Banana Bread Recipe

Haven't made this in a couple years but it was always really good and really easy :-) I need to try making it without dairy/gluten but haven't tested that out yet... So for those of you without those issues:

Ingredients
8 Tbsp. (1 stick) sweet butter, room temperature
¾ cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup whole-wheat flour (I usually used 2 cups whole-wheat)
1 tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. salt
3 large ripe bananas, mashed
1 tsp. vanilla extract
½ cup shelled walnuts, coarsely chopped (optional)

Directions

1. Preheat oven to 350 F/175 C. Grease a 9 x 5 x 3 inch bread pan.
2. Cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition.
3. Sift all-purpose flour, baking soda and salt together, stir in whole-wheat flour and add to creamed mixture, mixing well.
4. Fold in mashed bananas, vanilla and walnuts.
5. Pour mixture into the prepared pan. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a cake tester inserted (wooden toothpick) in the center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 10 minutes, then on rack.

*hugs* Claudia

Banana Nut Oatmeal

Ingredients
3 cups milk
3 Tbspn brown sugar
3/4 teasp ground cinnamon
1/4 teasp ground nutmeg
2 cups oats
2 medium bananas
2 Tbspn crushed nuts

Directions
1. In medium saucepan bring milk, sugar and spices to a gentle boil.
2. Stir in the oats, return to boil. Reduce heat to medium
3. Cook until most liquid is absorbed.
4. Remove from heat, add bananas and nuts.

Ice Wine

Awoken before the roosters crow
A cloudless sky displays
the frosty stars above.
Clouds of vapor form
with each exhalation.
Leaves shatter below
our rubbered feet.
Gloved fingers grasp
delicate jade marbles.
A smooth swoop and
a thunk into the
wooden trellis.
Headlamps reveal the
hidden jewels, their
inorganic light forming
a lite-bright among
the darkened rows.
Sweat beads below
woolen hats.
Row after row,
the frozen gems
are collected for
their sweetness.
The roosters begin to wake,
as the sky turns orange
over the hills.
Until the next season.

Journal Review - The Paris Review

1. Editor, Publisher, etc.
Editor: Philip Gourevitch
Deputy Editor: Matt Weiland
Managing Editor: Caitlin Roper
Senior Editors: Christopher Cox, Nathaniel Rich
Poetry Editors: Dan Chiasson, Meghan O’Rourke
Paris Editor: Susannah Hunnewell
Advisory Editors: Sarah Fay, Gilles Peress
Readers: Kate Angus, Jeb Burt, Ian Ingram, Kalpana Narayanan
Publisher: Antonio Weiss
Past Publishers: Bernard F Conners, Ron Dante, Drue Heinz, Deborah Pease
Founding Publisher: Sadruddin Aga Khan

2. How often does the review come out?
Quarterly

3. The journals aesthetic
Neuveau chic.

4. Where does the journal publish?
New York, NY

5. What are the magazines submission guidelines?
All submissions must be submitted by mail and not electronically. All submissions must be in English and previously unpublished. Translations are accepted and should be accompanied by their original text. Simultaneous submission is allowed, however the Paris Review must be notified immediately if the manuscript is published elsewhere. Phone and email contact information must also be provided. It is suggested that those who wish to submit work should familiarize themselves with several issues of the Paris Review to gain a firm grasp of the type of material the magazine publishes. If you wish to have your manuscript returned you should include postage for a return.

Poetry: Should be mailed to the poetry editor at the journals address in New York. No more than six poems can be submitted at one time. The journal does not accept poetry submissions between June and August.

Short Story: Should be mailed to the fiction editor at the Paris Review in New York. No more than one short story can be submitted at one time.

Currently there are no submission guidelines for the oral history and the photography.

6.What does the journal publish?
Poetry
Short Stories
Interviews
Photography
Oral History

7.A piece the exemplifies the magazine
Old Apples
Coma of cold storage
Against the sweetening
Orchard – white petals
Wet dirt, shoots, dingy bees –
Last year’s apples
Comestible (just)
Faded Ted Williamses
Kept crisp at thirty-two
Point nine degrees
Because we change
Always, reckless wonders
Into the graspable
If superfluous item
To eat or to wear
Thus explaining
Among much else
Why the average vernal apple-eater
Is so quick to hate
A happy woman who likes to fuck.

