Obligatory books of 2021 Post

The stack that has been sitting around for half a year now . . .

 My total for books read not-for-work in 2021 is fifty-seven, assuming I won’t finish off the remaining ninety pages of Sylvia Townsend Warner’s English Climate: Wartime Stories on the last day of the year. (And am I the only one who keeps being befuddled as to whether the year that is just ending is 2020, 2021, or 2022?) A surprising few (eight) were rereads and a mere five were nonfiction.

It was a year when I was tired of reality, apparently, and also a year when I admitted early on that I wasn’t going to fill a number of the squares on my book bingo card so mostly I read the novels I felt like reading and/or that I’d bought on bookstore day. As it happens, those remained stacked up and I see that Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubus, Travels with Charley, and The Mysterious Correspondent are the only bookstore-day purchases I’ve not read yet. I started Posthumous Memoirs and quickly became bogged down so I did that which I nearly never do and put it aside.

 

Instead, I read half a dozen Anthony Trollope novels and four Louise Penny mysteries. I heard Elif Shafak on the radio plugging 10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World and was moved to buy a copy. It was truly excellent in surprising ways, but her earlier The Architect's Apprentice was a bit more standard fare and thus something of a disappointment. Still, I’m reminded that I should look for more books by the “most famous woman writing novels in Turkey today” according to a 2015 review in The Guardian.

 

New books from once-reliable authors, Ian McEwan, Graham Swift, and Jasper Fforde were all a bit “meh” while Elizabeth Taylor’s The Soul of Kindness was every bit as fine as I remembered it and The Plague of Doves (Louise Erdrich) and Lolly Willowes (Sylva Townsend Warner) were unexpected delights. For some reason I’ve always shied away from Ms Erdrich; I should see about getting more of her books to read in 2022. It goes without saying that Scott’s current-work-in-progress, Islands, is probably the best fiction written in North America in 2022 and that it’s a fucking shame that it will likely never find a publisher.

 

My reading list, in reverse order for posterity:

 

The Soul of Kindness
Mediocre
National Provincial
The Plague of Doves
Always, Rachel
The Fox's Tower and Other Tales
The Five Wounds
Christmas at High Rising
The Summer Book
Sea of Poppies

The Man Who Lived Underground
Echo Mountain
Tortilla Flat
Marion Fay
Lawn Boy
Here We Are
Our Time is Now
Before the Coffee Gets Cold
All the Devils Are Here
Legends of the North Cascades

Where Stands A Winged Sentry
Lolly Willowes
Scrapbook of a Year and a Day
Islands
Black from the Future
The Belton Estate
The Shortest Way to Hades
If Beale Street Could Talk
The Glass Magician
Excellent Women

Bird Cottage
Whereabouts
The Constant Rabbit
Simon the Fiddler
Howl's Moving Castle
The Western Wind
The Architect's Apprentice
This is How You Lose the Time War
Mr Scarborough's Family
Parable of the Sower

The Belly of Paris
A Better Man
The MacDermots of Ballycloran
Kindred
Klara and the Sun
Ophelia's Ghost
The Song of Achilles
Shuggie Bain
Marling Hall
Machines Like Me

Lady Anna
The Mystery of the Blue Train
10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World
Kingdom of the Blind
Abigail
Nightbirds on Nantucket

Glass Houses

Brief cycling update

 It's been ages and now I just toss up a couple of screen shots:

Because, you know, it's all about Bessie's miles.

2021 Production Run photo only

 Some day, I insist, I'll write a post again. But not tonight. For now, a glamour shot of samples* from Madame Gradka's Kitchens, 2021 editions:

*Very limited edition black raspberry paste not pictured

Where Stands a Wingèd Sentry

 

I was feeling lazy and wasn’t going to post any excerpts from my latest book read, Where Stands a Wingèd Sentry, Margaret Kennedy’s account of life in England between May and September 1940 when, it seems, all of England was expecting the Germans to invade pretty much any day. It was an interesting read, though what I’d really like to see is her actual, not-edited-for-publication-in-the-US-in-1940 diary, because there’s no doubt this was published as useful propaganda. 

 But The Captive Reader, whose review I've linked to in my books list, helpfully quoted a nice little self-contained and amusing bit so I'm copying and pasting that bit of text here. It's the exchange Ms Kennedy had with the local doctor about getting “a bromide,” aka sleeping pills:

I still cannot sleep so I went to Dr Middleton to ask for a bromide.  He used to attend all our family in the old days.  He asked:

“Are ye worrying about anything?”

