I listen to public radio's Splendid Table more from a sense of thrilled disgust than from any lip-licking interest. The show's host, Lynne Rossetto Kasper, does love her food, but some of the recipes that that woman comes up with are more gag-worthy than inspired. Pine nut and chili bundt cake, anyone? Or how about some nice olive oil gelato? Mmm, goes down so smooth. More coffee? Let's just say, I wouldn't be saving room for dessert at Lynne's house.
Even by her standards, though, yesterday's broadcast was a stomach-churning whammy. First, she interviewed the authors of a new book titled, "What We Eat When We Eat Alone." I thought of my English muffin pizzas, my shaken-not-stirred Dannon yogurt. The peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that I slice into triangles, when I'm feeling particularly ambitious.
I wasn't ready for the whispered confession of margarita mix poured over potato sesame bread; leftover spaghetti and salad sandwich, or canned sardine juice over cottage cheese. (What sane person would admit to that?) By the end of the segment, my own romaine heart, ketchup and feta cheese salad was sounding positively gourmet. I considered calling in, though, with my own go-to vomiting solution, of a yellow gummi bear speared on the end of a fork and dipped in Italian vinaigrette. (Picture a speck of basil quivering on the end of a glistening paw.)
I was spitting out reflux when Lynne started in on the phone lines. One inquisitive caller wanted advice on savory birthday desserts. He likes to surprise his girlfriend. Last year, he made something that looked like a layer cake, but wasn't. Surprise! All I could make out over the sounds of my own retching was something like warm cornbread swirled with tomato paste and frosted with whipped cream. Frosted. My mind flashed on the layered tuna fish, white bread and mayonnaise-frosted Frankencake I'd stumbled across in some long ago children's book. The horror resonates still.
What is it with reinventing the wheel? There are ingredients--chocolate and raspberry, say, or strawberries and cream--that work together. And there are others--capers and lychee, for example, or pine nuts and applesauce--that shouldn't share the same shelf space. Of course there is room for experimentation and whimsy. But The Splendid Table's tiresome combinations of incompatible ingredients, tossed together for sheer shock value--of this, I've had enough. Until next Sunday, that is. There is something titillating about revulsion, after all.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Others
We'd been in Vancouver for about a week, and my husband and I were marveling at all things Canadian. The cleanliness of the streets; the politeness of the citizens; the feeling of safety in the dark. It was all so very civilized. America-lite. My country, without the ego. "They didn't have a revolution," my husband reminded me; "they settled their west by train."
One evening, we decided to go to the movies. "The Others" was playing in the clean new theater a few blocks from our downtown hotel. We arrived early, just the way I like to, and I congratulated myself on our terrific seats, which were midway back, and dead center. I settled into the plush cushions. Yup, we fit right in. "Canada's great!" I whispered to my husband. He squeezed my hand.
The theater started filling up, with softly murmuring patrons. I looked on in approval. So polite, so considerate, so orderly, so---The teenaged usher with the regulation-sized flashlight interrupted my elegy. He called for attention, and got it. It appeared there would be a full house, he announced politely; could those already seated please get up and shift over, so that latecomers could be seated.
I stifled a snicker. "Good luck with that," I thought. I mean, I come from the land of First Come, First Served. Finders Keepers. Beggars Can't Be Choosers. You Snooze, You Lose. What's it to me if these others came late? They can do what I do if I'm ever late to a theater--hover anxiously in aisles in the dark until their eyes adjust, and then squeeze themselves into any leftover space. It's a system. It works.
The more I thought about it, the more worked up I got. I braced myself for the revolution. "Hell no, we won't go!" I chanted to myself. I was still chanting, impotently, as the entire mass of seated moviegoers dutifully stood and shuffled right. There was no question of me individually keeping my spot. The momentum of the herd pressed me on.
Eventually, my husband and I were allowed to settle into our new, far less stellar seats. If I leaned left, past the NBA wannabe seated directly in front of me, I could still make out the screen. My husband was practically beside himself. "Can you believe that?" he whispered; "that wouldn't happen back home!" "Sure wouldn't," I hissed. I felt suddenly out of place amid these compliant, unselfish people. Very small, very mean, very American, and very ready, suddenly, to be home.
One evening, we decided to go to the movies. "The Others" was playing in the clean new theater a few blocks from our downtown hotel. We arrived early, just the way I like to, and I congratulated myself on our terrific seats, which were midway back, and dead center. I settled into the plush cushions. Yup, we fit right in. "Canada's great!" I whispered to my husband. He squeezed my hand.
