I love food. I love to cook, I love the way fresh food smells and tastes. I love all aspects of food, even grocery shopping. A pile of fresh vegetables at our Farmer's Market here in Raleigh is a work of art to me: the colors are so intense and all the hues blend so naturally. I haven't seen any two vegetables that clash when they are placed side by side. However, I'm not going to rhapsodize about food (I'll save that for another day :'D). I thought I'd share how I was inspired to re-work a series of print articles I have been working on for some time now.
While I was sitting at my desk thinking about the Farmer's Market and how I'd like to go this weekend to stock up on fresh veggies and herbs, it dawned on me that I need to spice up my original articles' concept. Something just wasn't quite right about them but I couldn't figure out what that 'off' thing was. I knew they had good bones but really needed a dash of something before I pitched them for publication in my targeted markets.
I am going to keep my original concept but work it from a food angle. This is the 'umph' that was missing.
Food is fun. It's love in a bowl. It's comfort, it's sexy, it's nostalgic and a promise of the future. It reflects societal notions and economic conditions. It is inherently plain but beautiful when prepared to one's liking.
Whoda thunk it? I'm back at work on my articles with a fresh outlook and a huge dollop of inspiration from a pile of vegetables.
Until next time,
"Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean." ~ Christopher Reeve
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Thursday, August 12, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
MERMAID
This piece, transferred from my old blog, is still a favorite of mine. I hope you enjoy it.
She is an ocean woman who gets homesick for its briny scent even though she’s never lived by the sea. She is drawn to its shore when she is soul-weary or heart-sore; the ocean woman pays homage to her essence when she returns to share her joy or when she’s simply seeking solace in the silence of her thoughts. She returns to clear the city’s miasma from her brain so she can once again see clearly, and remember: always remember.
The ocean air upon her cheeks is a homecoming gift; she runs from the boardwalk to the edge of the wet to inhale the wildly whirling winds that seem to be welcoming her back, back, back to her home, back to her place, back to her one true love. Her hair whips behind her back in a dark tattoo like forgotten beach towels snapping in a pre-storm wind and straining for release from where they were carelessly pegged to a clothesline. She throws her arms to the sky and with utter abandon, she dances on the shore, a water ballerina laughing at the seductive sea as it teasingly sucks the sand out from under her feet. Like the kelp waltzing in the surf, bobbing up and down, up and down, the woman’s body sways in perfect time with each note of the ocean’s roar that forever plays in her ear. She’s elemental in her joy; she’s primal in her passion for the sea. She revels in its lure. She knows the mystery of its darkly buoyant secrets. Her body has slid through summer’s sparkly surf. She’s played in its murky depths with her sisters and prayed in the shallows for her lover’s return. She knows the dichotomy of the sea: like a woman, it’s soft and giving, playfully sharing its bounty and gently sheltering life one moment and then, seemingly out of the blue – there heaves from its bosom a storm of relentless and unyielding strength…of passionate anger that washes over shore, cleansing and refreshing all that it touches. She watches a pod of dolphins and remembers the hours of innocent indulgence spent cavorting with them just beyond the breakers. The woman walks and moves and absorbs the rhythm of the waves for hours.
It’s getting dark, Luna’s light is lapping the now calm sea in a softly sensuous silver swath. She hears the clapper of a distant buoy clanging its ancient warning to mariners and remembers. She remembers the ones who wanted to be saved; she remembers the ones who chose to stay with her and her sisters.
The ocean woman yearns as she stands on the doorstep of her heart’s home. She still hears the calling of her sisters and misses them so. She still remembers the weightless freedom of the water.
Weightless.
She draws her simple sun dress over her head and holding it by one finger, lifts her arms and stretches her nude body as if to touch the moon.
Freedom.
With a smile, she watches as the salty sea breeze sucks the gauzy garment from her fingertip and spits it across the night sky. Shimmering in the crystalline moonlight, it swoops and sails and climbs higher, higher, higher before it trembles and tumbles into the silver sea.
She was once a mermaid, and she remembers all. The ocean woman rises on the balls of her feet and dives into an incoming wave. She’s a mermaid again, and all remember her.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
She is an ocean woman who gets homesick for its briny scent even though she’s never lived by the sea. She is drawn to its shore when she is soul-weary or heart-sore; the ocean woman pays homage to her essence when she returns to share her joy or when she’s simply seeking solace in the silence of her thoughts. She returns to clear the city’s miasma from her brain so she can once again see clearly, and remember: always remember.
