My 10-year-old daughter, Serena, appears at the kitchen door in a black T-shirt with a silver guitar on it, plaid shorts that hang to her knees, white socks, gray Nikes— and, unusual for her, a studded leather cuff, a dragon necklace and a skull ring. “Young people who go to concerts wear lots of bling,” she says in response to my surprised look.
When it’s my turn to find an “outfit,” I choose black and jeans. And lots of bling. (I’m not young, but I am Jewish.) And we are going to one of the hottest concert events of the year— Miley Cyrus, akaHannah Montana, with openers the Jonas Brothers, at 1st Mariner Arena.
Fathers have dressed up like girls, mothers have sung on the radio and children have written essays full of lies to snag tickets to this concert. Others have gone an even more extreme route, spending $2,500 for a single floor seat. I bought ours, in row W, for face value— $64 each— from my friend, Dori Armor, who sacrificed her own seat to let me take her two kids, Mac and Jamie, and Serena. I was a ’tween concert virgin and felt lucky. “Bwahahaha,” she probably said to herself while handing me the tickets.
When I arrive to pick up Dori’s two kids, their dad, Bill Watson, chair of the performing arts and humanities department at the Community College of Baltimore County, holds out a bag of eight earplugs, one for each ear. “Like your dad giving you a condom— you might need it,” he says, a sympathetic glint in his eye.
I take the bag with an air of nonchalance. After all, I cut my teeth on KISS, Heart, UFO, Cheap Trick and Led Zeppelin at Largo’s Capital Centre and Baltimore’s Civic Center (now 1st Mariner Arena). Compared to these rock ’n’ rollers, Hannah Montana should be child’s play.
After standing in line at the door along with thousands of other panting teenage girls and their mothers, we find our seats. I notice immediately that a purple curtain hangs in front of the stage. Every time hands poke at the curtain from behind, it ripples and roughly 13,000 petite humans scream at once. It is a sound like no other. It deserves its own planet. My eardrums crackle and buzz, and my daughter’s eyes grow huge from the shock of the volume.
I reach for the bag of earplugs and after quickly but calmly inserting my own, I offer all the kids a pair. It’s like strapping on an oxygen mask in an airplane: You can’t save the kids until you save yourself. Once my drums are shut tight and the hysteria becomes a suffocated din, I hear the woman behind me telling her daughter, “You screamed right in that lady’s ear, hon.” “It’s OK,” I say, pointing to the small beige marshmallows in my ears. All around me are girls and women. Of course. The men and boys are at much tamer events— ice hockey games and monster truck rallies.
At last, there is an explosion and a cloud of smoke and the Jonas Brothers descend from the ceiling on a platform (and continue to descend throughout the show).
Occasionally, some of the kids sing along to the songs, but mostly they scream, “I love you, Nick/Kevin/Joe” and jump up and down. Sitting there, I take strength from the mothers who’ve come before me, like my friend Kim Webster, whose children— along with my own and Dori’s— attend St. Francis of Assisi School in Mayfield. Kim and Dori took their then-11-year-old daughters to their first concert a couple of years ago. “Dori and I were all psyched to get boozed up at the Hilary Duff concert, only to find that they don’t sell alcohol at those shows!” says Kim. “So we had to endure close-to-front-row action, lip-synching, anorexic, gyrating Hilary with her new veneers for two-plus hours.”
And then there’s Pam Lynch, a Lauraville mom who braved the 2006 HFStival with three 13-year-old boys. She filled what she calls her “Mom Bag” with snacks, sunscreen, sweatshirts and a giant blanket, and read to them her list of NOs (“no mosh pitting, no body surfing, no visiting the tattoo or body piercing stations or even contemplating any of these things”). Still, she was unprepared for what awaited, including “a young couple on my blanket doing things in public that some would never do in private.” Her advice for anyone taking young kids to outdoor festivals: buy pavilion seats. “Save the lawn seats for when you feel like reliving the evil side of your youth,” she says.
I was almost 10 when my dad took me to the David Cassidy concert at Merriweather Post Pavilion in 1972. Though Cassidy is respectable and became one of only a handful of ’tween idols who didn’t end up in oblivion or jail, I usually choose to publicize a way-cooler concert (my second) I attended a few years later: David Bowie at the Capital Centre in March 1976. My mother handled it like a pro— and without earplugs. “Every second person was smoking dope,” she explains. “That’s not the kind of crowd that screams a lot.”
I’m happy to report that judging from the screams at the Hannah Montana concert, no one was smoking dope.
Since Bowie, I’ve been to more arena concerts than I can count. I watched Iggy Pop spread himself with peanut butter on top of a stack of amps. I was thrown out of venues for hanging around the stage door too long (it’s how I met the Ramones). I got an autograph from every member of Cheap Trick, including their road manager, when they opened for UFO and Rush. I saw Heart backstage because my friend— well, she was naughty. And, because that same friend was naughty again, I felt a drip of Leslie West’s sweat when he left the stage and a gust of Ted Nugent’s wind when he took it. Though I mostly see quieter bands in smaller clubs these days, I like to think I could still handle Green Day. But ’tween concerts? They’re another thing entirely. It’s not the volume of the music that will kill you. It’s the nearly lethal effect of 13,000 girls aged 10 to 13 collectively screaming their lungs out.
At one point I retreat to the restroom, which I discover is full of other moms with the same idea. We’re all seeking respite, wearing our earplugs like gang colors. When I get back to my seat, the Jonas Brothers have finished and the crowd thins to tinkle and buy junk. Next to me, David Merkin, from Bethesda, is talking on his cell phone. “Loud,” he’s saying to the caller. It’s the understatement of the year. Merkin, who has brought his 8- and 6-year-olds here tonight, has two pieces of advice for parents bringing their kids to rock concerts: park far away (so you can leave faster) and eat before you come. The kids I brought filled up on dinner at home, but Mac is still lured by the $7 bucket of cotton candy.
To the fans’ delight, Hannah Montana begins after a short intermission. To my dismay, the screaming only gets louder. “I’ve heard Baltimore fans are my loudest,” she says several times— in similar words. David Merkin and I look at each other as if to say, “Squeeze my finger. This is going to hurt.” And it does. Miley/Hannah engages the audience in a contest. The left, middle and right sides of the room take turns screaming. The winners get to… scream some more.
Her portion of the show is divided in two, with the Disney character Montana performing the first half and Miley Cyrus performing the second. Apparently, the two personas have a different set of songs (and different hair color). Miley’s songs are better, though neither of them seem to be singing live. At the end of the show, she sits on a stool with her guitar and plays a song she wrote for her grandfather. This one might be real.
