I never know what to get H for Father’s Day –but this year was relatively simple – I am having a portrait taken of the three boys together; we got him a new pair of sturdy leather work gloves since he lost his last pair; and I bought him a panini press. We were at a party over Memorial Day weekend at which the host served Panini with grilled veggies, meats, and cheeses. H was rapturous. It was a no-brainer.
We host Father’s Day dinner; in the past we have served grilled steaks but this enterprise frustrates H because his family is all about the well-done steak. H and I like our filet rare. It made him crazy and ruined his day to have to grill the living daylights out of a gorgeous piece of meat before anyone other than he and I would eat it.
Instead we prepped and grilled two eggplant, four zucchini, four red peppers; also sautéed two giant bunches of spinach. We offered fresh mozzarella, whole milk mozzarella, and sharp provolone (also white American for the kids). Our meat selection consisted of hot and sweet salami, cracked pepper roast turkey breast, hot capicolla, prosciutto, and Genoa salami. Our sides were fresh fruit (grapes and strawberries), devilled eggs, kettle potato chips, garlic- and feta-stuffed olives, a tossed green salad with carrots, cucumber, peppers, grape tomatoes, and field greens from our CSA. I baked a chocolate cake, served with vanilla ice cream, for dessert.
H wielded the press like a pro. Once we figured out that you kinda have to hold the sandwich back in the press with a wooden spoon until the bread heats and collapses a bit, they got a lot more professional looking. (Sorry, I did not take photos, as really, how would I explain THAT? My in-laws know the Internet exists, but that might be about it.)
I myself had a panini with prosciutto, provolone, zucchini, and spinach, chased by several (um, more than that) olives and about four devilled eggs. (I would have eaten more but everyone else ate them first – grumph.)
Liz at Pocket Farm is hosting a One Local Summer project, encouraging bloggers from around the country to eat at least one dinner a week created from local ingredients.
Still in the practically post-coital glow of Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal Vegetable Miracle, I leapt aboard the bandwagon and signed up. I was thinking I might try to make my panini my first local meal for the project.
The ciabatta came from a local bakery that we know we are insanely lucky we have: their bread is amazing. Their raisin-walnut loaf is wonderful toasted with butter for breakfast, and I would walk across hot coals for their green-olive foccacia; often half of one was an entire meal when I was younger, thinner, and less, um, solvent. (What? Aren’t olives a vegetable?)
The butter was from Beaver Meadow Farm in nearby DuBois (that’s “DEW-boyz” to all you non-yinzers. I know, it makes my ears bleed, too.)
The prosciutto is made by Parma Sausage, in the Strip.
The spinach was from our CSA.
But the provolone was imported, as were the olives. I am sure my mother-in-law used Giant Eagle eggs for the deviled eggs, which means they could have been shipped from anywhere in the country. (I probably would have used eggs from Hillandale Farms, in Ohio, but really, I am still jonesing for my own chickens, although I need to investigate Mildred’s Daughters eggs.)
And that’s just what I ate; the rest of the cheeses, and lots of the meats, are most definitely not local. I think I can do better, especially for my first week out. But I have to admit, those panini are damn yummy.
So was the chocolate cake. H requested this one especially, as he likes the hint of cinnamon in the cake and the rich-without-being-too-sweet icing.
He may be a raging pain in the ass as a husband, but he’s a damn fine father and I was happy to celebrate the day with him and our three beautiful boys.
************
Brabham Family Chocolate Sheet Cake
(From Michael Lee West’s wonderful Consuming Passions)
2 cups flour
2 cups sugar
1 cup water
2 sticks unsalted butter
4 TBSP cocoa
½ cup buttermilk
3 eggs, lightly beaten
½ tsp salt
1 scant tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp vanilla
Preheat oven to 350.
Mix together flour and sugar in a large bowl.
Boil water, add butter and cocoa and stir till everything is melted and it’s thickened a bit (it doesn’t get very very thick, just FYI).
Pour over the sugar and flour.
Using a large spoon, blend well.
Add buttermilk, eggs, salt cinnamon, soda, and vanilla.
Mix well.
Pour into a buttered 9x13 pan.
Bake 35 minutes.
Cool 5 minutes (preferably on a wire rack) and ice cake in its pan.
Chocolate Icing
1 stick unsalted butter
4 TBSP cocoa
6 TBSP milk
3 ½ cups confectioners sugar
1 TBSP vanilla
Melt butter in a saucepan.
Stir in cocoa.
Whisk in milk, pouring in a slow stream.
Remove from heat, add sugar and beat.
Stir in vanilla (and 1 cup chopped pecans if you like – we do not like.)
Icing will be grainy and lumpy. Pour over cake and spread to cover. Icing sets quickly so work fast.
We served this with Turkey Hill vanilla bean ice cream, from Lancaster County, about four hours east of here. (Reinhold’s is made right in Pittsburgh, and is the most delicious ice cream, but it’s not readily available in the typical grocery stores.)
And I forgot the vanilla in the frosting because Primo was interrogating me about what I was making, and I don’t do well when I am distracted when baking. It seemed ok, but I do wonder if it had anything to do with the icing not really setting? Which was fine, all gooey with the cold ice cream and all.
And since H left this morning with the two older boys for Stroudsburg and Thomas, the remainder of the cake is ALL MINE. Oh yes!
Monday, June 18, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
"If you ask me, there isn't enough blue food." - Mark Darcy in "Bridget Jones's Diary"
H went to play poker with friends tonight.
While I generally would rather read a book than watch a movie, I do have a small stash of old favorites, comfort movies, as it were.
Thye include “Moonstruck,” “Love Actually,” “The Parent Trap,” “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” and “Roman Holiday.”
Every once in a very great while, I will add to the collection. Recently I purchased a sure-to-be-godawful DVD called “Stick It!”
Its tagline caught my fancy: “It’s not called gym-nice-tics!”
I mean, c’mon, that’s FUNNY.