The theater started filling up, with softly murmuring patrons. I looked on in approval. So polite, so considerate, so orderly, so---The teenaged usher with the regulation-sized flashlight interrupted my elegy. He called for attention, and got it. It appeared there would be a full house, he announced politely; could those already seated please get up and shift over, so that latecomers could be seated.
I stifled a snicker. "Good luck with that," I thought. I mean, I come from the land of First Come, First Served. Finders Keepers. Beggars Can't Be Choosers. You Snooze, You Lose. What's it to me if these others came late? They can do what I do if I'm ever late to a theater--hover anxiously in aisles in the dark until their eyes adjust, and then squeeze themselves into any leftover space. It's a system. It works.
The more I thought about it, the more worked up I got. I braced myself for the revolution. "Hell no, we won't go!" I chanted to myself. I was still chanting, impotently, as the entire mass of seated moviegoers dutifully stood and shuffled right. There was no question of me individually keeping my spot. The momentum of the herd pressed me on.
Eventually, my husband and I were allowed to settle into our new, far less stellar seats. If I leaned left, past the NBA wannabe seated directly in front of me, I could still make out the screen. My husband was practically beside himself. "Can you believe that?" he whispered; "that wouldn't happen back home!" "Sure wouldn't," I hissed. I felt suddenly out of place amid these compliant, unselfish people. Very small, very mean, very American, and very ready, suddenly, to be home.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Freefall
I read the other day about a United States soldier, Daniel Pharr, whose first sky diving attempt narrowly sidestepped tragedy. His tandem partner and instructor, George Steele, suffered a heart attack and died, in midair, while strapped to the Private's back. It's hard to imagine a more terrifying situation. (Plummeting to earth, strapped to a dead man, nanoseconds to react; nope, that about does it.) Amazingly, the soldier was able to keep his head (literally), and maneuver his parachute to safety; once back on the ground, he even had the grace and presence of mind to attempt CPR on his already deceased partner, rather than reverting to the fetal position and abject whimpering.
I believe that Daniel Pharr is a hero, not least since he spared his mother the horror of smashing to earth before her disbelieving eyes. He himself has downplayed talk of heroism, and credits his survival to his army training. I admire this modesty almost as much as his strength. I agree that his training probably saved his life. That's the side of military life I admire; the grace under fire, the almost superhuman ability to remain calm and focused under outrageous pressure. The capacity to be a hero, and to shrug off the glory. (I am under no illusions about my own psychological reserves. My own staunch motto remains, "when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout." In that soldier's situation--oh, who am I kidding--I would reveal state secrets, betray loved ones, and deny my own god to avoid being tossed from a flying airplane. But hypothetically, in a parallel universe, were I in that soldier's situation, my own last, fevered prayer would be that my remains be so thoroughly mangled that the coroner wouldn't be able to tell that I had both peed myself and voided my bowels before impact.)
But I can't help thinking about the shadow side of this indomitable strength. CNN reported today that soldier suicides are up; every day, it seems, beings new stories of divorce, and far worse, in army families. Our streets and VA hospitals are already littered with homeless and hurting veterans from this and past wars, stumbling through crippled lives. This is what happens when weakness is a stigma, when shell shock (or it's current, sterile incarnation, 'Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome') is denied. Refusing to acknowledge the profound schism between survival mode and civilian life does not mean that the schism doesn't exist. How does a person transition from constant alert and adrenaline, to playdates and PTA meetings? I think about our returning soldiers, and soldiers the world over, freefalling their way from war to peace. It scares me.
I believe that Daniel Pharr is a hero, not least since he spared his mother the horror of smashing to earth before her disbelieving eyes. He himself has downplayed talk of heroism, and credits his survival to his army training. I admire this modesty almost as much as his strength. I agree that his training probably saved his life. That's the side of military life I admire; the grace under fire, the almost superhuman ability to remain calm and focused under outrageous pressure. The capacity to be a hero, and to shrug off the glory. (I am under no illusions about my own psychological reserves. My own staunch motto remains, "when in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout." In that soldier's situation--oh, who am I kidding--I would reveal state secrets, betray loved ones, and deny my own god to avoid being tossed from a flying airplane. But hypothetically, in a parallel universe, were I in that soldier's situation, my own last, fevered prayer would be that my remains be so thoroughly mangled that the coroner wouldn't be able to tell that I had both peed myself and voided my bowels before impact.)
