Mar 29, 2007
Mar 24, 2007
Sweet Translations
Today a bunch of us from my mom's group went out the new Indian restaurant in Media, Shere- e-Punjab. I guess someone must have read my November blog post complaining of the dearth of Indian restaurants in Delaware County, and decided to take action. I am so powerful. Anyway, really good food, and they vary the buffet dishes enough to keep you from getting bored. For the desserts today, they didn't have my beloved golub jamun, fried milk balls soaking in syrup (!). Instead they had "Indian cheesecake." I wish they had left it at that and not included the Indian name, barfi. Quite the unfortunate nomenclature.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
I thought it tasted odd; it just seems that desserts don't translate as well across cultures as savory dishes. Except for golub jamun, which must have a special drug in them. Chinese red bean desserts are unpalatable, to me, as is anything with rosewater, common to middle Eastern sweets. But baklava and halvah work for me, come to think of it, only too well. Maybe my hypothesis should be limited to Asian and East Asian desserts (not golub jamun, of course). I bought some little pig-shaped cakes at an Asian supermarket recently that no one in my family could stomach. They had lotus paste in them, which I have actually liked in certainly very freshly made dim sum (lotus rolls or balls or something). And yet, so many traditional American desserts have survived for decades and sometimes centuries, with only some adjustments in the sugar and fat levels. Indian pudding, apple pie, brownies, etc. I guess that might really be part of the same phenomenon; that homey desserts speak to our ancestral memories, and that's why they don't cross the East-West divide so well.
Because I became a lifetime member of Weight Watchers this morning ( six weeks at my goal weight), I thought I'd celebrate by eating barfi and blogging about desserts. Really, what better way to celebrate? To top it all off, I baked a mango upside down cake tonight and ate two pieces. My stomach protesteth. Here's hoping there shall be no barfi tonight.
Mar 21, 2007
I'm Enjoying My Lobotomy, Thanks for Asking
For Christmas my father gave me a $100 gift certificate to N**dstr*m's, a department store at the King of Prussia mall. "Dad!" I had said, "Thank you so much! But I never go to the mall!" "Guess you'll have to now."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
Almost three months later I did go to the mall. I met my friend Bev there yesterday, "at the piano," which is where one meets one's friends at this particular store. At first I was intimidated by the fashionable shoes that were almost all over $200, so we moved to purses. Also very expensive, but I love to touch good leather. I did find a really nice little black and red holder for cards. You know, all those annoying cards for coffee clubs, car wash certificates, charge cards that you technically never planned to apply for but you did because you couldn't resist the discount offered at the time. In short, I bought one more thing to hold all the other dumb things I shouldn't have gotten in the first place. Still and all, it cheered me up for reasons I don't want to think about, and the sales clerk was all, like, "It's so handy! It matches your purse, too."
Next I picked out a funky scarf with different gorgeous fabrics, mostly silk, sewn together in large patches. It was on sale, so I was beginning to feel slightly virtuous again. Then I bought some beautiful drop earrings with pink stones that reflect light in a shimmery, quiet way. Then, I . . . wait. No more money! It's amazing, how quickly you can drop $100 in this store.
I hadn't been to this mall since I was pregnant with Will, so it was almost six years ago. At the time, with my big belly and Jack a toddler, it wasn't especially enjoyable, although I remember loving the "mothers' room" part of the ladies' restroom. I wanted to lie down and sleep on the velour couches. I think my friends and I stayed in that room for more than half an hour. The time before that, I had shopped for bridesmaid's dresses with my two best friends. That was exciting, but we were on a mission, and so "relaxing" is not the word for how that felt.
But yesterday? That was different. We moseyed. We chatted. It felt like we had all the time in the world. We ambled into a Cr*ne's Stationery store, which I never even knew existed. I like 100% rag paper stationery at least as much as I like soft leather. And the beautiful pens! I don't get out much. I bought some lovely robin's egg blue notecards. Someday maybe I'll actually send them. Then Bev and I had lunch at N*rdstr*m's Cafe. So elegant for ladies who lunch. We caught up on some gossip and flattered each other, as one does in these situations. Finally, we strolled one more time through the sunlit, immaculate mall, lined with high-end boutiques and peopled by slim well-groomed smiling humans. And I, I, a self-professed hater of malls, thought, "I love this."
Mar 18, 2007
Only Shamrocks, No Snakes
Yes, I did wear ugly green beer mug earrings. I think I'll donote them to Goodwill, since they do nothing for my skin tone.
It was a lovely party! Lilian and Anjali were both there with their families (Lilian's one son was at home with her parents). I had never met Lilian, and Lilian had never met Anjali. Also attending the party were a few other sad, misdirected people who don't even write any blogs.
Anyway, Lilian made an astonishing oblong pastry that contained heart of palm, a Brazilian staple. It was as delicious as it was beautiful, with a shamrock cutout on the side. Certainly better than the Irish stew I made. The meat was tough and it really needed salt. (The leftovers were much better today, after cooking longer throughout the party, with added salt and, I know this sounds weird, but I dunked my friend O.'s Irish soda bread in it.) Anyway, two families who attended are vegetarian, and after tasting the Rollo de Palmito I was thinking "WHY do we eat dead animal flesh, again?" Fortunately, I also provided a cheese bourek, a dish from Armenian Delight I had mentioned in an earlier post. You can't go wrong with layers of phyllo, cheese, and butter. Lilian also made a delectable chocolate flan with raspberry sauce. By the way, her family all wore a tasteful shade of green, so they have now been dubbed The Very Irishest Family from Brazil, Ever.
Before the guests arrived, Jack and Will were bugging me saying "We don't have anything to DO!" (Helping set up had been deemed "boring.") So I suggested that they plan a play to perform for the guests, about how St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. They were totally up for that, but then they kept asking John and me for props, items not easily findable or nonexistent, or large, awkward, or breakable. So we had to stipulate that they only use props they could retrieve themselves.
After dinner they enlisted Mira, Anjali's older daughter, to be a snake. Only she didn't seem thrilled to be driven out, with many minutes of the play left over. So she kept standing there and the boys would loudly explain she had been driven OUT. Then Will was a leprechaun who pretended that green Legos were more snakes, and, well, he threw them or something and then the play seemed to be over. Mira came back for the bow and it was quite the success, with much more action and narrative direction than in previous plays, and also less arguing about what the players should say and do. I had to say "Is it over yet?" only once.
Then to prevent complete mayhem we let the kids watch The Three Stooges, which is all my boys watch these days. I'll write a post on that obsession soon. Captain Underpants is so 2006. Then my friend O. came with her husband and kids, to recuperate from attending two obligatory family birthday parties, believe it or not, which we found extremely flattering. Everyone left by shortly before 9:00. So in other words, a late evening for us.
Maybe we'll have another one of these shindigs, where I give everyone a little more notice, and wear better earrings. And no one will have to wear green.
It was a lovely party! Lilian and Anjali were both there with their families (Lilian's one son was at home with her parents). I had never met Lilian, and Lilian had never met Anjali. Also attending the party were a few other sad, misdirected people who don't even write any blogs.
Anyway, Lilian made an astonishing oblong pastry that contained heart of palm, a Brazilian staple. It was as delicious as it was beautiful, with a shamrock cutout on the side. Certainly better than the Irish stew I made. The meat was tough and it really needed salt. (The leftovers were much better today, after cooking longer throughout the party, with added salt and, I know this sounds weird, but I dunked my friend O.'s Irish soda bread in it.) Anyway, two families who attended are vegetarian, and after tasting the Rollo de Palmito I was thinking "WHY do we eat dead animal flesh, again?" Fortunately, I also provided a cheese bourek, a dish from Armenian Delight I had mentioned in an earlier post. You can't go wrong with layers of phyllo, cheese, and butter. Lilian also made a delectable chocolate flan with raspberry sauce. By the way, her family all wore a tasteful shade of green, so they have now been dubbed The Very Irishest Family from Brazil, Ever.
