Streetscapes

Building in afternoon light.

I've always enjoyed photographing industrial elements like piping and building ducts, so much so that one fellow art student remarked to me on a road trip, "Look, Marie! Trucks! Quick! Take a picture!", pointing derisively out the car window when I raised my lens to photograph a carrier loaded with cars the next lane over. But I love craftsmanship wherever I see it, in any form, and that point of view forms the basis of my design intellectualism to this day. I come from a working class background as many New Yorkers do, and I can't imagine our lives today without the massive industrial projects and undertakings of our forefathers. It's everywhere we look. After all, my great grandfather not only made metal work for bridges and buildings, he was skilled enough to render The Last Supper entirely out of copper, in a framed piece of art that still hangs in my mother's house. 

Fuse box.

You can't manufacture that kind of history and continuity on demand without passion and heart, not even at the best art school in the world; a place where craft still counts, even back when I attended it as a tower made almost entirely out of ivory. Snobbery is always out of date, no matter the era, because the future will always belong to those of us still willing to get our hands dirty, which includes the mistaken idea that using our hands is somehow a base affair. I hope my former classmate, where ever he wound up, somehow managed to rise above his class-based leanings. It couldn't have been easy to be a Van Zandt, no matter how old and privileged his family name is (was).

Stay classy, people 
 

Street Games: Whiskey and Sidewalk Chalk

A bottle of Fireball whiskey....

It's amazing the things you find when you're walking around, paying attention to the details. I regularly take street photos, and afterwards, I'm surprised at what at get, because it's usually more beautiful than I think it is, though occasionally it's the reverse. There's only so many sunset photos one can absorb with fresh eyes. I shoot regularly because I'm trained to, so the compositions and the juxtapositions happen automatically for me, but sometimes associations reveal themselves to me much later, after that quick, five-second pic.

...now turn this way!

In that sense, photography hasn't changed for me at all. Part of the excitement was seeing an image slowly ghost itself onto paper, floating in its' chemical bath, and watching that happen, only truly knowing then what you caught previously on film. Technology doesn't replace what I do, it just prevents me from breathing in the sulfur and selenium of the old, traditional, black and white chemical photography process, and for that, I'm grateful.  

What do you see around you today?

Toys: Having a Ball

The pink ball.

The ubiquitous toy for almost every kid on the planet is some kind 
of ball, of various makes and models. But like an empty playground, there's something sad, lonely, and forlorn about a discarded ball 
that's been tossed away. It's only as good as the child who plays 
with it. Or maybe I was just melancholy that day.  
What takes you back to childhood?

Out of this world.

Keeping In Season with Cabbage and Beets

The Mix.

I've been trying to cook with the seasons when I can, given time, money, and location restraints. That means I follow and use a handy little iPhone app called "Fresh Right Now" (no longer available, so please petition the company that created it to bring it back: http://www.digitaloddities.com/apps/ios/FreshRightNow/), set to tell me what foods are fresh and available in the Northeastern region of United States. It's a more rigorous and responsible to shop, eat, and live. 

Reducing and simmering.

By choosing to stay within those guidelines, several things happen at once. Buying only locally-grown produce has deeper ramifications than you'd think: it's a brief shipping process between the fields and local stores, so it's fresher, needing less chemicals to stay fresh because of that quick turnaround (and staying "green" by using less fossil fuel and pesticides, so there's no leeching into the groundwater), it's American grown, which benefits our farms here, under the scrutiny of our USDA standards, and it pumps money back into the local economy, creating a healthy, small, manageable system that's less dependent on the financial ups and downs of the world at large.

Mellowing into a beautiful, rich, warm red.

Not an easy trick to do, admittedly. It helps that I know how to choose local foods well, and that I cook every day, so I bring a lot of experience to the table. But by picking local foods within season, I feel better physically because the food is fresher and grown with less chemicals, I support my community of farmers, and I get a more well-rounded and balanced diet that changes with every season, which pretty much guarantees that I am always eating a rotating group of fruits and vegetables. By not constantly consuming far away foods laden with hormones, antibiotics, and traces of chemical agents, I get nutrition which, after taste in food, is a big part of the health game.

Shiny, happy, cabbage and beets.

