Fresh Air

The First Leaf

At long last, we met on Autumn's cusp.

Impish grin in elfin face,
betrayed body hidden in silvered laughter.
Your brother loved you so!
I sat, musing witness to your tender banter,
So at ease and gentle.

You sensed my fierce commitment
To the brother of my heart, brother of your soul,
And knew that he was safe.

Then, we met for lunch. 
No hiding now; three steps to racking cough
Struggling for breath, for soup, for life. 

A reed drawing sustenance from companionship and faith,

You brought much joy, my slender friend.

In your bones, you knew,

Even as you wavered between

Choosing life, accepting death.

But God does not negotiate.

At Autumn's cusp, you passed softly.

Silent, breathless, like the first brave leaf of fall.

World Famous Swedish Pancakes

Developing international culinary renown is less difficult than you might think, especially if you choose to create your own definition.  I've decided that "world famous" is a category that you can attach to any food that you've prepared on more than two continents.  Three or more is better, of course, but two is still pretty good.

My recipe for World Famous Swedish Pancakes is a melange of inputs from Mom, Mor Mor and my Swedish Grandma on Dad's side.  So just how world famous are they?  Pretty world famous!  These specific pancakes have been made in North America, Central America, Europe, Asia and Australia.  If I can get into somebody's kitchen in Antarctica this coming February, I'll be sure to make them there as well. 

On to the specifics.  As is true with most every recipe that becomes perfected over time, it's the texture of the base material that counts.  This can get more complicated of course, based on the number of actual steps required to create the final product.

In the case of World Famous Swedish Pancakes, it's a two step process, providing two solid opportunities for moderate to complete disaster.  However, I have faith that they will turn out splendidly for you every single time. 

THE RECIPE (serves 3 hungry folk and 4 not-so-starving folk; can be doubled):

1 c. flour (I generally use unbleached white flour)
~ 1 c. milk (more or less to get to the right texture)
1 egg
1 T. Vanilla Sugar, which you can buy from any good Scandinavian goods store.

PREPARATION:

Put the flour in a nice, deep bowl.  Add in a little milk and mix well, using one of those exceptionally clever wooden spoons with a hole in the center.  DO NOT OVERSTIR.  This makes the batter tough. 

When you've got a thick paste, add the rest of the milk in a couple of dollops and stir just till smooth.  Then, add the egg and stir again.  Here's the tricky part - it should look and feel like lumpy, thick cream.  Swedish pancakes are thicker than French crepes, but not by much.  After adding the egg, you may need to adjust the texture with more milk as egg is a binder and thickens things up a bit.  You'll still need to be able to spread the batter in the pan so the stuff has to be able to move.  When you've got the texture right, add the vanilla sugar in at the very end.

THE COOKING PROCESS:

Okay, I cheat.  I use a 12" non-stick pan with curved edges that has made my life and my wrists much happier than the old 10" cast iron pan I used in the days of my "ute" as my Swedish Grampa used to say.  I do however, still use butter to cook each and every pancake.  It is the butter that provides the lacy pattern on the surface of the pancake that is both aesthically pleasing and provides an additional yummy taste. 

Heat the pan on the stove over roughly medium high heat, but not so hot that the butter will burn.  Add in about a teaspoon of butter and swirl it to coat the pan.  Add in about 1/2 c. batter, or whatever amount lets you pick up the pan, make a full 360 degree swirl and have the batter extend to the edges of the curve.  Keep enough room so you can get a nice thin spatula under there to turn the pancake.  Otherwise, this is a point of failure from which it can be difficult to recover.  Other easy touches here: make the batter in one of those handy mixing bowls with a pitcher spout and handle.  Delightful!

Unlike traditional pancakes, it's more difficult to tell when to turn a World Famous Swedish Pancake.  You don't get a bunch of holes on top or anything.  Just peek under an edge, looking for the telltale light caramel brown "lace", indicating that they're ready.  Turn once, cook a bit longer, then fold and slip onto a warmed plate, since it's going to take you a while to make all of them.

SERVING OPTIONS:

I used to just serve butter and sugar for topping the pancake as my female relatives have done before me.  However, now I am married to a man with much more catholic tastes.  Sometimes we get a little lemon juice in there, or alternatively serve cloudberries or lingonberries as a topping which are well complemented by fresh whipping cream.

Traditionally, one puts whatever one wants inside, then rolls the pancake up into a nice little bundle - like a sleeping bag loaded with yummy treats.  I have seen people eat them "open face", but I don't think it's quite as much fun.

