eggbeater

/this is what i want to say about love.

what is the gift?
is the gift loving another or
just loving.
is love a gift at all
or is just
love.
you should ever put just before love
love is bigger than that.

i feel open
i feel broken
i feel naked
i feel am exposed

the gift of love is feeling love
starting from that place
filling you up
where pleasure starts
abdomen meets thighs
it melts me
melts you
light
it's all light
i can't feel my legs
i don't know where i am
but i'm traveling
rocketing -

you're taking me there
{but are you?}
/or is it me?

/this is what i want to say about love
don't be scared of it
sit inside it
even though
it's absolutely terrifying.

i've fallen in love with you and all you want to do is run away
run
get on a plane
disappear
run through the woods
get deep inside
when even a compass can't find your way out
bury you deep

i hold your face inside my hands
and kiss your eyelids
i tell you it will be alright
i place my hands, mouth between your legs
i pleasure you
i feed you delicious food
i take you to where the sky opens up
and swallows us whole
i pull heavy camera to my eye
and you say no.
i tell you your rules are not my rules
i tell you i will never tell.
secret
you are secret
i am your secret.

what is the gift of love.
i feel love
but i never say it
i know it scares you down to your toes
you said this wasn't real.

but you know what?
fuck you and your borders
my heart is mine
my love is mine
my body is mine

/this is what i want to say about love.
it's mine
and mine to give
and you can never forsake it
reject it
give it back
throw it down
break it

Hello love my old friend
Sure is good to see you again

what is the gift?
the gift is love
the gift is a heart
kept malleable
vulnerable, soft, permeable, punctureable
hand me a scalpel,
i'll show you
there
cut there
my heart's been bruised bloodied forgotten discarded dulled
i've sat in the deep waters of grief
i've held the hand of her dying
i've transformed
i've closed up my heart for years at a time
hidden it on a shelf
and smoothed over the door
shallow grave
walked away.

love.

she says the gift is the feeling of it
not the reciprocation
he says no one can ever love you the way you want to feel loved
i say you can't fall out of love
love ain't no fuckin' tree.

/this is what i want to say about love.
it is terrifying
it changes you
it changes everything
it carries you
aloft
from floating you see the land
color blocks and swirvy lines
deep blue water
flattened, like hammer to nail
and it could
float you down
        glide
wing ed
nothing but the wind in your ears and clouds in your hair
nothing but your whole body melting into ozone, hemisphere
but it can also drop you
baby bird
empty nest
what looks to be a parachute, ballast
all hopes
evaporate
eviscerated
a fish hook enters, sharp as a razor
pulled out the way it went in
stuck
barb
tearing
slow death, painful. jagged.

love.
so many costumes, guises.
a siren's call
kiss and a slap

/this is what i want to say about love.
be not afraid to speak it
be not afraid to tell it
whether it is taken from your hands, out of your mouth, from your sex
whether rejected, tied in knots
whether turned into lies
whether told
'no. this is not love. i don't love you. you don't know what love is. i've never loved you. you're not worthy of love. i haven't known you long enough. but i told you not to fall in love with me. you know i don't have love to give you.'

what is the gift?
is the gift loving another or
just loving.

/this is what i want to say about love.
love is delicious
inspiring, opening
it's nothing i want to be ashamed of
no matter the subject
no matter here nor there
no matter gender chosen or assigned
no matter
even if secret, unattainable, gone

love is at my door again
/this is what i want to say about love.

London, Walking the Thames.

MONTEREY MARKET NEEDS YOUR HELP!! PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD

PLEASE MAKE YOUR VOICE HEARD.
PLEASE go to Friends of Monterey Market and show your support/read about what you can do.
PLEASE WRITE A LETTER.
PLEASE DO NOT SHOP AT MONTEREY MARKET AFTER JUNE 3rd UNLESS BILL FUJIMOTO takes back his resignation.
PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD.
PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD THAT MONTEREY MARKET NEEDS EVERY ONE'S HELP to make it clear that Bill Fujimoto IS Monterey Market and his resignation is not an option.
PLEASE MAKE IT CLEAR TO THE ENTIRE FUJIMOTO FAMILY that you will not support a market that places its bottom line before family.
PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD.

