Pastry & Poppycock

Nickle & Dimed

2011-09-20T17:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think that I am too frugal. I could just buy the thing I don’t need, takethe trip beyond what I can afford, and stay out late with friends at spendynight joints. Instead I cook my mealsin, pay my bills every month, and take lots of walks for entertainment. Still, this is nothing like trying to supportmyself on minimum wage. BarbaraEhrenreich wrote the, now rather old, journalistic book Nickel and Dimedin 2001, which I’ve only just read.

Ehrenreich goes undercover and works as a waitress, maid,and store clerk in a variety of US cities. She is a middle-aged, doctorate-holding career woman. Nobody blinks as she enters each town andjob. Nobody gives her a break as she triesto get a meal from food banks or find affordable housing. In fact, she fits in just a little too wellfor comfort. Every day Ehrenreich workshard at her tasks and comes away realizing that she can’t do this work and bethe same woman as before. She hasentered the realm of those whose work is unvalued. She has felt the correlation of discoveringherself to be unvalued.

So would you or I.

Ten years later, I believe that the only real difference inAmerican life is the lack of easily acquired work. Unskilled workers, which Ehrenreich correctlydefines as workers skilled in physical capacities, perhaps learned whileworking, may still find jobs. Shouldthey exist, I do not believe that the jobs are better paid, better hours, oreven sufficiently houred.

Doubtless, Ehrenreich could have lived her studydifferently. She made finite forays intocities, not the country-side. She hadfew ideas or connections in the areas she chose. She stumbled into a couple of unexpecteddrawbacks. She didn’t use any governmentprograms. Maybe certain changes wouldhave completely transformed her experience. For example, maybe she could earn a living by applying to higher leveljobs with her actual resume.

Reading this social documentary a decade later and findingno particular ease on the subject, even though the piece is still one that getsmentioned and noticed, is unsettling. Althoughwe can see many issues that have arrived in the last half century, thisparticular issue has existed during prior eras in America. Is it in fact, universally present?

What Ehrenreich hasn’t discovered, and I really want toknow, is why has America allowed unlivable wages for work? How do we resolve the situation of the womanworking every day whose aspiration is to be able to take a day off work, if shehad to, and still be able to buy groceries for the next day?

Although Ehrenreich and I have lived different lives, indifferent times, and with different values, on this issue we are united. There is hard work to be done, and manypeople have more things piled against them than they know, but when oneperson’s sweat doesn’t even buy enough bread, how well has our affluent societyexercised the ideal of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?

Place

2011-09-17T17:43:00.000-07:00

I finished The Power of Place while drinking a glassof German Riesling and sitting outside on Seattle’s sunniest spring afternoonof 2011. I could smell my neighbor’slilacs and watch the baby ferns’ tops trying to uncurl. The place was spectacular. It was chilly, though, so I’m back insideremembering the places I’ve read this fascinating treatise on geography. Stuffy airplane, eating pretzels. Living room chair with my feet up. In bed prying my eyes open. On the floor while stretching after my bikeride. Local bar waiting for my dinner.

Harm de Blij did a fantastic job taking in the angles onplace. De Blij denies that the world isflat. Depending upon what hemisphere,what continent, what country, what city, what family, what gender, de Blij canoutline some of the terrain you’ll encounter. It isn’t flat. De Blij does thinkthat globalization could smooth some of the rough edges, though. That’s an interesting point of view.

There are a lot of prejudices that de Blij brings to hiswork. The one I found most problematicwas that of religion. De Blij does notvalue religion at all; he essentially views them all as wholly similar anddetrimental. The second most troublingaspect is his position on natural disasters. His book was written after the world shocking 2004 tsunami in Thailandand areas bordering the Indian Ocean but long before the earthquake in Haitiand this year’s earthquake, tsunami, nuclear disaster in Japan. He faults human behavior. I have a more challenged view. Thirdly, de Blij is a political activist, whohas no qualms in giving his reader points of action, which, were they alignedwith my worldview, I would appreciate so much more.

What I can agree with is that being born and raised in deBlij’s “core” has given me more than I have in fact been able to absorb. I cannot take in all the information to whichI have access. What I realize is that Ialso cannot enter the “periphery” without my expectations and reality reflectingmore of the “core” than it does the “periphery.” It is with certain awe that I examine thestatement so often, weekly, monthly, by Jesus telling me that “to whom much isgiven much is expected.” I understandthat much of my geography.

Beyond the easy parts of geography, “I look out my windowand see ____” (mountains, water, plains, desert, skyscrapers, huts, etc) deBlij looks at things that are more challenging (industrial plants, warzones). In Seattle we’ve had our fourth or fifthsunny day of the year. Other placeshaven’t had so many days of rain in 2011. But, as far as how many cases of malaria, typhoid, dengue flu, I’d saythere is good fortune in Seattle. Wegrow more moss than we do mosquitoes. Weimport more mangos than we receive asylum seekers from the countries who growthe mangos. We largely practice religionsimilarly, speak the same language, have ancestral ties to our neighbors andenough food even so.

With all the hills I bike every day between my home anddowntown, Seattle has a pretty flat landscape according to de Blij. Should an earthquake come and wipe this slateclean, as de Blij expects to happen, may my neighbors show me the grace of God,and may my hands work diligently and with skill as I examine The Power ofPlace: Geography, Destiny, and Globalization’s Rough Landscape.

Date, date, date

2011-09-17T17:37:00.001-07:00

30 May 2011 – remiss in not having posted this on thecorrect date.

So, I blogged not too long ago about a dating book I read,mentioning that that would be it for quite some time. Yet, at the recommendation of a friend, Idecided to go ahead and read another book on dating. Apparently this is the definitive book on thesubject.

Henry Cloud’s How to Get a Date Worth Keeping: Be Datingin Six Months or Your Money Back is the very confident title of a verybasic book. Very basic does not meananything but that it is straight-forward and essentially absolutely ano-brainer. The fact that I’ve madenearly every dating mistake in the book and keep readjusting my strategy merelymeans that I could have written it. Notwith the proven track record of Cloud, but at the least with all the anecdotes!

All that to say, if you’ve also made every mistake possible,you might get a kick out of seeing them listed on paper in front of you. If laughing at yourself isn’t much of apast-time, you don’t want a better date, or, bless you, are already married,then don’t bother with this. If you haveany singleton friends, though, make their Christmas or birthday really fun forthem. Or tell them to check it out ofthe library, which is what I did.

Ten Years Later

2011-09-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

The forward-thinking librarian who heads the Montlakereading group selected Colum McCann’s Let The Great World Spin right asthe world was remembering all the pain and trauma of September 11^th,2001. We were to have read it anddiscussed it weeks prior to the actual date, but I was a little behindschedule, only really finishing as news media and journalists set the time upfor renewed attention.

For quite some time I read Let the Great World Spinas a story. It was New York. It was Ireland. It was brothers. It was family. It was a monk. It was race and Vietnam. It was street life. It was the 60’s. Then we met the tight-rope walker, dancer,performer, master. The towers come intoview and the pieces are all coming together quickly, finally, clearly.

There were no favorites for me. Every character had a pretty unique storywhich could have stood alone in New York as a valid point of view and way oflife. Timing was so crucial to the lifeand death of each person McCann creates on his way that as a reader I begin towonder whether the next move of any character will throw them under the railsof love or tragedy.

New York is one city in one time and place, but seems to beeverything and all its own, too. Thepeople in New York City have a story, but McCann really makes a case for thecity having a story that the people participate in. The buildings are part of New York, and NewYork is part of its buildings, but even they are not the determiner of thecity, but only some part. New York isstill whole when men and women grieve, yet when they lose too much all of NewYork is not enough.

Little Bee

2011-05-23T17:41:00.000-07:00

Seattle Reads month again! Of course Seattle Reads coordinators have chosen another African immigration story. I really have decided that I don’t mind the single theme. I believe at least once a year I should read, with everyone else, a hard story of life on and off the African continent. But I wonder why it isn’t part of the title more, like, say, Seattle Reads About African Immigration month. That’s a longer title, but absolutely descriptive.

What I really like about this novel is that the immigration is to Europe. I think that is an important reality to consider as NATO bombs Libya at the behest of France and Britain. My blog isn’t about politics, so I won’t describe the lives of asylum seekers I’ve met in Europe. If you read this book you wouldn’t need me to. I’m curious about the importance in Seattle of African politics, as there really are a lot of African immigrants, yet not so many obvious asylum seekers. Perhaps I’m naïve or Seattle hides this issue considerably better than other cities.

Chris Cleave writes Little Bee with a two character first person narrative that I think is excellent. There’s nothing like reading two worlds collide from both perspectives. Of course both characters, Sarah and Ohno, are in a state of confusion and decisiveness, like many women. Maybe that is what makes them so completely compelling. Maybe their stories do. Maybe the storyteller does. Whoever holds the magic, obviously Cleave, the stories of terribly many Africans, and how it awakens compassion in the least likely, it is certain that this story carries power.

This story is about a young girl who suffers such trauma that her ability to even function is staggering. She is Nigerian, from a jungle village. She is about 14 years old. She has an older sister. Well, or so she was and had when she met Sarah. This story is about a professional woman whose life is so idyllic that she cannot imagine true difficulty. She is English, from Surrey. She is about 30. She has a husband. Well, or so she was and had when she met Ohno.

Little Bee is a haunting story and I believe that Cleave treated it beautifully. The fact that both characters are complex, have grave faults and absolute moments of heroism are truly important. Beyond that, the slight repetitions were what I found most calming and jarring, the way they returned to places and ideas – oh, the juxtapositions! – and I never could guess which one would act, or how. This is not a book to look forward to; it is a story not to dismiss.

Bel Canto

2011-05-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

Rob Forman Dew of Washington Post Book World wrote, “Bel Canto is its own universe.” I agree completely. Ann Patchett created a world that is both surreal and plausible with Bel Canto.

A respected and uncommonly successful Japanese businessman celebrates his 50^th birthday. Against his better judgment he agrees to go to the developing world because the host country promises his favorite opera star will come sing for him. The unnamed country hopes in return that he will invest there. He knows he won’t. It’s just too big of a risk.

A rogue terrorist group of men and children break up the party. The guests all respond with proper shock. But before long there is deep love, impressive sacrifice, and unearthed talents.

Patchett’s novel makes one of the best cases for grace and the need to share knowledge I have read. Bravo! Encore!

Tinkers

2011-05-09T17:37:00.000-07:00

Tinkers was full of tingles. The imagery of a man dying and reliving aspects of his life, while the reader learns about areas he never knew, was captivating. No sentimentality, no gore, just sweet endings to a sometimes bitter history. Renal failure, clocks, hallucinations, epilepsy, harsh winters, moonshine and excerpts from The Reasonable Horologist are all pretty new topics for the novels I’ve read. That Paul Harding intertwines them all so well that I look forward to each bit of the story, never knowing what will come next, is exceptional.

More about Harding’s writing style is that it was full of beautiful imagery. These were snippets of ideas and a day here or a day there in the lives of a father and son. Very little came in a straight line, allowing me to read as disjointedly as I did without feeling any loss of continuity. That I read this book for my new Montlake reading group (which is the biggest and oldest so far that I’ve attended in Seattle) means that I also got to be part of a great conversation about the book.

Overall, Tinkers received some extremely high praise in this circle. Those who’d attended the death of a parent were able to identify with the physical and mental changes described. Those who’d lived in cold weather or overcome adversity or experienced sufficient closure understood many of the novel’s themes. Only questions of all the unmentioned years still perplex. But this was not a memoir, and our principal character, George, was not interested, on his deathbed, in how his mother managed, and he did not dwell on how he got through school. No, George wanted to think about his father, and about all the money he’d stashed in his tool shed.

Each character of Harding’s novel has a particular set of impressions of life. Each is insightful. Each is limited. The novel felt true, and that is novel indeed.

Death Comes for the Archbishop

2011-05-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

My parents’ library doesn’t carry Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop. This is at once tragic and fortuitous. The fine city of Anacortes is not offering its public “a very rare piece of literature” (The New York Times). The lucky break is that, when I checked it out for them at the Seattle Public Library, I became intrigued and read it before passing it along.

Published in 1927, the story covers the life and ministry of Father Jean Marie Latour, the Apostolic Vicar to New Mexico from 1851 to his death.

The language that Cather uses is absolutely gorgeous. Her ability to tell a story is splendid, and her descriptions inspiring. I never really appreciated the beauty and mystery of the Southwest until I saw it through Cather’s writing. The most touching aspect is how Cather describes the lifelong friendship between Father Latour and Father Joseph Valliant, whom Latour brings to New Mexico with him.

At Father Joseph’s funeral, Cather writes, Father Latour “could see Joseph as clearly as he could see Bernard (who accompanied Latour), but always as he was when they first came to New Mexico. It was not sentiment; that was the picture of Father Joseph his memory produced for him, and it did not produce any other.”

This is not the only description of the way Father Latour viewed his best friend and each time Cather treats their relationship is heart-warming and strikingly familiar. I, too, see a person I love even after years of life have wrought unasked for changes in a way that resonates with Latour’s statement, “I do not see you as you really are, Joseph; I see you through my affection for you.”

Like and Marriage

2011-04-25T16:27:00.000-07:00

I picked up a book that I’m hot-potato-ing right away. The last time I had a dating book laying around the hottest date I ever had came over while it was on my coffee table. Mortification only fully set in once he’d left! Lori Gottlieb’s book “Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough” would probably end up mortifying a date, but I found it downright fascinating.

Gottlieb, nearing 40, finally discovers her main hang-ups as to why she hasn’t married. She hasn’t been dating marriageable men. She has impossible standards. She isn’t attracted to what in a man is most valuable in marriage. She’s been holding out for ‘better’ than the present. She’s looking for romance over friendship and partnership.

Truthfully, I think I understand. She doesn’t like men with bow ties and names like ‘Sheldon’; I don’t enjoy men with poor grammar who chew with their mouth open. These peripherals shouldn’t be non-negotiable, yet are highly distracting when trying to establish a relationship.

The real kicker is that there is a mathematics to relationships. I figured that my living abroad during the majority of my 20’s meant that I have an interesting resume, not that I’d come back to find all the men I ever knew married! Well, except the ones who don’t plan to marry. Still plenty of those.

But I have to admit it was the writing style, organization and story-telling of Gottlieb that mainly interested me. Her sentences were unsentimental (phew) and her examples true. I could read a book on bird-watching if it were so well-written.

