Ritual and Rhubarb Pie

One Bowl at a Time

2012-01-26T11:55:00.003-06:00

Bread sticks, guacamole & chips

There's nothing like making soup for Martha Bayne's Soup and Bread at Chicago's Hideout, 1354 W. Wabansia. Where else can you give away gallons of soup and pounds of breadsticks to people reveling in free food, while benefiting an agency that feeds the hungry? Martha's slogan is "building community, one bowl at a time," and that must be what makes it such a kick. You ladle out soup while checking out the other cooks' contributions—there were seven kinds last night—and then have one of the Hideout's excellent draft beers and chat with friends and strangers.

Lentil & sausage soup

Martha makes sure there's always one for vegetarians: last night, curried ginger and carrot and green chile pozole, the latter made by a young woman from Texas who brings back armloads of Hatch chiles when she visits. For meat eaters there was an elaborate pork mole with home-pickled jalapeños and the best sign of all, see Holy Mole below.

Pork mole

For meat eaters there was a ham and split pea soup featuring meat from the cooks' family farm, a creamy Seneghalese chicken stew crunchy with coconut, and a Moroccan spiced lamb soup. I made the lentil and sausage soup, invented by AntoniaJames, that won a prize on food52, using Kielbasa from C and D Family farm. They sells their formerly happy pork, beef, chicken and more at farmers markets throughout Chicago. I switched up her ketchup for harisssa, providing a little heat, but not enough to prevent one-year-old Anna from gobbling down some lentils.

The event takes place every Wednesday until spring, 5:30-7:30, and benefits a different community agency each week. It's a cozy respite form winter any time, but for me, it's best when I cook.

Soups set up

Peace at Christmas

2012-01-02T09:03:00.000-06:00

Fish and Chips

The fall semester at Columbia College hurtled to an end in mid-December, and suddenly my last class was over. I was on my way—by windy hike over the Halsted bridge and along Fulton Market—to Next Restaurant. Their Childhood menu transformed each kiddie favorite into a riff on itelf, from fish and chips rendered as a child's drawing to a winter walk in the Michigan woods that looked like an artful pile of twigs and tasted of parsnip and pine. A deconstructed sweet potato pie offered filling, crust and ice cream before a tabletop campfire (visible in the background).

Winter Wonderland

Sweet Potato Pie and Campfire

My daughter, Erica, and I cooked all day the next day, and one day later forty people aged ten months to seventy plus assembled at our house for hot cider, wine, squash soup, myriad cookies and Christmas carols. Erica displayed her handmade, blown-glass ornaments and sold quite a few.

Erica's ornaments

Cookies, Christmas party

Then, a week before Christmas, I settled into a deep peace. The party finished, I had only minor preparations to make for the holiday. Time's slowing was almost palpable: some knitting here, cooking there, reading things the semester's rush had not allowed. Revisions on my novel each morning.Watching the news, I lucked into PBS's lovely rendition of Mark Doty's poem, "Messiah: Christmas Portion."

Erica's lampwork beads

Joan and Byron Kast joined us for Christmas Eve, when we preserve the tradition of acting out gifts: the recipient must guess before the gift is given. Joan made little bags of stocking gifts, inviting us all to trade with much hilarity. I sacrificed peanut butter cups and clung to my sardines. Erica and I exchanged gifts on Christmas morning, including this beautiful lampwork necklace and earrings she made for me. Through with the joys and obligations of ritual festivity, we went our separate ways, then joined when darkness came to watch Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris." What fun to meet F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein and eat genuine Thai food from Sticky Rice.

Advent: Promise and Preparation

2011-12-11T08:16:00.001-06:00

Maggie at O Cebreiro

Santa Maria la Real

In late summer I joined a novel-writing group/class led by Fred Schafer, a Northwestern professor. Besides reading and critiquing the work of members, we read and study all the novels of Colum McCann over the course of a year. Even before the first review of my work, Fred's insight into sentences and plots pushed me to new places in my novel, radical action for my protagonist and more immediate ways of telling her story. Something about the challenge to my existing words on the page and the promise of breakthrough in plot (change it!) plunged me into Advent preparations. When writing's confabulation threatened to drive me crazy, I turned to making Christmas cards, hunting up a photo I took last summer in the 9th-century church of Santa Maria la Real in O Cebreiro, Spain. The image of Madonna and Child felt right for Christmas, and recalling my walk to Santiago last summer seemed to anchor the year.

Harvard & Brioche hats

Christmas marshmellows

Shortbread Stars

As the days got shorter and colder, I started knitting hats for my kids and grandkids, intrigued by pattern and stitch. I'm still searching for the perfect warm, all-encompassing style I'll make for myself after Christmas. And preparation means baking, this year, lots of old Christmas favorites: German Lebkuchen, Vanille Kipferln, homemade oreos and more.

A disappointing semester teaching Writing and Rhetoric II at Columbia College Chicago (four students out of eighteen failed) came to life with Occupy Columbia, a protest against higher education's reliance on part-timers—a ubiquitous practice—as well as escalating student debt. And my class also perked up with one student's discovery of Kirby Ferguson's marvelous video, "Everything's a Remix," a sort of visual analogue to Jonathan Lethem's "The Ecstasy of Influence." Tracking it down, I came upon this great video he made for CNN, called "The Language of Christianity," based on Marcus Borg's Speaking Christian. Take a look below—it's short.
"Everything's a Remix" runs ten minutes, but if you're interested in how movies combine and transform to create new ones, check out the link. How wonderful the ways we give to and borrow from one another.
First, light snow has turned Chicago white this morning. As daylight gets paler and briefer, Advent's search for illumination narrows to expectation of birth in a circle of light, warmed by a fire that we keep feeding while cold circles, heavy, outside.

Lessons Learned This Thanksgiving

2011-11-26T15:17:00.001-06:00

Erica Kast after 8 K Turkey Trot

What's all this talk about gluttony, somnolence, and turkey coma on Thanksgiving? It's not necessary. You can have much more fun without it. Here are some lessons I learned this Thanksgiving:

1. Start the day with a physical challenge. I didn't, but daughter Erica ran the 8 K Turkey Trot, beating her previous time, and we all stood on the sidelines and cheered, though it took cell phones to find her among the 8000 other runners. Next year, maybe yoga for me.

2. You can do all the cooking in twenty-four hours—with enough planning and hands. People who cook all day do not want to stuff themselves at night, especially if you . . .

3. Remember to feed your cooks! Lunch is necessary, light and ample. Maybe tuna salad with apple, celery and Greek yoghurt.

4. Dry brining is much better and easier than wet. See the "Judy bird", though it takes three days. Our heritage bird from Caveny farms was tender and delicious, even after the carcass turned into soup.

5. Speaking of soup, Squash Bisque is a restaurant recipe (courtesy of Eleven Madison Park) easily a adapted to home, and just exotic enough (from star anise and green cardamom) to make sure everyone stays awake.

6. Broiled Brussels sprouts get new life from a sauce of 1 T. Sriracha sauce, 3 T. honey and juice of a lemon discovered by Merrill of food52 when she ate them fried as bar food. I wouldn't try frying them on Thanksgiving, but the sauce is great.

7. If summer's herbs are still alive, fresh rosemary and sage give a special lift to bread stuffing.

8. You can ditch long-time favorite traditions! Our dearly beloved cranberry pudding gave way to unctious apple slices dipped in caramel (nothing but sugar, cream and honey cooked to 253 degrees) and then in vanilla soaked cashews. I admit the caramel preceded the twenty-four hour window.

More food was left this year than ever before, and people took leftovers home. Eight of us ate and nobody slept, roused by running and cooking's adrenaline.

Next Restaurant: Tour of Thailand

2011-09-15T08:56:00.000-05:00

Modernist coconut dessert

Next Restaurant's Tour of Thailand is a romp, a chef's romp from street snacks to a modernist interpretation of an Asian coconut dessert, and you're invited along. After Next's formal excursion back to Paris, 1906, their first offering, Thailand was a hitchhiker's jaunt, and you're invited along. How great to be on board at the most creative stage of an enterprise, when chefs are trying out concepts, dishes and pairings, rethinking what a restaurant can be!

Snacks are served on Thai newspaper with authentic plastic glass and spoon: chewy, funky fermented sausage, fried prawn cake, crisp and heady with lemon grass. You scoop the roasted banana (above) with a spoon, and dumplings are filled with green curry. Pink punch looks sweet but tastes fruity, juice enlivened with brandy and sparkling rosé.

The burn of Tom Yum soup made with pork broth is soothed by chunks of pork belly and accompanied by a cocktail you can inhale as well as drink. Fragrant chrysanthemum, like chrysanthemum tea, is mixed with gin, sweetened with lychee.
Rice comes next, accompanied five sauces you mix and match: spicy, funky, eggy, sour and crunchy. The sauces remain as catfish filets are presented, covered with flowers, accompanied by a Basque white wine, the first wine of the evening.

2011-09-15T08:55:00.001-05:00

Modernist interpretation of Asian coconut dessert

Roasted banana, green curry dumpling

Next Restaurant's Tour of Thailand is a romp, a chef's romp from street snacks to a modernist interpretation of an Asian coconut dessert, and you're invited along. After Next's first offering, a formal excursion to Paris, 1906, this trip is a hitchhiker's jaunt. How great to be on board at the most creative stage of an enterprise, when chefs are trying out concepts, dishes and pairings, rethinking what a restaurant can be. The choreography of service remains an intriguing mystery at Next, as servers appear out of nowhere just in time to present and explain each dish. I thought their informative, informal style fit better with Thai than with Paris.

Tom Yum soup

Snacks are served on Thai newspaper with authentic plastic glass and spoon: chewy, funky, fermented sausage and fried prawn cake, crisp and heady with lemon grass. Pink punch served alongside looks sweet but tastes fruity, juice enlivened with brandy and sparkling rosé.
The burn of Tom Yum soup made with pork broth is soothed by chunks of pork belly and accompanied by a cocktail you can inhale as well as drink. Fragrant chrysanthemum, like chrysanthemum tea, is mixed with gin, sweetened with lychee.
Rice comes next, accompanied by five sauces: spicy, funky, eggy, sour and crunchy. The sauces remain as catfish filets arrive, covered with flowers, accompanied by a Basque white wine, first wine of the evening.

Five sauces

Catfish in caramel sauce

Who knew beef cheek could be so rich and tender? Served in a peanut curry, the meat fell apart. Chicago's own Half Acre brewery made Horizon Ale specially for Next: a light, slightly sweet beer to go with the beef. Modernist magic appeared in the form of a non-alcoholic, clear shot of watermelon and lemon grass, a flavor blast. And that merely hinted at the complexity of the the two-part dessert: coconut sorbet in half of a coconut and the other filled with a mix of corn frozen with liquid nitrogen, mango, tapioca and more: crisp, creamy, sour and sweet. It sounds like a science experiment, but was, in fact, a perfect dessert. Could there be more? A perfect half of a dragon fruit with a rose infusion, served with a rose, and a milky rooibus tea served in a bag with a straw. Back to the street.

Dragonfruit with rose infusion

Rooisbus tea with palm sugar and milk

Next next year: Childhood. I can't wait.

