Sidenote: I made molasses cookies, the recipe of which I will probably post tomorrow.
***
If I were a woman, there is very little chance I would attend the vast majority of traditional religious services. Sitting in midnight mass with my family, sans the father figure, with our proudly Polish priest telling us about the holy family, it occurred to me that Mary really gets a short stick. She may be the Reverend Mother of one of the dominant religions on the planet, but she was essentially told to not worry about being made involuntarily pregnant at thirteen or fourteen then ushered into marriage in which she is--according to contemporary Catholic dogma--never, ever to have a sexual experience that would impinge on her immaculate soul. After parenting a young carpenter with, essentially, a significantly older male roommate who ruined her chances with any boyfriends, she watches him die, buries him, and then witnesses his resurrection.
Now, I have read a few comic books now and then, and the character of Jean Grey/Phoenix stands out. As was shown in the recent X-Men film trilogy, this character dies and returns to life not just once or twice, but frequently. So repetitive have her resurrections been, that her family doesn't want to hear about it anymore and just thinks of her as definitively passed on. Mary may have been exposed to a few foreign myths with resurrections and their is the passage that inspired "Them Bones, Them Bones," but a resurrection would be pretty harrowing for a poor, uneducated Hebrew woman getting up in years.
What my thoughts were getting to was that why emulate Mary when you can learn about Lilith and the Furies who are pretty badass female characters. Lilith, one of Adam's pre-Eve wives, refuses to lay down with a man (or just to lay down beneath a man, i.e. strictly missionary) and is exiled by God. Some stories say she went on to mother demons with Lucifer--which plays into some of the Vampire: The Masquerade mythos--while others just give her a sort of demi-divine status as a potent, untarnished, decisive person. The latter shows up in the comic epic of The Sandman where she gets to play the mother figure to a dreaming babe and provides guidance to a struggling young woman.
The Furies come to mind as well--incidentally, they also show up in The Sandman. The Furies are simply sweet. They are embodiments of all those emotions women are generally told to suppress; anger, bitterness, frustration, spite, etc. all get some amount of say in this or that interpretation of the Furies. I want to say a bit more on the Furies than that. I am of the opinion that feelings, even those intensely negative emotions that are given to the Furies, are meaningful. Once, I explained to a friend that the neurochemistry for fear, surprise, anger, and excitement are all very similar, but with the agent undergoing the simultaneous neurochemical and perceptual reality, the event sort of falls into place; that is, by placing our own interpretation on the event, we sort of get to do what we want with it. Something very similar applies to the feelings of the Furies; anger is as much a feeling of creation as of destruction, bitterness can both embrace and repel.
Love, adoration, and magnanimity are potential destroyers as much as hatred, bitterness, and spite. Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love highlights the confusing, even diabolical reality of love for some people some of the time--or maybe everyone some of the time. Or, it can be out of adoration that we can create obsession, that we can smother and ruin the lives of friends and family. It is important to dote now and then on those we care about, but adoration can be confusing and it can manifest in disastrous realities. As for magnanimity, it can become coddling and spoiling, manifesting in greed and egotism if untempered.
So, perhaps participating in a faith tradition I find so... uninspiring if not downright degrading as a male when I would not if I were female is hypocritical. Such a claim is warranted, and I choose to deflect rather than to disagree. My deflection is to the notion of heterodoxy, or non-orthodox beliefs. I was raised Roman Catholic and I am happy for it, though it has weighed on my life stronger than at others in ways I do not now appreciate. The word catholic--lower case, but the root of the upper variant--means universal; the Catholic Church was intended to be the universal, the all-encompassing church. The idea, for me, remains: A faith that covers all. The problem is that such a faith cannot be a dogmatic faith, it cannot be bound by rigid orthodoxy and regulation or even by specific spiritual notions; if we do so, it means that those who find the orthodoxy, regulation, or structure does not describe their reality, then it must not be correct. By allowing for heterodoxy, a universal or catholic faith supports the legitimacy of individual realities in the context of a single pursuit or articulation of our living world. Ultimately, a faith tradition has the responsibility of providing something for its practitioners; with a catholic faith, it allows for everyone to participate in that dialogue of description, experience, and enrichment together.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need."
Cicero
See this.
In a short while, I have a few musings to share, but for now, it is Christmas Eve and my sister and mother are making pomegranate margaritas--to the best of their ability.
Many blessings to all, and to all a good night.
Cicero
See this.
In a short while, I have a few musings to share, but for now, it is Christmas Eve and my sister and mother are making pomegranate margaritas--to the best of their ability.
Many blessings to all, and to all a good night.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Family, Holidays, and Our Quiet Langage
My father has made it here, while my sister and brother-in-law have not. My mother and I prepared the house for their arrival, but were unprepared for foul weather and flight complications that slowed trips. Erin & Joe won't be getting here until Wednesday, three days later than they had planned. Such is the way of winter, flights, and frustrations.
...
The company of family means playing card games, watching a movie here and there, conversational strolls, and shopping. My friends will attest that I do not often speak of my family, who have often been surprised that my father is around and that I have a brother and a sister. It is not that I deny or ignore or disregard my family, it is more that the reality of my family--even when it comes to conversing with the family--is a quiet one. Most of the weight of raising my siblings and I fell on my mother--which is not surprising--and to here we owe the willingness to see children become creative, insightful, and dedicated in our own ways and to our own degrees. Here on out, I will probably write and then delete, and the reconsider my words for just the aforementioned reasons.
What I mean to put into words here, I suppose, is that we all care for each other. Each of us shows our affection in different ways, with different skills and intentions, but to any clever observer, we each care very much for one another. As my siblings and I have left behind our adolescence, we have become more regular and out front with our hugs, kind words, and gift-giving. This, I would say, is a happy development in our camaraderie. It replaced a more, shall we say, aggressive manifestation of our bonds; my sister once left a hand-shaped bruise on my back and my brother once tackled me from behind just because he could not ignore a golden opportunity to do so. As I said, an improvement.
