food for thought

poetry on a Thursday evening

A night out away from sadness propelled me to the Harwood auditorium to see and hear three women I've known as inspiring acquaintances for many years. Their visit was part of the SOMOS Summer Writers Series that continues until end of August. These well known and well published authors have been friends for 25 years. Eight years ago they started a press in Santa Fe called Tres Chicas Books. Nine quality volumes so far, and the latest is a selection of their poetry called Love & Death, Greatest Hits. 

The poets are Renee Gregorio, Joan Logghe, Miriam Sagan. To have all three in one book is a treat. Joan is Poet Laureate of Santa Fe, Miriam has published more than 20 books, Renee is poet, master somatic coach, creator of poetry dojos. They are all writing teachers, award winners, powerful beautiful women. A few years ago Miriam and I taught a six-day intensive retreat on writing and knitting memoir. It was fun (and intense) and I learned more from her than my students learned from me. We may do it together again someday.

miriam, joan, renee

I raise a toast (with fresh raspberries)! And thank them for a wonderful evening of gorgeous poems (interconnected by virtue of their long relationship) rife with humor, love, grief, happiness, inspiration. All the world resides within those poems.

I've gotten to know so many creative and talented people during two decades in Taos. There is a distinct feeling that when you're working alone you're not alone, no matter what you're doing. You can wear your dancing shoes to breakfast, a Renaissance costume to a the river, jeans to a wedding, step out at midnight and dance, enter your creative interior and drop out for awhile, sleep under stars, tote your notebook and pen to the edge of a lake at 12,000 feet, eat summer raspberries until your mouth and fingers turn red, create fiber beauty and books, be stunned by sunsets, feel icey rain on your shoulders, bake cookies.

what she did
On a rainy cool afternoon I baked biscotti (an authentic Neopolitan recipe that came from I-don't-know-where). It's been a while and I forgot to add the baking powder. As they baked and I considered throwing it all out and starting over, I text messaged My Son The Chef and asked, "what happens when you forget to add baking powder?" he answered, "may come out real flat!" I left them in the oven and since biscotti tend to be flat anyway, they're fine (maybe a tad hard). We've sampled enough to award 3 stars. I invited chef son to join us for coffee and biscotti, but forgot that he lives 750 miles away.

rainfall like a blessing

wet birds with ruffled feathers

inside, cookies bake

every story starts somewhere

petroglyph? cave painting?
I managed a long walk with Spike today in a cool 64 degrees! What I haven't done in a while, haven't felt for days. Camera in hand, happy dog on leash, comfortable lime green sneaker sandals,  the summer park. This animal-like carving was simply peeling weathered stucco flaking off the adobe wall, illuminated by morning sun and leaf shadow.

Wild currents growing against the cemetery fence remind me of when we moved into the house my father built in 1949 in the northeast Bronx and my mother and I, on a rare walk, found great bushes filled with them. We went back with my blue plastic beach bucket and filled it with the sweet/tart fruit. She baked muffins just like Peter Rabbit's mother (they were current buns in the book). I remember them as delicious, warm from the oven, good sweet butter melting into each half. I haven't tasted any since.

We didn't have a clothes drier either and my mother hung the laundry out to dry in the summer air

Another 21st century artifact - not sure what this is/was, but it looked mysterious in the morning light - as if it's been there for eons. A sacrificial altar, a grinding wheel? A Knights Templar chariot wheel? A part from a giant's spindle? If I were a fiction writer (which I am not) I might conjure up a story about it and the animal shaped thing on the wall nearby. Maybe someone already has.

the way we were is not the way we are
We breathe our breath, the world spins, drama fills the sky with cloud shapes and thundery noises, we hope that if it rains it will last for more than a few minutes this time.

...in a landscape without past or future time 
- in this instant, in all instants, transience and eternity,
death and life are one
                                   Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

time passages

Very late last night, lights also on in neighboring houses, I finished another pair of socks. Deliberately chosen for their bright and cheerful colors.

