Ingredients

Granola starts with ingredients. Good, wholesome and often hippie-laden ingredients. A few weeks ago, Edge and I spent an afternoon chasing down dried fruit, stone ground oats, various nuts, and choice cuts of bacon. Bacon neutralizes the strong smell of patchouli oil and healthiness often synonymous with small batch granola. Here are the ingredients we used.

Strawberries.

Sesame Seeds.

Sliced Almonds.

Pumpkin Seeds.

Cherries.

Bacon 1.

Bacon 2.

Bacon 3.

Coconut.

Walnuts.

Oats.

Blueberries.

Sunflower Seeds.

The finished result.

These photos were taken with a Polaroid Image Pro.

Here are some more links,
Granola: Ingredients (Picasa).

Back to the Beach

The beaches were empty, save for the few early morning joggers and type-A Manhattanites staking their claim to a section of prime beachfront. Distracted by the excitement of seeing the open ocean for the first time in months, I walked fifty feet beyond the end of the road. Feeling the familiar yet unnerving feeling of sand bouncing around the inside of my shoes, I stopped. One by one I took each shoe off and threw them in my backpack and stepped into the tepid water.

With the deliberation of a kindergartner picking a scratch and sniff sticker earned from thirty days of punctual attendance, I looked right and left down the shoreline. Squeezing and releasing sand between my toes, I picked a direction and started walking towards a distant turn in the shoreline.

As if attempting to signal distant airliners making their way westward with a mirror, I took off my shirt, exposing the ill effects of a summer's worth of work spent inside. Despite the imminence of a serious sunburn, I marched on enjoying the lapping of the knee-high waves and occasional seagull flying by.

Shreddin'.

Rock tumbler.

A stairway to heaven.

Meandering down the beach, I stopped frequently to dive into the sporadic waves and do handstands in the morning's heat.

A few happy seagulls and even more happy crabs.

As the beach picked up with the arrival of various Defender 90s and other topless, "Out East" cars, I headed towards the bluffs. Chasing the breeze's acceleration and change of direction through the tall grass, I grinned to myself, "It's been too long."

Here are some more links,
Running on Empty (Picasa),
The Ocean (ART).

Sprawling

Leaving behind the rolling hills and rugged coast of New England, I moved to the depths of New York City. For three months, I adjusted to my new surroundings. Slowly, and with repetition, I found my footing in a new place that I am calling home for the foreseeable future.

Viewed from the window of the backseat of cabs and late night wonderings, street corners and landmarks etched themselves into my subconscious knowledge of the city. As my comfort with my surroundings increased, I started taking my camera with me.

On walks to and from work, evening outings and lazy Saturday afternoons I snap photos with the same attitude and intentions as I did in Maine. In the absence of sharing my photos on my blog, I email my photos to my friends and family, impatiently waiting on their responses.

Russ & Daughters.

Ice fishing traps.

New York summers are humid.

My favorite snack.

Loud Horn.

A Maine Coon Cat in the West Village.

Bass and Karen and Sara of the Identical Eye.

I love the buildings and skyline.

Patrick enjoying a beverage.

Unlike its fancy German counterparts behind it, this Man's car refuses to be parked like a case of Diet Coke at a Costco.

Tonal.

Summer

Excited by the vibrancy of my new environment and surrounded by inspiring people from all walks of life, I am more at home than ever. I miss sunsets uninterrupted by jagged roof tops and the sound of morning doves, but welcome the excitement of a new place. Away from ice shanties, flying shoes, and rural farmers, I search for my voice and perspective in a new city. I am eager, yet in no rush. My photos and writing will look and feel different, but that's what I want. I am growing up.

Here are some more links,
Sprawling (Picasa),
August 1st (Picasa).

Oak Island

Blowing the red Old Country canoe off course, the wind skipped across Great Pond. Paddling towards a distant point on the wooded shore, I dug deep, as if avoiding a violent waterfall in some rain forest jungle. Slowly and with much effort, the canoe's bow ticked back on course. As my shoulders burned, I reevaluated my course and headed towards the protection of the saw-like shoreline. Protected from the wind by tree covered points, I made my way towards a dock and my waiting friends.

"What took you so long?" Dan asked as I got to the dock.

"The wind, Dude. Do you see those white caps?" I responded as I caught my breath. "It feels like you're paddling upstream."

Quickly we packed the remaining sleeping bags, food and fishing poles into the canoe and pushed off the dock. With the help of two more paddlers and a stiff tailwind, we made it back to Oak Island in a third of the time.

Stashing the canoe between two trees, we set up camp in proper Huck Finn fashion, and headed out to explore the island. With a few hours of sun remaining in the early summer evening, we set off across the island in search for fishing holes, traces of other campers and the highest point on the island.

In the distance, loons called as the first mosquitoes of the season buzzed around, settling on exposed skin.

A goose feather blowing away.

Spencer searching for the source of a distant loon call.

Pack out all trash. Extinguish all fires. Cut only dead trees. Bury human waste 100 feet from water.

Crawling around the shoreline, we hopped from rock to rock avoiding the tepid water. Dropping towards the hills to the west, the sun cast an orange hue on the trees and rocks. Consecrating the first days of summer, I rolled up my jeans to below the knee and liberated my feet, going barefoot on the rocks and pine needles.

Isolated by a half mile of water on each side and claimed by a thin pillar of smoke from a lone campfire, the island was ours. As if aware of the potential pranks and horseplay offered by a half dozen twenty year olds, the occasional boat gave the island a wide birth.

Walking to our camp and the promise of freshly cooked sausages, I murmured out loud, "This is the perfect place for a fort."

Here are some more links,
Oak Island (Picasa),
Great Pond (ART).