With a long drive ahead of them, the Merkin family leaves before the encore and I feel insanely jealous and abandoned. But that soon gives way to anxiety over getting the four of us out alive after the concert. We make it to the steps and out of the lower seating area quickly, but at the doors we are crushed by teeming ’tween hordes. Some are pushing us toward the exit. Others are shoving us toward the souvenir stand. I’ll have none of that. The sooner this is a memory, the better.
As we walk to the car (we get a little lost and end up circumnavigating the arena), I recap the night, thinking the kids must be disappointed in the lip-synching and the posing and the mediocrity. But they loved it. All three kids are smiling that kind of dazed, star-struck smile that I like to call satisfaustion—satisfied exhaustion. And it’s that look that makes you, despite your protestations and your screaming headache and the loud hum between your ears, do it all over again next year.
Unless you can find a sucker like me to take your kid.
10 Tips for ’Tween Concerts
>>Get enough tickets so that multiple parents can chaperone. In a crowd of many thousands, one parent can have a tough time keeping three kids together, and younger children come with additional hassles. The only way to keep abreast of concerts is to check artist Web sites frequently for tour news.
>>Pack plenty of earplugs! Have at least a pair per person, but a few extras are helpful in case of loss.
>>Eat a filling, healthy meal before the show. With the price of concert tickets, why spend more money on concessions?
>>Smuggle contraband— water, snack bars, etc. Bobbing up and down and screaming for two hours in a hot room causes thirst and hunger. Most venues don’t allow outside food; a “false bottom” created by a piece of matching fabric in your purse can camouflage any number of goodies, including a small camera.
>>Take a pain reliever. It can take anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes to work but can prevent a headache for up to six hours.
>>Park in the designated lot farthest from the venue. Close lots fill up first and clog at the concert’s end.
>>Designate a meeting place and distribute emergency phone numbers in case of separation. Beware: separation happens.
>>Take a picture of all the kids— near the concert sign or a poster. Even if you don’t buy any of that overpriced crap after the show, the kids will have a great personal souvenir of the night.
>>Pack pajamas and let kids change in the car. If they fall asleep on the drive home, it’s easier to put them right to bed.
>>Remember: Like with childbirth, most people forget the pain.
Leslie F. Miller is a Baltimore writer working on a book about cake.
“Hellooo.”
I looked up from the neatly wrapped slices of banana bread on the parish bake sale table into a pair of blue eyes. I took in sparse white hair, a hearing aid, a turtleneck bearing traces of egg and a windbreaker spotted with traces of earth.
“What’s your name?” Blue Eyes asked.
“Mary. What’s yours?”
“Richard!” he shouted, holding a small loaf of cake in his hand. “Did you make this?” he asked.
“Yep,” I told him.
“Well, I guess I’ll buy some,” he said. “What is it?”
“Poppy seed cake.”
“Poppy seed cake,” he repeated. “Well, OK. But do you know what my favorite dessert is? Strawberry-rhubarb pie! Do you know how to make that?”
“I sure do.”
“I have rhubarb growing in my backyard,” he said. “Maybe someday you’ll make me one.”
“Maybe someday I will,” I said, laughing.
Rhubarb is an acquired taste; my father never acquired it, so we rarely had it at home when I was growing up. But my husband has fond memories of pulling it from the family garden as a child, dipping the stalks in a bowl of sugar and eating it raw, so I began baking this odd vegetable for him after we were married and discovered I liked its bright tartness, too. But neither Kevin nor I were as excited about rhubarb as Richard was.
Determined to get a pie and make a new friend, each Sunday Richard would wait after church services and woo me with rainbow-colored roses and invitations to breakfasts at neighborhood greasy spoons (my husband chaperoned). Over weak
coffee and diner French toast, we learned Richard’s age (84) and marital status (a lifelong bachelor), discovered his obsessions (sailing, dahlias, the stock market and the miraculous visions of the Virgin Mary at Medjugorje), and his favorite culinary treats besides strawberry-rhubarb pie: salads made with as many vegetables as possible and Manhattans made “perfect” with the addition of both sweet and dry vermouth.
And every so often, I’d get a report on the state of the backyard rhubarb. “It’s just starting to come up,” he’d tell me one week.
“It’s skinny, but it has leaves,” I’d be told another.
Finally, the rhubarb reached maturity and Kevin and I were invited to harvest the stalks. Richard lived on Chicago’s North Side in the house where he was born, and both the inside and the outside of the house reflected decades of bachelor living. Overgrown shrubs and lily-of-the-valley had overtaken the garden on the east side of the yard, while Richard’s sailboat, Spoonful of Sugar, dominated the space near the garage. But the flower bed along the west side of the yard was devoted to dahlias— and rhubarb. Nestled among the wooden stakes for the dahlias were the overgrown rhubarb roots, their elephant ear-like leaves nearly hiding the rest of the plant. We sawed at the rhubarb with a dull butcher’s knife from Richard’s kitchen, and filled several plastic grocery bags full of the green and magenta stalks. “Don’t forget the strawberries,” Richard reminded me.
The following Sunday, I presented him with a lattice-topped pie in a dish slightly sticky from the rhubarb and strawberry juice that had bubbled over in the oven. Richard reached for it murmuring “thanks” and grinning like he couldn’t believe his luck, even though he’d been requesting the pie for months.
A week later, Richard returned my empty pie plate and rewarded me with a bouquet of early dahlias. “Gee, that was swell,” he said. “But next time, could you put in a few more strawberries?”
Over the next few years, I would bring Richard little treats on Sunday— a slice of pound cake, some cookies or whatever I happened to be baking. He would come for Sunday dinner occasionally. But nothing was as cherished as a strawberry-rhubarb pie. I baked one for him using his homegrown rhubarb every spring for several years, and each year he always asked for “a few more strawberries.”
Last summer we visited with Richard in Chicago over coffee at one of the modest cafés he likes so much. He looked smaller, grayer, but his eyes still glowed like cornflowers. He had moved into an assisted living apartment, he told us, and a friend was looking after his house.
“Do you remember the dahlias you used to bring me?” I asked.
“I don’t think there’s any dahlias,” he said slowly.
“Do you remember the strawberry-rhubarb pies?” I prompted.
He smiled then said, “There’s not much rhubarb left.”
When we dropped him off at his new home, I didn’t want to say goodbye.
I grow rhubarb in my front garden, and while it’s nowhere near as splendid as Richard’s, each spring I diligently cut its spindly stems for a pie in his honor, supplementing my meager yield with a few more stalks and a quart of strawberries from the Waverly Farmers’ Market. Could I add more strawberries? Sure. But as even Richard might tell you, it’s still pretty swell.
