tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55964942012-01-30T22:18:25.056-08:00The title of this blog comes from the original title of Nabokov's memoir, Speak, Memory; it was conclusive evidence of his existence. This is conclusive evidence that I existed.kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.comBlogger5361100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-68619606247788869532012-01-30T21:34:00.001-08:002012-01-30T22:18:25.069-08:00

the battle (first draft)I watch you prepare for your battlethe loneliest one, waged by an army of one(yourself),against the bitterest of enemies(your own body).I cannot take up your weapons for you(the poisons that heal as they hurt)or take on the mantle of your pain(when it is the body which is at war with itself);I can only hold your hand tightas you prepare for this,the loneliest of battlesthe

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-48020009747301890692012-01-23T23:03:00.000-08:002012-01-28T09:21:49.018-08:00

In memory of Peter Cipra.I met Peter Cipra when I was five and he was my kindergarten classmate Peter’s father. I knew, vaguely, that he had a restaurant; I wouldn’t understand what that meant until later. Meanwhile I sat in the bright kitchen of his home and made “spaghetti” out of blue Play-Doh with a garlic press (presumably not a garlic press used in his restaurant). His wife, Susan, made

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-25631335393046603862012-01-03T00:32:00.000-08:002012-01-25T16:58:35.548-08:00

a few notes on photography.One of the earliest photographs taken by me is from Christmas, 1985. My mom, dad, and uncle are sitting cross-legged in front of our Christmas tree, and my dad and uncle have been decapitated somewhere around the nose by my 5-year-old photographer's eye. (My mother, being somewhat shorter, is only missing part of her forehead). A decade would pass before I took up

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-88251258848717271072011-12-24T17:42:00.000-08:002012-01-03T00:31:12.850-08:00

a year at the theatre.In 2011 I saw something like 36 plays, monologues, readings, musicals, and one opera dress rehearsal. Theatres ranged from tiny 20-seaters in black-box rooms converted from garages to McCaw Hall, which holds thousands. I watched 7th-and-8th graders fling themselves across the stage with the energy of youth, and actors I have loved for twenty years show themselves to be at

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-13015261469926059602011-11-13T11:34:00.000-08:002011-12-01T08:37:32.267-08:00

theatre notes. Pinter Fortnightly.I've seen about sixteen or seventeen plays and sketches by Harold Pinter, now. Two of them I've seen twice - Betrayal (in 1995 and then last month) and Moonlight (in 2009 and then a few weeks ago), and I feel that I could see any of the plays again, each time discovering more. There are recurring motifs, clear from the beginning of Pinter's body of work - a

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-91872292585063395382011-11-10T23:15:00.000-08:002011-11-18T08:14:47.274-08:00

Reading. Grossman.David Grossman is a funny man. It takes me by surprise. (Insert joke about how being Jewish is inherently funny). Perhaps this is because the first words I read from him were about grief, in his PEN/Arthur Miller Freedom To Write speech given in the spring of 2007 and reprinted in the New York Times Magazine. Those words so moved me that they have, in the manner of all writers

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-66042310598902218882011-11-08T18:24:00.000-08:002011-11-17T23:35:06.607-08:00

theatre notes. Double Indemnity.I went to see Double Indemnity at ACT the other day, with a friend. I'd never seen the film, or read the book, but I knew what to expect: desire, murder, lies, deceit, double-crossing, set to the staccato snick-snick-snick of a cigarette lighter and the click-click-click of stiletto heels. It would take place in Southern California where the sun shines all day but

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-19336158269296799512011-11-06T19:27:00.000-08:002011-11-13T22:21:51.012-08:00

reading. Didion.I read Blue Nights much as I had read The Year of Magical Thinking five years, or was it six years, earlier. Quickly, in one gulp, in one night, racing through the pages as if lingering over them too long would singe my fingers. As I was reading this latest book I remembered sitting cross-legged on the floor at the bottom of the Seattle Public Library auditorium, practically at

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-2936499885883321922011-10-24T22:08:00.000-07:002011-11-18T08:26:44.154-08:00

theatre notes. Pinter Fortnightly.It's the second time I've seen Moonlight, now. The first time was at my first Pinter Fortnightly reading, a little over two years ago. A little over two years and perhaps a dozen plays later, and I have come full circle. The audience has tripled, and the series has moved down into the intimacy of the Bullitt Cabaret, with proper lighting and a better arrangement

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-59063289378415859252011-10-10T22:20:00.000-07:002011-10-15T11:11:44.751-07:00

theatre notes. Betrayal.Betrayal was the first play I'd ever seen by Harold Pinter. It was 1995 at Intiman Theatre; it's the play I associate most with Frank Corrado, even though I've seen him in many other performances over the past nineteen years. It's the play most associated with Harold Pinter, too, his most widely-performed one, the one considered the most "accessible." (This is said with

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-38841812233299271242011-09-23T23:03:00.000-07:002011-09-27T00:02:26.481-07:00

theatre notes. september skies.S. and I headed down to the Odd Duck Studio for what we thought was going to be a sketch comedy parody of Back to the Future. I had a two-for-one coupon. We were early, so we ate a hot dog around the corner at Po Dog and then went back to the theater. Neither of us paid any attention to the posters outside the theater, which in retrospect was rather foolish of us.

