Truth and Hijacking

Directly following my reading of Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face I read Ann Patchett’s non-fiction book Truth and Beauty: A Friendship where she writes about how she and Lucy were friends, writers, and as close as sisters. Directly following that, I read Suellen Grealy’s article Hijacked by Grief where she talks about her sister, Lucy, and Ann’s capitalizing on their friendship.

Two things. One, I believe Ann Patchett’s story. Two, I believe that Suellen Grealy hit it on the nose by saying that Ann is nothing like the writer Lucy was. If I had read Suellen Grealy’s article before I read Patchett’s book, I might have felt too guilty to read the book. However, I had an insatiable curiosity about Lucy Grealy after reading her book and was all too happy to read more about her.

Patchett describes the women’s lives on the road to ‘writer-dom’ with steadiness. It’s the same story I’ve heard from many authors. Somehow, although Patchett is being so true to her story, describing herself as the dull ant doing her work, and Grealy as the vibrant grasshopper bringing life to every situation, I found her patronizing, and even at a couple points, defensive. I know people who can be entirely loving and still rub me the wrong way. So, although I got to read what it meant for Grealy to survive the cancer and the subsequent reconstructive surgeries through the eyes of a friend, I had to acknowledge that their relationship was not my ideal. (However, I have spent more time valuing the friendships I hold dear since reading this.) When Grealy revealed her life’s struggles I felt her to be very much ‘like’ me, when Patchett took over Lucy became entirely ‘other.’

I understand that Ann and Lucy loved one another. I believe they used one another as much as they could stand, which for both of them would not be too much. And I am genuinely convinced that their need for one another was entirely deep and inscrutable. However, I feel very much for Suellen Grealy who has come away from the untimely death of her sister to discover this growth, this off-shoot on Lucy’s life. Tragedy is the world’s, and Lucy was in it. And, although they may at times be complimentary, as often Truth and Beauty are at odds.

Lucy's Face

Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face was not a story about cancer. It was a story about a girl eventually becoming a woman who wanted love yet wasn’t being fulfilled to her satisfaction. Her disfigured face seemed to her the culprit. However, like many people, Lucy’s loneliness and initial understanding of the world left her with the wrong answer.

Lucy was loved and Lucy was learning to love. The simple love of an animal or toy was her easy love. Her childhood friendships were a second love. Mature adult love became elusive. But Lucy found substitutes. She discovered “being good” love and “bravery” love and “medical” love and “sex” love and finally “knowledge” love. Ultimately Lucy is convincingly lovable and unlovable. It’s easy to believe that her face was an obstacle to romantic love, and perhaps a venue towards gracious love.

But Lucy did have cancer at the age of nine. She lived. She had life-long pain. She went home after surgery and then back to school with a large part of her lower jaw missing. Growing up in hospitals almost as much as at home certainly lends itself to another entire realm of development of self view, and world view. The amount that Lucy scrutinizes her own ideas and then the ways she copes with them is formidable.

The ability Lucy had to express herself was a wonderful gift. Her decision to write a story about her story was bold. It’s Lucy’s perception of luck and relativity and hypocrisy that seals her life’s most extraordinary work. The only justice that I can do is to refer back to her own writing. I am thankful to have read what she extracted from her life experiences and although the creation is hers, somehow I feel that Lucy and I might understand one another just a little. But, even if we wouldn’t, I appreciate my own needs in a new light and will consider others’ differently, as well.

Are You Somebody

I bought Are You Somebody: The Accidental Memoir of a Dublin Woman on the sale rack at a Barnes and Noble store in Bellingham for absolutely no explicable reason. Then I left it on my shelf for over a decade without reading it, again for no reason whatsoever. If third time’s a charm, then I ought to know why I picked it up the other night and read it. But I don’t.

Much like Nuala O’Faolain herself in writing the memoir, I stumbled into it and found it absolutely moving. As O’Faolain describes moving along in life without strategy, I felt that creepy sensation of someone reading my diary, but, actually it was me reading hers. I picked the book up the evening I discovered that I had not had a real conversation in a week. As disconcerting as that is, I’m young, go to social group things, work, have a housemate, etc, so it’s not as though I’m at risk of having some disaster befall me and not be found for a week. O’Faolain, however, has that grim possibility presented to her even as she recalls the people she knew for whom it was reality.

There are many tracks that O’Faolain’s memoir takes which entranced me. She can put so many specific pieces of information into each story, to the point where the details almost overtake the actual event, making them more solid, whereas for many authors they would instead become tedious. She lists her relationships in a mesmerizing way for they were at once the part of her life she most obsessed about and was most detached from. She cites her strokes of luck and her irresponsibility and continual subscription to faith and ignorance without any chagrin or shame or uncertainty or defensiveness. She gives another context for the budding women’s movement of the mid-late 20^th Century, sharing freshly and intelligently.

I love her matter-of-factness. I love her ability to say plainly terrible things without sensationalism. I love that she understands something of the plight of humanity and that she isn’t scared or unusually brave, either. I don’t know if everyone needs to read this story, this memoir of a Dublin woman. But I needed to read it. I also need to have another good conversation!

