LTA’s A Christmas Carol Sings A Familiar Tune

LTA’s A Christmas Carol Sings A Familiar Tune

By Rebecca Wheeler

Approaching the December holiday season in a country that traditionally breaks tradition—where the closest thing you’ll find to a “national custom” is the annual Black Friday stampede followed by several days of grim news coverage from the kind folks from Fox 5, reporting “yet another tragic Christmas-shopping related death”—where, let’s face it, the words “winter holidays” evoke more images of ski resorts, Swiss Miss hot chocolate, and blow-up-front-lawn Santas than they do of baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary (unless of course they are in plastic Nativity form at Walmart)—one can count on little to remain consistent and authentic about the Christmas holidays outside the home; however, December in Old Town Alexandria, a stones-throw from my own four walls, means only one thing for those more concerned with the spirit of Christmas than the profit—the return of The Little Theater of Alexandria’s rendition of Charles Dickens’ classic tale, A Christmas Carol.

Leave it to America to merchandise the holiday season and spoil its genuine significance (see The Tricks Are The Treats)—leave it to a place like Old Town, where strings of lights fill the trees in winter, and a character like Ebenezer Scrooge, a curmudgeonly and stingy businessman who learns to “open his heart” to the joys of Christmas, to create a perfect-storm of holiday spirit.

The play chronicles the emotional progression of an old man, who, jaded by his past, has closed his heart to warmth and joy; Scrooge’s altered disposition is brought about by the supernatural visits of the spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet-To-Come, who remind Scrooge of the importance of generosity during the holiday season by revealing the trials and tribulations of himself and others through a night-long spiritual journey of introspection and selflessness.

The original novella, written during the Victorian Era, reveals a nostalgic interest in forgotten Christmas traditions, Dickens’s comment on 19^th century industrial capitalism; it has been credited with restoring the holiday to one of merriment and festivity in Britain and America after a period of sobriety and somberness.

Former Navy Captain, Philip Braedecker, gives an exaggerated performance of Ebenezer Scrooge, beginning especially curmudgeonly in his print shop, spitting “Bah-humbug” at everyone who enters the place (including his inexplicably jovial nephew), eventually becoming so transformed and in touch with his emotions that he thrashes on the floor in a pitiful, child-like outburst, at the thought of his previous wrongdoings and their karmic results. Braedecker’s melodramatic presentation of Scrooge’s most personal moments provokes bizarre, almost-horrific laughter in the audience—well, at least in me. Simple staging, period costumes, and an enthusiastic, 22-person cast of all ages, move the story forward briskly and brightly. The cheery Christmas carols and comical cockney-accented narration, interspersed throughout the one-act, keep the audience uplifted and entertained—so much so, that the tale’s depressing undercurrents, from recurring dark humor at the protagonist’s expense, to a constant, slap-stick reference to death and decay, seem little more than lighthearted, ironic, moments of merrymaking.

I always find those renditions to be the most hair-raising.

LTA’s A Christmas Carol is undoubtedly a familiar, comforting part of Old Town’s Christmas tradition, nonetheless (right up there with its twinkle-light-covered trees)—a must see by Alexandria families—that is, if you don’t look too closely. The show is as timeless and soothing as a chipped china doll handed down for generations by grandmothers past, that sits, eternally wakeful on your top shelf; she will always remain an icon of protection and security as you grow into womanhood—if you can ignore the eerie feeling that her eyelashes, falling out of her frozen eyelids, always give you at bedtime.

But in such an unraveling world—economically insecure (Fox 5 reminds you), but mass-producing itself into oblivion, regardless—A Christmas Carol holds together surprisingly well, successfully imprinting itself on the minds of its audience.

I exit the Little Theater on Green Street on a Tuesday evening following the precious, well-rehearsed rendition of Dickens’s classic, replaying the past 90 minutes in my head, as if through the distorted, fish-eye glass of a snow-globe. The painted faces of the cast smile up at me in my memory, and I smile back—but whether I smile at the sound of 22 happy voices singing a hearty Wassail!, or rather, at the image of a pathetic old man shrieking and writhing on the floor in a nightshirt, possessed by the nightmare of his future reality, I cannot be entirely certain.

Look for A Christmas Carol at The Little Theater of Alexandria next December for a little taste of the holiday spirit! Cheers be to you, and a happy Wassail!

“It’s All Greek To Me”

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By Rebecca Wheeler

If you haven’t been to Greece and frankly, don’t consider a weeks-worth of lounging in the Mediterranean sun incentive enough to brave Airport Hell and the financial chill pervading Europe, look no further than 818 King Street at the West end of
Old Town Alexandria for a slice of Mediterranean culture. Here, the few-hundred-square-feet of fresco-plastered restaurant space and vine trellised patio that make up Taverna Cretekou, become the playhouse for a scene out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding; “the Tavern of the Cretan” is truly a Minoan Paradise.

Owner Christos Papaloizou and his maternal, curly haired wife Denise extend their arms to everyone who walks through the door, spewing Greek exclamations of “Kalispéra! Good evening!” and “Keró ého na sas do! Long time no see!” as if each guest were an old friend, stopping by the villa to catch up and (of course) break bread. The primarily Grecian, male wait-staff (many of whom are members of the Papaloizou clan) wear traditional “sariki,” crocheted black scarves draped about their necks, as well as “stivania,” matching boots to the 16^th century costume. They move through the intimate network of tables holding large trays above their heads, shouting “Opa!” and other Greek expressions of jubilation, all the while.

The oldest, most physically expressive and heavily accented of the costumed waiters summons us forward with both hands to a table by the fireplace: more of a rustic pizza oven than a great hearth. Our little square table features a white linen tablecloth, which barely hides the blue fabric underneath. Replicas of famous Minoan frescoes, like The Prince of Lilies and The Fisherman, plaster the walls on all sides of us. As the fire crackles, a delicious aroma of melting garlic wafts from a small sack of cloves hanging in the floo, adding another sensory level to the room’s nostalgic aura. Allusions to the Greek flag and the ancient Aegean Sea combine with the savory smell of the Mediterranean; aesthetically, the folks at Taverna Cretekou make it nearly impossible for one not to feel like a Pagan God or Goddess.

