North Carolina’s Bathroom Bill: Listen to Loretta

I don’t have too much to say about House Bill 2 of my home state, North Carolina–a.k.a. the “Bathroom Bill”. Because Attorney General and North Carolina native Loretta Lynch already said it for me:

“It was not so very long ago that states, including North Carolina, had signs above restrooms, water fountains and on public accommodations keeping people out based upon a distinction without a difference.” — Loretta Lynch

(image courtesy wect.com)

(image courtesy wect.com)

So what do I say? I say go, Tarheels. Keep fighting this stupid, mean law as you’ve been doing. Make me proud of my home state again.

 

 

Love & Butter & Luck: Yes, Island Life Is Sweet–Just Not Always Equally So

Our beautiful island and its sweet bakery, Holly B’s, were featured last week on Seattle’s KING 5 Evening Magazine. Here we are, lookin’ smooth:

http://www.king5.com/mb/entertainment/television/programs/evening/at-lopez-holly-bs-the-love-and-butter-legacy-lives-on/170800955

Seeing this take on my life of Love & Butter, I am struck by a couple of facts:

  • I am blessed to adore my job, but I only need to work part-time. There are plenty of folks on Lopez who work two or three jobs to make ends meet.
  • I am blessed to be able to do the hard physical work my job requires. I know many folks who, through illness, injury, age, or some combination of those simply cannot work where I work, no matter how much they would like to.
  • I am blessed with wonderful, supportive, easygoing co-workers & boss. How many folks I know who cannot say that!
How we roll...(photo by Stephanie Smith, Boss Extraordinaire)

How we roll…(photo by Stephanie Smith, Boss Extraordinaire)

I could go on, but you get the idea. Love & Butter, yes–but also sheer, dumb luck. I try very hard not to take that for granted.

 

 

Notes to Self: Everything I Know About Myself I Learned From My New Guitar

Nothing like a major life purchase to force you to look your character straight in the eye. When I bought my first guitar this week, I learned about a few traits. Or re-learned. (Sigh.)

First of all, yes, I’ve owned a guitar since 1981. But that one was given to me in a typically generous but not well-thought-out impulse by my father, who didn’t consult me on what kind of guitar his college-student daughter might like. This week’s purchase was my first EVER. Here’s what I (re)learned about myself:

Trait #1: Good Enough is Good Enough. No matter that the string action of my 1981 guitar is so high I had to have the bridge lowered, and it STILL kills my fingers to play an F chord. No matter that the dreadnought body is so large and wide I get shoulder aches when I play too long. When I have something that works okay, I hang onto it forever, even when I know I don’t have to. Loyalty? Cheapness? Efficiency? Laziness? Eco-friendliness? All of the above?

Trait #2: Big Decisions Make Me Feel Small. Even with one music buddy at my side to ask all the right questions and help me listen for the right sounds; even with detailed notes on guitars researched by another music buddy; even with that second music buddy adding his two cents via speakerphone, I still felt like a little girl in that guitar shop. Overwhelmed. Unqualified. Unworthy. False modesty? Real modesty? Chickenshitedness? Fear of not living up to my own musical hopes and dreams? All of the above?

Trait #3: I Won’t Apologize For Being Cheap When Being Not-Cheap Feels Wrong. I went into that guitar shop with a $600 price limit in mind. I knew that was the low end, and I can give you all the arguments of friends who tried to talk me into looking at guitars over three times that much. “You’ve had that guitar 35 years; you’ll likely have the next one for at least a couple more decades.” “You’re playing so much more now–you’re worth it.” “Think of how much better a musician you’ll be with a better instrument to live up to.” “You can afford it–why sell yourself short?” My answer: I don’t want to feel like my instrument is way above me in quality. I’m 54, I have a wonderfully balanced life, and I’m never going to devote enough time to music to be the kind of guitarist who needs a $2,000 guitar. I’m buying a new guitar for a better physical fit, not an upgrade. Therefore my cheapness is not simply cheapness–it’s sense.