I gaze at them in the sun's light this morning, can't capture the glow with the camera. Just a touch of illumination from the east. Comfort socks. We learn yesterday that the girlfriend of the young man who took his life last week, took hers. She jumped off the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge on Monday night. The news came after her love's burial on Tuesday.

The Rio Grande Gorge Bridge is 650 feet above the river, the sixth tallest bridge in the United States. There have been many suicides through the years. When you jump, death is guaranteed. Two young people in the last two weeks. There is no explanation, no words to assuage the grief, tragedy, finality and waste that has occurred. All I can do is write and knit and wonder about destiny as I approach a birthday many decades more than their ages. How do their families cope? Why don't walls of protection made from love work anymore?

more tea please

a flock of colors, with tea

Morning dawns chilly. A welcome change, more normal than summer mornings so far this year. I wanted hot tea. Not a mug with a tea bag tossed in, but a pot - an authentic Brown Betty English teapot filled with a good dark black tea. Before the tea shop closed I bought a box of the strong mellow black tea I liked best. It turned out to have a whole story behind it, as part of the price goes to the Royal National Lifeboat Institution that saves lives at sea around the UK and Ireland.

Apparently the founder, Mary Taylor of Cornwall ("Lifeboat Mary"), looks after "her boys" at the lifeboat station with tea and cake and biscuits and has been doing so since she was a girl. So, even though I won't have to save anyone at sea today, nor is it likely that I'll enjoy the goodies that go with the tea (cake and boys), I can drink it and play with tea cozies. And make plans to knit a couple more (I'll check the yarn stash later). I've discovered that writers especially like tea cozies so I'll have some to give to friends by fall.

depth of texture
Why am I writing superficial stuff about teapots and cozies? I know I've waxed poetic about them before. But it's all I can do today as I get back to my desk and begin to pull the necessary details of my life together that were abandoned when our neighbor's son took his life a week ago today.

[when] the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight

each day
dozens of cars have passed back and forth along our dirt road from early morning to late night. It was impossible to distance ourselves from the tragedy. Not only because of the cars and people - which were always within sight from our second floor kitchen windows - but because we care about the family and they seemed to want us to sometimes be there too. We made some food to bring over and attended all the services (at their home) with 150-200 attendees each time. Yesterday under a white tent with a red stripe, against a cloudy blue sky, in intense noon heat, their son's ashes were put to rest on the family's land. Land they've owned for more than 100 years. They are a large and close extended family and I had the strong sense that Floyd was ensconced forever within a snug sphere of love. Today, of course, they face the reality that won't go away when the last of the mourners leave.

return to self
It's not about me, I know that, but profoundly moved yesterday afternoon I sought books for comfort. Poetry, Buddhist teachings, my own writing, and came across John O'Donohue's poem Beannacht (Blessing) from his book of poems, Echoes of Memory. He was an Irish poet priest best known for his book of Celtic wisdom, Anam Cara. All quotes are from the poem.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life

what exists?

space and time tools
According to Dr. Robert Lanza (scientist, author), "energy doesn't go away at death....[it] never dies, it can neither be created nor destroyed." Based on a scientific theory called biocentrism, the theory is that an infinite number of universes exist and everything that could possibly happen occurs somewhere - death does not exist in any real sense. Lanza says, "the alive feeling - the 'who am I?' is just a 20-watt fountain of energy operating in the brain" and doesn't go away at death. This is an interesting and difficult concept. That space and time are simply the tools for putting together the whirl of information occurring in our minds. I don't understand, but I'm trying.

the properties of matter
Namely, yarn. Picked up at the PO on the way to Elevation, my friends, and a latte.

These Lorna's Laces yarns are part of the Limited Edition Harry Potter series that I wrote about a couple of weeks ago. I like the colors and will wait for magical inspiration to decide their destiny. First I'll try to complete a couple more sock UFOs - like these just finished.

