Arroz con Leche and Love

Arroz con Leche and Love

Dinner parties are very special to me.  Gathering interesting new friends or dear old pals around a beautifully set table and chatting into the wee hours over good wine and a thoughtfully prepared meal is one of my very favorite things.  Lingering over leisurely meals and a bite or two of dessert is when the best conversations take place and secrets are told.  Truly, the most interesting stories come out once stomachs are pleasantly full, candles are burning low and the music is mellow.  It’s a bit of a balancing act, making the evening special enough so that your guests know you care, but easy enough to take part in the stories as well.  

Not being the best planner-organizer, I usually manage to pull together the table and the meal before 9:00 pm when dinner guests are at my mercy -- but I often run out of steam when it comes to planning and preparing a calorie worthy uncomplicated dessert. Nine times out of ten, I concede defeat and run out to buy dessert which, in all honestly, works just fine.

Still, if I can pull off a little homemade dessert that elicits mmm’s, I feel I’ve given my guests a secret hug or the whisper of a kiss on their cheek -- a tiny secret gift -- in exchange for their friendship.  Silly, I know.  My friends will love me either way, but I feel like I’ve just gotten away with something when I’ve hand-made the dessert.

Some years ago, I read an article written by a woman who chose not to cook.  To the dismay of her mother, domestic arts were neglected and her energy went towards a career.  In the article, she tells of falling in love and discovering her lover (a talented cook - how perfect) being drawn to the ethnic food made by her mother.  

She knew they were destined to be together when she realized one day that she wanted to learn to prepare something special for him.  She loved him so much, she learned to make Arroz con Leche, a recipe which requires time and constant attention as the rice slowly absorbs the milk, sugar and flavor of the cinnamon sticks.  In discovering love, she opened herself to sharing the gift of her time -- a very great gift indeed - whether offered to our lovers, our children or our friends.  

Her lovely story touched me, and encouraged me to think about how easily distracted I can be and how much I sometimes take for granted.  Within days of reading the article, I had ventured out to purchase the ingredients in order to offer my own dessert-loving husband the gift of my time.  Such simple ingredients, such a sublime dessert!  

I realize, and certainly hope, that my dinner guests never know how much time goes into this simple, elegant dessert...as I lay  small, warm ramekins at each place setting and smile inside.  The crisp bite of Fall is in the air, it’s the perfect time for Arroz con Leche, cozy dinner parties and love.

E. England

Recipe 

Warm 4 cups of whole milk.  Heat 1 cup Arborio rice with 2 cups of water, 1/8 teaspoon salt, one cinnamon stick.  Slowly add milk (about 1/2 cup at a time) to the simmering rice, stirring constantly.  Let most of it absorb before adding the next portion.  Finally add 1/4 cup sugar and 1 teaspoon vanilla.  Stop heating when the pudding is still very soupy -- 20 minutes or so.  Sprinkle with cinnamon.  

Note:  The inspiration for this blog and the recipe above was taken from an article titled Catching a Man With Arroz con Leche by Julia Alvarez

Please stop by and visit my Etsy shop to see my travel photography and Buddha jewelry www.etsy.com/shop/nineddragons

The Pool Next Door - Summertime Adventures at the Jersey Shore

THE POOL NEXT DOOR

              

Although summer is over and the Shore has returned to the quiet, peaceful place it will remain until next June, we had a birds-eye view through the kitchen window this summer of the vacation drama, excitement and celebration that takes place among the families who rent the beach house next door.  The house is one of very few with a pool and therefore wildly popular among families with small children.  Saturday is “change-over” day and it’s a real roll of the dice to see who’s moved in for the coming week.  It’s always entertaining….

  

“Daddy, he’s sinking”, we heard a little girl’s calm voice float through the kitchen window one Saturday afternoon.  She wasn’t alarmed, she was simply observing – as if maybe her little brother sank slowly to the bottom of the pool rather often.  Then, two short beats and she became a bit more insistent, “He’s sinking Daddy”. 