Flights

If you have any latent romantic heartstrings that can be pulled, then James Collins’ Beginners Greek is your ticket. This is the kind of story that may even inspire frequent flights cross-country. Personally I’m about ready to hop a flight to LA. And that’s not solely because I have heaps of family and friends down there I’d really like to visit.

So, the premise is that two young people fall in love. Setting: airplane. Distance: NYC to LA. Focal point: the woman is reading The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann (I still remember who I was in love with when I read that book! – and, as wonderful as second breakfast sounded, it was the rest cures that captured my imagination… and which have appeared in my lifestyle…..). Tragedy: the guy loses the girl’s phone number. Resolution: ahem, well, really, you’re literate, read it yourself.

I do, in fact, feel that it is worth reading – major caveat: unless you’re like my sister; I can’t imagine her liking it one bit, or my roommate’s boyfriend, either. It’s a little less intellectual than, say, Thomas Mann, but it isn’t trite. It moves with the intrigue of Gone With the Wind but was compared by critics to something by Jane Austen. The ‘hero’ seems a little bit too wussy and perfect to be believed – what investment banker do you know who’s able to recite an entire poem by an little-known American, who lived in Greece, at a dinner party just off the cuff, and yet not tell a girl he’s been in love with for nearly a decade that he fancies her? Perhaps I’m too judgmental. He sounds a little absurd. He sounds like someone I might know but don’t get….

At times I felt that the book could have been written by someone a bit like the character Charlotte – someone who tries so very hard. Incidentally, Charlotte felt like the absolute most authentic person, followed, but not very closely, by the heroine, Holly. The author wrote about women so well; I wonder if his mother died when he was young and now he’s just trying to earn the love of women…. A joke, once you’ve read the book you’ll get it.

The one string left hanging was the only one I saw from a fair distance the easiest resolution. In other words, one character’s presence in the story was purely to be a catalyst. Sort of the same role as the apothecary in Romeo & Juliet. Funny, her name was Julia…. I ended up respecting her a tiny bit and not minding overly much at all that it looks like she suffered a completely renewed spirit over the course of the book and would choose the right path from here on out.

The setting being New York City, with brief flights to LA, Paris, etc, was alright. I often wondered while reading why two such good people ended up there, but I shouldn’t. I know some lovely people, whose stories don’t even remotely resemble this one, living in NYC. But I’ll readily admit that finding love there and the description of the lifestyle enjoyed did not entice me. This realization surfaced into my consciousness multiple times while reading the book. Usually as a scene is created I get entirely caught up in it. This was a disconcerting break from my suspension of disbelief, and I have no ready explanation.

Pickled Herring

It’s not very often that I am given jars of pickled herring. This fine day did occur very recently and was quickly followed by a meeting with Rene Redzepi, the chef of Noma, which was recognized this year with the S Pellegrino award as the Best Restaurant in the World, and is located in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Prior to consulting Redzepi’s cookbook to see if pickled herring was indeed part of Nordic Cuisine, I fashioned a pickled herring salsa. I used the tomatoes I had processed at the end of summer (which I cooked very little and added to caramelized onions, thyme, and oregano – not super typical of salsa, I realize). Just some herring and cooked wheat berries didn’t quite make the salsa swing. However, I heated the combination, which ended up being too strong, but the following day when I tried it cold again – delicious.

Now that I have looked through NOMA: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine, as well as searched the Index for herring, I find that indeed, the only herring dish is pickled! In fact, the herring is marinated – with salt and vinegar, whereas mine also has sugar. The herring is paired with pumpkin and walnut, both ingredients I often employ in the more moderate Northwest. I’m looking forward to experimenting with the rest of my herring!

As for the other recipes, I can understand why I was told that it really isn’t the sort of cooking one does on a day to day basis. And yet, the combinations feel entirely familiar and reasonable. Well, maybe not potato, anise, and chocolate…. But, as interesting as the food sounds, I’ll admit that the greater delight for me is in the photographs. Each section follows from raw ingredients and landscapes to plated dishes in a mesmerizing flow. I look forward to trying more combinations and techniques this fall and winter, when thoughts of the Nordic are closer than ever.

Evelyn Waugh in short

I just finished reading The Complete Short Stories of Evelyn Waugh. It was a book with short shorts, long shorts, and incomplete shorts. The New York Times review stated “It is never too late to read or reread Evelyn Waugh.” I would have to agree wholeheartedly. This statement does beg the question, however, whether it is ever too early.

Considering that I groaned audibly at the end of more than one of these stories, causing my roommate’s dog, Canyon, to come check on me as he does when my nieces cry when falling off the swing in the back yard, I imagine it might be at least PG13 reading. I know kids read JK Rowlings’ Harry Potter series which is full of suspense and drama. Somehow Waugh’s stories aren’t enough of that genre, but more the gut-wrenching ironic twist for a finish that will make one gag a bit and realize that the story has hit much harder than one quite wishes for an evening in with a book.

Having said that, needing to set the book aside from time to time as certain stories keep me from sitting comfortably in the overstuffed leather chair with the ottoman didn’t keep me from it long, as the stories were so well-told that the occasionally humorous and light ones enticed me back again and again. So, I will likely reread Evelyn Waugh, long before it’s too late.

