Every 12 or 14 years or so, I get a hankering for a corn dog, and so I have one. I don’t give much thought to what constitutes a corn dog, which is probably why I can stomach them. When you think about it, they’re rather bizarre. Best not to dwell. I’m good for another dozen years.
It doesn’t happen that often, but on those years when our pool season gets cut short for whatever reason, we do our best to keep the pool heated and running until the last warm days have departed. That worked well this year, when I’ve been able to make it into the warm water at least three times since the calendar clicked to fall. It’s a welcome bonus we absolutely needed. And a happy reminder that all is not lost when it comes to little joys and last-minute reprieves.
Having already used R.E.M.’s exquisite ‘Nightswimming’ (my favorite song of theirs) in this post, I’m going with ‘New Orleans Instrumental No. 1’ for this swim post, taken from their best album ‘Automatic for the People’. It has an end-of-summer vibe to it, mellow and slightly somber, with a certain sweetness that tempers an inherent sadness. When fall arrives, those are the vibes that come out.
The water is different now. Warmer than the air, it’s not refreshing like it was in early August and summer was at its height, but rather embracing and comforting. It wraps around the body like a gossamer blanket, barely there, but noted immediately as soon as you slip out of it. At those moments the night air is harsh and bitter, cutting into your skin with the slightest breeze. You slip back in like you would into bed on a winter morning.
A pair of citronella candles glows and flickers. There is still the possibility of mosquitos; a couple of them found their way inside recently, seeking warmth, seeking blood. On this night, they keep their distance, adding to the eerie quiet that hangs over everything.
It’s a quiet not found during the summer, when all sorts of insects make their noise and voice their concerns, when the aforementioned mosquito brigade buzzes and pricks, and, later, the crickets chirp their quirky song. Tonight I listen to the quiet lapping of the water on my neck and shoulders, and the occasional rustling of the fountain grass when the air moves just the slightest.
There’s something reassuring about an autumn that enters in such silence.
I don’t recall ever actually having pancakes for dinner so when my friend Lorie gave us some Stonewall Farmhouse Pancake Mix and Wild Maine Blueberry Syrup it felt like the time had come. I’ve had some unpleasant pancake trials and tribulations in the past, so they’re always a crap shoot, but this time they turned out – more deliciously appealing to the stomach than the eyes perhaps (I’m a pancake novice/destroyer, so I’m really just thankful they didn’t burn up).
These fluffed up beautifully, and I added some fresh blueberries to the mix to match the syrup. I also think I figured out what was going wrong on those previous attempts, and it’s a neat little reflection of life in general: previously the griddle/skillet/pan was too hot. The moment anything hit the pan, it smoked and burned and died on the spot. The batter on top remained uncooked, so by the time those beautiful bubbles started forming, the bottom was burnt and the top was woefully raw. This works wonders when I’m searing tuna or steak, but it’s not the ideal setting for a pancake.
Today, I keep the heat on a medium to low setting. Not needing to rush anything, I’ve honed the art of patience – even the simple amount of patience it takes to let the bubbles form as the bottom turns slowly into a golden brown – and a sense of moderation when it comes to the heat. There is a serious life lesson in that, and I’m just learning it and putting it into play.
As for serving these as dinner, there’s a lesson in that as well, and it’s one that 2020 has beaten into us no matter how much we have fought against it. Go with the flow. Be amenable to change, even when it means switching up traditions and practices that have gone on for decades. Be open to new things, new paths, new ways to discovery. That may be an even bigger lesson, especially this year.
One more lesson: pancakes are filling. Even for dinner. And they’re always worth it.
Even the azaleas have gone completely bonkers because of 2020. On a day when downtown Albany saw manholes blowing up and burning away, I found the sight of this confused azalea more disturbing, but also more enjoyable.
We have witnessed this phenomenon before, usually brought about by a shift in temperatures that triggers something in the plant to set a few blooms into motion. I’m just glad there was enough time to see them flower; sometimes a late-season warm spell will send out buds whose blooms never see the light of day.
Where did the month go? Time somehow flies quicker while under the constricts of a COVID world. I thought it would be the opposite, but not having destinations or trips or movies takes away the significant markers that slow and still time, and without such demarcations the more even and consistent activities of work and waking fly by at a quicker clip. It turns out that doing less quickens the way time works. I’m not thrilled with that – time was moving plenty fast before this. Surely there’s a clever mechanism or mind trick that will slow things down. Maybe I will find it in mindfulness. My daily meditation also just moved up to 25 minutes, and nothing is preventing me from adding to that. Fall closes some windows, and opens some doors. On with the weekly recap, and it will be a recap of recaps, as summer ended and fall began.
