Weekend Report
The first weekend of October, gone.
Spent all day skating tiny concrete quarterpipe with pals. Ran over fallen leaves. Got barked at and (once) nipped.
Converted skate gang to bike gang, rode tipsily around town under dark starry skies.
Took slow-moving Sunday walk through Cathedral Park, let dog run wild in peaked shadows of St. John Bridge.
Sat at picnic table along Burnside Street in very good company, drank glass of cold pink wine, felt warm sun on back.
Cooked big soup out of tomatoes and potatoes and sage. Dipped toasty bread in. Thought about all life things that need doing before 2014 comes barreling through.
To October
To the year turning toward darkness—and the quietness that that brings.
To a month of zero holidays—except Halloween (which isn't for family, it's for me and for you).
To all the food from the harvest—alien squash with bulges and warts, tomatoes of red, yellow and orange, potatoes still shrouded in the dirt they grew in ...
To backlit clouds and brilliant-blue days with the sun in your eyes.
To wild storms that whip the trees and then depart quietly in the night.
To new serial TV shows and the rainy Sundays for watching them.
To hard cider.
To change.
That Time I Made Cookies
A while back, I made these rosemary butter cookies and they were the best.
Basically I never bake—for a number of reasons, including the fact that I cannot be held responsible for having baked goods in the house. If there're cookies, I will eat them ALL. If there's a sheet of brownies, I will eat it ALL. This isn't that out of the ordinary, I suspect.
Anyway, I made ’em for a garden party, AKA a BBQ, so they were someone else's problem at the end of the night.
I'm always really happy when I get to cook with rosemary because it was the first plant I installed in my garden when I became a homeowner seven (crikey!) years ago. The thing has beyond flourished—it's a fucking tree!
The rock and the hard place here is that the dough might be better than the cookies—but the cookies are still really, really good. Do what you can with this conundrum.
When New Doors Open
For years I've wished for a windowed front door that looks east to face the rising sun of morning. This way, all corners of my house could be bathed in golden light between the hours of 8-11 a.m. A nice humble wish, I think. Anyway, Peter Sherowski came through town this past weekend and obliged, spending two whole days sawing, shimmying, clipping ancient siding, and generally sweating just to wedge that fresh oak front door in. If you care about these sorts of things, then you'll understand that it's a cut above my 50s-era metal security door—about 100 cuts above, really.
While he was doing that, I tore down and rebuilt my living area. I don't like painting. I'm not good at it—sloppy is what I'd call myself. But ya know like all those unavoidables in life, you do it if you have to.
Prehistoric art made by the children of yesteryear.
My best efforts at neatness and order.
The Weekend Report
Undertook traumatizing home improvement project, wore kerchief over my hair to ward off paint, looked like an old photo of my mom doing same back in the 70s.
Attended gathering at the Bracewell residence, got clouds of campfire smoke in face, skated backyard mini ramp until exhaustion, stayed out past 1 a.m. (!!!!).
Drank tall, strong coffee, finished traumatizing home improvement project with sweat running down face.
Stood in front of fan and took off all clothes, donned bathing suit, went to river with my pal and read and toasted and stared at the place where the trees meet the sky. Beach fire in the vicinity, more campfire smoke to face.