As for our parents, it is slightly more confusing and also somewhat similar. With time, we have learned to lovingly embrace and tolerate what we must; often taking what we can with genuine gratitude. My mother has always kept a space warm for her children and whatever company we bring into her home, even housing three young Gustavian women on choir tour for a few nights. I was not around, but I was sure to hear about it from all parties the subsequent months. Meanwhile, my globe-trotting father more often than not means well, but gets in the way of himself. If I could easily put into words how I relate to him, I would. On the other hand, I would not dare record how the rest of my family gets along and fails to get along with him; such is not my business nor my territory.
And that is one way to understand my family: business and territory. For the past few months, my mother and I have been able to share a good deal of territory. That territory has involved movies, TV shows, card games, dinners, walks, conversations and so on. Except under private, conversational situations, I would not share those experiences; they are our business. Similarly, I might joke about this or that episode with my brother or my father, but don't expect an exhortation or personal essay concerning them posted here. What I have mentioned thus far is long past and has been described in brief. That is, my family values discretion.
That, though, is not the note on which I mean to close. What I mean is that, despite the sometimes deceptive quiet of my family, we have spent years learning, interpreting, and speaking in a language all our own. That language is suffused with our own brand of reserved affection. In certain situations--the more extravagant or grievous, mostly--we become more verbose in our sentiments and our frustrations. More often than not, though, we are quietly exchanging glances, sly words, and happy recollections out of the range of our company. We hug good night when no one is looking, or rest our weight gently on another's shoulder, inquiring as we do so about the day, or catch a phone call and plan about the next expedition here or there. We speak a happy, quiet language, sometimes furtively slipped between the more common lines of day-to-day dialect. At the end of a long day, I know that and am thankful for it.
...
The company of family means playing card games, watching a movie here and there, conversational strolls, and shopping. My friends will attest that I do not often speak of my family, who have often been surprised that my father is around and that I have a brother and a sister. It is not that I deny or ignore or disregard my family, it is more that the reality of my family--even when it comes to conversing with the family--is a quiet one. Most of the weight of raising my siblings and I fell on my mother--which is not surprising--and to here we owe the willingness to see children become creative, insightful, and dedicated in our own ways and to our own degrees. Here on out, I will probably write and then delete, and the reconsider my words for just the aforementioned reasons.
What I mean to put into words here, I suppose, is that we all care for each other. Each of us shows our affection in different ways, with different skills and intentions, but to any clever observer, we each care very much for one another. As my siblings and I have left behind our adolescence, we have become more regular and out front with our hugs, kind words, and gift-giving. This, I would say, is a happy development in our camaraderie. It replaced a more, shall we say, aggressive manifestation of our bonds; my sister once left a hand-shaped bruise on my back and my brother once tackled me from behind just because he could not ignore a golden opportunity to do so. As I said, an improvement.
As for our parents, it is slightly more confusing and also somewhat similar. With time, we have learned to lovingly embrace and tolerate what we must; often taking what we can with genuine gratitude. My mother has always kept a space warm for her children and whatever company we bring into her home, even housing three young Gustavian women on choir tour for a few nights. I was not around, but I was sure to hear about it from all parties the subsequent months. Meanwhile, my globe-trotting father more often than not means well, but gets in the way of himself. If I could easily put into words how I relate to him, I would. On the other hand, I would not dare record how the rest of my family gets along and fails to get along with him; such is not my business nor my territory.
And that is one way to understand my family: business and territory. For the past few months, my mother and I have been able to share a good deal of territory. That territory has involved movies, TV shows, card games, dinners, walks, conversations and so on. Except under private, conversational situations, I would not share those experiences; they are our business. Similarly, I might joke about this or that episode with my brother or my father, but don't expect an exhortation or personal essay concerning them posted here. What I have mentioned thus far is long past and has been described in brief. That is, my family values discretion.
That, though, is not the note on which I mean to close. What I mean is that, despite the sometimes deceptive quiet of my family, we have spent years learning, interpreting, and speaking in a language all our own. That language is suffused with our own brand of reserved affection. In certain situations--the more extravagant or grievous, mostly--we become more verbose in our sentiments and our frustrations. More often than not, though, we are quietly exchanging glances, sly words, and happy recollections out of the range of our company. We hug good night when no one is looking, or rest our weight gently on another's shoulder, inquiring as we do so about the day, or catch a phone call and plan about the next expedition here or there. We speak a happy, quiet language, sometimes furtively slipped between the more common lines of day-to-day dialect. At the end of a long day, I know that and am thankful for it.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Obligatory Melancholy Post
Many of my friends share some familiarity with a story to which I now allude. A particular person, with whom I have long been acquainted, once received a good deal of affectionate attention from me despite frustrations of distance and timing. Mind you, I never intended to address such a memory, but a parcel I recently opened prompted me. Following the escapades of my summer spent counseling at Duke University, I wrote to her very frequently. During much of that time, she was out of the country and it takes quite a while for international mail to be "returned to sender," so to speak. In the aforementioned parcel, I found a collection of short letters I wrote to her as well as a three volume compilation. In reference to a late night watching and humorously analyzing George Romero's Night of the Living Dead, as well as a number of subsequent jests, I titled the collection Zombie Slumber Part Massacre. I now bring you the complete playlist of ZSPM. I might add that this includes a rather vast range of my tastes, but generally, I still enjoy turning my attention back to these tunes.