If you have eaten ANYWHERE IN THE BAY AREA, you have supported Monterey Market.
If you have ever shopped at ANY FARMERS MARKET, you have supported Monterey Market.
If you have ever blogged about new fruit in season, new fruit available in the USA, climbed upon the great pumpkin interactive sculpture in North Berkeley, or made anything in any home kitchen or restaurant or catering kitchen with any fruit or vegetables, you have supported Monterey Market.
If you believe in farmers, chefs with integrity, great produce, eating seasonally, eating locally, supporting local business YOU BELIEVE IN SUPPORTING MONTEREY MARKET.
AND YOU WOULD CONSIDER SHOWING YOUR SUPPORT TO A MARKET, A TEMPLE, A STORE, AN INSTITUTION that was in need of help.

MONTEREY MARKET NEEDS YOUR HELP.
PLEASE BLOG ABOUT THIS RIGHT NOW AND LET GOOGLE AND THE FUJIMOTOS KNOW WE WILL BE HEARD.
WE DO NOT ACCEPT BILL FUJIMOTO'S RESIGNATION.
WE WILL NOT SHOP AT THE STORE IF THE FAMILY ACCEPTS HIS RESIGNATION.
PLEASE TWEET ABOUT MONTEREY MARKET and the petition.
PLEASE TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING.

I love Monterey Market.
I always have.
I always will.
I support Monterey Market from accross the USA and into the United Kingdom.
BUY EAT AT BILLS AND WATCH IT WITH EVERYONE YOU KNOW PILED INTO THE LIVINGROOM if you don't believe me when I say this is a place that must be saved!!!!!!

**If you have time to leave a comment here, you have time to write a letter to the Fujimoto's.

today, bittersweet. /i hate today.

as the weekend nears
you feel dread
but you can't put your finger on it.
it's in there
at the tip of your mind
tongue, a bitter taste.

but you can't remember
and it bothers you all day, all week, every day
like a scratchy sweater
or plastic on wet skin
sciatica

what day is it
not sure
has it passed, when will it arrive

and yet
it's on your mind
the day that's coming and you can't avoid it
even though if you could take a knife to that place
you would
without hesitation.

but you don't tell anyone
you keep quiet
because you don't want to make a fuss
hey, maybe the day will go unnoticed
because you don't live in america anymore
people here aren't as sappy.
a greeting card for every occasion isn't necessary.
and if you keep quiet
maybe it won't happen maybe no one will know maybe you'll
forget.

forget.
hahahahahahahaha
you're            funny
/in a dark dark dark way.

you never forget
in fact
it never gets better
just different
and you hate
you hate
time

you hate today

you hate the word forget
you hate people who still have both parents

 you hate that nothing can ever take it away
no amount of heroin, hours working, exhaustion, fucking, drinking, razors, inspiring, writing, punk rock, words, miles moved

nothing
will ever take it away.

nothing
will ever
bring her back.

nothing will ever
bring
you
back.

today, bittersweet.
/i hate today.

you hate that there's a name for today.
a demarcation.
you hate that it's all the rage to proudly declare it all over the internet like it's some sort of star receiving statement.

and funny,
because you almost forgot
you wandered into today groggy, spent, sore, listless, happy
you dreamt of the person beside you
naked
doing nothing in particular
just lovely to be near
even though
you are soon to say good bye.
again and again
you say farewell
you let go of someone's hand
because they're no longer
holding your hand back

you leave with you from the bar
you say, 'i make sweet things.'

click
document
memory
click
she's stopped breathing
finally
click
lightswitch
change
click
nothing.

but today is here
and heavy
and you are so goddamned glad
you won't see or hear from anyone you care about today
so you can walk into that space
no one understands
no one
and not come out
until you want to.

