May 2010 Archives

I know this will come as a shock to most of you, but despite appearances, I do not know everything.

I know… But while your busy picking yourself up off the floor, let me make sure to credit the photography above to the New York Times… The New York Times Sunday Travel Section, to be exact — the May 9th edition to be even more complete…An article by Tony Perrottet entitled The Besieged And the Beautiful…  And to be all OBSCENE about it, the photograph was taken by David Yoder for the New York Times. Which was founded and is published in New York City. And if that isn’t a copyright credit given fairly, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS. Oh, and just to be clear, I did not get the permission of any of the parties mentioned above to use this image… but it is detrimental to the point of this post and therefore caution has been thrown to the wind. Let’s just see them chew on that little infringement for a few… being a graphic artist I could throw my Graphic Artist Guild Handbook at anyone’s head. But knowing that by using this image LAWS ARE BEING BROKEN, I can only hope that everyone understands that this is nothing more than A COMPLIMENT. 

Because since May 9th — After reading about Châteaux de Lastours I am completely obsessed. I know, I know… whatevs on southwestern France and PERILOUS CRAGS, but really! Would you LOOK AT THIS PLACE? Talk about giving Rapunzel a run for the German border… #1 – Why did I not know about this place #2 – Why did I not know anything about the history of this place and #3 – WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME? Because I know that you knew all about it… I know that you saw this in the Sunday Times a few weekends ago and thought to yourself… Huh – I bet that RY doesn’t know ANYTHING ABOUT THIS. Right? And then you went back to living your life KNOWING that you were keeping this FROM ME. Giggling furiously all-the-while. But hey… I may not have known, but I am NOT WITHOUT RESOURCES! Let’s just hope that I get to finish this post before the copyright police start breaking down my door. 

It all started 800+ years ago. A little known grouping of zealous CATHARS took to these defensive ridges in an attempt to hide away from — you guessed it… THE CATHOLICS. Boo Hiss, Hiss Booooo… But wait. This was around 1208 — when EVERYONE was Catholic and those that weren’t were totally suspect…. BECAUSE THEY WERE DIFFERENT. Not to mention that the world was still totally flat and no one had anything better to do than… TORTURE VALIANT HERETICS. Things are totally different today…right? I mean, I’m Catholic… and so while I know that I need to feel guilt ALL THE TIME, I also know that in order to live a politically correct and happy life I need to allow everyone to BE whomever and whatever they want. Even Stage Moms.

But back in good ol’ 1208 it was not okay to worship two Gods — one good and one evil. It was not okay to build fortresses on THE CLIFFS OF INSANITY. It was NOT okay to believe that some king of the world known as REX MUNDI created the earth and that all things about life were inherently evil. It was okay, however, for the Pope to get all worked up and offended… suggesting that everyone go “KILL THEM ALL…”, resulting in the slaughter of some 15,000 or so Cathars hiding out in fabulous towers and then NOT feel bad about it. I mean would you just LOOK at how far we’ve come as a society?!?! I mean today we even let our teenagers DRINK VAMPIRE BLOOD.

But I’ve gotten away from de Lastours. Today, the whole area of onslaught and DEMISE is a fabulous get-away tucked ever so isolated into the winding hills and vineyards of the French landscape. AND, it isn’t all that hard to get to… train it from Paris to Avignon and then rent a car… DUDES, there is even a MEDIEVAL SPA located in some vamped out (I would imagine) castle ruin where Cathars used to mull about plotting their next hiding place. HOW AWESOME IS THAT? So, in short, I am making a plan. Someday… in the next five years — before I turn 40, I will travel to this place. I will go and soak in the tourist attractions of hundreds of years old bad blood history… And this isn’t some giant HERE ME NOW AND SEE YOU NEVER pitch that isn’t ever going to happen (ahem.. MARTHA). I am throwing down the proverbial guillotine and saving my pennies for this once in a lifetime JOURNEY. And… wait, wait… here it is… WHO WANTS TO JOIN ME? 