When I said I was worrying about Hitler coming, he said, “He won’t,” so firmly that I almost believed him.  He looked me up and down very crossly and said:

“I suppose ye’ve been reading the newspapers?”

I pleaded guilty.

“What d’ye want to do that for?”

“I like to know what is happening.”

“Aw!  The newspapers don’t know.”

He said if I must read a newspaper I should stick to The Times because I would find there any news there was, put in a way that would send me to sleep instead of keeping me awake.  He said that when a war broke out once in the Balkans and there were scare headlines in all the streets, The Times headline said: ACTIVITY IN EUROPE.

He asked me how often I listened to the wireless.

“Four times a day.”

“And that’s three times too often.  I’m sure I wish that infernal contrivance had never been invented.  When I think of all the insanity that’s poured out over the ether every minute of the day, I wonder the whole human race isn’t in a lunatic asylum.  And what good does it do ye to know what’s happening?  Ye aren’t responsible.  Ye don’t like it.  Ye can’t stop it.  Why think about it?  Go home and fly kites with your children.”

“How many other patients have you said all this to?”

“You’re only the twenty-seventh this week.

--pp 72 - 73 of the new Handheld Press edition of Where Stands a Wingèd Sentry

 

 

Bike bunny update

Bunny at roughly 12:45 p.m.

 

West Seattle has seen a serious jump in the wild rabbit population over the last few years, and Scott has noticed that our front yard is increasingly popular with the adorable little no-longer-rodents-but-rather-Lagomorpha-because-they-got-a-good-publicist. This morning I very carefully crept out to get a photo of this particularly attractive creature, using the long lens on my Canon which so rarely gets out any more. Then we decided it was a good day for a bike ride to Fresh Flours so Scott shifted the bikes out of the garage, not far from where this rabbit was sitting. The above isn't the very careful long-shot photo; it was taken with my cell phone on a slight zoom setting while in the driveway. 

 We biked to Fresh Flours. We sat on their lovely patio and had pastry and hot drinks and admired the frolicking house sparrows who, for the most part, were enjoying a natural diet of blown Spanish lavender and whatever they could kick up in the leaves. We biked home again, stopping en route at an alley sale where I picked up a juicer large enough for grapefruit and a vintage butter keeper though it seems doubtful we will ever have vintage butter. It was a delightful way to idle away an increasingly sunny Saturday afternoon.

Yes, I just gave away several boxes of kitchen clutter; what of it?

The total ride was just over ten miles, bringing my yearly total to still a bit under 1,200 miles.

 

Hey,"transport trips" has replaced "calories burned." Interesting.

 

What with one thing and another, we were away for close to three hours. But what did I see as I glanced over while coasting down the driveway?

Rabbit, turned around but pretty much in the same spot as earlier.

The rabbits seem uninterested in the carrots and other vegetables growing in the bed just behind where this one is resting in the shade so we are happy to have them in place of last year's wasps.

Some excerpts from Scrapbook of a Year and a Day

Karen Molenaar Terrell's Scrapbook of a Year and a Day is, essentially, a compilation of Facebook posts written between January 19, 2020 and January 20, 2021. If I were to collect my FB posts, it would be very, very dull indeed, but Karen eliminated the silly cat videos, if she ever posted any, and has instead put together a moving and coherent account of the tumultuous year we all lived through and her personal experience of the year following the death of her father, Dee Molenaar. What I particularly love about Karen--and this book--is her perspective on things and her constant striving to live up to her ideals.

I'm really not a dog-earrer--I find it a vile habit--and yet I folded down the corners on several pages. For example:

August 25, 2020
Please do not tell me what I believe, feel, and think.
-Do not assume because I am a progressive and tend to vote for Democrats that I don't believe in God, "hate the Bible," and want to kill babies and take away your guns.
--Do not assume because I believe in God that I am anti-science, believe the earth is flat and the world was, literally, created in seven days.
--Do not assume that because I'm white, middle-aged and named "Karen" I am racist and want to talk to your manager.
--Do not assume because I identify as "Christian" I am conservative, opposed to LGBTQ rights, opposed to women's rights, travel heavily armed, and am voting for you-know-who.

I think that if we see each other in terms of stereotypes we miss out on some beautiful friendships and kinships with our fellow humans.

