Sometimes, you’ve got to just jump back into the water, even if you can’t find your swimsuit.

No, I’m not naked.¹ More likely, I’m wearing an ancient t-shirt from a show I’ve no recollection of doing, and sweats covered in house paint. It’s been that sort of past few months.²

But, even if I’m not ready, I have to get back into the water. See, I signed up for something and I’ve got to do it.

That something? One Local Summer hosted by Liz at Pocket Farm.

The goal: from now till the end of summer, once a week, eat an all-local dinner. Or a dinner as local as we can make it. 85% local still gets us an A for effort. The point is to take time once a week to think about where we get our food.

Me, I’m thinking maybe this time I’ll actually fare better than I did during the Pennywise Eat Local Challenge. What? Missed my posts on that one? That’s because there weren’t any. That’s how well I did.³

This time, I figure, hey! More crops are in season. We can do this.

I tell Chopper. He gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up… and then promptly goes out and lands a new job that puts him out of the house five nights a week.⁴ And, since this week we’re busy the other two nights, and I’ve put it off till the last minute, it comes down to me and my brilliant culinary mind (stop laughing) to produce Belly Timber’s One Local Summer dinner, week one.

And here’s how it goes:

First item of note: For reasons involving utterly chaotic schedules and tight deadlines, I am unable to make it to the farmers market. Go figure. At least this time of year the grocery store’s got more options. On the other hand, I’m in a rush and I don’t have time to do much looking around. Also, we’re between paychecks and I need to skimp. A lot. I remember our eggs at home are relatively local (Stiebr’s Farms in Yelm, Washington, about 135 miles away), and I’ve already got half a Walla Walla onion (245 miles, so sue me), so what better than to grab some local spinach and make a nice big tasty (and easy) omelet! What the hell, I think. I’ll work up to the creative meals later.

So, I get home and I am ready to wash spinach, and then all hell breaks loose.

The dog, you see, has broken a window. Not only has she broken a window, she has decided that her locally-sourced meal of the day will be the bee that is buzzing frantically between the cracked pane and the closed storm window just inches to the outside.

She dives for the bee. Repeatedly. I scold her (repeatedly) and tell her that Very Bad Things will happen to her should she actually catch this bee.

Of course she ignores me, so of course I shoo her away and grab a newspaper, thinking I can reach around the glass and give the bee a quick smackdown.

I do this. My hand slips, the bee flees, and the next thing you know, the outside base of my thumb is bleeding like Steve Nash’s nose in game one of the Western Conference Finals.⁵

Now, since I (like the NBA) lack a courtside cut man, it took a while for me to get the bleeding to stop, and once it did stop I was in no condition to wash spinach. The mere thought of sticking my heavily bandaged hand under tap water or near a stove was enough to send me running for the microwave.

That’s right. One Local Summer dinner number one: Microwaved eggs.

(Now is our lack of blogging beginning to make a little more sense?)

Oh! Wait! I almost redeemed myself. For dessert, I stepped outside and I ate fresh raspberries and blueberries from the yard and they were quite tasty!⁶ Better yet, I didn’t even snag my bandages on a raspberry cane!

footnotes

1. Shameless ploy to get more hits. Shut up, Kevin.

2. Stay tuned for details. I mean it this time. No, don’t leave. Honest. I really truly mean it.

3. My diary for the Pennywise Local Challenge went something like this:

4. Remember when we said we were going to go freelance and start our own personal chef business? We still are. We’re just starting slowly. Very very slowly. Why? Talk to the Sallie Mae corporation. Tell ‘em we said hi. On the bright side, Chopper’s got the first job he loves since I can’t remember when. Before this blog existed, I can tell you that much.

5. I would like to take this opportunity to note that we here at Casa Belly Timber are big NBA fans, and I am, more specifically, a big Steve Nash fan. I used to hate him, back when he played for the Mavs, because, well, the Mavs. Also, when he had long hair I called him “stringy,” but I was still rather secretly fond of him because he is from Canada and I am from Canada, and us stringy-haired Canucks should stick together, especially when we end up with profusely-bleeding body parts.