The Age of Persuasion

Everyone who sees my book, The Age of Persuasion: How Marketing Ate Our Culture has a comment or question or both. This is a fantastic ice breaker if you’re pretty much anywhere. I’ve traveled most of the West coast of the United States with it while on a road trip. This does lessen the punch somewhat. I find that reading over long periods of time and long distances usually weakens the message. But with the message coming from award-winning ad-men, Terry O’Reilly and Mike Tennant, I guess that’s an apt description of their point. Who can contemplate massive redwood forests and guerrilla marketing simultaneously? (Not to mention keeping one’s eyes on the road in order to catch all the Hwy 101 signs.)

I think that there is a lot about marketing that I really admire and enjoy. The authors, O’Reilly and Tennant, agree and even elucidate for me what those areas are. I now understand the ‘implicit contract’ between advertiser and advertisee. There are also innumerable annoying things about ads, which the authors not only identify, but tear apart thread by thread the way I used to go at mozzarella sticks as a kid. Covering the age from snake oils to product placements in entertainment, it is quite a big cheese stick.

I’d like to quote at some length what this implicit contract really is, as it’s such an easy way to determine the quality of ads. “While much of the work is highly creative, it (speaking here of billboards), like many other media, must figure out a way to honor an implicit contract between advertisers and consumers which, simply put, promises that advertisers must give you something in exchange for their imposition on your time, attention, and space…. The key is that it offers some tangible benefit.” (Age of Persuasion, p29)

Since I avoid most forms of marketing (don’t watch TV, listen to public radio, avoid clothes with insignias on them, etc) billboards are by far the most typical thing I see. In the city I commute past a number of them and historically they stand out since their message is so big and bold. They sometimes make me blush. Apparently that is not altogether certainly good or bad. Hmm.

If you’re interested in how our culture was consumed, then this book may be of interest. I got a kick out of the style: corny, engaging, informed, opinionated, anecdotal, with pleasant cartoon boxes full of extraneous information. Good, fun reading! The implicit contract was met –and that with a phenomenal cover design to boot.

‘Ad giant Phil Dusenberry put it: “I have always believed that writing advertisements is the second most profitable form of writing. The first, of course, is ransom notes.”’ (Age of Persuasion, pxxiv)

No's the Answer

A number of evenings ago I read an enjoyable account of Beth Wareham, a woman who learned to say ‘no’. She says no in every imaginable arena and over every possible situation. And her point is that she’s happier and more productive than ever.

Glorious. I essentially told the Seattle Public Library ‘no’ in order to keep The Power of No; How to Keep Blowhards and Bozos at Bay in my possession long enough to read it (about a month past return date). It didn’t take long to read, it was just finding the time to sit with a book, which I find incredibly challenging in the height of summer. Of course, now it’s no longer the height and saying no to other exploits kept me home reading just long enough to learn how it’s done.

Wareham broke saying ‘no’ into various entertaining chapters. How to say ‘no’ to a boyfriend, a colleague, a boss, a friend, a stranger, a parent, a spouse, and a sibling are all just different enough to necessitate varied tactics. They might even require altogether different vocabulary. I myself remember a certain boss who yelled at me, “Don’t tell me ‘no’!” which I will admit having done…. I laughed then, and the situation was ludicrous enough that I still laugh about it now. Wareham doesn’t recommend my approach. Even I haven’t used it much since then. J

I was super surprised that she did recommend what I consider ‘playing games’ in relationships. Don’t answer phone calls, wait to return texts, etc. I hate that. Of course, I’m not in a relationship…. Oh well, apparently what I call considerate, Wareham calls too yessy.

Finally, after all outside influences have been slayed and silenced, Wareham focuses on how to say ‘no’ to oneself. It appears a straight-forward, you’re-not-fooling-anyone-here routine is the correct style. You don’t need peanut M&M’s or a new sun-dress were her clever and ubiquitous examples which, on my own level (ice cream and shoes), I rather understand.

When all is said and done it appears I have a handy familiarity with saying ‘no,’ and even though I employ many of the varied methods of communicating ‘no’ I’m not sure they’re at all equal. Wareham’s discussion has definitely brought choice new ways to say ‘no’ to my attention. Wonderful!

Good to be Great

I picked up The Curse of the Good Girl: Raising Authentic Girls with Courage and Confidence for three reasons: perfect cover design, excellent ‘advance praise’ on the back cover, and the author, Rachel Simmons, started what looked like an interesting program for girls and writes about her passion. There really is a fourth reason. I have nieces and teach girls in Sunday School, and I want to be prepared to give my girls the best possible encouragement.

The introduction, I realized was the author explaining in her own words the importance of the French phrase, etre bien dans sa peaux, which I have grown to love. Literally it means ‘to be well in your skin’ but what you want to get from it is a sense of ‘it’s my own self in my own body, and I like it.’ Simmons doesn’t go into French idioms, but she certainly supports the idea!

Now that I’ve read the book, however, I realize that Simmons’ main objective for someone who teaches girls or leads girls or mothers girls is that said woman herself est bien dans sa peaux. Yes, Simmons thinks the healthiest way for girls to become great, rather than just ‘good,’ is to be around people who are modeling how to be oneself. This reminds me of the Jewish rabbi who discovered that God was not asking him to be Moses, but to be himself. What a beautiful way of life to embrace.