My biggest challenge right now is myself. I guess that's always my biggest challenge, isn't it? Stay kind, Karen. Stay true. Keep loving. Look for ways to bring humor to those in desperate need of a good laugh. Don't hate. Never hate. Be wise--but don't be cynical. Be discerning--but don't be cruel.

Love, help me be what you need me to be.
Amen.

October 17, 2020
{A lot of anecdote, involving buying shoes for a guy on the street, deleted here because there's only so much typing I'm willing to do. But it's a beautiful story.}

People WANT to do right by each other, don't they?

I felt like I was walking on holy ground today. I think . . . I think it all balances out, you know? --Good disperses itself throughout the cosmos--and I know that I'll always have what I need--there's no lack--there's no competition--there's no need to go through life clutching and afraid and feeling like Good is limited and finite, and if someone else has enough then I won't have enough.

Solace at the Cemetery
In these panicked times
In these fretful, frenzied, frantic times
I have found solace at the cemetery.
The shells of those who've lived
here and moved on
to whatever comes beyond
no longer need to distance themselves
from anyone, from me.
I find peace with them--the chrysalises
of my friends--Mike, Rachael, and Debby.

I wander amid the tombstones, snapping
photos of them, and the spinning wheels--
the bright spinners are the only movement
in the cemetery and I feel
drawn to the movement of their rainbow
spinning, faster and faster as I approach,
in a show just for me.

I'm allowed to be here. In the sunshine.
In the peace of the cemetery.
And no one disturbs me as I wander
through the final beds
for the shells of those who
are no longer scared of what lies ahead.

I'm not saying it's a flawless book--there are a lot of commas I'm itching to add to these excerpts--but it's a truly beautiful book, full of genuine goodness and kindness. These days, I'll really, really take that.

To have a life of one’s own, not an existence doled out to you by others

I really can't say why this bit from Lolly Willowes appeals to me so, but it does. The book, by Sylvia Townsend Warner, recently reissued by NYRB, is an odd thing. It's a pretty standard Viragoesque novel for the first 150 pages or so, and then the protaganist realizes that the inhabitants of the village she has moved to attend regular Satanic Sabbaths (which seem to consist primarily of dancing). It's the sort of odd development that might annoy me, but in this case it's a bit like the prim English version of the final bit of The Master and Margarita. And it allows the title character to deliver this bit of social commentary:

It’s like this. When I think of witches, I seem to see all over England, all over Europe, women living and growing old, as common as blackberries, and as unregarded. I see them, wives and sisters of respectable men, chapel members, and blacksmiths, and small farmers, and Puritans. In places seen from the train. You know. Well, there they were, there they are, child-rearing, house-keeping, hanging washed dishcloths on currant bushes; and for diversion each other’s silly conversation, and listening to men talking together in the way that men talk and women listen. Quite different to the way women talk, and men listen, if they listen at all. And all the time being thrust further down into dullness when the one thing all women hate is to be thought dull. And on Sunday they put on plain stuff gowns and starched white coverings on their heads and necks—the Puritan ones did—and walked across the fields to chapel, and listened to the sermon. Sin and Grace, and God and the –” (she stopped herself just in time), “and St. Paul. All men’s things, like politics, or mathematics. And on the way back they listened to more talk. Talk about the sermon, or war, or cock-fighting, and when they got back, there were the potatoes to be cooked for dinner. I t sounds very petty to complain about, but I tell you, that sort of thing settles down on one like a fine dust, and by and by the dust is age, settling down. Settling down! You never die, do you? No doubt that’s far worse, but there is a dreadful kind of dreary immortality about being settled down on by one day after another. And they think about how they were young once, and they see new young women, just like what they were, and yet as surprising as if it had never happened before, like trees in spring. But they are like trees towards the end of summer, heavy and dusty, and no one finds their leaves surprising, or notices them till they fall off. If they could be passive and unnoticed, it wouldn’t matter. But they must be active, and still not be noticed. Doing, doing, doing, till mere habit scolds at them like a housewife, and rouses them up—when they might sit in their doorways and think—to be doing still!”
. . .
“Respectable women keep their grave-clothes in a corner of the chest of drawers, hidden away, and when they want a little comfort they go and look at them, and think that once more, at any rate, they will be worth dressing with care. But the witch keeps her cloak of darkness, her dress embroidered with signs and planets; that’s better worth looking at. And think, Satan, what a compliment you pay her, pursuing her soul, lying in wait for it, following it through all its windings, crafty and patient and secret like a gentleman out killing tigers. Her soul—when no one else would give a look at her body even! And they are all so accustomed, so sure of her! They say: ‘Dear Lolly! What shall we give her for her birthday this year? Perhaps a hot-water bottle. Or what about a nice black lace scarf? Or a new workbox? Her old one is nearly worn out.’ But you say: ‘Come here, my bird! I will give you the dangerous black night to stretch out your wings in, and poisonous berries to feed on, and a nest of bones and thorns, perched high up in danger where no one can climb to it.’ That’s why we become witches: to show our scorn of pretending life’s a safe business, to satisfy our passion for adventure. It’s not malice, or wickedness—well, perhaps it is wickedness, for most women love that—but certainly not malice, not wanting to plague cattle and make horrid children spout up pins and –what is it?—‘blight the genial bed.’ Of course, given the power, one may go in for that sort of thing, either in self-defense, or just out of playfulness. But it’s a poor twopenny house-wifely kind of witchcraft, black magic is, and white magic is no better. One doesn’t become a witch to run around being harmful, or to run around being helpful either, a district visitor on a broomstick. It’s to escape all that—to have a life of one’s own, not an existence doled out to you by others, charitable refuse of their thoughts, so many ounces of stale bread of life a day, the workhouse dietary is scientifically calculated to support life. As for the witches who can only express themselves by pins and bed-blighting, they have been warped into that shape by the dismal lives they’ve led.”