6. I suppose you’re wondering where the food photos are, and why I’ve posted a watercolor instead? No, it’s not because microwaved eggs are frighteningly unphotogenic and it was too gloomy outside to photograph the berries — although that does sound like a pretty reasonable excuse. Nope, it’s computer troubles. Again. Remember that lappy? The one that made us so happy back in September? Well Lappy seems to have suffered what we like to call a “surprise,” and Lappy contained my one remaining route for moving photos from camera to computer. But, hey, look on the bright side. If this continues and I keep blogging, either I’ll actually learn how to paint, or I’ll start posting pictures of Chopper at age ten wearing a powder-blue tux.

(From the 35mm vaults, Stuart on the sidewalk. My old tomcat who owned our home and garden from seventh grade through college.)

July 22nd, 2006, the cat reminded me…

I was a kid with home grown veggies, pies from our own cherry tree, eggs from our own chickens, and a compost bin long before you could head to Lowe’s and buy one pre-fab. We did pretty well on the environmental front, and I carried those lessons with me when I moved out on my own — for a while at least.

Thing is, I was surrounded by consumers who loved to consume. Consume and toss, consume and toss. It was college life in the Greed is Good era, and it was damned hard to not fall into it, lock step.

I pulled myself out when I made the transition from apartment to shared house, and then again, when I first lived in this place with its jungle of plums, figs, grapes, and berries. One year, I canned all the plums and made a tasty, spicy plum syrup. It was supposed to be jam, but I never quite got a handle on that pectin thing.

Then, for a long while, it all just slipped. I was tired. So tired and overworked, and I never had the funds or the time to do anything to the garden. I let it go, let my other efforts go, and I teetered perilously close to that 80s, trickle-down Uncle Ronnie love fest I hated so much. No. I’m not going to be like that. I hated it then, and I hate it now.

But dammit, I said, looking around at my clutter and chaos, it takes so much time and effort. It’s so hard and I’m still so very tired. And the money — good lord, all those rich people going greener-than-thou with their hybrid cars and their solar panels and their low VOC paint. I can’t afford any of that. Not even the paint.

Still, I wanted to do something — whatever I could — so very very much.

So, I started making lists of the small things. The little efforts I could afford, both in time and in money. And for a while, I thought, what’s the point. My efforts are microscopic. What good are they?

I knew my discouragement needed a good smack in the head, yet still I was discouraged.
(I still am, some days, but not today.)

Chopper joined me in thoughts, plans, and tiny deeds, and we were in turns optimistic and discouraged together, but never quite forward-thinking about any of it until we both got that head smack we needed when we took time last summer from our crazy tourist season schedule to head to the theater and watch An Inconvenient Truth.

Angry Cat took over the blog on an especially hot weekend just after to remind us all of how climate change mucks with the habitat of her furry friends to the North. She’s gone now, but we’ve got our sled mutt to keep the reminder alive in our house.

And we’ve been active. We take tiny steps where we need and bigger steps where we can. It’s microscopic, still. A drop in a monstrous bucket, but action of any kind is a hell of a lot better than inaction, or discouragement.

And now, looking ahead…

See the sparsely populated sidebars on Belly Timber’s front page? That’s a reminder to me as well: that we’re overdue for a shift in focus. The food’s not going away, nor are the occasional cats (in fact, we are knee deep in cat acquisition as I write this), but Belly Timber needs to reflect where we are with our lives, and right now our lives are about so much more than tripe, truffles, and checkered ravioli.

Not that I don’t still love those things, mind you. Not that we don’t still have a few crazy culinary ideas up our sleeves…

Just know that today — 07.07.07 — I’m not a food blogger and I’m not a cat blogger. I don’t know what to call myself just yet. Life blogger? Earth blogger?

Eh, how about just Blogger on Planet Earth. The only planet we’ve got.

Calculate your carbon footprint.
Take the Live Earth pledge.

(Check out the Weekend Cat Blogging: How To Beat The Heat! round up at What Did You Eat?)

This week it’s all about preparation.

Or lack thereof.

(Serious lack.)

We’re not among the clever few (or many?) who’ve stashed away food from previous seasons or who’ve (ahem) planted their gardens before mid-July. Yeah, we’re that late.

(We have a bushel of excuses, trust me.)

This week, once again, it appears we’re not even well enough prepared to work a trip to the farmers’ market into our busy schedule.

Gah, schedules. They really are the bane of our existence.

Take this weekend for example.