“In Greece, it is customary to go to a Mezedopolion and drink ouzo or wine and select a number of favorite small dishes.  Ouzeri Mezedes originated in antiquity and reveal the very social nature of Modern Greeks. We at Taverna Cretekou encourage you to enjoy the Greek Lifestyle,” our waiter (whose name is indecipherable) informs us by pointing to the menu’s inscription after several failed attempts at verbal conveyance. Luckily, nodding and smiling are generally acceptable forms of communication in Greek culture. My family refuses the licorice-flavored shots of alcohol, but still, “Gus” (we’ll call our waiter Gus, for all intents and purposes) insists that “he knowza whaaat ze besta deeshes aare, my Fraaands.” We decide to order (he chooses for us) the “Satyrikon:” a sixteen-dollar combination of Greek appetizers.

The entre-priced appetizer is well worth the extra expense, for, by the time the hefty array of Grecian specialties arrives at the table, we have already inhaled half of the complimentary carafe of olive oil and herbs by way of thick, warm, dinner bread—that is not a slight at the service, but rather a comment on the transforming, mythical quality of such simple delicacies as olive oil and hand-kneaded bread. Equally fortunate and unfortunate for our stomachs, the Satyrikon is more of a mini-meal than a mere “Mezede;” Taramosalata, or whipped caviar, oilive oil and lemon: Tzatziki, a refreshing blend of yogurt, garlic and cucumber: Dolmadakia, grape leaves filled with rice: Spanikotiropita, spinach and feta-filled filo dough: Hommos, blended chick peas and olive oil: and Feta Saganaki, broiled feta with fresh tomato and basil, comprise the starter.

Our meal could end here, but alas, that would not be in keeping with Greek custom. This is made more obvious by Gus’s surprised and skeptical reaction to the rest of our “meager” order: a family-size Horiatiki salad, traditional in its composition of tomatoes, feta, cucumbers, peppers, capers, and olives, and a Kotopoulo Kebab, chicken breast marinated and skewered with vegetables.

Whether or not you approach your main course still hungry, the tender garlic-lemon chicken and slightly charred onions, peppers, and tomatoes accompanied by moist, garlicky brown rice, is enough to re-whet your appetite. Just ask the exploding Wheelers. Extra baskets of bread and pita appear at your table for $1.50, so that you might sop up every last drop of succulent juice left behind on the plate—from the juice of the chicken, to the dregs of feta-olive-oil dressing on the hearty salad. Nothing goes to waste in Cretan culture and Taverna Cretekou shows us why.

While a $50.00 tab is certainly high for three items and four people on a weeknight, when dining at the Tavern of the Cretan, you are paying for more than the taste of ancient recipes from a legendary species of man-gods of cooking—for even more than the time-capsule effect that you experience upon walking inside—indeed, for even more than the hospitable, family-like treatment; when feasting here for the first time, you are investing in a restaurant that is sure to become your favorite place in Old Town.

I sold my soul to the Greeks—and I’ve never felt so good.

Tonguing India

By Rebecca Wheeler

Tucked beneath a hodge-podge of cheap eateries, a glass encased ethnic gem leaks mysterious smells of the Far East onto the streets of dingy downtown Mclean. Mere feet from Asian takeout and an underground parking garage, two chivalrous Indian men, outfitted in tuxedo shirts and black bowties, open the doors as I approach the concealed restaurant—behold the culprit, responsible for my olfactory seduction: a candlelit, clandestine Café Taj!

How fitting that the well-advertised but surreptitiously placed dinner destination would vibe like a sultry opium den—few guests, low-lit, sporting a soothing fountain and hefty bar selection. The dapper waiters, all natives, gesture me toward a table by the glass wall, featuring a faux-tulip and a view of Tuesday night rush-hour traffic, slowly trickling through a very long light. Inside, the Zen atmosphere just became a little cozier.

Because my sister returned from a fortnight-long whirlwind tour of India in the summer, I am aware that the pass-fail test of authentic and truly delicious Indian cuisine begins with the Tandoori Chicken and ends with the Chicken Curry (perhaps the caliber of Butter Chicken is as telling). Since the India-expert happens to be home from college for the winter, those two dishes alone do not cover the dinner. The Buddha-bellied buttoned-down waiter scribbles away as my sister lists her other favorite dishes: Eggplant Bharta, Channa Masala, Daahl Maharani, and a Tandoori Chicken salad, for good measure. Judging by bodhisattva’s approving nods, the self-assured smugness she exudes at her choices is deserved.

Unfortunate. 

The service is quick, the waiters, attentive. While we wait, however, I cannot help but notice framed “Cheap Eats” posters on the walls, boasting of the Café’s “best bang-for-your-buck” several years running. This tough critic just became tougher—I hope Café Taj isn’t growing too big for its salwar.

When the food arrives, spicy, steaming, and (with any luck) delicious, I have high hopes and a rumbling stomach. The six generous main dishes, garlic naan, and a big old bowl of rice are plenty to split between the five of us at the table; we make haste to lick our plates clean.

The Eggplant Bharta, roasted and mashed eggplant cooked with spicy tomato, chilies, Indian spices, and topped with cilantro, has a savory, rustic aroma that hints of charcoal. The subtle spice builds over bites, especially in conjunction with the other vegetarian platters—a warning for those a little squeamish, this dish has a slightly fleshy texture. The Channa Masala, best eaten over a bed of basmati rice, is especially creamy and flavorful, due to the absorbent quality of a warm chickpea; the golden spherical beans contrast the thick mud-brick red sauce, making this the prettiest dish. The Daahl Maharani, or “buttery lentil,” consists of stewed urad (black whole lentil) and rajma (kidney bean) from Punjab of the Indian subcontinent; all of the vegetable dishes are similar in spice and presentation, but variant in texture. Of the three, the Channa Masala is the star, with boldest flavor and most solid consistency.