Overall, Gottlieb expresses the need to be open-minded in dating, which, when paired with realism and a sense of what is necessary in a relationship, not merely dreamy, convinces me it’s probably possible to find Mr. Good Enough, even in Seattle.

Oh, and her section quotes are good. Three Germans and a Frenchman’s words are used to set the stage.

“It is not lack of love but lack of friendship that makes for unhappy marriages.” Friedrich Nietzche

“Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing; a confusion of the real with the ideal never goes unpunished.” Goethe

“Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.” Sigmund Freud

“The perfect is the enemy of the good.” Voltaire

Prayer

2011-04-18T18:29:00.001-07:00

I’ve often admitted that holding onto a book awhile before reading it only intensifies my curiosity. Checking books out of the library is easy. Getting them read within a couple weeks and returned is not. After renewing my hold on The Greatest Prayer: Rediscovering the Revolutionary Message of THE LORD’s PRAYER the maximum amount, I finally read it this week, past due.

Surely something that John Dominic Crossan writes was bound to be as revolutionary as the prayer itself. Having only really prayed the Lord’s Prayer in earnest in recent years, I knew there was more to it than I ever heard in Sunday school. To say that it was given as little credence as possible in my ‘the only rule is no rule’ childhood church is light. But, I knew it was important. I knew I didn’t know why.

Although I never opened the book, I carried it around enough for my brother-in-law to comment on the author, mentioning that he didn’t think I’d appreciate the theology. Of all the things I’ve discussed with my brother-in-law, it’s seldom theology, so I thought Crossan must be a process theologian. However, in just about his opening lines, he decisively rejects that theology. Hmm, my interest is more greatly piqued.

Crossan instead dives into the historical and biblical relevance of the poetic phrasing and wording of this universal, great prayer. Although some aspects of this prayer have always been more difficult than others to understand (a modern Americans’ understanding of kingdom, for example), I found that on every single level I had much to learn.

My primary question of God is will. I understand the elements: love, kindness, peace, humility. I never understood Jesus’ acceptance of ‘God’s will’ and praying for the same will, always having naturally combined the Lord’s Prayer and Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane. I never could align how Jesus dying could possibly be God’s will. (Jesus acting out righteousness causing him to be killed I get.) I can understand immediately how Jesus resurrecting is God’s will. In the discussion of this prayer, Crossan gave me a new viewpoint by which to consider God’s will.

Through the reading of the Lord’s Prayer in historical context and theological detail my future praying will be infused with greater enthusiasm, and hopefully inspiration for my part in this household of God’s.

Kindness

2011-01-06T19:31:00.000-08:00

Before you know what kindness really is

You must lose things,

Feel the future dissolve in a moment

Like salt in a weakened broth

Naomi Shihah Nye “Kindness”

Chris Bohjalian has, in the preface to his book, Before You Know Kindness, this quote, as well as one from The Secret Garden. As much as the title and quote perplexed me the entirety of the novel, and through my reading discussion group, the story was quite straight-forward.

I enjoyed the writing style, I enjoyed the characters, and even enjoyed the treatment of their issues. And what a smorgasbord of issues! Sex, money, power, love, and jealousy spring immediately to my mind, followed by neglect, misguided loyalties, non-disclosure, self-harm, fear of death, and guilt.

You’d think from a list like that Bohjalian would have needed a few more characters! The matriarch, Nan Seton, as vigorous as she was, was very much the weak broth. I was disappointed not to discover more about her purpose, as she was set up so well. Her two children, John and Catherine, and their spouses, Sara and Spencer, rounded out the adults. Each couple had one daughter. John and Sara also had a newborn son. He had no speaking lines.

However, it is the use of gardens that will most likely be the keeper. Spencer is vegan. Spencer also grows a garden and gets his arm nearly shot off by Charlotte, his 12-year-old daughter. The idea of Eden continues to emerge, then reemerge. There are so many big ideas that continually point to Christian teaching that it was nearly surprising. How a garden can bring healing for one and destruction for another is a powerful contrast. One person in my reading group flat out asked, “What is kindness?” then, while we were there, threw in “And what is forgiveness?” Before long we’d gone over grace, Jesus, Adam and Eve, light on a hill, and salt, too.

Finally, one of many difficult statements Jesus made is being given some serious and fascinating treatment. It is better for a man to cut off his hand than to keep it if it causes him to sin. Alright, I know that Spencer’s shoulder did not cause him to sin. Getting it blown apart did make him have to start listening, though. Spencer had to pause and look to those around him; his sudden insufficiency made him whole. Better to lose an arm than the wife and child you love more than anything.

Truth and Hijacking

2010-12-16T21:03:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-26T21:02:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-07T18:30:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-24T17:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-10T16:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-30T21:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-30T21:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-26T11:38:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-12T17:33:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-09T21:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-01T18:20:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-29T22:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-04-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-29T12:15:00.000-07:00

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?

2010-03-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

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

2010-03-15T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-02-24T20:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-31T17:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T13:35:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-17T17:50:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-11T14:37:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-04T12:23:00.000-08:00

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!

Chocolate Sauce

2009-12-26T18:51:00.000-08:00

Ever in the mood for ice cream and chocolate sauce? Me, too. Just the other day, in fact, I was overwhelmed with such a grand idea. But, although I will buy Haagen-Dazs ice cream, I haven’t found a chocolate sauce to buy (ok, Frans, but that’s half my monthly income, so out of the question). But, I have a very nice recipe for chocolate sauce and all the ingredients, so I set out to make it myself.

My recipe is for too large of a batch, for starts. Secondly, I want to use up the cream I bought for my birthday. And, I don’t really want to adjust every single measurement. What’s more, I only have dark chocolate enough for somewhere between 1/3 and ½ of the recipe. You got it, all I needed was one of those issues to make up my own version!

I began by caramelizing 1 and 1/5th cup of sugar. How I came by this fraction I probably couldn’t reproduce. Yet, I did it in my head more than once and besides, it felt right…. I whisked in a heaping tablespoon of cocoa powder, then slowly added my warm liquids (1C heavy cream, 1C water, large splash of vanilla extract). Whisking into a caramel can be intimidating, so I just take it easy. There’s no rush. I poured this boiling goo over my approximately 140g of 70% and 74% chocolate, which I’d broken into pieces and put in the VitaPrep. I added a 4-finger pinch of salt and blended until the hard chocolate was smooth and emulsified into the liquid caramel.

Then I had the most delicious bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. Ahh.

Sweet Reading

2009-12-21T22:50:00.000-08:00

Whether this is pastry or poppycock, there’s no telling. But what I can say for certain is that reading cookbooks is a lot of fun. Especially pleasurable was a cookbook, Dessert Cuisine, all about restaurant pastry making from a Spanish chef with a lot of style. Oriol Balaguer has much more background in pastry than I, yet, the direction we moved in is very similar. I appreciate his beginnings in a bakery, and eventually moving into the plated desserts of a restaurant.

The writing, albeit translated, also has a tone that increases my interest in what Oriol is doing in his pastry. He describes the use and structure of basic ingredients such as eggs, sugar, and flour. As these are part of nearly all pastry, the ability to put them together in so many different ways to create entirely different effects is astounding. As I read how Oriol manipulates and revises ingredients to create the many textures of a plate I revel in the beauty and concept. In a sense he moves from a piece of dessert, which is typical of all bakeries and most restaurants, into building a dessert, but with such grace that it doesn’t come across as bizarre.

Now, you may wonder whether this was merely a pastry picture book, and since I fairly seldom completely follow a recipe, why this is so meaningful. Well, the situation is similar to that of a person who enjoys reading science fiction novels, yet who hasn’t actually conversed with aliens. I do love reading recipes. (But then I have even greater pleasure in changing them!) Recipes are always a little different, whether it be the ratio, flavoring, or just technical description, and therefore interesting.

While I sometimes feel akin to the chef on the Muppets, throwing things about, speaking gibberish, and wielding a cleaver, I sensed a certain camaraderie with Oriol which is uncommon. Inspiration may not be lacking, but like many artistic and unnecessary fields, encouragement sometimes is. This young chef’s work is the sweet perspective I appreciate when faced with yet another season of candy canes and amateur fudge.

Squash Butter Gone Mousse

2009-12-07T12:33:00.000-08:00

I have made squash butter before. Yearly, since I began spending more time in pastry, actually. Heretofore I have steamed the squash and blended it with pastry cream. This year I baked the squash (I had a pumpkin and delacato around), which really reduced the amount of liquid in it. In fact, since I wanted to go out while it was baking (to pick up my CSA box) I set the oven at 300*F and left them in for over an hour.

When I scraped the squash flesh into the VitaPrep I had some very dry squash without a drop of water anywhere. Happily I had not made my pastry cream, so instead I made a very light crème anglaise with whole eggs, not just yolks, milk, not cream, and no starch. I did add 50g more sugar, as there was none in the squash, as well as a little more salt.

My squash was in the VitaPrep, as well as an overflowing teaspoon of ground ginger, when I poured the still hot anglaise over it. Then I blended it really thoroughly as I didn’t intend on straining it. While it blended it foamed up a bit. I decided that was the milk, imagined it would have no lasting impact, put it in containers in the fridge, and went away.

Well, last night when I returned to my squash butter I realized that I had actually made squash mousse. The texture was light and airy. I was astounded and incredibly pleased. In celebration I made a whole-wheat Dutch Baby and scooped a large dollop of squash butter gone mousse on top.

Mmm. That experiment was exceptional! I wonder what next year will bring.

Fandom

2009-12-05T18:58:00.000-08:00

Over the last week or so I’ve not been reading many full-length novels. However, I did read through one man’s love affair with the soccer* team Arsenal. Nick Hornby’s affiliation with his team is fascinating, but Fever Pitch is about more than how he obsessively relates his every personal up and down to the playing of a few men each week. At least I really think it might be.

There are many times when Hornby’s descriptions are so outlandish I doubt whether this could be authentically autobiographical, rather merely part of the British self-deprecating psyche. But right when I disbelieve and relegate this to historical fiction, he addresses my very concern. Citing an incident of inviting foreigners to one miserable match, then to another one, promising it to be quite nice, his invitees “just looked at (him) and smiled, as if the invitation was an extreme example of the famously incomprehensible English sense of humour.” (Fever Pitch, 204) So, it is concerning.

I enjoy a sporting event, and I have a couple teams of which I am fond (although Seattle’s Super Sonics – the whole team – got sent off to Oklahoma, twisting and tearing my weakened ties to anything local). But the affection was mainly romantic as I think back on my childhood when I hoped that my athleticism would eventually flourish. This makes me the sort of enthusiast Hornby describes as a “bloody big-game casual fan” except for the fact that I am so casual I hardly even can be counted on to show up for big games. A more apt description would be a “sorry mid-season unimpassioned spectator” who mainly wants to know if she even knows any of the starters anymore. Totally unlike the hero, who from his first taste of soccer*as a teen has experienced utter tyranny of attachment, making him choose a flat near the stadium and go to every single game no matter whether he misses close friends’ parties, or holidays, or even opportunities to have a career. Incidentally, as he writes this, the career’s been sorted, as he’s a writer, and writers can certainly find time to write when Arsenal aren’t playing. (Not sure why, but Arsenal are always plural in Hornby’s writing.)

That being said, the amount of self-disclosure, which I admit seeming put-on, except for the fact that it’s written so genuinely and so well (it must be true!), makes me wonder about men altogether. When I go to games and witness sports fans I don’t think of them as like-minded. However, when Hornby acknowledges his obsession as such, and fills out the inner workings of his mania I see very clearly how that could relate to me. Uh-oh.

Overall I think that a man who can fully describe games he’s watched from twenty-plus years ago, going so far as to relive particularly pleasant matches in his spare time, is incredible. If this is typical of die-hard fans then that’s going to make the next game I see far more vivid. But when Hornby says of The Greatest Moment Ever (Liverpool vs Arsenal 26.5.89), that there is something in the surprise win while in a crowd of supporters which goes beyond all heightened human experience (including sex, childbirth, promotion, winning money, etc), I wonder. The ability to believe in the face of hopelessness and resignation seem to be the phenomenon leading to his conclusion that “it is just that real life is paler, duller, and contains less potential for unexpected delirium.” (Fever, 231)

This may, indeed, be the perfect Advent choice. Thanks Arsenal! Let's rejoice in the mystery.

*Soccer = Football IFF you’re anywhere in the world except the USA

Dinner Rolls

2009-12-03T10:48:00.000-08:00

I am really beginning to see the use in a blog about ‘whatever’ rather than one with the specifics of pastry and what I’ve been reading. This is because I’ve only been caught up with other things (ie Thanksgiving, my Grandma’s 94th Birthday, new job, and thinking about how yet another old love has found a new love) this last week and haven’t posted anything.

I’m going to ameliorate that with a description of what I baked for Thanksgiving! My mom and sister made pies, and I was happy to provide vegetables. But I knocked it up another notch with some whole wheat dinner rolls made from hard winter wheat flour that was in my CSA box in preparation for Thanksgiving.

So, the night before Thanksgiving I made a starter with some all purpose flour, stuck it in the fridge, and went to bed. I slept until an early morning text from my cousin and my mom’s presence in the kitchen could not be ignored and went to get the bread going.

I took my scale and my French bread cookbook for company, but really, bread making is a touch and feel kind of adventure. My starter was young, but so what. My dough was a tiny bit soft, but I figured that was just as well considering that it was such high gluten flour that might seize up too much if overly firm. I made the dough, really just yeast, warm water, flour, salt and the white starter from the night before, then I let it rise. It was turning out just right.

Once it rose I measured the dough out into 60g dough clumps, rolled them up, set them on baking trays with plenty of space, and shuttled them downstairs to the wine cellar to wait awhile. Just before heading out on a hike I looked in on my rolls. This was probably the poorer decision as I thought they were perfectly ready for baking and wanted to put them in the oven. Some discussion ensued on how long they would take to bake.

Interestingly, although I was right (20min at 400*F) our walk was modified into two 10min quick-loops for those who worried that those beautiful rolls would get over baked. Before popping them into the oven, I dusted them with all purpose flour and made slices in them with a razor so that they would be particularly pretty.

Besides how they look? Well, they were delicious, even the ones that lasted until the turkey was ready!

More Praise in Poetry

2009-11-21T19:28:00.000-08:00

It is true. Poetry is difficult to read. I read 100 Great Poems of the Twentieth Century edited by Mark Strand, but in reality I read at least 150 great poems because I reread no less than half of them while getting through the book. This is not because I kept losing my place – I didn’t do that, or if I did it was to lose place ahead, not behind.

