restingmotion

Small Adventures

Mom and I did go off to old Plano.  Neither of us had been there in years, a decade or more, perhaps? It is now called the Plano Arts District and I admittedly saw more construction than arts, but remain happy that a few of the old buildings have remained.  It is a tiny district, only a few blocks sandwiched between old the old and the new.

One part of the Texas mythology has always been about the possibility of starting over, of remaking oneself, but there is also a danger of plastering over the past, of tearing it down and rebuilding, or relegating it to the forgotten.  We all suffer from this tendency, from the grandiosity of human ambition, desire, intent.

But wait, that is not where I am going with this post.  I am happy that there is a small bit of the old center of Plano remaining, even as it is, in a small bubble surrounded by offices and condos, at least serviced by a metro stop.  Admittedly I didn't go looking for history.  I wanted to go to Dude Sweet Chocolate, which, in a twist that made me laugh, was closed.  We wandered in some charming gift shops, one with a charming display of construction-paper boxes, which would be a perfect home wrapper for a special gift, another with beautiful rustic antique furniture. 

We ate at Urban Rio, which we liked.  I liked the urban/rustic blending in the decor and the staff were cheerful and helpful.  We started with guacamole, as Mom as is our wont.  We are both people who could make a lunch simply of guacamole.  The assumption was that we would move on to tacos and/or an enchilada plate, but alas no.  We ended both ended up with shrimp-stuffed broiled avocados.  Wonderful but a bit of an excess of avocado, even for proclaimed avocado lovers.  

I took a picture of our main course as well, but decided that I could't make it look like anything but a hot mess even though the plate was artfully arranged.  The avocados were topped with a delicious cloud of fried golden fried onion threads, which were delicious (and gluten-free!) and I was too busy diving into that mess to bother with trying to set up a more attractive picture.  In some ways, for me at least, and the way I think, the time spent messing with the photo is time spent missing the experience, leaving a bubble of memory, like the bubble of old Plano.  But I know this is not true for everyone.  There are talented photographers, people for whom the act of documenting enhances the experience, and their art enhances observation and memory for all of us.  But I am not in that league.

My last night in the Dallas area we went south.  Plano-Garland-Richardson are north of the city and mom rarely ventures far afield.  El Ranchito has been a favorite of my youngest brother's as long as I can remember, perhaps as long as he has been living and working in the Dallas area.

It has been well over 20 years since Nick first brought us here, and it must have been more or less a decade since my last visit.  The space of course has expanded and changed over time, but it is also still obviously the same space, with wonderful food that reminds me of the first time I visited.  There is still that mix of Mexican and Tex-Mex regional specialties. Mom had a traditional plate, but  I longed for food I rarely see and almost ordered the cabrito.  Goat meat is available in Tennessee and so, perhaps is cabrito, very young goat roasted whole.  I haven't looked.  Last night I had the mollejas, I believe the first dish I ever ordered at El Ranchito, and perhaps the same dish I had at my last visit, just as good now as it was then.

 

If it sounds like I have been eating my way across Dallas, your assumption may be correct.  I am stuffed. It is a good thing, perhaps, that I don't like to eat before flying. 

 

 

 

 

 

Meet Scooter

This is Scooter. I have to say that for all that he is a sweet cat, he is not who I want licking the back of my neck early in the morning.  

I am visiting my mom, and don't really have an activities planned except for breaking up her routine a little bit.  There is some shopping she wants to do, some things I want to do, a few places that are new to both of us that are worth exploring.  It will be fun, a mini adventure close to home.  And in that spirit, that adventure can be around any corner if you just keep your eyes open and give it a chance, I hope you all have your own mini-adventures this weekend.

 

 

Thursday

The day is made of many days, an hour

keeps slow minutes that found their way, and the day

grows and grows with extravagant forgottens, with metals,

crystals, clothes still flung in the  corners,

predictions, messages the never arrived.

The day is a pool in the future forest,

waiting, filling with leaves, with warmings, 

with  dark sounds that entered the water 

like celestial stones.

