How do you feel about sharing or not sharing personal recipes? This little project of mine illustrates a bit of my position, and anyone who heard me pummel my way through my philosophy thesis knows something further on the subject. Generally speaking, intellectual property is private until--through personal choice or accident--it becomes subject to the information commons and is maintained by those interested in a particular field, in this case, cooking and baking especially. I may make a recipe, but that doesn't mean that even given the opportunity anyone else is going to make it. (I wonder, has anyone dabbled with any of recipes I have posted here? Laura P. made a remark that she was planning on it, but I do not know if that was followed through.)
Maintaining one's recipes privately is tough work. I may have a notebook to record and annotate recipes of my own (which I do), but a notebook is easily lost, damaged, stolen, or destroyed. A recipe made available to many people--via correspondence or publishing or a weblog--has the benefit of many different copies and is unlikely to vanish so completely. Many recipes are carried down family lines like oral histories and mythologies, a tradition that can maintain and disperse knowledge a little differently. Such a method preserves the knowledge within a specific group (a family) and can denote important events (like marriages or adoptions/births that invite new members into the group); it suggests unity and coherency to those groups in intellectual and social ways; it encourages pride and respect for and amidst the group, a reality which has fallen away in the economic North.
I choose (and generally support) an open method of recipe maintenance. Sharing recipes means enlivening them, encouraging innovation and creativity in others, and is part of maintaining the practice and skill of baking amongst others. Baking is almost necessarily experimental, as it depends on innumerable variables like ingredient specificities, humidity and pressure, temperature, equipment age and reliability, and so on. The practice of baking means learning about food (ingredients), a place (climate and weather), and tools (ovens, mostly), and therefore encourages a sort of rootedness to surroundings which I have appreciated and continued to discover, which I wish to witness and learn from in others.
Openness ought to have mechanisms that cite sources, the way one does when one writes an essay. I would hope that someone would not claim a recipe of mine as their own, though it makes absolute sense that the loaf of bread, cookies, scones, bars, brownies, or whatever is that person's, rooted as it is in the ingredients, equipment, place, and handiwork of that one person. Presently, I am learning more and more about baking sweets, which I have not generally done before. In so doing, I am using the knowledge and insights of others more skilled than myself. "Why yes, I made those brownies. I started out with a recipe from Oprah's website." I made the recipe a bit more of my own and have further work to do--particularly when I learn to use a different oven or have different ingredients--but the recipe is heavily inspired by this one. I don't just start from scratch when I begin a recipe, I have the work of innumerable other bakers on whom I can rely and from whom I can learn. If I can be like that for others, then I am thrilled to do so.
I am also looking for a grain mill, both a kitchen one and probably a smaller commercial one.
...
Spicy Brownies
Preheat oven to 350 F and line a 9x9 brownie pan, preferably with butter. Blend together dry ingredients in a medium bowl:
3/4 cups whole wheat flour
1 & 1/2 Tbsp cocoa
1/4 tsp salt
1 Tbsp cayenne pepper
2 Tbsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp dried ground ginger
Notes: For a sweeter and smoother brownie, go with all or partially white flour instead of whole wheat flour, which is what I like to use for its substance and texture. Also, you can go with more cayenne and ginger for spicier brownies, but these are also expensive ingredients so I will likely limit their use for the present.
3/4 cups butter
6 oz bittersweet chocolate chips or chunks (60-80% cacoa content, Adrienne suggests Black and Gold's)
1 cup brown sugar
In a large pan, melt butter over medium heat, then turn to low and add chocolate. Stir chocolate regularly to prevent burning and scrape bottom to loosen any pieces there. (This can be done with a double boiler, but I don't have one and didn't want to juryrig one, so I was careful with low heat.) When chocolate is melted and mixed, remove from heat before gradually stirring in the brown sugar. Then allow to cool at least ten minutes.
2 or 3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
Note: If using hearty eggs (firm orange yolks, usually from local, cage-free sources), cut down to two. These are rich brownies and three "regular" eggs (of which I don't approve) was a little too much. Also, from here on out, be careful of overmixing. Blend ingredients just enough and no further to achieve the right consistency.
In the pan, stir in eggs and vanilla just enough to blend. Fold in dry ingredients and stop once they are incorporated. Pour out into greased pan and bake fro 24-30 minutes, checking with a toothpick (if it comes out with dry crumbs or clean, it is done).
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp powdered sugar
Blend cinnamon and sugar. Once they brownies are cooled, sprinkle the mixture on top. Do not cut the brownies until they have completely cooled. Also, the spiciness picks up gradually over time, so they are not very hot when they are fresh, but are pleasantly so after eight or twelve hours. Enjoy!
...
Oh, and Adrienne, sorry for the delays in posting.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
The First of the Gray Days
Autumn has come with low skies and the making of soup. Moving around feels heavy and drab, my bicycle gears are more stubborn now than they've ever been and getting about is a bit more laborious than I expect. Hopefully I can spend some time well accompanied on cool walks with pleasant conversation abounding. For these early days, I am caught unaware and not exactly sure of what to do with myself.
For the first time in about three weeks, I sat down and meditated. Though moderately distracted, it wasn't unfocused or difficult. Rather, I felt connected and--if not exactly calm--sincerely reflective. More than yoga or tai chi, zazen fills a psychic space for me with remains with me the rest of the day. Perhaps my occasional lethargy has transformed itself into something quieter, potentially enriching, and I feel again in a peaceful space.
With news (and complaints) of my friends' collective living conditions, I am increasingly envious of their proximity to others. Having returned home, this space is warm and familiar, the time spent with my mother is really wonderful and I am thankful for the way things have fallen together. All the same, I am increasingly aware that for my own well-being and satisfaction, such time is limited and it may be good to now be pushing for my way out via graduate school next fall (if all goes according to the present agenda). More now than ever, I can acknowledge and treasure the good fortune of a quality bond with my mother, a bond that not too many of my friends seem to share. Now that I have learned of my fortunate circumstances, preserving it is all the more important; but doing so means knowing when to stay and when to leave.
...
Tomorrow I plan on making spicy cinnamon brownies. I will post a recipe of the whole wheat baguettes I made today then as well. I have been thinking of my fellow travelers from my semester in Brazil. I have spent a good portion of the past two years traveling and I hope that this is not some early sign of cabin fever. If it is, I suppose I'll have to pack up my backpack and figure out a route to see some missed friends. Then again, I may have to do so anyway.
For the first time in about three weeks, I sat down and meditated. Though moderately distracted, it wasn't unfocused or difficult. Rather, I felt connected and--if not exactly calm--sincerely reflective. More than yoga or tai chi, zazen fills a psychic space for me with remains with me the rest of the day. Perhaps my occasional lethargy has transformed itself into something quieter, potentially enriching, and I feel again in a peaceful space.
With news (and complaints) of my friends' collective living conditions, I am increasingly envious of their proximity to others. Having returned home, this space is warm and familiar, the time spent with my mother is really wonderful and I am thankful for the way things have fallen together. All the same, I am increasingly aware that for my own well-being and satisfaction, such time is limited and it may be good to now be pushing for my way out via graduate school next fall (if all goes according to the present agenda). More now than ever, I can acknowledge and treasure the good fortune of a quality bond with my mother, a bond that not too many of my friends seem to share. Now that I have learned of my fortunate circumstances, preserving it is all the more important; but doing so means knowing when to stay and when to leave.
...
Tomorrow I plan on making spicy cinnamon brownies. I will post a recipe of the whole wheat baguettes I made today then as well. I have been thinking of my fellow travelers from my semester in Brazil. I have spent a good portion of the past two years traveling and I hope that this is not some early sign of cabin fever. If it is, I suppose I'll have to pack up my backpack and figure out a route to see some missed friends. Then again, I may have to do so anyway.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Brownies, Lemon Bars, Soda Bread, oh my!
I have been baking. In the wake of finishing a draft of "The Fate of Droplets," I have spent rebounded effort at playing with recipes and baking. Revising my story is near the front of my mind, but setting it aside for a spell allows me to return to it with the right state of mind. So, a few more excerpts of it will show up here until it is through, and be then I will have probably worked my way through it at least once. Also, I completed reading Scott McCloud's Zot!, which was pretty lovely in its youthful insights and critiques; youthful in that way that they remain clever and heartfelt long after the first encounter. Very shortly, I will finish Wendell Berry's The Unsettling of America, which both captivates and frightens me, thus forcing a more relaxed pace in reading it. Bill McKibben's Hope, Human and Wild has been set aside until I need something distinctly hopeful again, which will probably be after Cormac McCarthy's The Road that lays immediately ahead for fast-approaching book discussions. While I bake and clean, Neal Stephenson's Anathem plays on CD nearby, which is incredibly sharp and plays on those primal chords in the human psyche that Stephenson loves to dig into.
Yesterday, I did not leave the house. Gray, autumnal air has found its way to Lincoln and I felt pleasantly locked inside, busied with this or that cleaning task. In the past, days spent indoors usually leave me all the more lethargic and malcontent, but after travel and regular work over the past week, I was happy to be made simply busy in the house. For lunch, I made some simple whole wheat soda bread; a recipe I used nearly verbatim, an uncommon incident these days. Cool but not chilly days are upon us, though I hope to avoid the wintry days that hint on the horizon. I have found a few interesting graduate programs to which I will shortly apply; among them are Northern Arizona's Sustainable Communities Program, Lesley University's Urban Ecology Program, and a few others of which I am less certain. Research and paperwork lays ahead, though I would hope for more interesting fare in these fall days.
Here are a few recipes I have been entertaining. The peanut butter swirl brownies are a little finicky, but I think I have them just about right. They are derived from two other recipes which I modified and may continue to tweak, but only slightly. The lemon bars I will just link to, since I didn't play with the recipe available here, needless to say, they turned out pretty well. The soda bread is mildly modified from Muffins & Other Morning Bakes.
---
Peanut Butter Swirl Brownies
Preheat the oven to 350 F and grease a 13x9 pan.