I did, however, begin to think that I could write a poem. A really good one, too. Not just because these great poems were so striking, but also because many of them were so short, specific, and concentrated on death, sorrow, harrowing circumstances, and lost loves. It’s really just my cup of tea.

I was determined while reading to find something funny but the best I can admit was once or twice moving from one poem to the next without actually realizing that I had! It would be comical if it wasn’t one war and death scene so closely aligned to the subsequent death and grief poem that they were indistinguishable to me, having never seen war or smelled death myself. I’m not certain that another person, having said experiences would have necessarily transitioned any better, but that may be pride. Therefore I call for more praise, more joy, more laughter, but not to blot out the true. Just to acknowledge that even disappointment can only exist because of hope.

And yet, a poem of deep sorrow and pain may be the better solution. A sustained novel-length work of misery would be overbearing and the need to express it better to be taken than repressed. My introduction to Anthony Hecht, Czeslaw Milosz, Fernando Pessoa, Pablo Neruda, Tadeusz Rozewicz, William Carlos Williams, and heaps of others lets me know where to turn when the chips fall poorly. Now, let’s shake this out with some Shel Silverstein!

On se régale!

2009-11-19T16:38:00.000-08:00

On my birthday I hosted an aperitif party, which, being wine and hors d’oeuvres, could seem light. However, the French style foods that I chose were as full of flavor, goodness, and depth as many meals I’ve made. When all was said and done, the whole wheat puff pastry with caramelized onions I made, as well as the aioli and the pickled carrots appeared the winners of high praise.

I used the organic flour from my CSA for the puff, which I should have tempered with all purpose, yet, since it puffed and was tasty I will notch it up to birthday extravagance and feel successful. Meanwhile I cooked down thinly sliced onions with butter and wine for the topping. In this respect there was no particular recipe, just procedure of slow going.

My aioli was made with garlic from my CSA, and I probably put in far more than necessary, and certainly made more than the crowd could get through, but it was bright and strong, by far the sharpest I’ve tasted. The recipe I used was slightly French and vague, so I just put my desired ingredients in the blender and let it go!

The pickled carrots were based from a memory of a recipe I followed about 3 or 4 years ago. On top of that, I didn’t actually have the ingredients I remembered needing, so I added anise seeds. Somehow I have a lot of anise seeds in my cupboard and a dearth of recipes requiring said seeds. I chose to just add what wasn’t asked for and ended up with a great dish. When my guests then asked me for the recipe I had to shrug, because I really don’t know exactly. I brought some cider vinegar, sugar, salt, crushed garlic, and anise seeds to a boil, then poured that over julienned carrots and let it sit in the fridge for ten days. Pretty delicious!! Preciously simple.

And, to finish the evening, I didn’t bake my own cake. The cake my sister made for me was absolutely phenomenal; she’ll rank in any kitchen of mine.

Dinnertime

2009-11-16T16:58:00.000-08:00

I read Anne Tyler’s Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant for two reasons. One, my roommate owns it, so I didn’t even have to go to the library before beginning, and two, Nick Hornby said that after reading her novel he decided he wanted to be an author. I already would like to be an author, but, since I really didn’t care for much that I read in October, I thought that duo would really be the thing.

It was. Although I found Anne Tyler’s characters to be just as desperate as Joyce Carol Oates’, their lives somehow seem less bleak. There’s none of the ‘side-splitting’ laughter that I get from Nick Hornby, but I feel that at least the family had half a shot. I really enjoyed the length of time that the characters experienced, realizing that nothing sorts itself out too quickly, but despite your perspective you can live through a fair amount of any situation. There’s just enough lift that even so late in the game, the opportunity to correct one’s vision is possible.

Incidentally, anything I can think to say about this book would just give it away. I keep finding myself doing a mental outline of the course of events. Well, reading will get that across. So, what am I left to determine? The plot is really swift-moving. The characters are full and true to themselves, whether or not true to anyone else. This is really profound, that even the periphery characters don’t budge from what they say and believe and do. There are no wishy-washy add-ons to make a point. Even the most insecure of the group stick to their insecurity or find a new way, have a turning point. Every single person is distinct and discovers a path. It’s a beautiful and engrossing story.

Pounds of Ginger Cake

2009-11-12T17:06:00.000-08:00

Recently I made a friendly gesture and called France for a friend of my roommate. That friendly gesture was returned with a gift certificate, which enabled me to buy the cookbook Gingerbread: Timeless Recipes for Cakes, Cookies, Desserts, Ice Cream, and Candy. This is exciting karma!

A couple weeks ago I had a great success with a variation on a Cook’s Illustrated pound cake, from an old-time country recipe where you don’t preheat the oven. Browsing through my new cookbook, and seeing a pound cake, I thought that sounded like a great idea. It took only a few minutes to put together and came from the oven looking beautiful. Considering that I baked it in a bundt pan, if it didn’t need to be turned I’d have left it as it was, so pretty. Therefore, I’m confident that the loaf cake would have been equally stunning.

The only real regret I have is that I am out of most things in my kitchen, including powdered sugar, and couldn’t sneak a glaze together to top this off. Having also run out of brown sugar meant that the cake already had ¾ cup less sugar than called for, which I didn’t substitute with anything like stevia or more granulated. So, for a really delicious and spicy cake, it’s not very sweet, and I could say it lacks quite a few calories. But, as I hadn’t run out of butter and only had egg yolks instead of whole eggs, I guess I’m not fooled.

Bittersweet

2009-11-10T19:17:00.000-08:00

Matt McAllester does write a very bittersweet memoir about his efforts at understanding and grieving his mother. Of course I had no idea that was what it was about based on the title Bittersweet: Lessons from my Mother’s Kitchen. I thought it would be true stories, which they were, about maybe growing up with a cook for a parent, which it somewhat was, and how that shapes the young man’s life, which it most certainly did. However, I didn’t realize that his mother would be mentally ill, then die, causing him unforeseen grief, and his attempt at reconciliation or redemption or some sort of closure would be to learn to cook.

His desire to follow his mother's advice, to cook without opening the cookbook, is one that I fully endorse. Discovering the taste of what’s in the cupboards and fridge can be the best! Taking that to a life-lesson is also pretty decent, asking oneself, ‘can I make something good with what’s here and without step-by-step instructions,’ as anybody by now realizes is how it is done, anyhow.

McAllester’s family stories were wonderful to read. No, not because there were so many sad ones, but because there were so many beautiful ones. His writing style is easy and even though he is British, his writing felt American. Previously a war correspondent for an American newspaper for about 10 years and receiving a Pulitzer Prize in journalism for his coverage makes his memoir at once believable and surprising. I don’t envision journalists and memoirists to be drawing on entirely the same skill set, so his writing has considerable breadth as well as depth.

Still, the surprise to find out so much about his mother and himself, which were often terribly unpleasant discoveries, made me wistful to learn more about his sister and father. His innumerable coincidences in learning about his family history, and how they overlap with his contemporary existence were fine, but they seemed to be given too much value for my palate. Regretfully McAllester was unable to find a deeper sense of meaning in his life and finishes by deciding that time will bring healing and that every joy and disappointment is to be accepted. Those are beautiful, mature lessons, but not much to sink your teeth into after the long journey through life. I hope my kitchen provides more.

Sweet and Delicate

2009-11-05T08:26:00.000-08:00

I feel remiss in not having discussed pumpkins and squash last month, so I’m starting out on that note right now! Why? Because the squash is on. And even though we’re all super acculturated to view pumpkin as the basis for pie, the actual super sweet squash of choice is Delacato. Oh, so delicate, oh, so sweet. I could pretend I’m a poet for this one.

But I’m not a poet, so I’ll just let you know that my pies are already wonderfully delicious. I cook the squash – at least any eating squash – make a pretty standard custard, and add only spices I really like, and just enough to lightly enhance, rather than to overwhelm the delicate sweet squash. In my opinion that means a hint of ginger and nutmeg.

Crust is just as important. For a tart blueberry, cherry, or even apple pie I love the dense butter crust my mom makes. A custard tart sometimes needs a lighter touch, and even though I stick with butter, something flakier and crisper makes the custard more palatable. By contrasting textures, always important, one gives the heavy squash a shot at levity for dessert.

Or, on days when I just can't be bothered? Let's make pumpkin butter! Puree cooked squash and blend it with a pastry cream for something extremely rich and delightful. Mm, I can’t wait!

Hannah Darling

2009-10-25T18:40:00.000-07:00

There is a certain amount of danger in my picking up a book. I often know in the first page whether I should plan times to read, as the danger is for me to get swept away and ignore all other demands on my time. The Darling was just such a book… for the first while.

I came to this book without expectations, as I didn’t even know of the author, Russell Banks, beforehand. Now I know that he is a writer who has a lot to say. My one major quibble with this work is its lacking good stopping points, making it terribly difficult to put down. Having lengthy sections coupled with tight time constraints (to finish by my discussion group) gave me ample opportunity to look ahead in the book. I could hardly read one section before I was cutting the remainder like a deck of cards and seeing what came later. Since the work jumps around a lot, this didn’t ruin the story at all. I just got to the point where I lost track of what I knew, what had been told, and what I moved ahead to learn. If there had been chapters this would not have happened.

But our character, Hannah Musgrove, aka Dawn Carrington, aka Missus Sundiata spent the majority of her story trying to figure out where the breaks and stops and pauses in her life were, so it makes a certain amount of sense that the telling of her story would take the reader here and there, even beyond the writer’s imagined ‘missequence.’ As Hannah tells the ‘truth’ of her life and decisions I felt very strangely drawn in, noticing that many of her frustrations both internally and politically made some sense to me. However, the actual life she led couldn’t be further from mine, either its location on the East coast of the US, living in various a-typical relationships and communities, to her life underground, and, maybe even least, the world she experienced in Liberia. This character and I never made a single choice in common (phew!).

That’s because I make pastries and enjoy visiting France. She works with chimpanzees, her dreamers, and can handle not being in relationships with her family. I came away knowing that a darling, of which America is chock full, can be right where everything is happening and shut her ears and eyes to it all. Whether that is good or bad, Hannah is unable to address. But she accepts that she was never more than the darling.

There are two interesting people in The Darling, well, more than two, but two whose presence in the novel stick out. They walked according to the script Hannah imagined they would. The first, her father, is a very successful, fairly influential, and somewhat ideological man who dies pretty late in the book. It was no surprise. Death in this book is not a surprise, although sometimes it is nauseating. As he lies dying he repeats, ‘my name’ which Hannah has difficulty responding to, so she just listens. This is a well-done section of the book, which will stick longer than most. Incidentally, his name dies with him.

The second intriguing character is nearly Dickensian, our dear American friend, Samuel Clement. He is in the novel representing Uncle Sam’s interests in Liberia, and occasionally elsewhere. He takes an interest in Hannah’s welfare and shows up like a kindly uncle when her African family is gone. We also understand that his interest in Hannah’s being kept alive is part of the downfall of her family, but it was all very likely anyhow. The fact that he gains Hannah clemency for her previous life just fills things out.

Chances are I'll look for more information about Liberia, but won't choose another Banks book, mainly because of the structure, sadly!

Tea for Dessert

2009-10-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Why tea desserts aren’t a no-brainer for me is a bummer. I’m a tea drinker, not coffee, not hot chocolate, but tea. However, unlike coffee and chocolate, which I take sweetened, I’ve learned not to take sugar in my tea. Milk, yes, thank-you.

My hot drink choices, I’m generally pleased to say, never influence my dessert selection or production. This is why: I only drink hot tea. Of the teas I’ve ever had only Chai is ever served with sugar. Mint tisanes or sweet herbal teas I count separately. I also believe that sweet hot teas and tisanes have to be scalding or equally tart, otherwise I choke on the weird sensation that I’m drinking (tepid and viscous) toothpaste saliva, which is neither appetizing nor satisfying.

My second reason is that my dessert palate is cool or room temperature. The exception being still hot baked items like cookies, scones, or croissants. I prefer room temperature cobblers, pies, and crisps. But the desserts I really love are cold. Ice cream comes to mind. Custards, fruit tarts, puddings, cheesecake, and probably hundreds more variations on the theme are what I seek out.

Theoretically it’s a strange thing that chocolate and coffee infused desserts are regularly part of my pastry life, then, as tea ones aren’t. But it could be another case of hot equals savory and when that’s got over give me cold chocolate milk not cold black tea with sugar. Hmm, or, in a pinch, I’ll take the matcha green tea mochi.

Mind the Gap

2009-10-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

If you can handle the lousy editing, Closing the Food Gap is a very informative read with many stories and situations that are absolutely fascinating. I was around page 90 when I just had to go back and look at the credits at the beginning of the book. Mark Winne thanks his High School English teacher. I am positively certain that the teacher was fabulous. My preferred teachers were, elementary through graduate school. But that doesn’t mean that I would write a book without an editor! (A blog, yes.)

The editing and reasoning skills of Winne were continually lacking, but the experiences were full and rich. He spent 25 years working on food justice programs in Connecticut, and is now a writer, speaker, and lives in New Mexico. He thoroughly described the efforts he wrought on every social level for the health and nourishment of his communities, many of which were wonderfully admirable. They do paint a bleak picture of Connecticut, though, so the tourism board may not look favorably on this book.

As a Washingtonian, not DC, I felt that a lot of the issues he brings up were out of place in my Whole Foods neighborhood. I say that but know that many other parts of my city are less well served. I have ample access to good, healthy food, including numerous Farmers’ Markets, where I pick up my weekly CSA box of vegetables. This is Winne’s dream-neighborhood. He wants this for every single American: the opportunity to pay top dollar for perfect produce, the opportunity to walk to high quality food resources, and the opportunity to support my local farmer.

Actually it’s my dream neighborhood, too. Since moving here in March of this year, although my income has been slashed to pieces, I am living a happier, healthier life. How did I participate in Resetting the Table in the Land of Plenty? I’m not sure. I do make impeccable eating decisions, and that’s an excellent start. I live among people who make pretty good decisions, too, and so my immediate culture supports the lifestyle.

That this isn’t available to many, many poor urban people in America is regrettable. That it isn’t available to many others whether in rural or small communities is also plausible. This is actually my first close Whole Foods store, and I’m in my 30’s. And I fall into the group of people who Winne also falls into, but whom he dislikes: white, middle class, educated, and healthy. Throughout his book he takes innumerable cheap shots at said group, saying that the reason for no Whole Foods in inner cities is because of racism, desire for solvent businesses, political candidate choices, and bowing to Coca-Cola.

