Too freakin' hot / Storytelling

98 degrees F today. It's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow, over 100 degrees. I called my mom today to see if she's bearing up under the heat all right, and she said that when she went to her doctor's appointment in the late morning, she saw two bank reader boards that showed 103 degrees. I looked at the forecast for Eastern Washington--10 degrees COOLER than the Puget Sound area.

We may break some records in Seattle.

I feel so lethargic in this kind of weather. I'd like to knit and spin, but it's too hot for that, even with cotton yarn. My hands get all sweaty and the yarn doesn't slide smoothly over the needles. So, I'm reading instead, which is good, because I've slacked off dolorously in my reading for too many years. It's not good to slack off reading when one is a writer.

Got hold of and am reading the latest Dresden Files paperback by Jim Butcher, Small Favor. I am a major fan of Butcher's series, because he's a marvelous storyteller. I think he tries too hard on the quips occasionally (he throws in a quip or two that I think aren't likely for the scene or action, and it pulls me briefly--I want to emphasize briefly--out of the story), but I'm more than willing to forgive him this one small flaw because I love the characters and Butcher has followed through with his storytelling promises enough so that I trust him to follow through every time. I understand something very, very unfortunate and unhappy is going to happen to one of my favorite characters in this series, but I'm willing to travel down that path, because I trust Butcher will do it right.

And that, to me, is a mark of a good storyteller. I don't ask that an author not go down an unexpected alley, or make a left turn when I'm looking for a right, and though I have my standards and sense of right and wrong, I'm willing to have the evidence presented to me and be convinced. What I do ask for is psychological consistency, for follow-through on the world-building and the characterization.

All stories have a framework on which they are built, and I really do not care how avant garde a story might be, there is always a framework. If an author says his or her story has no framework and that it is this free and wild and avante garde thing that cannot be confined by mere human expectation, then either he or she is lying or is a poseur. That's harsh, but that's my opinion, and since I am way older than 40, I'm not taking it back.

When a story has a framework, a reader instinctively understands whether the story that hangs on it fits or not. This applies to characters as well as the structure of the story. One big error that immediately screams amateur to me is when I see that the author has said upfront that a character has certain attributes, and then proceeds to contradict it. If a character is supposed to be smart and sensible, I don't care how emotionally involved he or she has become in a certain situation, that smart and sensible part is going to rant and rave and be disapproving even as the character does something wildly unlike him or herself. The smart and sensible part doesn't suddenly disappear. No, Smart and Sensible Part will sit there sobbing its little heart out because the character it is inhabiting is doing something dumb and wildly wrong. And as a result, you will have a character that is very conflicted, and much, much more interesting to read about.

Now, have I committed this sin of psychological inconsistency? Yes, of course, but hopefully not in print. And if I have, then no doubt it was while I was becoming increasingly anemic many years ago, and had not the mental stamina to examine such a horrendous error in literary judgement. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. :-D

I have about an hour and a half before bedtime--must get some reading in! Toodle-ooo for today!

Voodoo on the high seas

I'm taking some time during lunch to see what is going on in my brother's blog. Dave has a Blogspot blog which of course I follow, because not only is he family, he's a merchant seaman on board cargo ships that sail the world and a good storyteller as well. It's a good way for him to inform the family and friends about what's going on with him, as his e-mail length and time are limited when on board ship, and all it takes for him to blog is to send an e-mail to his blog address.

I find his travels to exotic places fascinating since, except for being born in Japan and my honeymoon in Canada's British Columbia, I've never been out of the United States. (So unfair! Everyone else in my family has been to foreign lands except me! Even the DH has been to Europe!) What's interesting to me is on-board ship culture, plus the different people he meets while on board as well as in the places he visits, not the least of which is his latest blog post about a possible Voodoo or Santeria incident on board the ship he's on now.

I'm reading his blog daily now, in hopes of finding out what is going on with the Black Salt incident. I gave what information I happened to remember about the use of salt in both religious and magical rituals (hey, I'm an author of paranormal romance novels--of course I would have this information in the recesses of my memory banks), and it seems to correspond to what is going on there.

Just checked his blog...he posted the info I gave him, plus additional stuff. I hope he posts more soon!

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Today is my wedding anniversary! The dh and I have been married for 25 years. I believe that's the silver anniversary. Not too bad, huh?