The Tandoori Chicken, or cubes of yogurt-and-spice marinated chicken cooked in a clay Tandoor oven, is famous for its piquant, low-fat qualities due to cooking environment in Indian and Pakistani cuisine—Café Taj certainly does not skimp on the heat. The bright red chicken is served over sautéed peppers and onions, cured in cumin and cayenne pepper. The Tandoori (also featured on the salad, a simple bed of garden greens) passes the authenticity test. Do not expect a juicy, fall-off-the-bone chicken breast, however—because of the high temperature of the Tandoor, the cubes are rather dry. Again, keep water handy.

The final dish, Chicken Curry, has a similar spice profile and texture to the Eggplant dish; however, the bowl of brown, chewy, and non-descript chunks is more palatable than its foil because it actually contains “flesh.” Again, served over basmati to balance the zesty seasoning, the curry is a thick, creamy sauce of yogurt, tomatoes, and (as its name suggests) curry powder. This classic main dish is eaten often in India and on special occasions, the excess juices of the sauce soaked up with naan. This bread, also made in the Tandoor oven, is stuck to its wall as dough and allowed to cook, char, and puff until it is ready for removal. This particular version is less like pita and more like an Indian “garlic bread.”

After the meal, a success in the eyes of all five critics, the tab was surprisingly low for the amount and quality of food. Neither the posters on the walls, nor the two dollar signs ($$) listed for the Café’s price range on Yelp, had convinced me that such an ethnic experience and a great deal, to boot, has been cooking right under my nose in the heart of Mclean—alas, I’m a Doubting Thomas, no longer.

Speak No More: The Art of …

Speak No More: The Art of _____________

By Rebecca Wheeler

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would witness two people metaphorically making love—let alone watch it happen on stage, behind a backlit sheet, from amongst a body of teary-eyed audience members; the entire theater was silently, collectively weeping (myself included). Yet, there I was, experiencing an exchange between “lovers” at the end of Act IV in Synetic Theater Company’s production of “Romeo and Juliet,” simultaneously watching and feeling one of the most honest, raw, and undeniably moving moments of literature and portrayals of human vulnerability of all time.

This intensely intimate moment between “star-crossed lovers,” dynamically performed by a powerfully flexing “Romeo” and beautifully perspiring “Juliet,” touched everyone in the room, for if it did not stir some sort of emotion in you—whether deep-seated sadness for the tragedy yet to come, or pure inspiration by the sheer force of the two dancers’ working bodies—you must have been sleeping, or else seriously detached. While the scene defies words in essence, it is not the only moment of the show performed without dialogue; STC’s “Romeo and Juliet” and, in fact, all of Synetic Theater Company’s productions are executed in complete silence.

Silent Shakespeare? The very thought of such a phenomenon seems paradoxical—how is it that these timeless works can be performed without the essential text? Even STC’s founder and director, Georgian immigrant Paata Tsikurishvili, admits the seeming  “contradiction inherent in all of [their] acclaimed wordless Shakespeare adaptations;” however, he challenges any skepticism in his Director’s Note, asserting that “Shakespeare’s plays are written in a universal language, having been translated and adapted for audiences around the globe.” The truth of the director’s words sounded loud and clear in the hushed swell of cathartic emotion that overwhelmed the entire theater when the young couple united for their tender moment.

Ever since Paata’s first attempt at “[taking] the words from one of the most iconic works of drama in history” with Synetic’s debut production, Hamlet…the rest is silence, an apparent “’mere twist on Shakespeare’” instead “heralded the start of [their] exploration of a new form of theater”—one that Paata argues derives directly from the original text. “[The transcript] provides us not only with the story but incredible imagery, archetypes, and metaphor, all of which are heightened to create an immersive stage experience that we feel ‘in our bones,’” he says. Even Synetic’s title, a combination of the words synthesis (the coming together of distinct elements to form a whole) and kinetic (imparting motion, active, dynamic) embodies what the theater strives for as an institution: “to be the premier American physical theater, fusing dynamic art forms—such as text, drama, movement, acrobatics, dance, and music, by producing world-class theater for all-ages.”

Set within the giant gears of a clock, Romeo and Juliet does just that, establishing the impending but impermanent nature of time in the story from the very beginning. The show opens with a lone man on stage dressed in a black cape, who notices the giant clock pendulum hanging ominously from upstage center. Silently inspecting it, the man pushes the pendulum, which immediately begins to swing mechanically to the metallic clicks of watches, clocks, and locks. The man, we soon realize is the Resident Composer/Music Director, the only person who will acknowledge “time’s” presence on-stage for the whole night. He retreats to the sound-box, from which louder industrial and increasingly more conflicting sounds issue, until the noise, so unbearable that my ears threaten to explode, finally ceases. When the clock stops ticking, the “actors” (more dancers or performers) take the stage. I can’t help but think of the climactic moment of Roger Corman’s 1961 horror film, The Pit and The Pendulum, where a colossal, swinging razor blade slowly lowers closer and closer to it’s bound victim below; of course, all of this is set to dramatic music.

Unlike the unfortunate, screaming man beneath the pendulum in Corman’s film, however, the cast members do not react to the clock on stage. Dressed in minimal black dance clothes, they instead become the clock’s inner-workings—working together to create a hectic scene of spinning gears, gadgets, and even, a robotically revolving set of human clock-hands. The team’s (or shall I say, “clock’s”) inhuman precision and uniformity is arguably more terrifying than any horror film. The symbolic opening signifies “the exuberance and passion of youth in which time seems to both stop and accelerate,” according to the Director’s Note—an idea that pervades the original text and is echoed in the arrhythmic, inconsistent motion of the clock’s pendulum throughout the play (especially in scenes of the young lovers together).