Before the guests arrived, Jack and Will were bugging me saying "We don't have anything to DO!" (Helping set up had been deemed "boring.") So I suggested that they plan a play to perform for the guests, about how St. Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. They were totally up for that, but then they kept asking John and me for props, items not easily findable or nonexistent, or large, awkward, or breakable. So we had to stipulate that they only use props they could retrieve themselves.
After dinner they enlisted Mira, Anjali's older daughter, to be a snake. Only she didn't seem thrilled to be driven out, with many minutes of the play left over. So she kept standing there and the boys would loudly explain she had been driven OUT. Then Will was a leprechaun who pretended that green Legos were more snakes, and, well, he threw them or something and then the play seemed to be over. Mira came back for the bow and it was quite the success, with much more action and narrative direction than in previous plays, and also less arguing about what the players should say and do. I had to say "Is it over yet?" only once.
Then to prevent complete mayhem we let the kids watch The Three Stooges, which is all my boys watch these days. I'll write a post on that obsession soon. Captain Underpants is so 2006. Then my friend O. came with her husband and kids, to recuperate from attending two obligatory family birthday parties, believe it or not, which we found extremely flattering. Everyone left by shortly before 9:00. So in other words, a late evening for us.
Maybe we'll have another one of these shindigs, where I give everyone a little more notice, and wear better earrings. And no one will have to wear green.
Mar 16, 2007
Uranus and You
Uranus is a tricky word. Suffice it to say that, on Uranus' very own website we are cautioned, "Careful pronunciation may be necessary to avoid embarrassment; say "YOOR-anus, not "your anus" or "urine us." I ask you, how can we possibly avoid saying one or the other? I'm going to avoid all embarrassment and just call it "Saturn." Jack knows there's supposed to be something funny about the name, but he doesn't know what. He'll say "Pee comes out of Uranus," and giggle uncertainly.
Now that he's seven, he occasionally asks questions like "Where do babies come from?" Only it's never exactly that question; it's always something more oblique. And he always asks these questions when I'm trying to negotiate a tricky left turn, or I'm about to answer the phone, or when I'm trying to get him to look for his shoes because the bus is coming in ten seconds. Clearly, we needed some kind of asynchronous communication. So I got him a book called It's NOT the Stork:A Book about Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families, and Friends, by Robie H. Harris. The boys and I were at Borders and I stashed it with the other books I was buying, with the idea that John should approve it first. But Jack asked to see it, and proceeded to sit down on the floor and read the whole thing from cover to cover. (We weren't in a hurry, obviously.) When he was finished, he silently handed it back to me. No questions whatsoever. Yep, I could cross "Tell Jack about the birds and bees" off my to-do list.
A week and a half later, the boys and I were at a local pizza place while John had class. It was quiet in there when Jack handed me the lid to his strawberry milk, and loudly chirped, "Here. Hang onto this for when you want to play sex." "What?" I asked, stalling. He repeated the same thing and my face must have looked blank because he went on, "You know--when a man and woman love each other so much the man puts his penis in the woman's uterus!" (Ouch.) I said, "Oh, yeah. That. I'd love to chat with you about that, but not right now . . . Look, our pizza's here!" So we ate for a couple of minutes, when Will, who had been mulling over Jack's anatomically inaccurate revelation, announced in his querulous high voice, "I don't get it. How can you put your penis in someone's body? That's silly!" Snort. Guffaw.
And no, don't ask me what the lid had to do with anything. In fact, don't ask me any questions at all about this. Not right now. Can't you see I'm busy?
Now that he's seven, he occasionally asks questions like "Where do babies come from?" Only it's never exactly that question; it's always something more oblique. And he always asks these questions when I'm trying to negotiate a tricky left turn, or I'm about to answer the phone, or when I'm trying to get him to look for his shoes because the bus is coming in ten seconds. Clearly, we needed some kind of asynchronous communication. So I got him a book called It's NOT the Stork:A Book about Girls, Boys, Babies, Bodies, Families, and Friends, by Robie H. Harris. The boys and I were at Borders and I stashed it with the other books I was buying, with the idea that John should approve it first. But Jack asked to see it, and proceeded to sit down on the floor and read the whole thing from cover to cover. (We weren't in a hurry, obviously.) When he was finished, he silently handed it back to me. No questions whatsoever. Yep, I could cross "Tell Jack about the birds and bees" off my to-do list.
A week and a half later, the boys and I were at a local pizza place while John had class. It was quiet in there when Jack handed me the lid to his strawberry milk, and loudly chirped, "Here. Hang onto this for when you want to play sex." "What?" I asked, stalling. He repeated the same thing and my face must have looked blank because he went on, "You know--when a man and woman love each other so much the man puts his penis in the woman's uterus!" (Ouch.) I said, "Oh, yeah. That. I'd love to chat with you about that, but not right now . . . Look, our pizza's here!" So we ate for a couple of minutes, when Will, who had been mulling over Jack's anatomically inaccurate revelation, announced in his querulous high voice, "I don't get it. How can you put your penis in someone's body? That's silly!" Snort. Guffaw.
And no, don't ask me what the lid had to do with anything. In fact, don't ask me any questions at all about this. Not right now. Can't you see I'm busy?
Mar 13, 2007
Meet Jennifer
Eight years ago, John and I moved to an old house in a small provincial city in the Shenandoah Valley. A neighbor of mine told me that a young woman named Jennifer, just up the street, was starting a magazine with a friend, sort of a "New Yorker for mothers." Yeah, right, I thought to myself, knowing the low rate at which new magazines succeed. I soon got to know Jennifer, as she and I both wrote for a local monthly alternative newspaper. I would often see her catching a smoke on her back porch, and we would occasionally walk our babies in strollers together.
Fast forward to today, and Brain, Child has won Utne Reader's Best New Magazine award and has a great circulation AND a great reputation. Dads have been known to devour it cover to cover. It's an eclectic collection of original writing about all kinds of underreported aspects of motherhood. It can be funny, poignant, startling, achingly sad. You just never know.
Now Jennifer has written a book that will be published in May. Please go over to and say hi on her new blog and read about it. She will do a book signing near here on June 21, so mark that on your calendars! (Don't worry, I will remind you later.) She is also on my blogroll.
And, please, I don't want to be the only person commenting on her blog.
Fast forward to today, and Brain, Child has won Utne Reader's Best New Magazine award and has a great circulation AND a great reputation. Dads have been known to devour it cover to cover. It's an eclectic collection of original writing about all kinds of underreported aspects of motherhood. It can be funny, poignant, startling, achingly sad. You just never know.
Now Jennifer has written a book that will be published in May. Please go over to and say hi on her new blog and read about it. She will do a book signing near here on June 21, so mark that on your calendars! (Don't worry, I will remind you later.) She is also on my blogroll.
And, please, I don't want to be the only person commenting on her blog.
Mar 12, 2007
St. Patty's Day Potluck at the Dream Kitchen: A Reader Appreciation Event
Dear Readers,
May I interrogate you for a moment? Thank you kindly.
1. Do you read this blog regularly?
2. Have I ever met you in person?
3. Have you ever posted a comment on my blog?
If at least two of the answers are "yes," then you are eligible to be invited to the Dream Kitchen Reader Appreciation St. Patty's Day Potluck, or DKRASPDP for short. Oh, it helps if you will be in the Philadelphia area on March 17 in the early evening. A pot o' Irish stew, a few of John's "interesting" beers, whatever goodies you can coax out of the Dream Reader Kitchens, and some good crack will make a fine party. ("Crack" means "conversation" in Ireland, just so you know.)