Argh

I was marveling at all the writing I was doing on this blog, and thought, wow, I must be gearing up for a major writing blitz.

Then I re-read my blog entries and realized they're mostly about food, or had food in them. I realize now that it began when I was thinking seriously about going on a diet and doing more exercise.

So, food obsession has kicked in, not a writing blitz. Grrrr.

I tell you, when not on a diet, I don't think much about food at all. Life is easy. Life is not stressful. As soon as I decide I need to lose some weight I start obsessing about food. Every bit of it. I want stuff I would usually not touch. All of a sudden I want sugary stuff, where I normally wouldn't touch it. Where I would normally be content with veggies and meat, I all of a sudden want pastries, which I normally wouldn't bother eating.

There has got to be a way not to want things I normally don't want when on a diet.

Good eats in Gig Harbor

As my mom’s surgery was of the outpatient variety with minimal anesthesia, we decided to go to lunch afterwards. Gig Harbor has become decidedly upscale since my high school days. The town proper has more shi-shi shops than before, and there seem to be far more private sailboats and motorboats now than fishing boats. The restaurants along the harbor are of the Anthony’s Home Port sort. On the east side of Highway 16, the new Franciscan medical and Multicare facilities have encouraged the spawning of mixed-use retail areas, including shops that definitely cater to the upper middle class consumer.

Part of me likes the shiny new development, which helps increase employment in an area that has a great disparity in wealth: in the Key Peninsula area, those who live there are either very, very rich, or very, very poor. Part of me is wistful for those little out-of-the-way, not-very-shiny places that serve good quality food at decent prices, but I am willing to let those go in favor of shiny places that help people make a living wage. However, the small restaurants that have something different and unique about them survive and thrive, as I soon found.

We at first thought we would go to Anthony’s Home Port, as it would obviously serve seafood, which my mother had a hankerin’ for, but it was closed for a private party. Our attention turned to a small restaurant right next door, the Marketplace Grille. My hopes rose upon entering, for even though the waiting area was but a low partition away from the kitchen, and the décor was not shiny, and the scents were rich and marvelous. Though we were the only ones waiting, the place was clearly busy. My mother and I were escorted past the kitchen to a back room, which had a gorgeous view of the harbor with Mount Rainier peeking above the evergreen tree-lined hill in the distance. Our server looked African American, but her accent told me she was from somewhere in the Caribbean Islands.

There was calamari on the menu, which my mother ordered, and I ordered the halibut fish and chips. Now, I don’t care for fish and chips much, as they are either the breaded kind that is overcooked, or the battered kind that has a soggy interior, where the thick fried batter exterior ends up sliding off onto the plate in a rather sad mess. But, for me, it is a test of a good seafood restaurant to see what the fish and chips are like, so I decided to try it. If attention is paid to the most common and least item on the menu, then chances are good that the other dishes are of quality, too.

Though it took a while to get the food, it was worth the wait. Halibut is not my favorite fish, as it tends to have a strong fishy aftertaste (yes, yes, I know, it’s a fish, therefore…), but one steaming hot bite convinced me that this was the best halibut fish and chips I’ve ever eaten. The lemon slice’s inner edge was dipped in what looked like ground chili powder or paprika (or other red spice), and once squeezed over the fish, deposited a light spray of mixed lemon juice and spice over it all. The fried batter crust was thin and crisp to the teeth, and beyond it was the soft halibut, with no soggy doughiness between crust and fish at all. It was a lovely contrast of crisp crunch and immediate fish goodness afterwards. The crust stayed firmly on the fish and never fell off into a mess, yet the fish inside was fully cooked and moist.

The chips—French fries—did not disappoint. They were cut thin and well cooked, again to a crunch on the outside to a brief softness of potato on the inside. No mushy thick bits here, nor tough over-cooked exterior, but crisp, lightly herb-brushed sticks. The flavor had a touch of chive and cheese, perhaps parmesan. They really did not need to be dipped in ketchup or tartar sauce, though these were available.

The traditional cole slaw was on the side, but even that was kicked up enough to notice, as the occasional bits of chopped dried cranberries gave the slaw sauce the delicate sweetness it needed, without either the overpowering sweetness or dull blandness you often find in a restaurant cole slaw.

