Sculpin

Maybe it’s just me — it’s been a long week — but I find this ad copy a wee bit creepy.

“This hat is for those who own the plantation,” huh? Uh. No, thanks. Really. As Josh might say, “What the hell’s the matter with you?” That’s supposed to sell hats?

I’m hoping some of you can tell me. I’ve never read Andi Watson’s Skeleton Key. Do you think it’s worth ordering a volume?

Fellow members of the Church of Sloth, Scientist may enjoy this paean to the sloth.

Josh: “Whatcha got there?”
Cam: “Apriums and quark.”
Josh: “That sounds so scientific!”

For the last few days I’ve been scoffing fresh local fruit and nonfat quark from Appel Farms in Ferndale. This stuff is great.

In general, I’ve been working to become more of a “locavore”, eating more food grown more-or-less locally and less food that’s been shipped a gazillion miles on airplanes. That’s pretty easy in summertime; I just hop on the bus to the farmer’s market and make a beeline for the Alvarez Farms stand. (No, they’re not within 100 miles of my house, but I am taking the laid-back approach to locavory.) Then I run around the market picking up other things and planning meals as I go. In February that may not be so likely, but for now, no problem.

And I have been eating like a champ. Getting a half-dozen daily servings of fruits and vegetables doesn’t seem so crazy now. Heck, I can eat that in fresh shelling peas alone. Mmm…

I like this paying attention to what’s in season. When I was a little kid, my family always ate seasonally. It was a big deal to get the first strawberry of the summer, and the first blackberry out of our backyard was a real event. It’s a family tradition to make a wish over the first of each kind of summer fruit you taste.

One day this winter I opened up my delivery box of random organic produce and found mangoes and fresh strawberries flown in from god-knows-where. I like strawberries, you bet, but in February? That’s crazy and weird, not to mention unsustainable. And if strawberry season becomes meaningless, what happens to my favorite wishing tradition? Forget it, man. Strawberries are for June, and June is for strawberries.

Just last week I noticed Cat and Cannon Books. It looked like a sweet little place. I wished them well and made a mental note to wander in some time.

Today I learn that they’ve got world-renowned poet Yusef Komunyakaa coming to read at the store next week. My word! Who are these people?

I see they specialize in children’s books and world literature. I’ll be up that way tomorrow; maybe I’ll stop in and check out their Frances selection.

Speaking of readings, I see that Nisi Shawl has a reading from her forthcoming novel, The Blazing World, next Friday at the U Bookstore. I’ve read some tremendous short stories from her and I look forward to reading this novel.

[comments closed on account of spam.]

Attention universe:

Sometimes I screen my calls, because I do not feel that I am required to be available to all people at all times. If you call me and do not leave a message, I assume you are probably someone I do not want to talk to. If I get three calls with no messages in the course of an hour and a half, I am going to guess that I am on some godforsaken automated calling list again. No power in the ‘verse will get me to answer the phone that day.

Now I am going to turn the ringer off.

It’s a little disturbing. Last year I suddenly started liking carrot juice and cilantro, though not in the same glass. Today I find that I kind of like Westsoy organic vanilla soy milk. Any day now I’ll start liking carob, and then I’ll be quite sure that the End Times are upon us.

I hope that Josh goes through a similar process and starts to like good olives and fresh tomatoes. Just thinking of that makes me want a big tomato salad with plump olives and some oversized garlicky croutons.

I’ve been tempted to get into a little bit of a LJ scuffle this weekend, but I keep thinking, “You know what’s more interesting than this? Almost anything else, but food and gardening in particular.” And then I go out back and stake up the pink peonies or something. (They’re huge and heavy-headed. Next year, if I remember, I’ll grow them in round wire tomato cages.) I think this may be what people call “getting a life.”

The other day I overheard a woman and her young daughter chatting simply and intelligently about the co-evolution of bees and flowers as they stopped to look at the flowers in my front garden. It gave me that warm fuzzy feeling.

If I ever wander down to L.A., I’ll have to remember to visit Storyopolis, an art gallery and bookstore devoted largely to storybooks and their illustrations. In the meantime, I like to browse the artist portfolios. Storyopolis sells originals and prints by storybook artists including Clement Hurd (of Goodnight Moon fame), William Steig, Chris Van Allsburg, and all sorts of talented people of whom I’d never before heard.

First day of Not-So-Gimpy Beginner Yoga. I am not dead.

I have reason to expect the class to get much harder very quickly, though, so I’m reserving judgment as to whether this is the right course for me now. If it is, I’ll be having to work very hard and very carefully. The challenge will be good for my home practice, for sure.

Update, a few weeks later: this blows. I’m outta here.