Category Archives: Photography

Eggplant

When the kids were little and we were in our one homeschooling year, as a language arts project we kept a “family meal” journal. The girls chronicled shopping for ingredients (counting, weighing, paying for, etc.), wrote out the recipe, crafted stories of what happened while we were cooking, and then interviewed and recorded the feedback from family members.

I could sell that thing on eBay for millions.

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“Eggplant parmigiana” was the first and only entry in the journal for the humble Solanum melongena. In the feedback/interview section for the recipe, Emily wrote, “Mathias cried.”

It was not a big hit, and I hadn’t bothered to cook it since.

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Come to think of it, I still don’t cook it, but fortunately, Rick does.

He slices it thinly, and lays the rounds in layers in a colander, sprinkling them with salt, where they rest for about 20 minutes and leak out the mystery juice that can make them bitter.

He gently pats olive oil on them to make them feel better…

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… and then slaps their happy little bottoms on the hot grill, where they grow these beautiful stripes and turn utterly translucent and crispy with joy.

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We grab some hummus, a few olives, carrot sticks, pita, and maybe a glass of wine, and…

You guessed it. Sometimes it’s so good, I cry.


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460 Bread

It looks like just another set of garage doors in a small industrial park.

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But these are no ordinary doors. They are the threshold of the newly-opened bread bakery, 460 Bread, in Driggs, Idaho.

Speaking on behalf of all Carbohydrate Queens everywhere: Yup.

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I’ve eaten bread from Paris to Pasadena, and trust me, Ty Mack and Jerod Pfeffer know their dough.

I don’t know if Jerod has ever actually used the words “mission statement” in a sentence or not. But in response to a random question about yeast, he replied, “We just want to make the best bread possible.”

Now there’s a mission statement for ya.

They have learned their craft well. For my money, they produce the best crust, color, crumb, and contentment-inducing crunches of fabulous flavor in Teton Valley.

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They use fresh, clean, local ingredients…

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… and mill their own specialty grains, like organic hard red winter wheat and kamut.

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They’re natural, comfortable teachers, too.

Even though I like to think about myself as a maker of bread, I didn’t know the difference between a liquid levain and a stiff one…

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… or how either one of them tasted against the soupy leaven known as “poolish.” But listening to the breadmeisters talk about the nuances of “nuttiness,” and “earthiness,” and “bright lemon” brought back memories of being educated by some of the finest vintners in California wine country.

I’m just glad they didn’t mention “notes of wet stone and old gym sock.”

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It’s a gentle hands-in/on/under operation.

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The dough is alive and must be cut and offered up in a way entirely optimistic and grateful.

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There’s something about hand-formed ciabatta that makes me breathe all the way in.

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Meet Bongard, the benign behemoth of a deck oven that partners with them in the kitchen. Bongard is a 12,000 lb., 460-degree steam-breathing dragon.

Ty keeps him focused on their Quest For The Golden Crust with his magic paddle.

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Ty is a dragon tamer.

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Ever wanted to actually watch the grass grow? To replicate the gig for free, just stand in front of Bongard and some newly-hatched ciabatta eggs.

Before your very eyes.

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As in all other things, timing is everything…

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… unless it’s also the strength, suppleness, and willingness to have a spine cut into you that separates the Baguettes from the Boys.

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We ate the entire loaf in one day… before dinner.


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Dogs Save Potato Bug From Papparazi

This post is about a potato bug we met returning home on “The Path” a few weeks ago.

However, I find the bug so repulsive that I’m going to break us all in gently by showing you who we had met earlier in the day at Pelican Point Beach.

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They’d grown, and they were dry and fluffy, but we recognized them right away as they bounded down the stairs on to the beach.

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And yes, they were just as adorable and engaging to watch as they had been the first day we met them.

(Note: Oliver’s manners have not yet improved significantly. Everyone knows it’s rude to pee in the pool. Lulu seemed quietly resigned to the situation, though. Some of life’s “what boys do” lessons just come early, I guess. And no, we have no idea why we seem to catch all manner of animals taking a leak. Perhaps they’re just relaxed around us.)

Okay, I think you’re ready for a bug shot now.

