Eating the Big Apple

We are in New York for a couple of days (amidst a visit with family in PA and before a short trip to MA in a week). And while, yes, we have been enjoying lots of good time with family and friends over the last 10 days, it is the FOOD we have eaten that I find most bloggable. This is largely because we are deprived. Living in NE Wisconsin, far away from urban life and subsequent food venues, R and I do a good job of getting by. We make almost everything we eat, and seldom eat out ('cause, frankly, we can do it better). But all year we anticipate the five days we will spend in NYC as this blissful nether-worldly immersion into food culture. We have been talking and planning for months. And on Monday, the festivities began.

Let me tell you a little bit about what we have been eating.

On Monday night, after a long day at work, Maggie was noble enough to pile us into the car and drive us to Flushing to eat at Kum Gang Sang an enormous restaurant that one reviewer comments "is starting to resemble the closest thing to Disneyland- complete with entertainers and waterfalls- that the borough can cough up." The 곱돌 비빔밥 , or, Gop Dol Bibim Bab was delicious. Hollis and I asked for the vegetarian versions (I know, it is practically a sin to ask for vegetarian Korean dishes) while Mags and Rhonda ate the cow. These hot-pot dishes came to the table sizzling, and the kimchee, sweet potato, and seaweed salad were heaped into the bowl. I greedily filled my to-go container with every scrap.

The next morning we walked from Bergen St. (where M & H live) to Joyce Bakeshop on Vanderbilt where lattes were procured (very good, but not a Seattle latte). We couldn't stop to taste the pastries, because we were off to the Brooklyn Bagel Meccaa -- Bergen Bagels -- where we ate untoasted bagels (everything for me and poppyseed for R) oozing with cream cheese.

Our next goal for our food day was Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble tea. We walked around Brooklyn for several hours with the goal of burning off the bagels and becoming hungry again. It was a lovely, sunny day, and the walk was perfect. Hollis showed us around the neighborhood, we poked our head into a few cute shops, and talked and walked. Finally, we made it to a new place that Rhonda found on a "cheap eats" page of citysearch (Hollis had never been). Hanco's was delicious for two girls completely deprived of vietnamese sandwiches for a long, long time. The tofu was a bit too soft for my taste (yes, we all ordered tofu) but the carrot slaw was awesome. We also had taro bubble tea to boot.

After Hollis and Maggie headed off for skiing adventures, Rhonda and I ventured out for our final adventure of the day -- a quick slice of pizza at Antonio's on Flatbush. We totally disregarded the advice of this pizza critic who said that better slices could be found in Park Slope. Instead, we opted for what was cheap, greasy, and totally delish.

Corn Syrup -- as American as ...

Dear America,

It has been a very long time since we've spoken. I should probably start by explaining where I have been hiding for so long. I have been around, here and there, but I have been avoiding you. I know that is hard to hear, and I feel like I owe you an explanation.

When I was 17, Bill Clinton was elected your president for the first time. I was a surly proto-intellectual who refused to pledge allegiance in school and was, frankly, far too cool for patriotism. Nonetheless, and despite the fact that I was still too young vote, I was excited about Bill Clinton and what his presidency would mean for our country. On Inauguration Day my friends and I skipped school and drove three hours south to DC. We gained tickets and squeezed in to the crowd of hundreds of thousands assembled on the Mall to listen and watch. We could barely see anything, but we could feel the power and excitement of the crowd. And we, four teenage girls born during Gerald Ford's completion of Nixon's term, felt somehow acknowledged by the younger, more progressive president.

Maya Angelou was the poet laureate for Clinton, and on Inauguration Day, she read her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" to an eager crowd. The poem described come out of the shadows and into the light of a new day. We felt triumphant. On this day I felt hopeful for our relationship, America.

Fast-forward six years. I am sitting around the dinning room table in my shared house in Seattle, surrounded by the five women with whom I live. We are listening to NPR relay the testimony of the Monica Lewinsky hearings. In the intervening years I have gained perspective and Clinton has disappointed. He is not only painfully human but had proven himself to be much like any other president we have ever had: a conciliatory traditionalist who is deeply non-revolutionary.

Like many of my peers, I am ambivalent by the time the 2000 election comes around. Most of my friends vote for Nader as a signal that we need a third party in this country. After the election is over and the unbelievable had happened, I feel depressed. In the election of George Bush, I felt betrayed by you, America. As a country, you had become bitter and repressed, and electing Bush sent a pretty clear message that you hate young, progressive, and queer people like me.