Plus, long long ago, in a galaxy far far away, when I was young and thin and shorter, before my seventh-grade growth spurt that put me at five-eight, I was a gymnast.
Not a particularly good one by any means – I spent an awful lot of time trying to learn to do an aerial (never succeeded) and a back extension (successful). I could do front handsprings but not back handsprings. I finally managed a back hip circle on the bars just before I grew half a foot.
I was gymnastics-obsessed - spent my seventh summer cartwheeling in my poor mother’s living room and jumping around on the front lawn pretending to be Nadia Comaneci. I amassed quite a clipping collection about Olga Korbut, Nadia, Ludmilla Turischeva, Tracee Talavera, Julianne McNamara – I knew all the names, all the big stars and the up-and-comers. I even subscribed to US Gymnast for a while.
I took lessons at a teeny little gym called Sunburst Gymnastics. I went once a week, for an hour, and then to gymnastics camp (half-day) for a week in the summer.
I competed in one meet, and I still have my medal (in fairness, I should tell you that everyone who competed got a medal, if you managed to do your back somersaults, and kick turns on the beam). Like everyone else in the gym, I sewed all my ribbons and patches to my leotard, and I wore little white anklets with colored pom-poms on the backs, and I will tell you right now, I HATED wearing grips on the bars, I only used chalk. I longed –yearned, I tell you - for calluses on my palms, and rips on those calluses.
My first floor routine was to the theme from Pink Panther (I could probably still do it if I had to – ba dum, ba dum, ba dum ba dum ba dum, ba dum ba DUMMMM, badadaDUM), second level floor was to Nadia’s Theme (natch), and the level three floor routine was to “Evergreen.” I never got past level three, sadly.
So. Did I watch this movie tonight? No, I did not. Because it was all the way UPSTAIRS and I was all the way DOWNSTAIRS and I am LAZY.
[WARNING: non sequitur approaching]
So I popped in “Bridget Jones.”
My favorite moment: when Mark Darcy kisses Bridget at the end, and she says, “Wait a minute. Nice boys don’t kiss like that.” And he growls, without even opening his eyes, “Oh, yes, they fucking do.” And then he wraps her in his overcoat.
The funniest moment: the fight scene between Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy.
The most heart-wrenching moment: when Mark meets Bridget’s friends, and is all shy and sort of awkward and cute, and then he flashes that gorgeous, elusive smile…sighhhhh...
The most cringe-inducing scene: Bridget’s speech at Mark’s parents’ ruby anniversary party. Or maybe when Bridget shows up at what she thinks is a tarts-and-vicars party in a Playboy bunny outfit, and everyone else is dressed normally…or when she answers the phone, “Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess," and it’s her mum...or...or...let’s face it, I love Bridget because she’s real. She fucks up. A lot. She says stupid things and acts like an ass. But she means well, and loves her mum and dad, and sticks by her friends. I would want her to be my friend. And tonight, for just a few hours, she was.
But she stole my boyfriend, just so you know.
While I generally would rather read a book than watch a movie, I do have a small stash of old favorites, comfort movies, as it were.
Thye include “Moonstruck,” “Love Actually,” “The Parent Trap,” “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” and “Roman Holiday.”
Every once in a very great while, I will add to the collection. Recently I purchased a sure-to-be-godawful DVD called “Stick It!”
Its tagline caught my fancy: “It’s not called gym-nice-tics!”
I mean, c’mon, that’s FUNNY.
Plus, long long ago, in a galaxy far far away, when I was young and thin and shorter, before my seventh-grade growth spurt that put me at five-eight, I was a gymnast.
Not a particularly good one by any means – I spent an awful lot of time trying to learn to do an aerial (never succeeded) and a back extension (successful). I could do front handsprings but not back handsprings. I finally managed a back hip circle on the bars just before I grew half a foot.
I was gymnastics-obsessed - spent my seventh summer cartwheeling in my poor mother’s living room and jumping around on the front lawn pretending to be Nadia Comaneci. I amassed quite a clipping collection about Olga Korbut, Nadia, Ludmilla Turischeva, Tracee Talavera, Julianne McNamara – I knew all the names, all the big stars and the up-and-comers. I even subscribed to US Gymnast for a while.
I took lessons at a teeny little gym called Sunburst Gymnastics. I went once a week, for an hour, and then to gymnastics camp (half-day) for a week in the summer.
I competed in one meet, and I still have my medal (in fairness, I should tell you that everyone who competed got a medal, if you managed to do your back somersaults, and kick turns on the beam). Like everyone else in the gym, I sewed all my ribbons and patches to my leotard, and I wore little white anklets with colored pom-poms on the backs, and I will tell you right now, I HATED wearing grips on the bars, I only used chalk. I longed –yearned, I tell you - for calluses on my palms, and rips on those calluses.
My first floor routine was to the theme from Pink Panther (I could probably still do it if I had to – ba dum, ba dum, ba dum ba dum ba dum, ba dum ba DUMMMM, badadaDUM), second level floor was to Nadia’s Theme (natch), and the level three floor routine was to “Evergreen.” I never got past level three, sadly.
So. Did I watch this movie tonight? No, I did not. Because it was all the way UPSTAIRS and I was all the way DOWNSTAIRS and I am LAZY.
[WARNING: non sequitur approaching]
So I popped in “Bridget Jones.”
My favorite moment: when Mark Darcy kisses Bridget at the end, and she says, “Wait a minute. Nice boys don’t kiss like that.” And he growls, without even opening his eyes, “Oh, yes, they fucking do.” And then he wraps her in his overcoat.
The funniest moment: the fight scene between Daniel Cleaver and Mark Darcy.
The most heart-wrenching moment: when Mark meets Bridget’s friends, and is all shy and sort of awkward and cute, and then he flashes that gorgeous, elusive smile…sighhhhh...
