. . . May I say something? It's about my writers group. My writers group happens to be associated with a major university in the city with Ivy League pretensions, except there seems to be no oversight or gatekeeping. Not to sound snooty or anything, but when I pay money for a babysitter, I really don't want to spend twenty minutes of my evening convincing a stubborn lady that her book on how to write a memoir should not have twenty-four chapters. Twelve would be better. And take out all the chapters on grammar. And organize the chapters. One very nice person was tactfully trying to tell this lady that her chapters were in no perceivable order. The lady kept defending herself. Finally I couldn't stand it any more, and I burst out with "You've got a chapter on death. Then a chapter on commas. Death, commas. Death, commas. Won't work!"
Should I start my own writers group? If any Philadelphia area writers are reading this, please tell me where you go for critiques of your writing. (I should probably save my pennies to attend the Creative Nonfiction Conference that is held at Towson U. every year in Baltimore. I went just before I had Jack, and it was incredible.) Or, if I started my own creative nonfiction writers group that meets in Delaware County, would you come?
Dec 12, 2005
Dec 8, 2005
Girl Seeks Food
Here's another essay I'm submitting to my writers group.
Girl Seeks Food
“You don’t feed that baby enough,” laughed the refrigerator repairman, commenting on my double-chinned pillowy body. Eight months old, bald and toothless, I was happy on formula and Gerber’s, not quite crawling the fat off yet. The common wisdom of the day, according to my mother and grandmother, was “Fat babies grow up to be fat adults.” For that reason I was denied second helpings for years and given skim milk, while my brothers got whole. Sweets were strictly limited.
I took this reasoning at face value for many years, but the prohibitions goaded me into committing what my mother called “sneaky” acts. When I was about six I developed a ritual of stealing four cookies at a time from the cookie jar. Even if I had just eaten a legitimate cookie, I would accomplish this mission when my mother left the room, almost always successfully. Here was my M.O.:
1. Take lid off cookie jar without clanking.
2. Swiftly and confidently remove four cookies. It always had to be four, I don’t know why.
3. Return lid to jar without clanking.
4. Take cookies to bedroom. Eat immediately.
Step 3 was by far the most challenging, because a cookie jar lid, in the days before anyone lined lids with sealing rings, was loudly condemning, unless I focused completely on the task at hand, and without haste. If it clanked anyway, even the least little bit, my mother could always hear it no matter where she was. “What are you doing?” she would holler. And I would always holler back, “Nothing.” Sometimes if I was just alone in the kitchen she’d ask me what I was doing, because she knew those cookies had a way of decreasing when I was around.
Cakes presented a different kind of challenge. I learned early on to not cut myself a piece, because my mother learned to remember the dessert’s roughly L-shaped configuration. The only thing to do was to cut all around the previously cut edges, hence leaving the same basic shape. I’d pursue this gradually, using a knife and eating slivers off it. That way, if I heard my mother’s footsteps I could nonchalantly shift to a default activity, like looking out the window or reading the comics.
Going out to eat with my grandmother was always a special treat, but not without its chastening moments. More than once she would embarrass me by proclaiming in a stage whisper at Stouffer’s, “This is a good restaurant. You know how I know? Because Jews eat here.” Of course I always wanted dessert, and she would let me get it but then shame me with a huge gasp when it was presented. “Are you going to eat all that?” Only in my teens did I gather the nerve to say “yes” and look her in the eye. On the other hand, whenever my grandmother was offered dessert she would say, “Just a teeny tiny sliver,” gasp when it was delivered, and say “I can’t possibly eat all that.”
Back at home, I carried the sneaky game too far one midsummer morning when I was seven. It was the day when we were to move out of state, and spend the night at my grandparents’s house. I was on the open-air side porch and I was just about to take a bite out of a Hershey bar I had unwrapped in the kitchen, whose wrappings I had no doubt hidden under less recent trash. Suddenly I heard my mother’s heels clicking along the walk. (Women of her age and class wore loud dressy shoes even on moving day.) My sundress had no pockets, so I stuffed the candy bar, improbably, in the side of my underpants.
Even more improbably, I promptly forgot about the candy bar, what with all the excitement of the day. Hours later I discovered it at my grandparents’ house, a gooey sludge in my underwear. I scrunched the underpants and their load in my suitcase, hoping they would go away. My mother found them almost immediately and asked me “Lauren, are you all right? What is this in your underpants?” Mortified, I said, “I’m fine . . . . but I really don’t want to say what it is. Is that okay?” Miraculously, my mother said “okay” and never brought it up again.
I like to remember that moment of grace, because in my memory there weren’t many of them. Even as a grown woman visiting my parents, I knew my mother was listening to the cupboard and refrigerator doors, to ascertain what I was getting. She would proclaim she was going to bed, only to pop up unexpectedly in the kitchen a half hour later because she “forgot something.” But I wasn’t the only person left hungry. My mother’s cooking was delicious, and I owe a large part of my cooking know-how from her, but she cooked scanty amounts. Every time I brought a boyfriend for dinner he had to eat another meal afterwards. My father would fix himself a sandwich right after he got home from work. My husband John and I would go out for a beer and appetizers two hours after a dinner at my parents’ house.
Now my mother and grandmother are dead, but I have six file boxes, three looseleaf notebooks, and one composition book full of their hand-copied recipes. One recipe card at a time, I decipher my grandmother’s loopy handwriting on the yellow-stained papers, and transcribe it. I sift through my mother’s recipes for Indian Pudding, Country Captain, Rhubarb Crisp, and, of course, cookies of one kind and another. Sometimes I encounter my own childish handwriting, in whatever color of ink I liked at the time. The project to record these recipes is daunting, but I will finish. Because I am still hungry.
Girl Seeks Food
“You don’t feed that baby enough,” laughed the refrigerator repairman, commenting on my double-chinned pillowy body. Eight months old, bald and toothless, I was happy on formula and Gerber’s, not quite crawling the fat off yet. The common wisdom of the day, according to my mother and grandmother, was “Fat babies grow up to be fat adults.” For that reason I was denied second helpings for years and given skim milk, while my brothers got whole. Sweets were strictly limited.
I took this reasoning at face value for many years, but the prohibitions goaded me into committing what my mother called “sneaky” acts. When I was about six I developed a ritual of stealing four cookies at a time from the cookie jar. Even if I had just eaten a legitimate cookie, I would accomplish this mission when my mother left the room, almost always successfully. Here was my M.O.:
1. Take lid off cookie jar without clanking.
2. Swiftly and confidently remove four cookies. It always had to be four, I don’t know why.
3. Return lid to jar without clanking.
4. Take cookies to bedroom. Eat immediately.
Step 3 was by far the most challenging, because a cookie jar lid, in the days before anyone lined lids with sealing rings, was loudly condemning, unless I focused completely on the task at hand, and without haste. If it clanked anyway, even the least little bit, my mother could always hear it no matter where she was. “What are you doing?” she would holler. And I would always holler back, “Nothing.” Sometimes if I was just alone in the kitchen she’d ask me what I was doing, because she knew those cookies had a way of decreasing when I was around.
Cakes presented a different kind of challenge. I learned early on to not cut myself a piece, because my mother learned to remember the dessert’s roughly L-shaped configuration. The only thing to do was to cut all around the previously cut edges, hence leaving the same basic shape. I’d pursue this gradually, using a knife and eating slivers off it. That way, if I heard my mother’s footsteps I could nonchalantly shift to a default activity, like looking out the window or reading the comics.
Going out to eat with my grandmother was always a special treat, but not without its chastening moments. More than once she would embarrass me by proclaiming in a stage whisper at Stouffer’s, “This is a good restaurant. You know how I know? Because Jews eat here.” Of course I always wanted dessert, and she would let me get it but then shame me with a huge gasp when it was presented. “Are you going to eat all that?” Only in my teens did I gather the nerve to say “yes” and look her in the eye. On the other hand, whenever my grandmother was offered dessert she would say, “Just a teeny tiny sliver,” gasp when it was delivered, and say “I can’t possibly eat all that.”