With spring and St. Patrick's Day, our hearts and minds here turn naturally to cooking with cabbage, the winter vegetable staple of so many Northern ethnicities. For sure, I am not a fan of the wilted boiled cabbage of yore, so I updated it with beautiful red beets and a balsamic vinaigrette, braised and reduced in organic coconut oil. It tasted better than any cabbage dish I've ever had, imparting a sweetness and complexity I've yet to discover in that blank canvas of a vegetable, the humble cabbage, now lifted to a side dish worthy of the moist chicken breast sitting next to it on the plate.

Chicken breast with worthy side dish.

Lick the plate clean, and you've made yourself a little piece of happy that was grown right near your home. A worthy goal for any family. What's your next taste adventure?

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Braised-Beets-and-Red-Cabbage-3191.

PS: I made some changes to this recipe, as you should, based on fridge and pantry items. I added honey, skipped the parsley, frying it in a combo of coconut oil and a butter-like product from Olivio that's derived from coconut, in lieu of butter.
 

Around Town: Bryant Park

I was in town on business recently (and early, as usual), so I took a walk, choosing to go once around Bryant Park, killing time before my appointment, catching the cheerful site of gardeners doing some early springtime gardening. It's such a great time of year. Enjoy the sites!

The First Day of Spring

Springtime in Stuyvesant Square Park.

Stuyvesant Square Park.

Flowers in bloom, Stuyvesant Square Park.

Clusters of buds like barnacles.

Hello! Welcome to the new season. In celebration, I've put up a series of photos I took in 2013, when I lived (for a brief time) in Stuyvesant Town, a neighborhood in lower Manhattan. It was the first time I'd ever lived in the borough that is officially New York, New York, and as a native New Yorker, I had other surprising (and rare) "firsts", too: I discovered parks, foliage, trees, flowers, plants, and people I hadn't encountered before, as the glorious, gorgeous Spring of last year unfolded before my eyes. Here's to the newness, and yet timelessness, that marks the first signs of Spring. Enjoy!

Nature: Winter Weary

This is that time of the year when we wish the snow and cold would just go away, and indeed it does. Spring comes when we need it the most; when we feel like we simply can't with another snowstorm, and as usual, Mother Nature gets it just right. That pretty pile of snow has turned to a dirty mess, depressing and ugly, like a muttering homeless person on the corner whose public indignities insult the well-shod foot of an Upper East Side matron. 

It's gross, and we want it to disappear. Fortunately, the seasons are much more sensible than people, and like an unwanted guest, sloppy and drunk at a party that's gone on way too long, Winter leaves us with one final gasp of its' icy breath, giving way at last to sun and warmth. We sense the ground moving beneath our feet, and as humans, we respond accordingly to this ancient rite of passage with glad, open arms. See you in the Spring! It's right around the corner.

A classically picturesque winter scene.

Red berries in snow! Charming and Christmas-y.

Sigh...I love winter. So pretty, and it's such a beautiful day today.

Wow! The town looks so good covered in snow.

Great. Now I can't walk on the sidewalks. That leaves me with the road.

Ugh. And now it's filthy, too. Is that dog pee? So gross!

Nasty frozen, dripping ice/dirt cavern blocks the sidewalk. Boo!

Done! I hate everyone and everything. Look at this shit!

At Home: A Bit O' Green

A cheerfully full-bodied plant.

I've been busily putting on the final touches to the studio apartment I moved into. This morning's delivery by the local florist (thank you!) filled the space with lovely (and necessary) greenery. I've written before about the principals of Feng Shui (the ancient Chinese philosophical system of harmonizing the human existence with the surrounding environment), but in the end, despite whatever philosophy or system you use, you have to go with your gut, and what feels right. We now know hard science backs up the health-giving properties of indoor plants, and that's just good, solid common sense. Plants clean the air of toxic chemicals to give off oxygen, the stuff of life for us.

It's not easy designing a space. Along the way, I've discovered quirks with this old house: slanted, deeply warped original hardwood floors, with burn marks from flying embers of long-dead fires that roared on the brutally cold nights of an upstate New York winter, and the occasional dropped cigarette butt from former tenants. It's been lived in a long, long time. The man who delivered my rugs, freshly laundered by their family-run carpet cleaning service, (who I recognized from high school back in the day), told me one of his buddies lived in this studio years ago, and so it is in small towns: we're all connected.

Hello, sunshine! A new plant greets the day.

You can tell that the wealthy farm family who originally built the house knew exactly what they were doing, down to the last detail. The back of the house faces the East, letting in the first light of the day, which woke up the animals in the yard, and also the farm hands, way before alarm clocks and daily commuting existed. Almost every night I see a glorious sunset that dips below the rolling hills of the Hudson Valley, where the big porch has held a chair with a gazing person on it for hundreds of years. And that's what great design is really about. No detail, no matter how small, is left out.

