Monday, September 5, 2011


Come, Share with Me Your Stories

by Mary Courtney Blake



I don't know how it is that I have become a writer.  All through school, writing was the bane of my existence.  In fact, I have been known to say that writing was the reason that I didn't go further into academia.  The thought of writing long discourses on philosophical matter seemed annoying at best, painful and vexing at worst.  I still feel this way, and yet, there are days where I am compelled to write, to share my stories, to create.

Most days, my creations have no known audience and yet I still create.  Why is that, you may ask... why create for the void?

Creating is humanity's way of reaching out, of staring boldly into the face of death and daring to say that "I am more."  It is our way of contending with eternity.  The authority of the artist lies not in the power to shock, or even to create beauty, but in the ability to help us see beyond ourselves.  Sharing our stories makes us more than who we are because it allows us to become a part of one another, to see more wholly.

Even in telling my stories I become more.  Because, in the telling I find meaning and beauty where I found them lacking before.  I have to organize my thoughts and examine my heart.  This sort of self-reflection that is focused outwardly helps us to release both joy and pain, to no longer harbor these things within ourselves.  It is like painting a beautiful painting, but not knowing who will see it or how it will speak to them.  The only thing that the artist knows is that she must paint.  Her heart compels her to create, to speak, to connect... to present her stories.  Once presented, these things can stand on their own for the world to witness.  We can see them more objectively and celebrate them for what they are for now they are outside of us.

So here it is, my painting.  I urge you, dear readers, release your stories and find your voice.  Not so that you can scream and never listen, but so that you can whisper and move the mountains in the souls of man.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Every Once And A While...

by Mary Courtney Blake


... you realize that you are older than you thought you were.  Or, at least, that others are younger than you thought they were.

I have had several of these moments lately.  Little things like overhearing a hostess at the restaurant where you are eating talking about being assigned her college roommate when not 3 minutes before, you thought that she was in your age bracket... now you realized that you are nearly a decade her senior.  Or meeting some young up-and-coming in a suit and tie then finding out this is their first real job, and you think to yourself, "If you are 21, what do I look like to you?"  The list could go on and what I have realized is that I have absolutely no concept of how old I look or where I am in relation to someone else's life stage.

All of this is not written to sound depressing or to be some diatribe against aging.  I know that I am very much still young and inexperienced as some of you are probably thinking that I am crazy for realizing that I am older than some when I am still younger than so many.  What I am really getting at, however, is that this is one of the first times in my life when I have realized that I am all grown up.  It's an odd feeling when one first discovers it.  And, thinking about it, I would have thought that this realization would have come upon me much earlier in my life.  I have been out of my parent's home since I was 17, and though they supported me though college, it's been a few years more since then.  I have been a high school teacher, a professional designer, a starving artist and now a restaurant worker... and I am just now realizing that I am an adult.

In a lot of ways this makes me wonder about what I am doing with my life.  Shouldn't I have accomplished something a little more substantial by now?  I picked up a local arts magazine a couple of months ago only to realize that one of my former high school students was on the cover with her husband promoting their band (yes, that's right, I said husband).  I have written Air Force Academy recommendations for former students and bumped into others in social situations only to realize that they are catching up to me.  College friends are making families and settling down, while others are finding critical acclaim with their work.

I might have become overwhelmed by all of this, or maybe a little too introspective, if I had not also stumbled upon a young woman's list of dreams.  It was a picture essay of sorts, shared with myself and the world no doubt as some sort of youthful statement of identity and independence.  But, I found it to be lovely.  A young girl not unlike myself, yet so different....  She shared all of those dreams to come, things like places to visit, libraries to be gained, food to be made and love to be felt.  And, as I sifted through her visual study, I realized that I was looking at many of her aspirations from the other side.  I have visited that particular castle.  I can make that delicious treat.  My living room is filled with books in wrap around bookcases and the beautiful laughter of friends and family.  I can drive a stick shift.  I have learned not only to love but that love is a choice to give, not the annihilation of your loneliness... I have failed, I have succeeded, I have become.

