Bubbling Away

Spring is often heralded as a time of growth and rebirth.  A million and one smells, sights, and feelings that burst onto the scene all at once, combining into a rapturous orgy of warmth and fuzziness across the land.   Or maybe that's just us Cascadians who toil in the grey and rain of our climate...

In any case, my attention has been focused on a different kind of growth.  More of a yeasty fermentation really.  It started out innocently enough with some late night blog browsing, and here we are six loaves later and the addition of a solid bread recipe.  I blame Orangette entirely.  On the flip side I owe this talented woman a bit of gratitude as Rachael seems to enjoy the dark crust and crumb I'm producing, rather than mocking my internet crush on the aforementioned writer or bringing up past attempts at capturing wild yeast for sourdough bread. 

Given this newfound confidence with wheat and yeast, I decided to take a second stab at beer brewing.  Same ingredients, but with hops and carboys rather than molasses and bread pans.  If you've never attempted this at home, let me say that baking and brewing are like running and biking.   Bakers and runners are all about minimalism.  Give me shoes and shorts, or flour and water, and I'll take you places for very little money.  In contrast, brewers and cyclists can (and will) talk for hours about gear and style....and both camps can drop a lot of money before having anything to show for it.  Fortunately the art of brewing goes back to the dawn of civilization, quite literally, so improvisation is not only allowed by strongly encouraged.   Why buy a $200 counterflow plate chiller and a dedicated refrigerator when you can empty out the icemaker and plonk 5 gallons of fermenting liquid next to the couch.  Then again, my wife might insist I invest in such tools after I delayed dinner by three hours and made the house smell like a brewery.  =)

View from my dining room window at 6:57 am, as the plaster shook from heavy machinery dropping chunks of asphalt.  I love urban living, I love urban living, I love urban living, I love urban living...

I'm a sentimental fool who's shocked at how fast he's aging.    Despite the gray hair, I still can't believe that 20 years ago I was finishing my final season of swimming and preparing for a graduation trip to Ireland with my father.   I also can't believe that I really dug the cheesy music of the period.  Consider these gems for your aural pleasure.  Oh the humanity!   

Old Friends

Hello again. Remember me? I'm the blogger who stood you up back in 2009. The jerk who stopped calling without so much as an explanation. The one who left you for those twin trollops Facebook and Twitter. Now, with much sheepishness and hat in hand, I'm hoping you'll take me back. Or at least give me a second chance. And if you don't, Mary's gonna have words with you. Let's not go there.

Much has changed since my last post. I've run and NOT run thanks to various body parts breaking on me. I've managed to not kill myself while driving on the wrong side of the road in England, AND discovered all the charms of Budapest despite the freezing cold and a distinct lack of proper brewed coffee. Which brings me to the fact that I'm now denying myself that sweet fuel of the Portlandia consciousness, but that's another post. I suppose that last one calls for a new profile photo, then again who says you have to take down cherished shots of your glory days.

So here's to forgiveness and picking up where things left off.

For History's Sake

I’m becoming a runner. Yes, you read that right. Me – running – voluntarily and with joy - after years of scorning those light-footed, vegan-looking folk for their masochistic self-righteousness. No, fanged and famished creatures are not chasing me. I’ll give you a moment to check the temperature in Hades.

My reasons are legion and most are self-evident. I won’t bore you with the ramblings of yet another aspiring middle-aged runner. That said, I should mention that my wife started ahead of me and I can’t let her beat me, nor make her suffer through my early death due to the unmitigated effects of beer and Netflix. That latter point’s just as important I’m also starting to feel the wear and tear of my (ill-spent) 36 years and want to rediscover the immense satisfaction and wonder at knowing the capabilities and limits of one’s own body. Competitive swimming tore up my shoulder, AND requires access to a pool. With running all I need are shoes and a path. As such I’m off and running…and sweating…and learning the intricate details of my local track and surrounding parkland. The various plaques, best spots to stretch or stash a water bottle, and under which bushes I’m likely to see a homeless person emerge from. Fun stuff.

I should also mention that 2010 will be the 2,500th anniversary of the Battle of Marathon, and I just can’t let a good anniversary go uncelebrated. With 26 mile-long street parties all over the world, such an event can’t be ignored!