Whole Group at Martha's Vineyard

2011-08-07T09:08:00.000-05:00

Fourteen for dinner

Joan, Byron, Erica at West Tisbury Market

Lola on beach

This is the fourth year our mix-and-match family has gathered at Martha's Vineyard, and this time my West Coast sons made the trek with granddaughter Lola, making the total fourteen peeps at its height. The first couple of nights Erica and I cooked, using produce from the West Tisbury Farmer's Market and Morning Glory Farms.
Then others took turns each night. In what sense is this group a family? In fact it's the children and grandchildren of Eric Kast and their partners. I was his third wife, so his grandchildren range in age from thirty-seven to eight, and my daughter, Erica, has a nephew older than she. Go figure.

Dinner cooked by Eun and Ari

Eun making eggs

Tom's arm, starfish, Lola, Anton

Erica in the Mytoi Japanese Garden, Chappaquiddick

Erica and Emma on the Chappy Ferry

Richard and Lola playing Jenga

This year Erica discovered a hike with a bit of elevation and a view in Chilmark, so Kim, Emma, Erica and I took off one afternoon and climbed to the 311-foot summit of the Peaked Hill Reservation, enjoying the rich greenery, birds and quiet. Another day Emma, Tom, Erica and I biked to Edgartown and took the two-minute Chappy Ferry to Chappaquiddick, a small island I'd never been to. The island is gorgeous, with an uncrowded beach and windswept dunes covered with beach grass. The Japanese Garden, unfortuneately named Mytoi (not Japanese, but "my toy" spelled to look Japanese), is full of beautiful bridges, reflective pools and stepping stones.

On rainy days, everyone played riotous games, from Jenga (for Lola) to pickup sticks to poker to scrabble to timed chess. At the end of the week, on Chappy day, the sun shone bright.

Updates in Vienna

2011-08-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

door handle and key, Quisisana

knocker, Quisisana

Vienna was my late husband's home town when last I visited, over twenty-five years ago. He liked to feast on European details, like windows that opened inwards from the top or linear door handles. This time I stayed at the Pension Quisisana in a simple room, without private bath or toilet, and the door handle and key looked exactly as they had the last time I was there. This was what I wanted, to see how Vienna had preserved or updated itself, and to update myself as well.
Vienna's monumental Kunsthistorisches Museum is famous for its collections of old masters like Breughel, Rubens and Dürer. Now they are pairing these paintings with ones by the Belgian modern and performance artist Jan Fabre. For instance, Rubens' storm is paired with the blue abstract below, with the interpretation that Fabre's image is like lightening. Farfetched, perhaps, but interesting.

Storm, by Rubens

Painting by Fabre, interpreted as lightening by the Museum

At the Leopold Museum, in the huge museum complex called the Museumsquartier, an outstanding collection of paintings by Egon Schiele and Gustav Klimt is set off by this amusing critique of museum culture itself. The text reads: Unknown artists are not allowed to exhibit in this museum/You are not allowed to alter the exhibition even if you don't like it/It is not allowed to laugh or talk loudly about the exhibited artwork.

Secession roof and Karlskirche

In the early 20th century, Vienna was a hub of artistic ferment with its revolutionary Secession movement and building. The movement's motto: Der Zeit ihre Kunst, der Kunst ihre Freiheit (To each time its art, to art its freedom) receives multiple reinterpretations in an exhibit at the Oesterreichischer Werkstaette, a reincarnation of the Wiener Werkstaette, a production community focussed on applied arts.

Vienna's Naschmarkt, an outdoor produce market, was a favorite of my children for its brightly layered pickled vegetables. Still functioning as a market, it's now also full of cafés serving breakfast after late nights out, and I had a generous three-tiered one with my only first cousin, an osteopath I hadn't seen in fifty years. No pictures here, at his and his wife's request.

Karlsplatz

I also met up with a relative by marriage of my late husband, who took me to see Don Giovanni, performed in the garden of a university building on the Karlsplatz, the stage centered on a tree. Gorgeous modern dress put one character in multiple red costumes, her counterpart in yellow. Another day we met at the Wittwe Bollte in Spittelberg, an area that used to be a separate village and one I'd not explored before. There I saw a poster advocating religious diversity and tolerance by an organization called

Tango in the Burggarten

Aktion Mensch, a group that primarily promotes inclusion of the handicapped. My cousin and his wife are ardent tango dancers, and they took me to a dance in the Burggarten. At both the poster and the dance, I think my husband Eric rolled over and smiled, and I felt thoroughly updated.

Sleeper Awake in Santiago

2011-08-05T12:29:00.000-05:00


Cathedral in Santiago

me at the Monte do Gozo

botafumeiro

Santiaigo Matamoros, slayer of Moors

On the morning of our arrival I woke early, strangely excited, and turned up for breakfast ahead of time. Leaving from the Monte do Gozo, the Mount of Joy, we found ourselves walking not along byways or through villages but in the outskirts of a city, approaching its center. After some fifteen kilometers we arrived in the Plaza do Obradoiro, the biggest of three distinct city squares that open out from the cathedral, a huge structure that dwarfs a human. And there, ready for action, was the famous botafumeiro. We lined up to get our Credenciales, proof that we'd walked those last 100 kilometers and then attended the pilgrim's Mass. A nun with a gorgeous voice led the singing of a Taizé chant, a favorite of Eric's and mine: Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Where there is charity and love, there God is. Then, to swelling organ music, the botafumeiro began to huff and puff, raised and lowered by its seven strong men, and then slowly to swing, higher and high, reaching to the roof and swinging down over the heads of the assembly. Despite prohibitions against photography during Mass, hundred of cameras were raised, and any photo taken then would show a sea of them (I took mine ahead of time). After Mass we had a final lunch at an excellent restaurant, Rosalia, on the Calle do Franco, and I had my first Caldo Gallego, an excellent kale, white bean, potato and ham soup that I will try to make come winter. We said our sad goodbyes to our guides and wished them well as they began a long drive to Spanish Steps headquarters in Asturia and then on to a life on Spain's Atlantic coast, a life that promised a garden and children. Like many in Europe they felt reluctant to seen on the internet—hence, no photos of them in this blog.

street leading off from Plaza do Obradoiro

As we walked the streets at a tourist's pace, Roxanne asked me, "Don't you want to bring some Torta de Santiago to your friends in Vienna?" I hope I didn't say, "Hunh?" but that's what I felt. My imagination was still anesthetized and I couldn't think about things like presents, what someone else might like. The next day my inner life returned, like waking up, and only then did I notice how much of me had been missing. Of course, Torta de Santiago for Vienna, and maybe scallop shells for my writing group too, and what about something for my daughter? I returned to nighttime dreaming and remembering dreams in the morning, and never had I appreciated my rich mental life so much. So perhaps that's the spiritual part for me: the experience of sleeping and waking, and getting an inkling of what being fully awake can mean. "Wake up!" after all, is one way of looking at the message of the New Testament. "Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead," says Ephesians, "and Christ will give you light."

Graffiti at Rosa's Bar

2011-08-04T16:01:00.000-05:00

We do not wait for you

Private chapel at Pazo de Andeade

Horreo with corn barely visible

You can't see much in this poster, and of course I couldn't read it in Gallego, but the symbol is the pope's hat, and it says, "We do not wait for you." Dana explained that many in this poor area protested the pope's visit because of the big expense it would incur. Next to it at Rosa's bar was a big poster for Charlie Chaplin's movie, "Modern Times," a satire on modern, mechanized life. Rosa's walls and ceiling were covered with graffiti, everything from greetings to protests.
We were tired, wet and cold when we arrived there for lunch, anticipating the pork and cheese sandwiches Dana had described. They turned out to be as succulent as Rosa was warm, greeting us all with big hugs. That night we stayed at Pazo de Andeade, our final magnificent mansion, and ate superb paella with mussels, cockles and other delicious and tender seafood topped with my favorite Pimientos de Padron. It was light every night until after eleven, but nothing prevnted me sleeping immediately on Galicia's unipillows: one pillow that stretched across a bed, single or double.

Pazo de Andeade

The next day we hiked to Monte Gozo, the Mount of Joy, the place from which one can first see the cathedral of Santiago. On the way Virginio made us another great lunch: spinach with cheese and an empanada of bacalao, bought at a local bakery. We ate near Lavacolla, the place where traditionally pilgrims get their first bath of the Camino, washing in time to be clean for their arrival. The next morning we would walk into Santiago.

Pulpo de Gallego—Octopus for Lunch

2011-08-04T08:34:00.000-05:00

Pulpo Gallego

Jesus reaching down

By the time we got to Melide, where we stopped for lunch, I'd lost all sense of where and when, focussed on survival. My feet kept moving, one after the other. My body leaned toward the uphill road as I watched the rocks below, then looked up to calculate the distance to the top. Somewhere along the way we stopped in a church with a striking and unusual image of Jesus. One hand reached down, as if to offer a hand up to those below. I could use that, I thought.

Ancient game

At the pulperia, a man pulled a whole octopus steaming from a pot, drained it and cut the tentacles into rounds, skin and all, then placed the pieces on wooden plates and served it up with toothpicks. Unfiltered Ribeiro wine, a cloudy white, was serve in ceramic cups alongside. Though I eat pulpo at home, I found the skin a little tough, but I fell in love with the small Pimientos de Padron, some hot, some not. They are simply fried for a minute in olive oil, sprinkled with coarse salt and eaten out of hand. Is anyone growing them in the U.S.? Will anyone? Please?

We continued to walk among the beautiful stone structures of Galicia and enjoy the bright green of its frequent rains. One day we actually walked in rain and parts of two in chilly mist, but raingear kept us dry enough.
Santiago was only a few days away, and Viginio to explain the traditions of arrival. The giant censor, the botafumeiro (smoke belcher) in the cathedral in Santiago, weighs sixty pounds and swings roof to roof, hauled by seven men. It no longer swings for any pilgrim who arrives for the daily pilgrim Mass, but only for those who pay three hundred Euros. So we began to hope that we would be there on a day when someone paid.

Galician stone structures

Pazo de Sedor

The Pazo de Sedor, where we stayed two nights, is a restored 17th-century mansion of great elegance. Their food was as fabulous as their marble staircase. A first course of peas with ham, faintly tomato-flavored, was one I'd like to imitate. They served another fine first course the second night: piquillo peppers stuffed with meat, cheese melted on top in a hot little casserole. I had my first taste of Torta de Santiago, a mildly sweet cake made of almonds and eggs, quite light and delicious. And dessert on the second night was right up there with Pimientos de Padron: a pastel made from quajada, a cultured milk product, and served with caramel sauce. Dana assured me you can find quajada in any supermarket in Spain, but I despair of ever finding it in the U.S. Cultured milk never translates. I'll keep looking.

Orujo at Casa do Campo

2011-08-03T12:14:00.000-05:00


Casa do Campo

The next day I switched to sandals, and my feet rejoiced in their escape from prison. The final 100 kilometers of the Camino began in Sarria, and suddenly high school students and others from all over the world filled the road, not to mention the cows and sheep with whom we sometimes shared the way.

companions on the way

I think Virginio got tired of our slow pace and frequent coffee breaks, for he delegated Dana to walk with us and took the van driving job for himself. We benefitted. He cooked us a fabulous lunch at Portomarin, across the Rio Miño, in the portable kitchen he rigged from the van's back. We ate asparagus risotto, salad, cheese, jamon iberico, melon and chocolate wafer cookies. A more important benefit: I got to have long and interesting talks with Dana. She grew up in East Germany and was nine or ten at reunification. Now in her early 30s, she is thinking seriously and open-mindedly about Germany's past and present and gave me insight into life on the ground in a medium-sized town in the East. One small example that would have tickled my late, Viennese-born husband: Winnetou, the wildly romanticized and inaccurately invented native American hero of German storybooks, found a home in the D.D.R. There he was portrayed as victim of imperialist oppression and evidence of capitalist exploitation. At last, the kernel of truth in the Winnetous myth! Our exchange continued throughout the trip, enriching my Spanish walk with German language and experience.