ZSPM I: Gratuitous Sex Scene
1. Drink to me Babe Then by AC Newman
2. Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind
3. Summerbaby by Polaris
4. Nocturna by Glovertango
5. Gamble Everything for Love by Ben Lee
6. Silence Teaches You How to Sing by Underwater Sleeping Society
7. Girl by Beck
8. Hospital Rooms Aren't for Lovers by Bear Colony
9. I'm Still in Love With You by Al Green
10. Red Letter Day by the Get Up Kids
11. Me on Your Front Porch by Criteria
12. All is Full of Love by Bjork
13. Easy to be Around by Diane Cluck
14. Feed of Clay by Vashti Bunyan
15. Kissing my Love by Bill Withers
16. Reno Dakota by the Magnetic Fields
17. The Leanover by Life Without Buildings
18. Memphis & 53rd by Minus the Bear
19. Playgirl by Ladytron
20. Peach, Plum, Pear by Joanna Newsom
21. Walking Out of Stride by Badly Drawn Boy
22. Here Comes My Baby by Cat Stevens
[Note: This is an unusual note for me to end on in a compilation, but that is because the three mixes are intended to be played continuously. So, for my own sort of rules, consider this an intermission, not the end of an playlist.]
ZSPM II: Absurdly Gory Death
1. Shadow Stabbing by Cake
2. My Beloved Monster by the Eels
3. The World's Gone Mad by Handsome Boy Modeling School
4. Who Could Win a Rabbit by Animal Collective
5. Hollow You by Antelope
6. Undone (the Sweater Song) by Weezer
7. Geeky Pop Song by the Capricorns
8. Staring at the Sun by TV on the Radio
9. Stretch (You are all Right) by Tortoise
10. Dracula From Houston by the Butthole Surfers
11. Don't Be Shallow by Sondre Lerche
12. Eugene, Oregon (Manifest Destiny) by Jayber Crow
13. The High Snow by Brazz Tree
14. Frontier Psychiatrist by the Avalanches
15. After Dark by Le Tigre
16. No Rain by Blind Melon
17. Vampires by Fastball
18. The Freshman by The Verve Pipe
19. Mary Jane's Last Dance by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
20. Jack the Ripper by Colin Meloy
ZSPM III: Sweet Revenge
1. Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz
2. Hey Jealousy by Gin Blossoms
3. The Old Apartment by Barenaked Ladies
4. I Threw it All Away by Yo La Tengo
5. A Long December by Counting Crows
6. Angel Won't You Call Me by the Decemberists
7. See Saw by the Weeds
8. Teen Titans Theme by Puffy AmiYumi
9. Where Does the Good Go? by Tegan and Sara
10. Begin Again by Ellis
11. Not Quite Paradise by Bliss 66
12. Astronomy (8th Light) by Black Star
13. Hide Me From Next February by Les Savy Fav
14. Fearless Vampire Killers by Bad Brains
15. In the Absence of Strong Evidence to the Contrary, One May Step Out of the Way of a Charging Bull by Don Caballero
16. Mastermind by Deltron
17. A Boy Like Me by Patrick Wolf
18. It's My Turn to Fly by the Urge
19. Moondance by Van Morrison
20. The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel
21. In Spite of All the Damage by the Be Good Tanyas
22. Eyes by Rogue Wave
[Note: If I recall accurately, the jarring nature of this final volume was intentional, though I would not regret putting some of these more kitschy songs on a playlist--especially closing with them--I cannot deny that I still have a soft spot for most of these songs. Also, if she ever happens upon this weblog and this post, the influence of Miss Dana Reinoos's mix, Like A Walk in the Park, she gave me is obvious. Generally, I am hesitant to use songs from others' mixes on my own, but her mix is of such quality and my love of those songs was so great, that I couldn't resist. Most notably are See Saw by the Weeds and Geeky Pop Song by the Capricorns.]
I cannot say exactly what I mean to accomplish in writing this. The person for whom I compiled these mixes is pretty thoroughly out of my life. Such is not the case for which I had hoped. Still, she means a good deal to me in the face of the consternation she has caused me. For a while, she was more to me that I could have hoped, and far more than she wanted; at least more than she wanted when we were not around one another. To yearn for a space in someone's life, to aspire for just some pocket of time in the proximity of someone you care about, and then to be denied that by a method of absence, silence, and refusal... It leaves one with such a dastardly unended sentence, nagging at you until you put it away somewhere without realizing it. I have kept it in envelopes, in folders, tied up behind the surfaces of the gifts she gave me that lay still in my closet.
Eventually, I come around to laughing at my own worn out tales. The telling, retelling, forgetting, and re-discovery of my own memories fiddles them down into the nearest thing to nothing. They do not vanish; you cannot burn up or throwaway a memory. Rather, I find in an old envelope, in the lyrics of a once familiar song, the knot, the stone, the unredeemed bone of a person, a time, our places together, seasoned with the pressure of our contact; and then I smile, perhaps chuckle, and slip it away again.
ZSPM I: Gratuitous Sex Scene
1. Drink to me Babe Then by AC Newman
2. Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind
3. Summerbaby by Polaris
4. Nocturna by Glovertango
5. Gamble Everything for Love by Ben Lee
6. Silence Teaches You How to Sing by Underwater Sleeping Society
7. Girl by Beck
8. Hospital Rooms Aren't for Lovers by Bear Colony
9. I'm Still in Love With You by Al Green
10. Red Letter Day by the Get Up Kids
11. Me on Your Front Porch by Criteria
12. All is Full of Love by Bjork
13. Easy to be Around by Diane Cluck
14. Feed of Clay by Vashti Bunyan
15. Kissing my Love by Bill Withers
16. Reno Dakota by the Magnetic Fields
17. The Leanover by Life Without Buildings
18. Memphis & 53rd by Minus the Bear
19. Playgirl by Ladytron
20. Peach, Plum, Pear by Joanna Newsom
21. Walking Out of Stride by Badly Drawn Boy
22. Here Comes My Baby by Cat Stevens
[Note: This is an unusual note for me to end on in a compilation, but that is because the three mixes are intended to be played continuously. So, for my own sort of rules, consider this an intermission, not the end of an playlist.]
