notes from

2009-07-07T13:38:00.000-07:00

My Own Private August

August is coming up, maybe my most favorite month of the year. The livin' is easy and life and the world around me weaves itself into a hazy tapestry of sunshine, blue sky, tomatoes, raspberries, and dahlias hypnotizing me into believing that summer will go on forever. The seduction of the soft air and navy blue nights gets me every time. And I love it still.

In My Own Private August, I would have lunch with four people who have walked this earth then and now and have inspired me, provoked me, stymied me, made me laugh and yes, soothed me into insight and understanding as I stumbled along my own path, groping for a foothold . I believe they would form the most perfect of companions for good food and sparkling conversation; we would laugh and argue; eat; listen; argue some more. And listen. And laugh. And laugh. And drink icy cold vodka from Finland in exquisite Baccarat crystal glasses. There would be Irish linen on the table with Jaclyn DuPre roses and tulips in a magnificent crystal ice bucket, Royal Doulton china and of course, Gorham silver. What else?

Our table would be set dead in the center of the massive courtyard of Ataturk's magnificent tomb in Ankara, Turkey, where we will nosh on succulent lamb, jasmine rice with saffron, cucumbers, tomatoes and feta and that outrageously fabulous dessert they make in Turkey with the shredded wheat. Only the extraordinary Piazza del Campo in Sienna, Italy, supposedly the most beautiful public square in all of Europe, can be said in the same breath as Anit Kabir. The architecture is stunning in the true sense of the word as is typical of all Islamic art and architecture and the skyline of Ankara peeks into the edges, creating an on top of the world, Perched-Atop-Everest-In-The-City setting. It is the only venue appropriate in all of the universe for My Own Private August and the meeting of the most special of my companions, a theologian, a writer, an outlaw, and a poet.

The first invitation would go out to Thomas Merton. I am quite proud that as a Catholic priest, early on in the American civil rights movement of twentieth century Brother Merton championed social justice; embraced interfaith understanding and integration; explored and mined the depths of the human experience while the papacy in Rome carried out business as usual. Thomas Merton was one of the reasons I converted to Catholicism and in reading him, I have found a consolation and guidance that has helped me immeasurably. On love he said, "The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them.” My children were small when I began reading Merton and both very strong-willed; Thomas Merton showed me that it is morally unacceptable and outrageously destructive to break their will, even though my own mother swore to me over and over in fits of rage that she would succeed in breaking mine. And I realized that if I was not careful, my own self-loathing would become a part of these two little pink-cheeked curly headed Tasmanian Devils. How could it not? Even today, when I see a lack of discipline or a weakness in my children, I spot myself in a second. In those instances, I know The Dark is about and my footing is slippery. I know then, too, that if I love them perfectly, I will let my children be perfectly themselves. And from where I came from, this was a hard earned lesson. I would love to sit at lunch with Brother Merton and talk about this more and hear what William Shakespeare has to say about perfect love and how he responds to Merton's teachings on mystical theology and contemplative prayer.

So Shakespeare would be my second invitation because of course, he is civilization's all time greatest writer. Shakespeare believed in the fatal flaw that is in all of us and probed and manipulated that flaw that is the human condition into both the most tragic and comedic scenarios ever known on paper. I know that most likely he'll show up at lunch hung over and without a shower, but nevertheless will be riotously funny, keenly insightful and contribute laser-like thrusts and parrys to Merton's assertions, wise cracking, hip checking and eating like a pig the entire way. I know the bar bill will probably double, triple, if he is there but I'd by lying if Shakespeare was not included in My Own Private August. My favorite if I absolutely had to name one? The incredible Love's Labour's Lost. Harold Bloom, another one of my favorite sassy guys, called it "a festival of language, an exuberant fireworks display in which Shakespeare seems to seek the limit of his resources, and discovers that there are none." This piece is a fire in the sky that lights a fire in my soul. Every time. I want Shakespeare to talk about it and how it is that he himself stumbled into completion of this masterpiece so early in his career. Was it his pinnacle? Was everything else just so much billable time after he finished Love's Labour's Lost? And I want to get him good and drunk and find out about Anne Hathaway and his muses. And those limits we supposedly all have. I cannot wait for August.

Up until recently, I would have invited Bill Gates to talk about innovation and competition; two hallmarks of his contributions to mankind but lately, now that Bill is an old married man, he seems to have mellowed remarkably. I think he'd be reverent and respectful to Brother Merton and gush at everything Shakespeare had to say so instead, I'd like to play a wild card and invite another sassy guy that's come up on my radar screen. This guy writes a editorial comments for the local newspaper and is a bad, bad boy; I love to read Gary Crooks. He is a smart ass with no equal and as an accomplished blogger, will devilishly argue and pursue a point well past any modicum of discretion. Not an easy feat for a journalist, most of whom prefer to reside in the ivory tower of the newsroom, putting the receptionists and the secretaries up front to do all the actual talking. While I would not call Crooks' linear train of thought elegant, I would call it sturdy with endless strength and stamina. He can hold his line as if he were an Ironman Marathoner. But it's his wicked sense of humor that belies a keen intellect and the near flawless construction in his writing that makes him irresistible to me. Gary Crooks is a never-miss-must-read part of my week and I think he would be fabulous company at lunch. I would love to see him respond when Shakespeare tells him to find the poetry in his soul. And when the other guy that will be there gives him permission to lay his fears aside and plunge into love, ending the separation of him and his ultimate destiny.

