The rose garden in winter

Before spring officially takes hold, I wanted to share some images from a visit to the Giardino delle Rose (Florence's rose garden) earlier in the year. Beginning last October, the garden is now open year-round, so this is the first time I've been able to experience it in January. I went up there with the intention of spending some time under my favorite olive tree, but ended up wandering with my camera in hand, drawn from rare rose buds to plentiful rose hips, from plump persimmons to cracked pomegranates, from smooth stalks to thorny stems, only returning home when my memory chip was full. It was bitterly cold that day, and the branches of the trees, bare of leaves, stood out sharply against the blue sky. Yet, as I have sat from time to time with these photos over the past several weeks, trying to cull a collection nearing two-hundred-and-fifty into something more manageable (there will surely be future 'sets'), I am struck by how much color and life was present in the garden that afternoon. And where color was absent, the sun stepped in to lend its magic.

I distinctly recall enjoying that outing to the rose garden so much that, over the course of those few hours, I repeatedly chastised myself for not making a point of getting out of the studio more often; sometimes it seems like such a waste to not take advantage of all that Florence offers. In the two months since that garden visit, various projects & deadlines have continued to keep me, recluse-like, mostly at home. But I have realized that I don't really tend to think much about what I'm missing...I do love our top-story 'house up in the sky'—which fills with light all afternoon—and my work. Living against the background of the city's soundtrack...with church bells ringing, birds chirping, voices carrying, bicycles whizzing past...I still feel very much a part of it. And every time I do step through the portone, into the piazza and beyond, I seem to see the city with new eyes.

News on my latest projects soon, but for now, here's a glimpse of some of my favorite images from the Rose Garden in January...

{Past entries about the Rose Garden are here, here & here. The first link is to an image-heavy page, so it will likely take a minute or two to download properly.}

Polenta

Polenta―made with corn meal―is a staple in our house in autumn and winter (it can actually be hard to find locally during the warmer seasons). I love how polenta shares the same versatility as eggs or potatoes or spring onions...it pairs well with countless other things, and the possibilities are endless.

When I first moved to Italy I thought the only option for producing the proper consistency was to stand by the stove, stirring constantly for the required fifty minutes. But then I discovered the baking method, in which the mixture only needs to be stirred once toward the end of the cooking period. I love how quick and simple this is―you mix it right up in the pan it's baked in―and it can stand alone or make a wonderful accompaniment to meats, vegetables, cheese and eggs.

I usually serve polenta as an evening meal, but decided to make it for lunch so I could take advantage of the sunlight and photograph the ingredients. So, before winter gets away (and just in time for those of you in the southern hemisphere), here's the recipe... 

First, a few notes ~

• Pan size: I tend to favor my 8-inch square 'cake' pan, but a 9-inch round pan or anything with a similar area is fine.
• Polenta: I prefer the bramata variety, which is coarsely ground. 'Instant' versions are also available, but I have never tried them (and they would likely be quicker cooked on the stove).
• Herbs: These can be anything you like/have on hand: sage, rosemary, thyme, marjoram are those I have tried.
• Stirring: Initially, the ingredients will separate after being stirred, but they will have come together nicely by the time you take the pan out to stir at the forty-minute point.
• Serving: We love to eat the just-cooked polenta with a dollop of Gorgonzola or a scattering of Parmesan shavings and served alongside a simple salad of greens and a red onion & pancetta omelet or a fried egg...
• Leftovers: As it cools, the polenta will become firm. I smooth any leftovers into a layer roughly 2 cm deep, in preparation for future use. Cut into little triangles and brushed with olive oil, the polenta can then be fried in a pan or crisped under the broiler; these little wedges can be topped with Gorgonzola or Parmesan, or simply sprinkled with a little salt. Recently I ladled some leftover balsamic pork (recipe on this page) over chunks of polenta that had been quickly warmed in the microwave; the polenta made a nice contrast to the pork, which in turn beautifully flavored the polenta.

Recipe

For four servings

Set the oven to 350 F/175 C.

In an 8-inch square baking pan, stir together:

1 cup polenta flour (cornmeal);

4½ cups water;
generous drizzles of olive oil;

several grindings of salt & pepper. 

Submerge
a few sprigs of sage & marjoram
in the mixture (they will likely promptly float to the top, but will integrate during baking).

Bake for about forty minutes (don't worry if the oven hasn't yet reached 350 F/175 C), then remove to give it a good stir, making sure to incorporate any polenta that's clinging to the sides. Return to the oven for another ten to twenty minutes, until the top begins to form a slight crust.

Give the mixture another thorough stir, then spoon into shallow bowls, top with a generous dollop of gorgonzola and grindings of salt and pepper.

