pomegranatesandpaper

In the Low Light of Winter Dreams Are Made

As you know, I have a certain fondness for cafes and cappuccinos.  Especially on a Sunday afternoon. Mr. Pom might call it an obsession. I ask you what could be a more splendid way to spend an afternoon when the gutters are lined with mountains of dirty snow than sitting in a warm cafe with a book and a cup and a soul mate.

 

 

I was tickled to read in the New York Times today, that our Sunday routine is shared by one of our favorite actresses.  (And I've put on my Spring wish list, a kelly green leather bag.)

 

 

I could sit there all day and listen to the conversations around me, people watch, and rub knees with Mr. Pom. It's quite a small place and very crowded. You cannot but eavesdrop on conversations as you rub elbows. A lovely young couple next to me asked me to take their picture and it was a bit difficult to lean far enough back to get them both in the frame.

 

 

Patrons  sit close together in the European fashion. So close in fact, that it is impossible to ask your husband if the gracious woman sitting across from you is indeed Angela Lansbury, without her overhearing. A judicious use of texting under the table is an allowable exception to the no cell phone at table rule we usually employ. (Unfortunately, we were not able to determine whether it was Ms. Lansbury, but if it was not, she could surely be her stand in.)

 

 

A quiet gray day is made richer with a Tartufata, finely chopped champignons in truffle oil over melted Fontina cheese on ciabbata bread. We also shared proscuitto di melone and two more cappuccinos. (The proximity of tables and Mr. Pom kicking me under the table prohibited me from whipping out the big camera and taking a proper photo in case Angela Lansbury thought I was aiming it at her and took offense. )

 

My future son in law carried a panettone on his lap all the way from Rome for us for Christmas. It was not quite as large as this beauty, but it was quite extravagant and provided our breakfast pane for several weeks. 

I had this idea a year or two ago, to start a website where I reviewed cafes all around the city and metro area. I could rate the coffee, the sandwiches, the desserts, the tables, cleanliness, and the "linger" comfort. I never did get around to it. Seems instead of working on it, I was spending too much time hanging around in cafes.....If someone else would like to take that idea and hire me to freelance, I'd be happy to investigate. I would focus on the correct frothing of the milk, the hotness of the cappuccino, the freshness of the pastries, the server's tolerance of lingerers over second cups and novels,  and the room under the table for rubbing knees.

 

 

 

Last Chance For a Free Registration Fees for Art Retreat!

Hi - look to your right >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

No, on your monitor, right over on my sidebar>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

See the links for Art Is East and West Coasts? (I would have a pretty badge there but typepad is being ornery and I can either have the badge and no link, or the link and no badge.)

 

But I digress!

Anyone who is registered for either retreat before the end of day on January 31st, will be entered in  a drawing for a free registration! How can you resist?

The numbers of teachers and workshops are AWESOME.

And maybe you want to spend 3 days with Violetta and myself and do some STORYNESTING: journaling, collaging, creative writing, memoir snippets, drawing and painting? This is the class that all the prior Art Is retreatants were always asking me to give: 3  intensive, hands on, fun, silly, introspective, amazing, colorful, creative, instructive, free-wheeling art-ful days!

 

OK, gotta go back to shoveling snow!! See ya!

Thinking of Renting a Flamethrower

When we were little, we used to pray for snow days. Lie awake at night, quivering with excitement, jumping up every half hour to raise the window shade in order to estimate how high the snow was on the seat of the swings. If there was a  big loaf of snow gleaming in the light from the back door, then chances were good that school was cancelled.

In the days before 24-hour news stations, computer-generated phone chains, board of education websites, and municipal cable stations, we found out if school was cancelled by listening for the emergency siren to go off in three bursts at 7:00 in the morning. (I used to think it was the foghorn, but now I realize that you wouldn't have been able to hear the foghorn in all parts of my Queen City of the Sound.) How romantically thrilling it was to be lying in bed and waiting to hear that sound. And how crushing it was when it didn't go off and you were left with only the silence of your dashed dreams and your mother's call to get up right now and get dressed!

 

Nowadays, I don't share the same thrill over a snow day unless it is on the weekend. I am no longer an 8- year old girl under the covers in my tiny blue room, ready to make cinnamon toast and read a stack of books.  I am a 50-something woman wondering how the hell she's going to get all the snow off the driveway and her car and get to court on time.