-Lolly Willowes’ describes a woman’s lot to Satan Pages 211 – 215 of Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner

As of August 1

 Today's piddly 2.04-mile roundtrip to the Farmers Market got me to my latest meaningless goal one day later than I'd hoped:

though I did, a least, get past 4,500 "lifetime" miles yesterday, thanks to some errands downtown to which we added a dozen miles or so in West Seattle looping back home with an assist from the water taxi. 

 

I love the way my mind registers that orange oblong thing as my water bottle.

For whatever reason, I'm compelled to note that I've been recording my miles on love-to-ride for only a few years now--and actually recording every ride for less than three--so the lifetime in question is probably that of my current front light, and certainly not Bessie's lifetime (she's been old enough to drink for years now).

Birthday Week--Mostly Bakeries

Not so much Waiting for the Interurban, as waiting for the photographer

It's Thursday evening and I confess I'm a bit tired so this post may be heavy on unedited photos, Google-willing, with minimal text content. But who can say? (Well, I could, if I were to go back and edit this introductory text after I finish with the rest of it, but what are the odds?) 

Scott and I have taken the week off, ostensibly to celebrate my birthday in relaxed fashion, but it's been a pretty hard-working several days, with some rat slaughter (Scott), recipe testing (me), and yard tidying (both of us). We have nothing planned for tomorrow except picking up our bikes from the repair shop, which is something of a relief. I'm hoping for some quiet time in an Adirondack chair. We'll see how that goes; last time it led to sawing off some lower limbs of the magnolia and lilac. 

So then. For my birthday proper we realized my dream of bicycling to several bakeries. Scott would tell you that "several" means "more than one," but in this case it means seven. It was, blessedly, a cool and somewhat misty morning when we set out for Sugar on Queen Anne:

which, as it turned out, was the only bakery at which we sat down to have coffee and share a pastry. It was excellent:

Sadly, they're still not offering ceramic cups, but these were at least compostable

 Fortified, we coasted our bikes down the sidewalk on Mercer to meet up with the bicycle path that leads to South Lake Union and on to the path around the west side of Lake Union and thence to Bakery #2 of the day, Byen Bakeri:

The panniers would only get more loaded from here on.

 Scott waited outside and snapped the bikes and signage, while I went in to see what they had on offer. Once the first booty of the day was stored in the pannier, we headed toward Fremont where we visited the first new-to-us bakery of the day, Sea Wolf. (Note: there are no photos of the rest of the pastries purchased on the day. The quantity is downright embarrassing and really, very few looked their best by the time we got home. Restraint is not my thing when it comes to bakeries, and even carefully loaded pastries don't benefit from several hours of bumping over Seattle's mean streets.)

Sea Wolf currently has only a walk-up window, but some nice outdoor seating  is just up the stairs. We didn't loiter, however.