Brownie Batter
1/2 cup butter
Melt butter in a pan, remove from heat and stir in:
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tspn vanilla
Separately, blend together
1/3 cup cocoa
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 tspn salt
1/4 tspn baking powder
1/2 cup (scant) chocolate chips/chunks
Beat dry ingredients into the liquid mixture. The whole wheat flour and chocolate will prevent it from being smooth, but incorporate all ingredients until pretty uniform. Avoid over-mixing (which is pretty easy).
Peanut Butter Bar batter
Blend together in a medium bowl:
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 tspn baking powder
1 tspn (scant) salt
Set aside dry ingredient mix. Beat together (preferably with an electric mixer) the following:
1 & 1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter*
1/2 cup peanut butter**
* The scant salt is because I have been using salted butter, if you are using unsalted butter, then use the whole teaspoon of salt.
** I have been using JIF extra chunk. If you want to use natural style peanut butter, you may have to adjust for the difference in oil content.
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Beat in eggs, one at a time until consolidated. Add vanilla and beat in until smooth. Add the dry ingredients last, mixing until all is incorporated--again, avoid over-mixing.
Empty one of the batters into the greased pan, starting with filling opposite corners and then scooping out small amounts elsewhere. Then, do the same with the other batter, mixing slightly but try not to blend the two together. (If that happens, the result is still tasty, but the flavors are less distinct from one another.) Bake for 25-30 minutes, testing with a toothpick. You may need to cover the edges with foil to avoid overbaking the edges (I did this after fifteen or so minutes the first time, but they baked evenly the second time). Allow to cool before cutting.
---
Wheat Flax Soda Bread
Preheat oven to 425 F. Grease a baking sheet.
2 & 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
2/3 cup white flour
1/2 cup flax seed (ground or whole)
1 tspn salt
1 tspn baking soda
Blend together dry ingredients, then cut in butter and mix with your hands to form small crumbles from the dry mix:
2 Tbsp butter
1 & 1/4-1/2 cups yogurt
Stir in yogurt, then turn out on lightly floured counter to knead just slightly. Roll into a rough ball then flatten into a round onto a greased baking sheet until about 1 & 1/2 inches thick. Dust lightly with flour and bake for 25-30 minutes until browned and crisp.
Yesterday, I did not leave the house. Gray, autumnal air has found its way to Lincoln and I felt pleasantly locked inside, busied with this or that cleaning task. In the past, days spent indoors usually leave me all the more lethargic and malcontent, but after travel and regular work over the past week, I was happy to be made simply busy in the house. For lunch, I made some simple whole wheat soda bread; a recipe I used nearly verbatim, an uncommon incident these days. Cool but not chilly days are upon us, though I hope to avoid the wintry days that hint on the horizon. I have found a few interesting graduate programs to which I will shortly apply; among them are Northern Arizona's Sustainable Communities Program, Lesley University's Urban Ecology Program, and a few others of which I am less certain. Research and paperwork lays ahead, though I would hope for more interesting fare in these fall days.
Here are a few recipes I have been entertaining. The peanut butter swirl brownies are a little finicky, but I think I have them just about right. They are derived from two other recipes which I modified and may continue to tweak, but only slightly. The lemon bars I will just link to, since I didn't play with the recipe available here, needless to say, they turned out pretty well. The soda bread is mildly modified from Muffins & Other Morning Bakes.
---
Peanut Butter Swirl Brownies
Preheat the oven to 350 F and grease a 13x9 pan.
Brownie Batter
1/2 cup butter
Melt butter in a pan, remove from heat and stir in:
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tspn vanilla
Separately, blend together
1/3 cup cocoa
1 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 tspn salt
1/4 tspn baking powder
1/2 cup (scant) chocolate chips/chunks
Beat dry ingredients into the liquid mixture. The whole wheat flour and chocolate will prevent it from being smooth, but incorporate all ingredients until pretty uniform. Avoid over-mixing (which is pretty easy).
Peanut Butter Bar batter
Blend together in a medium bowl:
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 tspn baking powder
1 tspn (scant) salt
Set aside dry ingredient mix. Beat together (preferably with an electric mixer) the following:
1 & 1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter*
1/2 cup peanut butter**
* The scant salt is because I have been using salted butter, if you are using unsalted butter, then use the whole teaspoon of salt.
** I have been using JIF extra chunk. If you want to use natural style peanut butter, you may have to adjust for the difference in oil content.
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Beat in eggs, one at a time until consolidated. Add vanilla and beat in until smooth. Add the dry ingredients last, mixing until all is incorporated--again, avoid over-mixing.
Empty one of the batters into the greased pan, starting with filling opposite corners and then scooping out small amounts elsewhere. Then, do the same with the other batter, mixing slightly but try not to blend the two together. (If that happens, the result is still tasty, but the flavors are less distinct from one another.) Bake for 25-30 minutes, testing with a toothpick. You may need to cover the edges with foil to avoid overbaking the edges (I did this after fifteen or so minutes the first time, but they baked evenly the second time). Allow to cool before cutting.
---
Wheat Flax Soda Bread
Preheat oven to 425 F. Grease a baking sheet.
2 & 1/2 cups whole wheat flour
2/3 cup white flour
1/2 cup flax seed (ground or whole)
1 tspn salt
1 tspn baking soda
Blend together dry ingredients, then cut in butter and mix with your hands to form small crumbles from the dry mix:
2 Tbsp butter
1 & 1/4-1/2 cups yogurt
Stir in yogurt, then turn out on lightly floured counter to knead just slightly. Roll into a rough ball then flatten into a round onto a greased baking sheet until about 1 & 1/2 inches thick. Dust lightly with flour and bake for 25-30 minutes until browned and crisp.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The Fate of Droplets (v)
I made peanut butter brownies today, but they aren't exactly how I want them. That means, no recipe until I get them right. This is the first attempt at desserts, but I can't help but try and make them with whole wheat and brown sugar instead of their paler counterparts. I finished the draft of The Fate of Droplets--finally--and will post it bit by bit over the next few days. I need to go over it, but it is a relief to finish something that has taken up so much of my thought-space for so long. Enjoy part v, I believe it is the longest section and you might notice some tone changes which I need to work out with revision. That sort of thing is the biggest difficulty I have with longer pieces, I just get tired of writing the narration the same way.
...
The bell on the door twittered when I awkwardly held the door for George at the Chinese restaurant. It was early afternoon as I had slept well through the morning following Jessica's party and the settling of Henry in his apartment. I was groggy, but the ride home had refreshed my senses before I fell asleep.
“The security guards at work are a riot. They have no clue what research goes on and they don't know how to make heads or tails of anything we ask them most of the time. It would be the easiest thing in the world to sneak in and play around.”
“I hope you're not planning anything.”
“Me? No. I don't need to. But I do sometimes play around with them when I'm there late.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I just suggest that certain chemicals or experiments are highly dangerous or that they ought to ask in a certain way, with that tone that means, 'Otherwise, you might not be able to have children.'”
“That sounds pretty cruel.”
“Only if they are sharp enough to play along. Usually, they don't care and just wander off.”
The maitre d' quietly guided as to a table along the street-facing window, where bright sunshine lit the laminated menus in the dim restaurant. We requested water and tea of our waiter, who then rushed off for them. After we sat, a small quiet ensued, which I then poked with a change in topic.
“You know my friend Henry the Buddhist?” This is often how I introduce him because I feel that the stories about him ought to make more sense if the audience knows he is a Buddhist, but it inevitably comes out like a title rather than a description.
“We haven't met, but you've brought him up before.”
“I think you should meet him. Your, um, pursuits are similar but involve different avenues. I think you two would have good conversations.” George nodded absently, smiling at the waiter who brought in tea, which was poured into each of our little ceramic teacups. “Well,” and here I began to hesitate, because this might still lie in the private space between friends, not yet open to sharing with everyone yet, “he and I went to a party last night but he sort of had an... episode. I don't know what to call it exactly, but it was very strange.” I sipped the tea and George watched me acutely, as if wondering if this might be one of my long, dawdling stories or turn quickly into an intriguing one. “Do you have much knowledge of psychological events, when someone very quickly becomes someone else?”
“Do you mean a fugue?” George asked perking up.
“Maybe, what is that?”
“Well, it has to do with becoming dissociated with earlier memories and manifesting a new persona.”
“Like amnesia?”
“It is one form of amnesia, yes. Someone wanders off and starts a new life for a few days or weeks, then the memories from before return and she abandons the new life for the old.”
I thought on this, chewing over it and piecing together how Henry had acted. I smelled and then sipped the jasmine tea.
“I don't know if that is it, but it might help make sense of how Henry acted last night. So after a couple of hours at the party—he came anxious, but came anyway—Mona tells me he's acting strangely, so I go find him and we walk home. The whole time he sounds like he's talking to himself very quietly, like he's somewhere unfamiliar and quickly keeping notes. At one point, it felt like he was receiving a broadcast from far away, and all his body was was a radio.”
“Or a relay station,” George chimed.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the message wasn't for you, and it wasn't for Henry, then maybe he was just picking it up to send it somewhere else, like an NPR broadcast out of New York getting picked up and played nearly simultaneously across the country.”
“You're worrying me.”
“Sorry. It just sounded like a relay because it wasn't all that clear and you couldn't decipher it, maybe someone else could.”
The waiter returned with a pad of paper and we ordered; George the kung-pao chicken and I snow pea and water chestnut stir fry. I waited for him to leave before continuing. Talking about Henry and how he had acted embarrassed me, or maybe frightened me. It is hard to tell now.
“I don't have much more to say. Last night, we walked back to his place until he calmed down and I put him to bed. I didn't leave right away, but waited till I thought he had fallen asleep.”
“Have you talked to him since?”
“No. I planned on calling him today, but woke up just before you called.”
“I noticed,” George smiled when she said it. “So things didn't go anywhere with Mona?”