Soon to appear here will be the the final layout of the place, with lots of pretty pics showing "before" and "after". I know the design will change with time from the way I have it now (a new chair or two, moving stuff around), but it'll do for now, and it's finally ready for receiving guests and visitors, while life just keeps rolling on.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Toys: Yeti Freddie

Yeti Freddie and his lovable side.

This software app I use occasionally for E-Blasts sent me a toy because I signed up for a newsletter. Nice! I'm a sometime collector when time, space, and budget align, most notably of the Tim Burton and Simpsons kind.

When I first ran aground from the recession, I set up shop on eBay to sell what I could. I sold a few items and made about $300-$380 total, but given the time it took to take all those digital pictures, tweak them, post them online, create the Internet storefront, manage the customers, print labels, pack them up and ship them off, it was really not worth my time. Oh, well. I didn't have the hunger faints that week!

I don't predict this fella will have great resell value, but I still took care opening the packaging so it would remain in as good as condition as possible. Nerd habits die hard. And now he lives in a cavern created within the bookshelves, a cheerful reminder that the fun hobbies we enjoy somehow always find a way back to us in good times. 

It's an Abominable Snowman situation.

He likes pencils, too.

At Home: Eucalyptus

Sprigs of eucalyptus in the shower.

I'd pinned something onto a Pinterest board months ago, in anticipation of actually using the tip some time in the future, unlike your average Martha Stewart-like devotee who has no intention of working with her hands. No offense ladies, but I'm no voyeur who fantasizes about other people's wealth and leisurely pursuits. I ain't got time for that. Unlike those of that ilk (again, no offense), I actually started making stuff before I was completely aware of it, like so many of us early humans. Unlike the rest of the herd, I splintered off into that specialized camp who actually succeeds in creating regularly, to such an extent that I knew better than to ignore it. I decided to make it my life's work.

To be honest, I have nothing against dreaming housewives. I spend a lot of time at home, and I've always enjoyed my own company and making spaces feel livable and healthy and good, like many, many women have before me. Even as I knew my life would be fuller than most, I cherish the time I have for hobbies, especially those devoted to hearth and home. So when I pin something onto a bulletin board, either of the cork kind or the newfangled  digital version, I really mean it, just like everything else I do.

It's that kind of authenticity that people have come to rely on me for, and I cherish that, too. I respect myself, and my audience. Years ago, my doctor (a very intelligent woman, and here's the full disclosure: all of my health care workers are women. I mean, like, every single one. Another feminine bias of mine;) advised me about the benefits of eucalyptus oil in a humidifier or steaming bath to naturally unclog congestion, just like those oily, thick, petroleum jellies of yore, except this is good for you AND it works.

With that in mind, I took another leap, and I promised myself that the next time I soaked in a hot bath, I'd get some actual branches of it to hang around the shower head, letting nature do the rest. What's great about this new bathing system (in addition to cleaning my sinuses without drugs), is re-using some of the dried leaves in a steamer pot that I have on the radiator. More natural health benefits: the steamer filled with water humidifies my environment, and gives off that beneficial eucalyptus steam. I get some branches of it from the local florist that they have leftover from the week's other arrangements. Thank you, Schweizer Florist!

When I come home hours later, the good, clean smell of it still lingers in the air. That's a tip on the house from me to you, which is way cheaper than a bunch of OTC pills and a doctor's visit. Take care out there, and remember, winter's almost over.

http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/homedecor/

Mad Ghetto Skillz: The Shopping Cart

Front lawn to an apartment building. Why not?

Like sneakers hanging off a power line, the lone shopping cart parked at an odd angle, (like the victim at the scene of a crime), is a sign that you're officially in the 'hood. Not exactly gentrification. What's always baffled me about this convoluted carelessness is that it takes wayyy more energy to push a shopping cart beyond the parking lot, up and down and over bumpy country terrain, than it is to use a relatively cheap and easy hand held cart for shopping and transporting. 

It's snowed and I hate shopping, so I'll block the sidewalk.

