Category Archives: Uncategorized

Purging

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We’ve been shuffling the contents of our house around. That’s a pretty way of saying we’ve been moving books, bookcases, papers, desks, CDs, and games. I’ve been bravely culling our collection, mailing an average of five books a day. We got to the point in the process where the mess was overwhelming and I was approaching paralysis. My husband, seeing the situation—calculating the time before our house is full to the rafters with boys, toys, and thrills—pitched in, bringing order out of chaos.

I had boxes and boxes of binders: small, medium and extra-large three-ring binders. I’m embarrassed to admit the years of my life that I’ve spent putting paper in binders. I had at least eight thick binders, full of magazine articles I’d clipped, trimmed, indexed, paper-protected, and clicked into binders.  I had reams of notes from conferences, classes, seminars, forums, symposiums, and workshops, all three-hole punched. And a half dozen binders with full magazines slipped through those plastic-strip thingies you see in libraries.

All those years of organization sent to the recycle bin. The humiliating recognition that when I thought I was being so clever, so resourceful…um, I wasn’t.  

Finally, I worked through the residue of my homeschool life. Binders for every subject. Binders for sub-subjects. Samples of my sons’ work. I saved representative pages, but recycled dozens of three-point paragraphs.

Curt kept me focused. I felt the refreshing lightness that comes with relinquishment. This is good, I told myself. At the same time, it was sad. A huge part of my life—15 years—is done. I worked to keep up a disciplined view of what was happening. And then, I had an emotional hernia: my reasoning tore and my emotion bulged. I kept working through tears.

“I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching,” I sniffed. “Do you remember coming home and we couldn’t wait to tell you about Savonarola, Cortez, Romney, or Fibonacci numbers?”  Selective memory: I didn’t mention the anger, the failures, the frustrations. “It feels like I’m throwing away proof that I really did this.” 

“Our sons are the proof. And now you can pour yourself into our grandsons.”

I write this to encourage you who are in the trenches. Work hard and persevere. There will come a time when you look back on what you are doing now with a fierce fondness. You will say, “I loved this. I loved learning so much. I loved teaching my kids.”

Adams, Washington, Franklin

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Two books and a miniseries.

Duel in the Wilderness is a historical novel about young George Washington’s mission to bring a message from the English king to the French commander in Ohio. An enormous responsibility for a twenty-one year old man, the trip requires physical stamina, diplomatic savvy, and acumen under pressure. Several more experienced officers declined the job, fearing it would lead to certain death. Washington, though, wanted to make a name for himself. You will find no sword or pistol duel. The duel—full of thrusts, parries, feints—is between two nations over control of the continent.

Poor Richard’s Almanack is a collection of Benjamin Franklin’s proverbs and aphorisms. Thrift, diligence, humility, attention, temperance, cleanliness, and resolve are praised and encouraged; I believe the Almanack is the basis of the stereotypical Yankee thrift. Franklin’s economy of words makes these pithy sayings easy to remember.

Fish and Visitors stink after three days.

Eat few Suppers, and you’ll need few Medicines.

Little strokes fell great Oaks.

Death takes no bribes.

Keep flax from fire, youth from gaming.

Dost thou love Life?
Then do no squander Time;
for that’s the Stuff Life is made of.

I found it curious to read Franklin’s Almanack in light of John and Abigail Adams’ opinions of Franklin.  David McCullough writes:

[John Adams] found Franklin cordial but aloof, easygoing to the point of indolence,
distressingly slipshod about details and about money….Franklin acknowledged that
frugality was a virtue he never acquired. p. 198

John Adams, a 7-part HBO series based on David McCullough’s masterpiece, John Adams, was excellent. Paul Giamatti and Laura Linney shine as John and Abigail Adams. The heart of John Adams’s life story is his marriage with Abigail, a woman both beautiful and brilliant. If you are a bit hazy on the Federalist/Anti-Federalist debate, watching this will help set the stage for this struggle. The best part of this series, though, is the Special Feature: David McCullough, Painting with Words.  Happily, Painting with Words is available to watch on YouTube in four parts.

