Laurie Gould: Don


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A Massachusetts Yankee in King Louis' Court

I have spent the past week in Louisville for work.  While I am generally cranky about travel that takes me away from home and family for extended periods (in fact, I am cranky right now!), I have to say that I have found Louisville to be totally captivating.  We in the Northeast tend to be a little arrogant about our cosmopolitan lifestyles.   But really, we should get over ourselves.   Louisville has everything Boston has, and then some. 

To start with, these people know how to deploy plastic wildlife. 

Spring Fever

It's a Saturday, a little after 1:00; and as is my usual routine at this hour, I am waiting for my daughter to finish her clarinet lesson.  I'm about to eat a lovely lunch, washed down with a delicious latte, in a charming cafe.

And I am counting the minutes until I can escape this Hell and hit the garden.


Breakfast in Bed

Home alone on Mother's Day, I decide to take matters into my own hands and make  breakfast in bed for myself:

Happy Mother's Day!

p.s.  Have a listen to this sneak preview of a song from my new album -- it will sound way better after it's edited; but it's the right tune for the day, so I couldn't resist:

I'm Turning Into My Mother



It's almost Mother's Day: are you turning into your mother??

Here's a sneak preview of a song from my new album -- not quite in final form; but I think you can get the idea!   "I'm Turning Into My Mother" was recorded during February school vacation week with an intrepid gang of 10 moms, daughter and grandmas, aged 15 to 67.   Singers include:   Julia Ansolabehere, Sophie Pels, Claire McEwen, Sonia Joffe, Molly Dalzell, Linda Toote, Mary Elise Connelly, Judy Weber, Liz Haas, and your truly.   Instrumentalists include Jim Gwin on drums, Tony D'Amico on bass, and the inimitable Richard Travers on piano.

Have a listen!!!   I'm Turning Into My Mother

And while we're on the topic:  check out Beth Teitell's deiightful piece in today's Boston Globe.

On my mind

So I am walking down the street in Boston and I find myself in the middle of a group of young, blonde women, in their late teens or early twenties.  They are beautiful, these young women, with long legs and silky golden tresses.   I am thinking that when I was their age, theirs was considered the pinnacle of female beauty:  the willowy Scandinavian, the blonde bombshell.   And I am thinking how wonderful it is that our culture has evolved to embrace beauty in so many more colors and cultures and varieties.  

Still, I'm thinking, these blonde babes are undeniably gorgeous.  It's the first truly warm day of spring and they are wearing shorts, and sandals, and crop tops.   And I'm thinking about the story that the Boston Globe ran a few days ago about fashion trends for spring.   Fashion is a realm in which I am inept, but aspirational; so I read that article start to finish (easy to do; there were lots of pictures and not many words).  

Voting feet

I am in a shoe store, trying to replace the ugliest shoes in the world.


Seed Porn

It was a grueling winter in most of the country; certainly in Boston, where the first day of spring still looked like this:

But I am a gardener, and gardeners know that winter is a critical season.  It gives the earth and its human cultivators a chance to recharge, re-assess, rehydrate.   To engage in long, leisurely fantasies about the growing season to come, unhampered by the realities of pests, diseases, or evil bunnies.   Also to buy things. 

Plant fantasies and the acquisitive impulse unite gloriously in the seed catalogues that start filling my mailbox as early as November.


Boarding the Friendly Skies

We will be boarding the plane this morning by group number.  Your group number should be printed on your boarding pass in inescapably large font.  If you do not have a group number on your boarding pass it means that you have failed in some way.  Please approach the podium so that we can mock you.


A sneak preview video from my new album, "Anxiety Dream," to be released this summer!   But I'm sure you'll agree that this particular tune is much more appropriate now:


Calling all lactobacilli

If you know me, or if you’ve been reading the blog for a bit, you may be aware that I have certain Earth mother habits which, depending on your perspective, make me a paragon of righteous living, a sanctimonious prig, or a hopeless eccentric.    Most of these habits center on food:  I make all of our household’s bread (whole grain, sourdough), as well as salad dressing, soup stock, corn tortillas.   Most important, I’ve never met a vegetable I didn’t like, with the exception of okra, because it is objectively disgusting.

Before you get too concerned, let me set your mind at ease. I wear lipstick.  I don’t own a pair of Birkenstock.   I made damn sure that my children got every single one of their vaccinations, right on time.   And then I had the pediatrician give them a few extra shots for good measure.

But I do have this vegetable thing, which led me to sign on to a year-round farmshare.  Yes, this is in addition to my vegetable garden.   So there are times of the year when I harvest head after head of lettuce, and then eagerly tear open my farmshare box to find....a half-bushel of lettuce.  But that’s OK with me.  Because who can ever have enough lettuce?



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