Back at home, I carried the sneaky game too far one midsummer morning when I was seven. It was the day when we were to move out of state, and spend the night at my grandparents’s house. I was on the open-air side porch and I was just about to take a bite out of a Hershey bar I had unwrapped in the kitchen, whose wrappings I had no doubt hidden under less recent trash. Suddenly I heard my mother’s heels clicking along the walk. (Women of her age and class wore loud dressy shoes even on moving day.) My sundress had no pockets, so I stuffed the candy bar, improbably, in the side of my underpants.
Even more improbably, I promptly forgot about the candy bar, what with all the excitement of the day. Hours later I discovered it at my grandparents’ house, a gooey sludge in my underwear. I scrunched the underpants and their load in my suitcase, hoping they would go away. My mother found them almost immediately and asked me “Lauren, are you all right? What is this in your underpants?” Mortified, I said, “I’m fine . . . . but I really don’t want to say what it is. Is that okay?” Miraculously, my mother said “okay” and never brought it up again.
I like to remember that moment of grace, because in my memory there weren’t many of them. Even as a grown woman visiting my parents, I knew my mother was listening to the cupboard and refrigerator doors, to ascertain what I was getting. She would proclaim she was going to bed, only to pop up unexpectedly in the kitchen a half hour later because she “forgot something.” But I wasn’t the only person left hungry. My mother’s cooking was delicious, and I owe a large part of my cooking know-how from her, but she cooked scanty amounts. Every time I brought a boyfriend for dinner he had to eat another meal afterwards. My father would fix himself a sandwich right after he got home from work. My husband John and I would go out for a beer and appetizers two hours after a dinner at my parents’ house.
Now my mother and grandmother are dead, but I have six file boxes, three looseleaf notebooks, and one composition book full of their hand-copied recipes. One recipe card at a time, I decipher my grandmother’s loopy handwriting on the yellow-stained papers, and transcribe it. I sift through my mother’s recipes for Indian Pudding, Country Captain, Rhubarb Crisp, and, of course, cookies of one kind and another. Sometimes I encounter my own childish handwriting, in whatever color of ink I liked at the time. The project to record these recipes is daunting, but I will finish. Because I am still hungry.
Sting
This morning in the car, after the boys wailed bitterly about someone who didn't let someone have a turn, having to wear mittens, having to wear coats, having to go to school, and being reminded that it's a school day.
Jack: Mommy, do you like being a mother?
Me: (tensely) Yes. (suspiciously) Why?
Jack: Because sometimes it doesn't seem like you do.
Me: (determined not to take this personally like my mother used to be when I said stuff like that) I just don't like when my sons don't cooperate in the morning and act like it's a big surprise that they're going to school every day.
Jack: We don't go to school every day, just Monday to Friday! And not in the summer!
Me: (tensely again, while negotiating tricky turn) You know what I mean.
Jack: You want us to do what you want.
Me: Yes. Exactly.
Jack: (muttering) Like we're your slaves.
Me: (Nothing. I actually say nothing. Ta da. Turns on WXPN)
____________________________
Jack: Mommy, do you like being a mother?
Me: (tensely) Yes. (suspiciously) Why?
Jack: Because sometimes it doesn't seem like you do.
Me: (determined not to take this personally like my mother used to be when I said stuff like that) I just don't like when my sons don't cooperate in the morning and act like it's a big surprise that they're going to school every day.
Jack: We don't go to school every day, just Monday to Friday! And not in the summer!
Me: (tensely again, while negotiating tricky turn) You know what I mean.
Jack: You want us to do what you want.
Me: Yes. Exactly.
Jack: (muttering) Like we're your slaves.
Me: (Nothing. I actually say nothing. Ta da. Turns on WXPN)
____________________________
Conversations with Jack
First, a note about the Inquirer's claim that Disney is sponsoring the Narnia sermon contest: I really don't think it's true, at least in a technical sense. The SermonCentral.com site has a big ole disclaimer at the bottom of the page. That pretty much takes away the peg I was hanging the "Kingdoms Collide" entry on, oh well. But there will be over 50 movie tie-in products, and then there is some kind of sweepstakes, so my claim about Aslan's response still stands.
_________________________
Here's a conversation Jack and I had the other day while the boys were changing out of their swimsuits at the Y.
Jack: Mommy, you know something really strange about the American Presidents?
Me: No, what?
Jack: They were all men.
Me: Yeah, what's with that? That is weird. And they're all white.
Jack: Hey, yeah!
Me: Maybe someday we'll have a woman president.
Jack: Or maybe a black woman president!
____________________________________
The other day, at breakfast:
Jack: Mommy, can boys marry boys?
Me: In some states they can.
Jack: Can they in Pennsylvania?
Me: No, but they can go to another state and do it.
Jack: That's what I'm going to do. Can I have more cereal?
________________________________
Following up later in the day (at the Y, changing out of swimsuits, again)
Me: Remember when you asked about boys marrying boys?
Jack: Yes.
Me: Well, when you're older, you will be attracted to either boys or girls. Probably you will want to marry a girl, but maybe not. It's like being left-handed or right-handed. You're born to like girls or boys. But you probably won't know for many years. I wouldn't worry about it yet. There's room in the world for all kinds of love.
Jack: Yeah. Like I love Alex (best friend). And I love you! And I love Daddy and Will!
Me: But that doesn't mean you want to marry us.
Jack: Yeah!
Will: Yeah! Group hug!
(Group hug, rather wet)
_________________________
Here's a conversation Jack and I had the other day while the boys were changing out of their swimsuits at the Y.
Jack: Mommy, you know something really strange about the American Presidents?
Me: No, what?
Jack: They were all men.
Me: Yeah, what's with that? That is weird. And they're all white.
Jack: Hey, yeah!
Me: Maybe someday we'll have a woman president.
Jack: Or maybe a black woman president!
____________________________________
The other day, at breakfast:
Jack: Mommy, can boys marry boys?
Me: In some states they can.
Jack: Can they in Pennsylvania?
Me: No, but they can go to another state and do it.
Jack: That's what I'm going to do. Can I have more cereal?
________________________________
Following up later in the day (at the Y, changing out of swimsuits, again)
Me: Remember when you asked about boys marrying boys?
Jack: Yes.
Me: Well, when you're older, you will be attracted to either boys or girls. Probably you will want to marry a girl, but maybe not. It's like being left-handed or right-handed. You're born to like girls or boys. But you probably won't know for many years. I wouldn't worry about it yet. There's room in the world for all kinds of love.
Jack: Yeah. Like I love Alex (best friend). And I love you! And I love Daddy and Will!
Me: But that doesn't mean you want to marry us.
Jack: Yeah!
Will: Yeah! Group hug!
(Group hug, rather wet)
Dec 6, 2005
Kingdoms Collide
For decades I believed that I had read all the Narnia stories. After a rather disconcerting conversation with my husband last year, it turns out that I had merely read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe over and over and over. I must have been very young, because I remember trying to look in my grandparents' spare room closet for snow and a lamppost. The closet was behind the staircase, and so the back of it sloped upwards into . . . into where? It mystified me.
Another burning question raised by the book was, "What exactly is Turkish delight? And where can I find some?" When I did finally taste it at the end of a meal at a London restaurant, its rubbery texture and vaguely rosewater taste reminded me that Edmund's Turkish delight was enchanted by the White Witch, after all. Had it been me in her sled, I'd have asked the White Witch for butterscotch brownies. I knew deep inside that I could so easily have been the Edmund of the early chapters, seeking my own comfort over justice and truth.
Edmund's change of heart, though, is profound. Even as a young child I grasped some of the allegory's power. We can grow beyond our own narrow egos. The world that is we see is not necessarily all there is. Ordinary children may be granted the power to see through the lies of adults and to change the moral landscape. A friend of mine who is reading the movie tie-in version confessed that she "missed the God thing" in her childhood reading. But I said to her, "No, you didn't miss it. You just didn't label the good forces as 'God.'"
That's why it's good literature. The Narnia stories depict an epic struggle for justice and love over corruption and greed, beauty and peace over disharmony and destruction. The struggle takes generations. It is bloody. The struggle is guided and disciplined by Aslan, who isn't always there when you need him but gets cranky when you forget about him. In the end, Aslan and the forces of good triumph in a final hard-won battle.