The most cringe-inducing scene: Bridget’s speech at Mark’s parents’ ruby anniversary party. Or maybe when Bridget shows up at what she thinks is a tarts-and-vicars party in a Playboy bunny outfit, and everyone else is dressed normally…or when she answers the phone, “Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess," and it’s her mum...or...or...let’s face it, I love Bridget because she’s real. She fucks up. A lot. She says stupid things and acts like an ass. But she means well, and loves her mum and dad, and sticks by her friends. I would want her to be my friend. And tonight, for just a few hours, she was.
But she stole my boyfriend, just so you know.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
"We are like mechanics working on a car. We know what we are doing, it is a routine." - Katrina Firlik
To the salesperson at my B&N: Ok, OK, I give up! I LOVED The Kite Runner but I was willing to wait for the paperback of A Thousand Splendid Suns until you waxed lyrical about it AND noted that my member discount makes it only fifteen dollars! All right, I’ll come back and buy it.
To Jessa Crispin of Bookslut: I have just requested Joanna Kavenna’s Inglorious from the local library. I did not run out and buy it, because you and I, while I admire you greatly, do not have similar reading tastes. And I have to save my money for Hilma Wolitzer’s newest book, Summer Reading. (Although, now that I mention it, I remember liking The Doctor’s Daughter but I don’t remember a damn thing about it.) I trusted you, Jessa; don’t let me down.
To every single goddamn reviewer: I do not like Dom DeLillo. I do not like him in a box. I do not like him with a fox. I do not like him in a house. I do not like him with a mouse. I do not like him here or there. I do not like him anywhere. The first chapter of Underworld was the single most overrated, jaw-achingly boring chapter I have EVER read. I wanted to muscle through it because Rogue Librarian gave me the book as a thirtieth birthday present, but I COULD NOT DO IT. I will not like Falling Man either. I promise you. Leave me alone already.
To my dearest Suse: your copy of Animal Vegetable Miracle is finally winging its way to you over thar in Oz. I even signed it, love. (So you can’t return it, sorry.)
To a fellow Laurie King fan (um, Peg, that’d be you): I just bought Art of Detection in paperback last night and am so excited! Share my excitement! You know you want to!
To Nando Parrado: I am very sorry you had to eat your fellow teammates to survive, but your bravery and strength are astounding. I am very much looking forward to reading Miracle in the Andes, although, I must tell you how utterly bizarre I find it that it was shelved in Sports>Soccer.
To my Intro to Critical Reading prof (on whom I harbored a mad, obviously unrequited, potentially embarrassing crush): It was only my infatuation with your brains that made me read The English Patient and it is entirely your fault that I now believe Michael Ondaatje to be one of the most amazing living writers, and almost entirely your fault that I will have to buy his newest book Divisadero, rather than borrowing it from the library. I hope you’re happy, Mr Smarty-Pants.
To my dad: Hey, Dad, do you remember how you used to worry that the weight of my measly two bookcases stuffed full of YA paperbacks was going to compromise the structural integrity of our house? I am currently attaching to my bedroom walls floor-to-ceiling shelving that will probably hold over five hundred books, and so far my house is still standing. I really think you were worrying over nothing.
To Pokemon et al.: You may think you’ve insinuated your cute, spiky, yellow self into Primo’s affections, but *I* hold the purse strings, little fellow, and I am not too sure about you and your cadre of adorably dorky monsters just yet. Although I admit that calling the handbook The Complete Pokedex is really kinda clever, and I may grudgingly admit you to my house. Just don’t even consider bringing Tentacruel or that snarky little Sneasel with you.
To Frank Vertosick: I loved When the Air Hits Your Brain but Katrina Firlik’s Another Day in the Frontal Lobe appears to be the up-and-comer in brain-surgery-for-consumers lit. I do wonder about those pristine white sneakers she wears on the cover, though. Which brings me to this:
To everyone who watches CSI and/or any of its thousand and one spin-offs: You enjoy your TV, I’ll be lying on the couch reading Gil Reavill’s Aftermath, Inc.. I have a cast-iron stomach, so I may well be eating Chubby Hubby ice cream while reading. The best thing? No commercials. I prefer my gore uninterrupted, thankyouverymuch. Now pass the ice cream.
To Jessa Crispin of Bookslut: I have just requested Joanna Kavenna’s Inglorious from the local library. I did not run out and buy it, because you and I, while I admire you greatly, do not have similar reading tastes. And I have to save my money for Hilma Wolitzer’s newest book, Summer Reading. (Although, now that I mention it, I remember liking The Doctor’s Daughter but I don’t remember a damn thing about it.) I trusted you, Jessa; don’t let me down.
To every single goddamn reviewer: I do not like Dom DeLillo. I do not like him in a box. I do not like him with a fox. I do not like him in a house. I do not like him with a mouse. I do not like him here or there. I do not like him anywhere. The first chapter of Underworld was the single most overrated, jaw-achingly boring chapter I have EVER read. I wanted to muscle through it because Rogue Librarian gave me the book as a thirtieth birthday present, but I COULD NOT DO IT. I will not like Falling Man either. I promise you. Leave me alone already.
To my dearest Suse: your copy of Animal Vegetable Miracle is finally winging its way to you over thar in Oz. I even signed it, love. (So you can’t return it, sorry.)
To a fellow Laurie King fan (um, Peg, that’d be you): I just bought Art of Detection in paperback last night and am so excited! Share my excitement! You know you want to!
To Nando Parrado: I am very sorry you had to eat your fellow teammates to survive, but your bravery and strength are astounding. I am very much looking forward to reading Miracle in the Andes, although, I must tell you how utterly bizarre I find it that it was shelved in Sports>Soccer.
To my Intro to Critical Reading prof (on whom I harbored a mad, obviously unrequited, potentially embarrassing crush): It was only my infatuation with your brains that made me read The English Patient and it is entirely your fault that I now believe Michael Ondaatje to be one of the most amazing living writers, and almost entirely your fault that I will have to buy his newest book Divisadero, rather than borrowing it from the library. I hope you’re happy, Mr Smarty-Pants.
