February 2017
This is my Monday after a long-weekend away, so forgive me if I’m not quit as plucky as usual. Better yet, don’t bother me at all today because I just need to catch up in peace. To that end, I just want to point you to this linky post of previous moments of tranquility that have given me great joy over the years. We need more calm in this tumultuous internet zone.
Those of us wishing for another tale of Harry Potter were somewhat appeased by the release of a play billed as ‘The Eighth Story. Nineteen Years Later’. It picks up with the children of Harry Potter, along with all the main players of the original books, some of whom show up in memory, or in those magical picture frames where the dead still seem to live out some fragmented version of life. J.K. Rowling’s magical world was always one in which loss was inevitable and irreversible. She taught that tough lesson in as kind a way as possible. Harry’s hurt was always palpable and present even as he triumphed and gained the love and loyalty of a group of friends who became his family. The latest play, ‘Harry Potter and The Cursed Child’ is a tribute to all of that, and Rowling, Jack Horne and John Tiffany manage to recapture the enchantment, bringing our favorite characters back to thrilling life.
“Harry, there is never a perfect answer in this messy, emotional world. Perfection is beyond the reach of humankind, beyond the reach of magic. In every shining moment of happiness is that drop of poison: the knowledge that pain will come again. Be honest to those you love, show your pain. To suffer is as human as to breathe.’ ~ Dumbledore
My only previous exposure to Mr. Harvey Wallbanger (and the only reason we have an impossible-to-store bottle of Galliano in the house) was in this Harvey Wallbanger cake. That thing was heavenly, and in the years since I made it, I’ve been tip-toeing around the original cocktail from which the cake was derived. I finally tried it a couple of weeks ago, with some fresh Florida oranges, and I have to say that I was less than impressed. It turns out I don’t like Galliano all that much. It has a sweet medicinal property that disagrees with my palate completely. Still, there are those who will wax nostalgic for this, and if you happen to have some Galliano still hanging around from the 70’s, now’s your chance to give it a whirl.
 Harvey Wallbanger
A simple bouquet for your midday contemplation, in hot pink and evergreen.
A more colorful version of this companion study in simplicity.
As a wise woman once said, pink goes good with green.
Forget that treasonous clown who used Russia to steal the last election and focus on the recap at work here. We broke the hump of February, and we are on our last full week of the wretched month. Here’s what went down over the week of love.
Andy Cohen’s latest book ‘Superficial’ was a super-fun romp through celebrity glitz.
Keeping things simple on Valentine’s Day.
Andy in his youth. (And younger.)
Love is pain and pain is art: Madonna’s ‘Graffiti Heart’.
A tour, back in full bloom.
Another blooming installment here, and here, and here.
Nick Jonas, as hot as ever.
A super-hot Hunk of the Day run included Josh Moore, Mauricio Plastina, Keegan Whicker & Andy Cohen.
It’s always a good time for a Nick Jonas post, especially when a few random GIFs are just waiting to be posted. Gay-baiting or not, Mr. Jonas knows his audience and, more importantly, how to titillate and please them. From that first Instagram moment of shirtless abandon, to that almost-butt-baring iconic underwear shoot, and all the sex scenes and teasing teasers that have ensued, he figured out where his bread is buttered a while ago, and has ensured a steady stream of adulation ever since. Enjoy some extra glimpses here.
Ever since seeing a photo of the finished product, I’ve wanted to try my hand at these pickled beets and eggs. With our first brunch in need of something with a little pizzazz, I set about to see what magic the Pennsylvania Dutch had crafted. This one requires a bit of forethought and planning, as it is essential that the 48-hour soaking period be honored in order to achieve the colorful brilliance you see here.
Billed as a “gift from the Amish” (and all of my close friends know my affinity with the Amish), here is the old-fashioned recipe in case you want to recreate it.
Pennsylvania Dutch Pickled Beets & Eggs
This is not a recipe for everyone, but it would make a great side-dish for Easter, thanks to the way the beet color seeps into the eggs. Once they are cut open, it’s the sort of combination that doesn’t seem real for something you can eat, but there it is, a wondrous collision of hot pink and sunny egg-yolk yellow.
Can you believe that we’ve never hosted a Sunday brunch until now? My friend Chris voiced his incredulity, and when I pondered it my own mind boggled a bit too. We’ve had weekend guests who have shared in breakfast and brunch-like meals, but never have we had people over specifically with the intent of brunching. This was the first time, and though it came off without a hitch, it was a lot of work, so we likely won’t be doing this with any regularity.
The unlikely centerpiece was a bowl of Pennsylvania Dutch pickled beets and eggs, but that was so pretty it deserved its own post (to follow later today). It also required a 48-hour prep time, which gives you an indication of the forethought and planning that is required – such as the baked French toast you can see above. I’m not a fan of making French toast because of all the smoke and mess, so a baked version was much more to my liking. It could (and actually should) be prepared the night beforehand, so the bread can soak up the batter.