 

Advent Wreath for the Craft Challenged

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This is three weeks late, but it would be ridiculous of me to pretend I’m on time for anything. And, you know, it’s really not too late to begin this year. Because you can have this up and running in about 3 minutes.

I know, I know there aren’t the traditional 3 purple+1 pink tapers. But I’m all for starting somewhere and taking joy in where you are. And it is a lovely tradition to light the candles (only one the first week of Advent, adding one candle a week, lighting the red one on Christmas day) before we sit down for dinner. A lovely tradition noted in its absence this week, while we hosted a virus and never sat down at table.

So here it is: four white pillar candles, one red pillar, something to elevate the red candle (I used a footed glass candy dish), some cranberry garland, a tray or wide plate to put under it.

In the words of my friend Steph, Don’t miss the hush.

Heirloom

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Tim Stark’s Heirloom: Notes from an Accidental Tomato Farmer was a jolly good read. The opening sentence hooked me: An unsustainable writer’s life—hunkered down at a desk on the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone— proved to be the soil in which the farmer within me took root. Tim Stark knows writing. He knows hard work. And he definitely knows tomatoes. Heirloom is a narrative of the starts and setbacks, the disdain of local farmers and the high praise of five-star chefs, the doubts and difficulties and the joys of growing heirloom tomatoes.

An heirloom tomato, according to Wikipedia, is “an open-pollinated (non-hybrid) heirloom cultivar of tomato. Heirloom tomatoes are grown for historical interest, access to wider varieties, and by people who wish to save seeds from year to year.” If you are looking for a practical manual on how to find seeds and grow heirlooms, this is not your book. At best you can glean names and descriptions of varieties: Cherokee Purple, Green Zebra, Garden Peach, Plum Lemon, Radiator Charlie’s Mortgage Lifter, Black Drim, Extra Eros Zlatolaska, Zapotec Pleated.

No, this is a book to read for the joy of a ripe garden tomato.

For all their efforts to make the homegrown variety as readily available as Murphy’s Oil Soap—from hydroponics to gene manipulation to those non-stop comfort flights from the greenhouses of Holland—the agro-industrialists have succeeded only in stocking the grocery shelves with expensive tomatoes that appear to bear the succulent richness of the fully ripe, just-picked specimen. To fall for them is a bit like talking dirty on the telephone for $3.99 a minute. You pay a lot of money and you still don’t get the real thing. 45

The bits on the Mennonite and Amish neighbors delighted me. Stark describes one Old Order Mennonite neighbor—a resourceful friend and mentor—as my guide to all things Anabaptist. That’s the Pennsylvania part of the equation. The other side includes the gourmet chefs who come down to Manhattan’s farmer’s market—Greenmarket—to peruse and purchase produce. It is fun to watch Tim weave through these disparate worlds. 

Some of the farmers who live near me are amused almost to the point of intoxication by my techniques. 191

Again and again, we were written up: The holy grail of tomatoes. Best tomatoes on the planet. Once the laughingstock of all nightshade-dom, our tomatoes graced the cover of Gourmet. 88

I cried reading about the week after 9/11, the peak of harvest, and how providing tomatoes for meals for volunteers brought a slice of normalcy and stability to a city reeling with loss.

Again, I am inspired to try my hand at growing heirloom tomatoes. I’ve been inspired before, but haven’t followed the inspiration with perspiration. Or even initiation to find heirloom seeds.

 

Small Wonder

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The first Barbara Kingsolver I read, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, gave me respect for her writing and passion, even though our core beliefs don’t often align. Small Wonder is a collection of essays written in response to the 9/11 attacks. The first essay, written on 9/12/01, begins sorting out the implications of this changed world. She alternates between a wide-angled view of the world and a macro lens focusing on her closest relationships. The letters to her daughter and to her mother are tender, honest, and vulnerable. Kingsolver’s collection was like a sidewalk: broad expanses that didn’t resonate or where I disagree with her strongly (stridently?) stated premises…and then a little crack where we deeply agree.

