Kristen Orser's Blog, page 8

Recap

Three days of BBQs, sun-sitting, and time in the garden. Can we press rewind?

Let’s recap: I adore weekends.

Even with “unemployment” hanging over my head (and checkbook), I still correspond with former students, collaborate with artists, write and write and write all week. This week, a little ditty about my new favorite summer drink: Pretty in Pink (and it’s shockingly non-alcoholic, which makes me think someone else wrote this). Weekends are no different than when I put on the occasional high heels and high powered suit. Weekends are utter bliss.

In California I’ve learned some weekend basics: wear layers + carry a blanket for an impromptu beach picnic. Oh, I’ve also rediscovered the joy of buying a picnic and eating out of containers.

My mom used to take my sister and me on “picnics.” She was in school again, raising two children, student teaching, and taking care of the house. “Picnics” were not homemade (and who could blame her?). Instead, we got to go to a local sandwich shop or the grocery store and pick out whatever we wanted. Then we’d sit in the sun and munch. Perfect! I can’t imagine how a homemade picnic could have been better. I mean, it was really about the three of us girls in the sun, usually near a swing set.

Jesse and I went to The Picnic Basket and did it up with a wheatberry salad (amazing!), a salami sandwich with pesto (for Jesse), and a goats cheese and tapenade sandwich (for me). The baguettes, from Companion Bakeshop, were great. Made me feel a bit guilty for not making any bread lately.

These are fancy beach eats. Deceptively simple.

I think we sat around and didn’t do ANYTHING for a good two hours, which is pretty impressive for our go-go-go attitudes. And we needed it: some time to unwind and really feel time move at a slow and sunny pace. We needed to sit next to each other without talking, thinking, or worry about anything/anybody else. A little restoration.

With Jesse home for the long weekend, we got extra lounging time. But it wasn’t all sitting around.

We made a chiffon cake with layers of berries (picked from Swanton farms) and whipped cream. Yum. Jesse’s decorations were “abstract” at best, but I can’t complain…it’s nice to be in the kitchen together. And the cake tasted AMAZING.

Not quite a “flag” on top, but you get the idea.

Memorial Day (and a little peace)

Pretty easy to forget the peaceful parts of Memorial Day: the real desire to be welcomed home, to create a safe home, and to nourish the homestead.

When I moved across the country, calling the states a “home” made a little bit more sense to me. Jesse and I were welcomed everywhere, found people who wanted to hear about our move, talk about what we were doing, and even offer us tips about our relocation. Having a NY State license plate was a talking point at every diner, gas station, and little old place we stopped. The whole country felt woven together and connected.

It made sense, then, to think about wanting to care for the country. Even, to defend the country.

Walter Gannon, aka “Dear Old Dad”

After my grandfather died we went through his old boxes. He saved things we didn’t understand: pennies wrapped in aluminum foil, old perfume bottles, loads of newspapers. But we found things that really taught us about him too: he kept a note by his bedside from his wife (who had died twenty years prior), he had photos from a work reunion party where everyone else brought their families and he went alone to “not be a bother,” we found medical records about ailments we didn’t know about, etc. This was a person I talked to everyday…EVERYday and I know he maintained a lot of individualism, repeated his personal motto “no mush” to avoid too much affection, but it was strange to see how much we didn’t know.

Strange to feel disconnected.

We found his flag from service, which was folded properly, immaculately cared for, and raised and lowered appropriately and often. We found his uniform, military pins, and images from WWII of him, his brother Al. All the images were identical to the image I knew: an innocent, caring, quiet man.

As my grandfather, he didn’t talk about war. He didn’t talk about “any of that” but referred to his time as “service” and seemed weak and fragile when it was mentioned.

Talking about his time in the army, in the war, was sensitive and it was implicit that he’d rather talk about anything else: usually Baseball.

Grandpa competes with a beer and I compete with a milk bottle.

But we found, among piles of things we didn’t understand, a letter from another man in the service. A thank you letter. A hand written thank you letter.

The letter thanks my grandfather for “swimming out far” and “going past all danger” to save his life. Of course, too late to ask about the story or understand what it all meant. Nestled in the same box was a purple heart and the letter goes on to say the word hero, to say that he really deserves the received purple heart. It’s clear, from the writing, that this was written after he received the purple heart and, probably, after some reflection. It’s a long letter that goes on to share what it was like to come home, to heal, and to start a family and live a life. It’s that real desire to share his home, to feel–again–connected.

I think about that kind of peace: doing something for someone else, inviting people into your home, wanting to feel woven together. It sums up the lessons I learned from my grandfather: do something, live for other people, and be humble about it. And I think it’s what he meant when he said “no mush.” I think it’s why we didn’t know he had a purple heart, didn’t know he had a thank you card of that magnitude, and didn’t know he carried that story (and the weight of that story). He did what he did because he was tied to his home, his larger home, which includes all of us.