To my dad: Hey, Dad, do you remember how you used to worry that the weight of my measly two bookcases stuffed full of YA paperbacks was going to compromise the structural integrity of our house? I am currently attaching to my bedroom walls floor-to-ceiling shelving that will probably hold over five hundred books, and so far my house is still standing. I really think you were worrying over nothing.
To Pokemon et al.: You may think you’ve insinuated your cute, spiky, yellow self into Primo’s affections, but *I* hold the purse strings, little fellow, and I am not too sure about you and your cadre of adorably dorky monsters just yet. Although I admit that calling the handbook The Complete Pokedex is really kinda clever, and I may grudgingly admit you to my house. Just don’t even consider bringing Tentacruel or that snarky little Sneasel with you.
To Frank Vertosick: I loved When the Air Hits Your Brain but Katrina Firlik’s Another Day in the Frontal Lobe appears to be the up-and-comer in brain-surgery-for-consumers lit. I do wonder about those pristine white sneakers she wears on the cover, though. Which brings me to this:
To everyone who watches CSI and/or any of its thousand and one spin-offs: You enjoy your TV, I’ll be lying on the couch reading Gil Reavill’s Aftermath, Inc.. I have a cast-iron stomach, so I may well be eating Chubby Hubby ice cream while reading. The best thing? No commercials. I prefer my gore uninterrupted, thankyouverymuch. Now pass the ice cream.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
“Adventure must start with running away from home” - William Bolitho
Yesterday afternoon, after spending my lunch hour reading the interesting-but-didactically-written Portrait of the Burger as a Young Calf, I chanced upon a copy in the free-exchange shelves of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire.
You know me; you know I love to read about Arctic exploration gone awry, shipwrecks, sailors adrift at sea, mountain climbing accidents, wilderness survival stories – if something extreme or insane in the outdoors can be attempted, and even better if something goes wrong in that attempt, I am all over it.
But good writing about the great outdoors is ok, too – I love Bill Bryson’s books, and have a soft spot especially for any kind of climbing writing (after I read Eiger Dreams, I pretty much wanted to marry Jon Krakauer and bear his children).
I snagged Desert Solitaire and then, in a typically obscure tangent, I had to do a bit of research to come up with the name of the man idolized by Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild. (John Wesley Powell, by the way.)
While trying to find out that factlet, I stumbled across this list, thereby guaranteeing many pleasant hours of outdoorsy reading for the summer months ahead:
Outside Magazine’s Best Adventure Books of the Last 100 Years:
1. Wind, Sand & Stars. By Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1940).
I read this, a long long time ago, while sick in bed.
2. (Tie) The Worst Journey in the World. By Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1922)
This has been on my TBR list for so long, it’s shameful.
2. (Tie) Journals. By Meriwether Lewis and William Clark (1841)
I have a good friend who read these right after she read that giant book about L&C released a couple years ago, and recommended it to me. Like every dutiful and good librarian, I have a penchant for primary sources: Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, Owen Chase’s and Thomas Nickerson’s The Loss of the Ship Essex, Sunk by a Whale, and Rachel Calof’s Story.
3. West With the Night. By Beryl Markham (1942)
I own this but have not read it. And for whatever reason, I ALWAYS confuse Markham with Amelia Earhart.
4. The Snow Leopard. By Peter Matthiessen (1978)
I have not read this, but I have read and thoroughly enjoyed Mathiessen’s book about great white sharks.
5. Desert Solitaire. By Edward Abbey (1968)
I own it now.
6. Endurance. By F. A. Worsley (1931).
Own it, have read most of it.
7. Sailing Alone Around the World. By Joshua Slocum (1900)
How did I miss this?
8. Into the Wild. By Jon Krakauer (1996)
OK, Christopher McCandless was an extremely foolish young man, but it’s a terrific read.
9. Coming into the Country. By John McPhee (1976)
10. Arabian Sands. By Wilfred Thesiger (1959)
11. Touching the Void. By Joe Simpson (1989)
I own this, but have not read it as I ration my mountain-disaster reading; otherwise I start to get bored. I know, juvenile when I am reading about people in mortal peril but that’s how it goes.
12. The Mountains of My Life. By Walter Bonatti (1998)
13. In Patagonia. Bruce Chatwin (1977)
Own this.
14. Arctic Dreams. Barry Lopez (1986)
Own this.
15. A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. By Eric Newby (1958)
This looks FABULOUS.
16. Tracks. By Robyn Davidson (1980)
This one is for all you dear Aussies.
17. The Long Way. By Bernard Moitessier (1971)
18. Running the Amazon. By Joe Kane (1989)
19. Young Men and Fire. By Norman Maclean (1992)
This one reminds me of another that piqued my interest, Eric Blehm’s The Last Season.
20. The Great Plains. By Ian Frazier (1989)
21. Kon-Tiki. By Thor Heyerdahl (1950)
A true classic.
22. My Journey to Lhasa. By Alexandra David-Neel (1927)
23. (Tie) Alive. By Pier Paul Read (1974)
Read this, was positively blown away by it. In fact, Nando Parrado’s personal account, Miracle in the Andes, is out in paperback, and I have to go buy it right now.
23. (Tie) The Perfect Storm. By Sebastian Junger (1997)
I read this at the shore one summer, shortly after seeing bits of the movie. Wow. I followed it up with Linda Greenlaw’s The Hungry Ocean, but her writing was not nearly as captivating as Junger’s.
24. A Walk in the Woods. By Bill Bryson (1998)
This is the first Bill Bryson I ever read; I liked it very much but I think In a Sunburned Country (about Australia) is probably my favorite of his.
25. Old Glory. By Jonathan Raban (1981)
This is the only one that doesn’t look all that interesting to me – it smacks too much of Mark Twain. Yawn.
I also found this list of National Geographic’s 100 Best Adventure Books. Many of the titles on the two lists coincide, and I own several more on the NG list. It’s always more fun to go used-book shopping with a goal; now I have one, list in hand.
You know me; you know I love to read about Arctic exploration gone awry, shipwrecks, sailors adrift at sea, mountain climbing accidents, wilderness survival stories – if something extreme or insane in the outdoors can be attempted, and even better if something goes wrong in that attempt, I am all over it.
