of its unfolding. There is no place here for the possessive clutch, the clinging arm, the heavy hand; only the barest touch in passing. Now arm in arm, now face to face, now back to back - it does not matter which. Because they know they are partners moving to the same rhythm, creating a pattern together, and being invisibly nourished by it.

The joy of such a pattern is not only the joy of creation or the joy of participation, it is also the joy of living in the moment. Lightness of touch and living in the moment are intertwined. One cannot dance well unless one is completely in time with the music, not leaning back to the last step or pressing forward to the next one, but poised directly on the present step as it comes. Perfect poise on the beat is what gives good dancing its sense of ease, of timelessness, of the eternal.

Music for a Sunday morning

2005-05-22T22:47:00.000-07:00

This morning I was at my computer, writing. Prairie Home Companion played on the radio, hovering at the periphery of my awareness. I hummed along when Shetland musicians Ale Möller and Aly Bain (one of my favorite fiddlers, with a pair of gorgeous icy blue eyes) played a couple of beautiful Shetland tunes that I knew, but I was focused on my writing.

A short while later, my mind briefly registered the sound of guitar chords. Then came a voice that demanded my attention, a woman's clear, pure voice singing:

This is the sound of one voice
One spirit, one voice
The sound of one who makes a choice
This is the sound of one voice.

A second female voice joined in, her close harmony floating just below the melody:

This is the sound of voices two
The sound of me singing with you
Helping each other to make it through
This is the sound of voices two.

With the third verse came a third voice, weaving its way through the other two:

This is the sound of voices three
Singing together in harmony
Surrendering to the mystery
This is the sound of voices three

This is the sound of all of us
Singing with love and the will to trust
Leave the rest behind it will turn to dust
This is the sound of all of us

After an instrumental interlude, the three women's voices returned. The first line of this verse mirrored the beginning of the song, but the meaning of 'one voice' was dramatically different:

This is the sound of one voice
One people, one voice
A song for every one of us
This is the sound of one voice
This is the sound of one voice

When the song ended, I was teary-eyed with joy, for both the beauty of the singing and the glorious hopefulness of the song.

These three Canadian singers - Ruth Moody (composer of One Voice), Nicky Mehta and Annabelle Chvostek - are known as the Wailin' Jennys. (Because their music thrills me, and I'm fond of that Texas Outlaw, I'll forgive them the horrible pun of their name.) If I didn't have a rehearsal this Thursday night for a gig at the Northwest Folklife Festival, Paul and I might well be taking a road trip up over the Canadian Border to see them perform in Nelson, BC. I think they'd be worth the trip.

You can listen to One Voice here.

I love Seattle in the Springtime...

2005-05-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

A little good olive oil + 9-10 minutes in a 475 degree oven + a splash of balsamic vinegar = the taste of Spring.

Feline Friday: Wanted

2005-05-20T20:05:00.000-07:00

Be on the lookout for Slasher McKitten, evil twin of Sasha 'Bear' McKitten. Last seen on Thursday, May 19, during the Crating of the McKittens for the annual Veterinary Adventure.

When Paul mistakenly picked up Slasher, and attempted to place him in Sasha's cat carrier, Slasher lived up to his name. Paul received several scratches, including this one. Fortunately, none were life-threatening, and Paul is convalescing comfortably. During the course of the altercation, Slasher made his escape. His whereabouts are unknown.

A short while later, Sasha was located, hiding in a closet. Though distressed by his evil twin's outburst, the gentle, timid Sasha was coaxed into his cat carrier, and delivered to the tender care of the vet.

The McKitten family is looking forward to a quiet weekend at home.
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Friday Ark is up! And Carnival of the Cats this week is at the home of its founder.

How to photograph a building

2005-05-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

You, too, can take stunning photographs of buildings!

Just follow these simple guidelines:

1. Select a building with a western exposure. Unless you are at the north or south pole, this is not difficult to do. If the building you choose - for example, this nice turn of the (last) century house - is attractive or interesting, all the better. It is not, however, necessary.

2. On the day of your shoot, arrange with the higher power of your choice for a downpour. The proportions of said downpour should be your higher power's equivalent of Biblical. After the building, surrounding plants and air have been thoroughly washed, ask your higher power to move those storm clouds off to the east, but not too far.

3. Next, order up a sunny evening. If your higher power does not do sun, you may have to find another vendor. (Some higher powers may object to your making a agreement with those they see as competitors. Review your theology with regard to covenants and non-competes.) Verify when you place your order that the sunshine will be hitting the building almost horizontally at the time of the shoot.

4. If you have properly coordinated with the powers that be, you will have an optimal setting for a fine architectural photograph: building and plants glowing in warm evening light, and a dark, brooding sky beyond. It helps, of course, if you can hold the camera steady; consider asking your significant other not to bring the wine until after the shoot.

5. If you are very lucky, your higher power may throw in a rainbow. It never hurts to ask. You might even get two.

Revenge of the Spellchecker

2005-05-18T23:28:00.000-07:00

Computerized spellchecking was designed to improve our lives.

Sadly, one never knows when a spellchecker, like any technology, may be turned to the Dark Side. Many humans are no match for the spellchecker, and can be swayed by its evil suggestions. In today's Seattle PI review of Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith, the spellchecker struck back:

"From here, the movie whisks us to the city world of Coruscant, where the increasing threat of the Separatist druid army inspires the war-weary Senate to hand over its power to a dictator, and a coup is in the works that will transform the Republic into the evil Galactic Empire."

A druid army? Would this review have us believe that the members of Earth's ancient Celtic priesthood were descendants of those who lived a long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away?

In fact, it is a droid army that is threatening Coruscant in Episode III. Droid, a word that any self-respecting piece of computer software - or any human copyeditor proofreading a Star Wars review - should know.

As Yoda might say, the spellchecker is not stronger. No. Quicker, easier, more seductive... but not stronger.

A best friend to animals in need

2005-05-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

Our cats have a wonderful catsitter, and Paul and I a fine friend, in a slight, red-headed woman named Lynne Madrigal. Whether you call it luck, or serendipity, or the hand of the Almighty, finding Lynne and getting to know her has been one of the truly good things about living in Seattle.

Recently, Lynne and a friend went on "vacation" at the Best Friends Animal Society, an animal sanctuary in the Canyon Country of Utah. I had not heard of Best Friends before, and am moved by the work that they do to provide a home for animals in need. And I am once again impressed with Lynne's love for and devotion to cats - not just her own beloved cats, or her clients (that would be our cats, not us), but all cats.

Lynne wrote an article , published today in the Seattle Times, about her time at Best Friends:

KANAB, Utah — Red rock. Blue sky. Cats and dogs, horses and bunnies — creatures once homeless, abused, injured or abandoned — bask in the splendor of Utah's Canyon Country, the home of Best Friends Animal Sanctuary.

Such is the sight that greets me this spring Sunday (my birthday, in fact) the first of four days my friend Claudia Dannettell and I will spend volunteering at Best Friends. We are among more than 4,000 animal lovers who come here each year from all over the world, using precious vacation time doing what we love: petting, brushing and tending to animals. The sanctuary is home to 1,500 dogs, cats, horses, burros, birds, farm and wild animals, so there's no shortage of critters needing our attention.

Occupying 33,000 acres in Angel Canyon, the sanctuary is operated by Best Friends Animal Society, an organization that works with shelters, rescue groups and about 250,000 members throughout the country, and sometimes beyond, to further its mission: No more homeless pets.

Later in the article, Lynne describes a day in the life of a feline-loving volunteer:

The next morning, I report for duty to the cat headquarters. I am assigned to Benton's House, another building for ailing cats, those with kidney disease, skin cancer and other illnesses.

There's hard work to be done here: Floors and tables, windowsills and colorful cubbyholes ascending the walls must be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. The vast outside enclosure needs sweeping.

During break, I meet two other volunteers: Mary and Karen, both from Pittsburgh, both spending part of their vacations as well. "I want to be a part of helping the animals," Karen says. "This place is an inspiration."

After lunch, I ask at headquarters which cats are least visited by guests and volunteers. They send me to Mondrian's, home of the feral and semi-feral population, intermixed with some "friendlies."

Many of the dozens of cats there are afraid to approach, but others cautiously inch toward me, lured by the brush in my hand. Photos of every cat are posted on the wall, so I am able to address each by name as I groom and cuddle more than 20 needy cats.

Outside, a group of caretaker employees gathers on a break, telling us how happy they are that we are there.

"Volunteers are our bread and butter," says staffer Cathie Toops. Brooke Hodges chimes in, "We don't always have time for the loving and brushing part that volunteers provide."

Later, I visit Jill's Diner, where there are rooms for elderly and diabetic cats, and cats with FIV. At every turn, angel-faced beauties clamor for lap space. I spend the rest of the day here.

Read the rest of Lynne's article here.

Coffee date... with a laptop

2005-05-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

You see them in all the coffee houses in Seattle, folks sitting alone at small tables with their size/ caffeination/ milkfat(or soy)/ flavor of choice coffee drinks... and their laptops. On occasion you'll find them in pairs, sharing that small table; they have eyes only for the LCD displays nestled cozily back to back. Sometimes they outnumber the people *gasp* talking to one another.

I've never understood this phenomenon. Why choose a public place to use your computer? What is the appeal of working in a place in which other people are chatting, laughing, coming and going... having a social life?

Today, for the first time, I was one of those folks, and now I understand.

I'd let most of the week pass without starting the writing assignment that is due when my memoir class meets on Tuesday. Ten to fifteen pages, double spaced, to be critiqued by my teacher and all of my classmates. Every time that I sat down to write, I became distracted. The mountains (perhaps I exaggerate) of clutter in my office taunted me. A cat twined through my legs, purring, or poked a couple of too-sharp claws (doesn't anyone ever clip them? oh, right, my job...) into my thigh, while complaining loudly of neglect. And the internets, oh, the internets, sweetly calling to me through our broadband connection, their siren song luring me from one blog, one website, to another, then another.

Finally, last night, I was desperate. I need to get out of the house, I told Paul, away from all these distractions, so I can focus on writing. I asked to borrow his Mac laptop. Of course, I know that wireless internet connections are available in every self-respecting coffee house in this city. I don't know how to connect Paul's iBook to a wireless network, and I asked him not to show me.

This afternoon, I took the laptop to my favorite neighborhood coffee place. I scored the last table in the front window, overlooking the street. I bought a coffee drink (tall lowfat cafe con leche) and a macaroon. After a few minutes of settling in, I started writing. The regular low buzz of music and conversation was a comfortable background, not nearly as distracting as I'd always imagined it would be. None of it was directed at me, and while I occasionally found myself paying attention to a dog outside the window or a ringing cell phone, I also found that I could easily refocus on writing. Three hours and 4 1/2 pages later, I packed up the computer and came home.

I may have to get my own laptop. And don't be surprised if you see me becoming a regular at one of those small coffee house tables. I'll probably notice (if briefly) that you're there, but don't expect me to talk.

I feel so twenty-first century.

Something's Gotta Give

2005-05-13T17:45:00.000-07:00

WARNING: This post has been deemed too complicated by some weekend viewers. Brains have been scrambled. Thinking caps have been broken. You have been warned.

I'm going to ask a personal question: What percentage of your income do you pay for housing? I'm not asking because I want to know, but because I want you to know. Here's the calculation: Along with your mortgage or rent payments, include in the numerator of this equation the cost of your household utilities and, if you are a homeowner, your property taxes. Your adjusted gross income, rather than your take-home pay, goes in the denominator. Calculate the percentage, but don't tell me your number yet.

If you are paying up to 30% of your income, your housing is considered to be affordable for you.

If you are paying over 50% of your income for housing, you have a "severe housing cost burden." And, if yours is a "working family" - one working the equivalent of a full-time job and earning anywhere from the federal minimum wage of $10,700 up to 120% of your area's median income - there are lots of housing researchers who are studying, and worrying about, families just like yours... and mine.

The area median income in King County, Washington, is $63,120 for a family of two. Not many architects around here make more than 120% of that amount. (When architects who design affordable housing joke that we're designing for ourselves, we're not always joking.) And, having done that little affordability calculation myself, I see that Paul and I are paying between 30% and 40% of our income for our old house. Our housing is not quite considered to be "affordable" for us, but neither are we "severely burdened."

Two weeks ago, the Center for Housing Policy released a study on housing affordability in the United States called Something's Gotta Give: Working Families and the Cost of Housing. The study begins:

Something’s Gotta Give: But What?

Struggling with severe housing cost burdens is not supposed to be so commonplace. General rules of thumb for housing say that about one-third of income is what most working families can afford. But at last count, at least 13 million families in America paid more than half their income for housing and more than 4 million of these families worked full-time jobs.

Yet, we may be underestimating the extent of the problem. Housing is usually the largest and least flexible item in the family budget. How do working families — i.e., those that earn between minimum wage and 120 percent of local median income — cope with high housing costs? Do they put off buying food or healthcare and other necessities? Do they run up a mountain of debt? Do they live long distances from work? And if working families are devoting so much of their expenditures on housing, or on housing plus transportation, what does this mean for the quality of life of these families, especially their children?

To answer these questions, researchers looked at the federal government’s Consumer Expenditure Survey, which provides "line items" of household budgets — the shares of income and expenditures spent on housing and other necessities. A study of the 2002 National Survey of America’s Families provided an in-depth look at the "bottom line" of how individual families are affected by high housing costs. These studies were supplemented by a focus group of working families from around the country.

So what did the researchers find? Working families that pay more that half of their income for housing are, not surprisingly, reducing expenditures for other essentials: food, clothing, health care. The greatest reduction in spending is for transportation.

Working families that spend more than half their total household expenditures on housing put 7.5 percent of their expenditures toward transportation. Contrast this with working families in affordable housing spending 30 percent or less of their total expenditures. Their expenditure shares for transportation are more than three times higher, or nearly 24 percent of their household budget.

These are interesting statistics. One family pays 50% of household expenditures for housing and 7% for transportation; another family pays 30% for housing and 24% for transportation. These families are paying 57% and 54%, respectively, for housing and transportation. Is one family really doing any better financially than the other?

Commuting is a common strategy for working families to cope with high housing costs. When the cost of transportation is considered together with the cost of housing, the percentage of working families paying more than half their total expenditures increases five-fold from 8.3 percent to 44.3 percent of working families. Calculations show that working families spend 77 cents on transportation for every dollar decrease in housing costs. Although not all of family transportation cost is attributable to commuting, the journey to work from less expensive housing likely accounts for a substantial part of it.

This bears repeating: For almost half of America's working families, paying for housing and transportation takes more than half of their monthly financial resources.

Because my office is only 1.5 miles from our house, Paul and I don't have car payments, and we don't drive long distances regularly, our transportation costs are fairly low. How much does the cost of commuting and other transportation add to your family's "fixed" monthly expenses? Is the length of your commute related at all to the cost of your housing?

I haven't finished reading all of the methodology and conclusions of the report. More on that later.

Feline Friday: Hangin' ten

2005-05-13T00:17:00.000-07:00

Sasha is fond of places that are too small for his full-grown size. He loves the ironing board. Yes, he prefers the narrow end, which is not wide enough to support all of him. So, he drapes his beautiful stripey front legs and his fluffy plume of tail over the edge, and uses his hind legs for balance.

Sometimes, having ironed a shirt to wear to work, I discover that I have traded the wrinkles in the fabric for several small tufts of fine, soft, grayish fur. When I am lucky, I discover this while I am still at home.

Note to self: buy fur removal device for car and/or office.

There are lots more animals at the Friday Ark. Carnival of the Cats is up at Aptenobytes, and Sasha is thrilled to be included with so many gorgeous cats.

Choose your own deity

2005-05-11T23:37:00.000-07:00

Have you found that the organized religions you've tried just haven't worked for you? Perhaps the right spiritual home for you is in this new church:

Scientology Losing Ground to New Fictionology

LOS ANGELES—According to a report released Monday by the American Institute of Religions, the Church of Scientology, once one of the fastest-growing religious organizations in the U.S., is steadily losing members to the much newer religion Fictionology.

"Unlike Scientology, which is based on empirically verifiable scientific tenets, Fictionology's central principles are essentially fairy tales with no connection to reality," the AIR report read. "In short, Fictionology offers its followers a mythical belief system free from the cumbersome scientific method to which Scientology is hidebound."

Read the rest of the story here.

Muppet memories

2005-05-10T23:43:00.000-07:00

I heard on NPR yesterday morning that it was Kermit the Frog's 50th birthday. Until yesterday, I had no idea that Kermit is older than I am. My, he's aging well. Jim Henson created the characters of Kermit and other proto-muppets as part of Sam and Friends, a five-minute live show that aired on WRC-TV in Washington, D.C., from 1955 to 1961. In his first appearances, Kermit looked more lizard than frog; by the debut of Sesame Street in 1969, he had become his amphibious green self.

While the Muppets figured prominently in many people's childhoods, Kermit and the Muppet Show evoke strong memories of my final semester in college. The Muppet Show had been cancelled the previous year, but a local Providence station played reruns every evening at 7:00 p.m., right about the time that my roommates and I finished dinner.

We were having a horrific year. My boyfriend (now husband) Paul had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma the week after Thanksgiving, and was home in Connecticut in chemotherapy. Becca had a breast tumor, which fortunately was benign, and recurring UTI's in part, she eventually learned, because of kidney malformations. Chris had mysteriously become quite anemic; Barrett and Lynda had mono for a month. (How I stayed healthy though this period I'll never know.) The news from our apartment was so consistently bad that one roommate's insensitive (and not surprisingly temporary) boyfriend christened it the "death suite." (He also called us castrating bitches, which somehow struck us as funny; we took to calling our apartment the CB suite, and ourselves the CB's.)

Dinnertime with my roommates was often the best part of the day. We took turns cooking, then gathered around the dinner table for nourishment both physical and emotional. At the end of dinner each weeknight, the five of us were joined by our friends, the Muppets. Stacking the dinner dishes in the middle of the table, we'd pour toasted almonds (kahlua, amaretto and milk) or sea breezes (vodka and cranberry juice, particularly popular when UTI's struck), turn on our small TV, and give ourselves over to the antics of Kermit, Miss Piggy, their friends and special (human) guests stars. We particularly loved the Swedish Chef, seen here in the classic chocolate moose sketch, and would sing along with his Swedish gibberish song, ending with a heartfelt, "Børk! Børk! Børk!" Half an hour of gentle laughter therapy, and we'd head back to our books for the evening.

Happy birthday, Kermie. And thank you, Jim Henson, for lifting the hearts of several very sad, stressed out college students, many years ago.

Fresh each day

2005-05-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

The past couple of weeks, I haven't have much time to read blogs - or, obviously, to write much here. The rest of my life has been busy, and in good ways. Now I just have to figure our how to have a busy life, read the blogs I love, and write here regularly.

On days when I have little time to spend in the blogosphere, there are two blogs that I almost always visit, because they provide such lovely small treats for the eyes.

Postcard from Provence is the daily painting blog of Julian Merrow-Smith, a British (really, didn't the name tell you?) painter living in Crillon-le-Brave, Provence with his wife, cellist Ruth Phillips, and their two cats. Since February 16, Julian has been painting, and posting, a small oil painting each day on this blog. His still lives - often one piece of luscious local fruit such as those shown here - are mouth-watering; his landscapes sketches capture in gesture the qualities of light, shade and shadow on the buildings and trees of Provence. Julian writes:

The idea for this site germinated over the winter of 2004/2005, in no small measure due to the arrival of ADSL in the provençal countryside, my interest in webdesign, webstandards and blogging and finally, stumbling across the enormously successful site of one Duane Keiser.

I first learned of painter Duane Keiser's blog, A Painting a Day, from a post of Ruth's. It has become a daily "read" as well. Duane, who lives in Richmond, Virginia, says this about his blog:

For this blog I'm going to try to make a painting each day (starting 12/10/2004.) Most of the paintings on this blog will be postcard-sized oil sketches (I call them Postcard Paintings.) I paint them on site, using a modified cigar box as an easel.