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You can’t say we didn’t warn you.

We’d had our play with Lulu and Oliver and were on our way back up the hill when we saw “it” in the middle of the path. We had no idea what it was, but I’m very clear on what my visceral and completely girly response was to the sighting: “EWWWW! That’s just disgusting!”

It was two inches long–which is a BIG bug for California–and looked like a cross between a grasshopper, wasp, and the biggest dang ant I’ve ever seen. Did it fly? Could it hop? If so, how high? A quick trip to Wikipedia made me feel better about how squeamish I was:

“In California, the Jerusalem cricket is known as a potato bug.Its large, human-like head has inspired both Native American and Spanish names for the Jerusalem cricket. For example, several Navajo names refer to the insect’s head:[8]

  • c’ic’in lici (Tsiitsʼiin łichíʼí) “red-skull”
  • c’os bic’ic lici (Chʼosh bitsiitsʼiin łichíʼí) “red-skull bug”
  • c’ic’in lici’ I coh (Tsiitsʼiin łichíʼítsoh) “big red-skull”
  • wo se c’ini or rositsini (Wóó tsiitsʼiin) “skull insect” [Who, I ask you, would have warm fuzzy thoughts about a huge bug with a red humanesque head? Ick.]

Also from the same wiki page: “Despite their name, Jerusalem crickets are neither true crickets, true bugs, nor native to Jerusalem, and they do not prefer potatoes for food.”

Interesting, but somehow doesn’t make it any easier for me to look at it. Need a break now…

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The dogs still adore each other.

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Equals in size, maturity, energy, temperament and ear-biting skills, it was like watching kids let out of class on the last day of school before summer break.

Ready to get back to the bug?

(And note what kind and considerate bloggers we are? We even issue “disgusting photo” alerts for our readers. Who else does THAT? Come to think of it, who else posts disgusting bug photos? Hmmm… never mind.)

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It was kind of dragging itself along, exoskeleton bumping along the gravel as it hauled its big disturbing self towards the grass on the side of the path.

Ack. Enough.

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Resplendent.

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Repugnant.

How many nasty weapons of mass destruction does one two-inch bug need? Look at all those blades and pointy bits! Are those eggs on the underbelly? And doesn’t that thigh also look kind of human as well?

Ugh.

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Why do we find some creatures so delightful and others make us gag on sight? I’d love to know. What I do know is that there are many “human-like” attributes evident in these dogs: flowing hair, smiling faces, the joy of companionship and play, bling… and I don’t find them offensive at all.

I feel I’m missing something here.

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In any case, we had reached the stage of “Honey, get out one of our cards and see if you can move it to a better angle, okay? Honey?” (Read: “I’m not going anywhere NEAR hopping distance to the thing, but I’d love a close up shot of that face.”) Just as “we” were getting within nudging distance, who should appear on The Path, but…

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… the rescue squad.

One of the owners, obviously a native Californian, said “Oh, a potato bug,” upon which he bent over, scooped it up, and threw it in the bushes. “There! That’ll give him a chance. See ya next time!”

Sigh… you never know what you’ll miss until it’s gone.


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A Bird’s Eye View

One of the very best aspects of sitting on the cliffs at Pelican Point is that it often puts you at, or even above, the flight path of the seagulls, pelicans, hawks, and ravens that cruise the coastline.

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The downside is that it really puts the memory card in your digital camera through its paces.

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Not that there’s anything wrong with taking literally hundreds and hundreds of photos in an hour.

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It’s just that it can get so painful to decide what to keep and what to dump.

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For a painter who’s always on the lookout for a great reference shot for an upcoming painting, it means you or your designated alternate (the wee wifey, say…) shoot, keep, process, and store thousands and thousands and THOUSANDS of photos.

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I mean, really… is this shot that much different than the one above it, or the five others that where shot in between them? Same bird…

The answer is “yes, in ways too numerous to count.”

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Even within a single shot, there are multiple images that can–and must–be harvested.

From one perspective, it’s all about the context and spatial relationships between objects…

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From another, it’s about body shape and color.

