Bruce Barone ~ Journal

Archives (Old Journal)

Archives (BruceBarone)
September 2009
October 2009

Saturday, November 28, 2009

I Am.

Friday, November 27, 2009

Open Your Mind to Prosperity.

Thursday, November 26, 2009.

Thanksgiving. I am thankful for the great day we had and how everything on our menu was delicious.

In early New England at Thanksgiving time it was customary to place five grains of corn at every plate, a reminder of those stern days in the first winter when the food of the Pilgrims was so depleted that only five grains of corn were rationed to each individual at a time. The Pilgrims wanted their children to remember the sacrifices, the suffering, the hardships which made possible the settlement of  free land. They did not want their descendants to forget that on the day on which their ration was reduced to five grains of corn only healthy colonists remained to nurse the sick, and nearly half their number lay in that windswept graveyard on the hill. The use of five grains of corn placed by each plate was a fitting reminder of a heroic past.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Preparing for Thanksgiving. Worked on our Thanksgiving Menu.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The Hallway in Provincetown. Interesting to think that Hans Hoffman once walked this hallway, where he once lived.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Light in Provincetown. I have always loved the light and line and simplicity of this photograph.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

At Mittineague Park.

Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads. ~Thoreau

Saturday, November 21, 2009

More Food. The photograph doesn't quite do this dinner justice; baked chicken breasts with roasted olives, grapes, onions, carrots and red potatoes. The breasts were seasoned with fresh lemon juice, salt, pepper and cumin and cooked on top of sliced lemons in a cast iron pan--in which I also put the vegetables and grapes and olives, which I had tossed with olive oil. I baked it at 400 for 40 minutes, spooning the liquid over the chicken twice during cooking. It was delicious.

Here is my Photo of the Day:

"The glorious gifts of the gods are not to be cast aside." ~ Homer, The Iliad

Friday, November 20, 2009

Food. I have been cooking variations of this recipe for years--Israeli Sweet and Sour Meatballs. The recipe is from a cookbook I have had for a long time, as long as I can remember, certainly as long as when this article was written about my cooking and that is a long time! The book is called The New York Times International Cook Book, by Craig Claiborne (drawing by James J. Spanfeller--this before some cookbooks started to have more photographs than recipes; this I will save for another discussion: my Robuchon cookbook, a gift from my son, has not one photograph in it.). Claiborne was the food critic at the Times and I think I bought a few other books at the same time, probably through The Book-of-the-Month Club, of which I was a long-time member; I loved getting those boxes of books delivered to my home--and National Geographic, Art in America and Realities. The other cookbooks that arrived in this box were probably The New York Times Cookbook, Fannie Farmer, Joy of Cooking and James Beard (hardcover).

The dish is quite simple to make and very tasty. I don't really follow the recipe in the book anymore as it calls for beef and veal and we usually only buy ground turkey these days. My trick is to buy a pound of the ground turkey and make turkey burgers with the whole pound (I don't really follow a recipe for these either; I might add diced red pepper and jalapeno pepper and red onion and Worcestershire  Sauce and a good dash of Hungarian Paprika and Parmesan cheese though). I then take a third of this and make two burgers and put the rest in a container and put that in the fridge for the next day's dinner, which might be a simple "meatloaf" or as in this photo, Israeli Sweet and Sour Meatballs. What makes it sweet and sour is the sauce: 3 tablespoons sugar, 3 tablespoons vinegar and 2 cups beef stock (which I always have on hand in the freezer). I brown the meatballs and then add the sauce and simmer for fifteen--thirty minutes. This time I also put a raison in the middle of each meatball and a handful of raisons in the broth. I had about six cups of broth on stove; two of which I added to the sauce and I cooked the egg noodles in the remaining broth.

