Posie Gets Cozy

My sister made us some recipe cards!

Isn't my sissy the most awesomest??? Look what she made for us:

Click here for the free downloadable pdf that you can print out on cardstock with your inkjet printer and cut out. Here's the strawberry one:

I love these. I had been on the verge of grumpily designing my own (because I have been wanting, pretty much every day for the past year, to completely redo my recipe box properly and I can never find recipe cards that please me) when Julie showed me her adorable and recently updated web site last week, and I saw these sweeties there. PERFECT. Done. Now for a nice pen, and a lazy afternoon. . . .

Thanks Jules!!! You rules.

Dishtowel Thinking

I worked on the dishtowels all weekend and finished the embroidery part last night. I couldn't resist getting a bunch of new little 1/2 yards of fabric as I tried to pick something for the binding. I'll work on the binding edges tonight and hopefully finish many of them to show you tomorrow, and have the pattern, at least, available by the weekend. I'm very pleased with these.

I thought about my grandma a whole lot while I was doing these towels. For some reason they just reminded me of her and her kitchen so much, even though the items I pictured are things from mine. My grandparents bought their first house when they were in their seventies; previous to that they owned several apartment buildings on the west side of Chicago and in Oak Park, the last being at 209 S. Oak Park Avenue, on the corner of Pleasant Street across from St. Edmund Church and school. I lived in this building until I was three, when in 1972 my parents bought our house in River Forest, but my grandparents continued to own "the building" for many years afterwards, living there as landlords. We girls spent a lot of time with them. They moved to their little ranch house in River Forest, just across the park from our house, sometime in the early '80s, I think. We lived a block west but on the other side of a tall railroad trestle that bordered both our street on the east and theirs on the west, and so their back yard led onto the wooded hill that lofted those tracks about twenty feet above the houses. It ran along the length of our streets, and across the town, headed northwest to Minnesota and beyond. That was the Soo Line, and the sound of its locomotives and freight cars rolling along the tracks across from our house was a constant companion of my childhood, and I think my love of trains developed there. I miss the sound of that steady, soulful thing, especially at night, so much. Our neighborhood was an urban place, yet so sleepy and wooded because of the tracks, and the park, and that's what I always loved about living in River Forest, and still miss. I think living in the house was very quiet for my grandparents, compared to when they owned the building, in the middle of businesses and restaurants near the El tracks and the intersections, and had dozens of tenants to attend to. They were city people. I wonder if they liked that River Forest quiet. I don't know. I think they were probably lonely there.

My grandma wore what she called "housedresses" every day, and those were made of calicos of the kind that I feel nostalgic and even very emotional about now — tiny prints on dark backgrounds, usually navy or black. She made all the dresses herself, and they were very simple A-line dress without linings or facings, just trimmed in contrast-colored bias tape, with two big patch pockets on the front and probably a keyhole neckline that tied in the back with long ends of bias tape. My sissy and I were on the phone yesterday talking about fabric, and grandma's dresses, and where they were (all gone now). My mom was here over the weekend and I showed her the dishtowels and the fabric I had chosen for the trim and she immediately exclaimed, "That's so grandma!" without me even telling her what I was going for, so I felt I'd gotten it right.

When I think of my grandparents' little kitchen, I think about afternoons, and their table, covered in oilcloth, where my grandpa sat and peeled a yellow apple with a paring knife every single day. I think about the ridged, rectangular coconut cookies they bought every week from Dominick's. I think about this aqua blue plastic holder that they always had for their 1/2 gallon milk container, to make it easier to pour. I think about how disappointed my grandma was that her stove in the house was electric, and she never really got over that. As I write this, I suddenly realize that I've talked about it before. The images bubble up, usually the same, some absent, some new, but so . . . few, and always fraught with longing. Sometimes I feel like I could just sit and write about my grandma all day, even what little I know. When I buy little pieces of fabric, I feel closer to her. Those fabrics feel like home when home is gone.

Pretty in Pink

Saturday night we had our Christmas sleepover with our niece. We stayed home and made "gingerbread" (graham-cracker) cottages together. These were originally in the December 2006 issue of Martha Stewart Living (and look at this cute one, out of sugar!). I think they are the perfect size — you're done decorating just as you are ready to be done, which is important. We were considering doing something fancy downtown, or riding the Santa train, but it turned out that she wanted to stay home and decorate, like we did last year and the year before. I love a girl that loves tradition!

And for all those times I've stood in my kitchen looking at the dozen or so little vintage cups I tend to gather and thought, "Why do I have these?" — now I know. They're perfect for corralling tiny 'Nilla wafers and mini marshmallows.