because when today is over
you'll be on a plane
you're going to see the ocean
you're going to taste the sea
you're going to see the sky
you're going to be close to your place
your name
you're going to allow someone to touch you
again
and then let-         go
you
are going to let another day pass
are going to live
in the moment
and savor it,
delicious de la.

cold water air
words unspoken
touch light, electric
close eyes
un petit mort
salt, wet.

you''ll come back
envelope sealed
wings tucked.
today, absence.

today, closed.
today, quiet.
today, armor down.

today, bittersweet.

paris. {photos seulement}

bakers, brethren, family, team, heart, home, love

 



  

these people, sans the 3 other women, have been my family for the last six months. a photo set has been begun on flickr and if you know me on facebook, you've seen even more.

my heart is breaking.

but I know it will break open wide enough to embrace and grow and nurture and protect all that I received and gave in this kitchen.

thank you could never cover what I feel, but it's the place where I'll start.

 

gone fishing. {paris}

in a few hours a train station will swallow me like a whale and spit me out in paris.
i'll walk out dazed
and seek butter.
then it will all be fine.
besides what i love, where should i go?
what should i see, who should i do?
all ideas welcome.
x

the only thing you can rely on is change.

and you never know when one chapter becomes another.
time takes time.
rushed bread develops little flavor.
cold egg whites aren't as strong.
flour is never what you think it is until you know it.
fruit is way more complicated than you, but neck in neck with love.
chocolate can be mastered but never owned.
anything fermented is cities of tastes.
perspective should never be underestimated.
no one can guarantee you anything, unless you believe in lies.
believe people when they tell you the truth about themselves.
passion and numbers do not the best bedfellows make.
craft
is a mightily powerful force.
actions are choices. even when we feel trapped.
relationships are built by verbs not observations.

failure is relative.
you can define success.
there are many types of victory.
you can start your day over at any point.
breakfast all day is a wondrous thing.
chocolate is a better addiction than heroin.
if you keep doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results, it will make you feel crazy.
transparency
is refreshing.
while honesty is relative, it's utterly important.
self knowledge can be a compass if you let it.
a strong work ethic helps and hurts.
loyalty is often blind.
people are not fruit. one cannot shave off the nasty bits and eat only the part they like.
sometimes strangers can say the thing you need to hear the most.
but those who love and know you intimately can usually cut to the chase faster,
and the rewards are life long.
sometimes you're not meant to know why you've moved 8,000 miles away.
40
is a meaningful number, in human years.
4 is my favourite colour because it's orange.
morning ritual is lovely, and grounding.
april showers bring may flowers.
chin up.

being a cook's cook is an important distinction in my opinion.
craft can never be mastered but it can be studied.
sometimes you have to look at how hard you're working
and hear it
when people say
you don't necessarily have to work harder
but you might want to work
different.
"there is no failure. I give you permission to erase it from your word box altogether."
the kitchen is a siren.
the ending is always the same.
fame is an illusion.

the only thing you can rely on is change.
what does that make pattern?
years are just broken up into patterns disguised as coincidences.
sleep is delicious.
home is complicated.
the ocean is vast. and alive.
baking is alchemy.
laminated dough is a series of folds, like envelopes
carrying thousands upon thousands of layers
of words
inked, pushed, pressed
monotype, letterpress,
lead & oil
pigment & plaster
conjure & whisper
only to be shared
by those in the know
carrying messages over land and sea, through snow and rain.
for there is no destination to reach.
just one sign,


the only thing you can rely on is change.

can one protect & give at the same time?

one's heart
one's craft
one's soul.

can one protect and give at the same time?

can you?
how.
how do you keep your own well replenished.
how do you keep your heart protected.