The lovers themselves are introduced in this opening, trapped together but separately behind the furiously spinning and ticking “clock,” each unaware of the other’s presence. This first on-stage “interaction” between Romeo and Juliet, who, as if separated by an invisible force field, stand back-to-back, front-to-front, and side-to-side respectively, always reaching out toward each other without ever touching or recognizing the other, foreshadows the unfortunate reality of their relationship: they exist in two different worlds and though they may be “soul mates,” the stars never seem to align perfectly for them. I am no Shakespeare scholar, but for some reason, the image of Romeo and Juliet reaching blindly for one another with artistically undulating palms, evoked a quote in my mind from the scene where Romeo crashes the Capulet’s’ masked ball and first meets Juliet. “Flirting” with wordplay Romeo compares his lips to pilgrims and Juliet’s hand to a shrine, the object of their pilgrimage. Playfully spurning his unabashed advances, Juliet responds “good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss” (Act I, Scene V).

Whether or not Paata had this quote in mind when including the recurring “palm-to-palm” choreography between the dancers, the silent, artistic movement, accompanied by an original highly expressive score of music, allowed me to understand the events and emotional tone of the story, while also making my own connections to personally significant moments of the text. Because everyone can quote Romeo and Juliet, whether they admit it or not. It is for this reason that I consider Synetic Theater’s production of the tragedy one of the most expressive and truly successful portrayals of a timeless classic, sure to remain burned in my memory for years to come.

If you’d like to see “emotion in motion,” Synetic’s Romeo and Juliet runs through December 23^rd on Wednesdays through Sundays. See site for details.

 

Worms Of Silk

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Worms of Silk
By Rebecca Wheeler

At the tail end of King Street in front of Old Town Alexandria’s Potomac River pier, painting students, curious tourists, and a man with an easel climb the stairs to an old weapons manufacturing plant. The now-automatic doors slide open to reveal an aquamarine torpedo, once a product of the factory, now a symbol for the since-converted Art Center; ironically, the old sub missile now stands for Creation at The Torpedo Factory, which attracts upwards of 500,000 visitors a year with its 82 artists studios, six galleries, two workshops, and the Alexandria Archaeology museum. In addition, the Art League School offers art classes of all sorts at the Art Center.

On the second level of the industrial building, artist Susan Sanders stands behind the glass show case of her Torpedo Factory studio, #206, holding a needle-and-thread in one hand and a series of inter-connected colorful fabric tubes in the other. She brings both items up to her be-spectacled face, bites on her tongue as she scrutinizes each, plunges her needle into the top of the fibrous mass, and finally knots the thread in two gruff and graceful loops; she is “putting the finishing touches” on her latest Silkworms creation. Susan is the designer of three different jewelry lines, all under the label “Silkworms”, featuring gold and precious stones, intarsia (stone inlay), and fiber work. This particular masterpiece, she informs me, is made of handcrafted felt and dyed silk fabric, sewed around a particular type of chord, which is what gives it the distinctive tubular shape. I can’t help but think of the woolly worm-like strands of a Rastafarian’s dread-locks. “Well actually,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice, “felt is basically just wool plus some soap, water, and a little elbow grease.”

Susan is a reserved, modest woman, clad in a handsome black-knit sweater that clings at her angular shoulders, with a dark maroon-and-purple felt scarf (that she made herself, of course). She raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly when she says a little, which is enough to hint at the hours of studio time and television time she spends tending to her wool fabric—and it shows. On the wall behind her, countless necklaces in felt, silk, and her newest incarnation, “ultrasuede,” hang from a mounted metal sheet by the unique painted, resin-cast magnetic clasps that hold Susan’s necklaces together. “This is my livelihood,” she says, gesturing to the studio around her.

And it has been ever since 1974, when Susan stumbled upon the opportunity to become a resident artist at the Torpedo Factory, which was reopening as a newly renovated haven for artists. She had just graduated from Carnegie Mellon University, where she studied architectural design, and was planning to move to a remote part of Kentucky to design refrigerators when she learned of the open studio and gallery space near Washington, D.C. It proved an easy decision for Susan, one she has never questioned, considering she has maintained her studio at the Art Center for 37 years.

Her love for design and creation dates back much further than college, however: for “as long as [she] can remember, [she’s] known that [she’s] wanted to make things and sell them for a living.” Susan’s parents, an accomplished Seamstress and a graphic designer, taught her the importance of craftiness and ingenuity at an early age. Growing up around such creativity gave her “sewing skills and an appreciation and an eye for architectural lines.” When she first tried her hand at jewelry making, however, it was “immediate love. And why do something you don’t love anyway?”

Luckily, pursuing her life’s passion as a career has proven a professional pay-off for Susan, who is more of an anomaly than ever in this recessing economy, especially in the art world. Her “bold, geometric, and often asymmetric designs” have earned her numerous awards, including First Prize in the American Gem Trade Association Spectrum competition for gemstone design in North America. “[Her] work is shown throughout the U.S. and has recently been exhibited in Moscow, Russia, and Seoul, South Korea; in addition, she’s “been featured in books on jewelry design and many magazines in the U. S. and abroad. Some of [her] non-jewelry pieces are currently part of the State Department Arts in Embassies program.” Her work ranges from $250-$20,000, a relatively normal price range for handcrafted art, so she tells me. Something tells me that she is again being modest—Susan is no ordinary craftswoman.

I was initially surprised, but not at all confused to discover that there is still a market for such things as her delicate, sometimes custom-commission engagement rings and even, handcrafted boxes to house them. If I weren’t a lowly high school student, I would spend my savings on a random assortment of her notions. But even having the opportunity to watch Susan work for a short time, I feel lucky to have learned even a little about her craft. Looking around at all of her heavy-duty diamond-cutting and sanding tools, and boxes upon boxes of random fabric scraps, I wonder aloud if she would ever allow students to intern with her in her studio. Sighing slightly, she explains that she once taught classes for the Art League but she just doesn’t have the time, let alone the motivation. “I barely have the energy to take care of my cat, poor thing,” she says, showing me a picture of her cone-headed kitty who “scratched her own eye” in Susan’s absence.