Saving all the Speedo posts for the triple-part entry that comprised Summer 2020, it was still difficult to muster much excitement for a season that left us without any proper vacation, beach time, and an open pool for half the summer. Check it out anyway: Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
The arrival of autumn came with a pair of posts: If You Could Read My Mind – The Original and If You Could Read My Mind – The Remix.
Summer echoed, even after it was over.
Trying to save some of the summer inside.
What does the woolly bear say?
Why don’t you put your thumb up your butt?
A story-song for fall called ‘Betty’ by Taylor Swift.
The words of a wise woman, remembered and etched in history.
Cider doughnuts for a Saturday morning.
Solving the dilemma of Thanksgiving in a socially distant world.
Nobody does fall fragrance better than Tom Ford.
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
“The opposite of racist isn’t ‘not racist.’ It is ‘anti-racist.’ What’s the difference? One endorses either the idea of a racial hierarchy as a racist, or racial equality as an anti-racist. One either believes problems are rooted in groups of people, as a racist, or locates the roots of problems in power and policies, as an anti-racist. One either allows racial inequities to persevere, as a racist, or confronts racial inequities, as an anti-racist. There is no in-between safe space of ‘not racist.†― Ibram X. Kendi
“I do struggle because I’m attracted to beautiful things, yet at the same time I am actually very aware, in some sense, of their lack of value and that the most important things in life are your connections to other people.” ~ Tom Ford
While Tom Ford has a fun and effervescent collection of lighter fragrances for spring and summer (the Neroli Empire for example) it’s his wickedly dark and smoky concoctions that are more suited to fall and winter that appeal to my primal olfactory beast. There are a few Private Blends that I wear only from now until November, and they are the fragrant signifiers of fall, and all the decadent drama it typically exudes.
It starts with ‘Amber Absolute’ ~ probably one of my top three TF Private Blends. It’s like the resinous incense of some sacrilegious church-inspired orgasm, dissipating in the smoky air of dappled sunlight shining through a window of stained glass. It’s one of Ford’s most potent mixtures, though some have said it’s been watered down in recent years (if it’s even still made ~ I believe it may have been discontinued a while back).
A hint of incense also informs the magnificent ‘Vert D’Encens’ which is actually where I began this fall’s fragrance journey a few days ago. It’s compelling notes of fresh green are perfectly resplendent of September’s happy tendency to hold onto the sun and warmth a little while longer.
A drier, woodsier scent is to be found in ‘Bois Marocain‘ which is as much an exotic inspiration from a faraway land as it is a reflection of the New England forests where Hester Prynne sinned. If that makes no sense, I’m sorry ~ that’s just the way it smells to this nose. Dry, sinful, decadence – like a roll in the burning leaves.
When it comes to burning, that brings me to my latest acquisition: ‘Tobacco Oud’ and its exquisite sweet and smoky combination, somehow evocative of scenes I’ve only seen in my mind. A library of wooden shelves, dusty books, and a worn leather armchair. A side table glowing beneath a fringed lamp of red silk. The sweetness of tobacco smoke rising from a pipe.
That was a life I never lived, but I wanted it ~ not the life as much as its sensual trappings, its atmosphere and smoky cocoon of spicy warmth. I’ll do a more in-depth review of ‘Tobacco Oud’ ~ for now it’s all in my head, where it shall reside in splendor until the real memories of a run-down corner of Amsterdam reveal themselves in a future post.
‘I’m actually a very, extremely, almost pathologically shy person, which no one believes today because I have mastered a work/public facade that takes an enormous amount of energy to project.’ ~ Tom Ford
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you have to social distance and protect the elderly and otherwise-immune-compromised in a family? You get creative and rustic, and recall what they did in epidemics of the past, all while being flexible and willing to go with the flow. Keeping all that in mind, I came up with a possible solution to the worrying question of what the Ilagan family would be doing for this Thanksgiving.
Recently, I saw a picture of a class being given during the big flu epidemic of 1918, when open-air classes were an actual thing, even in January. The students looked as fine as students in a learning situation could be, all of them bundled up and at their desks, safely distant from one another in the open-sided airiness of what looked like a glorified tent. That gave me an idea.
My parents have a decent-sized garage, with a rustic wooden interior. Two traditional doors are in the front and back, three windows let in light (and air if need be) and the main garage door opens to allow for maximum air-flow and circulation. With a couple of heat lamps, some buffed-up electrical wiring, and decorations by yours truly, we have a Thanksgiving-in-the-making that will likely be one of the more memorable on record. A single long table (or pair of long tables) will make room for social distancing, while a wall of sheer curtains will allow for air movement and a pretty screen. An abundance of candles will add light and a surprising amount of warmth to the space. Most exciting for me is the opportunity for an expanded palette of wardrobe options. The fashion possibilities of wraps and scarves and faux furs that this opens up is a gift unto itself!