Nice...spendy, but nice...

Nice…spendy, but nice… (next 3 photos courtesy Beth Geever)

Yes, I did try out a $1,000 guitar. I might even have bought it if the fretboard had felt right. But it didn’t. And that $2,5000 one? I tried it too, and it sounded and felt beautiful…except to my gut. Which I listened to.

Aha!

Aha!

Let’s take a closer look, shall we?

It's laminate...but it's still pretty. And Guitar Friend #2 assured me only the top of the guitar matters when it comes to sound.

It’s laminate…but it’s still pretty. And Guitar Friend #2 assured me only the top of the guitar matters when it comes to sound.

YES. Come on home with me, darlin’. Let’s make beautiful music together.

Meet "Di."

Meet “Di.”

I walked out of that shop with a beautiful $600 guitar, and one more (re)discovery:

Trait #4: I Value Family and Friends Above Everything, Even Music. I would never have considered going guitar shopping without their encouragement (my Mate’s especially), and I never would have returned home with “Di” without their help.

So I’m curious. Any major purchases in your life had that holding-up-the-mirror effect on you lately? Please share!

Croissant Dough “Log Booms”: Because Even Luxuries Can Use a Little Repurposing

One person’s trash is another person’s treasure. This truism plays out daily in a million yard sales and Craigslists. What’s cool is when it applies to food. Luxury food. Specifically, croissant dough.

Allow me to explain. When the bakery I work in was bought this winter, the new owner brought with her a new–and undeniably better–recipe for our signature croissants. If you’ve read this blog in the past few weeks, you’ve probably heard me moaning about how much muscle power this new recipe required. Life has eased a TREMENDOUS amount since my boss bought us a “sheeter” to roll that stiff dough for us, and the pain in my neck muscles has eased along with it.  But the dough still requires many more steps than the old recipe, and takes up both more time and more space in the fridge. In short, the stuff is gold.

Which is why it bugged the HELL out of me when we began accumulating croissant scraps. See, under the old regime, we simply rolled our dough out into a giant rectangle, cut that into squares and then triangles, and voila–croissants. Of course, given the human touch, those croissants were extremely variable in size and shape. Under the new regime, we use our sheeter to bring the dough to a uniform thickness, then a hand roller to cut out perfect triangles, like this:

Adorable, aren't they?

Adorable, aren’t they?

Result: perfect-looking, perfectly-sized croissants. And tons of scraps. What to do with them? No WAY was I letting anyone throw them away. Do you know how much labor and time each scrap represents? Step away from that compost bucket!

Dough scraps...or unrealized edible glory?

Dough scraps…or unrealized edible glory?

At first we tried to eat our way out of the problem. “What kind of cheese shall we put on the scraps today?” That lasted about two days. We of all people know exactly how much butter is in that dough, since we put it there.

So we put our heads together, my boss and fellow bakers and I. How could we re-think the scraps into something value-added, something we could actually sell? At first I started making these cute little twists:

Dried apricot, brie, rosemary, pecan...mmmm.....

Dried apricot, brie, rosemary, pecan…mmmm…..

But they took too long, without using up enough scraps. We wanted to sell ALL of it, not add more hours to our shift. So…why not just load the “raft” of scraps up with something delicious? Something like…

OMG that looks incredible! What IS it???

OMG that looks incredible! What IS it???

That one’s savory–artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, feta, and fresh herbs, if you want the details. (We also played with figs, goat cheese, and prosciutto; with pesto and arugula; with…you get the idea.) But it still needed a name–something catchy, maybe something including the name of our island. Someone suggested “Lopez Life Raft,” since the lined-up scraps suggested logs lashed together…which made us think–aha! You know the way northwesterners traditionally chain up logs in big clumps to tow them across water? A log boom? Yes! THAT’s what this yummy thing is. Lopez Log Boom.

When we make a sweet one with raspberry jam, we can't help but call it a Log Jam. Can you blame us?

When we make a sweet one with raspberry jam, we can’t help but call it a Log Jam. Can you blame us?