Sandwiches are a chef’s favorite meal, since we’re often short on time and are rarely able to stop to eat once the day gets going. The perfect sandwich is a regular topic of conversation among chefs during sessions of mindless kitchen chit-chat. I think the best are those that combine texture, flavor and seasoning to create something really special. Take my beer-battered rockfish mini sandwich, for example. The beer batter crunch against the soft potato roll, along with creamy tartar sauce, lettuce and tomato— it’s just plain delicious.
In my po’ boy, I substitute soft-shell crabs for oysters for a delicious Chesapeake Bay version of a Bayou favorite. In my version of the classic club, I combine textures and flavors by using hearty sourdough bread, sweet corn relish, crunchy coleslaw and smoky bacon. The last sandwich included here is a vegetarian option, using hollowed-out round bread and layering grilled vegetables, herbs and fresh mozzarella. It makes for a dramatic presentation— ideal for a picnic or garden party. Simply look in your pantry or local farmers’ market for fresh ideas. You never know when or where great sandwich inspiration will strike.
Eastern Shore Grilled Chicken Club
Grilled Vegetable Bread Loaf with Fresh Mozzarella & Pesto
Beer-Battered Rockfish Mini Sandwiches
Andrew Evans is the chef/owner of the Inn at Easton.
Serves 4
4 large or 8 small grilled boneless chicken thighs
8 slices cooked smoky bacon
1 cup cooked fresh corn
1 tablespoon chopped parsley
1 tablespoon chopped shallots
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice
Salt and freshly ground pepper
16 slices sourdough bread, grilled
8 pieces lettuce
1 cup coleslaw
1/2 cup mayonnaise
Grill the chicken until done and cook the bacon until crispy.
Make the corn salad by combining in a medium bowl corn, parsley, shallots,
olive oil, and lemon juice. Season with salt and pepper.
To assemble sandwiches, take a piece of grilled bread and layer with lettuce leaf and 1⁄4 of the coleslaw. Add another piece of bread and top with lettuce leaf and 1/4 of the corn salad. Add another slice of bread and top with a grilled chicken thigh and crispy bacon. Top that with the final piece of grilled bread, coated in mayonnaise.
Slice sandwiches in half and serve.
Serves 6
1 cup mayonnaise
1 teaspoon fresh squeezed lemon juice
1 tablespoon chopped capers
1 tablespoon chopped cornichons
1 tablespoon chopped flat leaf parsley
1 1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh tarragon
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 minced clove of garlic
1/4 teaspoon cayenne powder
Salt and cracked black pepper
1 quart vegetable oil
12 soft-shell crabs
1 box tempura batter mix
3 French baguettes
For the remoulade sauce, whisk mayonnaise, lemon juice, capers, cornichons, herbs, mustard, garlic, and cayenne in a medium-size bowl. Season with salt and pepper.
Heat oil to 350 degrees in a large pot.
Dredge the cleaned soft-shell crabs in the tempura mix and slowly lower into the hot oil. Fry until golden brown, about 2 to 3 minutes. Drain on paper towels, then cut the crabs in half.
Slice the baguettes in half and slice open lengthwise. Liberally coat both sides of
the bread with remoulade sauce, and place
4 halved pieces of crab on each baguette.
Serves 8-10
1 large peeled red onion, sliced into rings
1 large yellow squash, sliced into rounds
1 large eggplant, sliced into rounds
1 large zucchini, sliced into rounds
2 yellow peppers, roasted, de-seeded, and remove charred skin
Salt and freshly cracked pepper
1/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil
3 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 large round loaf crusty bread
8 ounce container of prepared pesto
16 ounces fresh mozzarella, sliced into rounds
Season with salt and pepper and grill slices of onion, yellow squash, eggplant, zucchini. Roast, deseed, and remove charred skin of yellow peppers.
Toss all vegetables in extra virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Check seasoning with salt and freshly cracked pepper.
Cut off top of the bread like a lid and remove some of the soft interior. With a pastry brush, spread inside of bread with half of the pesto.
Assemble sandwich by layering the grilled onions, mozzarella, and the rest of the pesto. Then add yellow squash, eggplant, zucchini, and yellow peppers. Place the lid back on the bread round and let sit for an hour so all ingredients meld. Slice loaf like a cake and serve.
Serves 6-8
1 12-ounce pilsner beer
11⁄2 cups all-purpose flour
1 quart vegetable oil
2 pounds skinned rockfish fillet, cut into
2-ounce pieces
16 mini potato rolls
1 cup tartar sauce
6 leaves lettuce
4 ripe Roma tomatoes, thinly sliced into rings
Salt and freshly cracked pepper
Whisk beer and flour in a medium-size bowl until smooth. (Adjust with more flour if necessary. The batter should be the consistency of thin pancake batter.) Place batter in the refrigerator until ready to use.
Heat oil to 350 degrees in a large sauce- pan. (If you don’t have a candy thermometer to read the oil temperature, throw a piece of bread into the hot oil, and if it browns and comes to the surface bubbling, the oil is hot enough. The oil should not be smoking.)
Dredge the fish pieces in batter. Lower into the hot oil and deep-fry until golden brown, about 2 to 3 minutes. Drain on paper towels.
Assemble sandwiches by spreading tartar sauce on both sides of the rolls, then a small piece of lettuce, then tomato slices, seasoned with salt and pepper, and fish.