Duane paints small still lives, not only of small, ovoid foods, but of flowers, fishing lures, even the proverbial silver spoon (shown out of mouth). Yesterday, he posted the sweet, light-filled 'Backyard (for Mom)'. Duane has a great short movie showing him painting a small object. How long did it take you to figure out what he was painting?

Were it not for Ruth, who somehow found Music and Cats and wrote to me, I would probably not know of either of these painting blogs, nor would I know of her own thoughtful, lyrical, beautifully written blog, meanwhile, here in france... Many thanks, Ruth.

Feline Friday: Herb 2

2005-05-06T00:15:00.000-07:00

When Paul and I travel, our cats Lyra, Sasha and Sergei are in for a treat. Our catsitter, their Auntie Lynne, comes each day to feed them, play with them, sometimes even nap with them. If we are gone for more than a couple of days, we usually return home to find that the cats have a new toy.

The Christmas before last, this wonderful scratching-pad-with-ball-toy was the cats' treat from Lynne. The pink ball cannot come out of the track, but the cats seem not to understand that, and have a great time batting at it, watching it spin around the ring. The scratching pad is the corrugated cardboard sort, and came with a baggie of catnip for enticing the cats to use it. Works like a charm, as Sergei and Sasha demonstrate in these photos, taken hours ago, just after I'd applied a liberal amount of catnip to the pad.

Sometimes late at night, when the house is very quiet, I'll suddenly hear the sound of that pink ball spinning around the track. WhirrrrrWhirrrrWhirrrr...

The Reading

2005-05-04T23:45:00.000-07:00

If you were to scroll down to near the bottom of the May author events page at the University of Washington Bookstore's web site, you'd see this:

Tuesday May 31 7pm
Laura Kalpakian's Memoir Class Reading
University District Store
Tuesday is the first night of Laura Kalpakian's UW Extension Memoir class student readings. Come see what they've been up to all semester.

The listing has gotten several things wrong. Of course I'll tell you what they are; otherwise I'll be bothered by them. It's the only night of our class readings. Whatever we've been "up to," it has been all year. UW doesn't have semesters; it has quarters... and this is our third one.

So what's this all about? As the "final project" for our certificate program, my classmates and I will be reading 4-5 minute excerpts from our work for anyone who wants to come and listen.

My classmates' memoir topics vary considerably. A is writing about working with Washington's first openly gay state legislator, B about her lovely, loving family, and her journey to become a female, African-American doctor, C about her Peace Corps experience in Mongolia, D about post-traumatic stress... and those are only four of nineteen. The writing styles vary considerably, but through the course of the year, each person has come to "sound" on paper more and more the way that they sound when speaking; everyone's voice is becoming much more clear.

I've been puzzling over what to read at this event. A 4-5 minute reading is about 1 manuscript page, 12 point, single spaced. Most everything that I've written for the class has been much longer than that, and I'm not sure how to edit specifically for this reading. We're going to talk about that very thing at next week's class; I hope to have a better idea about this a week from now.

If you're going to be in Seattle on May 31, and don't have any plans for the evening, come on over to the UW Bookstore. It should be an interesting evening.

Fit as a morris for May-day

2005-05-01T16:45:00.000-07:00

COUNTESS: Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
CLOWN: As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney,
as your French crown for your taffeta punk,
as Tib's rush for Tom's forefinger,
as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for May-day,
as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn,
as a scolding queen to a wrangling knave,
as the nun's lip to the friar's mouth,
nay, as the pudding to his skin.
--William Shakespeare, All's Well that Ends Well, Act II scene ii

For the past 10 years, I've spent the early hours of May Day at one windy waterside park or another, playing fiddle while my Morris-dancing friends dance up the sun. How the sun manages to rise unassisted the other 364 days of the year is a question for another day. On this day, Morris sides around the world do their part to assist the sun on its path.

Nineteen hours before Seattle's dancers are due at Gasworks Park, dancers in Auckland, New Zealand, get the day started. Dressed in whites, ribbons and bells, they meet at the top of Mt. Eden to raise the sun. As it's now autumn in the southern hemisphere, dawn comes at around 7:00 a.m. in Auckland. Lucky Kiwis! Morris sides exist primarily in countries with large populations of English descent or large British expatriate communities. After New Zealand, teams in Australia, Hong Kong and South Africa help to send the sun on its way west. England's many Morris teams pass the sun on to the Americans - both US and Canadian.

By the time the sun makes it to the west coast of North America, it's almost done for the day. Still, to ensure that the sun keeps going across the Pacific and back to New Zealand again (after which it's on its own again until next year), Morris sides from southern California to Vancouver, BC participate in sun-raising. I noted last May Day that, "in Seattle, 'dancing up the sun' is usually a conceptual exercise...It's dark, cold, windy, and often drizzling, if not outright raining... The first team that has a full complement of dancers starts the dancing a few minutes before what we know intellectually to be dawn, and we dance until the sky has lightened enough that we can believe that the sun is, in fact, above the horizon."

Like last year, however, this May Day morning was glorious. A bright half moon was high in the mostly clear, already lightening sky as Paul and I drove to Gasworks Park. Arriving at 5:30 a.m., we discovered that we were the first of the Morris folk there. (A few of the pagans who always come out for May Day dawn had arrived; they care much more about being out right at sunrise than do most dancers.) The dancers reached critical mass in time to do one dance before sunrise on the clock. The Cascade mountains and the I-5 bridge hid the sun for an additional ten minutes, so we saw "sunrise" at a few minutes after 6:00 a.m. After an hour and a half of dancing, the sun was well up in the sky. Our work was done, and we were off to Mae's for breakfast... and lots of coffee.

A moment in the rain

2005-04-30T11:23:00.000-07:00

When I went out to pick up lunch yesterday, a gentle rain was falling. The warm, sunny days that we've had recently have encouraged strolling and basking; during yesterday's chilly showers people just wanted to get where they were going.

I'd picked up a sandwich at Macrina, and was headed back up 1st Avenue toward my office, lunch in one hand, umbrella in the other. He was coming down 1st Avenue, a tough looking young guy sporting a spiky haircut, a few facial piercings, and a dark expression. We were walking quickly, in the middle of the sidewalk, directly towards each other. Twenty-five feet separated us when we attempted evasive maneuvers. I feinted slightly to my right; he to his left. We made eye contact. We each shifted in the opposite direction; his mouth quirked up, and I grinned. A couple more of these mirrored changes in direction, eyes locked, and we were laughing. Neither of us slowed our pace, but at the last possible moment we shifted out of a collision course. I caught a whiff of wet leather as we passed, only inches apart.

I was still laughing when I turned the corner... and could hear his laughter coming from behind me.

Feline Friday: Sergei

2005-04-29T08:33:00.000-07:00

A study in black and white on red. He is an elegant fellow, our Sergei... except when he's shaking the stuffing out of a fur weasel. ("Weasel?" you might ask. "It looks like a mouse to me." You'll have to take that up with Paul, who calls Sergei's favorite toys weasels because they're larger than mice.)

All aboard the Friday Ark.

Letter to the PNWMPS membership

2005-04-28T22:59:00.000-07:00

This past Christmas, Paul and I gave several gifts of membership in the newly formed Pacific Northwest Monthly Preserves Society. We had high hopes for the PNWMPS; we believed the products to be delicious, and all those who had sampled the preserves had enjoyed them. We had thought that, were our family members happy with their gifts, we might give additional memberships as gifts next year.

Sadly, the PNWMPS has so far failed in its mission of providing Pacific Northwest Preserves on a regular basis to those not fortunate enough to live here. The Society has not lived up to its name, nor to the promises made to its members. We have recently acquired, from someone high-up in the PNWMPS, a copy of the letter that the society will mail to its membership tomorrow:

Dear [member's name here]:

The Pacific Northwest Monthly Preserves Society regrets to officially inform you of something of which we are sure you are already aware: We have been remiss.

When we welcomed you into Membership in the Society (indicating, as we then noted, that you are a person of discrimination and fine taste), we made you this promise: "As a Member, you may expect deliveries of preserves from the Pacific Northwest to arrive every two months, on average, during the coming year."

As you received your Initial Membership Package at the end of December, and you are (as are all of our Members) a person not only of discrimination and fine taste but also of exceptional mathematical and calendaring abilities, you might well have expected your next shipment of delectable Pacific Northwest Preserves to have arrived on your doorstep at the end of February.

When said expected shipment did not arrive, we are sure that you will have consulted the letter accompanying your Initial Membership Package. As you (as are all of our Members) are a person not only of discrimination and fine taste, and of exceptional mathematical and calendaring abilities, but also of the highest reading comprehension skills, you will perhaps have noticed the qualifier "on average" in the statement regarding future shipments. You might then have been slightly mollified, if anxious for the much-anticipated arrival of your preserves.

When the end of March arrived, and no fine Pacific Northwest Preserves had yet arrived on your doorstep, we would venture that you were, perhaps, somewhat disappointed. As you are a person not only of discrimination and fine taste (as are all of our Members), [yada yada blah blah blah blather fawn], but also of great emotional strength and compassion, we imagine that you might have decided, out of the goodness of your very good heart, to be generous in your interpretation of our promised shipping schedule.

It is now the end of April. It has been four months since you received your Initial Membership Package, and you have yet to receive your next shipment of our truly delectable Pacific Northwest Preserves. We can only imagine that, as you are a person of discrimination and fine taste, you are by now craving our fine preserves, are despairing of ever receiving any further shipment from the PNWMPS, and are therefore (justifiably, I might add) pissed.

Dear [member's name here], please accept our most sincere apologies for any distress caused by the unfortunate difficulties in our fulfillment department. You will receive, within the week, three jars of our fine product from the Pacific Northwest: Peach Preserves with Orange Liqueur, Seville Orange Marmalade and Cranberry Cherry Almond Conserve. We hope that these preserves will prove to have been worth the wait. We will endeavor to improve our scheduling and shipping procedures so that this lapse does not occur again.

Very sincerely,
The Pacific Northwest ~~Monthly~~ ~~Quarterly~~ Occasional Preserves Society

p.s. Although we recognize that this extended period without benefit of fine Pacific Northwest Preserves may have created in our esteemed members an understandably intense desire for our product, we again ask that you remain mindful of the PNWMPS Helpful Suggestion: Though upon opening you may be tempted to do so, please do not consume the entire contents at one sitting. Though exquisite, these preserves are best consumed across a decent interval, and shared with friends and family. New Members who have ignored this Helpful Suggestion have reported short periods of bliss, followed by longer periods of gastric distress. By offering this Helpful Suggestion, we hope to prevent such unfortunate occurrences. We thank you for your attention to this matter.

p.p.s. Due to the same inattention to organizational detail that resulted in the unfortunate lapse in our shipping schedule, the upgrading of our Seattle production facilities has not yet occurred. We are attempting to schedule this upgrade, taking into account the question of whether peak (summer) season production might occur offsite. You are always welcome to visit our facilities. If you choose to do so during peak season, you may be able to participate in not only the User Recipe Testing that has made our facilities tours a "must" for members visiting Our Fair City, but in the very production process itself. This is an opportunity that is made available to only a very select few. If you are interested, please contact us immediately to schedule a visit.

Yes, of course, the PNWMQOPS is really me and Paul. And it's a good thing I still have a day job.

Soft

2005-04-27T22:55:00.000-07:00

In a comment to this past week's Feline Friday, panthergirl of The Dog's Breakfast suggested that I submit a feline photo to Photo Friday, which this week has the theme Soft.

Lyra is soft.

Is My Blog Burning? #14: Orange you hungry?

2005-04-24T23:21:00.000-07:00

While lost somewhere in the blogosphere yesterday evening, I discovered that Is My Blog Burning? #14 was going on through today, with the theme of orange-colored food. I've thought for a while about joining in a food blogging meme, but hadn't before found the time. However, I had already planned a menu for brunch today featuring preserves that I'd made that are both orange in color and flavored with orange. It seemed like a sign. (Never mind that the preserves were only a small part of the meal.)

French Toast with Orange Brandied Peach Preserves

(Hmmm... a different placemat would've been better for the photo. The yellow in this one really brings out the yellow from the egg yolks in the French toast.)

Orange Brandied Peach Preserves

I made these peach preserves in August, as part of my annual summertime obsession with the glorious fruit of the Pacific Northwest. The peaches came from Pence Orchards, a farm near Union Gap, WA that has been operated by the Pence family since the late 1800's. I buy Pence peaches because I want to support family farming, and because they are luscious. The process that I use for making preserves, garnered from Well Preserved, takes three days. This recipe is adapted from the Brandied Peach Preserves in Well Preserved. It goes something like this:

Day 1: Peel and slice peaches. Perform random quality control on peach slices. Yum. Make sure that you have 8 cups sliced peaches left after QC. Layer peaches and 5 cups sugar in preserving pot. Place lid on pot; set aside until next day.

Day 2: Juice from peaches has dissolved most sugar. Boil peaches in resulting syrup for 15 minutes. Add 1/2 cup lemon juice. Pour mixture into shallow pans to allow for "plumping" of peaches with sugar and evaporation of liquid. Place pans in cat-proof location - oven is good - overnight.

Day 3: Return peach mixture to preserving pot. Bring to boil. Open kitchen window. Boil 15-20 minutes; syrup should now be thickened. Open back door; latch screen door so that cats do not escape. Continue boiling. Begin heating water in canner, and sterilize 6 8-ounce jars, lids and rings. Why has the syrup not thickened? Continue boiling. Decide syrup is thick enough. Remove preserves from heat. Add 1/2 cup orange brandy. Watch brandy boil on top of no-longer-boiling preserves; think about relative boiling points of liquids. Ladle preserves into jars, screw on lids, process in boiling water for 10 minutes. Remove jars from canner; remove self and cold diet Coke from kitchen. Allow to cool.

This preserve is delicious as a topping for vanilla ice cream, or on any sort of toast, including French toast.

French Toast

I learned to make French toast from my mother, who never used a recipe. It's probably my favorite breakfast food. I feel compelled to try the French toast at any restaurant that serves it... and I am often disappointed. The restaurant at the Morrison-Clark Inn in Washington, D.C. has perhaps the best French toast that I have ever tasted; inch-thick slabs of crustless brioche are soaked in an egg custard, then deep fried. The resulting 'toast' is very rich, with an ethereal texture. The French toast that I make is sturdier stuff; it can tolerate 15 minutes in a warm oven when I'm cooking for a crowd, and reheats nicely in a toaster. This recipe scales easily. We had a friend over for brunch this morning, so I made three servings.

For each serving:
2 1/2-inch-thick slices rustic white bread (I use Essential Baking Company's Fremont loaf, which is a mild sourdough)
1 large egg
1/3 cup milk (whole is best, 2% is fine, don't use skim)
1/4 teaspoon vanilla (or to taste - I like a lot)
nutmeg
1 1/2 teaspoons butter

Slice bread the night before, so that the slices dry out slightly.

Beat together eggs, milk and vanilla in a glass baking dish. (A 9x13 baking dish works well for three servings.) Grate nutmeg across top of egg mixture. Place bread slices into egg mixture. Allow to stand, turning bread once, until all of egg mixture has been absorbed (10-15 minutes).

Melt butter in large skillet over medium heat. Add bread slices to skillet. Cook until golden brown, about 5 minutes per side.

Add strong coffee and fresh strawberries, and you'll have yourself a lovely brunch.

More pepper, less salt

2005-04-24T17:45:00.000-07:00

I wish that I could tell you that, my life having been less stressful for the past few months, my hair had regained most of its original pigmentation all on its own. Sadly, it doesn't seem to work that way. I had my hair colored yesterday. I had been thinking about it since this photo was taken in August. When my husband told me a couple of months ago that the particular mix of salt and pepper in my hair was the same as in his mother's hair right before she died, I knew that it was time. Really, what wife wants to remind her husband of his mother?

My first white hairs appeared when I was in my late teens. Early graying is part of my genetic inheritance from my father, which also includes good teeth, great eyesight, strong spatial abilities and a sweet tooth. (I think that my tendency to be opinionated is nurture rather than nature, but it could be either one... and could easily have come from either side of my family). I am thankful that the 'X' chromosome my father also gave me saved me from male pattern balding.

I chose not to get rid of all of my gray because these silvery strands are part of who I am. I just didn't want them to be quite so much of who I am. My hair now is mostly dark, shot through with the silver strands that were left uncolored. In the places where my hair had the most gray, my stylist Ricardo left sections of hair uncolored, creating a couple of strong silver streaks. The streaks don't show up well in this photo (a fine example of the self-portrait, no?), but they are definitely there. Ricardo did such a fine job of making the effect look natural that two friends whom I've seen today did not notice until I mentioned it. My husband Paul, on the other hand, thinks the difference is noticeable, and likes it very much indeed... and so do I.

Wanted: a few good planets

2005-04-22T17:12:00.000-07:00

Today is the 35th anniversary of Earth Day. As part of your observance of this day, please consider taking the Ecological Footprint Quiz from the folks at the Earth Day Network and Redefining Progress. The quiz is intended to give you an idea about your impact on the earth's resources, by "estimat[ing] how much productive land and water you need to support what you use and what you discard."

Your results may disturb you; mine certainly did. According to the quiz, my ecological footprint is 21 global acres. "In comparison, the average ecological footprint in your country is 24 global acres per person. Worldwide, there exist 4.5 biologically productive acres per person. If everyone lived like you, we would need 4.7 planets." The results are broken down into four categories: food, mobility, shelter, and goods/services. Because only Paul and I live in our freestanding, single-family house (with running water and electricity), shelter is the area in which we rack up the acres.

There's more detailed information about the quiz here, here, and here. If you want really detailed information about your own household's consumption, you can download a spreadsheet to help you figure it out.

How many planets would we need if everyone lived like you?

Feline Friday: On the windowsill

2005-04-22T00:12:00.000-07:00

They are cats. You can't ask them to pose. Were you able to make them understand such a request, they would probably refuse. Posing cats is much like herding them, with the added requirement that they not only go to some particular spot, but that they then hold still... just for a moment... please.

Occasionally, however, they will surprise you. On a bright Spring afternoon, you will look up from reading to see them on a sunny windowsill. You will rush for your camera, hoping that they will pay no attention to your movement. It is, after all, not yet time for their dinner. When you return, camera in hand, they will have created a lovely tableau. You will snap the shot, laughing with delight at their beautifully matched silhouettes, at the difference in scale between their 8-lb and 12-lb bodies, at the play of sunlight and shadow across their fur.

They will turn then and see the camera still pressed to your face (a habit you have yet to break from your many pre-digital years). With a yawn and a meow, they will be on to the next thing. You can't ask them to pose. They are cats.

For more animals (not necessarily two by two), visit the Friday Ark. Carnival of the Cats will be hosted by The Oubliette this Sunday.

The grass has riz

2005-04-18T20:11:00.000-07:00

It is after 8:00 p.m. The sun is just now setting. I like Spring.

When authors read

2005-04-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

One of the assignments for the memoir-writing class I'm taking is that each student attend an author reading, and report back to the class about it. After weeks of finding nothing on bookstore event schedules that interested me, in this week I found four authors whose readings I wanted to attend. I've been to two so far; the other two readings are this afternoon and tomorrow evening.

On Thursday evening, I went out to Third Place Books, where Ruth Reichl was reading from her new book, Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of A Critic in Disguise. I thoroughly enjoyed the first of Ms. Reichl's memoirs, Tender at the Bone: Growing Up at the Table, in which she described the development of her appreciation for and understanding of food. In this new book, she writes about being the restaurant critic for the New York Times.

