Making Seafood Gumbo

Yesterday and today I made seafood gumbo. I'd watched the chef Emeril on TV making about five different types of gumbo, and I'd learned there were basic ingredients and a process to follow, but the types of meat and the exact seasonings were up to the cook. I spent several hours on the roux -- a mixture of cooking oil and flour cooked over a low flame. I also included his "trinity" -- chopped onion, celery, and bell pepper. For seafood, I had crabmeat, oysters including their liquor, shrimp -- lots of them, and some white fish I cooked and threw in too. I had made a gumbo before but it was a long time ago, so Emeril had inspired me to try again, and to be very generous with time and ingredients.

The chef has to be lavish with the seafood if he or she wants it to be good. For seasonings, I used salt, black pepper, cayenne pepper, and an assortment of spices I had around -- basil, thyme, rosemary, bay leaves, and from the back of the cabinet -- file, which is ground sassafras, that I'd bought in New Orleans years ago.

The resulting gumbo was pretty good but somehow not very exciting, from my point of view. We ate it over rice and were satisfied, but it just wasn't spectacular. Maybe what we really needed was some andouille sausage to enrich the flavor, I thought. Plus, it just wasn't quite spicy enough, and the roux was good but could be a little thicker. With over a half pot of the gumbo left, I felt there was still room for enhancement.

My husband went out the next morning and bought andouille sausage, four long links. We fried that, sliced it, and added it to the gumbo, along with more file and more cayenne. I'd brought the gumbo to a boil again (at least 3 or 4 times in the whole cooking process) to help thicken it even more, and then simmered it.

The result was stupendous. Finally, we had seafood gumbo to die for. Lunch was a feast for the gods: white rice covered with a generous amount of seafood and sausage in a perfect, rich, spicy,thick, robust roux-based sauce. At last!

Writing a truly shimmering poem or story can be like this gumbo-cooking process. You have some structures, some basic ingredients, and you also use what you find around the house. Early versions may be O.K., but you have to be willing to experiment and try different ingredients to get the final world-class gumbo.

Good cooking to you!

Karen

That Kitchen Bravery Thing

A snapshot from about 9 years ago:


That Kitchen Bravery Thing

My daughter is canoeing downstream
in the bathtub. When I ask her what
she’s doing, dipping her paddle again
and again, she replies, "You know,
that kitchen bravery thing."

When I return, she exclaims,
"I’m stirring a pot of men!"
Which she is in fact doing --
vigorously churning chunky dolls
in a plastic pot. "You’re wonderful,"
I hear myself say. Inane adult.

"I’m not wonderful," she yells back,
"I’m spicy!" To be so brazen,
stirring ingredients to an unknown
conclusion, and then to dance naked,
a towel sailing behind you down the hall!

--Karen Braucher


May some toddler energy come into your life today. --KB

Stanley Kunitz is 100 Years Old

Poet and master gardener Stanley Kunitz is 100 years old. I am reading his book about poetry and gardening entited THE WILD BRAID, which was just published for his birthday.

Stanley was born and raised in Worcester, Massachusetts, and there is a great organization there called the Worcester County Poetry Association which nurtured me when I was beginning to become a poet. They have just honored him, and The Worcester Review has published a number of poems and remembrances in his honor.

Apparently he used to arrive at gatherings with a jar of pre-made martinis to share. And at 95 years old after a poetry reading he gave, he insisted on going dancing till the wee hours. Of course he was also a teacher and mentor to many poets, and created a fabulous garden at his summer home in Provincetown, on Cape Cod.

What a guy. What a large, generous spirit. I would like to be like him, as would many.

My next martini I'll raise to you, Stanley. Happy Birthday. Thank you for your extraordinary poems and life.

Poet's Best Friend

Every weekday after I drop my daughter at school, I take my dog Hershey to the park. Rain or sun, happy or bleak, I go. There is a creek that runs through the park and I love to watch it every day, as it flows slowly or roars muddily through its curved path. Hershey is more interested in the squirrels and birds than anything else and she usually finds some animal to chase though she never catches it. Here's a poem about these doggy times.


Lattés in the Park with Dog

Mochaccino eyes,
sleek espresso body,

double shot, finest French Roast,
she stiffens, points, streaks after prey.

Or prowls, supremo, or on hind legs
stands, demitasse

of café con leche, front paws
up a tree. From above,

squirrels and crows torment,
buttery Kona machiato, show off

spirals and jeers for our canine
jitter girl. There’s always next time!