My favorite essay, What Good Is a Story, reminded me of thoughts I’d been pondering from N.D. Wilson in this interview. And I nodded and murmured assent while I read The One-Eyed Monster, and Why I Don’t Let Him In. And her turns of phrase, like being flattered and flattened by any kind of male approval, made my heart sing.

On writing:

What makes writing good? That’s easy: the lyrical description, the arresting metaphor, the dialogue that falls so true on the ear it breaks the heart, the plot that winds up exactly where it should. 209

I love [fiction], strangely enough, for how true it is. If it can tell me something I maybe suspected, but never framed quite that way, or never before had sock me so divinely in the solar plexus, that was a story worth the read. 210

A good short story cannot be simply Lit Lite. It should pull off the successful execution of large truths delivered in tight spaces. 211

The business of fiction is to probe the tender spots of an imperfect world, which is where I live, write, and read. 213

On television:

It’s fairly well documented that TV creates a net loss in contentment. 135

Anyone inclined toward chemical sedatives might first consider, seriously, turning off the TV. 141

 

Tamar, a Novel

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As with any good mystery, I immediately wanted to re-read Tamar to look for clues and to see the significance which I missed in the first reading.  The 1944-1945 story of two spies for the Dutch resistance, code named Tamar and Dart, is interwoven with the life of a young woman—named Tamar—in 1995 London, attempting to learn her Grandad’s and Gran’s shrouded personal history.

Grandad defends his silence: I happen to think there are certain things that are best left buried, that we should take to our graves with us. Terrible things that we have witnessed. I’m sure you disagree. You belong to a liberated generation; you believe in freedom of information.  Gulp.  This took me back to a moment around a table when I waltzed into our aunt’s memories of growing up in WWII Austria. “What was it like?” I probed, with no clue what my question cost. Aunt Anita was quiet, looked down, gathered herself, and then replied, “Oh, we really don’t want to get into that now.” 

It is hard to write about the narrative without a spoiler. The espionage parts are intense; my muscles tensed while reading them. The nighttime ambush of Nazi SS Lieutenant General Rauter and retaliatory executions is true.   

Some quotes:

It was so damned hard to know what the old man was feeling. He was like one of those office blocks with tinted windows; you could only see in it you happened to look from a certain angle when the light was right. 5

The fear was on him suddenly, like a thin covering of ice over his entire skin. 65

Dart had become so unused to good feelings that he’d acquired the habit of examining them like a careful shopkeeper who’d been paid with a big banknote. 173

The teenaged Tamar finally connects with Grandad through algebra and crossword puzzles.

Grandad taught me that the alien signs and symbols of algebraic equations were not just marks on the paper. They were not flat. They were three-dimensional, and you could approach them from different directions, look at them from different angles, stand them on their heads. You could take them apart, and put them together in a variety of shapes, like Lego. I stopped being afraid of them.

I discovered that Grandad’s world was full of mirages and mazes, of mirrors and misleading signs. He was fascinated by riddles and codes and conundrums and labyrinths, by the origin of place names, by grammar, by slang, by jokes—although he never laughed at them—by anything that might mean something else.

He taught me that language was rubbery, plastic. It wasn’t, as I’d thought, something you just use, but something you can play with. Words were made up of little bits that could be shuffled, turned back to front, remixed. They could be tucked and folded into other words to produce unexpected things. It was like cookery, like alchemy. Language hid more than it revealed.

I’m not an expert in Young Adult fiction, but I question that slot for this book. It tilts strongly adult and not so much young. I have some other quibbles, but to bring them up here would spoil things.

Reading this fiction made me want to read Leo Mark’s non-fiction Between Silk and Cyanide, a book waiting patiently on my TBR shelf. I was delighted the Mal Peet acknowledged this title as very helpful in his research.

I wanted to read this book after reading Sherry’s review at Semicolon. Her Saturday Review of Books is a primary source of good reading!

 

SatReviewbutton

Thanksgiving 101

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We hosted our first Thanksgiving dinner (15+ people) when we were 21…and about every other year since.  I come from a family which regularly gleaned stranded students and set them around a heavy-laden Thanksgiving table.