Can't wait to wear my green plastic foaming-beer-mug earrings. All tacky St. Patty's Day getup welcome!
May I interrogate you for a moment? Thank you kindly.
1. Do you read this blog regularly?
2. Have I ever met you in person?
3. Have you ever posted a comment on my blog?
If at least two of the answers are "yes," then you are eligible to be invited to the Dream Kitchen Reader Appreciation St. Patty's Day Potluck, or DKRASPDP for short. Oh, it helps if you will be in the Philadelphia area on March 17 in the early evening. A pot o' Irish stew, a few of John's "interesting" beers, whatever goodies you can coax out of the Dream Reader Kitchens, and some good crack will make a fine party. ("Crack" means "conversation" in Ireland, just so you know.)
Can't wait to wear my green plastic foaming-beer-mug earrings. All tacky St. Patty's Day getup welcome!
Mar 8, 2007
Sleep Happens
Right now, as I type this, I'm sleepy. Reading to the boys, ostensibly to help them get to sleep, has great sedative power. There I am, misreading the words, mumbling and trailing off during Grandpa Joe's narration of how Willie Wonka had to fire everyone at the chocolate factory for spying. "READ!" begs Jack. Later he says, "Give me the book! I'll read." I know better than to do the latter because he'll be reading aloud, avidly, becoming more and more alert, as I tilt over on the chair, snoring and drooling. Instead, I beg Jack to have mercy on me and stop yelling "READ" louder and louder. Will is usually already asleep, especially tonight since I gave him Benadryl for his congestion.
This is what will happen. At around 4 AM I'll wake up worrying about some minor housekeeping issue that I don't give a rat's ass about during the day. Like "I must sharpen those hedge trimmers before spring!" Or it might be "I must unpack those boxes in the garage!" Once it was, really, "That basket of raspberries in the fridge! We forgot to eat them! And they're moldy!" The sad part is we didn't even have any raspberries. Then after these faux anxiety attacks I'm completely alert, my heart practically pounding. Sometimes I drink a huge glass of water, because that actually seems to have a calming effect after a few minutes. The water in my stomach gives me ballast and I sleep eventually.
During the day, my body waits to snag some sleep here and there. If you ever want to tell me something important in the afternoon that may take a while, pleas punctuate your conversation with staccato laughs or curse words. Or punch me in the arm every so often. And of course, I never ever close my eyes waiting for a traffic light.
Yawn. Good night and sleep well.
This is what will happen. At around 4 AM I'll wake up worrying about some minor housekeeping issue that I don't give a rat's ass about during the day. Like "I must sharpen those hedge trimmers before spring!" Or it might be "I must unpack those boxes in the garage!" Once it was, really, "That basket of raspberries in the fridge! We forgot to eat them! And they're moldy!" The sad part is we didn't even have any raspberries. Then after these faux anxiety attacks I'm completely alert, my heart practically pounding. Sometimes I drink a huge glass of water, because that actually seems to have a calming effect after a few minutes. The water in my stomach gives me ballast and I sleep eventually.
During the day, my body waits to snag some sleep here and there. If you ever want to tell me something important in the afternoon that may take a while, pleas punctuate your conversation with staccato laughs or curse words. Or punch me in the arm every so often. And of course, I never ever close my eyes waiting for a traffic light.
Yawn. Good night and sleep well.
Mar 7, 2007
Flotsam, and Some Jetsam for Good Measure
Argh. The longer I go without blogging the harder it is to start up again. As it is with so many things. For inspiration, I'll look out the window. It's snowing. It's also 17 degrees. Maybe school will let out early today? I'm supposed to teach my middle schoolers today at 12:50, so that means I'm squarely in the middle of an Ambiguous Snow Situation. Alright, not so much inspiration there. I'll look at my desk. Oh, here's a tidbit. It's a note the babysitter had written the the other night:
Dear Mr. Jack,
We regret to inform you that today at 7:00 PM you will be arrested. Sorry again.
Sincerely,
The Police
P.S. You will get a cookie when you are in jail.
Now I'll take a look in my blog drafts. Oh, here's a new list of search terms that get folks over here to Dream Kitchen (the usual terms are: steel cut oats, Fine Old Dixie Recipes, dream kitchens, and quadrameter)
every pool boys's dream
children's haircuts of the 1940s
dancing "wet dress"
barefoot amish children
A typical mid-1940s kitchen
pictures of girls wearing saddle shoes and white socks
"still wears a diaper"
princess diana lady diana pictures photos
essay my grandmother's kitchen
parsnip cake
armenian boureg
My husband has an intestinal bug. Will has a cold. At least Jack FINALLY has a loose tooth, which he wiggles constantly and is very proud of. I have one of those annoying dry patches on the corner of my mouth.
Note to Jack Frost: Feel free to visit the Southern Hemisphere a little early this year, dude.
Dear Mr. Jack,
We regret to inform you that today at 7:00 PM you will be arrested. Sorry again.
Sincerely,
The Police
P.S. You will get a cookie when you are in jail.
Now I'll take a look in my blog drafts. Oh, here's a new list of search terms that get folks over here to Dream Kitchen (the usual terms are: steel cut oats, Fine Old Dixie Recipes, dream kitchens, and quadrameter)
every pool boys's dream
children's haircuts of the 1940s
dancing "wet dress"
barefoot amish children
A typical mid-1940s kitchen
pictures of girls wearing saddle shoes and white socks
"still wears a diaper"
princess diana lady diana pictures photos
essay my grandmother's kitchen
parsnip cake
armenian boureg
My husband has an intestinal bug. Will has a cold. At least Jack FINALLY has a loose tooth, which he wiggles constantly and is very proud of. I have one of those annoying dry patches on the corner of my mouth.
Note to Jack Frost: Feel free to visit the Southern Hemisphere a little early this year, dude.
Feb 26, 2007
Ms. Hitachi B. Machine, 1995-2007
I got her in 1995, the summer I moved to Virginia to start a teaching job. A bread machine was perhaps a strange thing for a single woman to buy, and I'm not sure what I was thinking, but . . . whatever. She made good bread every so often. When I got married to John in 1997 I took her with me, but she did not get used for a whole year. Just as I was contemplating giving her away, I used her again and didn't really ever stop. We took her with us when we moved to our second house and used her every day, almost, after Jack was born and then Will. Having babies makes you hungry for carbs. And every time my Indiana In-laws came to help, of course they needed to eat bread.
Life was good for Ms. Hitachi B. Machine for many years. She had a position of honor in our household and didn't mind making the same oat bread forever, and the same pizza dough, and never any quickbreads. (You might as well make quickbreads the normal way.) Her glory years were the Swarthmore years, making sandwich bread for Will and Jack's lunches, and pizza dough for the Friday night pizza ritual.
But one day I was browsing at the upscale kitchen store, W-S, and a shiny new stainless steel bread machine caught my eye. She had a convection oven, many more settings, including "artisan," and this one called my name, almost audibly. "Lauren. I'm Q. Z. Nart. Take me home!" Looking back, my big mistake was talking about this machine in front of Ms. H. B and saying things like "Our bread machine doesn't have near that number of settings." Or, in a moment of desparation, "Don't you think our bread machine has gotten noisier?" John was the one to actually say out loud what I was thinking: "We've had this bread machine a very long time. If you find one that you'd really like, why not get a new one?" And I'd murmur, "Oh, no, I'd wait until this one dies."
One night shortly after that, at 2:10 AM, I heard the crash. I knew it was Ms. H. B. Machine right away, even in my grogginess. I took my time walking downstairs, getting slippers and turning the hall light on. Because I knew. That it would be too late.