So who would that other guy be? Well, of course, it would be Rumi. How could I not want Rumi? Erotic, sensual, honest, timeless, soothing and deeply loving, and a mystic as well, Mevlana must come and read my very favorite aloud:

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

Can you just imagine what Mr. William Shakespeare will have to say in response to that and how the two mystics, Thomas Merton, a Zen Catholic, and Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, a Sufi Muslim, will process through repentance, redemption and resurrection:

"...Ours is not a brotherhood of despair./Even if you have broken/Your vows of repentance a hundred/times, come."

At this point, Gary Crooks will undoubtedly be on his feet, ordering more vodka.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-07-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

More Roses of Bellemaison

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

2009-07-05T08:58:00.001-07:00

I think separation in families is one of the most heinous tragedies of civilization. My great great grandmother's sisters were devastated when she emigrated to the USA, grieving that they would never see her again. And they never did see her again after she left Prussia with her husband and five sons for a new life as an American.

In my own family, we have separation. I grieve for my brothers and their children. We are estranged and some of us are exiled. I miss them terribly after all this time. I do not think this separation will ever be cured. The last ten years have challenged me to build muscle in being alone and being strong. But mostly, it's been my challenge to find beauty and the face of God in each and every day. It still isn't very easy and I still have plenty of days where I just cannot bear up under the challenge.

My blog buddy, Billy the Bad Boy of the Classroom regularly celebrates 3 Beautiful Things and I have loved reading about the simple and exquisite moments of clarity in his life. He's honest, he can be brutally honest, and I cherish his model of being grateful and working hard to be whole.

Out of the blue, in the last year, two different members of my family from two different corners, reached out to me and we met and laughed and joked about the old times. And marveled at the new times at hand and looked at each other with wide eyes over the times ahead. In both instances, I was surprised and wary; but each meeting unfolded with a pure, innocent love that only people who share a gene pool can have for each other.

I think some wounds never will heal. Just don't think they will. So it's our job to be grateful for the knowledge of the reality that exists; savor and cherish those moments of beauty that do come our way in the most random of encounters; and marvel at the love and beauty of God's own face. And find joy. Find some joy. And continue hoping that out of that joy will fall peace.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-07-05T08:37:00.001-07:00

The Ballerinas of Bellemaison

With Permission of Edgar Degas

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-29T12:57:00.001-07:00

The Roses of Bellemaison

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

Just for today. Go out there and sing and dance.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-24T14:06:00.001-07:00

This photo taken with a cell phone was sent to me today by a regular reader of Notes From The 'Kan EWA. It's lovely, isn't it? Guess where it is and the Chows are sure to reward you with a nice prize.

JBelle

Bellemaison

The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-22T23:47:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago, the folks over at HBO were talking about the Seven Wonders of the World. I've talked before about how deeply connected I am to my world, still, after all these years, and how my world informs and frames my outlook onto the larger world. Good, bad or really ugly, I am who I am. Truer words were never spoken when it was said that you can take the girl out of the woods, but never take the woods out of the girl.

Still, you might like to know, specifically, what rocks my world and what dropped my mouth open into a perfect O upon first glimpse and still has the very same effect on me. Henceforth, may I present The Seven Wonders of My World, spoken with my best O mouth.

Lac Louise
Banff
Alberta, Canada

Just writing the words brings an audible groan to my core. At first glance, it's quite a contradiction of sorts: tourmaline blue Caribbean-like waters framed by soaring granite mountains. But as you enter it, there is no contradiction or confusion; it is absolute in every respect. Ancient. Silent. Moderately gracious. Acquiesces and allows tourists to canoe it. Is quite happy to let anyone skate it; ski it. Delighted that people walk around it. But is completely unyielding to anything else, particularly swimming. It's glacial-fed water and runs about 5 degrees Celsius, which, if you're doing the math, is a mind-robbing 40 degrees Fahrenheit. It is the closest thing that I can understand to pure, holy magic. Completely on its own terms.

Lake Coeur d'Alene
Coeur d'Alene, Idaho

Summer! I learned to swim on the north shore of Lake Coeur d'Alene, learned to canoe at camp in Kidd Island Bay, got married on French Bay, took my own kids there for birthdays, fun and to observe the rites of celebration. These days, the tug boats and log booms have been replaced by McYachts and McMansions and it's quite possible that standing ahead of you in line for ice cream on Sherman Avenue will be some Hollywood luminosity. It's still home, though and still is livin' easy and livin' well in the very best sense.

Cataldo Mission/North Fork Coeur d'Alene River
North Idaho

My first memory of the Cataldo Mission was of the field trip we took at the end of fourth grade after a year of self directed study on Idaho state history. Looking back, I can clearly point to this as the exact year in time when I became smitten with history, ancient people and rivers. God, how I love this place and love Idaho. The Coeur d'Alene Tribe still maintains a strong relationship with the Mission, thankfully, and these days, it operates as a real museum with a visitors' center and everything. Back in the fourth grade, though, you could still pick up the square nails used to build the thing as they popped out of the logs. I still have one.