“No, I mean, yes. I think so, but nothing happened because I left early with Henry.” I blushed before adding, “I drank a little too much. Jessica's brother made drinks and they had some fantastic whiskey, which I just can't afford and I drank too much.”
“You seem fine now.”
“I suppose I am. I just don't like to slip out of my own control.”
“You helped Henry when he needed it.”
“Well, I don't know if I did. I think I should have helped him earlier, that I should have paid more attention to him. He was so hesitant about coming, maybe my excitement for seeing Mona got in the way.”
“Don't beat yourself up. You got Henry into bed, what more could you have been asked to do?”
“Maybe I just missed something earlier. I feel like I missed something crucial by not paying attention to Henry, that his episode might not have gotten so intense.”
“I know that it is hard to predict or determine a fugue state, but they can be really disruptive. It doesn't sound like that is what happened, but whatever did happen probably had more to do with what is going on inside Henry's head, not with you or whatever happened at the party.”
We began to shift to lighter topics, small recollections of parties here and there. I thought of the strange event on the patio with Thomas, but did not bring it up. That conversation had continued to feel too intoxicated, too confounded with elements of the evening of which I could not make sense. Our food came and we shared a little bit, though George was not much for vegetables. We sat there, sipping tea and enjoying the space for some time. We spoke of work and classes, I chatted more on Mona and the party, but George mostly laughed at how unhinged my memories were of the night before. They gradually slipped back in at the edges, but I did not push them anywhere.
As early afternoon slipped into mid-afternoon, we left and were preparing to say goodbye when my phone rang. The number was unknown and I answered with hesitancy. It was the hospital calling.
“Sir, we have a friend of yours here who has been asking for you.”
“A friend? Who?”
“A Mister Henry Jenson.”
“What happened? Can I come see him?”
“He would like that very much. It seems late last night he was hit by a car near his home--”
“What time? When was he hit?”
“At about three in the morning, sir.”
“I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir. Just ask the receptionist for directions. I'll inform her of your arrival.”
I looked pleadingly at George, “Can you give me a ride? Henry's in the hospital.”
“Of course,” and with that, we hurried to her car and sped to the hospital. I was concerned and thought that I should have asked more questions; “How is he?,” “Is anything broken?,” and “What's his treatment?” Instead, I sat, staring out the window quietly, imagining the sound of the door shutting behind me and the loud clamber of footfalls as someone ran down the street.
I hardly noticed that we had parked, received directions from reception, and were in the elevator up four floors when the bell dinged and George and I stepped out, glancing for the appropriate sign. The on-hall nurse met me at the counter.
“He is doing fine, some hairline fractures that ought to heal if he stays off of them, and some mean looking bruises that will clear up on their own.” She sighed and then looked George in the eye, then me, “He's excitable. I don't know what to make of it, but it is all I can do to give him a sedative so he wouldn't run down the hall. One nurse thought he'd belong more in psych observation, but we should be able to discharge him today.”
“Anything else we should know?” I asked.
“Just keep him calm if you can.”
“We'll try,” I added, smilingly uncertainly, hoping that he would make more sense than he did after the party the night before. In his room, I heard him madly scribbling and stepped in quietly, hoping to gauge him before he noticed us. His attention was rapt in a yellow, lined notebook with half of its pages already flipped back over the binding. Studying him, I could see the sharp lines in his hand as the pen ran again and again over the pages, faster than I thought him possible. Henry had always been calm of demeanor and slow to act, as if something might change suddenly; but now, all his energy poured out of him into those pages and I felt, if subtly, frightened for him.
“Hey Henry, how are you?” I asked, stepping up to him and resting my hand on the foot of his bed.
“Lex!” He looked up, startled and shaking. “I have so much, so very much to tell you. Thank you for getting me home, I was in the worst of it then. I just got to that point writing. They won't let me leave yet, but I have to speak with Brother James.” He spoke quickly, swallowing some smaller words here and there, mashing together other words into long, breathless amalgamations. “It feels a bit like a dream, a bit like a nightmare, but it all happened and I've come back! Brother James never suggested that I would come back. You would think that the droplet stays lost, but here I am, jarred back to the present! I am so happy you came, though I wish you had shown up a few hours ago.”
“Henry, calm down. I can't keep up with you. You're worrying the nurses, too.”
“They'll be fine. I'm something else. To think, if they even knew, if they had any idea, they would just break down. A weaker spirit, someone with less training, would maybe not come back, just stay lost out there, in there, wherever it was.”
“Henry, what are you talking about?” Here, George stepped up and began taking stock of the thin, bedraggled man in the bed, two empty notebooks next to him and his present quickly running out of space. Every few moments he would jot down further scrawl and flip the page. His speech—its speed and intensity—surprised me and my worry, once typical and subtle, grew stronger and hinted of accents of the truly bizarre. My mind raced when he brought up Brother James, of the conversation the two had had, and what he might mean about going somewhere. I thought, surprised and slightly angry, that he was recording some sort of alien abduction, but before I could think too much, he plunged back into his monologue.
“I would never have believed it, that Brother James absolutely meant 'off the window.' How absurd is that? He knew the difficulty and intensity of leaving the pane, but I may be the first to return. Everything feels tight and cornered, like a glove now too small with a new winter. You're here, though, and you can help me.” He looked again at George.
“Hello. I'm Georgia, or George, just George. Nice to meet you,” She said, leaning in and offering Henry her hand. He saw it, almost examined it, before setting down his pen and shaking it. Henry set down her hand and peered at George, then at me, confounded by what he saw there, seeing us almost like foreigners or idiots; we were obviously dumb to his meanings.
“What are you thinking, Alexis?”
“Henry,” I breathed deeply, feeling the complexity of my thoughts in the rasping of my throat, the unfamiliar weight of the hospital walls, the difficulty of the situation, “you survived a car accident after speaking gibberish to me all night. Now you have—I don't know—a report of some sort that doesn't make any sense. What am I supposed to think? I am worried. Do you think that Brother James can make more sense of this than me?”
Henry's eyes examined me, peered lengthily into or passed me. Eventually, I looked away but felt that he continued to ponder me, like an experiment, like one of George's obsessive queries.
“Could you call the Center and ask for Brother James to come. There is no rush, but I would like to speak with him and they won't let me leave until tomorrow.”
“I will. Can I get anything for you? Do you want me to ask the nurses for anything?”
“No, don't tell them anything. Please, just call Brother James.”
I met his eyes again and noticed the long shadows of his face; I saw lines on his face that I had never considered before. Henry had always felt calm, collected, and somehow youthful, somehow warding off the world through his simplicity and practice. Now, I believe that he had aged or grown, or perhaps transformed somehow; but I did not think that then, only that a long night had worn heavily on my friend and that I had not before seen age work on him. I sighed and found a phone book at the nurses' station and called Brother James, whom I first reassured and then explained Henry's request.
Returning to the room, I felt suddenly and surprisingly intrusive; George and Henry were quietly staring at one another, unmoving and firm, as if planted as statues. I saw between them a balance, an uncanny and weird energy that charged the room. For a moment I cannot measure, I silently and unknowingly observed, caught by the strange spell. A light flickered or I blinked and we were all back in the room together, just two friends visiting another who had suffered an accident. I breathed deeply and thought of Henry's advice to watch my breathing, when I noticed a strange scent, a hue in the light, something that seemed off center, tilted, forced. Then, as if it had never been there, the sensation evaporated
“Brother James is on his way. I spoke with him and he has an open schedule.”
“That is like him, never one to make plans,” Henry replied, smiling sagely.
“Why do you want Brother James to come?” George asked.
“Brother James has guided my meditation in the past. I think he might help me with,” and he inhaled sharply, his ears perked, he glanced out the window, “understanding my thoughts.”
“When was the last time you saw Brother James?” I asked.
“When you visited the Center with me. I called two days ago, but he was out in the gardens at school. Why?”
“You said something about what he told you then.”
“Yes, the droplets on the window pane; I have been meditating on what he told me then. I would have difficulty explaining it. He has also guided me with meditating on the koans, traditional riddles or puzzles that defy reason. This, I consider, to be similar to the koans. It is difficult to explain.”
Questions bubbled up inside of me, then settled again, feeling like a film over my thoughts. I was confused, profoundly so, and felt something mechanical in Henry's words. George made very little noise, even when she had spoken, it had been stealthy and hushed. I wanted to leave quickly, immediately, like the mouse at the imperceptible hint of an owl above. I felt threat then, a threat that has yet to leave me.
“Could I go, Henry? Will you be okay?”
“That is fine, Alexis. Can you come back tomorrow? The doctor informed me that I might have trouble getting around.”
“Of course. I'll come back tomorrow morning. I'll take you home.”
“Thank you.” He turned to George and tensed. “It was nice meeting George. Perhaps I will see you again soon.”
“I would like that.”
...
The bell on the door twittered when I awkwardly held the door for George at the Chinese restaurant. It was early afternoon as I had slept well through the morning following Jessica's party and the settling of Henry in his apartment. I was groggy, but the ride home had refreshed my senses before I fell asleep.
“The security guards at work are a riot. They have no clue what research goes on and they don't know how to make heads or tails of anything we ask them most of the time. It would be the easiest thing in the world to sneak in and play around.”
“I hope you're not planning anything.”
“Me? No. I don't need to. But I do sometimes play around with them when I'm there late.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I just suggest that certain chemicals or experiments are highly dangerous or that they ought to ask in a certain way, with that tone that means, 'Otherwise, you might not be able to have children.'”
“That sounds pretty cruel.”
“Only if they are sharp enough to play along. Usually, they don't care and just wander off.”
The maitre d' quietly guided as to a table along the street-facing window, where bright sunshine lit the laminated menus in the dim restaurant. We requested water and tea of our waiter, who then rushed off for them. After we sat, a small quiet ensued, which I then poked with a change in topic.
“You know my friend Henry the Buddhist?” This is often how I introduce him because I feel that the stories about him ought to make more sense if the audience knows he is a Buddhist, but it inevitably comes out like a title rather than a description.