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-38603165404252275642011-09-19T21:46:00.000-07:002011-09-21T23:37:47.411-07:00

theatre notes. two queens, one throne.J. and I went to see Mary Stuart at ACT on Sunday afternoon. I'd been looking forward to it ever since I saw the cast list, months back. Anne Allgood I've adored since Rock 'n' Roll a few years back; I met her in the audience at O Lovely Glowworm and she was unfailingly kind and gracious. Suzanne Bouchard I've loved, as I've said countless times before, since

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-28663736714732759512011-09-18T19:09:00.000-07:002011-09-21T23:36:17.473-07:00

theatre notes. inherit the wind.The Erickson Theatre off Broadway is one of my favorite theaters in Seattle, not least because it is only four blocks from my apartment. It's a black box, with maybe 120 seats, give or take, the stage an open rectangle at one end. "Backstage" is usually whatever space is behind some piece of scenery at the rear, as far as I can tell, and changes between scenes are

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-76322975104725955312011-09-08T19:51:00.000-07:002011-09-27T15:37:19.280-07:00

a few thoughts on regional theatre.I grew up in Seattle. My first play was, as I've said before, James and the Giant Peach at Seattle Children's Theatre in 1989. I fell in love with A Contemporary Theatre with Shadowlands, and then The Revenger's Comedies in 1992. With the exception of My Favorite Year in New York City (1992) and a few thrilling seasons of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival (1996

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-23238099187351360792011-08-06T10:26:00.000-07:002011-09-20T23:18:52.942-07:00

part four.(See part one, part two, and part three).It is July of 2011 and I am 31 years old. I am back in Russia after an absence of twelve years, longer than I meant to leave. Our ship has left Moscow behind, heading up through a series of canals and locks and rivers that will lead us northwards, to St. Petersburg. We pass clusters of dachas tucked into birch forests, swimmers resting on grassy

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-56494700033342094612011-08-04T17:44:00.000-07:002011-08-06T11:55:29.054-07:00

part three.(Read part one and part two).It is July of 2011 and I am 31 years old. I arrive in Moscow to find that the airport is bigger and newer than I remember. I am here to meet my mother for a river cruise; some friends had invited her to join their college reunion, and I am tagging along. Our cruise ship is a far cry from the one I took twelve years ago; like everything else, it, too, is

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-65557527761109950922011-08-03T16:55:00.000-07:002011-09-03T23:32:51.080-07:00

part two. (Read part one first). It is June of 1999 and I am a month shy of my 19th birthday when I arrive in St. Petersburg. I have a year of Russian classes under my belt, but as it turns out my host-mother does not understand me any more than I understand her. I know enough to get around the metro system and to buy mineral water and piroshky at the university snack bar. We have language

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-83066180879920062282011-08-01T21:49:00.000-07:002011-08-04T17:52:20.970-07:00

part one.It is August of 1993 and I am thirteen years old. I come to Moscow for a month on a school exchange program, and my host meets me at the airport with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. Her family has a car, which is rare, and a vast four-room apartment, which is equally rare. There is no elevator, and we walk up slippery dark stairs to the cozy warmth of their high-ceilinged flat. Tanya is

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-33544557788617967952011-06-28T20:49:00.000-07:002011-07-07T18:41:12.546-07:00

theatre notes. Pinter Fortnightly.I've been to a lot of these Pinter Fortnightly events, now. There have been one-acts and sketches and radio works and full-length plays, fitting themselves together into a Pinterian universe that can't be described, only experienced. It's shocking how prolific Harold Pinter was, with not a dull work amongst the dozens he created. The necessary ingredient, of

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-40188962073356137602011-06-21T17:05:00.000-07:002011-11-07T21:31:35.126-08:00

movie notes. the tree of life.(contains spoilers).I wasn't sure what to expect from Terrence Malick's latest film, The Tree of Life, but the trailer had been haunting me since I saw it, months ago. It won the Palme d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival earlier this year, although generally this is not something that encourages me to see a film. It is even harder to describe the film, now that I've

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-60211580587870356492011-06-16T18:38:00.001-07:002011-06-17T20:02:23.802-07:00

draft 3.(for whit).I dreamed of springand lilacs stolen from gardensas the memory of their fragranceslips me back in timeto that faraway summerin St. Petersburg,city of palaces strung alongnecklaces of boulevards,floating at the edge of the seaso far north the horizon seems to stop, there;you have come to the end of the world.Old women in kerchiefssold bunches of lilacsand

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-13737197032987691512011-06-02T20:59:00.000-07:002011-06-14T23:27:03.551-07:00

theatre notes. brownie points.Have you ever had a fight with someone so big that it changes everything? The kind of fight where you say things you can't take back, the kind of fight that smashes the tenderness of years to bits, and you can't even understand how it began? Something very small just keeps building up to a moment, where every little resentment you've just shoved down deep rises up

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-11460633870019738702011-05-26T19:14:00.000-07:002011-06-09T08:52:42.198-07:00

theater notes. mike daisey. (x2).Last Friday I went to see Mike Daisey at the Seattle Rep for the second time in a week, after Wednesday's How Theater Failed America. I'd heard about The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs back when he was workshopping it at the Rep, maybe last year, and couldn't contain my excitement when I saw it in the line-up for this season. It had been a theater-packed

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-10831560161971866662011-05-25T20:12:00.000-07:002011-05-27T00:03:49.861-07:00