                                                                from TIME by Pablo Neruda

In Search of Clothes for Festive Occasions

 

I fielded a few invitations to parties and events in December and so far in January, a few of which called for various degrees of "festive" dress.  I like the idea of festive -- as opposed to formal, which can be festive or not, and often is far too serious -- but I struggled nonetheless.  It seem that I although I have developed a comfortable relationship with my wardrobe and my style, at least on a casual, day-to-day basis, I have somehow found myself in a place were I have no party clothes, or very few, and what I do have does not play well together.

 

And so, I've started thinking about the word festive and what it means to me, at least in term of clothing and style, as well as how various degrees of festive dress could play out, from festive-but-casual, through the various stages of festive dress, in ways that worked with my wardrobe, and with my evolving sense of comfort and style in dress, of my increasing awareness that it does indeed matter to me what goes with what, and how I put myself together, but also that feeling feminine doesn't necessarily come from dressing in a frilly or girly way, but from feeling comfortable in one's skin.

 

I'm in no rush.  But at the same time I'm ready to start thinking about adding a little festivity, and not, perhaps, just for special occasions, although I think I will start there, with having a few things I can count on to see me through any situation.

 

 

I've started collecting a few images of things I like, that I could imagine myself wearing, and I've noticed a few things.  For one thing, the clothes that seem to say "festive" to me are a bit more colorful and a bit more traditionally feminine than, for example, what I was wearing yesterday, in the above photo.  At the same time I also recognize that I would never wear the pink shoes with the pink purse with the pink floral and leopard dress. I would wear the pink shoes with simple pants or even jeans, and although I probably do need a dress or two, a dress that could be dressed up or down, such as the Dries Van Noted dress on the Right (pink floral with leopard) or the St. John Dress at the top (too short), I would probably get a lot of use out some judiciously chosen accessories as well as a couple of dresses or skirts.  Perhaps what is really happening is that some other part of me is just waking up, a part that went into hibernation for a while, that same part of me that bought sexy perfume in Paris.  Although I can honesty say that sexy cocktail dresses are most definitely not my style.

 

But for now I need to spend a little more time assessing what I really want, and how it works with what I have and the life I lead. Like all good things in life, decisions need to evolve over time.  But who knows.  

 

Apparently I am knitting a festive sweater.  I don't believe that is why I chose this pattern.  In fact I don't think it was a conscious decision at the time, just something I grabbed from my closet, telling myself that it would be a fun knit.  But maybe I was thinking about parties and glitter, and needing a little sparkle in my life, even if I hadn't yet put that yearning into words.

The piece shown above has actually been ripped out because there were too many errors, but I've started reknitting it.  This photo gives you a better idea of what is to come than the tiny corner I have knitted now.  I wrote about the pattern and why I was ripping it over on my knitting blog, purslandmurmers, and I will continue to post updates there, as that makes sense for me as a project notebook, but I won't bore you with all the knitting details.

 

 

 

 

Saturday Morning Musings

You would think with a snow day, or days as it were, in Knoxville, with everything cancelled and wide open stretches of time before me, I would not have missed a blog post, wouldn't you.  Obviously you would have been wrong.  Somehow that empty time felt free for indulgence.  Yes I puttered around the house and worked on some projects, but I also played, and I put my to do list aside.

 

Tuesday afternoon Tikka and I had to go outside several times to play in the snow, to get it in our hair and our eyes and to shake it off and run around in it some more.  Tikka hates water but she loves snow.  She was completely unimpressed with the beach.  But Tuesday and Wednesday she was more than happy to go outside: to run around the house and play tag, to send snow flying into the air, to just be playful; and I was happy to play with her.

 

It makes my heart glad to see this side of my furry baby girl.  She is usually quiet and laid back, but she has been a bit more rambunctious lately, more willing to leap and bark and play tag, and I have probably behaved more like a puppy grandma than a mom, willing to indulge her when she wants to play, at least some of the time.  Tuesday and Wednesday were Tikka days.  I kept coats and boots and gloves by the door (there is no mudroom or closet on the main floor of this house) and we went out pretty much whenever she wanted.  I'll never know what happened to Tikka when she was on the streets, but I hope this more playful side of her means that she trusts me, and is happy, and knows that I will not abandon her.  

