SMORGASBORD

 

Corn Ribs from FAM.

Honestly, doesn't this picture tell the story?

How better to begin an adventure than to enjoy a smorgasbord of delectable foods from the Restaurant 39 at the First American Museum in OKC. Without giving thought to calories we ordered two appetizers. “Corn Ribs” my favorite because of the texture and unique flavors, and skillet cornbread. Once again presentation and fresh spices make this extraordinary. The cornbread disappeared while I ate the extra corn ribs.  

The four amiche, traveling adventuresses, completed our meal with individual servings of turkey sandwich / grilled garlic potatoes, salad with every color of green, veggie bowl of circus colors with unidentified flavors, and rich creamy corn chowder. We forgot to save room for Popcorn Crème Brulé, but it only took one glance by each of us to realize that we could devour this delectable dessert, full or not. Closing our eyes and smiling like we tasted heaven the dessert added very few calories to our day since we split it four ways. (Yes, we tasted the popcorn.)

Susan Allgood, Letty Watt, Leah Jackson, Rowena Shuma at the
Oklahoma Contemporary Art Center

 On this wintery March day the cold winds blew us inside for another "Smorgasbord of Foods" of the one dimensional kind. 

Leah studying the work of Kathrine Ace, with Warhol is shown to the right. 

The reviewers for The Art of Food exhibit were correct. The museum show delighted our senses. 

These two paintings by Kathrine Ace, which attracted my imagination are created by collaging, scraping, and spattering the surface of her paintings in an almost sculptural way. The artist uses a mass of newspapers, fruit, and flowers strewn upon a painterly surface from which the palimpsests of old master paintings peek through. (The museum curator used one of my favorite words, palimpsest, which I first learned from Louise Penney's character Gamache and his wife, Reine-Marie, who is an archivist librarian in Quebec City, when they described how a message was written over an authentic manuscript that could solve the case.)

The Works of Kathrine Ace

My mind wonders when art and language come together, more so because I often don't have words to describe what my eyes see; my taste buds and smell desire; or my hand wants to touch. Perhaps that is why Warhol never appealed to me. What is there to sense in his flat work? 

 

The commotion and fishy characters in this art by WARRINGTON COLESCOTT left me desiring a whiff and salty taste of fresh ocean foods. (Look for me at the Lobster food truck in OKC soon.)

"Fish Eaters" is a depiction of historical events, contemporary political, and social climate with unique sometimes humorous interpretations. The description goes on to say that the artist is paying homage to his love of seafood while living in the Pacific Northwest by amusingly showcasing a variety of marine and human life indulging in fish delicacies.  Warrington Colescott

I wonder first what I am seeing or feeling before reading the descriptions. More often I find that I am not seeing everything the artist intended, but I do see enough to remember the moment or not. 

The contemporary show is based the idea that the visual attraction to foods is universal. Evolution, it says suggests that we enjoy looking at food because the brain anticipates the physical satisfaction derived from eating. So why not close with a dessert of 18th century delights like sugared figurines.

2014 Chris Antemann, is known for her parodies of 18th century

porcelain figurines and dining culture. 

Chris Antemann

The Yellow Bag

I didn't hear my knee pop, nor did I feel the kneecap slide off to the side. Oh, but I felt the cold rush of snow being forced down my pink ski suit when I fell into the snow drift on the left side of the ski slope.

No longer racing down the ski slope, I found myself covered in snow and my left leg twisted with the ski tip buried sideways in a snowbank. The trees over head seemed to be shaking their heads saying, "You knew better than to try this steep slope on the last run of the day." Perhaps that was my mother whispering to me from my childhood. "You know better!" 

Suddenly, my daughter and husband rush to a stop and Katy screams "Mom Mom..." I have no reply.  The snow is soft and comforting. Slowly and carefully she and Jack pull my arms lifting me to stand. The left leg releases from the snow drift. It is my turn to scream and collapse. 

"I can't stand," I moan as warm tears drop from my eyes only to freeze in tiny rivulets. Collapsing into a pile in the snow I slump quietly trying to figure out how to get down the slope. People race by and the three of us look around searching  for help. We are all helpless. One person stopped and hollered, "Do you need help?"