There she was, lying on her side, door akimbo, a blob of dough flung two feet away from her, just under the range. I picked her up gently. Her door wouldn't close and a plastic corner had sheared off. I sighed. I brushed off the blob of dough and put it in a plastic container, to deal with the morning. I had heard dark rumors of such things, of bread machines moving around the counter during the kneading stage, and actually flinging themselves off the edge. However, this had never happened in 12 years. How strange that it should happen now. Or perhaps I had "accidentally" left her too close to the edge? My sadness is tinged with guilt. A little.
To prove how totally heartless I am, we already have a new Ms. Q.Z. Nart. She is shiny and beautiful, and makes delicious bread. All's fair in love, war, and kitchen gadgets.
Life was good for Ms. Hitachi B. Machine for many years. She had a position of honor in our household and didn't mind making the same oat bread forever, and the same pizza dough, and never any quickbreads. (You might as well make quickbreads the normal way.) Her glory years were the Swarthmore years, making sandwich bread for Will and Jack's lunches, and pizza dough for the Friday night pizza ritual.
But one day I was browsing at the upscale kitchen store, W-S, and a shiny new stainless steel bread machine caught my eye. She had a convection oven, many more settings, including "artisan," and this one called my name, almost audibly. "Lauren. I'm Q. Z. Nart. Take me home!" Looking back, my big mistake was talking about this machine in front of Ms. H. B and saying things like "Our bread machine doesn't have near that number of settings." Or, in a moment of desparation, "Don't you think our bread machine has gotten noisier?" John was the one to actually say out loud what I was thinking: "We've had this bread machine a very long time. If you find one that you'd really like, why not get a new one?" And I'd murmur, "Oh, no, I'd wait until this one dies."
One night shortly after that, at 2:10 AM, I heard the crash. I knew it was Ms. H. B. Machine right away, even in my grogginess. I took my time walking downstairs, getting slippers and turning the hall light on. Because I knew. That it would be too late.
There she was, lying on her side, door akimbo, a blob of dough flung two feet away from her, just under the range. I picked her up gently. Her door wouldn't close and a plastic corner had sheared off. I sighed. I brushed off the blob of dough and put it in a plastic container, to deal with the morning. I had heard dark rumors of such things, of bread machines moving around the counter during the kneading stage, and actually flinging themselves off the edge. However, this had never happened in 12 years. How strange that it should happen now. Or perhaps I had "accidentally" left her too close to the edge? My sadness is tinged with guilt. A little.
To prove how totally heartless I am, we already have a new Ms. Q.Z. Nart. She is shiny and beautiful, and makes delicious bread. All's fair in love, war, and kitchen gadgets.
Feb 24, 2007
The Manuscript and the Goat
It's a been a big week.
I finally submitted my manuscript and application materials for the MFA in Creative Nonfiction. I FedExed it on Wednesday, two days before the deadline, just as I had planned not to do, of course. I had to tinker with things for a while, but mostly I procrastinated about editing the personal statement, which my writing group had suggested I revise because I was "selling myself short." In the end I didn't even change it that much, mainly because I just didn't think it was worth the agonizing. I wash my hands of the matter now. I'll hear in early April as to whether I got in. The day I turned it in I "celebrated" by going to bed at 9:30. Please, no one let me apply to any more graduate programs in my life.
Then the next day I had to prepare a dinner for nine: my immediate family and my Dad, his lady friend visiting from Seattle, my brother, his girlfriend, and her two-year-old. It was a school night, but it couldn't really be helped. This had been planned for a couple of months, and of course I thought I'd have the application turned in a week before, ha ha. Part of me just wanted to punt and buy prepared food, but another part of me wanted to experiment aggressively with a quirky menu.
So that's what I did. I made a goat stew from meat I had gotten months earlier from the CSA, on a whim. You can use goat in almost any recipe that calls for lamb, so I made a stew from my mother's Spanish cookbook Delicioso! by Penelope Casas. When I started to smell it cooking it seemed a little strong, and I had misgivings, but in the end it turned out delicioso indeed. The cubed meat was cooked in red wine and a little vinegar, and I crushed six cloves of garlic, onion, and red bell pepper to make a paste. That was added in the last 30 mins. of cooking. The stew looked really scant at the end so I served it on couscous. Thank God for couscous, the Divine Extender.
I also made a salad of my own devising from baby spinach, arugula, blood orange sections, and red onions, with a dressing of olive oil, lime juice, and cumin. I bought some Manchego cheese and a fresh ciabatta; that's a rectangular flat rustic bread. We had a red Spanish wine that had been recommended to us by the all-knowing wine guys at Moore Bros. in Wilmington, our new wine mecca. For dessert? Also from the Spanish cookbook, an almond potato cake. It had two cups of almonds and a potato in it, and no other fat other than the oil already in the almonds. Six eggs, though.
Although I didn't pander to anyone's tastes for this meal other than my own, almost to an obnoxious degree, the food received raves. I believe it awakened everyone from their gastronomic torpor. Even the kids seemed happy, with the carbs anyway, if nothing else. (Now I'm all about Spanish cooking, and even got a serious mortar and pestle for the pastes with garlic and herbs.)
Next post: After making hundred of loaves of bread, our 12-year-old bread machine committed suicide, and I have only myself to blame.
I finally submitted my manuscript and application materials for the MFA in Creative Nonfiction. I FedExed it on Wednesday, two days before the deadline, just as I had planned not to do, of course. I had to tinker with things for a while, but mostly I procrastinated about editing the personal statement, which my writing group had suggested I revise because I was "selling myself short." In the end I didn't even change it that much, mainly because I just didn't think it was worth the agonizing. I wash my hands of the matter now. I'll hear in early April as to whether I got in. The day I turned it in I "celebrated" by going to bed at 9:30. Please, no one let me apply to any more graduate programs in my life.
Then the next day I had to prepare a dinner for nine: my immediate family and my Dad, his lady friend visiting from Seattle, my brother, his girlfriend, and her two-year-old. It was a school night, but it couldn't really be helped. This had been planned for a couple of months, and of course I thought I'd have the application turned in a week before, ha ha. Part of me just wanted to punt and buy prepared food, but another part of me wanted to experiment aggressively with a quirky menu.
So that's what I did. I made a goat stew from meat I had gotten months earlier from the CSA, on a whim. You can use goat in almost any recipe that calls for lamb, so I made a stew from my mother's Spanish cookbook Delicioso! by Penelope Casas. When I started to smell it cooking it seemed a little strong, and I had misgivings, but in the end it turned out delicioso indeed. The cubed meat was cooked in red wine and a little vinegar, and I crushed six cloves of garlic, onion, and red bell pepper to make a paste. That was added in the last 30 mins. of cooking. The stew looked really scant at the end so I served it on couscous. Thank God for couscous, the Divine Extender.
I also made a salad of my own devising from baby spinach, arugula, blood orange sections, and red onions, with a dressing of olive oil, lime juice, and cumin. I bought some Manchego cheese and a fresh ciabatta; that's a rectangular flat rustic bread. We had a red Spanish wine that had been recommended to us by the all-knowing wine guys at Moore Bros. in Wilmington, our new wine mecca. For dessert? Also from the Spanish cookbook, an almond potato cake. It had two cups of almonds and a potato in it, and no other fat other than the oil already in the almonds. Six eggs, though.
Although I didn't pander to anyone's tastes for this meal other than my own, almost to an obnoxious degree, the food received raves. I believe it awakened everyone from their gastronomic torpor. Even the kids seemed happy, with the carbs anyway, if nothing else. (Now I'm all about Spanish cooking, and even got a serious mortar and pestle for the pastes with garlic and herbs.)
Next post: After making hundred of loaves of bread, our 12-year-old bread machine committed suicide, and I have only myself to blame.
Feb 13, 2007
Take Rachael Ray. Please.