“We haven't met, but you've brought him up before.”
“I think you should meet him. Your, um, pursuits are similar but involve different avenues. I think you two would have good conversations.” George nodded absently, smiling at the waiter who brought in tea, which was poured into each of our little ceramic teacups. “Well,” and here I began to hesitate, because this might still lie in the private space between friends, not yet open to sharing with everyone yet, “he and I went to a party last night but he sort of had an... episode. I don't know what to call it exactly, but it was very strange.” I sipped the tea and George watched me acutely, as if wondering if this might be one of my long, dawdling stories or turn quickly into an intriguing one. “Do you have much knowledge of psychological events, when someone very quickly becomes someone else?”
“Do you mean a fugue?” George asked perking up.
“Maybe, what is that?”
“Well, it has to do with becoming dissociated with earlier memories and manifesting a new persona.”
“Like amnesia?”
“It is one form of amnesia, yes. Someone wanders off and starts a new life for a few days or weeks, then the memories from before return and she abandons the new life for the old.”
I thought on this, chewing over it and piecing together how Henry had acted. I smelled and then sipped the jasmine tea.
“I don't know if that is it, but it might help make sense of how Henry acted last night. So after a couple of hours at the party—he came anxious, but came anyway—Mona tells me he's acting strangely, so I go find him and we walk home. The whole time he sounds like he's talking to himself very quietly, like he's somewhere unfamiliar and quickly keeping notes. At one point, it felt like he was receiving a broadcast from far away, and all his body was was a radio.”
“Or a relay station,” George chimed.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if the message wasn't for you, and it wasn't for Henry, then maybe he was just picking it up to send it somewhere else, like an NPR broadcast out of New York getting picked up and played nearly simultaneously across the country.”
“You're worrying me.”
“Sorry. It just sounded like a relay because it wasn't all that clear and you couldn't decipher it, maybe someone else could.”
The waiter returned with a pad of paper and we ordered; George the kung-pao chicken and I snow pea and water chestnut stir fry. I waited for him to leave before continuing. Talking about Henry and how he had acted embarrassed me, or maybe frightened me. It is hard to tell now.
“I don't have much more to say. Last night, we walked back to his place until he calmed down and I put him to bed. I didn't leave right away, but waited till I thought he had fallen asleep.”
“Have you talked to him since?”
“No. I planned on calling him today, but woke up just before you called.”
“I noticed,” George smiled when she said it. “So things didn't go anywhere with Mona?”
“No, I mean, yes. I think so, but nothing happened because I left early with Henry.” I blushed before adding, “I drank a little too much. Jessica's brother made drinks and they had some fantastic whiskey, which I just can't afford and I drank too much.”
“You seem fine now.”
“I suppose I am. I just don't like to slip out of my own control.”
“You helped Henry when he needed it.”
“Well, I don't know if I did. I think I should have helped him earlier, that I should have paid more attention to him. He was so hesitant about coming, maybe my excitement for seeing Mona got in the way.”
“Don't beat yourself up. You got Henry into bed, what more could you have been asked to do?”
“Maybe I just missed something earlier. I feel like I missed something crucial by not paying attention to Henry, that his episode might not have gotten so intense.”
“I know that it is hard to predict or determine a fugue state, but they can be really disruptive. It doesn't sound like that is what happened, but whatever did happen probably had more to do with what is going on inside Henry's head, not with you or whatever happened at the party.”
We began to shift to lighter topics, small recollections of parties here and there. I thought of the strange event on the patio with Thomas, but did not bring it up. That conversation had continued to feel too intoxicated, too confounded with elements of the evening of which I could not make sense. Our food came and we shared a little bit, though George was not much for vegetables. We sat there, sipping tea and enjoying the space for some time. We spoke of work and classes, I chatted more on Mona and the party, but George mostly laughed at how unhinged my memories were of the night before. They gradually slipped back in at the edges, but I did not push them anywhere.
As early afternoon slipped into mid-afternoon, we left and were preparing to say goodbye when my phone rang. The number was unknown and I answered with hesitancy. It was the hospital calling.
“Sir, we have a friend of yours here who has been asking for you.”
“A friend? Who?”
“A Mister Henry Jenson.”
“What happened? Can I come see him?”
“He would like that very much. It seems late last night he was hit by a car near his home--”
“What time? When was he hit?”
“At about three in the morning, sir.”
“I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, sir. Just ask the receptionist for directions. I'll inform her of your arrival.”
I looked pleadingly at George, “Can you give me a ride? Henry's in the hospital.”
“Of course,” and with that, we hurried to her car and sped to the hospital. I was concerned and thought that I should have asked more questions; “How is he?,” “Is anything broken?,” and “What's his treatment?” Instead, I sat, staring out the window quietly, imagining the sound of the door shutting behind me and the loud clamber of footfalls as someone ran down the street.
I hardly noticed that we had parked, received directions from reception, and were in the elevator up four floors when the bell dinged and George and I stepped out, glancing for the appropriate sign. The on-hall nurse met me at the counter.
“He is doing fine, some hairline fractures that ought to heal if he stays off of them, and some mean looking bruises that will clear up on their own.” She sighed and then looked George in the eye, then me, “He's excitable. I don't know what to make of it, but it is all I can do to give him a sedative so he wouldn't run down the hall. One nurse thought he'd belong more in psych observation, but we should be able to discharge him today.”
“Anything else we should know?” I asked.
“Just keep him calm if you can.”
“We'll try,” I added, smilingly uncertainly, hoping that he would make more sense than he did after the party the night before. In his room, I heard him madly scribbling and stepped in quietly, hoping to gauge him before he noticed us. His attention was rapt in a yellow, lined notebook with half of its pages already flipped back over the binding. Studying him, I could see the sharp lines in his hand as the pen ran again and again over the pages, faster than I thought him possible. Henry had always been calm of demeanor and slow to act, as if something might change suddenly; but now, all his energy poured out of him into those pages and I felt, if subtly, frightened for him.
“Hey Henry, how are you?” I asked, stepping up to him and resting my hand on the foot of his bed.
“Lex!” He looked up, startled and shaking. “I have so much, so very much to tell you. Thank you for getting me home, I was in the worst of it then. I just got to that point writing. They won't let me leave yet, but I have to speak with Brother James.” He spoke quickly, swallowing some smaller words here and there, mashing together other words into long, breathless amalgamations. “It feels a bit like a dream, a bit like a nightmare, but it all happened and I've come back! Brother James never suggested that I would come back. You would think that the droplet stays lost, but here I am, jarred back to the present! I am so happy you came, though I wish you had shown up a few hours ago.”
“Henry, calm down. I can't keep up with you. You're worrying the nurses, too.”
“They'll be fine. I'm something else. To think, if they even knew, if they had any idea, they would just break down. A weaker spirit, someone with less training, would maybe not come back, just stay lost out there, in there, wherever it was.”
“Henry, what are you talking about?” Here, George stepped up and began taking stock of the thin, bedraggled man in the bed, two empty notebooks next to him and his present quickly running out of space. Every few moments he would jot down further scrawl and flip the page. His speech—its speed and intensity—surprised me and my worry, once typical and subtle, grew stronger and hinted of accents of the truly bizarre. My mind raced when he brought up Brother James, of the conversation the two had had, and what he might mean about going somewhere. I thought, surprised and slightly angry, that he was recording some sort of alien abduction, but before I could think too much, he plunged back into his monologue.
“I would never have believed it, that Brother James absolutely meant 'off the window.' How absurd is that? He knew the difficulty and intensity of leaving the pane, but I may be the first to return. Everything feels tight and cornered, like a glove now too small with a new winter. You're here, though, and you can help me.” He looked again at George.
“Hello. I'm Georgia, or George, just George. Nice to meet you,” She said, leaning in and offering Henry her hand. He saw it, almost examined it, before setting down his pen and shaking it. Henry set down her hand and peered at George, then at me, confounded by what he saw there, seeing us almost like foreigners or idiots; we were obviously dumb to his meanings.
“What are you thinking, Alexis?”
“Henry,” I breathed deeply, feeling the complexity of my thoughts in the rasping of my throat, the unfamiliar weight of the hospital walls, the difficulty of the situation, “you survived a car accident after speaking gibberish to me all night. Now you have—I don't know—a report of some sort that doesn't make any sense. What am I supposed to think? I am worried. Do you think that Brother James can make more sense of this than me?”
Henry's eyes examined me, peered lengthily into or passed me. Eventually, I looked away but felt that he continued to ponder me, like an experiment, like one of George's obsessive queries.
“Could you call the Center and ask for Brother James to come. There is no rush, but I would like to speak with him and they won't let me leave until tomorrow.”
“I will. Can I get anything for you? Do you want me to ask the nurses for anything?”
“No, don't tell them anything. Please, just call Brother James.”
I met his eyes again and noticed the long shadows of his face; I saw lines on his face that I had never considered before. Henry had always felt calm, collected, and somehow youthful, somehow warding off the world through his simplicity and practice. Now, I believe that he had aged or grown, or perhaps transformed somehow; but I did not think that then, only that a long night had worn heavily on my friend and that I had not before seen age work on him. I sighed and found a phone book at the nurses' station and called Brother James, whom I first reassured and then explained Henry's request.
Returning to the room, I felt suddenly and surprisingly intrusive; George and Henry were quietly staring at one another, unmoving and firm, as if planted as statues. I saw between them a balance, an uncanny and weird energy that charged the room. For a moment I cannot measure, I silently and unknowingly observed, caught by the strange spell. A light flickered or I blinked and we were all back in the room together, just two friends visiting another who had suffered an accident. I breathed deeply and thought of Henry's advice to watch my breathing, when I noticed a strange scent, a hue in the light, something that seemed off center, tilted, forced. Then, as if it had never been there, the sensation evaporated
“Brother James is on his way. I spoke with him and he has an open schedule.”
“That is like him, never one to make plans,” Henry replied, smiling sagely.
“Why do you want Brother James to come?” George asked.