Mom had the fried calamari, as I mentioned, and these, too, were different. They also seemed to have been cooked with the same thin crisp batter, but instead of being just plain, the batter in this case had a hint of spice in them as well. Again, the calamari was cooked to tenderness and not to rubberiness, and the crust was crisp. We expected the accompanying pink sauce to be the same-old same-old 1000 Island dressing that is usually served with seafood, but this sauce was not sweet, but had a tart and very slightly spicy taste. Delicious!

I asked our server about our meal, and she revealed that Chef Richard is from the Caribbeans, and that everything is made from scratch. Though I like a spicy dish, the spice added to the sauce and the fried crust on the calmari was not strong at all, but just light enough to support the basic flavors of fish and calamari--anything stronger would have overwhelmed the delicate calamari taste. The halibut was traditional fish and chips all right, but the subtle addition herbs and spices, plus the crisp thin batter crust, brought it way above the ordinary. Even if you are not a fan of spiciness, you will not object to the amount put on these seafood delights.

The price was decent, too. Lunch with iced tea and diet Coke added up to just a little more than $27, total, a touch more than $13 each.

Ten minutes to Eternity

My mom's house is in the boonies. To get there, I have to go through two or three small towns that are around...maybe 10,000, but it's hard to tell, as I just did a Google search and came up with nothing as to to the population of each. Cell phone service is available, but even my Verizon and my brother's AT&T services quit when we get to her house.

She lives outside/in a small town--well, come to think of it, I don't think there is a mayor of that town, it's sort of a general area--an "unincorporated community," with a population of around 6000, more or less, depending on if you count the town next to it that is under the same zip code, because the U.S. Postal Service generally doesn't acknowledge that town exists, unless the inhabitants insist, and I believe the town inhabitants have to pay a fee to have the town they live in as part of their home address. There was some bad history between that one town and the U.S. government, and once the government has it in for you, it seems it doesn't forgive or forget, even if you are long dead. I believe the town founders who supposedly defied and offended the federal government (they dared published booklets on agnosticism and practiced yoga on property they owned) have been dead about 100 years now. Yeah, that's 100 years, no typo.

Anyway, I traveled after work on Monday to stay with my mom, because she had cataract eye surgery scheduled on Tuesday. I decided to leave home well past rush hour, but well before dark, neither wanting to mess with traffic or a barely-lit two-lane rural highway. Knowing that my mom was not (I HOPE) going to leave her house for a few days after surgery, I asked her whether she wanted me to pick up anything on the way--a carton of milk, she said. There's a grocery store in one of the towns, about 15 minutes away from my mom's house, so I stopped in there, because she said it was open until 10. I got there before 9 pm--plenty of time.

I decided to pick up a few items for myself as well, and browsed the close-set, twilight-dimmed aisles crowded with as many daily necessities and little luxuries as a rural grocery store can afford to carry: the ubiquitous Starbucks bottled frappucino, yes; Pepsi Max, no. MD 20/20 cheek by jowl with Chateau Ste Michelle. Little toys from China wrapped in cellophane--cellophane--how old is that? The store has a latte stand just 200 feet across the parking lot from another latte stand, because after all this is Washington State, where intravenous drip coffee would be available if someone could find a way to do it legally.

No hurry, I thought (though I wished one of the latte stands were open--a little "why bother" decaf latte would not have been amiss). It was well before the closing time of 10 pm, and I was the only customer. I was startled to hear, as a result, the lone cashier announce, "store customers, please prepare to purchase your goods as the store will be closing in ten minutes to eternity."

Ten minutes to eternity.

Should I rush, or shouldn't I? How long was ten minutes to eternity? I looked at the quart of milk, my package of Kotex-with-wings, and my diet Coke with lime (diet Coke is my default, unless there is diet Pepsi Max with ginseng), wondering if somehow time was different in this little store, and if these items would somehow disintegrate in a strange, quantum space-time continuum sort of way if I hurried, or morph into some evolutionary blob not yet known to man or beast if I took my time.

I walked in a moderate way to the check-out stand.

"Ten minutes to eternity," I said as I placed my items on the conveyor belt.

"Yeah, I throw out stuff like that sometimes to see if anyone notices," the cashier said. He was a lean, dark-haired young man with a goatee, with a nonchalant air about him. Under 30, I thought, maybe 25. He punched in the prices on the cash register.