Now there's Disney, who is sponsoring a contest in which preachers are asked to submit sermons that mention the Narnia movie. Disney will hold a drawing, and the winner gets, not Turkish Delight, but $1,000 and a trip to London.*
Aslan is not pleased.
________________________
*According to this article in the Dec. 4 Philadelphia Inquirer, "Walt Disney Pictures is so eager for churches to turn out audiences for The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which opens Friday, that it's offering a free trip to London - and $1,000 cash - to the winner of its big promotional sermon contest." However, this site says it's sponsored by SermonCentral.com.
Another burning question raised by the book was, "What exactly is Turkish delight? And where can I find some?" When I did finally taste it at the end of a meal at a London restaurant, its rubbery texture and vaguely rosewater taste reminded me that Edmund's Turkish delight was enchanted by the White Witch, after all. Had it been me in her sled, I'd have asked the White Witch for butterscotch brownies. I knew deep inside that I could so easily have been the Edmund of the early chapters, seeking my own comfort over justice and truth.
Edmund's change of heart, though, is profound. Even as a young child I grasped some of the allegory's power. We can grow beyond our own narrow egos. The world that is we see is not necessarily all there is. Ordinary children may be granted the power to see through the lies of adults and to change the moral landscape. A friend of mine who is reading the movie tie-in version confessed that she "missed the God thing" in her childhood reading. But I said to her, "No, you didn't miss it. You just didn't label the good forces as 'God.'"
That's why it's good literature. The Narnia stories depict an epic struggle for justice and love over corruption and greed, beauty and peace over disharmony and destruction. The struggle takes generations. It is bloody. The struggle is guided and disciplined by Aslan, who isn't always there when you need him but gets cranky when you forget about him. In the end, Aslan and the forces of good triumph in a final hard-won battle.
Now there's Disney, who is sponsoring a contest in which preachers are asked to submit sermons that mention the Narnia movie. Disney will hold a drawing, and the winner gets, not Turkish Delight, but $1,000 and a trip to London.*
Aslan is not pleased.
________________________
*According to this article in the Dec. 4 Philadelphia Inquirer, "Walt Disney Pictures is so eager for churches to turn out audiences for The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, which opens Friday, that it's offering a free trip to London - and $1,000 cash - to the winner of its big promotional sermon contest." However, this site says it's sponsored by SermonCentral.com.
Dec 5, 2005
Coming Up for Air
Gulp. That felt good.
Things That Have Happened, in Chronological Order, Since my Last Post
1. Joint birthday party for Jack and Will
2. Arrival of inlaws from Indiana
3. Jack's actual birthday, with family celebration
4. Broken heating element in oven, the day before Thanksgiving
5. Heroic successful attempt by father-in-law to replace heating element in time for me to bake two pies that day
6. Thanksgiving at our house for nine people, with my grandmother's linens and silver. Everything cooked from scratch. Incredible stuffing and a bottle of mead made by my multitalented brother. And thanks to John the Brining Guy, various helpful family members and sporadically helpful boys.
7. My father's admission to a local hospital, for breathing problems, heart rate irregularity, and fever.
8. Surprise 50th birthday party one month ahead of time for my sister-in-law at a restaurant in Philly.
9. Will's actual birthday and family celebration.
10. My father's discharge from the hospital.
11. My locking my keys in the car at the hospital. (These last three were on the same day)
12. The departure of my inlaws, nine days after arrival.
During this time I didn't blog or write anything other than shopping lists and to-do lists. Didn't go to the gym. Mushy brain, flabby body. Must get to work.
How put together again sentences do you?
Things That Have Happened, in Chronological Order, Since my Last Post
1. Joint birthday party for Jack and Will
2. Arrival of inlaws from Indiana
3. Jack's actual birthday, with family celebration
4. Broken heating element in oven, the day before Thanksgiving
5. Heroic successful attempt by father-in-law to replace heating element in time for me to bake two pies that day
6. Thanksgiving at our house for nine people, with my grandmother's linens and silver. Everything cooked from scratch. Incredible stuffing and a bottle of mead made by my multitalented brother. And thanks to John the Brining Guy, various helpful family members and sporadically helpful boys.
7. My father's admission to a local hospital, for breathing problems, heart rate irregularity, and fever.
8. Surprise 50th birthday party one month ahead of time for my sister-in-law at a restaurant in Philly.
9. Will's actual birthday and family celebration.
10. My father's discharge from the hospital.
11. My locking my keys in the car at the hospital. (These last three were on the same day)
12. The departure of my inlaws, nine days after arrival.
During this time I didn't blog or write anything other than shopping lists and to-do lists. Didn't go to the gym. Mushy brain, flabby body. Must get to work.
How put together again sentences do you?
Nov 18, 2005
Of Pirates and Party Manners
We're having a pirate birthday party here tomorrow for Will and Jack. Their birthdays are a week apart, and we're trying to get as many joint parties in as we can. The boys and I looked online for pirate images to use in the invitations, but I remembered, after looking at various etchings and drawings of historical pirates, that pirates were not nice. They made people walk the plank. They (obviously) stole people's ships and money. Pirates really got theirs, though, when they were caught. Gosh!
I hastily steered the boys away from these grim images of piratry, but couldn't find very many happy pictures of real pirates, unless you count this one, which doesn't strike me as quite the right tone for a children's birthday party. Plus, the guy looks miserable. I thought of using web photos of real pirate maps for the invitations, but they seemed a bit esoteric.So we sent generic invitations, and then got your conventional sanitized party pirate pictures, on napkins, plates, tablecloth.
And the cake, you ask. I just made it this morning, Richard Sax's Fudgy Chocolate Layer Cake. from Classic Home Desserts. Instead of chocolate frosting I used a cream cheese frosting, changed a little from the one he lists for the Applesauce-Carrot Cake. All vanilla extract and no lemon zest. I love Richard Sax. Love him. A couple years ago I read in John Thorne's Simple Cooking Newsletter that he was dead. Richard Sax was dead even when I got the book, about nine years ago. I felt so sad, and also very disconcerted that all that time I thought he was alive. If you just read a little from the book, which has been reissued because it is so well researched and written in such a warm voice, you'll know what I mean. He lives in the book.
Then I had to go and make a pirate hat with that gross black frosting in a can. And a skull and crossbones from the slightly less disgusting can of white frosting. Then a bunch of "Easter sprinkles" around the sides for a lighter mood, more resurrection and less death.
Voila! The skull has a drunken lopsided smile and the edges of the black hat jut out oddly in a few places. As Jack just said to me, "It looks good for not being professional." Kind words, matey.
I hastily steered the boys away from these grim images of piratry, but couldn't find very many happy pictures of real pirates, unless you count this one, which doesn't strike me as quite the right tone for a children's birthday party. Plus, the guy looks miserable. I thought of using web photos of real pirate maps for the invitations, but they seemed a bit esoteric.So we sent generic invitations, and then got your conventional sanitized party pirate pictures, on napkins, plates, tablecloth.
And the cake, you ask. I just made it this morning, Richard Sax's Fudgy Chocolate Layer Cake. from Classic Home Desserts. Instead of chocolate frosting I used a cream cheese frosting, changed a little from the one he lists for the Applesauce-Carrot Cake. All vanilla extract and no lemon zest. I love Richard Sax. Love him. A couple years ago I read in John Thorne's Simple Cooking Newsletter that he was dead. Richard Sax was dead even when I got the book, about nine years ago. I felt so sad, and also very disconcerted that all that time I thought he was alive. If you just read a little from the book, which has been reissued because it is so well researched and written in such a warm voice, you'll know what I mean. He lives in the book.
Then I had to go and make a pirate hat with that gross black frosting in a can. And a skull and crossbones from the slightly less disgusting can of white frosting. Then a bunch of "Easter sprinkles" around the sides for a lighter mood, more resurrection and less death.
Voila! The skull has a drunken lopsided smile and the edges of the black hat jut out oddly in a few places. As Jack just said to me, "It looks good for not being professional." Kind words, matey.