Things just get worse and worse over the next eight years. I go from disengaged to angry and cynical. I, like many others, threaten to leave you and head to Canada. But then the worst part happens: I stop paying attention. I check out. I don't read the news because I don't want to know how many soldiers died in Iraq today. I turn off the tv every time George W. Bush's face appears. I think selfishly that my own day-to-day survival is all that matters at this point. I mimic the Bush White House policy and become my own isolationist state. At this point in my story you and I have disowned each other.

And then this guy Obama shows up. I was not really paying too much attention at first, but he kept coming back. And he kept impressing and inspiring. He kept smiling that genuine smile that conveys hopefulness. And he kept working. And suddenly, by the winter of last year, I found myself believing in something again. I was going to support this man in trying to become your president.

Every challenge he surpassed helped me shed some of the scales of hopelessness. Every time he got one step closer to your doors, I felt more awake. I had lingering doubts about whether this country would ever elect a black man to the highest office. Racism is foundational in this nation and works in all ways to promote and sustain the status quo. And yet I hoped and talked and called and wrote. I invested heavily.

And then we arrive at last Tuesday night. It was 10pm in Wisconsin when the race was called and the television stations flashed an image of Barack Obama with the word “President” on the screen. We screamed and cheered and then we cried. I couldn’t speak. I sat in disbelief as every single idea about you, my country, started to fall away from my skin. My eyes filled and my heart jumped and my body began to murmur in aliveness. In an instant I was transformed. In an instant you were transformed.

As I sit at my computer five days later, still strumming with excitement and joy, still tearful at random moments of the day when I think about what this means for you, my country, I realize that that moment fifteen years ago, when Maya Angelou read her poem to a sea of hopefuls, that moment was a prelude to today. This poem, more than anything else I have found, describes the way that it feels to come out into the daylight again and feel love and hope for the nation in which I live.

Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes

And into your brother's face,

Your country,

And say simply

Very simply

With hope ----

Good morning.



America, I hope you can forgive me for turning my back on you. I have forgiven you.


Love,

Amy

Well said...

Six Weeks in Review

The other part of my general overwhelmed-ness has been that the first six weeks of school also brought a whole bunch of events that I either had to coordinate or travel to participate in. There were the very fun but exhausting work trips that led to weekends in Minneapolis with Emily & Elizabeth,

Emily and Rhonda and Mill City farmer's market

and a fun weekend excursion with Adria and Rhonda to Madison.

on the docks at Monona Terrace

There have been several exciting campus events including a really well-attended poetry reading (yay!) that the Writer's Club and I coordinated. My wonderfully talented colleague, Abayo, read some of his work from his forthcoming book _The Giving of Pears_.

Another exciting happening was that UW-Marinette, the second smallest of all the Wisconsin system, hosted the statewide student LGBTQ summit. So, last weekend, 100+ queers and allies descended on Marinette for a summit. It was a lot of fun (Rhonda and I both took part in the conference, including attendance of the Queer Prom), and offered such an interesting moment of reckoning about our shifting perspective on the world. At one point, an earnest college student from Madison or Steven's Point (or one of those big schools) asked the coordinators if they were expecting protesters since "we're in a pretty remote, rural community here." I was both amused and annoyed by the concern, and realized, in that moment, how much I feel a part of this community (and, how surprised I would be to find protesters outside of the conference). Needless to say all went without a hitch.

The biggest surprise of the weekend was when we found ourselves at dinner with the keynote speaker, trans-activist S. Bear Bergman, only to find out that we have one fine friend in common: the famous Mr. Gabriel Foster. So, there I am, absurdly enough, bonding with a queer tranny named Bear over beer-cheese soup and fried cheese curds in Marinette Wisconsin. We laughed a lot about the small-world of queers, and as dinner progressed (and the Rail House home-brew took hold) I began to have the most delicious sense that all is right with the world.

Bad Blog Mommy

I have been a bad blog mommy of late. I have allowed my blog to sit unattended and, at times, unbathed, for far too long. I would like to place blame on Sarah Palin, the University of Wisconsin Colleges, and Buddy, to start.

I have been having a hard time dealing with the wallop packed by the beginning of the academic year. You see, colleges and universities have this genteel etiquette of giving new faculty less responsibility in their first year. It was lovely back when I was new, and the only committee meetings I had to attend dealt with potlucks and the occasional campus event. However, as I begin my second year at a professor, I feel like it was a mean, mean trick to convince me that I really like my job, and then add twice the work. I am struggling to recapture that feeling of warm-fuzziness that was a regular part of my first-year experience, and in the meantime, I am disoriented and confused by the amount of meetings, charts, bylaws and agendas.

But enough whining. We did something very cool this morning: we bought 5 dozen ears of corn and par-boiled and then cut it off the cob. We now have 18 bags of corn (3 cups per bag) to last us all winter long.




Geez, I don't know. Maybe I complain too much. Maybe Sarah Palin is right -- we can have it all!