I’ve had my share of fiascoes. After I made my first pumpkin pie, I couldn’t find space for it in the refrigerator; so I placed it on top of the fridge and walked away. When it was time for dessert, that pie had polka dots of mold from crust to crust.  I’ve spattered mash potatoes on the ceiling, set off the smoke alarm, and discovered unserved salads in the fridge long after the guests had left.

Along my journey, except for the deep-frying gig, I think I’ve tried every new twist on cooking turkey. Breast down, in a bag, on the grill, very low heat overnight, high heat, covered, uncovered.  I am a sucker for three words: New and improved.

I saw good words about Rick Rodger’s Thanksgiving 101 and promptly put it on my Trade Books for Free - PaperBack Swap.  wishlist. A book that focuses on one meal intrigued me. Even though I’m not a novice, I wasn’t satisfied that I had found the best methods. This is the first Thanksgiving where I used Rick Rodgers for my guide. Color me thankful!  There is so much I love about this cookbook.

Rodgers includes many versions of traditional Thanksgiving dishes, with the kind of explanations you would find in Cook’s Illustrated.  He is frank in debunking what he calls Thanksgiving Myths. I followed his Perfect Roast Turkey directions, tightly covering the breast with aluminum foil; it was the very best turkey I’ve ever tasted.  Rick’s stuffing recipe was the best stuffing. Really! 

On Tuesday I made stock from turkey necks and legs (I could not find turkey wings, but I only checked one store). I used the stock instead of canned chicken broth for the stuffing, in roasting the turkey, and in the gravy. What’s left went into the soup.  I highly recommend this extra step. If time is tight the week of Thanksgiving, the stock (and gravy) can be made and frozen three weeks in advance.  Another tip was to heat the milk before adding it to potatoes for mashed potatoes.

I feel confident that I won’t deviate from the turkey and stuffing recipes I used.  But there are so many varieties of side dishes that would be fun to try. The chapter on Leftovers offers great ideas. Menus and timetables give all the practical help you need. I highly recommend this book as a reference for your future Thanksgivings.  Turkey is a budget-friendly protein. You may want to have a practice turkey dinner in March. (← brilliant thought, eh?)

One last thing. Guess what I plan to use a month from today? winky  Christmas 101

The Best Crescent Rolls

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Decades ago my neighbor called me up.
“I have extra rolls, would you like them with your dinner?”
Yep. She’s some kind of wonderful.

They. were. stupendous.

I prayed that this wasn’t a secret family recipe.
I think she dictated directions over the phone.
As you can see, my recipe card has survived a Niagra of spills.

This is a vintage recipe.
Given before the days of KitchenAid mixers in every kitchen.
So half the time you use a hand-mixer,
then you shift to mixing by hand.

The good old days of mixing and kneading by hand.

Rhonda’s Rolls

1/2 cup canned milk
1 cup lukewarm water
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 pkg yeast
1/2 cup sugar
2 t salt
2 eggs
5 1/2 cups flour

In large mixing bowl add yeast to water.
Add canned milk, oil, sugar, salt and eggs.
Mix well.
Add half the flour; using mixer, mix well for 3 minutes.
Add the rest of the flour cup by cup,
mixing with wooden spoon.
Knead dough for 10 minutes.

Wash out bowl and coat bottom with oil.
Place dough in pan and rise until doubled.
Punch down and cut in half.
Roll dough into a circle shape.
Cut like a pizza.
Roll up and place on cookie sheet.
Let rise until double.
Bake 400° for 6-8 minutes.

 

 

Above: Baked in my nifty Demarle Flexipan.
Below: Baked on a pizza stone.

 

Notes:

I always double this recipe. The family demands it.
I use whole milk instead of canned.
I buy yeast in bulk. 1 package = 1 scant Tablespoon
I used to brush melted butter over the tops.
Now I spray olive oil cooking spray.

Oh yes. I make the entire recipe, kneading and all,
in a Kitchen Aid or Bosch mixer.

 

Thanksgivings

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I’m thankful for the gloaming,

ancient hymns in minor keys,

Reuben sandwiches and Subaru engines.