Nov 17, 2005
Better than Sex
I've hit the motherlode, dear readers. Nana's most special of all her half dozen recipe boxes, the rustiest one, the one with odd bits of paper and wrongly labelled sections. "Salads." No salads, here, sister! Only luscious desserts, such as "Better than Sex." Now I have heard of "Better than Sex" Cake, but this recipe, typed on the old black Smith-Corona on a small unevenly cut piece of paper, just says "Better than Sex" at the top. Is it the name of the dish or a description of it? This ambiguity leads me to wonder why my grandparents had separate bedrooms, and if it was really because Papa snored too loud, as was the party line. Not surprisingly, I don't remember this dessert at all, perhaps because Nana didn't want to tell us children what it was called.
It does sound sweet, silky, creamy, smooth. And . . . . greasy. Topped with Cool Whip, ooh la la. But guaranteed not to demand anything from you, give you an STD, or get you pregnant. And without further ado,
Better Than Sex
1 C flour
1 stick oleo (WW II rationing has been over a while; use butter)
1/2 C chopped pecans
1 C powdered sugar
8-oz. package cream cheese
tub of Cool Whip (I changed from Dream Whip, thanks Betty McB)
2 small packages lemon or chocolate instant pudding (depending on your orientation?)
2 1/2 C whole milk, COLD
Mix flour, oleo, and nuts. Press into bottom of 9 x 13 pan and and bake 15 minutes at 350. Cool.
Cream together powdered sugar and cream cheese to a frost-like consistency (I think she means "frosting") and spread over the cooled crust. Blend milk and pudding to an almost set consistency and pour over cream cheese mixture. Top with Cool Whip.
It does sound sweet, silky, creamy, smooth. And . . . . greasy. Topped with Cool Whip, ooh la la. But guaranteed not to demand anything from you, give you an STD, or get you pregnant. And without further ado,
Better Than Sex
1 C flour
1 stick oleo (WW II rationing has been over a while; use butter)
1/2 C chopped pecans
1 C powdered sugar
8-oz. package cream cheese
tub of Cool Whip (I changed from Dream Whip, thanks Betty McB)
2 small packages lemon or chocolate instant pudding (depending on your orientation?)
2 1/2 C whole milk, COLD
Mix flour, oleo, and nuts. Press into bottom of 9 x 13 pan and and bake 15 minutes at 350. Cool.
Cream together powdered sugar and cream cheese to a frost-like consistency (I think she means "frosting") and spread over the cooled crust. Blend milk and pudding to an almost set consistency and pour over cream cheese mixture. Top with Cool Whip.
Nov 15, 2005
The Well-Intentioned Cook
I try to use fresh local ingredients whenever possible and don't eat or serve processed food, for the most part. I make my own bread, with a bread machine. Jack and Will's teachers comment on how good the bread looks! No single-serving packaged food in our house, no juice boxes. We aim for optimal health,living lightly on this earth, and good taste. Which reminds me that I need to make dinner. I haven't thought too much about it all day. But we have tomatoes, cheese, pasta, green peppers, garlic, olive oil, and so I think I'll manage come up with something.
Please check out Simply in Season, Cathy Hockman-Wert's food blog named after the cookbook she co-edited with Mary Beth Lind, published by Herald Press. The proceeds from the cookbook go to Mennonite Central Committee, an organization that helps the world. I tested one recipe in the book (Grilled Vegetable Salad) and my sister in law tested ten. Cathy has known my husband John for years. Besides being nonprofit, the book is lovely on its own. It's not a trendy foodie cookbook, no famous chefs involved. It is truly friendly to the home cook who is willing to be patient with her or his methods and foods, and who cares about healthful eating.
That said, I confess I have a bunch of greens, an eggplant, and a crowd of squashes in the downstairs fridge that are past the point of no return and sorely need to be evicted and composted. I keep vainly hoping for a resurrection.
Please check out Simply in Season, Cathy Hockman-Wert's food blog named after the cookbook she co-edited with Mary Beth Lind, published by Herald Press. The proceeds from the cookbook go to Mennonite Central Committee, an organization that helps the world. I tested one recipe in the book (Grilled Vegetable Salad) and my sister in law tested ten. Cathy has known my husband John for years. Besides being nonprofit, the book is lovely on its own. It's not a trendy foodie cookbook, no famous chefs involved. It is truly friendly to the home cook who is willing to be patient with her or his methods and foods, and who cares about healthful eating.
That said, I confess I have a bunch of greens, an eggplant, and a crowd of squashes in the downstairs fridge that are past the point of no return and sorely need to be evicted and composted. I keep vainly hoping for a resurrection.
Nov 14, 2005
Happy Birthday, Dream Kitchen
On Saturday my blog turned one year old. I'm thinking of a few ways to celebrate it:
-Write one of those 100 things about me memes
-Publish a couple of essays that haven't been published anywhere
-Take roll
I'll start with the last--Who reads my blog? Are you a new visitor or a regular? Figuratively raise your hand by leaving a comment. Insincere, empty, ironic, any comment will do, as long as it's from a real person. You could just say "present." Thank you kindly, dear readers.
-Write one of those 100 things about me memes
-Publish a couple of essays that haven't been published anywhere
-Take roll
I'll start with the last--Who reads my blog? Are you a new visitor or a regular? Figuratively raise your hand by leaving a comment. Insincere, empty, ironic, any comment will do, as long as it's from a real person. You could just say "present." Thank you kindly, dear readers.
The Existential Kindergartener
We have deep conversations on the way to school in the morning. This Pinteresque one from last Thursday:
Jack: What if there was nothing?
Lauren (stalling): I'm not sure what you're asking. No helmet AND the wrong side of the street. Idiot.
Jack: I mean no people, no air, no earth, no nothing.
Lauren (vaguely) Wow. That might be boring.(There's no way I'm letting you in, silver Mercedes.)
Will: No cars! No roads!
Jack: No, wait. It wouldn't be boring. Not if there wasn't anyone around to think it's boring.
Will: No food! No cats!
Lauren: Jack, good thinking. An excellent point. Move already, geezer in the blue Cadillac. If there were nothing, no one could call it nothing because we wouldn't be around to name anything. In a way it's already something even if it's called "nothing." How long has that gas indicator light been on?
Jack: God wouldn't even be there.
Lauren: Not if there was nothing. I'm glad there's not nothing.
Will: Can we go to the playground after school?
Lauren: If it's warm enough, we can. And stop kicking my seat.
Jack: What if there was nothing?
Lauren (stalling): I'm not sure what you're asking. No helmet AND the wrong side of the street. Idiot.
Jack: I mean no people, no air, no earth, no nothing.
Lauren (vaguely) Wow. That might be boring.(There's no way I'm letting you in, silver Mercedes.)
Will: No cars! No roads!
Jack: No, wait. It wouldn't be boring. Not if there wasn't anyone around to think it's boring.
Will: No food! No cats!
Lauren: Jack, good thinking. An excellent point. Move already, geezer in the blue Cadillac. If there were nothing, no one could call it nothing because we wouldn't be around to name anything. In a way it's already something even if it's called "nothing." How long has that gas indicator light been on?
Jack: God wouldn't even be there.
Lauren: Not if there was nothing. I'm glad there's not nothing.
Will: Can we go to the playground after school?
Lauren: If it's warm enough, we can. And stop kicking my seat.
Nov 10, 2005
Nana's "Where is that Biscuit Dough Recipe, Anyway?" Apple Pan Dowdy
Now I'm the keeper of my Nana's five recipe boxes and two recipe collections in notebooks. Nana was born in 1899 and died in 2002 so something sure gave her a lot of staying power. Whether it was the food she cooked, her zeal for propriety in all things, or her desire to see me happily married and a mother, I don't know. I sure made her wait a long time for the latter. She didn't seem to quite keep me straight with my mother by the time the boys were born, but my mother was dead by then, so whatever. It's all good.
What was I talking about? Apple pan dowdy. This recipe is typical of the many recipes I copied out the other day. It was written with a blue fountain pen in big, barely decipherable loopy script. When I find her biscuit recipe I'll publish it, but don't hold your breath. I'll probably make this with Deborah Madison's biscuit recipe. This apple pan dowdy recipe is actually from a composition book that probably dates from the early forties. Some of the entries are written in my mother's writing, a tightly controlled script that is much easier to read, written with the same kind of pen.