Chinatown
Victoria
British Columbia, Canada

Another big sigh and a giggle even at the thought of this marvelous community. Tourists don't come to Victoria to see Chinatown so it really has escaped much of the trinketry and development/decline that plagues New York's Chinatown and even San Francisco's. In Victoria, Chinatown is the where the Chinese in the area buy groceries, go to the hardware store, get their cleaning done, get together with friends for good food and conversation, look at art, go to performances, hear lectures, exercise, buy birthday gifts for each other, have their hair cut, and buy things they need for their house and to live their life. This Chinatown has a authentic, contemporary rhythm and never fails to stir me. I'd live there in a second if the locals would have me.

Pike Street Market
Seattle, Washington

Now I'm chuckling. What can I say about the Pike Street Market that countless others haven't said? Maybe, why it's an obligatory and fundamental observance for me? Breakfast at a dockworkers' diner on Elliot Bay with scrapple and tripe on the menu. Pink and red silvery salmon the size of cocker spaniels packed in ice at the fish vendor. The smell of strong, dark pungent coffee. Impossibly bright, cheerful and fragrant handsfuls of flowers. Artists with great hopes. Street musicians with razor sharp wit. Clean, fragrant streets and alleyways. The absolute best of the Very Best.

The Gorge of the Columbia River
George, Washington

The mighty Columbia is never more beautiful than here. My favorite time of year is summertime when the rock cliffs practically light up with heat that you can easily see rising from the plateaus and crevices of the rock. The river and the rocks somehow become one but at sunset, the river goes silent and the rocks glow fiery red. Then the dark night sky is pierced with millions and millions of stars. You can only imagine what it was like to be alone and on foot back in the day in the Gorge....

The Mission at St. Ignatius
St. Ignatius, Montana

When other Americans were fighting a Civil War, the Jesuits were here in service to the native Americans of the area. The mission church holds a series of paintings done by a cook in the kitchen that are familiar, primal and startling. The frescoes, or murals as they are called in Montana, are as jaw dropping as anything Raphael ever did. Not a small part of this experience is the setting at the foothills of the magnificent Mission Mountains but still, the mission at Ignatius is an uncommon experience that simply isn't available anywhere else in the Northwest. My particular favorites are the Lord and his mother in the very back of the church. They are Salish. As are the locals, the native people of the Flathead Indian Reservation.

Priest Lake
North Idaho

If there was ever a contentment or a peaceful resolve that emanated out of me than was greater than the one that Priest Lake evokes, I am not aware of it. Priest Lake never, ever changes. Despite development, the State of Idaho and the price of timber, Priest Lake remains undeterred and unseduced by the ways of the world. Utterly sublime refuge amid the chaos and wreckage of life in the new millennium.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-19T08:47:00.001-07:00

A gardener never, ever loses utter fascination with the garden. Gardeners are fascinated with their land twelve months a year, everyday of each month. They wonder and watch. Walk and wait. Listen. Scout. Explore, investigate. Check on. Anticipate. Exhale. Reach for the soapy water. Reach for the camera. Reach for the felcos. The garden provides real time live entertainment for a gardener most waking moments of his existence.

I try to walk in my garden each day as it is a true moment of solace for me. I do not like the distraction of other people in the garden when I am there so I have to wait until I am certain the coast is clear. And then I stroll through my peace of mind and consolation. It is impossible, no matter how i am dressed, not to deadhead, pick off aphids, examine underside of foliage, or smell a handfuls of soil, if I am prompted. Can't not do it. Can't not be in it while being present.

And I end up with handfuls of seed pods and yellow, crispy foliage that fascinates me as I drop them in my big orange Home Depot bucket. I love to look at that stuff. Love it. I love the plant as it emerges from dormancy, begins to leaf, then bud, then bloom, then fade and finally, settles. I love every part of it. The poppies have just run through their cycle and I am fascinated with the seed --which is, you have to admit-- the alpha and omega of it all. It's all about the seeds. I was playing with the poppies last night in my nightgown well past good light and got these. So you know, this is the stuff that really interests me. When I do my book, I'll include lots of pretty pictures like the ones below for you. But for me, I do a whole section of this stuff.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-16T08:51:00.001-07:00

Loaded up another boat and sent it back out on the lake. I've known this boat for many, many years; actually since the first. Always been one of my very favorite boats, maybe even my favorite. Been on stormy waters for more than several years now, beat up pretty bad, this one has, so I was a surprised but really, really happy to see it tie up at my dock couple of months ago, scruffy and worn but still very handsome and sturdy. I gave it the best stuff I had, but not completely sure of what had gone on and where the new journey would go, I could only guess at what inventory to lay in, what supplies to use to line the shelves, what stock would be needed. Saw 'im chugging away on Monday, steady low throttle. Gotta be all good. Some transitions are not lightning nor laser fast but discernible in only a nano-second. This time I saw it. Which makes me think about how ignorance is bliss. Bob Seger: "Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then."

So these people I know are having a social event of sorts and invited me. I was quite glad to be included. For reason of a strictly personal nature, I won't be going. But it's got me to thinking about why I separate myself from things that I really, really enjoy. Because I do that, if rather frequently, rather regularly.

A classmate of mine from back in the day has been cranky with me for 39 years or so--we also go back to just about the very beginning. This guy does not approve of me nor do I, wait for it, meet his expectations. There's a reoccurring theme! But because I bring out the absolute worst in this guy and he is sure to go off on me for something I did or didn't do, after all this time, I have stayed away and continue to stay away from most of my hometown friends. Just seems more friendly that way; I'd feel bad if our old friends had to witness how ugly he can be. Because he's pretty damn ugly. And chooses me to be his personal witness. I'd also be lying if I didn't admit to be tired and a little resentful of my particular job description in being Mr. All American's punching bag. I'm weary. I don't choose pain. All in all, it forms a beautiful, treacherous reef of separation and isolation.