The daily life of “the artist” blurs the lines between personal and professional activities, resting somewhere in between the two. Even Susan admits that her art seeps into every facet of her existence—she makes some of her own clothes as well. I jokingly ask her if she has a family that she’s neglecting as a result of Silkworms. Again she sighs, “just the cat,” she says, matter-of-factly. I leave it at that, still completely in awe of her resigned perseverance and brusque precision. She has started sewing the magnetic clasp on an earth-toned felt and silk-plaited neck cuff, and I can’t help but notice how the corners of her mouth turn up ever-so-slightly as she gazes down at her incomplete masterpiece, critically. I recognize the loving glance of a hardened mother, determined to send something better than herself into the world.

I came to the Torpedo Factory looking for a story—I leave feeling overwhelmed by the talent I witnessed in just one of the 82 artist studios the place has to offer. I can’t even imagine how much progress Susan will have made in just a day or two, how many more pieces of her soul will be magnetized to the wall the next time I visit.

I’ve been aimlessly saving my money for a while now (probably in an attempt to create some small personal victory for myself amidst the grueling college process)—and I’ve finally found what I’ve been saving for, without even meaning to: a purple ultrasuede necklace that Susan insists will “tickle my neck with those purple worms of silk that are just perfect for my complexion.”

Come to The Torpedo Factory any day of the week from ten A.M to six P.M, nine on Thursdays, to check out Susan Sanders’, or any of the other Resident Artists’ amazing work. Brava Silkworms. And thank you to the Art Center for keeping the dreams and crafts of artists like Susan alive.

My Shot At 12Shots

 My Shot At 12Shots

By Rebecca Wheeler

At 1800 L Street, in the heart of Washington’s Golden Triangle Business Improvement District (BID), there’s a building with glass walls that reflect a little of your face as you look in at the other faces, the ones you’ve come to see: 14 different photography exhibitions, from photojournalism to fine art. They’re part of FotoWeek, the weeklong, city-wide celebration of photography in our nation’s capital. The building with the glass walls is FotoWeek Central, nicknamed “The Hub,” one of four main venues hosting the portfolio reviews, lectures, workshops, photo projections, and youth programs that make up the fourth annual FotoWeek DC festival for professionals and amateurs alike.

I was a FotoWeek virgin before my monotony-driven online search for “creative things to do in DC,” turned up this event. Now, on a brisk Monday evening, my mother, father and I have decided to venture into the city (despite traffic and tent-city protestors) to pop our photographic-event cherries at “the Hub’s” November 7^thevent: a projection of conservationist photographs.

The stately doorman takes our ten dollar tickets and directs us to the lower level of the open, make-shift space–it used to be a Borders Bookstore–where 12Shots, an “inspired gathering featuring projected stories from world renowned International League Conservationist Photographers (iLCP)” will begin at 7:30.

But I am barely able to make it past the main entrance; all around me, the minimalist lobby features gruesome and heartbreaking images, powerful enough to be the night’s main attraction. The fearful eyes of Bibi Aisha, an Afghani woman who tried to escape her abusive husband at the expense of her ears and nose, stare back at me from a life-size portrait of her disfigured face. The photograph is one in a series of hundreds of heart wrenching images from the 2011 World Press Photo of the Year Contest that line the building’s upper-level.

“It’s not always nice, but it needs to be seen,” explained contest coordinator Micha Bruinvels in an interviewon the changing scene of the photography world: “it’s the freeze of the moment. A picture makes you more aware of the moment itself.” The woman speaks the truth—for a moment, Bibi’s confronting image and those surrounding it made me forget my initial purpose for coming to FotoWeek Central tonight.

We eventually make it to the bottom level, a much different scene than upstairs. More reminiscent of a basement house party than a breaking news report, the room is equipped with folding chairs, electro music, and even a cooler-full of cheap wine and Mexican beer. The lights are just beginning to dim on the largely post-college aged crowd, in preparation for tonight’s film roll of caption-less 12 shot conservation photographs. The iLCP’s coordinator and former president, Christina Mittermeier, stands before the small gathering of creatives and photographers and introduces the work of her organization: storytelling with images. Like Micha Bruinvels, Mittermeier stresses her belief in using photography to educate and motivate change.

“Awe-inspiring photography is a powerful force for the environment, especially when paired with the collaboration of committed scientists, politicians, religious leaders and policy makers,” she says. Her short, conversational speech, colored by a Mexican accent, is punctuated with a rolling stream of laughter and several references to her desire for the 12 tequila shots the iLCP will be auctioning off later in the evening.

12 shots for 12Shots, get it? I did too, but she explained anyway.

The pictures begin to flash across the screen, 5 seconds for every photo in each photographer’s 12 photo-series, all dedicated to one issue. The compilations aim to introduce a conservation issue, set the scene, bring ideas to light, and inspire people to effect change without words or instructions, all in a limited number of frames, which is a difficult feat. Mittermeier casually calls out from the midst of the audience that this particular slide presentation focuses on past iLCP RAVE’s (Rapid Assessment Visual Expeditions), such as eradicating Mountaintop Removal Mining and protecting the Absaroka-Beartooth Front. Although they illustrate a range of issues, each series features the playful, tender side of nature and seems to capture a cherished bond between man and his surroundings: a black bear cub “smiles” at the camera while hunting for wild salmon—two fisherman triumphantly hold King Crabs, who simultaneously “raise their claws” in a salute-like gesture to the setting sun.

More than a fundraiser, the event mimics a lighthearted get-together of old friends, coming together for a night of entertainment. Someone flicks on the lights and calls for more beer and Mittermeier again “takes the stage” to announce the winners of the raffle for photography goodies–and tequila, of course. Naturally, the older 2/3rds of the Wheeler clan, already outliers in the group, all win something equally embarrassing. My father, sipping on a beer like the other males in the room, all half-his-age, excitedly prances up to Christina to claim his “100% sustainable” iLCP hat and wallet. My mother, as fervent a despiser of alcohol as she is a lover of free raffles, pretends not to hear the announcement that “Bee Wheebler” has won the 12^th and final shot.