Wednesday morning I also marveled at the pattern of the snow on the screen outside my office window.  The screen, that particular tree, both are likely to go in time.  I love the light in this house in the winter time (I bought it in winter).  In the summer that tree blocks all the light and the view.  But for this moment, it was wonderful just to look at the patterns and smile, accepting this small gift before it melted away.

By Thursday much of the snow had melted, although there are still patches here and there.   I noticed this small camellia bud, caught just before emerging.  A flower in waiting, a promise, ready to burst forth.  We had some warm weather last week, in the 60s, before another freeze and more single digit temps.  This camellia has been sitting in bud, waiting to bloom for weeks now.  An opportunity which did not quite materialize, and I am grateful.  This small bud waiting to emerge to me holds so much more joy and promise.

 

And thus it is; the pattern of life gets interrupted, and yet the promise always returns.  Somehow this little flower reminds me of faith, of hope, of the certainty that the earth, that life, will indeed right itself once again, if we can but hold still long enough.

 

 

Monday: Kitchen Day

 

Monday was pantry day and I spent most of the day puttering in the kitchen.  I needed to refresh a few simple staples:  namely a personal care item, and some mayonnaise but neither of those is a big deal.  Mayonnaise takes 3 minutes and is better than anything I can buy.  The hard part is remembering to take the egg and lemon out of the fridge in advance so that they can come up to room temperature, and then remembering to use them before they go bad.  A timer helps.

But I felt like doing something more. I also thought that while I was there, I might as well make a day of it, and play around a little bit.  A couple of spice blends were running low, and there were some things I had been meaning to make or try.   I had started some Szechuan Peppercorn Oil on Sunday because I knew it needed to steep overnight, but I realized that I had enough Szechuan Pepper left over to make a salt blend as well, so I started toasting some Szechuan Peppercorns with kosher salt while I got out eggs for both breakfast and the mayo.  While I cooked breakfast I laid out my plan of attack.

While onions and spinach sautéed I melted the coconut oil and got the deodorant out of the way and put aside where it could cool. I toasted the Szechuan peppercorns and salt until the salt was just turning a creamy golden white, but not yet gold, before grinding it to a fine powder with the peppercorns.  I also strained the Szechuan peppercorn oil to remove the aromatics and bottled it for storage.  By that time breakfast was about ready, and I drizzled a little bit of the Szechuan oil over my eggs which had been scrambled with onion and turkey breast.

Next up were spices.

I toasted the whole spices for Five-Spice Powder.  If you are observant, you will note that there are actually six spices in the skillet.  Yes, it is true, my five spice blend contains six spices.

Once the spices are toasty and lightly browned and the house is filled with a fragrant sweet/spicy aroma, I pulled the pan off the heat to allow the spices cool a bit before pulverizing them into a fine powder.  The star anise browns better if you break it into its points before toasting in the skillet.

Next up was curry powder.  This was the first batch of curry powder I have made any since I moved into this house.  I don't tend to use a pre-mixed blend when I am cooking Indian style food, except for my own garam masala blend.  But I missed curry powder when I was making deviled eggs over the holidays, and since I sometimes enjoy it with my eggs in the morning, with vegetables, or a mayonnaise dressing it was time.  The process is the same as for five-spice.  Toast the spices, then blend.  Here the toasted spices are in the spice grinder ready to go.  Turmeric is hidden underneath to give the blend that familiar curry color and round out the flavor.

After whipping up the mayonnaise, it was time for lunch.  I had seen some interesting purple sweet potato noodles in the oriental market when I was there on Sunday, and I decided to try them out for lunch.  While a pot of water came to a boil, I shredded half of a largish baby bok choy and a radish.