Thus I fulfill Phase 2 of the 5 part Food Meme Challenge, and am anxiously standing by to hear your success tales from all parts of the world.  Please drop by and let me know how it goes! 

A Thanksgiving to Remember

I seem to have been inextricably drawn into my first Meme.  Cathy has directed me to provide five delectable food memories.  She was thus directed by her Spanish main squeeze Sal.  He's listed the history of his gustitorial antecedents here, which if I am reading the coffee beans correctly is the polite and appropriate thing to do.  On top of it, Cathy has pinged four of her closest online friends to participate, and I feel blessed to be in *great* company.

A Thanksgiving to Remember

The scene: My aunt and uncles house, pre-Thanksgiving Dinner, sometime in my mid-teens.  I am horrible with dates, but can describe down to the last detail what something looks like and where it is placed geographically.  Almost all of my memories are grounded in place.  Go figure.  Here's the memory:

My uncle's house has always been my favorite.  Designed by a world-class architect, the house transcends the starkness of Philip Johnson fundamentals with abundant use of natural materials, sweeping Puget Sound views and a low-slung profile that hugs the land like the graceful sweep of a sumi brush. 

Novembers in Seattle can be tumultuous.  I love storms, and in the older, wilder portions of the city, one can get caught up in the hollow whistle of the wind through creaking conifers, standing like ancient, dancing sentinels as they weave and dip.  Couple the wind with buckets of rain, dashing with intermittent abandon against any and all surfaces, and you've got a good sense of what this particular Thanksgiving felt like. 

In more remote locals, it isn't unusual for the power to go out when one of these windstorms kicks up its heels.  We'd been at my uncle's house for about an hour; the turkey was doing its thing, the potatoes on to boil for mashers, and the bean casserole in the second oven in my aunt's commodious kitchen.

!!!POW!!!

Out went the transformer.  We saw the flash through the trees, even a half mile away from the main road through Woodway.  The house succumbed instantly to the velvet drape of complete darkness, broken only by the distant glow from a fireplace burning at each either end of the house.

After we got my grandparents comfortably settled, my cousins and I lit every candle we could find, making the house look and feel like a Buddhist monastery; isolated, mysterious, reverent.    There was something very primal in the air; fire, candlelight, and the sweet scent of meat pervading the house from one end to the other. 

In the master bedroom was a small wood stove.  It too had been lit earlier in the evening, and on it we placed the remainder of items to be cooked.  Potatoes to finish; carrots in butter dill sauce, and of course, hot cranberry compote. 

The traditionalist in me will never be dissatisfied with such a standard Thanksgiving menu.  The wild-eyed child that longs to run naked in the wind will never forget eating this splendid meal under cover of barely-lit darkness, feeling the whistling wind in my very bones.

We lost my aunt not too many Thanksgivings after this point - and the house never had the same appeal to me after her passing.  We weren't close, but her aura and sense of design permeated that space.  My cousin and his family live there now, with a small cottage next door for his father and his second wife.  It feels very different now - but that's to be expected.  In fact, we've stopped celebrating full family Thanksgivings, and though I miss them, they wouldn't be the same in any regard.  However,  when I am there, if I close my eyes, and the wind is whistling just right, I can still go back to that sensuous, saturated night, and relive its magic once again.   

Owning the Edge

"The edge"; a handy euphemism for a defining moment, location or way of being that differs from the state just preceding it.  It's a boundary zone; a clear contrast between being "on top", versus "over."  Using this metaphor, we have many edges: the edge of fear, the edge of reason, of cognitive skill or understanding.  Then there is the more knife-like version, wherein we hone our edge to stay in the game, or risk losing one's edge, indicating that quick, sharp advantage is no longer available.

I'm looking at the edge from a different perspective.  Instead of teetering on the precipice, or grinding away at my base material to become sharper, I've instead decided to expand my edges, moving outward; gaining real estate, adding value.  Part of understanding this possibility has come from the physical rehab I've been doing.  For a while there, my back and one leg just didn't work - and now both work better than they have in years.  In this regard, my edge has gained a few millimeters from where it stood just a few short weeks ago, and its movement is one I can control and manage at my own pace. 