Answers to anticipated questions:
1. A quart is four cups.
2. A pudding dish is just a ceramic baking dish. A 1 1/2 to 2-qt. size would work.
3. I would guess this would take about 40 mins. Check at 30 mins. and if the top is too brown, cover with foil.
Nana's Apple Pan Dowdy
qt. apples, sliced
1 C light brown sugar
½ t cinnamon
1/8 t cloves
1/8 t nutmeg
4 T butter
½ C cider
Butter pudding dish and put in sliced apples. Spread sugar over apples and sprinkle spices over sugar. Dot top with butter. Add cider and cover with biscuit dough ¼ in thick. Score holes for steam to escape. Bake in moderate oven 350 degrees until apples are tender and crust is well browned.
What was I talking about? Apple pan dowdy. This recipe is typical of the many recipes I copied out the other day. It was written with a blue fountain pen in big, barely decipherable loopy script. When I find her biscuit recipe I'll publish it, but don't hold your breath. I'll probably make this with Deborah Madison's biscuit recipe. This apple pan dowdy recipe is actually from a composition book that probably dates from the early forties. Some of the entries are written in my mother's writing, a tightly controlled script that is much easier to read, written with the same kind of pen.
Answers to anticipated questions:
1. A quart is four cups.
2. A pudding dish is just a ceramic baking dish. A 1 1/2 to 2-qt. size would work.
3. I would guess this would take about 40 mins. Check at 30 mins. and if the top is too brown, cover with foil.
Nana's Apple Pan Dowdy
qt. apples, sliced
1 C light brown sugar
½ t cinnamon
1/8 t cloves
1/8 t nutmeg
4 T butter
½ C cider
Butter pudding dish and put in sliced apples. Spread sugar over apples and sprinkle spices over sugar. Dot top with butter. Add cider and cover with biscuit dough ¼ in thick. Score holes for steam to escape. Bake in moderate oven 350 degrees until apples are tender and crust is well browned.
Nov 8, 2005
Eyes That See
Months ago, I was assigned children's time for November 6 at church. I didn't know what I should do it on, and because the pastor was out of town for several days he couldn't answer my email. And there wasn't a worship leader for the service until Wednesday. Finally, the administrative assistant remembered the pastor had sent him the topic earlier: "Prayer can be a real part of caring for the community around us."
Right away, I knew that Will would teach the congregation a prayer he had learned at camp this summer. I have been very taken with the profundity and simplicity of this prayer, and Will prays it often before dinner:
May we have eyes that see, (hands uncover eyes)
Hearts that love, (hands crisscross over heart)
And hands that are ready to help.(hands spread outwards)
Right before the service it's our practice for the people involved in worship to pray briefly together just by the landing, and I happened to be holding Will's hand to take him in to church. (John and Jack were already there.) So I just brought Will in with me, we all held hands, and before the pastor could pray, Will just piped up with his entire prayer, confident and clear as a bell. "I think that says everything," laughed the pastor in wonder, and he dismissed us. The lump in my throat made it hard for me to speak.
When children's time came, Will was just as eager to teach everyone the prayer, and he spoke very close to the microphone. The children learned it, and then we all turned outward to the congregation to teach them.
We really needed to pray that prayer. It turns out it had been a hard week for several of our members, as a child abuse allegation had been made against the mother of a child in Jack's Sunday school class. The grandmother, who seems to be the backbone of the family, expressed her hurt that no one had called her first. She has struggled for decades to bring her children and grandchildren up to be good people. She has attended our church for 20 years, and regularly brings her famous macaroni and cheese to the potlucks. She stands up every week during sharing, in a great big wonderful flowered hat, to ask for prayer. And yet she believed now that some members in the church had shown racist attitudes toward her family. We listened to her anger and disappointment for as long as she had words, which seemed very long indeed. When she was done, hugs and tears.It was so hard.
Now I have learned that Will's camp prayer is based on a Unitarian-Universalist prayer that goes like this:
Mystery of Life, Source of All Being, we are thankful for the gifts of life and being, of love and connection. We are thankful for all the wonders of the world around us. We are thankful for each other and for all the members of our global family. May we have eyes that see, hearts that love and hands that are ready to serve in love and in kindness, with caring and with courage. Blessed Be.
AMEN
Right away, I knew that Will would teach the congregation a prayer he had learned at camp this summer. I have been very taken with the profundity and simplicity of this prayer, and Will prays it often before dinner:
May we have eyes that see, (hands uncover eyes)
Hearts that love, (hands crisscross over heart)
And hands that are ready to help.(hands spread outwards)
Right before the service it's our practice for the people involved in worship to pray briefly together just by the landing, and I happened to be holding Will's hand to take him in to church. (John and Jack were already there.) So I just brought Will in with me, we all held hands, and before the pastor could pray, Will just piped up with his entire prayer, confident and clear as a bell. "I think that says everything," laughed the pastor in wonder, and he dismissed us. The lump in my throat made it hard for me to speak.
When children's time came, Will was just as eager to teach everyone the prayer, and he spoke very close to the microphone. The children learned it, and then we all turned outward to the congregation to teach them.
We really needed to pray that prayer. It turns out it had been a hard week for several of our members, as a child abuse allegation had been made against the mother of a child in Jack's Sunday school class. The grandmother, who seems to be the backbone of the family, expressed her hurt that no one had called her first. She has struggled for decades to bring her children and grandchildren up to be good people. She has attended our church for 20 years, and regularly brings her famous macaroni and cheese to the potlucks. She stands up every week during sharing, in a great big wonderful flowered hat, to ask for prayer. And yet she believed now that some members in the church had shown racist attitudes toward her family. We listened to her anger and disappointment for as long as she had words, which seemed very long indeed. When she was done, hugs and tears.It was so hard.
Now I have learned that Will's camp prayer is based on a Unitarian-Universalist prayer that goes like this:
Mystery of Life, Source of All Being, we are thankful for the gifts of life and being, of love and connection. We are thankful for all the wonders of the world around us. We are thankful for each other and for all the members of our global family. May we have eyes that see, hearts that love and hands that are ready to serve in love and in kindness, with caring and with courage. Blessed Be.
AMEN
Nov 4, 2005
Quakers Can Be Kinky, Too.
From the New York Times today:
"WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties that may be contaminated with E. coli."
Contaminated or not, just try sitting through Meeting wearing these things.
"WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Quaker Maid Meats Inc. on Tuesday said it would voluntarily recall 94,400 pounds of frozen ground beef panties that may be contaminated with E. coli."
Contaminated or not, just try sitting through Meeting wearing these things.
Nov 2, 2005
Coincidence? I Think Not.
1. Three weeks ago, I finally went to the local bank to deposit some checks. But I couldn't. The bank manager was outside the door saying they had no electricity!
2. Two weeks ago, I finally took the encrusted crumb-filled minivan to the car wash, but it was closed. Because they were washing the car wash!
3. Today, I finally went to Barnes and Noble, which I don't even live particularly near, to start to use up the gift certificate my Dad gave me for my birthday. I was only going to get a cup of coffee. But they were having their hot water heater replaced at that moment, and had no coffee!
2. Two weeks ago, I finally took the encrusted crumb-filled minivan to the car wash, but it was closed. Because they were washing the car wash!
3. Today, I finally went to Barnes and Noble, which I don't even live particularly near, to start to use up the gift certificate my Dad gave me for my birthday. I was only going to get a cup of coffee. But they were having their hot water heater replaced at that moment, and had no coffee!
Nov 1, 2005
Prunes, Actually
Several weeks ago I made a Prune and Armagnac Gingerbread that was greatly enjoyed by all. I made it for a reunion with some friends I hadn't seen in years. Friends from my sordid conservative evangelical past, to tell you the truth, and I wasn't sure what had changed over the years with them, or what hadn't changed. As for myself, I have veered decidedly leftwards.
It such situations, it always helps to make a fabulous dessert. Especially in this case, since a fissure had developed late in the main course. We were eating by candlelight at my friend Annie's house, and were just finishing up some grilled salmon. Maryanne and Keith are the ones, out of everyone at the table, to have held onto a lot of their convictions, it turns out, not that anyone had been grilling them. Whenever John and I have to explain that we're Mennonite we have to go into a long set piece about how Mennonites don't all drive buggies, and so forth. Now that we go to a Mennonite church that was rejected from the local Mennonite conference for sanctioning gay/lesbian partnerships, we have even more explaining to do. In this case it was met with a truly surprised and baffled "Oh."