I saw Scott Weiland perform last night on some new fangled neomaxizoomdweebie music cable station called Palladium. It was a performance highlighting a new Stone Temple Pilots album — a staple of ‘getting the band back together’. Still fairly rockin’ – they sounded very much the same as they did in 1992 — when they were stumbling around in Wicked Gardens…. although very much sober and comfortable in their psychosis of depressed grunge movement survivors.. They even sang a new tune about “when I used to take drugs”…

But while I watched, it was really hard to get over the sudden feeling that I kinda like my rock stars on drugs — as Scott leapt about the stage in painfully skin tight jeans — on his not-so-much skin and bones… lacking in heroin, but still making me question his sexuality as he french kissed his guitarist and wiggled around in a v-neck tee saying “Oui! Paris!”. It seemed like only yesterday that I was at Jones Beach thrashing about to this same man sans receding hairline and what appeared to be the beginnings of a gut… Not to mention stalking him through the wilds of Greenwich Village while shopping the thrifts for the grungiest of grunge…. And then it hit me. In 15 days I will be 35.

That’s 5 years shy of 40… And, while we are adding up — 10 years before 45.

I know. I can hear the combined thoughts floating about having read that statement. ‘How, in the name of GAWD, is THAT possible’… ‘So What.’ and ‘Get Over yourself’. But really. 35 is something to think about, right? I mean 10 years ago I was the exact same person… boozing slightly harder, but always acting about 5 years older than I actually am although not in any hurry to get through life as fast as possible while avoiding every possible status symbol pointing to my actual age. In summation, most things about me are older than my age… taste in music, humor, friends, husband, hobbies, expectations… not to mention a sincere appreciation for hanging out with my parents… who I consider to be (gasp) FUN. AND, it has nothing to do with being mature… I find at times that I am unbelievably immature — like the other day when I received a Facebook friend request from someone I knew in grade school that was clearly not my friend… but then went ahead and looked through ALL of her personal photographs, taking note of some serious weight gain before eventually deciding to “ignore” her. You know, Facebook being the very symbol of mature etiquette and all things PROPER.

I’m not that young.
But I’m not that old either.
I’m pretty irreverent about the whole situation, actually… seeing how there really isn’t anything I can do about it. I don’t feel very happy about it — like YAY! GETTING OLDER ROCKS! But I don’t really see the point in mulling about and feeling sorry for myself. So while Mr. Weiland has relaunched his musical career — sweating all over the predictions of his demise… I think I’m doin’ alright for almost 40… I might just eat the entire cake myself.   

Ten years ago — if someone said to me.. “the twitter widget on your blog is broken” or “you should add more plug-ins to your directory” I probably would have gasped in horror and slapped them across the face…

But that was 10 years ago.

Now, I have a very intricate knowledge of what needs to happen when it comes to widgets, plugins and all things BLOG, and I have to say that — although I wasted years of learning all about coding and html — the useless this will work and this won’t of web designs…  Blogging really is the new internet… And I have come full circle with what of ME is ON and OFF the great abyss of W W W. But I think a little blogging history and explanation is needed for the point I’m trying to make…

Because I am not without fault. For The Birds, as I have mentioned, was initially started as a chronicle of sorts about Breakwater Design Studio. I think it took about 10 minutes of me, online, typing before I started to stray away from the focus and more on the everyday. Then I needed more. So I moved For The Birds to a platform called Movable Type… which, as it turns out, you have to be a major programmer to work with… which I pride myself on NOT BEING. Whatever, I did it anyway… and now that I have readers (that I love) and a sweet little place online to call my home — I want more. But how do I get more with the limited knowledge of stuff that I don’t want to know about anyway? Well… I’m on track with trying to figure that out whilst kicking myself for not doing the research before signing over my first born blog to Movable Type… Oh we’ll get over ourselves eventually. Maybe.