Wednesday poem. W. S. Merwin.Every year without knowing it I have passed the dayWhen the last fires will wave to meAnd the silence will set outTireless travelerLike the beam of a lightless starThen I will no longerFind myself in life as in a strange garmentSurprised at the earthAnd the love of one womanAnd the shamelessness of menAs today writing after three days of rainHearing the wren sing and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-50719266256177591342011-05-23T17:08:00.000-07:002011-05-24T08:27:25.502-07:00

for whit.(draft 1).I fell asleep dreaming of springand lilacs stolen from gardensand the memory of their fragranceand time slips backwardsto a faraway summerin St. Petersburg,that city of palaces strung alongnecklaces of boulevards,floating at the edge of the seaso far north the horizon seems to stop, there;you have come to the end of the world.Old women in their kerchiefssold bunches of

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-88212737415003852692011-05-18T23:41:00.001-07:002011-06-01T00:10:50.773-07:00

theatre notes. mike daisey.Intiman Theatre closed its doors for the rest of this year's season just after the first play ended its run. The staff were laid off and the actors who were either contracted or had hoped to perform this year were left without roles to fill. I felt guilty for not having supported them lately. I had not been pleased by the casting of actors from New York in some of their

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-88358358648632021822011-05-15T13:04:00.000-07:002011-06-10T23:37:37.398-07:00

theatre notes. o lovely glowworm. (coda).This was the second time I went to see O Lovely Glowworm; I've already written about the first experience.I generally don't go see a play twice in one run, but I was so enchanted and confused by O Lovely Glowworm that I had to see it a second time. I also have to admit that the theater is four blocks away from my home, which made it an easy decision. This

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-74829081955308446572011-05-13T19:06:00.000-07:002011-05-13T23:32:01.756-07:00

certified copy. (movie notes).*contains spoilers.*I had heard of the director Abbas Kiarostami, but had never seen his films before. Certified Copy promised Juliette Binoche and the golden sunlit landscape of Tuscany, and since I love both of the above I knew I would see this one.A man is giving a presentation of his new book. A woman arrives, late, with a preteen son in tow. The son is restless,

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-54950585672515111812011-05-07T18:25:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.524-07:00

handing down the names.*Wednesday was the memorial for a friend who died last week. It was held at St. Mark's Cathedral, up at the north end of Capitol Hill, a giant barn of an Episcopal church. The sun was out and the cathedral was full of light; the ceilings are high and the walls are set with many-paned windows. Even on a cloudy day it must be a bright space. J. and I sat near the back, and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-285312615647916902011-05-03T21:32:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.524-07:00

theatre notes. Pinter Fortnightly.I may have squealed aloud when I saw Liz McCarthy on the cast list for last night's Pinter Fortnightly reading. Unlike many of the other actors I remember so clearly from the early-to-late-90's, I haven't seen her since my teenage years. She was the young ingenue in those days, not long out of drama school, blonde and fresh-faced. I loved her and missed her and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-31627092039259352552011-04-30T17:24:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:03:38.637-07:00

a poem for a Saturday.I found a scrap of paper as I was cleaning up my room last night, floating to the surface of the tide of flotsam and jetsam that fills that bedroom. It must have been tucked into a letter from my friend Ana, written when we were young. "A Wednesday Poem," it says. A handwritten note on the back suggests that we have 'Wednesday poems' every week, but somehow I think this

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-83780157692274743482011-04-25T23:58:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:54:28.018-07:00

in memory of Kim Ricketts.This afternoon I got the email that I have been dreading for weeks. The wonderful Kim Ricketts had passed away after a long illness. She had been in and out of the hospital all winter, the hospital which I can see from my windows. The hospital which is within a stone's throw of the bar where she went into labor with her oldest child, nearly 27 years ago. The news of her

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-9904714738386181922011-04-22T23:00:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.524-07:00

theatre notes. O Lovely Glowworm.(in memory of Mark Chamberlin).I had planned to see New Century Theatre Company's production of O Lovely Glowworm even before the untimely death of Mark Chamberlin a month ago. He had been very much involved with the company from the beginning, and was already in rehearsals as the Goat when he died. In the wake of his passing, another founding member of the

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-64112440927114100092011-04-19T16:34:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.525-07:00

more theatre notes.I heard the other day that Intiman Theatre was closing for the rest of the 2011 season, only just begun. I must say that I have not supported them lately, but the sadness I feel is still very real. Many of my dearest theater memories stem from their magnificent productions - Betrayal, Ghosts, The Importance of Being Earnest, (all when I was in my teens), and more recently, To

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-36119232407048473322011-04-17T18:51:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.525-07:00

Re-reading. Pinter/Fraser.To console myself for not being able to get a seat for tomorrow night's Pinter Fortnightly, I'm returning to Antonia Fraser's Must You Go?, that beautifully tender gathering of memories of her life with Harold Pinter. I read it in one fast gulp last fall, staying up late into the night. It opens with the two meeting for the first time, after a 1975 production of The

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-67826524903297603662011-04-04T22:21:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.525-07:00

farewell. (coda).(in memory of Mark Chamberlin: 1955-2011)The first Pinter Fortnightly reading of this year (now we are in the third year of this wonderful series) was scheduled to take place tonight. It was canceled in honor of Mark Chamberlin, who passed away quite suddenly last week. He was to have taken part in tonight's performance, but his memorial service was this afternoon, instead. I

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-43643052538725102732011-04-02T13:47:00.000-07:002011-04-02T18:33:58.565-07:00

movie notes. Jane EyreA few weeks ago, I went to see the newest film version of Jane Eyre with a fellow literature-geek friend. Both of us had read the novel as young girls (mine was a hardcover classic edition, one of a set that included Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, and Walden. The last one doesn't quite go with the others). It surprised me how deeply the dialogue has sunk into my