 Back on the Burke Gilman, post-Sea Wolf, we went our longest distance between bakeries. We left the trail at Rainier Vista on the UW campus where the vista was not so much mountain as Canada Geese, dozens upon dozens of geese, going about their goosey business of eating the grass. They were ever so charming but, oddly, I took no photos of them. We looped around the eastern edge of campus (so much more pleasant than riding straight up the Ave), encountering a little grove of large trees I had no idea existed though it must have been there decades ago when I was on campus daily: 

Bessie pretending we're miles from the city

We left campus and continued on the pleasant streets beyond Greek Row until, eventually, we reached the two great delights of NE 65th: Sod House Bakery and Bagel Oasis:

I had to wait a few minutes at Bagel Oasis for the fresh pumpernickel bagels to come out of the oven. Sadly, we did not eat them on the spot, but they were still fine several hours later. 

We did a little route-finding in order to avoid riding back up busy 65th given that it has no bike lane, discovering a cute little neighborhood park/green space just north of the bakeries. When we went that way on Bookstore Day Week we somehow missed that there is a path through the park. It was still followed by a bit of a hill climb, but on quiet residential streets where we could hear what sounded a lot like young eagles. After a few missed turns we worked our way back to 65th and so to Ravenna Blvd and the wide, smooth, separated bike lanes around Green Lake. Last time we were there, the lanes were still being worked on so we rode on the street, but now it was the dedicated lane for us. Nice while it lasted. We crossed Aurora and rode up 83rd, past the lamentably closed-on-the-day Coyle's Bake Shop, down Phinney to the second new-to-us stop of the day, Celine Patisserie. They had some nice tables on their wee patio outside, but we didn't loiter, since I was getting anxious about time.

Phinney does not lack for fine bakeries; we cruised down a dozen blocks or so to get to Fresh Flours by the zoo. It's nothing like so charming as our Fresh Flours in West Seattle, but what is?

Fresh Flours, North Seattle Edition

Well, there's always our final bakery stop of the day, Cafe Besalu, which was a lovely long coast down the hill to Ballard. Miraculously, we were able to cross 15th NW without the benefit of traffic lights. That never happens, except, apparently, on my birthday. Oh, my beloved Besalu:

Bessie just looks so at home here . . .

 I was, by this time, somewhat ravenous, and I do love hanging out on the bench in front of Besalu and yet we just added a croissant or two to the pannier and continued on because our final stop of the day was La Carta de Oaxaca, now open all afternoon and evening, with plentiful outdoor seating. Oh, Oaxaca, how I have missed you!

While we ate outside, I love the interior decor so that's the snap I post here.

And, okay, maybe we drank outside too.

 In yet more happy news, the Ballard Locks are (is?) again open to bicycle traffic so we were able to avoid the Ballard Bridge and cross the water by way of the locks. There's a bit of uphill initially on the Magnolia side of things, followed by about a mile of downhill coasting in, again, a dedicated bike lane--blissful, it was, as was the rest of the ride along the waterfront and even Alaskan Way. But by the time we'd reached Harbor Island, I was dreading the final few miles uphill in West Seattle so we put the bikes on a bus and multi-modaled the final leg. I justified it by pointing out that we'd have to get back on the bikes to take them in for their tune-ups after we off-loaded the panniers anyway. 

 The bakery tour was just shy of 33 miles, plus 2 miles to drop off the bikes and then the walk home. Not quite the Camino de Santiago, but something, right?

Even the bathrooms at bakeries offer positive affirmations

1,000 miles

Oh, it's the little things and for me, today, it's that updating my love to ride numbers with this week's lousy back-and-forth commute miles has gotten me to exactly 1,000 miles just shy of mid-July. Sadly, I expect that my overall numbers for the remaining five and a half months of the year will be lower. Biking to and from the office means my miles three days per week will be just over 4 rather than the 6 or 7 that was fairly consistent when Scott and I were going for after-work "fun and fitness" rides around the neighborhood but still. I'm pleased about this:

Because I'm just that shallow, or just that easily contented, depending on one's perspective. And, I hope, we'll get a few longer rides in over the remainder of the summer and early fall. Good lord willin'.

Apricot - lemon preserves, 2021

 

Domesticity with Apricots: 12.5 cups total

We bought apricots last week and also harvested close to twenty more from our very own tree, but it wasn't until today that we actually made a move on making this year's apricot preserves. Like the raspberry jam, it's pretty lemon forward which we both like a great deal. Whether it's everyone's cup of tea is another question, but then few people are as enthused about apricot preserves as I am. This year's batch is particularly deserving of its "summer sunshine in a jar" code name.