Taking lemons and making lemonade is something that 2020 has certainly taught all of us, so we will be well-equipped to re-fashion our holiday celebrations this year. Depending on how this goes, we may repeat the rustic glory for Christmas. (Though we might need heavier curtains in December…)
“Americans have long been trained to see the deficiencies of people rather than policy. It’s a pretty easy mistake to make: People are in our faces. Policies are distant. We are particularly poor at seeing the policies lurking behind the struggles of people.†― Ibram X. Kendi
Those three words go beautifully together, especially since we’ve turned the season to fall. I only half-facetiously posted on social media that I consider a cider doughnut to be the dietetic and nutritional equivalent of an apple, so this works in a diet. Mind over waist size.
As for these beauties, it was the scent of them frying that first alerted me to their presence as I perused the plants at George’s on a recent weekend morning. I knew immediately what they were, and was powerless to resist. Of course the minimum in a box was ten, but even then it was a battle with Andy over who would get the most. (I think I may have edged him out by one – well, two if we’re doing the real math.)
Such delights are the recompense for fall. Cozy comforts. Heat balms. Solace for sinister weather. When COVID first hit at the end of winter, I began baking a bit more, which took a backseat when summer arrived and the grill beckoned. Now that fall is here, and focus returns to the interior, I’ll warm up the oven again, with breads and cookies and crumbles. I finally managed to find some yeast so risable breads are again on the agenda. The season of comfort food is at hand. (Now let’s get it in my belly.)
“I ask no favor for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is that they take their feet off our necks.” ~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg
“For both men and women the first step in getting power is to become visible to others, and then to put on an impressive show. . . . As women achieve power, the barriers will fall. As society sees what women can do, as women see what women can do, there will be more women out there doing things, and we’ll all be better off for it.” ~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg
“When a thoughtless or unkind word is spoken, best tune out. Reacting in anger or annoyance will not advance one’s ability to persuade.” ~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg
“Yet what greater defeat could we suffer than to come to resemble the forces we oppose in their disrespect for human dignity?” ~ Ruth Bader Ginsburg
The flowers always come more vibrantly at this time of the year, as if sensing their limited time before a hard frost kills them off permanently. Such is the case with these volunteer morning glories. They’ve been self-seeding so prolifically and for so long that they’ve become a bit of a nuisance, so this year I pulled most of them out in part of the clearing and editing process that marked much of our garden efforts. I left a few vines to climb through the Korean lilac and Joe Pye Weed, and here are some of the results.
For better or worse, morning glories remind me of the earliest bit of fall – that tense time when school is about to begin and we plunge into the routine of routine again, returning to schedules and time constraints that seemed so much more bearable under the sun of summer. This year fall looks a little different, and we are all still adjusting.
In the meantime, the morning glories are giving out one final show, reminding us that there is beauty in the world, even as we approach winter…
While her ‘folklore’ album was my soundtrack for summer, Taylor Swift recently released ‘Betty’ which is rather more fitting for fall, considering its high-school storyline of teen drama. It’s one of the best story songs I’ve heard in recent years ~ compelling and powerful with a few well-chosen words to convey an entire tableau of the emotional mayhem that happens when you’re only seventeen. My work pal Andy said this was his favorite song from the album and the reason for why it resonated so much was that he could relate to the guy in the song, and I can totally see it. A playboy with a heart of gold is impossible not to love, even if there’s emotional wreckage left in his wake. I can see Andy filling that role with ease. (And I was totally Inez, I admit – but this time it was true! Still am on most days.)
Ahh, high school drama and trauma ~ always so heightened and extreme, and simultaneously innocuous and fleeting. How much hurt we knowingly and unknowingly inflict on those we love, those who mean the most to us. I’ve long maintained that it’s sometimes more painful to hurt someone else than to be the one who’s getting hurt. The sort of pain that transpires when you’re the one doing the hurting can haunt you far longer than the pain you get when on the receiving end, and it’s a heartache that shades and blunts all the happiness you might feel forever after. I didn’t learn that lesson until it was too late, and by then those moments had been carved permanently into my heart, and the awfulness I sometimes perpetrated became a stain on everything good I might have done.
I have always lived in the belief of having no regrets, because we are all the sum of our history and experiences, and changing just one of those little decisions or moments might change all the work and effort we have executed in the hopes of being better. Now I’m not so sure. I think I might have done things that made that road easier, that might have healed the hurt a little faster. I would have been kinder ~ that wouldn’t have cost anything, it wouldn’t have hurt anyone, and it wouldn’t have been that difficult were it not for a cold sense of pride and perfection that steeled me against a world that wasn’t always out to get me. I would have been more open and vulnerable, allowing my heart to be broken because it would eventually ~ no matter what ~ and that might not have been the worst thing then. I would have also done better at mending those hearts I did break, instead of finding excuses to be angry and cruel, and leaving them behind.