I've been itching to write something about the unwatchable Rachael Ray for a while, except I don't want to watch her enough to write it. But she's on the tube whenever I'm at the gym, so I've been able to catch just a few snippets in the locker room. However, very little seems to be about food, it's boyfriends and banter and heartwarming stories but where's the food? It must be later in the show after I leave. When I read in a Karen Heller article in the Inquirer the other week that Ms. Ray has a recipe for Barbecued Succotash, something deep inside of me snapped. And that's even before I learned about Hot Dog Salad or Sangria on a Stick. Anyway, that was it. I'm on the warpath against R.R. and her slummy recipes. I want her off my Triscuit boxes and off the TV. And have I seen huge ads for her show on SEPTA buses? Or only in my nightmares?
Now you simply must read what Anthony Bourdain says about her as a guest writer on Michael Ruhlman's blog. (You need to scroll down, or you could read all his merciless comments on the Food Network's "bobbleheads," if you have the stomach for it.) Sometimes you have to love this kind of writing. Bourdain really bites.
Now you simply must read what Anthony Bourdain says about her as a guest writer on Michael Ruhlman's blog. (You need to scroll down, or you could read all his merciless comments on the Food Network's "bobbleheads," if you have the stomach for it.) Sometimes you have to love this kind of writing. Bourdain really bites.
Feb 12, 2007
Water: The Accidental Baptism
There I was, Wednesday afternoon at around 2:10, trying to solve a problem. Once a week, I teach a writing class to middle schoolers at Will's Montessori. We are reviewing websites, and I had gotten us all on our own Wikispace. Here's the problem: I had seriously underestimated their ability to turn it into a party. They had been sending messages to each other during the whole class without my knowledge, even though I had told them I could read everything they sent. Anyhow, there I was, thinking, What Have I Done, and staring at the kids' comments on the screen. I began to hear a slow, rhythmic tapping sound . . . on my open file next to the computer. Dripping, actually. I looked up and saw a brown water line on the ceiling. Upstairs, I saw that it was wet around the toilet.
I wiped it up, and not sure what to do next, flushed. In retrospect? Not such a good idea. The toilet overflowed, and overflowed, and overflowed, with astonishing rapidity and force. Over the bathroom floor, down through the floor and into the kitchen, raining onto my keyboard and monitor as I grabbed the files and anything moveable out of the way. For about fifteen minutes I became another person, Panicked Princess. She unplugged everything she saw. She grabbed a bucket but she really needed about six. She grabbed a towel but she really needed ten. Panicked Princess called 911. She really shouldn't have, but she hadn't seen this much water coming down, indoors, ever. She called hubby, who calmly told her where the valve for the house's water was located. She succeeded in turning it off.
A nice Swarthmore Borough policeman came. (The police here don't have a whole lot to do.) He helped Panicked Princess mop up. He told her reassuring things like "This floor might buckle. You might have to redo it." "Your kitchen cabinets are wet. I hope you won't have to have new ones put in." "Can I see your basement? Oh, look, it's pouring down here, too." Our shop vac/wet vac was in the attic, so I carried it down our narrow attic ladder. Panicked Princess was beginning, slowly, to morph back into Lauren. Deep breathing helped.
Finally, Nice Swarthmore Policeman said, "I don't think it's as bad as it looks. That's just residual water coming down." Lauren was back. Lauren called Will's school to cancel an interview for an article she was writing for them. Lauren called a friend to have her get Will. Lauren called the plumber, and something in her voice, a trace of Panicked Princess, prompted them to put our house at the top of their emergency list.
So, after hours of looking for a clog, they found what was probably a bird's nest at one time, perched on top of the exhaust pipe, maybe? It's all conjecture at this point. Plus, pipes have been freezing around here, so that may have contributed to what amounted to an impressively impenetrable clog.
And the upshot? A nice new high-pressure toilet and a plumbing bill not to sneeze at. Grains and flours had to be thrown out. And as I said, some cookbooks now have slightly wavy pages. But then License to Grill was already doused with water at some point, and Trattoria Cooking was already wavy and scorched. Some people don't believe in keeping cookbooks in the kitchen, or so I hear, and now I know why. My mother's collection is in the living room, because I consider them archival, but otherwise I think cookbooks are to be splattered upon and marked and otherwise affectionately abused.
As for my computer? It. Is. Fine. I normally try to avoid that bloggy habit of using periods for emphasis, so please understand that when I do it, it means EMPHASIS. EMPHASIS!!!! My manuscripts for my MFA application have not been lost. I was supposed to back them up, like John was always telling me, but of course I didn't. But everything is fine. Did I say that? That my computer is fine? Like when Batman's helicopter crashes into the foam rubber expo (we just saw the movie last night), it was just good fortune. For which I'm very thankful.
And my Wikispace problems? I've locked the space and we're now using the school's email to share responses. Because I have no time or interest in policing the students, and the Wikispace was just too, too tempting for the little darlings. That problem, in my mind, was all wrapped up with the other one, how to stop a flood when you're not at the source. Here is what I've learned:
1. Middle schoolers do technology a million times faster and better than 48-year-olds.
2. Each toilet has a little shutoff valve right on the dang thing.
3. If you admit a mistake, students are grateful and everyone can move on.
4. Always know where your water shutoff valve is.
5. The dryest time of winter is the best time to have a lot of water between the floors in your house.
6. Back up your files.
7. Cops can be very nice. So can middle schoolers.
I wiped it up, and not sure what to do next, flushed. In retrospect? Not such a good idea. The toilet overflowed, and overflowed, and overflowed, with astonishing rapidity and force. Over the bathroom floor, down through the floor and into the kitchen, raining onto my keyboard and monitor as I grabbed the files and anything moveable out of the way. For about fifteen minutes I became another person, Panicked Princess. She unplugged everything she saw. She grabbed a bucket but she really needed about six. She grabbed a towel but she really needed ten. Panicked Princess called 911. She really shouldn't have, but she hadn't seen this much water coming down, indoors, ever. She called hubby, who calmly told her where the valve for the house's water was located. She succeeded in turning it off.
A nice Swarthmore Borough policeman came. (The police here don't have a whole lot to do.) He helped Panicked Princess mop up. He told her reassuring things like "This floor might buckle. You might have to redo it." "Your kitchen cabinets are wet. I hope you won't have to have new ones put in." "Can I see your basement? Oh, look, it's pouring down here, too." Our shop vac/wet vac was in the attic, so I carried it down our narrow attic ladder. Panicked Princess was beginning, slowly, to morph back into Lauren. Deep breathing helped.
Finally, Nice Swarthmore Policeman said, "I don't think it's as bad as it looks. That's just residual water coming down." Lauren was back. Lauren called Will's school to cancel an interview for an article she was writing for them. Lauren called a friend to have her get Will. Lauren called the plumber, and something in her voice, a trace of Panicked Princess, prompted them to put our house at the top of their emergency list.
So, after hours of looking for a clog, they found what was probably a bird's nest at one time, perched on top of the exhaust pipe, maybe? It's all conjecture at this point. Plus, pipes have been freezing around here, so that may have contributed to what amounted to an impressively impenetrable clog.
And the upshot? A nice new high-pressure toilet and a plumbing bill not to sneeze at. Grains and flours had to be thrown out. And as I said, some cookbooks now have slightly wavy pages. But then License to Grill was already doused with water at some point, and Trattoria Cooking was already wavy and scorched. Some people don't believe in keeping cookbooks in the kitchen, or so I hear, and now I know why. My mother's collection is in the living room, because I consider them archival, but otherwise I think cookbooks are to be splattered upon and marked and otherwise affectionately abused.
