Saturday new normal

Dear Family and Friends,
It's hot but no flames in Sacramento. We are fine. Everything smells like smoke -- even my dreams. I don't like the color of the air -- yellowish gray from ash. It is worse all around us. My friend Susan in San Jose said lightening storms there were terrifying -- explosive light bouncing through blackness, flinging from mountain to mountain with no sound of thunder or relief of rain, and seemingly no letup.

The Thursday farmers market had dwindled and then it was coming back to life, but last week there were fewer stalls -- Zing! and I saw it as people were setting up. The strawberry stall was still there, but the baker and mideastern food truck that I like were not. We didn't go back at lunchtime.  It's too hot anyway in the middle of the day. California heat is like an oven, while Florida is like a steam bath.

Zing! and I walk only a block or so morning and evening, with even less at 3 p.m. It's too hot. But at 10 this morning we went to Capital Books at 9th and K Streets. We walked inside, they handed me the bag of books I'd ordered and then we walked out. I glanced at a few books on display but didn't touch them.

We passed the Capitol on the way back. I have been almost angry at them for locking the fence up some time ago. It was the exact opposite of the warm welcome I felt the first time I went into the Capitol building. The guard at the top of the steps welcomed me with a genuine smile and said it's the people's building. Today there was a demonstration for child victims of sex trafficking. They were playing "Love is all you Need" as Zing and I left the grounds. I didn't take a photo, but I saw the Capitol uses handcuffs to lock up the gate. It was open and the cuffs were dangling as we walked back home.

I've been confused by all the communication opportunities. But people wonder what it's like here, and this is the way I see it.

Love,
k

Rhubarb and maybe strawberries

Written yesterday:

Dear Friends, 

I’m writing this around 4 p.m. because I just finished drawing (and cooking) the rhubarb. I remember Grandma Krumm cooked rhubarb, but I don’t think Mom did. It is from the farmers market. 

Later I’m going to meet Mary Kaye and Leigh to try out a new restaurant in East Sac. 

Now I’m going to paint … waiting until the last minute to take Zing! for a walk — maybe it will cool off a bit.

Love,

k

I'd rather draw a goat than milk one

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

I got lost in the country again, but ended up in the right place — a goat farm at 8 a.m. Other artists found their way too, and we all drew, painted, and took photos … we were even invited to milk a goat. I declined, and instead spent two hours (after that it was too hot) sitting on a low stool exchanging stares with these animals across a (mildly) electrified fence. They were all kinds — fuzzy and sleek, floppy ears and some barely there … and they didn’t smell bad … I’m not good at drawing animals yet, and mine ended up resembling people I know.

On the way home I stopped at the Davis Art Center, where a friend is having a poetry reading tomorrow.

Then I couldn’t’ resist the Davis farmers market ... I just can’t pass one by!

Patrice asked me to show Zing! this photo that she took at her farmers market in Chicago this morning. Zing! admits these big city dogs look happy, but said he prefers to walk. That way, he leads me.

Love,

k

Amaranth: It's not bitter -- it's beautiful

Written last night:
Dear Friends,

Did you ever eat amaranth? Until tonight, me either. That’s why I love the farmers market. The farmer told me to sauté it  with olive oil and garlic. It’s not bitter — it’s beautiful; I had it with a side of polenta. 

Love,

k

Farmers Market Poem Sale

Dear Friends

Yesterday morning at the farmers market I bought a poem. Also some cauliflower. William Curius, the poet, set up his typewriter by the veggies and wrote poems on demand. You give him the subject (I said Zing!) and after few minutes -- voilá — your very own poem. You pay what you can. “Give me about 10 minutes,” William told me. “I’ve got another one ahead of you.” 

Love,
k

Just a bowl of cherries

Cherries from the farmers market

He trusted me

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Plans are made to be broken, right? What I was going to do this week won’t happen. Meaning I'm now free to attend Craft Napa next weekend, which is tempting, whether for a daylong workshop in fabric painting, or two days.  I’ll think about it tomorrow. 

The farmers market under the freeway is smaller now, with the growing season in hiatus for a couple of months (See — I’m learning about this place!) I went anyway, to pay the man at Bariani olive oil booth. Before Christmas I ordered some to be sent as gifts, and he (I think it might be Mr. Bariani) wouldn’t take my money. He said the oil was being pressed in the coming week, and that he’d send it on to the addresses I gave him.  I could pay later. When I told him I’d be out of town for a couple of weeks he shrugged. Today he smiled when I arrived, said he’d sent the oil to the addresses I’d given him, and I paid him. He trusted me. I made two more orders today. He said I can pay next week. 

Here’s the Sacramento River and the Tower Bridge, two days ago. Today was gloomy and gray. 

Love,

k

We just played

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

I believe I played for the last 24 hours. With my visiting friend Midori I just had fun. Probably to look at us you wouldn’t immediately think !!FUN!!! but until Midori left for the airport this evening we did what we wanted (simple things: Midori was wow-ed by the farmers market under the freeway and she added a zesty Zentangle (she teaches that enjoyable approach to drawing) presence to my Sunday Crocker drawing class.) We shared a huge Thai dinner at The Coconut, and Zing joined us at our sidewalk table. We didn’t talk about heavy things, solve world problems, or pesky personal ones. We didn’t even do the breakfast and lunch dishes. We just played. 

