Five Five-Star Books

   
I feel badly for the next book I pick up to read.  I’ve so thoroughly enjoyed the last five books…the next one’s bound to be a disappointment, don’t you think?  I think six great books in a row is pushing the odds. 
                                                                                                                                                                                       

There it was, there it is, the place where during the best time of our lives friendship had its home and happiness its headquartersCrossing to Safety, the story of a life-long friendship between two couples, is full of phrases which reverberated in my bones.  It’s almost a Wendell Berry story in an academic setting.  It’s about four people who read and write and think and debate and spur each other on to excellence.  All her life she had been demanding people’s attention to things she admires and values.  She has both prompted and shushed, and pretty imperiously too.  [Thank you, Alfonso, for the reminder to read this book.]

  I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong HillsOut of Africa is a slow book, one that makes you pause, reflect, think.  Isak Dineson (Karen Blixen) writes with grace, clarity and beauty. Stories are told with the skill of a medieval minstrel.  Her descriptions of people, places, animals, events, weather, conflicts, heartaches…are superb.  It [rain] was like the coming back to the Sea, when you have been a long time away from it, like a lover’s embrace. // [In a drought] Everything became drier and harder, and it was as if force and gracefulness had withdrawn from the world.

One can’t imagine them reading poetry together, she thought, this being her main idea of a happy marriage.  Barbara Pym writes with the insight of Austen, the clerical flavor of Trollope, and the wit of McCall Smith. If you are looking for a light-hearted chuckle and a few horse laughs, Crampton Hodnet is for you. There is a marriage proposal as funny as any I’ve  read.  Oh, Miss Morrow–Janie, he burst out suddenly.  My name isn’t Janie.  Well, it’s something beginning with a J. he said impatiently.  Pure comfort reading.  Miss Morrow went into her bedroom.  She felt that she wanted a laugh, a good long laugh because life was so funny, so much funnier than any book. But as sane people don’t laugh out loud when they are alone in their bedrooms, she had to content herself with going about smiling as she changed her clothes and tidied her hair.  [Thanks, Laura, for the recommendation.]


Did you never hear how the life of man is divided?  Twenty years a-growing, twenty years in blossom, twenty years a-stooping, and twenty years declining. Life on Great Blasket Island, off the west coast of Ireland, was narrow, fierce and primitive.  Yet, life without distractions incubated gifted writers. Oxford University Press has published seven books by Blasket natives. (I’ve read two so far.) Maurice O’Sullivan’s memoir, Twenty Years A-Growing, offers a boys romp herding sheep, fishing the ocean, scrambling on cliffs, and salvaging shipwrecks.  The book is a taste of authentic Ireland, a sliver of joy to read.    Talk is true, but God is strong.  //  It is true, but wisdom comes after action.  //   As the old saying goes, ‘Bitter are the tears that fall but more bitter the tears that fall not.’

 
I had come to the conclusion that I must really be French, only no one had ever informed me of this fact. I loved the people, the food, the lay of the land, the civilized atmosphere, and the generous pace of life.  Julia Child’s My Life in France is full of zest and zing.  It is as satisfying as a seven-layer salad.  Foodies will frolic through the recipes.  Julia’s marriage to Paul Child is a refreshing splash of camaraderie.  Cross-cultural aficionados will delight in the Childs’ choice to make friends with the French instead of holding hands with the Americans in Paris.  Lifetime learners will lick their fingers at Julia’s example. Late bloomers will take courage from young Julia’s ignorance of cooking  This is my invariable advice to people: Learn how to cook- try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!

  

Sometimes It Just Takes One

Mid-December, 1995.  It was a dark and slushy night.  I stopped by the library just before it closed to get a book on hold.  I was at the front desk when my friend Cindy walked in the door, looking distressed.  Her car wouldn’t start, she lived 30 minutes away, and her husband wasn’t home yet.  And it was December. 

“I only know one thing about cars, but I’d be glad to try it,” I offered.  We had an Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera Wagon that was easily flooded.  My husband had taught me how to open the hood and stick a pen in the carburetor to hold it open. The car often flooded, but I could always fix it.  It was that kind of car.  I had used the pen-in-the-car trick many times to keep from getting stranded. 

I left my books inside; we held onto the rails as we threaded our way down the steps to the street.  The snow had turned to rain. Cindy popped the latch, I opened the hood like Mechanic was my middle name, and stuck the pen in the carburetor.  “Now try it,” I coached.  The car started like a top.  Oh. my. goodness.  I danced in the  puddles, whooped and hollered.  It was a moment of victory unlike any other in my life. fixed a car! 

Sometimes it only takes one piece to solve to puzzle.  When the odds of getting an answer look bleak, when the chances seem impossible, you don’t need a dozen possible choices.  There may be many interviews, but it just takes one job offer to become employed.  There’s no need for a dozen Mr. Rights to choose from.  It only takes one. 

Rice Pudding Reflections

It’s a jolly good laugh when the opposites of deprivation and bounty take you to the same dish. 

When we were feeding, clothing and educating our sons on a shoestring budget, peasant food was the menu du jour. I liked calling it peasant food: it gave it a romantic, bohemian flair. Peasant has a nicer ring than poor.  I bought potatoes in fifty pound bags, sacks of beans, sacks of rice, sacks of wheat, sacks of oats.  One son recalls us eating a lot of rice pudding.

Lately I’ve had the dilemma of abundance.  A local farmer delivers milk weekly and we’ve had too many gallons of milk spoil for lack of consumption.  Reluctant to reduce our order (and support of our farmer friend), we felt rotten throwing away good food.  Yogurt and cheese were options; I wasn’t consistent in making them and the demand for them was low.

