July

Independence Day in Beacon Hill, Boston: A child's interpretation.

To all outward appearances, this month has not been a particularly remarkable one as far as that goes. To be honest, July was much calmer than the preceding months. Yet I am left with the sense of having experienced a uniquely vivid and emotional period, one which deserves to be contemplated as an entity unto itself. 

Myer's new job as a Software Engineer (which he began in May) has enabled us to finally afford organic/free-range/pastured/grass-fed vittles, something we've long aspired to. I have not been able to eat a largely organic diet since my childhood in the Wisconsin woods, and I must admit, I'd forgotten what a tremendous difference there is... not only in nutrition, but also in taste. My first trip to the market on this budget was difficult; I actually felt a little guilty, picking up the expensive versions of items I normally buy. But I have adjusted quickly, and it would be difficult to go back now! The sense of joy I find in making such beautiful, nutrient-dense meals for myself and my husband can't be fit neatly into words. Perhaps a few images will tell the story more accurately.

Wild salmon, anchovies, organic spinach, garlic/ginger/onions, homemade sauerkraut, natto, yeast+ACV dressing, grass-fed butter+olive oil, and turmeric paste. 

Grass-fed spicy burgers with seaweed, onions, garlic, salsa+mustard... surrounded by a sea of cucumber-dill salad in cashew-coriander dressing. 

Organic arugula with seared portobello mushrooms, red pepper, organic tomatoes, grated carrot, ACV, sesame oil, black sesame seeds, and Tellicherry pepper.

Another area of life that I've improved on this month is my exercise routine. I quit the whole "chronic cardio" scene a while back, and have slowly adopted a weight-lifting habit. I spend 1/2 hour, five days a week, using the various machines provided at our gym... which were intimidating at first, for sure! The weight room definitely has a dude-oriented atmosphere, but I've gotten used to that as well, and now I'm seeing the benefits of my discipline. The pain in my neck is greatly lessened, and I'm able to hold a better posture in general. In addition to weights, I've upped the ante on my long-distance walking. Lately my weekly average is 75 miles. I walked over 300 miles in July, or so Fitbit tells me. I cannot begin to describe how therapeutic this practice is for me. Not only does it feel wonderful in my body, but it gives me time with my meditations and my art projects. Yes, painting takes place (for me) only 50% in front of an easel; the other half is done while walking. And I have seen so much more of "our fair city" this way--- I can't believe how little we usually know about the areas we inhabit. I've lived 6 years in Boston, and this summer have seen ten times more of it than I ever did before. Oh, one more tidbit on the subject of exercise: I must tell you about my barefoot shoes. These are by far the most comfortable shoes I have ever worn in my life. I never thought a shoe would approach the comfort of actually going barefoot, but Merrell/Vibram has done it. I should really be a spokesperson for these shoes, because I rave about them to everyone.

July has been beautiful, indeed, but also difficult. Two of my very best friends, women whose friendship during these past few years in Boston I will cherish for the rest of my life, have moved to the other side of America. They are my angels, these ladies.... I feel their absence deeply. They are both new mothers--- brilliant mothers!--- I will miss seeing their babies grow. This sense of loss has me thinking a lot about the transient nature of our modern lives; whereas once the majority of people would stay in the same village throughout the duration of a lifetime, today virtually no one has that experience. My Great-Great-Great Grandpa Johann Kohlmoosz left his German village at the age of 18, only returning for a visit once. Of his generation, he and his brothers were the only ones to leave. What he did was rare. Now it is rare to stay. I find myself wondering what we keep when people flit in and out of our lives on such a regular basis? I feel the loss, but I don't know what it means or how to address it, how to transform it into something useful.

~ <3 ~ 

Two years ago I began a tradition of watching Le Tour de France. This is a bit out of character for me, as I've never been a sports fan of any sort. Perhaps it's because I grew up with a father who built bikes for a living and rode them out of obsession. When I was a kid, we would regularly see him heading off in his Gios gear, one of those bright birds of the road that you'll occasionally see speeding past in colorful flocks... he'd commute to work all through the Wisconsin winter, 20 miles each way, and return home wish icicles hanging from his big red beard. Partly this, I'm sure. But also because I appreciate the sense of awe it gives me--- awe for the capacities of the human body. It is thrilling, entertaining, and aesthetically pleasing. I look forward to this event every year now.