Another thing I have loved since I was quite small is the lake. The people of my birth family are particular devotees of the river, so we didn't spend much time on the lake as a child but I love the lake. love it. Walked along the north shores of Lake Coeur d'Alene practically every night of my adolescence, stars and snow alike, and when I went to college in the wheat fields down the road, my big secret was that the one and only thing I missed about home was the lake. After college, I moved to the third leg of the triangle where my life was at the club and on the course, both which came with pools. I became a pool person. That's what my life was and as incredible as it now seems, all three of my children learned to swim in pools. Might be a good time to take them back and get them re-certified. Can you really swim if all you know is pool swimming?

Now I live in a home with a very nice swimming pool that I never, ever, read that no, not once, use. Why do I separate myself from the things that I really like? Part of it is the people around me, part of it is that I would much rather walk around pain than walk through it. Having my Inner Gladiator on alert 24/7 makes me so weary. So very weary. So separation, then, ends up being only the best I can do.

I am going to try to relieve myself from separation; abandon my monastic instincts and practices for a few moments. A few soon moments. I will swim, swim!, in Lake Coeur d'Alene on my birthday, just as I did as a little kid. And recall and celebrate my American Red Cross swimming lessons on Lake Coeur d'Alene. And I will summarily throw caution to the wind and see if I can't join people who are barbecuing and drinking beer before the year's end. Gotta try it and dodge it no more.

And every morning, I will go down and sit on the dock, with a good book and my dogs, and watch the horizon and wait for a glimpse of that handsome, sturdy boat that I have known and loved for so long--surely now sailing on a smoother, straight course to unparalleled achievement and expression.

~for Joe Nathan, aloha nui loa

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-13T09:50:00.001-07:00

I know a guy who is a beermaker--makes beer on the weekend and at night and from all published reports, does a pretty good job of it. This week he was looking for a few handfuls of huckleberries, I guess, for his next batch of brew. HBO then asked the question, What Would You Trade for a Six-Pack of Home Brewed Beer?

I responded immediately that I would trade an enormous bouquet of summer perennials from Bellemaison, featuring roses of course. I could make him up a really nice one today, with white peonies, coppery orange yellow roses, some late deep pink lilacs, fresh, tender ferns, blooming catnip and some nice single petal red roses. Altissimo, for those in the know.

But it got me to thinking about what do I have or do here that I could trade, if I wanted to? There are, I would say, about 20 Hermes scarves that I don't want or wear. There are some exquisite French hand-colored botanicals from the 40s. I've got some yucca, Joe Pye Weed, and hostis in my inventory of excess capacity. I have got 20 very large terra cotta pots. I've got several digital cameras that I don't use at all any more. I have one very excellent Mel McCuddin t shirt that I would trade for something really worthwhile. Something that would be as cool to have as this Mel t-shirt. I have a very, very fine Robin Dare print that I have never made friends with--sure wish I could find it a happy home. It hangs in storage at the moment, as it has for 10 years. I have vintage cookbooks that I'd trade for other vintage cookbooks. I have dishes that I would happy trade for another set of dishes. I think, last time I inventoried the dishes, I was up to 13 sets of dishes. But only one set I'd trade. I need the rest.

I could trade a first rate apple pie; a batch of flank steak second to none; potato, macaroni and fruit salads fit for a Goddess; cole slaw that will make you weep in ecstasy; corn on the cob that will have you growl, rumble and roar for more; chocolate cake and cinnamon ice cream that will have you stand up and howl, then scratch and bark. Huckleberry pancakes. I have other prowess in the kitchen, too. We could talk.

And I have Chow hair that I just took off four chows. It's wintry, thick, fleecy hair and perfect for planting the spring garden because the smell wards off would be interlopers who believe, correctly, that the Chows are very near. Just where ya going find stuff like that?

What do you have to trade?

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

This is high holy lilac country here in The 'Kan EWA. I suppose it's the good hard freeze that provides the nice dormancy those woody stems need to set blooms. But whatever it is, we grow lots and lots of lilacs here and in fact, have nick named our self The Lilac City. Heady stuff.

When I was in high school, I played the flute and marched in the Coeur d'Alene High School Marching Band. Every year at this time we'd pack up base drums and the tubas, we called 'em tubas then, and head to The 'Kan EWA for the Lilac Armed Forces Torchlight Parade where we would march up and down the streets of downtown in between the floats and military units. The closer I got to graduation the dorkier it was to march in the band and just about everybody had more fun in the band than I did but still, I was a four year veteran of playing first chair flute and count those parade marches under the starry spring night skies of The 'Kan EWA as some of my favorite memories of back in the day. And it was all about the lilacs.

