Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Beneath a Wounded SkyFour years ago my ninth novel, Beneath a Wounded Sky, hit the shelves. It was the final volume in my Fallen Cloud Saga, and it was a hard book to write for several reasons. The years since then haven’t been kind, and my writing was relegated not to the back seat, but to the way back (those of you who remember tumbling around in the back half of an old-style station wagon will understand).

My writing output for those years was, primarily, this blog and the poems, vignettes, essays, and short stories it contains. Larger projects have consistently fought my control and eluded my grasp. I’ve started one novel several times. I’ve outlined a screenplay. I did a full proposal for a sitcom, worked with the creative team on an indie film, and spent a month or so researching and outlining a biographical novel of a regional sculptor.

None of these attempts got any traction, though. Rather, they just sat in the muddy ditch and spun their wheels.

Continue Reading »

Gossamer WheelMy father was a painter. Oils, acrylics, pastels, charcoal, pen and ink, on canvas and on paper. By trade, he was a lithographer, but at home, he was a painter, and that’s how I always thought of him: as an artist.

His basement atelier was a cluttered chaos of books and bottles, half-squeezed-out tubes of paint, papers thick and thin, stretched canvases primed stark white, and dusty pots of darkest India ink. The walls around his drafting table were festooned with French curve templates, squares, and straight edges hung on pegs. Teetering stacks of ancient boxes held rapidographs, compasses, dividers, and ruling pens. Old mugs sat here and there, bristling like ceramic porcupines with quills made of brushes, pencils, and pens. I remember clearly the sharp smells of turpentine and linseed oil, and the sound of his artist’s knife scraping against palette and canvas. Sitting with him at the table, it always amazed me how with a few strokes of a pencil he could create an image from nothing, as if he already saw it there on the blank paper, waiting to be drawn.

His was a talent I admired, and at which I occasionally tried my hand. My youthful attempts were… well …youthful, filled with dark melodrama and suffused angst. They were very carefully crafted, highly detailed, and incredibly overwrought.

They were also pretty awful. Continue Reading »

Salmon à la Troisgros

Simple LivingPierre Troisgros is a giant in the world of cooking. This dish — one of his masterpieces — was said to have changed the face of French cookery back in the ’60s, when he and his brother Jean won their third Michelin star.

Like most culinary masterpieces, it is a thing of elegant simplicity…if you have what is needed. Fish stock. Creme fraiche. Sorrel. I will tell you how to make the first two, but fresh sorrel is difficult to find, even in season. I’ll give you a workaround for that, too. See the Notes section, below.

This recipe is not difficult, but it may take you to foodie places you’ve never been before.

Trust me, though. This dish is so worth the journey.


Salmon à la Troisgros

Makes 4 servings

Ingredients

  • 2 thick (or 4 thin) salmon fillets, deboned and skinned
  • 2 cups fish stock (see Notes for easy recipe)
  • 2 medium shallots, chopped finely
  • 2–3 white mushrooms, chopped finely
  • 1/3 cup dry white wine
  • 3 tablespoons dry vermouth
  • 1 1/4 cups creme fraiche (see Notes for easy recipe)
  • 4 ounces fresh sorrel leaves, washed and stemmed (see Notes for substitutions)
  • 4 ounces unsalted butter, cut into eight knobs
  • Freshly squeezed lemon juice
  • Coarsely ground salt and pepper

Procedure

Prepare the Salmon

  • Debone the fillets: Run your fingers against the grain to feel the pin-bones and pull them out with pliers or strong tweezers.
  • Skin the fillets: Place each fillet skin-side down on a cutting board and, with a thin, long-bladed knife, slice just between the skin and the flesh.
    • The skin and bones can be used in making the fish stock (see Notes).
  • Trim the fillets: If you have two thick fillets, using the same cutting board and knife, slice them in half through the thickness (i.e., knife blade held parallel to the board) to make four fillets of equal thinness.
    • Some recipes call for pressing the fillets down to flatten them further, but I feel this destroys too much of the texture, especially if you cannot find high quality salmon, so I say avoid it.