That’s weak in my opinion. I refuse to drink Coke (or Pepsi), have only even witnessed blatant racism once (and left event with racially ostracized individual), maintain reasonable doubt that policies are to blame for people eating junk food, and think that if any of us want to have some good economic growth that those who take incredible economic risks get to choose where.

Even if Winne’s arguments are lacking, his conclusions are strong. Ok, one was nuts, “If we are going to subsidize (new farmers’) entry into to farming, we should not be doing it only to feed the elite customers of Whole Foods Market. That’s like publicly supporting medical school for doctors whose future practice will be limited to cosmetic surgery for the Greenwich, Connecticut, tennis set instead of basic health care in Harlem.” (Closing, 189)

His argument starts because Whole Foods is currently helping local farmers grow for its stores (I see it in mine right here in Seattle – the same Full Circle Farm at the Farmers’ Market is at Whole Foods). So, Winne decides this is smart, and something that the US government should get in on, but not for anybody who has access to Whole Foods. Those kinds of people don’t deserve it. He misses the point that you can’t move forward by demonizing those who have because there are those who have not. Growing vegetables for Whole Foods is like a basic health care doctor for the tennis set as much as growing vegetables for a street market would be like a basic health care doctor for those in Harlem. Farmers, politicians, businesspeople, and rank humanity do not turn apples into oranges despite Winne’s assertions.

Obviously I am not giving this book a glowing review, but that would be impossible for certain structural issues. But I do want to point out that Winne’s work towards closing the food gap is inspiring, the quotes he chooses to disperse at chapter heads applicable, and his assessment of need for new ways to resolve food insecurity in America bright. That he maintains mentors and strong human bonds gives him credence that his writing is unable to bestow. And, as always, a book that references God, even if asking Him for arrogance, which maybe would be seen more nicely as boldness, assures me that all Winne’s ups and downs, insights and misperceptions may even move us towards the justice God seeks.

I’ll end with my favorite sentence as I can sympathize with it without even participating wholly, “… when it comes to food, there is a fine but resilient thread that stitches together the fears, hopes, and aspirations of everybody who has children.” (Closing, 129) Yes, if I’ve learned anything from novels and human priorities, feeding one another good food is always a matter of great importance.

6 Ingredients Including the Spoon

2009-10-15T09:23:00.000-07:00

The new Haagen-Dazs add campaign is one that I can appreciate. So, as I was making a soup recently, I realized that the formula was perfect. I could translate my ingredients to that slogan and save myself some effort!

Carrots, leeks, broth, pepper, and dairy – just add your spoon. Ok, it isn’t really fair to say that broth is an ingredient since it’s obviously tons of vegetables and seasonings in one flavorful addition. The dairy isn’t too accurate, either. I did use about ½ C of cream and then 1 ½ C milk. I guess that if they’d been incorporated to some version of Half and Half then I could claim that. But they didn’t, and I don’t.

Another complication, when you get to the table, it’s completely fair to season one’s soup with more salt and pepper, but I’ve never added salt to ice cream once it’s spun and in my bowl. And Haagen-Dazs doesn’t mention salt. How do they make an ice cream I like without a touch of salt? I'm not sure, for when I look at the absolute most phenomenal ice creams their ingredients are: milk, cream, egg yolks, sugar, salt, and a flavor, such as vanilla.

When I shift my attention to the most amazing soups, don’t they need a combination of vegetables sautéed in butter, water, herbs, seasoning, and maybe a wine reduction and cream brought in at the end? That’s just a vegetable soup, but I love soups with beans, and meat, and broth soups, too.

I have come away deciding that five ingredients aren’t that many. But they do make quite an impression on me, even if my style is a bit of a cheat. I haven’t put a spoon to the new Haagen-Dazs ice cream, but I’ve begun to revolutionize my meals by cutting myself off after pulling five things from the fridge and cupboards. With fall at my door, and broths and heaps of vegetables in a pot, I’ve been eating as well as ever!

Jade Peony

2009-10-10T12:31:00.000-07:00

I didn’t finish Jade Peony by the proscribed ‘return by’ date. The book was part of a reading group for September at my library. Something came up and I both didn’t finish it and I missed the meeting, which is too bad. I rather like my groupies and missed seeing them.

So I kept the book these last couple of days to finish, which may also be too bad. First, the library rotation calendar is now off because the book’s not back. That’s too bad, to be keeping others from Wayson Choy’s novel. But the other thing is that I would have written a better, more positive review if I’d only read part instead of all.

Jade Peony is about an immigrant Chinese family in Vancouver, BC about seventy years ago. The structure is that three of the children tell a story about their childhood as being Chinese in Canada, and, by the end, being Canadian with Chinese parents (I say parents, but the grandmother is far and away the most powerful person in this family). This development as we get further down the line to the youngest was pretty decent.

The daughter’s story is around her desire for beauty and the love she has for an old man she believes to be a mystery, part of her grandmother’s stories of intrigue and disguise. It’s pretty realistic sounding and ends in enough tragedy to be authentically Chinese.

The adopted son’s story jumps around a lot with all the foreshadowing a reader can bear. I learned more about the author from this story. No, not necessarily that he put his ego in this child, but more what he wants his reader to believe or accept.

I was this far by the correct date and should have left well enough alone. So far an enjoyable read with plenty of social commentary and heaps of fun Old Chinese stories and ways strung through like lanterns. Plus, I know a bit of pinyin, making all the scattered phrases a pleasant little game rather than just ornamental letters or some kind of interruption.

But I did like the book and wanted a bit more, so I continued and read the third part, about the youngest son. The youngest son has been a worthless character so far, being sickly. He does free up the older kids from the attentions of the Grandmother, which in one case is good and the other not so welcome. When we reach his personal story we find that it really is true, he actually does nothing.

The youngest is perhaps a catalyst for what happens, but he has no inner life. Others act upon him and use him for their purposes. Honestly, it’s a pretty lame segment. It’s almost apparent to the author as well, who can’t seem to keep the child’s age in mind. The kid doesn’t seem at all real or unique; in fact he doesn’t even fit a stereotype. He’s just there and the threads all come around him, so he’s bound, yet may not present, too. Not the way you’d like a character you’re reading for a couple hundred pages to turn out.

And, again Wayson Choy makes social commentary. Although the supporting characters, especially the women, are far more interesting than this boy and really it’s their stories which are told, I do appreciate Choy’s decision not to spell out his conclusions, but let the thing come to its end. An end which just so happens to be more than sufficiently Chinese tragic.

Soft, Chewy, Molasses Spice Cookies

2009-10-09T17:57:00.000-07:00

These are cookies I’ve attempted unsuccessfully dozens of times. That may be an exaggeration. These are cookies that I’ve never gotten right. (I should say with readily available recipes. I have a secret recipe from a bakery which is not part of the public domain, but absolute perfection. Sorry.) I’ve used high quality public recipe sources, too.

My most recent recipe was taken from Cooks Illustrated Special Collector’s Edition All-Time Best Recipes (From the First 100 Issues of America’s Most Reliable Food Magazine), no less. My previous molasses spice cookie disaster was an unreliable source, so I’ve never really held that against the recipe. I take responsibility for wasting my own good ingredients and ending up with my personal ‘most horrid cookie ever’ award.

Beyond recipe, I also give much leeway for the fact that my home oven does not actually hold even near correct temperatures, more than one spice in my cupboard is a hand-me-down from my parents after their most recent move (2 years ago), and I’m occasionally liberal with vanilla extract.

These qualifications do not account for the cookies I turned out the other morning, which I made for a bake sale! If they were for personal consumption I would sigh and agree with myself again that a delicious cookie recipe is hard to find.

So, when I read the adjoining article (after making the cookies, of course – well, I wanted an explanation for why mine looked NOTHING like hers) I discovered two things that, if done differently, would maybe yield entirely acceptable results. One, Dawn, the recipe developer, thinks the egg white made her cookie too cake-y. My cookie could have used some fluff. Two, Dawn decided that 1 teaspoon of baking soda would give the cookies ‘nice height.’ If this is nice height I have shortness issues.

What was genuinely impressive about the recipe was the taste. Frustrated at my first batch out of the oven that looked like a single large sheet cookie rather than the very cute, round, orange sugared dozen that entered the oven, I decided to eat one for vengeance. The problem of them melding into one meant that I really could only eat about ¼ of that ‘one’ before my stomach was crying for mercy. I realized this was the wrong solution and moved on to make tiny cookies (which turned into full sized ones) baked at a higher temperature for less time.

So they’re still flat and ugly, but at least they’re round instead of cookie pull-aparts. The flavor is excellent. But considering how mine didn’t quite work out, the special orange sugar coating was all work, no glory. If I try this recipe again, I’m adding the whole egg.

John

2009-10-03T08:36:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading and studying the Gospel of John, which doesn’t really fit the bill of my blog, as it is neither pastry nor poppycock, but a seriously written account of a luminous and infinite person. However, as it was terribly meaningful to me and the ability it would take to distill it for a blog seems daunting, here I am.

As a writer I do not really take too many challenges. Therefore, rather than tackle the life and ministry of Jesus of Nazareth, as John was quite effective at, I am going to take the one story that once I read it in John’s Gospel, I was really unable to think of anything else. (Slight exaggeration; I thought of minimal other things, too.)

The story of Jesus being called into the already long and difficult life and judgment of the Man Born Blind was absolutely breathtaking. Now, the thing about reading Bible stories, chapters, or even whole Gospels, is that they are fairly familiar. I already knew going into the Gospel of John that the Light of the World was going to appear. I already knew I was going to encounter the Woman at the Well. I was even familiar with how the book reaches its climax, including the Three Crows, The Empty Tomb, and a Large Catch of Fish.

But there’s nothing like a good shudder and case of massive stereotype to bring to light that Jesus’ ways are not only incredibly different than those of world leaders, they’re not necessarily story-book ending inducing. Let’s look at the Man Born Blind. This story takes place in Chapter 9, it involves a man, his parents, Jesus, his disciples, religious leaders, and townspeople. If I were to write a novel that would be plenty of characters, but this, for Jesus, is just another day in the life.

Our introduction is brief. Jesus sees the man. Jesus’ disciples asked who sinned. (Blimey, people.) Jesus tells them that nobody sinned; it’s just another way for God’s glory to be revealed. Jesus heals the man! What a great story! The man’s not condemned, Jesus saves the day, and the disciples learn another talking point.

But, enter townspeople. They question: is this the man born blind now seeing? Some say yes, others no. But the MBB himself kept saying, “It is me!” (But how should he know, right?) So the townspeople take him to the Pharisees. The Pharisees don’t believe this crazy story. They demand the parents come. The parents say they don’t know what happened to their blind son, ask the man, he is an adult, you know.

Then the Pharisees get the Man Born Blind back and tell him to renounce Jesus, who must be a sinner to have given the MBB sight. The MBB says he only knows the good things Jesus did, and not all this add on. The Pharisees mock the MBB. The MBB gives them a piece of his mind (which happens to be a beautiful understanding of God, worship, and world history). The Pharisees get pissed.

Now we’re heading for closure, and guess who’s back! Jesus hears about the man. Jesus goes to the MBB and gets a confession. The MBB and Jesus are BFF! The lurking Pharisees pull down the curtains by being the only ones told by Jesus that they are in sin.

So, is this really happy? Not by my standards, but mine may be too elevated. The MBB was in a very sad state before Jesus, then meets Jesus, gets sight, but ends up in an even harsher drama. The townspeople who maybe before gave him bread refuse to believe he is himself, the Pharisees throw the book at him and toss him out, his own parents were unwilling to risk association with him. See, in a real happy ending the guy gets the girl, the car, and the job. Here, the MBB only gets Jesus. But he can see, so the MBB knows that this is truly a very good ending.

Magazine Recipes

2009-09-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

I surprisingly found myself at the library last week. My wandering took me a ways – all the way to the back issue magazines section – where I began to browse among the cooking magazines until I saw one that stopped me. I’d seen it before, too, so I knew that the craving was a double hit. There was the picture of a chocolate caramel tart that I really wanted to sink my teeth into.

Fortunately for me, I was able to organize a dinner party within the week, which was going to allow me to make said tart. All the dinner party attendees thought they were the fortunate ones as the tart was preceded by my own special purple potato gnocchi with hazelnut pesto, heirloom tomato and caramelized onion pizza, and baked ling cod. The fact that the dinner was pure whimsy and used only partial recipes or ‘idea-gathering’ from dozens heeded no casualties and I got pretty happy eaters. The rumor had spread that there was dessert, so most people eased off of dinner when that telephone game reached their ears.

I give all the credit to two sources: one, Marlow and Sons, in Brooklyn, NY, two, Saveur Magazine April 2009 issue, tucked away at the library in a difficult to find (unless the librarian explained the system to you) box behind a wooden compartment.

But, what can I say, I got the credit last weekend for an excellent tart, which is pretty easy, actually. The key is that you make the crust and let it sit then bake it, make the caramel and let it cool in the tart, then make the ganache and let that set up on top of the caramel that has cooled in the tart. Three easy steps, with a wait period between each one, and a delicious tart is yours. I think I’ll ‘wow’ the crowds again with that one. Or perhaps just myself right after lunch….

A-Town

2009-09-17T10:53:00.000-07:00

Back in High School I was introduced to Thorton Wilder’s Our Town by my English teacher who casually mentioned that his daughter’s name was Emily. As his daughter was a classmate and my home town was not far removed from Grover’s Corner, except by ninety years and most of the distance of the United States, I already knew her name.

In Our Town, baseball was one of the themes of life and cars were new and exciting. In my day, I believe basketball was a higher ranking sport, and we were learning about personal computers. I don’t doubt that every one of us now has a laptop, not to mention a car.

As I was in Anacortes visiting my parents, the small town play seemed highly appropriate, so I read it the other morning. I may have read it before. I can’t be sure. But this time I realize that the stuff of the play is much less about baseball and cars than I had expected when I picked it up. (Which it ought to be, considering that it is part of the Franklin Library Classics.) Trappings aside, my view of small town life remains highly indistinguishable from Wilder’s in this play.

However, I find our narrator, who’s official title is Stage Manager, to be a really fascinating chap. He’s half townsperson and half universal being. What a strange situation, even if fairly typical of a small town where people do tend to take on a few different roles. The Manager physically sets the stage and introduces Grover’s Corners, but then he interacts with the characters at will, standing in for a preacher and a soda fountain jerk.

This Manager even brings in a variety of experts on the town, either from the university or local paper, to fill in some of the details. It’s a rather surprising addition considering he appears every bit as knowledgeable as his special guests. You’ll remember how the Manager puts together the newspaperman’s kitchen as we were all getting settled in to learn about Grover’s Corners. Not to get too logical about it, but if you know the layout of someone’s home and how many breakfasts they eat together, well then there’s little doubt that you couldn’t go ahead and fry the bacon, too.