- Beau Friedlander

8.A piece the you’re glad you found
a.Together Again (p. 87)

The Ceilidh

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Fife (yes, there is really such a place) there was a fair-skinned lass named Catriona and a young gent named Murray. One day in 1999, they met at an ice hockey game of the Fife Flyers, I wasn’t there so I’m not sure how it all went down, but I can imagine it was romantic in that 14-year old kind of way. You know, Murray awkwardly approaching Catriona and offering her his Iron Bru and some Walker’s shortbread. So here I am nine years later from that momentous occasion and trying not to roll my ankle as I walk up the gravel drive in 3-inch heels. Fiona and Malcolm had been amazing and picked me up at the Markinch rail station and the three of us made our way to the Balmeney House. My irritation at the little pebbles threatening to ruin my ankles melted away as we walked up the front steps of the manor house. The tan building infront of us a powerful building of times gone by, welcoming the wedding goers through its giant mouth. The red carpet up the step was the tongue leading into the belly of the beast. The wail of the bagpipe welcomes us to the event.
We are ushered into the ceremony hall, where a loud “PLATZER” is heard before I see a dark haired and hat-wearing Hannah running toward me. I’m enveloped in her embrace before I can say hello. Her hair is shorter from the last time I saw her, her labret gone, and she looks like she’s rested (the first time in I don’t know how long). Fiona and Malcolm each receive their mandatory hugs before we are shepherded to our seats by the women in suit vests. A mixture of friends and family fill the rows, those in full Scottish attire, some in pseudo-Scottish attire (they wish they were Scottish), women with simple hats and those with elaborate designs often seen at Ascot, and then those with no hats. The piper leads the wedding party, followed by the justice, parents of the bride and groom, the groom and then the bridesmaids and then finally the bride. Catriona in her sparkling full-length wedding gown, carrying the seasonal flowers of the Scottish autumn, looks like she is about to start giggling at any moment. We sit and listen to the wedding vows and announcements, I can hardly see over a silver mesh hat with incredibly long feathers protruding from it. When all is said and done and the marriage official has corrected the signing of the bride and groom and the entire room has erupted in a fit of giggles, we are ushered out to the front steps to be photographed. I’m pretty sure you can see me behind the enormous pillar of sandstone.
We return to the warmth and comfort of the drawing rooms and bar, filling our stomachs with fruit cider (not the kind we have in the States) and sugar dusted shortbread. The snacks and drinks scream Catriona and Murray and their sweet tooth, but the down time allows us to mingle with other St. Andrews graduates in attendance. It is fantastic to finally see Hannah, Charlotte and Louise. Fiona, Hannah and I reminisce about times in two Alfred Place, lamenting at the absence of Lynsey, who is down in Oz shooting films about Toto and women in stripped stockings wearing red shoes. The nostalgia comes flooding out and stories long forgotten are resurfaced. Fiona explains to Malcolm, “See! I told you Hannah was a little crazy.” To which Hannah takes no offence and makes a Little Britain reference. The laughter that filled our home is brought back and it feels great to see everyone again. Hannah regales us with her trip on the train to come to the wedding. She started her journey at 6:30 am in jeans and a sweater, changing into tights, dress, pumps, make up and complete with hat pinned into her hair in the bathroom of a Virgin Train. We all believe the feat is that of one of Superman’s, how ever did he change in the tiny space of a telephone booth?
Eventually we fill out wish cards to attach to the wish tree for Catriona and Murray, the modern day equivalent of a guest book. We then make our way down to the dining room, where we must locate our table, __________. The dinner is not much different from any other wedding I had been to thus far, the embarrassing speech from the best man, the loving speeches of fathers and mothers and bridesmaids. I’m really antsy to get dancing though and cannot wait for the tables to be cleared and the band to set up.
When they finally do clear the tables and prepare the dance floor, the ceilidh band begins to set up. The bandleader it looks like is wearing a completely tartan suit, which we press Malcolm to find out where he got it from. The instruments come out one by one, first the drums, then the fiddle, then the bodhran, and finally the accordion. While they warm up, Craig and Malcolm discuss the appropriate time to remove ones jacket and bowtie. Once the music begins people are restrained in their willingness to dance, clearly not enough alcohol has been consumed yet. Then the first couple walks up to the dance floor, the man in his late 50’s wearing the bright red tartan of the Campbell clan and his partner in a lovely modern dress. They are soon followed by partners of all ages, in various forms of traditional wear.
