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Grief and art
On my way to Art in the Pearl, a Labor Day weekend art show in Northwest Portland, I had occasion to roll down West Burnside, past the St. Vincent de Paul building, recently rechristened as St. Andre Bessette Catholic Church. Down these blocks, I experienced a miasma of hopelessness and grief. One man was sitting with his head in his hands, a picture of despair. A woman was sleeping on the hard pavement, her arm cradling her head protectively. It was one in the afternoon.
Then, at the art show, cheerful pavilions surrounded by fencing. Awesome art, crafted with love. The homeless people, sleeping on the sidewalk a block away, forgotten.
I put on my “let me write you a poem” placard but got no takers. I couldn’t even catch the eyes of passersby. Passersby, by the way, who did not seem particularly happy. I saw little of the jolliness I encountered at the Hawthorne Street Fair the previous weekend. People strolled, pausing to peer at artwork and picking up ceramic vases to inspect the bottoms. No one paused to inspect me.
I’ve noticed that the more upscale shoppers, like those at Art in the Pearl or the PSU farmers market, are the least likely to engage with a woman who just wants to write a poem for them.
It’s as if their prosperity dulls their perceptions of other people. These strolling shoppers seem to be wrapped up in themselves. No place there for a woman in a wheelchair, or for ragged people sleeping on the street outside.
Pattern recognition
Two blocks. Four block faces. Four fresh images.
My noticing antennae started twitching as I rolled down Southeast Sixth Avenue last week. In the space of two blocks, from Washington to Oak, interesting patterns kept appearing.
It started with this apartment house. Notice how almost every window fan or air conditioner has a different design.
At the corner of Sixth and Stark, a building both symmetrical and asymmetrical.
Another building’s windows and door, a symphony in aqua and black.
And a red door with a wonky lamp.
One stranger, one poem
At the Clinton Street Fair on Saturday, a week after Art in the Pearl, Joe shows me a painting done by a little girl named Zeppy and says maybe I could write about the fair.
The scene
A little girl paints you a picture You’re asked to sign a petition. Better to jump with your skateboard Eat some fry bread Buy some earrings Or just watch . . . Watch the people The jugglers The dogs Babies in strollers or toddling Feet in sneakers of all types, and sandals As summer slips past—say goodbye! Come eat, buy and sing, Meet your neighbors. Check out the candles Admire the quilts Sample the hot sauce . . . Then, finally, dance to the band.
Transit to everywhere
Last Monday, the Labor Day holiday, I rode the bus to my gym inLents, followed by a productive hour writing at Refuge Coffee. From there I boarded the MAX Green Line to where I could pick up the 15 Belmont bus toward downtown. On the bus, I encountered people with handmade signs heading to a protest in downtown.
I left the 15 bus before it crossed the river in order to visit Scrap, the recycled arts project store where I volunteer. But Scrap was closed for Labor Day. Casting about for something to do—I’d done my writing for the day, and it was a holiday—I remembered the demonstration. I decided on a roundabout route to downtown, catching a streetcar that crosses the river on the transit-only Tilikum Crossing bridge. My plan was to ride to the Central Library, then pick up a MAX train that would loop toward the waterfront, where the protest was.
A break from the action
First, though, I took a break to devour a perfect carnitas taco at Mayas Taqueria at Southwest 10th and Morrison. Then I went to the Verve Coffee/Capital One Cafe on Broadway for a free latte courtesy of an MLB promotion (every Monday, free coffee drink, no strings—that I know of—attached).
From there, I finally boarded the MAX, but got off when the driver announced a backup due to protesters in the street.
I thought I’d roll on down to Waterfront Park, where the protest was planned, but then I realized I was on Southwest Morrison. I had been planning to photograph a public art installation on that street, near Third Avenue. Annoyingly, leafy trees were in the way of getting a good shot.
I got on another MAX train, ending up in Old Town/Chinatown in Northwest Portland. From there, I backtracked down Naito Parkway to the protest site. By then I had missed the march—thousands of people—but found a small beehive of activity, a couple of tents and people still milling about with homemade signs.
