Peg Duthie's Blog, page 11

"a tightening in my own chest accompanied by heat"

Today's subject line is from Alison Luterman's Staccato (TW: anxiety/depression denialism).

Other poems sharing the living room in my head with various Audens:
The Lie
A Litany in Time of Plague

I had the good fortune of meeting calligrapher Margaret Shepherd some years ago in Boston, on a tour of her marvelous plaques and name-strips at First Church. She has been posting downloadable A-Z coloring pages at her blog, which some of you might find a lovely diversion.



Until Thursday, I'd been turning on my high beams during the last minute of my commute home, because the streetlamps were out. Thursday may have been the first day Holly Street was clear enough to turn on. Seeing the damage there hammered home yet again how very lucky the BYM and I are to be dealing only with uprooted trees and a trashed fence.

My original plans for spring break had included dancing, paddleboarding, kayaking, and connecting with old and new beloveds across North Carolina, plus some time dedicated to reading and correspondence (both of the activist and family+friends varieties), and also finishing tax prep and mastering three choral pieces plus two dances and getting the guest room ready for visitors from Huntsville and Decatur.

Who knows how much of that would have actually happened as imagined or even on schedule. At any rate, the house and yard need plenty of tending, and now I'll have time to pickle garlic and add some rows to the blanket I'm crocheting (after I get all that tax paperwork off the bed it's intended for...). But first,
it being Pi Day, I'm going to address Kenspeckle's Breakfast Pie card to one of the stalwarts. And perhaps baking an apple pie is in order, but first, a nap . . .

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a question

Friends, are any of you having to go to the post office to collect mail from overseas?

One of my aunts in Taiwan sent me a letter. Not registered, not containing anything customs-worthy -- just a single sheet of lined paper -- and not only did I have to go to the post office, wondering what the heck was up (the notice from the delivery person said only "Other"), I also had to show my ID and enter my address into the credit card reader and sign for it.

This is not normal.

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getting and spending, we lay waste our powers

It's rarely a good sign when I'm quoting Wordsworth, since I do not care for him or his verse, and that's all I'm going to say here about world affairs.

I am exasperated about many things and at many individuals, including myself. Among other things, I had managed to coax a rose seed into sprouting after stratifying it from November through January -- but then forgotten to water it for a week or two, what with deadlines and drama occupying too much of my brain. It's a tiny failure amid the many things I succeeded in pushing across finish lines this month, but dammit.

On an upside, there's a new late bloom on one of the Christmas cacti, and some shoots are peeking out of the indoor daffodil bulbs. I danced for 3.5 hours yesterday and 2.5 today, the latter at a Zumbathon that raised $600+ for a Puerto Rican family. I'd planned on going to classes in the morning as well, but the need both for extra sleep and extra hours at the office prevailed.

I am wearing slippers and pajama bottoms with sheep motifs, and this popped up on my Duolingo screen not too long ago:



It's not always bad to feel seen.. ;)

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"Thank you for being a car"

Charmed by: picture books about mail-critters, including Angela Cronk's Monster Mail (disclosure: I'm one of the book's backers) and Marianne Dubuc's Mr. Postmouse books.

Starting the month with:
remembering how my iron works (oh hi, reset button)
not remembering how to update my website
skipping the gym (something in my back twanging hard)
not listening to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me (I cannot take any more takes on cults this week)
enjoying some garlic I pickled back in November (the plague has been knocking out colleagues left and right...)
not engaging further with a forum troll ("Never wrestle with a pig...")
planning a crockpot full of Slap chili for a company cookoff. (A friend gave me a spice mix called "Slap Ya Mama" which I am doctoring into my "Slap the Patriarchy" variation. Because.)