Procrastinatin'

I have a full day of grading ahead of me, and I deeply engaged in the work of distraction. I have been reading the New York Times, chasing turkeys in our yard, reading wikipedia entries about the McCain family, and contemplating trimming the bushes. I am really talented when it comes to procrastination.

So here are some of the tidbits I want to share:

*Last night we had our seventh anniversary dinner. The tradition is that we take turns making fabulous meals; the menu is always a surprise and the non-cook must stay out of the kitchen until it is time to eat. This year Rhonda was the cook, and last night I was presented with an amazing feast:

Apps:
-orange ginger ale
-bacon wrapped scallops
- amazing homemade baguette (a 2-day process)


Dinner:
- broiled salmon on a wilted spinach-citrus salad

Dessert:
- Peach "cobbler" (on homemade scones w/ fresh whipped cream)

It was delicious and fun. After we were done with dinner (and in order to make room for dessert) we danced around the living room for an hour.


* The turkeys are back! I tip toed around the shed and caught this guy trying to get into the garden.


* There are some great Op-Ed pieces in the New York Times right now. This article is really insightful about the "othering" of Obama. It is also just plain disturbing . I cannot believe that 1/3 of all Americans still think Obama is Muslim. (Not to mention the ridiculous assumption that being muslim is suspect. )

P.S. Rhonda is going to see Obama in Green Bay tomorrow. I am jealous that I will be otherwise occupied with the teaching of writing. harumph.

so scared of everything staying the same

I have caught myself doing several strange things to comfort myself about McCain's recent surge in the polls. I have guerrilla-tactics that involve facebook and posting things my students *just might* watch or read (heavy on the video clips). I have been wearing my Obama shirt non-stop over the weekend. And, in an attempt to feel better, I have found myself thinking, "well, at least McCain isn't as bad as Bush."

The last line of thinking shook me to my core. It was that moment of acquiescence, it was a moment of letting the system -- and all of its complex ways of maneuvering to favor McCain -- have its way with me. It was giving in to a sense of inevitability and powerless that I am not yet ready to concede. So, to counteract this I am doing a couple of things:

1 - talking to everyone I know about why I am supporting Obama (labor, Iraq, environment)
2 - donating money to support grass-roots campaigning in battleground states
3- taking the plunge and volunteering for the Obama office (yes, making calls and canvassing, ugh!)

In case you missed it.

small things

Buddy and I took an afternoon constitutional about the yard and woods. It really feels like the end of summer and beginning of fall. The woods are *finally* tolerable again after a summer of mosquito-infestation. And, lo and behold, our much-coveted mums are just beginning to bloom.

Knocked Up: A Week in Politics

Yesterday, while on the phone, my friend Vince asked me if I had heard the rumor that Sarah Palin was pretending to be the mother of her teenage daughter's baby. I laughed really hard and thought it was funny, 'cause that was a story line from Desperate Housewives last year. Ha ha. Funny joke. Well, about an hour ago, Sarah Palin, in an attempt to dispel the rumor, announced that her 17 year old daughter is 5 months pregnant. Like, right now.

I don't have too much to say about all of this. I mean, I think McCain is a nut, and I think his choice of a running mate is questionable for a lot of reasons. Not because her daughter is pregnant, though. I mean, if nothing else, Sarah Palin definitely has a real family with real problems. And just think, she and her daughter will both be breastfeeding at the same time. Yay!

Soon after Palin's candidacy was announced I read a comment on facebook (a friend of a friend's posting) ranting about the "ridiculous" nature of the now-"circus" of an election. I was livid. Furious. I wanted to write a scathing reply to the guy who posted this opinion. I didn't for a lot of reasons, but if I had, I would have explained "how curious it is to me that a political election becomes "circus-like" when, for the first time in a nations history, two of the four candidates do not look like you, white boy." The audacity to suggest that politics ceases to be serious and real when it is no longer run by the status quo is a dangerous and haunting suggestion. And yet, I am afraid that there is this way that McCain's choice of a running mate has lent itself to this type of criticism -- there is something so superficial about the whole thing. It tastes like candy and shimmers in the light.

And this sense of the election become more and more superficial is not exclusively in the hands of the Republicans. As was noted by lots of people I have talked to, the convention was so canned, insincere, and scripted. I wanted to be much more moved by Obama. I wanted to see something genuine, and was disappointed. The closest we got to a genuine moment was when the Obama girls were handed microphones for a minutes, and the ten minutes of real-american speeches. Although the latter were super-scripted, it was the delivery and the deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces that made it seem so much more bearable.

