Domesticated Lady

Friends, Meet Gina

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Hey y’all! Hope you’ve been well. Guess I needed a break from blogging: with all the March 4th buildup, plus my first deadline for grad school, this month kinda sucker-punched me from the get-go, and I’ve spent the last week recovering. Though by “recovering” I guess I only mean redirecting the same volume of energy into different channels.

Marathon catering days to raise money for the Fools (bonus: we got to eat the wedding leftovers); quality time looking after an adorable but terribly nervous beagle mix named Buster (Horror No. 43: changes in atmospheric pressure); visiting with my pops and our family pooch, plus Ryan, at the world’s most picturesque dog park; plus every conceivable type of errand and meeting for Fools’ Court — from celebrating Sharon’s entry into a 12-month rehab program (run by nuns — which we take as an auspicious sign), to helping Ra Mu move the last of his earthly belongings out of storage; discussing domestic affairs as our household numbers swell from the standard two to sometimes 7 or 8.

Fool work remains totally fascinating and utterly provocative. There is always some edge to work. Some surprise to catch you off-guard, and make you think. Some nuisance, some awakening.  On International Women’s Day, a handful of us women find ourselves sitting in a circle, each attentive to her own reading.  A few moments later, Kat is coaching Gina in writing a letter to her son, given up at birth 25 years ago and recently found (at least we’re pretty sure it’s the right one) on Facebook.  Kat advises (1) that it’s important to give him the room to decide whether and how to respond, and (2) that the yellow legal pad paper looks too formal.  I scamper to my room and grab the bag of assorted stationery gifted to me for Chanukah.  Toothless, gracious, muscular from biking and sweet as can be, Gina selects a few Georgia O’Keeffe cards.  Sade’s new album, one of her jams these days, thrums, ticks, oohs and aahs on the stereo.  We all sip our tea.  I am happy to be here, with these women.

Reports from our free yoga class indicate she's a natural yogi. You can tell just by the smile, though, no?

I’m Not That Kind Of Girl…But My Boyfriend Is

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Ryan and I have come to an understanding on the subject of gift flowers.  He’s into them, insofar as he enjoys flowers in general.  Me, I like them in the wild, and in other people’s gardens or homes…but I told him if he’s ever thinking of getting me flowers, he can offer a bouquet of kale, instead.  Now that would set my heart aflutter.

Our little inside joke came to mind Saturday morning as two friends and I were drinking in the Alemany farmers’ market (best show in town, far as I’ve seen).  Small, tight brussels sprouts glowing like alabaster; giant purple-and-green sugar cane stalks; heaps of bright, cartoon-shaped carrots — well, an inventory isn’t the point.  Let’s call it heaven for shorthand.  (Especially given the row of prepared food vendors, including a lovely older lady at the helm of a large pupusa stand.)

So I’m browsing and reveling, already saddled with a heavy shoulder bag of asparagus, beets, and all manner of Brassica oleracea (broccoli, cauliflower, b-sprouts, and my beloved lacinato kale), when we come upon some buckets of fresh flowers.  I picked up these beautiful tulips to give to Ryan.

Feeling cheerful and rather delighted with the low-risk gender role reversal, I parted ways with my friends and boarded the bus home to downtown SF, where Ryan and I planned to meet up on Market Street.  A fellow rider — gaunt with thick bangs and a charming toothless smile — complimented my kale and flowers, volunteering that she would actually prefer the former to the latter.  I was in good company.

When I arrived at 8th and Market and settled against a wall to wait for Ryan, I discovered another perk to the gender bending.

A much older man walked straight up to me, staring intensely.  He looked a bit off.  Started talkin all this about Do I want to spend some time, and What am I up to.  I smiled and said, “I’m waiting for my boyfriend, to give him these.”  It wasn’t exactly a brush-off or an evasion tactic — though, like many people, I sometimes have to use those with aggressive men.  Here, I was simply relating to the situation, with more warmth than irritation.

The man glanced down at the flowers, mumbled a goodbye, and strode off toward 9th.

When Ryan did arrive, even though I handed him the tulips, he assumed I’d just bought them to dress up my own bedroom.  Took him a while to realize that they were for him.

And the rest of the morning we spent cooking kale.

The Trans/Woman (Blogger) Question

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At right is the cover of a book recently compiled by my Uncle John: a collection of the letters, writings, and photos of his godmother, Nellie Briscoe Perry.  His introduction to the book names the “why’s” of the project:

This compilation of writings is my way of sharing with others a rare opportunity to 1) learn about the lifestyle of African-Americans living in the historic Shaw district of Washington, D.C., which was rich in culture and the arts in the 1940s; 2) understand how the events of the early 1940s impacted all walks of life; and 3) know the feelings and thoughts of an African-American woman as she lived through and was affected by the events of those times.  Most of the contents of this book are in Nellie’s own words.  So too is the title, Forever Waiting, which was a loving message she used to end many letters to her future husband, Mutt.  You are invited to take this journey and hopefully find it to be an enlightening and enriching experience.

This week, Uncle John (known affectionately to me as “Tall Meat”) will be meeting with the Historical Society of Washington, D.C., which is interested in housing the letters and photos in their collection.  What were once personal articles will now become public pieces of shared history.