ZSPM II: Absurdly Gory Death
1. Shadow Stabbing by Cake
2. My Beloved Monster by the Eels
3. The World's Gone Mad by Handsome Boy Modeling School
4. Who Could Win a Rabbit by Animal Collective
5. Hollow You by Antelope
6. Undone (the Sweater Song) by Weezer
7. Geeky Pop Song by the Capricorns
8. Staring at the Sun by TV on the Radio
9. Stretch (You are all Right) by Tortoise
10. Dracula From Houston by the Butthole Surfers
11. Don't Be Shallow by Sondre Lerche
12. Eugene, Oregon (Manifest Destiny) by Jayber Crow
13. The High Snow by Brazz Tree
14. Frontier Psychiatrist by the Avalanches
15. After Dark by Le Tigre
16. No Rain by Blind Melon
17. Vampires by Fastball
18. The Freshman by The Verve Pipe
19. Mary Jane's Last Dance by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers
20. Jack the Ripper by Colin Meloy
ZSPM III: Sweet Revenge
1. Feel Good Inc. by Gorillaz
2. Hey Jealousy by Gin Blossoms
3. The Old Apartment by Barenaked Ladies
4. I Threw it All Away by Yo La Tengo
5. A Long December by Counting Crows
6. Angel Won't You Call Me by the Decemberists
7. See Saw by the Weeds
8. Teen Titans Theme by Puffy AmiYumi
9. Where Does the Good Go? by Tegan and Sara
10. Begin Again by Ellis
11. Not Quite Paradise by Bliss 66
12. Astronomy (8th Light) by Black Star
13. Hide Me From Next February by Les Savy Fav
14. Fearless Vampire Killers by Bad Brains
15. In the Absence of Strong Evidence to the Contrary, One May Step Out of the Way of a Charging Bull by Don Caballero
16. Mastermind by Deltron
17. A Boy Like Me by Patrick Wolf
18. It's My Turn to Fly by the Urge
19. Moondance by Van Morrison
20. The Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel
21. In Spite of All the Damage by the Be Good Tanyas
22. Eyes by Rogue Wave
[Note: If I recall accurately, the jarring nature of this final volume was intentional, though I would not regret putting some of these more kitschy songs on a playlist--especially closing with them--I cannot deny that I still have a soft spot for most of these songs. Also, if she ever happens upon this weblog and this post, the influence of Miss Dana Reinoos's mix, Like A Walk in the Park, she gave me is obvious. Generally, I am hesitant to use songs from others' mixes on my own, but her mix is of such quality and my love of those songs was so great, that I couldn't resist. Most notably are See Saw by the Weeds and Geeky Pop Song by the Capricorns.]
I cannot say exactly what I mean to accomplish in writing this. The person for whom I compiled these mixes is pretty thoroughly out of my life. Such is not the case for which I had hoped. Still, she means a good deal to me in the face of the consternation she has caused me. For a while, she was more to me that I could have hoped, and far more than she wanted; at least more than she wanted when we were not around one another. To yearn for a space in someone's life, to aspire for just some pocket of time in the proximity of someone you care about, and then to be denied that by a method of absence, silence, and refusal... It leaves one with such a dastardly unended sentence, nagging at you until you put it away somewhere without realizing it. I have kept it in envelopes, in folders, tied up behind the surfaces of the gifts she gave me that lay still in my closet.
Eventually, I come around to laughing at my own worn out tales. The telling, retelling, forgetting, and re-discovery of my own memories fiddles them down into the nearest thing to nothing. They do not vanish; you cannot burn up or throwaway a memory. Rather, I find in an old envelope, in the lyrics of a once familiar song, the knot, the stone, the unredeemed bone of a person, a time, our places together, seasoned with the pressure of our contact; and then I smile, perhaps chuckle, and slip it away again.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Fine Company and Home Cooking
On 10 December, I invited a number of friends over for dinner, company, and conversation. I have already posted the menu--which may excite a few friends' fancies--and want to say a little on the night and its success.
Since I have come home from school, I have tried a few times to rediscover the lovely comfort and pleasure of late nights in with familiar faces. A handful of soirees were arranged, but not until the tenth did anything come of them. Such turns of fortune dismayed me because despite apparent commitment and with all the places in order, my exertions were for naught. My last year at Gustavus allowed my friends and I to make a distinctly special and welcoming space. More often than not, we would gather at the end of the day, chatter, sip our beverages, watch this or that DVD, joke about, and make something of the evening that was fortifying and refreshing. I acknowledge and appreciate the cooperation of proximity, amicability, and space that allowed my last year to have such a space, but making something of my current situation should not have been so fraught with difficulty.
All the same it has been. I am a good deal further away from where most of my friends live in Lincoln, schedules are more convoluted than ever, organization and transportation are regular issues, and I do not have as much familiarity with the people hear. So thorough did I think these problems were, that I could not even guarantee my guests' attendance to myself until they started showing up. Almost immediately, though, their attendance rejuvenated me in a wonderfully familiar way. We gathered around fresh, home cooked food, a few glasses of wine (which grew beyond a few as the night wore on), and so easily warmed to one another's presence. In at least one way, the night was particular; particular such that my company's attendance meant more than the usual. In another way, the night took on a distinct variety of particularity; that is, as we sat, conversing by the fire over glasses of wine, we all came to recognize that feeling for which I had been yearning, that knowledge of our shared joy because of and respect for each other.