But good writing about the great outdoors is ok, too – I love Bill Bryson’s books, and have a soft spot especially for any kind of climbing writing (after I read Eiger Dreams, I pretty much wanted to marry Jon Krakauer and bear his children).
I snagged Desert Solitaire and then, in a typically obscure tangent, I had to do a bit of research to come up with the name of the man idolized by Christopher McCandless in Into the Wild. (John Wesley Powell, by the way.)
While trying to find out that factlet, I stumbled across this list, thereby guaranteeing many pleasant hours of outdoorsy reading for the summer months ahead:
Outside Magazine’s Best Adventure Books of the Last 100 Years:
1. Wind, Sand & Stars. By Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1940).
I read this, a long long time ago, while sick in bed.
2. (Tie) The Worst Journey in the World. By Apsley Cherry-Garrard (1922)
This has been on my TBR list for so long, it’s shameful.
2. (Tie) Journals. By Meriwether Lewis and William Clark (1841)
I have a good friend who read these right after she read that giant book about L&C released a couple years ago, and recommended it to me. Like every dutiful and good librarian, I have a penchant for primary sources: Daniel Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year, Owen Chase’s and Thomas Nickerson’s The Loss of the Ship Essex, Sunk by a Whale, and Rachel Calof’s Story.
3. West With the Night. By Beryl Markham (1942)
I own this but have not read it. And for whatever reason, I ALWAYS confuse Markham with Amelia Earhart.
4. The Snow Leopard. By Peter Matthiessen (1978)
I have not read this, but I have read and thoroughly enjoyed Mathiessen’s book about great white sharks.
5. Desert Solitaire. By Edward Abbey (1968)
I own it now.
6. Endurance. By F. A. Worsley (1931).
Own it, have read most of it.
7. Sailing Alone Around the World. By Joshua Slocum (1900)
How did I miss this?
8. Into the Wild. By Jon Krakauer (1996)
OK, Christopher McCandless was an extremely foolish young man, but it’s a terrific read.
9. Coming into the Country. By John McPhee (1976)
10. Arabian Sands. By Wilfred Thesiger (1959)
11. Touching the Void. By Joe Simpson (1989)
I own this, but have not read it as I ration my mountain-disaster reading; otherwise I start to get bored. I know, juvenile when I am reading about people in mortal peril but that’s how it goes.
12. The Mountains of My Life. By Walter Bonatti (1998)
13. In Patagonia. Bruce Chatwin (1977)
Own this.
14. Arctic Dreams. Barry Lopez (1986)
Own this.
15. A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush. By Eric Newby (1958)
This looks FABULOUS.
16. Tracks. By Robyn Davidson (1980)
This one is for all you dear Aussies.
17. The Long Way. By Bernard Moitessier (1971)
18. Running the Amazon. By Joe Kane (1989)
19. Young Men and Fire. By Norman Maclean (1992)
This one reminds me of another that piqued my interest, Eric Blehm’s The Last Season.
20. The Great Plains. By Ian Frazier (1989)
21. Kon-Tiki. By Thor Heyerdahl (1950)
A true classic.
22. My Journey to Lhasa. By Alexandra David-Neel (1927)
23. (Tie) Alive. By Pier Paul Read (1974)
Read this, was positively blown away by it. In fact, Nando Parrado’s personal account, Miracle in the Andes, is out in paperback, and I have to go buy it right now.
23. (Tie) The Perfect Storm. By Sebastian Junger (1997)
I read this at the shore one summer, shortly after seeing bits of the movie. Wow. I followed it up with Linda Greenlaw’s The Hungry Ocean, but her writing was not nearly as captivating as Junger’s.
24. A Walk in the Woods. By Bill Bryson (1998)
This is the first Bill Bryson I ever read; I liked it very much but I think In a Sunburned Country (about Australia) is probably my favorite of his.
25. Old Glory. By Jonathan Raban (1981)
This is the only one that doesn’t look all that interesting to me – it smacks too much of Mark Twain. Yawn.
I also found this list of National Geographic’s 100 Best Adventure Books. Many of the titles on the two lists coincide, and I own several more on the NG list. It’s always more fun to go used-book shopping with a goal; now I have one, list in hand.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
"Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile."
Today is Primo’s LAST DAY of kindergarten. Sob. My baby is growing up…of course it’d be worse if he didn’t, so...I have Seg and him signed up for a week of zoo camp, a week of neighborhood day camp, and two weeks of daily swim lessons. By gum, we’re going to be busy and we’re going to LIKE it!...there is also plenty of time for lying around, swimming, bike-riding, fountain-splashing, park-going, etc…I am thoroughly pissed that the zoo has rearranged its paths so that you must trek through the entire zoo to get to the polar bears...letters will be written...H and I went to the symphony on Saturday and heard Sarah Chang perform Mendelsohn’s Concerto for Violin. WOW. She was mesmerizing to watch, incredible to listen to, and thoroughly blew me away...afterwards H, I, and two friends went for drinks at a fancy martini bar where the waitress at the table next to us upended an entire tray of drinks on the unfortunate woman behind me...I didn’t wear the dress, I wore a new skirt and a green shirt and my uncomfortable pointy-toed slingbacks...so of course we found an on-the-street parking spot several more blocks from the hall than I am used to...there is good reason I am a librarian: sensible shoes...finished The Plague and I yesterday but cannot seem to decide what to read next...I started rereading Barbara Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer so maybe I will keep plugging on with that...the fence project has been put on hold until we can get the retaining wall fixed and the steps moved...is NOTHING ever simple?...the no-dig bed seems to be working just fine, the plants all look great...I planted three blueberry bushes yesterday...which explains why my arms are so sore this morning, I couldn’t think of why...I cannot concentrate on a damn thing...I am off to pack up the spicy walnuts for Primo’s teachers’ end-of-year gift...then I must take Punto for a run...we are dog-sitting a friend’s dog, she’ll want a walk too (the dog, not the friend)...I keep reassuring the cats that the new dog isn’t STAYING...they don’t get it, or if they do, they don’t care, they don’t LIKE her...I’d really like to just go back to bed for the day, I am exhausted.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
There comes an hour when protest no longer suffices; after philosophy there must be action; the strong hand finishes what the idea has sketched.