San Pedro, Portomarin

That night we stayed at the Casa do Campo in Monterroso, run by friends of Dana and Virginio, and received a very warm reception. The generous meal included sea bass perfectly cooked and deep yellow potatoes with lemon and butter. Crepes with honey followed, and I had my first taste of orujo, a liqueur made from grape skins. It's common in Galicia and essential to the ritual called orujo quemada, burned orujo, involving fire, lemon rind and coffee beans in addition to the spirits. Virginio performed this ritual for his and Dana's wedding. Always a wedding buff, I wish I had been there.
After a day in sandals (chakos with straps, no socks possible), I had blisters where my skin touched the shoe's soles. From then on, it was boots in the morning (with lamb's wool and moleskin), sandals after lunch.

The Climb to O Cebreiro

2011-08-03T08:34:00.000-05:00

Santa Maria la Real at O Cebreiro

View from O Cebreiro

Roxanne and Monastery

On our first full day of hiking we climbed 1300 meters over a distance of eight kilometers, all before lunch. The 12th-century, pre-Romanesque Church of Santa Maria la Real was dark, mysterious and beautiful. In the afternoon we crossed from the province of Castillo y Leon into Galicia, where we would remain for the rest of the walk. The afternoon continued up and downhill to the Benedictine monastery at Samos, and we began to see signs altered from Spanish to Gallego, the local language once prohibited by Franco but now ubiquitous. At Samos, a somewhat hostile monk took us on a tour, but my feet were as moody as the monk, and I absorbed little information. I was learning that the much-touted boots are not necessarily the best way to hike. Virginio walked in sandals and carried nothing but twenty Euros and a phone! Sounded good to me, and I began lightening my pack. Downhill walks in boots were threatening to detach my toenails, and my bunion joints were screaming. I resolved to try sandals the next day.
That night we ate churrasco, grilled meat, at a restaurant in Sarria, accompanied by that great bread, simple salad and good Galician white wine. A moment of recognition: we were going to get up the next morning and do the same thing all over again. After the bath, the meal and the rest. we were going to walk all day, and the next, and the next. No matter how clearly we knew this in advance, the reality was a shock. "That's the spiritual part," said Roxanne. Perhaps it was. I don't yet know what part it played for me, because the physical demands shut down my reflective and imaginative thought. My journal was reduced to notes; my days became just up and down; my evenings, bathe, wash clothes and eat; my sleep deprived of dreams. I didn't notice what I'd lost until, in Santiago, my inner life returned.

Sign altered to Gallego

Typical Galician horreo, a place for storing grain

Beginning the Walk

2011-08-02T11:52:00.000-05:00

John and Roxanne

At the bus station in Ponferrrada I met my walking companions, John and Roxanne, educators from Florida, and our guides from Spanish Steps. The guides, Dana and Virginio, had been married just a year and had met on the Camino, where Virginio was running an albergue, a place for pilgrims to stay. After getting a doctorate in his native Italy, he'd abandoned academic life to become an hospitalero, taking over a building without electricity or running water and putting up pilgrims in exchange for donations. Dana had arrived there as a walker and stayed for six weeks, while her plane returned to her native Germany without her. They'd gotten to know each other in English and then in Spanish, and both had walked the entire Camino Frances at various times. This story shows the many diverse and personal meanings the Camino can have for different people, as Nancy Frey documents in her book, Pilgrim Stories: On and Off the Road to Santiago. For some the walk is an act of Christian devotion, but for many the religious aspect is peripheral or irrelevant. Dana grew up without religion in the former East Germany, while Virginio's Catholic upbringing had become for him observance without meaning. For me, a Catholic convert, the spiritual aspect of the walk was first of all being in Europe, the Europe that I married and that my late husband missed so much. Even when I panted uphill and my feet ached I noticed ancient stone walls that pre-dated Columbus, and every time we ate I marveled at the sturdy, almost damp Galician bread that no one in the New World has learned to make. I was so glad I'd finally made my way back.
Our first stop in Ponferrada was at Los Templarios, a castle of the Knights Templar, a fighting unit of the Crusades officially endorsed by the Catholic Church around 1129. We wandered around the outside but could not get in, then walked five kilometers to one of the many beautifully upkept casas rurales, country hotels, where we would spend our nights.

Los Templarios, castle of Knights Templar

my room at El Paraizo del Bierzo

Already on this short walk I noticed how well our small group got along, how interesting everyone was, and also how our constant conversation on the way interfered with observation and contemplation.
At a pre-dinner meting we got our first hint of Virginio's encyclopedic knowledge of the Camino's history, traditions and myths, while Dana explained the stamps we would collect at bars and churches along the way, entitling us to receive the Credencial, the certificate given to those who walk the final 100 kilometers to Santiago.

stamps acquired at bars and churches

maps of various Caminos

Pilgrimage Starts from Home

2011-08-01T17:34:00.002-05:00

Stairs at the Hostal Tijcal

What's a pilgrimage? To me it's walking in the footsteps of others, people who've walked a path for centuries, walking with intention and a goal: a city or a mountain or a shrine. I've wanted to walk the Camino de Santiago de Compostela for as long as I can remember, but my reason is no more clear than those layers of footsteps. Each pilgrimage starts from wherever you are: Chicago or Paris or Portugal, but eventually the path to Santiago feeds into one of the ones well-trod since medieval times: the Camino Frances, which starts from St. Jean Pied de Port in France, or the Via de la Plata, which runs north from Sevilla, or the Camino Portugués, through Portugal.

Puerto del Sol

My Camino began with a travel snafu, destroying my record of good airplane karma. My flight into Newark was delayed two hours for air traffic, and I just missed my flight to Madrid. I feared I would miss my connection to Spanish Steps, the group with whom I would walk the Camino. Lessons learned: no Newark connections, no Continental.
When I arrived the next day at the Hostal Tijcal in Madrid, its worn and dented stairs told me that I was truly in Europe, a place with a past, a well-walked path. I had lost one day, but the Hostal's location, right near the Plaza Mayor and Puerto del Sol, allowed me to see quite a bit of Madrid's center. The Marcha de Digna Humana had set up installations on the Puerto de Sol demonstrating against violations of human rights, side by side with performers like the baby at the right.

Camp, Puerto del Sol

An efficient Metro ride took me to the Estacion de Sur, the bus station, where I was able to buy a ticket for Ponferrada the next day (though not to exchange the one I'd missed). Then I relaxed, knowing I would indeed be able to meet my pilgrimage group the next day.

La Mallorquina

Puerto del Sol

I had time for a few tapas and a horchata (rice drink) at the gorgeous bakery, La Mallorquina, and caught at least a glimpse of the Museo de Jamon, not a museum but a stand-up restaurant with every variety of Iberian ham. And then I just absorbed sights and sounds and reflections until I couldn't stay awake another minute.

Museo de Jamon


Fan shop and reflection

First Time for Dance at the Glen Workshop

2011-06-22T10:31:00.000-05:00

Time slowed at the beginning of the Glen East Workshop, an event that seeks to unite faith and art. On Sunday, June 12, we arrived on the wooded Mount Holyoke campus and settled into elegant rooms. A creek flowing over waterfalls and a rich variety of birdsong provided a round-the-clock soundscape, while lakes and trails invited walking.

Mount Holyoke's three (yes, three!) dance studios are the most spacious and well-equipped I've ever been in, except perhaps at the Hong Kong Arts Centre, where I danced in the early '90s. My three students at the Glen were willing and enthusiastic, agreeing from the start to perform in my presentation at the end of the week. My workshop, titled "Dance as Spiritual Path," was open to all, regardless of training or preparation.
By the end of the first day, I was exhausted. Our non-stop schedule went from three hours of class in the morning to lectures in each of the disciplines taught (fiction, poetry, fiber art, songwriting, calligriaphy and spiritual writing, besides dance). Dinner at 5:30 was followed by another lecture and a worship service. On Tuesday, Interplayer Judith Reichsman visited our class and introduced students to this playful form of improvisation, adding welcome variety to the class.

On Wednesday the dance class skipped the evening events and drove two hours to New Haven, where we saw the Susan Marshall Dance Company's "Adamantine" and "Frame Dances." The latter is a video installation of dances done in confined spaces: a sandbox, milky water, a piece of astroturf. The sandbox dance stressed choreographic relationships between two people who mirrored or echoed or spooned with each other, sometimes claustrophobic, sometimes escaping to disappear from the frame. One astroturf piece was a puppy pile of bodies. You can see the second one's tricky slips and slides above. "Adamantine" made use of the company's gorgeous men and women, the paraphernalia of theatre (lights and a fabric "wall") and live music ranging from an acoustic ballad to rhythmic percussion. Darkness obscured events later revealed, while a strobe light showed transitions that appeared magical. The "wall" of fabric rotated, surprises always behind it.
All Glen participants were grateful that Thursday was a day off, nothing scheduled. I went for walks and worked on my presentation, having gotten a sense from the other talks of what was expected. But whoa! Suddenly only two days were left for the students to finish learning and rehearsing their dance, a re-choreographed version of "Y'rushalayim," with music by Max Janowsky. I'd originally done this piece as part of an organ-and-dance concert with organist Tom Weisflog at St. Thomas Apostle Church in Hyde Park.

Now the week was hurtling to its end like a train thundering into a station.

The presentation was our chance to make a case for dance at the Glen. Accordingly, I told my story (short version), referring to my book but focusing primarily on the role of dance in my life. Then I performed a new version of my text-and-movement piece based on a letter of poet Anne Sexton to her friend Anne Clark. The students did a superb job with "Y'rushalayim" and participated in the Q and A afterwards. I think the Glen was convinced that dance could hold its own among the faithful arts.

Paris 1906 at Next Restaurant

2011-06-11T13:21:00.000-05:00

Pressed duck

Cremant d'Alsace

Anything as sought after, hyped and anticipated as dinner at Grant Achatz's Next Restaurant is bound to disappoint, but this evening, Paris 1906 with Erica, was all it could be. The day you make the reservation (scarcer than unicorns) is the day you pay for everything you are going to eat or drink, so there is no unpleasant little surprise at the end of the meal, no extras, no tips. With your waiter's first offer of water (plain or sparkling?) you have to remind yourself that this, too, is part of the deal.
"It's not French," he says, as he pours Chicago's water (filtered, of course), in a jokey fashion that makes it seem, as Erica observed, as though he were developing a character for sketch comedy. Detailed and expert knowledge combine with this sort of banter all evening.

Hors d'oeuvres

Clear turtle soup

Filet of sole plus

Bubbly from Alsace starts the meal, soon followed by hors d'oeuvres ("I say it every day, but I still can't spell it," says the waiter.) For an egg lover like me, the whole, soft-boiled quail's egg topped with anchovy is a luscious explosion in my mouth. An egg shell filled with cod brandade, lemon cream and black truffles is a rich extravaganza. A deeply funky turtle soup, clear but not clarified, comes next, paired with a sherry-like, oxidated vin jaune from the Jura, one murky flavor playing off the other.