So then.
When I found myself all wrapped up and unraveled with Will’s food allergies and having to cook and bake and rewrite recipes on an almost daily basis, I started Will’s Kitchen. Humbled and embarrassed and all kinds of proud, the site was started in January of this year and has already had well over 100,000 hits. And by hits I mean strong 10 minute stays on almost every page of the site — and we’ve only published 31 posts. I even get a few glances from Katonah, NY every once in a while which makes me think that we might be onto something.. hhm Martha?

But when it came time for me to decide what to do about… well — ME, it took a strong bout of food poisoning to make me realize that I need to have my work online as well. Breakwater Design is long gone, thank goodness, AND, I’ve done way more stuff in the history of me on top of it all… my portfolio of work is so extensive — designs, photographs, interviews, blog posts… I was kinda feeling like I was drowning so I called up my good friend Internet who was all like “…niggas always gotta high cap
Showin’ all his boys how he shot em
But real gangsta-ass niggas don’t flex nuts
’cause real gangsta-ass niggas know they got em
And everythings cool in the mind of a gangsta
’cause gangsta-ass niggas think deep
Up three-sixty-five a year 24/7 ’cause real gangsta ass niggas don’t sleep“… to which I responded “I KNOW – YOU’RE SO RIGHT!” and immediately came up with Ry Sal Creative. I know, I know, kinda campy – kinda full of your self… not to mention, my Dad thinks it sounds like Sally and Bob’s Nail Salon or Nick’s Pub where your feet stick to the floor. But whatever – IT IS WHAT IT IS. And it’s gong to be fabulous. And, it is and isn’t a blog… you decide and let me know… and in the meantime… try these blueberry muffins because Martha is in Malaysia and therefore isn’t reading Will’s Kitchen right now… because gangsta-ass niggas come in all shapes and colors Some got killed in the past
But this gangtsa here is a smart one
Started living for the lord and I’ll last
Now all I gotta say to you
Wannabe, gonnabe, pussy-eatin’ cocksuckin’ prankstas
When the shit jumps off what the fuck you gonna do
Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

(sorry mom)
 

Not really, but have you ever seen that movie? I blame my parents for embedding the film into my brain.. I mean really. That title has very little with what I am about to write about.. and I’m laughing already. And I know, NOT FUNNY…. But it really is. And with this mind set….

I live in Southampton, New York – as many of you know…

I have lived in many other places… Born in Virginia – scouring the east coast with my parents through Tennessee, Florida, Maryland–where I picked up a sibling, and eventually Connecticut, where I picked up another sibling. Then through life during college in Philadelphia and afterward back to Connecticut, New York, an absurdly fun and desperately freezing seven years in New Hampshire… And now here. Southampton. I’ve always harbored this weird timetable in my mind.. like if you weren’t born in that place… it isn’t your home.. I mean not really… which obviously is a seemingly sad way of looking at life.. but HEY, that’s just me, deal with it. Obviously, having moved to Connecticut at the ripe old age of 8 and not leaving until 18, not only made me a crafted hand at living on the road, but clearly made the state my home… I know – I’m such a TRANSIENT. Whatever.

We’ve been here for almost eight years now, and I feel comfortable and safe to finally say that we live here. I don’t know… something about having a baby at the local hospital, designing every other local brand, owning and closing a local business, cohorting with criminals, making enemies along side meeting really nice people… knowing the back roads… knowing when the markets stock their shelves… knowing who to call when the rednecks attempt to shoot deer in our backyard… All good times that I call home. Lately we’ve been “looking at” preschools — and I quote “looking at” because that seems to be the proper way of saying “conducting detailed background searches and combing through the personal garbage of school directors”… But I think all of this COMMUNITY stuff is making our toes take root….. and, in short we are surrendering. 