I wanted to feel more than I did because it was such an important event. I never, ever, thought I would see a black presidential candidate in my lifetime. I thought it was beyond the limits of the possible of US political representation. I have been deeply moved by the significance of Obama's candidacy and the suggestion that maybe, just maybe, things have changed a little bit. I am not so naive as to suggest that Obama is going to offer some great liberal deliverance, and all that is wrong will be righted. However, I want to believe that there is something real, sincere, and meaningful happening in what I perceive to be a movement.

And yet, there was not a single mention of race during the whole convention. Not a word about blackness. This is disheartening to me. Even more so was the comment I heard an Obama supporter make recently that "I don't think of him as a BLACK candidate." But don't you see? The moment you take race out of the specific terms of this election you take away the historic, political, racial context that constitutes our cultural history. The reality is that to be black in america is a different lived-experience than to be a white man. To be a woman, queer, a person of color, etc. means that you have experiences and perspectives that are different from those of almost all of the other senators, governors, presidents around. I want to beleive that this difference in experience, perception and lived-reality translated into change in the White House. The minute you say race is no longer an issue is the minute you completely disenfranchise the meaning of this event. The moment gender is just an arbitrary box you check and the female running-mate becomes nothing more than a tokenized joke is the moment that we all bow down in complicity to the pretty, shiny, plastic version of ourselves and our nation.

ohmy ohmy

without a doubt, my favorite moment from tonight's democratic national convention

Lazy last days

Summer is almost over. Monday morning I have to be at school at 8am to greet eager first years arriving for their "Intro to College." I have spent a lot of the last week prepping for classes, but also doing a lot of last-ditch summer stuff. We went to the county fair, spent lots of time in the garden, and devoured yet another Maisie Dobbs novel (I cannot over-recommend this series).

So, in lieu of a real blog post, I am going to post some long-overdue pictures of the big project of the fall and winter: the master bedroom. Rhonda and I gutted this room down to the studs, and Rhonda, with much help from the Mellingers, drywalled the whole room. It is now a beautiful, calming, bat-free space with new walls (the accent color is "dill pickle"), floors and lighting. Keep in mind that this room was paneled with blue shag carpet. Needless to say, we are very proud of this space.

August 13th

Today is Buddy's 5th birthday. Kinda.

We know he was born in the month of August in 2003. So, as convenience or tribute, I decided to assign him the 13th as his birthday. It seemed auspicious as three of my favorite people were born on this day.

Mr. Gabriel Foster, enemy of all bugs and recent transplant to Atlanta:


Mz. Tonja Santos, amazing lap-dancer & Rio-mamma:



Mz. Giorgia Aiello, Colorado State professora and Goodwill maven:



As a birthday tribute to these three amazing people, and as a testament to why people should never try to capture their dog's tricks and/or strange behaviors on film, I give you the video below. Felicidades!




P.S. - that is a dirty towel to be thrown in the laundry. Not like I will reuse it after that, anyway. I swear.

why i love thrift stores

tidbits

I have no theme by which to organize my post. I do, however, have small things to show and tell. (perhaps there is a unifying theme you could come up with...)

First, we found some serious scat on the trail in our woods. Buddy was terrified and I was fascinated. As you can see, I pulled out my uber-dorky scat guide to assess (and measure) the findings. Based on the size and hairiness, my guess is coyote.

Next in the animal kingdom... we were really excited to see bumble bees in the garden this morning. I was even happier when I got a good photo.


Finally, one of the best garden-breakfasts to date was our scrambled eggs on corn tortillas with salsa fresca. yum!

We're Gonna Make it Afterall

I have recently found this website where every single episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (and many, many other tv shows) is available to watch online. This makes me very, very happy. Watching Mary Tyler Moore feels like returning to the womb. It is, along with M*A*S*H, an experience of deep cultural familiarity; it is a show that was, quite literally, the background noise to my very earliest years, and, then, of course, there is Rhoda.

If you haven't ever seen MTM you can't fully know the power of performance and character that is Rhoda Morgenstern (played by Valerie Harper). She is Mary's loud, Jewish, not-thin, upstairs neighbor with chutzpah. She is the one with thick thighs (such a relief after watching stick-thin Mary prance around in mini-skirts) who suggests that she and "Mare" become members of a social club for divorced people (even thought they are not divorced) in order to a) meet single men and b) get cheap plane tickets to Europe. Rhoda is the female sidekick prototype for television in the last quarter of the 20th century; Rhoda is brassy and insecure, and oh how I love her.