We heard a beer bottle thunk as it tumbled to the cement and then a sizeable splash as “Daddy” leapt into the water to pull his young son to the surface.  The family calmly gathered as the little boy coughed and sputtered.  Someone held his arms high over his head, while another family member instructed him to “breathe”.   Once it had been established that his son was, indeed, breathing as advised, dad set about removing the battery from his cell phone in an attempt to save its life as well…and pulled another beer from the cooler.  

We couldn’t help but notice the next day, the little boy was wearing “water wings” while in the pool.  Just another day at the Jersey Shore.

My Friend Seymour

Three years ago this summer I lost a friend.  I first encountered Seymour about sixteen years ago when I moved into his neighborhood.  I saw him often on the street during the late afternoons while I was out planting flowers, weeding, washing windows or polishing the old brass knocker on our front door.  He’d come trudging around the corner in all sorts of weather wearing what looked like old military pants and some type of well-worn shirt or untidy jacket – most often with a tattered rucksack on his back. 

                 

Although his house was just three doors down from mine, I didn’t initially realize he was my neighbor with that three-day scruff of beard, his statement clothing and disinclination to make eye contact or smile.  I think having another house on the block fall to cheerful, industrious yuppies made him cranky.  Who were we to waltz in making our grand improvements and driving up the cost of houses and taxes in the neighborhood?  We hadn’t braved the prostitutes and drug dealers and robberies of decades past – we hadn’t earned our right to recognition…yet.

There is a tiny apartment building at the end of our street – next door to what was Seymour’s house – that has space on its first floor for a small business.  My husband and I finally began to earn our “cred” with Seymour when a series of unsuitable businesses tried to rent the space.  It wasn’t zoned for those businesses, but unless someone kicked up a fuss and organized the block, they probably would have come in.  Having the most on the line, Seymour went door to door gathering support to block the tenancy and we were happy to support him – and so finally move up a notch in his estimation.

A few more years passed and we continued to come together in support of, or opposition to, one neighborhood issue or another and I now had a vague idea that Seymour had done something in his career with art restoration or graphics or something.  I was aware that at one point he had worked at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, so whatever it was he did, or used to do, he must be, or have been, pretty good at it. 

Wandering around the city one weekend in June I came across the Rittenhouse Square Art show for the first time.  It’s quite an event.  The entire park is lined with talented artists from around the country - selling their work over the course of three days.  As I wandered from one slick, tented display to another, I was distracted by the most exquisite little paintings that were displayed clothespinned to a rope and strung between two trees.  The paintings were a combination of elegant still life works and gritty street scenes of disappearing neighborhoods.  They were rich and detailed with the sort of colors that bring to mind Modigliani or Vermeer.  Then a movement caught my eye and I noticed the artist.  It was Seymour.  I stood with my mouth open in complete and utter astonishment and then demanded to know whether this was, indeed, his work.  He ducked his head, jammed his hands into his pockets and kicked at the grass with one foot, looking exactly like a six year old accused of filching a piece of the cherry pie you were saving for dessert.  He blushed and muttered something to indicate a “yes” and the words “Seymour, who knew you were hiding the heart and soul of a true romantic behind that gruff exterior?” flew right out of my mouth.  He turned a deeper shade of blush-red and we bonded for life right there on the spot.

Each year found one or two more of Seymour’s lovely paintings added to our collection.  He made me promise I would never pay more to frame one of his pieces than I’d paid for the art.  Something of a challenge considering the cost of framing and the fact that he always insisted on charging a “friends and neighbors” price he seemed to make up on the spot depending on how well he knew you or whether or not you were a starving student.

Seymour stopped entering Art in the Park several years before his death.  Maybe the rigors of setting up for the show got to be too much, but I suspect the exacting hoops he was required to jump through to re-enter each year (though he’d been a participant for many, many years) demoralized him.  What had begun in 1932 with a small group of Philadelphia art students as “The Clothesline Show” had now morphed into the chic Rittenhouse Square Fine Art Show, something alien to Seymour’s egalitarian soul I'd guess.