One morning in May 1980, I got up really early and drove my truck out past north Mead, where I had located 3 dozen bareroot lilacs. Dark purple. I wanted a lilac hedge that would span the back line of my property so I went out there, took all those bushes bareroot out of wet bark and brought them home and planted them. Toward mid morning the sky turned really dark; ominous yet no signs of rain nor clouds really. Just ominous. It was an eerie pall that cast itself over the gazebo and the fish pond but I just kept plugging those holes I had dug the day before with steer manure, peat moss and bare root lilacs. By 11 am, the phone was ringing off the hook with the news that Mt. St. Helens had blown up and that dark sky was volcanic ash getting ready to settle itself into my life--in my garden, on my driveway, atop my roof and in every nook, cranny and crevice of my pores, my sinuses and my every open orifice and those of my two little kids and my dogs. So I kept planting. Didn't have much time and I had to get all 36 of those lilacs in the ground. I finished just in time. It got pitch dark by 1 o'clock in the afternoon. We waited for something horrific to happen but it never did; we woke up the next morning to 8 inches of gray, powdery volcanic ash covering everything. Our entire world. And all 36 of my new lilac bushes. I had no idea if they would survive. Sometime after that I got a divorce and we moved away from that house but as luck would have it, I drive by it at least twice a day. It still has the most fabulous, enormous hedge of lilacs in back. Dark purple. It was the volcanic ash that sent those lilacs heavenward and kept them a bionic presence on Rockwood Boulevard all these years, where they were blooming today.

I had another baby and twenty years later he moved to London. It was in the glory days of terrorism and I worried about him hourly for the first six months he was there. Never occurred to me he might be homesick--in fact, I probably didn't care if he was homesick. I was completely absorbed with his safety. After his first Christmas there, I relaxed and began to settle into life without my happy, busy youngest child. As I missed him the most, in April, he wrote me a note and said that he was a homesick as he had been in London, at almost a year after he arrived. He was walking along the Thames well into his morning routine one day and all of a sudden, he smelled them. Couldn't see them, but he smelled lilacs and he was immediately taken back to his bedroom in The 'Kan EWA, where the scent of lilacs wafts upward from the garden beneath his window. He misses the lilacs still and told me a week ago or so that he misses the spring work in the garden and the feel of freshly turned spring soil and the smell of lilacs that is ever present, everywhere here at Bellemaison this time of year.

My favorite these days are Korean lilacs. They are smaller, lighter in color but have a powerful, pungent lilac smell that I can catch in the air 200 yards down the street. Korean lilacs are a change up for me; I like big, bushy well pruned dark purple lilacs. But now, I am different. Things have changed and will change again. And probably again. But my life is bookmarked by certain irrevocable events and if there are lilacs in the air, for me, surely it's May and will be, for all time.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-06-01T05:29:00.000-07:00

okay, okay, okay. Get off! I have been out of town and thus am remiss in putting in my take on the brilliant win by FC Barcelona in the UEFA final last Wednesday. It was a love-lee day for the blue and red and Man U, not so much. Failed to respond to the Spanish ass kicking delivered systematically, swiftly and surely after Eto'o drilled one in 10 minutes into the game. Failed to show up to the search and destroy party hosted by the boys from Barcelona. Failed to even be worthy after FCB routed them and left them with no response at all at the end of 90 minutes of training manual soccer: You Too Can Win Even If Yore Defense Has A Few (Large) Holes In It. The only pain in two hours was my boy Wayne Rooney's confusion and bewilderment. God, I used to love to watch him play and reveled in his Annihilator performance at the World Cup 2006 in Germany on behalf of The Queen's England. But on Wednesday last, Puyol dismantled that man and left in his place a little, babbling man to do a Wayne Rooney-size job. It was so sad. Even Prince William looked embarrassed and impatient shaking his hand in the medal ceremony. Awkward.

My boy Thierry Henry looked ...okay. What! He's been sorting out an injury! And I must admit that Lionel Messi can bring it anyway you want it. Warrior,that. Him. Whatever. Here's the NYT's take on it. Loved it. Hey, did you realize the World Cup is next summer?!

Player Ratings

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-23T20:33:00.000-07:00

JoJo's Taco Bravo

(This is not a summertime recipe nor is it one I typically would enjoy: it involves lots of opening up cans and a fair amount of mayonnaise. But it's been noodling around in my head for a few months now and I wanted to nail it, write it up and put it away for the summer. I watched Paula Deen one Saturday morning when it was still very cold and snowy out and got the idea for this chili. Took me awhile to get all the pieces in the right order but served it recently at the Dancing With the Stars Finale to rave reviews. It's actually uber easy.)

1 bunch green onions, sliced
1 recipe ranch dressing using Hidden Valley herb and spice envelope, fresh buttermilk and mayonnaise
(I actually used two envelopes of herbs and spices, making a potent batch of dressing that I loosen up with more buttermilk and mayo if I end up using it on salad.)

1-1 1/2 pounds lean, lean hamburger

3 T taco seasoning or 1 envelope taco seasoning
1 envelope Hidden Valley ranch dressing mix

1 15 oz can tomato sauce
1 15 oz can diced tomatoes with chilies
(Canned tomatoes are not created equal: if you get an elite brand the tomatoes will be seeded. Otherwise, using a run of the mill brand, your chili will have tomato seeds.)

2/3 c dehydrated onions (boorah!)
3 tsp chipotle Tabasco
2 tsp cumin

1 15 oz can pinto beans
1 15 oz can kidney beans

Season hamburger and brown in large dutch oven over medium high heat. Reduce heat and stir in taco seasoning and ranch dressing mix. Add tomatoes and tomato sauce and reserve cans.

