A Peck of Pickled Peppers

Tonight I'm going to try and pickle peppers. Our serrano plant has gone nearly as mad as the zucchinis. For the last year or so I've been making good old dill pickles with this amazing recipe. Or something rather like it depending on my current supplies of the various ingredients.

There are certain things that everybody has an opinion about, and that they'll make you feel very wrong for doing differently. For example, raising kittens. I see lots of websites with things like - never, EVER, let the kitten have human food!!! If you let the kitten have ANY human food EVER, it will DIE!!!!!

I read this while watching Cat-erine the Great sneak licks of oil out of my cooling frying pan.

Ugh.

Pickling seems to be the same way. I do it by boiling old jars from grocery store products, stuffing in the veggies, pouring boiling brine over, and tightening the lid. So far, no problems whatsoever. To look at various pickling instructions you'd think you need an industrial kitchen for it. Or else you'd DIE!!!!!

Old Photos

I miss 35 mm so, so much. And yes, I could shoot in film if I wanted, but it's a real pain to get it developed and to print it. The cost is especially prohibitive. Grr.

I think what I love about film cameras are 1 - the click of the shutter 2 - the way pictures look like what I was looking at. No, they don't look *exactly* like what I was looking at, obviously there are constraints (in color reproduction especially), constructions when you print (how dark is it, how white, should I lighten that corner?), but for the most part the chemical process of molecules absorbing reflected protons gets you something very like the picture in your head.

And furthermore, it's easy to understand exactly what is happening at each step of the process (light bounces off object, light hits photo-absorbing film, chemicals slough off the parts of the film where photons were absorbed, light passes through variably dense film and hits photo absorbing paper, chemicals darken paper accordingly). My understanding of a digital camera is something like the following - I own a magic box with an evil demon inside, light goes in and the demon puts a picture out that looks kinda like the light that goes in.

Anyway, the point of all this is that I recently scanned a number of old photos, some in color some in black and white. The quality is terrible, but at least they are, in a way, safe from cats and flooding. Here are a few of my favorites -

Under a banyon tree.
Family in an Adirondack river.
Rain in Harvard Square.
A game of solitaire in a cabin.
Little birds!
Little green things.

Durga vs. Aoife: a battle for the ages

Monotheism is a bit of a shame. I must admit that I have trouble understanding why we were so keen to trade panoplies of badass gods/goddesses/demi-gods/heroes for just one guy (who doesn't have much of a sense of humor.)

Out of all polytheistic, mythological traditions, my two favorite are the Irish and the Indian mythologies. Why? Well, let me elaborate...

1) Tricksters - Both traditions have friendly tricksters. Krishna, for example, is always stealing milk maids' clothes while they're bathing.

2) Geis - In Irish mythology, if one has a 'geis' or taboo placed on them, they must obey it, no matter what. Breaking the geis could lead to grave misfortune. Cuchulainn, for example, wasn't allowed to eat the flesh of a hound...

3) Blue Skin - Hello? It's awesome. Though the blue skin of certain gods is thought to represent dark skin (ie. not aryan).

3) Gods who 'do it' - And Goddesses who enjoy themselves in the process.

4) Warrior Goddesses - Mary and Mary are nice, I guess, but they're both pretty powerless. In the Irish tradition we've got Aoife, warrior princess, and in Hindu tradition Kali, the human skull wearing, bloody mother Goddess. Irish has Morrigan, Goddess of War and Fertility and her aspects Macha and Babh who like to show up as hooded crows, and Hindu has Durga, who rides a tiger, drinks wine, and slays buffalo demons.

Zucchini a go-go

Sig and I have been completely obsessed with our community garden plot. We quite literally moved 6 tons of dirt to replace the clay with decent soil, built enormous sunk-in boxes, planted, tended, and now we're harvesting and processing. A photo record -

The garden a few months ago, all boxes in, not everything sprouted. Please note the tin-headed scarecrow.
Accidental zucchini the size of my thigh.
Fridge full of enormous zucchini.
Kitten with zucchini and pickles.

Zucchini bread. And, below, freezer with 12 quarts of frozen zucchini. As you can see, zucchini has been our main crop thus far, by volume at least.

Slice

Have you ever noticed how self-injuries (like most self-images I suppose) look completely wonky and out of proportion in your memories?

I just slipped while using one of my wedding-gift Wusthof knives, which we keep sinfully sharp, and managed to slice off a little chunk of my thumb and leave a big ugly flap hanging from my index finger. Now, I know by the amount of blood, and by sheer reason, that this is a fairly limited injury, but in my mind my finger is the size of a cucumber and that cut goes half way through it. Why is this?

I suspect this is a similar phenomenon to anorexic girls who draw themselves fat, or the reasons people imagine their pimples to be enormous and redder than they are. The play Copenhagen, which Sig hates but I love, has a brilliant line about how strange it is that the only person you can never see is yourself.

Case of You

I adore the song 'Case of You' by Joni Mitchell. My goodness does that woman have a good voice. It slides up and down, so delicate but deeply strong, giving this hint of something you can't quite detect behind the face of the music and simultaneously showing you all the way in.

I thought, though it's a little silly, that I would just print the lyrics to Case of You in poem form, for general enjoyment...

Just before our love got lost you said

I am as constant as the northern star.

And I said, 'Constant in the darkness.

Where's that at?

If you want me I'll be in the bar.'

On the back of a carton coaster,

In the blue TV screen light,

I drew a map of Canada, Oh Canada,

With your face sketched on it twice.

I am a lonely painter.

I live in a box of paints.

I'm frightened by the devil,

And drawn to those ones that ain't afraid.

I remember the time you told me,

Love is touching souls.

Well, surely you touch mine, 'cause

Part of you pours out of me

In these lines from time to time.

I met a woman.

She had a mouth like yours.

She knew your life.

She knew your devils and your deeds.

And she said, 'Go to him.

Stay with him if you can.

But be prepared to bleed.'

But you're in my blood like holy wine.

You taste so bitter and so sweet.

I could drink a case of you, darling,

And still be on my feet.

I would still be on my feet.

Sigh

I love the smell of kittens, and their furry little bellies. Ah...