I usually think about my grandfather for Memorial Day, but this Memorial Day I’m thinking about how he really made everything feel peaceful. And all the men in my family: my paternal grandfather who served as well, my father who served in the Korean war, and the line of “Orsers” who left America during the Revolutionary War as Pacifist who preferred to crawl through fields from NY to Canada rather than take a weapon. All of these people were making a home in the same way their wives, mothers, and daughters were making a home.

This weekend, I made a few things: strawberry jam, a terrarium, granola, yogurt, and a chiffon cake. And it all created a lot of peaceful moments in the house, a lot of time to sit with a book while something baked or reached a certain temperature. These super simple moments are not the same as my grandpa’s purple heart story, but they have the same intention: cultivating a connected, nourished, and peaceful home that has an open door for guests and, another favorite grandpa phrase, “always bread on the table.”

Hello Summer!

Jesse bought me a ukulele and we’re spending the weekend learning row row row your boat.

follow (more)

It’s pretty remarkable to see the kids you went to school with being adults. It’s more remarkable to have gone to an arts school and to watch peers keep making, inventing, and innovating.

Emily Churco should shout about her work more. She should jump up and down in Buffalo, NY and let people know she’s making some really sweet things.

Not sweet in a sugary sense: Churco’s work is sometimes a little bit dark/funny. There’s a way of looking at daily stuff, the small moments of her own life (her friends, day-to-day happenings like eating cereal or getting mail, etc.) that make the mundane seem both filled with tiny wonder and, somehow, filled with the weight of being mundane (which scares me a little, in that Gorey-is-a-scary-but-good-artist kind of way). I mean, pointing out monotony and dealing with it is pretty brave; and Churco keeps it humorous too.

My house is lucky enough to have some pretty amazing Churco pieces. More importantly, I’m pretty lucky to know this lady. She’s been a good ear–someone who’s empathetic, intelligent, and way cooler than me in fashion, music, and most everything else.

Check out Emily’s Black Heart Machine etsy shop, follow her on tumblr, and try to convince her to move to the West Coast so she can teach me to sew (she makes some amazing wallets, purses, pillows, and more!). Really, there’s nothing this lady can’t make, but it is her unique perspective in the work that really makes her a follow friday / follow friends favorite.

(things i’m afraid to tell you)

After reading a bunch of these (this is wave 2 of bloggers tackling honesty, fear, and – maybe – sentimentality too), I wanted to participate. Better late than never (right?)

And it’s pretty daunting. Gotta admit, it was easy to read these and I’d imagined it’d be easy to write.

Living on the West Coast and away from family and community, I’m pretty much afraid of everything. But I’m not afraid to tell you that I’m afraid of all of that. Not afraid of those huge fears at all.

What I’m afraid to tell you is why I gave up on writing.

I’m afraid to tell you that, for almost two years, I haven’t written anything. I graduated with an MFA and spent five years teaching writing and poetry. It was perfect. The Essay, a maybe monotonous thing for some people, was something I felt totally refreshed teaching: the lyric essay, the history of the essay, the root of the essay and the meaning “to try,” all of that made me just keep reading and writing and making. Talk about geeking out.

Then I wasn’t a teacher and, subsequently, I wasn’t a writer.

When I looked at my goodreads page, read anything I’d published, I was sick to my stomach. I didn’t write. It felt like a “can’t” situation. I’m still struggling to get to a point where I feel comfortable thinking through a thought on paper.

I’m actually afraid to go further into thinking about why I can’t write anymore. It has to do with things that make me feel ridiculous–money, time, energy, readership. I know I can’t be a “bizpo” (business poet, aka poet who “makes it”) because I lack that marketing and self credit thing.

I think about Creeley and his ideal reader:

The self consciousness of writing and be a writer is pretty ancient and well documented, but nothing would get done if there was just worry. There has to be that opening. For me (and for Creeley) that opening is often language: I hear the phrase “on time” and start to think about its literary strangeness. Literally: standing on time? pressing a thumb down on time? And what would that look like?

But I’ve moved toward fiction, toward essays and articles too. Why? I want to communicate.

And this is really scary…communicating. Really communicating.

I’m afraid to tell you–maybe I’m afraid to tell poetry too–that poems lets me think, but they don’t let me talk. I haven’t, with poetry, been able to communicate and build a community, which is what I need now.

So here goes: Poetry, you’ve done everything for me (even to me) and I think beautifully because of you, but I’m afraid I don’t know how to tell anybody anything–I’m afraid I need to re-learn my playground basics of making friends and talking to people.

I want to write again, but to write something that’s more like a triple chocolate sundae with sprinkles: something that both thinks and speaks. I’m afraid.

postscript: coffee

These numbers are way too real: We served over 3,000 people in two days. This means I brewed over 1,500 coffee samples per day…huzzah! I’ll give myself a pat on the back considering I’m an educator / writer and not, by any means, a barista. Oh, and adding that there were way more people who we just “talked coffee” with. Yeah, pat on the back just became a peanut butter cookie.