Cyclists having a smoke in a 1920s Tour; maintenance in a 30s Tour.

Greg LeMond in 1986; Nairo Quintana and Chris Froome, 2015.

It has been a long month; endless in the way that long walks feel, yet brief because I did not want it to end. Tomorrow we are leaving on a trip to the Midwest--- I haven't seen home in a long time. I'll see Dad, Mom, a couple of my sisters, some very good friends, and a little school called Lawrence University... when I left that place, no one had "smart phones" and few had wi-fi. Facebook was a novelty. I'm not sure how I feel about seeing old places. I'll know more in a week, I suppose.

Addendum: other sights and sounds of July: Seinfeld, Patrick Swayze, Tangerine Dream, Ian McEwan, and Hokusai.

The unmistakable poppety-slappety theme.

Point Break, 1991. We laughed our bums off.

Hokusai's Fuji Mountain, 1831.

Redhead

My father: flame-haired bicycling stone-sculptor.

I've always wanted red hair. Maybe because Dad is a redhead, or maybe just because it's the brightest and most beautiful color where hair is concerned. As kids, my sisters and I all envied Dad's cascading fiery locks. Sometimes we'd play a game: "If you could change one thing about how you looked..." Desire for red hair usually topped the list. Throughout my life, I have been drawn to people--- fictional, historical, etc.---with this lucky attribute. The relative rarity of red hair (between 1% and 2% of the world's population display the trait) may add to its allure, but in the end it's simply the most beautiful color. I mean, I know "beautiful" is a sticky term and subjective blah blah blah, but really, who can argue that red is the most vivid natural hue seen on the human head? Who doesn't look twice when someone with an actual carrot-top goes by?

Dear Aunt Jan & baby Rhiannon

A host of stereotypes exists concerning the temperament and characteristics of redheads, with varying degrees of truth: "fiery temper", "crazy", "great in bed", "Irish", "not to be trusted", etc. Biologically, there are certain differences for those with red hair. One study found that they resist anesthesia, and require an extra 20% more than other folks during medical procedures. There is also a greater risk of deafness (from extended exposure to loud noise), as well as the commonly recognized susceptibility to sunburn.

Throughout history and across cultures, redheads have put up with a good deal of discrimination. In ancient Egypt, it is said that red-headed women were thought to be unlucky and were often burned at the stake. Greek mythology has them turning into vampires when they die.Aristotle believed that redheads were emotionally primitive. One Medieval recipe for poison included the "fat of a red-headed man." Spanish inquisitors believed red hair was a sign that its owner had stolen the fire of hell and must be burned at the stake as a witch. Hitler apparently had it out for gingers as well, banning the marriage of two redheads for fear they'd produce "deviant" offspring. Go figure.

Famous redheads: King Arthur, Queen Elizabeth I, Vincent Van Gogh, and Marilyn Monroe.

In spite of all this, history is peppered (cayenne peppered? Lol) with great and famous (sometimes infamous) redheads: King Arthur, Cleopatra (apparently escaped being burned at the stake), Judas Iscariot, Genghis Khan, Christopher Columbus, Henry VIII, Elizabeth I, Galileo Galilei, George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Vincent Van Gogh, and Marilyn Monroe among them. In addition, there are many fictional red-haired characters in books and movies that I have loved since childhood, and the list continues to grow. In fact, it's too long for this post, so I will only mention a few here.

Tintin, Pippi Longstocking, Jessica Rabbit, and Rose DeWitt Bukater.

If you love Tintin as much as I do, then you'll know why he must be saluted first. Dad bought us all the Adventures of Tintin when we were kids; several of my sisters learned to read in them. I distinctly remember helping Annwn make her way through The Black Island. Those are good memories of being a big sister. Tintin was adventure to us. We read those books countless times. Everything about Hergé's series of books is perfect--- from the plot lines to the beautiful drawings. And Tintin's red topknot: simply iconic. Next, how about Pippi Longstocking? She was a big hit in our household. Rhiannon even had a character she occasionally played who sported two braids with wire in them to stand out like Pippi's--- the aspirational tomboy spitfire girl. Then there's Who Framed Roger Rabbit, which had a cult following in our family. Again, Rhiannon was the one most obsessed with this film, and so the rest of us were by default. Rhiannon had a stuffed Roger, and hand-sewed a Jessica to accompany him. We even went so far as to build "Toontown" out of crates down on the strip. Jessica Rabbit was the epitome of *gorgeous* to us little snots. And all the more because of her red hair. Another movie character I must add, although some may sneer, is Rose from the much-loved and much-loathed 1997 Titanic. Yes, I liked that film. I still do. Rose's red hair is icing on the cake.