I haven’t had a chance to read the book yet, and nonetheless it’s been heavy on my mind the last few days.  Mainly, I wonder: what if Nellie’s documentation and communication didn’t take the form of old letters, but a modern blog?  Would their social value and interest change?  Diminish?  In general, when do we treasure personal communications, diaries, and scrapbooks, and when do we dismiss them as trivia or junk?  What makes the difference?

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Nesting: Hyde Street

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All 3.7 walls of my bedroom at the street ministry.

My friend Jerell taught me how to paint properly, and the two of us finished up this room together when I moved in two months ago.

It’s coming along quite nicely, I think. (Sorry though, I still haven’t figured out how to take good photos in low light…)

At least the mess is confined to the desk area.
A collection of blanks.
Empty plaques: attesting to my high achievements in nothingness. ;)

Pillow Talk, Pillow Action

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Goodness gracious, people. A lot has happened for me since September. In college towns, big cities, and on tropical islands. With old friends, new friends, mentors, lovers, family, and the lifelong “domestic partner.” Painting bedrooms, taking walks, cooking soup, learning stick-shift, finding a twin spirit in my high school crush, getting (a) into art school and (b) certified in scuba diving. Another 10-day Vipassana course (this one in North Fork, California). Sleeping on the streets of San Francisco. Living and working in a street ministry. And all the while, continuing to open, open, open up.

Part of me feels like apologizing, and trying to atone for the extended absence by crafting some sort of meaningful, powerful narrative about the last three or four months. (Autumn. Wow. All of autumn.) The most insightful insights, the most surprising surprises, the most splendid splendors. But instead, in classic Kloncking fashion, I think it’s best to begin with the tangible. And colorful. And close to home. Less talk, more action.

I bought these gorgeous fabrics this summer, from a very kind, friendly shopkeeper near my flat in Barcelona. When my folks came out to visit me, my mom and I decided we’d use them for a pillowcase project. She taught me how to do it while I was home for Thanksgiving. Specifically, how to add on the invisible zippers. (Invisible yet pink! Ha!)

I wish I had thought to take some pictures during the sewing process because the best part of all was watching my mother as she modeled the stitching for me, guiding the fabric through the electric machine with such rhythm and confidence and obvious pleasure. Sewing was one of her main hobbies for most of her life — she made, mended and/or altered much of her own clothing. Her mother (my Oma) was a factory seamstress, too. So mama certainly knows her way around a Singer, even though hers mostly lies dormant these days.

It was beautiful to witness her work — like watching a cheery old former minor-league shortstop play catch with his grandkids. Graceful muscle memory. Alacrity. Plus, she’s an excellent teacher for a novice like me. I’m quite proud of our results.

It’s good to be back, friends!  Hope you’re well.  More to come.  Ps: many thanks to Kyle, who unknowingly gave me the push I needed to get this thing going again.  De-lurking in person is even more fabulous.

Friends, Meet My Folks

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Hey y’all!  Hope your week’s going beautifully.  Sorry for my absence lately, but I’ve been busy with some very special visitors to Barcelona…my Mama and Pops!

Ain’t they sweet?

We’ve really been on the go — today, for instance, we’re taking the train to visit the Vipassana center; checking out an exhibit at the Centre de Cultura Contemporània de Barcelona (“The Jazz Century,” it’s called — and it looks fabulous); rest; dinner; wandering El Born; and then a bit of classical Spanish guitar. With a pace like that, I may not have time to post much of anything these next few days, but I’ll make it up to you some way. ;) Meanwhile, enjoy the week, wherever in the world you are.

Mis padres y Don Eugenio en Park Güell
Mis padres y Don Eugenio en Park Güell

Frijoles Negros con Queso Fresco

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black beans with sautéed garlic and onions, chili, lime, a touch of cinnamon and brown sugar, good extra-virgin olive oil, and queso fresco
Black beans with sautéed garlic and onions, fresh chili *and* cayenne, lime, a touch of cinnamon and brown sugar, good extra-virgin olive oil, and queso fresco

Bonus post! Today’s lunch — just perfect after intense, unbelievably sweaty morning yoga. Easy, delicious, dirt-cheap, and make-your-nose-run spicy. What a stroke of luck to discover a Latin-American import grocery store that stocks Goya right down the street. (Though I don’t know much about Goya’s company practices…just that it’s a huge Latin@-owned US producer of brown-and-black-folks-staple-food-in-a-can. In this case, the black beans — which are surprisingly hard to find here in BCN.)

It’d be nice to learn to cook more traditional Spanish dishes (or, to be precise, Catalunyan), but honestly there’s not a whole lot going on here that’s vegetarian. So the last three home-cooked meals in our little household have been Persian, Thai, and Central-American. And already Nuria and I are plotting an outing to an Indian restaurant…hehe.

On the other hand, it’s easy to eat local when no stove is involved. As Mark Bittman put it in his recent, awe-inspiring catalogue of simple salad recipes, “Summer may not be the best time to cook, but it’s certainly among the best times to eat.”

Word. Maybe next time I’ll share a no-cook dish with locally-grown ingredients. Til then, giving thanks for everyday blessings de la cocina.

Cositas De Dhamma Neru

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Vipassana church bells: a Burmese hand gong

Dhamma Neru, as most of y’all know, is the meditation center in Barcelona where I was living when I arrived in Spain.

In my three months meditating there and volunteering in the kitchen and the garden, I only took out my camera twice: once in March, and once in April.

Both times, what drew my attention the most were las cositas — the little things.

Outside the meditation hall
Outside the meditation hall

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