"So Twilight Zone." I gestured at the windows, grey with shadows and the barely visible setting sun. "Here I am, going down a lone country highway at dusk, an unsuspecting consumer of grocery goods looking only to buy a few things on the way to my elderly mother's house..."

"You only think you're coming in here to buy milk, sanitary supplies, and a cold refreshing diet beverage," he replied. "When you leave...will you really be leaving? Or will you be entering? Into what will you be entering? Is there a difference between entering and leaving?"

"Maybe not!" I said.

He paused thoughtfully before bagging my purchases. "I had an uncle who once said that. Are there really differences between---" He waved his hand at everything in general. "All this? Once, everything was the same. It was all one big sameness. No conflict, because who's going to be all judgemental when it's all the same? And then people started finding differences. This is different from that, all the way down to particles and scientific names for things we don't even see. Now, it's, this is better than that, I'm better than you, no, I'm better than you. This is good, this is bad."

"Makes me think of how Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, and then they began to think they way they were created was somehow bad."

He pointed at me and pulled his trigger finger. "Bullseye." He counted out my change, and closed the till, locking it. "You be safe out there. Whatever out there is."

I hummed the Twilight Zone song, and he grinned.

Along the Green River

I decided to drive out into the countryside for a few hours; it was a beautiful day, hardly a cloud in the sky, and temperatures in the upper 70 degrees F. I live just up the hill from the Kent/Auburn valley, through which courses the Green River, made notorious by the Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer. In truth, his depredations only touched the river a few times, but he was given the name because of the first few bodies found near the river.

But this 65-mile river has a history much longer and more pleasant than this, and the road that meanders next to that river goes through some lovely pastoral landscapes, dotted with farms and more than a few palatial houses. Near Christmas, my husband and I make our yearly trek along the Green Valley Road to the Christmas tree farm to choose our tree, bundle it onto the truck, and drive triumphantly home with our winter catch. It's a lovely drive during the winter. More than a few times, I've seen signs next to the entrance of one farm or another, and I've wanted to see what they had to offer, but of course few if any vegetables are in season in December, and so we pass them by.

This time, however, the hubby was out motorcycling with his dad, and I decided to skip church and get to know Divine Creation from another perspective. Much inspired to listen to country music because of Kevin Skinner's YouTube audition, I turned the radio to the local country station, and headed out.

I went along the Auburn-Black Diamond road for a bit, until I saw the intersection of Green Valley Road. You can see a map of Green Valley Road here:


View Larger Map

You can see the river just as you turn onto Green Valley Road; today I saw a number of cars and trucks just past the intersection, where I suspect more than a few fishermen and women were casting out lures into the water. I don't know what the fishing is like , but since I see more than a few cars and trucks parked there whenever I've passed by, I suspect it must be at least promising.

I passed by Green Valley Meats, making a mental note that I must stop by there on my way back, because they have some of the best smoked meats around, and other more exotic cuts of meat, such as buffalo and elk, at quite affordable prices. They're a butcher and smoked meat shop, but they are well supplied with any picnic goods you might want if you and your family decide to take a day trip into the country or local national park. I also noticed they have large inner tubes available, no doubt for rent to go inner tubing down the river. They don't have a web site so far as I can tell, but the link above will take you to a site where people's reviews are spot on. I cannot say enough about their cuts of meat, and God only knows how many varieties of jerky and pepperoni they have. They are locally and family owned, and I mention this especially because I like to promote local businesses and farms expecially if they offer superb goods at a decent price. One warning, though! It is totally possible, especially if you're a "foodie" like me and like to cook, to run up a hefty bill in a short time. As I passed by, I made a pledge to myself not to go over $50 when I stop there.

My first stop is a few miles farther on, at Mosby Brothers Farm:

I've been there before, and they have very nice produce in season. They supplement their own produce with item from outside the state, and they also feature some goods from other farms and home-based businesses in the area. I noticed that they had a good set of bottled preserves made from their own produce, but this time I didn't pick up any.

I also noticed that they had some blueberry jam from Canter Berry farms just down the road. I have seen that farm more than a few times on the way to our yearly Christmas tree hunt, and have always wanted to see what it was like and what they had to offer. I bought a lemon (always good to sprinkle on Swiss chard, my new favorite) and some cibatta bread and went on my way.