Using an immense number of girls’ interactions that she documents from her summer programs, Simmons illustrates many essential communication rituals among girls which assure them that they are being good. Of course, with every example, she explains that it is impossible to actually be good, therefore the girls incessantly set themselves up for failure. And that is not good.

Good Girls don’t fight, so if a girl is in a fight with a friend, she’s not good. Good Girls don’t promote themselves, so if a girl asserts her abilities, she’s not good. Good Girls don’t make mistakes, so if a girl gets negative feedback from a coach, teacher, etc, she’s not good. These end up being strangle holds on girls, keeping them from really learning how to grow all the way up.

Simmons rightly differentiates between girls being social together and girls in relation to authority. She also identifies that girls themselves do not always properly draw that line between the girls and the adults. I have seen this particular issue with older girls who are about to be adults, but aren’t actually there yet.

Ultimately, Simmons’ goal is to encourage girls to become great, and leave good alone. The only way to be great is to discover who you are, to take risks, to have courage. Raise your hand even if you’re not sure about the answer. Be challenged and mobilized by change, not defeated. Be honest about your feelings. Pursue risk and adventure, for these, not the worry of failure, may “yield exhilarating leaps in growth.” (p90) Sounds good to me.

Le Cordon Bleu, hoo, hoo, hoo

Feeling blue? Well, ‘Ms Fleen’ might advise sharpening your knives. Or is that how it really works? Maybe I didn’t get it quite right.

I read Kathleen Flinn’s account of her academic year at Le Cordon Bleu, Paris, where she sought a degree in the culinary arts. I met Kathleen last summer at the University Farmer’s Market when I picked up my CSA box. She was a guest chef at the market and was promoting her book. I believe she was going to be making something with mushrooms. I know I stopped at one chef demo to look at mushrooms….

We had a conversation about the joys and rigors of a French culinary program. She gave me a postcard, I gave her a wave. Then, last week, my roommate comes home with a book she’d picked up at her friends’ (they were moving and chucking books). She saw The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry and thought I’d like it.

I was excited to read it and not have to pay for it. I was happy to be thought of by my roommate. I also still had the postcard, so it was an incredibly matched up book/postcard reading event. I liked that. You’d think this was going to be the greatest story with such a setup.

My inability to really pin down why it wasn’t the greatest is disappointing. I really ought to. Maybe since I essentially believe my program was more difficult, my life in Lyon more fascinating, and my love life less to brag about (I couldn’t take even one of my marriage proposals seriously that year) it just comes down to my not being that impressed. Perhaps Flinn’s journalistic training made it all too much like compiled notes rather than a great journey.

Without a stitch of training at the Cordon Bleu I defiantly deboned and stuffed a chicken tonight. Maybe someone will mention that in my obituary? It was delicious. Hmm, and now I’ve written a blog entry my life is, perhaps, complete?

Depression is Contagious

The Seattle Public Library, as ever, has the most incredible looking books on display. Depression Is Contagious is probably one that makes great sense in rainy, often dreary, Seattle. The cover was excellent, the quoted reviews glowing, and the stated premise one I often really wonder about.

I guess I’m about to enter touchy areas. I don’t take medication. I don’t think I’m depressed. Why would I read a book about how to combat depression while avoiding medication? There’s more to it than a good cover design, surely?

Yes, in the last few years I’ve met more and more people who talk openly or semi-openly about their bouts of depression. Most of them have at least tried anti-depressants. Every one of them acknowledges the significant mind altering effects of such medications. I wonder if I should qualify this by explaining that not all of them used these drugs under a doctor’s care….

Despite my personal ‘non-situation’ (thou doth protesteth too much)I found that there were things in this book that gave me a whole new perspective on mental health. Really fascinating exercises, questions, and scenarios. I know, I thought it would be more academic, and it ended up rather ‘self-help’ but in a good way.

I found that there were some serious loopholes in my interpersonal interactions which from time to time have knocked me out. I hadn’t identified them on my own, but can see a way to strengthen myself which can only lead to less emotional trouble down the road. I guess that’s a worthwhile read!

Meat Spectacular

A meat thermometer. I need one. I made meat loaf the other day, based loosely on Alton Brown’s online meatloaf recipe, and couldn’t even be sure of the internal temperature of my meat. Stuffing one’s finger into a meat loaf to check whether something’s cooked isn’t exactly the ideal, but I guess it has to pass.

Anyhow, it was pretty decent meat loaf. Alton adds lots of spices to his meat loaf, and I was happy to head that way, although I did tone down the cayenne pepper a little. So it had a little more heat than most meat loafs. It wasn’t so sweet as some, and it was fairly dense. I wonder if it shouldn’t have been a touch crumblier. But it sliced as easily as pate, which was a great advantage considering it went into sandwiches.

Where I really off-roaded on this recipe was with the meat. Yes it was meat, but Alton goes for a blend of ground chuck and sirloin. I used half ground beef, but then also had 25% each of ground pork and lamb. This makes the whole thing take on another aspect, which I was assured meant this was not merely meat loaf, it was meat spectacular.

Palace Walk

Based on the title and picture on the book cover, I was excited to read Naguib Mahfouz’ Palace Walk. On the third chapter, p18 of 500, I had reevaluated my feeling. By p49 the book discussion night came and that was that.

