Sunday, November 20, 2016

I counted the bottles


What I saw: the Bacon Provider bottling a batch of home-brewed beer


What I did beforehand: cleaned the dining room in anticipation of next week’s Act I of the Annual #Ragecook Festival:, known to most American people as “Thanksgiving”

What I wore: really dirty jeans, t-shirt with sad slogan about giving up, RBF

Who went with me: the dogs napped the whole darned day. At one point I took a bucket outside to rinse it with a hose and I let Captain follow me out and he took off running like an asshat. 



Why I saw this show: actually, I was finishing another batch of bread and had very little choice in sharing the kitchen

Where I sat: at the stupid counter in the kitchen, which must have been an innovative design feature in the 80s, jutting into the kitchen like a giant, inopportune letter “J,” but really it creates a bottleneck for the people trying to use the kitchen for actual cooking.


Things that were sad: just as sewing is mostly ironing, beer-making is mostly cleaning things.


Things that were funny: when The Graduate finished college, he wandered around the way new graduates do, arriving after a few months at the sensible idea that he should live in Brooklyn where his friends are. Simultaneous with his installation in an as-yet unfashionable and therefore still almost-affordable neighborhood, he and his roommate started making their own beer. I have other adult beer-making friends (because I know high school biology teachers), and I have sampled their best offerings politely, wondering privately at how anything so easily obtained at a store and so complicated and time-consuming to make at home would be something one would want to make at home. But then, over time, I was called upon to sample the home brewing efforts of the Graduate, each with the gruesome and hilarious names that seem essential to home brewing culture. And I found to my surprise that his beer was good.


By the time we installed ourselves permanently here in Bedhead Hills, the Graduate had turned his home brewing hobby into a regular event, and was developing the ability to improve on things and even replicate prior successful efforts. And by the time we were celebrating the Bacon Provider’s first birthday here in Mrs. Gardenwinkle’s 80s Museum, the Graduate had convinced me that we should give the Bacon Provider his own beer-making equipment. Mostly, I went along with it because it meant the Graduate would have a reason to visit. 


Our first beer-making efforts involved us to the extent that we got to stir or add hops; mostly we stood around watching. Our first beer was shockingly drinkable, and I thought it was always going to be like that. But we learned fast. Our second smells so chemically incorrect we have not bottled it. In fact, we can’t deal with it, and it sits in its five gallon glass carboy, glowering at us, neglected in the basement. Our third batch (a traditional British IPA we named Brexit) is good but flat, probably owing to a measuring error because we had to bottle it ourselves.


This batch, I guess it’s our fourth. It’s sour, because I like sour beer. I named it for the smiling emoji with the closed eyes and tongue sticking out. 


Things that were not funny: something leaked under the sink. The Bacon Provider had to take everything out and play plumber again. 


Something I ate: toast and soft-boiled eggs


What it is: home brewing is a time-consuming hobby requiring a lot of equipment that I can’t remember the names of, expensive ingredients, and specialized knowledge of water, yeast, grain, hops, and a bunch of science. Mostly, you have to clean up a lot.


Who should see it: members of the Church of Beer


What I saw in the other room: good sunbeams 


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Friday, November 18, 2016

I killed the jam


What I did: ran out of ideas. 



What I did beforehand: 13 days of blogging every day. 



What I wore: pajamas, then Sweaty Betty yoga pants, then riding clothes, then jeans, because it was one of those days.

My friend S. and her horse R.


Who went with me: Schwartz, then my Pilates teacher, then my friend S., then the dogs


http://schwartzville.tumblr.com/post/153238682492/peanut-butter-peanut-butter-peanut-butter-peanut
 

How I stopped writing my feelings about the election: ^A then ^X



Why I ran out of ideas: 19 likes to talk about infinity, and I believe that our universe is fundamentally finite, even if it is comprised of two trillion galaxies. In a finite universe, I do not have infinitely many ideas.



