Commit this to memory
My favorite lines on the fickleness of memory come from Billy Collin’s poem:
“Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.”
Have you ever heard that wonderful factoid about how we can hold up to seven chunks of info, plus or minus two, in our short term memory at a time? Well I invite you to cast aside the order of the planets and commit something of greater practical importance to your memory.
The Moosewood Fudge Brownie recipe. 6 ingrdients, 6 steps, one bowl. Because if you keep some basic supplies on hand and have this recipe committed to memory, you can go from zero to brownies in 25 minutes.
Impulse brownie making is power. This is the itch and the scratch in one 9″ sqaure baking pan. So grease it and let’s begin.
Moosewood Fudge Brownies (adapted)
½ cup butter
2 large eggs
1 cup lightly packed brown sugar
½ tsp pure vanilla extract
¼ cup cocoa powder (Moosewood calls for 3 squares of unsweetened chocolate to be melted with butter)
½ cup flour
Preheat oven to 350.
1. Butter your 8” or 9” square baking pan.
2. Melt you’re your butter.
3. While it is melting, beat eggs in a medium sized bowl.
4. Add the brown sugar, melted butter and vanilla.
5. Stir in the cocoa powder and flour until smooth.
6. Pour into your pan and bake for 20 minutes, or until done but still fudgey.
These brownies are straight-forward yum. Perhaps you have seen a brownie recipe that is more exotic or special, but this one is like husbands and pets – when you claim it as your own, you believe there is nothing finer on god’s green earth. At least as far as you can recall.
I Love Science
Santa did not bring me the Young Scientists’ Living Room fMRI Kit that I had been hoping for. But the holidays were not a wash, scientifically speaking. I got the second best thing: two visits in one week to the California Academy of Sciences. In these two days I learned that I have a fondness for saber toothed extinct things, too many sweaters to survive in an indoor rainforest, and the evolutionary advantage of being able to squeeze myself into the kiddie exhibits.
I love science. I love science like sports fans love their team. Robust and simple. Totally uncomplicated by deep knowledge. If I can wear the uniform, cheer from the stands, and bat around a few factoids with a drink in my hand, I am right with the world.
(Super Relax Laboratories, Your Friends in Science)
It wasn’t always so. I told my best friend on the kindergarten playground that my dad, a research scientist, flew airplanes for a living. At the time it seemed way more impressive than what I really knew: he studied purple membrane. Now I feel that purple membrane is probably way more awesome. In fact, it is my favorite membrane.
I didn’t have any illusions about following in my dad’s footsteps. My sixth grade science fair project, investigating paw dominance in hamsters, was notable less for my scientific rigor and breakthrough research than it was for my construction paper renderings of the possibly left-pawed hamster Milo and my creative re-use of a peanut butter container. A few years later, my high school science streak was cut short by a serious allergic reaction to dissecting rabbits. I mourned only the rabbit; by then I think I wanted to be a linguist, a kosher chicken farmer, or a radical social geographer.
My adoration of science began in earnest in 2004, when Austin and I read a popular neuroscience book full of chimpanzees and fMRIs. We would peek over one another’s shoulders and ask “Did you get to the part where the guy has a pole lodged in his prefrontal cortex? Did you get to the part where the baby screams the chimpanzee hunger call?” Those were the good times, and they were just beginning. With another science enthusiast/English major in the house, I felt free to reference my hypothalamous-pituitary-adrenal axis one day, and joke about reconciling Newtonian physics with quantum mechanics the next day. These days we listen to Science Friday, Radio Lab, and hoard the Tuesday Science Times section. As we cheer for science, we may miss some of the finer points, but we are totally enjoying the spectacle.
Science is typically taught by breaking things down. The atom, the cell, the building blocks of life and the physical world. This is a logical way to establish a fundamental understanding to prepare us for increasingly more complex ideas. But you don’t encounter the wonder and awe of the universe in a neat linear fashion. It comes in spurts and spasms. Quite often it comes to me through stories, a primordial soup where mythos and logos recklessly commingle.
So be it. I will sew my new California Academy of Sciences patch on my beer koozie, turn up the volume on Science Friday, and let science rock my world.
Hardtail
Writers talk about the obligatory semi-autobiographical first novel. It is the book that has your voice and is perhaps the first story you can find inside yourself to share with the world. But when the middle aged male author can write a teenage girl into a first person narration, then he’s really done something.