But I can't help thinking about the shadow side of this indomitable strength. CNN reported today that soldier suicides are up; every day, it seems, beings new stories of divorce, and far worse, in army families. Our streets and VA hospitals are already littered with homeless and hurting veterans from this and past wars, stumbling through crippled lives. This is what happens when weakness is a stigma, when shell shock (or it's current, sterile incarnation, 'Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome') is denied. Refusing to acknowledge the profound schism between survival mode and civilian life does not mean that the schism doesn't exist. How does a person transition from constant alert and adrenaline, to playdates and PTA meetings? I think about our returning soldiers, and soldiers the world over, freefalling their way from war to peace. It scares me.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Ain't No Reason Why
Disclaimer: The opinions below are solely my own, and are not meant to supplant the opinions of learned clergy, philosophers, litigation lawyers, or even, in fact, of my readers themselves. I'm just offering some food for thought.
I've been reading about the Great Plague lately (what can I say, I'm all up to date on People). Aside from the gripping accounts of suffering, what intrigues me most is how contemporaries tried to account for the disaster. They blamed themselves; they blamed the Jews; they blamed their God. They applied pitiful folk remedies; they fled; a few, noble or foolish, stayed to tend the sick.
Of all the varied and very human responses to that terrible time, the one that bothers (as opposed to outright horrifies) me the most, is the response that, "everything happens for a reason". Few expressions irritate me more. There are so many, many terrible things that have happened in our world--that are happening right now--for which it would be impossible to find a reason. Half of my family tree was wiped out in one fell swoop in 1939; did that happen for a reason? ("So that I can write about it" doesn't warrant a response.) Does suffering ever happen for a reason? (I mean, aside from childbirth, or camping out in K-ville for Duke-UNC tickets.) I know I'm in the realm of the philosophers and the clergy here, but I've got my own opinions, thank you very much (see above disclaimer). Was there a reason for the Great Plague? Some moral in terrified fathers abandoning their infected children, in mothers spewing gangrenous froth from rotting lungs? Was there some cosmic object lesson behind innocent Jews being hunted down and exterminated in a delirious fit of scapegoating? You see where I'm going with this.
There were causes, certainly. Overpopulation, abominable hygiene, an overabundance of supercharged Yersinia pestis, for starters. But a cause is not the same as a reason. To say that there was a reason for a disaster, great or small, may be comforting, in some twisted, Stockholm syndrome sort of way, but I think it misses the point. What I believe is that we create our meaning. I believe that it is in our nature to try and make sense of the disasters that befall us. And that, in the best cases, we forge some sense of meaning and dignity from them. And that is noble. But that's not the same as saying that there was a reason for the suffering, in the first place.
I've been reading about the Great Plague lately (what can I say, I'm all up to date on People). Aside from the gripping accounts of suffering, what intrigues me most is how contemporaries tried to account for the disaster. They blamed themselves; they blamed the Jews; they blamed their God. They applied pitiful folk remedies; they fled; a few, noble or foolish, stayed to tend the sick.
Of all the varied and very human responses to that terrible time, the one that bothers (as opposed to outright horrifies) me the most, is the response that, "everything happens for a reason". Few expressions irritate me more. There are so many, many terrible things that have happened in our world--that are happening right now--for which it would be impossible to find a reason. Half of my family tree was wiped out in one fell swoop in 1939; did that happen for a reason? ("So that I can write about it" doesn't warrant a response.) Does suffering ever happen for a reason? (I mean, aside from childbirth, or camping out in K-ville for Duke-UNC tickets.) I know I'm in the realm of the philosophers and the clergy here, but I've got my own opinions, thank you very much (see above disclaimer). Was there a reason for the Great Plague? Some moral in terrified fathers abandoning their infected children, in mothers spewing gangrenous froth from rotting lungs? Was there some cosmic object lesson behind innocent Jews being hunted down and exterminated in a delirious fit of scapegoating? You see where I'm going with this.
There were causes, certainly. Overpopulation, abominable hygiene, an overabundance of supercharged Yersinia pestis, for starters. But a cause is not the same as a reason. To say that there was a reason for a disaster, great or small, may be comforting, in some twisted, Stockholm syndrome sort of way, but I think it misses the point. What I believe is that we create our meaning. I believe that it is in our nature to try and make sense of the disasters that befall us. And that, in the best cases, we forge some sense of meaning and dignity from them. And that is noble. But that's not the same as saying that there was a reason for the suffering, in the first place.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thursday Night Fever
I don't go to the gym to feel stupid. That's what the temp job is for. I go to the gym to work off tension generated by the temp job, which, aside from a regular and fairly meager paycheck, holds zero interest for me. Usually, this system works well. I'll set the timer on the elliptical machine and take in the latest issue of People, or clamber aboard a stationary bike for a round of hamster-wheel travel. It's fun. I can go anywhere I want; Hollywood, Tuscany. And it's not hard to be good at it. I like being good at what I do. I don't get that feeling at work. I picture John Travolta as Tony Manero in Saturday Night Fever, escaping the limits of his weekday world for the freedom and glory of the dance floor.