The speed limit is not that fast--25 to 40 mph, depending on what stretch of road you're on--so I had ample time to flick my gaze to either side of the road, watching for any signs of fresh produce or any other goods that might be available at a farm, as well as signs of any bicyclists who are doing their own private version of the Tour de France, except I suppose it might be the Tour de Auburn. The road is not very wide, so I'm careful to look out for them. Some years ago, a bicycle trail was proposed to go through various farmlands, which was met with much opposition from the farmers there. Since apparently no compensation was going to be given to the farmers for the loss of arable land (some of the most fertile in the world), and they'd still have to pay taxes on land they could no longer use, I can't imagine why King County thought everyone would be hunky dory about it. Hmm, let's see, growing food and trying to make a living wage vs. people biking through your land. Which would you choose?

As a result of my careful driving, some signs caught my eye, and most notably the word "YARN" stood out, as well as "LAVENDER" and "MARIONBERRIES." These appealed to both my foodie senses as well as my fiber art heart, so I eagerly looked for an entrance to what must be a magical place. To my delight, I found the small entrance to Edeldal Farm, which is the home of Little House Rugs. Dolls decorate the area between the marionberry bushes, giving the entrance a sort of fairy-tale feel.

Though Judy Taylor's little Little House Rugs storefront is essentially half of her two-car garage, it is chock full of goodies, such as her lovely rugs (see picture to the right), yarn, fiber dyes, books, and felted items; there is something a little magical about all this colorful fiber-art goodness in a neat, compact space. Though her work focuses on rug hooking, she is also a spinner, and it was so enjoyable to serendipitously find and talk to a fellow fiber artist. She is a young, slight woman with a pretty complexion and smiling eyes (I seem to be noticing complexions lately, I don't know why), and I felt quite welcome to browse her shop at my leisure. I admired her yarn she had for sale, and marveled that it was so soft, as I had always thought Jacob sheep fleece was coarse in texture.

She hand dyed her soft pretty yarn herself, and has three spinning wheels! I have only one--well, two if I count the one I gave to my mother, which she doesn't use. I bought some fiber dye (purple!), and when she brought my attention to the marionberries, I could not resist and bought a pint of those as well. As it was, I was glad to have them, as I had not any lunch yet and had only brought a peach with me to eat (with plenty of napkins--yes, it was one those juicy sweet Washington peaches I bought yesterday). The dye was different from the kind I usually buy (Jacquard Acid Dyes), but they were a very good price for the amount of dye in the bottle.

I could not resist taking pictures of some of the things she has to offer at her shop, and when I went to her website tonight, I saw that she has so much more to offer than what she had in her little store. I don't know if you can click to enlarge the photo on the right, but if you can and do, you will not only be able to see some of her very nice hats and purses, but a reflection of her quilt in the mirror.

I will definitely have to go to Little House Rugs/ Edeldal Farm again. I enjoyed chatting with Judy, and with luck she'll have a blog up soon, as I talked with her about how to set one up at Blogger or Wordpress. Such creativity in her fiber arts as well as her lavender work must overflow in words as well--or at least, I hope it does. I didn't tell her about Ravelry, as I didn't think about that until I left, but I will no doubt e-mail her about it later.

I reluctantly left Judy's place (I'm sure I could have spent at least another half hour there) as I wanted to finish my little trip before 2:30 pm, as I had a Chrysalis closure to go to for a young woman I'd known since she was a child. A few miles down the road is Canter-Berry Farms, the blueberry farm that produces the blueberry jam I wanted. It's a lovely place, dominated by a very old barn, built in 1879. This may not seem very old to those on the East Coast, I'm sure, but it is pretty old out here. Clarissa Metzler Cross, one of the owners, says that when she and her husband decided to use and remodel the barn, they found a post that had the date etched into it. She is a slim, athletic-looking woman, perhaps about my own age, who had just come in from farther out in the farm to get a drink, and found that she had a few people come in to see her blueberry goods. Fortuitous timing!