Is May too early for Savvy to declare “Store of the Year”? While she can only hope there is more superlatively divine shopping to come, she can’t quite imagine how anything could be as genius as Gore Dean. The space itself is stunning— every expansive corner filled with things you want to put in your home immediately. Does Savvy really need to tell you about the terrific tabletop items from Hermès? Colorful chargers by Richard Ginori? Simply perfect stemware from Juliska? The Mrs. John L. Strong papers, Voluspa candles and custom-made furniture pieces designed by Deborah Gore Dean herself? She didn’t think so. Now go! Don’t miss: The mural-inspired paintings by Kevin Paulson and David Wiggins. Fabulous! 1340 D Smith Ave., Mount Washington, 410-323-7470
Savvy can never quite hide her horror at alterna-parenting products like cloth diapers, reusable wipes and baby slings that foster “attachment” parenting (Savvy is a big believer in detachment parenting, as in “Don’t touch Mommy, that’s white and that’s cashmere. Now go find nanny.”) That said, she couldn’t help be charmed by everything atBediboo. The stuffed animals from Jellycat are adorable. The capes, tutus and bags from EllieBellieKids are every little girl’s dream. And Savvy could even get into the organic fiber clothing from babysoy— for once, earthy baby offerings that come in colors other than mud. But what really had Savvy cooing? Bediboo’s own practically one-of-a-kind skirts and dresses made from unique fabrics— so fun! Don’t miss: Rock Candy, right upstairs! How can you not love a store that stocks Ring Pops and the incredible organic chocolate bars from Green & Black’s. Another standout? The delicious and different artisanal bars from Vosges (Savvy loves the deep milk chocolate with curry and coconut). 4321 Harford Road; Bediboo, 410-444-6060; Rock Candy, 443-919-4527
Savvy is always sort of amazed at these mixed-use real estate projects that just pop up in the fields. One day nothing, the next day retail, restaurants, offices and medians with mature trees. While part of her sort of sniffs at the whole thing, the other part loves that the gas stations have little plasmas on the pumps and everything is impossibly clean. Maple Lawn in Fulton is one of these such projects, with three stores worth a look. Savvy was intrigued by the Not Your Daughter’s Jeans at Simply Divine (301-490-7731). Hard not to love any pair of pants that promises a better butt and tighter tummy, thanks to the wonders of Lycra. Moving across the street, duck into Bra-la-la (301-776-6007) for fabulous lingerie (Savvy was heartened to see a great selection of post-mastectomy products) and expert fitting. Just next door, swing into Hyatt & Co. (410-730-8060) to peruse the new Robert Talbott line or order custom shirts for your husband. (Pick him up a pair of AG jeans while you’re at it. They are delicious on). Then run like hell back to Baltimore. Maple Lawn, Fulton
Here we go again: Tark’s Grill is the latest restaurant to make a go of it in the seemingly cursed space at Green Spring Station. The initial signs are positive: the space has been given a thorough and sophisticated makeover. The low-key lighting and deep burgundy walls adorned with retro prints of bygone Baltimore lend the place the feel of an elegant supper club. The main dining room (which features a glass-walled wine room) seats 140, while the stylish bar and adjoining lounge area seat 50 more. The menu is classic American grill cuisine: crab cakes, grilled steaks, Chilean sea bass and a seafood Cobb salad stand out. Homier comfort foods such as meatloaf, chicken potpie, burgers and braised short ribs are available as well. Old-fashioned desserts like deep dish apple pie, carrot cake, lemon tarts and chocolate layered cake wrap up the meal. The wine list is long and focuses strongly on American pours. The terrace will be open for outdoor dining in warm weather. Open for lunch and dinner, seven days, and for brunch on Sundays. Green Spring Station, 410-583-8275.
The folks behind Fells Point mainstays Kali’s Court and Mezze have just unveiled their latest: Meli. The name is Greek for “honey,” and the honeycomb motif has been employed throughout in the stylish interiors by designer Rita St. Clair. Up front, there’s a patisserie serving desserts and gourmet honeys. The main dining room includes seating for 50 and a small cocktail bar. Downstairs is a sumptuous lounge area with low seating areas done in deep jewel tones. The bistro menu includes charcuterie meats and a cheese tasting menu , as well as starters such as baked goat cheese salad, tuna tartare and crispy sweetbreads. Entrees include lavender honey-glazed salmon, grilled pork tenderloin, seared veal hangar steak and roasted Cornish hen. Open nightly for dinner. 1636 Thames St. , 410-534-6354
This subterranean dining room across the street from the symphony hall has always housed good restaurants. When chef Sonny Sweetman departed Baltimore last year, many feared that his Abacrombie was gone for good. Thankfully, Jerry Pellegrino (chef/owner of Corks) has jumped in and reinvented the place. Working with chef Jesse Sandlin, they’ve reopened and reinvigorated the establishment. The simple, chic rooms look pretty much the same, but the menu now tempts with items like steak tartare, pan-fried pompano, rack of lamb, duck confit and a porterhouse steak for two. And, knowing Pellegrino’s passion for good wines, expect some top-notch choices in that department, too. Open for dinner Wednesday through Saturday, and Sunday for brunch. 58 W. Biddle St., 410-837-3630
Mosaic, the nightclub/lounge at Power Plant Live, is back. After closing for a few months to renovate and expand, the club has reopened with a new look. The space has been expanded to include another bar, additional lounge areas and an upstairs VIP room. Fresh DJs are bringing a new sound to the mix, too. 4 Market Place, 410-262-8713
Salt, the popular Butchers Hill restaurant, has changed its former no-reservations policy. It now accepts reservations for parties of all sizes, weekdays and weekends. (2127 E. Pratt St., 410-276-5480) ... >>Pisces, the award-winning seafood restaurant in the Hyatt Regency Baltimore, has a new chef: 26-year-old George Gomez. He’s reworked the menu, using his own recipes. (300 Light St., 410-528-1234) ... >>In Federal Hill, Muggsy’s has replaced Clayton’s Tavern. They feature a full menu, with paninis as a specialty and 16 beers on tap. (1236 Light St., 410-528-9111) ... >>After 16 years at the corner of Market Place and Lombard Street, Baja Beach Club closed its doors for good in March. ... >>Taste, the beautiful, upscale restaurant at Belvedere Square has closed after a 3-year run. ... >>Downtown, Maggie Moore’s has a new owner, a new menu and a new name: Lucy’s Irish Pub. (21 N. Eutaw St., 410-837-2100) ... >>In SoWeBo, the vaunted space where Mencken’s Cultured Pearl reigned for so long has been renovated and is now home to Baltimore Pho, a Vietnamese restaurant. (1116 Hollins St., 410-752-4746)
This recipe, from Bon Appetit magazine, is the first I used for strawberry-rhubarb pie and the one I made for Richard. As he advises, you can always add more strawberries.
Pastry
3 cups flour
2 1/2 teaspoons sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt
2/3 cup chilled solid vegetable shortening, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup plus 2 tablespoons (1 1/4 sticks) chilled
unsalted butter, cut into pieces
10 tablespoons (approximately) ice water
Filling
3 1/2 cups 1/2-inch thick slices trimmed rhubarb (approximately 1 1/2 pounds untrimmed)
1 16-ounce container strawberries, hulled and halved (approximately 3 1/2 cups)
1/2 cup (packed) golden brown sugar
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 large egg yolk beaten to blend with 1 teaspoon
water (for glaze)
For pastry crust: Combine flour, sugar and salt in the bowl of a food processor. Using off/on turns, cut in shortening and butter until coarse meal forms. Blend in enough ice water 2 tablespoons at a time to form moist clumps. Gather dough into ball; cut in half. Flatten each half into disk. Wrap separately in plastic; refrigerate until firm, about 1 hour.
For filling: Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Combine first 7 ingredients in large bowl. Toss gently to blend.
Roll out 1 dough disk on floured work surface to 13-inch round. Transfer to 9-inch diameter glass pie dish. Trim excess dough, leaving 3/4-inch overhang.
Roll out second dough disk on lightly floured surface to 13-inch round. Cut into 14 half-inch-wide strips. Spoon filling into crust. Arrange 7 dough strips atop filling, spacing evenly. Form lattice by placing remaining dough strips in opposite direction atop filling. Trim ends of dough strips even with overhang of bottom crust. Fold strip ends and overhang under, pressing to seal. Crimp edges decoratively.