 After more calculating than one might think called for, we ended up weighing up 7 pounds of pitted apricots and cooking them in two separate batches. (That one of the burners had some sort of meltdown yesterday made things just that much more challenging.) We divided the apricots into two batches of 3.5 pounds each. For each batch we put

about 2.25 cups of sugar
1/2 cup of water

into a large pot and brought it to a boil before letting it simmer a bit until it became clear. While Scott was busy stirring that so it wouldn't stick and burn, I was chopping up the apricots into smallish bits so they'd cook faster and generally break down better. I added half of that chopped apricot (so about 1.75 pounds) to the sugar water and we cooked it over medium heat until it was all getting nicely melded and cooked down--about twentyish minutes, I think. The remainder of the apricot (another 1.75 pounds) then got added to the pot and all that cooked, again at mediumish heat with a lot of stirring and minimal neglect, until it all became a pleasing consistency--a mostly smoothish texture with some interesting chunks still--close to another half hour of cooking probably. When we thought it was close we added lemon juice and lemon zest. I had zested and juiced most of two lemons. I used probably 4 or 5 tablespoons of juice and half  the zest in the first pot and about the same in the second pot; we had a fair bit of lemon juice left over for the evening's cocktails.

The ladling into jars went pretty smoothly, aside from the time I was mistaken about having screwed the lid on properly; I'll just say that could have been much worse. Scott opted to give all the filled jars a water bath just to be thorough while I concentrated on quality testing with crackers and chevre.

Gradka would not have approved of snacking testing on the production floor.

But she would, I think, be pleased with this year's jewel-like tones.

Raspberry-Lemon Jam 2021

 

The essential, traditional test

 Another brief post to record life chez Aurora. We took advantage of this morning's cool temperatures--and having invested in several boxes of berries at yesterday's farmer's market--to make a batch of raspberry jam. We did not skimp on the lemon juice and zest so it's nicely lemony. This year's recipe mirrored what we did in 2019:

For each pot:

6 cups of rinsed berries, mashed and cooked over medium-heat for 15 minutes. 

Add to raspberries and then cook for about 10 minutes:

4 cups of granulated sugar
1/4 cup lemon juice
zest of one large lemon (about 3-5 tablespoons)

Use cold-plate test to determine that jam is ready to go into sterilized jars.

2 pots of jam = 14 jars (aka 13 cups) of raspberry delight

The apricots we bought yesterday need a few days to ripen a bit before we can move onto this year's apricot preserves.

Fly-by bike update

 It seems wrong to let June pass entirely with no blahdeblahblah at all and it *is* the halfway point through the year so I pause before sleeping to share a quick screen-shot update:

And then, blessedly, I sleep for 2021 is damned tiresome.

10-in-10 Independent Bookstore Day (with completely unrelated pig photo)

Jeb the Pony may have left town, but Walter (or is it Walter's successor?) remains in West Seattle.

 A week ago I thought I'd write a long, thoughtful post about this year's independent bookstore day. It would include things like which bookstore had the best selection (Phinney Books) and where I felt overwhelmed by the presence of other people and Just Had To Get Out (Elliott Bay Book Company) and which store felt like it had been seriously affected by a year of Covid (University Bookstore) and where the bookseller and I bonded over wearing similar "VOTE" masks (Ada's). I might also have mentioned the shop where I would have poked longer were it not for the line of people waiting to get in (Third Place Ravenna) and where the bookseller explained Book Store Day to me (Secret Garden) or where I asked for a recommendation (Magnolia's Bookstore) or where it was the bookseller's first experience of Book Store Day (Paper Boat Booksellers) or where I didn't get a receipt, dagnabbit (Arundel Books) or the bookstore where I ordered a couple of books for prisoners online and thus scarcely remember it at all (Queen Anne Book Company). It might have mentioned in passing the couple of standards (Book Larder and Open Books) which we skipped this year because they were, seemingly, closed on Sunday, the day we were in their neighborhood.

But time has passed and I'm a little tired and lacking in enthusiasm for any of it so let me just say that it was handy that Seattle opted to stretch "book store day" into ten days this year. We covered our ten bookstores in four days staggered over about nine days, starting with the online purchase on the first Saturday when I just didn't feel like leaving the house, a ride to Magnolia on Thursday, to Capitol Hill on Saturday, and around North Seattle on Sunday. Many a bookstore is conveniently located near a bakery so in addition to contributing to the bottom lines of ten local bookstores, we made purchases at at least six* local bakeries. I'm thinking we should go rogue and do a bakery store day / weekend / week because god knows that's a shot I have. 