As for my computer? It. Is. Fine. I normally try to avoid that bloggy habit of using periods for emphasis, so please understand that when I do it, it means EMPHASIS. EMPHASIS!!!! My manuscripts for my MFA application have not been lost. I was supposed to back them up, like John was always telling me, but of course I didn't. But everything is fine. Did I say that? That my computer is fine? Like when Batman's helicopter crashes into the foam rubber expo (we just saw the movie last night), it was just good fortune. For which I'm very thankful.
And my Wikispace problems? I've locked the space and we're now using the school's email to share responses. Because I have no time or interest in policing the students, and the Wikispace was just too, too tempting for the little darlings. That problem, in my mind, was all wrapped up with the other one, how to stop a flood when you're not at the source. Here is what I've learned:
1. Middle schoolers do technology a million times faster and better than 48-year-olds.
2. Each toilet has a little shutoff valve right on the dang thing.
3. If you admit a mistake, students are grateful and everyone can move on.
4. Always know where your water shutoff valve is.
5. The dryest time of winter is the best time to have a lot of water between the floors in your house.
6. Back up your files.
7. Cops can be very nice. So can middle schoolers.
Feb 9, 2007
Water: First in a Series
I don't have time to even start to tell you about the havoc that an ancient bird's nest can wreak when it clogs a pipe that was already mostly frozen. Let's just say my computer has suffered serious brain damage. And my cookbooks have wavy pages. And we have to get a new toilet. Et cetera.
However, I will share an anonymous message I found on a piece of paper in the upstairs hall. It says:
Bath B. horible
Baby's
against
the
horible
Bath
However, I will share an anonymous message I found on a piece of paper in the upstairs hall. It says:
Bath B. horible
Baby's
against
the
horible
Bath
Jan 30, 2007
Diana is Still Missing
The Philadelphia Inquirer is still gushing about the city's visit from Prince Charles and Camilla over the weekend. I must say it did seem a bit incongruous for them to be wandering around among the life-size statues of signers of the Declaration of Independence, not the least bit on their guard. We certainly have managed to get over our little spat with the British, as Philadelphians waited in line to spot the royals, take pictures, and shake hands.
I wasn't one of them. Now if Princess Di were still alive, I would have. If Princess Di were still married to Charles, that is. Or, better yet, Princess Di without Charles would have been fine. I confess, I still have my copy of Royal Wedding, by Kathryn Spink. It's one of those coffee table books full of glossy but poor-quality papparazzi shots, along with professional portraits by Lord Snowdon, archive photos, whatever. It's filled with fulsome praise that no one reads. A thrown-together opportunistic souvenir book that made lots of money. The lovely couple prancing in the woods at Balmoral. The dashing bachelor prince looking at the breasts of an African dancer. (Yes, really.) The virginal "Shy Di" before she had an inkling of her destiny as princess, live or dead; mother of two princes; wife, or bitter divorcee. And Diana, Prince Charles at her side as an accessory, wearing The Gown.
At the age of 22, I followed Diana and Charles' courtship with great interest. I watched their wedding live, along with my roommate, on our 13-inch black and white TV. Such a beautiful fairy tale, indeed. And how fleeting. The bulimia, the affairs, the divorce, the recriminations. When she was killed, I was stricken. I had been watching her become her own person, and was looking forward with a great deal of curiosity to see what she would make of herself, what her legacy would turn out to be. And--I'll say it--what fabulous clothes she would wear.
But that was it. There was to be no more. I watched her funeral, live, for hours, with lots of tissues on hand. I can't entirely explain what Diana represents to me, but after watching her wedding with such dedication, it seemed only right to watch her funeral.
At the funeral, a choir sang the hymn that borrows the melody from Holst's "Jupiter" (from The Planets). It had also been sung at the royal wedding. I had always found the melody achingly beautiful, so much so that John and I had a harpist and violinist play it at our wedding, two months before Diana's death. ("The harpist asked us, "Why don't you want Pachelbel's Canon like everyone else?") Strangely, John and the rest of the choir sang that same hymn on Sunday at our church, the day that Charles and his new wife left Philadelphia.
I wasn't one of them. Now if Princess Di were still alive, I would have. If Princess Di were still married to Charles, that is. Or, better yet, Princess Di without Charles would have been fine. I confess, I still have my copy of Royal Wedding, by Kathryn Spink. It's one of those coffee table books full of glossy but poor-quality papparazzi shots, along with professional portraits by Lord Snowdon, archive photos, whatever. It's filled with fulsome praise that no one reads. A thrown-together opportunistic souvenir book that made lots of money. The lovely couple prancing in the woods at Balmoral. The dashing bachelor prince looking at the breasts of an African dancer. (Yes, really.) The virginal "Shy Di" before she had an inkling of her destiny as princess, live or dead; mother of two princes; wife, or bitter divorcee. And Diana, Prince Charles at her side as an accessory, wearing The Gown.
At the age of 22, I followed Diana and Charles' courtship with great interest. I watched their wedding live, along with my roommate, on our 13-inch black and white TV. Such a beautiful fairy tale, indeed. And how fleeting. The bulimia, the affairs, the divorce, the recriminations. When she was killed, I was stricken. I had been watching her become her own person, and was looking forward with a great deal of curiosity to see what she would make of herself, what her legacy would turn out to be. And--I'll say it--what fabulous clothes she would wear.
But that was it. There was to be no more. I watched her funeral, live, for hours, with lots of tissues on hand. I can't entirely explain what Diana represents to me, but after watching her wedding with such dedication, it seemed only right to watch her funeral.
At the funeral, a choir sang the hymn that borrows the melody from Holst's "Jupiter" (from The Planets). It had also been sung at the royal wedding. I had always found the melody achingly beautiful, so much so that John and I had a harpist and violinist play it at our wedding, two months before Diana's death. ("The harpist asked us, "Why don't you want Pachelbel's Canon like everyone else?") Strangely, John and the rest of the choir sang that same hymn on Sunday at our church, the day that Charles and his new wife left Philadelphia.
Jan 26, 2007
Notes from the Dream Kitchen
For a second I'll peep out from under an avalanche of self-imposed work to say an unlikely thing, "Thank you, junky entertainment center for kids with the big ugly mouse!" Because tomorrow I'll take Will to a birthday party there and work on my MFA application. One of my references wants to see my application essay before she writes the letter, which is understandable, but that means I need to write the thing. I have scraped together just over 25 pages of manuscript to send in, flotsam and jetsam from the past seven years. I fixed a lot of inconsistencies in "Hawaiian Delight," and need to work on "Blind" and a few more pieces.
I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about whether I should be doing this. It's a chunk of change, but truly the best way for me to get direction for my writing. And, really, I want to have a good portion of a book started by my 50th birthday. As I mentioned before, it's a low-residency MFA, which will be the easiest, and it's only creative nonfiction. I've already been to a conference at this college, back when I was pregnant with Jack, and I knew, This is What I Want to Do. So two kids, one relocation, and a few gray hairs later, I hope to be back. I've ordered the transcripts, so it's really just asking for recommendations, editing my ms. and writing the essay. In other words, almost everything. The deadline is Feb. 23. Oh, and the other thing? Is that if I have an MFA I could teach creative nonfiction, which I may want to do, just possibly.
Here are some completely undeveloped notions about what I want to write about, not in any particular order
--a food memoir, using my grandmother's, my mother's, and my favorite recipes as focal points (like "Hawaiian Delight" only I hope not as sappy).
--a nonpreachy book about home cooking as a practice that liberates you from the "corporate takeover of your larder," as Jean Zimmerman calls it in Made from Scratch: Rediscovering the Pleasures of the American Hearth. Why do American watch so many cooking shows and yet have "no time" to cook? Because they're watching cooking shows? Why do we "need" huge fancy kitchens but eat out more than any time in history? No, really. Why? I'm going to find out. And what happened to dinner parties, anyway?