The show aired in 1970 -- five years before I was born. It only ran until 1977, so my claim to MTM as the womb of my childhood is curious and ahistorical. Of course my mom watched the show when I was little (and even, I imagine, when I was in utero). But there is also the fact that The Mary Tyler Moor Show reminds me of the women in my family. I look at pictures from the 70s of my Aunt Kathy in her head scarves and hoop earrings, and I remember my mother's MTM-esque black, leather, knee-high boots, her forays into yoga and wheat grass, and I recall stories of my grandmother, gorgeous, thin, and recently divorced, living in New York and fighting off many suitors while she pursued her own career, and I realize that the show resonates as a cultural template and reflection of a cultural moment; my mom, grandma and aunt are my Mary, Rhoda, and Phyllis.

recently overheard

Me: "Rhonda, if you had a big machine in the kitchen that provided unlimited Culver's frozen custard, do you think you would get fat?"

Rhonda: [Long pause]

Me: "Are you gonna answer me? 'Cause I know you, and sometimes you refuse to answer my hypothetical questions."

Rhonda: "I'm thinking." [Long pause.]

Rhonda: "Would it be free?"

Me: [wild laughter]


And this, my friend, is the quintessential difference between Rhonda and me. I would never even ask that question as I would be too busy drooling about the imminent possibility of a lifetime supply of creamy, rich deliciousness.

And here is how the conversation concluded.

Me: "I think I would eat so much of it for a long time and then eventually get kinda sick of eating it. But then I would get into it again. I think I would get really, really fat."

Rhonda: "Hmmm. Well, I kinda think I would like knowing that I could have it at any time, and I wouldn't need to eat that much of it. A few spoons-full after dinner every day. Mmmmmm!"

Me: [Shooting Rhonda a contemptuous look that cannot be defined in works]

garden bliss and other fallacies of "the good life"

I know that I have a tendency to write about all of the charmed loveliness of our new lives in the North Woods of Wisconsin as though everyone who is not us is living in a slightly less-perfect world than ours. It is, after all, a good story: two city girls move to the country, find the warm embrace of new friends and neighbors, work hard on their old house, and grow a big lush garden. All is well. Heaven on Earth. Green Acres. Rural Lesbian Utopia. yada yada yada.

While most of what I say is true -- I have inherited my grandmother's tendency to exaggerate for the benefit of a good story -- there are so many ways that we struggle. One of the big struggles is ongoing frustration and uncertainty about the garden. We worry a lot, and have a persistent sense that WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING. Yesterday was exemplary in terms of Amy and Rhonda garden frustration; this is not just a deep sigh of frustration. This is this-sucks-so-much-I-would-rather-be-working -the-night-shift-at-Walmart kind of frustration.

Yesterday we did our usual morning walk-about only to find that both of the beds of chard (which we have carefully weeded, fertilized, re-seeded, etc) look like warm death; all of the plants are wilty, some have been de-rooted and are completely dead, and those that survive have been eaten by bugs. Mind you, this is one of the plants that "experts" say will grow anywhere, has no predators, survives over and under watering... so our chard disaster is even more frustrating. One of the most-coveted things we anticipate growing here are leafy greens. You cannot get chard, kale, greens (mustard, collards, etc) for at least 60 miles. We miss and crave these deep-green veggies, and hope to have a bountiful crop to sustain us over the winter.



One of two devastated chard boxes.






Added to this frustration and disappointment is the fact that it seems we haven't yet really gotten that much of anything else to eat out of this garden. There was lots of arrugula for a while, and now we have daily spinach. But the few zucchini, peas, and radishes have been small in quantity -- hardly enough to fulfill my vision of "putting up" loads and loads of veggies for the winter. It is an awful lot of work for not that much food, and, as of yesterday, I was ready to pack it all in.

Since then I have regained perspective, and apologized to the garden deities offended by my cursing. I know that there will be a time -- in about a month -- when we will have more tomatoes, beans, zucchini, cucumbers, and onions than we will be able to handle. However, in the meantime, this whole gardening thing feels deeply imperfect and highly questionable.

To see a more complete picture of the state of the garden, check out the photos uploaded today at my flikr site.

Strawberries

I went to Berryland on Sunday morning, before collecting R up from the airport, and picked 20lbs of strawberries. It was such a fun thing, and 20lbs of berries for 24 bucks is amazing. Even more amazing is the smell, taste, and sight of fresh-picked berries.


We now have three quart bags of frozen berries, five pints of berry jam (including one rhubarb, cinammon, strawberry), and a week's worth of homemade strawberry shortcake.



YUM!

the toad obsession continues

We lost a large branch to lightening last night. I went to check it out this morning and found this guy happily perched among the branches.

Buddy Behaving Badly

I have been spending my days and nights with a crafty beast who seems to think that Rhonda's absence means anything goes. He has barked nonstop at the squirrels; this is not an unusual behavior, but is marked by a drastic increase in pitch and repetition in the past days. He has also taken to doing strange things that he would NEVER even attempt if Rhonda were around.

the pictures tell all.