The Photo of the Day:

"Like two golden birds perched on the selfsame tree, intimate friends, the ego and the Self dwell in the same body. The former eats the sweet and sour fruits of the tree of life, while the later looks on in detachment." ~The Mundaka Upanishad

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Reading. Susan and I are in the sitting room. We are reading. She is read "The Best-Loved Poem of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Selected and Introduced by Caroline Kennedy."  I am reading "A Homemade Life, stories and recipes from my kitchen table" by Molly Wizenberg." We are listening to a tribute to Johnny Mercer on National Public Radio.

She says, "The anniversary of Kennedy's assassination is in a few days. Can I read you something?" She reads:

On a green lawn his white house stands and the wind blows the sea grass low on the sands There is brothers and sisters have laughed and played And thrown themselves to rest in the shade. The lights glowed inside, soon supper would ring And he would go home where his father was King. But now he was here with the wind and the sea And all the things he was going to be. He would build empires And he would have sons Others would fall Where the current runs He would find love He would never find peace For he must go seeking The Golden Fleece All of things he was going to be All of the things in the wind and the sea. ~October 1952, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy

"That was written in 1953. Prophetic, isn't it?"

We continue reading and listening.

Again, Susan says, "This book was a gift from your son, Daryl. Can I read you something else from the book?"

"Yes," I answer.

And she reads:

Summoning artists to participate In the august occasions of the state Seems something artists ought to celebrate. Today is for my cause a day of days. And his be poetry's old-fashioned praise Who was the first to think of such a thing. This verse that in acknowledgement I bring Goes back to the beginning of the end Of what had been for centuries the trend; A turning point in modern history. Colonial had been the thing to be As long as the great issue was to see What country'd be the one to dominate By character, by tongue, by native trait, The new world Christopher Columbus found. The French, the Spanish, and the Dutch were downed And counted out. Heroic deeds were done. Elizabeth the First and England won. Now came on a new order of the ages That in the Latin of our founding sages (Is it not written on the dollar bill We carry in our purse and pocket still?) God nodded his approval of as good. So much those heroes knew and understood, I mean the great four, Washington, John Adams, Jefferson, and Madison So much they saw as consecrated seers They must have seen ahead what not appears, They would bring empires down about our ears And by the example of our Declaration Make everybody want to be a nation. And this is no aristocratic joke At the expense of negligible folk. We see how seriously the races swarm In their attempts at sovereignty and form. They are our wards we think to some extent For the time being and with their consent, To teach them how Democracy is meant. "New order of the ages" did they say? If it looks none too orderly today, 'Tis a confusion it was ours to start So in it have to take courageous part. No one of honest feeling would approve A ruler who pretended not to love A turbulence he had the better of. Everyone knows the glory of the twain Who gave America the aeroplane To ride the whirlwind and the hurricane. Some poor fool has been saying in his heart Glory is out of date in life and art. Our venture in revolution and outlawry Has justified itself in freedom's story Right down to now in glory upon glory. Come fresh from an election like the last, The greatest vote a people ever cast, So close yet sure to be abided by, It is no miracle our mood is high. Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs Better than all the stalemate an's and ifs. There was the book of profile tales declaring For the emboldened politicians daring To break with followers when in the wrong, A healthy independence of the throng, A democratic form of right devine To rule first answerable to high design. There is a call to life a little sterner, And braver for the earner, learner, yearner. Less criticism of the field and court And more preoccupation with the sport. It makes the prophet in us all presage The glory of a next Augustan age Of a power leading from its strength and pride, Of young ambition eager to be tried, Firm in our free beliefs without dismay, In any game the nations want to play. A golden age of poetry and power Of which this noonday's the beginning hour. ~For John F. Kennedy His Inauguration

We move from the sitting room to the bedroom and we continue our reading.

Photo of the Day:

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Chef Bruce. I got an email the other day from a friend telling me that a restaurant, a B&B, in the area was looking for a person to cook Friday and Saturday nights.

Photo of the Day:

I dreamed of the leonid meteor shower.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Roast Chicken. A friend, Samantha, recently wrote to me and asked "How can you possibly roast a chicken during the middle of the week?!" I wrote her back and said, "Why not?!"