Just read: Shiv Ramdas's And Now His Lordship Is Laughing (short story; h/t Mary)

Also reading: the Wildsam field guide to Charleston

Rehearsing: Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium, which the chamber choir read on Wednesday and will perform tomorrow (February 2), along with Gwyneth Walker's Prayer of Compassion. Services are broadcast and archived on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCVB2xDLhfjQnrXx-2zWmfeA/featured

Ahead:
Poetic Medicine plans to publish "Eichengrun in Terezin" later this winter
Grand Magnolia: immersive theater at Oz Nashville this June. I'm in the cast! [The subject line is what was said to me at the end of the callback audition, which included creating scenes inspired by the story of the first interracial wedding in Chattanooga -- in particular, the blockade set up by friends of the couple to prevent disruptions. Hence me channeling a Buick Skylark getting bumped into and sinking down as its tires flattened out ...]

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kissing sardines

Hello to y'all and to 2020. Today's subject line refers to the Great Sardine and Maple Leaf Drop, a fine collaboration between Canada and the United States mentioned in a public radio roundup of Things Dropped yesterday.

I didn't kiss anything at midnight, truth be told. I was asleep, plus the Beautiful Young Man came home from Minnesota with a cold. I had a great time at the gym yesterday once I got myself there: although I woke up in time for the first class I'd intended to hit, I didn't get myself to the Y until the second class was already underway (and still managed to forget my shirt -- but, for a change, I wasn't the only woman dancing in just her bra, and it beats the time I had to improvise a skirt out of my cardigan because I'd left my shorts at the office). It felt good knowing some of the routines well enough to really get down, and the instructor (who gave birth just three weeks ago, and looks fan-freaking-tastic) high-fived me after I bounced up from a floor twerk. (And here you thought "get down" was merely a turn of phrase. ;) )



I had half the gym to myself for a good ten minutes after class, and a hoop to myself for twenty minutes beyond that. I'm terrible at el baloncesto -- especially when I try to shoot left-handed, which I worked on for a while yesterday -- but it's still fun even when I'm bricking 19 shots out of 20. I like the sound and feel of the ball hitting the floor and landing in my hands. (The opening poem in my book is "Practicing Jump Shots with William Shakespeare." The girl may not get to the court often, but it's definitely part of her (hi)story.)



Speaking of past publications, one might think that someone with a poem about thinning seedlings would have zero hesitation about culling Christmas pepper sprouts from an overcrowded pot. One would be wrong. It's a wonder that anything ever gets done around here.

The red raincoat I wore for that author photo (taken on the same trip as the photo in today's icon, if you're reading this on Dreamwidth) is one I purchased from a bookshop in New Orleans's Faubourg Marigny neighborhood umpteen years ago, possibly during a holiday visit. With green/blue streaks in my hair since 2010, I haven't worn that coat much (until this week, the last time may have been last year's Santa paddle), so I had put it in the "donate" pile earlier this fall. But then Jane Fonda's red coat showed up in my feed, and then Louisville was picked for the Music City Bowl, for which I had tickets (thanks to MCB's sponsorship of the Dragon Boat Festival and to my donors, whose generosity added up to my being the top fundraiser on my team).

Y'all. I haven't worn so much Cardinal red in forever (earrings, scarf, lipstick -- the works). The seats were fantastic -- behind the endzone, four rows back, aisle. The BYM was decidedly uninterested, so my date was another mouthy Southern gal who brought over a bottle of Huling Station Very Small Batch bourbon. For appetizers, I opened the Zingerman's pimento cheese friends had sent, and also the jar of garlic I had pickled last month. I fried maifun noodles with cabbage, mushrooms, and carrots for the main course (my friend was fascinated with the resemblance of the sesame oil bottle to Mrs. Butterworth's), and for dessert we had red bean mochi.