For reading, anyhow. The reality was that I could follow the discussion of the rest of the book without needing to even read it. None of it surprised me. It was all set up in the first few chapters.

Mainly we questioned what it was in 1980 that earned Mahfouz the recognition of becoming a Nobel Laureate in Literature based on this work. We do not know. The cover was very good, though.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

The Christmas before last I received a very large novel from my sister. I admired her taste in choosing a hip new story as well as the lovely cover, generally highly recommended author, and fine subject matter. She doesn’t realize this, of course, since it’s been sitting on my shelf for over a year. But, somehow, the books I own don’t feel as pressing to read. I don’t have to renew them. They’re here as long as I like them to be (with the sad, infrequent exception of books I lend out and never see again).

So, this year I resolved to read The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski before another season passed. This is a story with a fantastic title, a fantastic Prologue, a fantastic premise, and a fantastic execution. This made Christmas of 2008 good twice, first when I opened the present, and again when I read the story.

But it is long. It is one of those stories that take so many things into account, so that you feel filled up by it. I sat night after night with a cup of hot tea and my book for dessert. It is a rare treat, to find a story full and long and engaging enough to think about from time to time throughout the day in anticipation.

Beyond the telling, long and intricate of a boy, dogs, and family, the setting was stunning. I have visited Wisconsin and realize how that countryside is truly amazing. The added pleasure of scenery, with seasons, and action during the summer, even seemed to keep my toes toasty! My connection with the storytelling was so profound that I was traveling alongside Edgar and began to imagine knowing those roads and lakes as well as he.

Feeling enormous awe, as he communicated each command, each question, to the dogs, I admired Edgar Sawtelle’s coming of age. Without saying a word, his story is told, and as the end comes into sight it becomes clear why, at last, Stephen King would give this book such grand acclaim. Read, enjoy, cry, but certainly don’t let this book just sit on your shelf.

Seattle Reads again

Airplane rides are useful. Of course, moving long distances at great speed is valuable. But there’s more. For example, a direct return flight from Seattle to Dallas is plenty long enough to read a novel, including time for naps each way. How do I know this? I know through experience.

Very recently I read, on both ends of a long weekend, the ‘Seattle Reads’ book of the year, Secret Son. Like other years, it’s not a very good book. However, it certainly raises LOTS of contemporary issues regarding East/West, wealth/poverty, social standing, nationalism, politics, language, family duty, love, manipulation, coming of age, honor, and education. Hmm, strange, now that I’ve listed the themes they appear more perennial than acute….

Helpful, at the back of the book there is an anonymous interviewer questioning the author, Laila Lalami. The interviewer could probably pose more interesting questions, but it does give me a sense of what Seattle was thinking in choosing this book. Lalami did a fine job responding to the questions and possibly speaks as well or better than she writes.

Lalami tells us that she tries to write “the most engaging, the most complex, and the most truthful story” she can. Complex I rate very high. Truthful I rate quite high. Engaging slips to a pretty low percentile. I wish I could say that if I wasn’t stuck on an airplane with no other novel, or if I was indifferent about reading for my book group conversation next week, that I would have found it a good use of my time, but I might not.

That lies are told in Morocco, even in Casablanca, where the interviewer insists heretofore in the American imagination only romance blooms a la Bogart and Bergman, isn’t altogether surprising. That locals and foreigners alike prey on the weak cannot surprise, either. Both of these together, as the two bruising whips driving the plot, however, do come as a surprise. Surely the portrait of even the cruelest poverty can be drawn with beautiful lines, making one unable to put away what hurts to view. But there it goes: away, secret, done.

A Rose by Nearly Any Other Name

Sometimes I do meet someone and think to myself, “Huh, you don’t seem like a Jenny.” So, there certainly is a point to Roy Feinson’s assertion that we make assumptions about who the person we’re going to meet is based on their name, and even, perhaps how we may carry out our lives based on our own names. But… how can you say that Ella is going to be happier in love than Edda?

Well, the Secret Universe of Names: The Dynamic Interplay of Names and Destiny, not only makes that determination, but many more. There are strong names, soft names, masculine names, and feminine ones. I guess that makes sense. But often there are family names. Does your daughter remind you of your mother because of her nose… or her name?

So, I checked out my name – the only thing to do, right? Reading about what an ADR person is was just like reading a horoscope. A big ‘well maybe.’ Interestingly some other people’s names I came across were very like their personality! So, I began to get drawn in by Feinson’s study and writing (not the spelling errors, though) and wondered if I was perhaps missing out on some of the benefits of being called Adrian. (Specifically my supposed main attributes: charismatic, sexy, admirable – think Audrey Hepburn…)

Speaking of Audrey Hepburn, there are nice little boxes at the base of each page giving a real-life example of how each type of name has been embodied the way that Feinson discovered it would. ADR has a tiny biography of Audrey. Although ADRs apparently should be able to take on most any profession with success, a movie actor makes a good example. But on the opposite page ADM also has a movie actor for its good example of that character. So I turn the page in either direction and discover that ADL and AG also have biographies of movie actors. After a few pages I find ALBRT, which is pretty much the whole name anyhow. Guess who? Yep, Albert Einstein is there to explain how ALBRT is one of the top names available for anyone – even working for one of Canada’s central provinces to this day.

