The Kitchen Is Closed

I feel like I'm at a buffet, and I've managed, as always, to stack too much on my plate. Gravy flowing down mashed potatoes, pooling in the sauteed green beans and bleeding into the bread; broccoli, insulted by the close proximity of roly poly stuffed mushrooms. When I finally dig my fork into the piles of food, some grains of rice slip off of the edge of the plate, onto the table. My companion reminds me that we're at a buffet--I can always come back for more.

It's the same with this blog. I've finally realized that I need to come back for extra helpings at another time because, right now, I'm full, and the fixings, however delicious, are losing their appeal. I don't have much left to offer. I can't see how the ingredients can come together to create the final product. I can't even remember what I've started eating or cooking here.

We have a full menu for the end of July and the month of August that includes several trips, a return to work and a return to school, birthday parties, a reception, appointments, guests, and occasional pauses. I don't know when I will return to the kitchen.

In the meantime, however, I would still like to continue to visit your blogs; you--and your thoughts, and your writing, and your art--have become a part of my life, little helpings of breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert. Fuel to get me through my day, tasty morsels of thought, warmth, inspiration, and creativity.

When I visit, it will be my way of stopping by your house for coffee (or a beer). Hopefully, one day soon, I will be able to reciprocate the favor and invite you back to my place. Maybe, by that time, I will have a loose leaf binder full of new recipes and a pantry brimming with exotic ingredients. Maybe I will have a gorgeous new runner on the table and pretty floral curtains on the windows.

Then again, maybe you'll just get some regular ol' home cooking served up on a paper plate at a clear spot on the table.

Regardless, I hope that one day, just like me at the buffet, you'll be willing to amble on back for more.

Speaking of Accessories . . .

Still haven't selected any window treatments, but I'm off to Bed, Bath, and Beyond this afternoon to peruse and inspect (and possibly purchase). Unfortunately, my house can't try on and model potential accessories. Fortunately, however, she's a nice looking girl with good bones; she can make a lot of looks "work!"

Thought I would share my own current favorite accessory, a purse that my mother knitted for me.



This purse was "inspired" by the Margaret Nicole line of knit bags. I cannot afford a Margaret Nicole, therefore, I asked my mother to make me something similar. I am so grateful that she did. I believe that Margaret Nicole purses cost well over $100. This purse cost my mother $15 in materials, and she whipped it out in a day. I'd love to see what she could do with some Louis Vuitton or Coach material.

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

That's me.

Cate On A Hot Tin Roof

Dizzy today, like a ceiling fan on a slow spin. A ceiling fan on a stretched out veranda in the middle of Virginia's horse country, rotating above perspiring glasses of mint julep and lemonade.

It's hot today.

Spinning and dizzy with potential--so many things to see and do and experience. Suddenly, my house needs organizing, my stomach needs chiseling, and june bug words need splatted on a page. I imagine the magic of this day as I drink coffee, but after the dream, I recline in the heavy heat with a book, and possibility drifts away.

I wrote a short story yesterday--spinning that felt like dancing as I occupied a world that, for a long time, existed only in my head. Now, I need to revise it. Make it complete. Encourage the characters to spin with their own energy. Flighty paragraphs stitched together to make a ballroom dress.

Giddy, the way it feels to be in the groove, and just spinning and dancing and flying through that moment.

Dizzy and spinning through the sultry haze of today.

Blind Love (or I Love Blinds)

When I was growing up, we had curtains: long drapes in the living room, ruffly ones in the kitchen. I didn't love them, but sometimes, if the mood struck, I hid behind the longer ones and wrapped their material around me like a ball gown (I also stood over furnace vents while wearing my nightgown and watched it--the nightgown--billow up, and pretended that I was pregnant).

As I grew older, my tastes evolved. My grandmother in Northern Ireland had venetian blinds, and when I visited her the Summer that I was twelve, I was consumed with the adjustment of them--open the slats fully, close them just a bit, tug the cord and elevate them, let it loose and watch them crash down. The woman practically had to rip me away from the damn windows, as occupied as I was with playing with them (that was also the Summer of Jane Eyre and sliding down banisters and pounding out the song, "The Entertainer" from the movie "The Sting," on the piano).

Soon after my first taste of "European window treatments," I visited my Summer friend, Stacy, in Ohio. She had no interest in her mother's interior decoration hobby, but I most certainly did. The Missus and I sat at the kitchen table, poring over material swatches and paint samples. There were shutters in their house. In keeping with precedent, I adjusted them, too (although I was starting to understand that this window treatment love was a bit weird, so I snuck the adjustments).

When Lou and I bought our house, we threw up a bunch of cheapy venetian blinds on most of the windows. One ambitious afternoon, Lou installed shutters in one of the three kitchen windows, but "window treatment love" was starting to become a painful affair; with home ownership, we realized that a lot of window treatments--especially ones for non-standard windows--are expensive. The other two kitchen windows, consequently, were never "clothed." Scrimping and saving, we finally put a roman shade in our front room (along with a matching shade on the door). Neither can be cleaned. This bothers me . . . what with four animals . . . but I roller them occasionally and still think that they're pretty (the shades, not the animals . . . well, the animals, too).