My guest list extended beyond attendees, but I want to thank Miss Kim Moser, Miss Abbey Coleman, Miss Ashley Buck, Mr Ryan Hansen, and the late but well-received Miss Adrienne Lemmer for coming to my birthday party. My mother's assistance and attendance ought also be respectfully recognized and appreciated, as well. Over the past few years--perhaps with their emphasis on finals schedules and that interest in twenty-first anniversaries--I have become uninterested in the celebration of my own birthday, but wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate something all the same. The subject of my birthday was of little notice during the dinner, though wine and a bag of baking supplies were generously given, and in its way, that was the best of possible outcomes. I was not engaged in celebrating my own birth, in picking up trinkets from friends (however heartfelt they would certainly be), but in appreciating and sharing their kindness and friendship.
After much gustatory delight and enlivened engagement, we moved ourselves to the family room to share in the glow and warmth of the fire and the comfort of softer furniture. Many attendees are acquainted with the study and practice of education, and following our own anecdotes, we began to introspect more seriously on the subject of pedagogy. Education, one might recognize, is a rather easy subject over which to engage because we share in both its successes and its shortcoming so thoroughly. The systems we experienced blessed and impeded us in different ways, some of us more severely than others, and it supported an intimacy in our storytelling and consideration that was uncommonly close to home. Childhood, schooling, the ins and outs of cliques and friendships, interactions with teachers, each open into--even without our knowing--onto our private psyches and traumas, our challenges and warm-hearted successes. I was happily overwhelmed--in no physically obvious way, my guests might have noted--by the conversational affection with which we came to regard one another in order to open up so intensely.
The night languorously wore on, marked by the opening of another bottle and the slow lisp of fatigue eking into our voices. After much leaning, yawning, and gentle support from one another, I sent my friends off with little packages of leftover food--I certainly didn't want a half lasagna taking up space in my refrigerator. Mr Hansen stayed a while longer so that we might play long delayed video games, shooting down the menace of zombies an hour or so later. He too left with a few pieces of lasagna and I lay down to enjoy the end of Franklyn which I had started in my cleaning and tidying of the house but had not finished. Given that I was unaware of attendance, I was awake longer than I had supposed, but happily so, and slept late into the following day. The next day, each item cluttered on tables, counters, and the floor seemed a quiet, happy testament to the past night.
Since I have come home from school, I have tried a few times to rediscover the lovely comfort and pleasure of late nights in with familiar faces. A handful of soirees were arranged, but not until the tenth did anything come of them. Such turns of fortune dismayed me because despite apparent commitment and with all the places in order, my exertions were for naught. My last year at Gustavus allowed my friends and I to make a distinctly special and welcoming space. More often than not, we would gather at the end of the day, chatter, sip our beverages, watch this or that DVD, joke about, and make something of the evening that was fortifying and refreshing. I acknowledge and appreciate the cooperation of proximity, amicability, and space that allowed my last year to have such a space, but making something of my current situation should not have been so fraught with difficulty.
All the same it has been. I am a good deal further away from where most of my friends live in Lincoln, schedules are more convoluted than ever, organization and transportation are regular issues, and I do not have as much familiarity with the people hear. So thorough did I think these problems were, that I could not even guarantee my guests' attendance to myself until they started showing up. Almost immediately, though, their attendance rejuvenated me in a wonderfully familiar way. We gathered around fresh, home cooked food, a few glasses of wine (which grew beyond a few as the night wore on), and so easily warmed to one another's presence. In at least one way, the night was particular; particular such that my company's attendance meant more than the usual. In another way, the night took on a distinct variety of particularity; that is, as we sat, conversing by the fire over glasses of wine, we all came to recognize that feeling for which I had been yearning, that knowledge of our shared joy because of and respect for each other.
My guest list extended beyond attendees, but I want to thank Miss Kim Moser, Miss Abbey Coleman, Miss Ashley Buck, Mr Ryan Hansen, and the late but well-received Miss Adrienne Lemmer for coming to my birthday party. My mother's assistance and attendance ought also be respectfully recognized and appreciated, as well. Over the past few years--perhaps with their emphasis on finals schedules and that interest in twenty-first anniversaries--I have become uninterested in the celebration of my own birthday, but wanted to take the opportunity to celebrate something all the same. The subject of my birthday was of little notice during the dinner, though wine and a bag of baking supplies were generously given, and in its way, that was the best of possible outcomes. I was not engaged in celebrating my own birth, in picking up trinkets from friends (however heartfelt they would certainly be), but in appreciating and sharing their kindness and friendship.
After much gustatory delight and enlivened engagement, we moved ourselves to the family room to share in the glow and warmth of the fire and the comfort of softer furniture. Many attendees are acquainted with the study and practice of education, and following our own anecdotes, we began to introspect more seriously on the subject of pedagogy. Education, one might recognize, is a rather easy subject over which to engage because we share in both its successes and its shortcoming so thoroughly. The systems we experienced blessed and impeded us in different ways, some of us more severely than others, and it supported an intimacy in our storytelling and consideration that was uncommonly close to home. Childhood, schooling, the ins and outs of cliques and friendships, interactions with teachers, each open into--even without our knowing--onto our private psyches and traumas, our challenges and warm-hearted successes. I was happily overwhelmed--in no physically obvious way, my guests might have noted--by the conversational affection with which we came to regard one another in order to open up so intensely.
The night languorously wore on, marked by the opening of another bottle and the slow lisp of fatigue eking into our voices. After much leaning, yawning, and gentle support from one another, I sent my friends off with little packages of leftover food--I certainly didn't want a half lasagna taking up space in my refrigerator. Mr Hansen stayed a while longer so that we might play long delayed video games, shooting down the menace of zombies an hour or so later. He too left with a few pieces of lasagna and I lay down to enjoy the end of Franklyn which I had started in my cleaning and tidying of the house but had not finished. Given that I was unaware of attendance, I was awake longer than I had supposed, but happily so, and slept late into the following day. The next day, each item cluttered on tables, counters, and the floor seemed a quiet, happy testament to the past night.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Too Much Alt History
I have been reading alternate history stories; that is, narratives in which a different historical even took place at some point thus altering things significantly in the future. (See The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon.) For some reason, this includes a lot of Jewish-themed material. (See the above and Philip Roth's The Plot Against America which I am planning to read.) I was reading Cat and Girl comics and thought of a title called The Compromised Land and want someone to roll with it. It would be a sarcastic take, full of witty, dry banter and social commentary. I don't think I am up to the task, but I want someone else to be.