I continued: A whole chicken is one of the best buys (and the veggies are inexpensive). We get another two meals from the leftovers and I always make stock which results in enough for two different soups! Tonight, for example, we are having chicken chili (leftover chicken from this dinner and homemade stock from another chicken dinner).

Monday, November 16, 2009

Blue Rowboat. Today I worked on a broadside to promote Holiday Portraits.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Apples.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Dinner Party.

Friday 13, 2009

The Greenhouse.

The greenhouse "is my symbol for the whole of life,  a womb,  a heaven-on-earth." ~Theodore Roethke

And here is a poem from Roethke:

Child on Top of a Greenhouse The wind billowing out the seat of my britches, My feet crackling splinters of glass and dried putty, The half-grown chrysanthemums staring up like accusers, Up through the streaked glass, flashing with sunlight, A few white clouds all rushing eastward, A line of elms plunging and tossing like horses, And everyone, everyone pointing up and shouting!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science." ~Einstein

And there is this:

A human being is part of the whole, called by us “universe,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separate from the rest – a kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affectio...n for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. ~Einstein

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Unframed Originals. Reading W.S. Merwin's "Unframed Originals."

The smell of barns drifted even through the market towns that were themselves not much larger than villages, and in the evenings cows swayed through the streets guided by peasants with the same long sticks. Pigs grunted behind arched cellar doors, and were butchered in back alleys, with groups of experts standing around, and the cobbles running blood. The farm dogs appeared to be a random mix, but many of them had one pale and one dark eye. They knew their jobs. They ate soup. The language on the farms was a patois descended from a Languedoc tongue older than the French of Tours and Paris.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Bethesda Terrace, Central Park, New York City.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Miss Teen America. Kaitlin Tarpey. In a few weeks I will be photographing this year's Miss Teen America and Kaitlin will be relinquishing her crown to a new person.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Long Shadows.

A few days ago, Susan made a Cranberry Five Spice Bread which called for mustard seeds. She came into the office, her hand open, and in her hand was a mustard seed. She said, "I love the story of the mustard seed."

Interesting, as last year at this time I was reading a book entitled "Mustard Seeds" by Lynn Coulter.  Around the same time, one night, I searched for another inspirational book to read. I found a book that was a Christmas gift for Susan, entitled "Heaven in a Wild Flower" and the first of four chapters are about the mustard plant. The author, Joan Winmill Brown, writes:

Flowers are often mentioned in the Bible. There are four that are special to me. The mustard flower is my symbol of faith; the rose of Sharon gives me the assurance of God's love; the anemone, called the "lily of the filed," deepens my reality of His peace; and, finally, the heavenly blue flax flower brings me the joy of our Lord's promise of eternal life. ......Jesus compared the mystery of the kingdom of heaven to a grain of mustard... "...which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and perch in its branches." ~Matthew 13:31-32

 

You never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heavens, and crowned with the stars; and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world, and more than so, because men are in it who are every one sole heirs as well as you.
  – Thomas Traherne

And this is me, last year, in the month of November:

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Still Life.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Autumn Movement.

I CRIED over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts. The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, not one lasts. ~Autumn Movement by Carl Sandburg

The field at Mittineague Park, West Springfield

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Own Your Zip Code.

Good advice from Scott Bourne; here is the first tip of five:

Own Your Own Zip Code Don’t spend another second worrying about becoming a nationally-known photo rock star. Don’t worry about breaking out onto the national photo speaking circuit. Don’t worry about trying to get on Oprah. Just worry about owning your own zip code. It doesn’t matter where you live, YOU should be the photographer that everyone knows and talks about in your own zip code. It’s feasible, even in large cities, to knock on every single door within one zip code. It’s possible to phone or meet everyone who lives near you. So do it. If you’re like most people, you shop and spend your time and money on basic entertainment and services in your own zip code. Make sure each of the places you patronize knows you’re a professional photographer. Get THAT business first. Then expand to the next zip code and the next and the next. Most famous rock bands didn’t start playing the coliseum. They started playing in the local bar. ~Scott Bourne

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Good Works.