Yesterday, Pam Houston was at Queen Anne Books reading from her semi-autobiographical novel, Sight Hound. I fell in love with Pam Houston's writing several years ago, when my sister gave me a copy of her book of (also semi-autobiographical) short stories, Cowboys Are My Weakness. The female narrators in Ms. Houston's short stories are tough, funny, and insecure; each of them loves, and inevitably loses, a man whose favorite song might well be Desperado. Her new book, her first novel, is the story of a woman and the dog that she loves and loses.

Both women wore black. (They are, after all, writers.) However, New York City black and California academician black are so different as to be almost unrecognizable as the same color. Ms. Reichl, in sleek black suit with crimson blouse, fully made-up, dark, wavy hair cascading artfully over her shoulders, looked ready for an evening out at an elegant restaurant. Ms. Houston could have been meeting a close friend at their neighborhood coffee house; her loose black pants and sweater over a printed t-shirt, funky red clogs, and clean-scrubbed face screamed West Coast intelligentsia, and fit right in with the QA Books crowd.

Ms. Reichl is a charming and engaging storyteller; her onstage persona is sparkling and witty. She read several passages from Garlic and Sapphires that described the disguises and associated alter-egos she created to avoid being recognized when dining at restaurants she intended to review. To put it bluntly, her writing is much better than her reading of it (at least on this occasion). When reading dialog, she takes on the voices of her characters. Speaking in a voice much different than one's own is a tricky thing, one that actors spend years practicing. Some in the audience were clearly amused by her breathy femme fatale reading of one of her characters; I found it overwrought and distracting. Ms. Reichl spent more time speaking extemporaneously about the stories in the book and answering audience questions than she did reading; this worked to her considerable strengths.

Ms. Houston's onstage persona is much like the voices of her characters: a little tough and matter of fact even when speaking of the most tender subjects, and peppered with subtle, often ironic, always intelligent humor. When she read from Sight Hound, she slipped into a different voice, a fluid, non-inflected, near monotone. I've heard other writers read in this sort of voice; it is, I'm guessing, an attempt to focus the listeners' attention on the words themselves, rather than on the person reading them. While it works for the first-person internal narrative that Ms. Houston read, it is deadly to dialog, the reading of which calls for the cadences of speech.

Why, you may wonder, am I dissecting the readings, rather than discussing the writing? I'm thinking about readings because the final project, as it were, for my memoir-writing class is to give a reading. The evening of May 31, the eighteen of us in the memoir class will be reading from our work at the University Bookstore in Seattle. We will each have about 5 minutes to read. This amount of time seems like a mere instant to some of us, and an eternity in hell to others. Having spent a lot of time on stage, I'm not particularly anxious. I am aware, however, that every type of performance is different, so I'm studying this particular form. I hate giving a bad performance.

And yes, I'll say a little something about the books, too. I think that Garlic and Sapphires will be a delightful read, especially for those who appreciate descriptions of meals so exquisite and nuanced that one can almost taste the food. This is a book for the head, and for the palate. I bought Sight Hound yesterday, and have begun reading it. Ms. Houston's use of several first-person narrators gives the reader close-up views of her dog's long battle with cancer, the vets who tried to save him, and the other people and animals who were part of their lives. This is a book for the heart. Be prepared to be very much aware of your own when you read it.

Unitarian Jihad: what's in a name?

2005-04-15T09:12:00.000-07:00

The Unitarian Jihad is growing. Get your own Jihad name today!

When I mentioned earlier this week that 'Sister Clusterbomb of Tranquility' perhaps wasn't really 'me,' I had no idea that there were others out there hard at work providing names for new jihadists. You now have several sources for your jihad name:

The Unitarian Jihad Name Generator has dubbed me Sister Pepper Spray of Sweet Reason.

The First Reformed Unitarian Jihad Name Generator has named me Sister Katana of Mindful Hope. For those who might not know, a katana is "a Japanese sword, with a curved, single-edged blade twenty-four to thirty-six inches long." (From the Weapons Glossary at You and Whose Army?, sent to me by the always informative Isabella.)

But wait! There's more! Rum and Monkey's Unitarian Jihad Name Generator has bestowed on me the title of Mother Mutual Assured Destruction of Appreciative Joy.

Why have only one? You never know when you're going to need another Jihad alias.

In closing, my esteemed husband, known alternately as Brother Plasma Rifle of Love and Venerable Smith & Wesson of Lovingkindness (hmmm... I sense a theme here), and our three cats, Sister Molotov Cocktail of Discussion, Brother Chakram of Courteous Understanding and Brother Atom Bomb of Serenity (in the same order as on the sidebar), wish to share with you further news from the jihad:

Beware! Unless you people shut up and begin acting like grown-ups with brains enough to understand the difference between political belief and personal faith, the Unitarian Jihad will begin a series of terrorist-like actions. We will take over television studios, kidnap so-called commentators and broadcast calm, well-reasoned discussions of the issues of the day. We will not try for "balance" by hiring fruitcakes; we will try for balance by hiring non-ideologues who have carefully thought through the issues.

People of the United States! We are Unitarian Jihad! We can strike without warning. Pockets of reasonableness and harmony will appear as if from nowhere! Nice people will run the government again! There will be coffee and cookies in the Gandhi Room after the revolution.

The blessings of tolerance, reason, understanding and joy to you all on this day!

(Gracious thanks to Sister Peaceful Neutron Bomb of Moderate Joy for the reference to the name providers.)

Feline Friday: Eat, play, sleep

2005-04-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

Playing with Da Bird wears Sasha out.

Note: The beautiful Sasha is a boy cat. (Sasha is the Russian nickname for Alexander.)

For more cats (and all sorts of other animals), visit the Friday Ark.
Carnival of the Cats will be at Watermark on Sunday.

Down to earth

2005-04-13T23:36:00.000-07:00

When most of us in the "developed" world think of "home," the building that comes to mind is one constructed of wood and brick, of steel and concrete. However, according to the Earth Architecture website, "One half of the world's population, approximately 3 billion people on six continents, lives or works in buildings constructed of earth." Earth building goes by many names: adobe, rammed earth, mud brick, compressed earth. Some types of earth building technologies use cement or other modern building materials for stabilization; others use only combinations of natural, completely biodegradable materials: earth, straw, cactus, manure.

In Presidio, Texas, a small border town in the Big Bend region, a non-profit organization called the Adobe Alliance is working to increase the population housed in earth buildings, using all-natural adobe. In the 1970's, Alliance founder Simone Swan apprenticed with Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy, and was "inspired by his use of earthen materials and his interest in reviving indigenous building techniques for owner-built cooperative housing." When Swan established the Alliance in the late 1990's, she located it in Presidio County in part because of its 37% unemployment rate. Teaching the local population to build homes for themselves and others is part of the Alliance's plan:

The purpose of the Adobe Alliance is to build low-cost energy efficient housing that is climatically and environmentally compatible and to fill widespread needs for sustainable, salubrious housing while enhancing the unique landscape of the Big Bend region of West Texas and other desert environments. Means to reach this goal include:

The use of local renewable, recycled resources and building materials to considerably reduce cost and environmental impact, avoiding the use of industrial materials;

Providing roofs in the configuration of adobe vaults and domes, a unique yet ancient design feature which eliminates the use of wood, an increasingly scarce natural resource;

Designs which harness natural energy for heating and cooling. Adobe walls retain heat in the winter and stay cool in the summer, eliminating the cost of mechanical heating and cooling systems;

A system to meet local housing needs using indigenous skills, thereby providing a source of employment and simultaneously incorporating, preserving and enhancing local architectural heritage.

An appropriate building technique for chemically sensitive individuals, using only materials that are totally non-toxic.

This article in the Desert-Mountain Times described a hands-on workshop held by the Alliance in February:

On a mesa a few miles east of this border town, a dozen men and women scooped up handfuls of mud and hurled them at the sides of a small adobe building. They stepped back, admired the sound and effect of mud hitting the wall, and reached for another helping. It bothered no one that the secret ingredients in the mud were prickly pear cactus and fresh horse manure that had been cold-brewed in a "tea" before being mixed with earth and straw.

One young man leapt as though making a game-winning lay-up and, plop, hit his target about 10 feet up the wall. His friends cheered.

The walls werent the only thing affected by their enthusiasm. Their hair and clothing were becoming spattered in the process. No one seemed to care. Indeed, they expected it. This was part of what the participants paid $250 to $300 each to do.

The mud-throwing men and women spent a long weekend last month at the seventh annual Adobe Alliance workshop three days of education on what to do and how to do it for an increasingly popular form of building. Some got their first taste of building with adobes; others honed their skills.

The rest of the article is here.

Rather than focusing on the upscale housing market in such places as the Albuquerque-Santa Fe-Taos axis in New Mexico or the wealthier areas of Arizona or California, the alliance is in the forefront of a renewed effort to build energy-efficient housing using materials that considerably reduce the cost and the impact on the environment.

"Its all in the spirit of building with local people and local materials," said Simone Swan, who founded the alliance and whose home was the workshop classroom and laboratory. "Its all economic incentives because dirt is the only (building material) that is not linked to the price of oil," said Swan, who studied use of earthen materials and indigenous building techniques under Hassan Fathy, a renowned environmental architect.

The project was under the watchful eyes of Maria Jesus Jimenez, who managed the sessions; Joaquin Valenzuela, an adobe vault and dome craftsman; and Efren Rodriguez, a master adobe plasterer. All hailed from Ojinaga, Mexico, across the Rio Grande from Presidio.

That mornings assignment was to replaster the walls of a 12-by-12-foot domed adobe building that is a guest quarters for Swans 1,600-square-foot adobe home. The smaller building originally was plastered with a cement-based covering - a move Swan said was a mistake. Unusually heavy rains last summer produced hairline cracks in the plaster, and they could not be patched. So the old plaster was peeled off the walls, broken into small chunks and recycled as walkways around the yard - blue paint and all.

This time, Swan said, the plaster would be based on the cactus-and-horse-manure mixture instead of commercial cement. The prickly pear pads were cut open and then soaked for three days in water, which produced a syrup like consistency that helped the mud adhere to the adobe blocks. The manure soaked separately for three days, and unlike the cactus liquid, it was poured through a wire mesh strainer before the liquid was added to the dirt in the mixing process. "The fresher, the better," Swan said of the manure. "Go put a bucket right under the horse."

After slinging the mud on the bare adobe blocks, workers smoothed the mixture over the surface and stuffed extra between the blocks to fill voids left by removing the cement-based plaster.

As he worked the mud with his hands, Richard Hinkle of Alpine said, "Im reverting to my childhood. This is where my expertise lies." Katje Erickson, an environmental planner and engineer from Belen, N.M., agreed with that notion: "Ive been in the studio too much and in front of a computer too much. I had to get out and get my hands dirty."

John Morony, who teaches environmental biology at Southwest Texas Junior College in Del Rio, said he was learning much of what he would need to know when he begins work on his own house in May. It will be built of smoother compressed-earth blocks instead of traditional adobes, he said, but the process is much the same. "Im seeing what I want to build a house with," said Morony, who is a member of the Adobe Association of Del Rio. The group, he said, "teaches people to build with whats available and thats dirt."

He gave as well as he received from the session. During an after-lunch discussion among the workshop attendees, he explained how adobe blocks help keep a building cool in the summer and warm in winter by absorbing and then releasing moisture in the air as needed. A well-built adobe house can be as much as 20 degrees cooler in summer than the air outside, he said.

Others at the workshop included Nripal Aghikary, a native of Nepal who is attending college in El Rito, N.M.; Fernando Pina Rodriguez, an engineer from San Luis Potosi, Mexico; Robert Dinoir of Del Rio, who described his design for a cooling tower for adobe buildings; and three students doing graduate work in architecture at the University of Texas: Ann Tucker, Nick Brinen and Jack Sanders.

Later in the afternoon, when Jimenez and her crew had left for the day, the workshop participants tried their hand at mixing mud from the same recipe to test themselves on what they had learned. They started the cement mixer and began measuring and adding ingredients. Sanders scooped out some of the freshly churned mud, hurried to the building and hurled the gooey mixture at a bare spot on the wall.

"It sticks!" he shouted. The rest of the mud was dumped into a wheelbarrow and taken to the side of the building where the others grabbed the mixture and began smoothing it over the adobe blocks.

For more information, contact www.adobealliance.org or write to Adobe Alliance, 1 Casa Piedra Road, Presidio, TX 79845.

<- Close

Reading the article, I immediately wanted to sign up for a workshop. Never mind that adobe is not a suitable building material for the Pacific Northwest. I've always loved playing in the mud. Imagine putting that childlike pleasure to such a very good use.

My kind of extremist

2005-04-10T17:42:00.000-07:00

I've recently learned of an underground organization that might be right for me; it's the Unitarian Jihad. Here's the first paragraph of their manifesto:

Greetings to the Imprisoned Citizens of the United States. We are Unitarian Jihad. There is only God, unless there is more than one God. The vote of our God subcommittee is 10-8 in favor of one God, with two abstentions. Brother Flaming Sword of Moderation noted the possibility of there being no God at all, and his objection was noted with love by the secretary.

Now that's my kind of Jihad! It's clear that, in order to join this organization, I will need a nom de ~~guerre?~~ ~~plume?~~ ~~pax?~~... whatever, I just need a nom. Sadly, 'Sister Immaculate Dagger of Peace' and 'Sister Hand Grenade of Love' have already been taken. My dear husband has suggested 'Sister Clusterbomb of Tranquility', but I don't think that's really 'me'. Any suggestions?

The people that you meet each day

2005-04-09T14:45:00.000-07:00

There's a woman I know; let's call her Jane. Until recently, I knew Jane only in that way that you "know" people whom you see regularly, recognize, and with whom you exchange small talk. She is one of the crew of two or three who clean our building each night. They do a fine job of keeping our office clean and relatively dust-free despite all of the equipment, drawings, etc. around which they're working. She has been working in our building for about a year; she has been unfailingly polite and friendly every time I have encountered her.

One evening recently, I was working late, and was still in the office when Jane came in to clean. I looked up from my work, and we exchanged the usual sort of greetings: "Hi, how's it going?" "OK. You're working late again." "Yeah, I have a deadline coming up." I started to turn back to my computer, but she had more to say to me.

"I just figured out that I'm living in one of the apartments you designed," she told me. "When I was in here a couple of nights ago, I saw a picture of my building on the wall."

"Really? Which project is it?" The housing that we design is primarily affordable workforce housing, and I was not surprised that, in Seattle's tight housing market, an office cleaner might have an income low enough to qualify her to live in one of our clients' developments.

Jane told me the name of the apartment development, and which particular unit within that development was hers. And then she continued: "I've been trying to get into one of LIHI's apartments for several months. Last December, I moved out of my boyfriend's apartment. He'd been knocking me around for a while, and I had to get away, but I couldn't afford the security deposit for a place of my own, and I didn't have anywhere to go.

"I ended up living in my car for three months. I was always trying to find a safe place to park so that I could sleep. Sometimes people woke me up trying to break into my car. Other times the cops woke me up, telling me I had to move, or that it wasn't safe for me to be sleeping there. There are showers in the restrooms on the second floor (of our office building), and I was using them each night after I finished working.

"Finally, LIHI had this studio apartment available, and I could afford it. I don't have much of anything in it yet, but I don't have to worry about going to sleep. And the other people around are really friendly. It's a nice place to live, and I feel safe there."

I knew that this development has a number of transitional units (designated for people who have been homeless), and asked if hers is one of those. It is. "I'm really glad that you're out of your car, and in a safe place," I told Jane. (She nodded vigorously in agreement.) "Thanks for telling me that you're living there. I'll tell my coworkers, too; we're always thrilled to know people who live in the places that we design, and to hear that they're happy there."

Jane is one of the many people who, for one reason or another, have become homeless while holding down a full-time job. Unfortunately, she did not have friends or family nearby who were able to provide her with someplace to stay while she got back on her feet. There may be a Jane (or John) in your office building, the place where you eat lunch, your corner store. Someone like Jane could be one of the people you meet each day.

Funding for the apartment development where Jane now lives, and much of the affordable housing like it, comes in part from a variety of government programs. Yes, this is that bad old "Big Government" at work. However, if the current administration has its way with HUD programs (as discussed in this Washington Post article and this article in Metropolis Magazine), that funding may soon disappear completely. While this would have unfortunate consequences for the work that I do (as no funding for projects means no architectural design of such projects), the consequences for Jane and others like her would be much more severe, and much more unfortunate.

In case the links cease to function, I've included the full text of the articles mentioned above: click here.

Feline Friday: Open season

2005-04-08T08:15:00.000-07:00

At least once every couple of days (or more often if Sasha gets his way), it's open season in our house on the gatitos' favorite toy. This toy - which looks to me like an oversized fly-fishing lure for cats - sounds like fluttering wings as it whirls through the air. The cats go crazy, leaping, flipping, diving and chasing the thing. While Lyra is a "catch and release" girl, both of the boys are "you kill it, you eat it" types. Sergei, in particular, wants to take his feathered prey back to the cave to munch on its feathers. On the (increasingly rare) occasions when I have not returned the bird to its sanctuary after playtime, it has disappeared, save for its metal parts, and the bits of feathers scattered about the house. (Sadly, I have not yet managed to capture the boys' glorious hunting efforts photographically. Sometimes I miss using my film camera... but, for the most part, I have been sucked in by the instant gratification of digital photography.)

Carnival of the Cats is at Enrevanche this week. (There are a couple of big dogs there, but Mister Gato is still in charge... and Barry's serving really good coffee, too.)

Stating point of view

2005-04-07T12:35:00.000-07:00

Ronni at Time Goes By has a lovely post about her birthday today. If you have not yet "met" Ronni, well, you've been missing a great blog, and today would be a great day to remedy that. Ronni writes beautifully and very thoughtfully about growing older. This is a subject that, no matter how we may attempt to avoid it, many of us have to face... if we are lucky. Ronni does a lovely job of illuminating the path both for those who are at similar places in their life journeys, and for those of us who are following a few years behind.

Museum of Memory

2005-04-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

I've been struggling with how to write about the new Holocaust History Museum at Yad Vashem, Jerusalem, since it first opened a few weeks ago. I am reluctant to "review" a building that I have never experienced in person. While photos of buildings may be descriptive, even powerfully evocative, they are two-dimensional representations of three-dimensional spaces. And I know all too well, having done it myself, that an architectural photographer can highlight the best features of a building, while taking the focus off of - or even omitting - that building's weaker features. What I am seeing in an architectural photo is, to my mind, art - and the art is as much the photographer's as the architect's.

It's easier for me to understand from a distance a particular architectural concept, the idea from which an architect generates the form of a building. An early concept sketch, below left, and the finished site plan and section, below right, both show the main organizing element of the museum building: the triangular concrete prism running the length of the museum, around which the various exhibit spaces are clustered.

The concept behind Moshe Safdie's new building for the Holocaust History Museum is described thus:

Designed by world-renowned architect Moshe Safdie, the new Holocaust History Museum is a prism-like triangular structure that penetrates the mountain from one side to the other, with both ends dramatically cantilevering into the open air. The triangular form of the structure was chosen to support the pressure of the earth above the prism while bringing in daylight from above through a 200 meter-long glass skylight. The skylight allows gleams of daylight to contrast with darker areas required for multimedia presentations. Within the galleries, light enters through localized skylights varying from diffused to clear glass, depending on the requirements of each exhibit.

The entire structure of the museumfloors, wall, interior and exteriorare reinforced concrete. Throughout the prism, the triangular cross-section varies, becoming narrower at the center. The warped surface formed by this variation, amplified by a gently sloping floor, creates a changing sequence of spaces and gives the illusion of descending deep into the mountain. As the route nears its northern exit, the floor begins to ascend and the triangle opens up again, with the exit bursting forth from the mountains slope to a dramatic view of modern-day Jerusalem.

I find these photos, and others that I've seen of this museum, quite moving. I hope that someday I'll see, walk through, and really experience this building.