Brush glaze over crust. Transfer pie to baking sheet. Bake 20 minutes. Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees. Bake pie until golden and filling thickens, about 1 hour 25 minutes. Transfer pie to rack and cool completely. Makes 8 servings.
(adapted from her recipe in “The Art of the Tart”)
Although there are a few steps involved here, the recipe isn’t challenging and the results are spectacular. Even my non-rhubarb-loving relatives like this tart.
Pastry
1 1/2 cups flour
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 tablespoon confectioners’ sugar
Grated zest of 1 lemon
1 egg
Day-Lewis directs to “just swirl everything together in a food processor until it coheres; then chill in plastic wrap for an hour.”
Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line a greased 12-inch tart pan with the dough, and bake blind for 10 minutes (i.e., lined with wax paper and weighed down with pie weights or dried beans to prevent bubbling). Remove pie weights, prick the crust with a fork, and bake for a further 5 minutes. Take out of the oven and let cool. Turn the oven down to 325 degrees.
1 pound, 6 ounces rhubarb, chopped into
1-inch chunks
1 1/4 cups sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 tablespoons water
Cook the rhubarb, sugar and water together slowly in a covered saucepan until the rhubarb is soft. Pour the contents of the pan into a strainer over a bowl, and leave until the juice has finished dripping through. Reserve stewed fruit and juice separately.
Lemon Cream Filling
6 egg yolks and 1 whole egg
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
Grated zest and juice of 1 1/2 lemons
1 1/2 to 2 cups heavy cream
Crumbs from a thick slice of pound or yellow cake or 1 cup ladyfinger crumbs
Confectioners’ sugar
Beat the yolks and the whole egg with the sugar, lemon zest, juice, vanilla and cream. Then transfer to a pitcher. Put a layer of cake crumbs over the bottom of the pre-baked tart shell, and spoon the drained rhubarb on top of them. Put the tart onto a baking sheet in the oven, and then pour the lemon mixture over the rhubarb. Bake until just set, about 25-30 minutes.
Sprinkle a thin layer of confectioners’ sugar over the surface and brown it with a kitchen blowtorch or run it under the broiler briefly. Cool tart, and serve with the remaining rhubarb juice. Makes 8 servings.
My husband’s aunt, Sister Lenore, a Catholic nun for more than 60 years, gave me this old-fashioned recipe for a rhubarb-studded coffeecake— an easy solution for those who want more than a crumble and don’t want to fool with pie crust.
Cake
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
1/2 cup butter, softened
1 egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 cups flour
2 cups fresh rhubarb, cut into 1/2 -inch pieces
Topping
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon cinnamon
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cream sugar, butter, egg and vanilla. Dissolve baking soda in buttermilk. Add the flour, alternating with buttermilk. Fold in rhubarb. Pour into a greased and floured 9-inch-by-12-inch pan.
Combine sugar and cinnamon for topping, and sprinkle over the cake batter. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes. Makes 6 servings.
Last year, The Sun reported on a trial in which the accused, variously described as “an out-of-town hit man for a gang or an opportunist lured by the city’s desperate heroin users,” proffered this warm encomium on Charm City to the court: “This is the heroin capital of America, ain’t no more dope sold nowhere than right there on Pennsylvania Avenue. It’s the largest open-air drug market in the world for heroin.”
I drive across Pennsylvania Avenue early in the morning on my way to teach at University of Maryland, Baltimore County. Past the Red Fox Lounge and To God Be The Glory Deliverance Outreach, the Friendly Carryout and Grocery Store and Let ‘Em Go Bail Bonds, across the endless blocks of boarded-up buildings stenciled with “if animal trapped...” My route takes me right through the fabled “Corner” immortalized in David Simon and Ed Burns’ book of the same name, as well as the HBO miniseries: Monroe and Fayette streets, hard by Bon Secours Hospital. Even at dawn’s early light, Wilkens Avenue is a gantlet of crack whores and corner boys— and Baltimore, as every schoolchild knows, is the home of dawn’s early light. Baltimore is also the home of “The Wire.”
On my early morning run across West Baltimore, I buy an extra Sun at Monroe and North Avenue from an old man who always cheerfully tells me, “Have a blessed day.” He reminds me of Bubbles, a recovering addict, ubiquitous snitch and uber survivor on “The Wire.” He’s older than Bubs but he has that worn but still jaunty look that you often see on the streets that lifts the spirits and amazes.
Last January, I saw a body near this corner. The police were diverting traffic so I could not tell on quick glance whether the person had been struck by a car or shot. The light changed and I moved on. Another time, another corner, I saw a similar scene— but they were filming “The Wire” that day.
By the time you read this, the last flicker of eavesdropped telephone conversation will have flashed across the monitor, the final sounds of Tom Waits’ “Way Down In The Hole” (I preferred the Blind Boys of Alabama’s version from the first season) will have faded and “The Wire,” the best television drama in the short and not especially distinguished history of that medium, will have ended.
But I think it’s premature to believe that “The Wire” is over. Maybe it is if you live in Paducah or Peoria or Panama City. But if you live in Baltimore, it is not. Never will be. And I’m not talking about reruns.
While I was musing on this, a crack mother gave her baby methadone to quiet the child so she could have a party. The baby died. Some guy threw his child off the Key Bridge and told the cops that demons told him to do it. News came in the horrifying case in which a gang of thugs beat a young man walking near Patterson Park— the victim remained in a coma for months, then died. And recently The Sun featured the lively tale of a vast drug ring busted, including one of the high-spirited lads involved in the “Stop Snitching” video.
Despite one or two (or 10 or 12) too many inside jokes and maybe a few too many cameo appearances by real Baltimorons— former Mayor Kurt Schmoke, former Maryland Gov. Robert Ehrlich, WBAL-TV’s Jayne Miller, disgraced former Police Commissioner Ed Norris— “The Wire” understood our story. I don’t know about anyone else but I have often been surprised that things that actually happen in Baltimore seem scripted for the show.
To whit: A gentleman dressed as woman who may have been involved in the recreational pharmaceutical industry drives an SUV into attorney Warren Brown’s swimming pool on a midsummer’s night eve and dies. There goes the neighborhood! Warren Brown says he’s had enough, says he’s thinking about moving to the county! That incident—and attorney Warren Brown—could have been on “The Wire.” (Attorney Billy Murphy was.) Same with old Judge Ward— in his 80s— capturing a desperado on the mean streets of Bolton Hill on another summer’s day, and the near riot when the city distributed recycling containers. And what about the “press conference” featuring unsuccessful mayoral candidate Keiffer Mitchell’s father and two of the city’s more colorful barristers, the aforementioned Billy Murphy and Larry Gibson? That was “The Wire!”