Do you know what time it is?

I've been absent for a while. There's something about summer in the higher latitudes that makes one want to bathe in every last photon available before the clouds come and the drizzle begins. Some of you will understand, the rest can enjoy your perky little lives in Arizona.

ANYWAY. I'm here to talk about tomorrow's big event. You know, Alban Elfed, Cornucopia, the Feast of Avilon, the Festival of Dionysus, the Harvest Tide, Mabon, Night of the Hunter, the Second Harvest Festival, the Wine Harvest, otherwise known as the Witch's Thanksgiving. What? You still don't know what I'm talking about? It's the Autumnal Equinox, silly.

To be more specific, the Autumnal Equinox hits Oregon on September 22, 2009 at precisely 2:18pm PST. Were YOU aware it was happening, right under your nose even? More importantly, do you even care? For most of us this is simply a curiosity, unless of course you leave at higher latitudes and in a rainy state. (Can you tell I'm starting to miss the sun?)

Historically, such solar events have gone unnoticed in my mind, or noticed only after the event has long since passed. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one at my office who noticed tomorrow's event, largely because we don't have to in our modern age. Yet there was a time when one's livelihood, nay one's soul revolved around these changes in the sun. Ancient monuments like Stonehenge, Newgrange, the Loughcrew Cairn, and the Chaco Sun Dagger continue to mark these transitions in both time and space. I've visited each of these and many more that possess a power to connect me in a very visceral way to the spiritual and scientific experiences of my distant ancestors.

Thankfully my perspective is changing due to a quirk of architecture that prompts me to remember my woad covered forefathers at the cusp of fall and the arrival of summer. For 250 days a year our bedroom can only receive indirect light, and serves as the perfect den for this hibernating bear. Yet on the days surrounding the equinoxes a beam of light is cast directly through the kitchen window, down the hall, and onto my side of the bed where it bathes me in a bright morning light for which there is no description. I'm not just waking but feel reborn! Or just blinded if my sleep quotient is low. I'd like to think that this was an intentional design decision, like the barrow tombs of Ireland or the window placement in the Spanish missions of old California and New Mexico, but that would be romanticizing the builder more than he deserves.

I wonder how this world would look if our modern religions were focused less on an abstract god that everyone fights over, and more on the regular cycles of nature and the planets. A calendar that the spiritual and the atheists could agree on, could engineer into our personal and public architecture, and find common ground on. A world where we argue about how best to celebrate these transitions, instead of asinine textual preferences and the appropriate level of bigotry and oppression to be directed at non-conforming groups or the female gender. Ah well, I can't changer the world, but I can welcome that beam of light.

Then and Now

My present neighborhood is nothing like those I grew up in. This should not be construed as a criticism, just something I’m reminded of every time I encounter urban funkiness that did not exist in the natural(ish) areas of my youth. With a few exceptions, most of my childhood homes were on the suburban edge of whatever city we happened to be living in. Empty lots, half built tract homes, and remnant woodlands became my playground and a stark counterpoint to the brand new houses and manicured lawns that were quickly encroaching on these areas. These neighborhoods were populated by families or retirees, often military and almost always native born Americans, and I never wanted for playmates of my own age.

Fast forward 20 years and my playground is a hip historic district in inner Portland, populated almost entirely by childless 20 and 30-somethings. There are no almond orchards or empty lots, just century old street trees and aged buildings being constantly reinvented and retrofitted to suit its ever changing denizens. Old Churches are now brew-pub/movie theaters and aged industrial buildings are now synagogues or swank tapas joints with bristled boar legs on display. Russian and Japanese tongues are frequently heard, not to mention the bits of Spanish that spill out of restaurant kitchens. As for children, you’ll see none except for those being bused to the adjacent Catholic school or the children’s theater across the street (also located in an old church). Older adults are either attending one of several cathedrals or synagogues within walking distance of our home, or reside in nearby subsidized housing for disabled adults.

I mention this because my parents are visiting this weekend and they have a hard time comprehending this narrow demographic. In previous visits, they're constantly asking "where are the children and old people?" It's funny really, because I see them all the time. Just not in my immediate vicinity....usually at local restaurants, work, or other neighborhoods adjacent to my own. Or so I say, perhaps we're secretly cannibals...