 Most photos are courtesy of Mr Bailey who, now that I have a phone of my own that can take photos, seems more motivated to take photos of the bikes unbidden. And, because I'm lazy, I'm just stacking up the photos here, in no particular order:

Bikes loitering outside of Ada's Technical Books

One of my absolute favorite stops: Coyle's Bakeshop where I had a purchased latte in a real cup for the first time in more than a year. (The cake was quite fine too.)

The final haul of books: for the first time ever, we purchased the same number of books (aka, about twenty apiece . . . plus a pricy magazine, a number of cards, some pens, a pin, and a number of chocolate bars).

Bessie's basket hogs the lens outside of Phinney Books.

Balancing things out, Bernardo's bell takes center stage outside of Secret Garden.

*Bakeries visited:
Petit Pierre Bakery (Magnolia)
Sugar Bakery (First Hill)
Sod House Bakery (Ravenna)
Seattle Bagel Oasis (Ravenna)
Coyle's Bakeshop (Phinney)
Rosellini's (Ballard)

My little pony is leaving town

It's a sweet yet sad little horse story that brings me to blahdeblah tonight when it's already so late. One of the many things I have loved about West Seattle is that, some years ago, I happened across a miniature horse in someone's backyard, and we've been able to stop by to say hey (or maybe, in this circumstance, "hay") to him over the years. Yesterday I saw the headline "Happy Trails to Jeb" in the West Seattle Blog* which I found more than a little alarming since surely that is what is written when an animal has died.

Happily, Jeb is just moving to New Mexico and I don't think that he's moving to the southwest in the way that animals sometimes go to live on a farm in the country. At least I hope that's not the case. They've gone to some lengths to reassure locals that that is not the case, providing this elaborate story:

It's not a farm in the country.

And, because we're very community-minded in West Seattle, there's a big card that one can sign:

So true!

 Jeb is to head south tomorrow so I was happy it occurred to me that we could ride by to bid him farewell soon after we set out on this evening's ride.  There was a family attempting to have a meaningful moment, or maybe just pausing to talk near his fence, but Jeb was far more interested in his evening meal than in visiting. We hung around for a few minutes, signing his card and wishing he'd look up for even a moment. Being an obliging animal, eventually he did--briefly. Naturally I fumbled my phone (I now have my own phone capable of taking photos!) a bit, but I think it sort of adds to the wistful charm of the final encounter:

Jeb offers a final opportunity to the local papparazzi

The crowd then began to thicken so we left. West Seattle won't be the same without Jeb, but I'm thinking I'll give Mimi a week or two and then leave her a copy of City Goats. 

We continued our ride to the usual viewpoint in the Admiral District, where it took me a few tries to get the panorama setting to work, with mixed results:

I love that the street sign is for Seattle Street.

A gorgeous night, really, but I can feel already that I'm going to be just that much more sad knowing Jeb isn't only a few miles away any longer. Speaking of miles, a mileage update:

There have been some missed days and some light days but overall, not so shabby.

*The WSB is another thing I love about West Seattle; who can resist a news organization that reports on a local horse leaving town?

 

 

 

Plus ca change

 Mr Jonas Brown, a character in The MacDermots of Ballycloran, published in 1847, sounds so familiar:

 Jonas Brown was hated by the poor. In every case he would, if he had
the power, visit every fault committed by them with the severest
penalty awarded by the law. He was a stern, hard, cruel man, with
no sympathy for any one, and was actuated by the most superlative
contempt for the poor, from whom he drew his whole income. He was
a clever, clear-headed, avaricious man; and he knew that the only
means of keeping the peasantry in their present utterly helpless and
dependent state, was to deny them education, and to oppose every
scheme for their improvement and welfare. He dreaded every movement
which tended to teach them anything, and when he heard of landlords
reducing their rents, improving cabins, and building schools, he
would prophesy to his neighbour, Sir Michael, that the gentry would
soon begin to repent of their folly, when the rents they had reduced
were not paid, the cabins which they had made comfortable were filled
with ribbonmen, and when the poor had learnt in the schools to
disobey their masters and landlords. 

 --from page 263 of the Penguin edition of The MacDermots of Ballycloran

 though lifted here from the project gutenberg site.