kitchentransition

massive big changes are happening at my job.
people are leaving and coming.
another set of passionate hands has arrived in time for another to exit.
we are making delicate cakes and creamy pastries, specific ganache and tiny tarts.
danish dough is having a comeback, as is folding meringue into a myriad of recipes.
too much French butter is never enough, and almonds appear in countless doughs.
we are pastry chef banter at its best.
artistic vision far outreaching what practical business would suppose.
Easter pastels have swooped in.
thousands of Hot Cross Buns will be shipped, buttered, toasted, inhaled. and fingers will remain sticky long after memories.
London is awash with fancy chocolate eggs of all weights & measures. decorations range from camp & kitsch to art & design.
laws are changing, borders are tightening.
spring garden cleaning indoors        and out.
change in every direction is afoot and limbo appears to have loads of empty seats.
climb aboard, swipe a card, close your eyes.
destination here there and everywhere
but nowhere in particular.
I'm excited to learn new recipes, work with an opinionated gorgeous flamboyant outspoken pastry chef whose words are thickened with melted chocolate and whose accent could be my grandmother's.
attempts are made at grace and integrity, poise and professionalism.
no one can afford to leave an unattended package on anyone's desk.
for all of London's bakers are united by one person, one through-line of passion.

because even though numbers have no face, no heart, no flair, no unique flavour, no voice, no opinion

in the end. at the end of the day. year. forever.
food is passion. and passion cannot commodified, industrialized, deconstructed,
or achieved without a basic understanding of alchemy.

because while baking is a science and recipes are ratios
bakers are people
and people are variable, emotional, intuitive, craftsmen & women.

massive big changes are happening.
find me strapped in tight enough not to fall off the edge, but easy enough to reconstruct without dissolution.

spring is change.
welcome to it.

Eggbeater in the News. shuna fish lydon gets around...

I have always said that my g-d has a sense of humour. If I say never I can be sure to regret it. If I put my feet down and hold on really tight, I can be sure to be pried away and airlifted out. If I think something is beyond my comprehension I might become surrounded by experts in that field, all eager to trade their knowledge for mine. When I think the world has gone black and all the air has been evacuated, good news beyond reproach comes.

They say when one door closes, another one opens.
Some say you need to shed before you can grow.
There are those who believe you're always exactly where you're supposed to be.

Some of us think patterns are important to look at, while a few of us think everything happens because we make choices, even ones which lead us down paths of higher resistance.
A few choice people I've known would say for every challenge a lesson is available to learn, should we wish to pay attention.

I'm sure there are also those who would say every frame of life is unrelated to the previous or next.

Whatever your beliefs, I think you'd be surprised at my own set of circumstances. If nothing else, they've been intriguing... And are soon to get more so.

Until my next update I'd like to catch you up with these tidbits ~

• A Shuna Fish Lydon photo of a savoury chef with a Pig Tattoo can be found in MEATPAPER, The Pig Issue.
• Photos I've taken of Foreign Cinema have been recognized by GQ and might show up there soon.
• The London Times online placed me on their '50 of the world's best food blogs' list  !!!!
• Gourmet magazine recently listed Eggbeater as one of their FAVORITE FOOD SITES! Thank you Ruth Reichl and all the people who make  Gourmet happen on paper and in the vast www!

Thank you to all the people who whispered to my g-d and made this happen. You've all surprised me with wonderfulness I'm not sure I deserve, but I'll take in and appreciate nonetheless.

Don't mind me, I'll just sit here and kvell.

Until after a few deep breaths and I have to meet my next chapter of challenges growth potential experiences.

it's time to hit the refresh button

take it all away {again}
start over
clean house
take a deep breath
dive in.

spring
a time of new
beginnings

London Spring Blossoms

 

March 20, 1968

 

On the First Day of Spring, 41 years ago, one month late and all the fatter for it, to a woman born Susan Gordon and a man called Michael Lydon, {possibly conceived in London, England}, I was born in San Francisco's General Hospital.

Today I am having my very first ever birthday not on the North American continent.

I know it's spring here because flag stone sidewalks are strewn with cherry blossom petals. Tightly wrapped buds of reds and chestnut browns are exploding, quietly but with intent into delicate baby green leaves. I know it's Spring because I've been working with and nibbling rhubarb all week. I wake up to a bedroom filled with warm sun and I know it's spring because dusk has a pink tint instead of a blue one.