The best snow day I remember occurred right around my February birthday. I think I was probably about 12 years old. It snowed so high that my newly-married uncle walked over with his new wife from their apartment and spent the day with us in the snow. They helped us build snow slides and even used the water hose to create an iced ramp, something my mother would have never let us do in a million snowstorms if her little brother hadn't talked her into it.

They turned my snow-cancelled birthday party day into an afternoon of tunnels and caves and ice rinks. The next morning I woke up covered in chicken pox and the alarms were raised because my aunt was pregnant. All
turned out well, though, and my beautiful cousin was born and now she has a beautiful girl of her own.

 

 

 

 

 

We don't have a swing set anymore so I couldn't check for snow loaves on the swings, but when I went outside this morning, I did find a huge layer cake in my birdbath. The birds are long gone from my neighborhood, but I like to think that all this snow will provide plenty of groundwater for when they return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 After several hours of shoveling, paying some guys going by to help me dig out my plowed-in driveway, getting stuck at the end of my street entailing more shoveling, almost getting stuck on the entrance ramp to the parkway behind another stuck car, I relaxed in the car by listening to the National Seashore's Life in the Dunes CD and hear the shorebirds and rolling  waves to make me forget my current morning and remind me that mornings like this would soon be here soon enough.

 So I leave you with this: "seasons change and so do I... you need not wonder why..."

 

You just need to look through all your beach photos stored on your laptop and play your crashing waves and cawing gulls CD, figure out how to take a video on your Blackberry so you could have filmed the dogs being afraid to jump into the snow,  and come home at night and decide that the only thing to make the day worthwhile are mocha cupcakes with citrus cream cheese frosting and a cup of tea.

 

 

 

 

Let the Sun Shine, Let the Sun Shine In

Don't misunderstand me: I love the short, dark days of winter.

I drink in the quiet, the gray, the monochromatic landscape.

It quiets me down, turns me inward, and allows me the time to daydream as I watch the sunrise on the parkway and plot out story outlines in my mind.

I get to wear all my big sweaters, my pink tweed mohair scarf that I knitted lat year, and my turqoise suede gloves.

I concentrate on creating a family nest by cooking many one pot meals fragrant with wine and rosemary.

I hang quilts on the walls to provide color and warmth

The mantel is lined with yards of candles and the fireplace is always lit.

Scented candles fills the house with the fragrance of fir, a fresh breeze in an often stuffy house.

Fairy lights are liberally applied to window frames and shawls drape the arms of every chair.

I hang the heavy glazed chintz drapes flowered in dusky crimson and greens across the living room's recessed windows to keep the cold out.

I greet each day watching the labs  rub their snouts and neck in an ecstatic cold massage across the snow.

I look forward to quiet evenings when there is no obligation to anything but my books, my sketchpad, and my laptop. I am comfortable turning my bedroom into a boudoir and my bed into a salon.

I think my best thoughts under the electric blanket, just before my lids fall shut and I turn on my side to sink into the soft pillows.

 

But today, as we expect our fifth snowstorm in four weeks, I have decided that Spring Has Sprung for me.

At least here on the blog. And in my heart. And in my house (even if my plans to grill some fish was thwarted by the realization that there is 3 feet of snow around the barbecue.) 

Tomorrow, I will pot two amaryllises. I will wear a lime green sweater with a yellow scarf. Even if it snowing, I will wear patent leather flats. And grill some fish on the stove for dinner and serve it wth a sparkling wine.

Let the snow come; we are blooming in our hothouse.

AMAZINGLY ARTFUL OFFER!

WIN BACK YOUR REGISTRATION! -  REGISTER BY JAN 31ST AND BE ENTERED IN DRAWING TO WIN FREE REGISTRATION!

 

 

Because

Because there's been entirely too many weeks of this:

 

 

And this

 

 

We gave ourselves this  brilliance

 

 

 

 

And then this bowl of blue

 

 

And this contrast of feather and glass

 

 

 

 

And just when I thought we had given ourselves enough,

 

 

My color saturation needs for the month were met.