Before sitting down to eat, smooth any leftovers in a shallow, more or less uniform layer across the pan, as it will begin firming up immediately. (Alternatively, you can pour it onto a wooden board.) With the slightest prodding of a flat-edged wooden spoon, it will 'peel' right off the surface of the pan/board when cool.

The polenta just before the 40-minute stirring.

Polenta in its simplest form, with a little Gorgonzola waiting to be swirled through.

Coriandoli

I thought I'd post a few photos of the confetti (called coriandoli in Italian) that the wind has been swirling around the city for the past several weeks. The tiny circles of colorful paper appear every year during the carnevale period, which follows the Christmas holidays and lasts until Shrove Tuesday (today).

Florence doesn't do Carnival like Venice or the nearby Viareggio. In keeping with the typical Florentine sense of restraint, the celebrating is low-key, with small gestures showing up around the city: masks and curly-q streamers decorating shop windows...baskets of powdered sugar-dusted cenci piled high in the bakeries...dashes of color from the coriandoli brightening up the stone paving. Dressed in princess outfits, animal costumes, funny hats and wigs, children dash through the streets and gather in the piazzas to toss confetti, spray silly string and attack each other with the messy (but oh-so-fun-when-you're-eight) spray foam. There's also an internationally-themed parade on the Sunday before Shrove Tuesday, which ensures that we will continue to find coriandoli for weeks to come!

And so the months fly past, marked by strings of holidays and celebrations. We've gone from Christmas to New Year's to Epiphany, then moved through the Carnival period and now into Lent, in what feels like the blink of an eye. It's hard to believe that spring is due to arrive next month, when the confetti will be replaced by little green seed pods floating down from the trees. There's always something new to look forward to...

* * *

{Please click here & here to read some of my past Arzigogolare entries about the carnevale period.}

The Seeds You Plant

My main studio table early in the process of creating The Seeds You Plant.

I'd like to introduce my latest artist's book, The Seeds You Plant. This is the piece I had mentioned in my 'Emerge' post (which takes the form of a sestina). I love playing with words, and poetry has always intrigued me. It is a luxury―and, sometimes, a misfortune!―to be able to use as many words as one wishes, so I really admire how poets manage to condense complex thoughts/concepts into so few words.

By its very nature, a sestina is actually a rather convoluted type of poem, but the natural structure created by the six repeating words appeals to me. My first thought was to choose words that I associate with Florence―water/river, bridge/link, piazza/square, etc.―but somehow (I'm not ever sure exactly how this 'evolutionary' part of the process occurs, though it always does) I ended up building a sestina around a favorite quote by R. L. Stevenson. It may have been the quote's everyday presence in my studio for the past seven+ years―or maybe it was the desire to use a wooden spice box to house the poem; the box's six compartments seem like a good place to store seeds, which are evocative of growth.

Initially, I played around with small green 'pillow' boxes to hold mini-booklets with each of the poem's six stanzas. I also experimented with seed packet enclosures that contained cards printed with the stanzas, as well as hexagons and accordions that could be arranged into six-pointed stars. Then, as I was sifting through my collection of papers, I came across a marbled paper in shades of green, brown and black; not only did it contrast well with the box, it also made me think of the earth and things growing. I wasn't sure if I would use it to line the compartments or as the covers or endpapers for miniature books, but I knew that it would play a role in the finished piece.

Meanwhile, as I worked on the poem, I realized that Stevenson's quote could serve as the envol (a three-line stanza that concludes the sestina, in which the six chosen words also repeated in a certain order, this time with two per line). This meant the word order for the preceding six stanzas was now determined. Arranged as the envol, the quote, "Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds you plant" became:

Don't judge each day
by the harvest you reap,
but by the seeds you plant.

'Judge', 'day', 'harvest', 'reap', 'seeds' & 'plant' were therefore designated as the end-words that would alternate through the course of the six main stanzas.

At first, I didn't really care for the word 'judge'―it seemed harsh and out of place with the meditative gardening metaphor that I was using to describe my thoughts about the creative process―but then I found myself thinking about how important it is to trust yourself when it comes to such things. So, running through the poem is a thread of how only you can be the judge of what you wish to reap from the 'seeds' (dreams/ideas) you plant―not the voices of your childhood, not your neighbors, not society. I love to see how something that at first seems like an obstacle can instead become an integral element of a project.

To house the stanzas I finally settled on hard-covered accordions decorated with the marbled paper. But then I came across some cherished scraps of washi paper that my mother gave me years ago: one is black with tiny gold dots, and the other has little gold flowers scattered thickly across a mottled orange background. As the lines of the sestina began to take shape and the growth metaphor became more central to the poem, I decided to use the dotted paper to cover the first book, which represents the 'seed'. The flowered washi paper worked for the fifth book, which represents the 'flower', the marbled paper seemed appropriate to express 'roots', and I carved little stamps to create papers for the 'stem'- and 'leaf'-themed books. The sixth one, which alludes to the 'fruit', or the reward (and allows the cycle to repeat), has a pattern of foliage, flowers and fruits. Each phase in the growth cycle also repeats on the back of the accordion, taking the form of relevant words/phrases and simple images on a hand-colored background.