Last week, on my way to go grocery shopping, Seg asked if we could go next-door to the Big Bird and play with the Thomas trains at the bookstore. Since he finished his preschool year two weeks ago, we were under no time constraints to get the grocery shopping done at a specific time, and I can get coffee just as easily at the B&N as I can at the BB, so what the heck. The boys staged giant train wrecks centered on the trestle bridge, and I looked at books.
Noticing that the last Jennifer Chiaverini Elm Creek Quilts novel was out in paperback, I scooped that up. (I have to read all my library books first, though.)
And ever since the library-book-replacement debacle, I keep thinking I should just BUY Primo’s books (because, you know, we have a twenty-dollar-bill tree growing in a sunny spot in my muddy backyard…). But I like to buy classics, books I think all the boys will eventually enjoy, and that bear rereading (we’re on our fourth reading of Paddington, and they’ve been pestering me for more Mr Popper’s Penguins, which has to be, upon rereading, one of the dullest books ever written). So I brought home Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Now, the movie “Willy Wonka” is ODD (although I harbor a shamefully weird crush on Gene Wilder), and I won’t let the kids watch it yet; and many other Roald Dahl books are ODD (I still sometimes have nightmares about his story “The Swan,” from The Wonderful Stories of Henry Sugar and I was NOT an especially sensitive child by any means). But I thought Charlie might be a fun book to read aloud to the two boys this summer, before bed and during the lazy, hot afternoons, swinging on the porch swing. Well, that was the theory at least. Primo started it yesterday afternoon, propped up on his elbows in our front yard, his feet draped over the side of the wading pool where Seg pretended to be a polar bear. He gulped it down, begging me to stay up a little bit later so he could finish it before he went to bed (I let him. Sucker.) I was charged to bring home more Charlie books today – but our library doesn’t own Charlie and the Glass Elevator, so I checked out Matilda (my personal favorite) and the deliciously creepy James and the Giant Peach.
A ten-year-old friend recommended the Alex Ryder series, by Anthony Horowitz, and I did look at them but I think Primo is still a wee little bit too young for them just yet.
He also proudly showed off his Pokemon Pokedex, and now Primo wants one, too. Because that boy is digging Pokemon these days, and he loves nothing more than memorizing statistics. He reads the sports page every single blessed morning, and can rattle off batting averages, point totals, plus-minuses, and possibly even, who the hell knows, over-unders. I think nothing would delight him more than becoming a repository of useless Pokemon information.
Public schools wrap up Tuesday, and I am already fearing trying to keep that boy in books this summer.
*************
Yesterday I began Betty MacDonald’s The Plague and I, a rollicking account of her year in a tuberculosis sanatorium. No, seriously, I do have to admit, probably only MacDonald could make this a good read. I mean, she made life on a chicken farm hilarious in The Egg and I so who was I to doubt? I have coupled it with a serious attempt to finish Clare Clarke’s The Great Stink because the reviews were so good, and the writing is so evocative. But that’s sort of the problem. It’s a book about the engineering and building of London’s sewer system – and even I, the great iron-stomached one, am finding it tough to read it while eating, which is my favorite way to read.
So I am off for my lunch hour – to read about TB or read about sewage. Tough call.
Noticing that the last Jennifer Chiaverini Elm Creek Quilts novel was out in paperback, I scooped that up. (I have to read all my library books first, though.)
And ever since the library-book-replacement debacle, I keep thinking I should just BUY Primo’s books (because, you know, we have a twenty-dollar-bill tree growing in a sunny spot in my muddy backyard…). But I like to buy classics, books I think all the boys will eventually enjoy, and that bear rereading (we’re on our fourth reading of Paddington, and they’ve been pestering me for more Mr Popper’s Penguins, which has to be, upon rereading, one of the dullest books ever written). So I brought home Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Now, the movie “Willy Wonka” is ODD (although I harbor a shamefully weird crush on Gene Wilder), and I won’t let the kids watch it yet; and many other Roald Dahl books are ODD (I still sometimes have nightmares about his story “The Swan,” from The Wonderful Stories of Henry Sugar and I was NOT an especially sensitive child by any means). But I thought Charlie might be a fun book to read aloud to the two boys this summer, before bed and during the lazy, hot afternoons, swinging on the porch swing. Well, that was the theory at least. Primo started it yesterday afternoon, propped up on his elbows in our front yard, his feet draped over the side of the wading pool where Seg pretended to be a polar bear. He gulped it down, begging me to stay up a little bit later so he could finish it before he went to bed (I let him. Sucker.) I was charged to bring home more Charlie books today – but our library doesn’t own Charlie and the Glass Elevator, so I checked out Matilda (my personal favorite) and the deliciously creepy James and the Giant Peach.
A ten-year-old friend recommended the Alex Ryder series, by Anthony Horowitz, and I did look at them but I think Primo is still a wee little bit too young for them just yet.
He also proudly showed off his Pokemon Pokedex, and now Primo wants one, too. Because that boy is digging Pokemon these days, and he loves nothing more than memorizing statistics. He reads the sports page every single blessed morning, and can rattle off batting averages, point totals, plus-minuses, and possibly even, who the hell knows, over-unders. I think nothing would delight him more than becoming a repository of useless Pokemon information.
Public schools wrap up Tuesday, and I am already fearing trying to keep that boy in books this summer.
*************
Yesterday I began Betty MacDonald’s The Plague and I, a rollicking account of her year in a tuberculosis sanatorium. No, seriously, I do have to admit, probably only MacDonald could make this a good read. I mean, she made life on a chicken farm hilarious in The Egg and I so who was I to doubt? I have coupled it with a serious attempt to finish Clare Clarke’s The Great Stink because the reviews were so good, and the writing is so evocative. But that’s sort of the problem. It’s a book about the engineering and building of London’s sewer system – and even I, the great iron-stomached one, am finding it tough to read it while eating, which is my favorite way to read.