It was refreshing to remember how like education service is: there’s an objective, a couple different routes to meet that objectives, and a lot of room for discussion. Of course, improvisation too.

To make Verve taste great (which isn’t hard since the roasters already did the work), we went with a V60 pour over set up. The Hario-wares were beautiful–totally stunning. We caught people’s eye and they barely noticed how sweaty and red we were…thank Hario.

When placed on top of our three home scales, the set up was more perfect for me. I like consistency. I like knowing everyone is getting the same amount of grounds to water: no jealous coffee drinkers and no gossip right. Like Cee Lo, I like to live with “no problem“. That being said, factors change. Especially when you’re outside and there’s wind, sun, and loads of movement. Jesse and I probably tasted every hour or so and changed things as needed. Just like being back in the classroom, but with a co-teacher (oh man, co-teaching with Jeff Allen and Kate Brady are days to miss).

So the set up was perfect and our placement was pretty sweet: next to Rustic Bakery and Saint Benoît Creamery. Close enough to Swanton’s strawberries that I couldn’t stop thinking about going home to make coffee and strawberry truffles or a strawberry coffee cake. Carol and Josh from Rustic Bakery were warm and generous…it matters, at events, that we all see how “in it together” we are. Carol and Josh really identify with other businesses: they serve Ritual coffee, they value Napa Valley cheese makers and wine makers, and they see how all of our communities can support one another. Oh, and they are really authentic: Josh shared memories of Monterey Bay when there were scooter parks and Carol shared some beef on weck admiration (she’s also from Western New York–small world).

Most important: we had awesome coffee.

Day One: La Roxanita from El Salvador. This means we got to talk about Don Nacho, whose farm won the 2011 El Salvador Cup of Excellence competition. The crowd, foodies at heart, were totally stoked to hear he was drying on raised African Beds and using natural processes: the coffee cherries are not depulped, but allowed to dry while still in the cherry. The drying cherries look a little like raisins. People can hold onto that image: a raisin. I can’t help but wonder if you can taste that image too. It’s a sweet coffee and hardly anyone missed sugar and milk. In fact, most people came back and mentioned not wanting any of that in this sweetie of a coffee. Oh yeah, we ran out of coffee that day. And cups. Even when we weren’t serving, people really wanted to hear about Verve, about farm level practices, and the real sense of community Verve is cultivating. EXCITING!

Day Two: El Aguacatal, Honduras. Jorge Alberto Vallecillos’ farm has high elevation. There are “slower” flavors (my term and totally not official coffee-talk, like I care about “official”). I think blackberry and “darker” flavors are slow–again, this might be my synesthesia and “tasting an image” thing. This is a Sunday coffee (dudes, I’m a lay person here): it’s exotic and slow-sip friendly. Sunday shifted a bit to people wanting tea, people with families, and people who had more questions about coffee and health. This coffee really let us showcase complexity (we won over some tea drinkers). Of course, I’d also just read all the new studies about coffee and longevity and (perfect for the Monterey crew) Martha’s latest issue which features coffee’s link to reducing nonmelanoma skin cancer by 5% (another great reason to save the grounds and use it as a scrub).

The weekend was long. The coffee was awesome.

peaceful

Today was peaceful:

- I made granola

- I watched Ellery sleep

- I dreamed up truffle flavors for the weekend

- I planned our berry picking trip

- I laughed and played in the sun, while Jesse cooked up some tacos

I know tomorrow I’ll regret how still this day was, how much I “could have done” but this is just fine for now. In fact, it’s more than fine for now.

How was your day?

whiskey sour

I mean, really, what else is spring/summer (winter and fall too) for besides a good cocktail?

But this version of a whiskey sour is loaded with spring favorites: ginger, lemon, and eggs (at least the white). I will be saving my yolks to make lemon curd from Alice Waters’ The Art of Simple Food.

Read my article here about whiskey sours and go find a picnic/drinking crew to hang out with. Your life will be greatly improved. 

Askinosie

Friday was the best day…at least, in terms of mail.  I mean, I got chocolate in the mail. And not just any chocolate but Askinosie. We’re talking CHOCOLATE.

Monday, which isn’t the best day but might get better now that I’ve read this lovely reminder from that Mondays get better with dinner recommendations from Joy the Baker, is bearable because Friday happened.

Let’s review: chocolate samples in the mail. Huzzah! That’s a winning mail delivery.

I ran errands. I made ginger cookies for friends and coworkers. I ran more errands. I took my rock climbing test. I ran more errands.  Basically, I watched Friday become a day of catching up before my super BUSY weekend with Verve, Cooking for Solutions, and my lovely husband Jesse…and then…mail!

Askinosie chocolate samples means this weekend, which I know will make it to my door step too, is small-business- actualization-weekend. Read: Quality Control. Research and Development. Truffles in the kitchen.

I. Cannot. Wait.

In other news, these folks at the Create and Connect Project have been making me feel a little can-do spirit and I so wish I could afford to take the class #savingstartstoday.

Thanks ocean