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The Isle of the Dragonfly

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http://pubslush.com/books/id/84

A special "thank you" goes out to my downstairs neighbor for the free WiFi hookup because "The Man" cut me off. It means a lot to me. To the haters out there, same as always—fuck you and thanks. You keep me motivated.

The music dies...

Sorry folks, but either I get the cash to pay my bills or the music ends very soon, as my data service has so pointedly let me know. 


Of course some may want that ( and for you haters out there who take and take without giving back, fuck you ), but for those of you who love the work and want it to continue, please donate now.... and I mean RIGHT NOW! Like today and stuff. 

Or maybe you like looking at a blank black screen? <shudder> Zombies....
 

http://pubslush.com/books/id/84

The Doctor is In

Jiffy corn muffin mix

New Yorkers have the most typically American fruit widely available to them; the apple. Apples come in a glorious profusion of shapes, tastes, sizes, and colors that individually have ranges best suited for dishes from the sweet to the savory. Nothing smells more like autumn to me than the scent of apples. It wouldn't be a change of seasons without them. I grew up on a plot of land with the remaining six apple trees* that were part of the farm next door. *http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2012/07/treehouse-of-horror.html

Carmelized apples

Every year my grandfather took trips to the still-operational Davies' Farm* for fresh cider and apples. Almost every child of New York has memories about apple picking: whether it was warm that day or it turned cool early, if it was a good yield or the apples were rotted out with wormholes, but mostly you remember being outdoors on a farm with family and enjoying the fun of it. The delights of ripe fruit picked straight off the tree to be savored right then and there is an incomparable treasure that's best learned early, like children do. *http://mariedoucette.blogspot.com/2011/10/fall-harvest.html

A happy bag of apples

With this profusion of fall harvest all around us ready to be savored, the question for every cook becomes "What will I make"? Our meals become pleasurably linked to the seasons in perfect harmony, as each season directly manifests itself in our lives, from the large scale of an orchard to the warm intimacy of your plate.

Corn cakes on the griddle

At least, that's the magic for me whenever I open my fridge to see a brightly-colored package of New York State apples smiling back at me. Apple turnovers are a must and I'll post those later in the week. Yesterday was Apple Turnover Day!  But first I had a couple of boxes of Jiffy corn muffin mix in the pantry. Earlier in the week I used the mix as batter for fried chicken (it didn't quite work out but it was a first try), halving the recipe and saving it for another day. 
 

Fini!

This was that day! I thinned down the refrigerated batter further with more half and half, adding cinnamon and Stevia. Once it was thin enough, the batter went down on the griddle pan just like any other pancake mix, though corn cakes were a first for me. As it cooked, I made a very simple and classic apple topping of apples, butter, and brown sugar. Like the best things in life, great cooking is all about the timing. Once the corn cakes were done, my apple topping was ready, too. I used some of the browned butter from the griddle pan on top of my corn cakes and piled on a portion of the apples. It was a rockin' morning at my house. See how cheerful this looks? Go for it. 

Want to read a really good book?

The Isle of the Dragonfly

http://pubslush.com/books/id/84

Be in it to win it

Today is a big day for New Yorkers. Today we vote in the primaries. Remember, you are the government. You, the people. If you throw away your vote, you have just thrown away the most powerful tool for change that we as a society have granted each other. What a waste. Polls are open until 9 p.m.

www.vote.nyc.ny.us

Lovin' It

Make no mistake—as an American, I love American food. I grew up eating hamburgers, and my first "real" job was at a famous fast food joint as a teenager. I stood by the counter watching my mom co-sign the job application, so I could work for the biggest fast food chain on the planet at 15 years old. Labor laws at the time required parental consent; it was one of the worst jobs I've ever had in my life. 

I only lasted 3 or 4 months as a cashier, because it was a nightmare for me to work there. I really wanted to cook on the line in the back. I learned to cook as a child, and I loved making food. It would've suited me better as a shy kid, but as a beautiful girl I stood out, so they put me up front where people could see me. The heavyset woman who worked as a day manager immediately noticed me. She looked right at me, then pointed me out in front of a group of other new employees during orientation, "You're working the counter." It didn't take long for grown men to start slipping me their phone numbers on napkins from the self-serve stations.

Periodically, the networks would shut down from power outages and computer blips, so I did the math for orders on those same napkins while a line stretched out the door. The "managers" were skinny pimply teens barely in their 20's, some as young as 18 or 19, who used their petty power-trips over employees as an excuse to abuse them, creating the same working class dynamic we grew up with at home at work.