So I am off for my lunch hour – to read about TB or read about sewage. Tough call.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
She's like, so whatever, you could do so much better. - Avril Lavigne, "Girlfriend"
It's a snippet post, haven't done one in ages. But I am a little scattered at the moment, so here goes.
*
I am wearing a pale blue, flowered April Cornell skirt that was given to me by a friend who lost thirty pounds using the Stressful Divorce Diet. It’s long and loose and cool (the skirt, not the divorce), but it’s totally frumpilicious, and completely bulks out my already-nonexistent waistline. (I am wearing it with a man’s white oxford button-down – Queen of Style, that’s me. I call this my Muslim look.) Plus, I keep rolling over it with the wheels of my roll-y chair at work at the ref desk. I am not only the Queen of Style, I am graceful as well.
*
Per everyone’s requests, I would be thrilled – thrilled to pieces – to post a photo of my pretty new dress. I love it, and plan to wear it often. We have symphony tix Saturday and I will probably wear it again for that. I’ll take the photo then.
I do need different shoes for it – my pointy-toed leather slingbacks are not summery enough, and my black sandals (the “cruel shoes”) are sexy and strappy, but the straps are elastic – it takes hours for the marks on my feet to go away after I take off the shoes. What I need is a pair of (still) black, (still) strappy (maybe two, and definitely a thicker strap), heeled sandals to work with the dress; I do not want a wedge, I want a heel, and I definitely think they need to be mules. White would go with it, but I REFUSE to wear white shoes. (Unless they are tennis shoes, obviously. In which case, ONLY white will do.) Anyhoo, when I show you the dress, I also will show you the shoe candidates and perhaps you, my sweet little stylish 'netties, can help me pick.
*
I meant to say thank you to all those who offered the stick-your-boobs-out advice. I must say, it worked : ) I thought of you all cheering me on, and I felt loved. Albeit by, rationally speaking, a bunch of women I have mostly never met in person – but loved nonetheless. So if any of you are really three-hundred-year-old perverted men who are just toying with me, don’t tell me now, ok?
*
Onward and upward...
At the risk of revealing myself to be a total degenerate, I discovered Harry Potter porn last night. Like most fan fiction, lots of it was abysmally bad, some was decent, and one or two stories were perhaps well beyond the realm of possibility, but amazingly well-written. Nice to confirm that I am not the only woman out there who lusts for Severus Snape, or Draco Malfoy (which fact is most odd, as I normally don’t care for blonde men, but both Draco and his father fill me with lust. (Now I feel like Jimmy Carter. Ahem.))
The last time I got really engrossed in HP fan fic, turns out I knew the guy who was writing lots of it. So, you, and you know who you are, if you're writing HP porn, lemme know which ones are yours.
*
I am THIS CLOSE to finishing I Know This Much is True. I enjoyed it very much, despite its Oprah certification : )
Next up: one of the following books, all ILLs from my job, which is definitely a terrific perk:
Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures: Stories - Vincent Lam. Our ILL department really went above and beyond for this one – it’s not held by many libraries, and the first request for it came back unfilled. But then my dear sweet ILL angel hand-requested it from the holding library, and lo and behold, here it is.
The Great Stink - Clare Clark. I know, I didn’t return it. I am thinking this might be next, as it seems like it’ll be a quick read.
The Plague and I– Betty MacDonald. I need to own this but until I find it used, this will suffice. I love MacDonald’s The Egg and I and think it’s one of the funniest books ever. I have high hopes for the entertainment quotient of this one.
Living the Good Life: Being a plain practical account of a twenty year project in a self-subsistent homestead in Vermont, together with remarks on how to live sanely & simply in a troubled world - Helen & Scott Nearing, and This Organic Life: Confessions of a suburban homesteader - Joan Dye Gussow. Both of these are positive backlash from the Kingsolver book. Until I get all my tomato plants in (I bought three Red Beefsteak Heirloom plants today), I need farming inspiration. (And did anyone notice how this was initially posted with that thought just hanging there in mid-air, completely unfinished? Welcome to my brain.)
This is one of those cases where 1)I have so much good stuff to read, I am virtually paralyzed and therefore do not know where to begin; and 2) I was at the library today and did not check out any books, because I already have a ton waiting for me at home.
*
A couple of friends invited me to dinner tonight at a new restaurant called The Library. I couldn't go but they did bring me back dinner. I debated ordering the Breakfast of Champions appetizer (potato skins with brie and smoked bacon) or perhaps the Light in the Attic salad (spinach, gorgonzola, and bacon) but settled on the Hamlet sandwich (prosciutto and smoked cheddar), and it is DELICIOUS.
J ordered the Tyler Durden (black and blue ribeye with gorgonzola sauce and redskin smashed potatoes); B got the Huck Finn sandwich (pulled pork). Rave reviews all around. Off to eat my drippy, salty, tasty prosciutto sandwich. Cheers!
*
I am wearing a pale blue, flowered April Cornell skirt that was given to me by a friend who lost thirty pounds using the Stressful Divorce Diet. It’s long and loose and cool (the skirt, not the divorce), but it’s totally frumpilicious, and completely bulks out my already-nonexistent waistline. (I am wearing it with a man’s white oxford button-down – Queen of Style, that’s me. I call this my Muslim look.) Plus, I keep rolling over it with the wheels of my roll-y chair at work at the ref desk. I am not only the Queen of Style, I am graceful as well.
*
Per everyone’s requests, I would be thrilled – thrilled to pieces – to post a photo of my pretty new dress. I love it, and plan to wear it often. We have symphony tix Saturday and I will probably wear it again for that. I’ll take the photo then.