It's a good thing we did the pre-game thing, because the adult beverage options at Nissan Stadium are ... limited. My friend bought a Miller Lite for me during one of her trips to concessions, and all I can say is, why squander 96 calories on something with little flavor and zero buzz. My friend is not a fan of JD and that was the only bourbon on offer. But my hot cocoa hit the spot, and the bbq nachos were OK, and more important, we had fun taking in the whole scene. Two friends from high school with whom I'm still in touch are Louisville grads, and some of my favorite dance partners live there now, so I definitely had a preference, but not enough to feel distraught when Louisville's defense wasn't gelling during the first quarter. The crowd around us was mixed -- some hyped-up State and Cards fans, but also a row of local bros behind us who were just rooting for their bets (at least $500 on overs), so their cheering was wholly dependent on who was about to score. My friend and I agreed that they managed to stay on the right side of hilarious vs. obnoxious, but they were definitely on the line. State's cheerleaders were more on point uniform-wise than U of L's (the short-shorts and Minnie-Mouse-ish bows did not work); U of L's band (especially the announcer) had the more polished half-time presentation; State's flag runs were more impressive; Cards fans were louder (and not just because the Cards got their game going second quarter). Louisville's angry bird mascot is aesthetically more appealing than State's jowly dawg, although my friend spotted the real pup during one of her walks around.

In short: bad football, good time.

I'd prepped some bourbon balls for the party we ended up skipping yesterday because the BYM was snuffling (and even if he hadn't been, I had fallen asleep in the bathtub during my afternoon soak, so I changed right into pjs and my Grouse Grind t-shirt instead of going-out clothes). I'd like to curb some of my tendency to over-prep this next year, but it isn't a resolution because there are plenty of situations on the other end of the seesaw where I would do well to level up my prep. The issue is about calibrating the amount of prep to the expected ROI, and the mix includes acknowledging that I over-research things like hotel options because that's another-potato-chip quick and easy vs. really digging into an aria or a not-yet-finished poem because that's never quick or easy.



Anyhow, the BYM and I split a 2016 bottle of TRBLMKR during the evening, and I went to bed after a couple of Spanish lessons and a few chapters on sea kayaking. The plan for this morning had been to hit the gym for three hours (i.e., two classes, with a reading or rowing break between) but my shoulder is doing its occasional freezing-up thing, so instead I fried pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and I'm going to repot some plants now (including the very cramped aloe vera plant I picked up from Downtown Pres, which the BYM suggested sticking an octopus head on because its fronds looked to him like tentacles...). I could also just open a Yazoo Cinnamon Milk Stout or Blackstone Dark Matter IPA and then take an extended nap in the hammock. I do like this actually having the holiday off.

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scrapping along

Repeatedly staying up past 2 a.m. to meet deadlines exacts a price, which made itself known earlier today in my absent-mindedly tossing good pepper morsels into the compost pot instead of the to-be-pickled bowl, and not feeling up to fishing them out. It is okay. It was a 99-cent bag of already-iffy capiscum annuums, some far gone enough that the bag was leaving a liquid trail when I moved it around the kitchen counter, so I have now dealt with it, resulting in two jars (2 1/2 cups) of quick-pickled good bits; a colleague handed me a clementine on her way out the door on Friday, so the peel from that is also in this batch, along with the last of the Russian honey another friend gave to me last December. I boiled more brine than necessary after adding two more honey-jar-fuls of water and vinegar to the pot (having prepared not quite enough for the two mason jars), so I have now also pickled some of the clementines I already had on hand.

The carrot greens have been chopped up, with the bulk put into the freezer. I stir-fried some with this morning's eggs and this afternoon's pork chop:



The copper pan erupted into a chef's-hat-sized crown of flame when I was heating oil for the pork, but two lids tamed it before it woke the alarm.

I have detached the radishes from the sludge of dirt + greenery their tops had become.

I am also working on assorted notes to put into the mail. General announcement: if you haven't received a thank-you note from me by Lunar New Year for something sent this season, either it or my response were probably misdelivered, so let me know that you were thinking of and/or expecting to hear from me and we'll consider it a sacrifice to the transportation gods. I have heard horror stories from other friends about UPS (driver claimed that no one was home to receive an expedited package when they didn't even bother knocking) and FedEx (driver forged signature), and my neighborhood post office failed to scan a package with a two-day Priority Mail label for three days. Not to mention packages and missives intended for at least three different neighbors ending up on my porch, so who knows what the hell hasn't reached me.