Opal "Surprise". It feels good to knock off finished pairs - especially since I usually complete one full sock before moving on. I guess I'm playing a self-imposed psychological trick on myself. What's one sock? Nothing to it. Beats that second sock syndrome that so many knitters suffer from. And assuages guilt re possible (!) future acquisition!

all talk, no action
Every day we hear that the rain is coming. Weather predictions actually showed thunderstorms every day last week. Unfortunately, clouds built up, wind came in, a few drops fell and that was it. At least here. There may be areas where real rain is falling, but we haven't seen it yet. We're hoping that usually drier August will bring the long-delayed rains.

Quite the contrary
to what I'd thought, passing clouds
are sometimes simply
the moon's entertainment,
it's lovely decoration.
                    Saigyo (12th c) trans. S. Hamill

even the mountains are sad

We have lived in the same neighborhood in Des Montes for 21 years. Our home is one of eight on a dead end dirt road surrounded by a breathtaking mountain landscape. When we bought our house and land the roads in Taos didn't have names. You'd visit friends with a set of abstract directions: turn left at the cow sculpture; the fence with the yellow post; the second cattle guard. We all had PO boxes and there is still no mail delivery outside of town. At some point of progress, residents were asked to submit road names. Ours became the name of the family who originally owned most of the land we were on and who had homes and young families. We lived in their midst. We felt kind of old. We were already grandparents and had left our family in Connecticut to start a new life in New Mexico. We hoped they would learn to love it. Some did. Every summer our granddaughter came out for a few weeks. Her visit was the highlight of our year and she soon became friends with the boy next door. He was just a few months older and they spent summer days together; we'd take him with us on picnics, or to the Pow Wow or do some of the other things adults do to entertain children. Around age 7 Kira announced "he isn't like other boys" - meaning he was more gentle, eager to do the things she liked to do. Crafts, homemade puppet shows, coloring, baking cookies. Once the three of us picked all the lavender from the bush that flourished that year and hung it upside down on the kitchen rafters to dry. The next time they were together, Kira and Floyd removed all the dried buds from the stems and filled two quart jars with the fragrant herb. I found a forgotten half jar of it today in the back of a cabinet.

One very hot summer afternoon I had to divert Kira from noticing Floyd and his two cousins stark naked jumping on a trampoline next door, splashing each other with the garden hose. Being so young, all she noticed was that in the tall grass they seemed to be floating up and down on thin air and asked how it was possible. I admit that for a time I harbored a selfish secret wish that they would fall in love someday and live in Taos near us forever. That didn't happen of course; at visit's end they each returned to very different worlds 2000 miles apart.

On Wednesday night that boy took his life. I don't know why. His family is devastated and it's not a question we will ask. They don't know the answer either. We can only send our thoughts and prayers, cook and deliver humble food for the steady stream of family and friends coming to be with them. Many hearts are broken and it's hard to wrap our minds around a life being voluntarily cut off at 22 years. Why?

Last night's sunset was so strange and magical that I stopped along the road on the way home from the grocery store to attempt to capture something elusive, brief and bright.

Call it loneliness,
that deep, beautiful color
no one can describe:
over these dark mountains,
the gathering [summer] dusk.
             Zen poem (12th c) trans. S. Hamill

something essentially noble

How cool is this giant cappuccino cup! It sits on the roof of a tiny coffee bar in the Taos Ski Valley. I imagine it filled with liquid blue sky and cloud foam.

A cappuccino would have been a perfect accompaniment to my sojourn into the woods late this afternoon, but most places (on summer schedules) were already closed. So Spike and I walked the paths around the village (trails closed due to wildfire danger) and stopped by the numerous river tributaries to listen, and smell the piney scents. I jotted some notes and felt a great peace descend after an annoying morning when details and information just wouldn't come together. Sometimes I take things for granted and memory goes a bit fuzzy. This summer I've complained about the heat and smoke but sort of forgot that only 8 miles away, at more than 9,000 feet, it's always cool! Foliage is lush, rivers run cold, numerous wild flowers grow. Osha (Love Root) has been used medicinally by Indians and Hispanics for centuries.