No mileage--just a pair of happy grebes

 

What's not to love about pied-billed grebes?

 

Unless, of course, you're a wee fish

Gusty Sunday Afternoon Fly-by Cycle Update

Hot cocoa in the Paddington mugs and rain-bedewed tulips in sopping wet Kraft-paper wrapping;

 it must be Seattle's version of March Madness*

Some days, I feel, I should get to quadruple my distance numbers due to conditions. Today is wet and windy; gusts up to 50mph are predicted. Vendors at the farmers market looked like sailors on the high seas to me, while Scott thought they resembled subway riders; either way they were all wearing wet-weather gear, holding the supports for their tents with an upraised arm while swaying a bit themselves. It was quite jaunty-looking, really, but must have been miserable. We were pretty soaked ourselves as well and we found that no matter how hard we squeezed our brakes on the ride home (downhill, on cold wet streets), we didn't actually come to a complete stop. Fortunately traffic was light and we thought to check our brakes early on so we never allowed ourselves to build up any real speed. Still, it was good to get home. I immediately started making cocoa, while Scott brought the bikes in. 

So, a stinky two miles on the day, but surely we get some sort of bragging rights, right? And on the year:

*I've no idea what is going on with the caption formatting there.

 

Spring Equinox Weekend

I always think of Alex quoting Harvey Manning when I see one of these little bits of blue sky.

Saturday we rode for 24 miles in order to visit the Montlake Fill for the first time in over a year and also, okay, to see what Byen Bakeri might happen to have left in its cases at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon. (Answer: croissants, cookies, and tempting but too fragile for pannier transportation cakes and tarts.) 

Bikes at a bakery. Again.

The forecast warned of rain, but Scott (quoting Madi Carlson quoting her grandmother) pointed out that we weren't made of sugar so we packed ourselves up and set out. Spoiler alert: it started bucketing down by the time we'd reached Fremont on the return trip and we were utterly soaked before we reached South Lake Union. The trail that runs parallel to Westlake is handy, but it has some serious puddles as we discovered. I suggested that we should check into the Mayflower Hotel and order room service and I'm not sure I was entirely joking. Instead we continued home to West Seattle, wheezing our way up the final hill. I found I truly was wet to the skin (I still haven't attempted to re-waterproof the sleeves of my cycling jacket) so I showered while Scott put together restorative cocktails. 

Cormorants against a backdrop of cranes

But the Fill was a good time and well worth risking hypothermia, frostbite, and other cold injuries. (Seriously, trench foot seemed likely.) It was oddly busy--a lot of teens and twenty-somethings out with inexpensive binoculars and guidebooks at one end of the spectrum and a pair of quite young photographers with mammoth camera lenses at another end of my imaginary range. The Fill has changed a bit since my last visit: the old parking lot that was being converted to wetland is now a sea of cattails, while Scott mourned the loss of more than one tree. The birds, I've got to admit, didn't seem to care one way or another, though maybe that's not true. We used to see killdeer in that parking lot and on this visit it was home to some dueling blackbirds and a black-capped chickadee who was quite dedicated to tearing apart a cattail--looking for bugs? just showing off its cattail-destruction prowess for a potential mate? I can't say. 

The old parking lot from across the canal

There were shovelers on shoveler pond and plenty of water birds wintering over water though, technically, it was the first day of Spring. We were pleased to see teals, mergansers, coots, buffleheads, mallards, wigeons, comorants, and great blue herons on the water, while Scott spotted a kingfisher quite high in a tree (avoiding the papparazzi?). Yellow-rumped warblers were just everywhere.

Clouds and trees reflected in the canal from the bridge

We heard but did not see a very vocal marsh wren by the bridge and saw and heard a few Bewick's wrens here and there. A bald eagle flew overhead as we were discussing whether the hawk in a tree was a Cooper's or sharp-shinned. (I always assume sharp-shinned.) So, all in all, a good day out, though I wouldn't have minded being spared the drenching. 

Whether it was yesterday's wet or the fact that today is cold and gray, we realized we didn't really desperately need anything at the Farmers Market so today is being a zero day. Part of the calculations about the market included a realization that stuff is blooming in the yard so I could supplement the remains of last week's tulips with some of our own Lenten roses, grape hyacinth, and camellias.  

The results of some back- and side-yard foraging

A lazy day, then, of reviewing yesterday's photos (and realizing I really need to have my camera cleaned) and reading Trollope.

This week's flower arrangements