The noodles only had to cook for 1 minute and came out of the water fascinatingly gelatinous and slippery and somewhat translucent.  The color seemed slightly mottled, although that could have just been the light through the translucent noodles; I couldn't capture it in a photo.  The color, and the speckled translucence reminded me of squid skin on the translucent white bodies.  Not such a bad thing. I tossed the noodles with a teaspoon of my Szechuan peppercorn oil to keep them from congealing into a gelatinous mass.

Although the original intention was to make a noodle dish, it was quickly apparent that there was more bok choy than noodle, and a salad was created by tossing the warm noodles with the bok choy, allowing the greens to soften and wilt slightly while I quickly crisped up a little duck confit that was sitting in the fridge.   The resulting salad was a pleasing mix of texture and flavor.  But although I enjoyed this lunch, I'm not quite sure what to do with the entire package of noodles.  It says it makes 12 (small) servings, but the noodles function better as an accent texture than as a noodle base.  Perhaps they will absorb flavor from a base, but then I might lose the color.  They were certainly  good in the salad, and would probably be good in a broth as well and they might fry nicely.  Both bean threads and yam noodles tend to be lovely when fried, not that I tend to fry anything at all regularly. How long will these fresh noodles keep in the fridge?  They are already pretty dry, can they be air-dried to prolong storage? Can they be frozen? Considering that the entire package cost $1.38, it is all a cheap enough experiment.

In the afternoon I made some Chinese style fermented black bean sauce.  This is a staple of Chinese cooking and difficult to find in a gluten-free version.  Mostly it consists of beans and aromatics, but there is a little soy sauce in the mix, the reason it is not gluten-free.  Since I've been making my own, I think I may like it better than anything I've bought, but it could just be that I don't remember what the stuff in jars tastes like.  The photo above shows the bean sauce at about the mid-point of the process. Everything has been sautéed together and next I will puree about half of this mixture with some oil and then stir it back into the mixture and let it cook a little more before cooling it down and storing it.  I made a large batch, about six cups, because I also need it for making hoisin.  Gluten free Hoisin is available, but I find most of terrible, all sugar and salt and little character. 

The final project was to make a batch of Serrano-Lemongrass Vinegar, from Barbara Tropp's China Moon Cookbook.  In fact, the two infusions, the Szechuan Peppercorn Oil and the Lemongrass Vinegar, bookended my kitchen experiments and both techniques came from Tropp.  I had actually been inspired to make the Szechuan Peppercorn Oil by an article in Milk Street Magazine, but I found the Milk Street version to be uninspiring.  I remembered loving the version I had made in my 30's and 40's and so had decided to give it a try, wondering if my memory was accurate, or if my tastes had simply changed.  Memory served me well, and the new, Tropp-Inspired batch of Szechuan Peppercorn Oil was nuanced and complex, inspiring me to try the vinegar.

 

While the vinegar cooled and steeped, I was overcome with a mad urge to experiment with making some mushroom soy sauce.  I always loved mushroom soy when I was young, but I have never found a gluten-free version.  I have no idea how it will turn out, and apparently it will be a few weeks before the results are in, but there is a pint of (hopefully) future mushroom soy, sitting in the back of a cool closet waiting for the magic to happen.

A simple supper of roasted chicken breast, carrots, and bok choy ended my day.  I sautéed the bok choy in the chicken drippings and then tossed them briefly with the Lemongrass-Serrano Vinegar.  It was light and brightly refreshing, a perfect way to end a day in the kitchen.  That chicken breast is really tiny.  Two bone-in breasts from that chicken weighed 7.5 ounces.  Although only one is shown in the photo, I'll admit I went back and at the other one as well.   I figure that means I ate 5 ounces of chicken.  Yes I weighed the bones afterwards.  I am indeed that much of a nerd. 