I like it when frameworks apply in more than one domain.  It could be an echo from my days writing re-referable subroutine code before "libraries" came into existence, but there is an aesthetic element as well; a motif, if you will.  Whatever the source, this edge framework I'm developing is applicable across several aspects of my life; professional development, physical prowess, mental acuity and awareness, and even spiritual connectedness.  It takes conscious effort - but I believe that the edge is transient, extensible and relative.  I could also be dead wrong.

Thoughts?

Weebles Wobble...

Friday last was a really depressing day.  I'd just finished my course, and the love fest I've been experiencing with my students is over.  I will happily remain in touch with several that are budding entrepreneurs whom I can mentor and support as they become business moguls.  Friday felt like a day for a pitcher of martinis backed with a good poolside massage.  Since we had company coming, I experienced neither of these but managed to enjoy a great BBQ salmon dinner and the company of not one but two sets of delightfully inquisitive twins. 

So, dark and baleful mood aside, good company always wins the day.  The upward trend continued on Saturday, where we spent a delightful day with my parentals.  My Truly Helpful Husband helped my Dad muck out the fish pond, and I helped Mom muck out the storage closet.  Decrufting is good for the soul, as I have mentioned elsewhere.  This was a banner day for same.

Sunday dawned bright and sunny - with projected temps in the 90's.  The fair redhead in me generally shuns this much sunlight all at once - but boy it felt good.  And, bonus round points go to my friend Susan, who deftly deconstructed my resume into something a lot more useful for a recruiter to parse than the Kimberspeak y'all get here in abundance.  Not that I've gained great clarity as to when and where the next phase of life begins, but a little prep can go a long way.

In other news, Scott has inspired me to seriously develop a character that used to live under I-5 heading northbound from downtown, but mysteriously dissappeared one day.  This man sticks in my mind, and has grown in proportion to the spiritual powers I have ascribed to him as his character has grown in breadth and depth. Bob has reminded me in the strongest language possible that no one other than myself is in charge of my future.  Cathy has invited us over for a weekend respite filled with chaotic madness and much beef, as well as a side trip to the Gorge.  And Brandon has renewed my faith in cocktails and really old but deliciously familiar music.  In fact, I'll scare the pants of him by publically admitting to listening to George Michael on the way to the cabin last weekend.  Ya gotta have faith, buddy.

So, with improved mood the workweek starts.  Things progress in many directions, and my natural optimism has returned, even though I think I am actually more interesting when filled with angst.  Nonetheless, we persevere.

8/12/05

Even chocolate can be bitter.

Sidbarktha Speaks

Enlightenment of any kind is a challenging pursuit.  Most of us trudge through our daily lives at least partially on auto-pilot, myself included.  The recent saga of the back has re-set some of my expectations, whether I wanted them re-set or not.  I've been encouraged to develop and maintain a "healthy lifestyle", which includes daily exercise, better eating habits and a degree of self awareness that I'm not sure I was really ready for.

As I sough guidance and support for the new, improved Kimberley, I thought "Who exhibits a degree of contentedness most if not all of the time?  Who takes great care of himself and those around him, both in body and spirit?  Who indeed is a 'compassionate being?'"  The answer, oddly enough, was quite close to home.

Everyone knows that dogs are well versed at poses and stretches of all kinds.  What is perhaps less obvious is that some of these stretches have deeper purpose and meaning than a less aware being might anticipate.  No activity is undertaken without a good, long stretch, maintained while gently breathing innnnnnn and ouuuuuuuut.  Upon awakening, and before lying down to rest, before eating and after playing, KimKim manages to look for all the world like a very small, furry yoga expert.  Based upon this realization, I have re-dubbed him "Sidbarktha", and have decided to follow his path.

That being said, I've also taken the advice of my good friend Robin, who steered me towards Proformance Rehab to great success, and now has pointed me towards the 8 Limbs Yoga studio.  Never mind that he goes there to pick up women dressed in loose but somewhat provocative clothing, stretching themselves in every direction possible.  Just to be clear, I am not there to pick up women (or to be picked up, either) but have found the environment both relaxing and challenging.  As is true with any yogic practice, there is a lot of emphasis on breathing.  If you do it right, you really can't think of anything else, which can come as a welcome relief.  The dog's got this one down pat, too.

From what I've experienced thus far, they put on a damn fine Yoga class for the bodily challenged.  I was most impressed when during the first moments of the first class, she asked for our names and injuries.  Just like that.  Okay, could be to protect themselves from liability claims but as with all physical activities, I did sign a waiver.  I choose instead to think that this is in fact a good sign; a compassionate being sign. 

I'll let you know how it goes.                     