Salad

Mignardises & Port

The deeply yellow and

buttery fish course, sole as filet, mousse and roe, accompanied by a stuffed mushroom, rests in a lake of beurre blanc, and the waiter wisely encourages you to mop us every bit with the tiny rolls provided. After the vin jaune, the pairing of chardonnay from the Macon enlivens and wakes you from buttery sloth. The famed pressed duck, still served at La Tour d'Argent is Paris, consists of rosy slices of breast and burnished leg, served with thick sauce made by pressing the rest of the bird. Paired with a deep Cotes du Rhone, it would be the star of the evening if everything else weren't so good.
The salad that followed was visually stunning and, as it should be, refreshing.
The pairing of rum bombe and cherries with tawny port was as perfect as the turtle soup and vin jaune and made Erica decide she liked port. Sweeet little candies and caramels come at the end. Coffee? No charge, of course.

Ultimate Mother's Day

2011-05-09T11:50:00.009-05:00

Blueberry, an infusion of fruits and flowers

Bites: clam chowder in a ball, wagyu beef, lobster in front.

First phone calls, chocolate and flowers from my West Coast sons, then my first glass fusion workshop at Lill Street with experienced glass worker and daughter, Erica. I learned to cut glass and arrange chips and squares to make—whatever they turn out to be. Then we got a totally unexpected same-day reso at Aviary and headed down to Fulton Market. You line up to enter (at measured speed), and perfect hospitality awaits inside a calm, upholstered, gray-hued room. The drinks, in glassware specially designed for each, range from spritely (Ginger) to funky (Truffle) to flowery (Blueberry) and hit peaks and valleys of flavor that we had never thought of. The "bites" are exactly that—just one—but delicious and creative, like liquid chowder inside a crusty sphere. So glad I got to go.

Erica with El Diablo, Blueberry, Truffle

water with craggy rocks of ice

Spring Snow in Virginia

2011-04-02T13:52:00.000-05:00

forsythia in bloom

Spring in the Blue Ridge mountains is a couple of weeks ahead of Chicago, and I arrived to find forsythia and daffodils in bloom in yards, on highways and in the woods. I hadn't seen my sister,who lives in Rappahannock County, Virginia, for six months, and I wasn't sure what I would find. She has brain cancer and is losing her vision, a sneaky side effect of radiation that doctors scarcely mentioned. Now she's having trouble finding words and uses a cane to walk. Though she sometimes got frustrated and could not go out alone, I found her calm, accepting, and amazingly aware and present to her situation, rather like the Buddhist she'd often aspired to be.

The first day I was there, while my sister worked with a helper, I took a hike up and down hills to the closest village, breaking in my boots for El Camino this summer. The day was perfect, sunny yet cool, the fields just greening, birds singing, pecking on trees and cawing. Going was easy, but returning with a half gallon of milk and a quart of soda on my back was hard, especially the final uphill, about twenty-two degrees, from the road to my sister's house! But yoga the next morning, in her spacious dance studio, got rid of the kinks.

Three-beet salad

As a gift for my recent birthday, my sister took us to dinner at a very elegant, almost decadent inn nearby. We sat in the dark and cozy "bar" that had no bar. Tables and richly overstuffed banquettes with maroon plush pillows were surrounded by huge, elaborately gold-framed mirrors. A variety of custom cocktails were offered with emphasis on blood orange juice and St. Germain elderflower liqueur. We kept it simple: Hendrick's gin and ginger beer for me; Campari for my sister. Moving into the dining room felt like landing in a stage designer's vision of an antebellum drawing room. Orange umbrellas of soft fabric covered lights that hovered over tables. Candles were held in glass containers molded in the shape of folded napkins. Th room was perhaps two-thirds full and quiet despite ambient chatter.

Pea soup with gougere

It was Wednesday and a discount night or season, so we were luck to get a lower than usual price for the restaurant's prix fixe. It allows you several choices from each of three courses plus dessert, coffee and extras such as their signature truffled popcorn to start. Yes, the waiter actually shaved flakes of black truffle over a miniature version of a movie popcorn box, flavored already with Parmesan and chives. A shot of minted pea soup followed, accompanied by a tiny instance of the cheese pastry called "gougere." Still more preludes: four spoons holding amuses from pork belly to gelled gin and tonic. Then we were off to cold first courses: beet salad for me and lobster for my sister. For seconds: fois gras hot and cold, cooked and as pate,for my sister, and I had raw tuna in tiny, spicy cubes with mango and avocado, cool, smoooth and peppery hot. Finally—could we still keep going?—a dish of succulent, deeply brown sweetbreads, spiked with curry and salted country ham; lobster with grapefruit-butter sauce for my sister.

Of course there were difficulties. Unable to read the menu, my sister had to listen to me read it and try to remember the long list of options. The chatter in the room made it hard for her to concentrate, and getting in and out of the place was a challenge fraught with steps and changing textures underfoot. At one point she said, "I haven't been here since I lost my vision, and I don't think I'm up to this any more." She didn't like the food as much as in the past. and later questioned whether her taste had been affected. Sometimes a luxurious celebration can throw limits into relief, pointing up the dark side. Still, it was a lovely gift to me.

The weather turned cold after that first day, and we spent a lot of time sitting silent in front of her wood-burning pot-bellied stove. At the end of the week it snowed. The woods turned white and shine reflected light through the big windows of her spacious living-working-dining room.

Interactive Upma

2011-03-18T14:37:00.000-05:00

This just in: The Fear Experiment, in which my daughter Erica will be dancing, is almost sold out! April 9 at Park West in Chicago, doors open 6:30 pm, show at 8. For a sneak preview of what they will be doing, see this:

Tickets at Mac 'n Cheese Productions. I'll be there and hope to see you.

The deadline is also approaching for registration for The Glen East, where I'll be leading "Dance as Spiritual Path." We'll be working in the gorgeous dance studio of Mount Holyoke College, June 12-19. Titled "Acts of Attention; Art as Discovery," the arts festival/workshop will also have sections in fiction, poetry and spiritual writing, plus more. See above link for detailed descriptions, more info and registration.

Now to my quest for the Indian porridge called Upma. I first ate it at Victory's Banner, a vegetarian breakfast-and-lunch spot in Chicago, entirely staffed by followers of the Indian spiritual master Sri Chinmoy. It was spicy, textured, aromatic and delightful. Searching the web for recipes, I found more questions than answers, so I queried foodpickle, the real-time response part of food52.

Multiple recipes came from the crowd on this excellent crowd-sourcing site. I made a trip to one of Chicago's Indian groceries and got curry leaves (above) and chana dal (split desi beans) and black mustard seed. After experimenting, I produced a composite and served it for brunch with a vegetable fritatta and bacon from the happy pigs of C and D Farms. My guests interacted with brio, and I posted the recipe on food52 here.

Prepping for El Camino

2011-03-03T14:34:00.000-06:00

In preparation for the walk I plan to take this summer on the ancient Camino de Santiago de Campostela, I went for a winter hike in the Indiana Dunes State Park with the Sierra Club. It was a cold and snowy eight miles warmed by good company, tall dunes and spectacular views of icebergs.

Another Chicago Magazine's 50th issue, dedicated to Chicago writers, just came out, with poetry by Mike Puican, Dan Godston, David Trinidad and others; fiction by Achy Obejas, Patrick Somerville and others; and creative non-fiction by Miles Harvey and Peggy Shinner. ACM does not publish content on line, but you can order a copy or subscribe here, and there are usually a few copies available at Women and Children First bookstore, 5233 N. Clark St., Chicago. This issue also features some thirty "flash"book reviews (forty words or less), mostly by Chicago writers, as well as a review of my book by Elizabeth Winkowski. She says, "Anyone who has yearned for intellectual, emotional or spiritual understanding with such intensity and passion—or even one who has caught the briefest glimpse of the crack between the worlds in the pages of an old magazine—will appreciate this dancer's journey." One couldn't wish for kinder words or better understanding.

And here, courtesy of poet Larry Janowski, is a visual poem to tickle your funny bone, strengthen the courage of your convictions, and strike more fear into the hearts of those afraid to speak their mind:

Rosebud in Winter—The Glen in June

2011-01-28T13:14:00.000-06:00

I've just returned from a week teaching at faith-based Rosebud School of Theatre Arts in Rosebud, Alberta, Canada, and my path to that remote hamlet was as strange as any I have taken. Jeany Snider, an actor, director and teacher at the school, came across my book last year when Image listed it among the top ten of 2009. She adopted it as a text for her Faith and Art class, and one of the students was sufficiently moved to write to me. I wrote back, met Jeany by e-mail and suggested that I visit the school. I proposed teaching "Arts as Spiritual Path," which I'd tried out at the Unitarian Church of Evanston last winter. Some forty-eight e-mails and sixteen months later, I traveled to Rosebud.

The plane flew into Calgary, Alberta over an ocean of snow, rivers just shadowed dents in the surface, and roads, lines drawn as though by a ruler, on and on, never turning. Driving from Calgary an hour and a half to Rosebud (one turn), I marveled at the light pouring over rolling hills and shadow pooling in valleys. An occasional car in the distance was a tiny bug tracing those contours. On arrival I discovered an almost utopian community. You can walk in ten minutes from one end of the hamlet to the other, and teachers and staff know each of the twenty-eight students intimately. Students live in local houses and cook for themselves, sharing rides to buy groceries at the closest store, twenty-five miles away. Students, faculty and community members volunteer to feed visitors like me —a lunch here, a dinner there. Here is life without advertising, billboards, or television. The youngest students told me they’ve stopped using their smart phones except to call home.
I began the week with movement improvisation, and my first surprise was that the students were so free and proficient, so ready to accept each other’s weight and try new ways of moving. They were already incorporating dance and drama regularly in the services of their non-denominational community church. My second surprise was that despite all this familiarity with faith in art, some in the class and in the community harbored doubts about the relationship, about whether artistic symbols could join hands with words to point to the sacred.

The school’s most common form of discourse is personal, even confessional, whether in a chapel service or a classroom, and the students had strong reactions to Thomas Kane’s DVD of liturgical dance in Africa, admiring the unselfconscious movement. The class progressed to work with text, exploring possible relationships between the text and motion, writing a body story, and preparing liturgical dance. I look forward to continuing these kinds of exploration at the Glen in June.
Memory of the bread that Jeany baked for me from hand-ground wheat, pumpkin, and pecans remains for me a sign of Rosebud’s unparalleled hospitality and mutual care. On Sunday the students danced about walking in darkness and finding light, and I knew that the glow of this community transcended sun on snow.

Glen East: Registration Now Open

2010-12-26T15:58:00.030-06:00

Now's the time to register for the Glen Workshop East, to be held June 12-19, 2011 on the campus of Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA. I'll be teaching "Dance as Spiritual Path," a workshop focusing on movement experience and personal reflection, no prior experience required. Just filling that gorgeous studio with movement will be an "act of attention; art as discovery," as the week is themed. Other subjects available at the Glen East include painting, songwriting, fiction, poetry and more.