Where I sat: kitchen barstool, driver’s seat, pilates reformer, driver’s seat, saddle, driver’s seat, kitchen barstool



Things that were sad: after my post about bread a few days ago, several people who work or ride at the barn where I go pointed out that because they work out of the other side of the barn they never get any of the bread that I bring. In the interest of fairness I decided to bake some more this week and take half to one side and half to the other side. As a result, someone who especially enjoys the bread noticed that I had brought less to their side, and wondered why there wasn’t more. 


Things that were funny/not funny: I got nothing here. Zilch. Nada. Niente. Nenio. Rien. Zip. Zero. Zot.


Oh, wait. S. reminds me there were loose dogs in the woods. The first charged us. Alone, and quite separate from its owner, it barked aggressively. Hado stood quietly, as did S.'s horse. The dog's owner called its name with irritation in her voice, offering cookies. We got no apology, and congratulated ourselves for not letting our horses kill the dog with a swift kick to the head. 

Something I ate: peanut butter and jelly on freshly made semolina bread. This was when I killed the jam. 



What it is: time to walk the dogs

Shadow Selfie with dogs

Who should see it: come back tomorrow. You never know.



What I saw on the way home: dead mouse



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Thursday, November 17, 2016

I had a dream

What I did: I dreamed I was in Vietnam.


What I did beforehand: bedtime has been tricky since the election. I try to get comfortable, clear my head and close my eyes and drift off. I have an old shoulder injury that's been bothering me, and it inspires me to worry about my kids, what environmental protections a climate-change-denying, pro-business, anti-regulation congress and senate can destroy, how our Supreme Court changes with one or two new members bent on the reproductive enslavement of poor American women, and then, what about all my friends who are immigrants? Not to mention the white supremacists and our broken electoral college. Who can sleep?

But last night I somehow set it all aside and found a ten minute window free of anxiety, and just as I was drifting off to sleep I could hear my old dog Cherry, locked in the kitchen, but standing by the door whining.


What I wore: a politically opinionated t-shirt, TomboyX flannel pajama pants, and my wedding ring that doesn't come off.


In the dream, I had a khaki uniform, with pockets everywhere including on my pant legs and my boots fasted with chromed latches like on my mother's old pair of 1960s black Rossignol ski boots.

Who went with me: my cat, Schwartz, who takes up half the bed when the Bacon Provider is out of town.




How I remember my dreams: they say you should keep a dream journal by your bedside and write them down as soon as you wake up. Anything on my nightstand ends up being a drink coaster. Sometimes, I tweet my dreams. 


Why I saw this show: see "What I did beforehand," above.

Where I slept: because of my permanently messed-up shoulder, I sleep on my right side, and mine is the right side of the bed


Things that were sad: I dreamed I was in Vietnam, in the early 1970s, towards the end of the war. Caravans of U.S. military trucks were taking soldiers and civilians and whatever anyone could carry down the bomb-rutted roads and out of the city. I don't know what city I was in. There were people everywhere-- women with groups of tired children, a very old man with an empty dog leash-- all walking around and looking like they didn't know where to go. 

Things that were funny: my job was to set up the children's libraries the United States was planning to leave behind, as a gift to the people of Vietnam.  

Things that were not funny: the books, housed in a crumbling warehouse that might have been a bad-guy hideout for the 1960s Batman TV show, were carefully stored in clean cardboard cartons, their colorful glossy covers like new, their pages fresh and straight. And every single book in every single box, in every one of the hundreds and thousands of cartons, stacked row upon row was in English.


Something I ate: last night for dinner we made a spicy carrot soup from a new cookbook, called "Zuppe," which means "soups" in Italian.



What it is: my friend C. thinks this dream is about being frustrated.

Who should remember their dreams: people who want to forget the real world



What I saw when I woke up: I got a text quite early, from 19. He was offering to walk the dogs and feed them, but pointed out that Cherry had had accidents all over the kitchen in the night. It was my turn to clean them up.