So, this was fun, but also stupid. I am convinced that naming a kid Piscine might get him into trouble, but less because it’s a ‘paternal and benign’ letter ‘P’ starting it off than the fact that dear Piscine from the Life of Pi had a difficult time getting anyone to say anything better than pissing when talking to him.

Seattle Author

I love stories that have a lot of characters whose lives intertwine and are told from all kinds of angles. Mainly I see this happen in movies, but sometimes it can be done by a novelist. Here’s Erica Bauermeister’s debut novel – a Seattle author, whose book is set in Seattle – The School of Essential Ingredients doing just that.

This is the ideal rainy day book. The fact that I read it cover to cover one such evening after work should attest to that. This book was a gift from my aunt, who also read it with great enjoyment, and, before passing along the gift, my mom read it, too. (Don’t worry, she told both parties of her intentions which were accepted all around!) That in itself shows it’s a fun read.

Bauermeister’s characters all end up in this class, some with very unusual reasons, and get to put together meal after meal. One class each month from fall to spring – just long enough of a term to allow each student’s point of view to show up once. I actually love to cook as well as bake and last night I tried the sketchy description in January’s class of a bolognaise sauce! As was described, I poured milk, quite a lot, into my ground beef and wondered what would happen. What happened was great spaghetti (of course it was, I used my own frozen tomato sauce from last summer’s produce).

Also, with the truth of any class that is long enough to get to know your classmates, but is also significantly finite, each story has an open ending. Each student has made one or many decisions to propel their future. It certainly makes me want to know what’s on the menu for next year!

Orthodox Heretic?

First, I did exactly what the author, in his preface, requested I not do. I breezed through The Orthodox Heretic in a couple seatings. Second, I judged the book, as well as its author, Peter Rollins, by their respective covers.

Why do authors put pictures in the back of the book? I’ve asked that a hundred times. I’ll ask it a hundred more. Why do I have my picture on my blog? (Actually, it’s only because there was a spot to put one when I set out the title and my name.) Perhaps it’s only another thing to tick off to send to a publisher: name, book title, book content, return addressed stamped envelope, photo.

Enough about the picture, now on to the actual writing. Lots of good disclaimers made in the introduction. Well, these could be parables, if they mean anything. Well, I could be interpreting them, but art speaks for itself. I love it. And I laugh at it.

Pretty much, according to my reading of Rollins’ parable tales, he’s doing a study on Jesus’ parables. One of my favorite/most frustrating parables of Jesus’ was the Good Samaritan. Although there were no retakes on that, nearly all of Rollins’ parables touched on service, the poor, and the ‘wrong’ ending (which is probably part of the definition of a parable).

I do wonder, though, as a Trinitarian Christian, how Jesus was left out (unless one counts reusing Jesus’ parable, which the reader would have to already know). This may be petty, but there were a lot of tales about heaven and reward, not even veiled as “there was a landowner” or something, making the reader have to agree to the idea of afterlife. Not Sadducee friendly stories.

I appreciate how so many tales determined that the everyday character is wasting his life. (Incidentally all the tales were about men; no women finding coins here.) I particularly enjoyed the tale of the scholar changing to a life of service once he’d established, by God’s self-revelation, that God does not exist (p 104, Agnostic to Atheist). There was also treatment of religion getting in the way of faith and needing to be stopped for life to begin (p 57, Finding Faith). Also thought-provoking was a story about how the power of a great gift elicits a heart change at last (174, Reward). Yes, Rollins got at this from many angles.

The ones I’ve mentioned I enjoyed and found interesting. However there was one that just grates (p24, Salvation). The character is more or less completely believable. The tale is a lot like Les Miserables, where the priest gives more than even what was stolen. Yes, there are people (not often me) like that. But in this story there is a demon who is destroying everything while the priest calmly prays. Ultimately the demon asks to enter the priest’s heart. The priest welcomes him. This unprecedented hospitality ultimately defeats the demon who can’t bear to act on his own request and leaves dejected. The priest maintains his resolve to praise his Lord no matter what test comes his way. (I described the ending more to my theological tastes than the author did, in case you read it and think I got it all wrong… J)

This is a tale which I’m sure I’ll never forget… even if I somehow neglect to exercise the hospitality of the priest.

New Recipes, New Policies

Eric Kayser’s New French Recipes have regretfully brought back the sourest of childhood memories. Incidentally it has nothing to do with Kayser, really. It has to do with me not getting around to things. I’ve had Kayser’s cookbook since December. I checked it out from the library and have neither cooked from it nor written about it. Happily I have looked through it, especially at the sweeter recipes, which is why I’ve insisted on keeping it despite the pile-up of late notices and reminders in my email inbox.

It turns out someone else wants this cookbook, as well. Someone in Seattle, which means possibly someone I know. I wish I could keep it, but here I am at the library sending it away to its next home. (Should you wonder if this cookbook is worth asking for from your library, I think – yes.)

New recipes, perhaps, but not so new as to sound unpalatable from the get-go. The organization is exciting as Kayser is originally a bread baker. He concentrates on three French categories, four if you’re a Seattleite: Grains, Seeds, Dried Fruit and Nuts. I’m certain the recipes are good because the ingredients are so delicious and the pictures, go Clay McLachlan, are making me just crazy hungry!