It takes a lot of work to be the kind of fuck up who ditches carts wherever the fuck you feel like. It's selfish, lazy, spoiled, and self-entitled, like people who spit on subway tracks or push their used gum under railings. Why?! Because that's the hood rat nature; complicated and contradictory, the core that's at the very essence of chronic dysfunction. If you asked someone who does this routinely, you'll get the typically common shit from them you already knew: they're disabled, their back hurts, they have a big family so they need a lot of groceries, they didn't have a choice, they just HAD TO, blah blah blah and why is it their fault? Well, it may not be (or, this being the hood, it probably is in some fucked way they'll try to cover up), but why is their damage our collective problem? 

"Do not enter"?! Fuck you!

Like any other seemingly random ghetto act, talking in circles to someone caught red-handed will get you nowhere fast, which is at the heart of disordered thinking. So, let me officially lay out some solutions for anyone struggling with courtesy as a concept, as a preemptive strike against incompetence: buy your own utility cart for shopping trips (see above suggestion), only buy what you can safely and comfortably carry (like I do), shop on the Internet and pay a delivery fee (if you can afford it), or have someone go with you (maybe a friend or a neighbor...you know, actually help each other out). 

You're welcome, community.

Slavery

http://www.polarisproject.org/

Last week I saw a movie called The Whistleblower, based on one woman's real life experiences as a Gender Specialist investigating crimes against women overseas, in the areas most plagued by the Serbian and Croatian wars: a Muslim woman brutally beat by a husband who hadn't been prosecuted prior, and the abduction of teenage girls for sale. Naturally it affected me, because it's such a powerful story about hatred and prejudice, but I returned the DVD to the library and let it go....or so I thought. 

A few days later, I went a couple of doors down to my favorite pizzeria in between cycles at the laundromat. I got into a conversation with the guy behind the counter. At first we chatted about pizza, cooking, the sometimes hilarity of so-called "diets", and then we talked about locales. He asked me if I was new to the area, and then I asked where he was from. He said "Kosovo", and I admitted it's an area I don't know much about, except for the worst news reports. He didn't dispel my notions outright, saying there's "nothing" over there. I mentioned the movie I'd seen, and at this point, all three men behind the counter joined in the conversation.

Turns out, the Super Bowl here in the States was Ground Zero for human trafficking, and we discussed how major world events can become natural cloud cover for illegal activities. It made me think about the Olympics in Sochi going on right now. God only knows what horrors exist right beneath the surface, out in the open, blind as we are attending these sports events, except to our own amusement. As one of the delivery guys showed me the news story on his smart phone, I scrolled down the sad, sick story. "How alone they must feel, like we don't care about them....like no on loves them", I said to him, reading about people sold like meat, killed after they're used, nameless and faceless to society, lost after their identities are obliterated with fake passports. And they're right to feel such despair, when we routinely ignore suffering that's so obvious around us every day, because it seems unbelievably horrific, or someone elses' problem. 

It seems so insurmountable: overwhelming, frightening, threatening. "Well, what can I do about it?" After all, no one goes to a ball game to cry into their expensive beer about some teenage girl unlucky enough to seek work in another country to support her family by answering an ad in the paper for maids in a hotel, somewhere "over there", far away from here. But we can do something. We can talk about it. We can publicize it. Just like the Super Bowl. Just like the Olympics.

http://www.thewhistleblower-movie.com/

http://www.cbssports.com/nfl/eye-on-football/24429762/fbi-rescues-16-juveniles-in-super-bowl-human-trafficking-operation 

http://www.nbcnews.com/id/20185681/ns/dateline_nbc/t/woman-rescued-human-traffickers/ 

Nature: The Hornet's Nest

Paper nest in snow.

I saw this beautiful paper wasp's nest on top of a frozen layer of snow, crossing a field one afternoon, and upon closer inspection, miraculous. After all, it's state has changed dramatically with the seasons. What was once a fearsome home in the summertime for fighter bees that stung ferociously upon invasion has become, in wintertime, yet another piece of flotsam and jetsam that can succumb to the elements at any time, long abandoned by those creatures who lived an entire lifetime in the mere speck of a few months to us as humans.

It looked so fragile and temporal, seemingly floating on the surface of ice that had hardened after a recent snowfall, and yet so firmly fixed in its' position. I touched it after taking a picture, and it revealed to me those dual natures under my hand as well: flimsy, light, papery, given to crumbling around the edges, but as a whole nest, it was also surprisingly hard and immovable, locked in it's winter home. I was moved by this, as I made my way to meet my own fates for the day in that sunny freezing weather, a day that was both cold and warm, hard and soft, beautiful and difficult.