Black nostrils sniff
thousands of fragrances

on the morning breeze—
café amaretto, cocoa, hazelnut.

Sit, lie down, shake, stay close.
Pink tongue tastes bon bons alfresco,

briny bouquets. Legs and paws
dipped in crema, black velvety ears

cocked, Turkish, espresso con panna,
my Black Lab/Rottweiler blend

rolls over, wins cinnamon belly rubs.
My Vienna, my dark roast, my caffeine!


--Karen Braucher

Good walks and coffee to you, Karen

Mind of Rain

Very rainy here in Portland, Oregon. Here is my haibun (mixture of haiku and prose) about acclimation for you. Thanks to Haiku Empress Margaret Chula for inspiration.



Mind of Rain
a haibun


forty days of rain—
my sunny disposition
a soggy crocus

Ten years ago, we moved to the Pacific Northwest in autumn. A few weeks later, the sky opened. Sprays, showers, mists lasted till the next May. All day the sky and house were dark. I had a three-year-old daughter to take care of, and I’d lost all my friends. Mud slides. Floods. Trees down on neighbors’ roofs. The lights went out for days. A colleague called long distance and pleaded, "Start to write again. No one else writes the way you do." Never before had I seen crocuses fall over because they were waterlogged. One spring day I gave a tour of Portland’s Japanese Garden in a downpour. The green lushness of trees, moss, lichen, and flowering plants entered my mind. I picked up my pen.

strange yellow sky-ball
you assault my subtle mind
give me mist instead




--Karen Braucher,
copyright 2006

Slacker Poet

Here I am in the Pacific Northwest where being a slacker and wearing grunge is cool. Good thing for me. I'm beginning to notice I'm in circles of high-achieving poets with poems being published in the allegedly finest publications. I've published a bit and a few books too, but I spend a lot of time not submitting at all. I have to pull myself together in order to do it in a most business-like way and weather umpteen rejections before acceptance.

I'll keep doing it but not every day like some of these people. Maybe I used up all my competitive energy with 15 years as a marketing executive. If I wanted to spend all my time churning out letters and bios, I might as well have stayed in sales and marketing. Plus, I'd be making a six-figure salary. Gee, I thought by becoming a poet I could contemplate my species, planet, solar system, and universe, not to mention my own navel, without having to be a goody-two-shoes all the time.

Yeah, just give me my mocha, my dog, and some more rain. I'm busy rereading existential texts, natural history, and the newspaper. I might write a poem this month. And I might submit to some publications next month. Meanwhile, I'm busy slacking off.

Yours,

Karen

Twenty Reasons Why I Read Poetry

20 Reasons Why I Read Poetry

I prefer the world through a stranger’s eyes.
In winter sometimes the sight of icicles revolts me.
My eyes don’t want to converge on the city street.
Flies alight on excrement.
I want to understand the heart of the murderer.
Secrets are revealed when the poet least expects it.
Green moss clings to the trees in rainy climates.
I’m a masochist.
I’m desperately looking for good news.
You can get beyond words through words.
There is space to crawl in and dream.
A sound can envelop the ground when it’s around.
I am trying to escape teenagers with TV eyes at cash registers.
Drugs are bad for your body.
Every few years I find sheer beauty.
It mystifies a lot of people.
All culture is contained there.
Time stands still.
It reminds me that I’m not who I think I am.
Sometimes I’m turned upside down.

Yours,

Karen

Poetry in the 21st Century

Right now I'm reading the book THE WORLD IS FLAT by Thomas L. Friedman. It's about how the world is changing because of high technology, global capitalism, and the "flattening" of the playing field because you can now produce goods and some services almost anywhere in the world and sell them anywhere too. Global communication, collaboration of teams in different parts of the world, and the adoption of new work habits that utilize personal computers, cell phones, and other technology is changing the way business is conducted and how life is lived.

The internet is a big part of this, of course. It's now possible to get your art, poetry, music, or film out to a large audience through the internet, and one can see the "rules" are starting to change, not only in business but in art. Where all this will lead is anyone's guess, but I have to say that it seems like an exciting revolution to me. There will be negative and positive effects, but the opportunities seem mind-boggling.

What does this mean for poetry? Some think poetry is dead or inconsequential, but I am not of that belief. Despite the information overload that we are all subjected to, many find time to read a poem or two, and find the experience pleasurable. For one thing, poetry is compressed; it is a sound bite. You DO HAVE TIME to read a poem, even while you wait in line or go to the bathroom.