Petronella, The Book of Three, Anne of Green Gables, and The Hero and the Crown.

There was a book called Petronella that I loved as a child. I can scarcely remember the story, but boy do I remember that red hair! The heroine's tresses form a magical puffball of red-gold that is creatively and intricately depicted in the illustrations. I wish I could find a copy to look at once again. Some of our very most favorite books as kids were those of the "High King" series by Lloyd Alexander. I almost wish I had kids just so I could read them these books. If you have not taken part, you are missing out! The main girl character is named Eilonwy, and, you guessed it, she has red hair. It doesn't look like it on the cover of the book shown here, but trust me. Her hair is red. I included Anne of Green Gables more because I owned a very special hardcover copy of that book than because of any great fandom for it as a piece of literature. In fact, the book sort of got my goat. But the illustrations in this version, which was a gift from Dad, were absolutely beautiful. And her hair in these drawings? To die for. The final character I'll mention is Aerin from Robin McKinley's The Hero and the Crown. That book (part of a two book series including The Blue Sword) was also a powerful influence on our five-girl posse, and was read aloud by Mom more than twice. It had us all drawing dragons with tiny, tiny scales for months afterward. Those stories were so nail-bitingly awesome when I was a kid; I wonder how they would seem now? I clearly remember being saddened by how Aerin's hair grows back a darker, less brilliant red after she fights the dragon. Why did McKinley have to do that?

1000 Oceans.

Baby Fawn

An old and cherished postcard from my BFF artist sister Kelly Shaw Willman.

If you had to choose an animal to represent you, which one would you choose? It's a question I sometimes ask people when I am trying to get acquainted with them. Everyone has probably considered this at some point; it's akin to asking "what's your favorite color?" I like this particular question because it requires the use of symbolism in an intricate--- but still intuitive--- way. Finding an answer means thinking in a child-like manner, human yet automatic, intellectual yet unforced. The response is always telling. 

This type of association occurs often in "primitive" cultures (ugh, I dislike that usage) and also in literature or myth. Just think of the totem, the spirit animal, the dæmon, the patronus. The pairing happens instinctively, perhaps functioning as a way to help us understand identity. I think this is what it does for me... although I'm still not really sure. Writing or talking about this sort of thing is difficult; it does not fit well into words. All I know is that the pairing is important and holds a great deal of meaning.  

When I was a Baby Fawn

When I was a little kid, maybe five or six, I used to play a game called "Baby Fawn." It was a very simple game. Mom and my sisters and I always went on a walk in the middle of the day, and sometimes during this "days walk" (as we termed it) I would run ahead and curl up on the pavement, face down, and wait for the rest of my family to catch up. When they came upon me, Mom (as carefully instructed!) would say, "Oh, girls, it's a baby fawn!" And she'd proceed to speak as if they'd just discovered a real little fawn laying in the road. After a couple of minutes, I'd magically turn back into Arhia--- and then run ahead to repeat the game. If Mom got tired of it, she never let on. What a lady! I can distinctly remember transforming into the baby fawn, but I cannot recall why I chose that animal. Maybe because I thought deer were magical in their silent grace... and I enjoyed being such a fresh and untarnished creature. The moment of being "discovered" was always a bit frightening, since I'd convinced myself I was a deer, but it was also fun to be at the center of attention as a beautiful and somewhat mystical beast. 

A Safe Child

When I saw Disney's Bambi for the first time, it affected me quite severely. I definitely sobbed in the darkness of the movie theatre when Bambi's mother died. To me she was Mom. My mom. I experienced a very real existential moment involving the knowledge and understanding of death. I avoided ever seeing that movie again, though I had several opportunities. I didn't let on that it had made such a deep impression on me--- I'd hidden my tears. I felt ashamed, since it was just a silly animated movie after all. I did not want to risk being laughed at as the weepy, emotional, "weak" one compared to Rhiannon's Big Sister strength. 