But that seems to be Wilder’s point. Sure Mrs. Webb makes coffee every single morning, as regular as the milk delivery, but we must wrestle with the question of whether or not she savors it. She knows it’s good and right for her children to eat slowly, so I’m one who votes that she, too, remarks on the heliotrope in the Gibbs’ garden as readily as saints and poets do.

Obscurity in the USA

2009-09-16T12:11:00.000-07:00

Two of my meals on a recent day were absolutely cliché. Breakfast: two scrambled eggs with salt and pepper, two slices of toast, buttered with homemade raspberry jam, a pear, and tea with milk. Lunch: peanut butter and honey on whole wheat sandwich, carrot, apple, glass of milk, and two my-version ‘cowboy’ cookies. My plans for dinner were: pasta with tomato, basil and onion sauce, sautéed dandelion greens, and, if I’m lucky, red wine.

See, a CSA box isn’t that weird! Ok, when I looked at the long dandelion greens the other morning and asked the market clerk, “What’s that?” I didn’t have a clear idea about how I was going to integrate the greens into my weekly vegetable consumption, although after she identified them I immediately recognized the leaf, posing a further (internal) question, “Why are you selling me this?” The fact that I got two more green cabbages also fills me with some trepidation. But, I’m looking on the bright side, which is that I’m going to visit my parents later and THEY can figure out just what to make of the cylinder beets, my growing stockpile of bunches of radishes, and those scarlet runner beans I’ve now had for two weeks….

Last night’s dinner was a CSA salad, miso soup with onion and CSA bok choy.

Beyond that it gets fuzzy, but other successful meals last week include:

Obscure CSA greens casserole (kale, chard, herbs, beet greens, radish greens, spinach, arugula, mizuna, frisee, etc. Sautee, then toss with a béchamel , cover in cheese and bran nibs, and bake! Ta-da, delicious.)

Plum and rice stuffed CSA bell peppers

Ground CSA wheat berries flour in a plum cake

CSA lettuce salads with CSA radishes

Snacks of plums, CSA nectarines and CSA pears

So, how creative does one have to be? Pretty creative, really. Especially since broccoli shows up regularly, and how is one to eat that much of it? Once every couple of months is fine, but every other week? It’s draining on my artistic ability in the kitchen. I’m about ready to just make plate decorations with the newest cucumber I got – can you believe they sent another one! My lifetime intake of green cabbage has taken a multiple hundreds of percentage increase. But it’s all ok, because I really, really didn’t know that some obscure greens are so good (in sauce), and I had an ear of corn nearly every day last week!

Also, since I pawn off all the boring cauliflower (and because I figured it was somewhat greedy and therefore made it up by having baked turnips the following night), I’ll just mention quietly that I ate four baby Jerusalem artichokes with a hazelnut vinaigrette for dinner not too long ago and it was heavenly!

Polysyllablism

2009-09-13T11:52:00.000-07:00

You want to know why Nick Hornby resonates so well? It’s because he’s brilliant, that’s why. I skipped multiple reading group sessions this summer because I couldn’t take one more book about artists and authors. What does Hornby criticize authors for (to the chagrin of the Spree, mind you)? All these mad books about bookish people! Hello, if we read them we’re those people and don’t want to hear about it! (Wait. I’m agreeing with an author, while reading his book about books he’s reading, that books about writing come across to me as somewhat ridiculous and less interesting as other subjects? Hmmm. Ok, unless, of course, it’s you, Nick, giving voice to the tiresomeness of it, then.)

And, as I was sitting on the front porch, chuckling at something else he wrote, my neighbor walked by and commented,
“Good book?”
“Oh, great! Nick Hornby.”
“I’ll have to put it on my reading list.”
“It’s his Complete Polysyllabic Spree where he discusses everything he’s reading.”
Pause.
Me again, “Have you read him before?”
“No.”
“Oh, he’s fabulous! Nick Hornby – British!”

Sorry, Nick, I may not have pulled that one out for you.

The truth is, Hornby not only writes his (somewhat) monthly articles about what he’s reading, which would be entertaining enough, but he actually creates tension with the editorial board, nearly giving his segment a plot! So, not only have I developed an abundant list of new books to read, I enjoyed the list-making in a genuinely pleasant way! Shall I share what I took away from The Diary of an Occasionally Exasperated But Ever Hopeful Reader? No, I’ll allow you to get the satisfaction for yourself.

Summer with a hint of easy

2009-09-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

I don’t know that anyone could conjure up anything more wonderful than the fresh, ripe, juicy nectarines I’ve been eating recently. Even eating them I’m so excited by the next dripping sweet bite that I rush through the whole thing with nothing to show but a pit and a sticky hand (which I lick).

Stone fruit, or any tree fruit, I was just recently told, doesn’t grow everywhere. If I’m ever to be a genuine locavore, those places are herewith crossed off my list. But my food fanaticism has less to do with location than quality, so I refuse to engage in premature concern. My second ‘however’ relates to the unlikelihood of coming to such a pass, considering this is new knowledge and does not apply to any of the places I’ve lived within my memory years.

The now only slightly tacky hand writing this, earlier made a nectarine sorbet base. I did it somewhat like a jam and somewhat like a poach. I started by making a heavy syrup with 3 pounds of sugar, added 7 pounds of fruit, and a ½ cup of lemon juice, then cooked them until the fruit exploded against the pot with gentle pressure.

I pureed and strained the whole while still warm. A tester came along with her spoon about then for verification purposes and exclaimed, “Oh! It tastes like summer!” Oh, and it does taste like summer today again and again, every single bite and lick of it.

Stop Following Me! But please read on....

2009-09-10T18:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, just standing there, do you ever get chills and look around to see what’s the matter? Or, walk more briskly when there’s someone right behind you, or in my case, less briskly so they can pass? It’s one of those strange gut feelings that must be listened to, but really probably doesn’t matter if the other is a real piece of work.

My prayers at dinner took a stride towards specificity after I finished Kate Brennan’s In His Sites. ‘Thank-you, Lord, for my safety and ability to be.’ I concur, as she puts it, that there’s always someone who’s having a harder time. I know this from many sources, but each day I thank God for some new thing I hadn’t realized before. I’m not the point of fixation for a madman, and that is good news!

This book, a story of one woman’s meeting, loving, and leaving a man, rather mundane as far as it goes, shoots into high gear when we discover he’s a sex addicted (his diagnosis) psychopath (my diagnosis) who dedicates years – over a decade and counting – of his life to tormenting her thereafter.

What I seem to always ask is: How does such a competent woman, obviously capable of a solid writing career, with demonstrated talent in this compelling autobiography, get into such a mess? The too pat answer is that she experienced this to learn and grow as a person, and then to teach, through writing the story. These were both explored and counted valid by the author. This sounds somewhat peaceful for such a menace to inhabit her life. But, maybe that is what it’s about. I’m certainly aware of further social deviances from reading this than I had been before.

But the next question points towards me: Why did I choose to read this? Well, the Seattle libraries, in response to the current economic downturn, closed for a week, so I went and stocked up on reading material in my #2 preferred location and saw this on the new/recommended shelf. But, as I didn’t pick up the others, I admit to a grand curiosity on how men and women relate, with stalking as part of it all that makes no sense. I don’t even keep up extraordinarily well with good friends whom I hold dear, so who could be motivated to chase an ex who wants rid of you???

All this to say, there’s yet another mark against the independently wealthy, which the stalker is. But, more to the point, there’s a strong cautionary note about getting involved in relationships with psychotic people. That I can fully embrace – no rich lunatics for me!

Generally speaking, men can be put at ease as Kate only has hard feelings about specific unrepentant men with specific unsavory behaviors. Namely: drunkenness, bribery, sexual misconduct, lying, manipulation, domination, and stalking. Pretty much everyone else gets a pass.

One of her greatest points was when she decided to leave Paul. Kate described how she just had to stop listening to his pleas and think clearly about his actions. In that line of reasoning, so what if I praise this book as well-written, informative, and a page turner. Concentrate on how I got to the library and read it straight through. That tells all!

Plum Crazy

2009-09-07T10:29:00.000-07:00

I’m curious as to whether that expression is due to the absurd amount of plums that come raining down from the trees right about now and seem to have no actual projected end date. Crazy is forever.

And this goes on and on! I’ve made plum chutney, plum jam, plum cakes; I’ve halved and frozen plums, poached plums, dehydrated plums, and eaten plums. I’ve given away plums, which takes some work, as many other people seem to also have an abundance of the small purple bowel movers themselves. I took probably 30 or more pounds of plums to a food bank and found it closed. Disappointment!

All that said, my favorite thing so far was picking them. No, not because I enjoy the wobbly ladder to which I have access, or the myriad spiders crawling and swinging around me, or seeing (and avoiding) the plums that managed to rot on the tree, or even the rain that came when I was about half way and made me decide to put off the rest for the following day. The thing I liked was getting up high and reaching.

Um, I know, reminds one a little bit of step aerobics. But it was five steps up, reach, pick, toss, reach, pick, toss. I wasn’t being at all gentle with these guys and really did drop them down to the bucket I had balanced on the ladder’s shelf by my feet. And who wouldn’t! It’s fun to be up in a tree finding fruit, but once it’s found, and I realized early on that there was a whole lot of it, then there’s the of a chore of figuring out what to do with it. No interest at all in the one that goes astray with all 99 of the others clamoring for attention!

I’ll admit that the plum cake was fabulous. I froze enough plums that I’ll be able to make that any time I like all winter long. The cake is from a recipe I found about three years ago online and have since lost, but, you know, I remember the essentials: plums, sugar, butter, flour, baking powder, spices, buttermilk. It turns out fabulously no matter how I make it, so the essential aspect is definitely the plums. And it’s true that there were no eggs originally and I still don’t add any, which switches this cake into a sort of biscuit in my mind, which translates loosely into a cobbler, so to call it a cake at all is mere politeness to the original baker.

So my good times in the tree out front will make many more good times in the kitchen. If I decide it was all worthwhile, then I still have the other plum tree out back to start in on!! Crazy!

Huckleberry Season

2009-09-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I’ll just go reread a book because I just don’t remember it well and know it to be important literature. Sometimes I realize that there’s no way I ever read the book initially as I would have HAD to remember something, considering it was so vibrant.

This takes me to Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, which I ‘re’read just the other week and came away with the strange sensation of being introduced to entirely new material. Now, I know I’ve read about Tom Sawyer. In the 5th grade we did a school play with the whitewashing scene. The same one my brother’s class did a few years earlier, so I already could practically quote it when it was supposed to be fresh. But I never went on to Huck’s adventures that year or any other until now.

Somehow I just lumped the two stories together. I didn’t add the frog jumping contest short story to the pile, which I know I only just read last year and found a bit nutty. But there does seem to be something nutty about these stories of kids and adults and culture and river that are at once familiar and entirely mystical. How could a grown man be like Jim? How could a young boy be like Huck? What changes in America have wrought those persons unbelievable?

And yet, isn’t it just like a child to run away from bad and not so bad just to be free? And wouldn’t a man in danger need more help and be more faithful than one who saw himself as autonomous? And doesn’t every other character we meet, whether capricious, conniving, gullible, dangerous or endearing, somehow keep us thinking that humanity may have new trappings, but is not too far removed from the low banks of the Mississippi?

The pleasant times Huck and Jim enjoy make me yearn to float alongside them, but the scrapes and storms and general uncertainty let me know that what baffles me would confuse anyone, and when I am at the end of the line, well, maybe a canoe will come along and keep me afloat. Huck and Jim extend measures of grace which are unparalleled by their main associates, creating the most unlikely heroes. These heroes, though, are ones I will not forget and hope to even reread for real!

Butter, huh.

2009-08-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

The other day a friend of mine was extolling the Bread and Butter Pudding that his aunt in England makes. Then another friend joined in, saying how great Bread and Butter Pudding is. Now I know how to make great bread pudding, and I really think my custard is excellent, but I was all intrigued by the butter. I wanted to give it a try!

Well, so I did. This is phenomenal. I couldn’t have been happier! I did add some vanilla and one extra spoonful of sugar, but other than that, the dash of salt, and, well, the temperature I baked it at… here it is!

Bread and Butter Pudding (Recipe of FD's Aunt in England)
3 slices of buttered bread cut into quarters
1- 2 small handfuls of currents or Sultanas
1 desert spoon sugar
1 pint of milk
2 eggs

layer the bread in a greased pie dish buttered side up sprinkle the fruit and the sugar on the layers.

Heat the milk, not to hot, beat the eggs with a fork and pour on to the warmed milk then mix the mixture well
pour into pie dish over the bread, grate nutmeg on the top and leave to stand for 30 mins .
bake in a moderate oven for 30mins or till set and brown (375 F)
Serve with cream

What makes bread and butter better than bread? The butter makes it better. Otherwise this recipe is just like the great and wonderful bread pudding you and I love to eat. Or, it’s something like baked French Toast, which I also love to eat.

I used the ends of a loaf of Como from Grand Central Bakery, which I found to be perfect for this, letting the heels sit in the most liquid under the other layers. Just what I would have expected, they soaked up the milk and turned into delicious custard softness. But the buttered slices on top, which I also sprinkled with sugar after buttering then cutting in 2” squares, developed that well-buttered crunch on top with the custard soaking up through the square, creating a custardy, crunchy, raisin-nutmeg-y explosion of awesomeness that I ate warm!

Bread Pudding’s fine, and I’m happy to try it again, but Bread and Butter Pudding is on top!

The Vocal, the Literary

2009-08-25T15:01:00.000-07:00

Finding one’s voice is a worthwhile pursuit and one that our lady, The Uncommon Reader, takes to develop. Interestingly, to me her voice is entirely strong and distinct throughout.

Yet, as I am not British Royalty, perhaps I just don’t understand. Having played at writing with the Queen’s voice (not included here), it is clear how differently she and I address ourselves and our world.

But we have a great commonality, the uncommon one and I. We read. We enter other worlds, learn other ways of being, and generally enjoy what’s out there – even to the point of sympathizing with other people.

Alan Bennett’s work in developing a character in her late 70s into a person of new interests and vitality was a great yet brief pleasure. The novella filled but one sunny afternoon. No matter, I’ll just pop back to the library and experience yet another voice!