Green Corn Lily (Indian False Hellibore) in abundance is highly toxic! I learned that people have died from ingesting it - thinking it wild onion or making what they think is gentian wine! Ooops!

But best of all is my ghost in the woods.
At a gathering a couple of years ago I met a woman who showed us prints of pictures she had taken. She said that every time she took photos with her digital camera, they revealed spirits (transparent ghostly blobs). I refrained from suggesting she have her camera lens checked because I'd just met her and she seemed a bit wobbly and quite attached to her photographic evidence. So, it came as a surprise when I reviewed my photos at home tonight and found a spirit had visited my pictures. Proof positive, yes?

I invoked the spirit and asked it to help me finish a project - lo, it did!

Stories within stories create a strange effect,
almost infinite, a sort of vertigo....dreams that
branch out and multiply.
                                    Jorge Luis Borges

yoga of socks

a brief update
I don't know what the astrologers said about today, but mine has been a stew of misinformation, consternation, and positive aspects. My desk is still a mess and I'm determined to not let anything get in my way tomorrow. I'll walk away from it this evening and finish the sock I've been carting around for months weeks. I wanted to post two finished pairs, but I aimed too high!

In spite of being the queen of underestimating time (or is it overestimating?) I at least finished one pair. Love the new Lorna's Laces Solemate. A soft combo of merino, nylon, and 30% Outlast (the fiber used by NASA and Ferrari that's supposed to adjust to skin temperature when worn). Color: Desert Flower #100. I want more of this yarn!

I'm anxious to start a new non-sock project. My schedule is heating up again and socks ground me as well as, say, meditation or yoga. 

I am now going out
to meditate in the
grass of San Luis Creek
& talk to hobos &
get some sun & worry
where my soul is going
& what to do & why
            as ever
             and ever
                shit
                                Jack Kerouac

and so it goes

As I sit down to write, huge raindrops begin to fall heavily. I want to say they're the size of espresso cups, that I can walk between the drops, break out the champagne and celebrate...but the sun is still shining, the sky still blue, white fluffy clouds illuminated by evening light. One of those times when a symphony of weathers converge into the unpredictable. This rain won't help the drought much or put out wildfires, but it feels and smells nice. Cooler air slips into the kitchen, I move to the other end of the table closer to the opened slider to catch the faint breeze. Longing for a breath of cool air on my tired body. Up at 4 a.m. to help spouse with dental emergency takes its toll.

We drive to ER at 5:30 or so. He's given shots to ease pain and gets violently ill. We are told that dentists in Taos no longer handle weekend emergency cases, he'll have to wait till Monday!  At home I make numerous phone calls and finally find one who does. He's about to leave for a hike but says he'll bring his hiking shoes to the office. He turns out to be great, new to town, young, and now part of a long-standing practice. He cheerfully performs a bit of minor surgery and sends us home. Needless to say, Ron is planning to change his dental provider. And now, a few hours later, he's feeling much better, sipping chicken soup cure-all.

bounty to share

fruit compote

Spent yesterday afternoon with six wildly talented women, all authors, poets, essayists, at a mutual friend's Salad Days lunch gathering. We each brought our salad specialties. There was home baked bread, iced herbal tea, a half dozen salads (and not one Jello mold!). Conversation flew non stop in between bites and stories as we all got to know each other. I brought a fruit salad compote for which I baked biscuits using a 1960s recipe that recently resurfaced during my aborted (for now) declutter campaign. When tossed with the fruit the biscuits get soft and cakelike. The tops should be more golden in color, but the oven gremlins (or mice) are at it again and my oven didn't cooperate. The biscuits aren't sweet (you can sweeten them up if you want to). Here's the easy recipe (the fruit salad part is up to you).