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-50717979389324584272011-03-23T17:48:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:00:18.526-07:00

farewell.I was deeply saddened last night to read that the local stage actor Mark Chamberlin had died after a bicycle accident over the weekend. I saw him last year, in ACT Theatre's production of The Female of the Species, and also at various Pinter Fortnightly events. He sat near me in the audience one night and while I didn't have the chance to meet him, he was warm and funny and charming and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-36987801053876070322011-03-07T20:14:00.000-08:002011-05-13T20:00:09.206-07:00

l'heure d'été. (movie notes).*contains plot spoilers.*I watched l'heure d'été (Summer Hours, directed by Olivier Assayas, 2008) some weeks ago, and it left me with a kind of lingering wistfulness. I think it's one of those films which will stay with me for a long time, from the opening sequence to the last moments. In between it is a meditation on the nature of art, of death, of family, of memory

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-78445114822851928782011-03-06T21:16:00.001-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.526-07:00

jeunes filles en fleur. theater notes.K. invited me to her daughter's class production of High School Musical last night. Her daughter goes to a private school in my neighborhood, and this was the 7th and 8th grade stage production. Everyone takes part, regardless of talent or experience. I go because this is how the next generation of people who love theater, onstage or in the audience, this is

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-69488853566895023022011-02-24T22:24:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.526-07:00

love letter.(to theater).There was young laughter in the audience at The K of D last Sunday. I'm more aware of it now, seeing young faces in the audience at intermission and hearing their voices as I leave the theater. Often they are students clearly there for a class, maybe for an extra credit paper. But it makes me glad to see them fall in love with the theater as I did, twenty years ago. You

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-63185544514953794922011-02-22T18:31:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.526-07:00

theatre notes. K of D.I'd noticed Renata Friedman in The Female of the Species at ACT last year, when she played a overwrought student who takes an iconic feminist writer hostage in her English country home. Her gangly energy (one review compared her to Olive Oyl) fueled the physical comedy around the verbal quips that ricocheted back and forth across the stage. It left me looking forward to more

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-34659261828204564392011-02-10T20:48:00.000-08:002011-02-23T21:45:28.752-08:00

on language. (English).My English and American literature lecturer when I was a freshman in college was an enormously tall British graduate student with an absolutely impenetrable Midlands accent. He once recommended The Buddha of Suburbia as an interesting read, only it sounded more like "Teh Booba ef Suboobeyah." Took me ages to figure it out. Class was always an adventure in twisting my brain

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-10313897931415919802011-01-24T20:37:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.527-07:00

state of the arts. (thoughts on theater).I found the playwright Oliver Emanuel (@foolisholly) on Twitter via the wonderful actor Samuel West (@exitthelemming), and through Oliver I found Daniel Bye (@danielbye), also a playwright/theatre director. I'm not familiar with Daniel's theatre work, although he is certainly brilliant and hilarious in his tweets and blog posts, but Oliver does a fair

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-23831302199297457492011-01-11T15:55:00.000-08:002011-01-13T22:53:54.881-08:00

The Chinese mother.The other night a friend posted this article from the Wall Street Journal, provocatively titled "Why Chinese Mothers are Superior," an excerpt from the upcoming book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. (It is important to note that the title of the article was most likely chosen by the WSJ to be as provocative as possible). The response amongst my American-raised Chinese friends

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-68231903774966812492011-01-03T19:41:00.000-08:002011-03-28T21:43:42.222-07:00

the long goodbye.A friend was diagnosed with cancer this past fall. I remember getting the email while at another friend's house on Halloween night. We had just eaten a magnificent supper of cornbread and beef stew and caramel-frosted prune cake. We were laughing at Eddie Izzard when I checked my phone and read the news. It is typical of this friend that her main concern was for her three

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-73308557253702772832011-01-01T16:39:00.000-08:002011-01-02T21:47:41.385-08:00

farewell to the old year, bring in the new.i made no resolutions last yearor if i did i don't remember thembut i remember all the things i didpeople i hugged tightchildren who told me storiesand who held my hand at the fairmeals with friendsduring which i laughed until i could barely eatand travels with my familythat led to dusty hills as old as timeunder a burning sunthe fragrance of jasmine in

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-70502571626495348822010-12-30T22:45:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:03:38.637-07:00

this is just to say. (with apologies to William Carlos Williams).(second draft).(the first draft is here)this is just to sayi have eaten all the picklesthat you gave mewhich filled a tall mason jarwhich i had thought to savefor picnics with friendsat the beachor on the living-room floorsliced into an egg salador guarding a cheese platebut instead i ate every last onestraight from the jarthey were

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-66904638844617407882010-12-01T23:03:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.527-07:00

state of the arts.I remember listening to the radio, or perhaps watching public television, when I was little. At the end of the program - which one, I can't quite remember - a voice would say something like "This program, and so much more, is funded in part by the National Endowment for the Arts." It sounded important. Later I understood that this meant it was funded by government money, and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-15124889348569127982010-11-27T17:08:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.527-07:00

Theater notes. Albee.I'd seen Three Tall Women before, at Intiman, fifteen years ago. The same year as Pinter's Betrayal, in fact. I was fifteen. What did I know about being 26, or 52, or 91? Of falling in love, being married, coping with an unfaithful husband and a son I couldn't understand? Of growing old and dying? Nothing. And now I'm 30 years old, past 26, only a little closer to all of

