Danielle Marie

sunlight / smoky corn chowder with romesco

July 25, 2016 By Danielle 6 Comments

my eyes are weary, matching the outside clouds with a glaze of a gaze. vega is pushing herself repeatedly through my legs, brushing her ebony fur against my humid skin, asking for attention from a day spent waiting. my blog’s silence has been well-documented by a move this past week. i will refrain from the boring details, however we’ve assumed a new space, full of light and windows. my head is a combination of pressure, excitement, solitude, gratitude, and other various intensities. the house is covered in lists, scribbles, ideas, and maps – items that generously compose my life, all tempted to sudden combustion by an irrevocable heat wave. a week for the books, as they say (as i query who exactly ‘they’ truly are). living with windows now, and i quite like it. i hope to relay this elation to you in a documentary of photographs and musings. rooting the sun, issue two is being released – now with light.

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the center / lemon-blackberry clafoutis

July 13, 2016 By Danielle 2 Comments

the narrative of summer days is moody and heated, wrapping us up so much that we ignore any elemental jest and simply roll. of course we stand reminded that it’s always a short jaunt to crazy. but so far the high sun, thick clouds, and juicy berries have all been summer treats. at night, the sky is dusted with milk and stars. quietly (and not) we ponder our approach for the next day, wondering how to maintain vigor and tenacity, but balance it with patience and acceptance. lessons learned from embracing history, and better spent writing it….

a belated goodbye / risi e bisi

July 6, 2016 By Danielle 6 Comments

in the earnest heat of a burgeoning summer i’ve got just a moment of sentimental feeling for the late spring. and i surmise that if you feed the heart, the mind will begin to think. we’re a bit behind the times in pockets of the midwest. the winter is extended, the spring is late, and the summer is peppered with a mixture of hail and fever. the erratic weather distorts our perception of the world. we’re isolated in a space and time of our own, left to introspection, but always open to intrigue. we transform ourselves from what we find flawed, and if the spring was late – so late i’ll bid it goodbye.

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the social lubrication of garlic scapes

July 2, 2016 By Danielle 4 Comments

we’ve just cut the garlic from the cloth of the fertile ground and there’s a raw piece of it in my mouth. it’s stimulating and sensory, a taste all-consuming of each taste bud – busying them into oblivion. it’s fresh. it’s so fresh that we are glowing in the band of darkness that surrounds us now. it feels good to release the roots of these fertile, bulbous creatures. a season spent bundled beneath leaf and snow, only to entertain the next with poised intention. a life cycle i both admire and condone. briefly i intimate myself with the spur of garlic stitched to the side of my tongue. the garlic is thermal and spicy, radiating a residual energy from the ground. i’m tasting full circle and all of the sudden my head is spinning with inebriated adoration.

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spinach mascarpone soup aka the spinach bolted and here’s what we did

June 27, 2016 By Danielle 4 Comments

the sun is early and hot as of recent – a golden vibrato come birdsong morning. blindless tiny windows spill light into our humble space, enough to rouse eyelids into motion. by midday the shade has disappeared, devoured in whole by the sky’s dedication to day. come evening the heat is the grandest exposure, rocketing roots deeper into the ground and sending fruit to flower in the most generous of ways. summer’s thick and honeyed voice cannot be muted, it only swells. and if you aren’t careful, like I may never grow to be, your food may end up budding. generally this isn’t a cause for concern, unless it’s all of your food, and then you scoff at the heat and haze and make soup.

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