Cherry is 14

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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

I have resting bitch face


What I saw: I was looking at the Bacon Provider’s Twitter mentions and noticed that someone quote-tweeted a selfie he took at a 10K, saying he had the “mightiest RBF in creation.”

mid-80s RBF Bacon Provider

What I did beforehand: I have known since I first heard the phrase in 2012 that I have it. Strange men have shouted at me to smile since I was 15. 

Me with RBF, on left

When I was a kid, photographs were taken by adults, with film cameras, on occasions that warranted documenting, not because it was “Tuesday when I walked my dog,” but more like “Thanksgiving at Grandma’s,” or “when Uncle Nardie was in town.” I viewed adults with suspicion, as they were always making me do things I didn’t want to do, like sit in chairs, be quiet, and eat unappetizing horrors like beets or brussels sprouts. Or they were stopping me from improving my situation, like forcing me to come out from under the table, or get out of that empty cupboard, or put down my stuffed monkey, or keep my shoes on. Adult relatives were these terrible people who knew things about me, like my name and my birthday and where I lived and what I liked to do, and would use this information against me to ask me probing questions, like about my imaginary friend, Cousin Eddy. I had to send Cousin Eddy to college to prevent their further investigations. Adult relatives did invasive things like look at how big I’d gotten, wanted to know what I was drawing, or who I was talking to inside the cupboard, or felt free to touch my face or hug me or pat my hair or sit me on their laps. These were the times when I was photographed as a child. 

Me, learning to smile with RBF

Who went with me: my mother had resting bitch face. And my grandmother. My father had it, too, but, like me, also smiled and laughed easily and looks animated in photos. My mother had an upside-down smile and disliked many or even most pictures of herself.

My RBF mother in high school

How I got tickets: you don’t need a ticket to have resting bitch face. Just stop smiling. Ok, also stop smiling with your eyes. Ok, now, unclench your teeth, without opening your mouth, and squint just a tiny bit, not like a spaghetti-western-squint, just enough that you suggest your secret suspicions. I think you’ve got it now.

My mother might have been smiling here

Why I have resting bitch face: you haven’t said anything funny enough yet.

This RBF baby is my mother

Where I sat: on a wall at the University of Utah, where I was getting an unfunny masters degree in pure mathematics.

mid-80s mathematician with RBF

What I wore: that same long-sleeve black t-shirt and jean skirt and black flats that I wore every day of grad school unless I wore the red skirt which was shorter so I wore tights and short little pointy-toed boots.

Sometimes, your RBF means
you're concentrating
This is a young RBF Bacon Provider

Things that were sad: my husband did not know until yesterday that he has resting bitch face. Today, a communications person told him he needs to smile more, as he is preparing a big speech. 

My mother, her sister & dog with RBF

Things that were funny: this video

Things that were not funny: a lot of good dressage riders get into a zone when they’re riding where they are so focused and relaxed their jaws hang open a little; some people call it “bass face” or “dressage face” but, let’s face it, we should call it “dressage bitch face.” My face will be ready when my riding skills catch up.

Anyway, I expect to be in perpetual RBF mode until the anti-Semites and woman-abusers are out of the White House. 

Something I ate: this isn’t about food, though I've always eaten a lot of breakfast cereal. 

Adults interfering with my happiness

What it is: women do not exist for making you happy, so stop telling them to smile, and stop complaining about someone looking pissed all the time. Maybe they are pissed for a really good reason.

I'm the RBF baby here

Who should see it: people in the public eye should regularly check their mentions, or have someone do it for them. 

Walking my dogs is my RBF happy place

What I saw was his reply: "I never do anything half-way."


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Tuesday, November 15, 2016

I baked



What I did: made a batch of seeded wheat bread, modified from the Tartine Book No. 3 because I have no access to the “high-extraction wheat flour” they suggest.

What I did beforehand: riding lesson, grocery store run

What I wore: riding attire, pajamas, exercise clothes, concerned scowl

Who went with me: 19 came to the store with me. He encouraged me to buy a pomegranate and maple kefir.