Here’s what’s funny, though. When I first presented the Log Boom with a flourish to some customers, my boss told me quietly, in the kitchen, not to call them “scraps”–bad connotation. My response: This is Lopez, where recycling is a high art, and our Dump/Recycling Center/Take It Or Leave It is our proudest institution! People LOVE scraps. 

So, dear readers, next time you’re at your favorite (non-Lopez Island) bakery, ask them what they do with THEIR croissant scraps. We could start a national Log Boom Dough Recycling movement! 

Confessions of a Lilac Thief

I need help. I’m in way too deep. Into lilacs, that is. A full-bore passion.

I simply cannot pass by one of these oases of burstingly bushy blooming globules without burying my face in it…and then stealing a fat sprig to tuck into my ponytail.

You know you want me.

You know you want me.

I’m a lilac thief. I can’t help myself.

Come to think of it–don’t help me. Let me drown in happy, scented lilac love. Just tell me, if you know…what IS it about these flowers that is so entrancing? Is anyone else suffering from their delightful bewitchment? 

You're MINE, lilacs! Oh, wait...you actually are mine. Heh.

You’re MINE, lilacs! Oh, wait…you actually are mine. Heh.

Or do you have a secret flower lust of your own? Go ahead and share. I’ll never tell*.

*except in the usual social media ways

God Willing, Everyone Should Be Able To Say “God Willling”

Have you heard the one about the university student thrown off a flight for saying “God willing”?

Sorry, this isn’t a joke and there isn’t a punch line. Unless you count this: our country is now so Islamophobic that saying “Insha’Allah” (God willing) in a private phone conversation can a) make one’s fellow passengers so nervous that they b) call the flight attendants who c) escort you from the plane for interrogation by the FBI.

This is what happened to 26 year-old Khairuldeen Makhzoomi, an Iraqi who had refugeed to the U.S., on a Southwest flight last week. According to Al Jazeera English,

Makhzoomi said he was excited after attending a conference that included a speech by the UN Secretary General Ban Ki-moon, so as soon as he got on the plane, he made the call to talk about him.

“I was speaking Arabic with him. Explaining the details about the event,” Makhzoomi told Al Jazeera. “All of a sudden a lady in front of me started staring at me and I got off the phone. My uncle told me to call him when I land and I said, ‘inshallah, inshallah, I will call you’.”

He told the Associated Press news agency that most of the conversation was mundane, covering subjects like who was there and what the food was like, but at one point he said someone had asked Ban about the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL, also known as ISIS) group.

A woman sitting nearby reported him to Southwest staff and he was escorted from the plane.

According to CNN, after his questioning ordeal, Southwest gave Makhzoomi a refund, and he flew back home to Atlanta on Delta. Once recovered from the shock and humiliation, he contacted the Council on American-Islamic Relations. Since then the story has taken off. But in all the articles I’ve read, the chief question seems to be, “Is keeping your mouth shut in public the new normal for Muslims?”

Insha’Allah, it is not. Because, insha’Allah, there is something we non-Muslims can do to register our refusal to play along with this new brand of racist xenophobia: we can start speaking Arabic ourselves.

My suggestion: every time you want to say, “hopefully,” or “I plan to,” every time you feel the urge to knock on wood, slip an “insha’Allah” in there. You don’t need to be Muslim, or Christian to say it…in fact, I don’t think you really need to be particularly religious at all. If what you really mean is, “I sure hope whatever powers out there that are larger than I am will heed my humble wish,” then–yeah. In my book, “insha’Allah” covers that pretty well.

Insha'Allah and the Creek Don't Rise...whichever

Insha’Allah and the Creek Don’t Rise…whichever

Might some Muslims argue with me about this? Probably. Some Christians too, I expect. But, insha’Allah, the more my suggestion gets put into use, the fewer Americans will be demonized by their fellow citizens.

Missing the Forest for All the Damselflies

If you’ve ever felt frustrated with Scientists for being Too Out Of Touch With the Real World, read this. This guy gets it–my kind of scientist.

