Catching up on VPR Commentaries!

Well, the last year sped by and here I am finally uploading links to the last few VPR commentaries in one fell swoop.

A Tale of Two Teens in Two Cities for Two Weeks!  -  July 2013

The Gratitude of Living  -  November 2014

College Bound  -  February 2014

Hope you like them and Happy Spring!

Annie

New VPR Commentary: The Butter Story

A new VPR commentary which aired a few days ago, part of the Nat'l Day of Listening series: http://www.vpr.net/episode/49990/

Hope you like it and that your Thanksgiving was wonderful!

Take a cup of kindness: Reflections and resolution on New Year's Eve

I wouldn't call it schadenfreude, exactly, but at this time of year I feel an odd mixture of glee that I'm no longer a twenty-something urbanite scrambling to have the perfect New Year's Eve and a slightly amused empathy for anyone who is.

When I consider what Dec. 31sts used to be like during that phase of life, it all becomes one blur of so-so entertainment, insufferable crowds, mediocre food and, all too often, anti-climactic midnights.

There was the time my friends and I piled into someone's sprawling Cadillac and drove from San Francisco to Portland, Ore., to see The Pretenders, whose concert we'd just attended the night before, only to find a hand-scrawled note on the door of the auditorium saying the drummer had hurt his wrist and the show was canceled. When the clock struck midnight, instead of gyrating to "Brass In Pocket" and reveling in our collective cool under falling confetti and a spinning mirrored ball, we were drowning our sorrows in watery milkshakes at a low-lit diner.

One New Year's Eve I was scheduled to perform with my tap troupe in an opulent bar called Oz at the top of the Westin St. Francis in San Francisco. It was a well-paying gig and, as I was putting myself through college, I needed to put the budget before socializing

Peeking out from the dressing room, I could see that already most of the couples looked as if they were ready to change partners and groups of friends appeared bored witless by each other's company. Upon discovering that the marble stage area was slick as ice, we had to simplify the entire show just to avoid breaking a limb and our cocktail-infused, companion-maxed audience seemed about as enrapt as if we were delivering a lecture on the plight of the rare and endangered crested newt.

I recall another end-of-year disappointment when my friends and I got soaked as we waited in pelting rain to get into a new club to see a ska band from London. After being herded through the front doors, we were informed that the dance floor was beyond capacity. We therefore heard, but did not actually see the band from a sardine-tin lobby and ended up heading home where we rang in the new year with tea and toast (the bread, not bubbly, variety).

Probably the strangest New Year's Eve I ever had was in New York City, when my boyfriend and I decided to forego the club scene and have a quiet meal instead. He'd dumped me just before Thanksgiving and right after Christmas announced he could not live without me, pleading with me to go on a relationship-restoration jaunt to his hometown for some earnest wining and dining (no doubt in order to help me forget said dumpage).

The restaurant happened to be at West 72nd and Central Park West, right across from the Dakota apartments where John Lennon had been shot just a few years before. After dinner, we stopped and gazed at the arched entrance to the imposing, Germanic stone building, in a sort of delayed stupor at the gravity of the sorrowful event that had taken place there.

Suddenly, a couple came rushing out of the Dakota's inner courtyard, crossing the sidewalk and maneuvering through parked cars and into the street. The gentleman, dressed in a banana-yellow three-piece suit, with a mop of black ringlets covering most of his face, instantly began whistling for a cab. He flagged one down in short order and hurriedly escorted the women, who seemed flustered and none too happy, into the back seat. He did not join her, however, but instead said something to the driver, swung the door shut and gave a quick knock on the trunk.

As we stood observing this odd scene, the man in the yellow suit remained motionless, arms hanging at his sides, gazing at the tail lights of the cab as they rushed away. With a heavy sigh of what could only be interpreted as extreme relief, he walked over to our side of the street and hailed another cab for himself, heading in the other direction. It was at that moment we realized we'd been watching Tiny Tim, he of the tip-toeing through the tulips with a ukulele fame.

The mix of sadness with celebrity sighting made an already peculiar New Year's Eve yet more disquieting. Any thoughts of heading to Times Square to join the churning masses had somehow been duly squelched and we took the subway back over to Brooklyn Heights where we were staying. Midnight had me reflecting on the dumpage, the Dakota and the resigned expression on Tiny Tim's face. I could relate, somehow, and knew that would be the last New Year's Eve I'd spend with my beau who, I realized before the first sip of champagne, wasn't the one for me.

Thereafter, my only yearly resolution has been to celebrate at home with people I love. A lovely tradition along those lines continues tonight, when I'm having a few close friends over for a low-key evening of good conversation, laughter, munchies and music while the kids play board games and compare Christmas loot. The husbands of two friends who'll be here are musicians and both happen to be playing at pubs around the corner, so at some point my beau and I will sneak out to make an appearance and toast the New Year amid the pulsing throngs of our tiny Vermont village.