“Brother James has guided my meditation in the past. I think he might help me with,” and he inhaled sharply, his ears perked, he glanced out the window, “understanding my thoughts.”
“When was the last time you saw Brother James?” I asked.
“When you visited the Center with me. I called two days ago, but he was out in the gardens at school. Why?”
“You said something about what he told you then.”
“Yes, the droplets on the window pane; I have been meditating on what he told me then. I would have difficulty explaining it. He has also guided me with meditating on the koans, traditional riddles or puzzles that defy reason. This, I consider, to be similar to the koans. It is difficult to explain.”
Questions bubbled up inside of me, then settled again, feeling like a film over my thoughts. I was confused, profoundly so, and felt something mechanical in Henry's words. George made very little noise, even when she had spoken, it had been stealthy and hushed. I wanted to leave quickly, immediately, like the mouse at the imperceptible hint of an owl above. I felt threat then, a threat that has yet to leave me.
“Could I go, Henry? Will you be okay?”
“That is fine, Alexis. Can you come back tomorrow? The doctor informed me that I might have trouble getting around.”
“Of course. I'll come back tomorrow morning. I'll take you home.”
“Thank you.” He turned to George and tensed. “It was nice meeting George. Perhaps I will see you again soon.”
“I would like that.”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Fate of Droplets (iv)
Oh, and for further note, I was unaware of the difficulty of commenting. If you have a GMail account or some other Google account, you can use that to log into BlogSpot in order to post comments. Sorry for the inconvenience, I thought that this format allowed for anonymous comments.
...
The night passed a little too rapidly into a blur. I thought perpetually of Mona, trying to touch her hands or shoulders, then later her cheeks or neck; I paid too little attention to Henry who floated anxiously between small conversations and vaguely familiar faces; and I drank too much after I discovered the brand of whiskey Jessica's brother served at the bar. My behavior was not problematic, but I can now recall only snatches of the evening. At one point, I stepped outside with Thomas to join him for a cigarette. The night air felt warm and stimulating now, my senses felt sharpened by a somewhat suspended appreciation for space and time. When Thomas exhaled, he breathed overhead, but it settled down on top of us again; I exhaled to my right, though I enjoyed the aroma and mystique of smoke as it came around us, clouding me all the more.
“Why are you thinking that we are influenced by foreign forces?” This question surprised both of us, as I had not expected to say it and Thomas had apparently believed the conversation concluded. He looked at me sharply, halting abruptly his smoking; then, as if he might slide the gesture under the carpet, he inhaled and breathed out lengthily.
“Why do you say that? You provided two interpretations of my argument.” He eyed me, as if I might surrender ground of which I was unaware.
“No. You clearly made your choice before the argument began. Maybe you didn't expect to have the argument turned back on you.” I stated it soberly, clearly, and this—I now believe—provided me my anchor to the moment, locking it into memory. An image came to mind when I spoke, of Thomas with a cigarette in his left hand, a flintlock handgun (I have always fallen back on their allure) borne in his right, only to have it flipped back and stolen from him; then, in the image, he laughs at me.
“You may be correct.” His tone was elusive, as if he was slipping out of character. “I have been able to see a good deal of the problems that surround this society, the ways we fight one another, the difficulties of organizing between party lines, the circularity of classroom arguments; they fascinate me but also frighten me. They ought to frighten more people, I suppose.” He sighed, looked forward and down, as if spying something at the edge of the garden before taking the final drag on his cigarette. The smoke from his mouth shot slowly but steadily forth, like a spear or stream carving into something hard. “This fracturing, this severing of one person from another cannot always have happened, or else we would never have succeeded at building societies of this scale, cities of millions, a planet of billions. I wonder, if something about our cohesion is breaking down, then how could it be something within us? Wouldn't it have to be from outside, the way salt interacts with water or a magnet on iron filings?”
I had stopped moving, listening intently, watching the clean, aggressive movements in his face. Now that he had stopped, it took me a moment to catch up, but all he did was see something at the edge of the garden that wasn't there, lost somehow in himself. I gathered my thoughts, considering the basis for his claims. My thoughts hiccuped and stuttered in my head, working their way around one another, as if in a dense stew, thick and slippery.
“What would be doing that sort of thing, though? You can't make a claim like that without defining the force that acts in such a way.”
Thomas turned his head, too fast for my eyes to follow, and I was struck with dizziness and saw some potency, some shimmer in his eyes that wobbled my already wobbly frame. My right hand, with the fading cigarette butt, slid behind me and caught the edge of a cool, iron table. When I gripped it, the cigarette ash brushed against my hand and I felt its painful heat on sensitive skin between my fingers. I loosened my grip, dropped the cigarette, and nearly fell. Something peculiar about Thomas and his eyes, his speed and his tone moved me and I could not turn again to face him for a long while. When I looked at him again, his eyes spoke of uncanny age, as one sometimes looks when a family member dies or a friend abandons you.
“I don't know what that would be. I couldn't tell you.”
He lied, but spoke as if to tell me he were lying to me; as if, had he spoken truthfully, I would not then have understood the truth out of disbelieve. Now, I reflect on his face, the lines of his expression, the depth in his voice and can intuit its meaning, its clarity; but then, with my dizziness and distraction, I could only let the reality of his statement percolate into me, like soil absorbing rain water. I hardly knew it was there, but the knowledge seemed to know where to go and I would later discover it the way one learns of a dream when one meets the waking counterpart to a character one dreamt.
Mona came out then and whispered, “You should go see Henry. I think he's upset.”
I looked at Mona, as if asking who this Henry person was, then I remembered everything and felt an intoxicated shame fall on me, the shame of abandoning your charge. I excused myself with mumbles and immediately caught sight of Henry, who was sitting at an upright piano in the far corner of the long living room. The room stretched out, surreal and terrible, as faces and bodies danced around one another. My head and eyes took a moment to adjust and the disparate pieces aligned and I found my way to Henry who seemed to frantically read the lines of music in each song. I reached out and set my hand on his shoulder, pushing on him with just too much weight to suggest my state.
“How you doing, there?”
He murmured, or perhaps spoke words I could not make clear.
“What was that? Speak up, its loud in here.”
“It's all wrong. They're all going about it wrong.”
I thought I smelled something strong on his breath, but it may have been from me.
“Henry,” I shook him gently and he turned to me, his eyes drawn long on his face, “do you want to get on home, to get out of here?” Henry stared at me, eyes dull and stupefied, as if cowed into simplicity. “Just tell me and we can go.”
It was obvious to me that Henry needed to leave. Something had perturbed him, had stirred or shaken him and I doubt even he could have then put a name or finger on it. I then thought of Mona and desperately wanted him to deny it, to say that he was alright, or even better, that he might leave on his own. These thoughts were followed by silent curses to myself which galled me sufficiently to act properly.
“Henry, let's get you home, okay? We'll make some tea and chat until you feel better, okay?” I spoke to him like a child, or perhaps a drunk, of which he was neither. He noticed this and stiffened.
“I can go, Lex, you can stay. I'm ready to leave but you're not.” Strength returned to him and he began to stand.
“No Henry, we go together.” Words I both thank and regret. I may have gone on happy and ignorant if it were not for those words.
Mona came over to me and rested her hand on my shoulder, I started at her touch, then leaned my head such that my cheek grazed the back of her hand. An electric shiver ran from my cheek through to my toes and I sighed. I busied myself with adieux and the light talk of future plans, found Jessica whom Henry and I both thanked, then Mona kissed me goodnight at the door and we parted.
Henry's anxiety gave his walk jolted and skittered, and he reminded me of my brother after he had been hit by a car while cycling. Then, like now, he had spoken in quiet phrases that did not connect into clear thoughts or sentences, but carried a strange, foreign poetry. Words about light and smells, about the strange odours (he said it that way, as if I could hear something old or unfamiliar in his voice) that people carried with them. For a while, he spoke almost clearly of the old characteristics of people, the way we once stayed in place and could identify one another by accent and smell; he sounded increasingly distant, as if he himself were traveling somewhere across a sea or a vast mountain range while his body remained behind, walking next to me in the cloud-laden night. It occurred to me—after we made our way to his apartment where I prepared tea and sat with him, wanting to focus on something besides Mona and the way her hands danced—that he sounded like the receiving end of a radio transmission, he spoke from a different setting, reporting to me what he considered about him.
I said very little and had difficulty discerning his words, hushed and garbled as they were. Eventually, he calmed down and began to look more directly at me before beginning to nod off. We finished the tea and I helped him into bed but he became anxious again so I left the room, confused and sobering, only then beginning to connect the worrisome behavior with something that might be wrong. I resolved to return the next day and check on Henry, hopefully find him in better, more explicable spirits. When I heard steady breathing in the other room, I made my move to leave.
Just outside the door, a young woman came out and looked around suddenly, wobbling somewhat. She had long, auburn hair that swung with her scanning movements.
“Have you seen a guy leave recently?”
“I just came out here.”
She looked far away down the street and whispered, a little loudly, “Too bad,” and she swung around and scaled the stairs again. I wondered at her concern, her comment, then chuckled to myself. I stumbled to undo the lock on my bicycle around the side of the building and heard someone leave the apartment, the door clanking back into place. This person whom I could not see ran, loudly, clumsily down the street away from me. I finally left, biking in the opposite direction than the runner, thinking lightly to myself that perhaps the young woman's pursuit was more earnest, or perhaps she and her quarry had missed one another and now he was leaving. Both, I later learned, were wrong.
...
The night passed a little too rapidly into a blur. I thought perpetually of Mona, trying to touch her hands or shoulders, then later her cheeks or neck; I paid too little attention to Henry who floated anxiously between small conversations and vaguely familiar faces; and I drank too much after I discovered the brand of whiskey Jessica's brother served at the bar. My behavior was not problematic, but I can now recall only snatches of the evening. At one point, I stepped outside with Thomas to join him for a cigarette. The night air felt warm and stimulating now, my senses felt sharpened by a somewhat suspended appreciation for space and time. When Thomas exhaled, he breathed overhead, but it settled down on top of us again; I exhaled to my right, though I enjoyed the aroma and mystique of smoke as it came around us, clouding me all the more.