Also, many good poems SLOW TIME DOWN. They make you slow down, breathe, consider a new perspective. They are if anything more valuable now than ever before. They can help you cope. They can make you laugh or cry. They can act as an emotional safety valve. They can get you to remember that rushing through your day, PDA or cell phone in hand, perhaps is not the most valuable use of your time.

My husband, who works for a high tech company, has a lot of real world experience. He sees many people rushing around and not accomplishing much. It is different when you quiet down, slow down, and focus on a task. You achieve a state of flow. That is what a good poem does too...it puts you in touch with creative forces that can make you perceive things differently or even make a huge or small realization about your life or situation. Yes, poems are better than drugs and often can be better than psychotherapy.

Some enlightened folks have realized this already. I'll never forget a high tech guy who came to one of my poetry readings. He was utterly amazed and had a wonderful time. It was so "high touch." The readers talked about all kinds of experiences. One could see this guy felt in touch with his humanity again. Yes, poetry is part of the "high tech, high touch" present and future.

It's just as necessary if not moreso as this personal computer before me.

Yours,

Karen

Jumping Genres

Yesterday, on my birthday, I went to the first meeting of alumni and students from my graduate school writing program. Since we live 3,000 miles from the program and in a smaller city, I was amazed that five other very interesting individuals showed up.

Three of us had been in the poetry program, two in fiction, and one in creative nonfiction. I have spent a lot of time in groups with poets, but I enjoyed being around these new people writing in different genres even more. It's easy to get stuck in a rut and not to think about all the possibilities of your medium, in this case writing.

For some time now I've been thinking of writing some fiction but I haven't yet managed the leap. I am used to creating poems and have written quite a bit of prose, but always reviews, essays, or business writing of one kind or another. To write fiction seems scary. How on earth does one control the plot? How do you keep a character consistent through hundreds of pages? How do you tie up all the subplots?

The joy of creating a story, let's say a murder mystery, is not lost on me. I've been considering writing one where I get to kill off an individual remarkably like someone I know and can't stand. Sounds very satisfying.

I have decided to spend a bit of time hanging out with novelists, short story writers, and memoirists. The best thing that could happen is that I suddenly am able to jump to another literary genre.

Cheers to you, Karen

Collaboration rather than Competition

On September 11, 2001 (we'll never forget), the members of a poetry collaborative I founded in Portland, Oregon, came together for the first time. Our mission was and is to come together and create new work, not to critique, which is often what writing groups do.

This group, known as the Portlandia Collaborative, has been one of the best presents I have ever given myself. We gather usually twice a month and each time a different member presents us with a writing exercise. We are all experienced writers who are willing to experiment.

One member, Donna Prinzmetal, is a Poet in the Schools, and brings consistently fantastic exercises from my point of view. I always get a poem from her exercises. Other members swear by the exercises of others. What we have discovered is that different exercises are creative turn-ons for different writers. What one writer might consider a wonderful exercise, another might find a real turn-off. It's extremely intriguing. We're all wired so differently.

Another observation is that some people come out with finished poems, almost all the time, while others of us (I'm alas in this category) usually get just ideas for poems or very rough drafts. But I believe everybody at some time has produced a masterful, completed poem from someone's exercise at our meetings. And these are poems that might never have been written except that another creative individual elicited something from each of our brains through some new kind of stimulation. Amazing!

Exercises have included viewing video clips, smelling different fragrances, listening to music and sounds, reading poems and following some set of directions (which some of us always disregard...we are poets, after all), and collecting words to use through newspapers, lists, or even games.

One of our members, Russian scholar Laura Weeks, made up a game called word poker that was a lot of fun and gave you a list of words to use. We all dressed as "cowboys" or "cowgirls" that night and had a blast.

In contrast, any critiquing group is a solemn affair where your work is held up to harsh light and you are usually humbled and sometimes given bad advice by someone who just doesn't get your aesthetic. Critiquing groups are very helpful, especially for the beginning writer who usually thinks too highly of his or her work, but they can also be morose affairs that dampen your creativity rather than inspire.

I recommend creative collaboration to everyone. Rather than compete, consider forming a group of people who try to inspire each other. Expect experiments that don't work but also you may find that you are stretched in new ways that surprise you. The best poetry surprises its creator and tells him or her new things.

