Thinking about food, that is. The San Francisco Chronicle has been running a whole series called The Faces of Organic — there’s this profile of Jim Cochran, who started Swanton Berry Farm and grows organic strawberries (regular strawberries use approximately one ton of pesticide per acre). There’s a good piece on Earthbound Farms, about which I have such mixed feelings. It’s definitely organic, but also industrial, which I find troubling — the article does a good job parsing the issues. There’s a nice piece on Clover Stornetta — organic milk from non-industrial co-ops is one of my pet issues —…
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The garden is starting to come in again — fresh chives on my morning egg for the past couple of weeks, the mint is coming back so my morning pot of tea tastes fresh and green again, and as always, onions are poking up from all sorts of odd places among the perennials. I’ve begun planting, the tomato, pepper, eggplant and cucumber seedlings are in the cold frame. And it’s spring, so I’m craving greens — spinach or asparagus, for example. But at the supermarket I look at those crinkly packages of baby spinach, or mixed greens and I just…
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That a six-hour, subtitled Italian movie (that began life as a mini-series for Italian television) would turn out to be the best thing I’ve seen since I can’t remember when. I wanted to see The Best of Youth last year when it was in the theaters, but it never played in Montana, and I didn’t think my stepmother would want to spend a whole day at the movies when I visited her in Seattle last spring. I’ve been just exhausted lately — there’s been sort of a spate of personal crises, and I’ve just been getting crushed at work with…
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The mini-daffodils are blooming in my side yard and yesterday I turned over the vegetable beds, planted peas. Tonight it looks like rain (or maybe snow) is on the way, but yesterday was sunny, nearly seventy degrees, and a lovely day. Things outside the garden are still a little alarming, but inside the yard there are dogs, and plants starting to green up, and tiny little spinach seedlings coming up.
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Sorry for the hiatus but sometimes trouble comes knocking … my mother had a fall, from which she’s recovering … and there’s bad news from a friend who is up against a dark diagnosis. I’ll be back … but for now, I’m just trying to fight fires, keep my job, and get through a bad patch. It’ll be fine. I’m fine. But people I love need my attention.. something needs to give for a bit, and it’s the blog …
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To live with the Santa Ana is to accept, consciously or unconsciously, a deeply mechanistic view of human behavior…Whenever and wherever a foehn wind blows, doctors hear about headaches and nausea and allergies, about ‘nervousness,’ about ‘depression.’ … . Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem Even for Livingston, a place where the wind routinely blows so hard that they have to divert truck traffic off the interstate …
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We got a little snow last night, and as I opened the door this morning to let the dogs out and get the paper, a very cheerful-looking man zipped past my house. I’ve never seen him before, but there he was on his 4-wheeler equipped with a snowplow. He plowed my whole side of the block. The dogs barked, the man grinned, happy to be zipping around the neighborhood like some early-morning sidewalk elf. And then he was gone. It was a strange and fleeting little small-town moment, and it’s kept a smile on my face all day long.
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My latest novel is Oran Pamuk’s Snow and it has finally happened. I picked up the paperback in bed the other night, opened it up, looking forward to a good read, and realized that the type is very very small! I’ve worn glasses since my late teens when I discovered that there was a reason I’d never mastered that essential skill of 1970s’ upper-class life — tennis — I have no depth perception. Astygmatism. No wonder that all those years when I’d been stranded out there on hot tennis courts bending my knees, keeping my eye on the ball, and…
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Not much to say, really, except it’s twenty below zero this morning! Twenty below! When I was a kid that was the magic number — the number at which even the grownups would concede that it was Really Cold Outside. Twenty below and Dad would drive me to school instead of making me go wait for the bus. Twenty below and the parents would set the egg timer when we were really little, so we wouldn’t get frostbitten (except for that time Up North when they all got chatting and forgot us, and I had to sit on Ray Kennedy’s…
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… instead of pulling characters and situations from his imagination, he had borrowed them from real life. Perry and Dick, Herb Clutter and Alvin Dewey were as much figures in history as George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. He could no more have altered their characters for the sake of his story than he could have affixed a moustache under Washington’s nose or shaved off Lincoln’s beard. He was fenced in by the barbed wire of fact. … In Cold Blood may have been written like novel, but it is accurate down to the smallest detail — “immaculately factual” Truman publicly…