Stir in onion, Tabasco and cumin and adjust to taste. Add beans complete with liquid and add two cans of water, using the tomato sauce and diced tomato cans. Cook over low heat until chili absorbs water and has a nice chili consistency.

Ladle into bowls, drizzle with homemade ranch dressing then sprinkle with green onions. Serve with either tortilla chips from the snack aisle or white tortillas, steamed. Bravo, bravo, bravo.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-21T08:58:00.001-07:00

Took a quiz over there on Facebook, 'How Idaho Are You?' Turns out I am 100% tater. That damned Facebook is amazing. And in a moment of weakness yesterday, I gave my Facebook address to that one bossy high school friend who just won't give up on me. Pretty soon now, they'll all be coming over to Facebook.

My fear is loss of intimacy. I dread running into the gas station or being at a benefit in Coeur d'Alene and seeing classmates from a long time ago and having to explain just what the deal is with paparazzi. Why am I plagued with the paparazzi? There's paparazzi in The 'Kan EWA? How do you explain a running gag among friends whose friendships were built in a large part on on subtlety, reading signals, and not ever having to be accountable for your thoughts, only having to be able to articulate them? I don't ever have to explain on Facebook or on Notes From The Kan; I can just be there and peck in all out, check the spelling, thump the syntax and keep moving.

Or not. Or not....

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-19T08:09:00.000-07:00

Today it is cold and gray. We are looking at pictures. I loved these.

Takes Time to Heal

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-17T10:14:00.001-07:00

Well, things are in an uproar around here this morning as The Chows got word last night that Copper River Salmon has arrived in Seattle. Holy Month or Salmon Ramadan has begun. God bless us and bless us and bless us.

I should have known something was up when I glanced outside this morning and saw Cleo backflipping up and down the pool deck; you ever seen a Chow Chow make breakdance moves? They do, for Copper River salmon. Sylvie Ruth was on the phone to all her friends belly laughing, and Red Dorothy just kept making those gritty, growly oouww sounds like soul singers make when they're driving their point home as she strutted around and around the patio with stiff legs and a bobbing neck. P33t just started sniffing hard and biting his lip a little bit and every time anybody got close to him, he'd crack a little smile, toss his head and say I'm bad. I'm bad. The Chows go ca-razy over Copper River salmon.

The red fish that is like red cake, red food for the gods, the Red Eucharist, brings out only the best in everyone, a sort of Great Pacific Northwest Springtime Aphrodisiac. I personally believe it's the final confirmation that the long dark days of winter are finally gone. You don't really get spring until the Copper River is runnin'. Oh, sure it's the Milk Moon now, the second full moon after the spring equinox. And yes, Easter's come and gone. Bloomsday is over. Mother's Day is history again. Heck, Ben's another year older and another class graduates, even. But for reals, spring does not come around here until you put that first forkful of Copper River salmon into your mouth. Mother Earth's Milk on tines.

So here's how we're going to kick off Holy Month at Bellemaison. We particularly like this version of salmon because the dijon snaps us to attention. We like that. And we can use our newly sprouted herbs from out back in the garden, just now back from the darkness of winter.

Dijon Salmon
from Nordstrom 'Flavors'

4 green onions, minced
1/4 cup firmly packed chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
1/4 cup firmly packed chopped fresh basil
1 T firmly packed chopped fresh oregano
1 T firmly packed chopped fresh thyme
3 large cloves garlic minced
1/3 cup EVOO

6-6oz skinless Copper River salmon fillets
Kosher salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 T Dijon mustard

Preheat over to 450 degrees F. Line a jelly roll pan with parchment paper.

Using a small bowl, stir together all the herbs and drizzle in EVOO. Set aside.

Season the salmon on both sides; place salmon on pan. Using the back of a spoon, evenly spread 1 teaspoon of mustard over each fillet. Using a rubber spatula, evenly spread about 2 T of the herb crust over the mustard coating each piece of fish.

Roast in hot oven until the salmon is barely opaque when flaked with the tip of a knife, about 10 minutes. Just don't even think of overbaking.

Using a thin, flexible metal spatula, gently transfer salmon to warmed dinner plates. Criss cross with asparagus that you have grilled over charcoal, using EVOO, kosher salt and good black pepper, over the top. If you are at the absolute top of your game today, you'll have a succulent warm rhubarb pie with cinnamon cream waiting for dessert. Aphrodisia; real-time, live aphrodisia.

If His Holiness Benedict knew of Copper River salmon, surely He Himself and President Obama would come to The 'Kan EWA today to sort out and discuss their differences, each listening and joining in respectful communion as the garden choir sang around them. The sights and sounds of springtime and the taste of the dialogue, like the salmon, would be savory, eternal and would smell deeply of our ancient woods and waters that cause our souls to spontaneously sing-- so hard, so loud-- every year at this time.

To Spring!

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-16T11:35:00.000-07:00

It is a spectacular day here in The 'Kan EWA and one of the reasons we cheerfully suffer long winters, bad roads, cheezy politicians and no BevMos. We're waiting for spring. And we know summer will follow. I am positive that Homer himself wrote another epic poem about the time when the lilacs blooms here in The 'Kan and it's laying in some museum in Iraq, waiting to be completely translated. Because no less than Homer would do to describe a day such as today.