I do so love projects that start with the same basic materials but evolve into wildly different and creative ends. You gotta love the flowery cactus-like shrub here.

Here's Uncle Andy's cottage and boat house (his is a beach cottage in Manzanita), tiled in burnt peanuts, Chex shingles, and an Anchor Steam bottle cap. He had a window box on the side that I neglected to photograph but he wanted me to tell you about it, and it was very cute. His has a cactus shrub, too.

I got way into the pretzels, and went traditional Tudor, with the Douglas fir in the yard.

I just love this picture. I think it's on the top of the list of my favorite photos. It was hard for her to sit still the length of time the shutter wanted to stay open in this dim light. Which, in its own way, says as much about her now as anything in focus could have. So sweet. A great night.

Snow Village

On Sunday, I put up my precious and most-beloved village, and saw snowflakes. For a few minutes, snow was there, and I watched at the window thinking it was an illusion. As nonchalantly as it started, it stopped. In that moment, I missed Illinois more than I can say.

I had a memory of standing in Ann's apartment in Hyde Park near the University of Chicago watching the snow pile up, later walking in our wool coats and leather boots to the Medici for a bowl of ravioli, and later watching Roman Holiday on her tiny TV as the snow continued to fall past the streetlights.

Until I moved to Oregon ten years ago, snow was a major part of my life. It's a major part of most Midwesterners' lives, really. There's a sort of camaraderie snow engenders that rain doesn't inspire. Snow seemed to unite us. I walked to Keystone Park with my pom-pom topped skates over my shoulder most Sundays. I'd meet Monica at the end of my street. At school she acknowledged me if necessary, but back in our neighborhood we had a secret, simpler life we rarely discussed beyond its borders. Underneath our jeans we'd wear long underwear, two pairs of socks. At the park, they'd plow the snow into stout, frozen berms and then flood the big field, adding layer after layer of ice. We'd change into our skates in the old warming house then skate for hours and hours, practicing figures, chasing and fleeing, learning to spin, thinking up complicated routines and judging each other harshly for our efforts. We were not good, and neither of us had ever had a lesson, but we skated in that park every winter for years. Behind the huge, gnarled oak trees of our old, pretty town the sun set low and glowing. It was so, so cold. I'd walk home as it was getting dark, and the house would be dark and very warm, my mom making sauce, my dad smoking and watching Channel 11. I'd stand at the sink, frozen-cheeked and wild-eyed, and run my hands under warm water until I could feel my fingers again. Then I'd stand there, still and warming, until someone told me to shut the water off already, and move along.

Family Fun Days

What a week! I love this picture of Andy and his mom and gramps at Multnomah Falls. Having lunch at the lodge was only one of so many great things we all got to do together. It was a really extraordinary week and we feel so privileged to have had our family come to stay with us for this holiday. My sister Susie unfortunately leaves today, the last houseguest, and tomorrow Hallmark magazine comes for a photo shoot (yipes) so I'd better go and clean something. I'd like to take a nap.

Filling Santa Lucia kits turned into a family affair. The paint arrived at the end of a long day last week, Tuesday I think — we got home from the brew pub at 9 p.m. and several big boxes were waiting on the porch. I nodded at them in approval — good, got here — then immediately put one foot on the stairs, headed for bed. But my industrious husband and mother-in-law had already dragged the huge boxes in, opened them, and efficiently set everyone up at the dining-room table with a paint-filling station before I stumbled back downstairs, incredulous in my pajamas — We're fa-fa-filling them now? Such employees I had never seen! It is in my very nature to be a party pooper and the first to hit the sack, but how could I refuse the free help, and with such enthusiasm to boot??? Grandpa T. came down in the cutest red flannel nightshirt you ever did see, the Rice-Krispie treats came out, and by 9:30 p.m. all four of us were deep into the rhythm of squirting colors into thousands of tiny plastic pots — each kit needed ten different pots. Those babies got filled by midnight. I could not believe it. It was such a fun night — I'll always remember it. Thank you Mom P. and Grandpa T. and Andy!!! You're all hired, effectively immediately! Or, retroactively!

Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday was delicious, and afterward we had enough people to split up into two teams and play Charades. Each team thought of five movies, songs, books, TV shows, and animals for the other team to act out for its members. While we offered up charming options for our opponents to portray for each other, assuring success for even the smallest participants (song: "Walking in a Winter Wonderland"), the other team, led by Capt. Andy Paulson, whammed us with such classic family favorites as "Screaming for Vengeance" (a suggestion contributed by said captain who, incredulous when we later protested that we'd never heard of this song, insisted that "everyone knows this!!!" heavy-metal hit). The funniest was my sister Julie trying to act out The Bourne Ultimatum by pantomiming giving birth (a tremendous whoosh from between the legs — she did this several times while her teammates watched silently because they could not figure out what in the hootenanny she was doing as our team fell off our chairs laughing) followed by lots of finger-pointing and foot-stomping (as in "right now!" and "come here!" — the "Ultimatum"). Our moms won the prize for our team, however, when my mom successfully led Andy's mom to The Shawshank Redemption. I embarrassed myself completely by running around in a circle, occasionally sticking my bum out and pretending to "sting" several things while flapping my "wings" to suggest a "bee," the third syllable of the first word of TV show Barnaby Jones. Rematch, next year.

Dispatch from the Poorly Bed

Clover Honey Meadow Pinkytoes Blushbelly Paulson rests on a tuffet of tossed-off blankets, the remains of Andy's illin' Saturday night.

Thank you for all your kind words. Thank you especially to everyone who took care of Andy, and sat with me at the hospital, and took care of Clover, and brought us chips and magazines and salad and quiche and cantalope and cookies and hot chocolate and rootbeer and love. Thank you to the girls at OHSU who got us into the VIP suite on 14A, overlooking the beautiful twinkling city and from where we watched the prettiest view of Mt. Hood at sunset I've ever seen.

I think Sunday evening (after surgery) was the most relaxing night of the entire last six months, quite frankly. I slept safely wrapped up in heated blankets on a little cot next to a very happy Andy, whose vital signs were being closely monitored and whose every need was being met by the most wonderful medical professionals in the world. We're so grateful to them all. Thank you.

All's well now. You'd think we were jonesin for drama around here or something, no? The way we carry on, I tell ya. I'm tired. I'm rounding home on lots of work and looking forward to some time off, some R&R, some family coming in a few weeks, some crafting. I have pretty things to show you, and plans for the holidays I want to share.

Last night it occurred to me that last year I had wanted to put together kits to make your own Santa Lucia dolls with four attendants, so I'm going to try to do that now. If you would be interested in those, leave me a comment and let me know so I can ballpark how many to prepare. They'll come with supplies and directions. I'll probably work on the kits over the weekend and put them on sale next week, so there will be time for you to get the girls ready for December 13th.

Our New Sofa

I'm excited, because in a few weeks — maybe any day now, I've kind of lost track — we'll be getting our new sofa. It's called the "Nelson" by Van Gogh. It looks like this, but in sort of a mouse-brown/gray Ultrasuede. I got it at Sofa Table Chair from my friend Susan (her new store out in West Linn is so cool). Right now she has a coupon for 15% off of any custom order sofa!

I had very specific requirements for my sofa, and that very specifically limited the sofa I could have. Firstly, I had to have a "tightback" with no back pillows, since my dog sits on top of those while looking out the window and squashes them flat. Secondly, it had to be dirt-colored non-stainable fabric, because we are a dirty family. I also told her I wanted the "big butt" cushion — mine will have extra padding or something, for big butts that tend to . . . stay put . . . for long periods of time (like mine). I'm going to ask my accountant if I can write off the sofa as my second home office. I really didn't feel sooooo bad about buying a new sofa because, you know, it's for work. I certainly don't spend a dime on, like, work clothes. And our old sofa has basically been reduced to a pile of pillows. It is a squashy, quilt-covered, very-low pile of pillows. My sister said it reminds her of a baby's crib. A giant baby's crib for me. I can't stand it anymore. I can barely get out of it anymore. So, I'm very psyched about the Nelson. I'd better call and see when it's supposed to come — I think it takes six to eight weeks. I can't remember when I ordered it but it was definitely sometime in June.

When we got back from camping, we had houseguests here at the house, Andy's aunt and uncle and their grandson, for the rest of the weekend. Their arrival reminded me of their last visit, several years ago, which had a funny story about our old sofa. In the morning, Uncle George, Aunt Nancy, and I were sitting around the living room, drinking coffee and watching the Today show. It was 2004, an election year, so I remember the candidates were debating. I was sitting on the right side of the sofa, kind of curled up with my elbow on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward the TV. But my elbow had been hurting me lately, so at that very moment I was sort of rubbing it, and straightening it, and massaging it. I often think I'm getting tennis elbow from all the crocheting I do, with my elbow propped up too high on the arm of the sofa.

