eggbeater

picnic at the westernmost point, isle of skye, scotland.

all you know is that you want to picnic.


you don't know the land
as it rolls out in front of the car.

you look at the map
of this place you've never been
and you pick up a few nibbles
carrots, flatbread, 'crowdie' a scottish cheese, dark chocolate digestives (he says he can eat too many), blueberries, tangerines, juice. salt & sweet.


all you know
is that you want to eat outside
sit away from the wind
but still in the glorious sun.
you get to the neist point lighthouse. park.
all you can see are cliffs and blue blue sea
land stretches out before you: sharp and steep, rocky and open.


so you walk towards the edge
even though it doesn't look like much
your heart is open
wide open


and what looks like a few boulders
under tufts of grasses
is the place.
and very very carefully,


because the sheer drop is obvious,

you both settle in
completely hidden
embraced by rocks
and unfurl your little picnic
right there
at the edge of scotland.

gorgeous.

/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.

shuna. in a dress.

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.

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.

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

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.

Baking as Craft, a {tortured} love affair.

Baking.    Art, Craft, Alchemy, Arithmetic, Science, Intuition, Passion. 

Baking.
I'm married to it. Can't shake it. Leave it, go back. Forsake it. Take it back. Throw it in the river, say a prayer. Find it on my pillow in the morning.

Dream it, think it, feel it. Baking.
O Baking, who art thou?
Why do you torture me so? Take me deep into the water or leave me adrift.
But please, make up your damn mind.

Baking. I will love you always. You never cease to amaze me. Delight me. Flirt me right back into your body. Even when I know it's a really bad idea.
Even when I know Bad Things Will Happen.

You could say it's frivolous. Pleasure for no reason.  But for sugary flowers; a slap of frosting; quiet hedgerows of hand sculpted leaves; thousands of layers of flour caught mid waft by creamy butter and seared by steam; sugar in every variation from hard sharp hot molecule to midstream water clarity and then shattering razor caramel, pulled like yoga pose toffee or glass sculpture caught mid ballet act.
Sugar, forever muse, never wife.

I love you baking. Will you be mine?

No.

Baking is no one's and everyone's. CRAFT. Study it, work it, learn it, revere it, pray to it, honor it. Craft is never understood completely. Mastered, yes. Owned & understood, no.

You think you know baking. Because you do. For a minute-- Ha! Baking. Forever an elusive love, unrequited. Short term affair. Lasting a lifetime.

Unbound me baking! Never let me go. Love me forever.

Why me? Who am I to you?

Kiss me hard, sharpen the blade, slice me off clean.

Forget you ever heard of me, or tell me why you stay, whether in shadows lurking or calling me day and night and weaving your scent through my head, knotting hair, thick like saltwater.

I build the house, you make a cup of tea, ask me to bed without words.

We garden, you evaporate. Leaving me with a vase empty but for pollen on the rim.

Baking.
You knit me anew, unravel my senses, promise me what you cannot,        and I believe you like a virgin to love. India ink precariously at the edge of a needle. Tattoo me Baking.

Slit thumb,
speak not.
I am yours.

Tell me you'll love me forever,
    tell me you'll never leave

even if,    lies.

I can't unlock you, baking. Ate too many pomegranate seeds. Slid down the rabbit hole. Drank a tiny sip from a giant bottle. Took a pirate's swig from a teardrop glass.

Baking and me. Me and Baking.
We're in the ring for another round.

Place your bets.

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 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.

Yes. We. CAN.

November First.

orange, red, yellow, ochre
the colour of rain
saturating flag stones,
slate, concrete, cobbles and brick

autumn.

november first is fall
and winter
barely disguised
in scarves, mittens, wet wool and sumptuous cashmere.

wind, storm
light the grey sky makes

night envelopes suddenly
swallowing dusk, unapologetic.

autumn is november first and the first of november is a passing of autumn.

hunker down, quiet down.

rustle leaves.
crunch and crisp and curl
snow threatens, teases
leaves swirl and fall, live and die
catch fire with colours aflame, aglow

november first
announces, resigns

sighs.

chill, frost, bite
autumn briefly
winter waits.

knit me in
take me home
wrap hands
steaming liquid
chestnuts roasting
frozen toes and nose

cumulous clouds layered, quilted
ferocious. quiet, brave.

november is one grand american holiday revolving around
turkey, cranberries, winter squash, potatoes, brown sugar, & warm spices.

persimmon leaves glow; electrified.