Saturday Meanderings

Moisés took his first walk in the snow this morning.  It was slightly before dawn, still almost dark, but the light was lifting.  Perhaps I am not the only one settling in to myself.  Perhaps Moisés is just experiencing a mid-life crisis.  He is nine, and hasn't really been outside since he was a small kitten; he's never shown interest, and the two occasions he did find himself outside he was terrified.  Perhaps he just wants to see what is so exciting to Tikka?  I'll never know his reasons, and I was not sanguine about letting him out but he was determined.  Now he and Tikka go out in the morning for a brief wander before breakfast.  Tikka romps, oblivious to the snow; Moisés picks up his foot after each step and looks at it with unsettled disgust.  Still he explores a little further before following Tikka inside for the joys of the breakfast bowl, Tikka dancing and spinning in eager circles, M with a dignified stroll and a brief swaying to one side, just enough to brush against my ankles.

 

We seem to have all settled into this place.  I still worry that M will wander away; will get hit by a car, or hurt by another animal.  But I suppose I have to let him be himself. Tikka is usually content to stay here in her own space, our yard, and she is far happier with this yard than she was with the condo.  I don't know why unless it is just that I worry less.  I do worry, I worry that she will run off after another dog when she sees one walk by -- the opportunity to be social outweighs the risks of the invisible fence every time. Often I don't worry about the collar, she is not inclined to wander anyway unless tempted, and the temptation is too great, collar or no.  She generally only wants to be out if I am out anyway, where we can keep an eye on each other.  Both beasts are homebodies, happy in their space.  Like their mom.

I've been knitting.  I've been sleeping late as well.  Knitting and sleeping.  I think there is a connection here.  I never wanted to be a person who woke up hours before dawn, a person who went to bed in the middle of the evening either, although I've been a lark most of my life, a person who bounds awake with joy.  This is a project I started in December, didn't like, ripped apart and restarted this past week.  Perhaps I simply needed to knit that shrug first, to get my knitting muscles back in gear, to rekindle the spark.  I've been dreaming of yarn and cloth and fiber and thread, dreaming up projects, recording ideas, but the actual act of creation eluded me.  I would pick something up and put it down again, overwhelmed with weariness.

 

Perhaps I was just committed to too many things that were not truly what made me happy, that were against where my own nature wants me to go.  I really want to do nothing but take meanderingly slow walks, bury myself in thread and fabric and yarn, play, cook, eat, share.  And yet I never quite managed it.  I was always distracted by too many things that needed to be done. I was bound by not enough time when what I really needed was to escape time altogether.

 

 When I pick up my needles and knit, I escape time.  I sit and knit late into the evening.  The hours disappear.  It seems I was not knitting because I was disconnected from something essential, essential to me at least. Perhaps I was letting who I was dictate who I should be.  That isn't it exactly.  I was letting my past dictate who I should be, letting the world dictate who I should be.  What I did was never who I was. My mistake was in thinking that it should be. Who I was is integral to who I am, but it is only a past me, a part of me, and not who I have become. Even though I don't wish to be that person anymore, I have struggled with letting go, with saying "yes, you are right, I could solve that problem for you, but no I will not, I can not, because to do so denies who I am at my very core".   I need to be here, to play with yarn, to embrace silence, but also to share, to share my gifts as they are, not as they are expected to be, to accept that as busy and distracting as the world may be, in its very essence it is completely here, in every moment, in every small vortex of space.

There has been a cardinal in the tree outside my office window every morning this week.  Every morning except this morning.  The photo is from a couple of days ago, from before the snow.  The light is muted by the storm window.  I don't like storm windows, or screens.  They mute the light, deaden the play of light in the house, deaden the face of the house from the street.  And yet the screens remind me now of how many veils and walls we build.  The snow will pass.  This cardinal will go and another will come. There is no rush.

Practicing What I Preach

Somehow I have had poultry on the brain the last few months.  We talked about chicken in Scotland, and the differences between regulations in the UK and the United States.  Then I read Big Chicken on Lisa's recommendation.  I've long believed in attempting to eat local, sustainably and humanely raised meat and poultry as much as possible, but I have not always been very strict about it.  Many times convenience wins, although in those instances I at least aim to go organic.  