“Why are you thinking that we are influenced by foreign forces?” This question surprised both of us, as I had not expected to say it and Thomas had apparently believed the conversation concluded. He looked at me sharply, halting abruptly his smoking; then, as if he might slide the gesture under the carpet, he inhaled and breathed out lengthily.
“Why do you say that? You provided two interpretations of my argument.” He eyed me, as if I might surrender ground of which I was unaware.
“No. You clearly made your choice before the argument began. Maybe you didn't expect to have the argument turned back on you.” I stated it soberly, clearly, and this—I now believe—provided me my anchor to the moment, locking it into memory. An image came to mind when I spoke, of Thomas with a cigarette in his left hand, a flintlock handgun (I have always fallen back on their allure) borne in his right, only to have it flipped back and stolen from him; then, in the image, he laughs at me.
“You may be correct.” His tone was elusive, as if he was slipping out of character. “I have been able to see a good deal of the problems that surround this society, the ways we fight one another, the difficulties of organizing between party lines, the circularity of classroom arguments; they fascinate me but also frighten me. They ought to frighten more people, I suppose.” He sighed, looked forward and down, as if spying something at the edge of the garden before taking the final drag on his cigarette. The smoke from his mouth shot slowly but steadily forth, like a spear or stream carving into something hard. “This fracturing, this severing of one person from another cannot always have happened, or else we would never have succeeded at building societies of this scale, cities of millions, a planet of billions. I wonder, if something about our cohesion is breaking down, then how could it be something within us? Wouldn't it have to be from outside, the way salt interacts with water or a magnet on iron filings?”
I had stopped moving, listening intently, watching the clean, aggressive movements in his face. Now that he had stopped, it took me a moment to catch up, but all he did was see something at the edge of the garden that wasn't there, lost somehow in himself. I gathered my thoughts, considering the basis for his claims. My thoughts hiccuped and stuttered in my head, working their way around one another, as if in a dense stew, thick and slippery.
“What would be doing that sort of thing, though? You can't make a claim like that without defining the force that acts in such a way.”
Thomas turned his head, too fast for my eyes to follow, and I was struck with dizziness and saw some potency, some shimmer in his eyes that wobbled my already wobbly frame. My right hand, with the fading cigarette butt, slid behind me and caught the edge of a cool, iron table. When I gripped it, the cigarette ash brushed against my hand and I felt its painful heat on sensitive skin between my fingers. I loosened my grip, dropped the cigarette, and nearly fell. Something peculiar about Thomas and his eyes, his speed and his tone moved me and I could not turn again to face him for a long while. When I looked at him again, his eyes spoke of uncanny age, as one sometimes looks when a family member dies or a friend abandons you.
“I don't know what that would be. I couldn't tell you.”
He lied, but spoke as if to tell me he were lying to me; as if, had he spoken truthfully, I would not then have understood the truth out of disbelieve. Now, I reflect on his face, the lines of his expression, the depth in his voice and can intuit its meaning, its clarity; but then, with my dizziness and distraction, I could only let the reality of his statement percolate into me, like soil absorbing rain water. I hardly knew it was there, but the knowledge seemed to know where to go and I would later discover it the way one learns of a dream when one meets the waking counterpart to a character one dreamt.
Mona came out then and whispered, “You should go see Henry. I think he's upset.”
I looked at Mona, as if asking who this Henry person was, then I remembered everything and felt an intoxicated shame fall on me, the shame of abandoning your charge. I excused myself with mumbles and immediately caught sight of Henry, who was sitting at an upright piano in the far corner of the long living room. The room stretched out, surreal and terrible, as faces and bodies danced around one another. My head and eyes took a moment to adjust and the disparate pieces aligned and I found my way to Henry who seemed to frantically read the lines of music in each song. I reached out and set my hand on his shoulder, pushing on him with just too much weight to suggest my state.
“How you doing, there?”
He murmured, or perhaps spoke words I could not make clear.
“What was that? Speak up, its loud in here.”
“It's all wrong. They're all going about it wrong.”
I thought I smelled something strong on his breath, but it may have been from me.
“Henry,” I shook him gently and he turned to me, his eyes drawn long on his face, “do you want to get on home, to get out of here?” Henry stared at me, eyes dull and stupefied, as if cowed into simplicity. “Just tell me and we can go.”
It was obvious to me that Henry needed to leave. Something had perturbed him, had stirred or shaken him and I doubt even he could have then put a name or finger on it. I then thought of Mona and desperately wanted him to deny it, to say that he was alright, or even better, that he might leave on his own. These thoughts were followed by silent curses to myself which galled me sufficiently to act properly.
“Henry, let's get you home, okay? We'll make some tea and chat until you feel better, okay?” I spoke to him like a child, or perhaps a drunk, of which he was neither. He noticed this and stiffened.
“I can go, Lex, you can stay. I'm ready to leave but you're not.” Strength returned to him and he began to stand.
“No Henry, we go together.” Words I both thank and regret. I may have gone on happy and ignorant if it were not for those words.
Mona came over to me and rested her hand on my shoulder, I started at her touch, then leaned my head such that my cheek grazed the back of her hand. An electric shiver ran from my cheek through to my toes and I sighed. I busied myself with adieux and the light talk of future plans, found Jessica whom Henry and I both thanked, then Mona kissed me goodnight at the door and we parted.
Henry's anxiety gave his walk jolted and skittered, and he reminded me of my brother after he had been hit by a car while cycling. Then, like now, he had spoken in quiet phrases that did not connect into clear thoughts or sentences, but carried a strange, foreign poetry. Words about light and smells, about the strange odours (he said it that way, as if I could hear something old or unfamiliar in his voice) that people carried with them. For a while, he spoke almost clearly of the old characteristics of people, the way we once stayed in place and could identify one another by accent and smell; he sounded increasingly distant, as if he himself were traveling somewhere across a sea or a vast mountain range while his body remained behind, walking next to me in the cloud-laden night. It occurred to me—after we made our way to his apartment where I prepared tea and sat with him, wanting to focus on something besides Mona and the way her hands danced—that he sounded like the receiving end of a radio transmission, he spoke from a different setting, reporting to me what he considered about him.
I said very little and had difficulty discerning his words, hushed and garbled as they were. Eventually, he calmed down and began to look more directly at me before beginning to nod off. We finished the tea and I helped him into bed but he became anxious again so I left the room, confused and sobering, only then beginning to connect the worrisome behavior with something that might be wrong. I resolved to return the next day and check on Henry, hopefully find him in better, more explicable spirits. When I heard steady breathing in the other room, I made my move to leave.
Just outside the door, a young woman came out and looked around suddenly, wobbling somewhat. She had long, auburn hair that swung with her scanning movements.
“Have you seen a guy leave recently?”
“I just came out here.”
She looked far away down the street and whispered, a little loudly, “Too bad,” and she swung around and scaled the stairs again. I wondered at her concern, her comment, then chuckled to myself. I stumbled to undo the lock on my bicycle around the side of the building and heard someone leave the apartment, the door clanking back into place. This person whom I could not see ran, loudly, clumsily down the street away from me. I finally left, biking in the opposite direction than the runner, thinking lightly to myself that perhaps the young woman's pursuit was more earnest, or perhaps she and her quarry had missed one another and now he was leaving. Both, I later learned, were wrong.
The Fate of Droplets (iii)
I want to apologize for the poor formatting that happens when I post these excerpts. They frustrate me as well as any readers. If it were a shorter piece, I would probably do something silly and painstaking to make it look better, but I am leaving it as is. A friend commented that she enjoys the story, so I am posting both parts iii and iv today. I hope they are well received.
...
Henry and I attended a party that Saturday. I eagerly shared the conversation I had had with George and it then occurred to me that the two might gain something from one another. It was obvious that Henry was distant, glancing frequently over his shoulder and peering down the roads where street lamps had burned out. I thought he jumped when one blinked out overhead.
The house was an old but well-maintained and recently refurbished estate. During the daytime, I might have fallen in love with its steeple roof-line and shutters, the way it stood in its happy, simple lot with the vegetable garden stretched all along the left-side iron fence. As it was, with the clouds flitting quickly overhead, casting moonlight eerily, and the murmur that the party-goers' talk made from outside alarmed me. Henry shared some of my concern, but it may have just been his condition at the time that set him off-kilter.
“Lex! How are you? Come on in.”
“Hey Jessica, this is Henry, a friend from high school.” Henry shook Jessica's hand and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He received it, but seemed more uncomfortable afterward.
“Well come in! The clouds and cold are on their way, aren't they?” She laughed and led us in. She pointed out food and the facilities, but spent most of her time highlighting the flourishes of the design. I had met Jessica when I was home from school through a friend of a friend, and though we had never particularly bonded, we always tried to be amicable and welcoming to one another. She wore this wonderful, simple, knee-length dress that rippled in a soft red as she walked, some thin jewelry jingled at her wrists.
When I caught a glimpse of Mona sipping wine in the living room, I became exceedingly distracted. She and I had had dinner the evening following the day at the Buddhism Center with Henry and that had gone well, but closing abruptly due to a call to the hospital for nursing work. She was still a student, but only barely, and after some astounding work with traumatized adolescents the fellow staff treated her with great respect.
“Henry, I am going, um... over there,” adding a slight gesture. “Will you be alright?”
“Yeah, I'll be great. Something about the night was getting to me, but there's Karen and Gabby, and I saw Jason with Colin in the entryway.”
“Just let me know how you're doing, okay?” We had spoken a little on the way about how Henry was feeling, but it had been ambiguous; he had seemed to refuse to give whatever he was thinking about or feeling real shape, but not obviously hoping that I would give it one either.