 

 

Twilight

n the middle of July, we never expect a snowfall, so why do leave the house each dark January morning and raise our noses in the hope of the slightest whiff of damp, green earth?  The snow creaks under our boots and the wind takes our breath and we could be on the edge of the world instead of our block as all around us is encased in a hard white shell. The garden grows slumbering beasts reclining in mysterious mounds under the snow, shaped round the skeleton of bushes and the scaffolding of dried stems.  The frost turns the stems of the hardy lavender by the front door into a wild lion’s man peeking out through icebergs of shoveled snow, tinged blue with ice melt .Navigating the trek from curb to sidewalk requires the skills of mountaineers and walking the dogs is an ice dance worthy of a sequined bespangled costume and a gold medal round my neck.

 

On return in the evening, I am lonely as soon as I turn the lock in the door. The dogs barrel in ahead, oblivious to the emptiness that greets us, the darkened rooms, the stilled music, the quiet phone, the silent shower.  There are no coats but mine on the newel post and backpacks to jump over on the way to the kitchen. But it is impossible to feel maudlin when 170 pounds of combined canine are furiously intent on seeing me take off  my coat, put down my bag and packages, and magically make their bowls fill up.

 

As soon as I bend down to pick the metal bowls up off the kitchen floor, the tails begin wagging and circling me, and when I go down the two steps to the pantry door, they stop on the top step, tails furiously wagging. When I come back out the magic food door, the mama is waiting for me with as much anticipation as if I had a prime rib in my hands. Her son has already run to the kitchen and is sitting at attention by his spot.  My hard stare at the mama puts her into the sit position and my raised hand cautions both to wait.  I am too soft to make their wait more than twenty seconds at night; the still but quivering tails, the open mouths, and the eyes twitching and darting between my face and the bowl, the face and my bowl make me laugh and I give the “eat” command and they both dive in and eat, a process that is over before I can open the refrigerator to see what our own meal will be.

 

The kitchen fills up with dogs at my feet and by the time I get olive oil and garlic sautéing in a cast iron pan, I’ve forgotten to be lonely, and who could be with two dogs watching every move I make lest they miss a scrap of cheese or a crumb of bread hit the floor without their notice? We serve ourselves individually from a soup pot or pasta bowl and read the newspaper while we eat. We do not linger as the dining room tends to be drafty and the living room fire involves dogs drooling over our legs and following each bite from plate to mouth with their eyes.

 

I light my own match against the darkness with fir-scented candles and a new teapot with a built-in infuser and smoky Earl Gray leaves that turn the water as dark as mahogany. I’m not afraid of the dark from inside the house, the rose chintz drapes drawn across the front windows and the chimney moaning in the wind. Through the upstairs windows, we marvel at the dogs’ tracks across the backyard, the convoluted paths criss-crossing in wild abandon, punctuated with holes dug in a frenzy to get at the snow monsters, the dirt and sod revealed by manic paws and scattered across the now sullied snow.

 

I plug in the white lights that sparkle across my studio windows and listen to a book on tape while I paint brilliant gouache onto thick, mottled watercolor paper. Soon Valentine hearts are scattered across the table and my own heart is beating slowly, held in check by the cadence of the narrator speaking to me in beautiful phrases and I get lost in story.  My scissors snip around heart shapes, dropping flakes of white paper across the Kraft paper covering my worktable. Soon it is littered  with red hearts and paper snow and I am ready for bed, for the warmth of the electric blanket,  for a final cup of tea, for Mr. Pom’s shoulders to rub up against in bed, and gratitude for the furnace rumbling in the basement and the snores of the dogs in their crates.  

Sunday Nesting

Wrote a whole piece, then lost it when I shut down.

Here's what it said:

• Glad January isn't over cos not done with my plans for the month
• Hubster and I cleaning house, decluttering, pruning, deaccessioning, and throwing it away
• At that horrid point when the house is more of a mess than before because working on the interior of things - drawers, shelves, cabinets
• Plan on concentrating on our bedroom - time for a grown up room for the next phase of our marriage
• Many bags of garbage out by the curb
• All the black socks and all the brown socks have mates!
• All frayed, saggy underwear in said garbage bags!
• How many toiletries do I buy in a year and why do I still ahve curlers from 5 hair styles ago?
• Still have closet to do: <<<SHUDDER>>>>
• Can't seem to move forward with art and/or writing in this transitional period
• Made three different things in the art room and hate them all & ripping them up
• Not good to go two months without any creative work, holidays be damned!
•  Learned something important, though: The urge to clear everything out is affecting my work in interesting directions
• Want clean, fresh work that is just me, a brush, a pen, a pencil, and paints.
• Felt so clear-headed and focused when I began with that in mind
• Then started dragging out paper and embelishments and scraps and soon the studio was a mess and I totally lost focus
• Now avoiding studio again
• Will clean it tomorrow night and get back to basics
• Winter is a time of painting for me- need the color
• Burned out on mixed media in the fall when doing all the work that neer sold at B&B
• As long as I figure it out in the end, it is all for the good.