I know it's spring because when I look at the sky it feels like possibility and honey perfumes the still cool air of my 2 am walks home. Foxes are travel in pairs during London's surreal Violet Hour. I know it's spring because skirts replace scarves, jackets are folded neatly and put away. Bare arms make a comeback.

I know it's spring because Persephone has walked out of the darkness. Fishes turn into bulls.

Spring as change.
As upset.

Like a game of pick up sticks. Everything just so, gather it all up, toss in the air, keep hands still, watch it fall where it will, look at it anew.
Break it, put it back together.
Walk away, close eyes, open with new perspective.
Look away, look back, but not as close-- refocus eyes.
Think differently.
Love differently.
Change tastes, try something unliked again, turn it over, mash it up, get hands dirty.
Emancipate toes.
Reopen heart.
Have a new crush, flirt, take yourself on a date, dance before everyone else starts dancing, risk rejection, steal kisses, push someone up against a wall,

shout for the sake of shouting, play hide & seek, go on a treasure hunt. Wear something striped.

Spring is new. It's again but slightly different.

I hope something breaks for you today. I gift you with new perspective, possibility, chance taking and the adventure of life.

I'll close my eyes and wish for love, risk, faith, hope and health.
I'll conjure people gone and talk to those still here.

Happy First Day of Spring
~ I hope yours is gorgeous and delicious.

wordless.

I'll be back when I can form them. {sorry.}
Or when I can put it into words.
The ground, pulled out, dangled, like ripe fruit at the end of a bowing branch, high summer, in front of me.

Until then,

where am i?

lost but hopefully not forgotten.
without access to the internet.
tucked deep into the bowels of a London kitchen baking, cooking, experimenting, crying, rolling, cutting, decorating, discovering, tasting, brainstorming and trying to come up with recipes that can withstand a long ride in a big truck through the windy streets of London in the wee hours.
trying to stay warm in sub zero weather.
learning how to wear glitter.
creating documents for protocol and learning to love every aspect of excel.
missing the internet.
feeling homesick for any kind of seasonal fruit you can name.
wishing I could call America.
writing postcards from the London Transport Museum.
longing for snail mail letters.
reading trashy newspapers found on the Underground, Overground and on the ground.
watching the snow fall.
missing the sounds of voices I love.
staying tucked under mounds of duvet until the last minute.
drinking dozens of cups of tea.
buying every cookie and biscuit London has on offer.
watching closely the competition.
getting on and off hundreds of forms of public transportation.
wishing more than anything that I had the internet at my house.
incessaantly photographing the amazing light in my new little flat.
feeling isolated.
wishing I had more to do than work.
sitting through six hour meetings discussing every aspect of the business of baking.
missing reading blogs.
making batch after batch of cannele that do not come out correctly.
seeing January pass from behind scxarves and hats and gloves oh my.
hoping you'll still be my friend when I have the internet again.

are you well?
carrying on and keeping calm?
staying warm?
fixing stews?
enjoying root vegetables and apples and pears?

I miss you so.
I have not forgotten.
I have so many things to tell you.
I hope you can be patient.

xo

Where did my hope go when it was lost?

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day."

   

 President-Elect Barack Obama November 4, 2008
          From the full text of his victory speech on The Huffington Post website.

I am ashamed to admit I was one of those people. I had lost hope. I could barely breathe on Tuesday and when faced with those people who were sure Obama would win, I turned away.

I had had too many hopes dashed before. I had listened to debates where my current President clearly lied and stumbled over words he barely knew the meaning of. I took the information in: America did not want a smart President. America wanted status quo and if that meant leaving behind whole populations of people, so be it. America was a great country for the wealthy, the greedy and I was a minority living among minorities. Northern California's Bay Area is a gated community, but our walls are invisible to its occupants.

On Tuesday November 4, 2008, late in the evening, on the couch of close friends, I saw what I could barely believe, and had only dared to hope privately. I was frightened to hope, and faith had gone into early hibernation.