He nodded and I spun off to find Mona. I picked up a drink from Jessica's brother who was happily gabbing away and mixing behind their bar in the study-gone-salon, which led into the living room via a tall, sliding door which could act as a false wall. Jessica had excitedly pointed out some of the clever crannies and flairs on the ground-floor, but I had paid little attention. The salon walls remained filled with bookshelves replete with ancient book spines and sturdy, red leather furniture on which familiar faces lounged and chattered. The living room was a lengthy and spacious affair that filled the back of the house, wide, tall windows revealed the flower garden behind, as well as a tidy brick patio where a few men and a women smoked amidst sharp gusts. Most guests had dressed up a little for the evening, but all of us were trumped for the fine air in the room made by all the furnishing and décor.
Mona wore this fantastic black, pin-stripe dress that seemed to shimmer despite its hue. Her hair was up in a tight bun with a few whispers of hair almost tickling her neck. She appeared heightened and statuesque, holding her glass primly but with a personal assurance. Her sharp features and tall neck seemed to set her up in contrast to her surroundings, or at least that is how she appeared to me. When she spotted me, she came over and hugged me, slyly kissing my cheek along my jaw and I absently shivered.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
“Well, if I had seen you before, I would have hurried up.”
Our fingertips lightly touched one another.
“Come over and meet some of my friends.” We joined her friends, our hands almost holding, and I made my way into their circle. I switched my drink to my left hand to shake their hands. “This is Jeremy and Amy, Anaïs, Thomas, Billie, and Owen.” I shook everyones' hands, leaning in to kiss Amy's, Anaïs's, and Billie's cheeks. I immediately felt underdressed, noticing some of the niceties that each wore, but their smiles and apparent genuineness calmed me.
We breezed through the small talk of introductions; school, work, some travels, family, and so on, before picking up on the conversation from before, which Thomas and Billie tended to lead.
“So Mona, how do reports from the frontlines go? Do you think your work is worse than it was a decade ago?” asked Thomas.
“Frontlines,” Amy explained in my ear, “is how Thomas refers to Mona's work.”
“Well, the trauma work is about the same, but we have more knowledge and skill with some subtleties of psychological health and care issues. We see more cases of neglect among children and the elderly, which was pretty unheard of even a few decades ago. Then again, we may just be more aware of what was going on.”
“I don't buy that,” chimed in Billie. “Generally speaking, people can tell when something is wrong with someone else. I know, for example, that Jeremy's grandmother lives with his parents. If I ask about her and he acts uncomfortable, or if no one sees her for a while, or if she acts funny when someone in the neighborhood does see her, it is easy to consider that something is wrong. What you're talking about, we haven't really seen before.”
Mona responded, “For the most part, I agree. Something is happening with our culture, our communities, our families that makes it possible or more likely or whatever for people to just set one another aside.”
“So, do you think we're treating one another like commodities or objects somehow because of our market-culture or because we don't see our family members like real persons anymore?” Thomas asked, pointedly to Mona, but for everyone to ponder.
“I guess I am too busy trying to take care of people, to wonder. I know that I have to see even the kid with gunshot wounds, even the abusive parent, and the neglectful mother as a person or else I can't do my work. Those are real people, no matter how we try to reason them into statistics or new articles or into TV shows.”
Anaïs noted, “What are you suggesting, Thomas? You talk like you already know the answer here and you just want to argue us down.” Thomas was finishing law student, and a nod from Amy suggested that this was the case.
“I'm not on a soapbox here or anything, but I do want to know if you think that this is an internal force of change, like that our culture or market is converting us into less feeling and more aggressive people; or if something outside is impacting the way we feel and act toward one another.”
“What do you mean, 'something outside?' That sounds like subliminal messages from the Soviets like in we're in the Cold War or something,” Jeremy added snidely, making the notion sound more astrological than sociological.
“Well, what about the way commercials and other PR campaigns indoctrinate us early, as children, into buying certain things or favoring certain styles or body types,” questioned Amy. Jeremy squeezed her around the waist supportively, warmly. I then felt how close Mona was to me and smiled quietly, dropping my hand next to hers so that the backs of our hands might graze against one another, though they did not right away.
“I'm skeptical at our inability to make up our own decisions the way businesses and politicians want to think.” Thomas looked right at me, coaxing a response as he continued, “We might get a few cues as kids, but our responses to advertising are fickle and chaotic, what worked yesterday is offensive today and passé tomorrow. And now we have more people trying to establish an anti-commercial counter-culture, like we're mustering our forces against something that's coming.”
“You present two options, then,” I said, “either our internal mechanisms of culture are more powerful and subtle than we have really begun to suppose, much more intricate than a soda commercial or fashion billboard; or some socio-culturally alien force is playing games with us to change how we react, something that we—we as a people—are increasingly sensitive to and have begun to combat.” I breathed slowly, happy that my thoroughly considered response had come out without a hitch, then added, “so what do you think, Thomas?”
Thomas smiled, somewhat maniacally, “I like to ask questions. I studied philosophy and now law, we aren't that good with answers.” To this, everyone besides me laughed, as if saying, “Oh, Thomas, that is just how you are.”
...
Henry and I attended a party that Saturday. I eagerly shared the conversation I had had with George and it then occurred to me that the two might gain something from one another. It was obvious that Henry was distant, glancing frequently over his shoulder and peering down the roads where street lamps had burned out. I thought he jumped when one blinked out overhead.
The house was an old but well-maintained and recently refurbished estate. During the daytime, I might have fallen in love with its steeple roof-line and shutters, the way it stood in its happy, simple lot with the vegetable garden stretched all along the left-side iron fence. As it was, with the clouds flitting quickly overhead, casting moonlight eerily, and the murmur that the party-goers' talk made from outside alarmed me. Henry shared some of my concern, but it may have just been his condition at the time that set him off-kilter.
“Lex! How are you? Come on in.”
“Hey Jessica, this is Henry, a friend from high school.” Henry shook Jessica's hand and she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. He received it, but seemed more uncomfortable afterward.
“Well come in! The clouds and cold are on their way, aren't they?” She laughed and led us in. She pointed out food and the facilities, but spent most of her time highlighting the flourishes of the design. I had met Jessica when I was home from school through a friend of a friend, and though we had never particularly bonded, we always tried to be amicable and welcoming to one another. She wore this wonderful, simple, knee-length dress that rippled in a soft red as she walked, some thin jewelry jingled at her wrists.
When I caught a glimpse of Mona sipping wine in the living room, I became exceedingly distracted. She and I had had dinner the evening following the day at the Buddhism Center with Henry and that had gone well, but closing abruptly due to a call to the hospital for nursing work. She was still a student, but only barely, and after some astounding work with traumatized adolescents the fellow staff treated her with great respect.
“Henry, I am going, um... over there,” adding a slight gesture. “Will you be alright?”
“Yeah, I'll be great. Something about the night was getting to me, but there's Karen and Gabby, and I saw Jason with Colin in the entryway.”
“Just let me know how you're doing, okay?” We had spoken a little on the way about how Henry was feeling, but it had been ambiguous; he had seemed to refuse to give whatever he was thinking about or feeling real shape, but not obviously hoping that I would give it one either.
He nodded and I spun off to find Mona. I picked up a drink from Jessica's brother who was happily gabbing away and mixing behind their bar in the study-gone-salon, which led into the living room via a tall, sliding door which could act as a false wall. Jessica had excitedly pointed out some of the clever crannies and flairs on the ground-floor, but I had paid little attention. The salon walls remained filled with bookshelves replete with ancient book spines and sturdy, red leather furniture on which familiar faces lounged and chattered. The living room was a lengthy and spacious affair that filled the back of the house, wide, tall windows revealed the flower garden behind, as well as a tidy brick patio where a few men and a women smoked amidst sharp gusts. Most guests had dressed up a little for the evening, but all of us were trumped for the fine air in the room made by all the furnishing and décor.
Mona wore this fantastic black, pin-stripe dress that seemed to shimmer despite its hue. Her hair was up in a tight bun with a few whispers of hair almost tickling her neck. She appeared heightened and statuesque, holding her glass primly but with a personal assurance. Her sharp features and tall neck seemed to set her up in contrast to her surroundings, or at least that is how she appeared to me. When she spotted me, she came over and hugged me, slyly kissing my cheek along my jaw and I absently shivered.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
“Well, if I had seen you before, I would have hurried up.”
Our fingertips lightly touched one another.
“Come over and meet some of my friends.” We joined her friends, our hands almost holding, and I made my way into their circle. I switched my drink to my left hand to shake their hands. “This is Jeremy and Amy, Anaïs, Thomas, Billie, and Owen.” I shook everyones' hands, leaning in to kiss Amy's, Anaïs's, and Billie's cheeks. I immediately felt underdressed, noticing some of the niceties that each wore, but their smiles and apparent genuineness calmed me.
We breezed through the small talk of introductions; school, work, some travels, family, and so on, before picking up on the conversation from before, which Thomas and Billie tended to lead.
“So Mona, how do reports from the frontlines go? Do you think your work is worse than it was a decade ago?” asked Thomas.
“Frontlines,” Amy explained in my ear, “is how Thomas refers to Mona's work.”
“Well, the trauma work is about the same, but we have more knowledge and skill with some subtleties of psychological health and care issues. We see more cases of neglect among children and the elderly, which was pretty unheard of even a few decades ago. Then again, we may just be more aware of what was going on.”
“I don't buy that,” chimed in Billie. “Generally speaking, people can tell when something is wrong with someone else. I know, for example, that Jeremy's grandmother lives with his parents. If I ask about her and he acts uncomfortable, or if no one sees her for a while, or if she acts funny when someone in the neighborhood does see her, it is easy to consider that something is wrong. What you're talking about, we haven't really seen before.”
Mona responded, “For the most part, I agree. Something is happening with our culture, our communities, our families that makes it possible or more likely or whatever for people to just set one another aside.”
“So, do you think we're treating one another like commodities or objects somehow because of our market-culture or because we don't see our family members like real persons anymore?” Thomas asked, pointedly to Mona, but for everyone to ponder.