So I was sitting there rubbing my elbow and feeling a little worried when George, who was watching the candidates talk to Matt Lauer, turned to me and said, "Alicia, if you don't mind my asking, which way do you lean?" And I said, still rubbing my elbow, thinking he'd read my mind, "Well, it's so funny you should ask because I was just thinking, you know, I have been leaning so much to the right [pointing to the arm of the sofa] but my elbow is killing me lately, so I'm wondering if I should move over to the left, and lean that way? I mean, I don't know. Will that help?" I figured he'd have some magic answer, seeing as how he'd just miraculously asked the question I'd been silently asking myself. I looked up and George and Nancy were staring at me uncomprehendingly. It occurred to me that they meant lean politically, not physically. Ohhhhh! I was laughing too hard to answer. The world's going to hell in a hand-basket, but my elbow hurts, so, you know, ow, me and my elbow.

Raise your hand if you saw that one coming, 'cause I sure didn't.

Mmmkay, playing catch-up today, trying to answer emails, phone calls, get my lists together, write, clean the studio, get myself together. I haven't checked out anyone's blog in two months — it's awful. I miss it. That's my R&R time and I'm missing it and y'all terribly. So I'm going to try and get my act back together. I really want to be all caught up this week. I want to make some new pillows for my new sofa!

The 3rd, the 4th, and the 5th of July

When Andy Paulson has the whole week off, it's just party party party. When that week includes Fourth of July (I took this picture from the top of the parking structure downtown where we watched the fireworks — unfortunately, the fireworks were behind me, but I thought this was kind of cool) it's like PARTY PARTY PARTY baby. I'm completely partied out, I think. I got out of bed this morning and could hardly move. Now that the weekend's here and he's back to work, it's back to work for all of us. Phew! What a relief!

The man is a natural-born partier. The next best thing to having a party is blogging about your party with sincerity. Here he is yesterday morning, hard at work on his blog post. I think he took over 200 photos. Maybe 300. I was laughing almost the whole time. He hijacked my camera and computer for two straight days. After he was done with the post, the laptop really heated up as he checked on your comments all day, very excited when one after another rolled through. Cutie patootie. So cute. xoxoxoxox

It got hot here. We had my family 'round for the scorching-hot day of the Fourth, went down to the baseball game that night (still very, very hot), and headed out to the summer's first concert at Kruger's Farm yesterday evening with our friends. You may remember that Sarah sets the bar high when it comes to food and fun. I knew she was making an entire Indian dinner for all of us to eat at the farm, so I thought I'd make some Apple Streusel Cinnamon Swirl cupcakes (from one of my favorite books). Which didn't turn out at all, being soaked with oil as they were. (The recipe called for an entire cup of oil, which seemed like too much as I made the batter, and was, in fact, too much, when the "cupcakes" came out like shotputs, but maybe it was just me, and the fact that it was about 95 degrees. So off to Saint Cupcake went I. Not that saintly cupcakes aren't wonderful, but someday I promise I will contribute something worthy of your amazing efforts, Sarah.)

Now, that's what I call a picnic on the lawn. Man. I told Sarah that after August I will be available full-time to beg incessantly for the cookbook she absolutely needs to write.

The setting at Kruger's is basically as good as anything possibly ever gets, ever, anywhere. It's just gorgeous. Last night a guy from the Audubon society freed a rehabilitated bald eagle as everyone watched. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen. I took this photo with my 300 mm lens (super-zoom), so I was pretty far away; even so, watching that eagle lift himself heavily, slowly, amazingly into the air I sniffled and gulped again. It was surprisingly emotional. His huge wings swung up and down — it was all so slow, in a weird time-lapsed way I wasn't expecting. The crowd held its breath. We watched for long seconds as the eagle crossed the farm, flew over the strawberry patch, headed toward the river, disappeared against the russet patchwork of the hills. Andy later told me that the eagle continue to circle the farm for the rest of the night. It was really awesome.

Then we all went on a hayride and had some teensy-weensy cupcakes.

What a great week. Thank you to everybody who came out to play with us. I really needed that. Now it might be time to turn on the air conditioning, get back to work, and go on a diet.