Since the sestina is very structured (and was actually quite a challenge to write!), I am hoping to spend some time simply exploring the fun of words in their purest form, to see where it leads. Susan Goldsmith Wooldridge's Poemcrazy, which is shown on the left of my studio table in the top image, is one catalyst in this quest. I have found a lot of inspiration in her short stories/meditations about words and poetry, and am looking forward to experimenting with her ideas one of these days soon...

* * *

Please click here for more details & photos for The Seeds You Plant.

The Seeds You Plant ( my latest artist's book)

Snow!

My daughter and I decided to retreat to my parents' little house in Montepulciano last weekend. Since the recent predictions for snow have resulted in little more than flurries in Florence, we were completely unprepared for what we found as the bus ventured deeper into Tuscany. I've seen picturesque photos of Tuscany blanketed with snow, but this is the first time I have witnessed the landscape in classic winter mode. I have always been struck by the beauty of the underlying structure that reveals itself in winter, when the fields and vineyards are bare, but this was something else altogether. I would have loved to photograph this rare variation of a journey I have repeated dozens of times over the years, but the bus windows were shockingly filthy, so I settled for trying to absorb the new atmosphere: quiet, muted...white.

With its highest point at 605 meters above sea level, the little hilltop town of Montepulciano had already gotten a fair share of fluffy white snow, and it was snowing again upon our late-afternoon arrival. Not properly outfitted for the conditions, and laden with our six different bits & pieces of 'luggage' (including my daughter's guitar), we were counting on being able to take the little shuttle up the steep hill to the house. But we learned that the snow and ice had put it out of commission for the next few days, so we faced the steep Corso, which winds it way slowly up the hill, on foot. Everything was closed, and we met only a handful of people along the way. It felt like a cross between a winter wonderland and ghost town as we drew closer to the house, where we found the water in the toilet had frozen, the olive oil had solidified and the warmest room was five degrees Celsius!

But how magical to spend the weekend surrounded by snow in a thousand shades of white.

Favorite things: a fire blazing in the wood-burning stove + vegetable soup simmering in the kitchen + mugs of hot chocolate + reading late into the night

With the snow we made: snowcream (with snow/milk/cream/sugar - remarkably similar to ice cream)

+ coffee granite (snow/espresso/milk/sugar topped with a thick layer of fresh cream)

+ snow angels + a snowgirl

It continued to snow for the next twenty-four+ hours, but Sunday dawned bright and blue-skied, casting purple shadows on expanses of sparkly snow. Many of the images from this snowy weekend will remain forever confined to my mind, but a lovely sunshiny walk finally gave me the chance to record some scenes of the town and the valley. Below is a small selection...

The line between the snowy rooftops and the white sky was nearly indistinguishable for the first two days (you can just make it out running horizontally in the middle of the left image). When the sun came out the sky and the multiple levels of snow-covered roofs were broken into distinct swathes of blue & white (right image).

The striking web of branches of this tree was still cradling the snow a couple of days later, and had managed to keep the wind from blowing it away.

The alternating rows of bricks & stone on the Cathedral's still-unfinished façade create little 'shelves', which are delineated by the snow resting on them.

The colors of the valley below Montepulciano change with the seasons, but white is unusual (except when a thick sea of fog envelops it).

I loved how the snow sparkled in the sun. It has been such a long time since I've seen so much snow, and had a chance to observe how it changes over the course of a day, and from one day to the next. I had forgotten how many shades of snow there are...

 

The landscape took on a very different character under the blanket of snow, which created a stark contrast compared to the usual palette of verdant greens and rich golds & browns.

* * *

{To read a past Arzigogolare entry about the journey to Montepulciano, please follow this link.}

Embrace

Last week's dusting of snow settled on the rooftops for a while before melting

As I begin this entry, snowflakes are chasing each other with the energy and enthusiasm of children playing tag. The amusing thing is that their motion seems innocently misguided―more upward than down―which I suppose explains why there's been no accumulation. In winters past, I don't remember seeing as much flurrying as we've had in Florence over the last week, and it still feels quite magical every time I notice snowflakes floating past the window.