The home fries (with onion and yellow peppers) and the frittata had to be made right before serving, which is where the stress of the whole thing surfaces. Both, however, won’t be harmed by waiting around for an hour or so – and some people prefer a room temperature frittata anyway.
This was my first freaking frittata and it was fabulous, if I do say so myself. Following the advice of various frittata experts, I cooked up the vegetables separately to eliminate a lot of the excess liquid they would otherwise bring to the dish, and it turned out quite nicely.
The deviled eggs (half with horseradish) were provided by Suzie, and I always find that the secret to getting really good deviled eggs is to ask someone else to do them. I provided the traditional brunch libations (Bloody Marys and mimosas).
We brought out the waffle-maker (as we do once or twice a year) and other people baked them up.
Is it worth having a waffle-maker if you’re only going to use it once a year? The answer is yes. At least on this morning. I’ll sing a different song when I trip over it in the attic again.
It was a grand time, and it turns out that the key to a great brunch isn’t so much about the food or fanciness of the dinnerware, but rather in the family and friends we were lucky enough to assemble. We’ll do it again when spring returns.
Word.
The afternoon sun starts to slip behind the continent, giving the Maine coastline that magical illumination of the golden hour. Most of the time I catch this view in the morning, when the sun is ahead, lighting up the land from the other direction. By later afternoon we’ve traditionally moved on to other entertainments. Sometimes, though, I manage to return to this spot for the enchanted light you see here.
As the tour winds down, I find myself looking for quiet pockets of peace. I think of Maine at such times of longing. Perhaps I will end this tour there, at the end of May, when summer is on the horizon…
A violent beating of the air, the crazed yet concise fluttering of the wings, and finally the quick lift into the sky. The life of a bird in all its ferocity. Ripping the heads off of fish, swallowing insects whole, breaking the backs of rodents – these are all in a bird’s method of survival.
We see their graceful flights, the smooth arc of their paths in mid-air, and we marvel at how easy and lovely it appears. We don’t see the tense muscles holding their wings taut beneath the armor of feathers, we don’t see the retracted talons clenched and preparing for perch. We only see what’s pretty.
What holds dominion on this ever-evolving planet of ours: land or sea? For sheer size, might, and fury, I give the edge to our oceans. The egocentric plight of mankind wants to think that we control the water on all our borders, but we are really just on one big island. (And no, islands don’t float.) The sea holds the power, and all the battles are waged and raged on the shore. The crux of water and stone. The space of magnificent meeting. The interface of nature and humanity.
Long have I felt the pull of the water, and long have I wanted to heed its call. I’m drawn to the edge, but not compelled much further. The immensity of the thing frightens me. The thought of how far it goes, and how deep. If you’ve ever stood on a beach looking out over the ocean and trying to fathom how small you are in this universe, you know what a humbling and terrifying notion it can be. As it laps at your feet, and you feel yourself sinking into its pull, you understand what little impact we truly have. If given the chance – and if we so dare to defy its omnipotence – it would have its way with us.
Yet its beauty it unmatched. On tranquil days of sun and surf, it is a balm of supreme calm and contemplation. The cadence of its waves, the ballad of receding water, even the wind its temperature conjures from above – they sound the notes of a song of peace, of inevitability. Grace resides here, along with Redemption. Hand in hand, they walk along the shore. Let us walk with them.
This weekend finds me in travel status again, as The Delusional Grandeur Tour heads West. I’ll be populating tomorrow’s posts with the next installment of the tour book, but as a reminder of where we last left off, here is a brief list of the most recent posts. We’ve embarked on the final section of the piece: Flower Bomb Balm. It will probably be the longest section, as it includes the Grand Finale. As much as I don’t like to draw out goodbyes and endings, this is the last time, so forgive the Lord of the Rings hesitancy to finish up.
The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part OneÂ
The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part Two
The Delusional Grandeur Tour: Flower Bomb Balm ~ Part ThreeÂ
Since the first ‘Andy as a kid’ post was so popular, here’s a bonus one of some more baby photos. It’s the perfect dose of cute and cuddly for the middle of the day.
{Note: The Madonna Timeline is an ongoing feature, where I put the iPod on shuffle, and write a little anecdote on whatever was going on in my life when that Madonna song was released and/or came to prominence in my mind.}
IF GRAFFITI ON THE WALL CHANGED ANYTHING AT ALL THEN IT WOULD BE ILLEGAL.
IF SCARS COULD GO AWAY, WHAT WOULD YOUR BODY SAY, DON’T EVER HIDE YOUR FEELINGS.
DON’T EVER TRY TO TAKE MY FREEDOM, YOUR IMPERFECTIONS, THIS WORLD NEEDS THEM.
A throwaway bonus track from the brilliant ‘Rebel Heart’ opus, ‘Graffiti Heart’ is a wild ride, beginning with a sweet sing-song melody before transforming into a gloriously racing whirligig that reaches breakneck speed and velocity. It’s got a retro-80’s vibe to it, and the friends and figures Madonna invoke – Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat for example – are perfectly suited to its raw reminiscence.