The first dance of the evening is the Highland Barn Dance, the couple form a circle with the men on the inside and women on the right side of them. The couples move three steps forward and hop, then turn around and take three steps backwards and hop. The men move two steps into the circle, while the women move two steps toward the edge, a clap, then both return to their partners and hold in a ballroom dance, and skip to the man’s left for two steps. To finish off the round the partners polka for four steps anticlockwise around the circle. This is repeated over and over, and partners always get the counting wrong and end up running into nearby couples, but then again it wouldn’t be a ceilidh if you didn’t get run into another couple.
The band follows up a Gay Gordons, the Virginia Reel, and the Circassian Circle. Craig and I join in during the Gay Gordons, similar to the Highland Barn dance only four steps forward and backward instead of three and more spinning than the Barn dance. This is always an easier dance to learn as a virgin to ceilidh dancing, because the steps aren’t very complicated. It also serves well as a warm up dance to break into, what you know will be more complicated dances. By the end of the Virginia Reel my feet are throbbing from the heels and they are quickly discarded below a table. A quick glance around the room reveal high heels strewn about the floor, the accessories of the kilt the sgian dubh are no longer safely in the side of the wool socks but in the sporran and the laces Ghillie broghues have come down. We swelter from the thicker autumnal wear and excess physical activity. Mascara lines dark circles below our eyes, what ever glow I had at the start of the evening is no longer there, it is replaced by a more pungent shimmer of perspiration.
The final song the band plays is the Strip the Willow, one of the most popular ceilidh songs out there. As though magic the announcement of the song invigorated almost all of the wedding guests to the dance floor. Extra tables were pushed aside to make room for the incredibly long lines of couples. The tablecloths now stained with wine and beer from spilled drinks, empty pint glasses decorated the tabletops. Shoes and jackets were off, this was serious business. Craig grabbed my hand and pulled me in line opposite him. The accordion player explained the steps slowly for good measure, although everyone already knew the point of the dance. Catriona and Murray lead the line of men and women and began their 16 spins at the top of the line. Her white dress spread around, swirling dervish style. Murray’s kilt lifting up held down only by the sporran. They split and turn to the next person in the line to spin once and then meet in the middle again to spin, they continue along the line. The next couple takes their turn at the head of the lines and begins their 16-spin start. Kilts lift with momentum, threatening to expose a full Scotsman. The next couple goes, and the ones after them and so forth until Craig and I are at the lead.
We meet in the middle and my right arm crosses my left to grab his hands and we begin to spin. Faster and faster, the bottom of my dress spins around me like a flying saucer. Faster still, until my feet no longer touch the wooden floor. I focus on Craig’s face to keep from being dizzy. The neon-colored lights from the band swirl around me, blurring in my peripheral vision. Everything begins to spin; I can’t tell if it is the alcohol finally taking its toll or the swift movement of the dance. We separate and I stumble to find my next partner, thrown back into the middle, Craig and I spin once more. I break away to find my next spinner, who is taller and swiftly picks me up off the floor as we spin around in a circle. We continue between the two lines of couples, spinning and breaking away. The musicians pick up the pace and we move faster and faster down the line. Spin, break away, spin, break away, spin. The balls of my feet are burning at the end of the line, as though I’ve just walked across hot coals.
When we finish along the line, we join our respective gender or partner lines and wait for the following couple to arrive. The musicians begin to slow the pace and finally finish the song. The room erupts in cheering and applause, the crowds shouting for another song. Yet it is late and the pumpkin hour is approaching. The band packs up their instruments with care and the neon lights shut down. The crowd separates off to find our personal belongings scattered about the hall. I locate one shoe under the “Ich Liebe Dich” table and my other under the “Jag alskar dig” table. I collapse into a chair as I attempt to place my feet into my shoes; Craig squats beside me and eases my sore toes into my slippers. “Thank you prince Charming”, I say. “My lady I believe our carriage awaits”, he replies. We locate Catriona and Murray to say our good byes and find out their honeymoon location. Egypt for two weeks. Our final 2 Alfred Place photo tells of the fantastic night we had. “I’m not sure when I’ll see you next Smith, but hopefully sooner rather than later”, I say as I give Catriona a hug. “We’ll have a proper Alfoot reunion when Lynsey is back and you can fly over again”, Catriona responds. In true ball style the carriages awaited us at midnight and we retired to our chambers with dances of kilts in our heads.