We can’t go back though. We can’t magically fix the past even if we do our best to make amends. There is grace in the effort to try, but there’s no way to do it without leaving a scar, or stirring up the muck that might have settled in the ensuing years. I’d like to think I have forgiven and been forgiven for my own mistakes and faults, but forgiveness is a messy business. Rarely completely fulfilling, it’s become more than specific closure I seek, and more about making the world a little safer and less difficult for the people in my life now. It would be easy to slip into anger and rage at the person I once was, and at those who I ended up hurting. That’s the thing about hurting people ~ the darkness feeds upon itself, multiplying while ricocheting off its own hurt and causing more hurt along the way. Collateral damage. And all that you do unto others will be done more insidiously upon yourself. You just don’t know that yet.
We don’t always get a second chance to make things right. Especially when those transgressions occurred at the tender age of seventeen. At that time in life it feels like all you have is time, but it moves quickly, and it distracts and destroys, and before you know it you’re in your 40’s and haven’t learned a goddamned thing about how not to hurt people. Fall brings it all back, and I remember fall in Amsterdam. I remember football games and band practice and cornfields filled with crows. I remember the boy who killed himself and the girl whose heart I broke. I remember raking leaves and hating my family and wondering why I should be the one to survive. The smell of burning wood. The sting of salt in my eyes. The longing no one explained. The loneliness. My own broken wings.
What would I do if I could go back and do it all over again? What would any of us do? Would we whisper to our old selves what moves to make, what moves to avoid? Would we write notes of guidance, leaving our shadows with explicit instructions on what was about to happen? It wouldn’t make a difference, not in my world anyway. There was nothing I would have heard back then, especially if it came from my own voice.
And so we have James, showing up at Betty’s party, all hope and promise and the possibility of redemption, like all of us trying to make up for a summer of mistakes, for a stretch of unforgivable actions, for everything we didn’t know back then. No matter what might happen afterward, in that one single moment there is grace. Solace. Healing. In the act of trying there is a humility that becomes its own balm, and the way we have to forgive ourselves.
We never quite discover what Betty does ~ the song is left open in the best possible way. No one is guaranteed a happy ending. Happy endings are rare when you really think about it. We also have a somewhat skewed view of what makes a happy ending ~ is it really about battling all the illness and hurt and making it to an ancient age through years of discomfort and fatigue and pain? Isn’t a happy ending when we go out at our prime, at our most jubilant and hopeful, struck down at the height of all that we will ever be? I don’t know. Fall asks such questions in preparation for winter. I’m not quite ready to answer. Let a few hard frosts embolden our resilience.
We can try to go back and right the wrongs of the past by being better in the present and future. Those of us who have made mistakes can spend a lifetime making up for them, and maybe that makes us better people. So here we are again, standing on the doorstep of what we’re going to be in the next moment, standing on the doorstep of what we still might become.
Spoiler alert: if you haven’t already seen ‘Ferris Bueller’s Day Off’, #1) what the fuck is wrong with you, and #2) proceed with caution as a minor plot-twist is revealed with this post, and it’s my favorite twist in the movie, so go Netflix or stream it or whatever the kids are doing to watch movies these days, then come on back for this one.
Ok, are those culturally-bereft goons gone now? Let’s get on with the brief snippet of profound realization that recently occurred as I was re-watching this 80’s gem. We all see ourselves in certain characters of movies or television shows or theatrical pieces, and that’s how something really resonates with us. Most of the time it helps if those touchstones are with the main protagonist – those are the objects of art that speak to our hearts. Now and then, though, we have to step back and realize we are not always the main character in the story. More of us could use that lesson today, when we all feel we deserve the fucking trophy.
Such was the startling horror that greeted the sudden understanding that in the world of Ferris Bueller, I was not the cool cat known as Mr. Bueller, or the poignant, depressed best friend, or even the down-to-earth glam girlfriend. Oh no. I wasn’t even the scene-stealing Mr. Rooney or his hapless secretary. Nope. In this fictional narrative I was quite clearly, and annoyingly, Ferris’s sister Jeanie. Sure, I get Charlie Sheen’s tongue down my throat before he went batshit crazy and lost all his hotness, but that’s small recompense for such a nasty character.
Thankfully, it’s not entirely without redemption, as Jeanie provides the breath of relief in the climactic tension-ridden scene of whether he gets caught or not, and she turns into the heroine of the whole thing.
I’m still waiting for my heroine moment I guess.
PS – Call me Shawna.