The reason why her place is called "Canter-Berry" Farm is because they have American Saddlebred horses as well as blueberries there. It's clear Clarissa loves those horses, and it shows in the number of awards they've recieved. She has quite a few pictures of them in her shop--I don't know much about horses (though I'm fascinated by them), but even I can see they truly are beautiful animals. We had an enjoyable chat about the horses and her blueberries, and I complemented her on the lovely grounds around the shop--very pretty!

Being the foodie that I am, my attention soon turned to the blueberry goods. I bought a jar of blueberry jam for my mom (she is to have surgery on Tuesday, and she loves blueberries, so I'm bringing the jam over to her that day so that she won't be so miserable after the procedure), and I was highly tempted to buy some for myself, but did not. I did, however, buy the blueberry vinegar, with the intent of making a salad with spinach, fresh cucumbers, tomatoes, and feta cheese, with the vinegar sprinkled throughout. One sample taste of that vinegar convinced me it would be marvelous in a spinach salad. Or even lettuce salad. It has a smooth fresh taste, not as harsh as regular vinegar, so I expect it'll go well against feta cheese, though not as well against something like gorgonzola. However, you never truly know about tastes until you experiment. Canter-Berry Farms has recipes on their web site, so I will no doubt try those as well.

I drove farther along the Green Valley Road, past our favorite Christmas Tree farm, and decided at the last minute to take a turn around the Flaming Geyser State Park. As I approached the entrance booth, I noticed a pile of beer cans and liquor bottles near the park ranger booth. My suspicions of those worthy gentlemen were dispelled when I saw a sign prohibiting alcohol in the park. Yet, as I passed, I noticed the beer cans were crushed, obviously empty. Why take empty beer cans from park visitors? And if they weren't empty, why were they empty now? Hmmm.... Nevertheless, I informed the comfortingly lucid and cheerful ranger that my purpose in visiting the park was to drive around and take some pictures, and I was waved through. Best, I thought, to avoid asking awkward questions of park rangers when wanting to enjoy a sunny half hour or so in a State park. I wanted badly to take a picture of the pile of beer cans, but there a line of cars sat behind me, waiting to get through.

The park was fairly full, with families and couples out for picnics and general fun in the sun and the river. Even so, there were plenty of shady spots, with picnic benches and little park grills. I cannot imagine a better day than this to be in a park.

I spent perhaps 20 minutes there, as time was growing short, and I did want to visit Green Valley Meats on the way back. I kept going east for a while through unfamiliar territory and a road I have never been on, found myself going through Black Diamond (did not stop at the superb Black Diamond Bakery there, alas), looped around back west on Auburn-Black Diamond road, then decided to take the SE Lake Holm Road, which I knew would take me back to the Auburn-Black Diamond road again, and then into Auburn proper. I seem to have a good sense of direction; even when I'm on an unfamiliar road, if I know the general area, and the sun is not at high noon, I can find my way back somehow. But I easily get lost in a city, go figure. I had plenty of time to shop at Green Valley Meats (I ran up a $40 bill, but hey, it didn't go over $50!), getting a bag of pepperoni, ground buffalo, smoked chicken ($6.87 each!), and smoked pork tenderloin, and get home with plenty of time before I had to go to the Chrysalis closure.

Dinner was a meal of the smoked chicken, with a side of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber salad with non-fat feta cheese, Wheat Thins crackers, and dill dip. I did indeed put the blueberry vinegar on it, and it exceeded my expectations.

Altogether a satisfying day.

Peaches and Kevin Skinner

Washington peaches are in! I went to the Federal Way farmer's market today (after getting my tire fixed and my hair trimmed), and what a beautiful day it is. Not too hot--around 75 to 80 degrees F when I went--with a slight breeze. I often make it to the market just short of closing time around 3 pm, but this time I got in around noon.

There is something wonderful about the bounty of a farmer's market. It's all laid out there for you to see on the tables, with the farmers or pickers themselves manning the outlay. It's so fresh, you can smell the scents of the fresh vegetables, fruit, and cut flowers, in addition to the lunch-time treats made up by local restaurants and cafes. The colors are gorgeous; today there were the first tomatoes I've seen of the season, huge heirloom tomatoes that go from the rusty orange red kind, to the ones that are more of a red with a purple undertone. Some of these tomatoes are huge, bigger than my outstretched hand. Some of them are the smaller ones on the vine, small enough to pop into my mouth so that when I bite down, the sweet-tart tomato juices flood my mouth all at once (a.k.a., a tomato orgasm). Glistening green zucchini, gleaming bulbs of onion, and corn! The first corn that I've seen at the market today, the candy-sweet kind with alternating white and yellow kernels. There were apples from Quincy on the other side of the Cascade mountains--Fuji, Pink Lady, Braeburns--big and beautiful, blushing red over light green. Deep red raspberries and dark purple blueberries. Bing and Rainier cherries (the Rainiers are my favorite--I eat them like candy). Flowers, from delicate fragrant pastel-colored sweet peas to huge white and magenta lilies.

