crazysalad

Rain in San Diego

As the rain began to fall this morning, I was reading Ko Un.  I couldn't help but notice this pine tree outside my window.

One day
there was no one I could ask the way
so I set off
where a long pine branch was pointing

and found that the right direction

*

A thousand drops
hanging from a dead branch

The rain did not fall for nothing

--Ko Un
from Flowers of a Moment

City of Books

It has the best bookstore in the country.

It’s progressive, yet retains its history and interesting architecture.

It boasts an impressive public transportation system, including free trolley rides in the downtown area.  Bike-friendly.  (Oops, with one exception—watch out for the tracks!)

For food lovers, it offers an abundance of food supplied by local farms, dairies, and rivers, not to mention great coffee, wine, and beer to go with it.

If it weren’t for the weather, I would move there in a minute.

I’m talking about Portland, Oregon.

I recently spent a weekend there with my sister and my cousin, who lives in the city.   It’s probably just as well that I picked one of the coldest weeks in the past 10 years to visit, or else I might not have come back home to San Diego (where the temperature averaged 66 degrees this past week in January). 

Day 1

Less than an hour after arriving in town, I had dropped my bags at my hotel and walked over to Powell's.   Besides food, books are my other true passion and I had been looking forward to coming here for years.

They don’t call it the City of Books for nothing. From the looks of it, the original store started out in one small corner building and slowly annexed all the adjacent structures until it occupied the entire city block. 

As I stood in the front entrance waiting for my nose to thaw out (did I mention it was bitterly cold that weekend?), gawking at the huge floorplan sign hanging from the ceiling, I felt a little like tourist in Times Square holding a map of New York.  I’m not kidding, if you’re new, they will give you a map and even a walking tour to help you find your way in and back out again.

There are dozens of rooms (denoted by color) on many levels, connected by staircases and doorways and ramps.  New and used books are shelved together, enabling you to find not only an author’s latest book, but often their entire backstock, as well as many out of print works. In case you do get lost and can’t find your way out, you won’t starve--there is a Coffee Room with wireless Internet, sandwiches, and plenty of World Cup (locally roasted, fair-trade) coffee.

And like any big city, it’s impossible to see everything in one day.  So I came back the next day.  And the next.  And the morning before I flew out.  Well, I had to do something between meals, didn’t I?

Day 2

Maybe it was the walk across town in 20 degree weather.  Or the fact that they were playing The Clash’s Greatest Hits album.  But as soon as I walked into Ken’s Artisan Bakery—greeted by a blast of warm air and the smell of sweet bread—I felt immediately at home. 

The staff was friendly and easy-going.  A toddler crawled across my feet as I poured cream in my coffee.  “Sorry.  That’s George. I call him Curious George,” an exasperated mother told me as she pulled him out of the bus tubs beneath the condiments table.  No problem.  I’m happy to be in a place that welcomes kids. 

I felt like I had walked into a neighborhood block party.  The bakery was packed.  People of all ages greeted each other, shared tables.  I managed to secure a small table near a window in the back and stayed for several hours, reading the poetry books I had bought at Powell's and watching customers both inside and out. 

I loved Ken’s chocolate croissants--crackling on the outside, buttery interior stuffed with Valrhona chocolate—and the sweet morning buns with their hint of orange. 

Looking at all the varieties of bread on the shelves, I was a little surprised by how dark the loaves were—they looked almost burned.  But after buying a loaf and trying a slice, I found I liked the contrast between the carmelized crust and the soft crumb.   The levain had a nice, mellow flavor—not sour, but slightly tangy and complex, the result of slow, natural fermentation.   Clearly Ken knows what he is doing.

As good as the breads are, I think I could have eaten just the butter for breakfast.  Sourced from a local dairy, unbelievably light and so sweet, not greasy at all—I think it’s some of the best butter I have tasted.  That on top of their country brown bread (pain de campagne, modeled after pain Poilâne) and a cup of Stumptown coffee and I was ready to move in.

Portland, where the healthy food snob actually ate fast food (and liked it):  Burgerville!

Persimmons

by Li-Young Lee

In sixth grade Mrs. Walker
slapped the back of my head
and made me stand in the corner
for not knowing the difference
between persimmon and precision.
How to choose

persimmons.  This is precision.
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.
Sniff the bottoms.  The sweet one
will be fragrant.  How to eat:
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.
Chew the skin, suck it,
and swallow.  Now, eat
the meat of the fruit,
so sweet,
all of it, to the heart.

Donna undresses, her stomach is white.
In the yard, dewy and shivering
with crickets, we lie naked,
face-up, face-down.
I teach her Chinese.
Crickets:  chiu chiu.  Dew:  I’ve forgotten.
Naked:  I’ve forgotten.
Ni, wo:  you and me.
I part her legs,
remember to tell her
she is beautiful as the moon.

Other words
that got me into trouble were
fight and fright, wren and yarn.
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.

Wrens are small, plain birds,
yarn is what one knits with.
Wrens are soft as yarn.
my mother made birds out of yarn.
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.

Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class
and cut it up
so everyone could taste
a Chinese apple.  Knowing
it wasn’t ripe or sweet, I didn’t eat
but watched the other faces.

My mother said every persimmon has a sun
inside, something golden, glowing,
warm as my face.

Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,
forgotten and not yet ripe.
I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,
where each morning a cardinal
sang, The sun, the sun.

Finally understanding
he was going blind,
my father sat up all one night
waiting for a song, a ghost.
I gave him the persimmons,
swelled, heavy as sadness,
and sweet as love.

This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.

He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.

Under some blankets, I find a box.
Inside the box I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drip from the cloth.

He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?

This is persimmons, Father.

Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed.  These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.