Only three of my daughter's classmates showed up for school when the forecast promised twenty centimeters of snow one day last week―but neither the blanket of snow they were expecting nor the officially-sanctioned snow day they were wishing for actually materialized. The following day, the professoressa apparently went through the entire roster, asking each student's excuse for the previous day's absence. One student after the other cheekily answered, "snow," which prompted her to comment dryly, "And yet, there wasn't any snow on the ground yesterday." But I think the memory of the half-frozen state in which our kids arrived after walking six kilometers home in a blizzard last winter (when the buses stopped running and there were several hours-worth of gridlock outside the center) made many of us parents wary of a repeat.

* * *

So, Happy February! I had hoped to begin the month by finally outlining my big project for 2012, but have instead been working toward (and recovering from) a deadline for a new artist's book―The Seeds You Plant, the sestina-inspired piece that I mentioned in the last Arzigogolare entry. I had resigned myself to waiting to finish it for a future call for submissions by another gallery later in the spring but, as this earlier deadline drew closer, I just couldn't resist trying to get it ready in time. I'll post the link to photos and details once I've had a chance to put together a new page on my website.

When it comes to my various creative projects, I struggle a lot with making choices/focusing. I want to do everything (at once), and I want to execute each idea at least five different ways...sometimes it feels like a miracle that I manage to produce anything at all, since a lack of focus has the potential to be paralyzing. Unfortunately, because of this inclination to work on many things at once, I do experience the uncomfortable, ever-present sensation of being 'behind'. For example, once I made the decision to commit to finishing The Seeds You Plant, I couldn't help but consider how much else would be delayed (and not just in the studio) while I focused all my energy on the book. But, ultimately, this means that the other projects gain extra time to percolate at the back of my mind, and I find this is always a good thing.

While I am still not quite at the point of formally introducing my new project, I will share that it's called {twelve-by-twelve}. I love the concept of a dozen in terms of a collection or grouping. In fact, before evolving into an online shop offering a variety of paper-centric items, PaperSynthesis was to have been called 'twelve-by-twelve', based on the premise of offering twelve new collages each month. But, just as the word 'arzigogolare' waited patiently until the time was right, so has 'twelve-by-twelve'.

One element of {twelve-by-twelve} is a word for each month. January's was 'begin'. For this month, I have been considering everything from the imperative 'commit' or 'focus' to looser words like 'gather', 'evolve' or 'shape', which I am more familiar/comfortable with. This morning I finally awoke, after another restless night of projects tumbling around in my head, with the word 'embrace'. Instead of fighting the way I naturally work, I will try to simply embrace the chaos of my a-little-here/a-little-there/everything-at-once method and trust that things will continue to come together in their own time. It's amazing how much energy can be lost in comparing ourselves to others and trying to 'stay ahead' (or even just 'keep up'). Some people appear to thrive in a competitive mode and at a competitive pace, but I do not. I am learning to trust that this is okay.

If you have a word that inspires/guides/drives you, feel free to share it in the thoughts/notes/follow-ups (below)...

Emerge

You know how, when the moon is near to the horizon, you can actually see it moving in relationship to mountains, buildings or other earth-bound landmarks? The sun's movement can also be easily perceived as you observe the slant of a shadow shifting before your eyes. It doesn't take very long to notice small changes like these. But what about the transformation of a bud into a flower?

You may have had your fill of daffodils in my last post (I know I thought I had), but it turns out they've had more to say since. In the process of salvaging the last few flowers to put in vases, I discovered several new buds, so instead of discarding the bulbs I pruned the floppiest leaves and returned the plant to its place near the window. It wasn't long before the remaining foliage & stems reverted to their former perky selves, and I wondered if the latent buds would bloom now that the plant had been given a new life.

* * * * *

The next day, as I'm sitting at the studio table, I glance at the plant and notice that one of the buds (which had basically been a long, flat extension of the stem just minutes before) is beginning to swell. Soon, the papery 'sac' starts to split, ever so slightly, and the bud grows curved and plump over the next quarter hour. Hooked by this transformation happening right in front of me, I set the plant on the sill, and position my stool to face it.

I begin this daytime 'vigil' shortly before one. As I try to concentrate on the bud, my mind can't help but wander to other things...namely how I'm going to get through the long line of projects if I don't tear myself away from the daffodil. Even with other tasks enticing me, I can't seem to resist the allure of an unknown path...you never know where it will lead. Sometimes to a dead end. But other times you find yourself waiting for the birth of a flower.

Every few minutes I take a new series of photos in an attempt to document the bud's transformation. The sun half blinds me, and sun spots creep into the images, but I'm trying to maintain the same position and not disturb the flower (as much as I would like to explore it with my fingers). The flower stems are camouflaged so well that I keep finding other buds among the leaves―it does not escape me that these daffodils have led to more discoveries than I could have imagined since I first brought the bulbs home (hoping they just might be paperwhites). Even though they were not my first choice, after living with them for the past few weeks, I find I have grown fond of their company.