(Additional information about this new museum, and its design, may be found at: Remembrance: Holocaust History Museum at Yad Vashem by Moshe Safdie and Associates; A View to Memory: The New Holocaust History Museum and Facts and Feelings: Designing the new Holocaust History Museum.)

Flying home

2005-04-04T23:30:00.000-07:00

The puffy cumulus clouds were high today, so most of the peaks that are usually visible on the flight between the Bay Area and Seattle were hidden. I looked up from my book to see Mt. Shasta directly below my airplane window; by the time I had the camera out, it was gone. Mt. Rainier projected above the cloud cover, but without its usual grandeur. If not for the greater reflectivity of its snowy peak, it would almost have blended in with the clouds, rather than towering above them. It was, however, a sign that I was almost home.

Blatant consumerism

2005-04-02T10:12:00.000-08:00

Paul and I rarely engage in orgies of consumer spending, but when we do... well, let's just say we're good at it.

If all had gone according to plan in 2004, we'd have spent last February and March in the hell that is living in one's house in the midst of a remodeling. By the end of 2003, I had finished the drawings for our badly needed kitchen remodel, and we had paid a deposit to the cabinetmaker, chosen most of the materials, lined up a contractor. We had even arranged to have a demolition party, with a number of friends set to arrive with sledgehammers and crowbars to take the old kitchen apart. (There's nothing that's quite as much fun as tearing out crappy old stuff, and our 1970's kitchen is a fine example of such.) Instead, we spent last Spring in an entirely different sort of hell.

Now that we've made our way out of the worst of medical hell (there's still some billing to be dealt with, but don't get me started...), remodeling seems like a piece of cake. We've reestablished contact with our cabinetmaker, and need to set up a new schedule for the project with our contractor. I've been thinking again about light fixtures, countertops and appliances. When Paul mentioned at the beginning of last month that our very nice neighborhood appliance store was holding its annual warehouse sale, I said sure, let's go see what they have.

On Saturday morning, 4 weeks ago, we struggled out of bed at an unusually early hour, over the objections of our cats, and drove to the appliance warehouse. We arrived half an hour after the sale began. The parking lot was packed. As we walked toward the warehouse, we saw portable propane heaters, of the sort that restaurants around here use on their decks, along the side of the building. These, along with a few stray coffee cups and newspapers, provided evidence that there had been a line of people waiting to get into the sale.

When we walked into the warehouse, I laughed. It was a madhouse. Rows and rows of stoves, dishwashers, refrigerators, wall ovens... and at least twice as many people as appliances (or so it seemed), all trying to make their way through the narrow aisles between the shiny objects of desire.

We already have the refrigerator for the new kitchen. (The previous refrigerator, which we bought used in 1999 when we knew that we'd be remodeling within a year, developed an annoying dripping leak which fascinated the cats, but did not amuse us. We replaced it last year.) The dishwasher we want is made by a company that has a tremendous to-the-trade discount, so no dishwasher shopping required. (To-the-trade is the term for the discounts given by makers of furniture, appliances and building components to architects, designers, contractors, etc. - is there a similar term in other industries?)

We were looking for a range. What we had in mind was not a "commercial" range, but just a nice moderately-priced gas range with a stainless steel finish. It seemed that everyone who had been waiting in line before we arrived wanted the same thing. All of those ranges had SOLD tags on them. So, we continued to wander, thinking we might at least find a reasonably-priced range hood. And we did, on the same aisle, where, for some unknown reason, no one had yet claimed this "commercial" style gas range, which was on sale for over 50% off, making it about the same price as the ranges we'd been considering. (Ooh, look how pretty and shiny!) We snatched the tag from the front of its box, revealing the SOLD tag below, happily made our way to the front of the warehouse... and then followed the line of people waiting to pay for their appliances out and around the back of the warehouse to its end. An hour later, and a nice chunk of frequent flyer miles on our credit card, we were on our way home, congratulating ourselves on our skillful shopping.

A couple days ago, two very large, heavy boxes were delivered to our house. For the next, um, couple of months? quarter?, they'll be in our garage, waiting until the new kitchen is ready for them. Guess I should get to work on that schedule.

Feline Friday: Packing

2005-04-01T00:06:00.000-08:00

I'm flying to California in the morning. As usual, Sasha wants to come along... or at least to send some of his fur along with me.
More photos of Sasha helping me pack ->

The "right-sized" house: what does that mean?

2005-03-31T18:12:00.000-08:00

"You know you have reached perfection of design not when you have nothing more to add, but when you have nothing more to take away." --Antoine de Saint Exupéry

This quotation sets the tone for Jay Shafer's discussion of the philosophy behind his own tiny (100 square foot) house, and the houses that he designs and builds. The smallest of these houses are smaller than the bathrooms found in some new houses, while the largest of Shafer's houses would fit, with room to spare, into the master bedroom of many a suburban McMansion.

These are the floor plans for the little house shown above, which is the same design as Shafer's own house. This small, self-contained dwelling is 12' x 8', but it contains a bathroom, a kitchenette, a woodstove (which would be quite sufficient to heat a building of its size) and a sleeping loft. Oh, and a little front porch, too... which is an additional 2' long, providing just enough shelter to protect its owner from the elements while unlocking the front door.

Look carefully at the bottom edge of the photo of this house. See the wheels? As this tiny building is only 8' wide, it fits within a standard traffic lane, and can be hauled behind a truck from one place to another.

Too small, you say? You need a closet? You don't want to climb a ladder to a sleeping loft?

How about this house? At 12' x 16' and 2 stories, this house has about 320 square feet. While everything in the house is scaled down, it has the essentials: kitchen, built-in eating nook, bathroom, a stair up to the bedroom, a couple of closets. From what I've seen on Shafer's website, the interiors are fitted out rather like those of a yacht, with many built-ins and dual-purpose furniture and spaces. So you won't be able to throw a large dinner party; maybe you can live with that.

Just to be clear, I don't know that I could live comfortably by myself in a house as small as either of these; certainly Paul and I and los tres gatitos would be bumping more than elbows were we to attempt such a thing. However, a couple of the questions on my mind are just how much space we really do need, and whether we are using fully the space that we do have. While Paul's and my 3-bedroom, 1800-square-foot house is certainly more than 2 adults and 3 cats require, we use most of it regularly. Could we be happy in a smaller house? Probably; it would depend very much on the design the house.

Here are some questions for you: Do you think you could live in this sort of tiny house, either alone or with those others (human or otherwise) with whom you currently live? Have you ever thought that you lived in a place that was too large for either your wants or your needs... or your bank account? What would be the "right-sized" house for you and yours?

A special place

2005-03-29T17:33:00.000-08:00

Here in Seattle, construction is just underway on a 19-unit apartment building designed to provide affordable transitional housing for deaf and deaf-blind victims of domestic violence and sexual assault. The Abused Deaf Women's Advocacy Services (ADWAS) broke ground yesterday on A Place of Our Own, the first project of its kind in the country.

There's a fine article about the project on Businesswire.com. Here are a few excerpts:

"A Place of Our Own" will provide Deaf and Deaf-Blind victims access to those who understand them and know how to help. Deaf women suffer the same rate of abuse as hearing women, but without fully accessible housing alternatives, Deaf and Deaf-Blind victims of abuse must often decide between homelessness and living at home with their abuser. For the first time, "A Place of Our Own" offers a new alternative that helps these women, children and families begin lives free of violence.

Units are scheduled to be available for move-in by spring 2006. The apartments will be open to abused women and their children who earn at or below 30-60 percent of area median income. They will pay no more than 30 percent of their income toward rent.

Architects, landscape architects and interior designers from Mithun collaborated to create "A Place of Our Own." The facility was specially designed to meet the access needs of Deaf and Deaf-Blind residents, staff and volunteers incorporating many special features including: TTY systems; light systems to indicate ringing doorbells and telephones, and fire alarms; appliances embossed with Braille; a specially designed security system; and contrasting paint colors and textures needed for signed communication. The property incorporates sustainable building practices that will help ADWAS save money on energy costs including maximizing the use of natural daylight and using ultra-efficient insulation. The building also includes a multi-purpose room, children and youth rooms, a common laundry facility, computer room, library, a community kitchen for the residents, classroom, a quiet garden, and a secure outdoor children's area. The facility is located on a major transit line, an essential element for its Deaf-Blind residents.

On-site resident services provided by ADWAS will include a 24/7 crisis line; crisis intervention; therapy; legal, medical and systems advocacy; children's program; a positive parenting program; and job search and independent living skills training. ADWAS staff advocates will assist residents in securing any additional services needed, such as food banks and healthcare services and more. Non-residents needing ADWAS' services will also be able to obtain them at "A Place of Our Own."

"A Place of Our Own" is the result of a unique private/public financing arrangement. Approximately $1.6 million of the $7.7 million project is funded through an equity investment from Homestead. The project also is funded by the City of Seattle Office of Housing, Washington State Community Trade and Economic Development Department, the Washington Housing Finance Commission, five King County suburban cities, and the Federal Home Loan Bank Affordable Housing Program sponsored by Sterling Savings Bank.

ADWAS' capital campaign is providing approximately $3.4 million of private funding, including support from: the Sound Families Initiative, the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation, The Ford Foundation and many others. Two challenge grants, $400,000 (the total award is $500,000) from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation and $250,000 from The Kresge Foundation, now challenge the community to pledge the remaining $504,000 required to complete the campaign. Key Bank is the construction lender.

If you read that list of funders carefully, you'll see that the project is being built with money from a variety of sources: equity financing from the federal tax-credit program (managed by a non-profit housing investment company), funds provided by city, state and national governmental organizations and programs, grants from several private foundations, and donations from individuals. This is not unusual; this is how a large part of the affordable housing being built today (at least in this part of the country) is financed. It's a complicated process, but one that's working well to provide safe, well-built housing for many people who have gone without for too long.

This is a very special project, one that I'd love to have had a hand in designing. I'll have to satisfy my desire to be a part of making this place a reality by helping with their ongoing capital campaign.

Carnival of the Cats #53

2005-03-27T16:00:00.000-08:00

A big, furry welcome from Lyra, Sergei, Sasha and me. This week's edition of the Carnival of the Cats features photos and such from 33 cat-bloggers. By some "luck" of the draw, I seem to be hosting Carnivals following either the ridiculous or the sublime. While I thought about making thumbnails of this week's photos to include in the Carnival, I had only so many hours (too many, according to some members of my household) to devote to this little project. Instead, I'm just using little cartoonish RFOAC's (Reasonable Facsimile Of A Cat, for those wondering in from elsewhere); you'll just have to go to other folks' blogs to see their cats.

First, a memorial post: NYCBabylon writes, "Our dog Maggie passed away this week, so the blog is a little less cat and more dog, but I needed to pay respects to my dog." (Losing a companion - canine, feline or any other sort - is hard; you have my condolences.)

At Baboon Pirates, El Capitan is engaged in some cat training this week. Apparently Betsy Cat is a very fine trainer.

Frightwig at Sundappled Wood brings us Pearl, O'Malley, Ornette and Gusto, mostly in repose.

Josh's Weblog presents The Other Reason We Invented The Web, Part Three. Atticus knows the other reason we invented paper bags.

Tom at Pooklekufr: the Kafir Constitutionalist presents what he calls Gratuitous Cat Thread I. (Is any cat thread gratuitous? I think not.) Furball Isabella the Third, Bongo the Vicious, Jinx the Schizophrenic, and Babatounde (just plain ol' Babatounde?) all join in.

Darcey at Dust My Broom has a fine submittal for the infrequently used category of Cat and Frog Blogging. Does Steve have a Friday Ark category for this? Of course he does.

Captain Oates at Little Man, What Now? shows the results of loving like cat and dog. That puppy has some 'splainin' to do.

Susan at pages turned says, "It's hard not to look down on people when you're living next to the ceiling." Russians rule from lofty ledges.

From Brainwise at Prophet and Madman: Milo says they're Mine all mine, Otis is on Cloud 9 and the brothers enjoy their Favorite Morning Program.

At Blog d'Elisson, Matata is contemplating a Busy Friday, which includes thinking I can always bite ’Kuna on the ass. Also, Steve poses the question: Why do I get cat hair on my ass every time I sit down on the loveseat in the sunroom? Now He Knows. (Elisson really likes that word "ass," doesn't he?)

Deb at Sugarfused.net says, "I found some baby pictures last night of my Snowshow Siamese, Sugar, and this one is just too cute not to share." There's also Saturday Elvis blogging.

Lab Kat sends an "Early Years" photo of Pixel napping while Pica stands by.

At Athenamama, Jeff has some old shots of Thalia taking on a very patient Ebby.

At Running Scared, Jazz's youngest cat Pepe is taking over a sewing project.

Derek at Blog: Derek Rose has a cat caught in the flash for our perusal.

Diane at DED Space shows us that Velma really knows how to put her foot in her mouth.

Maggie's Meanderings shows the lovely Maggie posing for her picture.

At Trish Wilson's Blog, Trish says there's "more geeky game cat goodness."

At Curiouser & Curiouser, Michael has a photo of the elegantly handsome Harley sitting in a window.

At Watermark, Sharon has both the real and the facsimile: Cats & RFOAC's.

Barry at Enrevanche shows Mister Gato enjoying some found water.

Ferdinand T. Cat at Conservative Cat respectfully submits that even a superior life form can make an Honest Mistake when hungry.

Jack at The Peoples' Republic of Seabrook now has scientific proof of things that most of us already know. And there's a photo of the fabulously cute Eric at Jack's place.

At Cascade Exposures, Jan tells us, "Seal does yoga while Spectra goes zen" in the Tao of Cat.

Tommy sends photos of Striving For Average's Chocolate Chip trying to decide whether it's dinner time.

At Lisa Violet's Cathouse, Handsome is settling in.

Russ at Boxing Alcibiades has evidence that a cat can catch more bird than it can chew. Russ says, "why I'm glad I'm more than eight inches tall..."

Martin at EGO writes that, "Due to the Easter fireworks (perhaps this is a Swedish thing?), Morris is an indoor cat today. He managed to stay pretty calm this year."

Sissy's cats are always trying to help. Baby and Tiny help do the dishes, keep an eye out for feral chickens, and wait to offer assistance whereever required. They also get in on celebrating important dates.

At the Oubliette, the reclusive Mac has come out to watch the party, and Mira catches Eep, Maleficent and McCullough at the new kitty fountain.

Darcy at By the Way writes, "Melvin was being a camera-hog this week. Next week it'll have to be All Lorax."

At Quite Early One Morning, Zozo has won the coveted Miss Wide Load pageant, and BJ has a pun to gladden an architect's heart.

Over at CathColl.net, site of next week's Carnival, the lovely Emily demonstrates a new grooming position.

Contributions from last week's Carnival anniversary have Laurence's cats Edloe and Frisky rolling in dough. As Sissy has noted, there's a new TBIFOC feature, Ask the Cats, in which Edloe, Frisky, Piper and Nardo mouth off about politics and comment on pop culture. (Lair says that this feature is political, but I say it's just another excuse for cat blogging, so it's in for this week.)

Late-breaking, from the Mind of Mog: Izzy "is very intelligent, sneaky, fast, really fast especially if there’s food involved. He’s no dim bulb."

While I have the floor, I want to recommend to y'all the fine Carnival Submittal Form created by Ferdinand T. Cat's human pet, Bruce. Not only it is simple to use, it generates lovely cut-and-paste HTML code for each submittal - a fine starting point for your carnival host or hostess. Thank you, Bruce!

Thanks again (and again (and again...)) to Steve at The Modulator for singlehandedly keeping the Friday Ark afloat.

And a very big thank you to Laurence Simon, for the pleasure of hosting this week's Carnival of the Cats. Next week, the Carnival will be at CathColl.net.

Something that appeals to the human heart

2005-03-26T22:48:00.000-08:00

"There is a powerful need for symbolism, and that means the architecture must have something that appeals to the human heart. Nevertheless, the basic forms, spaces, and appearances must be logical. Designs of purely arbitrary nature cannot be expected to last long."

- Kenzo Tange

Kenzo Tange was the most influential Japanese architect in the second half of the 20th century, and was awarded the 9th Pritzker Prize in 1987. The work of modernist architect Le Corbusier had a profound influence on Tange, who spent 4 years early in his career in the office of Kunio Maekawa, a prominent disciple of Le Corbusier. Following WWII, Tange set up his own studio, which became a proving ground for a generation of talented Japanese architects, including Fumihiko Maki, Kisho Kurokawa and Arata Isozaki.

Tange gained international recognition with his first major commission; he was selected as the architect for the master plan for rebuilding Hiroshima after the atomic bomb was dropped on that city in World War II. At the heart of Tange's design was the Hiroshima Peace Center and Peace Memorial, a combination of traditional Japanese Haniwa tomb and a concrete hyperbolic parabola.

Particularly in his earlier work, Tange drew from the forms of traditional Japanese architecture and reinterpreted them using modern materials and construction techniques. The easily-recognizable temple forms shown above can be seen, transformed, in the concrete and suspended high-tension cable roofs of Tange's stadiums for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics. In awarding the Pritzker to Tange, the international jury acknowledged this duality in his work: "His stadiums for the Olympic Games held in Tokyo in 1964 are often described as among the most beautiful structures built in the twentieth century. In preparing a design, Tange arrives at shapes that lift our hearts," the citation said, "because they seem to emerge from some ancient and dimly remembered past and yet are breathtakingly of today."

In Tange's obituary in the Guardian, Jonathan Glancey wrote:

"The role of tradition," Tange said, "is that of a catalyst which furthers a chemical reaction, but is no longer detectable in the end result. Tradition can, to be sure, participate in a creation, but it can no longer be creative itself."

The Cathedral of St Mary, Tokyo (1964), another powerful meeting of historic and contemporary form and structure, both confirms and denies this article of architectural faith. Tange visited several medieval cathedrals before producing his design. "After experiencing their heaven-aspiring grandeur and ineffably mystical spaces," he said later, "I began to imagine new spaces, and wanted to create them by means of modern technology." Which he did, and yet the soaring concrete cathedral is recognisably medieval in inspiration.

As in all medieval - and many modern - cathedrals, the plan of St. Mary's is cross-shaped, with the main entry at the "foot" of the cross, and the altar at the "head." However, the exposed concrete interior, and the concave, rather than convex, shape of the soaring space within, are anything but traditional.

Kenzo Tange died on March 22. He was 91.

Feline Friday: At the foot of the bed

2005-03-25T00:15:00.000-08:00

How lucky are we? Our cats like to hang out with us. Many a night finds these three small, furry bodies scattered about on the bed. Sometimes they want to be in direct contact with us; other times they just want to be close.

NOTE: Friday Ark is already going on over at Steve's place. And, this Sunday, the second week of the second year of Carnival of the Cats will be happening here!

Vision 2020

2005-03-24T17:25:00.000-08:00

The Puget Sound Regional Council sponsors an award program called Vision 2020. Here's what they say about them:

The Awards recognize inspiring projects, plans, and programs that increase the vitality of the central Puget Sound region and help implement the region's growth, economic, and transportation strategy.

PSRC honors businesses, local governments, and non-profit organizations who do creative work to focus new housing and jobs in urban areas, provide transportation access and mobility, protect our natural environment, and improve the quality of life in the central Puget Sound region.

I'm going to the awards dinner tonight. Want to know why? Click here.

New baby

2005-03-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

I've mentioned to a couple of friends that I've been feeling I should rename this blog 'Music and Death' or 'Death and Cats' for the week, as there is another architectural master whose passing this week I have yet to mark. And, while I've so far chosen not to write about it here, I've been feeling troubled by the sturm und drang surrounding what I feel should be a personal matter for one family in Florida.

However, this evening I'm taking a break to celebrate a birth. I've never outgrown the love of horses that came upon me when I was five or six. Neither has my sister, and she and her husband have several, including this beautiful baby, who was born on March 5. He was eight days old when she took this photo of him with his mother.

