I have been practicing my felt-cutting skills intermittently over the past few months. It all started with my niece’s party, a couple of co-worker gifts, and a birthday present for my sister. I just kept cutting out pennants and letters and putting them together (giddy over the idea of a felt swatch collection), and now I have a stack that need homes. So, as a simple sign of gratitude for clicking over to my blog, mail me your postal address at firstname.lastname@example.org (or however it is we normally communicate) and let me know which ones you would like to have for yourself or to give to others. I know that each one will find the perfect place to proclaim YUM or remind LOVE.
Just a few of my favorite things! I met up with my old college roommates and summer camp counselor friends in Grand Rapids Friday. It was the last weekend of ArtPrize 2011 filled with treats visually & gastronomically in good company. These desserts are from San Chez in downtown Grand Rapids, including Empanada de Chocolate (chocolate fudge filled pastry, dolce de leche ice cream, brandy caramel, raspberry sauce), Pastel de Queso de Cabra (vanilla goat cheese cheesecake with shortbread crust, lemon curd, blackberry caviar & pecan tuile), and Tarta de Chocolate al Whisky (whisky soaked cake, caramel pecan ice cream, brownie & white chocolate mousse), respectively. The dishroom didn’t have much work to do once we were finished.
Prior to this weekend, my knowledge of John Chapman was merely a caricature image of a barefoot Lincoln-looking man carrying a seed sack and wearing a tin pot for a hat. After traipsing around the festival named for him (eating fried and kettle-cooked things with the name petal attached to them and touching beads and bones and furs), I started to read Howard Means’ recent book about the folk hero. In it, he “explores how our national past gets mythologized and hired out.” From the book: “Johnny Appleseed, of course, does live on, but less as a whole person than as a barometer of the ever-shifting American ideal: by turns a pacifist, the White Noble Savage, a children’s book simpleton, a frontier bootlegger in the fanciful interpretation of Michael Pollan, patron saint of everything from cannabis to evangelical environmentalism and creation care–everything, that is, but the flesh-and-blood man he really was.” This folk hero was a real guy with a seemingly steady moral compass and passion for the literal and figurative sweetness in life. I wonder how he would navigate life on modern day Parnell Avenue as opposed to 19th century wilderness. Would he find it all a bit too cloying?