The Chow Nation has been quite busy with the winter clean up. I figure when we're all done, we'll have pulled out 100 dead roses. Never have I had a winter where I lost one-fourth of anything, let alone my roses, which I pretty much value over anything else in my life. (sshhhhh.)(The problem with the roses has always been that I can't winter them in the safety deposit box.) The rhododendrons looks just fine; the hydrangii sleep still but they will rise and burst forth with blossom as per their commitment. I know them and they are just dogging it. (ouch. pardon the expression.) It's the roses who have checked out of Bellemaison.

And I say fine. Anybody who doesn't want to be here with me and the Chows has my blessing to hit the road and walk. Today, we will have the supero-exquizitee basil, feta and fresh tomato on white french bread with garlic red wine vinegar dressing luncheon sitting in the woods behind the pool. We will wash down this ambrosia with iced tea, double lemon!, and wonder just what the hell people who don't eat feta cheese do about life, anyway. How do people live a life without feta?

And we will regale and rejoice in our positions of being Head Gardeners in the most beautiful garden on earth and about being together. We will throw the ball, play with the stick and then take another little walk around.

And say a prayer. We will say a prayer.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-14T23:18:00.000-07:00

Soooooooo. As it turns out, seems that my big son Ben and The Fool apparently know me pretty good because when I do get the tattoo, it will not be on my wrist or my ankle or anywhere you can see it. But that's all I'm saying. If you want further details, you'll have to talk to them. 'Cause I'm not telling.

Back to the sky diving, yes, you go tandem tethered to a highly competent instructor. Highly competent. Mine was funny and fun and a gave me a big hug when I went to shake his hand at the end. Story of my life, I'm telling you. And I do hope Zoe comes over and debriefs me thoroughly. Now that it's way over, I am ready to talk all about it.

Melody, I have been on seven hot air balloon rides. Loved everyone of them. One I loved the best was Turkey; Cappadocia. But that's a no brainer. But they make Zen gardens in the fallow fields; can you imagine? And yes, skydiving was a Mother's Day present from my big son. Know why he's my big son? Because he's s 6'4". And you thought I meant big like phat. By the way, he will tell you he's big and phat, but do not believe him. I am the authority on that. And I, am not talking.

As for the pictures of these tats, I think that's what you are talking about, tattoos, you can show me yours but I ... will not show you mine. Mel, I think the musical note is a lovely idea. Peed, you better believe I did it. And Carla, yes. There are so many things in life that everyone, everyone, should do at least once.

Like be a Motorcycle Mama.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-10T21:10:00.001-07:00

I went sky diving yesterday. It's something I've wanted to do for several years. Even at that, Ben had to hold my hand tight and lead me into it; as with many things, the scariest part was the preparation and lead up. But after all was said and done, I stepped into the doorway, made my hands into a fist and held my arms under my chin and leaned, then fell, into the wind, knees first.

I froze and kept my arms clutched to myself, not extending them as I had practiced, so my instructor had to reposition me for the half-fetal position but in a second, or 20 seconds? time ceases to execute itself in the vacuum of the wind, I reached out for the air just like I was supposed to and was course-corrected and flying toward a distant horizon, hell! freaking Beijing! my legs separated into a V and knees bent, pelvis crunched forward and arms extended into a touchdown signal, hands at eye level and my personal secret for success, elbows held high. Yeah. You gotta keep your elbows high.

It was all over in another second, or another 2 hours, I can't remember which, and as was predicted, I was ready to get up and go again. And again. When you fly above the earth like you have dreamed about doing since you were a little kid, you're not apt to have just one run at it or to say, ok on to the opera in Milan! You want it, you need it, you crave it. Flying. Just like you've always dreamed.

One thing that really surprised me is how soft the air was. I anticipated it being like when you are standing at a stoplight in a really strong wind. It's not like that at all. Rather, the air is soft and slow, almost; highly, highly sensual. And you rue your boots, your gloves, your helmet, your jumpsuit, all your safety stuff! You just want to tumble and roll, bathe in the soft, soft air. You just wanna be barefoot. I had such a strong urge to play in the air! You want to tuck and roll and flip without any limit or penalties like gravity. Unfortunately, they don't let the first timers do that and in fact, you have to be pretty darn good, like instructor certified to get to do that. But omigod, it would be fun. So. Much. Fun.

That big son of mine knows me well, mostly. He said he wasn't sure I would go through with it until about two-thirds of the way through the training video. They moved from the technical/practical aspects of flying, as they call it, into the soft sale and completely unconscious of the transition, I pulled out my handbag and began to take off my jewelry. He laughed to himself as he sat next to me and thought, Game On. He said I had tears in my eyes as we sat on the bench and waited for our turn but bragged about my perfect form in the air, over and over and over again.

Everybody needs to fly once in a while. Everybody needs someone to brag about them, too. My mother never flew and she sure never bragged about me and that effected my emotional and psychological development, and textured my social development. But today, I am quite warm in the memory of me one on one with the pretty blue sky of California on a beautiful spring day; the soft surprise of that some accomplishments can bring; and the surety, the bedrock, hardcore, youcan'ttellmeanything different surety, that you, sorry excuse for a human being such as you are, are loved.