It's Spring. Flowers are blooming all over Seattle. Baby animals are cavorting. It's good to be alive.

Like the shaft of an axe

2005-03-22T12:53:00.000-08:00

"The job of buildings is to improve human relations: architecture must ease them, not make them worse."

"Architecture, like the shaft of an axe, must beautifully and precisely symbolise its own good reasons for its necessary existence. Insight and sincerity will tell us which reasons are good."

Ralph Erskine

During a design critique in my second semester of architecture school, my professor suggested that I look at an English housing development known as Byker. It was one of architect Ralph Erskine’s most famous projects, part of a large urban redevelopment in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England. While my prof made this suggestion because of similarities he saw in the formal (as in relating to form) qualities of my design project and Erskine's design, he unwittingly introduced me to one of the architects whose social conscience and ability to make that conscience manifest in the built environment I have admired since.

Byker is described in Erskine's obituary from the Times Online:

His first work in England to attract widespread attention was the Byker housing near Newcastle, begun in 1960. This was remarkable for the high, protective wall of flats that formed its outward boundary (echoing some of the continuous-wall buildings he had earlier designed for Arctic towns) and for its humane and agreeably relaxed approach to the design of high-density public-authority housing at a time when British work of this kind was being justly criticised for its grim and unsympathetic character.

This "wall" had, however, an important function special to Newcastle: it was created to protect the terraces of flats and houses behind it from the north wind and, no less important, from a ghastly view of asphalt, concrete and cars that would be on Byker’s doorstep should, as planned, the Shields motorway be built. In fact, it never has been, so removing one of the design’s raisons d’être.

Writing at arcspace.com, architect Kirsten Kiser described Erskine’s life and work:

Erskine has had an immense influence on the Scandinavian architectural debate. He has been faithful to his belief in the development of a good and equal society and he has, without compromises, pledged and fought for the need for social and political awareness in the built environment.

He was a true humanist. His buildings radiate optimism, appropriateness and wit, which endear them to many. His philosophy of work accommodated the climate and the context together with the social and humanistic needs of people. He was concerned that the expression of buildings should engage the general public interest, generate a sense of ownership and appeal to genuine participation.

That humanism and generosity of spirit extended also to the worldwide architectural community. With the money from the many prizes and awards that Erskine won, he and his wife created the Ruth and Ralph Erskine Stipend Fund, administered by the Swedish Association of Architects, which every other year presents the $10,000 Ralph Erskine Award to "an individual, group or organization for innovation in architecture and urban design with regard [to] social, ecological and aesthetic aspects. The efforts of the applicant are to have benefitted primarily the less privileged in society."

Ralph Erskine died on March 16. He was 91. More writing on and images of Erskine's work can be found at his firm's site: Erskine Tovatt Architects. I'll let him have the last words here:
"Architecture and urban planning — be it at macro or micro level, a private villa or an office block — must not only be a showpiece of design and technology, but also give expression to those democratic ideals of respect for human dignity, equality and freedom that are fostered in our society." Amen.

When you drink from the river of silence

2005-03-21T22:26:00.000-08:00

To celebrate World Poetry Day, and because Isabella asked about the books of poetry that Helen gave me for my high-school graduation.

From Kahlil Gibran's Sand and Foam:

I am forever walking upon these shores,
Betwixt the sand and the foam,
The high tide will erase my foot-prints,
And the wind will blow away the foam.
But the sea and the shore will remain
Forever.

And from The Prophet:

You would know the secret of death.
But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?
The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.
If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.
For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.
Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.
Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?
Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Many thanks to the Kahlil Gibran Online website, which saved me much time and typing.

A sad anniversary

2005-03-20T22:58:00.000-08:00

Last year on this date, my mother's friend Helen was shot to death by a man whom she had never met. It's hard for me to believe that this vibrant, talented, loving woman has been gone for a year. I've been trying to write something about this, to come up with some way of understanding her loss, but I have nothing. I am at a loss. I ache today for her sons, her granddaughter, her other family and her many friends. I miss Helen.

Since I have nothing new, I'll share something that I wrote a year ago today on Paul vs. the Squamous Monster. That was the day that I realized that writing had become an important part of my life. After Mom called with the news about Helen, I told Paul, and I cried for a long while. Then I said to Paul, "I need to go write." I like to think that this urge to write would've pleased Helen the English professor, the writer, and the inveterate reader.

Random violence, that nasty bastard, wandered into our corner of the universe today, and took one of my mother's closest friends. At about the time that I was writing this morning's post, Helen was shot in broad daylight, at a busy gas station in an upscale Houston neighborhood. My mother called tonight to tell me.

My parents met Helen when they were all students at Rice University. She and her family have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. While she was married to Ben, they were in the monthly 5-couple dinner club that my parents have been part of for almost 40 years. (Ben got the dinner club in the divorce.) We went to family parties at their house. I babysat for their sons, Mark and Neil. (Neil, the younger son, and I share the same birthday, a decade apart.)

Helen was the first of my parents' friends to treat me as if I was becoming an adult. I called her "Helen" when the others were still "Mr." and "Mrs." An inveterate movie buff, she took me to what was probably the first R-rated movie I ever saw, "Coming Home." Seventeen-year-old innocent that I was, I felt uncomfortable watching the sex scene between Jane Fonda and Jon Voigt's characters, especially while sitting next to my mother's friend. If she could tell (and I suspect she could), she never let on. We talked about moviemaking, and acting, and the war.

Helen was an artist and professor of literature. Her work, some of which is shown here, was serious and thoughtful. Some of it was dark and rather scary. When I first saw some of the darker pieces, I hadn't learned to appreciate art that was disturbing. I'm better at that now. Still, I like her portraits best, especially the self-portraits and the ones of her companion Charlotte and son Neil.

Helen was one of the friends who came to California to celebrate Paul's and my wedding. She brought her camera, and photographed our family and friends during the weekend. Shortly after the wedding, she presented us with a small photo album, which contains (even given our photographer Joshua's amazing shots) some of my favorite photos from the wedding.

I last saw Helen about a month ago, when Paul and I were in Houston to go to MD Anderson. A cancer survivor herself, she stopped by my parents' house to offer us support, wry humor and hugs. Had I realized it was the last time I would see her, I would've said more to her about, well, about what I'm writing here.

In a recent NPR commentary, a chaplain at a cancer clinic here in Seattle talked about her discussions with oncology nurses regarding their own mortality. She was surprised to find that, if they could choose the way in which they would die, they all would choose cancer... because, they said, modern palliative care is good, and cancer allows time to say goodbye.

God knows that I would not wish cancer on anyone. However, I do wish for the chance that I, my parents, all those who loved her did not have to say goodbye to Helen.

When my sister and I graduated from high school, Helen gave each of us a book of poetry. Melanie's gift from Helen was a volume of Yevgeny Yevtushenko's poetry, a perfect gift from a lover of language to a sensitive young student of Russian. My mother gave a eulogy at Helen's memorial service. In it, she included my words about Helen's first treating me as an adult, and these words from Yevtushenko.

In any man who dies there dies with him
his first snow and kiss and fight.
It goes with him.
They are left books and bridges
and painted canvas and machinery.
Whose fate is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing;
By the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

Obsolete

2005-03-19T15:15:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, I find an online quiz that makes me laugh out loud. Today, What obsolete skill are you? at Quizilla did the trick.

I am admittedly fond of things that are obsolete, anachronistic, or at least unusual in our modern urban world. I make my own music. One type of dancing that I do is mentioned in Shakespeare's writing. I do a lot of canning, and have been planning to plant our yard in edible plants. Perhaps you do one or all of these things as well; I'm just saying that we're not in the majority around here.

I know many people who have unusual - perhaps even obsolete - talents and skills; that is part of what makes them interesting. Do you have any anachronistic pastimes? And, if you're willing to share, what obsolete skill are you?

Oh, and what obsolete skill am I?
You are 'Latin'. Even among obsolete skills, the tongue of the ancient Romans is a real anachronism. With its profusion of different cases and conjugations, Latin is more than a language; it is a whole different way of thinking about things.
You are very classy, meaning that you value the classics. You value old things, good things which have stood the test of time. You value things which have been proven worthy and valuable, even if no one else these days sees them that way. Your life is touched by a certain 'pietas', or piety; perhaps you are even a Stoic. Nonetheless, you have a certain fascination with the grotesque and the profane. Also, the modern world rejects you like a bad transplant.
Your problem is that Latin has been obsolete for a long time.

Indeed. Ah, would that that were my only problem...

Feline Friday: Lyra

2005-03-18T00:23:00.000-08:00

Lyra has been left out of the Friday catblogging for a couple of weeks, so today it's all about her. This is, after all, how she believes life should be.

More Lyra ->

Carnival of the Cats' First Anniversary Edition is up at the home of its founder. I'll be hosting the Carnival here next week.

Not just skyscrapers and suburbs

2005-03-17T22:27:00.000-08:00

While my hometown of Houston may be best known architecturally for its world-class skyscrapers and miles of sprawling suburbs, there are, tucked away in some of its oldest neighborhoods, works of personal architecture that rival any skyscraper for creativity and make a mockery of the banal blandness of the modern suburban house.

Some people might take a NIMBYish attitude to these idiosyncratic artistic expressions, but in Texas, where the rights of the property owner are paramount, and particularly in Houston, the land that zoning forgot, there's not much a neighbor could do to stop the homeowner who's so inclined from, let's say, covering his entire house in beer cans. And that is just what Houstonian John Milkovisch did to this modest little bungalow in Houston's West End.

The Orange Show Center for Visionary Art's history of the Beer Can House describes the evolution of Milkovisch's house:

In the late 60's John's interest was shifting away from upholstery and toward creating what's now referred to as the "Beer Can House" at 222 Malone St. John started his project in 1968 inlaying thousands of marbles, rocks, brass figures and metal pieces in concrete blocks and redwood, all of which were used to make patios, fences, flower boxes, etc. The result was a yard with no grass. The entire front and back was covered with cement. When asked why he did it, John simply answered, "I got sick of mowing the grass." After the yard was completely covered, he shifted his attention to the aluminum can. He used various parts of aluminum cans (tops, bottoms, sides, and tabs) to make curtains, mobiles, fences, sculptures, windmills, and wind chimes. He wired the bottoms into long chains and dangled them from the eaves. Along the sides of the house, he alternated strands of pull-tabs, bottoms, and flat screens made from the labels. In other places, he made the tops of the cans spin inside an outer ring of narrow metal and looped them through the trees in the backyard.

The result was quirky and dazzling. Milkovisch lived in and continued to tinker with his house until his death in 1988. He apparently enjoyed people's reactions to the place, saying, "It tickles me to watch people screech to a halt. They get embarrassed. Sometimes they drive around the block a couple of times. Later they come back with a carload of friends." His wife Mary continued to live in the house for years after his death; the house was sold to the Orange Show Foundation, predecessor of the Orange Show Center for Visionary Art, shortly before her death in 2002.

In an article today, the Houston Chronicle announced that the Houston Endowment has given a $125,000 grant to help in restoration of the Beer Can House.

Efforts to restore Milkovisch's Beer Can House, which has suffered years of gradual decline, have moved into high gear with a $125,000 Houston Endowment grant to the Orange Show Center for Visionary Art, which acquired the house in November 2001. "The Beer Can House represents the sort of idiosyncratic individualism that Houstonians and Texans pride themselves on," Emily Todd, the endowment's grant officer, said Wednesday.

Orange Show Executive Director Susanne Theis said repair and restoration of the house at 222 Malone west of downtown should be complete by late next year. The house then will be open for tours.

The house's evolution
Theis said Orange Show staff is searching for an architect to trace the house's artistic evolution the first step in restoration. Once it is determined which version of the house represented its artistic peak, restorers will begin cleaning or replacing the damaged components.

"Some things have just been lost over time," Theis said, noting that in his lifetime Milkovisch made numerous changes as various elements of his creation were damaged by storms. Among features no longer present are a graceful arch of beer-can tops and bottoms across the driveway and a curtain of pop tops that once shaded the building's south side.

Additionally, steel portions of the structure have rusted, aluminum parts have oxidized, and parts of the residence's concrete-covered yard, studded with thousands of marbles, have crumbled. Theis said tests of soil and concrete will be scheduled to determine the overall stability of the site. The house generally is in good repair, she said.

Reproducing old cans
Much of the restoration will be performed by volunteers, although final installation of components likely will be handled by professional carpenters. In some cases, Theis said, brewers might be asked to reproduce the discontinued cans Milkovisch used in his project. Already, can collectors have donated vintage cans to the effort.

Changes in the neighborhood also have contributed to the site's degradation, Theis said. Once a working-class enclave of single-family homes, the neighborhood in recent years has experienced rampant redevelopment. The Beer Can House now is flanked by multistory townhomes, one of which was erected about three feet from the property line.

With new development blocking sunlight, a once-sparkling fence studded with colored glass marbles has gone dull. Theis said plans call for installation of lighting to again illuminate the fence. Plans also call for a vine-covered trellis at the building's rear to suggest the greenery of trees that have been removed as adjoining property was developed.

The Beer Can House. The Orange Show. The Art Car Festival. The Artery. All these quirky, idiosyncratic, personal works of livable, drivable and performance art make Houston a much more interesting place than it otherwise would be. Long may they stand.

An interview in five questions

2005-03-15T20:41:00.000-08:00

I have finally finished answering five interview questions from Badaunt of Present Simple. Those with photographic memories will note that one of these is not a question that Badaunt asked of me. It is, however, an interview question that she asked of another blogger.

As she wrote, "the rules go that the first five people to comment will be interviewed by me... If I could do it, so can you." And so can you, too. I promise I'll be gentle.

1. Which of your cats is most like you, and why?

Lyra is most like me, or perhaps I should say that I am most like her. We share some obvious characteristics: we are female, smaller and rounder than many of our kind, and gray. (My gray is perhaps more like Sasha’s multicolored tabby fur than Lyra’s consistently colored coat, but Lyra and I both have silver linings in the right light.)

We like people immensely, are very affectionate and vocal, and are also rather shy and afraid of being badly treated.

2. Somebody said something to you once that you think is absolutely not true... but sometimes you wonder. What was it?

My violin teacher, Mr. Hess, used to say that every day that one (meaning, of course, me) does not practice, one loses half of her (me again) technique. He was not talking about the mechanics of playing, but about that facility - control, fluidity, speed - that comes with everyday practice. While I understood that regular practice was important, I did not believe that a day off would result in such a great loss.

I am living proof that, if one leaves the violin in the closet for, let's say, a decade, even one's feel for the mechanics of playing will eventually atrophy... I am thankful that the knack came back more easily than when first acquired. Although I know that I'm now a much more sophisticated musician than when I was studying with Mr. Hess, I do not have the technique that I had at 18, when I played almost every day. At this point, I use my musicianship to cover for flaws in technique... and wish that I had time to play every day.

3. Who is someone from your past you'd really like to meet again, and why?

Someone I'd really like to meet again is Grandaddy Reed, my maternal grandfather. He was 20 years older than my grandmother, and died when I was 5. Although I have few memories of him that aren't related to photos, I understand that he and I adored each other, and that I mourned his death, in my childlike way, long after he died. He is the only one of my grandparents who did not live to see me grow up, the only one with whom I was never able to discuss his/her life.

Grandaddy Reed was born just before the turn of the last century into a family that owned a ranch and ran a trading post, known as Ultima Thule, at what is now the southern Arkansas-Oklahoma border. At that time, it was the last place in 'civilization' to buy supplies before heading into Indian Territory. I would love to know about his childhood in that time and place. He drove an ambulance in France during WWI; I imagine that, were I to somehow be able to meet him now, he still would not want to talk about that. I would like to hear his stories about his life with my grandmother, my mother and my aunt. I would like to hear his stories about his relationship with the little girl whose pajamas were embroidered 'Grandpa Loves Me'.

4. What was your biggest fashion mistake?

Thick, pale blue legwarmers, over jeans, with heels, on a 5'-1" frame. *shudder* That's all I can bring myself to say.

5. What's the last thing that made you laugh unexpectedly and loudly and without restraint?

I liked this question at Tiny Hands so much that I had to answer it... and then I couldn't remember what exactly the answer would be. It was this past weekend, as there was much surprised laughter during our band rehearsals and the socializing that followed.

I do remember the last time that I saw Paul laugh in this way. This past Sunday, he was writing on his computer in the room next to where the band was rehearsing. The tune we were playing, called 'Nonesuch, or, A la mode de France,' is a well-known English country dance tune from the 1600s. It has an early music feel, and we were playing it in as proper a fashion as we could manage on two violins, muted French horn and piano. After a few times through the tune, all of us switched instruments... and began playing the tune, in a very period-appropriate four part harmony... on kazoos. Paul just about fell out of his chair, he was laughing so hard. This made me lose it on my kazoo. (I will have to practice more before the dance, as I'm sure there will be laughter there as well.)

These are not the only '5 questions' interview answers on this blog. Because Melinama decided that posting her answers at her place was against her blog policy, she tucked them into the comments on one of my posts, here.

Badaunt's other interviewees have answered their questions, too: Mel of Actual Unretouched Photo, Tiny Hands of as told to (your name here), and TorryGirl.

On becoming a band

2005-03-13T11:15:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I'm in the Bay Area. The odd weather patterns on the west coast are continuing; it has been cloudy here, while Seattle is having one of those sunny, warm(er) weekends that makes a lie of the "rains all the time" story.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon at a band rehearsal for a big dance in April. For this event, I am the 'guest musician' with a 3-person band that plays together regularly in the Bay Area. I have played with two of the three musicians before, and know something of their styles. However, every configuration of musicians is a new experience. With each new grouping, the musicians involved must discover how to 'tune' their playing in such a way that they sound like an ensemble, rather then a motley - if accomplished - crew of players. While musicians sometimes joke that the definition of a band is "musicians who start together and stop together" (which is sometimes not as simple as it sounds), there's so much more that makes for a good band. Really listening to one another is obviously critical. But listening well is insufficient; responding to what the other musicians "say" with their instruments - making the music a conversation rather than several people talking at each other - that is the trick.

The doorbell just rang. It's time for another several hours of rehearsal: lots of playing, listening, and exploring. We'll sound like a band by the time we're done today. And once we've done that, we'll have to keep it up; being a band is, after all, a process... just like any relationship.

Feline Friday: They're watching you

2005-03-11T07:32:00.000-08:00

Feline eyes...

I know that, since I talked him into getting three cats, Paul has been worrying about me. Now I have proof that he need not worry!
Whatever do you mean? ->

Where I've been, and where I've lived

2005-03-09T23:37:00.000-08:00

Sigmund, Carl and Alfred are asking the question: Where Have You Been? Why do they want to know? I haven't missed a session. Don't they know that question makes me feel like a child? Since I'm not a tinfoil-hats-for-my-cats wacko, I'm going to trust that they're just curious.

Here are my maps: states that I've visited on the left, states in which I've lived on the right.

You can see the countries that I've visited by going here. (Multiple maps were taking too long to load.)

What does this say about me, docs? (Why, yes, I do prefer to live in states with some coastline.)

You can make your own maps here.

I don't know where I'm a gonna go

2005-03-08T23:31:00.000-08:00

On September 23, 2004, Mount St. Helens began stirring again. For two weeks, the mountain put on a show, with clusters of earthquakes and gouts of steam and ash from the crater. In early October, the volcano seemed to settle down again, although a new lava dome has been growing inside the crater since that time. Today, something happened. Is this just the volcano blinking sleepily, or are we in for more activity?