The ocean air upon her cheeks is a homecoming gift; she runs from the boardwalk to the edge of the wet to inhale the wildly whirling winds that seem to be welcoming her back, back, back to her home, back to her place, back to her one true love. Her hair whips behind her back in a dark tattoo like forgotten beach towels snapping in a pre-storm wind and straining for release from where they were carelessly pegged to a clothesline. She throws her arms to the sky and with utter abandon, she dances on the shore, a water ballerina laughing at the seductive sea as it teasingly sucks the sand out from under her feet. Like the kelp waltzing in the surf, bobbing up and down, up and down, the woman’s body sways in perfect time with each note of the ocean’s roar that forever plays in her ear. She’s elemental in her joy; she’s primal in her passion for the sea. She revels in its lure. She knows the mystery of its darkly buoyant secrets. Her body has slid through summer’s sparkly surf. She’s played in its murky depths with her sisters and prayed in the shallows for her lover’s return. She knows the dichotomy of the sea: like a woman, it’s soft and giving, playfully sharing its bounty and gently sheltering life one moment and then, seemingly out of the blue – there heaves from its bosom a storm of relentless and unyielding strength…of passionate anger that washes over shore, cleansing and refreshing all that it touches. She watches a pod of dolphins and remembers the hours of innocent indulgence spent cavorting with them just beyond the breakers. The woman walks and moves and absorbs the rhythm of the waves for hours.
It’s getting dark, Luna’s light is lapping the now calm sea in a softly sensuous silver swath. She hears the clapper of a distant buoy clanging its ancient warning to mariners and remembers. She remembers the ones who wanted to be saved; she remembers the ones who chose to stay with her and her sisters.
The ocean woman yearns as she stands on the doorstep of her heart’s home. She still hears the calling of her sisters and misses them so. She still remembers the weightless freedom of the water.
Weightless.
She draws her simple sun dress over her head and holding it by one finger, lifts her arms and stretches her nude body as if to touch the moon.
Freedom.
With a smile, she watches as the salty sea breeze sucks the gauzy garment from her fingertip and spits it across the night sky. Shimmering in the crystalline moonlight, it swoops and sails and climbs higher, higher, higher before it trembles and tumbles into the silver sea.
She was once a mermaid, and she remembers all. The ocean woman rises on the balls of her feet and dives into an incoming wave. She’s a mermaid again, and all remember her.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
SHUG
I've moved several old blog items to my new site. This is the opening to a novel entitled "Shug."
SHUG
Shug – this girl knew her way to hell. Lawsy, Lawsy, the girl done tried her best to make it all work. She pushed and she pulled against the yoke her menfolk was always droppin over her head and shoulders like she was the queen of nothing. That poor child worried over gettin her life the same way you always come from gettin a tooth pulled: you just can’t help pokin at the empty spot like you know somethin should be there but it jus ain’t. But all the same she keeps right on explorin the dark spot in her smile, hopin she finds the light she so sorely needs. She’s a fighter, that girl. Leastwise, she was. Up until the very second she won’t no more.
We was in high school together, Western Wynn High School in Goldsboro, North Carolina, class of 1969. We was swear-to-God best friends, even though she got about as much sense a turkey in the rain and I’ve always been the practical one.
“Ivey Lee” my momma said, “yous gonna be okay sister girl. You gots that know how, that common sense and it’s gonna carry you girl.” She said this every Saturday night as I laid out all four of my sister’s neatly pressed dresses for Sunday mornin while she tugged and yanked on the poor girls heads till they had tears in their eyes. I still to this day can’t smell a hot hair iron without thinkin of her her doin my sisters’ hair, one week curlin us up and the next week braiding so tight our eyes just about crossed and making us sleep in those cotton drawers so we’d look good for God and all the church women the next mornin. We didn’t look good to Mamma until the church ladies told her how good we looked and how well behaved we were in church that mornin. “Oh Mabel, your girls be such little angels.” We hoped Opal Lou would be in church every Sunday because she always told Mamma this same thing whenever she was there. She always said, “Not a peep outta your girls during Reverend Father James’s sermon and they always closed their eyes during prayer.” She always says this with a big grin and little wink at me and I used to wonder how come she saw us when her eyes were s’posed to be closed too. But Lawsy, what a good day that was when someone said we was good girls during church – Momma would fry us up chicken and make us a heap of mashed potatoes and warm up some collard greens that she had canned last fall and we’d wash it down with gallons of tea – that Southern staple, that icy pale brown sweet drink that almost had a flavor other than sugar water to it. Hot grease, vinegar, melted sugar and burnt hair – that’s what Momma’s house always smelled like. My mouth still waters when I think of whoever’s turn it was to say Grace rushing through the words so we could pass that chicken around while it was still greasy hot. I love it so much better ‘n than when Momma made chicken and gravy or chicken and pastry like she normally would on Sunday afternoon after church.
