One Horse Open Sleigh

Vermont
February 2004

Driving through the Vermont woods in winter is absolutely enchanting. I wanted to stop constantly, but I was with Mama Font meeting crew coaches at potential colleges and we had "places to be." Bullshit. I ended up at UCSC anyway (ugh), so what was the point? Our time would have been better spent chopping wood. This picture was taken from the car as we slowly winded around a road in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing touristy about it, there weren't even people around, so I remain baffled. People don't actually do things like this, right?

Puppies make everything better.

She was a sweet one.

Plus if you look reeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaal close you can see me.

Center of the Universe, party of one.

Whither art thou, Mojo?

I have lost my mojo. It happens every once in a while, but this time it's bad. I can't write, not because I don't want to, but because I can't find the right way to put the words together. I don't want to be social or friendly or nice, or conscious, really. I just want to pass out until it passes, and wake up when my mojo returns.

The most frustrating part is that I haven't been able to take pictures. I like having Henry (my camera) with me as much as possible. I love him like whoa, and have had dreams where he was taken away from me. When I look through Henry's lens I know exactly what I want the photo to look like; how it should be framed, what I want to document. Despite lacking the talent to reliably make that happen, usually I can at least capture the moment, if not in the most aesthetically pleasing manner. Lately though every picture I've taken has turned out poorly. My mojo is gone.

When my mojo left it took my concentration with it. I can't pay attention long enough to lose myself in television or books. Soon Gin may be my only confidante, and she's really more of a fair-weather friend.

If my mojo doesn't come back soon I'm going to start putting missing signs around the neighborhood.

Cappelletti

Every year for Gramps' birthday we make cappelletti, a traditional Northern Italian dish that originated in Reggio-Emilia (just like us). Cappelletti are the elegant cousin of ravioli, stuffed with a filling of minced chicken and served in clarified chicken broth. (Psst...The secret ingredient is a hint of ground nutmeg.) In the words of my great-grandmother Irma, cappelletti are the bomb.

The dish is simple but time consuming, and everything is made by hand.

Making pasta dough is a soothing act: forming a well in the dry ingredients, cracking eggs in the middle, using a fork to gently incorporate the flour, judging the proper consistency from touch...there is such pleasure in the simple ritual of it all.

On the other hand, actually rolling out the dough sucks, so I leave that job to The Boss.

After a weekend of working, Gram was still rolling out dough when I got there, but I went ahead and let her finish it up on her own. What? She's got all her marbles so it's not like I'm committing elder abuse or anything that could get me on Dateline.

Italian for "little hats," the goal is for the finished cappelletti to resemble a tiny Pope's hat. See?

Papa Font and I had a contest to see who was a better shaper. Remember that this is supposed to be a very delicate dish.

Guess who made which.

I'll give you a hint: mine is the one that is perfect.

A properly formed cappelletti is about the size of a quarter, so it takes a ton to feed a family. I mean a ton. As in: Gramps better know how much we love him after this because it would have been quicker just to give him a kidney. The monotony of the work allows time for profound thoughts such as why it is a mistake to let one's hair air dry.

I've been making pasta in my grandmother's kitchen for as long as I can remember.

See that lone photograph on my grandparents' fridge? That's my cousin Jessie. 3 weeks younger than me, Jessie was our grandmother's favorite. We all knew it. I was okay with it though because Jessie was awesome, plus I had my neon peach overalls to console me.

All of the grandkids eat cappelletti, and these family recipes are a bond between my generation and relatives long dead. It's comforting to think that our cousins in Reggio-Emilia make this exact dish from the same cherished recipe that we do.

It's likely that centuries ago in the mother country a young woman with the same last name stood in her grandmother's kitchen, the counter covered by a white cloth and dusted with flour. A gold bangle dangling gently from her wrist, she would have formed cappelletti after cappelletti, carefully comparing hers to those of the family matriarch. Maybe she too let her thoughts wander...What life is she meant to lead? Is she ever going to feel pretty or kind or smart enough? Will One Tree Hill be renewed for an 8th season?

Fine, maybe the parallels aren't identical...

Before we ate, Gram allowed my stepmother (who owns a restaurant) to consult on the broth. That's big. They ended up adding cabbage and garlic to resemble a traditional Chinese broth. I was wary about this as I do not embrace change well, but the result was DELICIOUS. Be jealous.

It took Gram 3 tries to get Gramps' coconut birthday cake just right. She literally spent 2 days baking, and though I contemplated feeling guilty, I decided instead on gratitude for her high standards. Only the best for my family!

Yum!

Mangia, Mangia!

I have skin. Un-boo!