I think one reason this botanical minutia especially intrigues me at the moment is because of the sestina I have been writing for my latest artist's book; it's inspired by a favorite quote of mine, "Don't judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant." As I work in the studio I often glance up at these words of Robert Louis Stevenson's; they remind me that the results of each day’s work aren’t always immediately apparent, helping me to stay focused on the process. I have been wanting to delve deeper into the realm of poetry, and the form of the sestina in particular appeals to me: it is structured around six words that repeat in a specific pattern throughout the course of six stanzas of six lines each (+ a three-line envoi). Who knows, there might even be a sestina hidden in this six-petaled daffodil...

The papery sac (called a 'spathe'―this new-found interest in daffodils has taught me a thing or two) continues to split like a seam, revealing the outer petals. Slowly, the bud changes its direction, away from the sun, giving me a new perspective. When my daughter arrives home from school, she finds me at the studio window instead of in the kitchen making lunch. Perplexed by my intention to stay with the emerging flower―but used to such unexpected twists in our days―she agrees to make lunch. We eat in the studio, keeping an eye on the emerging bud while she tells me about her day.

Around three o'clock the tips of the petals begin separating slightly, though they are still curved closely in the cupped form of a bud. The plant is in constant motion from the slight breeze that causes the stalks to sway, which makes it even harder to photograph the delicate bud perched at the tip of its stem. As the petals gradually differentiate from one another, their greenish cast fades, and the yellow becomes more pronounced. Still, the petals huddle close, and once the sun dips behind the buildings across from ours I figure the flower will only resume opening when the light returns tomorrow.

But it surprises me. By the time I check again after an hour or so, one petal has fully released itself, and then, in the space of four minutes, a second one follows suit. The corona that lies at the center of the outer petals is now visible, and it's clear that (after three-and-a-half hours), the bud has finally distinguished itself as a flower...

 * * * * *

I didn't have a chance to go through the photos and my notes until now, so this entry is appearing one week after the 'event'. Incidentally, within twenty-four hours of first noticing the bud beginning to emerge from the spathe, all of the outer petals had fully released. Other daffodils have emerged in the meanwhile―and I even noticed another potential flower hiding in a second pot of bulbs that I believed was truly spent.
But I promise: no more talk of daffodils from this corner of the blogosphere...

Backlit by the sun as one of the petals begins to separate; the spathe can be seen on the right.

The bud photographed through my magnifying glass.

The unruly foliage grows paler over time, resembling lengths of narrow ribbon with a shimmer not unlike the green spool awaiting its part in a current project.

* * * * *

For a website with some super close-up/microscopic views of daffodils, please follow this link.

Daffodils on the windowsill

Paperwhites (Narcissus papyraceus) are one of my favorite winter flowers. I love both the simplicity of their delicate white blossoms and their fragrance. While you can find them already cut & bundled into expensive little bunches, I've had a hard time finding the bulbs themselves. So when I came across a wide array of spring bulbs recently, I chose a handful labelled 'Narciso' (despite knowing that the local florists typically refer to paperwhites as 'jonquilla'), and hoped for the best.

Within a few days, the first of the little blooms revealed that I had in fact bought yellow daffodils. While there is a world of difference between paperwhites and daffodils, they have done a wonderful job brightening up the studio for the last couple of weeks. There's something reassuring about watching the thin green blades taking off, growing about a centimeter a day...until the yellow-tipped ends are soon darting off every which way, like shooting stars.

This morning I watched as yet another long stem slowly collapsed under its own weight. In their latest incarnation of unruly foliage, I realized the pots of daffodils have a lot in common with the state of my studio these days (this is not an inaccurate representation of how my brain tends to feel too, with ideas & plans taking off in all directions). Since getting back to the studio again after the holidays, my work space has grown more chaotic with each passing day. At times like these, I find myself embracing the confusion on my desk and in my head―which may be why I can appreciate the rather disheveled daffodils. When I first brought them home, they were so sweet and so pretty as, hopefully, they reached toward the light; now those formerly straight, potent stalks are full of movement and motion, and seem to have taken on a beautiful life of their own.

With a few more orders filled and sent off this weekend, now it’s time to tidy up, file away, re-assess and begin a new phase...very fitting in light of tomorrow’s new moon. I will spend some time reorganizing the studio, rescue a few just-emerged daffodil buds I spotted among the ‘exploding’ stalks (to put in a small vase), and finally get to work on the many projects that have been quietly building momentum in the wings. At the top of the list: more artist books, an alphabet-inspired challenge, and new items for PaperSynthesis. More on these soon...

Coconut & blueberries

 

Blueberries seem quite exotic to me these days. I don't know if they are ever grown locally, and I could probably count the number of times we've bought blueberries here on one hand. But when I was at a large grocery store on the outskirts of Florence the other day, spotting the blueberries reminded me of a recipe I'd just seen for blueberry-coconut muffins.