“I guess I am too busy trying to take care of people, to wonder. I know that I have to see even the kid with gunshot wounds, even the abusive parent, and the neglectful mother as a person or else I can't do my work. Those are real people, no matter how we try to reason them into statistics or new articles or into TV shows.”
Anaïs noted, “What are you suggesting, Thomas? You talk like you already know the answer here and you just want to argue us down.” Thomas was finishing law student, and a nod from Amy suggested that this was the case.
“I'm not on a soapbox here or anything, but I do want to know if you think that this is an internal force of change, like that our culture or market is converting us into less feeling and more aggressive people; or if something outside is impacting the way we feel and act toward one another.”
“What do you mean, 'something outside?' That sounds like subliminal messages from the Soviets like in we're in the Cold War or something,” Jeremy added snidely, making the notion sound more astrological than sociological.
“Well, what about the way commercials and other PR campaigns indoctrinate us early, as children, into buying certain things or favoring certain styles or body types,” questioned Amy. Jeremy squeezed her around the waist supportively, warmly. I then felt how close Mona was to me and smiled quietly, dropping my hand next to hers so that the backs of our hands might graze against one another, though they did not right away.
“I'm skeptical at our inability to make up our own decisions the way businesses and politicians want to think.” Thomas looked right at me, coaxing a response as he continued, “We might get a few cues as kids, but our responses to advertising are fickle and chaotic, what worked yesterday is offensive today and passé tomorrow. And now we have more people trying to establish an anti-commercial counter-culture, like we're mustering our forces against something that's coming.”
“You present two options, then,” I said, “either our internal mechanisms of culture are more powerful and subtle than we have really begun to suppose, much more intricate than a soda commercial or fashion billboard; or some socio-culturally alien force is playing games with us to change how we react, something that we—we as a people—are increasingly sensitive to and have begun to combat.” I breathed slowly, happy that my thoroughly considered response had come out without a hitch, then added, “so what do you think, Thomas?”
Thomas smiled, somewhat maniacally, “I like to ask questions. I studied philosophy and now law, we aren't that good with answers.” To this, everyone besides me laughed, as if saying, “Oh, Thomas, that is just how you are.”
Picking Up & Putting Together; Two Bread Recipes
I have been a bit on the outside of things. Nothing serious or melodramatic, but definitely lethargic and a tidbit removed. My weekend was spent with friends in Minnesota--The Twin Cities and St Peter--which was very much needed. On the return home, I considered getting myself together a bit and thought of a schedule. I almost immediately remembered that I loathe schedules. Then, on the tail-end of the return drive, I thought of compiling a short list of things I want to do everyday. Here is the list:
Write something (journal, letters, fiction, etc.)
Read something (fiction, essays, comics, news, etc.)
Do something with the bakery idea (bake, plan, research, etc.)
Bicycle somewhere
Yoga, Tai Chi, zazen (at least one of the above)
Clean (the house), pack (for leaving), or unpack (from college or elsewhere)
It all feels a bit like self-help, but it means I can get back on a sleep schedule and start getting things I feel are important done. This isn't particularly insightful, and it isn't intended to be, but two weeks ago, the bakery fired me for "conflict with Kevin" the co-owner and my boss. I am not going into detail, but I found how the situation was managed more perturbing than the actual outcome. All in all, I learned a good deal about baking occupationally and running a bakery while I was there, but am not exactly displeased (albeit, certainly frustrated) to no longer be there. I have been looking into graduate programs in my spare time and am planning on getting out applications relatively soon so that I might attend one next fall.
So, if you have been looking for thoughts and musings about my day, then I apologize for their absence. For recompense, here are two recipes I have been playing with, one from yesterday and one from today:
Honey Nut Bread
3 & 1/2 cups wheat flour
2 Tbsp dry yeast
1/2 Tbsp salt
3 cups warm water
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup oil/butter
Mix dry ingredients, avoiding direct contact between salt and yeast. Then, blend in wet ingredients and let sit for 45-60 minutes.
3-4 cups white flour
1 generous cup of nuts (I used walnuts)
optional: 1-2 Tbsp cinnamon (I wanted to do this, but forgot)
Mix in and stir until making a firm dough. Do not add too much flour, so start with 3 scant cups and mix thoroughly before going further. Then, turn out on floured counter and knead until the flour and nuts are incorporated. Allow to rest for 45-60 minutes. Turn dough out onto lightly floured counter and knead until smooth. Separate dough into two to six pieces and shape. I made two large loaves, beginning with braids and then circling together like a cinnamon roll. Optionally, egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, which will probably need warmed slightly to stir together. Allow shaped loaves to proof for 20-40 minutes while oven preheats to 400 F. Bake loaves for 20-35 minutes. (Note: My loaves took 25 but were still doughy in the very center, or at one of them was, at least. Smaller loaves will bake faster, round loaves will bake more evenly.)
The egg wash--particularly with honey--will brown beautifully, but be careful to make sure the centers are done. I will probably bake smaller loaves in the future, or baguettes rather than boules. Enjoy! This is my mom's new favorite bread!
...
Baguette (with cornmeal)
Note: As of the time of writing, this is still unfinished, so I am unsure of the final product. I need to work on a baguette recipe for an event Saturday and I hope this one works. I have played with a variety of this for a while, but haven't generally recorded it.
2 cups white flour
1 cup cornmeal
1 Tbsp dry yeast
1 Tbsp salt
4 Tbsp (half a stick) of butter
1 Tbsp honey
2 cups warm water (optionally, use milk for a richer bread)
Stir together dry ingredients, cut in butter and add honey next, then mix in water. If the butter is room temperature, the water temperature matters less. Let rest 45-60 minutes.
About 2 cups white flour
Stir in flour, turn out on floured counter and knead until smooth. Let rest at least 30 more minutes. Then, turn out and knead, divide into two, and roll out into long baguette shapes. The cornmeal makes it a little sticky, so use a very little bit of white flour every so often to tighten up the outer edge of the dough. I also made a simple two braid loaf for one baguette. Place on greased baking sheet (you can also make them in a large loaf pan, and they look pretty fun) and allow to proof for about 30 minutes before putting in the oven. You may egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, warmed to allow mixing.
Bake at 400 F, but I don't know for how long. I'll start with 15 minutes and then check. I will update this later.
Write something (journal, letters, fiction, etc.)
Read something (fiction, essays, comics, news, etc.)
Do something with the bakery idea (bake, plan, research, etc.)
Bicycle somewhere
Yoga, Tai Chi, zazen (at least one of the above)
Clean (the house), pack (for leaving), or unpack (from college or elsewhere)
It all feels a bit like self-help, but it means I can get back on a sleep schedule and start getting things I feel are important done. This isn't particularly insightful, and it isn't intended to be, but two weeks ago, the bakery fired me for "conflict with Kevin" the co-owner and my boss. I am not going into detail, but I found how the situation was managed more perturbing than the actual outcome. All in all, I learned a good deal about baking occupationally and running a bakery while I was there, but am not exactly displeased (albeit, certainly frustrated) to no longer be there. I have been looking into graduate programs in my spare time and am planning on getting out applications relatively soon so that I might attend one next fall.
So, if you have been looking for thoughts and musings about my day, then I apologize for their absence. For recompense, here are two recipes I have been playing with, one from yesterday and one from today:
Honey Nut Bread
3 & 1/2 cups wheat flour
2 Tbsp dry yeast
1/2 Tbsp salt
3 cups warm water
1/4 cup honey
1/4 cup oil/butter
Mix dry ingredients, avoiding direct contact between salt and yeast. Then, blend in wet ingredients and let sit for 45-60 minutes.
3-4 cups white flour
1 generous cup of nuts (I used walnuts)
optional: 1-2 Tbsp cinnamon (I wanted to do this, but forgot)
Mix in and stir until making a firm dough. Do not add too much flour, so start with 3 scant cups and mix thoroughly before going further. Then, turn out on floured counter and knead until the flour and nuts are incorporated. Allow to rest for 45-60 minutes. Turn dough out onto lightly floured counter and knead until smooth. Separate dough into two to six pieces and shape. I made two large loaves, beginning with braids and then circling together like a cinnamon roll. Optionally, egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, which will probably need warmed slightly to stir together. Allow shaped loaves to proof for 20-40 minutes while oven preheats to 400 F. Bake loaves for 20-35 minutes. (Note: My loaves took 25 but were still doughy in the very center, or at one of them was, at least. Smaller loaves will bake faster, round loaves will bake more evenly.)
The egg wash--particularly with honey--will brown beautifully, but be careful to make sure the centers are done. I will probably bake smaller loaves in the future, or baguettes rather than boules. Enjoy! This is my mom's new favorite bread!
...
Baguette (with cornmeal)
Note: As of the time of writing, this is still unfinished, so I am unsure of the final product. I need to work on a baguette recipe for an event Saturday and I hope this one works. I have played with a variety of this for a while, but haven't generally recorded it.
2 cups white flour
1 cup cornmeal
1 Tbsp dry yeast
1 Tbsp salt
4 Tbsp (half a stick) of butter
1 Tbsp honey
2 cups warm water (optionally, use milk for a richer bread)
Stir together dry ingredients, cut in butter and add honey next, then mix in water. If the butter is room temperature, the water temperature matters less. Let rest 45-60 minutes.
About 2 cups white flour
Stir in flour, turn out on floured counter and knead until smooth. Let rest at least 30 more minutes. Then, turn out and knead, divide into two, and roll out into long baguette shapes. The cornmeal makes it a little sticky, so use a very little bit of white flour every so often to tighten up the outer edge of the dough. I also made a simple two braid loaf for one baguette. Place on greased baking sheet (you can also make them in a large loaf pan, and they look pretty fun) and allow to proof for about 30 minutes before putting in the oven. You may egg wash with one egg and a bit of honey, warmed to allow mixing.
Bake at 400 F, but I don't know for how long. I'll start with 15 minutes and then check. I will update this later.
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