--a book of essays about the Reading Terminal Market. Not a history of the market, as David O'Neil, the former manager, already did, but a portrait of it. Stories about the life of the market. Maybe a year at the market, season by season, New Year's to New Year's. This would hit a lot of the topics above, of course, and give me a structure to hang them on.
By the way, Nora Ephron is going to write and direct a movie based on Julie Powell's book Julie & Julia, which I wrote about in this blog several months ago. She is probably the perfect person to do it.
I wake up in the middle of the night worrying about whether I should be doing this. It's a chunk of change, but truly the best way for me to get direction for my writing. And, really, I want to have a good portion of a book started by my 50th birthday. As I mentioned before, it's a low-residency MFA, which will be the easiest, and it's only creative nonfiction. I've already been to a conference at this college, back when I was pregnant with Jack, and I knew, This is What I Want to Do. So two kids, one relocation, and a few gray hairs later, I hope to be back. I've ordered the transcripts, so it's really just asking for recommendations, editing my ms. and writing the essay. In other words, almost everything. The deadline is Feb. 23. Oh, and the other thing? Is that if I have an MFA I could teach creative nonfiction, which I may want to do, just possibly.
Here are some completely undeveloped notions about what I want to write about, not in any particular order
--a food memoir, using my grandmother's, my mother's, and my favorite recipes as focal points (like "Hawaiian Delight" only I hope not as sappy).
--a nonpreachy book about home cooking as a practice that liberates you from the "corporate takeover of your larder," as Jean Zimmerman calls it in Made from Scratch: Rediscovering the Pleasures of the American Hearth. Why do American watch so many cooking shows and yet have "no time" to cook? Because they're watching cooking shows? Why do we "need" huge fancy kitchens but eat out more than any time in history? No, really. Why? I'm going to find out. And what happened to dinner parties, anyway?
--a book of essays about the Reading Terminal Market. Not a history of the market, as David O'Neil, the former manager, already did, but a portrait of it. Stories about the life of the market. Maybe a year at the market, season by season, New Year's to New Year's. This would hit a lot of the topics above, of course, and give me a structure to hang them on.
By the way, Nora Ephron is going to write and direct a movie based on Julie Powell's book Julie & Julia, which I wrote about in this blog several months ago. She is probably the perfect person to do it.
Jan 20, 2007
The Train Schedule Fairy
Our boys are now very interested in the Regional Rail timetables and stops. They have now memorized the stops on the R3, the Media-Elwyn line, and are learning the R2 stops. Every day or so the Train Schedule Fairy leaves a new schedule lying about the house somewhere. Yesterday it was the R5.
Oh, and I'm pulling together an application for a low-residency creative nonfiction MFA program . . . . That is partly why I haven't been hanging around the blog that much lately. Also I have two deadlines on Monday, a review of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck, for my friend Robin's online magazine, and an article for Will's Montessori's parents newsletter. I actually get paid for the latter. If my review of Ephron book is decent, then I'll post it here. dear friends.
Oh. Here's a scene from Macy's this morning: I was in the shoe department, looking for some flat black shoes. And for some flat black boots. Will was with me, and he picked up every glittery pair of high-heeled strap shoes for me to try on. And he would shout over to me, "Wear these! You won't look like my mom!"
Oh, and I'm pulling together an application for a low-residency creative nonfiction MFA program . . . . That is partly why I haven't been hanging around the blog that much lately. Also I have two deadlines on Monday, a review of Nora Ephron's I Feel Bad About My Neck, for my friend Robin's online magazine, and an article for Will's Montessori's parents newsletter. I actually get paid for the latter. If my review of Ephron book is decent, then I'll post it here. dear friends.
Oh. Here's a scene from Macy's this morning: I was in the shoe department, looking for some flat black shoes. And for some flat black boots. Will was with me, and he picked up every glittery pair of high-heeled strap shoes for me to try on. And he would shout over to me, "Wear these! You won't look like my mom!"
Jan 9, 2007
Inchworm in the Winter Sun
On Saturday we had unusually warm weather. I let Will wear a T-shirt and shorts for our walk to the bank and grocery store. We had a lovely time, as the sun radiated good cheer. Will found a gumball from the sweetgum tree in our neighbor's yard, and put it in his pocket.
One of the tellers at the bank asked the lady in front of me if the little boy wanted a lollipop. She looked puzzled and said, "Oh, he isn't MINE!" We all laughed at the confusion and the teller asked me the same question, and I said, "No thanks." Will missed the exchange because he was too busy snapping those rope things that keep the the patrons in an orderly line. The last time I did my banking with Will there was a box of doughnut holes just sitting out for anyone to take. Will immediately availed himself of several before I even had a chance to notice. (His Grammy was supposed to be watching, but I think she snaffled down a couple, too.) You have to watch these branch banks and their attempts to foist sugar on you.
On the way to the grocery store, we stopped in a shop called "The Head Nut," which, because of the name, I had never even been tempted to enter. I had always thought of the store as "The Head Nut," when it's actually "The Head Nut." Because the store sells a lotta nuts, is why, not because it's a head shop, which I really didn't think it was, but in the back of my mind I guess I had felt obscurely confused. We didn't buy any nuts, but I did buy one ounce of ground coriander for 29 cents and a tube of tomato paste. A tube is what tomato paste should always be sold in, not a can. You never use the whole can, so you freeze the rest of it in a little bag, and in two years you throw it out because you don't know what is. O, but the life of most canned tomato paste is a long cold waste indeed.
We then proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought two cartons of milk We rested at a table outside the grocery store before walking back, this time lugging milk in a brown paper bag. This was actually enjoyable, walking a distance and carrying things. We need to do this more often. Shifting the weight now and then, I thought of my carless pre-internet days in the city, when what I bought was limited to what I could carry, a time when weather and the fit of my shoes were paramount to everyday life.
Will exclaimed, "A worm! Look!", but it was a twig. In the next block we did get to see our worm, its shiny gray body contracting and expanding in waves as it progressed purposefully across the sunny sidewalk. For a worm, it was rushing. I set the groceries down and we watched it. Finally it stopped and rested when it reached the end, no doubt relieved to be near grass and farther from the specter of frying in the sun.
Will found another gumball by the same tree on the way back, and he put it in his other pocket. And so, satisfied with the fruits of our walk and warmed by the sun, we arrived home. But this doesn't mean Will accepts this weather. No. He has had me read The Snowglobe Family to him a half dozen times. He wore his snowboots down to breakfast on Sunday. He! Wants! Snow!
One of the tellers at the bank asked the lady in front of me if the little boy wanted a lollipop. She looked puzzled and said, "Oh, he isn't MINE!" We all laughed at the confusion and the teller asked me the same question, and I said, "No thanks." Will missed the exchange because he was too busy snapping those rope things that keep the the patrons in an orderly line. The last time I did my banking with Will there was a box of doughnut holes just sitting out for anyone to take. Will immediately availed himself of several before I even had a chance to notice. (His Grammy was supposed to be watching, but I think she snaffled down a couple, too.) You have to watch these branch banks and their attempts to foist sugar on you.
On the way to the grocery store, we stopped in a shop called "The Head Nut," which, because of the name, I had never even been tempted to enter. I had always thought of the store as "The Head Nut," when it's actually "The Head Nut." Because the store sells a lotta nuts, is why, not because it's a head shop, which I really didn't think it was, but in the back of my mind I guess I had felt obscurely confused. We didn't buy any nuts, but I did buy one ounce of ground coriander for 29 cents and a tube of tomato paste. A tube is what tomato paste should always be sold in, not a can. You never use the whole can, so you freeze the rest of it in a little bag, and in two years you throw it out because you don't know what is. O, but the life of most canned tomato paste is a long cold waste indeed.