His son has been in touch recently…with a request that I photograph several of our Seymour Rotman paintings for a project he’s working on.  I’m happy to help -- it’s given me the opportunity to remember my friend and look closely at our paintings once again.  One of my very favorites is a small self portrait I nearly had to fight him to buy.  Seymour couldn’t understand what I might possibly want with such a thing – but it perfectly captures the qualities I saw in him – depth and intelligence, some unknown pain or sadness and a crankiness tempered by kindness and generosity.  

As I return home each day from these sometimes gritty Philadelphia streets, I am met by the steady gaze of Seymour’s self portrait.  I am grateful for its artistry as well as its reminder not to judge a book by its cover – but instead, to take some time to read more deeply into one another's story and find something within to treasure.

SEYMOUR ROTMAN 1929 - 2009

"Every year when I exhibited at the annual Rittenhouse Art exhibition, a lovely petite lady would arrive at my booth and painstakingly look through each and every one of my paintings. After a very long time during which not a word passed between us, she would look at me and smile broadly with approval. I later learned that she was Violette deMazia, the longtime curator of the Barnes Foundation."

Seymour Rotman, a North Philadelphia native, fought in the Korean War as a young man.  Upon his return home, he was awarded a full scholarship to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in recognition of his artistic talent.  As a student at PAFA, he won a series of traveling fellowships that allowed him to refine his artistic skills in Mexico and Europe.  His talent has been recognized and honored throughout his career by colleagues, mentors and teachers.

For an history of what I call Art in the Park, click here  http://www.rittenhousesquarefineartshow.org/history.html

Chocolate Croissant

Several years ago a dear friend sent us the gift of three months of croissant.  Sounds a bit odd, I know – that’s what I thought too -- but I figured they were worth a try.  After all, since the charming French owner of Au Fin Palais disappeared without a trace some years ago, the only suitable place to get my favorite pastry has been Paris.  The “thing” we call a croissant here in the States is bland, boring, tough, nearly tasteless and with greasy dough that refuses to flake as it should – it is a travesty to compare them to the heavenly French version. 

The gift croissant turned out to be very special.  You order them (gasp!) frozen through Williams Sonoma and they cost nearly an arm and a leg with shipping.  I’ve had to work out how reasonable they are compared to a plane ticket to Paris in order to justify stocking my freezer with them.  A little advance planning is required to enjoy them.  They must be left out overnight to rise, loosely covered with a piece of parchment paper before baking them in a hot oven. 

Just the smell of them baking is worth the cost – bringing to mind romance, little corner patisseries, bowls of fresh, strong coffee and leisurely walks along tree-lined boulevards.  It gets even better.  When you bite into one of the crisply browned confections you literally have to shake your head to clear the illusion that you are, indeed, in Paris.  They are that perfect combination of light on the outside, but chewy inside and they flake all over your plate and your now buttery fingers and lips.  Oh, and the chocolate (you were wise enough to order the chocolate, certainly) is dark and smooth and decadent!

All of that is marvelous and I’m always happy to share my favorite foods, but I’m not sure this story would have qualified as blog worthy until this weekend.  I had a houseguest, so I took two croissant from the freezer on Sunday night, covered them with parchment paper and left them to rise in the cool oven overnight in preparation for our breakfast the following morning.  I then promptly proceeded to forgot all about them through the next day and the day after that too, because we’d gotten busy and talked a lot and eaten out.  I didn’t remember the poor sad deflated little things until Tuesday night when I started dinner.  Surely, they were ruined!   I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away however…it was just too sad to contemplate…such a waste.  Since the oven was on anyway, after dinner I thought, what the hell?  Pop them in and see what happens.

Don’t ask me how it’s possible, but fifteen minutes later they came out of the oven light, flaky, buttery and oozing with chocolate as always.  Maybe not quite as good as usual, but anything that can withstand that amount of neglect and still make an impressive showing deserves notice.  We polished off our unplanned dessert and dreamed of Paris that night.