But, I got a paycheck and leftover food when I worked the evening shift after school. Any food left on the line at closing time was either thrown out or taken home by employees. I suggested donating the leftovers to a local homeless shelter one night because the waste sickened me, and I got a vague "Yeah, that's a good idea" answer by the same female manager who assigned me to the counter on my first day. She'd been forced to work that night after working a day shift, because she kept repeating it to us so she could play the victim to the hilt. She was so dysfunctional and stressed out that actual compassion and awareness from a small skinny teenager with big eyes and a soft voice must've shocked her. She gave me a hard look, which told me I was already on her radar for abuse. 

After a particularly busy lunch rush, I didn't have time to re-stock bags, so she gave the counter girls a passive-aggressive lecture in a condescending tone about how perfect bag sizes were for certain meals that was clearly directed at me, and I knew it. She gave me the look again to drive the point home; that I was actually the wasteful one (not her), because I used bags that were "too big". Great. More game-playing and power struggling. I knew this routine front-ways, sideways, and backwards. She wasn't going to fight me directly because she couldn't win, but she could do this petty pissant crap. The clock was already running out on this job. I needed to get out of there fast.

The more targeted abuse quickly began. This ugly blond kid thought it was funny to watch me struggle with garbage bags that had to be tossed over a tall fence around the dumpsters, so he routinely assigned me to cleaning the floor. I heard him laughing in the back room, telling another manager that he sent "the human mop" to mop up the floor. His crony joked, "Oh yeah? What does that kid weigh? Like a 100 lbs. soaking wet? Can she even lift those bags?" The manager snickered, "I know, I know, isn't' it great? Wait, wait, she's gotta throw them over the wall. I told her she 'had to' do it." I became their entertainment for the night. He scared me because he was a psycho, but I was already used to fake "tough" guys. As heavy as the bags were, I did it until every one of them went over, even though it took me several tries, with trash spilling onto me from the bags that didn't make it over the first few times. When I finished, he was actually impressed, though not to my face. "Yeah, she did it! That skinny 'mop' did it! She's a lot stronger than she looks." Right, punk.

My mom had to pick me up at night, because I was too young to drive. She ordered tea and laughed at me while I worked, relishing that I had to serve her as she mocked me. "Haha! I can't 'get you' to clean at home and now you have to do it here! So ironic." She would smugly sit at a table as I ended my shift, making a show out of sipping her tea while I busted my ass at a horrible job after a full day of school.  "Uh, Marie. You missed a spot," she tapped her fingertip repeatedly on the table, "here, where I spilled sugar. Don't you 'have to' wipe it up? I'll complain to your manager, if you don't clean it up." Like most working class families, our "joking around" was a release valve that had real menace underneath it, because the stakes were always that high.

My mom still has the same compulsive disorder, so seeing this dynamic played out elsewhere must have been proof to her that her behavior was "normal". It was certainly socially acceptable. After all, this was a world-famous "restaurant". If I had problems here, then it must be me. It couldn't possibly be a company as "successful" as this chain, right? But that was part of it, too, and I knew it. Then (as now), if I serve as the voice of reason in my family, they run for cover. Hiding behind a corporation making billions of dollars is a great tactic for covering up a lot of bad.

Still, I love burgers and sometimes I get a craving for them. Occasionally, I'll go to a fast food joint for their shakes or fries 'cause it just hits that sweet spot, ya feel me? Since I'm still working on my own now (as then), every penny counts, and cooking meals at home is not only healthier, it's cheaper, too. There's a best-selling series of books that show you how to re-create favorite fast foods at home, so one day when I had the fixins', I looked up a recipe and did it. The result? Glory in a sandwich. We don't need huge conglomerates that don't have always our best interests at heart, because we have each other, my friends. So, here's a link to a site with a recipe that gives you the "know-how". Now you know, too, on the house.  
Enjoy :)

http://www.cinnamonspiceandeverythingnice.com/homemade-big-macs/

"I'm a little teapot, short and blue..."

The Lady with the White Dog

In 2002, I returned home from Colorado to my beloved Park Slope after years away. I negotiated a deal for a lovely apartment entirely online, one block from Prospect Park. A broker took digital pictures and sent them to me as email attachments one by one, which was quite new at the time for people who were not in desktop publishing. 
It had fallen into place for me easily because I know the neighborhoods and the apartments well. This is my home.

Because of our proximity to the park, my dog Ted and I could be there in less than five minutes. Given the urgency of his irritable bowl, it saved me a lot of time and effort. On the most trying mornings, I would shove slip-on sneakers on my feet with no socks, grab my powder blue coat and put it on over my pajamas, running with him to the park to avoid accidents. It was exactly how I planned it to be. Ted would remain on Mountain Standard Time for the rest of his life, which meant he could wake up and have to go at any time between 3:30 to 6 a.m. A "late" morning in my household began at 7:30 a.m. and those were very rare.