Now, I can't stop the tears.

These tears are being produced at a rate my eyes can't keep up with. They are at the edge of every encounter, every correspondence. Every time I see his face on the web or from square pages at the newsstand, in each email I get from family and friends, and flow explosively after reading an article in the paper or seeing photos from that night.

The tears are for joy but also of shame and sadness and loss.

Where did my hope go when it was lost? If I retrace my steps can I find out when I lost Hope?

Hope is the exhausted pixie who struggles to make it out of Pandora's almost empty box. All the other evils have attempted to crush her soul with their weight and menace but she makes it out, using her last strength to get out from the confinements of an airless box.

Anyone who knows debilitating poverty, sickness, grief and addiction knows Hope is barely visible when the blackness comes. Hope isn't afraid, but we are.

And we are ashamed to admit, when we come out of that tunnel, from underneath that lead blanket, Hope was discarded, shoved aside, screamed at, shot at, given up on and killed off over and over while we struggled to get through and make it to the other side. Was there a light at the end of the tunnel? Not always. But we put one foot in front of the other and now we have a little perspective.

Hope.

Where does hope go when it's lost? Does Hope travel to where it's needed most like emergency medics? Does Hope grow in expansive fields like wildflowers between mountains? Does Hope send off seeds generously when the wind blows?

Hope never dies, even when it does. Hope is the ultimate superhero. Hope is resilient even when we feel broken. Hope is malleable and slides under the door even when the lights and heat get shut off in the middle of winter. Hope holds us when we cry even if we only cry in private.

I wanted to come clean for all to hear: I had lost hope.

I felt brave enough to admit this when NY Times writer Judith Warner said so too,

"I will admit that back in January, when Barack Obama, in his post-Iowa victory speech, spoke about the “cynics,” the “they” who said “this country was too divided, too disillusioned to ever come together around a common purpose,” he was talking about me."

Tears To Remember. November 6, 2008

While you could say that you've heard enough from me about the election, that this is a food blog for fuck's sake, I will say this: Hope is food. It's soul food. And without it, there's nothing.

As I have just traveled thousands of miles to move to a city I've not lived in since 1989, hope is something I could use having a back-stock in. Hope is something I can't afford to forsake or shelve or act cavalier about needing.

My heart has been turned inside-out. Thank you millions of people I've never met. Thank you Barack Obama for speaking to me on Tuesday November 4. Thank you president-elect for understanding my hopelessness and not only not holding it against me, but displaying amazing humility when addressing me and my fellow citizens. You have inspired me beyond words.

Tuesday November Fourth, 2008. The Day We've All Been Waiting For.

Today is the day.
November 4th. Two thousand and eight.

We've all been waiting,
pulling hair, biting nails,
going to bed more and more and more
anxious
every night worse
than the previous.

Today is the day.

When there won't be enough bandwith for Twitter.
When Americans will see the results
of their fellow citizens
casting
millions of votes
this way and that.

Please VOTE.

please.

Even if you think it doesn't matter.

every vote counts

Even if you don't understand our confusing system.
Vote anyway.

Today is the day.
And like all the days,
it's only 24 hours.
1440 minutes long.
86400 seconds short.

November 4th.

Vote with your heart.

Vote with love.
Vote with inspiration.
Vote beyond your prejudices.
Vote to meet your wildest imaginings.

Your vote could make history today.

Think about it.
Profound history.
Heart breaking History.

It's time, yo.

Time.
Is of the Essence.

Make your voice heard today.
Sometimes Bravery Is Quiet.
Sometimes bravery is a secret hole punch.
Sometimes bravery is wishing for something someone, so outrageously wonderful, a possibility so outrageously beyond your wildest wonderful dreams,

that even to wish it is brave.

Join me today.
Vote with hope.
Vote for change.
Vote against "safety" governed by fear.

Vote for change.

COME ONE, COME ALL.   

COME  H U N G R Y  FOR CHANGE!