The evening has been rather exciting for a Monday, the crowd, good-natured; beyond the cheery vibe present in the basement room, however, the unresolved world issues that give the event its purpose remain, projected on the wall before us and emblazoned on the canvases upstairs. We leave FotoWeek Central after another reluctant but inevitable examination of the unbearably compelling images in the lobby. Glancing back at the doorman, who winks as we exit, wearing the ridiculous oversized Camera Bag he just won in the raffle atop his black suit, I can’t help but feel unsettlingly perplexed with my FotoWeek DC experience. Regardless, the night replays over and over in my mind all the way home, flickering between Mittermeier’s smiling face and Bibi’s mutilated one, resting somewhere between entertained and inspired to effect change.

FotoWeek exhibitions and events will continue through December 30.

The Tricks Are In The Treats

 The Tricks Are The Treats
By Rebecca Wheeler

Call me grim, but Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays because of its spooky history as the day of the dead in Pagan culture; however, I highly doubt that October 31st was voted the second-most popular day in America (behind Christmas) because of its Celtic roots. Pillowcases full of free sweets, on the other hand, may have something to do with the holiday’s allure.

In lieu of Monday’s festivities, I Google search “Halloween,” to gather a general sense of the association of the word. Search result number one reveals a website for “Candy Warehouse, America’s favorite Bulk Candy Super Store!” Suspicion confirmed. Apparently, there’s a market for “classics like candy corn or gross stuff like gummy boogers” in bulk this time of year, that is, if we want to “make this Halloween special.” What began as a celebration of mystery, magic, and superstition, centered on the end of the harvest and the coming of winter, has become a commercialized heyday for the candy industry.

Not surprising, yearly candy sales reach their peak in the United States on October 28th, in preparation for the big day. In fact, studies show that Americans purchase nearly 600 million pounds of candy annually for Halloween—that’s approximately 16 billion fun-sized Snickers bars or 158 trillion individual candy corns. More than 35 million pounds of candy corn alone are sold each year, as well—enough to circle the moon more than 21 times if laid end-to-end. 90 million pounds of chocolate product is also sold during Halloween week, strongly outnumbering other candy-bearing holidays, such as Easter and Valentines Day.
What’s more, the average American consumes 24 pounds (or 2,366.5 Hershey’s Kisses worth) of candy each year and according to eating-trend specialist Harry Baltzer, 5% of it is consumed on Halloween and the week that follows. That’s a sickening amount of sugar, if you ask me.

The biggest culprits? Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, M&M’s, Pop Rock, KitKat, Sour Patch Kids, Willy Wonka Candies, Hershey’s Kisses, Nestle Crunch, and Three Musketeers scored highest in a poll of 2011’s most popular Halloween treats. On a smaller scale, Potomac seniors agree that KitKat, M&M’s, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and Snickers rank among their favorites, as well as Hershey’s Bars, Milky Ways and Skittles. Their popularity also makes some of these highly coveted sugary classics the fastest selling brands of all. In the days leading up to Halloween, 10% of U.S annual candy sales occur—that is nearly $2 billion dollars in sales. Looks like mega-confectionery corporations Hershey and Mars will remain unharmed by America’s failing economy, yet again.

The candy-centric phenomenon has a broad sphere of influence and is not solely targeted at the younger generations of trick-or-treaters; 72% of adult Americans reporthanding out sweets on Halloween and 90% admit to sneaking goodies’ from their kids’ trick-or-treat bags. On average, adults will consume 1 out of every 2 candy bars their child brings home—and they are statistically more likely to take the more popular chocolate options. Some rare cases even involve parents “responsibly” rationing their children’s’ candy, just to keep some for themselves. The tricks aren’t just for kids! Apparently, nor are the treats.

Unfortunately for Americans, neither are the calories. Many mini candy bars pack 60 to 80 calories each, about as much as a large apple Some of 2011’s most popular candies also fall into the category of most unhealthy.
That individual bag of M&M’s that looks like it shrunk in the wash?
That has 73 calories and 3 grams of fat.
And that fun-sized Snickers bar?
80 calories and 5 grams of fat.
Suddenly, that high-fructose corn syrupy snack doesn’t seem so fun anymore.
Candy in general is a big trigger for overindulgence, so an already indulgent society like ours is bound to struggle with a holiday focused on immoderate consumption. According to cognitive behavior therapist Jayme Albin, “our cravings for carbohydrates tend to increase as the weather gets colder and daylight hours get shorter. These two factors align at this time of year to make Halloween the perfect storm for calorie overload.”

What happened to bobbing for apples and dancing around bonfires to ward off evil spirits? The crux of the Halloween holiday is lost, the significance and traditions largely commercialized. Now, it seems we are most concerned with the number of Snickers bars we can collect and shove down our throats before our parents find them…

You don’t believe me? Candy-corn is one of the most abundantly searched “gastronomical” (if you can call it that) terms on Google—and since 2010, searches for Halloween’s “golden calf” candy are up 10%.

No, wonder we’re all obese. Trick-or-treat?

Nine Apples A Day…

“Nine apples a day keeps the Wheelers at Bay” (for a week):
Produce Report from Sherwood Hall Parking Lot
By Rebecca Wheeler

It’s 8:00 A.M on a rainy and blustery Wednesday morning. All around us, farmers and early customers, wrapped tightly in their windbreakers, scuttle about, unloading produce from trucks and securing makeshift pavilions against the autumn wind—we have arrived at the exact moment when the library parking lot transforms into the Mount Vernon Farmers’ Market.

A swift tug on my jacket sleeve reminds me why my mother and I have come to the market so early, despite the weather. We march briskly to the last stall in a row of produce vendors, then turn to each other and smile—we’re first in line to buy a share of Twin Springs Fruit Farm’s late October apple harvest.

We are definitely going to need a bigger basket.

Twin Springs offers a diverse range of produce, from butternut squash to sugarnut melons, however, the farm has earned its mighty reputation within the realm of D.C Farmer’s Markets specifically for its apples and handcrafted apple products. In fact, their products are in such high demand that they’ve been “marketing directly” from the fields in Orrtana, PA, to the greater Washington area on a weekly basis, for over 30 years. The Wheelers are seasoned regulars here—and by that I mean, between the three of us, we consume an entire half-bushel (63 apples) every seven days. We are not unique in this, for the farm sells its apples in half-bushel and bushel increments for a reason.