Love,

k

At the Crocker

Midori's photo of Zing

She and Zing talked a lot

At The Crocker with Midori and our drawing teacher Erin O'Toole

Sunday: spiky vegetables and bright woven rug

Written last night:

Dear Family,

Sunday is free — I do what I please — mostly.

I heard there was an Asian farmers market near the big one under the freeway, and late this morning I found it, a cluster of white tents near 4th Street off Broadway. Since it was almost noon, prices were going down. I asked about some pointy green fish-shaped vegetables. The farmer told me their name, which I forget, and he said I could either boil them with meat or slice and fry them. “Here, take these to try!” he said, and he gave me a big handful. “They’re bitter!” he warned. 

What are these vegetables?

Later this afternoon Zing and I went to an art fair at nearby Curtis Park. It’s a bare, grassy space surrounded by comfortable homes. Today it was almost too hot. Some vendors were packing up an hour early, and the crowd was thin. We made a quick tour, seeing little of interest until I spied a loom and bright carpets made by Sergio Martinez. He told me he’s been in Sacramento 12 years, and I forget the Mexican area he calls home. Oaxaca, I think. Many of the designs are indigenous, he said, and some are his interpretations. He said sometimes he makes his own dyes, like grinding red bugs for color. (Just yesterday I read that artists did the same thing in Turkey in the 1500s; it surprised me they did it then, and it surprises me even more that this man does it today. I hadn’t told him about my reading.) I bought this small wool rug, and I’m looking at it now, on the floor beside my bed.

Love,

k

Davis farmers market: entered through the exit

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

This morning Zing and I went to the Davis farmers market. I’ve heard it’s a great one. Davis is that college town 15-20 minutes west of here where Zing and I went to see the behavioral veterinarians. (Haven’t been back in the several months since then.) The market is on the edge of a community park in the center of town. Not knowing better, we walked in the back way and finished up in front — which is where we saw the “No Dogs in the market area, Please!” sign. So Zing was slightly illegal all along, but it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone petted him and coo-ed.On the edges there are booths that don’t sell food, and at one of them I bought a photograph. The artist — Dee Conway is her name — said I can leave Zing with her anytime I want to shop in the “NO DOG” zone. I’m going to take her up on that, because the market is great, and the whole community around there is vibrant. 

Love,

k

These musicians were playing classical and pop music

while people walked all around

The market is under the umbrellas beyond them, 

and the grassy park was behind me as I took the photo

A statue of Mahatma Gandhi in the park

There are a zillion bees around these flowers, 

and you can’t see a single one in my photograph!

Olive oil green and gold

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

I went to the farmers market under the bridge today to learn more about green vs. gold olive oil. Last weekend in Michigan Roberta and Andy alerted me to this fine point. The green oil comes from unripe olives, and is prized for its intensity — it’s more expensive because green olives release less oil than ripe ones. It turns out R & A  love the brand of olive oil from my (MY!) booth in Sacramento.  In a wonderful coincidence, Andy said the woman who waited on me today (I sent them a photo) is the very same woman who sold them their first bottle of Bariani oil. I treasure the connection.

I also bought a lot of strawberries because the price was going down so much (as closing time approached) that I couldn’t pass them up. I’m learning the varieties of berries, and today's are Albions.

Luckily, I recently got to farmers markets in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Columbus, Ohio. Each has a different feel, as you can see in these photos. And of course they were less abundant because peak season in the Midwest is upcoming. 

Love,

k

Above and below, Columbus. Pearl Alley, I think, north of the Capitol

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Above and below; Sacramento

A box named Saturday

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Walt Seifert, a journalism professor at OSU, used to repeat, “The way to get a thing done is to do it.” That’s all we had to remember, he said — if you have a piece of paper in your hand, file it immediately. But I still put things aside — I’m starting to pile papers in a box named Saturday. Which was today. It took a couple of hours, but the box is empty now. 

It was a simple Saturday.

Love,

k

Looks like Zing is losing patience with me

I wanted to capture the slanted evening light at the Stanford mansion gate

After a year ...

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

A year ago today Clark died. I woke up this morning and cried. 

Despite the tears, you, my family and friends, have helped me end this year happy. Clark thanks you, and I do. 

These things made me happy today: 

You know that you kind of belong when you go to the grocery and run into people you know. That happened twice today. 

And the Sunday farmers market under the freeway was bursting with life — it’s been kind of quiet the last couple of months. Remember when I thought the cherries were not sweet enough? Well, they are now! I bought a pound of the red and white Sierra variety — my favorite. By the time I left (near closing time) they were down to $2/pound. At Whole Foods they are $9, I think. 

And I argued with the honey vendor about the merits of Tupelo honey from the swamps of North Florida and Georgia. He agreed it is the best, and then he gave me a taste of something dark and sticky. It was terrible! He laughed… “Tastes like molasses, doesn’t it?” I nodded yes, and then he gave me a taste of buckwheat honey to wash the flavor away. 