A couple of the things I’ve learned just reading the recipes are that this would be useful for people who don’t want gluten in their diet. Grains include wheat, but are not defined by it. Another interesting adjustment to old recipes is the use of brown sugar, which in France would invariably be cassonade. These are not the same. American brown sugar is far superior in taste and texture – hurrah for us!

Policies have also come into play. I sat down to write about a cookbook, unobtrusively, I believed, in the library. It turns out that Seattle Public Libraries have a “Public Use of Children’s Areas Policy” which conceivably bars me from writing further of Kayser’s recipes because I was in the wrong section of the library. A librarian exercised her newfound right to expel me from sitting where Dr Seuss stories are on the shelves as I cannot prove to have brought a child with me. This offends me deeply, and I believe I will share a comment with the City Librarian’s Office for this disruption to my exceedingly important blog.

No doubt the sour memory with which I began arose from being surrounded by otherwise happy childhood things. Apparently this memorable librarian has become overwhelmed with her own sourness. Kayser’s brown sugar may be the antidote!

Daughter of Persia

Being sick is no excuse. And yet it’s the one that both gave me nothing to do but read Daughter of Persia: A Woman’s Journey from her Father’s Harem Through the Islamic Revolution and the thing that made me too sluggish to write about it afterward. Yet, here I am. Moved and perplexed again at the history and story of Persia, or modern day Iran. Happily there have been many intriguing stories about Iran all of which I have enjoyed reading while simultaneously cringing with something near disbelief.

Persepolis, Reading Lolita in Tehran, The Mulberry Empire (which is fiction) and many articles have given me something of a feel for what the Persians have been through. Not surprisingly that is no comfort as mostly they seem to have gone through a lot of internal-personal mistrust accompanied by foreign meddling.

Satti, who was born into the just deposed ruling family at the turn of the 20th Century, grew up in an anduran, a harem. She does not mind this at all. Her mother does not mind this at all. Her siblings, the servants, the extended family part of the compound don’t mind it, either. I minded. Somehow relegating this to ‘cultural differences’ seems inadequate. The fact that Satti chooses work rather than the life her mother led assures me that there is more than she chose to reveal in the 400 pages she wrote about her life.

Satti’s parents, whom she only praises the entire length of the book, appear as saints. I do not doubt for a minute that her mother was loving and her father clever, nor that both were wonderfully and terribly strong. I wonder whether being very young when her father died and very alone when her mother died were things that kept her perspective on her family so entirely golden. She did not even tell about any sibling that she had particular fights or squabbles with. It’s as though to be in that anduran was on par with being in Eden. Yet she longed to leave.

When Satti’s father died, she took her inheritance of about $2000 and traveled to ‘Amrika’ for university studies. She thought she’d get to see the Statue of Liberty, but showed up in Los Angeles instead. This section of the book was by far the most thrilling. Leaving home, travelling far, meeting people, testing risk and chance, all activities that Sattareh thrived in and excelled at. I haven’t even read many stories of American women at that time taking so many risks. Why, her first boat out of Bombay was sunk by Japanese submarines! Although I have traveled extensively to places full of risk, I’ve never been under fire. I found her story of leaving home riveting.

Later, Sattareh returned to Iran and built the School of Social Work which sounds absolutely astounding. For twenty years she devotes herself to the poor of her country because of the Islamic example set by both of her parents. Their example became her motivation and now she, too, becomes a saint of selfless devotion to work on behalf of the powerless. The school she founds grows from twenty students to over a couple thousand. Meanwhile Sattareh creates jobs for her graduates, sends them abroad for further education, and ensures that they learn to actually care for the poor.

India had Gandhi then Mother Theresa, and Iran first had Sattareh’s cousin Dr. Mossadegh and then herself. What went wrong? I believe it to be a fair question. Sattareh blames the people for following the wind rather than their own convictions. The majority always favors the strong and many manage to survive. Sattareh Farman Farmaian also survives, along with much of her extended family, as she escapes death and Iran, her beloved homeland becoming both to her essentially overnight.

I'm very glad to have read Satti's story and her perspective of Persian history. Learning how a family of great means and power conducted itself on the other side of the world a century ago has certainly caused me to consider the personal choices and votes I'm making here and now.

Address to a Haggis

Recently it was Robert Burns Night, an evening to celebrate by the Scottish and Scotophil alike. Hence I made my way to my sister’s for some haggis and an opportunity to admire my brother-in-law’s kilt. With melancholy heath-inspired bag piping helping us to remember the wintry, rainy Scotland we ate and toasted and addressed the haggis.

I have liked haggis since I first tried it in Scotland somewhere between nine and seven years ago. I recall the experience, the setting, the flavor, and the company. I guess that’s about as much as you can ask of any meal, making it one that is well worth repeating in wintry, rainy Seattle followed by some poetry reading and accent slaughtering.

How a nation comes by their special celebration days is always a bit awkward, but nobody beats the Scottish! Guy Fox Night (more like month), Burns Night, Edinburgh’s Fringe Festival, are just a few I’ve experienced and found pretty ‘warm-reeking, rich!’