My mother and I circle the aisle of fruit like vultures, while we wait for the farm-hand to cut samples of this week’s 13 apple varieties for the customers to try. This week’s impressive listing consists of Granny Smith, Winesap, Suncrisp, Stayman, Empire, Nittany, Mutsu, Honeycrisp, Cameo, Fuji, Golden Delicious, Jonagold, and Red Courtland.

After several long minutes spent salivating, we are given the green light to dive into sampling plates and overflowing tubs alike. Within minutes, I’ve determined this week’s winning varieties; three longtime favorites in my apple repertoire, Honeycrisp, Fuji, and Cameo exemplify the elite of Twin Springs’ produce, while best maintaining the qualities I look for in an apple.

The most regularly present apple in the Wheeler fridge is the Fuji, despite its incredibly late and short harvesting period; its firm, dense, and clean breaking flesh tends to keep very well in Nitrogen storage, making it a fairly accessible apple. The Fuji was first generated by a series of crossbreeds in Japan in the Forties; however, it was not perfected and released for public retail until the Sixties. Although developed overseas, the Fuji is a cross between two all-American apples, the Red Delicious and the Ralls Janet. The apple is best known for its “attractive appearance,” smooth and round in shape with pink flushed, yellow-green striped skin.

The Honeycrisp is our second all-time favorite, mostly because of its superior breeding at Twin Springs, rather than its characteristics as an apple. Similar to the Pink Lady in its pink and yellow color (with occasional green stripes), the Honeycrisp has a round, bulbous shape; it is not very heavy, however, despite its large size, due to its low fiber density and predominantly liquid makeup. True to its name, the Honeycrisp has an extremely light and juicy, but crisp texture, sometimes with a hint of acidity and depth of complexity. This predominantly sweet apple was developed in the USA by the University of Minnesota through a series of crossbreeds from the 1930’s, intended for growers in cold weather. As a result, this cold-hardy apple has an unclear parentage. Initially thought to be the descendant of Honeygold, Macintosh, and/or Jersey Black, studies have determined that its closest relative is the Golden Delicious. Despite the Honeycrisp’s tendency to bruise easily, it is becoming an increasingly more popular desert apple—its flavor becomes more “complex” (sweet and acidic) for 7-10 days after removal from cold storage, making winter sales even higher than those in fall.

Harvested toward the end of the season for a short period of two weeks to a month, the Cameo is a relative of the iconic Red Delicious and a popular brand in high demand at the Market (also a Wheeler family favorite). Its pale red, slightly dappled flesh and distinct heart-shape derives from its ancestor, however, the Cameo is milder and less pronounced. The understated flavor tastes similar to a pear, but with a crisp bite and denser texture. The Cameo is firmer than the Red Delicious and can leave a chalky residue in the mouth, if unripe. Its shelf life, like its period of harvest, is rather short and lasts for a month on average; fortunately though, farmers continue to improve its staying ability every season.

Paper, Paper, Everywhere

Paper, Paper, Everywhere
By Rebecca Wheeler

Everyone knows that shopping for birthday presents can be a painless event, as easy as clicking a mouse and waiting three days for shipping; however, finding the perfect gift for someone you love (that’s both thoughtful and affordable) is seldom as simple as browsing the web.

Fretfully searching the streets of Old Town last weekend, consumed by the dilemma of my sister’s rapidly approaching special day, I discovered the Holy Grail of thoughtful gifting. Nestled between Pizza Paradiso and a vintage furniture store, Paper Source, the arts, crafts, and quirky gifts emporium, radiates warmth and hope to the confused buyer.

On the sign above the door, the store’s motto advises passersby to “do something creative every day:” a positive indication, in my eyes. Visible through the large wall of windows that makes up the entire front of the building, the colorful, organized interior looks nothing short of inspiring—and that’s just the layout, I haven’t even begun to survey their products yet.

Inside, the entire right wall is lined, from floor to lofted ceiling, with endless scrolls of paper in every color and pattern imaginable. The intimidating display is coordinated, ivory through charcoal, and creates a rainbow of columns that almost overwhelms the eye. At the top of the sloping entryway, a large table features Halloween themed crafting How-To books, scrapbook decorating ideas, and personal organizers. A little further in, I discover an alcove reserved for calendars and planners, in expensive varieties of leather and moleskin.

An expansive stretch of wall highlights the store’s massive collection of greeting cards for every occasion—the largest category being birthdays. The rest of the large room, converted from a Discovery store, consists of a series of sectioned-off areas for scrapbooking materials, invitations, stationary, office supplies, and event planning, naturally illuminated by the floor length windows. The middle of the room is broken up by bookshelves of food, arts, crafts, and DIY books, as well as, tables laden with quirky objects and gifts.

The selection is endless—and I thought my shopping problems were solved…

The product offerings have not always been so diverse, however; founded by a woman “delightfully obsessed with paper,” Paper Source began in 1983 as a paperie in Chicago. The store expanded its product offerings over the years, from international handcrafted paper alone to “exclusive new kits, stationary, gift wrap and invitation designs,” in addition to many others. Today, the Old Town location is just one of 32 stores generously offering “inspiration, materials for creativity,” and a birthday present for Lyndsey.

In an age of online invitations, facebook events, Kindles, and internet libraries, it is possible (for the unimaginative) to question the necessity of a store like Paper Source; however, Paper Source’s operation provides a viable case for a dying appreciation for aesthetics in a modern technological world: “at Paper Source, our mission is… to spark ideas and provide materials to celebrate life moments with beauty, humor, originality, and personal expression. A funny card, a lovely invitation, a beautifully bound album, a wrapped gift – we believe that each offers a unique opportunity for creative expression in everyday life. At Paper Source, we are committed to innovation and original design, offering an assortment that allows our customers to express themselves through inspired creativity.”

A valiant undertaking, if you ask me.