Chef's House (alt. ending)

Chef’s House (alternate ending)

One afternoon Wes was in the yard pulling weeds when Chef drove up in front of the house. I was in the kitchen mixing lemonade. I could hear the gravel beneath Chef’s big truck before I looked out the window. A town police car followed Chefs truck up the drive. The sun was high in the sky clear and skies provided uninterrupted views of the dunes. Wes stood up and cupped his hand above his eyes to see who was approaching. He rested his tools on the ground and walked toward the two vehicles.

Chef and two officers meandered up the path to meet Wes. They shook hands. I pushed through the screen door as they came walking up the steps. I don’t want to ruin your weekend folks, Chef said as they approached the door. But we just want to alert you to the presence of two men on the run from the law, the officer said. An incident had occurred in town and the two suspects were still to be caught. What kind of incident, I asked. A family was found murdered three days ago, responded the officer avoiding eye contact. Wes took of his hat and held it in his hands as he too cast his eyes downward. We want you to be aware of the situation and if you see anyone come through these here woods you’ll let us know, the officer explained. Of course they will. I was just going to show the officer here the path down to the stream, Chef said, pointing toward the opening in the woods at the other end of the yard. We were there yesterday morning and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, Wes replied, but have a look.

Chef and the officer turned and walked down the yard toward the woods. Wes, I don’t have such a great feeling about this, what if those men come through the woods and find the house, I said. Wes put his arm around me and looked toward the entrance to the woods. We went into the house to get some lemonade and wait for Chef and the officer.
I hope they find those men soon, I said sitting down on the sofa.
We’ll just have to keep our eyes open and make sure we lock the doors at night, Wes said leaning toward the back window to look at the woods. He started pacing around the house, going from room to room, opening doors and closets and closing them again.
Wes, Chef and the officer will let us know if they find something out there. No use worrying about it until we hear something, I said.

I think we should get some protection, said Wes looking out front.
Let’s wait and see what happens, take it easy Wes, I said.
Maybe a gun or a baseball bat. Then I won’t be accused of anything. Shovel. Wes said to himself.
He kept looking out the window, thinking. Wes finished off his lemonade in one big gulp and went in the kitchen to fix another.
Why didn’t they tell us sooner, Wes said coming back into the living room.
I don’t know. Come sit, I’ve been in here all day I would have noticed if someone had come in, I said.
Wes sat next to me on the sofa and I rested my head against his shoulder. He put his arm around me. I’m scared, I said. We’ll be alright, he said, they’ll catch those men.
I wonder what happened to that family. I said. It is so awful. Why would anyone do something like that?
I don’t know, but I wonder if it was reported in the newspaper, Wes said getting up to find the most recent paper. He came back with yesterday’s paper. The front page was titled Murder in Small Town! Wes read the article to himself. Looks like it was a family with two young children and it was a very violent crime, Wes said. I looked out the window, thinking. We’ll just have to make sure we always lock the doors, Wes said.
Yes, and we will have to stay awake when we go fishing by the stream, I said.
I’m relaxed here, I don’t want to worry about this, Wes said.
I know, this house has been a safe place for you, I said
If they come, they’ll get a piece of my mind, he said.
Calm down, I said, they are dangerous criminals.
Who are in our house, he said.
Chef’s house, I said.
Right, he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. He got up from the sofa and walked to the kitchen window. Chef and the officer were walking back up from the woods to the house. Wes went out to meet them on the porch. I followed Wes. Well folks, the officer said, we didn’t find anything today. Oh good, I said. But we’d like to keep an eye on it, if that’s alright with you, the officer asked. Not a problem, right Wes, Chef said giving Wes a pat on the shoulder. No, of course come by when you need, Wes said. Please give us a call anytime you feel something has changed around here, the officer said. Will do officer, Wes said. They shook hands and the office got into his police car. Wes, Chef, and I watched him drive off. Thanks for your help, Wes, Chef said, let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. I think we’re all right for now, Wes said.
This is pretty scary stuff eh, Chef said.
It is, Wes said.
Hopefully they’ll catch them soon, Chef said.
Yes, I hope so, Wes said.
I should go. Keep an eye out and lock your doors, Chef said.
Will do, thanks for stopping by, Wes said.
Well if you folks feel nervous about staying here, we can figure something out, Chef said.
No, we like it here, Wes said.
With that Chef got in his truck and drove off toward the freeway. Wes collected the garden tools in the yard. I went inside to start dinner. Wes came in and locked the door behind him.