Compote Biscuits
grease cookie sheet
preheat oven to 450

1 cup sifted flour                                        
1 1/4 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/8 tsp baking soda
3 T shortening
1/2 cup buttermilk (or substitute*)
1 T melted butter
sugar

Sift flour, baking powder, salt, baking soda (this is where you can add sugar); cut in shortening with pastry blender until crumbly. Add buttermilk all at once; mix lightly until evenly moist. Turn out onto lightly floured board, knead gently for 1/2 minute, pat (or roll) into a 1/4" thick round. Cut into rounds with floured 1 1/2" cookie cutter; place on cookie sheet. Prick tops with fork; brush with melted butter, sprinkle with sugar. Bake 12 minutes or until golden. Cool biscuits, layer fruit; garnish with mint. Add a splash of cream or yogurt if you can't resist.

*1T white vinegar, milk to 1 cup

Enjoy!

and think pinkly...

small sojourns

In Julia Cameron's book The Artist's Way, she emphasizes taking time for an "artist's date" with oneself. Which is exactly what I did yesterday. Having spent two days dithering at my desk, shuffling papers, paying bills, starting to declutter and hopelessly sinking into cluttery depths, I was desperate to get out. I'd been reading Eric Maisel's books A Writers Paris and A Writer's San Francisco (I love both places) and I recognize that like a lot of other people I put obstacles in my way - they may be practical and responsible but do not lead to production. He wrote, "I need to write because I have a soul" and "the soul demands immortality and a feast and all a mortal can do is bring it a peach." So, ignoring my To Do list, I left the house early and spent several hours writing at Wired cafe, outside under a shady tree, at a cool table near a gushing yet tranquil fountain. The water's sound effectively drowned out the conversations around me and I was able to work again. The day was partly cloudy, soft breeze, no smoke, temps around 80. Perfetto!

Afterwards, I took a short walk in the neighborhood and came upon these lushly symmetrical evergreens that reminded me of pastel paintings I've seen by Wolf Kahn - or an English garden which I haven't seen.

At home I finished the pair of socks (old story) that were abandoned a few months ago and unearthed recently. Opal cotton blend (no label). Subtle color, soft, lightweight (I believe that Opal makes the best cotton blend sock yarn by far). I'll send them to my granddaughter as she tries to heal.

...we are flesh and blood creatures living in this or that hut or palace. Place matters. (Eric Maisel)

sorting what matters

If anyone had unexpectedly come into my house last evening around 7, they would have thought I was suffering from a form of summer lunacy. I was dancing for joy and taking pictures (tricky) out the screen door. This was the view from the kitchen as monsoon rains pelted the flowers in the pots, the sculpture on the deck and the whole wonderful world around us. It happened so fast and thoroughly that seconds after I took the picture water was pouring down from high up onto the kitchen table which had both of our netbooks on it! Lots of scrambling for towels, turning the computers upside down, tripping over the dog who was headed for his security place under the bed. This dripping water (from clerestory windows that we can't reach) happens briefly once or twice a year when the rain is super heavy. We view it as a sort of manana thing  ...if we wait a few minutes the rain will go away... it does, and we forget about it until the next time. Winds whipped up, water kept coming. By the time we'd brought out towels, closed windows and doors, it stopped. But oh, we were happy for awhile. Today the birds are singing, the prairie dogs aren't as prevalent and the sky is clear blue with white clouds. Which may mean there will be no rain tonight (not a good thing) but it's an awfully nice day. A pale rainbow came out as the rain stopped and as always, cliche or no, rainbows feel like positive omens.

