|The Calling of St. Matthew, by Caravaggio|
So, I'm off to California for 10 days tomorrow. If there wasn't so much to do before then, I'd be counting down the minutes in anticipation. I get to spend 3 days with Agnes. Meet Muffin's daughter G. Stand up with Emma as she marries her Mr. Knightley. (Oh, and make another 50 jars of jam and a veil for that day!) It will be a very full, very thrilling 10 days, I can assure you. I can also assure you that I probably won't be posting much next week. Perhaps a photo here or there. I had thought of all these fun things I could do while I was gone, but, really, I need a break. You need a break. We'll all be better off if you don't hear from me for a while.
So, but for Saturday's Golden Hour posts, don't expect much from me. And I'm posting this weeks' clippings now, rather than a recipe. Enjoy!
+ If you read only one article this week, make it Sandro Magister's reinterpretation of Caravaggio's The Call of St. Matthew (above) in Chisea. (St. Matthew's feast was Tuesday)
+ If you read a second article this week, make it Mark Mitchell's "A Season of Gluttony" on Front Porch Republic:
Fall in Montana. The scent of wood smoke in the crisp air. Hard frost presaging the coming of winter. Green tomatoes hanging on limp vines destined never to turn red. Red tomatoes on the vine turning brown. The garden is done. The only thing left is to pull up the plants and get things ready for winter. However, this also signals the beginning of “the great tomato war.” When the tomatoes are no longer fit to eat, they are still fit projectiles. The green ones, small and solid as rocks, hurt when they hit. The spoiling red ones go splat with a satisfying mushy sound. Slingshots are an excellent alternative to throwing. I vividly recall one skirmish. My Dad shot a tomato at me and missed. I was loaded for bear. He knew it and took off running for the house. His back was a perfect target and the tomato, as mushy as it was, sailed true. I can still see the tomato hitting him between the shoulder blades and splatting across his white shirt. Oh, the thrill of victory!
+ Fall is looking more exciting, movie-wise. There's Secretariat (review by Happy Catholic), and I am becoming more and more intrigued by The Social Network, Mostly because Vanity Fair and New Yorker both have profiles on the real characters behind Facebook: Sean Parker and Mark Zuckerberg. Fascinating stuff, that.
+ You know, sustainability has its roots in the monastery cultures of Europe: the monks who could no go out into the world still had to make a life for themselves using what was available to them on their land. This bred a particular ingenuity...and by ingenuity I mean, of course, ale and chartruese. Well, some nuns near Pittsburgh are continuing the sustainibility mission with an all organic farm. (I think I have found the location for my next retreat!) Related: The Cheese Nun. It is as awesome as it sounds.
+ I am finally catching up with my New Yorker back issues. Lots of good stuff this fall, but, since I am several weeks behind, none of it is available online unless you're a subcriber. All the same, I enjoyed this profile of Sir James Dyson, inventor of the most amazing hand dryers ever. And I found their profile of Mickey Drexler, the head of J. Crew, to be completely absorbing, considering that I have a very love-hate relationship with his products, and the direction he's turned the company. (Love their reinvention of classics. Hate the price. Hate the quality. Hate the way people obsess over their clothes.)
+ Plus, 10 best Oxford Novels...ie more Gaudy Night love.
Lastly: a fun video from the San Diego Museum of Art--installing their new Tolouse Lautrec exhibit, which I will might pop into with Agnes.