And then about 2.5 seconds of silence until Annie, ever the diplomat, suddenly expressed her delight that the candles weren't dripping. Onward and upward with the meal, and the spicy, sensuous dark gingerbread seemed to restore our good cheer. And perhaps the prunes will do some good yet.
It such situations, it always helps to make a fabulous dessert. Especially in this case, since a fissure had developed late in the main course. We were eating by candlelight at my friend Annie's house, and were just finishing up some grilled salmon. Maryanne and Keith are the ones, out of everyone at the table, to have held onto a lot of their convictions, it turns out, not that anyone had been grilling them. Whenever John and I have to explain that we're Mennonite we have to go into a long set piece about how Mennonites don't all drive buggies, and so forth. Now that we go to a Mennonite church that was rejected from the local Mennonite conference for sanctioning gay/lesbian partnerships, we have even more explaining to do. In this case it was met with a truly surprised and baffled "Oh."
And then about 2.5 seconds of silence until Annie, ever the diplomat, suddenly expressed her delight that the candles weren't dripping. Onward and upward with the meal, and the spicy, sensuous dark gingerbread seemed to restore our good cheer. And perhaps the prunes will do some good yet.
Oct 29, 2005
In Which I Cave in to Halloween
Public school, which Jack will begin next year in first grade, is beginning to look really good, if only for the reason that all the kids will live in our school district, and therefore birthday parties won't be way out in the exurbs. What a confusing landscape we passed through yesterday afternoon. as we drove along country roads not engineered for the rush hour traffic they were getting. We passed huge new houses on cul de sacs, horses and cows, more developments,more farms, more traffic. It took 40 minutes to get there from our inner suburb/small town.
Kids were supposed to wear costumes to the party, thus combining my dislike of Today's Birthday Parties with my dislike of Halloween. We carpooled with Alex again, the Consumer Child. He was wearing a plush Hulk costume, and he made withering remarks about the sorry-assed skeleton "costume" I made for Jack. I had cut out bone shapes from posterboard and taped them on Jack's clothes. I found the costume idea on the FamilyFun website under "last-minute" costumes. I couldn't find the right kind of string for the mask, and had to use two-sided Scotch tape instead of masking tape, etc., etc., etc., and so of course every piece of his costume fell off when he was at the birthday party, and none were retrieved, either. So, we were back to the drawing board today. My plan to have the boys wear matching skeleton costumes of my own making was beginning to take on a quixotic tinge.
Plus, I suddenly remembered how my mother always had me wear things that were embarrassingly uncool (kilts, galoshes,sweater sets) but that met her standards, and even though the boys were not begging me for "normal" costumes, I caved. Caved in to the need to impress Alex? Let's not think too hard about it. The three of us went to Party Land, "Your Halloween Headquarters!," and got costumes. Now a little Darth Vader (Will) and a little Batman (Jack) live in our house. The boys are extremely pleased. I thought we had left part of Jack's costume at the store, and I sent John to look for it, and I began to feel that I was a worthless human being for not checking the contents of the boxes. This after fighting all the traffic, getting two squirmy boys to try on their costumes at the store, and fighting more traffic on the way home. And a call to the other Party Land franchise nearby revealed that they had no more superhero costumes for boys that age, only total loser costumes like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and, ugh, clown costumes. Is there anything as unfunny as a clown? I was really desparate.
So a few minutes after John left, I apologized abjectly to Jack, and he said cheerfully, "That's okay. We have all the parts." Apparently he had taken part of the costume out of the box without me knowing it,and didn't want to say anything to us. I don't know why. Didn't he hear John's and my conversation? I don't care. We will have a normal Halloween tomorrow. We will. To be partly redeemed by collecting for Unicef. But just partly. I'm a living dictionary definition of "ambivalence."But before I go, Happy Halloween. Yeah.
Kids were supposed to wear costumes to the party, thus combining my dislike of Today's Birthday Parties with my dislike of Halloween. We carpooled with Alex again, the Consumer Child. He was wearing a plush Hulk costume, and he made withering remarks about the sorry-assed skeleton "costume" I made for Jack. I had cut out bone shapes from posterboard and taped them on Jack's clothes. I found the costume idea on the FamilyFun website under "last-minute" costumes. I couldn't find the right kind of string for the mask, and had to use two-sided Scotch tape instead of masking tape, etc., etc., etc., and so of course every piece of his costume fell off when he was at the birthday party, and none were retrieved, either. So, we were back to the drawing board today. My plan to have the boys wear matching skeleton costumes of my own making was beginning to take on a quixotic tinge.
Plus, I suddenly remembered how my mother always had me wear things that were embarrassingly uncool (kilts, galoshes,sweater sets) but that met her standards, and even though the boys were not begging me for "normal" costumes, I caved. Caved in to the need to impress Alex? Let's not think too hard about it. The three of us went to Party Land, "Your Halloween Headquarters!," and got costumes. Now a little Darth Vader (Will) and a little Batman (Jack) live in our house. The boys are extremely pleased. I thought we had left part of Jack's costume at the store, and I sent John to look for it, and I began to feel that I was a worthless human being for not checking the contents of the boxes. This after fighting all the traffic, getting two squirmy boys to try on their costumes at the store, and fighting more traffic on the way home. And a call to the other Party Land franchise nearby revealed that they had no more superhero costumes for boys that age, only total loser costumes like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz and, ugh, clown costumes. Is there anything as unfunny as a clown? I was really desparate.
So a few minutes after John left, I apologized abjectly to Jack, and he said cheerfully, "That's okay. We have all the parts." Apparently he had taken part of the costume out of the box without me knowing it,and didn't want to say anything to us. I don't know why. Didn't he hear John's and my conversation? I don't care. We will have a normal Halloween tomorrow. We will. To be partly redeemed by collecting for Unicef. But just partly. I'm a living dictionary definition of "ambivalence."But before I go, Happy Halloween. Yeah.
Oct 27, 2005
Babes in Faux Pumpkinland
Not pumpkins being pulled off the vine by acquisitive preschoolers and kindergarteners. But pumpkins that have been --under cover of darkness?-- dumped on a field of weeds by the truckload, then to be named a "pumpkin patch." At this point is when the acquisitive preschoolers and kindergarteners pick them off the ground. At Jack and Will's field trip this morning, I never heard one of the children question why no pumpkins were attached to any plants. That's what the suburbs will do to you, I guess.
As small farms located near cities struggle harder to make ends meet, they go into "direct marketing" to make a living from all the suburbanite families surrounding them in greater and greater numbers. It seems now that there are a half dozen such farms, offering hayrides, "Pumpkin Land," little train rides, selling cider and doughnuts and offering, of course, a pick-your-own option. The weather has been poor for pumpkin growth this season around these parts, and very few of these places hesitate to go the faux pumpkin patch route. More power to them.
So I seem to be one of those moms who is free to go on field trips. I drove four boys including Will and Jack, Josh, who cried most of the way there, missing his Daddy, and the other, Jack's best buddy Alex,a rambunctious kid who owns every Spider-Man tie-in they sell in the U.S. Four boys, even with the quietly sniffling Josh, make a hell of a lot of noise. Alex's father came along too, an unemployed architect who claims the role of stay-at-home-dad "sucks." Since he's dying to get back to work, I let him struggle with the car seats in the back row of the van. Ha.
I had to write a post today because here my blog is mentioned (a few paragraphs down) as if it is actually current, by Miriam Peskowitz, author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars: Who Decides What Makes a Good Mother? So now I gotta revive the blog. I find the more I write, the more I want to write, so this probably means a whole new slew of entries will spew forth. And I know there's a better way to say that.
As small farms located near cities struggle harder to make ends meet, they go into "direct marketing" to make a living from all the suburbanite families surrounding them in greater and greater numbers. It seems now that there are a half dozen such farms, offering hayrides, "Pumpkin Land," little train rides, selling cider and doughnuts and offering, of course, a pick-your-own option. The weather has been poor for pumpkin growth this season around these parts, and very few of these places hesitate to go the faux pumpkin patch route. More power to them.
