It’s bound to appear, the bumper sticker, at least where I live:
LET’S DEFLATE
ROGER.
Author: Jnana Hodson
In downsizing to a remote fishing village in Downeast Maine, this eclectic writer feels everything's coming together.
NATIVE INSPIRATION
Dwelling at the edge of a large Indian reservation, I found it impossible to ignore a vibration in the earth itself of their spirit.
Had I remained there a few more years, I no doubt would have collected turquoise-and-silver jewelry, the work of many Native masters.
Sometimes I still see their inspiration in the stars, though. Especially on a clear night. A very clear night, at that.
~*~
To see how it’s inspired my collection of poems, click here.
BOULANGERIES AT THE BASE
Julia Child liked to emphasize technique as the foundation of French cuisine – starting with the ability to create traditional sauces and custards.
But lately I’ve been thinking of something even more basic and yet distinctive – bread. Yes, the transformation of dough into a baguette or croissant. Seemingly simple, yet utterly heavenly when masterfully done – and so often delivered and sold in pale imitations, probably even in France today or more commonly across America. Admittedly, there’s a great deal of technique required in doing these right – along with the unique steam-infused, high temperature ovens designed expressly for the purpose.
Maybe that’s why two of our favorite bakeries – or boulangeries – each share their building with a celebrated New England restaurant, one in Maine, the other in Cape Cod. These restaurants know the importance of bread.
Put simply, let me argue that based on its breads and pastries alone, French cuisine would rank high on any global listing. You can add other categories as you wish – from soups to wines to desserts – but let me return to that moment of sitting on the back porch of the house where we were staying, sipping coffee and white wine and munching on bread and pastries we’d just picked up across the highway before dashing back. We were there, in line, at opening – and when the doors opened a few minutes after the official time, all we got in greeting was cheerful “Bonjour,” sans apologie.
Not that we’re complaining. Definitely not.
We’re both still marveling at the sight we’d caught of a baker transferring the rows of baguette dough from the tray to the rack for the oven. I’ve kneaded hundreds of loaves of bread, and none have ever been so smoothly gorgeous. It was like watching a fisherman with his catch, actually. We can only imagine how each armlike roll feels to the touch or the baker’s gentle caress in lifting it and arranging it anew in its rows for baking.
Coincidentally, my wife’s started reading Bread Alone, Daniel Leader’s eye-opening discoveries as an American who backed into preserving the old ways of French baking artistry. Since then, he’s made a success of it in Upstate New York, of all places. His is a delightful story full of unlikely twists of fate and French characters, along with some definite opinions about flour and approaches and some detailed recipes for the exacting aspirant – or professional baker.
I return to a concept of simplicity as leaving one with no place to hide, no disguises for shoddy workmanship, no excuses. Simplicity instead as a goal of mastery, competence, elegance. In other words, good work.
For now, though, I’ll just savor the delight of what’s fresh, carefully crafted, and unpretentiously good – slices of crusty bread with soft butter and a glass of chilled vinho verde, for instance, to accompany a green salad of lettuce straight from the garden. Well, the homemade vinaigrette might take some finessing.
For me, a perfect summer repast, especially when shared in good company.
CHAUNCY CREEK
This lovely tidal channel links Pepperell Cove to a town park called Seapoint and sets Fort Foster off on its own island.
NORTHWEST OASIS
Three hundred sunny days a year in a fertile land may seem like Paradise.
But it’s surrounded by desert. And every irrigated ribbon of orchards was a relief.
~*~
In rain on Mount Cleman, sage and conifers become cloud wisps treading updrafts. Black talus glistens. The mountain’s so quiet that what seemed important hardly matters any more. Boulders float past the relics of the lookout, elevation 4,884. Step away. Over the edge, where black scree cascades, the carbon rods and oxidizing metal loops and plates of electrical batteries from some previous decade are now scattered among elk and deer scats. On downed trees and furry branches, too. A battered coyote skull stares up between shellrock. The mountains gasp repeatedly in their wrinkled embrace of limbs stretching out from the forest. Cupping vistas of orchards and rivers, the desert yawns.
~*~
For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.
GOLDEN DETOUR
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
WATCH THOSE DRINKS
A soft drink of local note – or notoriety, depending – is thick, dark, bitter Moxie. Think molasses. Or patent medicine, as it originated.
The soda has a cult following, something that mystifies many of us. Well, in our part of New England it’s something like Dr. Pepper is elsewhere. Hardly a universal taste. Either you get it or you don’t.
Well, there’s also Red Bull, which commonly gets teamed up with Jagermeister – as the Jagerbomb. The rumor is it’s so popular with underage drinkers that anyone buying Jagermeister at the State Liquor Store will get carded, regardless of age.
So the other day I noticed one of our neighbors sitting out in the sun and sipping … Moxie.
What, no Jagermeister with it?
No, he said smoothly. Moxie goes with Captain Morgan.
LESSONS IN PICKING BERRIES
“You’re a gardener?” I’m occasionally asked, only to reply, “Not really. My wife is. I’m the compost master – and I like to eat.”