Until now, most of the bikes I have built are in some way autobiographical. I can mentally plop myself onto the saddle of a road bike, commuter, mixte, touring bike, cross bike, etc. and imagine the ride. Not so with a mountain bike, not one that is to be ridden with skills that I do not have, and a fearlessness that I may never know. And that is why I was so thrilled to build my first mountain bike for a woman whose experience and talent as a mountain biker were known to me even before I met her.
This hardtail’s curves complicate the notion that robustness necessarily has a straightforward form. It will be built up with a Fox F32-100mm fork and a White Industries double mountain crankset. The final build is shaping up to have a bright and weightless aesthetic, fitting for both bike and rider. Expect pictures soon.
Wool and yarn; ink and paper
(Portland, Oregon Bike Map)
Sweetpea is a bike company. That involves design, working with steel, and putting things together with fire.
But as we hinted earlier, the craft doesn’t stop there as we introduce new stuff built out of wool, ink and paper. You can find these creations over at our new Etsy Shop, or as we announced over there “…we have been so inspired by the grace and style that women bring to biking that we needed more ways to celebrate it. We bring you art. We bring you s’mittens. And we aim to bring you no end of surprise and delight.”
(Hi Kitty, Bye Kitty)
(Portland Roubaix)
(Kneehigh)
It’s been a couple of years since we have been to BikePortland’s Bike Craft, but we will be at BIKE CRAFT V on Saturday, and we are unreasonably excited about it.
Important things for you to know:
- S’mittens will be back in limited and colorful numbers.
- We will also have some of Natalie’s block prints, including one brand new (and quite large) addition.
It’s the holidays people. Let’s do this thing.
Spring Classic
This beautiful unpainted custom road bike 1) has a 50.5 cm seat tube 2) is waiting for your favorite color, and 3) is for sale. If you are around 5′5″ you (or someone you love) could be riding this in time for the spring season. Available as a frame only ($1600) or as complete bike (more than $1600). If you are interested, please contact us here.
Dreams
Last night I had a dream about a Llewellyn investment cast lug set.
In the dream I wore my brazing glasses, and through their darkened greenish light, it seemed as if I was looking at the seat lug from every angle at once. I had the torch in one hand and a coil of silver in the other. My vision followed the heat, followed the silver into the lug to where the seat tube and the top tube came together. I woke up. I went back to sleep and woke up again.
This morning I headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and I saw the package containing these lugs sitting on the kitchen table. My dream came back to me and I blinked it off. I drank my coffee and started my day. I finished a bike, ordered some parts, met with my mechanic, and talked to customers. I walked by these lugs about a dozen times with a million different trajectories of attention before clearing a space in my day to open the package.
Now that I have them spread out on the kitchen table, it is just as I suspected. These lugs won’t sit still. They are rumbling around in mind, already prepped for brazing, already cooling down. They are already a cyclocross bike for a ballet dancer in Albuquerque. And tomorrow, they’ll go out to the shop with me and I’ll light up the stuff that dreams are made of.
Tea Ceremony
This last week my view through the shop window has looked like a fading photograph. Each day drains more color from the trees and sky and even the sun appears desaturated and half-hearted. Inside the shop, the heater hums at my feet but steel tubes and tools feel colder in my hands. I find myself seeking warmth.
I wrap myself in layers of wools and fleece, but as I work, warm pockets of air drift off and away from me. In these spaces, the cold settles in. I feel the need to spark my pilot light. I need warmth that begins inside me, that moves through me and with me.
I make a cup of tea. Leaves and water. A steeping cup sits next to me on my workbench and its steam infuses the sharp metallic air of the shop with a softer note. Between tasks, my hands curl around warm ceramic and I sip. It is a rustic tea ceremony I make for myself, lacking ritual or precision, but full of appreciation.
How unlikely that, while the rain outside pulls color from the fallen leaves, water poured over the tea leaves in my cup draws out a richer hue. Oolong, desert sage, green tea, peppermint – uncurling and softening. And how graciously that tea warms my belly, softens my shoulders and radiates through me. Sip by sip until I feel that warmth as a part of me, a warm cup for a cold shop to wrap itself around.