Prepare the Sauce

  • Combine fish stock, shallots, and mushrooms in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Cook down to a glaze (10–15 minutes at high boil).
  • Add wine and vermouth. Cook down further, reducing once more to a syrupy glaze (5 minutes or so).
  • Add creme fraiche and boil until thickened (2–3 minutes).
  • Pour sauce through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean bowl. Clean out saucepan, return strained sauce to it, and return pan to stove over a medium heat..
  • When rewarmed, add the sorrel leaves and let them cook for about 30 seconds only. Remove from heat. Add the butter, a few knobs at a time, and stir gently to melt and incorporate.
  • Season with lemon juice, salt, and pepper. Set aside.

Final Procedure

  • Prepare serving dishes to receive sauce and fish.
  • Bring a non-stick skillet up to medium-high heat.
  • Season the less-pretty side of the salmon with salt and pepper.
  • Place the salmon in the hot skillet, pretty side down (seasoned side up). Cook for 30 seconds, then turn, and cook for an additional 15 seconds. (Don’t fret, the fish will continue to cook on the plate, in the sauce.)
  • Ladle sauce into each plate (include some of the sorrel), and place salmon (seasoned side down) in the sauce.
  • Serve immediately.
  • Pairs very well with salad of melon (honeydew or casaba), arugula, and slivers of cold-soaked green onion.

Notes

This dish requires three things you may not have in your pantry or fridge: fish stock, creme fraiche, and fresh sorrel. You can easily make the first two and get around the seasonal vicissitudes of the sorrel harvest. Here’s how.

  • Fish Stock
    • Fish stock is quick and easy, and for this recipe, you don’t need much (two cups). I like a very simple fish stock, with few additions. Use trimmings from fish like the skin from the salmon in this recipe, or use the shells you saved from the shrimp or prawns you peeled last week.
    • Take 4–6 ounces of fish trimmings, shrimp/prawn shells, and/or fish meat. Avoid hard shells like crab (they add too much mineral taste) and molluscs (too little flavor). Put it in a pan with three cups water. Add half an onion. Bring to a low boil for about 30 minutes. Strain off the broth.
  • Creme Fraiche
    • You cannot substitute sour cream here — too sour — but you can substitute heavy cream and a last-minute dash of lemon juice. Making creme fraiche isn’t hard, though.
      • Take two cups heavy whipping cream and pour it into a glass jar. Add three tablespoons buttermilk. Stir, cover, and let sit at room temperature 8–24 hours, the longer the better. It will thicken and develop a slight tang. Great over omelets, it’ll keep in the fridge for a week or so.
  • Fresh Sorrel
    • Good luck finding fresh sorrel out of season — or in season, for that matter — and you cannot substitute dried sorrel. Some folks will substitute spinach, but it lacks the acidic flavor this dish requires.
    • I recommend substituting fresh arugula. It adds a peppery/radishy flavor, and is available year-round. Prepare it exactly as the sorrel, but toss with a squeeze of fresh lemon juice after you stem the leaves.

k

 

Bloedel Reserve, Bainbridge Island, WA

I walk to work
The same hour each day
And make a time-lapse film
Frame by frame
To capture the passing year.

Buildings fall into vacant lots,
Rise from the rubble.
Storms flash overhead.
Cars blur past
Dreary commuters
Taking dreary steps
Toward dreary jobs.

But along the sidewalk,
Sweetgums grow
Tall, stately, serene,
Life in the grey and black canyons.

In winter, they sleep.
I walk wet pavement
Beneath dark, dripping skeletons.

With springtime sun,
Acid green buds
Burst open in an eyeblink
To shake new leaves
In the morning air.

My summer path leads
Beneath crinoline branches,
Silken leaves rustling,
Lazing in the light.

Autumn comes and the sun,
Tired out by long days,
Grows tardy.
The sweetgums sport fall fashions and,
For a few brief frames,
The sunrise and I,
Bleary-eyed,
Collars turned against the season’s chill,
Walk the streets together.

The sky is a purple shell.
The air is still.
The trees are dark,
Their branches garbed in orange and rust.
They do not rustle.
They do not shake.

They sizzle.