Which is a good thing because my good friend who was hit by a car on a city street last month is still in recovery and I recently learned that my granddaughter (new mother) was in a serious car accident. She will be okay but is injured. She's 2000 miles away and I was ready to catch the next plane east. But reason prevailed (so far) and I realize I could be in the way rather than be a help. I'll just take one day at a time (as she has to do now) and if I'm needed I'll go. And Mercury isn't even in retrograde yet!

lightening bolts transformed

she-who-must-not-be-deterred
If you have read the Harry Potter books you know that knitting references are scattered throughout (Dobby's handknitted socks that scream when dirty! Hermoine's spellbound needles making hats that set House Elves free). In an online interview with J.K. Rowling about ten years ago, someone asked if she planned a Harry Potter knitting pattern. Rowling's response was "now I've heard it all!" She didn't know that the craze had hardly begun (or that she'd be sooooo rich!). Since then, yarn companies, jumping on the bandwagon, have come out with colors related to HP characters and a plethora of theme-based pattern books have appeared. I admit that I was inspired too.

I'd read the books (only three at the time) based on recommendations from my 10 year old granddaughter (who believed in magic) and my 72 year old friend (who believes in fairies). In the Winter 2001-2002 issue of Interweave Knits, I published a unisex sweater pattern based on the books along with an essay excerpt. The editors were afraid reluctant to use HP in the title so they named the pattern Lightening Bolt Family and referred to it as "a wizard sweater for muggles". It was sized from child to large adult. I loved their presentation and in the days pre cellphones, blogs, facebook, I still received notes of appreciation from strangers. Needless to say, I was thrilled.

That was my first and only published pattern and it forced me to make a decision. Did I want to enter that competitive world of knitwear design (the editors wanted more) or continue with my writing while knitting for pleasure? I don't mind writing for deadline but I resent having to do it for knitting. I chose the latter and haven't regretted it.

Unable to stop myself completely though, I put together a chapbook that still sells a few copies a year and gets an occasional facelift...

I've designed stuff for self, family, friends, and the one craft show I do annually. I wrote a book on knitting and writing, but so far it hasn't found a publisher. And so it goes.

So what prompted me to write about HP again?
I'm waiting for some new Lorna's Laces limited edition colors based on the books (probably in anticipation of the movie - in which I have little interest). Jimmy  Beans Wools will have the yarns available soon - you can check it out with them if you're interested. Meanwhile, I'm waiting for "he-who-must-not-be-named" - a semi- darkish color and another more cheerful one called "bravery". I'll post pictures when they come in. Now if only I could enchant my needles to finish all the UFOs around here, if a wizard would come in and vacuum, and if the afternoon rains continue, life would be nearly perfect.

patterns of hope

Another pretty morning latte to enjoy while catching up with friend Joan and knitting. The coffee shop was cool and noisy, but as usual was emptied by the time we left two hours later. Is it us? The proprietors tease us about that when we leave, but one has to wonder. And next time they will provide a new design for my latte. Meanwhile, I'm loving the simple Pretty Cheep bags! They're so retro useful. Muslin and all. Over coffee and steady conversation, I finished the second pair of handwarmers in Lorna's Laces Sport October '10 Limited Edition Color "Goblin". Nice. I like the color striping more than I thought I would. And they're so soft. I love using LL's yarns.

I had hoped to include in today's blog some pictures from friends' 52nd anniversary picnic in an orchard. Unfortunately, Ron and I were stressed out and feeling a little queasy yesterday so we decided to rest for an hour and awoke in the middle of the night - feeling much better physically, but not so great about missing the party. Better today as the morning air seems a bit clearer. Various conditions are keeping the fire volatile, but it's 50% contained and if nothing too drastic occurs weatherwise, the air might clear up one of these days. Meanwhile there are flash flood warnings in the surrounding areas. The monsoon season is creeping along with two nights of 15 minute heavy rains here. In the desert of Nevada where our son lives, he reports that the monsoon rains are extremely forceful this summer and the streets of northern Las Vegas are running with whitewater!