Ted was an early walker from the start. My ex worked an electricians job that had him out the door by 5:30 a.m., and that was back on Denver time, so Teddy was accustomed to very early mornings as it was and a transition of a couple of time zones earlier meant I started drinking coffee, something I found bitter and harsh though I tempered it with lots of cream and sugar. I never needed an energy boost before, because I am a naturally bright-eyed morning person, but for him I set my schedule to accommodate. That's what we do for love, right?

Dog park people are a breed unto themselves. I met many characters at different times of the days and nights, coming away from these interactions with the dogs' name and not the owners, like parents at a PTA meeting. I can be quite shy, especially when I am working hard and have a lot on my mind, but with Teddy interactions were mandatory. There's no hiding behind a 150lb. Malamute who is spectacular, gregarious and friendly, but I could at least drop into the background as his handler for awhile. I relished the role of being adjunct to him so I could just be.

One of the more quiet people on my street was an older woman with a white dog. I could tell she had something going on with her, the way folks 'round the way here get a sense about what's what and who's who very quickly. It's a survival skill that's been honed from thousands of encounters in a populous city. I noticed she had small fluffy white dog, and I would see her shuffling slowly up and down the block with her dog occasionally. They lived on the other side of the street so we didn't have much contact with them, and she clearly wasn't a park walker like we were, in her bulky knitted grey sweater and pink shoes. In his heyday, Ted hiked for hours with a heavy pack on him, turning his head to look back at me with that characteristic Malamute smile. How alive we felt! But this was a different energy indeed.

I'd been hustling hard since my homecoming. The economy tanked and NYC is always the most competitive market, but I was grinding it out like I do. I was constantly worried with nervous energy over how I was going to eat that week and take care of Teddy and pay the bills and the rent, or maybe it was just a beautiful afternoon for a walk, but I found myself on the other side of the street at the exact moment the lady with the white dog hovered uncertainly at the base of her stoop. She was skittish and scared, but gentle. I talked to her that day and learned her story.

The white dog was her sons' dog. He was killed in one of the towers on 9/11 while at work. She carried his little dog around in her arms. She told people on the block that the dog was her last living link to her son as she pressed her nose down into it's fur. No wonder she held that dog so close to her heart. I saw her a few other times after that, pacing the block slowly and telling me the same story. She was on lots of medication, struggling to cope. "I told you this is my sons' dog, right? He's all I have left of him." She'd tell me again, stroking his little pet in her arms. "I have a lot of problems. I haven't been right since it happened. Since my son died."

I felt the weight of my world pressing on my shoulders: no job at first, no boyfriend (he bugged out of New York in 10 days and ran back to Colorado, stiffing me with all the bills), the sole care of Ted, getting back into the stream of my own crazy New York family and those heavy obligations, then navigating a toxic workplace filled with desperate employees who sent me overseas as a mandatory requirement for getting my paycheck. I was under pressure all the time, but I was still here. This twilight my neighbor was in, there was no waking up from.

After a few sidewalk chats, I didn't see her much anymore or maybe I avoided her because there's was nothing I could do with my own woes closing in on me from every side. The last time I saw her, she carried the same dog and told me the same sad story that I listened to out of patience and love. She talked to me with a far away look that placed her gaze somewhere behind my head towards the park, and she softly asked me as she raised her hand to her face, touching it with her fingertips, "Do I have tears running down my face? Because I can't feel them anymore." I said to her, just as softly, "Yes, you do." 

For the people of 10th Street.

Fall is coming...

Beach

One of the more pleasurable aspects about the Northeast is the vibrant, beautiful beach culture. I've written about it before—the history and ocean lifestyle, but somehow the mention of it still surprises people. Why? New York is surrounded by water, connected by bridges and tunnels that go over and under water, so why is it mysterious and surprising that we swim in the water around us?

We are part of the original colonies along the Eastern seaboard. I'm not sure how much clearer I can be about this fact, so let's try basic math. Here's the official Wiki entry: "The state constitution was enacted in 1777. New York became the 11th state to ratify the United States Constitution, on July 26, 1788." OK, so I did the numbers and that comes out to 224 years officially, with the actual European discovery coming in at 1604: "New York was inhabited by various tribes of Algonquian and Iroquoian speaking Native American tribes at the time Dutch settlers moved into the region in the early 17th century. In 1609, the region was first claimed by Henry Hudson for the Dutch." We know that Native Americans inhabited the land prior to European discovery for millennia. 