Madonna once told the story of when she first arrived in New York City in her early twenties. Intent on being heard, intent on being seen, intent on being someone, she said she would walk through the city staring everyone straight in the eye, willing herself to be remembered by them because she was going to be somebody. We should have known then…
WHAT DO YOU GOT, SHOW ME YOUR BASQUIAT
HE DIDN’T KEEP IT ALL TO HIMSELF
EVEN WITH KEITH OUT ON THE STREET,
HE DIED FIGHTING SO YOU CAN DO IT AS WELL
It was a different world, a different time. As raw and gritty as it may have been, there was a freshness tinged with innocence at the start of the 80’s, but maybe that’s just my nostalgic childhood shading things into something sweeter than they ever were. But if Madonna could feel like a virgin as she embarked upon her world-rattling career, why shouldn’t the rest of us join in on the shiny and new?
LOVE IS PAIN AND PAIN IS ART!
SHOW ME YOUR GRAFFITI HEART
LOVE IS PAIN AND PAIN IS ART!
SHOW ME YOUR GRAFFITI HEART
Madonna has spent a lifetime surrounding herself with artists – gypsies, shape-shifters, chameleons, and tricksters- soaking up their inspiration and creativity, taking it in and transforming it into something new, or at least hybridized. Singers and actors and writers and models have remained constant in her world, and after three decades of success as an artist, she in turn has inspired others. It can’t be said that she hasn’t been selfish at times – a great degree of that is necessary to have remained such a potent force for such a long time – but as she eases into this stage of her career, the collaborations and investments in artists other than herself are becoming more apparent.
On her recent Rebel Heart Tour, during the emotional centerpiece of the show (an almost-acoustic straight-forward reading of ‘Rebel Heart’), she introduced a series of fan-made art of her various guises through the years. As much as Madonna has made her relationship with her fans the one real lasting romance in her life, her acknowledgment of that in her concerts and interviews has always come off as somewhat trite and obligatory. This brief moment of sharing the stage with those who have loved her the most was one of the more authentic and genuine shows of affection that she’s given to us over the years.
FRIDA SHOWED HER FEELINGS, PAINTING FROM THE CEILING BACK IN THE BEGINNING.
NOTHING’S WHAT IT SEEMS, SHE PAINTED ALL HER DREAMS, SHE MADE HER OWN REALITY.
DON’T EVER TRY TO TAKE MY FREEDOM, YOUR IMPERFECTIONS, THIS WORLD NEEDS THEM.
‘Graffiti Heart’ does a little bit of that too. Madonna is nothing if not the lucky vehicle for her muses. This song brings back the early eagerness and hunger for making an impact through artistic expression. It’s very much a sentiment of youth, but one that Madonna has managed to retain throughout her ever-extending run. Her best moments come when she is thirsty for that explosion of art and music, when she remembers walking down the streets of New York wanting nothing more than to make a memorable mark.
Whether you love or hate her, you cannot deny that Madonna has contributed a magnificent amount of pop art to our culture. Her amalgamation of music and image paved the way for every major artist today, and she made herself and her image into her own work of art. The world will never be like it was in the 80’s, when Madonna and Michael Jackson and Prince could hold the pop culture trinity in their hands and gain the collective focus of a moment. We have splintered into too many pieces, with too many options, and it’s unlikely that any single entity will hold the rapt attention of the world as a whole in such a manner again. That won’t stop Madonna from trying, and every now and then she’ll do something (like calling out the so-called president on his bullshit) that acts as a lightning rod moment.
THEY CAN BREAK DOWN AND TAKE DOWN
BUT THEY CAN’T DESTROY OUR HISTORY
THIS WALL, IT MUST FALL
TO MAKE ROOM FOR OUR MASTERPIECE
She’s never been afraid to express herself. There is a boldness and a rebellion to that, especially at a time when some of us are being told to be quiet. It is the job of the artist to push against that, no matter what the consequences. Our graffiti hearts bleed a little every time we put our art out there. It’s something the more wisely-guarded and private people never have to experience, and for every rare success there are a multitude of painful failures and misunderstood endeavors that have left their scars. We cry, we wail, we scream, we fight, and in the end we are battle-worn and sometimes defeated. A true artist doesn’t stop there, though. We rally through. We create until the death – of our impulses, our visions, or the imperfect vessels of our human form.
IF GRAFFITI ON THE WALL CHANGED ANYTHING AT ALL THEN IT WOULD BE ILLEGAL.
SONG #135: ‘Graffiti Heart’
A scent leading to a memory.
Like an obedient dog, I follow.
To a fall, and a trailer, far out in the country.
The sweetness of the paperwhite narcissus subsides, and the acrid smell of burning leaves explains the smoky air.
In a claustrophobic room, a pile of kittens suckles their mother.
I pick the one with tiger stripes.
A mischievous little thing.
You never know what the kitten will become.
More importantly, you never know what’s on the mind of a cat.
The memory recedes.
I will revisit it another time.