Regretfully we didn’t get haggis as such (US food regulations make it unavailable for purchase), but enjoyed a delicious and remarkable lamb roast accompanied by the neeps and tatties which fill out many a Scottish meal. Haggis is made of lamb bits and pieces ground up with oats and spices and stuffed into a casing and baked. It is into this near-bursting sausage that the happy host stabs a knife at a precious moment for the dinner party’s enjoyment. Neeps and tatties are parsnips and mashed potatoes, although the addition of carrots and other roots appears quite regularly.

I must say, an evening motivated by writing and a meal appeals very strongly to me. If you can get such a gathering going, I recommend Glenlivet and Bruichladdich for the after-dinner addresses whether or not you’re toasting Burns.

Indochine

Intense mid-20th century writing has surprised me again. Picking up Graham Greene’s The Quiet American from the library for my book group I was happy to see the shortness of it. Sometimes reading small books is a pleasure in itself. Not having read Graham Greene’s work before meant that I was mistaken to assume length had anything to do with weight.

How Greene was able to capture the mindset (which remains contemporary in my opinion) of Western men living in the East impresses me. The Americans, the British, the French, the Chinese, the lone Indian, and the Vietnamese interact and act upon one another. Some with understanding , some with concern, but all perform with enough ignorance and selfishness to create and sustain war.

There were many men, but only three women in this story. The wife, the mistress, and the mistress’ sister sought their vision as hard as the men, yet with nearly no interaction. Their decisions were equally crucial with those of the men in determining the outcome of our heros’ lives, likewise displaying how ownership of a conflict can pass hands and come around again.

Whether the cynic can remain uninvolved or the naïve live through his attachment may need more consideration, yet as presented here the answer is clear. The concept of marriage providing any stability at all comes into question, and the organization of an assassination by one who cringes to see a fly crushed is poignant. Once again, in love and war, everything becomes fair play.

Haiti

This last week I didn’t post any blogs. I guess discussing the pastries I’m making seems callous in the light of the devastation in Haiti. Considering that I went to work and produced pastries every day and have posted blogs when countless other suffering has gone on, I wonder if I’m just pretending that it would be callous.

Having said that, I made a really delicious plum cake…. See, it is out of touch. But I haven’t read more than anyone else about Haiti or Haitian food or Haitian relief efforts. This morning ten-year-olds were telling me about the children who’ve been hurt in Haiti.

So, instead let’s pray that God would comfort and nourish the living, and that God would give the aid workers access to food and water to dispense, that the aid organizations would work together, and that many would have a safe space to rest and recover from this dreadful week.

Coconut Genoise

At my new place of work, Mistral-Kitchen, one of our first desserts has been a Coconut Tres Leches cake (served with diced mango, mango sorbet, and a coconut tuile). A Tres Leches cake is a simple genoise (eggs, sugar, flour only) soaked in milk. Well, actually three milks: milk, cream, and sweetened condensed milk. For a coconut Tres Leches we substituted the cream with coconut milk, as well as added lime zests and some rum. It turns out very nicely.

However, after making the straight-forward genoise, I had the great idea to substitute part of the all purpose flour with some of my coconut flour. I still have some of the coconut flour from the pound I bought and experimented with last summer. This was a fantastic idea, and tasted delicious. All of a sudden the basic, flavorless genoise was worth eating in its own right (maybe a glass of milk on the side still, yet such an improvement from the original!)

Once I soaked the coconut genoise in milk I was able to detect the high fiber content which threw me off in my original experiments with the coconut flour. It gets slightly grainy. But this time, with all the good accompaniments it turned out just fine. Hurrah for coconut genoise! I may have even created a new base for all kinds of coconut desserts. Yum.

Wicked

I love twists in novels. In my personal life it’s not always so reassuring, but reading about Elphaba, aka the Wicked Witch of the West, in Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, was entrancing. I’ll point out that I read The Wizard of Oz when I was a kid, as well as the rest of the series. It made perfect sense to me after the series why nobody else read more than Oz, but at least I knew.

Even though Wicked was written by a different author, for a different audience, I think I held to some of that skepticism, hence the novel has sat on my shelf for over two years before I picked it up and began to read. Oh well, others have waited longer! And even this was jump-started by watching the movie with my nieces.... Goodness, I haven’t enjoyed a novel so much in such a long while that I can’t even put my finger on the last great reading pleasure. Maybe something of the Harry Potter series, but that really is a long time ago. (Last summer I read an engrossing book by Polkinghorn, but that wasn’t fiction.)

I often tell people that I’m not that into purely invented worlds in literature. I now know that in fact, I am incredibly impressed with fictional realms that are well done. I still don’t see myself becoming a science-fiction fan, but no longer think it’s absurd. Why shouldn’t one consider what it would be to show up in Oz as a green baby? And do great riches make one good in Oz? Or, where is the line between animals and Animals? Do politics entirely shape a person’s life in Oz and can one explain who one is without giving that and one’s religious upbringing a thorough examination?

Well, Elphaba is certainly a bright individual, grasshopper greenness aside. I have enjoyed meeting her and learning of her as much as most heroines I’ve met through the years. The fact that little Dorothy is not so unlike Elphaba is even more reason to consider how worlds collide. However we meet, may we extend abundant grace and forgiveness!