Trust me, it all sounded much better the first time around! Off to watch Downton Abbey on PBS and then catch the end of The Golden Globes. Hubster thrilled with Jets; much FB'ing flying around the country with various Jets fans - he who didn't have a FB page 5 days ago and wanted no part of it....

Act Two

The Mister and I decided that we would not have a big ol' anniversary party in 2010.Too much our parents' generation. Too much work. Too much planning.

Instead, we would party with...ourselves. (don't worry children; your will not have to have your retinas transplanted. No physical contact will be mentioned in this post 'cept when your father had to poke me in the shoulder to wake me up at midnight, but I'm getting ahead of the story).

The children actually precipated the idea, giving us that lovely weekend in the city. While we were there we said to each other: "Hey, y'know how we never do anything on New Year's besides freeze to death watching The Cod drop on Oyster Pond? Later for that this year."

So, after the hotel gave us the price and we went home and sold a kidney each, we made dinner reservations at Cafe Boulud, which necessitated selling the spare kidneys. Fortunately, though French, the restaurant did not serve kidneys for dinner. Or liver. Nor even blood sausage. And after all, it was the end of our big anniversary year!

 

 

 

Now, Christmas was a tad stressful, what with the mister, uh, revisiting his dinner most of the weekend and me popping black market antibiotics, so we didn't prepare very much, so on the way to the city, we could be seen running through the aisles of Lord & Taylor flinging glittery sweaters  and white shirts  into shopping bags.  Notice the big rhinestone rose bracelet - fifteen dollahs, hollah for the sale! 

The room was as chic as ever. Mr. Pom and I want to be grown ups some day and have a cosmpolitan bedroom like this (or at least one that doesn't have an a/c unit on the floor  and a giant dog crate.)

 

 

 

The restaurant, oo-la-la! (And the hostess admired my bracelet as she was seating us, so I loved her). The crowd was interesting: conservative, reactionary looking older people and young, hip couples, and all around us we heard French, German, and Spanish being spoken, so I pretended we were in Europe, cause y'know, I always pretend I'm somewhere else.

 

 

 

We partied with the beautiful people. That is, we sat at our little corner banquette and ate and ate and ate, then ate some more. 7 course tasing menu: I made it to course three and then I mushed the food around on my plate and piled some of it on Mr. Pom's plate, and assurred the waiter that the canapes, the scallop ceviche, mushroom agniolloti, dourade, venison, were all delicious, but let's get to the dessert before I fall asleep in my velvet skirt and DKNY sweater set.

 

 

 

 

These were dessert canapes - amuse bouche! (I apologize for the grainy pics, but I had to be extremely surreptitious or else Mr. Pom was going to kill me. He'd already accused me earlier in the day of being like Lucy in the Beverly Palms Hotel with Rock Hudson.But more about that later)

 

 

 

This was the main dessert plate: a very intense, dark, rich cocoa slab with ice cream rolled into sugar tubes, and some other lovely cold moussey tournado thingie. (It was after 11:00 at this point. We'd eaten six courses, walked around the lobby, went into the bar to dance but it was all techno music, spied on a party in a private room where everything appeared bored, and were frustrated that we couldn't eavesdrop on the conversation of the groovy couple right next to us cause they were speaking in French and despite my 3 years of high school French, I could only understand...nothing.)

That's when things began to...fall apart. See, I was careful not to overeat and feel ill, but when dessert came....I ate it everything but the cocoa slab. I ate the little sugar tube, the chocolate arch cut out, the creamy eggy thing, and at least 5 of 6 of the canapes, and when I put the last one in my mouth (the little gelatin one on the far right) I knew right away I'd overdone it.  But still, there were freshly baked madelines, warm, crunchy lemon-sceneted madelines...