Sugar Doodles

2009-08-20T16:41:00.000-07:00

My nieces came over on a recent afternoon, so I thought I’d bake them a treat. My sister and I would be taking a walk, while they would ride their bikes, meaning that all will be hungry and really, really need a snack afterwards. The three little girls have varying tastes, and I decided to cater to the blandest, as everyone can accept plain, but not all can accept complex flavors.

Therefore, I set out to make a plain butter or sugar cookie. These are so simple, yet can be so improved with a little of this and a little of that. I found a snickerdoodle recipe and decided that although it was entirely inoffensive, it was also truly too dull. So I began to look online for cream cheese sugar cookies.

Those recipes were far more interesting, even if the only added ingredient besides sugar, butter, and flour was cream cheese! But they all wanted me to roll out the dough. I love my nieces, but I was not going to roll out dough.

True to form, I began to combine recipes, combine flavors, and keep it all white so that maybe the kids would eat it!

1 C butter
4oz cream cheese
1 ¾ C sugar
2 eggs
1t vanilla
½ lemon juiced – maybe a tablespoon
3 C flour
3t baking powder
Dash of salt

After mixing all that, I let the dough rest in the fridge to set up. I really didn’t want too runny of cookies! But neither did I want them overly stiff once baked. So, I put them still gooey on plastic wrap and rolled the dough into a log as one would for freezer cookies. The dough was pretty soft, actually, so I wasn’t expecting a perfect circle. I planned to slice the cookies off the roll and put oval slabs of them on a baking tray (400*F for 10min). I even was ready to toss a few sprinkles on them, as pink crystals of sugar don’t put the girls off, or necessitate extra exertion. :-)

When all was said and done, they turned out just wonderfully. The heaps of baking powder and a second egg kept the cookie cake-y, as you’d expect from a snickerdoodle, but the sugar cookie flavors came through so well that the couple leftovers I happily enjoyed baked off the following day. Therefore, it fit my goal of a delicious flavor with neither cinnamon nor rolling pin!

Confessions of a 'Sugar Person'

2009-08-17T14:15:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand Barbara Kingsolver’s family-wide fixation with bananas. As they slog through a year of glorious organic produce and poultry in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, figuring out that it is as good as it sounds – having lots of gorgeous food from the garden – and that it’s as hard as it sounds – preparing in advance all that glorious stuff for winter – she keeps coming back to bananas.

Being a bit of a traveler, I’ve actually had bananas where they’re from, and they’re not that good in Seattle by comparison. I really think on bananas the way Kingsolver describes tomatoes: pretty phenomenal in the right circumstances, but hardly worth it otherwise. Anyhow, with all that great summer squash she harvested, there’s no need for bananas! They substitute very nicely.

When Kingsolver’s family set out to eat local food for one year, they allowed few big outside purchases, exceptions being olive oil, pasta, and flour. There were some further breaches made for beverages such as coffee, hot chocolate, and wine. That being said, I never noticed her calculated consumption of sugar. I was looking for it, too. And I know there was some, because they made jam!

The truth is that I have romanticized the idea of a self-sufficient farm where I could figure out how to grow what I want to eat (on a hard rock candy mountain), only to come to the realization that even though garden fresh fruits and vegetables are incredibly sweet, I just might want more than honey sometimes. Here you may take into account that I am a pastry chef!

The romantic ideals go back to Little House in the Big Woods when Laura Ingalls Wilder has bear for dinner and asks for the leg, or at Christmas gets maple sugar candy for a huge spectacular treat. Or, later, maybe by Plum Creek, when there’s an orange at a party that she delights in eating, segment by segment. I remember trying to savor the oranges that I got in my stocking as a kid – but knowing it was from our huge box of oranges really spoiled that, so I usually just returned them to the kitchen and curled up with my newest book instead.

Devouring books is no new thing for me, and I did gobble this book on “A Year of Food Life” faster than Kingsolver and her whole extended family could get through one home grown, free range Thanksgiving turkey. Like Kingsolver’s novel-writing, her personality comes through, sometimes overly precious, but still compelling. I do appreciate authors with less partisan political bent, but often enough she left that alone and discussed the real issue: food.

Gooseberry Custard Tart

2009-08-14T09:57:00.000-07:00

Recently my mom’s friend shared her family recipe for rhubarb custard pie with me. A very simple custard of milk, eggs, sugar, and perhaps flour, and yummy enough for dessert or breakfast. I love a French custard tart, where the fruit is interchangeable, but often apple. It can be called an alsatienne, having equal parts cream, milk, and eggs, with sugar and vanilla, basically a sweet quiche. Or, even a clafoutis accepts fruit, which I’ve seen done dozens of ways, the basic French versions being my favorite. One is a thick custard, almost a flan, with cherries (pits included!) another calls for almond meal and berries.

The fact that these all excite me and I make them as often as I can, should be tempered by the fact that often I try them while out with nothing but frustrated disappointment. In my mind a baked custard is the easiest thing possible. Perhaps on par with chocolate chip cookies. How could someone make a bad one? It would have to almost be intentional sabotage of deliciousness.

But this is not true. I decided to do some online investigation and tried out some recipes that come up at the top of search engine lists. My Lord Jesus Christ, those were some foul desserts. One I made at my parents’ with my mom commenting politely, after trying the outcome, ‘um, honey, you know, I think I like my apple pie better.’

Hello! Understatement! McDonald’s apple pie is better. I decided to keep the recipe and write ‘Disaster! Do not try again,’ across the body of it. Generally I write all over my recipes, considering myself a culinary scientist, not so unlike the Half Blood Prince with his Potions book.

Therefore, my lovelies, here’s the custard tart I made with some suspicious fruits called ‘gooseberries.’ It’s worth noting that gooseberries are lots tarter baked – like how endives are super bitter baked, but sweet raw. Well, these little geese get sour!!

What Not to Say

2009-08-13T10:26:00.000-07:00

Oh, do I like British writers: William Shakespeare, Thomas Hardy, Helen Felding, and the list continues. Sometimes I don’t even realize an author’s British until I’ve begun a book, which is the case with Mark Vernon’s What Not to Say, which I picked up from the library expecting a light and silly read. With a bright colored-pencil stylized cover design and lots of scribbling, plus the description of awkward moments on the back, it is easy to assume. However, the subtitle, Philosophy for Life’s Tricky Moments, is in earnest.

So, ever want to know what to say to end a friendship? Carefully, advises Vernon after extensively considering Nietzsche and Plato. And why do you want children? Hm, maybe one question worth asking before giving it a go. He even advises you on a particularly clever poem to recite when a friend enters into an ill-matched or disappointing marriage, giving you, at last, something to say.

As with most British thinking, Vernon advises a great deal of tact when addressing one’s public and private moments. Very nicely, though, he always does advise one to speak and engage, often falling back on the less is more strategy, but with a punch. I particularly appreciate his treatise on making a complaint. Here the wit of a Brit can be absolutely delicious! If one’s wit is not quite as sharp, no matter, the point remains that one should articulate against injustices. If others are angry over silly things, let not that dissuade me from my rage of importance!

Vernon’s erudition is a pleasure as he leads one through ancient, modern, and otherwise texts and philosophers, distilling contemporary situations, thereby supporting, even with his own biblical references, that there is nothing new under the sun.

Summer Salads

2009-08-05T09:44:00.000-07:00

Once again I was presented with an array of summer vegetables in my CSA box. When I opened it and looked around, I found a cabbage. I have only bought a cabbage one time before in my life, and only know two things to do with it. You can either bake it with corned beef on St Patrick’s Day, or you can make cole slaw. I made cole slaw.

That one time I bought a cabbage was a few years ago, to make cole slaw for the 4th of July, and although I probably found a great recipe which was fantastic, I decided to go looking again. I looked online, I looked in cookbooks, I thought about looking through my old cooking notes. And this is what I did:

One Green Cabbage
One Yellow Carrot
One Bunch Green Onions

Dressing:
Cider Vinegar
Bitter Honey
Olive Oil

Chop up the vegetables, make a dressing with the rest, pour it over the vegetables, and let it rest, refrigerated.

I found the bitter honey at the Chateau Ste Michelle winery in Woodinville. I had never seen bitter honey before and was curious about it. In fact, as I’ve attended a honey convention in France, and go out of my way to honey taste at markets from St Petersburg to Ballard, I really thought I’d seen most of the honey out there. Interestingly it was on sale, having stayed past its ‘best if used by’ date. One thing that I’ve heard reiterated about honey is that it doesn’t go bad, so I figured even bitter honey should be ok. And it is. I have paired it with goat’s cheese, added it to numerous vinaigrettes, and generally a dab here and a dab there for fun.

The yellow carrot is part of a bunch of rainbow carrots, with red, orange and yellow carrots all set together like a bouquet of Gerber daisies. I tasted each one separately. I probably should have done it blind folded, as the orange carrot was by far the best. I will save those for eating on their own.

Worth mentioning, I did make three salads, but received a particular complement on the slaw, even though I think that my broccoli salad was the greatest success, considering how little I like broccoli, yet finished this one off first! The third salad was beets and dill... yummy!

Trend towards Adrianism

2009-08-03T09:40:00.000-07:00

Browsing for new books at the library is a seriously awesome pastime of mine. So, when I came upon Cass R. Sunstein’s book, I was hooked. It has two very impressive features; a phenomenal cover design and an enticing title. I give a little ‘hurrah’ for marketing in literature and picked it up!

I have not been disappointed. The library may be a little disappointed, as I was meant to return it last week, but we’ll be ok. I HAD to finish it and have it here to write about. The ideas and studies presented in Going to Extremes: How like minds unite and divide, were extremely compelling, explain enormous amounts of social interactions, and, I think, were incorrect. Er, I mean, very correct and perfect. Hm, shall I be united or divided?

How do likeminded people become extremists? It is certainly a question that I’ve asked as perfectly competent people make ridiculous decisions, which I’ve witnessed, stupefied. Or, better (worse) yet, be in a situation where one’s voice is entirely disregarded as the group runs away from truth. Oh, how that stings. And, it has a name! It’s called ‘cascading,’ but can go in any direction. And, I even discovered why, that one time, when I was completely certain of my own calculations, then looked at the crowd intent on a particularly lousy decision and decided not to put up the fight, merely excusing myself. Aha, I practiced self-censoring and self-selection. Notably, it has bothered me ever since, as I do not like to take that route.

There are two parts of this book that really got me thinking. One addressed the extremism of Islamic terrorism, and the other was a study of Stanford students. To address Sunstein’s whole argument leading up to his example of Islamic terrorism just might necessitate quoting the whole first part of the book. As I won’t do that, I’ll just give the clincher. If you would like to see a change in something that you find to be incorrect extremism, engage on respected terms. I have often encouragingly quipped ‘politely!’ to those wishing to go head to head with their opponent. Oh, to have someone whom you respect open your eyes to new information and ideas – so beautiful and successful. In the plainest terms, Sunstein concludes that only Muslims can change the mindset of Islamic terrorists.

The other was a study of university students who play acted a psychological experiment as guards and prisoners, wherein the activities were really foul. There was one quote by the psychologist conducting the study, Zimbardo, which has irked me. He said that the students showed no differences at the beginning of the study yet were entirely dissimilar by the end. From what I read, I would disagree, saying they were all still completely uniform at the end. Not one showed heroics, not one rose above any ‘station,’ and not one proved driven by any internal morality. Each participant responded to the authority with obedience, squelching any personally held ideas of individual worth; only a couple of the ‘prisoners’ objected to their treatment, necessitating removal from the project. (The fact that scientists may no longer conduct such human experiments for study is slightly encouraging… of course TV networks may produce highly similar ‘games’ for entertainment value.) Sunstein continues to discuss Abu Ghraib, individual thresholds against bad behavior, and concludes that there are dispositions towards evil and towards good. The makeup and interaction of groups will determine the final outcome.

So I’ve discovered. That there is the opportunity to influence outcomes through bold statements, truth notwithstanding, is overwhelmingly supported through studies and experience. That one may stand against group polarization (or create an opposing group) and turn the tide of extremism is an idea I hope to develop. Watch out for Adrianism!

Frank and Mamah

2009-07-31T09:01:00.000-07:00

Loving Frank is meant to be a historical novel. And it is, somewhat. The dates on the pages indicate the setting as turn of the century. The novel moves from Chicago to Berlin, Paris, Tuscany, and Kyoto, to somewhere outside Madison. All those places were true and distinct in the early 20th century. There was the great Woman Movement in the states, the modernist movement in Europe, and certainly ancient art in Japan.

Regretfully our main character, Mamah Borthwick, is completely fictionalized. The only things that are truly known of her are that she was married, loved and translated the writings of Sweden’s Ellen Key, had an affair with Frank Lloyd Wright, and died in a ghastly attack at the home she and Frank shared.

Uh-oh, is that a give-away? Did I just spoil the ending? Hmm, well, it’s difficult to say. I only finished the novel because I skipped ahead wondering if anything ever actually happens other than a 40 year old mother’s internalized wondering if leaving her children was very clever. The idea that she may possibly be a martyr to free love finally gives the book some intrigue. Otherwise, random violence leveled against an introspective woman is not super interesting, especially when the woman was not the famous historical figure of the story.

Writing a fictional account of Frank’s life may be interesting, but there are already biographies and autobiographies on him. Therefore, creating a story about his love life, of which there is precious little record, does strike a note when the three or four scraps of information about one particular mistress are so incredibly potent. However, there seems to be so much more to say that would create a sense of time and place that just didn’t happen, as much of the expression in the novel came across as contemporary. When all is said and done I will be more interested in Frank’s architecture than Mamah’s translations, just as I would have been before.

Uncommonly HOT

2009-07-29T10:27:00.000-07:00

It's too hot to blog. It's too hot to cook. It's too hot to read.

However, I have been doing the latter two at my typical rate. Only sitting at a desk typing with sticky fingers has been put on hold. I have determined to take my book and sun tea with peaches to a cool lake for the remainder of this heat wave and may return afterwards when cool rains come and soothe my sweaty soul.

Peace out.

Community Supported Agriculture

2009-07-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

Boxes of vegetables are coming my way. I have joined a CSA this year! I’m super excited about what I might discover. So far in my farm sharing I traveled to the peninsula to visit the farm, have a look around, and pick some super phenomenal strawberries.

Now there are a few distinct examples in my life which will elucidate why a farm share works for me. Let me discuss the strawberries for just a moment. I am not a fan of ‘strawberries.’ Picking an organic strawberry that is ripe on its itsy bitsy ground cover bush does not have much to do with ‘strawberries’ as they find their way to so many grocery stores. So, at Nash’s Organic Farm, the strawberries were like the ones that you might dream about if you felt like eating sun warmed juicy candy that melts in your mouth needing only the pressure of your tongue to mash it against the roof of your mouth. This corresponds to the memory I have from my childhood, eating the little strawberries my mom grew in planters on the front steps. Reproducing miracles in one’s mouth is no small thing. This works for me.