I told him that if he keeps it up, I am going to the animal shelter to trade him in for a cat.

the long, true story of my life with toads

I want to tell you the long, true story of my life with toads.

This spring and summer I have developed an intense and complex relationship to Bufo americanus -- the American Toad. We have many of them. And they live all over our acre of open grass. So, when I mow, I am inevitably almost-mowing toads all of the time. I have evidence that I have mowed at least one toad -- I found a toad limb in the mower's bagger after I was done mowing. Given that I was the Girl Scout who staged a teary intervention when my sister-scouts took to squashing daddy long-legs, I have developed a deep concern for the fate of the toad.

My solution has been to stage what I call the Toad Relocation Project. The site for their relocation has been the garden, where I imagined the toads would be safe from the blades of our lawn devices while enjoying leisurely life among the plants. I was encouraged by Dan who kept saying, in his slight New England brogue, "ah, yes, toads are GOOD for the garden." Imagine my delight when we discovered that this was not just a generalized good (like good karma) but that they actually eat the pests we were trying to rid ourselves of.

I diligently watch for toads while mowing, and even make a pre-mow walk-through to secure the lawn. I have carried at least thirty toads into the garden in the past months, picking them up carefully, stroking their little rugged backs, talking to them as I walk them to the garden. You are going to a better place, Mr. Toad. You will be very happy in Gardenland.

Before I go further, I should say that the similarities of my behavior and that of, say, Roosevelt issuing internment orders for Japanese Americans, is not lost on me. I have spent a lot of time this summer thinking about the management of populations. Whether it is while I am collecting and drowning cucumber beetles, moving toads from one place to another, or removing "invasive species" plants from our woods, I am disturbed by the human desire to choreograph the life and death of species. There is no place where this is more evident than in my relationship to toads. As I carry them across the expansive lawn, remove them from their families and homes, promising them that I know what is best for their well-being, I am deeply troubled by the underlying meaning of it all. And yet, I keep telling myself, toads are not humans, and I am not Hitler.

And this nagging worry about the implications of my Toad Relocation Project came to a head on Saturday. I was working on securing the outside perimeter of our garden, and re-attaching the fine, mesh netting we used to create our fence. As I bent down to the ground to tuck the fabric close to the post, I noticed a little reptilian-esque face staring up at me. I began to scream one of those short, loud screams that means utter panic and freaked-out-ness. I looked again at what I thought was a snake preparing to pounce, only to realize that what I was looking at was a very dead, shriveled, but fully preserved toad carcass. The toad, in an attempt to escape Gardenland, had become stuck in the netting and could not get out. This toad was big and fat (his shrunken carcass was still bigger than most of our other toads); one can only assume that this guy couldn't get through and died from starvation and dehydration in the hot summer sun.

There is not enough room here to explain the deep psychological disturbance caused by my finding of the toad. I felt guilty and sad and really sick to my stomach. It helped that I was not alone in the garden. After I cut the poor dead soul out of the fence, Andrew came over and, in true 13-year-old-boyness said "Wow. Cool!" Dan echoed Andrew's response, while Rhonda, perceiving my distress, looked me in the face and said, "Amy. Toads die." Andrew promptly named the critter Norbert, and suggested that we keep him in a box and show him to all our friends. Buddy seemed to think he might want to eat Norbert, but I decided to photograph him. One might think it perverse that sensitive-girl then turns to photographing her sad, dead, toad, but I like to think of it as some kind of healing. Coming to terms with the fact that toads do die, and this one died in a pretty spectacular way. And, it was just one toad. As I watered the garden in the early morning, I saw many toads hopping between boxes and sitting under plants. Many toads are still in the garden while others (those skinnier than Norbert) have successfully escaped.


Norbert now lives in our sun room where he enjoys life among houseplants and a view of the big bad world.

Happy Pride!

Needless to say there is no Marinette Pride Parade. However, there is a bike-a-thon that went by the house today and unknowingly commemorated the day for us.

So, in homage to our first non-urban Pride, here a vintage shot of Rhonda, Buddy, and I a couple of years ago as we marched with Multifaith Works. Those of you out and about at events in big cities, think of us as we at keepin' rural do our own lil' dance.

Insomnia

I guess being awake at 10:45 at night isn't *really* insomnia, but Rhonda conked out an hour ago, and I am left feeling wide awake while I should be sleeping. We have been working hard in preparation for Rhonda's departure: she heads to Lancaster tomorrow to help her dad build a shed. (For effect, and because I love exaggeration, I told a friend she was going home to build a barn. Lancaster, PA + barn raising invokes iconic images of Amish barn raising...) But really, its just a shed.