Exit Mrs. Pom. Dizzy, drunk on sugar Mrs. Pom. Up to the room, clothes flung off...passed out on the pillow. Next thing I knew, Mr. Pom was shaking me to watch the ball drop and the city erupted in a cannon volley of firework explosions that ran up and down the streets and volleyed back and forth between the buildings and seem to roll like bowling balls back and forth in echoes across town that reverberated in the excitement, the celebration, and the relief of a new year.

 

And so, we had a lovely time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SCRIPTED

Him: Where's the decongestant?

Me: Which one

Him: Any One

Me: We have Sudafed 24-Hour, Mucinex D, and Mucinex Expectorant

Him: A>N>Y>O>N>E (gritted teeth)

Me: Hmmpf

Him: What?

Me: Where did you put the Kleenex??

Him: You're lying on the box

Me: Hmmpf

Him: Where's the thermometer?

Me: Micangela has it.

Him: Get me water

Me: Get me tea

Him: I ALWAYS get you tea, can't you get me water?

Me:  Hmmpf

Him: Put the dogs in the crates

Me: But I'm all warm under the electric blanket

Him: I ALWAYS put the dogs to bed!

Me: Hmmpf

Him: I have mono

Me: I have strep

Him: My back is killing me

Me: I can't put weight on my foot

Together: Kids????!!!!

Dogs roll eyes. The sound of the front door slamming is followed by the sound of a car revving out of the driveway.

Together: Empty nest.

Him: Pass the Afrin.

Me: Get it yourself.

Late But Still As Sweet

Putting away Christmas is always a chore, a little sad and bothersome. I really didn't mind having it up so long, necessitated by illness and by lack of desire to tackle anything stronger than making countless cups of tea and watching movies.

But when we put away Christmas, it give me a chance to look at our decorations one more time. To be reminded of years' past when I wrap tissue paper around the three ornaments commemorating Baby's First Christmases, the Raggedy Ann and Andy that were my Aunt Anita's, and the many ornaments and memories we collected in our travels around the country.

Here is a last look at Christmas at our house. A beautiful gift sent by someone who is known in the Pomegranate house as The Cookie Fairy. A wonderful gift sent from Texas, a gift that I could not let go without mention.  These splendid cookies kept us well fed through the last few weeks, and as you can see, I had to wrangle them away from the family's eager mouths just to get these shots!

 

 

We haven't started out Official Post Holidays Healthy Eating Plan here yet. It's been more like Fever Induced Lose 5 Pounds Plan. But looking at these photos, I have a sudden urge to run down to the kitchen and cream butter and sugar....

 

 

Not that I could ever turn out anything with as much beauty and wonderful taste as these goodies. So it is just as well that I not try.

 

 

Thank you, our Cookie Fairy, for surprising us with so much bounty this year. And don't you all think that she needs her own blog??? We very much do!!!

 

 

Something For You to Do Whilst I Am Indisposed.

While I let the antibiotics course through my veins, wander over to Privilege and read a splendid essay about blogging, community, and most splendid of all, the realignment of life goals when you reach 50.

 

And don't worry about the lack of a header. Let's just say I thought I was feeling better than I really am ...one will show up shortly!  Done!

Cough Cough Slurp Slurp

Sneaking onto the blog for a few minutes, feeling a little better after some tea and 2 Advil and think I can string a few sentences together betwixt hacking away, though not well enough to get the camera, find the cable, and try to remember how to upload shots from new camera.

So, my beautiful photo series about NYC over New Year's will have to wait, though I doubt they will seem relevant when I post, as will more holiday shots, and let's face it, aren't we all about over shots of flocked trees, close ups of cookies, and glistening ornaments?

If you're not, then come over cause all our decorations are still up and since this is the Feast of the Epiphany, when the 3 Wise Men followed the star and brought frankincense, myrrh, and....gold (?) to the Baby Jesus, I welcome you to come over and bring chicken soup, cinnammon toast, and some type of British DVD series like Cranford Park.

I wouldn't wear a sultan's robes, thoughs even if you are arriving by camel.

I'd wear a Hazmat suit.

 

Alls I Got Today

New Year, new slate

Wonder what meds to take

for this nose

off to doze...