One of my first experiences of Frida Kahlo was her painting "The Little Deer," or sometimes called "The Wounded Deer." It struck me as outrageously brave; so brazenly forward about an intimate, private sort of pain. The symbolism of it captured me. And her face--- calm in spite of the arrows, like the face of Christ on the cross in some of the Medieval paintings... just looking at you looking at the pain. I loved the honesty of it, and the awkwardness, like how she has two sets of ears. It is all exactly right.  

Frida and Granizo

Audrey and Pippin

In college, I made a painting referencing this one (if only in symbols employed; the content was altogether different). It is a dream I had while studying abroad in London--- an image of love (destiny, adoration) that came to me one night when I was missing Myer like you can't imagine. Oh, and Frida also owned a pet deer, as did Audrey Hepburn. What is it with artistic ladies and fawns? There's something attractive about the delicacy of a deer, and then there are the spots it loses with age and the number of points on a buck's antlers... an animal symbolically loaded.  

Being homeschooled and living a relatively secluded life in the woods meant that my sisters and I inevitably created a unique culture of our own. I have called it a totemic culture; in fact, my MFA thesis was based on this idea. All of us had "spirit animals"--- Rhiannon was a cat and a monkey, Annwn was a frog, etc. We have drawn and painted each other in our various animal incarnations. Here are three of them.

Embroidered fawn from Mirra

Rhiannon's rendition of us

My painting of Annwn

Self-Portrait

In-progress.

I have been fascinated by portraits in art since I first began looking at Dad's old art history books as a little kid. Human faces were always my favorite subjects; I don't think that needs any explanation. As a child, I loved to draw people. "Beautiful Ladies" made frequent appearances in my sketchbooks. But I didn't begin drawing pictures of myself until I attended college. For some reason, I was squeamish about it when surrounded by my family. I thought drawing myself would indicate something suspect in me. Once I started using my own face and body as subjects, however, I could not stop. Suspect? Maybe. But I'm sure other artists will understand the attraction. What actually happens when one visually depicts oneself? Sometimes this practice is seen as narcissistic and egotistical; on the contrary (I believe), it encourages understanding and compassion for others by teaching understanding and compassion for oneself. It is a search for identification through the commonality of idiosyncrasy. It is a narration of recognition. A self-portrait is a definition of reality (and an acknowledgment of differing realities). The spell of the self-portrait is difficult to escape. And I wonder, why try? Many of my favorite paintings of all time happen to be of this genre.

Frida Kahlo, Self-Portrait with Necklace, 1933.

I've recently been reading the most incredible book, The Self-Portrait: A Cultural History by James Hall. Not only is it informative from a historical perspective (I am ravenous for history), but it speaks intimately to me about my own desire to depict myself... while making me feel such companionship with artists spread out across hundreds of years. If you are interested in the subject at all, I highly recommend this book. 

Some artists are known mainly for their self-portraits. Frida Kahlo is one such. At the time of her death (age 47), she had painted about 55 of them.  Rembrandt is also known largely for his self-portraits, many completed in his youthful years. I have been lucky enough to see several of these stunning works, including a small piece that resides in Amsterdam's Rijksmuseum. He depicts himself at the tender age of 23. When I stood before it, I felt as though I were facing a fire that had been burning for 400 years... like my soul was being seared by a beautiful brand. 

Rembrandt, Self-Portrait as a Young Man, 1629.

Before the 15th century, self-portraits in art were comparatively rare and not hailed with such to-do. For a great deal of history, artists were in fact considered equivalent in status to blacksmiths or weavers; they were "craftspeople," and not deemed significant enough to warrant the sort of historical memorial that portraiture entailed. Still, they sneaked in self-portraits whenever they could and in spite of ridicule or even punishment. The desire of the artist to portray him/herself... has remained constant. One painting I desperately wish I could see in person currently hangs in the Alte Pinakothek, Munich, Germany. Albrecht Dürer's Self-Portrait (1500) has deeply affected me since I first saw an image of it many years ago. Even without the art history context, this piece is (in my humble opinion) unsurpassed. Within said context, it takes on many additional layers of meaning and explains its important position in the textbooks. Just look at it for a moment... that hair! That gaze! That hand! I'd go to Germany solely to visit this awe-inspiring yet humbly-sized (26 x 19 inches) painting.

Durer, Self-Portrait, 1500.