This is also the time of year is when we open up our doors to many guests… Most family and some friends that travel to enjoy the weather… being surrounded by water creates this great Florida-like sun effect with beams reflecting off of the water all around… A great deal of guests arrive late on Friday evening… taking the Jitney or the train from Manhattan. Others from New England take the Long Island Ferry from Bridgeport or New London… No matter how, it is a journey to get here… and, apparently, it is worth the trip. Honestly… you would think that with everything going on having guests almost every weekend (and some weekdays) would be a headache, but I really do love it. I love having people here… I love having someone lounging about in most rooms of the house… I love that someone is cracking a beer while someone else is pouring a cup of coffee… sitting in the sun, reading the papers, watching the Fox Network– throwing conflicting party fists into the air in anger over what’s what and who’s who… Hey, you have to have a little blood pressure with all the relaxing going on, right… Just, whatever you do, don’t bring up the Great Pumpkin, k…?

At any rate… This is my favorite time of the year… and, although this post has gone no where — other than my head, I’m looking forward to the next round of visitors… and the next and the next…  

I am a control freak.

This isn’t news to me — and it most certainly isn’t news to anyone that knows me, but it is kind of news that I’m stepping out of my carefully dictated world to say it. Part of it is because I am a designer. And if you are a designer, you know… Being a designer, requires this constant thought bubble to follow you around reminding you of how ginormous your ego is. You don’t even have to be a good designer to have a bubble in tow… although, despite the latest Frumpy McFrumperstein appearance — thanks to a little visit from e-Coli, I am still the best — dehydrated and recovering, but still the best.  

So when old clients call me up to say MY GAWD HELP ME, I try my hardest to look the other way… Did someone hear something? But then they start clanging my pots and pans about, making me feel like I have to do something. I mean we really can’t have anarchy… THIS IS SOUTHAMPTON. And in making a long story short, I have spent the better part of the past ten days telling a self-proclaimed designer that, in reality, he is not a designer… and that I AM. You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around… Which has not only been obscenely gratifying — but has also left me all in a tizzy about what I am going to do next. What am I going to do when I have to stop beating this poor not-a-designer-but-thinks-he-is into submission? Well – if it hadn’t been for the damn food poisoning, I might not have had the chance to think about it.

First of all, Food Poisoning, in all of its controversial glory, really does exist and needs to be banned immediately. I know, I know… there are worse things. But Food Poisoning must be removed. It sneaks up on you, grabs your ankles from behind, drops you to the floor and starts kicking you in the stomach until every muscle in your body is being stretched and strained beyond capacity. Then… then it depletes your water resources while making it seemingly impossible to replenish. It makes you take a hard cold look at the human body and realize .. My Sweet Basil – IS THERE NOTHING MORE DISGUSTING? But this post wasn’t intended to note the obvious…

I was going to write this post about how a good friend commented on how ‘great I am at cooking for kids’, to which I very strangely became self-conscious and immediately organized two consecutive nights of grown-up dinner parties… And house guests arriving tomorrow to stay until Thursday… Because I can’t help but think that I MUST be good at other stuff too, and OBVIOUSLY her comment was insinuating that I was BAD at everything else. But then I threw that idea out with the bath water (sans enormous toddler-baby) because, whatever — just who am I trying to prove anything to, hmmm? Martha?

But then I went ahead and made kid friendly allergen free wheat bread anyway… Because not only am I slowly defining narcissism — but the only reason those allergens were ever in the store bought bread to begin with was all about shelf life…

Oh Martha…

This is my Wisteria vine. I planted it when we moved into our house 8 years ago. As you can see, it has become a bit of a monster… please stare at it while it hypnotizes you. There see — you can’t look away, can you?… You just can’t believe that a vine like this would grow to this enormity in simply 8 years… right? Stare at it… it’s talking to you… it’s telling you to listen… No no – don’t look away… stare deep into the winding vines and petals… you are getting sleeeeeepy… you are breathing deeeeeeply… you are in your comfort zone and are planning to invite Will’s Kitchen to The Martha Show.. You just haven’t gotten around to making the call… 

I have a few things to say… It’s been a few weeks and, although it’s been hard to not bother you, I just want to share a few general observations that I’ve made whilst attempting to get your attention.