But tonight for some reason (let's call it hubris), I decided to take a class. A step class, to be precise. I wanted something energetic, but not too mentally taxing (and let's face it; step aerobics doesn't exactly rank up there with calculus) and not as cheesy as NIA. Besides, I came of age in the 80s. I cut my workout teeth on leg warmers and headbands. Grapevine? Bring it. What could be so hard about adding a bench?
Lots, apparently. Maybe I should have just slipped out when the instructor, adjusting her headset, told us we'd need two sets of benches and risers. The head set alone should have been my clue. Instructors with headsets tend to take themselves seriously. After lulling me with a short warm-up, she took the routine to Olympic rhythmic-gymnastics tryout levels. "And L step!" she barked; "Round the world repeaters!" All around me, ponytails flew as women with varying levels of competence and athletic ability scrambled earnestly on and off their benches. A few of them looked pretty good. I tried to picture myself as one of them. Well, actually, I tried to picture myself as one the sleek background models on Fit TV, the kind the camera caresses with a slow pan, but my mind kept flashing on Marsha Mason as Paula McFadden, an aging showgirl huffing her way through the off Broadway tryouts in The Goodbye Girl. I held my own through an increasingly complex choreography of rocking horse, mambo, off-bench side kick, and step-step-stomp, but headset girl lost me on the dreaded figure eight straddle. Let's just say I was not in my element.
At least I wasn't the only one. While I resorted to kick steps and jazz hands, trying to at least face in the proper direction, a few of the other students slowed and paused and, finally, stopped in place, defeated, as forlorn as abandoned windup toys. And one slim blonde, a human gazelle whom I've seen running effortlessly for hours on end, simply gathered up her benches and left. Back to her treadmill, no doubt.
It's what I wanted to do. Just leave, go do something I'm good at, something that makes me happy. Enough with the kick steps, and the jazz hands, and the look of frenzied confidence--it was draining. It's what I've been trying to do at work, and what I came here to escape; the endless effort of keeping up, of trying to make sense of the absurd. Xerox this sheet of paper, but not that one; xerox this page 3 times, and send 2 copies in a legal sized envelope to that department, and file the second copy in the red/blue/green/orange folder, but first annotate the fourth and sixth copies, but only if we're in the third fiscal quarter. Then make 15 copies of this form, and write five lines in shorthand on each copy, each in a different color, and fax the primary colored ones to the faded address on the original.
Well, that may not be exactly what I do, but it's the emotional truth. It's not fun, and it's not worth trying to understand. And then I just let it go, the class and work and everything. Who cared which bench I was on? Who cared which way I was facing? The point of the class was to get my heart rate up, the way the point of my job is a paycheck. The rest of it just doesn't matter. Like Tony Manero, I've got my escape. It just doesn't happen to be step class.
But tonight for some reason (let's call it hubris), I decided to take a class. A step class, to be precise. I wanted something energetic, but not too mentally taxing (and let's face it; step aerobics doesn't exactly rank up there with calculus) and not as cheesy as NIA. Besides, I came of age in the 80s. I cut my workout teeth on leg warmers and headbands. Grapevine? Bring it. What could be so hard about adding a bench?
Lots, apparently. Maybe I should have just slipped out when the instructor, adjusting her headset, told us we'd need two sets of benches and risers. The head set alone should have been my clue. Instructors with headsets tend to take themselves seriously. After lulling me with a short warm-up, she took the routine to Olympic rhythmic-gymnastics tryout levels. "And L step!" she barked; "Round the world repeaters!" All around me, ponytails flew as women with varying levels of competence and athletic ability scrambled earnestly on and off their benches. A few of them looked pretty good. I tried to picture myself as one of them. Well, actually, I tried to picture myself as one the sleek background models on Fit TV, the kind the camera caresses with a slow pan, but my mind kept flashing on Marsha Mason as Paula McFadden, an aging showgirl huffing her way through the off Broadway tryouts in The Goodbye Girl. I held my own through an increasingly complex choreography of rocking horse, mambo, off-bench side kick, and step-step-stomp, but headset girl lost me on the dreaded figure eight straddle. Let's just say I was not in my element.