This is How We Roll, or Andy Are You Okay, or What it's All About, or Summertime Rolls, or Vegetarians Look Away, or A Blogger Taking a Picture of a Blogger Taking a Picture of an Ice Cream Sandwich, or The Best Day (Again)

Hi again, peeps!! It's Andy. Alicia's not the only one around here who loves summer. I mean, who doesn't love being outside? Not us! Take right now, for instance. Audrey is scratching at the gravel (no, corgi), Violet is on the hammock (how does she get on there?), Ali is drinking her coffee pensively in the shade, the birds are singing sweetly, and here we are (you and I) sitting outside enjoying it all. One of my favorite things to do outside (aside from the obvious golfing, skateboard riding in a 7 foot deep 8 foot transition concrete bowl, frisbee golfing, floating in an innertube, riding bikes along the river and stumbling upon Oaks park for the first time, going to outdoor Wilco concerts, walking the corgi along the river, reading Chaucer while looking at Blue Lake, hitting the volleyball with your wife, and visiting with friends from out of town) has got to be cooking and eating under the sky blue sky. This is a cooking-outside story that involves Lisa, tattoos, a corgi, a barbecue grill, some side dishes, a blogger taking a picture of a blogger taking a picture of an cream sandwich, one "Yahtzee!" (courtesy of Alicia), and one "Yahtz... awwwww four of a kind" followed by one "Are you okay over there, Andy?" from across the fence (neighbor). I should warn you that it also involves a rather large pork roast. So, as above, the day started off with peeling some apples for the applesauce and a visit from the Franz family. They brought breakfast which we ate, of course, outside. Orangette's scones vs. Martha Stewart's scones in a throwdown that O won. Melissa, Paul, Sam! We love you!! Lets do it again. I promise not to play any more heavy metal when the girls are in earshot.

So the applesauce is basically 3 peeled grannies and 3 peeled golden dees, chopped into 1 inch chunks or so, sprinkled with 1/2 cup of sugar, 1/2 teaspoon of cinamon, the juice of a lemon, and 1 1/2 cups of water nuked for 5 minutes, stirred, and then nuked for another 5 minutes. This is from The New Basics cookbook. Put it in the fridge.

I smoked a pork shoulder according to the instructions from How to Grill (which I highly recommend). I actually put the rub on the day before, so that is a posed shot. The rub is:

1/4 cup brown sugar

1/4 cup paprika (kinda a lot)

3 tablespoons of black pepper

4 tablespoons of coarse salt

2 teaspoons of garlic powder

2 teaspoons of onion powder

2 teaspoons of celery seeds

1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper

This large (and not very photogenic) roast will cook/smoke for about 3 hours in my grill, which likes to be at about 300 degrees. You add hot coals and soaked smoker chips every hour or so. I think babysitting the grill is a fantastic way to spend an afternoon. It gives you time to get the yard ready, have a few beers, and make the rest of the food. I like to put coleslaw on top of the finished sandwich (which also doesn't photograph well - I know because I tried). A package of the pre-shredded stuff mixed with 4 tablespoons of mayo, 3 tablespoons of sugar, 2 tablespoons of vinegar, 1/2 of a sweet onion graded with a cheese grader, and paprika sprinkled on top.

This is the part where you see how dangerous I am. See how I mix in the chocolate chips with the mixer instead of a wooden spoon? That's because I am a rebel and I just don't care! Tollhouse cookies from the recipe on the package are the best. Throw in a little bit of vanilla ice cream and then throw these babies in the freezer. I can hardly wait!!

Honestly, I don't see what is so funny about my place setting. It gets the job done.

This is how we party, people, hey...

That's what I'm talking about. And in case you are wondering if Lisa enjoyed it, these are her words:

"Andy's slow cooked pork is the meat du le centurie. Sweet and spicy, tender and flaky, it melted in my mouth like an ice cube on Mercury. Topped with creamy homemade coleslaw and chased by real Coca Cola, this pork sandwich was the best I’ve ever had."

This is what summer is all about. Heck, this is what life is all about, I think.

Dear Martha,

     I'm sorry I haven't talked to you in over two weeks. Last night I looked at the pictures from our 1989 trip to the Grand Canyon that you sent and cracked up again. Why am I wearing an Egghead Software t-shirt and a red bandanna around my neck??? An Egghead Software t-shirt? I remember that when my dad bought me those horrendous seventeen-pound Army boots instead of the little lightweight Nike ones like you had you were so nice about it. You said, "Well, yeah, but mine will be shredded by the end of the trip!" And of course they weren't, and your feet stayed nice and sound while mine turned into raw hamburger, but I've always remembered you saying that, trying to make me feel better. I've thought of that so many times, that way with small kindnesses you've always had. Anyway, thanks again for those pictures, and the nail file. I had my wedding and engagement rings re-plated and cleaned yesterday so I gave myself a little manicure last night and can't stop looking at my hands. They actually look fancy and grown-up for once. Usually they look like I just finished my 12-hour shift at the fish cannery, but today they look very moisturized and neatly groomed.