So I seem to be one of those moms who is free to go on field trips. I drove four boys including Will and Jack, Josh, who cried most of the way there, missing his Daddy, and the other, Jack's best buddy Alex,a rambunctious kid who owns every Spider-Man tie-in they sell in the U.S. Four boys, even with the quietly sniffling Josh, make a hell of a lot of noise. Alex's father came along too, an unemployed architect who claims the role of stay-at-home-dad "sucks." Since he's dying to get back to work, I let him struggle with the car seats in the back row of the van. Ha.
I had to write a post today because here my blog is mentioned (a few paragraphs down) as if it is actually current, by Miriam Peskowitz, author of The Truth Behind the Mommy Wars: Who Decides What Makes a Good Mother? So now I gotta revive the blog. I find the more I write, the more I want to write, so this probably means a whole new slew of entries will spew forth. And I know there's a better way to say that.
Oct 11, 2005
The Coffeemaker Has Left Nevada.
Did I really need to know that? UPS package tracking on the web provides too much information. Actually I think it was in Illinois on Friday. We had been worried that it would be waylaid in Utah somewhere. Our old coffeemaker now has enough things wrong with it that we finally decided to get a new one. We were faced with about 20 choices too many. We just ordered the first one that seemed like the old one but better. Because every new thing you buy has to be better than the last, right? And have more stainless steel surface area.
The blog's been very sporodic of late, I know. That's because I'm actually writing. Not just Blind, which I've revised a couple times now, but also I've done some marketing copy for my sons' Montessori. And getting paid. Whee! It paid for the coffeemaker, anyway.
The writing group I tried last week was amateurish. Had to slog through Ch. 20 of an elderly lady's interminable courtroom drama, filled with ethnic stereotypes. I mean "expressionless little Oriental?" I think not. So now I'm looking for a group that has higher standards, but not so high that they won't accept me, of course. So I'm going to check out"Reality Writes" at Penn's Kelly Writers' House soon. I need the pressure of a writers group in order to crank anything out.
I'm also in search of is a good cafe in which to hang out and write. In a retro notebook, the kind you use a pen with. The Starbucks near me has a staff who banters at high volume, and because it's small I can't get very far away from them. Borders seems impersonal.I visited an independent coffee shop in Media, but the coffee was only okay, and there was only one other person besides me there, which felt weird. I'm looking for a certain vibe that I fear only exists in the city.
The blog's been very sporodic of late, I know. That's because I'm actually writing. Not just Blind, which I've revised a couple times now, but also I've done some marketing copy for my sons' Montessori. And getting paid. Whee! It paid for the coffeemaker, anyway.
The writing group I tried last week was amateurish. Had to slog through Ch. 20 of an elderly lady's interminable courtroom drama, filled with ethnic stereotypes. I mean "expressionless little Oriental?" I think not. So now I'm looking for a group that has higher standards, but not so high that they won't accept me, of course. So I'm going to check out"Reality Writes" at Penn's Kelly Writers' House soon. I need the pressure of a writers group in order to crank anything out.
I'm also in search of is a good cafe in which to hang out and write. In a retro notebook, the kind you use a pen with. The Starbucks near me has a staff who banters at high volume, and because it's small I can't get very far away from them. Borders seems impersonal.I visited an independent coffee shop in Media, but the coffee was only okay, and there was only one other person besides me there, which felt weird. I'm looking for a certain vibe that I fear only exists in the city.
Oct 4, 2005
Blind
(Here's a rough draft of a nonfiction piece I just wrote for a writers' group tomorrow. )
It was the summer of 1994. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation. My roommate was in Hawaii for the summer. My interest in the O. J. Simpson case waned immediately after peaking, and, like any self-respecting doctoral student, I sought distraction. A boyfriend would do just fine.
At the age of 35, my single status was getting, shall we say, old. My mother and grandmother had given up on me, but I hadn’t yet. This was the twilight of the Age Before Internet Dating, so I turned to the Philadelphia Inquirer personals. Was my soulmate calling out to me from there? First, I had rules. Standards. No kinky stuff, and most importantly no one who said they liked walks on the beach at sunset or candlelight dinners. Please! I’m worthy of someone more original than that. The personals were set up so that you left a message in a voicemail box and gave your phone number, hoping they’d call you back. The message would be all they had to go by, so every time I left a message I would rehearse it several times, to make it sound light and breezy, and spoken in confident low tones. It took nothing less than total concentration.
The first man to call me back was Josh. He was a therapist in the Northeast, and easy to talk to, as a therapist would be. An hour went by before I knew it, and we set up a date for a drink in Center City, non-alcoholic, of course. Standards. Josh had warned me that he was six feet eight inches tall. I marked it on the wall of my apartment and practiced looking up to where his eyes might be. It was very high. Still and all, I thought of my own 5 ft. 8 inches, and thought, “Tall’s good, right?”
What he didn’t warn me about was that would be ramrod thin, with an outsized nose, wearing a light blue seersucker suit, and sporting a straw hat. Six feet eight. Light blue seersucker suit. Straw hat. Huge nose. I became acquainted with a sinking feeling that I was sure he could see in my face. In the whole time we talked in the coffee shop, the feeling never went away. I fought back tears. It hadn’t occurred to me me that a person who sounded so normal could be so mortifyingly strange-looking. I prayed to God that no one I knew would see me with this character, who looked like he could play the part of a Bible salesman in a Flannery O’Connor novel. Then I felt ashamed of myself for feeling this way about a perfectly fine person. Finally a decent interval passed, and we parted. “Can I call you again some time?” he asked just before he went down the steps to the subway station,” and I said “No, I don’t think so.” His face fell and he said, “OK, well, thanks, anyway.” And his lanky frame disappeared into the darkness of the station. And I crawled back to my apartment on my belly, groaning and eating dust.
Weeks went by, in which I was actually driven to write a chapter or two. But then I did it again. This time the ad intrigued me because this man said his favorite movie was Gregory’s Girl, which was also one of my favorite movies at the time. The guy couldn’t be that bad. So I rehearsed another call and left a polished version in the voicemail box. He called me back, and I learned his name was Jeff and that he worked for Community College of Philadelphia. And that he was five feet eight and lived in Roxborough.
Fine. I prepared myself for a plain-looking man. Realism, realism. A plain-looking man with a discerning taste in movies, of modest height living in a working class neighborhood. A humble man, faithful and true! Who would love me through all the years of our lives. As I approached him I could see that had no discernible chin. What I mean is that a large flabby something existed between chin and neck, it being itself neither chin nor neck. In other words, he was ugly in a completely different way, a diametrically opposite way from Josh. “Lauren, you must be Lauren!” he said eagerly. “Hello Jeff,” I said in a lukewarm tone of voice. “I’m getting better at this,” I thought. “My mortification and shame are decidedly duller this time. And I don’t think he can even see it in my face.”
My smugness was shattered when I glimpsed a man I knew. I hid behind a column. “You were saying?” I asked brightly. “I was saying, I read your article. What does that French quote mean?” My unnerving was now total. I remembered I had told him about an article that I had published in Modern Drama. And he read it. The only person to this day who has read it, to my knowledge, other than my professor. And he wants to know what that French passage means! Shit! “I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth.” He was trying way too hard.
We had a soda at a neighborhood restaurant, and some appetizers. I ordered a hummus platter, whereupon I learned that he had never heard of hummus. Never heard of hummus? How was that even possible? I was mystified. Hummus was the staple food of every grad student party and I guess I thought everyone ate the stuff. “So do you like Roxborough? I asked, and he said yes, and that he would never leave it, because it was “safe” with so many cops living there. “Safe.” I was moving away, fast, from humble man, faithful and true, to bigoted man, narrow-minded and . . . . and doesn’t that tie pinch his neck? Or is that his chin?
Third time’s a charm, right? One more time, I told myself. Late July. There’s still time to find Mr. Right before my roommate returns and deflates my hopes. Before classes resume and I get back in the groove of flirting harmlessly with the safe married men and the safe gay men of my department. One more foray into the uncharted territory of the personals. Think Goldilocks, Goldilocks.