Me, the hornet's nest, and a dog's tracks, at different times.

Around the Way: The Dessert Carousel

After Wayne Thiebaud

On one wearying and windy freezing day in downtown Brooklyn, when I was in town on some business I'd rather avoid (forever), I took comfort in the cheery pleasure that this diner's dessert carousel promised me after lunch. I didn't have the stomach to partake in it at the time, but part of me wanted order a slice of each beautiful, friendly, puffy pastry that swirled by, for me to enjoy at some later date during happier times, preferably while warm and safe at home over a nice cup of tea.

Poetry in Motion: Twilight

Bus ride home in twilight.

To the Reader: Twilight

Chase Twichell

Whenever I look

out at the snowy

mountains at this hour

and speak directly

into the ear of the sky,

it’s you I’m thinking of.

You’re like the spirits

the children invent

to inhabit the stuffed horse

and the doll.

I don’t know who hears me.

I don’t know who speaks 

when the horse speaks.

Stay Tuned....

For a handy, designing woman.

Hello, Dear Readers!

So where have I been? Believe me when I tell you that I've most certainly not gone away for good. In fact, the exact opposite is true! 
I've made a big change recently that's taken up a lot of my time. 
It's been exhausting, exciting, nerve-wracking, stressful, lonely at times, and also very worthwhile. Such is the life. Stay tuned for more words and pictures that are soon to come, and stick with me. 
You won't regret it ;)

Winter Beckons

Blue patterns on snow, and dark shadows.

Afternoon shadows, winter light, and freshly fallen snow.

Frozen pond and snow-covered bush in winter landscape.

Type: Seasons Greetings and Holiday Reunions

I hope so! It was my Christmas gift to myself!

For Holiday Blues, Post-Holiday Blues, and Other Familial Horrors.

Cards from a recent trip to the city.

I'm writing about type again (so soon?!) because I built up a nice collection of examples over the holidays that I've been wanting to post: big, bold white type on a cheerful red package that was a gift I gave myself, a really nice book cover atop a table at the local library, and a couple of cards I picked up on a recent trip to the city to see an old college friend. Good times ;)

Macaroni with Broccoli

unc·tu·ous

Readers know that I primarily cook Italian-American at home, though in the interest of full disclosure, I also eat a lot of Cajun, Creole, Acadian, French Canadian, and classically French foods as well, given my ethnicities with those cultural, genetic preferences. Since I typically cook for Italian-American family when I'm at home because it's food I know they'll enjoy, I often find myself going there as comfort food.

Hit that sh*t with bow ties!

This macaroni dish is a huge hit every time I make it, regardless of the type of pasta I use or the condition of the broccoli, because IT'S THAT GOOD. My grandmother made it first and then taught it to my mom, who made it at home for me, thus making it a type of cooking perfection in my family that's been lovingly honed through time and the changing of hands. I've written about the magical powers of Locatelli Romano before, and though I am no food snob, I must warn you once again before you shop for ingredients: only this type of Romano has the content to withstand frying in high heat in oil well. Also, just like with great music and art, timing is key. 

Big stainless steels mixing bowls make me happy.

The cheese cubes have to be removed right before you think they're brown enough, otherwise you've cooked the cheese all the way through, and they'll become hard while drying on paper towels. They should crunch lightly on the outside and still be creamy on the inside: salty cheesy pillows that are highly addictive foodstuffs. I made extra with this batch to eat while I cooked, otherwise (I've learned from experience) the ratio of cheese to other ingredients may be noticeably thin when it finally hits the table.

A warm bowl of pasta on a cold day = happiness.

After that, it's a breeze. When the water is boiling and the macaroni is cooking (my grandma used ziti, but here I used an open box of Farfalle bow ties), I fried some diced onion in the remaining oil. You can either parboil the broccoli florets, but in the interest of brevity and one pan cooking, I flash-fried the florets with the onions this time. 
  

Yeah, yeah, zoom in on that.

I used a sieved spoon to add just the right amount of macaroni into the bowl with the fried cheese cubes, onions, and broccoli, and I was generous with the seasonings, too: salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, more grated Romano. Some of the reserved pasta water goes in to make it moist, supple, and slightly soupy. A good bowl of pasta should "shine" back happily at you, and mine did. Ah! Fini! It was, dear readers, food magic. My mom, who can be a fussy eater, ate two bowls. So did I ;) Buon appetito.