Deep within them, hidden by dying leaves,
A thousand starlings wake.
They greet the sunrise with
Gricks and whistles,
Creaks and pips.
I stand smiling
Beneath a thousand chittering mouths,
Listening to
The sound of butter in a hot skillet.

Sizzle. Pop. Hiss. Flutter. Zing.

A few more days,
A few more frames,
And the sun lags behind me.
The sweetgums now are silent,
Branches laden with sleeping birds.
Later still,
Once the trees drop their leafy frocks,
The starlings leave the city to winter’s cold,
And once more I walk alone
Beneath dark and bony boughs.

k

Typewriter

Listen to Them

Dragons AheadLocker room talk. Harmless braggadocio. Boys will be boys.

If you’re a hetero male like me, you might feel that we’re getting a bad rap, that we’re being slandered and libeled, being painted with a big stinking brush. We don’t talk that way. We don’t even think that way. OK, sure, we like looking at women and yes, we are guilty of crudely expressing our opinions about female anatomy, but that’s different. Isn’t it?

Is it? Continue Reading »

Storm’s A-Comin’

Pike Place MarketThe Pacific Northwest is in a tizzy today. Why? It’s gonna rain.

[I’ll just wait here until the laughter dies down… Okay… Finished? Good. Onward.]

Yes, it’s gonna rain, and it’s gonna rain good. We have a series of deep low-pressure cyclones heading our way, one of which is the remnants of Typhoon Songda, and the gradients are setting up to rival the historically massive Columbus Day storm of 1962: sustained winds (not gusts) of 50+ knots, 5–10 inches of rain in the mountains, flooding, power outages, The Works.

These storms are going to wallop us from today to Sunday; already the heavy rains have begun.

To prepare, yesterday we went out to get a few punkles of firewood. Our neighborhood is not prone to power outages, but this weekend may be the exception, so I thought it best to lay in a small amount of supplementary fuel. We drove up to WinCo, where they usually have a couple pallets of firewood out front.

Nothing but pumpkins. Ruh roh.

We went to Fred Meyer. Pumpkins. Central Market? Pumpkins. Safeway (yeah…right)…pumpkins.

The world has gone pumpkin crazy.

Hopefully the power won’t go out here or, if it does, not for long. We have a couple of punkles left over from vacation, plus a bin of scrap wood from old projects down in the garage. And there are some large branches in the back garden, trimmed and laid out as nurse logs, that I could chop up. We’ll be fine. Besides, these systems aren’t particularly cold, just wet and wild.

I hope to take a walk in the teeth of it, to enjoy the fury and strength first-hand.

See you on the far side.

k

Typewriter

At the Limit

copy-cropped-copy-wpheader13.jpg

I walk the wavering limit of sand and sea, the Pacific’s grey serrated edge. The wind, flavored with salt and sun-dried kelp, pushes me, smudging my glasses with briny thumbs. A foam-white gull hunkers down against the wind. It glares at me with a yellow eye, wary but unwilling to move as long as I keep my distance. Plovers weave up and down the sand, dancing with their watery partner, piping and whistling. At my approach, they burst upward in a seething cloud of wings that veers drunkenly along the shore before settling down at a safer distance.

The waves hesitate, gathering their courage, then rush up the sloping shore. The first one covers my feet, the second my ankles, the third, calves. The water shocks with skin-tightening cold, but once the waves caress the sun-kissed sand, they recede with warmth and slip gently out to sea.

It is low tide, the time when the ocean rummages through dark cupboards, searching for trinkets and loose change to toss up on land when the next advance begins. Past offerings make ripples beneath the retreating waves or lie bright in the water-dark sand. Razor clams, splayed wide like nacre butterflies, are brittle and sharp splashes of dark purple or brilliant white. The pale skeletons of sand dollars lie strewn about, all broken, metaphors waiting to be used.

I walk through the dirty, heavy-handed rip current and the calmer, cleaner slack. I feel the tug of the water, sense the shifting sand beneath my feet. I taste both sea and earth on the ceaseless wind.

This is the edge, the limit of the world, the place where both land and ocean end.

Or begin.

k

Typewriter