USGS/Cascades Volcano Observatory
Mount St. Helens Information Statement
Tuesday, March 8, 2005, 6:00 P.M. PST

A small explosive event at Mount St. Helens volcano began at approximately 5:25 p.m. PST. Pilot reports indicate that the resulting steam-and-ash plume reached an altitude of about 36,000 feet above sea level within a few minutes and drifted downwind to the east-northeast. The principal event lasted about 30 minutes with intensity gradually declining throughout. The USGS Cascades Volcano Observatory lost radio signals from three monitoring stations in the crater soon after the event started. The cause of the outage won’t be known until scientists can visit the crater tomorrow to assess the situation, weather permitting. The event followed a few hours of slightly increased earthquake activity that was noted but not interpreted as precursory activity. There were no other indications of an imminent change in activity.

Kimberly and Nina's afternoon in the 'hood: a photo essay

2005-03-06T22:28:00.000-08:00

...with a tiny bit of text. It was warm enough yesterday afternoon that Nina and I could sit outside to have coffee at our neighborhood joint. There were moments during our (as usual) animated conversation when we both fell silent, just basking in the light and warmth, and enjoying the parade of happy people and dogs on a flower-perfumed afternoon.

Ten things I've done...

2005-03-05T18:49:00.000-08:00

...that you probably haven't.

SO... I find that I'm no longer one of those bloggers who doesn't do memes. Melinama has found a couple that I've really enjoyed; "Ten things I've done" is the most recent.

Here are mine:
1. I have cut the tip off my finger and had it reattached.
2. I have had my picture taken with a US First Lady who admired my artwork.
3. I have played fiddle for and taught Breton dancing in Brazil.
4. I have attended a perfomance of a Mozart string quartet in the Salzburg Castle.
5. I have been picked up by a 6'-6" tall, red-headed, kilted bagpiper near the border between Scotland and England.
6. I have helped a homeless family move into affordable housing that I designed.
7. I have ridden fences (checking for breaks, on horseback) on a ranch in Colorado.
8. I have been called God by a Kennedy. (Yes, that branch of the family.)
9. I have driven hundreds of miles on my honeymoon just to see several sets of 1000-year-old reindeer horns.
10. I have twice fallen in love with a man who has subsequently developed cancer.

Of course, there is more to each of these. Would you like to know more about any of them? Let me know...

Update: Reading this list will give you some insight into my #10.

And, since people seem to be interested, here's more about some of my true stories:#1, #2, #4, #8, #10

1. I have cut the tip off my finger and had it reattached.
When I was a couple of years old, I cut off the fleshy tip of my left ring finger in the hinge of my potty chair. My father put the little fingertip on ice, and rushed my and my finger to the hospital, where the tip and I were reunited. While I continued to grow, the once-severed fingertip stayed the same size. My fingerprint is... distinctive, but not so odd as to have interfered with my violin playing. You have to know what you're looking at to know.

2. I have had my picture taken with a US First Lady who admired my artwork.
While in Washington DC in 1969, my parents, sister and I happened on an art show on the Mall. At one end of the show, small easels were set up for children to draw or paint. I painted a horse. (Yes, I was an 8-year-old girl with a thing about horses.) Pat Nixon was walking through the show, and stopped to talk with me about my painting. I told her about the ponies on Chincoteague Island (I really wanted to go there) and we talked about painting. A photographer snapped a shot of Mrs. Nixon, me and my painting; the photo made it onto the national news wires the next day.

4. I have attended a perfomance of a Mozart string quartet in the Salzburg Castle.
The summer after I finished grad school, I went to Europe for three weeks. Most of that trip, I travelled with a couple of my college roommates. Two of us were in Salzburg for one day and night. As we wandered around the town in late afternoon, my friend Chris noticed a small poster, printed only in German (her father's family is German; she is bilingual), advertising a performance at the castle that night. We didn't have any plans, so we went to the concert. It was held in a grand stone hall, built before Mozart's time, with large windows looking out onto the town below. The sun was setting as the performance by a Viennese string quartet began. I don't remember which of the quartets they played, but it was lovely. I sat, letting the music wash over me, watching the dying light in the sky, thinking 200 years ago, Mozart could've listened to his quartet in this very room, at this time of day, looking out at this view. It was magical.

8. I have been called God by a Kennedy.
I had just picked up a set of keys that was lying on the floor in the large lecture hall where one of my psychology classes was held. John-John, who was a couple of years behind me, came rushing down the aisle, saw me holding the keys, and exclaimed, "You found them!" I said, "Oh, they're yours?" and handed them to him. He said, "You're God! Thanks!", then turned and ran back up the aisle and out of the auditorium. That was the only time I ever came in direct contact with him. The other Kennedy moment I remember from college: Jackie O came to see John in a college play that I was also attending. I happened to look back at the door to the theater as she walked in. She stopped in the doorway, pulled a pair of large, dark sunglasses out of her purse, put them on, and walked to her seat. She removed the sunglasses again once she was seated. Can't say as I blame her, really.

10. I have twice fallen in love with a man who has subsequently developed cancer.
That man - both times - is my husband Paul. Nine months after we met and fell in love in 1981, he got non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. We split up a couple of years after that. We got back together - fell in love again - in 1995. We married in 1998. Last year he got oral squamous cell carcinoma. This photo shows Paul writing a blog post, assisted by one of our editors.

Gee, thanks! That was fascinating!

Feline Friday 21: Bro wrestling

2005-03-04T11:58:00.000-08:00

Today we have the highlights of the cat brothers' recent wrestling/boxing match. That's just the sort of mood I'm in today. If you don't watch what you say, I might just take a swing at you. You'll be glad to know that I clip my claws.

Architecture is not (just) art

2005-03-03T08:37:00.000-08:00

photos by Brian Vander Brug / LA Times

An article in yesterday's LA Times reported on the proposed fix to glare and heat problems caused by architect Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall:

Construction crews are set to take hand sanders to some of the shimmering stainless-steel panels that have wowed tourists and architecture lovers but have baked neighbors in condominiums across the street.

Beams of sunlight reflected from portions of the hall have roasted the sidewalk to 140 degrees Fahrenheit, enough to make plastic sag, cause serious sunburn to people standing on the street and create a hazard to passing motorists, according to a report from a consultant hired by the county to investigate the problem.

This is one of my favorite of Frank Gehry's buildings (would that I could swap it with that monstrosity at the base of the Space Needle), and I'm sorry that these modifications are needed to make this building a better neighbor in its setting. The article continued:

The effort is already setting off a debate about whether it is right to alter one of Los Angeles' architectural landmarks, especially less than 1 1/2 years after the $274-million complex opened.

"It's like putting a little more hair on the Mona Lisa or making her smile a little bigger," said Denise Crouse, who takes in the spectacular view of the hall each morning on her way to work at the downtown offices of PricewaterhouseCoopers. "An artist's work should stay an artist's work."

Whoa... wait a minute here, Ms. Crouse. You've just pushed one of my hot buttons as an architect. While (some) architecture is art - glorious, breathtaking, uplifting art - architecture can not be seen and judged only as art. Architecture is about the creation of space, both inside and outside the buildings that are its end result. Architects, and the buildings they create, have an obligation to be good neighbors... not necessarily pretty, proper neighbors, but certainly not dangerous, thoughtless neighbors.

If this sort of comment came only from non-architects, I'd be happier in this profession. I was glad to read that Gehry's firm did not argue with the changes.

Read the entire LA Times article here.

(Were I these guys, I might have called Ms. Crouse a name. OK, a psychotherapist worth his/her salt might say that I have just called Ms. Crouse an (unspecified) name, but couched it in such a way as to protect my image of myself as someone who does not go in for name-calling. Fine, fine, you've got me there.)

Intolerable beauty

2005-03-02T23:23:00.000-08:00

Today one of my coworkers in California sent me a link to the website of photographer Chris Jordan, whose work is currently on exhibit at the Paul Kopeikin Gallery in Los Angeles. As I began to look through the images on these sites, I realized that I recognized many of the scenes that Jordan had captured. The captions showed that most of the photos were taken in Washington state. As it turns out, Jordan's studio is not far from my house.

This is not the Pacific Northwest of the tourist's imagination, a place of mountain and ocean and deep green forest. This is, however, the Seattle, Tacoma and beyond that many residents see on a daily basis. During the year in which I drove from Seattle to Tacoma twice weekly to oversee a construction project, I often took to the back roads to avoid traffic on I-5. At some time during those drives, I saw some variant of each of these scenes. I have always found them disturbing, and occasionally visually compelling. Never before have I been so aware of their strange beauty. I'll turn this over to Mr. Jordan now; the words below are from his website and that of the Los Angeles gallery.

Intolerable Beauty: Portraits of American Mass Consumption

Log Yard, Tacoma 2004 12"x83" ©Chris Jordan

This body of work examines the phenomenon of American consumerism. In large-format color, these images take the viewer on a tour behind the façade of the American Dream into the underbelly of our consumer society, where the vast cumulative effects of our individual consumer choices are visible. These images invite viewers to consider the complexity and scale of the consumerism issue, and to evaluate their own role in the consumptive process.

Our consumerism holds an anesthetizing kind of mob mentality; collectively we are committing a vast and unsustainable act of taking, but we each are anonymous and no one is in charge or accountable for the consequences. So perhaps my photographs can serve as portals to a kind of cultural self-reflection. It may not be the most comfortable terrain, but I have heard it said that in risking self-awareness, at least we know we are awake.

More on where I'm from

2005-03-01T17:48:00.000-08:00

I did not write the "Where I'm From" below, but there is much there with which I am intimately familiar. The woman who wrote this has known me her entire life; I have known her for all but 12 1/2 months of mine. She is as much a part of where I'm from as are all of the people and places about whom and which I wrote last week. That she did not figure in my poem, nor I in hers, may be because each of us was digging into our early lives, and our early relationship was both too close and not close enough. That she was the first person with whom I wanted to share my poem is an indication of how our relationship has grown and matured.

Last week I emailed the "Where I'm From" exercise to my sister, Melanie. This morning, she emailed me hers... then three revisions in quick succession. (We are from perfectionism.) Then we spent a while (Texan for longer than my lunch hour) on the phone talking about the process, and our childhoods, and writing additional poems that would start after childhood (Where I'm From leaves home), and whether or not to send this exercise to all of our relatives. We both want to know what our one living grandmother (Verda, who raised my father to be a good husband rather than a good son), and our parents, aunts and uncles, would write about where they are from.

Melanie sent me a fourth revision and a fifth after I posted this; I will revise until she is done.

Where I'm From
by Melanie

I am from warm towels,
from Crayola and the kitchen table.
I am from skylights, terrazzo and sliding glass doors,
spare, modern, my face distorted in gleaming chrome.
I am from the buttercups and onion flowers
and emerald clover cool beneath my naked feet.
I am from blueprints and bread,
from Verda and Lamar
and the Scotts that may have been royal
if only in southwest Arkansas.
I am from righteous indignation
and the virtue of being bright.
From mind your manners
and I love you muchissimo.
I am from Jesus loves me
and good girls don’t.
I’m from Houston swelter and Little River stones,
Black-eyed peas and gingersnaps
and pecans shelled during Sunday football games.
From the gas mask that delivered my grandfather
to the elves that washed Bubba’s dishes at night,
and momma tracing my face with her fingertips
before she turned out the light.
I am from the photographs,
the crimson dress in the closet
that whisper the family secret
and my inheritance,
a legacy of matriarchs.

Last May, Melanie started a mommy blog. She writes primarily as a record for her sons, Max and Reed (aka Boo). She writes very well. Many times during the past 10 months, her stories have made me laugh out loud on days when I had little other reason to laugh. Mr. Max and Boo has been tucked discreetly in my sidebar since Music and Cats began. It now shares pride of place with Paul vs. the Squamous Monster, the story of my husband Paul's second battle with cancer, and Ratiocination, Paul's political blog. By blood and by choice, these are my people. They are where I'm from now.

Mystery Recipes Revealed

2005-02-28T23:49:00.000-08:00

Very early this morning, I listed the ingredients for the three chocolate desserts served at our party yesterday. It should not surprise those who have read parts I and II of the Music and Cats 'Let Them Eat Cake' series to learn that all three of the mystery recipes are taken from the pages of Maida Heatter's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts.

Mystery Recipe #1: Many people do not think of pepper when they think of chocolate. Central Americans have have been combining chocolate, cinnamon and pepper for centuries, to great effect, as in these Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies.

Mystery Recipe #2: The prize goes to Wavybrains, who correctly pegged these as brownies. They are Ginger Brownies, a variant on Heatter's Black Pepper Brownies.

Mystery Recipe #3: Paula guessed correctly! These four ingredients are all that you need for Chocolate Mousse Heatter.

Show me the chocolate recipes!

And much chocolate was consumed

2005-02-28T00:12:00.000-08:00

Our party was - if I do say so myself - a success. It seems that a good time was had by all, and certainly by Paul and me. Over the course of the afternoon, we had about 25 people in the house, 20% of whom were under the age of eight. Sasha and Sergei retreated to the upstairs; Sergei hid so well that, for a while, I thought perhaps he'd gotten out of the house. Lyra (aka Princess Affection Sponge) decided that all these people were here to pay attention to her... and as she is beautiful, soft and sweet, most folks were willing to oblige.

Our friends fortunately did a fine job of consuming the chocolate treats over which I labored for a number of hours this weekend. (I say fortunately because I did not want leftover chocolate treats around the house.) I was going to write about said treats, their recipes, procedures and pitfalls, but I'm just too tired. However, as a teaser, here are the ingredient lists for the three chocolate treats served at the party.

Mystery Recipe #1:
3 cups flour
1 1/2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon finely ground black pepper
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
1 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
3 sticks unsalted butter
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
2 cups sugar
2 eggs

Mystery Recipe #2:
6 ounces unsweetened chocolate
2 1/4 sticks unsalted butter
1 1/2 teaspoon dry instant espresso
1 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 7/8 cup brown sugar
5 eggs, large
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour, sifted
1 cup crystallized ginger

Mystery Recipe #3:
1 pound semisweet chocolate
2 tablespoons dry instant espresso
2/3 cup boiling water
10 eggs, separated

Can you tell me for what recipes these are the ingredients? Anyone?

I'll provide the names of and instructions for these recipes tomorrow. Now, to sleep.

p.s. Thanks to all who left well wishes in the comments of my last post. Paul and I both appreciated them.

One year ago today... and today

2005-02-27T09:15:00.000-08:00

At this time, one year ago today, my husband Paul had already been in surgery for two hours. He would be in surgery for ten more.

At this time, one year ago today, I was sitting in the surgical waiting room at the University of Washington Medical Center. As places to spend a day worrying go, the UW waiting room was quite nice. It's a lovely room, located on a corner of the building, with full height windows providing southerly views onto gardens, trees and the ship channel beyond. Soft chairs and love seats are arranged in conversational areas, tables with chairs provide a place to eat or write. A long work surface with data ports provides internet access, and there's a large desk on which sits the all-important telephone connecting the room to the operating rooms. I was the first person there, so I had my choice of location. I picked a spot near the corner of the two window walls, from which I could see both the gardens and the door.

At this time, one year ago today, I had already sent a short blog post out to our friends and family. This is what it said:

After weeks of actively gathering information and making choices about Paul's treatment, we've reached the point where, at least for today, it's out of our hands. This experience feels like an amusement park we didn't choose to visit. The past few weeks were the bumper cars; we could make decisions, and try to choose a direction, but we never knew when or from where the next jolt was coming. And now we've gotten on the roller coaster. We're strapped in, and heading up that first long incline. Clack, clack, clack. Once we reach the top, gravity takes over. We can decide whether to scream or laugh, hold our hands up in the air or hang on for dear life. Clack, clack, clack...

At this time, one year ago today, I sat alone, sipping a latte, waiting for my parents and friends to arrive and keep me company through the rest of a very long day.

At this time, today, one year later, I sit at my computer, sipping the latte that Paul just brought me. Paul is in our bedroom, reading the Sunday NY Times. I can hear him talking to one of our cats. He is - knock on wood, god willing and every other cliched, hopeful, superstitious phrase one might use here - free of cancer. He is still adjusting to the persistent, and perhaps permanent, effects of the surgery on his body. Things are a little better every day.

In a few hours, one year later, we're having a party. Although my parents won't be here, a number of the friends who sat with me last year will be. On that day, they brought me chocolate; this year, I am baking chocolate treats for them.

Most importantly, one year later, Paul is still here, and will be by my side when our friends arrive to celebrate that with us.

On place

2005-02-25T07:50:00.000-08:00

The first time I was in Seattle, I fell in love with a place. Not with the city as a whole, but a particular spot in the city. This is the way that love happens, I believe; we fall for details, for characteristics, either one at a time, slowly, or in such a huge rush that it seems we are falling for the entirety of person, place or thing.

On my first visit to Seattle, I fell in love with Kerry Park, a small urban park on the south slope of the hill where I now live. Certainly the view - a view captured in countless tourist snapshots, local advertisements, and TV news stand-ups - is breathtaking. It encompasses the skyline at its best angle, Space Needle front and center, and a sweep of Elliott Bay from the docks out to the nearby islands. And on clear days, Mount Rainier is visible, either starkly cut against the bluest skies you've ever seen, or shimmering ghostlike, as it was yesterday morning. Oh yes, it is a view for waxing rhapsodic, for sitting and staring and contemplating.

But for me, this place is not just about the view. The view is only one side of the place. The park is surrounded on its other sides by several of the grand houses and old-fashioned brick apartment buildings that make up one of Seattle's oldest neighborhoods. I am an architect, duaghter of an architect, granddaughter of a builder. Buildings are in my blood, are part of my earliest memories. Houses and housing are for me both life blood and my life's work. What I fell in love with at Kerry Park was a house.

The Black House was designed by Seattle architect Andrew Willatsen, built in 1914. Willatsen was an apprentice of Frank Lloyd Wright, and the Wrightian influence is evident in the house's horizontal lines, bands of windows and deeply overhanging roof. The rows of boxwoods along the terraced front yard of the house reinforce that horizontality of the design. If I were putting together a case study on buildings as perfect backdrops, the Black House would be on my list. Spare and elegant, the design says to me Yes, I am here. I am a part of this hill, this neighborhood, this city. But look! Turn around and look out at this amazing view with me.

When I saw the 'For Sale' sign in front of the Black House a couple of years ago, I was covetous. Oh, to be the caretaker of that gorgeous house, to live in that place, to have that glorious view. The house did not sell for months, but eventually the sign came down. I was envious of the people who had the financial wherewithal to buy a part of one of Seattle's landmarks.

Sadly, the new owners appreciated only the view, and not the place of which their house was a part. Just over a year ago, they had the beautiful 90-year-old house that they had just purchased demolished. They did so as stealthily as possible, acquiring the demolition permit during the week between Christmas and New Years. The demolition crew told passersby early in the day that they were doing maintenance work. There was no attempt made to salvage any of the materials from the house.

It has been 14 months since the Black House was demolished. While the owner of the property stated that he intended to build a new house, there has been no application for a building permit, no sign of any activity on the property. I can't imagine that, should he build, his new neighbors will be welcoming. There is a chain link fence around the old foundation. There is a ragged hole torn in the fabric of this place. I cannot imagine how it might be mended.

Not every old house is worth saving. Some old buildings are ugly, are poorly built, are culturally worthless. Some buildings, however, have value above and beyond their worth as property. The Black House was one such building. Kerry Park is not the same without it.

Note: I've attached an article from the Seattle PI regarding the demolition of the Black House. Click to read more.

Feline Friday 20: Shy

2005-02-25T00:37:00.000-08:00

Our cats live in a house in which they outnumber the people. They are shy of strangers, and easily startled by unexpected company. If you keep going, there's a poetry reading, music playing, food and conversation.

If you'd like to visit the cats, please come in quietly, so that they won't run hide under the bed.

This is dedicated to Michele, for giving Norman a kitty mascot, and to the folks from cutekitty.com who left all those nice comment votes.

I am from...

2005-02-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

A couple of days ago, Melinama at Pratie Place wrote about a lovely poetry exercise based on George Ella Lyon's poem Where I'm From. The exercise was originally from this post at Fragments from Floyd; it includes directions for the exercise, as well as a template of sorts to aid the process. Here are my first thoughts:

Where I'm From

I am from picture books. I am from Fiestaware and cut glass salt cellars. I am from tape measure, T-square and sawdust.