We recently painted our bedroom. And we're tired of the solo shutter in the kitchen. So, it is with much excitement that I prepare to invest in new blinds for these rooms; my tastes have remained varied, which is a good thing. Current infatuation is with natural wood shades, with names that are like poetry: fiji, lotus reeds, grasses osaka. I spent hours online last night, clicking and scrutinizing and searching for iridescent, scarlet, window scarves. And for the kitchen, I'm stalled in the eighties: huge floral prints and ballooned-out fabric.

Apparently, that window treatment love never fades. And I still love a good door, a door knob, interior and exterior shutters, and gates--just as much as I love a good purse.

I have my accessories. The house has hers.

Test

Check. Check one. Check. Check.

Sibilance.

This Gift I Did Not Deserve

Every so often, we get gifts that we do not deserve:

Smiles from children when we are feeling particularly irritable; a ten dollar bill wedged, like a leaf, in the grass; an extra large slice of chocolate chip cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory; a bouquet of purple and red wildflowers from overnight guests; ex-boyfriends who call ten years later and say that they are sorry for ever having let you go; a poem from a new author that turns you inside out; and "I love you"s when we are acting less than likeable, let alone, loveable.

Today I was blessed with the gift of Shannon's words, one of the kindest presents that I have ever received.

If you have not read her work at Sentimental But Crazy, you need to. Immediately. Especially if you are a writer or have a love for words. Her writing twists and turns through beautiful imagery, with quiet intensity and pure honesty. The stories that she tells about her life, her family, her joys, and her struggles pierce at you--when you leave her place, you leave a little bit of yourself behind and you are lucky to take a little bit of Shannon with you.

She is a gifted writer and a generous friend.

Thank you, Shannon.

My Revised Stance on Rejection

During my latest blog rounds (the zillionth time today), I come across this little gem, which I've heard again and again. I think I've even said this myself on several occasions, but now the words enrage me:

Don't take rejection personally. It's not about you. It's about the work.

What a load of fucking bullshit.

Can you tell that I'm feeling a bit testy today?

Sure, technically, rejection is not about YOU, but if you have poured immeasureable hours into the work, reached into the depths of who you are to come up with real characters, genuine emotions, and the right sentences, it sure the hell feels like it's about you.

YES, technically, it's not, but if FEELS like it is.

I'm sick of sugar-coating rejection. It fucking hurts. It scrapes you raw. Not always, but often. It doesn't mean you're gonna stop writing. It doesn't even mean that you'll consider it. It doesn't mean that you don't understand what the writing/art world is all about. But it hurts. And sometimes, you've just gotta whine about it. Doesn't mean you want anyone to offer advice. Doesn't mean you want anyone to tell you to find a different field. You just want someone to say, "I hear you, and I agree--it sucks."

Don't take it personally.

Pheehhhh.

What a load of horseshit.

Running In Place, Just Like Fred Flinstone When He Drives

Of course I'm nervous. Afraid that the words will stop. Or worse, that the fear of them, fear of the results, will override my love for them.

I knew that if I sat down and started writing, everything would be alright. I knew this three years ago, when I started writing again after only sporadic attempts during a seven year period. I know this in my heart, every time. It's the convincing of my hands, my fingers on a keyboard, to cooperate. And the convincing of my spirit, too.

But this is true, too. My efforts are awkward at first . . . but they do get better.

Talent untested is the basis of daydreams. If only I were writing . . . if only I were submitting . . . The potential of recognition resides in that untested talent. Testing means risking. And risking can mean failing.

But I am learning that effort can be the basis of daydreams, too. Maybe not this story, but possibly the next one that I will show up to write.

So many lovely words on the page. Some right. Some wrong. But for a brief moment, all mine.

Poetry Thursday: "Anastasia Krupnik" by Lois Lowry

I'm rereading a book that I loved during my childhood--Anastasia Krupnik by Lois Lowry. I'm hoping that, somehow, this post creates a surge of curiosity about Anastasia, because frankly, as I'm reading about her life, I'm finding that I'm learning a lot from her, just as I did when I was a kid.

Anastasia is ten, an only child (for most of the book), and a list-maker. Her father is Myron Krupnik, a poet. He is also a professor. Anastasia, like her father, loves words, and she adds often to a list of "favorites" in the back of her notebook (i.e. "mutant" and "corn pads" are both on the list). The plot of this story involves Anastasia's family and how it changes while they prepare to have a baby. Mainly, it is about Anastasia's reaction to the event. There are sub-plots, of course: being misunderstood by a teacher, crushes, relating to the elderly, and the death of a grandparent. Each situation is handled gently, comically, and beautifully.

And you've got to love any children's novel that references e.e. cummings.

In keeping with Poetry Thursday (sort of), I share a passage from Anastasia Krupnik that moves me. My reaction to this excerpt is strong, but it's a quiet kind of strong. It's about the smothering, electric blanket heat of self-doubt and the sometimes difficult journey to self-acceptance. I wonder if these words comforted me when I read them as a kid; I always felt less alone when I "met" a character in a story whom I would have loved to have been friends with.