“The Wire” was a kind of acknowledgment that we are living where up is down and left is right. “The Wire” was through the looking glass. At its best, and it was almost always at its best, “The Wire” captured everything about Baltimore that we know to be true, whether we live in Poplar Hill or Cherry Hill or Butcher’s Hill.
If you have ever been called for jury duty in Baltimore, you’ve seen the cavalcade of zanies who make up our town. If you have lived in Baltimore, you have met people like Major Valchek, Proposition Joe, Maury Levy, Omar Little, Ziggy, Stringer Bell, Snoop and Bunk Moreland. These are not caricatures. These are our people. We will always have them, for better or worse, and we will always have “The Wire.”
Destination: Duncan house, Polymath Park, Pa.
What is the most expressive geometric form? The well-ordered rectangle? The dependable square (uncool associations notwithstanding)? The elegant ellipse? Or maybe something more unexpected— the hexagon, perhaps. That was one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s favorites. He used it in several of his houses.
But there was one form Wright prized above all others, a simple, unadulterated one that is really just the whisper of a shape. The horizontal plane.
“The horizontal line,” Wright wrote, “is the line of domesticity.” A house, he said, should be “a companion to the horizon.”And so it is in a modest 1957 prefab that sits serenely among the woods of the Laurel Highlands in Pennsylvania, a 3 1/2-hour drive from Baltimore. Duncan House is now the third in what amounts to a Holy Trinity of Wright-designed houses all within a 30-mile radius, the other two being Fallingwater and the less famous but equally spectacular Kentuck Knob. But Duncan House has one advantage over its architectural companions— you can spend the night there.
We’re not talking about just walking through it gingerly on a guided tour, careful not to touch any of the furnishings. You can actually sleep in a bedroom Wright designed, eat in a kitchen he outfitted, wander through rooms he laid out with full-length glass windows that bring trees and trails and sky inside.
Duncan House is an exemplar of the style called Usonian, a term Wright coined to describe the new, modern type of architecture he believed was appropriate to the “United States of North America.” Characterized by a simple L-shape with a covered carport, and incorporating solid yet inexpensive building materials, Usonians were single-story houses meant to be affordable to everyone. The components could be manufactured elsewhere and shipped all over the country to be assembled on-site at a homeowner’s preferred location. Wright envisioned thousands of them, though fewer than 100 were ever built, and not all of those survive. There’s the Robert Llewellyn Wright House in Bethesda and the Pope-Leighey House in Alexandria, but you can’t show up there with toothbrush in hand to spend the night. You can at Duncan House.
Admittedly, I’m more of a frou-frou Victoriana lover and Arts & Crafts aficionado. I live for doilies and peacock feathers adorning curlicued mantels, and densely patterned William Morris wallpaper covering every surface. Those things made Wright retch. But I’m as much a sucker for celebrity as the next person, so as I pull up to the carport I can’t help feeling a little frisson of anticipation.
I’m accompanied by Laura Argenbright, who, with her brother Tom Papinchak, oversees the 125-acre Polymath Park where Duncan House now sits. Though the home looks like it was made for this location, it was, in fact, built in the ’50s in a Chicago suburb by a couple named Donald and Elizabeth Duncan, who admired Wright’s work but never thought they could afford it. Then they read about his new prefab Usonians in a magazine and changed their minds.
When Donald Duncan died in 2002, the house ended up in the hands of a developer who didn’t want it, but didn’t want to destroy it either. With the combined efforts of the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy, foundations and private donors, Duncan House was completely disassembled in Illinois and reassembled here.“The pieces arrived in trailers,” says Argenbright. “Hundreds and hundreds of pieces, all labeled, but just stacked in trailers. It took a while to figure out what went with what.” A year, in fact.
The exterior of Duncan House is a long stretch of creamy, buff-colored Masonite panels punctuated by red mahogany battens, with a red shingle roof that looks like cedar. Those shingles are actually made out of asphalt, a cost-saving measure that’s all the more impressive for how great it looks. The board-and-batten stretch is anchored at one end by a block of fieldstone— Maryland ledgerock, says Argenbright, which is native to this region of Pennsylvania— that houses the kitchen. Stepping into that kitchen is like stepping into a time warp.
Red laminate counters, blond mahogany cabinets, a classic ’50s pink refrigerator, even an old Osterizer blender greet me. The oven is set into the fieldstone wall. An electric stovetop and food-prep island, plus tons of storage space would set any cook’s heart aflutter. (Don’t get too excited— the only cooking that’s allowed here these days is in the microwave. Otherwise, you can help yourself to the basket of comfort foods, bring a prepared meal— plates and utensils are provided— or have food delivered.)
But something is pulling me to the left. It’s the flow, Wright would say. A huge, soaring space is the living area, with a 13-foot ceiling and a wall of glass on one side that looks onto woods and glacier rock. The feeling is one of overwhelming spaciousness, of air and light everywhere, as if you could take it all in just by breathing. The stone hearth is big enough to stand in. And still, the horizontal plane continues, in the bleached mahogany battens that carry the theme from outside inside, running from the living room all the way down the hall— 83 feet in all, to the three bedrooms and two baths. Argenbright leaves me to my own Wright-channeling devices and a key, to boot. Now I really feel like the place is mine.
Undressing in front of a wall of naked windows in the master bedroom takes some getting used to. I know there’s no one but deer and rabbits out there, but still. And no chance of sleeping in here. When the sun comes up, light will pour through those windows and onto the double bed. But sleep can wait. For now, I’m more interested in the massive number of closets and built-in shelves, something a Baltimore rowhouse dweller can only drool over. Wright, it seems, thought of everything.
This is not a luxurious house. It is a house for Everyman. And as much as I admire it, I can’t help but get the feeling that I’ve stepped onto the set of the “Dick Van Dyke Show,” with its Eames-era furniture and throw rugs. I’m not sure I could live here, though clearly I’m in the minority, as comments in the guest book attest: visitors from Germany, Ireland, England, Canada and Japan have come to Duncan House and been swept away by its simplicity, its aura and, they write, its timelessness.
But there’s room for a heretic like me elsewhere on the grounds of Polymath Park in the Balter House, designed by Wright apprentice Peter Berndtson (more rustic, more cozy), and the just-opened Blum House, another Berndtson creation. You can spend the night in both. To please my love of ornamentation, there’s Wright’s Kentuck Knob, with its dazzling clerestory windows, only a few miles away.
Not being much of a cook, microwave or not, I have dinner at another Wright-inspired venue— Falling Rock, part of the Nemacolin Woodlands Resort. Designed by architect David Merritt using Wrightian elements like fieldstone, burnished wood, copper and cascading water, the triangle is the reigning geometric form here. And its restaurant, Aqueous, boasts chairs that are exact replicas of the famous Barrel Chair Wright designed in 1937.