Well, I also do a lot of the harvest. The planning, vision, and execution, though, are entirely hers. Along with the shoebox of seed packets.
Each summer, though, one lesson keeps coming back to me when it comes time to pick ripe berries. Well, sugar snap peas, too. It’s a reminder of patience and human imperfection. I like to think of myself as observant, but what I keep noticing is that no matter how thoroughly you think you’ve harvested a particular bit – say a square foot or two – once you move over a step, you’ll see you’ve missed some. Often, more than a few. Someone can come along behind you and find you’ve missed almost as many as you collected. Seriously. Don’t be offended, it’s simply a fact of reality. Call it a lesson in humility. And a lesson in the importance of assuming multiple perspectives — something that definitely applies to the revisions of poetry and fiction or the reading of a good text, even Scripture.
Picking blueberries this morning, I sat in a lawn chair much of the time – one knee has been especially painful if I kneel just so. The chair had nothing to do with laziness. Rather, it allowed me to get under the foliage. To lift each branch and see the ripe berries hiding underneath the thickness of leaves. So another lesson has to do with getting a view from ground level, or as close to it as you can. Too often we like to look at life from the top down, not that it doesn’t help. Rather, it’s only one of several approaches — and in harvesting here, you’ll need a handful.
Another lesson, seen most recently in our raspberries, is an admission you can have them all. Some are in places you just can’t reach, especially when they’re surrounded by prickly stalks. So those we’ll share with the wildlife, once the netting’s off. There’s no need to get greedy. Persistent and careful are another matter.
Which brings up a lesson in defense. You have to remain vigilant. No matter how well you think you’ve secured the netting, a few birds or squirrels (especially) will find a way through. Or just sit on top and glean what’s in reach.
That part has me remembering a detail I never included in my Hippie Trails novels. The farm in front of ours had a commercial blueberry operation with some of the bushes not more than a hundred feet or so away from my bedroom window. Once the berries started to ripen, its water cannon would start booming every few minutes. The sound was supposed to frighten the birds away. I can’t remember if the noise continued 24/7 or ceased for the night, but it did take some getting used to. As for the tranquil countryside? Oh, you city folk, you’re in for a rude awakening there. Unlike our little city farm (huh, should that be our little little-city farm?) that’s delightfully quiet on this Saturday morning. Apart from the joyous birds’ singing.
Oh, yes, there’s the lesson of generosity and sharing. I’m tightfisted by nature, so this always needs practice. But eating them with others rather than alone is essentially far more pleasurable. Or taking the bowl you just collected and handing it to a cook who, after a moment of happy admiration, transforms them into fresh scones and tarts before the whole household has stirred?
Don’t overlook the lesson of discomfort, either. If it’s not mosquitoes, it’s blazing sun or a drizzle. It’s rarely perfect. So be tolerant and grateful. Oh, yes, and when it’s perfect? Appreciate the glorious moment. The King of France never had it so good.
GARDEN BED
The bed stand, salvaged from a roadside, holds forsythia back so the blueberry bushes may thrive. The netting in the foreground is actually on the blueberry bushes, to keep birds and squirrels from picking all the berries, rather than on the ground, where the bricks anchor the netting.
OF BIRKENSTOCKS AND USED VOLVOS … OR MORE RECENTLY, PRIUS
As I said at the time …
A rather telling article in Pennsylvania Mennonite Heritage was by a woman who admitted she never felt that she fit in with the others in her home congregation. Never mind she was the preacher’s daughter. I sometimes feel the same way in Quaker circles, especially when everybody else is wearing Birkenstocks or has a used Volvo parked in the lot or carries any number of postgraduate degrees behind her name. Once, addressing a group of about forty Friends in Philadelphia, I mentioned the predominance of blue eyes in our circles – and about six other people nodded vigorously. The six who had brown or hazel eyes, like mine; the rest of the group seemed thoroughly bewildered.
It’s all about this sense of not being fully embraced by the circle.
I wonder how we would react if a soldier in uniform showed up to worship with us, or a woman wearing a great deal of makeup, or a man straight off a lobster boat. Yes, we would tolerate them (I hope). But would we feel awkward – to say nothing of them? Would we be able to truly extend a welcome? How would we all feel, in the end?
Our possessions and style extend subtle signals reflecting our places in a larger society. Dover Friends Meeting is not a blue-collar community. Our vocal ministry often relies on “big words” and metaphors – something we seem to prefer, rather than pointed messages that drive home an unmistakable point. Even so, while we stand apart from the larger society in many ways, perhaps we engage ourselves in it too much. These are ultimately matters to consider when striking a balance between inclusion and identity, nurture and welcome, growth or decline.
To be accurate, Birkenstocks and Volvos aren’t the indicators anymore – they’ve been replaced by Teva and Prius or some other brand name I don’t even recognize. What I do suspect is that whatever the current “humble” status item is, I won’t have it, except by accident. Whatever that means in the context of belonging.