A Naturalist's avatarPura Vida Stories

This snake is eating another snake.

IMG_1945You don’t say.

Just wanted to clear that up.  To be specific, it’s a two-meter long Neotropical coachwhip polishing off the latter half of what I believe is a false coral snake.

Just another day at work here.  Although especially interesting wildlife encounters are at a bit of a low right now.  Our current site is between two different farm plots, so wildlife isn’t quite as abundant here as my other locales.  Besides, most of my attention is on the bugs, and I have less of a chance to just look around once in a while.  But life here isn’t completely without incident.  Closer inspection of a drain hole in a bridge yielded a mother gecko guarding a clutch of eggs.  That’s a first for me.

IMG_1952Even geckos’ eggs stick to the ceiling.  Geckos are awesome.

I feel that it’s important, no matter what…

View original post 130 more words

“If The Music’s Too Annoying, You’re Too Old:” Musings on Rock ‘n’ Roll in a Man’s World

The Mate and I just attended our first rock concert together in…let’s just say a WHILE.  And this was not even Mark Knopfler, my guitar hero. This was The Arcs, the new band fronted by Black Keys guitarist Dan Auerbach.

Why the Wings at The Arcs? Well, Mr. Auerbach hired Mariachi Flor de Toloache as backup musicians. My buddy Beth’s daughter is a founding member of this AMAZING band–the first all-women Mariachi in New York City. So we got comp tickets.

Flor de Toloache opened with a 25-minute set that blew the doors off. There were only four of them (instead of the eight that play together in NYC), but the power of these women! They sounded like 20. Each one was a master of her instrument–guitaron, viajuela, violin, trumpet–and their blended voices sounded like a mixture of Valkyrie and angel.

Why don’t I quit describing and let you hear for yourself?

Yeah. And that’s an old video, poor quality. Now imagine that sound LIVE, from a few rows back.

After the warm-up act, there was the usual 30 minutes of rearranging mics and buying beers, and then The Arcs came on: two drummers, a bass, a rhythm guitar, an all-around synthesizer-keyboard-brass guy, and Mr. Auerbach on lead guitar. The lights went psychedelic, Auerbach went classic-guitar-lead-gonzo, the crowd went wild.

My mood went south.

NOT because the music was loud (which of course it was). NOT because the rest of the crowd made me feel old (which it did). I expected both those sensations. I was ready for ’em, tissue in the ears and all.

But watching Mr. Auerbach writhe and head-bob like lead guitarists do, I found myself thinking, “Why are you making such a fuss over yourself? You’re not THAT good of a musician.” Don’t get me wrong–he is good. But not great. He’s no Mark Knopfler (who does not writhe). Nor is he any members of Flor de Toloache, who simply stand still and sing and play their hearts out, displaying, to my jaded old ears, 150% of Auerbach’s talent at far less than half his pay.

The more I watched, the more annoyed I got. Why do we live in a world where a skinny white guy with a wife and kids earns more applause (and money) for whining and twitching like a teenager than do four hard-working, earnest, non-whiny women?

I know. I KNOW. It’s a man’s world. I just live in it. And usually I bypass that thought with other, happier thoughts. But the other night, that one soured the evening’s sweetness a bit. 

So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to turn on some all-women mariachi right now, and lose myself back in that sweet vocal power. Might not make me feel any younger, but I know it’ll make me feel happier about the world I live in.

Oh Boy, Another Life Lesson: My Love-Hate Relationship With French Macarons

Am I the only one out there who HATES doing things I’m not good at?

Hatesss it, Precious.

It’s the reason I don’t play volleyball. Or badminton. Or softball. No one ever taught me the fundamentals, therefore I fundamentally SUCK at all three. [Softball, are you kidding me? That ball hurts when you catch it wrong! I’ll stick with cross-country, thanks.]