My first blog post one year ago described our multi-age holiday party, and now the event has circled round again. On the morning of the party, daughter Erica taught her first glass ornament blowing class at Lill Street Art Center. Our Christmas tree was thus a work of art this year, decorated entirely with hand blown ornaments and white lights. Where last year the thirty-somethings stood in the kitchen while the olders claimed the living room chairs, this year at the party a group of retirees claimed the kitchen table and sat like a family at dinner, while thirty somethings balanced plates and cups on knees in the living room. Everyone sang carols, led by two or three pro voices, and we all ate the traditional fish soup, spicy mac and cheese and crusted pork tenderloin from C & D Farms' formerly happy pigs.
After the party a peaceful week remained until Christmas. Time slowed, and snow fell. On Christmas Eve family arrived at 1 pm to bake lemon bars and mocha toffee bars. Grandson, Elijjah was just back from India and brought wonderful scarves and bags, shoes and earrings. We never get too old to act out gifts, a practice we once started to slow down over-eager children, and our charades continued until midnight. A bird left tiny tracks on my front steps on a snowy Christmas Day.
Martha Bayne's great Soup and Bread project starts January 5 and continues each Wednesday night 5:30-7:30 at the Hideout, 1354 W. Wabansia, in Chicago. It's open to all and offers free soup, six or more kinds, prepared by volunteers: farmers, chefs and amateurs like me. Eaters make donations, and the money goes each week to a different food charity. Feed yourself and feed the hungry! Nothing warms body and soul like giving away food. I'll be making soup January 26 and hope to see lots of friends.
Before that I'll be heading to Rosebud, Alberta, Canada to teach "Arts as Spiritual Path" at the Rosebud School of the Arts, some 70 kilometers east and north of Calgary. Cold, dark and very exciting.

Riding Advent's Tide

2010-12-11T06:24:00.012-06:00

Ever since I was a kid, Advent has drawn me into a frenzy of making, like a river in flood gathering debris in its rush to the sea. I pick up my feet and go, letting dust gather in the house's corners while I knit, fold, wrap and cook. This year Erica decided to make paper invitations to our shared, multi-age holiday party, and she designed and hand-printed these lovely cards. Then together we assembled and addressed them.
A Christmas letter with personal news seemed redundant to me after a year spent spreading the word about readings and other book events. So instead of a letter I made a booklet with photos of light decreasing and then bursting on the scene, the essential Advent image.
Sacred dancers (and this means anyone interested in exploring spirituality through movement): save the dates! I'll be leading the workshop in Dance as Spiritual Path at Image Journal's Glen Workshop June 12-19 at Mount Holyoke College in South Hadley, MA. The Workshop's theme is "Acts of Attention: Art as Discovery."
Another flash mob Hallelujah arrived in my inbox and moved me to tears with the joy of the singers, their pleasure in the event they were making. Watch the music gather the lunchers in a humdrum food court and see them lift up their arms and maybe even feet to ride the tide of music.

Call to Action and Back to Basics

2010-11-14T13:56:00.016-06:00

For a month I've been too busy to blog. First a trip to San Francisco, where I enjoyed volunteering at the family festival at Burke's, my granddaughters' school. See Lola above on a pony ride. Then book events accelerated. At the Call to Action Conference in Milwaukee I shared a table with Gretchen Minney, generous and interesting author of Called: Women Hear the Voice of the Divine, a book that dovetailed perfectly with the focus of the conference. I ran into many old friends and sold some books, and I hope Gretchen will be a long-time friend.

Some great speakers opened new worlds at the plenary sessions and brought me back to thinking about the basics of religion: Asra Normani, a bold Muslim woman who dared to sit in the front of the mosque in Morgantown, West Virginia, talked about "Bad Girls of Faith." Here's a trailer for the PBS documentary about her struggle, "The Mosque in Morgantown."

Shane Claiborne, an activist and founder of The Simple Way in inner city Philadelphia, spoke about grass roots organizing and simple living. I loved seeing journalist and author Bob McClory again and bought his new book, Radical Disciple, about Father Mike Pfleger, pastor of St. Sabina on Chicago's South side. A film about Father Pfleger was originally directed by David Axelrod, but he gave it up when he got a better job. The finished film, directed by Bob Hercules, shows vivid and controversial preaching, social action, music and dance.
The day after the conference I spoke on Navigating the Labyrinth of Loss at the Crossroads program of Old St. Pat's, and once again felt the weight of so many people's grief. They'd lost husbands, children, and stillborn infants, and some had lost more than one. People seemed to think the shared stories helped.
Now I'm judging essays for the Skyway Conference Writing Festival and feeling awed by the responsibility of choosing. Looking forward to my return to Hyde Park to read on Thursday, November 18, 6 pm at 57th St. Books, 1301 E. 57th Street. Here's something really awesome: the random act of culture forwarded to me by my friend and poet, Larry Janowski. A cause for celebration.

Choosing Life

2010-10-17T09:08:00.013-05:00

David Grossman says of his new novel, To the End of the Land, "This book was such an act of choosing life." I read this in George Packer's wonderful profile of Grossman, "The Unconsoled," in the September 27 New Yorker. Packer tells of the death of Grossman's second son, Uri, in battle and Grossman's courageous return to the novel afterward. Now I want to read Grossman's work, and I used his example yesterday when I spoke to parents who've lost children at the Pilgrimage of the Lost Child.
Two weeks ago I read with Andrew C. Park, author of Between a Church and a Hard Place, at the Wisconsin Book Festival and enjoyed a great dialogue. We were both raised without religion, and he remains unchurched, trying to answer his son's questions about God and exploring the faith of his ancestors, while I am Catholic and try to answer my granddaughter's question: how can you believe in God? Both Andrew and I care about religious diversity and understanding the other.
In Madison I stayed with college friend Biby and her husband Bob, and on Sunday they took me to mass at Holy Wisdom Monastery, an ecumenical Benedictine community. Like Taizé, it includes Protestants and Catholics together, and the celebrant on this occasion was a Protestant minister. The beautiful building is at peace with its environment and received the highest level of LEED certification. Now there's a life-affirming choice!
Quick, before plums went out of season, I wanted to make an apple-plum flan and send it to food52. It's one of very few recipes I can say I developed myself (though of course it has ancestors). You can read the recipe here.

One Week to Go—Wisconsin Book Festival

2010-09-23T13:14:00.015-05:00

Just over a week to the Wisconsin Book Festival where I'll be sharing a reading with Andrew Park, author of Between a Church and a Hard Place. We've traded books, and his is a fascinating tale of raising children in that "between" place. Readers of my book, The Crack between the Worlds: a dancer's memoir of loss, faith and family, know that I was raised purely in the "hard place," where even the word, "atheism," was too sectarian—there was no deity to be denied. But I ended up elsewhere. Should be a great dialogue.
October 3, 2-3:30 pm, Wisconsin Studio/Overture, 201 State St., Madison, WI.
When I was a kid I loved musicals, from High Button Shoes, which my parents took me to when I was ten, to Oklahoma, with its danced narrative, choreographed by Agnes de Mille, to South Pacific, even the folksy Paint Your Wagon. I still love Kiss Me Kate, the musical Taming of the Shrew, with its politically incorrect take on women (shrewish), cleaning crews and old vaudevillians, brushing up their Shakespeare. That's probably why Mary Zimmerman's new production of Leonard Bernstein's Candide made me smile from beginning to end, three hours later, despite the hour. Combine great music and singing with Zimmerman's transformative use of bodies and props and the kinesthetic pleasure of dancing to the music, and you have musical magic. Voltaire's Enlightenmennt critique of all forms of hope from organized religion to the myth of El Dorado feels timely, and the show sent me back to the book to see what he actually said.
Here's hope for you: my Sweet Autumn Clematis, which began climbing my front fence in spring, turned brown and apparently died at the roots over the summer. In September it flowered all over the top of a nearby tree it had climbed.

Festa di Tutti i Santi—Chicago's Italian-American All Saints Day

2010-09-03T14:52:00.021-05:00

Last Sunday I attended this once-a-year event, a great reunion for Chicago's Italian-American community at the Shrine of Our Lady of Pompeii, a church in the city's formerly Italian neighborhood, now the home of the University of Illinois. I sat in the packed and noisy church awaiting the service while the greetings of families and friends almost drowned out the pre-service music. Then the presider, Father Richard Fragomeni, called us to attention, and a procession of saints came down the aisle: Knights of Columbus in full regalia, banners representing organizations honoring various Italian saints, children dressed as well-known Italian saints. The gospel for the day was "the first shall be last and the last shall be first," and Father Fragomeni, a brilliant liturgist and preacher, spoke with a truth and simplicity perfectly suited to the day. He said that God is God and we are not; that we come from dust and will return to dust; and that life must therefore be a symphony of service. Service could be down-to-earth: it might be all right to let someone get ahead of you in line at the picnic to follow. After Mass the procession left the church and went down the street, musicians, knights, children, and the two special saints you see at the top. Arrigo Park was filled with tents and the tents with tables. One structure held historical photos of the Italian neighborhood: weddings, miitary service and more, and many stood searching out friends and relatives. Vendors sold beef and peppers, sausage and peppers, cannoli, Italian ice and more. A band played on a bandstand, and dancers prepared to perform in elaborate costume and ninety-degree heat.
I only stayed for one Italian ice, but I absorbed enough celebration to carry me through my upcoming, sadder encounter with this community, when I will speak October 16 for their Pilgrimage of the Lost Child. Information at The Shrine of Our Lady of Pompeii. When you get to the link, scroll down.

Teaching Writing & Rhetoric II this fall

2010-09-01T07:56:00.002-05:00

Glad I got a section and will be teaching once again this fall. Always a challenge to see where the students are in their lives, why they've chosen Columbia, and what they hope for.

in reference to:

"http://lms.colum.edu/file.php/2703/editprofile.mov"
- FYW Courses: FYW Courses: How to edit your Moodle profile (view on Google Sidewiki)

Vermont College: Number One Low-Residency Writing Program!

2010-08-27T16:46:00.019-05:00

A week ago I returned from the post-graduate Writing Seminar at Vermont College of Fine Arts, the place where I received my M.F.A. ten years ago, and it was lovely to see the beautiful campus again, the place where I learned so much and came to know so many wonderful people. But now, like a slave that has bought its freedom, the school is independent, no longer a subsidiary of another. At a time when most artistic institutions are struggling to survive, VCFA is thriving and growing. Poets and Writers selection of VCFA as number one among the low-residency writing programs is icing on the cake.
The week was packed with daily meetings of the novel workshop, led by Nahid Rachlin, craft lectures by faculty, readings by faculty and participants, and occasional excursions like swimming in a nearby reservoir. I got good feedback on my novel from Nahid and the workshop participants, and it set me up for the revision I am working on now. And I got a very enthusiastic response from a larger group for my reading of a seduction scene from the novel. Most nights after the last reading there were parties or music, and always on the summer afternoons or nights you could see people reading or writing or strolling on the green quadrangle.
The highlight of the week for me was the presentations of Michael Martone, the first a history and critique of Iowa-style "workshop," the method of response to stories taken for granted by many students of writing, including me. How did it come about, and what are its assumptions? Why do we do it that why, and how did it become part of colleges and universities, subject to "sorting and norming," to quote Martone? I hope he publishes some of his answers. His proposal: we should learn writing the way one learns farming, by doing it. And his reading, from his forthcoming book, was among the best in a week of good readings.
Montpelier, with population around 6000, is the most graceful and charming of state capitols, and we had an excursion to its lovely farmer's market on Saturday morning. Below you can see apartments overlooking the Winooski River, seen from a bridge. At the end if the week I was exhausted but was sorry to leave and grateful to Ellen Lesser, who directed and co-ordinated the entire week with Ann Connor. Together they created the uniquely friendly atmosphere typical of VCFA.