 

When I returned from Paris I needed to make chicken stock but the farmer I usually buy chickens from, and who also supplies me both with chicken feet and wonderfully flavorful older stewing hens, had no chicken available.    Stock is a general pantry necessity in my house, and I almost always have some in the freezer, but I was out right then, and Thanksgiving was coming.  I like to start my turkey gravy with a base of chicken stock.  I did make stock, using the cheapest chicken I could find in the grocery store.  That is the way I did it when I was young, waiting for sales, and snapping up cheap chicken for stock.  But I was young and naive then.  The experiment was a lesson in how the quality of the ingredients affect the quality of the final product.  My stock making technique and skill has evolved over time, but that particular batch was functional but far from the best stock I have ever made. although it was still superior to stock in a box. 

The resulting turkey stock might have been the best I have ever made however, although.  Whether it was the turkeys, or the fact that I've changed my technique somewhat since the previous Thanksgiving, I'm not completely certain.  I got two smallish turkeys, one a local heritage breed pastured turkey and the other a wild turkey. I didn't take pictures of them  but perhaps I should have.  I named them Abe and Mary.  Abe, the wild turkey was long and tall, lean, muscular and gangly. Mary was small and rounded, much like a smaller version of the turkeys we find in the grocery store every year, but without the breast enhancements. The trimmings and bones of Abe and Mary made the best turkey stock I have ever made.  And both of them were perfectly delicious to eat as well.  None of us could discern a difference in taste between the birds.

 

I didn't roast the birds.  I couldn't have fit both of them in my oven anyway.  The breasts were removed and cooked sous vide to the perfect temperature.  The legs were braised slowly in red wine.  The breast meat at the end of the platter near the bottom of the photo is Mary's, the back is Abe's.  (sorry I wasn't really thinking about blogging on Thanksgiving, I'm just happy to have any picture.) You can barely discern any difference other than that Abe's breasts were flatter and wider than Mary's.  They both tasted tender and juicy and delicious. In the same way, Abe's legs are long and Mary's drumsticks are plump with a dainty ankle.  The brown bits on the platter of breast meat are slices of turkey skin that was roasted until it was crisp and crackly like bacon. I really couldn't taste much difference between the two, so I'm not convinced I'd pay extra for a wild turkey, unless it ends up that it was Abe's bones that made that stock so wonderful.  I would pay for a heritage and pastured turkey, as the flavor was excellent however as the flavor was superior to the standard market fare.

 

But there was still no chicken and I needed to expand my poultry horizons.  I needed a couple of alternate suppliers so I started doing some research, and now I have a list of a few places to try, although my favorite local farm will probably remain first on my list when chickens are available.  

As happens, I needed to make stock again.  This time I procured chickens elsewhere.  They came gutted, but otherwise fully intact.  Now, of course I know that chicken doesn't grow in styrofoam packets, and I've been part of a team that butchered a lamb.  But I've never had a whole chicken on my cutting board before, and I hate to admit that I started off being a little bit squeamish.  I got over it.  Goodness knows that if our ancestors, even only a few generations ago, were going to eat a chicken they were faced with the whole bird, and they had to pluck it as well.  And I do believe that we should be aware of what we eat, and its role in the ecosystem, and all that stuff that sounds good when you are talking and seems much more daunting when you are a privileged white American faced with a chicken on your cutting board.

 

So I managed.  I learned that it is very easy to snap a chicken's neck right where it meets the back.  I'm not sure I really wanted to know that, but now I do.  I learned to pull out the esophagus and other funky bits.  Don't worry, I took a picture but I'm not going to show it to you.  I separated out the feet and heads for use in stock, collected the offal separate bags, and had a pile of nice whole chickens to use for regular cooking, looking just as nice as if I'd picked them up at the store.

I made stock yesterday.  I've used chicken feet in stock before; they enhance the collagen level in the stock and give it body and flavor.  I went to the Chinese market, where I learned I can buy chicken feet, and necks, and even heads, duck heads too, if I want, for future stocks, and I purchased a small package of necks to enhance this batch of stock, even if they are not organic.  The resulting stock is excellent, even without a stewing hen.

