cheek to cheek

Last week we went to a small blues show at the local public library (please don't judge me for the overt nerdiness of that statement). It was an odd place for a concert. I'm a girl bound by rules, so it was hard for me to adjust to being noisy without fearing the librarian hush, finger to mouth, eyes scowling at me.

The crowd didn't seem to struggle with any of the same challenges. The demographics trended a bit older and funkier than me. We could have easily been mistaken for a convention of awful winter hats and ill-fitting jeans. But they all bopped and swayed to the music, unaware and without precept.

I noticed an awkward pre-teen girl on the other side of the room, her long legs stretching beyond her jeans, trying desperately to fit in her father's lap. Her head nestled against his shoulder while her gangly limbs failed to find a suitable landing. Two much smaller girls, maybe three years old danced at the back of the room with their dad, twirling, screeching, arms flailing. If the music paused, they stopped immediately in their tracks, confused and dismayed.

Suddenly I remember dancing with my dad, cheek-to-cheek in the living room to old blues and country western songs. We could cover any mistake in our steps with a spin to the other side of the room.

In the moment, it is so hard to notice how or when we evolve from these tiny girls, flitting around, to awkward, nervous things, to reserved appropriate adults and back to carefree, ugly hat-wearing fools.

peach cobbler

Just finished a second bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream that I made for a family cookout this afternoon. I have a hard time showing up to chow down on other people's food without bringing something. I've got a double whammy combo of good old fashioned Irish Catholic guilt and Southern Tradition spurring me on to do more and to make it look perfect.

The lure of summer in Georgia was too much to overlook so I decided on an easy to impress peach cobbler. I am certainly not above going by the recipe, so I headed straight to my favorite recipe site. I was pretty surprised at how complicated folks wanted to make a peach cobbler. Leave it to my friend Paula to leave it simple enough to bake even after sipping on mint juleps on the side porch all afternoon. After a late brunch we wandered over to the grocery store for ingredients and I found a huge stack of local peaches from Lane Southern Orchards in Fort Valley, GA.

The cobbler was super easy to make, very simple ingredients and a very simple process. It is important to note that the only complication with this recipe is the type of flour you use. You must use self-rising flour or you'll get a goopy, flat mess. I wasn't sure what I had in my pantry so I added a tsp of baking powder for safety's sake. If you're not sure adding baking powder will only make your dough a bit more fluffy. Fluffy = good, so no loss there. With the rising flour keeping down the amount of stirring/mixing is super important to make it all fluff together the right way.

Overall the cobbler worked out very well. The dough was a little much - maybe I had self-rising flour after all! I think next time I would either cut down on the amount of dough or increase the amount of fruit. This said, I still ate two bowls of the stuff, so it wasn't that much of an issue. I'm glad to have put some local, seasonal fruit to use the way god intended (i.e. mixed together with sugar and butter).

to begin

I want to begin with my general thoughts about communities, cities, my city and my intentions with this blog. This is the part where I woo the Internet masses with daises and lemonade on the front porch. A few weekends ago, we left the comfort of our in town Atlanta neighborhood, with myriad options for coffee, drinks and gourmet pet treats within walking distance, for the unruly and unpredictable hills of Tennessee. We packed up our low-emission, compact city car with camping gear to visit my sister at the intentional community where she lives. The community is generally billed as a haven for transgender or queer artists. This was a special weekend, the group was hosting an annual music festival. After traversing winding country roads with no signs and rocky, dry creek beds, we were welcomed with the unusual performance of "Oklohomo: How Musical Theatre Ruined My Gay Life." Men dressed as women, women dressed as men dressed as women and generally bizarre costumes. The protagonist told a woeful story of being ostracized from the gay musical theatre crowd and searching for a home and respite from the cold, harsh world. The outcast found a wandering group of queer and bedraggled minstrels. Cuddled around queer campfires, singing jubilant songs, newly founded friendships were formed and all was good. In our search to define ourselves, we pull from our experiences with comrades, friends and family to create our unique, complexly wonderful voice. This is how I see Atlanta, as a city with a deep, rich history, incredible diversity and potential to become a new kind of city in the south. With zazucity, I'll explore the facets of Atlanta's spurts and fits of urban growth as well as the moments of clarity and beauty and hopefully find my voice in the process.