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-81226249538317310742010-11-21T21:30:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:00:18.527-07:00

The radio play. Emanuel.I heard The Vanishing, a radio play by Oliver Emanuel, on BBC Radio 4 a few weeks ago, and found it hauntingly beautiful and absolutely terrifying. A man, (played by the velvet-voiced Samuel West), searches frantically to find out what happened to his former girlfriend, who disappeared from a petrol station while they were on holiday, eight years before. Now I finally

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-16646317546870338312010-11-16T09:34:00.000-08:002011-05-13T18:59:41.197-07:00

Blood & guts. McDonagh.Saturday afternoon I headed down to ACT Theatre to catch one of the last showings of Martin McDonagh's The Lieutenant of Inishmore. I'd been putting it off, unnerved by the violence. The words "black comedy" have always made me a little nervous. There's nothing funny about blood. Or is there? At what point does violence become comedy? When does Macbeth become Fargo? I

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-14487959013883607832010-11-15T20:06:00.000-08:002011-05-13T19:04:05.132-07:00

Reading. Glück.You will not be spared, nor will what you love be spared.A friend posted a fragment of this poem by Louise Glück last week. I keep coming back to it again and again. It has been a sad autumn. A family friend died after an eighteen-month struggle with cancer. Another has relapsed after being treated last year for lung cancer. One friend has just been diagnosed with a rare and severe

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-67018742439870557842010-11-11T19:28:00.000-08:002011-05-13T18:59:41.197-07:00

Reading: Pinter/Fraser.I remember seeing Betrayal at Intiman Theatre when I was fifteen. Fifteen is young, young enough to think that love and sex is for young people. Young enough to not want to examine the lives of middle-aged people falling in love, or in lust, despite husbands and wives and children. They were parents, and parents didn't have s-e-x or go away for holidays in Venice. Still, it

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-90001550411470910942010-11-06T14:28:00.001-07:002010-11-09T22:09:25.403-08:00

Weekend thoughts.I went down to Marigold & Mint this morning to buy vegetables. I was early and the woman who works there was still setting up for the day, so I prowled around, looking at the spools of pretty ribbons and letterpress cards and sweet-smelling soaps. There were vintage gardening books and handmade ceramics and old glass bottles, and I thought again of the lovely writer Elspeth

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-82697866670064485462010-10-25T21:55:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:04:05.133-07:00

Reading. Mary Oliver.The other day, a friend wrote about the mother of her son's classmate, who was scheduled for some upcoming surgery. It brought to mind her own two battles with cancer, now in remission. She'd written of her experiences before, the first when she was 28, the second several years later, when her sons were 3 and 1. I had read her blog before we even met, and I was a little in

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-8275287445621218392010-10-20T23:13:00.000-07:002010-11-09T00:09:51.974-08:00

School lunch.This is re-posted from my other blog because I think each one reaches a different audience. Perhaps I'm wrong about that, but never mind. This is about food. Later I will write about art; the two are connected.I have been reading and re-reading this post in reference to the current battle over school budget cuts in Great Britain and alternately weeping from rage and heartbreak.I grew

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-65583814993480645392010-10-11T23:09:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.198-07:00

Pinter Fortnightly. Madagascar (JT Rogers).And now for something different.To shake things up a little bit after a dozen or so readings of Harold Pinter's expansive body of work, tonight's reading is of a work by a different playwright, JT Rogers. To keep things connected, Madagascar won the 2005 Pinter Prize for Drama, but I will leave aside any comparisons to Pinter. It isn't fair to Rogers, or

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-23253201132111532022010-10-05T09:41:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.198-07:00

Pinter Fortnightly. The Hothouse.By now the memories of all the Pinter readings and performances I've seen are piled high in a corner of my mind, tangled together like fallen leaves. Two full plays - Betrayal (at Intiman in 1995) and last night's The Hothouse - countless one-acts, a handful of revue sketches, all have gradually coalesced together into a single body of work. At first sight, The

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-23429610617424705142010-09-20T22:46:00.001-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.198-07:00

Pinter Fortnightly.In an interview from 1964*, Louis Malle spoke about being a part of the French New Wave, saying that "The good fortune that the directors of the new wave had is this: they made their first films the way others write their first novels, injecting into it the sincerity and emotional power of youth...the problem is to create the second or third films, and then a body of work."

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-28267267450557848482010-09-18T00:06:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.198-07:00

Strawberry Workshop. Breaking the Code.I always walk into the Strawberry Workshop theater knowing that my heart is about to be broken. The plays I have seen so far are full of unbearable things, either brutal acts we humans inflict on each other, or choices we have to make. (The exception is Gutenberg! The Musical during which I laughed so hard tears poured down my face and snot ran from my nose

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-69581947935717633302010-09-06T17:36:00.000-07:002010-09-18T00:06:05.691-07:00

Let me tell you a story about love. a wedding.B. and A. got married on Vashon Island last weekend. When I say "got married" I mean they stood up in front of a crowd of family and friends and spoke vows that were written from the heart and exchanged rings that had been tied around the necks of their two dogs. B. fed A. a piece of chocolate on a wooden spoon, and A. poured B. a sip of her favorite

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-20866471326031587902010-07-27T19:46:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.199-07:00

The Laramie Project. Strawberry Theatre Workshop.I was a freshman in college in the fall of 1998. I had the hand-me-down Mac laptop that had gotten me through high school and a narrow single room in a suite of five girls (there should have been six of us, but one never arrived). I wore my hair in a long braid down my back. I had spent the summer studying Italian, and had now moved on to Russian.