Yesterday, I picked up a few items from the market (grocery, not farmers’) to do a simple local meal of potato latkes with fennel and snap peas on the side.

Then I sat down to get my Weekend Cat Blogging post done before I had to run out the door and head to a Move On sponsored Live Earth gathering, because yes, Cookiecrumb, I am that much of a hippie.

And do I even need to say it? I ran out of time to cook.

No problem! I’ll cook Sunday!

And here it is Sunday and what happens? I’ve got a dim sum date with friends in the morning and this evening we’re dealing with cats.

Oh, we can still cook — a rather late dinner — but then there’s this little thing called a 6pm Sunday deadline for the One Local Summer round up and Chopper doesn’t even get home from work till after seven.

So, for this week, just imagine local latkes. I’m imagining them right now. In fact, it’s just after six and my stomach’s already grumbling.

Oh, and I don’t have a picture handy of either potatoes or fennel, so you’ll have to settle for carrots from opening day of the Moreland Farmers’ Market, back in May.

Hey! I had time to go to the market back then! What the hell happened?

This week’s Whine Blogging Wednesday is a short one. Not because I don’t have plenty to whine about. I do still have that whole House Fiasco to cover, you know. (You thought the bathroom was bad? Just wait!) Oh, and then there’s this heat. I mean what’s with the hundred-degree days, I ask you? I’m like three-eighths Scottish. I start melting when it stops raining.

Nah, the issue, as you can plainly see is fur-related, and you’re just getting a sneak peek. And really, it’s not so much an issue but a minor inconvenience, which could easily be solved by installing a bed of nails between my keyboard and the monitor. Or perhaps a lake. Or loch, as I prefer. With invisible, feline-deflecting monster.

Now, next week — next week, there’s no whining on Wednesday. Not a scrap of whining allowed. Why? Because next week’s Wednesday is my birthday and I fully intend to do right by it this time.

(When one spends one’s previous two birthdays on a tiny island away from all one’s friends, one gets rather pissy about it and one vows to do right by one’s next birthday.)

So, the plan: I am making a list. (Have I mentioned I love lists? I should do a quick site search to see how many times I’ve mentioned I love lists and then make a list of… oh never mind, you get the idea.)

This new list?

Forty Five Neat Things To Do On My Birthday. The goal: Collect a list of at least 45 neat things (that don’t take all day or destroy my bank account), and attempt to do as many of them as possible between sunrise on the 18th and sunrise on the 19th. (I should note that I didn’t invent this idea; I just borrowed it from a friend with a recent birthday because it was simply too cool not to use.)

Of course I’ll blog on the Big Day — but alas, no moblogging or voiceposting as I lack them newfangled technogadgets — and I’ll even share pictures because for some bizarre and unexplainable reason, my flashcard reader is functioning again. (Lappy is still quite dead, though, but that’s a whine for another time.)

There is one discouraging part (and I won’t whine! I won’t!): Chopper has to work that day. ALL day. From seven a.m. well into the evening. So, for the vast expanse of my daytime birthday, I’m on my own. Or, with friends just crazy enough to join me.

And I need a list.

(It’s WBW: Share your whines in the comments and while you’re at it, help MizD plan her birthday!)

Ahh, dear humans, I’ve snatched a quick visit with my favorite medium, Madame Kittikatsky, because I’ve something of great importance to tell you!

You see, it’s been nearly half a year since my untimely demise at the tender age of 19 (us felines should live till we’re three hundred in cat years, I tell you. Like Vulcans, we should live), and now at long last, my humans have delivered. They’ve brought in new kitties to torment the furball.

Oh, you might think I’d be miffed at their nerve. After all, I am irreplaceable. But no, all I need do is gaze down from my happy hunting ground and witness Platelicker cowering at incoming claws, and I am content. Jubilant, in fact!

So, dear humans, let me introduce the two newest members of Casa Belly Timber:

This is Ahriman.

And this is Port.

These kitties come to the casa from Rancho Lake, home of the illustrious human author Jay Lake, who longtime readers may remember for his scrumptious Ginger Chocolate Chip Cookies. At least I’m told they were scrumptious. My humans ate them far too quickly for me to discover for myself.