On a more cheerful note, one of the cards was to two top-tier musicians who apparently live on my block (which means there's at least three, as there's also a virtuoso regularly practicing an instrument they don't play). No, I'm not going to disturb them, but I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't delighted about finding out. I saw one of them at the Ryman! I've probably said hi to them without recognizing them while tugging at weeds or picking up stray candy wrappers! (There are almost certainly other semi-famous people I've said hi to in similar circumstances. Considering how scruffy the neighborhood was when we moved in, I am astounded in both happy and horrified ways at the B&B down the street being able to charge $225-600/night. [Molly, it's the same house but different owners/concept as the place for whom we pretended to be wedding guests.])

Speaking of fame, I have learned that the Asian woman for whom I am regularly mistaken is now the chief content officer for Alaska Public Media. I wonder if me being asked if I'm her will ever actually stop.

I have put two cracked plates into the bin. I have used my gardening shears to cut open a mini-bottle of lotion. (Winter itch, y'all.) Aquaphor's spray lotion felt chilly when I tried it this morning, so maybe it goes into the gym bag. I am 0 for 2 on obtaining straight answers on how my gym plans to handle my membership after my current plan expires on the 28th, but I am persistent, and I can always ride my bike, fight old rosebushes (there are dozens to dig out from a friend's hillside, and speaking of stubborn, those m___ers are HARD to remove from where they are currently entrenched), work on getting through Day 1 of the Splits app on my phone (heron pose and I are not on speaking terms yet), and crank up Yandel. Also, temperatures are supposed to climb back to nearly 70 F on Christmas Day, and the BYM has created monogram and name decals for my paddleboard, so Louise and I have a date.

The past week alone had a lot. A significant number of people in my circles are grieving and/or struggling in other ways. A company I've trusted for more than twenty years may have lost my business. The Dr. Pepper I drank this afternoon did not banish my headache. I dreamt last night about dancers I'm unlikely to see before February at the earliest, and quite possibly never again in some cases (because accidents, aging, and other mayhem are all too likely to claim some of them before our paths intersect again). Going through old address books in the course of writing holiday cards has a way of stirring up ghosts. I read an obituary just this morning for a woman I had dinner with twenty-odd years ago. I shot like thirty baskets yesterday before finally making one.

But: I borrowed Death Wins a Goldfish from the library, and the BYM was chuckling at some of the pages and then started analyzing the artist's depiction of a motorcycle ("That looks like part of... but what the hell is that supposed to be from...?"), which I'm still giggling about days later. I get to meet a friend's baby in two days. I reached Amethyst League in Duolingo. I finished my first new longer-than-a-haiku poem since August. I saw both Cats (sneak preview courtesy of Dance FTW!) and It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood last Tuesday, the latter with a late-night beer. I do like being a grown-up, even during the stretches when it takes all my determination to get on with any of the things I actually want to get done. One breath at a time. One half-line at a time. One comforter laundered. One envelope addressed. One spatula washed. One shirt ironed. And on.

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it being December 1...

...a friend or associate of a former classmate tweeted a video of harpsichordist Scott Ross, who died of AIDS-related pneumonia 30 years ago.

There is a recording on YouTube of Ross playing the Gigue from Rameau's "First Book of Keyboard Pieces," which happens to be what I played most often on the harpsichords around Connecticut College back in July.

This morning I sang a solo about God having countless names and faces, and slid a stone into our water communion bowl in memory of Thomas Peck.

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domestic progress

The first blossom among the Christmas cacti in my house has popped open, and the many buds on the other older plants make my heart glad (as do the rubber duckies keeping company with the ones by the bathtub).