I never did understand why we had to do dishes on Sunday. My G-ma always said God made the world Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, he just had to sit and rest a spell. She always preached, and Lord knows I mean preached, that God didn’t and still don’t like no one to do no work or make no plans come a Sunday ‘less they say “God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise,” and I’m sure to this day that I will burn in hell if I iron on Sundays and ‘specially if I have to iron my church clothes on Sunday morning right before I go to the Lord’s House cause I was too lazy to get ready for Him on Saturday. It was sin to do anything other’n go to church pressed so crisp you was afraid to move for fear of breaking that stiff church dress which meant momma was goin to beat the tar out’n you when you finally got home for fidgetin in church (“I raised you better ‘n that”); it was a sin to do any kind of work (‘cept cooking for the menfolk, I s’pose) and raising up your voice and your heart and your eyes to God. Shug was always lookin up, lookin up to the heavens for help, for hope, for the salvation that even at sixteen, ‘specially at sixteen, she knew was never gonna come to her. I think I liked that dreamy part of Shug first. Oh – Shug? That was her name. Well, that’s what we always called her. Her full name was Lucy Estelle Sugar Stevens but only her mama called her that and only when Shug was really in trouble was all her names called at once.
Please feel free to post a comment about the opening of my new novel; constructive feedback is always appreciated.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
SHUG
Shug – this girl knew her way to hell. Lawsy, Lawsy, the girl done tried her best to make it all work. She pushed and she pulled against the yoke her menfolk was always droppin over her head and shoulders like she was the queen of nothing. That poor child worried over gettin her life the same way you always come from gettin a tooth pulled: you just can’t help pokin at the empty spot like you know somethin should be there but it jus ain’t. But all the same she keeps right on explorin the dark spot in her smile, hopin she finds the light she so sorely needs. She’s a fighter, that girl. Leastwise, she was. Up until the very second she won’t no more.
We was in high school together, Western Wynn High School in Goldsboro, North Carolina, class of 1969. We was swear-to-God best friends, even though she got about as much sense a turkey in the rain and I’ve always been the practical one.
“Ivey Lee” my momma said, “yous gonna be okay sister girl. You gots that know how, that common sense and it’s gonna carry you girl.” She said this every Saturday night as I laid out all four of my sister’s neatly pressed dresses for Sunday mornin while she tugged and yanked on the poor girls heads till they had tears in their eyes. I still to this day can’t smell a hot hair iron without thinkin of her her doin my sisters’ hair, one week curlin us up and the next week braiding so tight our eyes just about crossed and making us sleep in those cotton drawers so we’d look good for God and all the church women the next mornin. We didn’t look good to Mamma until the church ladies told her how good we looked and how well behaved we were in church that mornin. “Oh Mabel, your girls be such little angels.” We hoped Opal Lou would be in church every Sunday because she always told Mamma this same thing whenever she was there. She always said, “Not a peep outta your girls during Reverend Father James’s sermon and they always closed their eyes during prayer.” She always says this with a big grin and little wink at me and I used to wonder how come she saw us when her eyes were s’posed to be closed too. But Lawsy, what a good day that was when someone said we was good girls during church – Momma would fry us up chicken and make us a heap of mashed potatoes and warm up some collard greens that she had canned last fall and we’d wash it down with gallons of tea – that Southern staple, that icy pale brown sweet drink that almost had a flavor other than sugar water to it. Hot grease, vinegar, melted sugar and burnt hair – that’s what Momma’s house always smelled like. My mouth still waters when I think of whoever’s turn it was to say Grace rushing through the words so we could pass that chicken around while it was still greasy hot. I love it so much better ‘n than when Momma made chicken and gravy or chicken and pastry like she normally would on Sunday afternoon after church.
I never did understand why we had to do dishes on Sunday. My G-ma always said God made the world Monday through Saturday and on Sunday, he just had to sit and rest a spell. She always preached, and Lord knows I mean preached, that God didn’t and still don’t like no one to do no work or make no plans come a Sunday ‘less they say “God Willin’ and the Creek Don’t Rise,” and I’m sure to this day that I will burn in hell if I iron on Sundays and ‘specially if I have to iron my church clothes on Sunday morning right before I go to the Lord’s House cause I was too lazy to get ready for Him on Saturday. It was sin to do anything other’n go to church pressed so crisp you was afraid to move for fear of breaking that stiff church dress which meant momma was goin to beat the tar out’n you when you finally got home for fidgetin in church (“I raised you better ‘n that”); it was a sin to do any kind of work (‘cept cooking for the menfolk, I s’pose) and raising up your voice and your heart and your eyes to God. Shug was always lookin up, lookin up to the heavens for help, for hope, for the salvation that even at sixteen, ‘specially at sixteen, she knew was never gonna come to her. I think I liked that dreamy part of Shug first. Oh – Shug? That was her name. Well, that’s what we always called her. Her full name was Lucy Estelle Sugar Stevens but only her mama called her that and only when Shug was really in trouble was all her names called at once.
Please feel free to post a comment about the opening of my new novel; constructive feedback is always appreciated.
Until next time,
“I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild; when it is quiet and serene; when it is dark and moody. And in all its moods, I see myself.” ~ Martin Buxbaum
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