Back to the story: Port and Ahriman have lived in the grand style of Author’s Cats for several years now, assisting their human in his many endeavors, always making certain his computer was graced with fur of one shade or another. During this time, the human’s career took off, quite like that rocket in his first novel — the novel my human blogged about while dusting ginger chocolate chip cookie crumbs off her keyboard.

In fact the rocket took off with such fantastical style that Port and Ahriman’s human had to leave Rancho Lake for exciting, career-related adventures, sometimes days at a time.

The poor kitties grew sad and did what all kitties do when left alone for far too long: They told their human in no uncertain terms that they wanted more company.

And so, my human (being a friend and neighbor of their human) said, “let me take your kitties. My furball has had the run of the house for far too long!”

At least that’s what I trust she said.

So now, these two fabulous Author’s Cats are here and ready to keep my human’s computer in fur (as all computers should be), and I am confident they will carry on in my fine cat blogging tradition as soon as they learn their way around their new keyboard.

Now, before I go, I would be remiss not to put in a good word for Port and Ahriman’s latest masterwork, Mainspring. Oh, of course it has their human’s name on the cover, but who’s fooling whom, eh? Now, I haven’t read this novel yet myself, but I hear it’s quite spectacular. But, don’t listen to me, listen to Boing Boing. (You know, I’m quite certain a cat writes all of Boing Boing’s best posts as well.)

(For more Weekend Cat Blogging, check out all the brilliant, keyboard-savvy felines at over at Dragonheart’s Domain! For animals of all sorts, visit the Friday Ark!)

I have no childhood apron memories. I’ve no gift box of aprons. Strangely enough, Chopper also has never been given an apron — which I believe is a good thing as I wouldn’t put it past certain nameless relatives to find him one of those hideous novelty jobs that says DANGER: MEN COOKING or HEY PRINCESS, BRING ME A BEER, because god, just shoot me now if he ever dons one of those.

However, this does not mean we’re bereft of aprons. On the contrary, we have many. Thing is, almost all our aprons look like this.

Yup. Culinary school aprons. If you peek under the folds you’ll find more grease stains than a bay at Jiffy Lube.

I said almost all our aprons. There’s one apron that stands out from the crowd.

This one.

It’s not terribly unique. I got it out of the Chef Wear catalog so there are chefs, aspiring chefs, and chef’s assistants all over globe with this exact apron.

The only difference is, this is my apron. My only apron. And when I wear it, I match. See?

That’s Chopper and me back in the summer of 2006 when we co-hosted a Geek Dinner in Seattle. Don’t we look spiffy? We wore the same matching outfits for the wedding we catered later than summer, and again for a Christmas party this past December. People took pictures of our matching spiffiness. (People need to give us copies of those pictures, too, ahem.)

But, as much as I love matching, sometimes I need to do my own thing, and for that I’d really rather not wear one of those tedious culinary school numbers. It’s just not my style. Besides, someone might see me in it and be fooled into thinking I can actually cook!

So, I think I might play a little.

(more…)

No list today. I’m tossing the list.

It’s a Portland birthday. Rainy, but filled with friends, destinations, and hot chocolate.

Perhaps, instead, I’ll make a list as I go along.

And now I’m off to explore…

Oh, yes she is.

Details in a jiff…

We lost someone close to us this last week, and all too young. On that Monday, when we gathered to celebrate her life, the joy she brought to everyone around her overflowed. It burst through the walls of the church and tumbled home after all of us with a playful whisper — an echo of the laugh we loved so well.

She was an artist, a painter, a creative spirit. She reminded me of dreams I’d long forgotten. Her whisper, as it kissed the air above the hot sidewalk while we made our way home, spoke of inspiration and of remembering her not for how she died, but for how beautifully she lived.

I set things aside far too often. I bring fear to the table when I mean to bring joy. I hate that. There’s not much worse than the gut feeling of knowing you’re just not living.

Just three days ago, I stumbled across an announcement for Blogathon 2007. I remembered last year’s event (and Sam’s delicious farmer’s market exploits over on Becks & Posh), and I thought to myself, no. No no no. I can’t do this. It’s too scary. I’ll run out of things to say. I’ll pass out over the keyboard. I’ll make an ass of myself in forty-eight ways.

And then this little whisper — many whispers actually; whispers from every creative soul I’ve ever known and loved — said, do it, you idiot. Get off your chickenshit ass and do it.

Deep breath.