First of all, I’ve been rather busy. I took up the task of fixing my sewing machine, which has now been accomplished and I am back on track with teaching myself how to sew. Therefore, in keeping with lofty goals that may never be achieved, you can expect the launch of my skintight bodysuit clothing line sometime in the next few months. Please note that the suits are all made from fabric from my husband’s worn out work shirts and my son’s outgrown pajamas…. which is no small thing… this morning my son took his diaper off without removing his pajama bottoms first… Now that, my friend, is impressive.  I also noticed that a few of my former graphic design clients are completely ignoring the fact that I have retired and keep asking me to design stuff for them. This would be okay… but the thing is that I end up actually doing the work– which means that either I’m not retired, or just a complete pushover. You will be impressed though… throughout everything else going on I have started gardening again and, after hours of searching, I have come to the conclusion that vegetarian bean curd sheets are NOT to be found on the East End of Long Island… which means that in order to make this recipe kid friendly, I will have to resort to other options. I have also concluded that the chances of a kid eating this recipe are far fetched… but we are going to try anyway. OH, and have you heard Snoop Dog on the new GORILLAZ? That’ll give you an ‘Oh Dear’. Welcome to the World of the Plastic Beach.  

But here is the thing about conclusions…. I might be trying too hard. And even though you are still following me on Twitter — you are also following 8,106 other people (to date). And what are the chances that these 8,000+ others really want to go to your food blogger taping of The Martha Show? Hmm? JUST WHAT ARE THE CHANCES? Well… in as far as I can see. I have about a 6% chance of sitting in your audience on May 12th. Yeah that’s right SIX PERCENT. And I’m not giving up. Even though I am completely aware of the fact that there is a 94% chance that we won’t even be considered… But what is in a number, right?

That’s all … that’s all I needed to say for now. Despite the fact that my eye doctor is disturbingly attractive… There really isn’t much else going on aside from matching wall paper swatches and inviting (quite lovely) strangers from the internet over for beer… twirling my string of pearls… thinking about Stepford… Now just WHERE is my spatula? 

Another trip North, but we think we’re actually getting somewhere.

I mentioned previously in part I & part II what life is like around our little house project, but let me say it again.. The people that live in the area — down the street, around the corner and in neighboring towns are among the nicest, most interesting and generally pleasing individuals that I have yet to come across in my vast expansive life… Even that guy walking down main street with the machete, he’s super cool — just looking to help someone with their hedge.

I think we had been in the house for about 10 minutes during this visit when Aunt Jane popped in to tell us she had left her coffee brew on just in case we needed a perk… She lives just a few doors down, and even though she was heading out to work at a local flower shop, we were welcome to ‘help ourselves’… just don’t let the cat out. And if we hadn’t had a blueberry waffle extravaganza a few short hours earlier… we might just have taken her up on her offer… Because not only was I drooling over the overwhelming friendliness of the whole situation, but I was also about to do something completely and totally beyond the boundaries of who I am. A Vapid Blonde was coming over. 

I know.
Hold on.
WAIT JUST A MINUTE.

Yes. For Real. And if I were inclined to be 10 years younger… FOR REALZZZZZ.

And I mean for real. Like in real life.. As in pinch your arm — real. Like internet real, but not… instead real life real. Like right there.. parking her bad-ass Corvette in front of my house.. walking up my walk and giving me a hug. Real. And, not only that, she brought me this:

Just exasperating the essence of cool. Just testing the limits of being calm, cool and collected. Madonna. Jackie-O. Joan Jett. Martha. Vapid’s got the game on you. And despite what the tabloids say… I really didn’t grab her for a PG-13 make-out session…. But obviously, the thought crossed my mind… COME ON PEOPLE, this is ME you’re talking to.

A Vapid Blonde came over to my house and it was fabulous… And after I stuttered through the conversations of only a few seconds of awkward “OH MY GAWD, SHE’S HERE” silent moments. I hope that she saw through the layers of house dust and sweat to see that I’m not that much of a geek… despite my sneakers and inability to control bursts of nervous laughter… I offered her a beer, she accepted, and the rest is within the walls of Native American Dorian Grey… who might just never tell.

But on with the show…