FAVORITES:
Republic of Tea Desert Sage – reminds me of a dear friend, calls for plenty of honey.
Tao of Tea White Peony – Given to me by a customer I adore, it is sweet and a little nutty.
Trader Joe’s Earl Gray – the kind of no-nonsense get ‘er done black tea my mom raised me to drink.
COVET:
Tao of Tea Jasmine Pearls – when asked Twitter for a recommendation, the masses rallied for this one.
Lipton’s Russian Ceylon – available in France and England, this blend is reported to have little yellow flowers and comes recommended by a friend who knows about such things.
Smith Tea Brahmin’s Choice – the latest from new (old) local teamaker Steven Smith.
Neither the forest nor the trees
This is us before we found ourselves riding in complete darkness.
Forest Park had been going dark for miles and my perception of speed was going funny on me. We were pedaling slowly, but felt as though we were flying. As the last light disappeared, we slowed down even more in order to make out pieces of the trail in front of us. We couldn’t bring ourselves to stop and put on our bike lights.
That would have broken the spell.
The trail was no longer ahead of us. It was suddenly under us, around us, and everywhere.
I have often told myself during hard efforts to ignore my body’s distress signals. After all, pain is just a message that you body sends your brain. My mantra is “It’s just sensation.” And it is a reminder that I don’t need to feed or validate my pain with attention. This works disturbingly well for me. I suspect I’ve always had a knack for willful disembodiment.
But night riding in Forest Park, “It’s just sensation” took on an entirely different meaning. As my vision grew dimmer my focus receded from the next horizon, the next corner, all the way back to my own body. I felt the air gradually grow colder on my skin. l listened to the sound of gravel beneath Austin’s tires noting when he seemed to roll through a wet spot on the trail. I felt my bike more as an extension of my body than a vehicle. I relaxed my limbs to better feel and respond to the terrain. This too was just sensation. It was just sensation that found me and held me exactly where I was.
After pedaling four last incredible miles, we popped out of the trail onto the road. We stopped to put on an extra layer, dig out our lights, and reconnect with a familiar sense of the world. But ever since, I’ve been itching to go back.
Transcendental Ferociousness
(The author with her game face on.)
After racing my first cyclocross race of the year this afternoon, I did a self-assessment. What went well? What could use some work? Bike handling, general fitness . . . Eh, not so shabby. Barriers . . . Oy, not so hot.
But there is an additional skill set that they won’t teach you in the school of cross. I need to work on my cheering and my game face. I believe that these are areas that can be developed, just like dismounts and remounts.
CHEERING
My cheering is too cheerful. I am the de facto Energy Coach of the Super Relax Concept, yelling things like “Go EVERYBODY!” And “Good effort out there! Don’t be afraid to share you feelings!”. Offering positive reinforcement during Austin’s race, I stood next to the legendary John Howe of Team Beer and got a lesson in how it is really done. He bellows “Suck it up! This is a race, people – you paid money for this!”
Tough love was what this course called for. It was clear that racers grinding up a slick bumpy muddy incline needed to tap into agression not self-acceptance. They needed a heckling that they could bite into when the pain hit, not the verbal equivalent of Tension Tamer tea.
Next time I will do better. If you too need a refresher course in transcendental ferociousness, I invite you to join me as I revisit my two inspirations in this field of study.
First, blues singer Susan Tedeschi. I heard one of her live albums in which she boomed and growled the blues and finished every set by chirping a sweet bright “thank you :)” Her voice embodies such emotional range that I hear my own voice as a flat monotone by comparison.
Secondly, racer/writer/homey Heidi Swift. She is equally inspiring, perhaps more fierce. If after watching this video, you need further explanation, you can see me after class:
Her battle cries will wipe any goofy smile off my face and f-ing BRING IT.
Both have lurking just beneath the surface a raw power that they can tap into to get a job done that simply can’t get done sweetly. Next week I will roar “Get up that hill Princess! This isn’t a beauty contest!” And it will mean “I appreciate you for who you are.”
GAME FACE
My game face lacks game. (See above.) This is a tough one. It is just how my face looks.
Besides practicing in the mirror every morning, the only thing that might fix my grin into a proper soul-crushing grimace is more cowbell. And a bit more time in the blast radius of the lovely Miss Heidi Swift.