Year Number Two Coming Up

2010-07-21T11:59:00.028-05:00

The first anniversary of my book's publication will be coming up in two months, and I am thrilled to find that it has opened up new channels for communication and interaction around its content and subject matter.First, close to home, I'll be teaching a class on memoir (with some simple movement as prompts) as part of the Northwestern Summer Writers' Conference, Friday, August 6, 10:15-12:45.

On October 16 at 9 am I'll be speaking at the Pilgrimage of the Lost Child at the Shrine of Our Lady of Pompeii in Chicago's University Village. This morning-long program is held annually at the Shrine and is open to all who have lost children or grandchildren or children of friends. Information and registration at 312-421-3757.

In January, 2011 I'll be heading to the northern wilds of Rosebud, Alberta, Canada to lead a 5-day workshop on Arts as Spiritual Path at Rosebud School of Theatre Arts. Thanks to the folks at Unitarian Church of Evanston for their enthusiastic participation in the 1/2-day version of this workshop last winter, which inspired me to pull together teaching I've done in dance, writing and spiritual expression.
Image Journal offers week-long Glen Workshops each year, with sections on fiction, poetry, several aspects of visual art and offerings in film, drama and music. In June, 2011, they'll be including dance for the first time, and I'll be leading the class on Dance as Spiritual Path. All are welcome! No previous training required. Here's the beautiful dance studio at Mount Holyoke College where you'll get to spread your wings.

Dancers, Readers, Writers: Book Party in Hoboken, NJ

2010-06-23T15:28:00.018-05:00

Waking in my friend, C.'s 5th-floor Hoboken loft is like dawn on a mountaintop, with fresh air and sun streaming through windows on three sides into the vast dance studio, five grand jetés long, and into the cozy partitioned living-dining area just beyond. Her book party was an intelligent, engaged mix of dancers, writers and readers, including members of two book clubs, and it made for the kind of reading I like best: equally discussion.
Monday we explored the Red Hook section of Brooklyn, a tucked-away area where a young person can still afford to live, full of artistic ferment, gardens, interesting shops, and neighborhood bars like Fort Defiance where we ate great sandwiches: a meat-and-cheese filled muffuletta and a multi-textured smoked salmon with cream cheese, cucumber, lettuce and onion. For grocery shopping there's a Fairway right on the river with a view of the Statue of Liberty (seen below in fog). Gardens abound: private, public and community, including a stretch of container plants along the pier that houses Flickinger Glassworks and a Key Lime Pie emporium. We took home some of the latter, deliciously authentic, with creamy tart filling and graham cracker crust. Tuesday I called on Margaret and Peter Steinfels, co-directors of Fordham's Center for Religion and Culture. I brought them a copy of my book and they generously gave me an hour of their time. The programs of the center, all open to the public, looked wonderful: from religion and madness to immigration reform to Christianity and Islam.

Reading in New York

2010-06-09T16:59:00.022-05:00

I was scared of reading in New York, especially at the well-regarded, artcentric Cornelia Street Cafe, so I sweated out the countdown on that Thursday, despite a lovely walk with my grandson A., on New York's High Line, the beautiful elevated park filled with native plants that runs where trains once ran from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District to 34th Street. The Cafe's downstairs room is a cozy, narrow space for words and music with spotlit platform for the artists. Some twenty people turned up, mostly friends of the readers: novelist Crystal Mandler, poet Patrick Walsh, and me. Two who had just met at the cafe upstairs came too, impromptu, and many bought books. The group was warm, the readers well balanced, and the event felt just right. Next day I went with Crystal to Coney Island and walked the splendid boardwalk to the Russian neighborhood of Brighton Beach, watching at a safe distance as the Cyclone careened and riders screamed on opening day at Luna Park.

Reading in Rappahannock

2010-05-24T16:14:00.011-05:00

I spent last week with my sister, Sally, in Rappahannock County, Virginia, where she runs a Workspace for Choreographers (log-in required) in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Though her address is the town of Sperryville, she lives in the country on acres of woods, and her large dance studio is the first floor of her house. A cabin down a steep hill houses dancers and choreographers, who come for retreats of up to a month.
Rappahannock Association for Arts in the Community sponsored my reading on the Library's monthly series, organized by Sallie Morgan, and a good group showed up. Though living at a distance from each other, the community is tightly knit and quite homogeneous, mostly artists and ex-hippies with a distinct aversion to institutional religion: Jewish, Christian, and probably Muslim. Buddhism is OK—other faiths of the East, I'm not so sure. But Catholicism is distinctly out of favor. I could feel a gentle chill at discussion time, an uneasy silence unlike any I've experienced at readings up to now.
Two days later, at Sally's home, a smaller and more intimate group opened up with food and wine. "Churches exist for business and social purposes," said one man. "They have nothing to do with the spirit or morality."
"We left all that behind," said his wife. Two men described strict Catholic upbringings with daily service at Mass, and they'd been only too glad to get away. "God is a troublemaker," said one. He repeated it later, and I wished I could have explained how much I agree with him, how much I need that troubling stirring of the waters, how much I long for those disturbing lightning strikes.

First We Take Virginia—Next Stop Is New York

2010-05-08T12:40:00.016-05:00

"While writing feeds as well as challenges my spirit, I find that marketing my published work can easily deflate me. So balance is essential: write, market, cook, do yoga, in that order, to keep the engine of productivity going." I wrote that a few months ago. I still do these four things, but their role in my life has reversed itself. Writing now means working on my novel, which floats in a miasma of criticism from my writing group.It needs to be recast, reconsidered, redone from a new point of view. It needs action, a climax, a plot, plus attitude, irony, saboteur's voice. I continue to work on it,but I'm writing out from under that avalanche of critique. Book events, on the other hand, have become fun, engaging and exhilarating. The folks at St. Gertrude's are the best discussion group you could imagine. Lively, spirited, inventive, and challenging, they provided the "active" part of my interactive reading last Tuesday. Thursday I taught a class on Dance in Worship for a public worship class at Garrett-Evangelical Seminary in Evanston, trying once more, as my friend Sister Bernie used to say, to "get the troops moving." They moved with enthusiasm, improvising in the chapel space and trying out movement for the pouring of water. Now I'm preparing to visit my sister in the Blue Ridge mountains of Northwest Virginia, where I'll read at the Rappahannock County Library and also at a private gathering. And next stop is the Cornelia Street Café in New York, where I'll share a reading with novelist Crystal Mandler and poet Patrick Walsh. Have any friends in New York? Please help spread the word. Meanwhile, in the temperate zone, spring has sprung, and I think I'm at least halfway across the minefields of self-doubt that plague my writing hours.

The Pleasures of Shared Reading

2010-04-26T15:04:00.022-05:00

I am discovering the pleasures of reading with other writers and the multiple channels of communication this opens up, as voices and experiences of readers mingle with those of a participating audience.
At a panel last week at Columbia College, part of their series, Critical Encounters: Fact and Faith, Michael McColly read from this book, The After-Death Room. He described the horrible conditions in which people with HIV-AIDS die in other parts of the world. Bodies are preserved in formaldehyde, and he viewed them in an "after death room," confronting death's reality. Louis Silverstein, reading from his book Encountering Life's Endings, foresaw his own death as a union with the ocean, where waves form and disperse, advance and recede. I read from my book about spiritual experience following the death of a child.
Questions ranged from how one survives that event to possibilities and modes of hospice care, attitudes toward death and the price of denial. Young and old had questions and comments, and my own experience became richer and more connected in the interchange. And it's always great when old fiends turn up at these events: two fellow teachers from now-defunct Freshman Seminar; a videographer with whom I collaborated years ago, when she was part of a group called After Image and I was performing at Mo Ming; a liturgical dance colleague.
Yesterday at Women & Children First Bookstore, three contributors shared a reading from Gravity Pulls You In: Perspectives on Parenting Children on the Autism Spectrum. Thanks to writer B. E. Pinkham's efforts, we had a good audience and a "relay" style of reading, where we each read for three minutes, three times. B. E. recruited actress Rengin Altay to read Carolyn Walker's funny and poignant "Evolution of a Fairy," and she read beautifully, while B. E. read about her son, and how she had to report his worst moments in order to get the placement she needed. Good became bad and bad, good. I told about my developmentally disabled son's final illness and celebratory funeral. Audience members had experiences of autism at various points on the spectrum and questions ranged from effects on the family of placement in a home to integration into the gay community—multiple voices joining the conversation.

Reading Monday at Columbia—Call for Two Good Words

2010-04-17T17:04:00.007-05:00

Finally got the poster for this reading. I wish life played a bigger part in the poster than death, but I'm glad to be reading with these two, good, interesting people.

Call to Action, the big liberal Catholic conference, is instituting "Wide Open Friday" at its 2010 conference. Many thirty-minute round table discussions will take place simultaneously in the exhibit hall. I've been invited to propose one of these. I have no problem with the "rules:" 10 minutes to present; 15 minutes for discussion; participants change tables every half hour. BUT: table sign will have a two-word title only! How can I represent my book and discussion about it in two words? I'm asking for suggestions of two good words that will pluck people from the surging crowd and lure them to my table. Any ideas?

Easter Sunshine

2010-04-06T15:56:00.011-05:00

Easter at the gym mass at St. Gertrude is a big reunion, where people return from distant parts to experience the old traditions: a dance to original music performed by adults and children, and a six-part round by Christopher Walker, sung by all. Two guests came with me: a young, close friend of my daughter and an equally close friend of my late mother. Referring to this service, a liberal friend once said to me, "Now I know how conservative Catholics feel. I want that Easter service to be exactly the same every year." This year we had the extra treat of Father Bill talking about the shifting harmony between gritty, everyday realities and the deeper, inner reality that connects us to each other and to God. This fit well with the reading I'd been doing during Lent: Hindu Wisdom for All God's Children by Francis X. Clooney, S.J. Since neither of my companions at the service was Catholic, I was glad the priest talked about a universal experience, one not contained by doctrine.
The sun shone when we returned home for brunch, and we sat on the porch for the first time this spring. I'd made salsa negra, the thick paste of chiles moritas from Veracruz, and now I scrambled eggs with serranos, onion, garlic, tomatoes and avocado. Folded into tortillas with queso fresco, the salsa and cilantro, they made the best breakfast tacos, accompanied by salad, bacon from free range pigs, and roasted asparagus, followed by semolina cake with strawberry-rhubarb compote.
We ate in the sun, drifting in and out for coffee refills and seconds. Four hours later, as everyone left, rain began to fall, so even the budding bulbs got some nourishment to support their new life.

Alvin Ailey--Surprise!

2010-03-31T12:26:00.028-05:00

I saw the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre last Sunday for the first time in twenty years and was blown away. I expected the tired hybrid Sally Banes once called "ballez" and found myself in tears from the start of "Uptown,"a narrative of the Harlem Renaissance. From Paul Robeson singing "No More Auction Block for Me" to text by W.E.B. Dubois, Zora Neale Hurston and Langston Hughes, alternating with great songs from the '30s, the piece expressed the truth of people who made great art and developed creative identity despite oppression and repression. I'd like to think my tears reflected the truth of the story, as Fr. Bill Keneally suggested in a homily one Sunday, remembering how he used to cry as a little boy at the library's story time. But maybe I just have a soft spot for song-and-dance, remembering the musicals I loved as a kid.

With the exception of a lovely, languid solo to Hughes' poem, "The Weary Blues," the rapid-fire choreography by Matthew Rushing did not stand up to the iconic words. The second piece on the program, "Dancing Spirit," a tribute to Judith Jamison choreographed by Ronald K. Brown, alternated classic, linear sections with hotter rhythmic ones using African-influenced movement.Yes, these are both aspects of the lovely Judith Jamison, who has directed the company for twenty years, but the dance was incoherent and too long.