Okay. I will. I promise. To all of you I’ve lost, I promise.

I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do for this. Write about food? Auugh, no. I hate to break it to my food blogging friends, but I think I’d burn out on that in two hours and two plates of summer salad.

No, I’m going to try something a little different. It begins with a trip to my basement and the hauling upstairs of many boxes of old photographs.

In the years before I owned (and then broke) my first digital camera, I had a love affair with film. Black and white, mostly, home developed and printed in my basement darkroom. I photographed everything from woodland fungi to sweat drenched punk icons. I carried my trusty Nikon everywhere. I ended up with stacks upon stacks of photos, contact sheets, negatives. All now in boxes. All unsorted.

I intend to remedy this situation. I intend to sort my photos. And while I sort them, I’ll pull out random images, scan them, post them, and write what comes to mind.

I may write a memory. I may write flash fiction. Maybe a lyric. I won’t know till I get there. Forty-eight unexpected photographic adventures. Without fear.

Blogathon, for those who aren’t familiar with it already, is blogging for charity. For this part of my adventure, again, I gave it a great deal of thought and at last settled on an organization that I believe does vital work for artists in this digital world. I am blogging for the Electronic Frontier Foundation. The EFF does so much good work in so many areas it’s hard to put it all into a short paragraph. So, I’m going to quote two snippets. First, from EFF’s About page:

EFF broke new ground when it was founded in 1990 — well before the Internet was on most people’s radar — and continues to confront cutting-edge issues defending free speech, privacy, innovation, and consumer rights today. From the beginning, EFF has championed the public interest in every critical battle affecting digital rights.
(www.eff.org/about/)

And second, from EFF Fellow, Cory Doctorow:

EFF are canaries in the coal-mine, the first responders of cyberspace, building coalitions and briefing lawmakers, users and companies on the risks coming down the pipe. This is a critical job: if the resistance to these issues only mobilized once their risks had percolated out to the wide world, it would be too late. You need to start work on these issues as they are born, not when they are about to mature.
(From BoingBoing.net, January ‘06)

Just a few of those issues: Intellectual property, fair use, censorship, and bloggers’ rights. Visit the EFF’s site to learn more, read about their case victories, and check out their current campaigns and projects.

And if you like what you see, sponsor me in Blogathon 2007.

You can pledge a flat amount, or a dollar amount per hour; whichever you prefer. EFF’s donor page doesn’t require a minimum, but I will note that larger donations come with cool swag.

A couple of important notes: You may sponsor me (or any of the other terrific bloggers in Blogathon 2007) through the duration of the event, so if you’re reading this post and I’m in the thick of it, it’s not too late! Also, if you want to donate directly to the EFF and not through the sign-up page on the Blogathon website, just let me know and we can arrange for a “proxy” pledge.

And now, I really have to rest up a bit and if not get my ducks in a row, so to speak, then gather all those whispering voices beside me so that I might launch into this with the sort of wild abandon I think our lost loved ones would appreciate. Jo, and Dad too, this one’s for you.

In honor of the new Simpsons Movie, Katie and Puddy, this week’s Weekend Cat Blogging hosts, have declared an optional “Simpsons” or “yellow” theme.

We are sadly lacking in Simpsons figures in these parts (a rather glaring oversight, considering we live in Matt Groening’s home town), and yellow… well, I’m afraid we don’t do well with yellow either.

We do, however, have an abundance of orange, and since orange is just one small step away on the color wheel (and the Simpsons are a rather orangey yellow to begin with), we’ve decided that our theme for the weekend will be orange.

See, here’s Ahriman in all his orangey glory.

And here he is again.

And since he is so keen on the color orange (and keen on locating entirely inappropriate places to lounge), here is Ahri, demonstrating the design concept, Orange on Orange. Todd Oldham would be proud.

Now, since we do reside in the hometown of Matt Groening, I would be remiss if I didn’t share two tidbits of trivia.

So there you go. All that home town love and trivia and still they put Springfield in Vermont! Hrrrmph.

(Check out all the Weekend Cat Blogging this week at A Byootiful Life!)

And don’t forget:

Saturday, July 28th is BLOGATHON 2007!

I’ll be posting from 6am till 6am (Pacific time), or at least until I drop. Check out all the details in my previous post, and sponsor me if you can!