And the peaches. Washington peaches. There is nothing better than ripe, fresh-picked Washington peaches. Oh, I'm sure the California ones and famous Georgia ones are lovely, but you know they're shipped not-totally-ripe so that they keep well in the stores, and the fact is, they just aren't as sweet and juicy as the local ones. I'm sure this is why buying local fruit and vegetables is simply better. You get them ripe, you get them fresh, and they are incredibly delicious. You can smell the scent of them, and I'm sure that lends a great deal to the anticipation of the flavor.

I have a peach now at my computer desk, and I have to have a damp towel as well, because this big luscious, golden-dawn-colored early New Haven peach is so dripping sweet, the juices just run off my chin and over my fingers, that's how good it is. There are few treats better than this on a hot summer day.

So when John comes home from his bike ride, he is going to be presented with a NICE dinner. Fresh clams from Quilcene Bay (from the farmer's market) just picked this morning, corn-on-the-cob, a side of Swiss chard (my newly discovered favorite vegetable), and toasted pita bread with either aioli sauce or sour-cream dill dip. Dessert will be a strawberry smoothie, made with frozen strawberries (earlier bought at the farmer's market, then frozen).

I can hardly wait. Yum!!! There is nothing like fresh fruit and vegetables in season.

Later: I changed my mind. Instead of pita, I decided to have crackers and dip instead, as I wanted to save the pitas for pita pizzas. Just the right size for the two of us. Also, I decided to combine the Swiss chard with some Russian pirogi dumplings, which is looking pretty good (I'm cooking them now. The pirogi, I bought at the farmer's market, and the gentleman there suggested that if I were to eat them later, I might want to fry them. (They are cheese and potato stuffed pirogi.) But...just by themselves? So I sauted some garlic, added chopped Swiss chard, and it is looking pretty danged good. I will report back after dinner.


About Kevin Skinner:

I'm not fond of reality shows, and the talent ones often pain me because of how the not-very-talented ones are booed so horribly and made fun of. However, I can bear to see the ones on YouTube, as I love discovering new talent, and I love seeing talent from ordinary people get a chance to shine. I especially love it when ordinary-looking people upset people's very surface opinions of them. Susan Boyle was one such, and Kevin Skinner is another.

I will listen to country music every once in a while--I only came to listen to it as an adult, and a middle-aged one at that. But Kevin Skinner made me want to listen to more of it.

I suspected that since he was the last one to audition for that day, he was going to be better than most. Indeed he was. He has a southern backwoods accent which I have never heard before, so I was intrigued (I love hearing different accents), and wore clothes that were casual in the extreme--stuff that I'd probably wear at home when gardening in cool weather. He talked a bit about his past employment and what he wanted to sing, and though I don't think Ms. Osborne was malicious when she laughed at his accent (she seems like a very kind person; I think she was more surprised and delighted than anything else, and you know, his accent was so very strong), I don't hold out much hope for some in the audience.

Yet, the audience seemed spellbound to silence when Mr. Skinner played and sang in his warm and kind voice, and with good reason. He did indeed play well and with grace and plain dignity. I read some of the comments on YouTube, and he did what all good singers and musicians do: he moved so many to sit by their loved ones and cherish their time with them. I saw more than a few from soldiers and sailors going off to war, and I think it must have been a comfort to them, as well as to those who wrote that their loved ones were ill or dying. And what better thing can an artist do than to uplift and give comfort to those in need of it?

Regardless of how Mr. Skinner does in the rest of the competition, he rose above petty expectations and gave the world some comfort and hope. So God bless you, Kevin Skinner, for gift of that moment.

Testing to see if I can blog via e-mail

Yep, it works!