It only seems fair to share the Williams Sonoma link for croissant http://www.williams-sonoma.com/shop/food/croissants-bread-pastries/croissants/

Feel free to visit me here as well:  www.etsy.com/shop/ninedragons  http://www.ninedragonsphotography.com/ https://www.facebook.com/pages/Nine-Dragons-Photography/305390489508073

Sailboat Racing Photography -- Or, Say "Yes"

SAILBOAT RACING PHOTOGRAPHY -- OR,  SAY “YES”

So…I love the water and I love boats – and I adore being out on the water in a boat.  But my work – my passion – my focus (pardon the pun) is photographing architectural details.  You know, those quietly unique objects that surround us, but that no one actually sees.  Things like ancient door knockers, or painted dragons on a ceiling or creatures carved into buildings -- those quirky, colorful, sometimes strange things that a highly skilled craftsman or woman took the time to mould or paint or sculpt.  They’re everywhere, we just don’t see them anymore because we’re very busy looking down at our cell phones. 

It’s not as easy as it may appear to get a really good, clean, interesting shot of those “details”, but I’m never happier than when I’ve gotten one to the point where I’d be proud to see it hanging in someone’s home or office.  I’ve had the occasional, brief flirtation with landscape photography and exchanged the sly glance with a cuddly creature.  For a while I was obsessed with nature…and tree bark, but they weren’t serious relationships.  I always go back to my first love -- the details.

Recently, I was invited to join a group of friends in Newport, RI to help celebrate a “major” birthday.  Coincidently, my very favorite neighbor here in Philadelphia was driving up a day earlier than I’d planned to leave, to photograph the start of the 2012 Newport to Bermuda sailboat race.  He invited me to join him for the long ride up and then spend the following day out on a boat with good friends.  I’d never met his friends, nor had I been to Newport, and I was itching to spend that gift-of-an-extra-day alone, roaming the town, photographing the thousands of charming details I knew must be there waiting to be discovered.  The mansions along the famous Cliff Walk could have kept me fascinated for weeks at the very least. 

Something kept tugging at me though.   A persistent little voice kept whispering:  “Oh, say yes.  How often are you invited to spend the day on a lovely boat?  Don’t be dull”.   In the end, the little voice won.  Rather grudgingly, I grabbed a camera with a decent zoom lens and figured I’d snap some fun shots of my pal as he photographed the race.

The day was glorious.  The sky was a stunning shade of turquoise with the occasional puffy white clouds billowing by and sparkling navy blue seas.  A refreshing breeze meant wind enough for a visually vivid downwind spinnaker start.  Sounds like I know my stuff, doesn’t it?  I don’t.  I just wanted to show off the only sailing terminology I know!  A downwind spinnaker start simply means that the great-big-pretty sails were up – and they were fantastic. 

The race began, I took my first photograph and couldn’t put the camera down.  Photographing out on the big wide water felt so…expansive!   I could almost feel my middle aged brain cells start to multiply as the sea air and the excitement of the race kicked in.  Photographing racing boats, from a boat, amidst hundreds of other boats and circling helicopters is a bit like trying to shoot while astride a horse – everything is in motion.  It was wild and very wonderful. 

My hosts for the day, and fellow boaters, were a delight – I felt like I’d known them for years – they made me a very warm welcome.  Sometimes the details can take care of themselves I’m learning…and always, always, say “yes”.

I hope you enjoy the resulting photos – I’ve attached a few here and you can see more at www.etsy.com/shop/ninedragons

The Heart of an Artist

The Heart of an Artist

Last week I experienced my first brutal art critic.  Certainly, in the few years since I’ve begun to call myself a photographer, I have been very lucky.   The urging of friends, following a summer trip to China, prompted me to cull, crop and agonize over a few dozen of the hundreds of photos I’d arrived home with.  Once I had a nice presentable portfolio assembled…I couldn’t imagine who might possibly want to buy them.

Thinking rejection might come more gently in the Midwest, I made my first sales attempt in Iowa during a visit to family.  I began with one of my favorite shops specializing in Asian antiques and one-of-a-kind metalwork furniture in the historic, funky, East Village of Des Moines.  Despite being kind of nervous and trying really hard not to show it, I sold five or six of my matted photographs that day which gave me the courage to continue going door-to-door with my portfolio whenever I happened to travel.  As a result, my photographs have been sold around the country in restaurants, shops, galleries and art shows. 