This week in my box I got salads and other stuff. I should discuss the other stuff, as that’s going to take creativity to use, but I started out by washing my salads. And then I tasted them. And since then I’ve been eating salad for all my meals and snacks (except breakfast). And that is not because there’s so much and I get another box next week! It has everything to do with the crispy, crunchy, slightly sweet, somewhat ticklish edged leaves they possess.

But I do get another box next week, so I really could use a little help. Are you hungry?

Kateri's Crows

2009-07-10T10:50:00.000-07:00

I shudder in my attempt to identify with Kateri Tekakwitha, in The Reason for Crows. Diane Glancy found Kateri, a Mohawk Indian girl, on a panel of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in NYC and has written a first person narrative of her story, including narrative from the point of view of the priests she meets.

Kateri’s mother was stolen by the Mohawks from her original tribe. Kateri’s father was the Mohawk chief. Kateri should have been the daughter of Helen of Troy by my calculations of how people groups do tribal fighting and spoiling and regeneration. Except, in upstate New York during the year 1656 things seem more disastrous on the individual level without the overarching epic story.

The epic story has invading traders, priests, and disease conquering the smaller groups of already warring peoples. But is there love! Yes, we see that there is. Is it sacrificial? To the utmost, as only sacrifice and hardship are available to she-who-walks-searching-in-front-of-her, to her who hears Ezekiel and sees spirits and follows Christ, to her who has joined the epic story of God.

West Coast Cheesecake

2009-07-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

For quite some time Seattle has been enjoying good weather. Every time the forecast projects rain, it surprisingly turns to sun. It is surprising, as Seattleites are far more conditioned to hear that sun’s coming only for it to be rain – or, in recent winters, snow.

What does this have to do with cheesecake? And isn’t that a New York specialty? Interestingly, cheesecake reaches far beyond NY, and the weather is highly impactful if you’ve been requested to make cheesecake for your friend’s outdoor wedding in June in Seattle where it’s been uncommonly warm and sunny.

Needless to go on, that was exactly how my shoes felt a week ago.

But I’m going to share a BIG secret. My cheesecake recipe isn’t mine. It’s my paternal Grandma’s. Although I don’t even dream of diverging from the recipe, my mom has effectively perfected it. And it is phenomenal. I refuse to eat any other cheesecake. I don’t refuse to eat any other cookie, pie, tart, pudding, crisp, crumble, cobbler, ice cream, etc. than those made by my forebears, but this is it. Not too long ago I meandered by Junior’s, the cheesecake haven in Brooklyn, and didn’t even feel like going in – it can’t be as good. (Plus, I’d just eaten pizza at Grimaldi’s and nobody needs cheesecake after pizza, even if I was biking.)

So, will I give up the important part of the secret? Well, I’ll tell you one trick: it presents best slightly cool. But, when rather more slopped than sliced, you can still receive complements such as, “I thought I’d had good desserts before, but every time I taste something you make, I realize I’ve never actually eaten anything very good. It’s delicious.” Makes you feel as glowing as a bride!

A School Magazine

2009-06-29T15:36:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading my alma mater’s new magazine. There was an impressive amount of self congratulations and boy-is-our-school-the-bomb kind of articles. It’s to be expected. But I’ll admit that the people who were interviewed actually were the bomb. They had published books, started profitable and ground-breaking businesses, received academic honors, lived in challenging locations, and been neighborly, too. And I knew more than one of them. Does that make me the bomb by association? And am I saying ‘the bomb’ because that was in vogue when I attended said establishment?

Because I am discussing reading, or, more truthfully, my alma mater’s poppycock, I tried to become incredibly impartial and decide whether it was a worthwhile read for anybody. Would you want to know what the people who were doing well from my uni were doing? Maybe. If it was compelling writing and the things were truly interesting, not just glorified school fight songs.

So, what is compelling about different people and their interests and their work? Or, more to the point, what is it that makes anything worth reading, because that should transcend interest groups, shouldn’t it? Certainly there’s little question about whether literature, art, architecture and the like are able to inspire people who are from other times, cultures, and belief systems. So, an article extolling the good deeds and results of people – any people, example: those from my alma mater – would necessarily be inspiring to someone who’d never heard of the school or the community if it was excellent.

Aha! Much like most blogs, articles, writings, etc., this magazine will be passed on once, then lost (or recycled) because it does not have that level of depth. It’s full of mildly interesting snippets of people’s stories, printed on heavy glossy paper. But I will continue to read them; they bring me flashes of hope, joy, and recognition – kind of like my picture albums…. Do not despair, as I will soon be back to great literature, worthy to be shared far and wide. (Oh, but I’m going to keep reading the silly blogs, too!)

Crack-arons

2009-06-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

Coarse compliments are truly inspiring. What if there was something more compelling than sugar and love in my pastries? But there isn’t. On the other hand, is there anything more compelling than sugar and love? At any rate, when I make a macaron, you can be sure that it is bursting with the best of those.

My housemate had a benefit for “Climb for Kids” at her coffee shop, and she’s going to summit Mt Rainier in August with the organization. She’s doing a lot of training, and this is her fundraiser. Looking through some of my pastry photos, she picked out the macarons as a nice colorful finger food that should go over well. And it did.

But before it went anywhere I had to decide what it would be. Just the other day I found almond milk in the grocery store and have been trying to decide how I can incorporate it into my pastries. Well, if anything should go together it would be almond cream and macarons!

So I set in to make an almond cream. I thought it should act exactly like milk, so I made a rich pastry cream with almond milk. Fantastic! It was looser than I had anticipated, so next time I’ll certainly be sure to make modifications, but not to worry, they will only be improvements. I made two other creams, as well: cherry and mango!

A Tart

2009-06-15T17:37:00.000-07:00

Tarts and vicars, the seemingly indelicate pairing, set up quite nicely at a church potluck. But how do tarts and ladies manage? Just yesterday a friend, modest as anything, had her wedding shower, and I brought tarts, complementing the bows and lace as best I could.

Browsing the grocery store in the morning I decided on mangos and cherries as my flavors and set in to make what would become a bridal tart. With a simple sweet pastry shell, following directions perfectly, I began. Then I realized that although I meant to follow a recipe, I had none for my subsequent ideas and began off-roading into gelatin mayhem.

Cherry gelee, mango mousse, and fresh fruit were my objectives and I got them all on board. Using a form of gelatin that was available, but that I had never used before, I forged new trails into pastry knowledge and vision. I also ended up with some pretty stiff gelee! That stuff will not be melting or even sliding without express written consent from Knox.

The mousse was quite delicious and plenty moussey, perfectly mangoey. Knowing what I do now about the gelatin I was using, I would have omitted more. However, the end result was just the kind of texture that my Grandma would consider dreamy.

Now that I had my components I began to hem and haw about how this would actually come together. So I took a walk and set it aside. When I came back I did what you see: a tart shell, its base replete with cherry gelee, set off by a slice of fresh mango, half filled with a swirl of mango mousse, and a tiny salad of diced mango beside a gelee covered cherry on top. Just the thing to eat while trying on lingerie, no?

Truth or I'm not Random

2009-06-13T10:40:00.000-07:00

Fifty-one questions later and my ears are ringing with truth! John Polkinghorne and Nicholas Beale respond to question after question regarding the sciences and Christian faith. I fondly remember my interaction with the Templeton Foundation during graduate studies and am always eager for good discussion at this crossroads. Having read articles by Polkinghorne then, I was happy to see a new book of his, Questions of Truth, at my local library.

I will quote one of my favorite concepts in physics, with Polkinghorne’s response, and then just let you know how blessed I am for this. (FYI, my absolute favorite concept is entropy.)

Uncertainty: What effect would a structured or organized subatomic world have on creation? Or, is everything random? Beale sets the stage by stating that the term ‘random’ is difficult to address, but ‘uncertain’ somehow does a better job. Having often been teased as random myself, and fairly regularly denied that truth, I wonder at this beginning. Here’s Polkinhorne’s reply:

“Modern science has come to recognize that the processes that can give rise to genuine novelty have to be 'at the edge of chaos' where order and disorder, chance and necessity, creatively interlace. Otherwise things are either too rigid for anything really new to happen or too haphazard for novelty to be able to persist. The intrinsic unpredictabilities of quantum mechanics and chaos theory can be seen theologically as gifts of a Creator whose creation is both orderly and open this way.”

Boom. One of the most poetic and uplifting paragraphs I’ve read in a very long time. Stuck and need a change? Edge towards the unknown. Blown around and need a change? Get more structure. This whole ‘make something new’ of anything needs enough sense and enough nonsense to get off the ground. And, my, doesn’t our world fly nicely.

Laura, Cowboys, and Me

2009-06-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

Not long ago I was looking for a good snack to take on a trip. I spent about an hour roaming around Whole Foods and came up empty handed. Nothing looked good enough. The truth was I wanted something that I make and I wanted it to last and not be packaged and so forth. But I didn’t want to show up in NYC and have to roam around for an hour if I really needed something to eat and was feeling as picky as I was that night.

So I went home and complained to my roommate that nobody does it like me and I was leaving the next day and had no idea what to do. Listening to my sorry tale, she said, "Sounds like you should make Cowboy Cookies." She gave me her Laura Bush's Cowboy Cookies recipe and I concurred. That’s just what I should make. It had chocolate, a variety of nuts, oats, and seemed like it would last.

But then I looked at the recipe again and saw there was cinnamon (yuck), tons of sugar (yikes), heaps of additions (huh, back to the store?) and balked. Not to mention that the only other time I’d been in the presence of cowboy cookies was at a Christmas event years before and they were sweet, tiny lumps of brick – I remember these things. Then I set in and made it my way. If you’ve read my spinach dip blog you’ve got to know this is the way it would be.

I took out: all cinnamon, ½ the salt (because I use salted butter), a cup of sugar, a cup of coconut, a cup of chocolate chips, and a cup of oats. I substituted the pecans with walnuts. I added a bit of nutmeg, and rolled each cookie in slivered almonds.

Let’s put it this way, all throughout my trip to NYC I kept wishing I would just get hungry enough to eat a cookie. Of course the city was far too exciting and there was plenty of food everywhere and, lo, and behold, they were gone!

lol

2009-06-11T09:40:00.000-07:00

So, I just read a joke book. But it’s not that kind of joke book, it’s the kind a scholar might write, but it was written by a journalist. Anyhow. Just so you know, it was funny… enough. You can read it in an hour and get a couple laughs, but you may as well just read a joke book.

Apparently joking around isn’t new. Jim Holt's Stop Me if You've Heard This traced certain jokes back through the Middle Ages to way back, which just get revived for contemporary audiences, inserting new figures. His treatise on why people make jokes and what’s funny was no more involved or convincing than my university French professor’s musings. We talked about obsession, philosophy, and humor in my French classes. Holt talked about Freud, philosophy, and humor, which didn’t yield too different of results.

Do we laugh because something’s funny? Well, usually, if it’s not because the left frontal lobe of our brain is being zapped. But there’s plenty of laughing that has nothing to do with humor, even if we say a jolly person is in good humor we don’t need that person to crack jokes to be so. But I’ve laughed out loud in pure shock – in a French class, no less.

One of the bits I particularly appreciated was Holt’s mention of how different people enjoy various styles of humor. I am particularly fond of witticisms, but not so into puns. Even though they’re so close! Somehow, perhaps due to all that American Puritanism, sexual jokes aren’t that amusing to me, in fact I often find I agree with G. Legman that “telling a dirty joke is tantamount to verbal rape.” And that really isn’t funny. The aggressive nature of many put-down jokes makes me feel rather agelastic.

So the irony may be that I think religious jokes are really, really funny. (Even the most outrageous ones that Holt cited, not to mention the innocuous ones I know.) Apparently Freud’s biggest collection of jokes regarded Jews, symbolizing his personal ambivalence, so I guess this opens me up to all kinds of interesting subconscious possibilities. Poppycock!

A rose by any other name...

2009-06-03T10:11:00.000-07:00

The other day my banker had a pastry question for me. He and his colleagues had been discussing the difference between muffins and cupcakes. “What is the difference?” he asked.

After a fairly long and expectant pause I answered, “Frosting.” “Oh, no,” he responded, “we’ve actually had muffins with icing on them.”

In a perfect world this would be an easy question to answer. Muffins are more or less quick breads in cup forms, should have healthy things like bananas and bran in them, and be suitable for breakfast. Cupcakes are pretty much cake in cup form, should have sweet things like chocolate and vanilla in them, and be suitable for birthday parties.

As I checked through these things in my head before answering, I realized that Americans put n’importe quoi* in their foods, completely obscuring all delineations. Haven’t we all had cake as dense as bread and bread as light as cake? Take Carrot Cake and Carrot Muffins, for example. Maybe throw some nuts in the muffin? And definitely put icing on the cake. But what if you didn’t? What is the difference? And then there’s the epitome of absurdity – chocolate muffins. Maybe somebody is fooled by that misnomer, but certainly not me!

All that to say, this morning I made a pancake recipe into muffins. But they were too light, so it must have been cake, but there wasn’t any sugar, so, huh, what was it? It was breakfast.

Ah, a rose by any other name….

*Any old thing, usually done to suit a fancy, to be difficult, or out of stupidity. Said in exasperation.

Savory Recipes

2009-06-02T10:14:00.000-07:00

When I decide to make something that I haven’t made before, or at least not recently, I pull out three different cookbooks and start comparing recipes. That sounds normal, right? But then, what if I look in the fridge and see a lot of spinach? Well, I take down my favorite cookbook and search for spinach in the index. Boy, do I love indexes.

Say I see spinach dip and decide that’s what I want; next I branch out finding multiple recipes for spinach dip. Here’s the catch. I never choose one. Usually I’m combining two recipes and adding the bell pepper I found behind the spinach which wasn’t even put with spinach on the spinach side dish recipes.

So, I use approximately 30% of a recipe at any given time and am always amazed at how well those crazy vegetables go together, which, according to my books, have never been combined before! When I am wildly successful I admit to wishing I’d measured more closely, remembered each spice and written it immediately. But I suppose my current system leaves me space to stumble once again into marvelous spinach dip my own way. Plus, we know I’d only use 30% of what I wrote, anyhow!