But after a rich meal in opulent surroundings, I’m longing for the simplicity of the horizontal line. So I drive the 30 miles back to Duncan House, turn my key in the lock of the kitchen door, and step inside. For tonight, at least, I’m home.
Polymath Park, 1 Usonian Drive, Acme, Pa. 877-833-STAY (7829), polymathpark.com. Rates: Duncan House, $425 per night; Balter House, $395 (a two-night minimum applies); Blum House, $245 to $285. All homes also are open for tours and special events. Fallingwater, Kentuck Knob, Nemacolin packages available.
Proud Scots worldwide pause for drams and a hearty meal on the Jan. 25 birthday of Scotland’s favorite son, Robert Burns, and the Mount Vernon home of Gillian and Peter Quinn is no different. The couple has celebrated the famous poet and balladeer’s birthday stateside for the past 10 years, holding an annual party for some 40 friends and family. “It’s something that I’ve done ever since I was born,” says Gillian, a first generation Scot. “It’s a tradition I want to keep.”
Guests were asked to arrive with whiskey in hand, while Gillian provided her own Fettercairn Single Malt, a favorite brand brought back from visits to Scotland. Following the traditional Selkirk grace, guests dined on a classic Scottish meal of haggis— minced lamb liver, lungs and heart boiled in stomach casings— along with mashed potatoes and turnips, or “meeps and tatties.” For dessert, guests enjoyed rich Scottish Caledonian cream, heavy cream whipped with whiskey and orange rind, served with homemade oat cookies.
Friend Mark Blyth, who usually recites Burns’ poem “Ode to a Haggis” at the party, was unable to attend this year, but he provided a rousing recording of the poem that was played at the beginning of the meal. Following tradition, guests ceremoniously stabbed four haggises at the end of the third verse, “O what a glorious sight, warm-reeking, rich!”
The party ended early this year, at about 1:30 a.m. Says Gillian: “It usually depends on how long the whiskey lasts!” —Elizabeth Heenan
The Party Line
occasion: Robert Burns’ Birthday.
theme: All things Scottish.
venue: The Quinns’ Mount Vernon home.
decorations: The Royal Flag of Scotland and the Cross of Saint Andrew were hung on the walls; the table was set with scarves of Gillian’s Stewart family tartan.
guest list: An artistic gathering of 40 family and friends, including Sascha Wolhandler of Sascha’s 527, Gary Kachadourian and wife Jan, and members of Gillian and Peter’s band, Lowmoda.
special touch: Mark Blyth provided an equally devilish photo
of himself in a bloodied shirt and brandishing a knife to pass amongst the guests during his recording of “Ode to a Haggis.”
selected fare: Smoked salmon with dill sour cream, tapenade with roasted peppers, “meeps and tatties,” haggis, whiskey.
Amy and Wayne Bartholomee had always dreamed of waterfront living. After years of searching, they found the perfect property just a stone’s throw from their house in the development of North Shore on the Magothy in Pasadena— across the street, to be exact. By moving into the neighboring Cape Cod, they traded distant views of the Magothy River for a property on the waterfront. But the 1929 home, with its choppy interior and knotty pine paneling, didn’t exactly fit the family’s dream.
“We really wanted something different, a home where public spaces were public. [But also] we really wanted something that was going to fit in when people approached from the water,” says Amy Bartholomee. “You know a lot of times when you go out on the boat and you see houses on the river, and there are these smaller homes next to this huge monstrosity and it looks so silly. So we wanted something that was going to fit in aesthetically.”
To that end, they decided to tear down the traditional Cape Cod and build a modern home a la Frank Lloyd Wright in its place.
The first task was to find the perfect architect— “We went through half a dozen with egos bigger than mine,” says Wayne Bartholomee. Finally, the family struck gold when Robert Greene, a 69-year-old former apprentice of Frank Lloyd Wright, agreed to come out of retirement to do the project. He left his home in Atlanta to stay with the Bartholomees for a few days, getting an idea of their lifestyle and taste. Then he produced conceptual drawings suited to the family’s wants (a refined modern home) and needs (a livable space that accommodates growing preteen boys). They couldn’t have been happier.
Then, one day in 2003, the Bartholomees logged on to their computer— after Hurricane Isabel stranded them for five days without power— to find an e-mail from Greene’s son announcing his father’s death from an aneurysm.
“We both had nothing to say. We were just staring at the screen like, ‘What? I can’t believe he died,’” says Amy Bartholomee. “So we had to start all over again trying to find somebody who would honor his work, because we just loved his drawings. They were so beautiful.”
Their search led them to Taliesin Preservation Inc., the prestigious Frank Lloyd Wright School of Architecture in Spring Green, Wis., where Greene began his apprenticeship in 1958. “We knew [Greene] was very connected with the alumni association there,” says Amy Bartholomee. “Wayne called and said, ‘You know, do you think you have an architect who would be willing to finish what Robert started?’And so that’s how we got our current architect, Jamie Kimber.”
Initially Kimber, who lives in Madison, Wis., and has an office there and in Minneapolis, planned to implement Greene’s vision to a T. But the more he got to know the Bartholomees, the more he realized Greene’s design, however beautiful, was not exactly what the family was looking for. After making a series of major changes, including revamping the home’s floor plan, Kimber realized he was fighting Greene’s design.
“The more I talked to Amy and Wayne, the more I got a sense that they wanted a really modern home. So we had to alter a lot,” says Kimber. “Because I studied at Taliesin, I could look at Greene’s designs and understand a lot of what he was going for— the scale, the situation on the river, the materials. But many things have changed over time. Newer ideas have emerged. We had an opportunity to bring the design to present day. We had to put [Greene’s] drawings in the drawer and start over.”
Kimber essentially redesigned the entire home, letting the interior space be his guide. “One of the many design philosophies that one takes away from Taliesin is that the architecture that you see from the street is shaped by what you need to contain the interior space,” he says.
What you see from the street now is a geometric structure made of hardy plank concrete, natural stone and titanium Tegola “siding.” With its walls of windows, the new structure capitalizes on the view. On a clear night the family can see car headlights streaming across the Bay Bridge and streetlights flickering in the Annapolis skyline.
In the new design, a great room containing the open-plan kitchen, living and family room is the heart of the house. Golden brown Zebrawood floors bordered by chocolate brown Wenge wood run the length of the space. In the kitchen, designer Brad Crockett of Kenwood Kitchens chose custom cherry veneer cabinets in dark brown with pops of red and a bold tile backsplash to offer a kick of color, and canyon creek stone walls to bring the outside in. A wall of windows overlooking the river stretches the length of the great room and continues upward into the second-level sitting room, master suite and boys’ “wing.”