How I got this book: the friend who gave me the first Tartine book also gave me this one. Owning these two books has transformed my bread-baking skills, and revived my love of cookbooks. The first Tartine book has enough detail to take you from knowing nothing about baking sourdough bread to being something of an expert. Both books are beautiful.


Why I baked this bread: I have made country sourdough loaves, traditional French bread, semolina bread, rye bread, sprouted spelt, oat porridge bread to which I added golden flaxseed, faro porridge with hazelnut bread, and smoked sprouted rye. This is the one people ask for. One batch makes two loaves and I take one to the barn where I ride. The seeded wheat bread stays fresh for days, makes yummy toast, and is delicious all by itself. Of course, it’s usually gone within a day or two, and everyone is very appreciative of it.


Do I knead it: no. I make bread using the no-knead technique detailed in the original Tartine book. It takes longer. Sometimes, to get the leaven where I want it, it can take three days. It’s worth it.


Things that were sad: once, I tried to make a joke about how the only reason people like me at the barn is because I bring them homemade bread. Someone at the table responded that that was a terrible thing to say.


Things that were not funny: the recipe calls for caraway seeds and my local store never has them so I skip them most of the time. They need to be toasted, as do the sesame seeds. I use a 350F oven and try not to burn them and often burn them anyway. 

Things that were funny: I am regularly asked if I could make this bread and sell it. This is a nice compliment. I do not tell people that baking bread once a week is a pleasure, but baking hundreds of loaves every day sounds like a terrible nightmare. I also do not discuss the profit margins on fresh baked goods, or the cost of the ingredients, but out of curiosity I prepared a spreadsheet to figure it out. I did not include the cost of the homemade leaven (which is flour and water and whatever wild yeast I caught when I lived in Pine Box), my electricity, the cost of special clay baking pans, water, or my labor.

Cost per loaf is $5.62


Something I ate: while I did the turns, I paid bills, and met the surveyors who were staking our property line.  I can't seem to eat anything normal these days and while I had a salad a couple of nights ago, I've been doing things like eating a baked potato and a half a package of cookies and calling it dinner. That was yesterday. I am sick with worry about the future of this country now that it's going to be in the hands of someone who didn't know what a big job being president is and hasn't read a book since high school.


What it is: the way I make it, this bread has 11 ingredients, including water, salt and sourdough starter. I start with water, add the sourdough when it’s ready (it floats), and mix in the flour by hand. I leave this covered in the bowl to rest 30 minutes, then add the salt. At this point, I toast the sesame seeds and stir about 150 ml of hot water to the flax seeds. After another 30 minutes I add all the seeds except the fennel. Sometimes it seems like all the seeds won’t incorporate. They will. 

30 minutes later, I do the first turn, where you run your hand under the dough and turn it over, in three directions. Turns continue until I run out of time or the dough feels springy and stretchy, not just sticky.  I turn it out on the counter, dust with rice flour, cut it in two, and shape these into round balls. 30 minutes later I flip them over, fold the dough lengthwise for the pullman pan or on all four sides for the round pan. I use the fennel seeds on the bottoms to help them not stick. You can add other seeds to the outside of the dough, but I find that they get everywhere and don’t add that much since there are so many inside the bread. 

I put my dough in the fridge overnight, which is supposed to encourage the sour flavor. My bread isn’t especially sour, overall. I do this mostly for convenience.

I preheat the ovens and the ceramic bakers at 500F. I slash the tops of the dough and bake them, covered, for five minutes at 500F; lowering the temperature to 475F, I bake them another 15 minutes. Then I take the lids off. This is my favorite step. 

I finish the loaves at 475F for 25 minutes, and cool them on a rack. 


Who should bake bread: I started baking my own bread when we were renting a house in the country and the small town grocery didn’t have a good supply of decent bread. I successfully started my own sourdough starter, catching wild yeast from the air. In retrospect, this is surprising, since I can't keep plants alive. Over the years my starter has changed in ways I’m not sure I have words for. The most specific thing I can say is it’s become more predictable.