The Zipper

If you ask me how this all happened I don’t exactly know, all I know it the before and after. The before started at five on a regular Saturday morning, Dean, Alex and I headed along Route 65, the red dust flying in our wake. When we left the apartment the stars still shone above, guiding us forward. Alex had come well prepared with a thermos of strong coffee and bagels. Dean was blasting Journey’s Don’t stop Believin’ through the stereo, and we were all singing along. I sat in the back stuffing my face as I watched the outlines of cacti. Behind us the sun was peeking near the horizon, a purple haze leading the way.

We reached our favorite spot, just as the lights in the sky were being turned off one by one. It was a quiet Saturday morning and only a singular silver truck was parked at the base of the red wall in front of us. Two other climbers were unloading their gear next to the silver truck. We extracted ourselves from Dean’s car and began unloading ropes, harnesses, bags of carabineers, chalk bags, climbing shoes, and the cooler of beer (for post climb of course!). Alex and I double-checked our gear as we went along.

We paused to glance up at the deep red wall ahead of us, each taking turns to point out where we wanted to climb or avoid. We all agreed to pause at the halfway ledge for rest and water, knowing full well that by the time we reached the ledge and the top, the midday Arizona sun would be ferocious. I led my usual stretching routine; Alex and Dean attempted to follow. I found a great spot to boulder and warm up and went at it. My taped fingers grasping the red mounds in front of me, hoisting myself upward, my toes pushing against the boulder, sans footholds. My tired body, waking every muscle I could ever think of. I made my way up the boulders, bringing my feet closer to my hands and then pushing upward and then repeating. After bouldering down, I started on lateral movement, forcing myself to stay as close to the wall as possible. I reached away to my left my left foot finding a place hold about four feet away, a great split movement, pushing off my right big toe, my right side rejoined the left. My front was covered in red dust as I hopped down to the ground.

The hills were bright orange by then and we could feel the sun heating up the earth below our feet. The other climbers had begun their climb, I could spot them clipping in and moving upward. They had great form, sticking close to the wall, moving legs first then arms, four-limbed spiders, their ropes descending like a silk web.

After our warm up, we stripped down from out sweats and thermal tops. I had volunteered to lead the route; placing hexcentric clips into the wall to safely guide us upward. We reviewed the planned route one more time and I then I was off with a bag of chalk and hexcentrics clipped to the back of my harness. My fingers found the first hold easily and I pushed myself upward off the wall with my toes. After about four feet I found a crack to place the first hex into, climbing further upward, pausing every four feet to place hexcentrics. My rope followed me, bouncing off the wall underneath me. The visible footholds were becoming less frequent and I had to delicately balance against the smooth wall surface, using my arms more than I liked to.

I heard Alex call up that she has hooked in and was making her way up. I could feel her weight at the end of the rope and I shouted to Dean for more rope. I could see the half way ledge about 30 feet ahead of me. My arms ached from reaching, my hands cracked and sliced, and chalk powdered my face. Just make it to the ledge and you can rest, I told myself. I thought of the water in my bottle, sitting and letting my arms relax. I was looking forward to watching the sunshine through the cinnamon rock arch. The sun had begun beating against the wall, warming the soil in my hands. I reached back with my left arm for some more chalk, the fingers on my right hand firmly grasping a small hold. I heard a faint crumbling sound and looked up to see the source of the noise.

Now here I am, three months, three surgeries, and two physical therapists later. I sit out on my deck looking toward the deep red hills at sunset and think about that climb, and those before it. Recalling the snow capped mountains in New Hampshire, spotting a cougar in the Rockies, and the red dust of Arizona. My hands are no longer dry and cracked, I never knew my fingernails could be long and shapely. My calluses on my palms have disappeared. The fine outline of muscle along my back has faded and only my arms continue to work.

I have learned to rely upon my arms to propel me forward. For now I ignore the fatigue that plagues my thin arms, I just want to move upward not backward. Of course I wish I could be climbing instead of sitting here listening to Lucy, instruct me on the proper form of lifting oneself. I’ve lost my adrenaline rush and the uninterrupted view for miles and miles of desert with no one to bother you about your pain levels of the day.

Some say I’m lucky; that surviving a zipper fall is a rarity. Lucky is not the word I would choose to describe my situation. My toes will never grasp for holds, I will never push off my legs to move up a wall, and I will never shimmy up a squeeze chimney.

I long for the days of strong coffee and bagels at five in the morning.