By now, my wheelchair was running out of juice. The pavement is bumpy in this neighborhood, and the half-drunk coffee, which was in my steel to-go mug, kept splashing on my purse, my trousers and my shirt. Tamping down annoyance is good for the soul. I think.
I tooled over the rough pavement to Belmont, where I caught a 15 bus back to my neighborhood. Another seven blocks, an uphill challenge for the wheelchair, and finally I was home.
Then I took a nap.
Ah, choux
Sometimes, what keeps a dish light or makes it rise is leavening, like yeast or baking powder. Sometimes, as in a soufflé, the agent is air.
For another raft of recipes, the rising agent is moisture that creates steam, which pushes the molecules of the other ingredients apart. Air leavening is the basis of pâte à choux (cream puffs), popovers and the giant Dutch baby pancake.
The ingredients are simple: butter, water, flour and eggs.
In the case of choux, the high moisture content is achieved by boiling water and butter, then adding flour and, once the mixture has cooled, eggs. Boiling makes the starch in the flour gel, so the mixture can handle more water.
The same process is at work in Yorkshire pudding or in David Eyre’s pancake, basically a Dutch baby by another name. These big pancakes have had quite a run in The New York Times: Craig Claiborne in 1966, Amanda Hess in 2020, and Florence Fabricant in 2024. Also, Fran Gardner in Becoming on February 2, 2025.
A little more choux
King Arthur has a pâte à choux recipe that links to a page of uses:
Piped or dolloped into small circles, it puffs up into adorable cream puffs. Fill them with whipped cream, as is classic (infuse that cream for more flavor!) or use ice cream instead to make profiteroles. . . . If you add grated cheese (our preference is Gruyère) you can turn pâte à choux into savory gougères; with masa harina and spices added, you can make Spicy Cheese Puffs. And if you pipe into a log shape instead, you can turn the baked pastry into éclairs—fill with pastry cream and add a chocolate glaze. . . . Or skip the baking altogether, and fry your choux to make classic crullers.
Another King Arthur recipe is for sufganiyot, fried donut holes filled with jelly, a Hanukkah treat. The recipe starts with pâte à choux.
Popovers also use choux pastry. They are not fashionable now, perhaps because they require deep, conical molds.
Popovers
Easy recipe, did you know that? Just beat up eggs and flour. Big muffin cups are needed, And a needle to let out the air. If you pour the batter in a pan You end up with a Dutch baby. The same recipe, with drippings, Makes Yorkshire pudding for your roast.
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Your favorite flower
Now that summer is passing, which flowers have you appreciated most?
My favorite may be black-eyed Susan.
Cheerful, happy yellow blooms—and I love the genus name: Rudbeckia. Sounds like a sunny girl named Becky. Or Susan.
In Portland I see a lot of lavender and its look-alike, Russian sage. Daisies, cosmos, backlit summer grasses. But some annuals—like petunias, pansies, begonias—are less prevalent, at least in my neighborhood. Don’t know why. And I seldom see another of my favorites, bee balm (Monarda didyma), also known as Oswego tea. Hummingbirds love its bright red flowers.
Do you have a favorite summer bloom? I’d love it if you’d share it in the comments.
Full up
My brainpan is so full it’s leaking. Tell me, teach me to turn off the spigot, Wipe away crusty knowledge, banish junk thoughts And just walk away with a clear memory. Banish memory, too, let me look toward the future, A world free of negative thoughts. Within this Utopia, spreading my feathers, I rest in the richness of love. Divine attention—does it all matter How many ideas I pick from the air? I’m always seeking instead of relaxing, Just letting the breezes shift through my hair. I am who I am, barnacles included. Do I want to be richer, like cream at the top? Or can I just be, my soul naked and willing, Waiting for clarity, wisdom and love.
Bye for now
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—Fran
—30—
I loved the way melancholy and seeking pattern launched this. I kept looking for patterns and heard both melancholy and good cheer.
Your pattern photos of Oregon Plating, Gold Leaf, and the red door must be Mondrian inspired!
Thanks for your insights into Portland street life, street fairs, art shows, and protests.