I do not envy the youth of others.  Rather, I revel in the wisdom and understanding that experience and age have brought me.  There is joy in the thought of growing older, of continuing to become.  What a wonderful thought to know that when lines gather in the corners of my eyes, they are only the visual reminder of the smiles and laughter I have had, that the creases in my forehead will tell of the sorrows I have borne and overcome, and that the scars on my hands will recount the pies I have baked and the people I have fed.  But most of all, there is wonder at the thought of the joy in my heart that will share the peace that comes from living and learning.  If there is any moral to these ramblings at all, I suppose it is this:  Growing up is very hard, but it gets much easier with practice and for me becoming a grown up has been and continues to be well worth the effort.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

Flatbread Pizza On The Fly.
(or Yummy Goodness that's Good for the Whole Family)




by Mary Courtney Blake

After last week's grocery adventures, I came home to find that, in my excitement, I had bought Naan twice, at two different stores.  This left me with the challenge to find interesting and yummy things to do with this Indian flatbread.  Mostly, I simply and deliciously ate it as a side with my meals as it is more or less intended to be eaten.  However, as I was sifting through the remnants of the week's food in the refrigerator, hungrily trying to find any ingredients that might make up a meal, I had a wonderful thought... Naan looks an awful lot like prepared pizza dough, except it is yummier and and much more nuanced.

So, I dug out all of those little bits of leftover veggies and random ingredients that were left over from an variety of other lunches and dinners.  Here is a list of the bits of things I found:

Almost Wilted Broccoli
Kalamata Olives
Red Onion
Capers
Goat Cheese
Garlic
Prosciutto 
and lastly Hollandaise Sauce (don't be intimidated... this is not a staple of my refrigerator and in this scenario, olive oil will do quite nicely)

Being that this little improv is "Pizza on the Fly", meaning it can and should be able to be done quickly, the construction is straightforward.  Simply set your oven to 350 degrees F.  Get out your stoneware or a baking sheet and lay out your Naan.  Brush your Naan with butter or olive oil.  Top with all of your refrigerator goodies.  Sprinkle on a little salt and pepper and place in the oven for about 10 to 15 minutes (until your cheese is all melty or your pizza just looks sizzling yummy and hot all the way through).  When your pizza is ready to serve, drizzle olive oil across the top (or hollandaise in my case) and enjoy!




Monday, March 28, 2011

I Should Not Be Trusted To Grocery Shop Alone.
(confessions of a foodie)


by Mary Courtney Blake

I actually like living on a tight budget.  There is a thrill in knowing that I am in complete control of my financial future.  I do what I love for a living, and for me that means I don't always bring home a great paycheck.  But, I have learned that with careful planning, I can thrive as if I had a fortune.  I should also admit, since none of the things that I really like doing promise much money, I have decided the best way for me to be able to follow my whims is to retire young.  So with every penny saved I think to myself, "One penny closer to retirement."  And, this always makes me smile.

There is one flaw, however, in all of my careful retirement planning: food... and not just any food, delicious food.  I should not be trusted to enter a grocery store without a chaperone.  Let us use tonight as an example:  I forgot to pick up salad greens yesterday while I was at the store doing my weekly shopping, so I made a quick trip tonight to pick up one bag of arugula.  What did I walk out of the wonderful Trader Joe's with you might ask?  My one bag of arugula, and a dozen eggs and a bag of romaine and some blackberries and some french sparkling berry lemonade.

What's so bad about that you say?  It's not so much.

That wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't spent three hours at the grocery store yesterday!  And I'll admit, I needed eggs after using the last of them to make hollandaise, but sparkling berry lemonade?  Sure, it'll go nicely with that salad that I will now top with blackberries... but I already had stuff for the salad!  I bought that yesterday as I wandered from grocery store to grocery store in ethereal bliss.

The good news is that there is one very nice benefit to my undisciplined grocery escapades:  more delicious meals.  And, I must say, sitting down to a wonderful meal and experiencing the magic of feeling like you are special enough to be given such beauty makes one feel somehow more human... more cherished.

Perhaps this is why, despite my frustrations, I continue to allow this passion to run free (within some limitations, of course).  Because, at the end of the day, I know that it's all of these little things like sparkling berry lemonade that make the day seem more beautiful and nights at home more cozy.  Without beauty in our lives, without feeling like we are important enough to splurge for sometimes, we would slowly become hollow.  What would life be if we did not cherish each and every day.

So, yes, I am planning for retirement, but I am not forgetting to live on the way there.  Feel the freedom to do the same.  Be wise with your resources and take care with your days, knowing that part of that is letting today be delicious, just like tomorrow.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Save The Daylight.
(or spring's petition)


by Mary Courtney Blake

I will admit that fall is my favorite season, however spring is making a strong case for itself as I watch the blossom petals fall like snow from the trees outside my window, swirling through the soft breeze, laughing at the thought that there could be anything more important than dancing on the wind.  There is something quite magical about watching the world wake up from its long winter's sleep.  It lets hope into corners of our hearts that have been resting in the shadows, as if the extra daylight somehow lights our insides as well.