I checked the wild salmon, and it is supposed to be fabulous, but too expensive to find out.

Love,

k

This man said some people buy large amounts of honey to make beer

Leather kilt at Safeway checkout

Kayaks and bicycles and dogs in the spring

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Today the weather was perfect, people all seemed happy. There were kayaks on cars and bicycles on the streets, and lots of dogs at the farmers market, and a Domino's pizza delivery man I met tonight in the elevator told me K Street was closed for a party. 

Liz, Jody and I wandered the farmers market for a long time. Maybe it was all the pollen in the air, but I felt like I was in a dream. I was searching for the perfectly sweet strawberry — like the one I remember, the small dark red one that grew wild in the woods behind our house in Steubenville. Maybe that is a dream too. I ended up buying sweet but giant organic berries. It was the best I could expect, Liz said, considering these berries are grown commercially. (Don’t tell, but I think the berries from Burr’s and Knaus Berry Farm in Miami are better.)

Tomorrow Zing and I are driving to the fair at Calaveras County — the one with the famous frog-jumping contest. (What, you haven’t heard of leaping frogs?) Mark Twain made up a story about it — the literature says the story jump-started his literary career. More than a dozen years ago I added this story to our American Literature curriculum, in which I tried to include writing from all across the country. Little did I know that I would end up driving to Calaveras County, all excited about seeing this frog thing in person. 

Love,

k

Suddenly Sunday disappears

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Suddenly Sunday has disappeared, without too much fuss. I love keeping in touch with you all, even on uneventful days. Thank you.

Zing and I went to the farmers market under the freeway at 7th and W. More people are coming, now that it’s warmer. Someone was tasting the cherries and then she made a face. I asked her how they were, and she said “a little sour … “ At that I put my still-empty plastic bag down, and she did the same. Another woman saw us, and she asked how they were. “Picked before ripe,” the taster-woman said. We all grinned at each other and walked away to find sweeter cherries down the aisle.

Then I stopped to see Amy at Mad Dog Mesa olive oil. I owed her some money for shipping costs for the oil she’d mailed to Mary and Patrice. Earlier she'd charged me for the oil, but said I should pay shipping later, when she knew the exact price. She trusted that I’d show up with the check. Today she told me there are more than 200 varieties of olive tree. I can’t remember the exact number. She sells French and Italian oil, using fruit of trees common in those countries.

Every week I fall in love with the market, and every week there’s a new reason to do so.

Love,

k

This is not the booth where the cherries were sour
I didn't taste these, so I believe the sign

This is Amy of Mad Dog Mesa Olive Oil.
When she saw this photo she said, "I look pretty intense."

Slow Sunday

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

It was a slow Sunday, the kind I love.

This morning Zing and I met Jody, who was walking his wife’s service dog. We stood still on the sidewalk, as we do whenever our paths cross in the morning, and we talked awhile. All at once we realized we could be walking the dogs as we talked. Duh! Because we came from different directions, we would just stand still, forgetting why we were out in the first place. Sometimes it takes a long time to be smart.

Later, I went to the big farmers market under the freeway, and I told the farmer that I had made the best apple pie ever for Thanksgiving, thanks to his Granny Smith apples. “I keep them on the tree a month and a half longer than some people do,” he told me. (Or was it a week and a half?? I forget.) “You see how my apples have some red and yellow on them? That’s why.” I thanked him, and then I bought more, this time for applesauce.  

His carrots were almost gone: people were coo-ing over the purples and the oranges. 

And I bought a manzanita wreath for the holidays. It reminds me of the magnolia wreaths from Tallahassee. Although the leaves are much smaller, they seem sturdy and likely to last a long time. 

Love,

k

Farmers market carrots

Pie crust and peacock meat

Written last night;

Dear Friends,

Today was simple. I made pie crust and then realized I’ve given away my pie pans. I guess I thought I would never make pie again. Don’t worry! This morning I also bought pie apples at the farmers market under the freeway. I am definitely going to make pie again — this week! Tomorrow I’ll buy new pans. 

That market is overwhelming, from the drummers at the entrance to the throngs with market baskets to the multitudes of mushrooms — my head buzzes for an hour after I leave. The farmer from Apple Valley told me he’d brought 700 pounds of carrots this morning — purple and yellow and orange ones, with those little hairs sticking out all around. By the time I got there, the carrots were almost gone. And when I left the market, a little boy had joined the drummers, and people were dancing all around them. 

Then I stopped at Safeway for ice cream and wine, and you know how the simple chat with the cashier can go: somehow our quick banter led to the subject of peacocks … I remember! A bird had flown into the supermarket and was chirping and swooping but not really bothering anybody ...  and the conversation went from there. The man behind me chimed in that he had eaten peacock at a wild foods get-together. “Is it stringy?” I asked. “No, it’s meaty.” he said. “Peacock meat is delicious. It’s pink. I don’t understand why we don’t eat more of it.” 

Love,
k

The farmers market under the freeway