We then proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought two cartons of milk We rested at a table outside the grocery store before walking back, this time lugging milk in a brown paper bag. This was actually enjoyable, walking a distance and carrying things. We need to do this more often. Shifting the weight now and then, I thought of my carless pre-internet days in the city, when what I bought was limited to what I could carry, a time when weather and the fit of my shoes were paramount to everyday life.
Will exclaimed, "A worm! Look!", but it was a twig. In the next block we did get to see our worm, its shiny gray body contracting and expanding in waves as it progressed purposefully across the sunny sidewalk. For a worm, it was rushing. I set the groceries down and we watched it. Finally it stopped and rested when it reached the end, no doubt relieved to be near grass and farther from the specter of frying in the sun.
Will found another gumball by the same tree on the way back, and he put it in his other pocket. And so, satisfied with the fruits of our walk and warmed by the sun, we arrived home. But this doesn't mean Will accepts this weather. No. He has had me read The Snowglobe Family to him a half dozen times. He wore his snowboots down to breakfast on Sunday. He! Wants! Snow!
Jan 3, 2007
A Thingue about Meringue
You have to admire egg whites. I mean there they are, looking like snot run amok, until you beat them mercilessly and they attain their full glossy glory. If you add sugar, cocoa powder, and yes, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, you've got Nigella Lawson's recipe for "Gooey Chocolate Stack" well under way, my friend. The egg whites will transform into three lovely meringues (or orangutans, as Will called them).
As for the six yolks that have been divorced from their whites, you beat those (with less dramatic results) with cream, sugar, and milk, and add melted bittersweet chocolate and vanilla and you've begun creating the chocolate creme de patissiere to dollop over the big flat meringues. Like Nigella says, chocolate heaven. I brought this to a New Year's brunch and it was devoured. Even though Jack and Will say they like Hershey's chocolate better than the Scharffenberger's I used, they had no objections to eating this rather adult confection. I found a copy of the recipe here, with no attribution. It's from How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p. 185. I couldn't find pistachios so I sprinkled slivers of honey roasted almonds over the top. If I ever find candied violets, I'd like to use those. I am in love with just the idea of candied violets.
Oh, if you make this? Please be advised that Nigella may be a relaxed cook but when she says to make the meringues eight inches across, she means eight inches. So don't make them nine. Because then the meringues will be too thin and the chocolate creme will absorb them. And also? Please do assemble this layered creation just a few minutes before eating, because, again, the absorption situation. The meringues must be crisply separate and distinct from the creme for maximal mouth feel. (Why am I talking like this?)
We don't eat meringues so much in the U.S. and I don't know why. They are often called pavlovas in Britain and Australia and have a fruit sauce. Nigella's word for the meringues in this recipe is "gungy," British slang for, well, pretty much exactly what the inside of a meringue is like. On this side of the pond we have no slingue to describe meringue. Our loss.
As for the six yolks that have been divorced from their whites, you beat those (with less dramatic results) with cream, sugar, and milk, and add melted bittersweet chocolate and vanilla and you've begun creating the chocolate creme de patissiere to dollop over the big flat meringues. Like Nigella says, chocolate heaven. I brought this to a New Year's brunch and it was devoured. Even though Jack and Will say they like Hershey's chocolate better than the Scharffenberger's I used, they had no objections to eating this rather adult confection. I found a copy of the recipe here, with no attribution. It's from How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p. 185. I couldn't find pistachios so I sprinkled slivers of honey roasted almonds over the top. If I ever find candied violets, I'd like to use those. I am in love with just the idea of candied violets.
Oh, if you make this? Please be advised that Nigella may be a relaxed cook but when she says to make the meringues eight inches across, she means eight inches. So don't make them nine. Because then the meringues will be too thin and the chocolate creme will absorb them. And also? Please do assemble this layered creation just a few minutes before eating, because, again, the absorption situation. The meringues must be crisply separate and distinct from the creme for maximal mouth feel. (Why am I talking like this?)
We don't eat meringues so much in the U.S. and I don't know why. They are often called pavlovas in Britain and Australia and have a fruit sauce. Nigella's word for the meringues in this recipe is "gungy," British slang for, well, pretty much exactly what the inside of a meringue is like. On this side of the pond we have no slingue to describe meringue. Our loss.
Dec 31, 2006
Between the Years
Between Christmas and New Year's is a magically suspended week. We celebrate with our children and remember our own childhoods. Yet while we revel in the present in light of the past, we also think about the future in a way only possible during this week. There is a spentness to this season; the Christmas tree is getting dryer, wrapping paper and ribbons can be found behind the sofa, and where is that gift certificate, anyway? Our waists are a tad wider. And we think, "Is this all?"
I met with two old friends near the MLA convention this past week. One of them, G., I have always envied. She has children and tenure at a decent school, a published book and another on the way. But. Her marriage is unraveling, destructively. viciously, and it is causing her to despair. And I am afraid for her. Please send your thoughts and prayers out to her . . . . My other friend who I met, H., is still single at 50, and has recently won a coveted short story prize, but is still waiting for her "break." She just learned that she has arthritis in her hips, and that her ex-fiance is married, with a child. Pray and think about her, too.
There is a point, somewhere in midlife, when you can run aground. Your mistakes catch up with you, the narrative of your life is stalled, you dread exposing your fears to anyone. At a certain point the seams in your soul start to show you that things aren't getting better and better, an endless spiral of success and happiness. Then, what do you? You've lost track of your oldest and best friends, or don't forgive them for something you no longer remember. You can't be as vulnerable to new friends as you would have been, because you don't want to appear needy.
Our culture doesn't give us a clear way to transcend our bodies or our fears, or any legitimate way to smash the success myth. We have to claw our way out of this one, full of grit and cussedness. We need to start praying, make art, teach someone to read, write a book, learn to give back, forgive those who have wronged us. We need to seek community, whether it's a church or synogogue or not. We cannot do this on our own.
In less than two years I will be 50. I know that raising children is extremely valuable, but I need something else that adds up to more than carpools, loaves of bread, and a blog. I know that I need to dedicate myself to writing, and I am working on some specific solutions that are too tentative to mention now. (Don't worry, this does not involve running away from home.) Dear readers, help me have the boldness to do this.
And may you face the challenges of the New Year with grit and cussedness.
I met with two old friends near the MLA convention this past week. One of them, G., I have always envied. She has children and tenure at a decent school, a published book and another on the way. But. Her marriage is unraveling, destructively. viciously, and it is causing her to despair. And I am afraid for her. Please send your thoughts and prayers out to her . . . . My other friend who I met, H., is still single at 50, and has recently won a coveted short story prize, but is still waiting for her "break." She just learned that she has arthritis in her hips, and that her ex-fiance is married, with a child. Pray and think about her, too.
There is a point, somewhere in midlife, when you can run aground. Your mistakes catch up with you, the narrative of your life is stalled, you dread exposing your fears to anyone. At a certain point the seams in your soul start to show you that things aren't getting better and better, an endless spiral of success and happiness. Then, what do you? You've lost track of your oldest and best friends, or don't forgive them for something you no longer remember. You can't be as vulnerable to new friends as you would have been, because you don't want to appear needy.
Our culture doesn't give us a clear way to transcend our bodies or our fears, or any legitimate way to smash the success myth. We have to claw our way out of this one, full of grit and cussedness. We need to start praying, make art, teach someone to read, write a book, learn to give back, forgive those who have wronged us. We need to seek community, whether it's a church or synogogue or not. We cannot do this on our own.
In less than two years I will be 50. I know that raising children is extremely valuable, but I need something else that adds up to more than carpools, loaves of bread, and a blog. I know that I need to dedicate myself to writing, and I am working on some specific solutions that are too tentative to mention now. (Don't worry, this does not involve running away from home.) Dear readers, help me have the boldness to do this.
And may you face the challenges of the New Year with grit and cussedness.
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