As I browse the cards section, I notice the store’s signature logo pressed on the back of every item, a wasp enclosed in a circular seal. According to a sales associate, this wasp has a special significance to Paper Source. The “diligent paper wasp” creates its nest by chewing bark and leaves into a paper-like pulp and is thus designated the original paper maker: “in tribute to our fellow paper aficionado, fold yourself an origami cup and offer a papery toast to the insect who started it all,” encourages the Paper Source team from their quaint website.

The Dying Art of Authenticity

The Dying Art of Authenticity:
Immortal at Marrakesh

By Rebecca Wheeler
Turning left onto a nondescript section of New York Avenue in North West Washington, D.C, I’m concerned that the restaurant website’s indication for “Valet Parking Only” must’ve been a farce— or else, an extreme desire to avoid D.C parking somehow blurred my vision of reality. But sure enough, illegally parked in front of 619 with the double flashers broadcasting my uncertainty, I’m greeted by a little tap on the window and a curt nod from a dark-skinned man holding a money clip, signifying that I should surrender the keys; indeed, I’ve arrived at the unique and original Marrakesh Restaurant for a little “taste of Morocco,” in celebration of my mother’s birthday.

The building’s façade looks unimpressive from the street, a dull gray building that blends into surrounding row homes and convenience stores—strange, considering theaccolades the restaurant has acquired for ambiance and décor (I looked up the place beforehand, for fear that “ethnic food for Mom’s birthday” in Big Sister’s terms might be a little too ethnic for sissy Little Sissy). After knocking on the front door, as instructed, however, I begin to understand the mystique surrounding Marrakesh: Washington D.C’s “authentically ethnic”, reservation-only secret gem that many imitate, but few actually experience.

A bejeweled female usher, dressed in vibrant Moroccan garb, appears in the doorway and swiftly beckons us forward into a circular parlor, which could easily have come from a scene in Casablanca. The golden, scarlet, and deep purple mosaic floors reflect the dim lighting and create an intimate atmosphere, worlds away from the street outside. The staff members, all dressed-the-part, hover, as if waiting for their queue, while the remaining guests of my mother’s birthday dinner trickle in, a few at a time.

A costumed and thickly accented waitresses, wearing a crown of intricately wrapped fabric, notifies our group that it is time to be seated. With a theatrical sweep of her arms, she leads us into an extensively cushioned and cave-like dining room, where we settle into one of the many alcoves of couches placed around a circular table. She distributes colored hand towels to the group and explains the meal: seven courses, belly dancing, and no utensils, she tells us.

All twenty hands in all seven courses.

Authenticity aside, the fact that this place has managed to remain open despite Health Codes and Food Inspectors since 1982 is an impressive feat.
I guess that explains the incognito portico …

That same thought must’ve occurred to my mother because our turbaned waitress has returned bearing a carafe of Moroccan wine, by request of the Birthday Girl (Birthday Girl rarely drinks).
She has also brought the first course: a trio of warm “salads,” including stewed eggplants in tomato sauce, cucumbers with bell peppers and herbs, and roasted carrots with coriander. In addition, we’re given a large chunk of bread to operate as serving spoon, plate, fork, and napkin.
The well-seasoned vegetable-grain combo reveals strong ties to the Mediterranean, a cousin region to Moroccan cuisine, along with classical African and Middle Eastern fares.

When the second course arrives, I am again daunted by the ethnic potential before me; the “National Dish of Morocco” lies in the middle of the table, almost entirely covering its surface. Chicken B’stella (also known as Bastilla or Pastilla) is a sweet and savory pie, stuffed with shredded chicken, egg, and almond, and topped with cinnamon, cardamom, and powdered sugar on a phyllo crust.
Despite the questionable mix of flavors present in the dish, the rich aroma and sugar-encrusted shell draw my curious hands forward, in a ritualistic motion with the others.

Boy, oh boy, it’s Willy Wonka’s dream… but better. It’s dinner and desert wrapped into one buttery, flaky package, without the risk of becoming a blueberry upon consumption.

The next course, several very large roasted chickens with lemon and olives, comes in conjunction with the belly dancing show. The already dim room fades almost entirely to black, as the dancer mounts a temporary stage that has been pushed to the center of the dining room. Bollywood-esque music cues the sultry dance, her golden see-through Harem pants and matching belly shirt undulating to the beat of her finger-cymbals.

Our group expresses mixed-feelings on the necessity of the dancer’s “seductive movements,” but the show does not deter us from eating the tender and juicy chicken in the dark. We finish the entire dish, leaving only bones and gristle.

When the thirty-minute segment ends and the lights return to normal, our waitress announces the fourth course, either a marinated Berber beef shish kebab or a tagine of lamb with honey-almonds. Few of us red-meat-eaters but all of us nut-enthusiasts, we choose the latter.
Sure enough, the marinated almonds that dot the dish are addictive—swollen with juices and coated in honey.

Another Moroccan classic, the fifth course is couscous Grand Atlas topped with chickpeas, vegetables, and raisins. The starchy vegetables are laced with butter, giving them a creamy texture; the raisins, however, add sweetness without weight, leaving the taste buds with an impression of light indulgence.
Highlighting both sweet and savory tastes, the platter represents a common flavor fusion in Moroccan cuisine.
Thankfully for my bursting stomach, the sixth “course” is merely a basket of mixed fruit, meant to cleanse the palette, not encourage gluttony. The whole table decides to hold off for the grand finale: a dessert of sweet mint tea and Baklava.

A famous dessert across many cuisines, the sticky phyllodough pastry is filled with chopped pistachios and layered with sugary honey syrup. After a quick rendition of “Happy Birthday” led by the staff, we dive into our pastries, filling the last remaining spaces in our groaning guts.

After two hours and seven courses of constant eating, most of us are unable to finish a shot-glass-full of peppermint tea. The evening has been extensive and packed with gastronomic surprises, but I leave Marrakesh Restaurant with a smile; I am 100% certain that I have just experienced the most authentic “taste of Morocco” available in our nation’s capital.