This attitude, I just this week realized, extends far beyond the playing field and into the kitchen. I’ve always shrugged my shoulders at French cooking, after a youthful flirtation with Julia Child. “Too fussy,” I’ve always said. “Too many steps.” For decades, I’ve stuck with American, which in my case means about a third Asian, a third Mexican, and a third Mutt food. [Can you say tuna-cheddar eggrolls with spicy salsa?] 

And dessert? German, baby. Or good old American PIE.

You’ve heard me bitch about the new croissant dough we’ve been making at Holly B’s Bakery. My boss and I have taken to calling it “Croissant-fit” and joking about charging people to come make it for us–free workout, folks! But the actual steps of croissants aren’t tricky to follow. All you need is muscle.

Enter the French Macarons. Not the coconut thingies; these macarons are made with ground-up almonds and egg whites and sugar and human tears. We’ve never made them at my bakery before, and we’re getting a lot of compliments on them. But they make me hate my life.

These little boogers. (photo by Stephanie Smith)

These little boogers. Gluten-free. Also evil. (photo by Stephanie Smith)

They are notoriously, ridiculously, insanely picky to make. The ingredients have to be not just measured but weighed. Don’t even think of starting to beat your egg whites until your boiling sugar has reached 239 degrees–but don’t let it go past 244. And that’s just the mixing. Then the plopping-out-of-the-pasty-bag part (can you tell I’m new at this? I’m sure there’s a French word for it) is the trickiest of all.

Don’t squeeze out too much. Don’t tilt your bag. Don’t hold it too high or press too low. Don’t drag the tip. Don’t swirl. Just…DON’T.

The other day when I got done trying to follow these directions, my boss noticed my face or my body language or my general loathing of existence. “Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said kindly. “They’re hard.”

“I just HATE not being good at this,” I blurted. And there it was. Gretchen the Proud Pie Maven has met her match in a crumby little cookie. Steep learning curve in baking? Moi? 

So THAT’s why I’ve avoided French cooking all these years!

Watching the little suckers in the oven, I confess to feeling some pride despite myself. Hey, they’re puffing! They’re not cracking! Okay, most of ’em have “nipples” where I dragged the pastry bag tip, but look, there’s a smooth one! Kinda cute really…maybe a nice lemon butter cream in there…or cinnamon…?

So, yeah. Another Life Lesson, at age fifty-something. If you force yourself to do something you’re not good at, two things happen: 1) you get humble, and 2) you improve. And both of those things are good.

Bring on the macarons. But please let me keep making pie too. A girl’s got her pride.

How Sweet (and Shameful) It Is To Be a Tarheel: The NCAA Finals And The Bathroom Law

We Southerners who leave the South are a conflicted bunch. I recently tried to capture my mixed feelings about my “sweet sunny South” homeland in a song. Here’s the chorus:

Yeah, it’s another song about the South, y’all–

Tryin’ to sort my feelings out once and for all.

How can someone feel so in and out of place?

That sweet, sunny South where I first saw the light,

If she’s my ol’ mama, I’m a teenager in flight.

Do I want to hug her neck…or slap her face?

That conflict has been raging stronger than ever this past couple of weeks, as these two feelings battle within me:

  1. I am SO DADGUM PROUD (as Coach Williams would say) of my Carolina Tarheels, playing their way into the National Championship game!
  2. I am so ashamed of the North Carolinian voters, who elected the representatives who passed HB2, a.k.a. the “Bathroom Law,” which requires people to use the bathroom assigned to whichever gender they were born with.
(courtesy cnn.com)

(courtesy cnn.com)

Luckily, the law is encountering an enormous backlash. I doubt something so discriminatory will stand for long. But just the fact that my fellow Tarheels thought it was a good idea to pass a law so mean-spirited and divisive makes me sad. So much for the “New South.”

(courtesy pinterest)

(courtesy pinterest)

I’m wearing my Carolina Blue as I write this–earrings and all. I’ll be cheering my head off tonight, and I’ll be almost as proud if our guys lose than if they win. But what would make me the proudest? If my former fellow citizens reject this law with all their physical might. I want to get back to feeling like hugging their necks instead of slapping their faces.