It was actually the coconut that caught my attention when I came across the recipe on one of the blogs I like to visit (Simply Breakfast). The blogger, Jen Causey, is a photographer who loves 'breakfast + morning light', and she regularly shares the often zen-like photographs of her breakfasts on her blog. (You'll find the link under 'Inspiration' in the right-hand column.)

Jen's muffins were inspired by a recipe in a cookbook she'd been given, and the recipe I've included below was in turn inspired by Jen's―though I don't know if the author of the cookbook would still recognize it! Anyone who has seen the recipes I've posted to my website in the past knows that I offer them more as seeds that might grow into something new and unexpected...this is also how I tend to approach recipes. Part of this is due to rarely having every ingredient listed, but it's also because sometimes I just feel like exchanging apples for pears, or cinnamon for cardamom, or milk for cream...or adding anything else that sounds good. Cooking has to be creative to keep me in the kitchen―otherwise I'd rather stay in the studio.

I'm also a big fan of using what's on hand; this is often what determines what ends up on the table for lunch or dinner. It keeps things interesting, and means everything gets used up (one way or another). In the case of the blueberry muffins, it seemed like the perfect way to use up the egg whites left over from McCormick & Schmick's sublime CHOCOLATE BRIOCHE, which I had made earlier in the week. Oatmeal took the place of the flaxseed that we were missing, and butter filled in for coconut oil (although I used much less than the original recipe, even after doubling the dry ingredients). Since we didn't have any plain yogurt, I used a nice, creamy one with bits of cherry in it, and the cranberry sauce that we finally found in stock after Thanksgiving took the place of the jam. I'm sure there are endless ways to customize the ingredients to suit your pantry's contents and your personal taste and whims.

A few notes before giving you my variation on the recipe...

• As my daughter pointed out to me, they aren't very muffin-like; instead of being light and fluffy, they are quite dense―but in a satisfying, oatmeal-y kind of way.
• While the already-toasted oatmeal was still in the mortar, I added the coconut to the pan and warmed it slightly, then returned the now-ground oatmeal to the pan once again, and also stirred in the sugar for the last 20 seconds. I like how the heat releases the scents and flavors.
• If you add sugar, as I did, you may wish to omit the jam (though I didn't find the muffins to be too sweet with both―maybe because I used cranberry?).
• Just out of the oven, the muffins were a little on the oily side (probably because of the coconut), so if you don't use liners you can probably get away with not greasing the muffin tin before filling with batter. I suggest allowing them to cool completely before eating, so they won't fall apart.

Recipe

Preheat the oven to 350 F/175 C and line a muffin tin with paper muffin liners.

In a medium bowl, stir together:

1⅓ cups coconut (I used farina di cocco, 'flour' of coconut, which is already ground quite finely);

½ cup rolled oatmeal (toasted over the stove top for a few minutes, then roughly-ground with a mortar & pestle);

¼ cup demerara sugar;

2 tsps baking powder;

½ tsp salt;

until all ingredients are integrated.

In a small bowl, whisk:

½ cup egg whites + 1 whole egg;
then add & continue whisking:

1 Tbsp jam/similar condiment of your choice;

1 Tbsp yogurt (plain or a fruit flavor that goes well with blueberries/coconut);

then make a well at the center of the dry ingredients, pour in and stir with a wooden spoon.

In a small microwave-proof bowl or a heavy-bottomed pot over the stove, melt:

6 Tbsp butter;

then mix it in with the other ingredients. Let the batter sit for about ten minutes.

Divide the mixture among the compartments of a muffin tin; there should be enough batter to fill about ten. Sprinkle on:
10-12 blueberries per muffin;
then partially press them into the batter.

Bake for about twenty minutes (until a toothpick comes out clean). Let muffins cool completely before removing from the tin. Enjoy! (We found the taste and texture seemed to improve each day...)

Begin

Red things: pomegranate gems & a cherry juice cube floating in a glass of cranberry juice

Begin. That's my word for the month. There are so many ways in which I could apply this word to my life. One of my biggest challenges seems to be sending work into the world, even if it's something as simple as a blog entry. With the 'original' Arzigogolare I would return to each entry day after day, for hours at a time―not only to edit, but to continue developing―'growing'―whatever topic I had chosen. There would be new research and more thoughts to weave in, which then necessitated a restructuring of what would inevitably begin to approach 2000 words...more than anyone really has time to read online! At one point I redesigned the layout of my monthly entries and started included more images, recipes, links and other extras. The new layout made the process more interesting for me (and my readers, I hope), but even more time consuming. So I suppose one of the things I wish for this reinvented version of Arzigogolare is to be less precious with my words, and to simply share.