"Revelations" was—a revelation. I'd expected a repeat of an old chestnut and discovered a fine-tuned, beautifully performed rendition of the 1960 work, choreographed to spirituals by Ailey himself. It stood the test of time and more, marred only by the audience's thunderous applause each time a dancer hit an arabesque. Once again, the tears came tumbling down.

Workshop: Arts as Spiritual Path

2010-03-22T15:47:00.006-05:00

Some twenty people showed up Sunday a week ago for my workshop on the arts as spiritual path at the Unitarian Church of Evanston, and what an enthusiastic group! We did explorations of space and a hand dance (originated by Interplay), where one uses the hand as a way of knowing and acknowledging the body-self and its story. We talked about sensory awareness and the kinesthetic sense. Then we did an exercise called blind lead (that I first did with the Liz Lerman Dance Exchange). The experience of leading and being led with eyes closed often creates feelings of trust and freedom, power or passivity, flying or being lost and abandoned. Everyone participated freely and fully in all of this.
Then we sat down to write or draw about this or other experience, focusing on sensory detail. Some did both. One drawing contrasted the daily touch of bump and shove in public places with the angelic touch of leading and being led. Many participants shared writing, and I told the story of my book, followed by a short reading. The church has its own bookstore, the book "H"as they call it, right in the worship space, and its director sold books at the end of the workshop—quite a few. This was the first time I'd felt good about a writing-plus-movement workshop, and I hope to repeat and improve it.

Warmth for Body and Soul

2010-03-17T14:37:00.007-05:00

Nothing feels better on a cold winter night than standing in the back room at the Hideout and ladling out free, hot soup. But last Wednesday wasn't cold. It was springlike, balmy and still light at 5:30. Soupnbread founder Martha Bayne wondered if people would show. I wondered if they would like my soup.

I'd woken up that morning terrified by volume. I had four big heads of organic cauliflower for cauliflower and watercress soup and didn't know how long it would take to break them down or what combination of pots would hold the two gallons of soup required. How would I mix big quantities and be sure of consistent taste? How keep the watercress bright green? I'd frozen bread sticks a few days before and knew they'd be OK—if I remembered them. I chopped and cooked and pureed and thickened all afternoon.

Timing everything to the minute I brought the car around, heated soup and bread sticks, loaded the car and headed out. By six the bar was full of old and young and other soupmakers, all doling out: lamb stew from Mint Creek Farm; home cooks like me with pea-mint and tortilla soup; a cazuela; green chili with lamb. Eaters made donations, and we raised $420 for Benton House food pantry in Bridgeport.

I can't think of a way I'd rather spend a day than making soup and serving it for free. Recipes at Soupnbread. Note: pimenton de la vera picante (hot smoked paprika) on breadsticks was new to me and hit the spot. Now a week has gone by, and it's soupnbread night again. The program continues on Wednesdays until April 14.

Book Club at St. Gertrude's Church

2010-03-11T16:12:00.007-06:00

Two nights ago the book club at St. Gertrude's discussed my book, and what penetrating questions and insights! Some seventeen people had read the book closely, and it felt like they'd moved in and inhabited its pages, calling the characters (my children!) by name and suggesting interpretations for their actions. It was wonderful to be so closely read, but a little unnerving to realize I'd let so many into my personal world.

My old friend, Sister B. was there and able to provide the perspective of one who knew our family from outside the book, creating a point of view from another angle. She had her own take on all of us and made the conversation a sort of trialogue, adding a welcome third dimension.

They say you need an "elevator speech" about a book, a way to summarize it in the time of an elevator ride. When the book first came out, I found it very hard to say, "I lost a daughter" between floors one and four, but after the chapel service at Pacific School of Religion, where I had to tell the whole story of the book in five minutes, I thought I had it down. But with this meeting the hurdles changed. When one person asked why I didn't have family pictures in the book, my first (unspoken) response was protective: you don't get to see them; their images are private.

What a tribute to the depth of the St. Gertrude's community that the club would get right down to essentials and enter into the negotiations of the book! I'm grateful.

Free Soup on March 10!

2010-03-06T16:41:00.001-06:00

Bread sticks too! Come early before they run out. Actually there is free soup every Wednesday this winter at the Hideout, 1354 West Wabansia, Chicago, 5:30-8 pm, but I'll be making some of it on Wednesday, March 10. Mine will be cauliflower and watercress, and four-five others will contribute other varieties. Soup is free, and donations this week will benefit the food pantry at Benton House in Bridgeport. Info on the project, Soup and Bread, the cooks, beneficiaries and future plans at http://www.bit.ly/b8CPu5.

I've been intrigued by Amanda Hesser and Merrill Stubb's website food52, where they are "crowd-sourcing" a cookbook, and I submitted my beet salad. You can read the recipe at http://www.bit.ly/9XAVOW.

I've been a customer for quite a while of C & D Farms, a family farm where they raise free-range and happy animals, allowed to live their natural animal lives until they are killed, and last week I bought a free-range chicken to make roasted chicken stock. I just missed the deadline for food52's chicken-stock contest, but the chicken turned out to be wonderful. After making stock from the wings, neck and back I brined the rest and baked it with garlic, lemon, and fresh rosemary, basting with mustard butter. It came out savory, tender and crisp on the outside—all you could want.

Last Stop on the DIY Tour—Berkeley

2010-03-02T16:11:00.001-06:00

Arriving in Berkeley, California on a sunny day mid-February is an experience of instant spring. Small, pink blossoms drift slowly from Japanese plums, while big magnolia trees are covered with huge white and pink blooms and bright-red camellias adorn their bushes. Lemons and oranges hang heavy from trees in many yards.
On Ash Wednesday, Cynthia Winton-Henry and I shared a reading from our new books at Interplayce in Oakland, while singer and ritualist Holly Shere led participatory chants. Some twelve people attended, and all joined in Interplay's "hand dance" and remembered lost friends in shared gesture.
On February 19, performance artist Nina Wise opened at The Marsh, a breeding ground for new performance in San Francisco and now with a second location in Berkeley. At Interplayce I'd run into performance artist and former Chicagoan, Julie Caffey, and we went together to see this interesting, one-person show. Wise spends an hour re-enacting the events of her day in word and delicate gesture, viewing her status as an aunt in a humorous and self-critical way. She brings to life her dogs, her tenants and the beets from her garden, cut just so as she makes lunch for niece and nephew, all the while collecting material for the evening's show.
The final event of my tour was a chapel at Pacific School of Religion led by Cynthia Winton-Henry and themed "The Dance of Loss and Letting Go." For me it was a homecoming to the Chapel of the Great Commission, where I first experienced dance as an integral part of worship. Carla de Sola led us in a danced Kyrie and later, read and moved to a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem. Her gesture fluid and heartfelt, she looked like a perfect jewel framed by the chapel's drapery and altar. I told the story of my book in five minutes, never imagining that it would be possible, and Cynthia got the whole chapel dancing for a celebratory finale.

Sunny San Francisco

2010-02-13T15:10:00.000-06:00

Can't believe how brilliantly the sun reflects from a green leaf in the walkway beside my son, A.'s, house in San Francisco, or that I've been away from frigid Chicago almost three weeks.

After Olympia, I took the train to Portland and Lake Oswego, where I stayed with a friend and former dance colleague, her husband and their two Golden Retrievers, one mature enough to follow hand signals and fetch the paper, the other a three-month-old, fuzzy puppy. I shared the reading with my hosts and enjoyed the variety of voices as well as music we played for prelude and intermission, while the guests refreshed their wine and snacks. Most wrote or taught or worked at Lewis & Clark, and a deeply reflective discussion followed the reading.

Two other friends put me up in North Portland, and Dorothy Coughlin, of the Portland Archdiocese's Center for People with Disabilities, arranged a meeting with some dozen parents of developmentally disabled children and adults. Ms. Coughlin's gifts of empathy and joy (not to mention primroses and marionberry pie) brought everyone together in a profound sharing of stories, while I read from sections of the book about my son, S., including the story of his funeral (now included in the new anthology, Gravity Pulls You In.) The two Portland events netted just a few sales, but I think seeds well planted are worth the time and effort.

Now I'm spending a few days in San Francisco,enjoying sixty-degree weather and giant yucca plants, caring for my granddaughters while my daughter-in-law has surgery. Next week: two book events in Oakland and Berkeley with Interplay founder Cynthia Winton-Henry, author of Dance: the Sacred Art.

DIY Farm

2010-02-05T18:16:00.000-06:00

Between Orca Books in Olympia WA and a book party in Portland, OR, I visited my son T. and his wife V. on their farm in Southwestern Oregon. Nestled in the rolling foothills of the Coastal Range, their thirty-five acres is off the grid.

A windmill they built themselves draws water from a well they dug, thirty feeet down. A big wood stove brought from Quebec heats the house they built and cooks the food they grow.

Jars of produce they put up in summer line their root cellar, dug into a hill.

A bicycle-powered mill (here powered by me) grinds the wheat berries they grow into flour for bread. They keep goats (for milk and cheese), Icelandic sheep (for wool), and Guinea Hogs, an endangered species. Recently turned vegetarian, they're now forced to give up the rapidly replicating and friendly pigs.

Oil comes from the sunflower seeds they press; light from their homemade candles. I adapted with speed that surprised me to life by the natural diurnal cycle: sleep at eight; up at four; learn to find things in the dark.

DIY Book Tour—Orca Books Rocks!

2010-01-28T14:17:00.000-06:00

Olympia, WA, has lots of terrific public art. Like its art and like Evergreen College, also here, Orca Books is unique, courageous and comprehensive. They have books new and used from best sellers to self-published and an incredible variety of cards and calenders, including my friend and host S.'s "Blarbie Gone Wild" calenders, featuring the dolls in gorgeous natural settings. Orca has sold out for 2010, but view the images at blarbiesgonewild and hope she'll do another one for 2011. Or view her more serious artwork on her blog, visualharvest, under "barn swallows."

Orca had posters for my reading all over the store, and fourteen people showed up, asked good questions and bought books. S. invited everyone to go out afterwards, and we had beer flights, from gingery pale to dark coffee stout, along with burgers, at Cascadia Bar and Grill.

Two other treats in Olympia: Traditions, a fair-trade shop and attached cafe, with the most wonderful version of the toy where a marble runs down a track. In this one it strikes a succession of wooden blades, making a different tone with each one. And Szizis, a cozy cafe with carved cherry-wood interior, ivy draped along ceiling and walls and a huge variety of teas. Info on the Olympia Coffee blog.

Cupcakes, Anyone?