Much of the controversy surrounding this portrait revolves around Durer's (apparent) allusions to images of Christ from the period. He has employed various conventions of representation and symbolic elements that make this reference difficult to doubt. I'm sure I need not go into why that was problematic for many people. However, I don't think Durer was intending it to be an affront... from my perspective, he was in fact "worshiping God" in his own way; in the way he needed to, although it was not necessarily safe.

Picasso, Self-Portrait, 1901.

Sofonisba Anguissola

Two more I must mention before I bring this to a close: the first is Picasso's from his "blue period." It's something about the placement of his face on the canvas, and his expression surrounded by blues that are somehow both soft and vicious. The second is by Italian Renaissance painter Sofonisba Anguissola, who created many self-portraits throughout her long life (an incredible 92 years). I think they are all beautiful, but the small example pictured here is my favorite because of the angle at which her head is tilted... and the wisdom-filled youth in her gaze.

I enjoy looking at portraits in general, but self-portraiture holds a special fascination for me. When I stare deeply into a great one, I feel a twinge of that longing--- that desire to bridge the chasm between perception and perceived. In the really, truly great ones, I can taste it. Which is what spurs me to continue attempting my own. I've finished several, all of them quite different from each other, and am working on two more. The "sliver picture" at the beginning of this post is a taste of my most recent self-portrait project (and, sadly, it is far from done!).

Lady with a Langur, 2012.

Rosa Acicularis, Prickly Wild Rose

Down in the lower gardens on the strip, where the Milky Way shone bright at night, our wild roses grew. Mom brought them small from Grandma's garden up in Minnesota, but they were enthusiastic flowers and fast made our home their own. Yesterday I asked Mom if the roses were still there, and she said yes, it's hard to keep them at bay.... which I was glad to hear. Wild roses are my favorite flowers. Have you sniffed a wild rose? The scent is like a drug, it overtakes me. During this time of year, I often smell them before I see them; where are you, my delicious friend? There you are, and I make the apt-named beeline to stand and inhale, inhale until I almost faint of too much oxygen. Standing like that, I see the secret world beneath the spiny bushes and it reminds me of picking raspberries in the forest as a child. Did you know? Raspberries and roses are in the same family. I think I am part of that family, too.

From Snow White and Rose Red

Roses. Probably the most oft-referenced flower by artists and poets through many centuries, and used symbolically in countless myths/folktales/etc. When I was very small, my dad told me about the brilliance of Gertrude Stein: "Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose"... which I didn't understand, but pretended to, because Dad spoke to me like I was a smart girl who would know such things. There is a Grimm's fairy tale called Snow White and Rose Red that my sister Rhiannon and I loved. She said they were us--- she was Snow White and I was Rose Red. That suited me fine. Mom read us Romeo and Juliet out loud, explaining every line as she went. "What's in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet." Yes, yes I understood that! Because I had smelled roses, and there was no denying the transcendence of their scent. One of our best friends growing up was named Rose. Everyone else called her "Rosie"; we stubbornly stuck with "Rose." To me that meant the wholeness of the flowering plant in all its glory, whereas "rosie" sounded like an adjective, a skin tone. I still call her Rose, and I'm sure she will laugh reading this.

Last year in the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, I stumbled across a treasure by the windows in the "Dutch room."

The Madonna and Child in a Rose Arbor, 16th c., Workshop of Martin Schongauer, German, 1450-1491, Oil on wood

Page of a 16th c. German hymnal

This painting is spell-binding to me. I think it feels like home. All the plants are hyper-real, which in my mind seems more real than "actual" real.... and I know what most of them are because I grew up in that garden. Roses have been used since Medieval times as a symbol for both Christ and Mary. In the 16th century German hymn "Es ist ein Ros entsprungen" ("Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming"), it symbolizes Christ's birth. Mom used to sing this hymn at Christmastime; it was always one of her favorites. I wasn't a fan back then because it was difficult for me to sing, and I didn't understand how a rose had to do with Christmas. Now I love it because it reminds me of Mom.

I eat roses. I drink roses. I put roses on my body.... Raspberries drizzled with rose water, rose-petal kombucha, Weleda wild rose body oil and Wyndmere rose oil in jojoba. I cannot get enough. Of course I am aware that roses are cliche as a favorite flower. However, I think resisting my love of these divine blossoms because so many have loved them before... would prove me rather silly. When I was a little girl, I chose brown as my favorite color for a long time, because I felt sorry for the brown Crayola marker. No one seemed to love it. These days, I just go right for the juiciest, sparkliest, tastiest, and most colorful. Sorry brown Crayola marker. After all, as they say, life is short. So I stop and smell the ... like, every five minutes.   