     I've been doing nothing but working lately, and, well, ack. I'm so behind. I've been finding it really difficult to write at home. And writing patterns is not the most fun kind of writing in the world, I will say that. For a slap-dasher like myself, technical writing feels like someone is poking me with straight pins. Poking me in the calf. I turn my computer on, get my coffee, sit up straight and try to write, and then start feeling very claustrophobic. I get out of my chair and unload the dishwasher. I get back in my chair and try to write. I get out of my chair and mess around with the dog. I get back in my chair and try to write, eyes wandering from the screen to the hammock. How did I get through school? Did I ever study? Do you remember me ever studying? Do I have a history of doing so, a history from which I might be able to access muscle memory at this time? It's pathetic how undisciplined I really am. So I've taken to spending most of my "work" time sussing out the best possible "office" for myself — a coffee shop that has 1) lots of PLUGS so that I'm likely to get one no matter what time I show up, 2) lots of space so that I don't feel conspicuous about taking up a table for six hours with only two well-rationed cappuccinos, 3) good music (the bagel shop I like kept playing the oldies station and I couldn't take it anymore), 4) free wi-fi, 5) decent snacks, and 6) interesting people to watch. It's harder to find a electrical outlet in this town than you might think. It turns out that when I find my "spot" I am able to sit and write for hours, which is shocking to me. I didn't think I could sit and do one thing for longer than forty-five minutes, tops. But it turns out, in the right environment, I can. Of course finding the right environment can take several hours worth of driving, parking, walking in, walking out, etc., etc., because oftentimes that perfect plug is not available at the exact moment that Her Highness requests it — someone else is often using my plug, since it is still a free country (for now). But I never stop believing that I will find the perfect spot, one that has my logistical requirements and still lets me feel like I am out and about, and part of the world. Portland has felt so small to me lately.

     One of my friends invited me to come to France in 2009. It reminded me of how you were at my house the night before I flew on a plane for the first time, to Europe, no less, and you talked to me for a half-hour about every single thing that was going to happen, from the minute I got to O'Hare to the time the plane landed in Copenhagen. You had flown so many times you weren't scared at all. I've been thinking about going to France a lot, and wondering if this is something I'll be able to do. Last Sunday, Andy and I took the day off and went to St. Honore Boulangerie (you have to say "boulangerie," instead of "bakery," you're paying to say boulangerie). They have no plugs here, and seating is precious. That's how it should be here, though. Everything is just too good, and everyone wants it, so the place is packed and humming. Everyone thinks this is a good place, and it is, because if you get a seat on the weekend you almost feel embarrassed, like you couldn't possibly deserve it. In your seat, you become instantly urbane and untroubled, somehow: You have a seat. And a cappuccino. And a strawberry mille-feuilles. It all cost, you know, $9.75 — but isn't it wonderful? It is. We sat outside, under the canopy, as it rained. I could've stayed all day. I love cafe society. Later we went to see Paris, Je T'aime. Little seemingly disparate stories all wrapped up, for me at least, by the last one with Margo Martindale, as the American woman who visits Paris by herself. 14e arrondissement. Andy kept talking to me, about how good it was, especially that last one, and what it meant, and I could not speak, a huge sobbing yawp stuck in my throat, knowing that if I opened my mouth nothing but a primitive noise would come out. I was very moved by that last one. I didn't see it coming, somehow. But it was incredibly beautiful, and weirdly unexpected. You don't expect such beauty can come with a fanny pack, somehow, but you're wrong, and that's humbling, and cathartic. We clapped at the end and a few people shyly joined us in that. In some ways I haven't really stopped thinking about it, especially as I lurch around my own city, looking for a place to land, to love. My sister is moving so we've been thinking and talking about "place" a lot. Having written this just now I'm left with the feeling of just not wanting to think about it anymore, and just live. Who cares. It's all good. Another catharsis.

     I hope you and Mae are doing well and that the plants you planted when you weren't feeling good are thriving. If you have a recipe for Thai coconut-chicken soup will you send it to me? Kiss Mae for me and send me some pictures of the apartment. I want to see it. Andy says to say hi and sends love, and joins me in my plea for you to visit, as always, no pressure, just sincere longing to see to you again, and to meet Mae. Though I do expect to at least train it out there, somewhere, sometime soon. Ish.

Love you,
     Ali