 

For repeated forgiveness,

wood heat,

Bach’s Passacaglia,

and B.B. King. 

 

For sibling phone-calls,

library downloads,

BBC films,

an expanded table. 

 

I’m grateful for grandsons and stacks of books,

for garlic sizzling in olive oil,

for book-lined walls and long car-talks.

 

For basil, cilantro,

spearmint,

fresh limes,

toddler laughter and

blesséd uninterrupted sleep.

 

Truth, beauty and goodness,

goodness and mercy,

mercy and grace.   

 

I’m grateful for Psalms,

Proverbs, Ecclesiastes:

Wisdom for the taking.

 

I pray for reconciliation,

renewed relationship,

the safe return of a wandering soul.

 

For husband hugs and kisses,

“Love you, Babe…“,

alliteration and Winslow Homer.

 

Declared righteousness,

“Thanks be to God” and

“We believe…”.

 

Extended family, augmented chords, lingering meals,

Scented candles, words!, and memories.

 

For daughters, and the sons who married them,

Nieces, nephews, grand-nieces, grand-nephews,

Extra sharp cheddar, and

The UPS man carrying Amazon.com boxes.

 

Pesto, bubble wrap, smiles that light up the whole face,

Asparagus, spiced chai, and abundant drinking water.

 

Cape Town, Johannesburg,

Budapest, St. Petersburg,

Ankara, Lusaka,

Harare, Krakow;

places where a piece of me resides.


I’m thankful for the death of death, for mingled tears,

For the grace to finish well,

For comfort in sorrow, the grip of hope.

 

Asian noodle salad, Augustine, whole wheat toast.

Reading evenings, empty nest.

 

I give thanks for Gore-tex, loving rebukes,

Laughter in the morning and southern windows.

 

For nostrils, fingernails and funny belly buttons,

For DSL, clematis, and airplane travel,

Enduring friendships,

Lively discussions.

 

I’m thankful for home,

a place to belong.

 

“Oh give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good.  His mercy endures forever.”

 

(adapted from previous posts)

The Crisis of Civilization

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The Crisis of Civilization was a curious read. Belloc loathes the Protestant Reformation, naming it a disaster, an explosion, a catastrophe, a manifold evil.  Belloc blames the Reformation for the rise in Capitalism, the root, he believes, of our present disastrous economic situation.  

This was a smackdown to a girl who spent every New Year’s Eve of her childhood watching the 1953 film Martin Luther and, consequently, has the “Here I Stand” speech memorized.  Why would I read this? I had no idea of Belloc’s premise when I got the book from Paperbackswap. Also, I respect Belloc because of his close friendship with G.K. Chesterton.  In addition, I am not opposed to reading opposing viewpoints.

A few disclaimers: I am totally out of my depth, reading and responding to Hilaire Belloc. Reading this book was the intellectual equivalent to me doing advanced yoga. Further, I have dear friends who are Catholic with whom I have no wish to quarrel.

Belloc’s argument with Capitalism is that the super-majority of people possess political freedom but are dispossessed of economic freedom.  He is equally vehement against Communism and believes the injustices inherent in Industrial Capitalism bred Communism. His solution is better distribution of property, the public control of monopolies, and a return of the guild. Ultimately, he calls for a wholesale conversion, by individuals and by society to the Catholic Church. 

Belloc wrote this book in 1937. He saw the rise of communism and shuddered at its ramifications. As I read this I wondered 1) how he would write this book after WWII and 2) how he would assess the current economy. It was a fascinating read in context of the Occupy Wall Street protests.

Much of what he predicted has, in fact, come true. Big business has preempted the small guy. Belloc’s example of grocers resonated with me. The chain store kills the small shopkeeper. Where our small town used to have a dozen neighborhood groceries, it now has three chain stores.  Belloc wrote about Wal-Mart before Wal-Mart existed. For me this brings up the perennial Wal-Mart question.  Evil empire or not?  I haven’t fully examined or engaged with this. 

Belloc’s ultimate goal of a unified, sanctified church is my goal too. While he was decidedly Roman Catholic, I remain a Protesting Catholic, grateful for the Reformation.