Today I'd like to share a few thoughts on pomegranates. Not only do I love the shape, the color and the delicious jewel-like seeds, but I also appreciate what a pomegranate represents for me: serenity. Removing the seeds takes time and a certain amount of concentration, and I still remember a winter when I was literally too busy with deadlines to take advantage of pomegranate season. Now I've come to view the process of releasing the seeds to be a meditation of sorts...a way of centering my mind.

As I prepared a tray for this morning's seed extraction session, the colors of the pomegranate, the cranberry-cherry juice concoction and the cloth enticed me to photograph the tray first... Which brings me to one of the projects on my list for this year. I love trays―and own many of them―and I always enjoy the process of composing items on a tray, whether it's for breakfast in my studio, afternoon tea with a friend, a study session for my daughter or a movie night on the sofa. Sometimes I use them to arrange fruits and vegetables, or papers or beads or books―anything that might benefit from a some togetherness or organization. The tray in today's photo is one of my favorites...you will likely come to know it quite well in the next several months, as I share other tray-themed 'still lifes'.

* * * * *

I would love to know if you have a word for the month (or for the year). Please share if you're inclined...

{To read some of my past writings about pomegranates, please click HERE & HERE.}

Arzigogolare: let your mind wander

My favorite olive tree at Florence's Giardino delle Rose (Rose Garden), the perfect place to 'arzigogolare'.

Welcome to the new 'Arzigogolare', a collection of writings that began three years ago as a followup to The Piazzas of Florence, a book inspired by my adopted city.

In the initial entry, I explained how I came to chose the word 'arzigogolare' for my blog:

"I am still trying to grasp the exact meaning of ‘arzigogolare’, a word I came across when I was first learning Italian. My textbook translated the verb as ‘to let one’s mind wander’, though it’s also linked to other, more negative meanings (to quibble, to build castles in the air). I was fascinated by the word’s zing, by the connotations of daydreaming, and while I have since discovered that not everyone considers ‘letting your mind wander’ to be a worthy pursuit, I do believe it’s essential for a creative life.

So enamored was I of the unusual verb that the opening chapter of the book that would later become The Piazza of Florence was originally entitled ‘Arzigogolare’. The name seemed to reflect the receptive state of mind needed for recording one’s travels, which had been the focus of the first chapter. As the book changed and evolved, however, the word no longer seemed to have a place; it retreated to the back of my mind, waiting for the right time."

The time seemed right when I chose 'Arzigogolare' as the place to collect 'everyday reflections inspired by the city of Florence'. In the years since The Piazzas of Florence was published, my focus has shifted back into the studio after a long period spent mainly writing, but the concept of 'arzigogolare' still very much applies to how I work and how I create. I have many exciting projects planned for 2012, and look forward to sharing them in this space. It may take some time to get my bearings in this new 'environment', but I am excited to see how Arzigogolare will evolve.

To see the original Arzigogolare entry, please click HERE.

Slicing strawberries

The creative process often—and ideally, I think—evolves in an organic way. I always enjoy getting caught up in this process, when a single idea or word or image leads me along an unexpected path. This happened recently with a series of photos that ended up echoing the colors of the Italian flag. The green, white and red theme might seem to be consciously (or even subconsciously) responding to the fact that Florence has been decked out in the patriotic trio as Italy marks the 150th anniversary of its unification this March, but in fact the inspiration came from a long‧time desire to write about strawberries.

It all began a few years ago, when I photographed a bowl of strawberries intended to accompany an Arzigogolare entry inspired by a passage in architect Christopher Alexander’s A Timeless Way of Building. But other topics kept coming up, so it remained at the back of my mind, unwritten. Still, each time winter gives way to spring, when containers of strawberries appear at the produce stands, the wish to share the excerpt from Alexander’s book returns.

Besides architecture, Alexander’s educational background also includes physics, chemistry and mathematics. He has worked as a professor, researcher, builder and writer, and is probably best known for A Pattern Language, a book proposing 253 interconnected patterns that can be used to create a more personal, human quality of life in the spaces we inhabit. They begin at the regional level and progress to that of towns, neighborhoods, building complexes and homes. In the 'Piazza della Repubblica' chapter of The Piazzas of Florence, I touched briefly on how the patterns I regularly encounter in Florence contribute to the enjoyment of living here ...Small Public Squares, High Places, Connected Buildings, Four-Story Limit, Corner Groceries, Individually Owned Shops, Windows Overlooking Life and others.

While A Pattern Language offers readers the nuts and bolts of designing/building towns and buildings which are alive, A Timeless Way of Building conveys the theory behind the pattern language. Across 549 pages, Alexander introduces and explores what he calls ‘the quality without a name’, which he believes is essential to good design. The book’s organic, slowly unfolding, presentation mirrors the nature of the quality itself, which can only evolve over time, in the most natural way possible. The premise is that implementing the patterns will allow this quality to exist, thus leading to an ultimately more livable environment.