So, since she will be gone from the homestead for a week, we have been gardening, prepping our 3rd bedroom for painting, planning our radical lawn transformation (more on this in a future post), and generally working hard. I am theoretically exhausted, but sleep is elusive.

I'm sure I will be writing much more in the next week as Buddy and I sit and stare at each other in this big old farmhouse. In the meantime, I have some photos I have been meaning to post.





Buddy stares at me while I talk on the phone to Gaby.





Oyster mushrooms we are growing in our kitchen.







Inside the mushroom farm.

Tall grass against our garage.

I officially exist...according to Amazon

It has taken a while, but my "book" (a publication of my dissertation) is now posted on Amazon. If you promise to not buy it -- as it is ridiculously expensive and only, really, intended for libraries -- you can see the details here.

I chose the cover myself. See how the crooked lampshade implies inversion/perversion?! Ha!

Dispatches from the remote corners of my mind

Dear Abby/god/ or other knowing entity:

• Why do my students use such ridiculous email addresses (e.g. sexymamma69@...)? Do they not feel slightly embarrassed when sending serious inquiries from this address?
• Why does our "drought resistant" hanging plant require twice-daily watering? (Or else it droops and whithers.)
• Why are my dog's farts so damned stinky?
• Why are there so many bars in Wisconsin? And, simultaneously, why are there no helmet laws?
• When are "rat's tails" going to come back into fashion? When should I get one?
• Lawn. WHY? And, why is everyone so anti weeds? Half of our weeds have bloomed into lovely flowers!
  
• Why is rye bread always served with Fish Fry?
• Can cell phones really pop popcorn?
  
• Why were the breakfast sausages we bought at the IGA not in the freezer section when the box clearly read "keep frozen"? Will I know if our "all natural," nitrate free pork product is rancid?
• What should I do with my diploma? Are there options other than present pompously in office or store in box in closet?
• When is Rick Astley going on tour?
  

Keepers of the Lawn

We just had a lovely interaction with our neighbor, Betty, who came over to accept our offer of some rhubarb. She is probably nearing 80, and has lived in her house since she was eight years old. She is very friendly, and loves to chat, and spends most of her time indoors caring for her husband, Herbert.

We asked Betty if she had ever seen the flowers (pictured above) that are popping up all over. Her response was no. She had never seen these flowers, but then again, Glen (previous owner) had never let the grass get so long that anything would bloom! She didn't mean it unkindly, but I am sure that we are far less diligent keepers-of-the-lawn than our predecessors.

here are a few more pictures taken moments ago:

generosity

I have recently been the recipient of an amazing gift. Gaby, whose work and photography projects can be glimpsed here, had an older digital camera sitting in her closet. As Gaby is an amazing artist/photographer, her equipment is quality, and even her older camera is pretty fabulous. Perhaps in response to my earlier complaints about trying to document our rural lives with a point and shoot (found here), my dear friend oh-so-kindly sent me her old camera.

It has been a funny thing to be the recipient of such a nice gift. I feel as though I am deeply indebted, and I am worried that I might not live up to my ability to "make photographs", as G would say. So, we are embarking on a photography course. As luck would have it, the entire content of a digital photography class Gaby taught at Berkeley is online. I have only gotten so far as reading the syllabus and reading about the first practices, and the textbook she used in that class is on its ways from another UW library. So, very soon, my dear friends, you will be subject to an onslaught of photos. However, for the time being, there is a smattering of new stuff on my flikr page, and I will show a few of my favorite new pics so far.

Mary, Mary

Today we were gifted this 20 lb carp. Our neighbor's son, Dean, brought it as a contribution to the ever-expanding garden. This gift came after a conversation with Dean in which he reavealed that his (now-80+ dad) used to have the best tomatoes around. We asked what his secret was and Dean said "nothing." Then he thought for a moment and said "well, he did used to plant a carp underneath each of his tomato plants."

We have already planted our tomatoes for the summer, so there is no chance of putting this guy under any of our plants. However, they are in 4x4 square beds (four plants to a bed) so Rhonda bravely butchered the fish and I dug holes in four of our beds. Here's hoping.

No carp? I've heard that placenta also works!

Hillary & Barack, Or, Why a Feminist Supports a Male Candidate (and learned to love the bomb?)

I don't often wax political here. But this has been brewing for me for a couple of days. I was further encouraged by this excellent article by Judith Warner in today's New York Times.

I have supported Barack Obama since he first announced his candidacy. Rhonda and I both have. I remember, not too long ago, thinking that there was not much chance he would ever make it to the convention let alone to November. I still hoped. The last week has been highly emotional for me; it is a remarkable thing to see something you never, ever, thought possible. For me, it was never a choice between a black man and a woman as the token "firsts." My choice of presidential candidate was informed by a sincere belief in the policies, beliefs, and experience that this man embodies. It still is.