What I see when I deliver it: the barn where I ride is filled with hard-working people who wave and cheer when they see me walk in with a basket and a loaf of freshly-baked bread in a bright pink kitchen towel. It is my pleasure to make it.
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Monday, November 14, 2016

I got a text

What I heard: it was a Sunday night in late September. We were headed back to the city after a weekend at the plastic farm house we rented up in Dutchess County, New York, in a town known by locals as Pine Box. 

What I did beforehand: twenty-plus years of parenting, doing my best to raise happy, productive, well-adjusted children, and, sometimes, feeling vaguely that those might not be achievable goals.

What I wore: I don’t know. It was a couple of years ago now. It wasn’t riding clothes or anything fancy.

Who went with me: my husband, known as the Bacon Provider, was doing his normal Sunday night thing, which was working while I drove. Traffic was slower than usual. A text came through on my phone, and though he didn’t normally do this, my husband turned my phone over to see who it was from. He saw that it was our 21-year-old middle son, who lives on the west coast, and it was long, and he began to read it to me. 

hey. i would just like to let you know that i would like to be known as Ruth*, … and my preferred pronouns are she/her/hers. 

*Why the asterisk: I have my child’s permission to do this blog post, but this is a pseudonym.

Where I sat: I was in the driver’s seat. I kept driving.

Things that were sad: my husband continued reading aloud

There are a couple of medical transition-related things that I am seeking and I would like confirmation from you that you are willing to pay for them. 

The language seemed like something she’d copied from a “How to Tell Your Parents You’re Trans.” I wasn’t mad. I was sad that this stuff is so hard to talk about that she had to ask via text, sad that we live in a country where medical expenses can destroy people, and sadder still that I was surprised. Everything I have ever read from the perspective of a parent of a trans child has at least a sentence where they say, “We always knew, somehow.” My middle child has always been one-of-a-kind, wanting to wear a cape and plastic armor or a dragon costume until starting kindergarten where they forbade it. Middle school was a struggle for him**, and so was high school. This was a revelation.

**Why these asterisks: I allow myself to call my child him when I talk about the past. Learning to call someone you are close to by a different name and pronoun is harder than you can possibly imagine. I am doing better all the time.

Things that were funny: the coincidence of my husband reading the text to me meant that I didn’t have to tell him; we found out together.

Things that were not funny: while I had a tom-boy phase in elementary school, I have never doubted being a girl. I don’t pretend to know what it’s like to be trans, but when I think about it, the quality of being one kind of soul in the wrong sort of container must be impossibly disorienting. How could I have ever met my parenting goals of a happy, productive, well-adjusted kid when she isn’t perceived to be who she feels she is?

What it is: the text goes on for a number of paragraphs, with details about the medical expenses, some stuff about why she wanted to tell me first (!), and this:

I don't really like talking on the phone about this, I'd much rather just tell you via text and get your response than have a long phone call where I'll just end up blubbering about it. i don't really have time for that, I have a drawing to finish. 
have a nice day.



She also said she’d be changing her name on Facebook soon. I said her brother wouldn’t appreciate finding out on Facebook.



Who should see it: it has now been a bit over two years. The following Wednesday I shared the news with someone who had idly asked, “How are you?” I let her have it. It was pretty unfair of me, and I frightened and upset her. It’s an ugly habit, dumping your unsettling surprise on an innocent person who wasn’t ready for it.  I didn’t do that again. 

It did take at least a year for me to stop saying I have three boys. Sometimes, I don't mention it. Given the ascendence of the forces of racism, misogyny, and hatred with our national election result last week, this might not be the time to tell anyone. 

Or maybe it's time to tell everyone.

I have told this story a few times, to people I am close to and trust. Most people my age are scandalized that she texted instead of calling. I think she was collecting her thoughts, and if texting your parents that you’re trans isn’t communicating in the lingua franca of the millennial, I don’t know what is. 

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