Late last summer I opened a shop on Etsy.  If you’re not familiar with Etsy, it’s an online international marketplace headquartered in Brooklyn, NY.  Sellers are from every corner of the world and their amazing, creative products are all handcrafted or vintage.  It’s fabulously fun and seriously addictive shopping.  You may find yourself wandering through the shops on Etsy for days if you’re not careful. 

In addition to buying and selling, another popular Etsy addiction is creating Treasuries.  Here’s how it works:  select sixteen items from sixteen different shops and arrange them artistically to create a piece of art -- a collage, or mosaic if you will, of the sixteen items.  A treasury may be random, or based on a theme, like the beach perhaps, or a color - pink is always popular - or an event, like Father’s Day.  Treasuries are very popular within the world of Etsy and creative-types may spend hours or days putting together the perfect Treasury.

This is how I learned I have the heart of an artist.  An Etsy member made a Treasury featuring one of my photographs alongside the work of fifteen other potentially tender-hearted photographers and titled it “Not Fine Art Photography”.  Through their comments, this person made it very clear that our work was not up to standard.  Several of my fellow photographers had already posted indignant, upset comments -- one declared their intent to “report” the treasury-maker for breaking the rules.

After my first moment of surprise, I experienced a little burst of fear and maybe just the tiniest hint of shame.  I had finally been found out – here was the confirmation of what I’d always feared: that I couldn’t possibly know what I’m doing.  Then, the moment passed and I chuckled as I discovered that I didn’t much care what my critic thought.  I love my photographs, which is probably the only reason I can offer them for sale.  I love the way they look and feel (I print them on very special paper) -- I love the rich, vibrant, textured color that I capture and painstakingly reproduce and I love the composition of the items in each photograph.

Vincent van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime.  Stephen King received thirty rejection letters before his book Carrie was accepted for publication.  Elvis Presley was fired by the manager of the Grand Ole Opry after just one performance.  Now I know why those artists persevered.  They were driven by a personal, unique vision to produce something wonderful and to share that creation with the world – appreciated or not. 

Ahhh, the heart of an artist.

Visit my shop on Etsy:  www.etsy.com/shop/ninedragons

Visit my treasuries:  http://www.etsy.com/people/ninedragons/treasury?sort=creation_date&order=desc

FIVE THINGS

Last week passed in beautiful bliss as I journeyed through all-day meditation classes book-ended by twice-a-day yoga classes which were taught by, possibly, the best yoga teacher on the planet.  Going deep inside is challenging, but since three of my seven days were in total silence, I gradually learned a lot about what is truly important and what isn’t. 

Five things that aren’t very important:

-the world-class fidgeter I probably wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t worn a ski jacket  (read: very noisy) to class every day

-people who talk to one another, in normal speaking voices, during lectures

-people who don’t turn their cellphones off (including the incoming message ping they think no one else can hear) during meditation

-the caterer running out of dessert before you’ve had yours

-standing in unending lines for the ladies restroom as you watch the men quickly zip in and out of theirs…all week

Normally, it is very likely that I would have efficiently set about solving all of those obvious, world-class problems in my “get things done right” fashion – but I was sworn to silence and so, instead (and this was very, very hard mind you), I learned to let it go.  Over and over and over again.  For many of you reading this, you might not think it possible, but such a beautiful, freeing, lung-expanding thing this…letting go is.

Five things that are very important:

-The things other people do that irritate me are, in every single case, simply a reflection of something within me that I am ashamed of or dislike

-I am truly, deeply beautiful exactly as I am – inside and out

-Inner peace is what will lead us to world peace

-The bright, blue California sky is breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful

-Blossoming orange trees require that you stop at every one, every day and put your face inside to smell their scent (look for bees before you sniff!)

Do you think it’s possible to capture, in a photograph, the sweet smell of the orange blossom?  That’s one of my goals now that so many previously important things are now…not.

Namaste,

Elizabeth