A signature stairwell located in the front of the home, with rectangular windows, walls of American Hemlock and industrial handrails is designed so that each landing is a small, intimate space. Intentionally sheltered from the river’s view, it creates drama as one leaves the shielded stairs for the “open air” of the first and second levels.
Upstairs, the home’s three bedrooms feature large windows and sleek furniture from Nouveau Contemporary Goods. Interior balconies, which are partitioned by wrought-iron rails, overlook the great room and emphasize the free flow of space.
Wayne Bartholomee requested the master bedroom shower be “window side,” but he still wanted privacy. So Kimber designed a bathroom that sits in the interior of the master bedroom, a location that allows Wayne to overlook the Magothy in the buff without flashing his neighbors in the process. Conscious of the male dominated household, Kimber also installed urinals in every bath and finished off the boys’ bath and mudroom in subway tiles.
The result is a modern waterfront family home that honors the Bartholomees’ mix of sophisticated palates and playful spirits.
“The house feels very warm even though it’s modern. You can touch stuff,” Wayne Bartholomee says. “You can live in it.”
Resources
Architect j.kimberDesign, 608-333-8812
Kitchen Kenwood Kitchens, Lutherville, 800-211-8394
Furnishings Nouveau Contemporary Goods, Baltimore, 410-962-8248, http://www.nouveaubaltimore.com
Floors County Floors, Warrensburg, N.Y., 518-623-9339, http://www.countyfloors.com
INDUSTRIAL DESIGN:
The Problem Solver
Design for design’s sake doesn’t interest Inna Alesina. In her ideal world, designs are functional; they serve a purpose and solve a problem. Just sitting around looking pretty doesn’t cut it.
“There’s no need for another decorative object in the design world,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand and a slight roll of her eyes. “For me, design starts with a problem. I’m looking for problems, and materials are one of our biggest problems. Typical furniture is made from wood, particleboard, plastic or metal. I’m looking for ways to use recycled paper and other stuff.”
That’s why when she looks at, say, discarded molded-paper egg cartons, she doesn’t just see trash. She sees building material. Compress enough of those together into a circular shape, add some funky colors, and you’ve got the Good Egg rocking stool/ottoman. (It can also serve as the base for a coffee table.)
Alesina’s designs have been featured in publications from The New York Times to I.D. magazine. She participated in Designboom shows from 2005 to 2007 and won several competitions there. She is currently an industrial design instructor at Maryland Institute College of Art.
“She’s one of the only designers I know who doesn’t have an ego about her products; she’s so much about the process and the materials,” says Melissa Easton, an industrial designer in New York whose creations have appeared in European stores as well as at large retail chains such as Target and Crate & Barrel. “She’s an educator as much as a designer.”
A native of Kharkov, Ukraine, Alesina has been working professionally since 1996 after graduating with a bachelor of fine arts in furniture-and-product design from Parsons School of Design in New York. She and her family immigrated to the United States as Jewish refugees in 1992. She now lives in Owings Mills and has a studio in her basement.
Her bread-and-butter comes from designing for companies as a consultant. She’s created a backpack cooler for Kelsyus and foam sandals for Waldies. She also worked for the Chinese firm Adesso designing products such as coat racks and desks. All was fine until one day they asked her to design a novelty lamp. “I had a major block. I could not come up with anything,” says Alesina, 39. “It’s a little light you’re going to plug in once and then it’s going to gather dust. It’s along the lines of gadgets and gimmicks that I’m just against. My brain doesn’t work that way.”
Her latest design, which is available on her Web site alesinadesign.com, is a wall shelf made from recycled paperboard mailing tubes that she cuts, colors and varnishes. The Truba shelf is designed to hold the small things that often end up as clutter— keys, sunglasses and the like. “I was just thinking of all the structural ways you can work with cardboard or paper,” she says. “The mailing tubes came across as a very structural material and they do not require digging for new sources of materials.”
In her work as an educator, Alesina continually urges her students to create designs that accomplish more than one task, like an umbrella that collects rainwater and filters it for drinking water, created by a 10-year-old boy at a Howard County design camp she teaches during the summer. “People think design is about how things look, but really you’re inventing things,” she says. “Anyone can design.” —Kristine Henry
MEDICAL DESIGN:
A Helping Hand
Last spring, Jesse Sullivan opened a door and changed his life. It wasn’t what was on the other side. It was the fact that he could open the door at all.
In 2001, he lost both his arms from the shoulder down after being electrocuted on the job as a high-power lineman. Thanks to what Stuart Harshbarger, director of Johns Hopkins’ Applied Physics Lab (APL) in Laurel, calls “engineering at the edge of science fiction,” Sullivan was the first person to test the first prototype of the next generation of prosthetics: a neurally controlled device that recalls brain signals and decodes and interprets them in real time.
For the first time in six years, Sullivan felt the pressure of the knob in his hand and experienced the sensation of fingers, palm and wrist working together. “He told us that he could feel his limb again, that wearing the arm felt like it was natural,” says Harshbarger of the results of Revolutionizing Prosthetics 2009, a program sponsored by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency to create a neurally controlled arm and hand ready for FDA approval and clinical trials by 2010.
Hopkins’ APL, which received $30.4 million from DARPA in 2006 for the project, coordinates the research by the consortium’s 250-plus engineers, researchers and technicians representing more than 30 international organizations. “It’s so exciting to see the convergence of so many disciplines coming together to work collaboratively on a nearly impossible task,” says Harshbarger, a biomedical engineer. “It’s unifying and humbling to be able to try to restore function to a person with a traumatic injury, disease, birth defects or injury from protecting the country.”
Hopkins represents the largest group of researchers, with a core of 30 scientists that can reach upward to 100, depending on undergraduate and graduate student participation. The goal is to turn its prototypes into a final product ready for the marketplace by 2010. The industry is already giving them a hand: Last year, the Revolutionizing Prosthetics 2009 team won a Popular Mechanics Breakthrough Award.
Existing prosthetics typically use electronic sensors attached to the muscles on an amputee’s stump to open and shut a “Captain Hook-like” hand. The result gets the job done, but researchers, clinicians and users alike find these limbs bulky, mechanically heavy and not aesthetically pleasing. When Sullivan and a handful of other amputees tested the APL’s first prototype last spring at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, one of the project’s research sites, Harshbarger marvels that “in a couple of hours, users were able to control eight joints very naturally.”
His team has since rolled out two newer versions for testing that have more than 25 joints designed to replicate near-human-like dexterity and strength. These wireless devices include 80-plus sensors, allowing the user to “feel” heat, cold, the pressure of objects and limb position. “When you think that the current state of the art is a glorified claw with a rubber glove to look like a hand, this