Bar Keeper's Friend contains oxalic acid amongst other chemicals and did cause a chemical burn. I'll go ahead and say what we are all thinking: yes, I am a moron for spending hours with it on my hands. Here's the thing: even though Lamictal makes my skin really sensitive, it has raised my pain threshold since I've been on it. It's like a numbing agent, so for example right now I can feel how sensitive my hands are but instead of shooting pains it's shooting tingles. (Shooting tingles would be an awesome band name.) While a cleavage-enhancing side effect would be preferable, this one is pretty awesome.

After days of slathering myself in aquaphor I am back to having only 1 layer of skin on my hands. This is good because a.) proper dermal layers are always appreciated, b.) typing is now possible, and c.) aquaphor is way too expensive considering it is basically petroleum jelly with mineral oil and glycerin. I resent spending hard earned money that could have gone to tasting the rainbow via a Superbowl sized bag of skittles.

Now that I can type we need to discuss the following:
-the Jonas wedding
-The Real Housewives of Orange County
-Cindy McCain, and how she has finally earned my respect
-plastic surgery
-Matt's decision to break our mother's heart
-the cruel fact that I have outgrown all my clothes

Soon my Loves.

my hands are peeling...boo.

like most thuings in my life, my absence from this here blog is nothing short of patheitc.

i have no skin on my hands. correction: i hae a layer and a half of skin on my hands, because the top layer is hagning off. creepy but not painful.

on sunday i got down and dirty with bartender's friend, an amazing scrub thst i just found out sabout that is a miracle cleaner. after watching jit remove rust from my tub i decided to get wild and polish allthe knobs and handles on my beloved wood furniture, so old the metal was completely blaxckened from 25 years of tarnish. the instruxcrtions say not to let metals sit in the pastee for more thsan a minute so thst shouls hae warnwd me tghat spending 4 houras with it on myt hands was not a brilliant decision but i got in OCD mode and couldn't stop scrubbing.

my hands were crazy soft yesaterday but now feel like i scrubbed them with sandpapper which is probbably a service aveda offers. to keep my skin from gettimng on eerything i am wearing sock mittens filled with aquaphor. so i cant type. obviodusly. tho i casn write text meessages, so yay modern communication. it feels not good.

i cut thumb holes so all is not lost. i can opdn beerbotle. but i am hungry so please someone come feeed me.please.brownies and french fries would be best but any chocolate will do.k thanks.

Peace Bumpersticker

Honor the Dead
Heal the Wounded
End the War

-bumper sticker in Encinitas

When Chrissy Met Sissy.

Chris (2 1/2) ~ Carolyn (1 week)

Ladies and Gentlemen, let's all give a round of applause for the exemplary parenting shown here. Two successful adults with higher educations and good jobs allowed a toddler to hold his newborn sister without any help. Sure the little one is being squeezed tightly enough to dislocate her eyeball, but not to worry, she is a hearty one.

Admittedly, the couple in question did have the tragic misfortune to reproduce 3 times in a little over 4 years, so fatigue likely clouded their judgement. It's true that they deserve a moment of silence for the swift deterioration of their frontal lobes, but that doesn't excuse their stunning lack of compassion. After seeing that baby struggling to reach her hand out for help, even the Tin Man would have had the heart to intervene.

CPS was definately slacking off in January of 1986.

I didn't stand a chance.

I miss Australia.

Camping in Windjana Gorge
The Kimberly, Western Australia
July 2006

I am aching to be back in Australia right now. It has never felt further away.

Making it there, halfway around the world from Santa Cruz, made me high on life. An altered state of being is the only logical explanation for why I allowed myself to be repeatedly photographed sans make-up.

(Photograph by Sonia Sia, who I also miss.)

Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)

Breast Cancer Fundraiser
Pacific Beach, CA
October 2009

Too bad he's married.

We don't know what's so funny.

Chris (3) Matt (5) Carolyn (1)

Favorite things about this photo:
1. The caption in the family album says "We don't know what's so funny." I find most everything hilarious, and the ability to crack myself up is an awesome talent. (Although it would be nice to grow out of the church giggles.)
2. Chris and I are wearing matching corduroy OshKosh overalls.
3.Chris' expression...somewhere between amusement and curiosity?
4. The fact that I grew into my ears. Honestly, bald with a side of dumbo wasn't the cutest look ever.

Oliver

In "Power of the Powerless: A Brother's Lesson," Christopher de Vinck writes about growing up with a severely handicapped brother. It's also a testament to how important the senses are; how much every living being needs love and some form of stimulation. I've done a poor job of writing this, but I do love how tenderly de Vinck writes about Oliver.

http://www.theosophy-nw.org/theosnw/inspir/in-devin.htm