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And from yet another, it’s about how freaking wonderful life is as you recline on a cliff in the late afternoon light, leaning against your sweetie, shooting photos of seagulls.


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Tucker Recites Haiku

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Walk as Tucker: blessed.
No matter life’s twists and turns…
Always face downhill.

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Saved, no sire or bitch
Is known. But “rescue” is sweet.
Life! Life! Life! Life! Life!

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Corgi? Beagle? Jack?
Yes. I slink, therefore, I am.
You know? Comment, please.

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Secrets on the breeze…
Weimaraner on the beach?
Fickle bitch. Bye bye.

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Forget heartache pain.
Life is short, and I am, too.
Want to hear a joke?

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Cats must poop inside.
My gal loves me more than this.
She saves mine in bags.

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Heee! Oooh… ahhh… well… hmmm….
No better moment in life
Than sigh after laugh.

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Oh, noble beast, I am!
Chuckles are good, but… what’s next?
Set, poised, and waiting.


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Tucker: The Jackalope of Pelican Point

For reasons that I don’t yet entirely understand, it was love at first sight.

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There was just something so sturdy and athletic and handsome about him…

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… yet whimsical and unassuming and open at the same time.
The experience of seeing Tucker romping the dunes of Pelican Point Beach was like watching a seriously stocky woman having a fabulous time dancing at a wedding.

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Tucker LOVES his beach time.

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He simply oozes the confidence building attitude of the Jackalope in Boundin’

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Come to think of it, he even has a few of the same moves.
For a dog his height, Tucker can really build up a decent head of steam on the firm straightaways.

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And where the going gets a little heavier for a critter with three-inch legs sponsoring a two-foot body? Well, this dawg isn’t afraid to make a bit of a mess and let the sand fly where it may! Sometimes you just have to go where the path is a bit rough, like, when there’s a new friend to meet, for example.
It was like living the proverbial slow motion run through the field of daisies into the loving embrace of your soul mate. Cue the violins…
And…

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… nope.
He ran right past me. I clearly was so NOT the draw.

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Objects of fascination are short lived in the dog world, apparently. The moment a stick showed up on the scene, poor Tucker was as much yesterday’s news as I had been, thirty seconds earlier.

Who knew the axiom “Payback’s a bitch” was so literally true?

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At least Tucker got a sympathetic belly rub out of the deal.

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In my moment of distress, all I got was a sheepish half glance as he started to slink home. But Tucker has a remarkably fast emotional metabolism, and before he got a short waddle away, he had regained enough of his composure to circle back and tell me a great joke.

I’ll save that for another day. Meanwhile, I’m boundin’ over to amazon.com to buy the next best cure to a belly scratch for a broken heart: a booster shot of my second favorite jackalope in the Pixar Short Films Collection, Vol. 1,


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Bird Watchers

I think we own at least three bird identification books. I have clearly identified them by their covers. As far as the actual identification of the birds we see goes, however, I’m more of the “Oh, look! A bird!” type watcher. I watch for birds to photograph.

Rick is actually pretty organized about his bird watching. He’s even started a log of his Idaho sightings. I, on the other hand, have a limited repertoire of on-demand avian identification skills, and apparently, I’m not prone to lookin’ ‘er up after the fact. As they say in Idaho, that’s just how I roll.

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For instance, I knew right away that this was a seagull.

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And this, despite the deceptive white (not feathers, but rather the sun reflecting off the black), was a red-winged blackbird.

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When I don’t already know, though, I just make it up. And this was clearly a small brown sweetheart looking for a little shelter.

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I believe this species is the common beady-eyed hedge hopper. However, since it looks remarkably like my ninth grade French teacher, I’m going with “Monsieur Leduc.”

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This is a rare mute syrup sucker.

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I’m thinking “Bathsheba” here. She claimed to want some privacy, but she was just so out there…

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Apparently, humming birds do more than hum.

You never know what you’ll see when you’re a bird watcher. And you know what? I’m starting to think they’re keeping an eye on us, too.  For instance, I came around the corner of a 19th floor hotel suite in Vancouver last year wrapped in an insufficient towel and was startled to find a peeping Tom staring me down.

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He thought it was pretty funny.


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