Dinner Party Menu and Recipes
Last night, I hosted a celebratory dinner and came up with a rather well-received menu. Below, I provide the menu and the recipes I used (or modified) to put it together. Soon, I will post some meditations on the night as a whole, but I wanted to provide something tasty first. I have also made pumpkin spice quick bread, which I will post soon-ish as well. I have been baking regularly for my mother's co-workers, to the delight of many. I have also been gravely procrastinating on more graduate school forms and essays, generally ignoring the unfinished essays that taunt me from my computer.
...
Sherried Mushroom Soup (from Southern Living Magazine, or something similar)
I substituted mushroom blends for both the dried and fresh mushrooms, and used only half the dried amount because dried mushrooms are expensive! It was pretty darn good all the same.
Broth
2 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp fresh thyme (I used 1/2 Tbsp dried)
1 pound shallots, coarsely chopped (I used 3/4 pound)
6 cans, low sodium broth (I used 5 1/2 cups veggie broth because I used boxes, but this may have been too little)
2 oz dried procini mushrooms
Melt butter in a medium or large pot, add thyme and shallots; cook for 10 minutes. Stir in broth and dried mushrooms (I let the dried mushrooms sit in 1 c of the broth before cooking) and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 1 hour
Spinach, Pomegranate, and Goat Cheese Salad
My mom made this. It had mostly spinach and lettuce, with pomegranate, goat cheese, cranberries, and bell peppers mixed in. I liked it with olive oil and vinegar.
Butternut Squash and Pumpkin Lasagna (Also from a Southern Living type magazine)
3 & 1/2 pounds butternut squash, seeded, peeled, and chopped into small pieces
2 Tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper
Preheat oven to 425 F, toss squash with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and bake for 25-30 minutes, until tender. I was one pound short so I also used some creamed pumpkin I had already made later on. Allow to cool. When you are done baking the squash, reduce temperature to 375.
1 pound ricotta
1/2 c cream
2 egg yolks
1/2 pound mozzarella
a pinch of nutmeg
a pinch of salt
Mix together in a large bowl.
2 Tbsp unsalted butter
1/3 c fresh sage
Saute sage leaves in butter for 3 or 4 minutes, remove from heat.
1 & 1/4 c low sodium (veggie) stock
In a medium bowl, mash about half of the squash (which I didn't do because I had the creamed pumpkin), stir in the sauteed sage and veggie stock.
About ten Fresh lasagna leaves
4 oz Parmesan cheese
I made these from scratch, by gradually combining two eggs & two tsp olive oil with one cup white flour and 1/2 cup whole wheat flour and rolling them out on a counter, cutting them, and boiling the leaves for 3-5 minutes before baking them in the lasagna. I needed a bit more than this so would probably add a few spoons more of olive oil and flour.
In a 9 cup baking dish, spread 3/4 c ricotta mixture, top with noodles, spread half of the squash mixture, then noodle layer, and 1 cup ricotta mixture; repeat with the remaining ingredients. Sprinkle with 4 oz shredded Parmesan cheese and bake at 375 for 30-40 minutes, allow to cool 10-15 minutes before serving. Serves 8-10.
Baked Pear Crumble a la Mode
5 pears; peeled, seeded, de-stemmed, and halved
1 c white flour
1/2 c sliced almonds
1/2 c brown sugar
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground, dried ginger
1 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp nutmeg
4 Tbsp butter, soft
about 1/2 c cream (or something lighter, like half & half or milk)
Preheat oven to 350. Place the pears on parchment paper on a pan. In a medium bowl, combine flour, almonds, and sugar, then, cut in the soft butter and mix with your fingers. Gradually add cream until you have a crumbly consistency. Spoon or pinch crumble over pears and bake for 15-25 minutes until browned and cooked through. Serve immediately with a scoop of ice cream. (Use Ivanna Cone's vanilla bean for best results!)
...
Sherried Mushroom Soup (from Southern Living Magazine, or something similar)
I substituted mushroom blends for both the dried and fresh mushrooms, and used only half the dried amount because dried mushrooms are expensive! It was pretty darn good all the same.
Broth
2 Tbsp butter
1 Tbsp fresh thyme (I used 1/2 Tbsp dried)
1 pound shallots, coarsely chopped (I used 3/4 pound)
6 cans, low sodium broth (I used 5 1/2 cups veggie broth because I used boxes, but this may have been too little)
2 oz dried procini mushrooms
Melt butter in a medium or large pot, add thyme and shallots; cook for 10 minutes. Stir in broth and dried mushrooms (I let the dried mushrooms sit in 1 c of the broth before cooking) and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 1 hour
Spinach, Pomegranate, and Goat Cheese Salad
My mom made this. It had mostly spinach and lettuce, with pomegranate, goat cheese, cranberries, and bell peppers mixed in. I liked it with olive oil and vinegar.
Butternut Squash and Pumpkin Lasagna (Also from a Southern Living type magazine)
3 & 1/2 pounds butternut squash, seeded, peeled, and chopped into small pieces
2 Tbsp olive oil
salt and pepper
Preheat oven to 425 F, toss squash with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and bake for 25-30 minutes, until tender. I was one pound short so I also used some creamed pumpkin I had already made later on. Allow to cool. When you are done baking the squash, reduce temperature to 375.
1 pound ricotta
1/2 c cream
2 egg yolks
1/2 pound mozzarella
a pinch of nutmeg
a pinch of salt
Mix together in a large bowl.