At least I wasn't the only one. While I resorted to kick steps and jazz hands, trying to at least face in the proper direction, a few of the other students slowed and paused and, finally, stopped in place, defeated, as forlorn as abandoned windup toys. And one slim blonde, a human gazelle whom I've seen running effortlessly for hours on end, simply gathered up her benches and left. Back to her treadmill, no doubt.
It's what I wanted to do. Just leave, go do something I'm good at, something that makes me happy. Enough with the kick steps, and the jazz hands, and the look of frenzied confidence--it was draining. It's what I've been trying to do at work, and what I came here to escape; the endless effort of keeping up, of trying to make sense of the absurd. Xerox this sheet of paper, but not that one; xerox this page 3 times, and send 2 copies in a legal sized envelope to that department, and file the second copy in the red/blue/green/orange folder, but first annotate the fourth and sixth copies, but only if we're in the third fiscal quarter. Then make 15 copies of this form, and write five lines in shorthand on each copy, each in a different color, and fax the primary colored ones to the faded address on the original.
Well, that may not be exactly what I do, but it's the emotional truth. It's not fun, and it's not worth trying to understand. And then I just let it go, the class and work and everything. Who cared which bench I was on? Who cared which way I was facing? The point of the class was to get my heart rate up, the way the point of my job is a paycheck. The rest of it just doesn't matter. Like Tony Manero, I've got my escape. It just doesn't happen to be step class.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Starting Over
So many people were ready for 2008 to be done. It became almost a test of endurance at the end. A litany of sadness. One friend wrote me that, "the sun seems to have gone further south this year." Such an odd thing to write in a holiday letter, on cheery stationary, in pretty, scripted font. But I understand. My own Christmas cards made a pre-written plea for "Peace on Earth, Good Will to All." (Because that's not too tall of a wish, now is it?) It was a trying year, and it's high time for it to be over.
And yet, in coming up with my own recap of 2008, I was surprised to realize that, on a personal level (as opposed to the political, financial, and environmental ones), this past year was a good one. I applied and got accepted to graduate school, after years of hesitation and self-doubt. I got published, twice, and amassed a fairly decent collection of "good" rejections*. I wrote the briefest of one-act plays, that was performed before my entire department at school. In Polish, yet. (That one just tickles me.) I translated my love of fiber and color into dyeing and spinning and felting. I talked my way into two small craft shows and, to my utter disbelief, actually sold my first small piece. I started this blog.
I look back on these modest accomplishments with deep satisfaction and pride. But I'm not writing this to brag. I'm just trying to understand. This past year, something shifted in my perception of myself. I'm not sure what, or how, or why it took so darned long. (Or how, please god, to keep it up.) I guess I just woke up one day, unconsciously ready for something new. It's a change I wish for us all, in the coming year. After all, it may be arbitrary to see one gray mid-winter day as anything different than the one before, but the time is always right for a fresh start.
*A "good" rejection being a slip of paper with a handwritten note from the editors, as opposed to the purely anonymous 'no'. A rejection, yes, but somehow less crushing. I'm sure there's a German word that conveys the exact emotional response.
And yet, in coming up with my own recap of 2008, I was surprised to realize that, on a personal level (as opposed to the political, financial, and environmental ones), this past year was a good one. I applied and got accepted to graduate school, after years of hesitation and self-doubt. I got published, twice, and amassed a fairly decent collection of "good" rejections*. I wrote the briefest of one-act plays, that was performed before my entire department at school. In Polish, yet. (That one just tickles me.) I translated my love of fiber and color into dyeing and spinning and felting. I talked my way into two small craft shows and, to my utter disbelief, actually sold my first small piece. I started this blog.
I look back on these modest accomplishments with deep satisfaction and pride. But I'm not writing this to brag. I'm just trying to understand. This past year, something shifted in my perception of myself. I'm not sure what, or how, or why it took so darned long. (Or how, please god, to keep it up.) I guess I just woke up one day, unconsciously ready for something new. It's a change I wish for us all, in the coming year. After all, it may be arbitrary to see one gray mid-winter day as anything different than the one before, but the time is always right for a fresh start.
*A "good" rejection being a slip of paper with a handwritten note from the editors, as opposed to the purely anonymous 'no'. A rejection, yes, but somehow less crushing. I'm sure there's a German word that conveys the exact emotional response.
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