Cozy soirees notwithstanding, this area offers some marvelously en masse revelry for couples and families at various venues, the highlight being a remarkably innovative and inclusive event at Stratton Mountain Ski Resort in Bondville.

Adults can join in on a group snowshoe hike from the lower slopes up to the Mid-Mountain Lodge for cocktails and then watch two spectacles take place right there on the mountain, both of which can also be viewed from the base lodge: a torch-light parade, in which up to 100 top skiers and snowboarders wind their way down the mountain bearing blazing torches, followed by fireworks that reflect dramatically on all that white stuff. There are special family dinners and kids' parties as well, so it's a wonderful way for everyone to ring in the New Year in true Vermont style.

Happy 2009, everyone. I have a feeling it's going to be full of good change. As the lesser known chorus of "Auld Lang Syne" says, "walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart."

Online: stratton.com

Annie: annieguyoncommunications.com

Farmers markets cultivate creativity

My tatty old edition of the Oxford English Dictionary proffers several definitions of the term "culture," the most compelling of which reads "enlightenment and excellence of taste acquired by intellectual and aesthetic training." Here in Southern Vermont, there is an ever-expanding inventory of creative achievements to which that description perfectly pertains, such as the fine arts, literature, theater, music, dance, etc.

Amidst the oceanic range of inspired innovations in our region, however, there is another form of artistry that unassumingly transcends more typical, intellectually satiating media and which, I respectfully submit, spawns a sociological poetry in and of itself - that is, your local farmers market.

The poetry is in the sublime, simpatico and potent simplicity of what is, for many communities in Southern Vermont, a weekly convergence of immensely skilled, visionary and hardworking agricultural entrepreneurs who are helping to change the way many Vermonters think about both cuisine and community.

Some might surmise that the only culture to be found at a farmers market is of the curdish ilk, with which dairy farmers craft delicacies like herbed chevre or peach frozen yogurt, but these events are also imbued with a refreshingly engaging yet tranquil, thought-provoking yet down-to-earth (pun unavoidable) sensibility which, I believe, epitomizes Vermont culture in general.

Strolling past booths festooned with vivid bouquets of lavender and bedecked by rustic breads, delicate honeys, fresh eggs, heritage non-hormone meats or artisan cheeses, one's first realization is that farmers markets are as aesthetically exquisite and intoxicatingly fragrant as they are scrumptious. Some also showcase local crafts, such as handmade jewelry, clothing, cards and yarns, making the experience a true festival of the senses.

At the Bellows Falls Farmers Market, live music and masterful massages are also on hand (pun entirely avoidable), so that, prior to sampling the edible fare, you can have tense shoulders de-stressified whilst listening to soulful homegrown tunes.

Of course, all these delightful sensorial indulgences are but a chorus line to the main stars of the show - the sumptuous displays of vibrant, organic, nutrient-packed, often heirloom (read: ultra flavorful) produce that redefine the concept of gourmet groceries, even for the most zealous yuppie (which somehow begs the point that even the new 59,000-square-foot Manhattan Whole Foods has nothing on us). This stuff is so recently plucked from Mother Earth, you can almost feel sunlight still pulsing through the capillaries in a head of red leaf lettuce or the soil's embrace continuing to cool a hefty bunch of damp carrots.

But proceed at your own risk, because once you've done the farmers market thing, it makes the oft-wilted, world-weary produce in mega corporate grocery chains seem nearly ersatz, with imported cantaloupes about as firm as post-party piñatas and Florida oranges that seem to have taken a ride on Disney World's Indiana Jones Adventure en route to New England.

It's not only about quality, either, for there are plenty of less visible but equally vital benefits inherent in every local farmers market. There's the environmentally smart notion of sustainable, chemical-free agriculture, the reduction in fossil fuels needed to move produce from farm to table and the absence of middlemen in the economic chain.

Add to that the extraordinarily crucial community component - of staying connected to your neighbors, getting to know your local growers and teaching your kids about the importance of not only healthy foods but a healthy local economy (nice place to lay their weekly allowance on them) -- and what you've got is a collective culinary homage to the great American entrepreneurial spirit, small town mettle and simple, wholesome living.

A jaunt to your local farmers market is much like hanging out at a neighborhood block party but an eco-groovy, health-wise, kid-friendly, culturally edifying one that includes a satisfying, cost-effective shopping trip as well. Most are open-air, take place rain or shine and run through early-to-mid-fall, but call or e-mail for full details.

I doubt the OED folks were thinking of multigrain baguettes or Brandywine tomatoes when they deemed "enlightenment and excellence of taste" an intrinsic part of the term "culture" but, considering the high-caliber bounty, forward-thinking sensibilities and colorful weekly gatherings proffered by our local farmers, I believe they exemplify everything that is nourishing for body, soul and community about Southern Vermont culture.