I am from the mid-century modernism of white walls, cool terrazzo floors, and expanses of glass to which small green tree frogs clung on summer mornings. From Bertoia and Knoll, and the smooth black leather of an Eames lounge chair.

I am from fast-moving thunderstorms, and fireflies at dusk above a field of daylilies.

I am from a dictionary open on the table and the first gray hair by eighteen, from Reed and Roberta, now bridge partners forever, and from Ettric, a Viking who made Scotland home.

I am from a passion for education and not talking about feelings. From don't let the cool air out, and you can do anything you put your mind to.

I am from lace dyed with tea for the collar of a small handsewn dress, and a hand-me-down violin.

I am from dour, predestined Presbyterians, mellowed over time and by the times, singing let there be peace on earth, arms entwined. From Jesus loves the little children and we exist to let others know they matter to God by showing them that they matter to us.

I'm from the steamy Texas Gulf coast and the stormy sea between Ulster and Scotland, from cornbread dressing, homegrown tomatoes and jars of homemade bread-and-butter pickles on pantry shelves.

I am from the man who gathered medicinal plants in the east Texas piney woods as his mother had taught him, the woman who believed in raising a boy to be a good husband rather than a good son, and the boy who decided to become an architect when he learned what the word meant.

In the top drawer of my parents' sideboard are envelopes and albums filled with photos. The star sapphire ring on my finger, a gift across three generations, is older than any of them.

I don't know that I'm quite finished with this one yet... it may change over the next few days. Would anyone else care to play?

Ode to a Violin

2005-02-20T12:38:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, at the end of an English Country Dance, one of the dancers asked me about my violin: Did I buy it from a violin shop here in Seattle? Who made it? She wants to buy a violin, and doesn't know where to look. I'm not familiar with local violin shops, but I had some suggestions for her about how to look for an instrument. And while the man who made my violin is, I assume, still alive, I know very little about him.

I began looking for a new violin late in 1990. I was still playing the German student violin that had been given me by my older cousin, a lapsed junior high violinist, when I decided to play. After seven years of orchestra and violin lessons, I had abandoned the violin as soon as I graduated from high school. For 10 years, my violin languished in a closet at my parents' house. I picked up the violin again in 1988, because the traditional dance groups with which I danced needed musicians. My student instrument was fine for retraining myself to play, but after a couple years of playing again, I was ready for something else. The rather bland, quiet tone of that violin was well-suited to blending into an orchestral section. I wanted an instrument with its own unique voice.

I was already a customer of a good violin shop, where I'd had some work done on my violin and bow. The owner, Jim Scoggan, was a symphony bassist, a skilled luthier, and a genuinely nice guy. On what I now recognize as the first day of my search, I went to Jim's shop to pick up a bow that he'd rehaired for me. As we were chatting, I told Jim that I wanted an instrument with a richer, more distictive sound. While Jim's response was simply "do you want to try a few now?" the look on his face said "this will be fun."

One wall of the shop was fitted with deep shelves divided into violin-sized spaces. Jim would study the shelves, then pull out a violin, tell me something about it while he checked the tuning, and hand it to me to play. We'd talk about the characteristics of the violin's sound, what I liked or didn't like about it. Based on my reaction, Jim would keep that violin out or put it back, then pull out another one. I'd play the new one, play another one that was out, play my own, choose which I liked best. An hour and a half later, I had played 8 or 9 violins, and both Jim and I had a sense of the sound that I liked. I was not yet ready to take any home for further trial, but the search had begun. For almost a year, I stopped by Jim's shop every month or so to play recent acquisitions and a couple of favorites from earlier visits.

In September of 1991, Jim's face lit up when I walked into the shop. His partner had been on a buying trip in Italy, and Jim had just put strings on one of the new violins. He hadn't heard it played yet, and he wanted me to try it out. This really was a new violin, made that year. It didn't have the patina of age and use that I loved in the late 18th and 19th century violins that had until now been my favorites. However, when I drew a bow across its strings, this violin sang to me. It had a clear, sweet tone with just hint of darkness. I knew that, with time and playing, its voice would "open up" and become even lovelier. Finding the right violin is a little like falling in love. While I do not fall easily, I have once or twice fallen quickly. I took the violin home that Saturday for a five-day trial. On Tuesday, Jim called to ask when I'd be bringing it back; another violinist - an acquaintance of mine - was interested in seeing it. On Wednesday, I bought my violin.

My violin was made in Cremona, Italy in 1990 by Nilton Fontoura, a student at the Istituto Professionale Internazionale per l'Artigianato Liutario e del Legno Antonio Stradivari. (That is, translated literally, the International Professional Institute of the Art of Luthiery and Wood; the English language version of their website calls it the School of Violinmaking.) The school's online listing of its graduates indicates that Fontoura is a Brazilian, born in 1963, who graduated from their 5-year program in 1995. If he went straight through school, he made my violin during his first semester of the program. Jim's partner bought several violins from students at the school, but he had no information about how to contact them, so this is all that I know of the man who made my violin.

While my violin is a lovely instrument and a joy to play, there are details that, to my mind, show it to be the work of a student. The f-holes (the curved openings in the top of the violin) are more angular than usual. This could have been an aesthetic choice, but that seems unlikely to me at the very traditional Cremona school. The varnish on the ribs shows brush marks, and there's even a small hair embedded in the varnish on one side. And while the coat of varnish is fairly thick (perhaps too thick), there are a couple of spots where it has chipped or crazed slightly. Most violins have a fancy printed label, affixed to the inside of the back, that indicates the maker and shop location. The year the violin was made, and sometimes the number of the violin, are handwritten on the label. Visible through the f-hole of my violin is a small slip of white paper bearing only the handwritten words Nilton Fontoura, Cremona, 1990. I imagine that, as a student, Fontoura could not afford to have labels printed for his first instruments. These details have become, like the eccentricities of a loved one, part of what I love and cherish about this instrument.

I've been playing this violin since 1991; I expect that it will be with me for the rest of my life. Its sound has opened up, becoming stronger and sweeter, the instrument more responsive and more nuanced as I play it. And my musicianship has grown with it, acquiring greater subtlety and power. It takes around 50 years for the voice of a violin to fully mature; I acquired this violin near my 31st birthday. If I am lucky, I may as a very old woman hear the fully developed voice of my violin. When I am gone, my violin will be passed on, with the beginnings of that patina of use that I so love in old instruments, to another violinist, one who I hope will cherish it as much as I do.

Feline Friday 19: Good Day Sunshine

2005-02-18T00:10:00.000-08:00

Last Sunday afternoon was gloriously sunny, but cold. The cats availed themselves of the patch of sun in our bedroom. Light, shade, shadow and happy cats - I grabbed my camera.

Lyra in Sunlight

Click for sunshine photos of Sasha and Sergei.

Marmalade redux

2005-02-17T23:15:00.000-08:00

This evening, I made more marmalade, using up the remaining four pounds of seville oranges. While the first batch is quite good, it is very strong stuff, not for the faint of heart or palate. It is the sort of marmalade that I imagine my Scottish ancestors might have eaten to ward off the effects of too much whiskey the previous night.

For the second batch, I decided to make some changes. I reduced the amount of sugar by a cup, and changed the ratio of white sugar to brown; this recipe has 80% white, 20% brown. I chopped the orange peel into slightly finer pieces. I did not include the bag of seeds and pith in the cooking, as I wanted less bitterness. I flavored the marmalade with chopped candied ginger rather than with orange liqueur.

The result is a lighter, more delicate marmalade, perhaps a bit more tart than the first recipe, but considerably less bitter. The proportions of jelly to peel are different from the first batch; I used a little more water for simmering the fruit this time. This looks more like the marmalade that you'd see on the grocery store shelves, whereas the first recipe is darker and more rough-cut than any marmalade that I've ever seen before.

I don't have any brioche for tomorrow morning. I don't even have any bread for toast. Clearly I haven't been paying attention to the important stuff.

Note: If you're interested in orange marmalade, and want to compare notes with someone who has a web page with reviews of a number of different brands, visit Paul Anderson's marmalade page.

Orange you glad?

2005-02-15T21:45:00.000-08:00

I have heard for years that the only way to make real orange marmalade is with seville oranges, a type of bitter orange that is not common in this country. I didn't know that it was possible to get fresh seville oranges here, so I made do with making marmalades of sweet oranges, lemons and limes. And nice marmalades they were, every one, but they didn't have the edge of a - dare I say it - a proper English seville orange marmalade.

Late last week, I heard from a friend that her mother had found fresh seville oranges at our local Whole Foods market. On Saturday, I went on a highly successful mission of acquisition. On Sunday, I made seville orange marmalade. Here's how:

Step One: Simmer four pounds of seville oranges and four lemons in water to cover for one and one half hours. That's whole oranges and lemons; remove only the small stem ends of the fruit. This is the strangest first step that I have seen in a preserves recipe, though by no means have I seen them all. I know that the intent is to cook the citrus rind, but I don't understand what the advantage is to cooking the fruit whole, especially as a) the recipe indicates that the simmering liquid is to be reserved and b) the fairly thin-skinned organic lemons split open during simmering, releasing much of their juice into the water. While the oranges do not split open, when removed from the pan at the end of simmering, their skins have become wrinkled and indented, as if they have become too large for the fruit inside. Step One makes the entire house smell lovely, as if it has just been cleaned with one of those orange oil based cleaners, minus any cleaner smell.

Step Two: Cut up all of the oranges and lemons into small pieces. This involves a) allowing the fruit to cool until one can handle it without screaming and scaring the cats, b) slicing each fruit in half and scooping/squeezing out its juice, seeds and pith, c) slicing the rinds and bits of fruit still attached into approximately 1/4" x 2" pieces, and d) pressing the guts of the fruit through a sieve to extract the juice. The seeds, pith and fruit that remain go into a cheesecloth bag, to be cooked with the marmalade. Step Two makes one's hands feel lovely and smooth, a combination, I believe, of the exfoliating properties of the citrus juice and moisturizing properties of the orange oil. Having one's hands smell like oranges is very nice, although the cats seem not to find it so.

Step Three: Add many, many cups of sugar, almost all of the sugar in the house (my house, that is; you may have more than 14 cups of sugar in your house), sugar half white and half brown, to the reserved simmering liquid. Bring the resulting syrup to a boil; on a late 1970's vintage electric stove, this will take a long time. So as not to watch the pot attempting to boil, perform some small tasks, such as unloading the dishwasher. Place a small plate in the freezer. When, despite one's impatience, the syrup is boiling, add all of the orange and lemon rind and the bag of seeds and pith, and boil for half an hour. Although the syrup is dark from the brown sugar, see the orange peel candying and turning translucent at the edges as the syrup thickens. Remove the small plate from the freezer, drip a few drops of syrup onto it. The syrup does not gel. Twice more at five-minute intervals, repeat this procedure; the third time may be the proverbial charm. Remove the now-marmalade from the stove, and remove the bag of seeds, squeezing to release as much seedy goodness as possible. Pour in 3/8 cup of orange liqueur, which will boil on the surface of the hot marmalade; stir it in.

Step Four: Fill eight half-pint jars (all that my small canner will hold) with marmalade, and set them in boiling water to process. Realize that the remaining four jars will not be sufficient unto the quantity of marmalade that has been produced, as, in a surreal twist, the recipe has made considerably more marmalade than advertised. Scrounge in the basement for an additional four jars and rims, and quickly sterilize them. By the time that the first eight jars come out of the canner, have another eight jars waiting to go in. The Step Three photo is what was left in the pot after I'd filled 16 half-pint jars. It is mostly softly chewy, sweet-sour-bitter slices of orange peel, with a binder of sweet orange jelly.

Step Five: (This morning). Warm brioche bun from Macrina Bakery; split in half. Spoon a few bites of marmalade onto bun. Eat. Do not attempt to control wordless sounds of pleasure that come unbidden from deep in chest. Enjoy. Look at all those jars of marmalade on kitchen counter. Look at remaining four pounds of seville oranges on kitchen table. Smile.

For me?

2005-02-14T19:27:00.000-08:00

That's what Sasha and Sergei are wondering. Sasha loves flowers, especially roses that smell good, as these do. No, kitties, those roses are for Paul.

Twenty-four years ago tonight

2005-02-14T06:25:00.000-08:00

Some of you may not know that Paul and I met on Valentine's Day in 1981. Paul had just transferred to Brown; I had been there for a year. My friend Melinda told me about a Valentine's party being hosted by another transfer student, and we went. Who was throwing the party? I don't remember. (Paul can remember his face, but not his name.) Where was it? Somewhere off campus. I know we walked, but I know that only because none of us had cars. Snow on the ground? Probably. All that detail is long gone.

What I do remember is walking into the living room, where this cute guy was dancing with my friend Oona. Melinda introduced us (it was Paul), we chatted briefly, then Paul and Oona kept dancing. He seemed quite taken with her. I don't remember much about the rest of the party, either.

Not much of a story, really, and I probably wouldn't remember even that small fragment of the party had it not been for later events. The story didn't really become very interesting until a couple of days later, at Melinda's birthday party. By then, Paul had learned that Oona was involved with another woman, and therefore was not really available to him (in more ways than one). That was the night that we sat up talking for hours for the first time, listening to James Taylor and Jackson Browne... but that's another story for another night.

It's not a meme; it's pie... yummy, yummy pie

2005-02-13T18:17:00.000-08:00

The lovely Bakerina provided answers to the following questions, but did not follow directions (it's not baking, after all) regarding passing of the stick. Instead, she left said stick on the table, saying, "Maybe if you think of it less as a stick and more as a freshly-baked pie...everybody likes freshly-baked pie."

I think I'll have some pie...

What is the total amount of music files on your computer?

Does this mean audio files, or sheet music files? I'm rather an accidental Luddite about audio files; there are none resident on my computer. I have the technology and lots of music that I love, but I just haven't bothered. I do have, however, a number of PDF files of sheet music for English Country Dance tunes.

The CD you last bought?

'Down Came an Angel', a recording of solo piano interpretations of Christmas songs by Jacqueline Schwab, a tremendously talented pianist and truly lovely person. While I know her from the community of folk dance musicians, many more peope will recognize her playing from Ken Burns' documentaries: The Civil War, Lewis and Clark, and others.

What is the song you last listened to before reading this message?

The Coffee Drink Delivery Service song, as "written" and sung by my husband Paul.

Oh, did this mean recorded music? Hmmm... I really don't remember.

Write down 5 songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.

Five? How am I supposed to choose? It's made a bit easier because much of the music that I love most does not have words, and would therefore be classified as tunes rather than as songs.

'One I Love' by Jean Ritchie. A lovely waltz-time song by one of the matriarchs of American folk music, this song has traces of the traditional Irish, English and Appalachian songs that the Ritchies collected. I learned it around the time that Paul and I got engaged; it's as close to being "our song" as any, but a little different in that I sing it for him.

For when the fire to ice doth turn,
And when the icy sea will burn
And when those rocks all melt in the sun
My love for you has just begun.
One, I love. Two, he loves. Three, he's true to me.

'World's Bliss: Medieval Songs of Love and Death' by John Fleagle. This is an entire album; if pressed, I would choose 'The Hern' (The Heron) as my favorite song on it. John had one of the most glorious voices I have heard, and played a number of early and modern instruments beautifully. He died too young. My friend Shira Kammen, whose violin seems like an extension not only of her body, but of her very being, played on this album with John.

'Why Walk When You Can Fly?' and 'Jubilee' by Mary Chapin Carpenter. Perhaps I'll just choose all of 'Stones in the Road,' which is one of the few albums I own on which I like every track.

'No Man's Land' by Eric Bogle, on June Tabor's album Ashes and Diamonds. I was listening to this "song about the waste and futility of war" written after Bogle's visit to cemeteries in Flanders, when I heard that the US had attacked Iraq in 1991. I think of it often these days.

And I can't help but wonder now, Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "the cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it's all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

'Cold Missouri Waters' by James Keelaghan, as sung by the short-lived group Cry, Cry, Cry (Richard Shindell, Dar Williams, and Lucy Kaplansky). Inspired by Norman MacLean's book Young Men and Fire, this is perhaps the best modern ballad about a real-life event that I've heard. Even reading the lyrics gives me goosebumps.

Sky had turned red, smoke was boiling
Two hundred yards to safety, death was fifty yards behind
I don't know why I just thought it
I struck a match to waist high grass running out of time
Tried to tell them, Step into this fire I set
We can't make it, this is the only chance you'll get
But they cursed me, ran for the rocks above instead
I lay face down and prayed above the cold Missouri waters

Ummm, yes, I am a folkie, and a sappy romantic. Did you really have to ask?

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why?

Here's a chocolate torte. Here's the whipped cream. Help yourselves. Please share.

Feline Friday 18: How many cats?

2005-02-11T00:18:00.000-08:00

When one of us gets out of bed in the morning, a cat will usually commandeer the warm spot right up against the pillow. Yesterday morning, Paul caught all three cats sleeping in his spot. While it was a bit chilly in the house, it's rare that all three of them sleep so close together.

Note: Friday Ark is happening at The Modulator.

I don't like Mondays *

2005-02-10T19:58:00.000-08:00

I gave my grad school alma mater an email address so that the architecture school could send me its online newsletter, which occasionally brings word of someone I know. Now that the University has said address, it bombards me with email, most of which I delete without reading. However, yesterday's subject line Limited Edition Dinner Set intrigued me. I opened the email... and was stunned.

These dishes are emblazoned with a photo of the UT Tower, site of one of the worst mass murders in this country. On Monday, August 1, 1966, UT student Charles Whitman took five guns and 700 rounds of ammunition to the UT Tower. He had already killed his wife and mother, and he killed three people on his way to the observation deck at the top of the tower. Once there, he began shooting, killing ten more people and wounding many others before policemen shot and killed him.

I was two months shy of my 6th birthday, and one month away from starting first grade in Houston. The Tower Massacre is the first news event that I remember, although I certainly didn't comprehend it at the time. By the time that I arrived at UT for grad school, the Tower's observation deck - also the site of several suicides - had been closed. Nevertheless, there were times while crossing the south mall beneath the Tower that I was very much aware that this had been a killing ground.

I wonder now, looking at the photo on this dinnerware, whose idea it was to put the UT Tower on a Limited Edition Dinner Set. I have to think that it was someone young enough not to have the same horrific associations with the Tower that I have.

* "I don't like Mondays. This livens up the day." -- This was the statement given by 16-year-old Brenda Spencer about why she opened fire on an elementary school in San Diego on Monday, January 29, 1979, killing two school employees and injuring several children. As Charles Whitman did not leave an explanation for his actions, no one knows what was going through his mind. I can't imagine that it would have made any more sense to me than Brenda's "explanation."

Let them eat cake, part II

2005-02-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

I wrote the first part of this cake series two weeks ago, and I'm just now getting back to it. I think there will be 5 parts; this could take a while. When we last met, I had finished baking Maida Heatter's Torta di Cioccolata, and taken a Sunday afternoon nap.

On Sunday evening (in early January, 1993), several friends came over for Torta di Cioccolata and port. They crowded around my kitchen table, and we chatted while I whipped cream. My then boyfriend Gary opened the bottle of port, and poured it into an assortment of small glasses. I brought out the star of the show, my freshly-baked chocolate torte, dusted with confectioner's sugar. I was tremendously pleased with at least the aesthetics of this foray into baking; my friends oohed and aahed. I was hoping that the torta would taste as good as it looked.

"That cake looks like you bought it," Annie teased. Her husband Jay chimed in, "And your kitchen's too clean - you can't have baked this today."

"I should've left all the dirty dishes in the sink, just to prove it," I laughed. "And then you two could've washed."