"I'm dumb," said Anastasia sadly to herself, "because sometimes--too many times--I don't feel the same way about things that everybody else feels.

"I was the only one at Jennifer MacCauley's birthday party," she remembered gloomily, "who thought green ice cream was nauseating. Everybody even said I was dumb, for that.

"I'm the only person in the world," she reminded herself, "--the whole entire world--who likes cold spinach sandwiches. That's really dumb."

"And now," she thought, "I'm the only kid in the fourth grade who doesn't like Mrs. Westvessel."

So reason three seemed to be the reason. "Because I'm dumb." She left it there, frowned, closed her green notebook. "Sometimes," she thought, maybe it isn't a good idea after all to make a list and find out the answer to a question."

Copyright 1979, Lowis Lowry (a Dell Yearling book)

Of course, I have "mutantized" the Poetry Thursday assignment because I am not posting poetry, but Anastasia's father (as well as Anastasia herself) is a poet, so that's gotta count for something, right?

Please check Anastasia out from the library the next time you visit. Or flip through a copy of it at the bookstore and see if it appeals to you. It is a delightful novel that reminded me of who I was at the age of ten; it also reminds me of who I am now.

Visit Poetry Thursday and click on the links to read "real" poetry!

The Riddler and "R" Ramblings, Inspired By Deb

Recreation: New bikes for both boys=long evening rides in the alley behind our house. Perhaps a foray along the canal that runs through town tonight?

Restaurants: Just one, Dutch's Daughter, for their Sunday Brunch. The tomatoes in our garden have ripened and we have been devouring large quantities of homemade salsa and bruschetta. No need for dining out . . . at least, not until the sink is full of all of our dishes.

Reading: "Worth More Dead" by Ann Rule; "Anastasia Krupnik" by Lois Lowry; "Local Girls" by Alice Hoffman; "The Lost Mother" by Mary McGarry Morris; July/August issue of Poets & Writers magazine

Writing: Morning Pages religiously (for three days! HA!); working on a short story; have decided that work ethic in writing is as important as creativity, talent--am truly devoting myself to daily assignments to keep the words flowing. Have felt empty lately. Discouraged. Am worried about my lack of direction. I finally decided last night that the way through this is to write. Just keep writing. We'll see where this new mindset takes me.

Rat Race: Back to work in August, a day and a half a week, as the "extra" speech pathologist at the elementary school that is two blocks from my house. One son will be in kindergarten there, the other will be in the part-time, "three year old program." Pretty ideal for our family right now. I'm excited!

Respite: Off, with my man, to The Algonquin Hotel in NYC in early August for a couple of days of shows, sightseeing, and dining. We are soooo looking forward to this trip, our first vacation together--just the two of us--in a few years! Suitcases filled with clothes and a sketchbook and a notebook. Can't wait to meet Matilda, a cat who resides in the hotel and oversees the comings and goings of the guests. Luxurious beds and "cozy" rooms. It doesn't get much better . . .

And finally . . .



Riddler: Me, in my suit, as "captured" by Deb! What a wonderfully talented (multi-talented) and thoughtful friend she is. If you have not seen her work, go to Red Shoe Ramblings immediately--you will not be sorry! Quilts, poetry, photographs, drawings, interior design. When I say she does it all, I mean, she DOES IT ALL!

Sunday Scribblings: Two Peas In A Pod

"You should be friends," an older woman I know confides in me as we sit on my patio, "You have so much in common--you're the same age, and you're both mothers, writers . . . you're practically two peas in a pod."

I gulp my beer, then offer a wry smile, the only way I know to announce my irritation. She has said this many times before, and each time, my reaction grows darker and deeper, like a pile of potato peels with only green potatoes to show for the effort.

I have tried to be friends with the person of whom the older woman speaks. I have dialed the telephone, shot off emails, suggested lunches, sat alongside this girl on a couch at a party and giggled over glasses of wine. The younger woman played her role of a pea well--when pressed, she nestled and rolled with circumstance. She was the appropriate hue, and also fresh and crisp. But that younger woman, a girlfriend-y soul mate in the wrapper of a pod, shrugged off effort when she was not a key part of the meal. Reciprocal invitations were never offered, and ideas were borrowed without credit.

Rejection hurts, at first, but then, it becomes an ingredient for a word salad. Sliced embarrassment, crunchy croutons of insecurity that scrape the roof of my mouth, and finally a bitter vinegar dressing.

All together, the words become worth the pain, and the taste of hurt becomes subtle, lost among the other flavors.

So, I tell this older woman the next time she encourages a friendship between me and my fellow pea, that I have tried and am frankly not interested. Two peas in pod, I think not. I don't like her, I say, and the older woman blanches. She's a cold fish, I say, and I finally laugh.

One pea and one cold fish. A raw pea that would prefer to reside in a roomy pod.
___________

To read more Scribblings or to submit one of your own, click here.