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-76553764163545903352010-07-23T21:03:00.001-07:002010-07-23T22:16:46.357-07:00

the lost art of writing letters.I don't write very much, anymore. My life has been swallowed up by Facebook, by Twitter, by photography. By weekly breakfasts with friends and impromptu dinners with these same friends, meals where I can barely eat for laughing. There are bookclubs and plays and field trips to strawberry fields. My circle of friends has grown, split into different groups that

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-61508573060473012302010-04-13T22:45:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.199-07:00

The Passion of Frank Corrado.I am a few minutes early for this week's Pinter Fortnightly reading; the room is still half-empty. There seem to be more chairs, this time. The stage runs parallel to one long side of the room instead of sitting squarely at the end. There are more props; chairs and round café tables with bottles of wine and mineral water. The actors are milling about, disappearing and

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-39785741102159727202010-04-03T20:45:00.001-07:002010-11-13T16:11:18.154-08:00

Last week the gardener/writer Elspeth Thompson died, at the too-young age of 48. She was a wonderful writer, with a gift for seeing beauty and possibility in everything. Everything she touched was transformed into something extraordinary. Her blog chronicled her rehabilitation of two dilapidated Victorian railway carriages on the coast of Sussex into a cozy, charming home nestled into a

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-55511844035778242522010-03-30T19:45:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.199-07:00

Pinter Fortnightly. The Room and The Collection.I remember clearly, as I've said before, seeing a performance of Harold Pinter's Betrayal at Intiman Theatre in 1995. That was fifteen years ago. That was all the experience I had with Pinter until last summer, when the actor Frank Corrado channeled a life-long passion for Pinter into a series of fortnightly readings at A Contemporary Theater. I

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-90319164433182121212010-02-08T22:26:00.000-08:002011-05-13T18:59:41.200-07:00

Pinter, again. (more thoughts).It struck me early on in Ashes to Ashes that one thing Pinter understands more than anyone is how people know each other so well, as siblings (in Moonlight and, in a way, in A Kind of Alaska) or friends, lovers and spouses (Betrayal and Ashes to Ashes, and Moonlight as well). You know the other person's weak points, what gets under their skin, how to hit them where

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-16476598020832526682010-02-07T18:22:00.000-08:002011-05-13T18:59:41.200-07:00

Pinter x 2.I had been eagerly awaiting Shadow and Light Theatre's production of two one-act plays by Harold Pinter since I first heard about them a few months ago. Last summer there had been a series of readings of Pinter one-acts, and I was lucky to catch the last one, Moonlight. It brought together some of my favorite actors from the 18 years I have spent in Seattle theaters, and reminded me

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-18103038802472288612009-12-14T17:52:00.000-08:002011-05-13T18:59:41.200-07:00

Theater. Seattle Repertory Theater.The other day J. mentioned an interesting play was finishing up its run at the Seattle Rep. I hadn't been there in years, and even during the time we held season tickets at Intiman or ACT we had rarely set foot in the Rep, mere yards away from Intiman on the northern edge of Seattle Center. I looked it up, and then noticed that it was a production that had

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-51150867290670677402009-06-15T16:57:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.200-07:00

Pinter Fortnightly.Some weeks ago I became aware that ACT hosted a twice-monthly reading of Harold Pinter plays. It seemed interesting, but I never actually made it downtown until the very last reading. Two of my most favorite actors - Michael Winters and Suzanne Bouchard - would be participating, and several others I was familiar with. And, it was the last one. I had to go. I ran into the

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-54962161733934098512009-06-03T23:23:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.201-07:00

Theater night. Intiman.Still high off the hilarity of Below the Belt the night before, I head down to Intiman for A Thousand Clowns. The usher warns me that the play is almost three hours long, but then the lights go down and the laughs begin, and the time slips by. The center of the play is Murray Burns, a grumpy, curmudgeonly iconoclast who quit his job working for a children's television show

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-76069708480888637762009-06-02T22:53:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.201-07:00

Theater Night. ACT.From my seat all I could see was the back of R. Hamilton Wright, and I recognized him immediately - the shape of his head, the tilt of his shoulders. He is older, now, of course, but then so am I. The Revenger's Comedies was back in 1992, the very first play I ever saw at ACT, as a sixth-grader. Now it is 2009 and I am at the theater on my own, glad that I made the choice to go

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-16361622297092487992009-05-26T22:14:00.000-07:002011-05-13T19:04:05.133-07:00

Readings. Mary Oliver.The crowd at Benaroya Hall is not the usual symphony crowd. Here is a sea of silver-haired women, natural fibers, neutral colors, ethnic shawls and scarves and jewelry, very little makeup. Not sleek and black and gleaming gold, glittering diamonds. They are clutching volumes of poetry, hoping for an autograph at the end of an evening of poetry. The hall is nearly full, 2,500

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-36516830525481726812009-04-29T17:06:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:59:41.201-07:00

SAVE THEATER.Last night I went to ACT to see Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. On a Tuesday night, the theater was about two-thirds full, much as it was at Intiman a few weeks ago, at Crime and Punishment. I get the sense that the theater scene in Seattle is dying, and it breaks my heart. I grew up in Seattle, going to the theater every month during the season, which runs from late Spring to Fall,

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-60955289525510047692008-04-01T19:20:00.000-07:002008-04-01T19:41:14.378-07:00