2 Tbsp unsalted butter
1/3 c fresh sage
Saute sage leaves in butter for 3 or 4 minutes, remove from heat.
1 & 1/4 c low sodium (veggie) stock
In a medium bowl, mash about half of the squash (which I didn't do because I had the creamed pumpkin), stir in the sauteed sage and veggie stock.
About ten Fresh lasagna leaves
4 oz Parmesan cheese
I made these from scratch, by gradually combining two eggs & two tsp olive oil with one cup white flour and 1/2 cup whole wheat flour and rolling them out on a counter, cutting them, and boiling the leaves for 3-5 minutes before baking them in the lasagna. I needed a bit more than this so would probably add a few spoons more of olive oil and flour.
In a 9 cup baking dish, spread 3/4 c ricotta mixture, top with noodles, spread half of the squash mixture, then noodle layer, and 1 cup ricotta mixture; repeat with the remaining ingredients. Sprinkle with 4 oz shredded Parmesan cheese and bake at 375 for 30-40 minutes, allow to cool 10-15 minutes before serving. Serves 8-10.
Baked Pear Crumble a la Mode
5 pears; peeled, seeded, de-stemmed, and halved
1 c white flour
1/2 c sliced almonds
1/2 c brown sugar
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground, dried ginger
1 tsp cloves
1/2 tsp nutmeg
4 Tbsp butter, soft
about 1/2 c cream (or something lighter, like half & half or milk)
Preheat oven to 350. Place the pears on parchment paper on a pan. In a medium bowl, combine flour, almonds, and sugar, then, cut in the soft butter and mix with your fingers. Gradually add cream until you have a crumbly consistency. Spoon or pinch crumble over pears and bake for 15-25 minutes until browned and cooked through. Serve immediately with a scoop of ice cream. (Use Ivanna Cone's vanilla bean for best results!)
The City of Winter (i)
I have been writing pretty regularly, but mostly in partial stories or brief episodes. Following watching Franklyn and my strolls following the blizzard from earlier this week, I have begun writing an odd story. It may be more a collection of characters, a setting of place than a story, but I expect it to evolve in certain sort of way. Shortly I will be posting a few more things, but I have a good feeling about The City of Winter and wanted to share what I have of it.
...
The City of Winter
11 December 2009
Everyone in this city calls it by a different name. I call it Winter and I have been here longer than I can say. Snow piles higher than my head on each side of the street and with each snowfall, moraines gradually ascending by successive glaciations. At the end of Winter are endless deserts of drifted snow and ice, carved by wind into towers that compete with the city. One day they will reach above the city and crash down on us, burying it suddenly, quietly, and I do not know if I will bother to leave.
We are all émigrés here, with broken recollections of other places. The snow wipes it away over time and Winter becomes our ill-fitting home. In its center, tall spires of black metal pipes and half-corroded chimneys weave together and more than once I have imagined, half-waking, of a web made to catch dreams made by a people from another place. Beyond the heart, one can find comfort and even beauty in the city. Over steaming coffee or next to a fiery hearth, one finds company and we all share our stories.
No one refers to the city by the same name. To each, the name one uses is obvious. The expanses of snow outside, the chill air, the blinding sun on the clear days, the crisp sharp darkness of nights gave me the name of the city. Others, though, have found other names by which to refer to this hostel for refugees. A tall, thin, bent man with his unkempt beard and scraggy hair has been here longer than anyone I know. A woman with whom I was close believed he was an architect of the city, one of its first inhabitants; but the old man, Giorgio, denies he can recall. He calls the city by a first name, Francesca, when he is in good, amiable spirits, and di Roma, when he is sour. Upon inquiry, he said that the city has many moods to which he attends, as one attends to a woman; cordiality in certain times, politeness at others secures a man to a woman, or a man to his city. Once, I saw him shouting profanities to the high, industrial towers at the center of the city, but they were in a language of which I was unfamiliar.
Loraina always curses the city. She has one name for Winter that she tells no one. It is a name she curses under her breath and defames with her fists. When she can find it, she wields aerosol cans of paint and bottles with rags that she lights and heaves over the fences at the edge of the dark heart of the city. We were once close, but now I feel that she regards me like she regards the city, speaking not of my name but only of despicable appellations. Sooner or later, I will find her bricks come through my window. Loraina is a woman not to cross but who, upon meeting, one will eventually cross. Like most citizens of Winter, I move from place to place frequently; I have more reason to than most.
Iosef collects what he finds on the streets of Winter. He sets up residence in old homes with broken ceilings and sagging floors—of which, there are plenty in Winter. He plasters his walls with newspapers and grocery lists, creates furniture from empty milk crates and discarded appliances, the structure haphazardly reinforced by recovered wooden beams and sides of automobiles. Few people speak with Iosef because his name for Winter is Not-City and argues that somewhere one might find a the true City which is Not-City's opposite, but that the faraway City and Not-City cannot both exist. Iosef's explanations are broken, as he speaks another language than no one else understands. Over his headline wallpaper he scrawls its characters: Letters punctuated by arrows going between them, brackets and parentheses demarcating groups within groups. When the walls and floors and ceiling of his home become overfull with the traces of the city, he leaves. Once, his departure was marked by a neighbor burning the house to the ground. When I told Iosef, he only tapped his head, saying he had all of it in his head already and that house was not so flammable.
The arsonist behind Iosef's burned down home, I believe to be Andre who refuses to wear clothes. His nudity is unassuming, though he eats prodigiously and walks with an unapologetic quiver about him. Andre's eating is remorseful, quick, and distant; it is a chore to him. Andre despises the city and calls it Gehenna, the trash heap. He cannot articulate his hatred into an argument or statement, only that he wishes to purge Gehenna from himself, that in it, he sees his own reflection and that by destroying it piecemeal he hopes to establish something purer. I am fearful of Andre, I have seen him kill men who have earned his disgust.