I sliced and plated; they passed plates around the table, and spooned dollops of whipped cream onto their cake. We toasted ("to cake, and port, and friends with whom to share them"), and then tasted: cake with cream first, then just cake, then cake with port drizzled on it. The torte was very good: dark, rich, and moist. I thought, however, that it might not be the perfect complement to a good vintage port. My friends agreed much too easily, and strongly suggested that I test another recipe. It was obvious that they just wanted more cake.

Two weeks later (so perhaps there is a rhyme or reason to my pacing of these episodes), I prepared for the second tasting. I baked another flourless cake, also from Maida Heatter's Book of Great Chocolate Desserts. Like the first cake, this one depends entirely on beaten egg whites for its lift. Unlike its Italian cousin, in which ground almonds do the work of flour, this French "cake" really is a souffle of sorts. Chocolate, butter, sugar and eggs -- what more does one need? Perhaps a splash of liqueur, a bit of salt, but that's all.

Torte Souffle au Chocolat (recipe Maida's, words mine)

4 ounces (4 squares) unsweetened chocolate
6 ounces (6 squares) semisweet chocolate
5 ounces (1 1/4 sticks) sweet butter, cut into 1" pieces
1 cup plus 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
7 eggs (graded large), separated
1/3 cup Grand Marnier
Pinch of salt

Set oven rack 1/3 up from bottom of oven; preheat to 300 degrees. Butter an 10-inch diameter, 2-1/2-inch high (or more) spring-form. Line the bottom with a round of baking parchment cut to fit; butter the paper. Dust all over with flour (I like cocoa powder better for this), then invert and tap lightly to remove excess.

Melt both chocolates and butter together in a double boiler over medium. Cover until partly melted; uncover and stir until melted and smooth. Remove chocolate mixture from hot water and allow to cool slightly, uncovered.

Using an electric mixer, beat the egg yolks with 3/4 cup plus one tablespoon of the sugar. Beat at high speed until very thick and pale, about 5 minutes. On low speed, gradually add the Grand Marnier, then the tepid chocolate mixture, using a spatula to scrape the sides of the bowl. Beat only until mixed.

In another bowl, add salt to the egg whites with and, with clean beaters, beat until they hold soft peaks when the beaters are lifted. On lower speed, gradually add the remaining 1/4 cup of sugar; increase speed until whites hold firm peaks. Using a large spatula, add about 1 cup of the beaten whites to the chocolate mixture, fold in. Fold in another cup. Then fold in the remaining whites, only until the mixtures are blended. Turn into the pan; rotate pan between palms to level mixture.

Bake for 1 hour at 300 degrees; lower oven temperature to 250 degrees and bake 30 minutes more. (When the temperature is lowered, the cake will begin to sink; do not despair.) After the cake has baked for 1 1/2 hours total, turn off the oven. Open the oven door a couple of inches, and allow the cake to cool in the oven.

When the cake has cooled completely, remove it from the oven and remove the sides of the spring-form. Cover the cake with a rack, and invert; remove the pan bottom and parchment, then invert the cake onto a serving plate.

This is one of those cakes that, in Maida Heatter's words, requires camouflage. The top cracks as it settles; it is not beautiful. What to do? Whip some cream, of course!

To be continued...

1506

2005-02-06T13:33:00.000-08:00

When we had the house painted... hmmm... three years ago, we took down the small, ugly house numbers that were adjacent to our front door. Since then, we've been looking for house numbers that we like. The difficulty was in finding a font in which we liked the particular numerals in our street number. You'd be surprised how many fonts with otherwise nice numerals have a really dorky "1" or oddly proportioned "0".

In the meantime, we've had a house number "plaque" that Paul made using a sheet of 8.5x11 paper, a black Sharpie pen and tape. The numbers were really quite nice, but the materials not particularly durable.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, we finally found house numbers that we liked. My parents gave them to us for Christmas. Really, they gave us the money with which to buy them, and it took us several weeks to get down to the store to pick them up.

Last weekend, I made a paper template, on two sheets of 11x17 paper, showing the locations of the numerals, and the precise spots at which the pilot holes for screws should be drilled. I've seen these templates many times, as professional sign companies use them for installation of signage with individual letters and numbers. They now use computers to generate templates; the "technology" that I used is as antiquated as hand-drafting.

Yesterday, Paul installed our new house numbers. At the time, it was sunny, and the low winter sun on the thick numerals cast deep shadows against the column. By the time I took this photo of Paul presenting his handiwork, the sky was overcast, so they don't look quite as striking. Still, we like them a lot.

First signs

2005-02-05T16:18:00.000-08:00

It's February in Seattle. Although the skies are often gray, and the nights still come early, we've had a fairly mild winter. This pot, which sits on our west-facing front steps, gets all of the afternoon light that these short days have to give. It has rewarded us for placing it here with this tiny riot of color.

These flowers are for Jen, with whom I was chatting when I posted them, and for Michael, who wants more flowers in his life.

Feline Friday 17: On the couch

2005-02-04T10:52:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, "psycho-therapists" Sigmund, Carl and Alfred addressed what they see as the psychopathology of pet blogs. Starting with the premise that "animals do not blog," they went on to describe those of us who blog about our pets as... well, see for yourselves:

Posting picture of your pet is another revealing aspect of your sorry ass selves.

Now hear this: cats, dogs, fish, etc., are like Volkswagons [sic] (and babies)- if you've seen one, you've seen them all. That's right. Digital images of your pet, so lovingy [sic] posted on your blog or website, are like posting images of rocks. There are only so many angles from which a rock is fascinating. While the rock may hold a certain fascination for you, it does not hold that same fascination for the rest of us.

In extremely broad strokes, their "analysis" painted us as using our pets to meet neurotic needs, and pet blogging as providing a window into the perverse and unrealistic expectations and beliefs that we have regarding our relationships with our pets.

I don't take offense easily, but this stung. I know - because I've done my time on the couch - that emotional reactions are worth examining. So, I'll hop on the figurative couch now, and free associate for awhile about my cat blogging.

"Well, docs, for the past week I've been -- Oh, you want me to start at the beginning? Look, I really don't want to talk about my childhood today, but I'll talk about when I first started cat blogging.

" My husband Paul and I write this blog, Paul vs. the Squamous Monster, about Paul's diagnosis last January with oral cancer, his subsequent surgery, and the ongoing process of his recovery. Yes, I know I've talked about this before, but I feel like you aren't really paying attention to me. Where was I? Oh, yes, the first time that I ever wrote about the cats... Not quite a year ago, I was having a really difficult day dealing with medical insurance and second opinions, but there was a moment when Sasha made me laugh out loud. Simple laughter, uncomplicated by sarcasm or fear -- have I told you what a rare thing that was in our house then? It was so blissfully normal to be amused by the antics of my cat, so I wrote a post about it. I figured all the folks who stopped by every day to see how we were doing might enjoy something light and a little funny.

"Paul's surgery was at the end of February -- it's been almost a year now. He was in the hospital for 12 days. The cats were not used to being alone so much; when I was home, they were all over me. After Paul came home, I was busy taking care of him, and writing about how he was doing, so I didn't write about the cats until Lyra went missing. Paul and I were really upset; we didn't feel like we could handle more loss. We were so relieved when we found her.

"In August, I started this blog. I wanted a place of my own, a blog that didn't focus on Paul's illness. It needed a name, and I thought about this quotation from Albert Schweitzer, about music and cats and life's miseries. It's right over there near the top. What? -- Yes, maybe it is sort of a depressing sentiment. I was depressed. Paul was even more depressed, but at that point I hadn't been able to convince him to see a therapist. I was afraid that my office was going to close, and I didn't feel like I could bear to look for a new job. Our cats and my music really were two of the most comforting things in my life.

"See, docs, our cats really don't care about many of the things that we humans worry about, and that's one of the reasons I love them. They don't care whether I'm depressed or happy, whether I've just lost my job or gotten a promotion. While Paul is sensitive about the effects of his surgery, the cats don't care that he has a scar from ear to chin, or that his speech is sometimes thick. These things are of no consequence to them. They want simple things: food and water, a clean litter box, a warm place to sleep, and toys to hunt. They like to be cuddled and brushed and petted; I think that indicates some sort of "mother issues" about bathing and grooming, but you're the expert on those thing. They like the sounds of our voices, probably because they associate our voices with getting all those other things they like.

"Oh, right, I was going to talk about why I post photos of and write about our cats, not why I love them. You remember I said that I was depressed? And that being able to laugh at Sasha's antics felt normal when so much of my life did not? Well, I really wanted this new blog to be about the normal, everyday things in my life. Not that I felt like my life was back to normal... not by a long shot. But our cats, they're such beautiful, healthy animals. So I posted some photos of them. Was it a way of presenting my life as more normal than in fact it was? Perhaps so. Then one of my readers commented, 'Not enough cat photos. How about cat photos once a week?' I wasn't sure about once a week, but after a while I decided, well, why not? That's when I started Feline Fri--

"Oh, we're almost out of time? OK, before we stop, I just want say this..." (click to continue)

Wearing red

2005-02-03T13:50:00.000-08:00

When Evelyn walked into a room, everyone felt happier. It wasn't because she was beautiful, though she had sparkling blue eyes, a lovely smile, and masses of wavy blond hair. It wasn't because she was talented, though her soprano voice was high and clear, and she was an intuitive, graceful dancer. It wasn't even because she was bright, charming, and had a wicked sense of humor. While all of those attributes were part of the lovely person that Evelyn was, her greatest gift was the joy that she found in life, and her ability to share that joy with those around her. Evelyn just made people feel good.

Five years ago this spring, my dear friend Evelyn had a massive heart attack. While doctors eventually resuscitated her, they were too late; she no longer had brain activity. All of her marvelous vivacity, talent, humor and gentleness were gone. Her husband Mark, the minister who officiated at Paul's and my wedding, made the gut-wrenching and generous decision to donate Evelyn's organs to people who needed them. When I think of Evelyn now, I wonder who may be alive, or no longer on dialysis, or seeing more clearly because they now have some part of Evelyn's body in their own.

Evelyn was 49 years old. She had no history of heart disease.

Tomorrow is the second annual National Wear Red Day, on which Americans are asked to wear red to raise awareness that heart disease is the #1 killer of American women, and that cardiovascular disease of some sort kills 1 in 3 American women. Wear Red Day, and the Red Dress campaign, are part of the National Heart, Lung and Blood Institute's The Heart Truth campaign, and the American Heart Association's Go Red for Women program. Both organizations have a wealth of information on the risk factors for heart disease in women, and on the symptoms of heart disease and heart attack, which are often different for women than for men. Please look at this information. Consider whether you or someone you love might be at risk. If someone you love is at risk, tell her. Tell her that you don't want to lose her. If that someone is you, please take care of yourself. That's what I'm going to do; I'll be back at the gym (where I have not been for months) in the morning.

I'll be wearing red tomorrow for women who may already have heart disease, or may be at risk for developing it. What that really means is that I'll be wearing red for all of us. And I'll be wearing red for Evelyn.

More on Mr. Johnson

2005-01-31T18:24:00.000-08:00

His life and his work evoked strong feelings. He was a complicated character. Drawn to fascism in his early adulthood, he was later publicly apologetic. Was designing a synagogue for free atonement enough, and of the proper sort? Closeted until late in life, after coming out he coyly referred to his succession of partners as "the four Mrs. Johnsons." The last, David Whitney, was his companion for 45 years, considerably longer than most marriages endure. How does one take the full measure of a man's life? And his work... what to say about the built artifacts of a 50-year architectural career? Some were great, some were laughable, some were even - perhaps his worst fear - dull. Much is being written at his passing about the man and his architecture; here are a few interesting assessments.

Form Follows Fascism
By Mark Stevens, January 31, 2005 in the New York Times

The death last week of Philip Johnson, the nonagenarian enfant terrible, brought 20th-century architecture to a symbolic close. Even Mr. Johnson's friends sometimes doubted that he was an architect of the first rank, but friend and foe alike agreed that he was an emblematic figure of his time.

But emblematic of what? In death, his role in American culture will come into sharper focus, and it's a darker picture than many have thought. Read More

Lived in Glass House, Threw Stones:
How Philip Johnson lost his way
By Witold Rybczynski, Friday, Jan. 28, 2005 on Slate.com

Many of Philip Johnson's obituaries describe him as the dean of American architects. He was undoubtedly a force in American architecture and exercised a major influence on the profession, but "dean" implies benevolent leadership. Johnson's influence was not altogether benign.

At the beginning of his involvement with architecture, he was simply a spokesman and promoter of the new Modern (at that point chiefly European) architecture. In 1932, with Henry-Russell Hitchcock, he organized an influential exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art and published The International Style. He put his money where his mouth was and built himself a house—the so-called Glass House—that became one of the most famous symbols of the new style. In the mid-1950s, he was at the side of Ludwig Mies Van der Rohe, helping him to design what many consider the greatest building of the postwar period, the Seagram Building.

"I don't want to be interesting, I want to be good," Mies is supposed to have said. But the mercurial Johnson, who seemed to get easily bored, definitely preferred interesting. Read More

Soon he was drifting away from the severe and rigorous steel-and-glass boxes of his mentor and experimenting with more plastic shapes. In the process, he pushed Modernism in a new direction. Like other architects, Johnson was responding to the American public's desire for pomp and circumstance, but the result was a clumsy sort of stripped-down neoclassicism, best represented by the New York State Theater at Lincoln Center. Monumentality for the masses.

In the mid-1960s, Johnson veered again. Architects like Eero Saarinen worked for corporate clients, but Johnson took on the challenging task of working with commercial real-estate developers. Over the next two decades, working often for the developer Gerald Hines, Johnson popularized the signature office building. The idea was that striking architecture was good for business. Across the country, he built increasingly theatrical skyscrapers, culminating in the AT&T Building in New York City, a Chippendale-topped high-rise that got its architect on the cover of Time magazine.

Johnson ushered in, although he did not invent, what became known as architectural Postmodernism. Always generous, he promoted the careers of such notable practitioners of the genre as Michael Graves and Robert Venturi. But in less capable hands, Postmodernism quickly degenerated into a facile and repetitive pastiche of old and new.

Johnson's work became increasingly historicist, often slapdash, definitely interesting rather than good. He seemed to sense that Postmodernism might be a dead end and switched gears again. This time it was Deconstructivism that caught his eye. He took architects such as Peter Eisenman and Frank Gehry under his wing, and hoping to repeat his earlier success, promoted a 1972 exhibit at MoMA. While lacking the impact of his earlier show, his imprimatur helped to propel Eisenman and Gehry, as well as Zaha Hadid and Rem Koolhaas, into the limelight. Johnson himself, who had continued his practice, also embraced the new style. The ungainly Canadian Broadcasting Corp. headquarters in Toronto, was one result.

The celebrity culture of contemporary architecture is a Johnson legacy, as is a somewhat cynical aestheticism that seeks to divorce architectural design from the real world. On the other hand, Johnson's enthusiastic involvement in architecture certainly served as a stimulus to several generations of what he called "my kids." Yet, in turning away from the principle of Modernism and embracing the shaky terrain of the eclectic, Johnson ultimately lost his way. Perhaps that's why the elegant and evocative Glass House, which he built in 1949, remains his most enduring achievement.
All done with Lived in Glass House...

A Tastemaker Propelled by Curiosity
By Nicolai Ouroussof, January 27, 2005 in the New York Times

At the height of his power, Philip Johnson's tentacles seemed to reach into every corner of his profession. As the founding director of the Museum of Modern Art's department of architecture and design, he almost single-handedly introduced American audiences to European Modernist buildings; he was a tireless promoter of emerging architectural talents, from Mies van der Rohe to Frank Gehry. And although he often played down his creative talent, he produced a number of 20th-century landmarks in his long, eclectic career, among them the 1949 Glass House, rightly considered a masterpiece of American design.

Yet his greatest talent of all may have been his unquenchable curiosity, which prevented him, and by extension, his audience, from becoming mired in any specific architectural style or movement. Read More

Ars longa, vita brevis

2005-01-28T22:51:00.000-08:00

Philip Johnson was one of the first architects whose work I remember. I grew up in Houston in the 1960's and 1970's, in the period during which Philip Johnson was changing that city's skyline for the better. I might not have paid attention to Johnson's work at that time, however, had it not been for my architect father, who was always saying, "Look! Look at that."

According to the Houston Chronicle, Johnson said in a 1991 interview, "Houston is undoubtedly my showcase city. I saved all my best buildings for Houston." Here are a few of those buildings:

University of St. Thomas Campus and Chapel of St. Basil
The campus of the University of St. Thomas, a small Houston college, was Johnson's second Houston commission. (His first was the house he designed for Dominique and John de Menil. Finished in 1951, it was the first flat-roofed modern house in its wealthy River Oaks neighborhood.) Built in the mid-1950's, the campus is a modernist take on Thomas Jefferson's plan for the University of Virginia, with brick and glass academic buildings connected by black steel-framed covered walkways on either side of an open lawn. Whereas the library was the focal point of Jefferson's design, at St. Thomas the focus is the Chapel of St. Basil. Part of the original campus plan, the chapel was not built until 1997... by which time Johnson's design sensibilities had changed dramatically. The chapel was Johnson's last work in Houston.

Pennzoil Place and RepublicBank Center
Pennzoil Place, completed in 1976, was the first of Johnson's great Houston skyscrapers. It's the modernist glass box with a twist. Two mirror-image 36-story towers, trapezoidal in plan, are located on their site to create triangular atrium lobbies with sloping glass roofs. The tops of the towers are similarly sloped, but in opposite directions. The two towers are separated by a 10-foot-wide vertical slot; from some locations they appear as two towers, from others as only one. In 1983, the RepublicBank Center went up across the street from Pennzoil. Only someone who had followed Johnson's career in the intervening nine years would have believed them to be the work of the same architect. Clad in red Swedish granite, with crenelated towers reminiscent of Dutch gabled townhouses, and two large steps in its massing, the RepublicBank building was unabashedly historical in style. It's rumored RepublicBank steps back as it does so as not to hide Pennzoil Place on the skyline. The composition created by these two radically different buildings is a particular favorite of mine.

Transco Tower
Completed in 1984, Transco is my favorite skyscraper in Houston. Its 64-story form looks like a depression-era stone skyscraper cast in glass. There are no other tall buildings around it, so its skin mirrors the sky, and its color changes constantly throughout the course of the day. As Houston is a flat city, Transco is visible for a great distance; occasionally a view of the top of the tower will appear when one least expects it.

When Johnson received the first Pritzker Prize in 1979, he expressed his hope that architecture might one day again be considered fundamental to our society: "Yet ars longa vita brevis. Values can change. Art, myth, religions can bloom once again. We may, for example, want to rebuild America. We surely can if we want to. We can do anything. We have the skill, the materials, the labor force. Heaven knows, we have the need: our ugly surroundings, our inadequate housing, our sad slums are testimony. We can, if we but will; architecture, as in all the world’s history, could be the art that saves."

On Wednesday, January 25, Philip Johnson died at home in New Canaan, CT, in the Glass House that he designed and built for himself in 1949. At 98, he had a life that was longer than most. He is survived by his art - the built legacy of more than 50 years of architectural practice - and by the influence that he had on more than one generation of architects.

Update: Paul Goldberger has a fine article on Philip Johnson in the January 27 New York Times. Since it will become pay-per-view in just a few days, I've included the full text of it here.

Note: For photo credits, mouse over photo. Uncredited photos are from a Houston Chronicle article, in which no credits were given.

Feline Friday 16: Herb

2005-01-28T20:31:00.000-08:00

This is my cat.

This is my cat on drugs.

Any questions?

(This is for Michael, who has just acquired some medicinal herb to combat one of the more unpleasant side-effects of chemotherapy. I really, really hope it helps, sweetheart, and has you feeling just as frisky and playful as Sergei. If it makes you want to rub up against anyone warm and soft... well, maybe that's not the herb.)