Wishing you creative success, however you define it,

Karen on her birthday

The Joys of Invective

Poets in the past knew the pleasures of creative invective or denunciatory speech. Insults can enliven writing and life greatly, but too often now insults are unimaginative, repetitive, and lack wit. Much contemporary writing is bland and afraid of expressing anger.

Here is some delicious invective taken from the best invective-slinger in history, Shakespeare:

"His brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage."

"He has not so much brain as ear-wax."

"A fusty nut with no kernel."

"More of your conversation would infect my brain."

"His celestial breath was sulphurous to smell."

"What is this quintessence of dust?"

"One may smile, and smile, and be a villain."

"Came each actor on his ass."

"Cowardly, giant-like ox-beef!"

"My mistress with a monster is in love."

"You spotted snakes with double tongue!"

"Thou stool for a witch!"

"Such bugs and goblins in my life!"

"She speaks, yet she says nothing."

"Go thou and fill another room in hell."

"Caterpillars of the commonwealth!"


Yes, his ability seems endless. So much contemporary poetry and prose is dry and polite, or if trying to be combative, amounts to little more than coarse and banal epithets.

And to that fellow in traffic yesterday,

"Toads, beetles, bats light on you!"

As Will said, "Hell is empty,/And all the devils are here." (The Tempest)

In an effort to tickle your catastrophe,
Karen Braucher

Drowning or Breathing Under Water

An old high school girlfriend of mine drowned last November. She was only 52 years old. Death is always a shock, but the hardest part for me was that she drowned. She was an expert swimmer and kayaker, but yet somehow she drowned in her kayak. Even if she had been trying to commit suicide, I don't know how you could accomplish it, when the river was calm, the weather fine.

We used to swim together in high school and I thought of her as a sister mermaid -- one of those people who is extremely comfortable in the water, as I am. Why did the water have to take her? Or did she want it to take her? We will never know.

In one of my poems, "Breathing Under Water," the mysterious shape-shifting woman/fish learns to breathe under water. It ends,

She has learned
to breathe under water,

she has done several things today
already that she knows to be
impossible. She has turned
into a squirrel, a frog, a rat,
a baby. She has turned
into a secret about how
men drown, even on land.

--"Breathing Under Water" (from the book Aqua Curves, 2005)

The artist must become a shape-shifter in order to create and in order to survive and in order to show ways of being to her/his readers/viewers. This is the shaman-like quality that an artist should have. Being stuck in our perspectives too rigidly can cause us to "drown," become depressed and even die. What is needed is an emphasis on flexibility and changing consciousness. In one day, we can be a squirrel, a frog, a baby. How? We have to step outside ourselves and take an imaginative leap. We have to dare.

Even when we feel we are drowning, we can imagine that we are breathing under water. Imaginary gills may save us long enough for us to change form.

My friend's death may have been a freak accident, but it may have been a failure of imagination. The sadness of that possibility will stay with me.

We all need each other and humor and some beauty in our lives. When all else fails, your imagination can save you. Remember that.

Happy shape-shifting,

Karen

Diving In

This is my first day and I am just trying to post a short message. I know this is all supposed to be intuitively obvious, that is, how to use this editor, but I have already spent at least 15 minutes and still am not sure the best way to even type an entry. Aaargh. I assume this will get easier, like riding a bicycle.

As a writer, poet, editor, and publisher, I'm interested in this whole blogging phenomenon. I was told the best way to explore "the blog world" (not the blah world?) was to get my own blog, so here goes.

I'm not interested in finding my voice, by the way. I already have a voice. That voice says reach out to other poets and artists around the world who are groping toward their own wild and free aesthetic style. I feel constantly oppressed not so much by society at large but by the focus on status and success within the poetry community. I am much more interested in experimentation and cracking jokes than a lot of people who've published four collections of poetry, it seems. I also operate outside of academia and that's where I want to be. I think putting poets inside universities is like putting tigers inside zoos; it does preserve them from extinction but it also incarcerates them and limits their world view.

Why "cantankerous mermaid"? Because I'm a swimmer and I've written a number of poems about mermaids from Ireland, Germany, and China, among other places. Folk tales from around the world contain mermaids, and they aren't cutesy, sweet creatures. They are powerful, magical, dangerous, and full of surprises -- the way a superior poet should be.

I hope to share thoughts about poetry and art in the days ahead. For now, let's see if I can post this damn thing. Diving out for now, Karen

p.s. Visit my author website at www.karenbraucher.com