2010-01-19T16:19:00.001-06:00

Stephen Elliott writes in last Sunday's New York Times Book Review about traveling with his 7th book The Adderall Diaries. Forsaking the traditional bookstore route, he asks friends to host events for at least 20 people in their homes, and he sleeps on their couches.
My book is my first, and my tour is definitely DIY. I'll start close to home with a presentation and discussion with a class on Christian worship at Garrett Theological Seminary, a school always friendly to the arts. Then I'll head West for a bookstore reading in Olympia,WA at Orca Books on January 27 at 6 pm. I'll have a party like Stephen's in Lake Oswego, Oregon, maybe even with cupcakes, and similar parties are planned later in the spring in Hoboken, NJ and New York City. From Oregon I'm heading to Berkeley where I hope to share a reading with Interplay founder Cynthia Winton-Henry. Back at home, I'll have another book club meeting, this one at St. Gertrude, my parish, on March 8. On March 14 I'll lead a workshop on the arts as spiritual path at Unitarian Church of Evanston. Parts of my book are about my late son, Stefan, who was developmentally disabled, and I will read and discuss at the spring event of ARC of Arapaho and Douglas Counties, near Denver, when I am out there for AWP (Associated Writers and Writing Programs Conference.) I'm seeking more such opportunities.
Before his book came out, Elliott had set up a free lending library. Anyone could get a review copy if they agreed to forward the book in one week to the next reviewer. "Everyone is a reviewer," he says, referring to reviews on Facebook and blogs. I like this idea, but I'm not sure how he ensured that the book would be passed on. Still, like the "crowd-sourcing" of a cookbook on food52, it speaks of a new world of equal opportunity. I'd like to get with the program.

Writing in Community

2010-01-16T10:29:00.000-06:00

The book club at Ascension Church was an ideal way to bring a book to life in community: 22 people and an hour and a half of lively discussion. Writing is proverbially silent and solitary, and all those hours spent alone make writers' communities, workspaces and retreat centers all the more important. The Writers' Workspace in Chicago is a storefront with shelves of books in its front room, looking out on the street. A writing studio has carrels for six-eight writers, and there silence is required. A small room for one provides sound insulation if you need to talk on the phone, and a conference room is available by reservation for groups to meet. The whole has wireless internet, and fax and printing are included in the cost of membership.
It's essential to me for several reasons. First, it provides warm bodies doing the same solitary thing I'm doing, kind of like children's parallel play. Second, its kitchen provides a place to eat, meet, and chat, and that's how I found my publisher, when I finally deciphered Meg Cox's suggestion of "wiffenstock" and found Wipf and Stock. Third, its novelists group provides informal feedback for four or five of us.
What better way to nurture community than with soup in winter? Here's a Provencal-style fish soup to serve 6-8. You can use any lean, firm-fleshed fish, even good quality frozen fish, like wild-caught cod or halibut. Saffron can be expensive, but the little jars Trader Joe's has been carrying for $4 have enough for 2 or 3 batches of soup.

Ingredients
2 lbs. lean, firm-fleshed fish
1 minced onion
4 green onions or 1 leek
1/4 c. olive oil
4 cloves garlic
1 14.5 oz. can chopped tomatoes (like Muir Glen)
1/2 t. oregano and 1 bay leaf, tied in cheesecloth with 6 sprigs of parsley
1/2 t. dried orange peel
big pinch saffron
3 c. chicken or clam broth
2 c. water
Fry the onion and garlic in the oil until soft. Add garlic and stir, then everything else except the fish. Simmer for 30-40 minutes. Cook the 4 oz. of potato for the rouille in the soup base and remove as soon as soft. You can make the base and the rouille ahead, refrigerating until ready to use. Cut fish in 1-inch cubes and add to boiling soup base. Return to boil and check immediately to see if the fish is done. Serve with bread and rouille for each person to add.

Rouille
4 oz. potato
2 garlic cloves
1/2 t.salt
2 T. diced cooked red pepper, like canned piquillo peppers or pimiento
1 egg yolk
1/4 c. olive oil
1 t. pimenton de la vera picante, cayenne or red pepper flakes
Dice garlic and add to the salt in a mortar. Pound with a pestle until liquified. Add the pepper and pound until mashed, then the potato, then the egg yolk. Whisk in the olive oil. If it's too thick, add soup by the tablespoonful.

On the Road—Really?

2010-01-12T11:17:00.000-06:00

Lucia Mauro's review of my book was broadcast on WBEZ's 848 this morning,and it came out great. I'd had a terrific time with her a few days ago recording short segments to accompany the review down at the station, and editor Joe DeCeault added excerpts from the music Tom Weisflog played for the organ-and-dance concert: Jehan Alain's Trois Danses. See link to the left to listen online. On days like this I feel good about marketing; other ones,not so much. I'm leaving at the end of the month for a do-it-yourself book tour on the West Coast, and making this happen, or trying to, has been a slog. Many bookstores plan their events a year in advance, and mine has only been out since September. Bookstores are swamped on the one hand by writers wanting to read and abandoned on the other by readers giving up on books. Thus I feel particularly lucky to have a reading at Orca Books in Olympia, Washington on January 27 at 6 pm. A friend will have a book party near Portland and I'm aiming for a talk with parents of children with developmental disabilities while I'm there. When too many failures get me down, I make spicy macaroni and cheese. Here's a recipe cut down from our Christmas party, to serve six as a main course, more as part of a buffet.
3 T. butter
3 T flour
3 c. whole milk
1 c. 1/2 & 1/2
2 t. dry mustard
2-3 T. chipotle peppers in adobo, chopped, with their sauce (optional)
1 lb. macaroni, any shape
1 lb. cheddar cheese, grated

For bread crumbs:
2 T. unsalted butter
2 T. olive oil
2 large garlic cloves, chopped
2 c. coarse bread crumbs, homemade or panko
1 t. Pimenton de la vera picante (smoked Spanish paprika, optional)

For macaroni:
Melt butter, add flour and cook for 1 minute. Add milk and 1/2 & 1/2 and bring to a boil, stirring. Whisk in mustard, cheese and chipotle peppers, if using. Boil macaroni until al dente and mix with cheese sauce. Put in oven-proof casserole.
For bread crumbs:
Melt butter, add olive oil and saute bread crumbs until they are slightly brown, watching carefully. Add garlic with heat off and stir. Add pimenton if using. When ready to bake spread bread crumbs on casserole Bake at 350 degrees until bubbly, about 20 minutes if warm, about 40 if refrigerated.

Make Your Own Oreos

2010-01-07T13:35:00.000-06:00

These little darlings are the homemade oreos we have for our Christmas party each year. The recipe was in the late, sorely lamented magazine, Gourmet, and you can find it at epicurious under "double chocolate sandwich cookies." We make them as icebox cookies rather than rolled, forming the dough into logs about 1 1/2" in diameter and slicing them 1/4" thick. Some people find the taste of white chocolate's primary ingredient, cocoa butter, cloying, and no wonder, since the product was invented by Nestle in the '30s to use up excess cocoa butter leftover from chocolate production. The butter was first deodorized, then mixed with sugar and milk solids. If you experience the yuck factor, try the cookies with fondant filling (as in the photo). Fondant is the simplest of miracle candies, made with 2 c. sugar, 1/3 c. light corn syrup, 1/2 c. water and 1/8 t. cream of tartar proportions from Homemade Candy by the food editors of Farm Journal. Cook to soft ball stage (234 degrees), pour out on a tray. When lukewarm, begin to work, folding and scraping, until it turns opaque. Then knead until it softens again. Store in fridge 48 hours, then warm gently to use. Microwaving at power 2 for 5 minutes works well. If it's warm enough, it should pool gently on one cookie. Top it with a second, then press and rotate gently until the filling spreads just to the edge, the reverse of unscrewing an oreo.

New Year's Eve

2010-01-03T15:10:00.000-06:00

Last summer, when sour cherries were in season, I froze a pound and a half, and a few days go I spent a meditative 20 minutes pitting them. The next day I made a pound of flour into pie dough, following the proportions given by Julia Child for pate brisée sucrée: 2 1/4 sticks butter, 5 T. shortening (Crisco, lard or more butter), 1/8 t. salt, 5 T. sugar and 1 c. iced water. I find that food processors overmix pie dough, so I do it the old-fashioned way: first fingertips on the flour and fat, then water, then the fraisage, where you smear 2 T. gobs of dough at a time away from you on a board and then scrape them up. Two thirds of the dough gets frozen for future use, well wrapped. All set for three pies, a year's worth for me.

New Year's Eve I spent with old friends, their daughter and her partner, who have children 4 1/2 and 6. After a lovely fish souffle on a platter, we ate the pie. The next morning, bright and early,the children bounced downstairs. I opened a laptop and went the The Known Universe, The American Museum of Natural History's digital representation, hardly a child-friendly site. To my surprise the children were transfixed, especially the little boy. At 4 1/2 he was noting, "Himalayas, Tibet—the sun is getting smaller!—that's the solar system." Apparently the universe is an all-ages thrill.

Christmas bash

2010-01-01T11:46:00.000-06:00

My daughter, E.(who made the glass bulb above), lives in the basement apartment in my house, and a couple of times a year we have a shared party, so thirty somethings drink on their feet or sit on the floor while older writers, teachers, artists and dancers retire to the sofa and chairs. At Christmas time a fire burns in the fireplace, wine flows and food covers the table: always macaroni and cheese, with and without chipotle peppers, a Provencal style fish soup flavored with fennel and saffron, roasted beets with feta and fried capers. Then we sing. We've always had this party after the 25th, to let Advent be its own time of waiting, expectation and preparation and save the celebration of Christmas for the Christmas season itself, all twelve days of it. But this year our best singer would be away at Christmas, so we had the party on December 19th.

This changed my sense of time during Advent. All preparations had to be finished earlier: cookies made, tree put up, ingredients hustled, food prepared. E. and I made vanilla crescents, mocha toffee bars, homemade oreos and pistachio-cranberry cookies all on one Saturday. Following this enforced efficiency, time opened up. The week before Christmas, usually the busiest week of the year, I had no to-do list, but time to think, write and contemplate the season.

On the Fourth Sunday of Advent, at the gym Mass I usually attend, the children did the candle-lighting dance I love and have described at the beginning of my book, The Crack between the Worlds: a dancer's memoir of loss, faith and family. They do this every year, and the dedicated people who practice with the children and direct the dance can get worn out—so much work to put it together all over again. This year they were feeling especially burdened, until one of them pulled out my book and read to the others my description of the "dance without dancing. . .the liturgical action of kindling light." The first time I saw it, I wrote, "I felt myself sink into remembered layers of meaning, as the old story of hope and expectation unfolded in the gestures of the youngest tellers." This year the description and the dance created a sort of feedback loop, where each amplified and clarified the other, giving new life to repetition as well as to my words, letting them share in the ritual.

Why Rhubarb Pie?

2009-12-31T10:16:00.000-06:00

My new book, The Crack between the Worlds: a dancer's memoir of loss, faith and family, came out in September 2009. Suzanne Kamata, Fiction Co-editor of the E-zine, Literary Mama, wrote, "One thing I love about this book is how Kast combines the spiritual and the sensual. After I finished reading,I had a fierce craving for rhubarb pie." I've been both a dancer and a cook for most of my life, the former as a profession and the latter as amateur, a lover of food. I've also been a lover of ritual, both in the sense of repetition (the dancer's daily practice) and in the heightened sense of symbolic action, action that points beyond itself to greater or deeper meanings that we cannot fully grasp or know. Making dances, writing books and sharing meals are all actions that involve ritual in both senses: first comes the daily repetition that feeds or exercises the body-brain. Then comes the sharing, whether through performance, hospitality or publication, that animates the soul.

Soon after the start of 2010 I will embark on a do-it-yourself book tour, traveling to read with fellow writers in their hometowns, seeking any kind of opportunity or connections I can find to "cook" a book published by a small, print-on-demand publisher. I'll be chronicling this effort to put the "public" in publication as well as writing about meals I cook and glimpses of meaning in ritual. Now that I no longer perform myself, I hope this blog will be a stage on which the spiritual and sensual can continue to dance together.