 

I know most of my friends don't make stock and I understand.  It takes time, but I love the process.  That doesn't mean that I wouldn't rather just go to the store and pick up chicken breasts, an occasional steak, and some hamburger.  But I honestly don't believe that is very healthy for our world or for us, much less sustainable.  Our ancestors ate a wider variety of meats and a wider variety of parts of the animal than we do.  We've grown very isolated from our world, from the animals and the earth that feeds us, from death and the way death is a necessary part of life.  We need diversity to nourish our bodies, the earth needs diversity to survive.  Different plants, different animals, fill different niche's in the ecosystem, a system of which we are a part.

 

In my own way of looking at things, this is part of my hope to simplify.  I don't mean make things easier necessarily, but to be conscientious in my choices and my actions.  A chicken, a whole chicken will give me several meals, its carcass combined with the feet and head will give me nourishing broth and soup, and the livers and gizzard and heart have essential nutrients that we don't easily get elsewhere (the gizzards and heart can go in stock).  Even eating other proteins, I'd like to try to be more conscientious in my choices.  I am a single person, so true nose-to-tail living would be difficult, and I'm not likely to buy a whole hog.  But I can seek out variety and diversity.  We will see how that goes.  And yes, I know the the Chinese, and probably others, eat the chicken feet, but I'm not there yet, and if you come to my house for dinner, I promise not to feed you chicken feet either.

 

Remembering: Paris in November

I was looking at my photo files this morning and I came across the photos from Paris in November.  I was originally looking for something else, but it struck me that it might be nice to simply take a walk through the Paris of recent memory.

All of these photos were taken on our third day in Paris, so, that would be a Monday.  This first photo was taken in the morning, after leaving our hotel, near La Palais Royale, headed toward the Place de l'Opera.   The fountain is in a small plaza about a block from our hotel.  

First Glimpses of L'Opera Garnier, camera held high, trying to shoot over the morning traffic.   

And then from the center of the street, waiting for a light, the obligatory tourist photos of the Opera Garnier above, and the Place Vendome below.

The stores have not yet opened, and everything is much quieter than it will be when we pass through later.

In the Jardins du Palais Royale, before shopping at Lutens.

As usual, I always want to take pictures of architectural details and skies.

On the North side of the Palais Royale, just a hop from our hotel.

Then a later afternoon walk, through the 2nd Arrondissement in the late afternoon light.

 

And down the Rue Monmartre to the Rue du Louvre

Our walk continued but the light grew dim and the crowds grew heavy as the work-day came to a close.  Still, it was a good day for walking, exactly the kind of city day I love best:  No real agenda, just wandering.  I pulled a muscle in my hip, just a little blip really, stepping off a curb in the midst of a jostling group of young people, so we stopped for a glass of wine, a rest, and a nibble before heading back to our hotel to unwind before dinner.  The perfect way, really, to end a brief Paris sojourn.

 

 

 

 

 

Where is Wonder Woman When You Need Her?

I know I left my Wonder Woman Pen on my desk last night.  I know this because I told myself it was a mistake.  A loose pen and a cat are an invitation for loss.

This morning I couldn't find Wonder Woman at all and a search ensued.  She wasn't in the office, even under the bookcases.  I eventually found her downstairs under the corner of a rug.  My the adventures she had overnight!  

 

My Wonder Woman pen is currently my check-writing pen.  Sometimes it is the little gifts that are the best, although generally it was a good season for celebrations and gifts.   Wonder Woman leapt out of my stocking into immediate use, where she makes a chore fun.  The Edward Gorey calendar is about to go on my bulletin board, where he can bring smiles every day.

 

Now if only Wonder Woman could help me fish the sock out from behind the sock drawer, the one that I want to wear today and which is keeping me from closing that drawer completely.  Perhaps I regret automatically throwing away all my wire coat hangers. Perhaps buying a dresser where the drawers don't come all the way out very easily was short-sighted.  Actually, perhaps it is time to clean out the sock drawer.  

 

Perhaps it is time to just sit back for a little self-forgiving chuckle.

 

Have a good day, and may your biggest problems be missing pens or lost socks.