Gutters cleaned Lawn mowed Leaves composted Rose of Sharon Pruned Susan pushing Our pink wheelbarrow Looking for sticks, twigs To pick up and put In barrels to be Collected, Later (So much depends Upon A pink wheel barrow) Later We will celebrate Our joys and labors With wine And conversation, I follow The directions for Autumn For caring for the carpet Rose, For winter protection Loosen on side of roots Only in late autumn, gently Lay plant flat on the ground Cover all with six inches of mulch The lawn so green The color of prosperity I make us lunch Then coffee, we sit On the back steps Warmed by the sun And the cat Nadine Sits with us, too I dream about dinner Plan the menu Grilled steak medallions with spicy parsley sauce Peas in butter Red potato home fries Green salad Red wine And love Good meal Good works Good day Good night

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Prosperity.

"Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the work of our hands-- O prosper the work of our hands!" ~Psalm 90:17

Monday, November 2, 2009

Yesterday.

Dusty air Cobwebs A worn wooden workbench Covered with tools And tool boxes We have come down To the basement We are not cleaning But organizing a man's life Horse equipment Wrenches and rags He must have been a strong man Saws in various shapes and sizes Badly worn How dirty Everything is Jars of horse medicine We must be breaking Hundreds of federal laws As we put the jars away Into garbage bags To be thrown out in the morning Syringes, shoes and boots Gloves, shirts, wires Upstairs Mary is cooking She calls to Susan and me Dinner is ready Dinner is ready

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Church. Often, when I walk in the woods at Mittineague Park, which is a short walk from our home, I feel as if I am in a church or temple and I am reminded of:

"Do you know that you are God's temple  and that God's spirit dwells in you?" ~1 Corinthians 3:16

The woods are where I find a great peace. A stillness. My spirit and soul come to rest and find a wonderful joy.

The field is always beckoning.

Each time I stop at the bridge and watch the water flow I am comforted, baptized in the beauty of this nature.

And as Blake wrote in Auguries of Innocence:

To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of you hand,
And eternity in an hour.

I stopped to photograph the berries and was reminded of the beautiful words
from poet Theodore Enlsin in his book The Median Flow, Poems 1943-1973:

Blaze from a pair of trees. I see how these are blazing-- walk that way--                          away-- and when I've walked away from them                 the blaze is still there. A little fire warms my back, stays on this sidehill in another's dooryard.

Before I return home I stop at the Westfield River. It, too, was ablaze:

I came home and Susan was busy re-potting plants and flowers, two of which now sit on my desk. Our home, like the park, a temple, a church, a special place, a home of beauty, spirit and love.

Later, I discover the following:

from Prose of the Trans-Siberian and of Little Jehanne of France by Blaise Cendrar But I was a very bad poet. I didn’t know how to go to all the way to the end. I was hungry And all the days and all the women in the cafés and all the glasses I would have liked to drink and to break them And all the shop windows and all the streets And all the homes and all the lives And all the wheels of the hackney cabs turning in a whirlwind on the bad cobblestones I would have wanted to thrust them into a furnace of swords And I would have wanted to crush all the bones And to tear out all the tongues And to liquefy all the big bodies strange and naked under the clothing that drives me to madness… I sensed the coming of the great red Christ of the Russian revolution… And the sun was a bad wound That split open like a burnt up inferno. I was in my adolescence at the time I was scarcely sixteen and already I didn’t remember my birth I was in Moscow, where I wanted to feed on flames And they weren’t enough for me the towers and the railroad stations that studded my eyes like constellations In Siberia the cannon roared, it was war Hunger cold plague cholera And the muddy waters of Love pulled along millions of carrion In all the railroad stations I saw departing all the last trains No one could leave any more for the tickets were no longer sold And the soldiers who were going away would have very much liked to stay… An old monk sang to me the legend of Novgorod.

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