Remembering Martin Luther King, Jr. (January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)
xoxo,
Ariel + Sam
Remembering Martin Luther King, Jr. (January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)
xoxo,
Ariel + Sam
On our recent trip to Seattle, we played tourists and walked to Gasworks Park with our artist friend, Eliza, and hung out at the sundial, on the top of the hill, overlooking Lake Union and the Seattle Space Needle. What's cool about this sundial (pictured below) is that you have to stand in the middle of it and watch where your shadow falls, in order to tell what time it is. As we talked about how we structure our days as artists, the perfect symbol for our discussion was right under our feet.
I've been thinking about time a lot lately in relation to my New Year's resolutions. Mostly, these thought bubbles read something like this, "If only I had more time to journal, exercise, or [fill in the blank]! Can't I just put it off until tomorrow, when I'll be better rested, smarter, and stronger?" But, like the insistent whine of the tea kettle, the shrill tones such self-defeatist mind-chatter actually does well to motivate me to get off the couch... and pour a cup of hot tea. For me, sipping tea and finding insight go hand-in-hand. After a cup, my resolve is strengthened, my wisdom restored. Even if it seems like there are just not enough hours in the day, I take up the challenge of proving myself wrong. And, when I set out to do what I thought was impossible, suddenly, instead of less time, I find that I have more. Instead of reacting to my circumstances, I end up creating them.
As an artist, it's important for me to spend time doing things that enrich my soul, broaden my perspectives, and ultimately, make me happy; for, as I watch my shadow count the hours on the sundial, I want to be sure that my time doesn't end up sneaking way from me.
I love that they built this sundial in cloudy day Seattle. It's a friendly reminder that, yes, the sun will come out eventually :)
xoxo,
Sam + (Ariel)
When Ariel and I fly to Seattle, we always stop by Grandma and Grandpa's house for a visit. It always feels like home, often there is wood burning in the stove, and the smell of freshly baked bread greets you at the door. Grandma's ability to conjure countless pies and yummy things from her sleeves, would impress even Houdini. She's not happy until we have something scrumptious in our hands to munch while we relax on the davenport (what she calls the couch).
Grandpa's throne is his easy chair. He has several atlases, books, and maps stacked up around him like little turrets. Now, he's added an ipad to the pile, and is evidently a big fan of the "street-view" feature of the map app. He's always eager to point out where a story takes place on his maps; and he always has a story to tell. This December, he told us about his trips to Scotland and Morocco when he was a sailor during WWII; the missile that barely missed his ship and hit the one behind his in the waters off Normandy on D-Day; and the grass huts and starving villagers that he encountered in Korea. While on shore leave, he ran across some Korean children who looked like they were in need, and gave away all that he had on him - emptied his pockets, took off his shirt and his socks -- and returned to his ship looking like a desperate castaway. All these stories were very interesting, but what really caught our attention was when we learned that, in two days, they will have been married for 70 years. We asked if they had plans for the day. They said they hadn't given it any thought. We couldn't let them get off so easily, "70 years! That's huge!!! We have to celebrate!"
Ariel and I got moving. We had two days to organize a party, which meant mobilizing the relatives and initiating a telephone/email tree, setting the layers of a towering lasagne, and preparing handmade decorations.
Whew! With a trunk-load of casserole dishes and bake pans, we arrived at their house, but before the party started, we just had to pull Grandma and Grandpa aside for a little video interview, which we have posted above for today's "Finding Focus" inspiration. More photos from that day on our holiday post, here.
Congratulations Grandma and Grandpa!! And to all those lovebirds out there, just remember Grandma's advice... the secret is "patience."
xoxo,
Sam (+ Ariel)
When it comes to desserts, I was a bit of a late bloomer. It wasn't until my mid-twenties that, along with my wisdom teeth, my first sweet tooth appeared. It's not like I didn't have plenty of opportunities to cut my teeth on confections when I was young. My mom was a baker and would bring home leftovers wrapped tightly in cellophane almost every day. Yet, I would leave the treats for my dad, who would grab a cookie and a tall glass of milk, and relax on the couch after dinner. My mom didn't much like sweets herself, which I attribute to her Taiwanese upbringing. The islanders seemed to have little concept of dessert, unless you count the the fresh tropical fruit they put out on dishes, with a cup full of toothpicks, as treats for guests. The closest thing to dessert that I remember my mom cooking for herself was boiled peanut soup, a semi-sweet and savory brown mush, which I never could develop a taste for, despite my persistent efforts.
It wasn't until I met Ariel that I learned to love sweets. I was already well-acquainted with the three dour flavors of bitter, salty, and sour; however, it was Ariel who brought sweetness to my life.
Just before we started dating, Ariel and her two roommates had formed a pact that they would work together, trading daily shifts, to ensure that their kitchen counter constantly brimmed with fresh baked goodies. Guided by the wafting aroma of cinnamon buns and blueberry scones, my nose led me out of the dark cave where my former ascetic self had retreated for a savory hermitage, and I triumphantly surfaced to the joyful experience of sweets.
In a short span of time, my relationship with cookies and cakes dramatically altered, and not only were they tasty, but I developed a peculiar emotional connection to them. I found that by eating them, I could access varied sugared memories spent with my sweetheart: a decadent meal we ate together in the warm belly of a castle in southern France, a weekend movie binge making caramel popcorn, or a breakfast in Spain consisting of churros con chocolate.
Yesterday we hosted a cookie exchange in our home, and, with ovens blazing for three years counting, we can safely call it a holiday tradition. Ariel and I improvised a recipe after receiving a surprise gift shipment of the winter's harvest from our friends at Bobeda Farm, making persimmon and walnut cookies, seasoned with cloves and cinnamon. Our friends arrived with a dizzying assortment of goodies to share, collected from enough recipes to fuel a season's worth of shows on the Food Network, and included: macaroons, Irish shortbread, chocolate rum, and even snowflake-topped cupcakes. Every bare surface of our apartment rapidly overflowed with homemade delicacies, reminding me of Stone Soup, where small contributions make a grand feast; Hansel and Gretel where lines get blurred between what is edible and what is house; and The Sorcerer's Apprentice where a good idea turns into too much of a good thing (in our case, a flood of goodies that we were pleading for people to take home with them).
What inspires me this week is cookies, and all the sweetness that has entered my life, from Ariel, my friends, and my family. Long after our friends have left our home for the night, the warmth of their bodies still fills our rooms with comforting heat. And the plateful of cookies that remains tempts me to skip my normal savory (no sugar) oatmeal breakfast routine and dip a few of the sweet, buttery, pale disks into a large mug of hot coffee, as perfectly as the pale moon quenches itself over a dark, steaming lake. Yes, sugar makes me dream.
Thanks to all our friends for contributing their unique recipe of sweetness to our lives.
Happy Holidays,
Sam (and Ariel)
Monday afternoon lunch dates, just because. As Martha would say, "It's a good thing."
xoxo,
Ariel + Sam