I tried to think of foods that use milk.  “Remember when I used to make rice pudding?”  I combed through my cookbooks for a recipe which required the most milk.  One took a quart of milk; I doubled it.  It uses so much milk because you cook the rice in the milk instead of water.  My high-metabolism husband loved it.  He’s always looking for sweets to eat.

I doubled that recipe, tinkered with how to prepare it and now I make a gallon of rice pudding every week.  One man, my husband, eats a gallon of rice pudding every week! It’s become a game. 

Me:  You’re gonna get sick of rice pudding.
Him:  I will outlast you.  You will get tired of making rice pudding before I get tired of eating it.
Me:  I’ll keep making it! 
Him: I’ll keep eating it!

Enough Rice Pudding

1 gallon whole milk
4 cups rice
3 cups sugar
1 teaspoon salt

Mix ingredients and simmer on low heat until thick, 2-3 hours.
Stir when you can. 

In another bowl beat 6 large eggs together.
Add the hot mixture gradually to eggs to warm them up.
Add egg mixture to pudding and cook 5 minutes.

Remove from heat.
Add a few glops of vanilla (2T?).

Serve warm or cool in refrigerator.
Optional: sprinkle with cinnamon

So Far, SO GOOD

 

When my new doctor entered the exam room, she caught me in the act of writing in my journal.  In her lovely Southern drawl, she peppered me with questions, one of which was “Have you published?”

“No…um…but I blog?” was my lame answer.

“Really?” with the inflection going down, she made it sound like she really! was interested.  “What do you blog about?” 

The answer, my friend, was most definitely not….appliances. 

A stove is a banal topic, I grant you.  Ho. Hum.  But, when 1982 was the last time one has purchased a new major appliance it’s a big deal!  And I’m happy to tell you I love my new gas stove.  I love the crackling sound when you first turn a burner on, I love the flame that bursts forth, I love the control of fine-tuning the size of the flame, I love to sauté, I love to braise, I love to bake, I love to cook. 

Instead of four elements, I now have five burners.  Instead of three rack placements in the oven, I now have five.  I. have. a. warming. oven. (Never mind that I don’t know what to do with it yet.)  Color me happy!

And the best thing about this exchange?  Since our friend came and took the old (non-self cleaning) stove for scrap metal, I didn’t have to clean it!  Booyah!

In Which I Give a Lukewarm Review

 

I don’t know what I think about this book. 

It helps, I think, to explain what it is not.  Not a collection of metrical psalms, made for singing.  Not a direct correlation, verse by verse.  Laurance Wieder writes a poem for every psalm (150), shapes them into poems designed to make you see/hear them through different eyes/ears. 

The psalms are the best companions one can have in life.  They run the gambit of praise, grief, guilt, complaint; the psalmist articulates the responses of the heart to all of life.  There are many translations.  There are paraphrases.  Metrical psalms stick as close to the text as possible with meter and rhyme.   

I had arguments with myself.   One me told the other me the whole concept was wrong. / The other me retorted that Wieder did nothing illegal, immoral or indecent.  Give the man a chance. / He missed it!  / But look at this phrase. 
     
I tried reading the psalm [Bible] and then the poem.  Bad plan.  We had friends over; after dinner I read various poems that corresponded with our guests’ favorite psalms.  Their enthusiasm for his poems was dim.  Very dim.

But some of the poems surprised me and drove me back to the psalms to see where Wieder got that angle. His economy of words is admirable.  He paints with words.

Here’s an [inadequate] analogy.  I love Jane Austen.  She is the master.  One page of her writing is a feast.  But I don’t care for modern knock-offs, updated versions.  I can understand why writers would want to imitate Austen;  I don’t have a clue why any publisher would print them.

Here are two samples.  If you are curious how Wieder handles one of your favorite psalms you can read the book on Google Books.  I was completely floored to read the blurbs on the back.  Paul Auster and Tom Disch–both unfamiliar names–, Luci Shaw and R.L. Stine.  Luci Shaw, the poet, makes perfect sense.  But R.L. Stine? The author of Goosebumps?  Does that hit anyone else as…incongruous? <grin>

86       Of State

Listen, God, I need
You, hear me.
       Cheer me.
In this darkness.
Give me back
(My soul is ready
Now to leave me)
Any answer.
I don’t question
You believe me.
Teach me trust
In the returning
Promise, shame
My enemies
In public, enter
My heart in your
Book of splendors.

96     Jingle

New moon, new song:
Day short, night long.
Break sea, roar winds:
One God, more minds.
Stars blink. Suns cool.
Tongues twist. Souls rule.
Smoke’s sweet. Song doubts.
Times dance. Rain spouts.

Lose hope. Sow seed.
Cast bells. Ring true.
Not want, just need.
First frost. Late dew.

Singing Mom Who Sheds Cheerfulness

  

 

I can still hear you being cheerful on the slightest provocation, or no provocation at all, singing as you work and shedding your cheerfulness on others.  So let us remember your life, such a life as many women of your generation shared to some extent, though not always with your special trials and rarely with your stoicism and grace.

~  Wallace Stegner writing about his mother in “Letter, Much Too Late” from Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs

Fine Art Friday for Moms

  

Mary Cassatt.

An American often associated with French artists.
A single woman famous for depicting maternal love.
From Altoona, Pennsylvania! ♥♥

Today is a day of mingled grief and joy.
When I look at this art
my grief is not for what I lost
but for those who haven’t known
the touch of a loving mother,
the care of being bathed,
the warmth of being read a story,
the intimacy of touching mama’s face,
the security of being firmly held.

Happy Mother’s Day