So. Why all this willful ignorance? It comes from a place outside of understanding, and that's called programming and bigotry. After all, if you get the facts down right, how can the mythic Californian Dream be sold to you? No more slow motion Baywatch Babes (homogenous and comforting with their dyed blonde hair, fake boobs, and spray tans), no Playboy Enterprise that sells those same women back to you again, this time without their bathing suits on, no running away to a place that supposed to make you forget who you are. All that stuff is advertising and marketing from billion dollar industries, so if I dismantle it with actual information, well, you can see how truly threatening that could be to those industries. And they will do everything to convince you otherwise.

Then there's the actual reality of the Atlantic Ocean itself: it's murky depths, rough currents, and harsh seasons. There's no prepackaged Club Med vacation here with servants, faux palm beach umbrellas, and frilly coconut drinks within a temperature-controlled climate that's permanently set to 85°, like the thermostat at home. It's a comforting and safe experience that's boring and devoid of any actual discoveries. Unlike a bland vacation, my ocean is real and unpredictable and it is the ocean, unrelenting. Must be scary to a population fed a steady diet of false realities. 

Our water is cold in the winter and warm in the summer and none of that has anything to do with you. Mother Nature is unpredictable to humans, and it always has been. I know mentally ill people who are addicted to The Weather Channel in some crazy and stressful show down with the earths' forces. They fear it, but they also enjoy the thrill of being scared: it's a build up and release of tension, something every fetishist and neurotic knows well. They are not in control. She is.

Once again, it becomes about who they are and their problems, rather than the simple pleasure of a swim in the briny sea. But, I have none of that static. I love the water, I love the beach, I love swimming, and I always will. I enjoy each landscape for what it brings to me, and I am grateful for it. A Montréal friend asked me about a status update I posted about the sea. I wrote about the smell of the ocean coming in off the blowzy breeze that advents a rain storm, a pleasurable experience for us here. 

He commented on this commonplace occurrence with disbelief. How could I smell the ocean when it was so "far away"? Far away?! I wrote back to him, after looking up the actual distance online, that it is 7 miles from my location to the ocean. SEVEN. MILES. And that was more than he could take in, because it doesn't fit in with his idea of Brooklyn as it is presented on t.v. and in movies. Sad, but also surreal, right? Wouldn't that make you feel discomfited and odd, like I do?

So. Here it is. My gift from me to you: the 25 minute subway ride to the beach at Coney Island, for a brief dip in the ocean with a little bit of body boarding thrown in for kicks. We can't wait to meet you, to see you enjoying our gifts, too. Welcome to the beaches of New York City. Welcome home. 
Welcome back. Welcome.

The Dragonfly awaits....

"The Isle of the Dragonfly" on PubSlush

Dear friends, fans, and readers,

Exciting news! Currently in its' "dummy" stage, I finished the charcoal sketches for my 32 page picture book. The art roughs have been paired with the text and laid out in book form, then submitted with a query letter to agencies and houses for publication purposes. 

Once I sign a contract, I receive a flat fee to finish the book art by painting the intricate watercolor art. The manuscript also undergoes any editorial changes needed. After that, the book is designed, bound and printed, and then distributed to stores, but that's at a later stage. 

Right now, I need your support. Please take a look at my newest campaign and donate today. http://pubslush.com/books/id/84#

Brooklyn Carnival

People of Brooklyn, je t'taime! Yesterday was my first West Indian Day Parade and as a native New Yorker, I can't tell you how much it meant to me. It was wonderful to be there and a lovelier, friendlier crowd would be hard to find. I promise to be less shy next time about choosing food. I was just taking it all in.

Me and my new friends joked about the parade of politicians, officials, and candidates (federal and local) followed by the banks and then the clergy—a walking seat of money and power that is at the core of our country's political system. They took up way too much time. The police presence was also heavy and visible, separating dance crews with a length of orange mesh that served as a barrier.

The lag time between performers was also too long, though they put on a good show when they passed us by. Tons of spirit, energy, and esprit de corps! We just wanted to dance and have fun, so it was a real buzz-kill seeing the police barriers after such a long wait. Hopefully the timing and pacing will get better with each passing year, because here in the 'hood, we love to party. Thank God it's Brooklyn!

"once in a blue moon..."

the sky, the trees, the clouds ... I am grateful for it all

the longing for home when I am far away

Summertime looks and tastes like corn on the cob. New Jersey corn, fresh from the fields, is on the shelf and in baskets right now. Nothing more is required other than a quick boil and a sprinkling of coarse salt to bring out its' natural sweetness. Skip the gooey butter bath, because an ear like this just doesn't need it. 
It's simply perfection.

New Jersey sweet corn