Marzipan, cream, sponge, raspberry jam, the magical appearance of my once-a-year cake (thanks Dwight), another year to own my age.
Category: Living
Back to School
Digs for my new Friday noon gig where I’ll be working with six adult non-native English speakers on GED Reasoning Through Language Arts. It’s energizing being with learners who want to learn.
Interpreting American Music
Tonight: dinner and a show at the Dakota Jazz Club, downtown Minneapolis. Lizz Wright interpreted Jazz, Blues, Gospel, the American Songbook.
Tree Tunnel
Cycled along a lovely rail trail from Hopkins to Wayzata on Lake Minnetonka. Fresh cinnamon rolls powered the ride back.
A New Neighborhood
Cycled past this building. It was falling down until developers rescued the surviving structure. Nearby, apartments are going up on brownfield land. We’d planned to have dinner here with friends, but postponed: both friends have had COVID, one still tests positive.
Learning from Failure
Built then pulled apart a LEGO mechanism that didn’t pass muster as part of a larger mechanism. Time for more research, a better design, another iteration. Often, there’s more to learn from failure than success.
Shrub in an Ocean of Mulch and Lawn
Admired a modest shrub Dwight had transplanted for our building’s gardening club. We support replacing some lawns and mulch with native grasses and other plantings, but many of our neighbors probably prefer things as they are.
No Karma, Good Mojo
Tied up my bicycle at Carma Coffee. (The owners operate a car repair business across the road, hence the spelling.) There was a line, so I pedaled to Mojo Coffee Gallery where I ordered an Americano.
Like a Model Railroad
I have several favorite viewpoints around the Cities. Today I cycled to my favorite railroad perch, the St. Anthony Parkway Bridge, spanning 22 tracks. There was so much activity, it started to feel unreal: I imagined myself towering over a busy model railroad.
Featureless Faces
Inside, featureless faces stared out from a wall while two men sat at laptops. “How did you find us?” one asked. “I was cycling past and noticed the open door,” I replied. Perhaps anticipating another prosaic response, he didn’t ask for my thoughts about the art. Or, maybe, he’d already asked.