Love Letter to Color

(Plus how to make fermented beet pickles)

I have moments every day when I feel so very thankful for my eyes. To see is such a joy; I try never to take the miracle of sight for granted, especially since I can only see out of my left eye and would be rendered blind if I ever lost it. Sight is an important sense to everyone, I am sure, but as an artist it seems particularly crucial. If I could not draw and paint, I'm not sure what my purpose in life would be. That is something for me to consider I suppose...

Color is usually what reminds me to be grateful for the presence of my eyes. I do not know what the experience of color is like for anyone outside of myself... how could I? It is completely subjective. But for me the experience is intoxicating, sublime, and utterly physical in a total-body sort of way. Viewing a beautiful color feels like a massage, or like eating chocolate, or like kissing my beloved. This time of year--- springtime--- is so plentiful in color. When sunlight touches the tulips, they become chalices of color for my eyes to drink. What a glorious thing. 

One of my favorite colors of all time is ultramarine blue. I use it in every painting I make, and I revel in its pristine, straight-from-the-tube hue. During Medieval and Renaissance times, this color was close in value to gold. It was made from powdered lapis lazuli, and can be seen most often in the garments of the Holy Virgin Mary, as here in a small Fra Angelico (circa 1400) at Boston's own MFA. 

I can feel a religious experience coming upon me just resting my eyes on this color; no wonder it was reserved for Mary. I have always loved ultramarine--- when I was a small child, I swallowed a round piece of deep blue glass, thinking it would be sure to imbue me with supernatural abilities if simply looking at it made me feel such joy. The glass didn't harm me, being round. Sometimes I pretend it's still inside, a secret talisman, a magic charm. When I was in grad school, they told me to stop using so much of the same blue. I thought about it, but decided that was too great a sacrifice.

(I was told to "mix more" in general and not use my colors straight out of the tube. I tried, but painting seemed comparatively joyless... plus I like the result, so why torture myself?)

Another color that has always held me transfixed is a certain kind of magenta. In painter's language it is called "quinacridone rose." I am currently working on a painting that was inspired by how I feel about this color, based on my experiences with beets. As a child, beets were some of my favorite vegetables--- and that's saying something, because I liked almost all kinds. I used to watch in pure rapture as Mom removed boiled beets from the pot and popped them out of their skins. Her hands became stained with this color and I wanted my hands to be the same. In fact, I wished that my hands would be permanently colored this way. Even today, I sometimes think that if I ever got a tattoo, it would be to color the palms of my hands... like Kali's hands.

It brings me great pleasure to consume bright colors with my mouth as well as my eyes. I like to collect the most vibrant hues on my palette and my plate. This is why I eat things like turmeric, spirulina, egg yolks, orange peels, hibiscus tea, red wine, and beets. It's an added benefit that most brightly-colored foods are also the healthiest! So, as promised in the subtitle of this post, here is a easy and delicious recipe for fermented pickled beets. Great for the taste buds, the eyes, and the microbiome! 

Fermented Beet Pickles

Supplies: one wide-mouth quart jar with lid, about two medium to large beets (fresh, organic preferable) 1 tablespoon sea salt, and 1 cup fresh water plus a little more. 

Process: wash, peel, and slice the beets into small pieces (1 inch-long by about 1/4 inch thick is good). Pack them into the quart jar, leaving roughly two inches air space above. Dissolve the tablespoon of sea salt in a cup of fresh water; then pour it over the beets. Add a little more water until it covers the beets. Then screw the lid on loosely and set the jar in a warmish place, like on top of the fridge. Let them rest for about a week, opening the jar every few days to make sure gas doesn't build up too much. Them set them in the fridge and enjoy! The juice is also delicious. I like to drink it straight out of the jar.

Tips: be sure to appreciate the beauty of each beet as you cut it open. I find them fascinating; there are whole worlds inside--- deserts, sunrises, mountain ranges, all rendered in the most psychedelic bright pink! And if you see any mold on top of your beets during the fermenting process, just scrape it off and set the jar in the fridge. It's happened to me a couple times, and the pickles are fine underneath.