reality is not an echo

fur air
A couple of posts ago I wrote about the flames we saw on the ridgetop forty miles away. We haven't seen them again (although the fire has spread to almost 140,000 acres). Pilots reported that the flames that night reached 300-500 feet! Not seeing flames, however, doesn't let us off the hook. It's hot here! high 80s, dense smokey air. At an elevation of 7000 feet, the slightest increase in humidity and the addition of smoke makes the air feel as heavy as a fur coat. Official air monitoring systems report the air as "good" and I wonder what nerd came up with that particular category. Most of us are feeling tired, heavy, thinking of  rain dances and falling snow (what a concept!), escape. Phyllis and I had lunch at Stella's today and she invited me to go to Chicago with her. Her daughter lives there and said "it's really nice so far this summer" (another amazing concept). I encouraged her to go. If I could, I'd go with her. Meanwhile, in my workroom downstairs, with the ceiling fan and lack of direct sun after 8 in the morning, it's comfortable. I finished a pair of handwarmers at my desk today (largely ignoring the work I'm supposed to be doing - all I'm capable of until this weather/fire crisis passes).

cool hand dreams

This project was 95% finished when I put it aside a couple of months ago due to boredom? spring? dissatisfaction? It's Lorna's Laces Sport Limited Edition: Zombie BBQ (don't ask). When I unearthed it, I liked it again, so finished it in record time. Then started another in another color that came with it last fall called Goblin (I don't know why!).

more loss?

Our rugosa bush isn't doing well and there are lots of dead spots in what has become, over a decade, a huge lush bush - usually fully resplendent with small pink roses until October. But we're aware of the drought and reluctant to use too much well water for plants and trees and there's a price to be paid for that decision. Like Scarlet, I'll think about it tomorrow. Or in September. I think I'm suffering from a "survival of the fittest" mentality this summer and not sure if I'm fit to survive.

For now I'll try to chill out, work on the new handwarmer, check out Facebook (which I joined yesterday) and figure out if it's really for me. It seems that people are on their computers constantly sending messages about not much of anything. Anyone have any feelings or advice about this?

I am the poet of reality
I say the earth is not an echo
Nor man an apparition;
But that all the things seen are real,
The witness and albic dawn of things equally real
I have split the earth and the hard coal and rocks and the solid bed
     of the sea
And went down to reconnoitre there a long time,
And bring back a report,
And I understand that those are positive and dense every one
And that what they seem to the child they are
[And that the world is not joke,
Nor any part of it a sham].
                                                Walt Whitman

foodies feasting

Last September when a favorite coffee shop closed and a couple of months later a new restaurant called Stella's Italian Pizzeria went into the space, I was most disdainful and resistant. "Just another mediocre place," I said. "Don't even bother". Once more (it happens often lately), I was wrong! On a friend's recommendation we went to Stella's (twice) and it was a wonderful surprise! Owned and operated by chef Marco Barbitta of the well-established fine dining Downtown Bistro (a restaurant that can challenge any in a big sophisticated city). Marco is Swiss-Italian and knows his way around a kitchen. In this checked-tablecloth place, the atmosphere is casual pizzeria style and reminds me of places I frequented in New York a long time ago. The walls are decorated with film noir photographs and multi-colored candle drippings in Chianti basket bottles. All very retro and fun. The music is Dean Martin, Vic Damone, Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Pavarotti. Like that. The food is several notches higher than most places in or out of Taos.

We ordered Ceasar salad with grilled chicken...

 grilled salmon with gluten-free angel hair pasta and veggies sauteed in pesto sauce...

eggplant parmesan (sans tomato sauce, specially prepared, because someone in our party has recently developed a sensitivity to it)...

There was also an order of chicken parmesan with veggies and pasta, but I didn't take a picture because I was already eating. There's a nice selection of wines and big jars of a variety of naturally flavored olive oils for cooking and dipping. Like this huge one with about a million garlic cloves in it.

We never got around to ordering dessert, but plan to on our next visit. We have vowed to go back often, until we've sampled everything on the menu. Oh, did I mention that the prices are quite moderate? and there is an outdoor courtyard (which will be fabulous when the wildfire smoke clears out)? If I were a food critic, I'd give this place five stars.