Ben tells me he's quite certain that next, I am going to get a tattoo.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-04T18:15:00.000-07:00

Well, it's coming up. Mother's Day. The Chows make a big fuss over Sylvie Ruth, being P33t's mother and all, and always express great interest in Sunday brunch and then, nap all day. The children that used to live here never did settle on one Mother's Day tradition but instead, threw change ups every year to throw me off track. Couple years ago, Beni Hana gave me a really nifty thing that looks like a tool you use to break into cars. What you really do with it is slip it in the spine of your open cookbook and it holds the book open while you cook. Super cool! This year, the Christ Child gave me a gorgeous necklace from the spring collection of his employer. FABulous, darling. Angie Mariani has come up with lovely, beautiful things over the years and never fails to surprise me. The year I got TiVo I was blown away. She's tricky, that one.

It occurs to me that the Chows and I have a certain authority in Mother's Days gifts--you folks might want us to share-- so with no further ado, we present

Best of Mother's Day 2009

Breakfast: there are a lot of schools of thought on breakfast. You can go toast, eggs, sausage, muffins, fruit, pancakes, waffles, ickcetra, ickcetra, ickcetra. Let us just say this: less is more. Less is more! Women don't eat like loggers. You want to go with one perfect almond croissant, a big mug of perfectly brewed strong coffee from a French press, and a Bloody Mary in a frosty iced tea glass. That's all you need. It should be served in bed, in a bed with 800 count Egyptian cotton sheets preferably white, of course; on a nice little tray with a single bloom in a non-tippy bud vase, probably crystal. The morning light will throw rainbows through it if you are lucky and a tulip will be just fine as long as you have a nice French dish towel acting as a place mat. The tray also is a perfect place for other Mother's Day offerings. See below.

Jewelry: I personally think a good bracelet makes a wonderful day. You have your choices, of course; Hermes, unbeatable. Good silver bangles, tres chic. A nice 22K gold bracelet of any style is a rock star on Mother's Day. But I have to say my personal favorite for Mother's Day is a tennis bracelet of amethysts. How can you go wrong? Get a tennis bracelet in anything for that matter, have the jeweler wrap it up in that seductive manner only jewelers know, and tuck in into the tray with the almond croissant and the Bloody Mary. You're well on your way to bein' Mama's favorite!

Scarves: Again, one of my personal favorites (and it is all about me, right?) is an Hermes scarf. With me, it's a little harder as I have several hundred of the damn things so you gotta be careful you don't give me one I already have. What you probably want to do is call Hermes in New York and ask for Anita. Tell her you're shopping for JBelle and you need the perfect scarf. She'll understand your dilemma. She'll sigh, think for a moment, and break the silence with an hmmmm; then undoubtedly, she'll murmur the name of the one scarf she bought from the spring collection and tell you she thinks it would suit me, too. It might, it just possibly might. But believe me, when the box from HOP hits my front porch, I am guaranteed to jump into your arms, no matter what scarf the postman brings. Hermes: no flipping brainer.

China/Silver/Crystal: It's hard to beat a nice heart-shaped piece of Wedgewood or Waterford. Or a heart-shaped piece of Pomona Portmerion with those darling apples on it. Silver anything, particularly vintage in Gorham Buttercup, is a homerun. This option is sooooo easy!

Flowers: Saved the best for last. Mother's Day is the unofficial start of the spring flower planting season. You want to go with that theme instead of cut flowers in a vase. What you want is a knock-out hanging basket, or a big planted pot or one of those big baskets of annuals that are so cunningly put together. You can't get these things at Lowe's or at Home Depot. Can't even get them at a good florist. Nope. You gotta go to the best, and I am talking the very best, greenhouse in town. They'll have a big selection if you shop early in the week and you'll be able to be discriminating and highly selective. Hands down, a big, wonderful, colorful basket or pot of summer annuals is the very best, I am talking the gold standard here, of Mother's Day gifts. It is my all time first choice and the very favorite of all my memories. It's what I used to give my mom. And these days, it's the one thing I yearn for: to drive up to 10th and Penn with a knot of howling kids and unload a big pot of petunias and vines to my mom's front porch. You never,ever get over your first love.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-02T09:17:00.001-07:00

It is a splendid morning here in The 'Kan EWA. The daffodils bloom in big blobs of sun kisses, with the buttercups making a carpet of golden winks along the paths of Bellemaison. The new leaves of the climbing hydrangea rise into the sunshine of the sky, ladders of gold green vines creeping up to the attic windows. The white and pink and lavender blooms of the early alyssums scatter and spill across the rocks and trails of the garden in bucketsful, throwing out the welcome mat after their long absence when they were tucked away in the dark arms of winter.

The Chows patrol, monitor Cliffie's progress, and look for a ball game. I mentally make a note to lay in supplies for Sunday brunch. The birds sing in cacophonous joy and the dew on new leaves twinkles along in accompaniment. I think of the May basket left at my front door yesterday. No matter what the politicians, the media or the scientists of this world have for me, I have my garden and The Chow Nation. And no one, not even them, can take that away.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-05-01T11:09:00.000-07:00

The Chows caught up with me this morning to tell me that I really have neglected my blog. They are sad and embarrassed with the paltry offerings here and told me I have to get back in the game right now. Among other things, they tell me that I just have not put nearly enough pictures of them up, let alone any pictures at all. While they certainly were nice about it, they let me know they don't want to have to speak to me again. Lord, my inadequacy knows no ends. Chow pictures. Coming at you. Soon. no, this time I mean it.

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

2009-04-28T05:29:00.000-07:00

The Knitted Village

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/8017671.stm

JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA

THE LOST TRIBES OF NEW YORK CITY

2009-04-22T10:29:00.001-07:00