Round and round we go.I haven't posted here in a while. Not because I haven't been reading; quite the opposite, I have been reading so much it has been difficult to focus on one thing long enough to write about it. Several months ago I discovered a nearby thrift store and began coming home every week with my arms full of 50¢ books. Another neighborhood bookstore has a 25¢ bin (and a dollar pile)

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-41327997824761088312008-02-21T18:06:00.000-08:002008-02-21T18:16:47.622-08:00

It's time for a change.I've been thinking of dividing the food writing and the literature writing into two different blogs for a while now. It just seems better to separate the two things that have been the most important parts of my life. Now the food writing will be here. I hope it will allow me to be more focused, more coherent in my thoughts and my writing. I don't know whether the old posts

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-30730570845016971872007-12-30T09:33:00.001-08:002008-03-13T20:51:54.988-07:00

Breakfast. bacon.I woke up, reluctantly, but with one thought firmly in my mind: crepes. Ham and cheese, to be precise. And a mocha. (An indulgence saved for the occasional Sunday). I bundle into my most pajama-like clothes (fleece hoody and sweats, all black, so I look like an untidy sort of ninja) and out the door, down the hill to the Essential Bakery. There are plenty of open parking spaces;

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-60099134113495459702007-12-29T18:55:00.000-08:002007-12-30T15:08:33.407-08:00

Eating out. Lark.It's not dinner at Lark without each server stopping at my table at least once. J. is the one who greets me, tells me the specials of the day, takes my order and checks on me as I eat my dinner. But various others swoop down to fill my glass, take away empty plates, take my order for the quince tarte tatin, bring me a spoon and fork with which to eat it, and at last, the dessert

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-36031873465762321302007-12-26T11:09:00.000-08:002007-12-29T19:44:28.098-08:00

The day after Christmas.I have the day off. I could go grocery shopping (the contents of my fridge: half - or rather more than half - a roast chicken, one onion, and some leftover Brussels sprouts sautéed with hedgehog mushrooms), or I could go watch National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets. I choose grocery shopping. (The movie can wait until another day). Whole Foods is quiet for once, even in the

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-69280330082395817082007-12-23T21:42:00.000-08:002007-12-29T11:09:04.102-08:00

Baking. cake.It started with D, when she suggested I bring dessert to dinner on Christmas day. I couldn't make bread pudding - I always make bread pudding, and if no one else is sick of it, I certainly am. I couldn't make brownies - they aren't really dessert, and nor are cookies. Tíramisu seemed wrong. I spent days dithering, until a piece of luck came in the form of the most recent issue of

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-2850564503946145782007-12-22T14:20:00.000-08:002007-12-22T22:27:13.229-08:00

Market day.I went down to the Pike Place Market this morning. It was raining and there were errands to run, so I took the car. I went shopping first, because it was too early for lunch, wandering through the stalls, buying dried figs and ground cinnamon and nuts. The lady at the spice market laughs at me for writing my grocery list on my forearm. I stopped at our favorite produce stall for

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-12201490595432159282007-12-19T20:59:00.000-08:002007-12-21T22:12:08.741-08:00

Eating out. Nishino.It's wet and cold and rainy out, and I'm hungry, and we can't decide where to go for dinner. In the mad dash to the car (again, it's raining) I drop my box of chocolate on the wet pavement and bags of chocolate-covered cherries go everywhere. (In the darkness I almost don't notice my black book - full of notes and phone numbers, but not *those* kind of phone numbers - on the

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-16270911358831357492007-12-18T21:10:00.000-08:002007-12-21T21:47:59.763-08:00

Cooking. beef Stroganoff.Impatience is one of my greater faults. This is apparent as much in the kitchen as it is anywhere else. Another one, as my mother tells me, is my lack of consistency, which is why I am not a chef, because as a chef you have to get it right, perfectly, each time. The combination of impatience and inconsistency has probably lead to the majority of my kitchen disasters (

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-49487927732191238692007-12-15T17:04:00.000-08:002007-12-22T15:08:21.964-08:00

Eating out. Matt's in the Market.I first heard about Matt's in the Market from my uncle, several years ago. He would tell me about a tiny little restaurant above the Pike Place Market that had a few stools along a bar and no proper kitchen. The chef cooked up his soups and sandwiches on two camp stoves or something like that, and people lined up for ages.Everything came from the market downstairs

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-80525004815406132802007-12-14T21:47:00.000-08:002007-12-15T23:18:23.085-08:00

Eating out. La Spiga.I had been thinking of going to Café Presse for dinner, but I ask if C. wants to come along and she gives me a look. (Our last venture there was not successful, at least for her. I suppose when you order your steak frites medium-well and it arrives closer to rare it does not endear you to a place). 611 is voted as being too far. (She is not wearing socks, and it's cold

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-68364291306649222092007-12-13T19:45:00.000-08:002007-12-15T21:44:57.918-08:00

Eating out. Quinn's.I stop at Quinn's Pub on my way home, taking a slightly different route that takes me past a huge salon that I'd never noticed before (training ground for another salon, I think) and some sort of restaurant/bar where what looks like a company party is in full swing. The pub has huge glass windows looking into the street, and steam has fogged them so the tables are barely

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-48937894220069217152007-12-10T21:51:00.000-08:002007-12-12T21:38:12.968-08:00

The Christmas party.A few months ago I offered up my apartment for the Christmas party we hold every year at work. In past years it was held at our boss' house, now in the midst of remodeling, or at work, in a space now filled with furniture (due to the remodeling). In a blaze of self-confidence I assured my boss that it would be no problem at all, and went on vacation for two weeks. And then I