A mild flare of optimism: preparing to throw out an old, irreparably stained fitted sheet.
(Though I admit to retrieving it a few minutes later to use as a dropcloth for the next round of wall-painting.)

Kitchen notes:
Cooked Southern Living's savory corn pudding for a potluck. It received great reviews.
Refilled the baking powder container with a homemade batch this morning.
Made turkey stock in the crockpot and then used some of it to prepare black beans.
Baba ghannouj ... with apple cider vinegar instead of lemon juice, because I'd forgotten that we threw out the admittedly-past-its-expiration-date bottle of lj when the fridge failed a few weeks ago.
Meatloaf (with mushrooms as part of the filler) last night, meatloaf sandwiches tonight.

Decluttering:
100 Games of Solitaire is going to a Free Library, because I haven't opened the book since plucking it from a freebie pile some years ago -- because, let's get real, any time I could spare for learning new solitaire riffs is going to be spent on dopamine hits via Duolingo if the wifi is working, crocheting if it's not, or relearning poker hands if for some reason I really feel like communing with a deck of cards.
My church will be hosting a Trans, Gender Queer, and Non-Binary (TGQNB) clothing swap in March and has started to collect "gently used clothes and shoes in good repair in all adult and teen sizes and appropriate
for all gender expressions." See page 25 of the December newsletter for details.
Nearly broke a screwdriver dismantling the frame on my Dufy print (it fell behind the piano a year or so ago, cracking the glass), but the deed is done and the screwdriver back in its drawer.


Reading:
The March/April 2014 issue of English Home, which includes this bit from an interview with Honor Blackman ("best known for playing Cathy Gale in The Avengers and as Bond girl Pussy Galore"):

Niki Browes: How house-proud are you?
Honor Blackman: I'm looking round my house and the carpets need to be cleaned and the sofa re-sprung. It looks like a pigsty at the moment for the simple reason that I've been doing my tax return. There are papers everywhere.

The December/January issue of Garden & Gun, which includes a fun profile of One Flew South (a bar in the Atlanta airport that happens to be a big reason the BYM and I try to schedule connecting flights through Atlanta), and also this choice morsel in "Talk of the South":

Q: Eighteenth-century Georgia was really just King George's penal colony, right?
Guy Martin: ...Emptying jails made for excellent colonial business -- the British Caribbean, New Zealand, Australia, and the Raj's India became places of the second chance. Teasing our brethren of the thirteenth colony about their jailbird roots remains the best kind of Southern sport, but down at the core, as Americans, every immigrant to the promised land comes from one sort of jail or another.

I borrowed from the library a book on many ways to incorporate avocados into many kinds of dishes and drinks, and ... I cannot get into it. That I have long regarded avocados as treats rather than staples is about 85% of it, and attempting to like an avotini about four years ago went nowhere.

Kelly Bowen's "The Lady in Red," published as a bonus story within Grace Burrowes's Forever and a Duke

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Music City Masquerade

Jay Koch of Bokeh Tov Photography took this pair of pics Saturday night. I am amused:





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cat-alogue - some recent reading

Love and Other Perils - two Regency novellas, "Lieutenant Mayhew's Catastrophes" by Emily Larkin and "Kisses and Catnip" by Grace Burrowes. The heroine of "Kisses and Catnip" appeared as a supporting character in an earlier story by Burrowes, and I was happy to see her find her happy-ever-after with a scientist (a recurring trope in Burrowes's books -- I reread "Duchess in the Wild" and parts of The Jaded Gentlemen [Axel being a rose-obsessed botanist] during the same escapism binge). There are three significant kittens in the Larkin, and assorted moggies in "Kisses and Catnip," including two fellas named Lucifer and Beelzebub.

What's the Time, Mr. Wolf? by Debi Gliori



Agatha's Feather Bed by Carmen Agra Deedy and Laura L. Seeley. The story centers on Agatha's interactions with a flock of geese, but there's at least one cat in practically every frame, and the occasional badass sheep looking in...



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