november is midterms, home for the holidays
fireplace alive. tongues of fire
hot cocoa, foliage pilgrimages,

picking apples upstate!
cider, butter, pie.

november first.
autumn incarnate.
raking leaves,
exchanging summer for winter.

trees let go of leaves
branches clarify
light whitens.

happy november

the chapter you weren't planning on writing.

you like where you live.
no, scratch that.
you love where you live.
you never want to leave. the house.
like you never want to go outside.
you can see the outside just fine, thank you, because you're house is mostly windows.
you call it the treehouse
and it also looks like a ship
and feels like an attic
which checks off all your boxes
not to mention
that you've never lived alone
all by yourself
with only your own aesthetic to keep you company

until now.

the treehouse.

it sounds romantic.
because it is.
and so
you never want to leave it.

no matter that where you live
all around you
the industry you've worked so hard to learn that craft in
is getting smacked and spanked and pinched and pressed
(in a bad way)
and you know it personally
because you lost your job
even though it was a brand new restaurant
and had so much potential
{but you did see the writing on the wall} and yelled yourself sore like Henny Penny because you did in fact see the writing [in blood] on the wall but no matter because no one was listening or so you thought

         until they laid you off.

ha.

they showed you.

{in that case who says, 'i told you so?'}

well anyways, so carrying on ~
you loved your home
and you told everyone you were never going to leave
unless it was to Portland
but you weren't ready for Portland yet
even though you can't explain why.

and then

this phonecall came.
and the phonecall said, 'are you interested in this thing in England?'
and you said yes
even though you were screaming no
a silent scream
but a scream nonetheless
because you love your leetle treehouse and all the roses and your cute street and how you can walk to The Cheeseboard and BART and your planties are so happy
and hey
so are you.

but you say yes,

o yes, i am interested in this thing in England.
because one day about 10 years ago
you got a similar phonecall
and that phonecall said,
'do you want to work at The French Laundry?'
and you did the very same thing:
you replied yes when your inside voice was screaming no
but you know what?

you are not allowed to say no to that question

because you wouldn't even be worth the bullet
if you said no when someone called you to ask if you wanted to work at The French Laundry.

and just like 10 years ago
you thought that even though you were saying yes to this thing you were secretly sicking No on
you probably wouldn't get it anyway
because my god that's a long shot, right?
and surely they'll find someone who can scream yes
by way of all their voices
{no matter how many of them are silent or heard}
and you'll be left
to your contentedness
your treehouse
your quiet
and you.

but no
i mean yes
yes you were not left to take root in your treehouse.
your wings were gently unfurled
and someone showed you
that you could fly again.
that you could start over
start anew
and begin a new chapter.

and so it begins.

the chapter you weren't planning on writing.

Go Obama, Go!

Obama '08 - Vote For Hope from MC Yogi on Vimeo.

Traveling Feet. Or, Home: a concept.

I've had a lot of homes, lived in many structures, been taken in by numerous families and watered roots reaching into innumerable soils. I have never considered myself a traveler but I have traveled. When I go to a new place I want to meet her, look deeply into his eyes, trace my feet along its streets, lean close to  receive whispered secrets about her past, open my heart to him, and let my senses out of their cages to roam free on its pleasure canals.

People ask me where I spend the rest of my days and I cannot answer. People ask me if I will ever return home, and I say it's not that simple. People want to know where I will move next and I tell them I do not know. I tell them it is not up to me. Not entirely, at any rate.

I go where my traveling feet take me.

I go where the next adventure leads.

But I no longer go to get lost. I no longer run away from. I go to.

Being in London has been a returning home, and yet, an adventure unrelated to past ones. I saw and smelled and tasted and took notes and memorized and became enthralled by and educated and learned and embraced and experimented and rejected and danced and touched and saw and walked and walked and walked and walked...

And walked, the city anew.

Today I will fly through the sky for many hours and land in the place I have called home for the past 10 years. But I will be changed. And change is afoot.

Because Home is a concept. And ideas alter and move to accommodate and accomplish new adventures. Traveling Feet will keep moving, even if you tell them to stop.

And when all this doesn't work to keep me calm in the midst of shifts, I remember this:
     the only thing we can rely on is change.

Photographing London.

I finally have uploaded photos. Just a few-- it's a start. By the end of the week I should have an Internet connect from my laptop to the broadband here. Believe me when I say you don't want to know how long, and how arduous a process it has been, to make this happen. Zow. The hope is that one only has to climb such a hill once. Here is a little set on Flickr.