Joe was man number three. I sat waiting for him at Le Bus thinking I’ve seen two physical extremes, so now I’m hardened to anything. That guy from Beauty and the Beast is kind of sexy after all. Plus, I don’t really care about meeting a man, anyway, so what if I’m single and childless my whole life? Even if I become a bag lady, I’ll at least have some good books in that bag and some funny stories. “Hi, are you Lauren?” asked a man with black hair and a beard. “Yes?” “I’m Joe.” He smiled warmly. I stared. There was nothing perceivably amiss about his appearance. He was actually attractive. Decently dressed. Didn’t smell bad. Goldilocks. We had a lovely conversation. He was a nurse. He lived in West Philly near me. He played the saxophone. He was Italian. He was masculine without being macho. His last words were “I’ll call you. We’ll listen to jazz at Ortlieb’s.”
What can I say? “Goldilocks.” We married the next year, and now we have two sets of twins. Couldn’t be happier. I could also say “Stinky Cheese Man.” I waited for Joe to call me. Three weeks later, I finally called him. Light and breezy. Confident low tones. “Hi Joe. It’s Lauren . . . how have you been?” “Lauren . . .?” “From Le Bus three weeks ago?” Silence. “We met through the personals? I ordered an Orangina?” I was beginning to hate myself. “I have to say, I don’t remember you. I’ve been working through a lot of issues lately . . . . I’m sorry.”
Another chapter in my dissertation got written. I swore I’d never tell my roommate about my summer. She came back and I promptly told her everything. She said “That’ll teach me to go away for the summer.” I fell back into the academic routine, flirted with the safe men. The next year I finished my dissertation, got a teaching job, and met my husband at a party at my own house. We now have two wonderful children. But not before I joined a dating service and met a lawn and garden supply salesman and a brick salesman. Did you know there are 250 different kinds of bricks?
It was the summer of 1994. I was supposed to be writing my dissertation. My roommate was in Hawaii for the summer. My interest in the O. J. Simpson case waned immediately after peaking, and, like any self-respecting doctoral student, I sought distraction. A boyfriend would do just fine.
At the age of 35, my single status was getting, shall we say, old. My mother and grandmother had given up on me, but I hadn’t yet. This was the twilight of the Age Before Internet Dating, so I turned to the Philadelphia Inquirer personals. Was my soulmate calling out to me from there? First, I had rules. Standards. No kinky stuff, and most importantly no one who said they liked walks on the beach at sunset or candlelight dinners. Please! I’m worthy of someone more original than that. The personals were set up so that you left a message in a voicemail box and gave your phone number, hoping they’d call you back. The message would be all they had to go by, so every time I left a message I would rehearse it several times, to make it sound light and breezy, and spoken in confident low tones. It took nothing less than total concentration.
The first man to call me back was Josh. He was a therapist in the Northeast, and easy to talk to, as a therapist would be. An hour went by before I knew it, and we set up a date for a drink in Center City, non-alcoholic, of course. Standards. Josh had warned me that he was six feet eight inches tall. I marked it on the wall of my apartment and practiced looking up to where his eyes might be. It was very high. Still and all, I thought of my own 5 ft. 8 inches, and thought, “Tall’s good, right?”
What he didn’t warn me about was that would be ramrod thin, with an outsized nose, wearing a light blue seersucker suit, and sporting a straw hat. Six feet eight. Light blue seersucker suit. Straw hat. Huge nose. I became acquainted with a sinking feeling that I was sure he could see in my face. In the whole time we talked in the coffee shop, the feeling never went away. I fought back tears. It hadn’t occurred to me me that a person who sounded so normal could be so mortifyingly strange-looking. I prayed to God that no one I knew would see me with this character, who looked like he could play the part of a Bible salesman in a Flannery O’Connor novel. Then I felt ashamed of myself for feeling this way about a perfectly fine person. Finally a decent interval passed, and we parted. “Can I call you again some time?” he asked just before he went down the steps to the subway station,” and I said “No, I don’t think so.” His face fell and he said, “OK, well, thanks, anyway.” And his lanky frame disappeared into the darkness of the station. And I crawled back to my apartment on my belly, groaning and eating dust.
Weeks went by, in which I was actually driven to write a chapter or two. But then I did it again. This time the ad intrigued me because this man said his favorite movie was Gregory’s Girl, which was also one of my favorite movies at the time. The guy couldn’t be that bad. So I rehearsed another call and left a polished version in the voicemail box. He called me back, and I learned his name was Jeff and that he worked for Community College of Philadelphia. And that he was five feet eight and lived in Roxborough.
Fine. I prepared myself for a plain-looking man. Realism, realism. A plain-looking man with a discerning taste in movies, of modest height living in a working class neighborhood. A humble man, faithful and true! Who would love me through all the years of our lives. As I approached him I could see that had no discernible chin. What I mean is that a large flabby something existed between chin and neck, it being itself neither chin nor neck. In other words, he was ugly in a completely different way, a diametrically opposite way from Josh. “Lauren, you must be Lauren!” he said eagerly. “Hello Jeff,” I said in a lukewarm tone of voice. “I’m getting better at this,” I thought. “My mortification and shame are decidedly duller this time. And I don’t think he can even see it in my face.”
My smugness was shattered when I glimpsed a man I knew. I hid behind a column. “You were saying?” I asked brightly. “I was saying, I read your article. What does that French quote mean?” My unnerving was now total. I remembered I had told him about an article that I had published in Modern Drama. And he read it. The only person to this day who has read it, to my knowledge, other than my professor. And he wants to know what that French passage means! Shit! “I don’t even remember, to tell you the truth.” He was trying way too hard.
We had a soda at a neighborhood restaurant, and some appetizers. I ordered a hummus platter, whereupon I learned that he had never heard of hummus. Never heard of hummus? How was that even possible? I was mystified. Hummus was the staple food of every grad student party and I guess I thought everyone ate the stuff. “So do you like Roxborough? I asked, and he said yes, and that he would never leave it, because it was “safe” with so many cops living there. “Safe.” I was moving away, fast, from humble man, faithful and true, to bigoted man, narrow-minded and . . . . and doesn’t that tie pinch his neck? Or is that his chin?
Third time’s a charm, right? One more time, I told myself. Late July. There’s still time to find Mr. Right before my roommate returns and deflates my hopes. Before classes resume and I get back in the groove of flirting harmlessly with the safe married men and the safe gay men of my department. One more foray into the uncharted territory of the personals. Think Goldilocks, Goldilocks.
Joe was man number three. I sat waiting for him at Le Bus thinking I’ve seen two physical extremes, so now I’m hardened to anything. That guy from Beauty and the Beast is kind of sexy after all. Plus, I don’t really care about meeting a man, anyway, so what if I’m single and childless my whole life? Even if I become a bag lady, I’ll at least have some good books in that bag and some funny stories. “Hi, are you Lauren?” asked a man with black hair and a beard. “Yes?” “I’m Joe.” He smiled warmly. I stared. There was nothing perceivably amiss about his appearance. He was actually attractive. Decently dressed. Didn’t smell bad. Goldilocks. We had a lovely conversation. He was a nurse. He lived in West Philly near me. He played the saxophone. He was Italian. He was masculine without being macho. His last words were “I’ll call you. We’ll listen to jazz at Ortlieb’s.”
What can I say? “Goldilocks.” We married the next year, and now we have two sets of twins. Couldn’t be happier. I could also say “Stinky Cheese Man.” I waited for Joe to call me. Three weeks later, I finally called him. Light and breezy. Confident low tones. “Hi Joe. It’s Lauren . . . how have you been?” “Lauren . . .?” “From Le Bus three weeks ago?” Silence. “We met through the personals? I ordered an Orangina?” I was beginning to hate myself. “I have to say, I don’t remember you. I’ve been working through a lot of issues lately . . . . I’m sorry.”
Another chapter in my dissertation got written. I swore I’d never tell my roommate about my summer. She came back and I promptly told her everything. She said “That’ll teach me to go away for the summer.” I fell back into the academic routine, flirted with the safe men. The next year I finished my dissertation, got a teaching job, and met my husband at a party at my own house. We now have two wonderful children. But not before I joined a dating service and met a lawn and garden supply salesman and a brick salesman. Did you know there are 250 different kinds of bricks?
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