Perhaps it seems counter-intuitive that something as technical or fabricated as a pattern would create more natural, human spaces, but they are endlessly adaptable—and of course nature is full of patterns. The pattern language is really about that which we instinctively find comforting...structures designed to follow social spaces (not the other way around), rooms with windows on at least two walls, ceiling heights that vary according to a room’s level of intimacy, south facing outdoor spaces (or north if you live in the southern hemisphere), a sunny counter in the kitchen, cozy pools of light (as opposed to uniform fluorescent lighting), an entrance transition that aids the mental transition into the realm of home. Alexander believes these patterns are intuitive, only that we have lost touch with them.

I agree with much of Alexander’s philosophy (and could easily continue this train of thought), but that is perhaps enough arzigogolando about this for the moment. Time to return to the strawberries...and the passage I wanted to share. In the last chapter of A Timeless Way of Building, after discussing the benefits of taking cues from nature, Alexander concludes that, “To act as nature does is the most ordinary thing in the world. It is as ordinary as the act of slicing strawberries.” He then tells this story:

One of the most moving moments in my life, was also one of the most ordinary.  I was with a friend in Denmark. We were having strawberries for tea, and I noticed that she sliced the strawberries very very fine, almost like paper. Of course, it took longer than usual, and I asked her why she did it. When you eat a strawberry, she said, the taste of it comes from the open surfaces you touch. The more surfaces there are, the more it tastes. The finer I slice the strawberries, the more surfaces there are.

He goes on to say that his friend’s whole life was like that—ordinary, yet each thing done fully—and that her strawberry observations taught him more about building than ten years of practice had. It may seem like a leap if you aren’t familiar with the book (or aren’t on the same page with him), but I find it easy to understand why Alexander considers this such an ‘Aha’ moment...this choosing of qualitative over quantitative factors can so deeply and positively affect the different areas of our lives. Yet, so much of the world is moving ever faster and further from the rhythms of nature, with the bottom line taking precedence at the expense of quality. Although the slower-than-average pace of my personal clock often meets with criticism, I continue to value the importance of taking the time to slice our strawberries finely, both literally and metaphorically. And I suppose I still hold hope that this inclination will somehow reconcile with the ever present need to ‘keep up’.

*

In the end, I didn’t post one of the original strawberry photos I’d meant to accompany Alexander’s story—they’re buried somewhere on my old computer, so it seemed easier to photograph the berries I had on hand. I enjoyed the process of composing the new shots, and experimenting with the styling. The ultimate choice of a white china cup placed on a plain sheet of Fabriano drawing paper resulted in a very different kind of image than I had taken a couple of springs ago. As I had noted in The Beauty of a Shadow, shadows can inspire all sorts of reflections, so once I settled on the plain white background I was delighted to discover the symmetrical shadows wiggling on either side of the handle-less cup. The reflected ‘halo’ caused by the sunlight, which only appeared after removing the saucer that had initially been part of the composition, was another nice surprise.

The outcome of the strawberry images influenced other photos too. I had planned to record the vibrant orange, yellow, red and purple blooms of the ranunculus plants that I’d found at this month’s flea market in Piazza Santo Spirito, but ended up deciding to focus on the red ranunculus (thus repeating the simplicity of the strawberry composition and capturing green, white and red as the central colors).

Again, I found an unexpected element as I composed the photo—the shadows of the buds, flowers and stems interested me as much as the flowers themselves. And I was reminded of the joy of the creative process—how, by simply committing to the process, you often find yourself enjoying an inspired journey of sorts.

The relative starkness of the green, white and red photos that I’ve mentioned (examples of which can be seen at the top of this entry & above) is a departure from the multicolored layers and patterns I usually favor. I decided to follow this new direction and try concentrating on white, so next I photographed the white-on-white tissue paper pompoms that my daughter and I had made as practice for my sister’s upcoming wedding. Their concentrically layered forms seemed conducive to interacting with light, and resulted in a nice interplay of shadows. Each set I took revealed different effects of light and shadow, and I found myself wishing I could superimpose the many variations to create a single image. (A project for another day perhaps.)

Now that warm weather is here to stay, strawberries have become abundantly available (though their specialness hasn’t diminished). Florence has embraced the new season, with that one hour gladly sacrificed last weekend in exchange for evenings that feel luxuriously long. In the mornings, the streets echo with teachers urging, ‘Andiamo, ragazzi, andiamo!’ (Let’s go, kids, let’s go!), as they herd spirited groups of school children on field trips. Many apartment and shop windows have been patriotically decorated this month, but spring colors and signs of Easter are starting to bring fresh life to the city now.