"Yes," three voices chorused back.

Feeling embarrassed and deflated I leaned back into the snow drift. Before long two young men flew into our nest of worries. My eyes looked up to their youthful bodies, internally I am laughing. I am actually being rescued and not by a Swiss Mountain dog. Although I'm thinking the lick from a warm loving dog sure would feel reassuring. 

As women, we are never too old to notice handsome young men, even if they are covered from head to toe in ski pants, goggles, snow caps, and gloves. 

Mumbled conversations between the ski patrol, myself, and my family circled around me. The young men unzipped the left leg of my ski suit and rolled it up to look at my swollen knee. Turning away I begin to talk about anything that comes to my tongue. This is how I handle needles and injections from the nurse, I talk talk talk. 

"

Ma'am, relax back into the snow while we take your skies off and carry you to the sled," the young man with sparkling brown eyes calmly stated. I'm thinking that I am too young to be called Ma'am when they whisk me up off the snow and slide me onto a yellow tarped pad. With my head lower than my legs, pointing down the slope I attempt to suggest that I would rather go feet first (something about the days of cowboys and broken legs). They are ignoring me like my children do. 

I watch my surroundings aware of people passing me and staring, suddenly the yellow tarp is pulled over my head, wrapped around my body and I am strapped into it. My heart begins to pound. I can't see the landscape. The voices are undefined for me now, but I know a young man has told my husband and daughter to meet us at the Red Cross sign at the bottom of the hill. 

Before I can take another breath I feel the swish swish of skis pulling me swiftly downhill. Without warning we slide over mogul after mogul and my body rolls and glides like a dolphin through the water. The rush of  sexual sensations flows over my body and I giggle. My hips and pelvis are nearly vibrating. My imagination has now taken over and I'm flushed with excitement. Parts of my body have floated to a new rocky mountain high,  "Oh, God, I think. Please don't pay attention to me."

I am honestly embarrassed? No one can see me. Over a mogul I glide, my body quivers with excitement and my mind has let go of the tension. 

My breathing is faster, my body is quivering, and my brain is ready to explode.

“Red Cross, clear the way,” a young man yells bringing me back to my senses and my reality.

Flat. I feel flat. My breathing slows to long inhales and exhales.  In an instance they unbuckle me and carrying me inside.

"Ma'am, we need you to take your snowsuit off so we can adjust your knee cap." 

Turning to my husband, we slowly begin to unzip and peal my warm pink snow suit from the top of the zipper to my pelvic area, but I cannot pull my busted knee out of the lined leg. With the help of the young boys Jack and I slide, tug and slip off the jumpsuit off until it crumples on the floor. I am thankful for the long underwear. 

With Jack patting me on the shoulder, the two men slowly and gently begin to pull my long underwear off both legs. Within seconds a heated warm blanket is placed across my shoulders and midriff, and I hum quietly to myself: "Take me home, country roads..."

The warmth and relaxation floats down my body to my cold toes. Before I can sit up or move I hear a commanding voice "Ma'am" and I sense gravity at the end of the table. I yell, "My name is Letty."

Jack pats me on the shoulder and someone is laughing in the room, when a young man says, "Ok, Letty this may hurt."

It's not hurting. I've sucked in enough air to float.

Suddenly, I bellow like a cow giving birth as my breath pushes out. 

"Letty, it's over. You can breathe," my husband says.

I glance at my left kneecap sitting correctly on the knee even though it looks like it is sitting on a deflated balloon with the swelling keeping the knee cap in place. With the help from my daughter we pull up the long underwear and ski suit. 

"You may need take a couple of Advil before going to sleep tonight," the young man said as he placed a cardboard cast around my knee, down around the ankle.  Then wraps it with stretchable tape. 

Two weeks later, the knee was healed, and the crutches returned. Looking back, I realize how young I was at thirty-six. 

Decades later, a doctor asked, "When did you tear your ACL?" 

I smiled, remembering the excitement I felt in that yellow bag. " A long time ago," I replied.  

**Thank you Sue Thomas Weese for the lovely Colorado photos.