And yet, I have felt a lot of guilt, as a feminist, for not supporting Clinton's campaign. I have asked myself if it is my own, internalized sexism that has guided my decisions. I have wondered if I am equally influenced by some kind of liberal guilt that encourages a vote for the more- oppressed minority group (a dangerous paradigm that leads to comparing and weighing minority experiences).

What I have had the chance to realize is that I can still support and believe in Obama while recognizing the deeply embedded sexism that has been a part of the coverage of and response to Clinton's campaign. (For a really depressing glimpse of this coverage, take a look at this video montage .) There is a part of me that is genuinely sad at the fact that a woman is not going to win this race. And yet, I did not vote for her.

It is really dangerous to begin to believe that Hillary has been the subject of more bias and discrimination than Obama. I think that it is simply more acceptable, in our culture, to mock, critique, and objectify women out loud. Obama, too, has been subject to a complex set of racial critiques, (not the least important being a critique of him as a light-skinned, over-educated elitist). But to mock him publicly for being black (or for traits assumed to be part of being black) is not how these racist responses are happening. They are more subtle. But, my point here is not to claim the victimhood of both candidates. This is not a productive or worthwhile way of thinking about these things...

Instead, I have to continually remind myself of the ways in which sexism and racism are deeply interconnected. They work together, folks. So, for me, this means that I am unapologetically hopeful for Obama's chances in November. I am certain of my commitment and political choices. And, I am deeply aware of the many vectors of sexism and racism that are informing this campaign.

Foodie Chronicles

Just a quick post about some of the food we've been making lately. I cooked quite a bit for my parents, and they seemed very appreciative of the home cooking. My favorite dish to come out of their visit was a creative adaptation of the Pennsylvania standby, chicken pot pie. I made buttermilk biscuits with chives (from the Holman's garden), and I roasted carrots and brussel sprouts in olive oil. The third component was simply chicken cooked in a light sauce (celery, onion, herbs, chicken stock). I then topped the biscuit with veggies and chicken. Voila! Chicken pot pie a la Amy.

Today's dinner was one of those fun, inspired uses of leftovers. We have a boat load of fried Walleye left over from fish fry, and, inspired by our West Coast exposure to gourmet Mexican food, we decided to make fish tacos. We heated up the fish in the oven, shredded some cabbage, sliced an avocado, and made a garlicky-but-sweet aioli sauce. Layered on top of corn tortillas, the result was delicious. Yum! Dessert was a rhubarb pie with freshly picked rhubard.

Parents, Socks, and Gardening

The title is the definitive of what we have been doing over the last week or so.

My parents were here for a short visit. It was interesting to note the subtle differences caused by shift in location. Wisconsin is not too, too far from PA, and so the trip was less of a hassle, and less of a big commitment. I think, and you can correct me if I am wrong Mom and Dad, that this lesser distance and the fact that we are not longer in a big city -- and the fact that our setting is now rural, quieter, less "happening" -- made for a more relaxed visit all around. We spent more time just hanging out, playing games, eating (fish-fry, Schloegels, Micky-Lu's, etc.) and working around our house.

Mom tries out David's electric lawn mower.

Somewhere, Al Gore is smiling.

While my dad was tinkering away at a number of house projects, I took advantage of my mom's knitting expertise and support to push my way through finishing the second of my first pair of socks. Cindy refers to this hesitation as "Second Sock Syndrome", and I had it really bad. I had already picked out some yarn for a new pair of socks, and just looking at that fine merino wool dyed the colors of the ocean made me want to ditch Rhonda's socks really fast. However, with mom's input and, at times, horror, I trucked through and finished. The final products is pretty darn good considering they are my first. The most notable issue being that I didn't line up the yarn so that the socks match. But what the heck, matching socks are overrated, right? Here they are in all of their green, stripey, splendor.




And finally, there is the garden. We planted most of our plants a week ago, and we are weathering an adjustment period (it was 77 and humid the day we planted and the overnight low the following two nights was in the 30s). Nonetheless, the garden is looking good and starting to grow. All the plants are currently enjoying a good soaking in the form of an afternoon storm.


wee plants in the big boxes
a few days after planting



our re-purposed box spring

My parents have returned to Pennsylvania, the socks are completed, and the garden is on autopilot for a while. I officially declared today to be Pajama Day, a declaration that marks my commitment to being extraordinarily lazy and ushering in the summer season. I am excited to try out this thing called summer vacation. While I have plenty of academic and house projects on the horizon, the next couple of days or weeks will be spent enjoying the quiet, reading for fun, and taking long naps in the middle of the day.