I suppose I write all of this sentiment simply to say that I am glad that spring has decided to visit Carolina a little early this year.  Open windows and ceiling fans make me happy.  I am looking forward to farmer's market adventures, cook-outs and cricket lullabies.  One could almost say that as the world is waking up, I am waking up, ready to start some new adventures and ready to get on with some old ones that have been hibernating through the winter with me.  I am going to seize my extra daylight and do those things that I just didn't have the energy to do in the winter's darkness... things like writing more and throwing delicious dinner parties and making art.  And, who knows, maybe I'll even find some new adventure to embark on.

So, let the beauty of spring inspire you.  Decide what you'll do with all of your extra daylight.


Friday, January 28, 2011

Bottles & Jars
(or thoughts on kitchen vessels)



by Mary Courtney Blake


I have recently become enchanted by bottles and jars and such.  Now, hear me out, this is not some fleeting obsession of a collection crazed neurotic... no, this is the excitement of an artist discovering something beautiful in something that she has never taken a moment to notice before.  I should add that my fascination is not merely aesthetic but is also firmly founded in the practical.

I work in a restaurant.  And, restaurant kitchens, as you may imagine, need to be extremely well organized and need to adhere to all kinds of codes and restrictions that our homes would simply never imagine.  As it turns out, my brain is the kind of brain that has a very hard time with organization.  After throwing out yet another round of forgotten foods, I recently decided that it was high time for my home kitchen to adopt the system that I have come to know in my restaurant kitchen.

There is really nothing mystical about restaurant kitchens... in fact, if you have never experienced one I am afraid that you would probably be sorely disenchanted if you did.  Everything is clean (if it is a restaurant worth its salt - pun intended) but so well used that it is hardly recognizable to the normal human eye.  Sautee pans look more like horrifyingly beat up miniature woks than your beloved frying pan at home.  The metal on the stove has been irrevocably discolored due to heat exposure creating a kind of tarnished stain that no amount of bleach will remove.  And, the refrigerators are filled with countless plastic containers of varying sizes covered with masking tape labels that remind one of doctor's charts containing all of the patient's vitals.  All in all, I prefer the aesthetics of my kitchen at home.  However, my kitchen does not have the organization and ease of operation of a professional kitchen, that is, until now.

At one point in time I do remember buying stacks of tupperware.  There is no evidence, however, of this memory anywhere in my kitchen.  What I have whittled down to over the years, as leftovers have walked home with neighbors and rubbermaid sandwich containers graduate to holding bits of art supplies or become traveling doggy dishes, is a mismatched and often incomplete set of mostly ineffective plastic things that I really should just send to the recycle bin.  Thus is born my jar journey.

I was mincing garlic a few weeks back so that I would have some on hand whenever I might need it (another carry over from the restaurant... mise en place).  Riffling through forgotten containers for something to store it in, I came upon one of those little jars that at one time probably held jam or honey but was most likely saved to hold renderings from the stove that would need to be thrown out.  I took that little jar and filled it with my beautifully aromatic freshly minced garlic.  Searching for masking tape to label my jar with my newfound convictions, all I could find was blue painters tape leftover from my living room accent wall endeavor.  So, I boldly continued with my label, marking not only my jar's contents but also the day they were prepared.  In the restaurant I would also include my initials... but I thought that might be a little redundant in my own kitchen.

There it was, my tiny jar of garlic with its blue label and clearly marked vital statistics.  I felt proud.  This was the beginning of a brand new era in my home.  An era where food would not be forgotten and where accidental science experiments would no longer take place in my refrigerator.  This is when I noticed that my jar was not all together visually unappealing.  In fact, it had a certain air of noble humility, like the grace of work worn hands.  And, with each passing day and subsequent use of my garlic, I liked my jar more and more.

So I began to search for other interesting jars.  Olive jars that would normally be sent to the recycle were suddenly being washed with loving care and stored for future delectable endeavors.  Large glass containers brought home from work had dreams of holding homemade noodles or yummy soup leftovers that could feed the neighborhood.  I even spent an embarrassing amount of time online researching antique and unusual jars and bottles.  I had visions of antique milk bottles holding sweetened iced tea or freshly squeezed lemonade.

All of these tangents have led me to the conclusion that, though decorative or antique would be interesting and I may one day add some to my collection, the more humble and simple the bottle or jar perhaps the better... I think maybe the food gets to shine that way.