Coconut Flour

2009-05-28T09:08:00.000-07:00

The other day at PCC I bought Coconut Flour. On the package it mentioned fiber so I immediately saw it as a worthwhile experiment. I also picked up tapioca balls, flour, bananas, and kale. The tapioca was my first exciting new choice. I happen to love tapioca pudding, massive tapioca in bubble tea, but that’s not surprising considering my attachment to puddings without tapioca and tea hot with milk.

Unfortunately I didn’t read the back of the box on all the things meant to be in traditional tapioca pudding. Or maybe it’s good because when I saw coconut milk I decided to use milk and coconut flour, two items I now had in abundance. As you can imagine, the high fiber meant non soluble and I had a grainy, albeit fragrant, pudding with slick, chewy tapioca.

Next time I’m making a very basic and delicious vanilla custard! So there’s no fiber, oh well! There’ll be fat and that should count for something.

Having made that decision I moved to recommended coconut flour recipes. Great – pancakes! That makes sense enough. If one takes into account that very dense, high fiber batters make very dense, high fiber waffles and pancakes. I poured in the allotted amount of buttermilk. Then I poured in more. Then I wondered whether to finish off the container!

Overall I had a very filling, wonderfully scented breakfast, made extra special by buttering with some leftover butter cream frosting. Yes, breakfast may really be the best meal of the day.

Perfume

2009-05-27T09:41:00.000-07:00

What would love inspire me to do? This question keeps circulating in my mind as I consider the actions of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, and the reactions to him by everyone he meets in the story of a murderer, Perfume. How, when presented with grace and beauty and purity of a rare and pungent variety, does one – do I – respond?

To get there I’ll describe some of how I viewed the scentless Grenouille long before the fierce and troubling climax, pieces of which had been given away when I saw movie previews years ago, arrived. I viewed him with the same suspicion as his wet nurse. I’ve lived in France; I know how it can smell and how each person, although now habitually washed, has an identifiable scent. In the states it’s not nearly so easy to know one’s neighbor’s scent. There is compulsive washing followed by deodorizing and even, at times, perfuming. Mainly people smell like nothing, but it still remains pretty easy to smell their dog.

Now, if everything stank would I know myself distinguished from it? Certainly, I would. I would also know my family members, and a couple other special people whose fragrance has captured my imagination. (I’ve been told it has to do with pheromones.) Although, I will admit that perfume throws me off enormously. I still remember a strange time when I ate my mom’s hand lotion, thinking it should taste as good as it smelled. It didn’t.

Grenouille’s elevated view of his powers was another fascination for me. Of course he should be given extreme approbation for the ability to smell his way around in the dark, to have a perfect memory of each scent he’d ever smelled and the ability to recall it at will, to smell each stage of a daffodil’s demise, to ascertain the color of a child’s hair by her smell, and most of all to combine the essence of each item he admired into perfumes of great persuasion.

But Grenouille’s ignorance of his hate, utter lack of any fine feeling for humanity, and overall incapacity to relate to other humans except in condescension, masked as it may be through his complete understanding of character, was baffling. Over and over I wondered how a human can survive with absolutely no support except the nearly magical abilities of his own nose. And what’s more phenomenal was his rather strange decision that he did not wish to survive any longer.

Leading me to ask myself, how would I respond to the wearer of the perfume of life, or, should that be too strong, the perfume of love. Eros, agape, philia, storge, are honest possibilities, or would I respond to the fullest of good emanating from a person with deep selfishness and destruction, the desire to consume such a one? I would desire to answer love with humility and grace. But there’s that niggling doubt that I might, as I did once with my mom’s lotion, seize it and devour my share.

Grocery Shopping

2009-05-20T09:45:00.000-07:00

I go to a grocery store at least every week. I go to the same ones regularly, but today I decided to try out PCC. I had never been before, but wanted to know what it would be like. Well, it was just like PC Greens. Strangely similar with the plethora of organic prefabricated foodstuffs. From the childish bunnies to the serious sheaves of grain, all images reverberating unbleached whole grains and unrefined pure cane juice. This allows the highly acculturated, who only have time to buy processed foods, the option to get them without preservatives.

Although gardening was part of my earliest years, I didn’t take a shine to being healthy for the sake of image until my junior year in college. Immediately it was out with Nabisco’s standard Newtons and in with Nabisco’s side line, and far superior, Newmans. I hit up PC Greens as often as the beach.

I learned to juice fruits and vegetables, make yogurt smoothies, and modify all recipes to take some percentage of oat flour. I ate meats from animals that only ate grains at their leisure. I drank milk from happy cows. And I was broke.

Really, spend $5 on a peach? Is that indicative of good health practices? Yes, the organic peach tastes just as good as one off the tree, which I always ate on family trips to California, stopping at relatives’ back yards as soon as their houses to see what’s growing. And true, I never have found any reason to buy peaches in regular stores as they are nearly always mealy and dry, barely squeaking out flavor between the pit and fuzz. I can still remember the way I was transported to the delicious true tree fruit taste when I bought organic, so I still do. But let’s be honest. I can only afford apples.

The Madonnas

2009-05-19T22:40:00.000-07:00

The Madonnas of Leningrad took me by surprise. I can’t say I even caught onto the premise straight away. Fortunately I had read that the author was previously a play actress, which explains why the characters’ actions and movements were so coherent, even if Marina was dreaming. Not having acted myself, but knowing that it’s not purely a delivery of lines, but a fluidity and full context which the cast creates, helped me appreciate the unique writing style of Debra Dean. It did not read like a script, it read like a ballet, at least I presume, as I have never read a ballet.

I have, however, visited St Petersburg, and all the gorgeousness of the Hermitage, and even walked along Nevksy Prospect. This familiarity added a lot to my enjoyment of the story. It’s like when you see the road you drive regularly in a race scene in a movie, and all of a sudden, you’re more there.

The story, which at first is entirely plausible then turns off only the slightest shades, imperceptibly at first to one's consciousness, until it’s absolute fabrication, was thrilling. Oh, how exciting to recreate one’s existence and interact with the gods, to see art so clearly – or reality so poorly – that art’s infamous characters are one’s contemporaries, their stories told like layers of oils on canvas over one’s own.

The only thing which was just too, too difficult to redeem was the bar of chocolate, except as compared against glue. I can still remember as a child trying to eat Soviet chocolate (circa 1989) and realizing that it was terrible. That big bar Marina goes for, and is her token as she again becomes the Madonna in her story, must have been a far better import in 1941.

Flower Value

2009-05-16T10:44:00.000-07:00

I thought I was being clever to consider the nutritional value in flowers, which I’ve never seen done, even still, as people do in fruit and vegetables, grains, meats, and dairy. In pastry it only makes sense to capitalize on the vitamins available in the decorative and delicious marigolds, nasturtium, clover, violets, etc. that bring so much to my food and palate.

In fact, my absolute favorite snack, plain yogurt, honey, and wheat germ, sometimes stares back at me seeking a direction. If I happen to peek outside instead of at the fruit bowl there’s the possibility of herbs and spring flowers winking, raising an eyebrow, asking if I dare.

And occasionally I do dare. I pick a leaf and taste it, sometimes it’s sweet, sometimes it’s bitter, sometimes there’s a fragrance, which doesn’t translate to my tongue, but adds color or variation or, if I’m not being careful, a slug.

Now that my housemate has a Vitamix I expect to be able to do better than just a crushed leaf or maybe a shredded petal. I am out to make sauces and drinks and floral potions as has been done throughout history by the herbalist, poet, and chef. So, whether I was clever to think of their food value I cannot say, but it is certainly clever to incorporate into my sweets what’s outside.

Chocolate Pudding Pie

2009-05-12T12:27:00.000-07:00

As someone who has tasted and enjoyed a wide range well conceived desserts, I marveled at the eagerness I had Saturday night for a supermarket chocolate pudding pie. It looked good, but that, I kept telling myself as all my fellow picnickers were digging in, scooping as much with fingers as cutlery, and seldom onto a surface other than palm or lip, should be deceiving.

It should, too. Of course the store bought pie might have the sheen of delightfulness, but one must expect the taste of fabricated corn syrup and mere flavorings of chocolate. But, at the half way point, I caved. I sliced a wedge into a bowl, and picked up my fork. It was delicious. I was so frustrated! How can I be able to wish I’d cut a larger wedge of something I dared not read the label of?

This question will haunt me, but I have two possible explanations. One, I don’t really care for chocolate, so anytime I taste chocolaty food I am pretty well resigned to only being slightly responsive. Curiously, I much prefer chocolaty things to chocolate itself. I’ll take the cake, not the candy, or in this case the pudding, not the sprinkles. Two, I had just spent two days at a conference about the weighty subjects of contemporary slavery and human trafficking in the world. If I could guess at the participants’ reactions, I bet a lot of comforting pudding was in need afterwards, and I am not exempt from that.

Grammar

2009-05-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

I am approximately a quarter of the way through an excellent book. It’s not a novel, but a study on culture and religion. I was reading along, thoroughly enjoying myself, when I read ‘less then’ and lurched to an understandable halt. That was last week. I intend to pick it back up and continue, as there are highly fascinating things to learn and consider, but I know this book is imperfectly edited. Now if I read 30% somewhere I will have to take it with a grain of salt. Perhaps it’s 3%?

Incidentally, the book I picked up to rush through to take my mind off of such blunders held one far more traumatizing. It was a novel, and I read it yesterday. At the height of drama, the denouement, the heroine gets up from her chair, walks across the room, then grips the arms of her chair, and finally walks back to her mother. At this point I’m not crying because of the revelation, I’m beside myself, distracted to pieces at the confused motion sequence.

Finally, with all this rumbling around in my mind, I have to bring back the most egregious misuse of language I’ve seen by supposedly educated adult native English speakers. Notice that I have left heaps of room for my use of French, foreigners’ use of any language, and children on their way to learning. The Employee Handbook invariably is a mess of words, meanings and punctuation. At the last position I accepted, once I’d read the handbook I had a sinking feeling about the intelligence of my new employers. I learned to respect the knowledge that they did have, yet still have not shaken that disappointment for their disinterest in seeking (or accepting, as I offered back my edited copy) help where it was needed.

Am I really so hung up as to believe that editing is as important as content? Probably I am. If I’m to understand one’s logic and accept one’s characters and value one’s strictures, then I’ll just count on the courtesy of it being packaged nicely and neatly.

Fraisier

2009-05-05T09:32:00.000-07:00

I’ve been cutting quite a bit of ripe fruit recently. It’s rather cathartic. Perhaps not so good as a fast run along the Rhone, but far better than stewing over a bowl of ice cream (unless it’s Dahlia Lounge’s ‘Ginger Marigold’, in which case bring it on!)

What am I catharting? Could it still be the day chez Bouillet where I became convinced that there’s a direct correlation between strawberry handling speed and one’s life expectancy? Go back with me, as I slice, to the Fraisier. The Fraisier is a very lovely, light and delicious French pastry whose main ingredients are butter, milk, sugar, eggs, and strawberries.

The American version of this would be the Strawberry Shortcake, where one thrusts forward a pile of cake, cream, and berries saying, “Eat up!”

But the Fraisier is a display piece. Each berry swiftly, precisely halved and set. See without looking each strawberry’s shape, height, color, tip. Make each gesture count!

You will need: biscuit rapide, mousseline, strawberries, crème au beurre, and glaze.

Cover Letter

2009-05-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Prospective Employer,

The twists in life are myriad, and mine tend to turn round my profession. At university I trained in French literature, after which I realized it wasn’t exceedingly useful, hence went on to complete a masters in ministry.

My educational background inspired me to teach English in China and Hong Kong for a couple years. Eventually I got back to the states and began working in university administration. I took what appeared to be the first rational step by leading a university study abroad program in Lyon, France.

Had the program been permanent I imagine I would still be there. As it wasn’t, I made an effort to stay anyway, enrolling in French pastry school.

Thus, here I am, now trained in pastry, fluent in French, experienced in foreign education, and versed in office management, thinking that we may, indeed, be a good match. What’s more, I can converse theologically!

Looking forward to setting up an interview.
Sincerely,
Adrian

Indecisiveness

2009-05-03T23:31:00.000-07:00

So, as I considered what to write about I concluded that all my varied interests have done little to combat, and may in fact be responsible for, my current dilemma.

That is, indecisiveness. I love equally and passionately: travel, food, reading, writing, pick-up ultimate Frisbee at Parc de la Tete D’Or, picnics, dancing with my nieces, breakfast with my parents, a cup of tea, tug of war with Canyon, planting seeds (especially when they grow), monitoring hallways, smelling flowers, making a vinaigrette, being hugged and kissed by good-smelling handsome men, being told I’m pretty (any language is OK), buttering warm toast, sleeping out under the stars, watching clouds, conversations extolling scripture, sitting under a shade tree on a warm day with plenty of watermelon, and jumping in a lake. I may have inadvertently left something out, but that nearly sums it up.

At 31 I’m unemployed. Incidentally I was unemployed at 30, 29, 25, 24, and 22. There maybe was another time or two in there, as well, but that would take some very effortful reconstruction to ascertain.

By this I mean the Monday through Friday, nine to five standard. Prior to these documented years I was working on my education and filling out my time with all the aforementioned activities which I truly enjoy.

What I should document is that I saw this all coming. For some reason schools decide if they can no longer instill fear into (by and large very good) young children through corporal punishment, they’ll resort to ambiguous, unanswerable questions and leave the child to languish in uncertainty with the admonishment to report back.

I remember the blank page with one question written in chalk at the front of the classroom. Pink chalk. Surely everyone remembers the moment when their hope and future come under scrutiny, instilling stress and despair at the years (by my calculations at the time: 90) stretching ahead.

“What do you want to do/be when you grow up?”

Retract that question! Bring back the belts and paddles, the injustices of physical humiliation. Just don’t make me, untrained in sorcery, fill out a page, worse, a workbook, on what my life might hold! (Bloody hell! Blogging didn’t even exist back then!)

“A reader,” I would write lamely. “I want to read.” Forget that for close to twenty years I’ve scoured ‘help wanted’ ads and have never come across a single request for such a position. As a child I had to create and defend this impossible dream.

Wanted: Reader! Someone well versed in reading a variety of genres, including, but not limited to: novels, short stories, poetry, non-fiction, especially biographies, religious works, and editorials. Microsoft Office is a plus, but you only have to have perused the manual, as we much prefer to hear your commentary on Where the Red Fern Grows. Looking for a candidate with twenty years’ experience and expecting a full career ahead as a reader, perhaps even fifty more in the field. Send all resumes to: yahdablahblah@mmhmm.com