Loose Lips Sink Ships

With the hot weather we've been having, my thoughts have turned wistfully to our sailboat, the Morningstar, may she transcend our ownership of her in peace.  This is an old story, but one worth telling regardless.

Let the record show that the Morningstar came into our lives on a rainy fall day in 2001.  She was a beautiful, bottom-heavy "wineglass hull" Columbia 28, and her presence was both a delight and an excellent opportunity to expand our earthly horizons in the near-archipelago environs of the San Juan Islands.

So far, so good.  My Truly Seaworthy Husband and I duly took sailing lessons down at Shilshole, during which I had my first near-death experience on a small 24' boat called The Red Onion.  What started as an exhilarating lesson during a high-wind but rainless day ended as I came to grips with a growing sense of disquiet that perhaps I wasn't quite the old salt I had envisioned.

I know you're supposed to really like that tippy feeling, when the water is almost cresting over the gunwale as the Captain finely tunes the angle of the boom and sail so that the froth is JUST edging over the ridge.  Instead, I was having kittens, though in the sea-legs spirit of the moment it was probably more like large otters or small seals.  Clawing gracelessly to the "high side" of the boat, I clutched madly at the upper deck, clinging to stanchions with a death-grip even I didn't know I could muster. 

The following spring, we started the season on the Morningstar with a light breeze and a sense of adventure.  It was an older craft with manual "clip-on" sail rings, so raising the sail took a while.  No electric windless technology here! 

After leaving the Anacortes Marina (a lovely place to moor your boat, BTW), we raised the mainsail and got down to business learning how to tack in the open area between Anacortes and Guemes Island.  I *thought* I was getting the hang of it, and even got as brave as to use the auto-pilot to control the rudder during one of our journeys.   And I have to admit that I loved to putter in our little galley, put out the crab pots and enjoy fresh seafood right then and there on the back deck.

This dream was not to be.  Whether my vestibular system has gotten crusty with age, or I'm just not a great second mate, I began to dread those trips northward to Anacortes, because it meant that at some point during our sojourn, all-out war would ensue, either due to my dislike of angled transport or my inability to comply with crisply dictated instructions from the Captain of the vessel. 

"Back her up to the right, TO THE RIGHT I SAID", booms Alan from the bow as we try to anchor in a narrow channel just off of Saddleback Island.  Never mind that the direction of the propeller screws and the angle of the rudder just won't let this particular move occur; it is a physical impossibility.  As we drifted closer and close to shore, I watched through a progressively more pronounced cringe as the depth meter indicated that beaching the boat may be imminent. 

Thankfully, it never got quite that bad, though bad enough that I started uttering incantations under my breath regarding the parentage of the Morningstar, as well as its Captain. 

Boat trips became less frequent as a natural matter of course, since the bulk of our time was taken up as owners of a software company, along with parental responsibilities and the activities attached therein.  I was thankful for this respite, but could edge into panic within seconds at the suggestion of a weekend away "on the boat." 

We visited the boat several times during the fall and winter.  All was well.  Then in June of 2003, we headed northward for the annual muck-out in preparation of the summer season.   Upon arrival at the dock, we noticed she seemed to be riding a tad low in the water, and in addition, she was a mess.  Dirt was caked in her cockpit ridges and she didn't look at all the crisp boat we'd left during our last visit. 

Opening the hatch, I was horrified to discover 14 inches of standing water in the cabin.  That means that water had seeped in, filled the bilge and was now ruining the teak wood lining the inner sanctum.  Even with all the incantations and prayers I'd send heavenward, I have to admit that I was feeling both horror and despair at this most unanticipated site.

Out comes the insurance card and cell phone, the story rendered somewhat incoherently due to my distress.  An insurance man duly arrived on the scene, and even after several weeks of investigation could not develop a clear case for the appearance of so much water INSIDE the boat.  We all know that the hull is supposed to protect from these types of incursions - and it could be that the water did seep in through the through-hulls, but it may also have entered during horrendous storms that deposited sufficient precipitation to allow for overflow over the cockpit entrance to the cabin below.  It's hard to say.

The happy ending to this story is just a few lines away.  We were fully reimbursed for our loss of the Morningstar, and amazingly enough, our marina manager was able to purchase her for salvage value from the same company.  Bill and his family have been happily repairing her, and have invited us to a crab feed off the back of the boat sometime this summer.

As long as there is no tipping involved, AND I don't have to do more than look pretty in the cockpit, I'm up for it!