Laura Read

Gayle Keck

Laura Read: "Finding the Heart of the Story in Ireland"

Excerpt:
...I spread my hands palms down inside the bowl. I felt a powder falling onto them from above. It was dense, cool and fine. "It must be flour," I said. "But it doesn't feel like flour. It feels - like rain."

"We'll make bread together," Willow said. And I found myself on my feet. She dumped more flour into the bowl, sieved in some salt, baking soda and cream of tarter. "Throw a pinch of salt over your shoulder for the fairies," she advised. She poured a bunch of buttermilk on top of the flour and then plunged her hand into the bowl to mix the mess with her palm - no spoon. Soon she handed the bowl to me. "Don't be shy."

The dough stuck to my fingers at first. After just a few stirs, my forearm burned with the effort. I handed the bowl back. Willow plopped the congealed dough onto the flour-dusted countertop. She kneaded quickly, patting the sides and turning it. "Your turn," she said.

I dug in with too much zeal and she squealed, "Don't squeeze!" I tried again. That's when I felt a surprise. The dough quivered.

"It's alive," I whispered.

"It's magic," she said.

Laura Read writes and photographs about the environment, travel, people, and adventure for regional and national magazines. She is writing a book on people, place and fruit - how one community collaborated to preserve its unique character by supporting small family farms. She loves to ski, hike, kayak, bicycle, photograph and travel wherever she can, but finds the most excitement at home in the Sierra Nevada, where she has lived for 20 years. Read more of Laura's work and see photos at http://www.ReadWriteShoot.com

Gayle Keck: "The F**k of the Irish"

The use of a certain expletive is raised to an art in Ireland, though Gayle Keck found out - despite what she'd thought - there was a limit.

Excerpt:
...Ireland blessedly banned smoking in restaurants and pubs a few years back, but no similar statute has been enacted regarding f**k. It rings out over the tar-colored, creamy-topped glasses of Guinness in every Dingle pub. It bounces off the walls flanking narrow pedestrian streets in Galway. It rattles around Dublin restaurants...

A few years ago, I happened into Vaughan's pub at Kilfenora, County Clare, just as the TV announced a new pope was about to be revealed. A tweedy, leathery-faced clientele was glued to the proceedings, the heels of their mucky rubber boots hooked into the rungs of the barstools...

"Why's it takin' so f**kin' long?" a ruddy farmer demanded, pushing through the pub door...

Finally, at St. Peter's Square in Vatican City, the thick velvet curtains were pulled aside. The Vaughan crowd's calloused hands gripped their glasses of Guinness a bit tighter as the new pope stepped forth.

"It's a freakin' German!" a man exclaimed, slamming his palm on the bar.

A freakin' German? Freakin'?

I had just found the limit of the seemingly unlimited fount of f**ks. The pope was freakin' sacred. Even if he was a German...

Gayle Keck's stories don't normally require "bleeping." The Lowell Thomas winner writes about travel and food, preferably both at the same time. She has sipped fermented mare's milk in Kyrgyzstan, dug truffles in Italy, crafted wine at Napa's "Crush Camp" and munched her way through every continent except Antarctica, which seems far too focused on frozen food. Read her in AFAR, National Geographic Traveler, VIA, The Washington Post, Executive Travel, "Zagat San Francisco Restaurants 2010", Islands and the "Best Travel Writing" anthologies. She also blogs at her website, http://BeenThereAteThat.com, where she maintains a civil tongue.