Teresa came to Winter not long ago. Her recollections from her other place were still strong and she began to recreate them here. She opened a restaurant, a diner, and began to serve people food from it. She hired a cook named Julio and cleaned a modest, red and white striped dress which she wears to wait the counter and tables. She calls the city San Fernando, saying that that is where she always lived and figured that that is where she must still live. Teresa serves coffee endlessly and her candor is unlike anyone else in the city. Sometimes her presence is painful for its contrast to most others I know, but Teresa has changed Winter, has changed San Fernando into something else.
Julio, who has lived here longer, paints when he is not working, painting the scenes from out his window down the street from the diner. He looks at the paintings from before Teresa came and after, showing that the sun is brighter, the snow thinner, the windows cleaner. Julio sometimes calls the city San Fernando when talking with Teresa, but his name for it is long and beautiful and comes from a name for a goddess he no longer understands, Coyolxauhqui. He has made an altar in his apartment, around which he places certain paintings of the night sky and a powerful, female mystic. I have seen him through the window enacting potent ceremonies.
...
The City of Winter
11 December 2009
Everyone in this city calls it by a different name. I call it Winter and I have been here longer than I can say. Snow piles higher than my head on each side of the street and with each snowfall, moraines gradually ascending by successive glaciations. At the end of Winter are endless deserts of drifted snow and ice, carved by wind into towers that compete with the city. One day they will reach above the city and crash down on us, burying it suddenly, quietly, and I do not know if I will bother to leave.
We are all émigrés here, with broken recollections of other places. The snow wipes it away over time and Winter becomes our ill-fitting home. In its center, tall spires of black metal pipes and half-corroded chimneys weave together and more than once I have imagined, half-waking, of a web made to catch dreams made by a people from another place. Beyond the heart, one can find comfort and even beauty in the city. Over steaming coffee or next to a fiery hearth, one finds company and we all share our stories.
No one refers to the city by the same name. To each, the name one uses is obvious. The expanses of snow outside, the chill air, the blinding sun on the clear days, the crisp sharp darkness of nights gave me the name of the city. Others, though, have found other names by which to refer to this hostel for refugees. A tall, thin, bent man with his unkempt beard and scraggy hair has been here longer than anyone I know. A woman with whom I was close believed he was an architect of the city, one of its first inhabitants; but the old man, Giorgio, denies he can recall. He calls the city by a first name, Francesca, when he is in good, amiable spirits, and di Roma, when he is sour. Upon inquiry, he said that the city has many moods to which he attends, as one attends to a woman; cordiality in certain times, politeness at others secures a man to a woman, or a man to his city. Once, I saw him shouting profanities to the high, industrial towers at the center of the city, but they were in a language of which I was unfamiliar.
Loraina always curses the city. She has one name for Winter that she tells no one. It is a name she curses under her breath and defames with her fists. When she can find it, she wields aerosol cans of paint and bottles with rags that she lights and heaves over the fences at the edge of the dark heart of the city. We were once close, but now I feel that she regards me like she regards the city, speaking not of my name but only of despicable appellations. Sooner or later, I will find her bricks come through my window. Loraina is a woman not to cross but who, upon meeting, one will eventually cross. Like most citizens of Winter, I move from place to place frequently; I have more reason to than most.
Iosef collects what he finds on the streets of Winter. He sets up residence in old homes with broken ceilings and sagging floors—of which, there are plenty in Winter. He plasters his walls with newspapers and grocery lists, creates furniture from empty milk crates and discarded appliances, the structure haphazardly reinforced by recovered wooden beams and sides of automobiles. Few people speak with Iosef because his name for Winter is Not-City and argues that somewhere one might find a the true City which is Not-City's opposite, but that the faraway City and Not-City cannot both exist. Iosef's explanations are broken, as he speaks another language than no one else understands. Over his headline wallpaper he scrawls its characters: Letters punctuated by arrows going between them, brackets and parentheses demarcating groups within groups. When the walls and floors and ceiling of his home become overfull with the traces of the city, he leaves. Once, his departure was marked by a neighbor burning the house to the ground. When I told Iosef, he only tapped his head, saying he had all of it in his head already and that house was not so flammable.
The arsonist behind Iosef's burned down home, I believe to be Andre who refuses to wear clothes. His nudity is unassuming, though he eats prodigiously and walks with an unapologetic quiver about him. Andre's eating is remorseful, quick, and distant; it is a chore to him. Andre despises the city and calls it Gehenna, the trash heap. He cannot articulate his hatred into an argument or statement, only that he wishes to purge Gehenna from himself, that in it, he sees his own reflection and that by destroying it piecemeal he hopes to establish something purer. I am fearful of Andre, I have seen him kill men who have earned his disgust.
Teresa came to Winter not long ago. Her recollections from her other place were still strong and she began to recreate them here. She opened a restaurant, a diner, and began to serve people food from it. She hired a cook named Julio and cleaned a modest, red and white striped dress which she wears to wait the counter and tables. She calls the city San Fernando, saying that that is where she always lived and figured that that is where she must still live. Teresa serves coffee endlessly and her candor is unlike anyone else in the city. Sometimes her presence is painful for its contrast to most others I know, but Teresa has changed Winter, has changed San Fernando into something else.
Julio, who has lived here longer, paints when he is not working, painting the scenes from out his window down the street from the diner. He looks at the paintings from before Teresa came and after, showing that the sun is brighter, the snow thinner, the windows cleaner. Julio sometimes calls the city San Fernando when talking with Teresa, but his name for it is long and beautiful and comes from a name for a goddess he no longer understands, Coyolxauhqui. He has made an altar in his apartment, around which he places certain paintings of the night sky and a powerful, female mystic. I have seen him through the window enacting potent ceremonies.
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