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-69392731901396928672007-12-09T22:43:00.000-08:002007-12-12T20:50:12.089-08:00

Dessert time. Dilettante.I have lived in Seattle for over twenty years now, and there are still some places foreign to me, places I have yet to explore. But there are other places and things that are long familiar, that stretch across the distance from my childhood to my present time. Like Dilettante. I remember those silver boxes of chocolates, the lids engraved with Dilettante in a curving,

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-45582376647881673182007-12-08T23:50:00.000-08:002007-12-11T22:54:04.486-08:00

The birthday dinner.A. calls me at work. J.'s birthday is approaching, and they are throwing a party for her, a surprise party. I am invited, to take the place of my parents, who live elsewhere for most of the year. These are my mother's friends, and I am more than thirty years younger than all of them. It seems peculiar to most people that I am always happy to join my parents' friends for dinner

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-59536336717973051532007-12-02T20:08:00.001-08:002007-12-11T22:18:43.793-08:00

Pub grub. Quinn's. (take two).C. calls me from work. She's done for the day, and it's time for dinner. I throw on a jacket and head off towards Quinn's Pub, five blocks away through the biting cold. (Yesterday's snow is completely gone, only a memory). It is early, and there are few diners at the bar and the downstairs tables; upstairs is nearly empty. The mezzanine dining area has the same

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-8158913424573285052007-12-01T19:55:00.000-08:002007-12-02T21:02:50.163-08:00

Eating out. Steelhead Diner.I thought I'd walk down to the Pike Place Market for lunch today. But where should I go? Café Campagne for quiche? Etta's for the tuna sashimi salad? Maxmilien's for the moules marinières? Or perhaps I should go to the Steelhead Diner. Which is where I wind up, walking down Pike Street, across downtown, past shops and restaurants and throngs of holiday shoppers. The

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-844712736777969852007-11-30T23:44:00.000-08:002007-12-01T19:55:03.760-08:00

Eating out. fondue.I remember going to a fondue restaurant in Taipei in the 80's, but since everyone looks at me as if I had completely lost my mind I wonder if I imagined it all. I have a vague memory of bread dipped in cheese, a cozy atmosphere, but that was all some twenty years ago and it is possible that it never happened at all. The restaurant in my memory was called something like Swiss

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-37236481864680269072007-11-26T18:23:00.000-08:002007-11-26T21:20:13.248-08:00

Pub grub. Quinn's.It was a dark and stormy night...No, perhaps I should go back a little in my story. For several years now I have been walking by a restaurant called Zöe in Belltown, on the rare occasions I find myself in that trendy neighborhood north of the Pike Place market. There's a Patagonia there, and the Macrina Bakery, and Lampreia, one of our favored restaurants for the past decade.

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-41503894471417929932007-11-25T17:27:00.000-08:002007-11-25T22:51:04.989-08:00

Sunday lazy Sunday.I woke up this morning with sunlight slipping through the cracks around the blinds. It is a beautiful day, and a mad idea comes to me. I have an errand to run in Belltown; why not walk there and have something to eat beforehand? It's only about a mile and a half (famous last words), and I could use the exercise. With an eye to the cool autumn air I slip on a vest and wrap a

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-66448277541854735102007-11-22T22:50:00.000-08:002007-11-25T22:53:05.752-08:00

Thanksgiving days.All week people have been telling me their Thanksgiving plans, and most people seem to be dreading them. One friend has to drive some four hours in the dark the night before to spend it with an aunt. Another has to fly home and cope with a sister and a fiancé that his parents hate. Someone else tells me how grateful they are that the much-hated daughter-in-law will not be there.

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-31304907343823175832007-11-17T19:09:00.000-08:002007-11-24T18:48:26.817-08:00

Eating out. Lark.As always, after a Saturday at work, I head off to Lark as soon as I am done for the day. The bright spot in a long day. (But having to work is not so bad; it is raining outside, and in the lab it is warm and there are snacks. And overtime). It is unspeakably early for dinner, and the room is almost empty. I am settling in and the hostess is just asking me if I have eaten there

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-54413909256049038552007-11-03T22:55:00.000-07:002007-11-24T17:23:20.224-08:00

Taipei, day 15.My mother's godmother invites us to dinner, and we meet at a restaurant in the basement of Breeze Center, where we've gone grocery shopping earlier during this trip and where I now remember browsing around with my cousins and trying (unsuccessfully) to talk J. out of horrendous Prada shirt that he insisted on buying, before going off to eat xiao lung bao in one of the basement

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-24650338857982944702007-11-02T22:29:00.000-07:002007-11-24T16:37:53.170-08:00

Taipei, day 14.For some time now - years, perhaps - my parents have been talking about a small Japanese restaurant they often go to. It started out as a roadside stand kind of place, with an open kitchen and low tables and stools, or so I assume. Usually these places are cheap but this one has restaurant prices. And when you become known to the management they are more willing to serve you things

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596494.post-56317381071337759242007-11-01T04:29:00.000-07:002007-11-24T16:20:12.955-08:00

Taipei, day 13.E. invites us to lunch, and I find myself at the appointed hour in a bright, airy teppanyaki restaurant. The main room has two teppanyaki griddles, each seating eleven or twelve customers. We take our seats and E. suggests the beef set lunch, and the eating begins. Most of the time, I don't know what I am eating, and some of it is weird, beginning with the tea, which tastes of

kairuhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11608839703020585886noreply@blogger.com0