I do need different shoes for it – my pointy-toed leather slingbacks are not summery enough, and my black sandals (the “cruel shoes”) are sexy and strappy, but the straps are elastic – it takes hours for the marks on my feet to go away after I take off the shoes. What I need is a pair of (still) black, (still) strappy (maybe two, and definitely a thicker strap), heeled sandals to work with the dress; I do not want a wedge, I want a heel, and I definitely think they need to be mules. White would go with it, but I REFUSE to wear white shoes. (Unless they are tennis shoes, obviously. In which case, ONLY white will do.) Anyhoo, when I show you the dress, I also will show you the shoe candidates and perhaps you, my sweet little stylish 'netties, can help me pick.
*
I meant to say thank you to all those who offered the stick-your-boobs-out advice. I must say, it worked : ) I thought of you all cheering me on, and I felt loved. Albeit by, rationally speaking, a bunch of women I have mostly never met in person – but loved nonetheless. So if any of you are really three-hundred-year-old perverted men who are just toying with me, don’t tell me now, ok?
*
Onward and upward...
At the risk of revealing myself to be a total degenerate, I discovered Harry Potter porn last night. Like most fan fiction, lots of it was abysmally bad, some was decent, and one or two stories were perhaps well beyond the realm of possibility, but amazingly well-written. Nice to confirm that I am not the only woman out there who lusts for Severus Snape, or Draco Malfoy (which fact is most odd, as I normally don’t care for blonde men, but both Draco and his father fill me with lust. (Now I feel like Jimmy Carter. Ahem.))
The last time I got really engrossed in HP fan fic, turns out I knew the guy who was writing lots of it. So, you, and you know who you are, if you're writing HP porn, lemme know which ones are yours.
*
I am THIS CLOSE to finishing I Know This Much is True. I enjoyed it very much, despite its Oprah certification : )
Next up: one of the following books, all ILLs from my job, which is definitely a terrific perk:
Bloodletting and Other Miraculous Cures: Stories - Vincent Lam. Our ILL department really went above and beyond for this one – it’s not held by many libraries, and the first request for it came back unfilled. But then my dear sweet ILL angel hand-requested it from the holding library, and lo and behold, here it is.
The Great Stink - Clare Clark. I know, I didn’t return it. I am thinking this might be next, as it seems like it’ll be a quick read.
The Plague and I– Betty MacDonald. I need to own this but until I find it used, this will suffice. I love MacDonald’s The Egg and I and think it’s one of the funniest books ever. I have high hopes for the entertainment quotient of this one.
Living the Good Life: Being a plain practical account of a twenty year project in a self-subsistent homestead in Vermont, together with remarks on how to live sanely & simply in a troubled world - Helen & Scott Nearing, and This Organic Life: Confessions of a suburban homesteader - Joan Dye Gussow. Both of these are positive backlash from the Kingsolver book. Until I get all my tomato plants in (I bought three Red Beefsteak Heirloom plants today), I need farming inspiration. (And did anyone notice how this was initially posted with that thought just hanging there in mid-air, completely unfinished? Welcome to my brain.)
This is one of those cases where 1)I have so much good stuff to read, I am virtually paralyzed and therefore do not know where to begin; and 2) I was at the library today and did not check out any books, because I already have a ton waiting for me at home.
*
A couple of friends invited me to dinner tonight at a new restaurant called The Library. I couldn't go but they did bring me back dinner. I debated ordering the Breakfast of Champions appetizer (potato skins with brie and smoked bacon) or perhaps the Light in the Attic salad (spinach, gorgonzola, and bacon) but settled on the Hamlet sandwich (prosciutto and smoked cheddar), and it is DELICIOUS.
J ordered the Tyler Durden (black and blue ribeye with gorgonzola sauce and redskin smashed potatoes); B got the Huck Finn sandwich (pulled pork). Rave reviews all around. Off to eat my drippy, salty, tasty prosciutto sandwich. Cheers!
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam (We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe)
We drove to New Jersey last Thursday, leaving Punto with a friend, packing up clothes and diapers and snacks (and juice boxes) for the road, and hostess gifts (a pound of handmade salami from Parma Meats for my brother, and a pound of Enrico lemon-poppyseed biscotti for my SIL, and a book and some cars for my nephew) and my laptop and H’s guitar and my new dress. (Next time we go anywhere, I think we should rent a minivan.)
We made excellent time to NJ, even stopping in Carlisle at the Country Club Diner where my boys inhaled their weight in food and charmed the pants off the waitresses, who plied them with ice cream topped by whipped cream and sprinkles.
NJ was just as hot as PA, but for some reason, it didn’t bother me nearly as much. Perhaps because they only have the one child, their house is not sticky all over like mine, and so that helps.
We took the boys to the playground and taught them how to play Home Run Derby; ordered out burritos, and pizza; drank a whole lot of Amish ale and wine. Chess games were played, and hockey games watched, late into the night.
I lay around a lot in the hammock – look at my view. Ahhhhhh. Lazybones. I also read a lot - mostly I Know This Much is True but also bits of my brother's copy of Slaughterhouse Five.
Terzo enjoyed the swing. And Uncle C obligingly pushed him for almost an hour. God bless the patience of uncles.
My brothers taught the boys to play Texas Hold’Em.
(When H asked Primo to go get him another beer, I worried that the neighbors would call CYS.)
There was a jam session, with frenetic dancing and little children masquerading as whirling dervishes. (We introduced my nephew to the pleasures of both Ralph's World AND Wilco.)
********************
Saturday H and I got up at the crack of dawn and drove to Connecticut.
We hit Route 1 early enough to enjoy a leisurely breakfast in a little teeny tiny diner, where we drank pots of coffee and discussed opening a teeny tiny diner of our own in our neighborhood, one of the few things it lacks. I grew up in the Land of Diners, I miss being able to stop in night or day for a fresh cup of coffee, killer breakfasts any time, and consistently excellent pie.
The bat mitzvah service itself was beautiful – very moving and solemn.
E was nervous but still lovely, poised, and practically perfect. I have known her since she was a baby, and she has grown up to be a sweet, smart, gentle, funny, and delightful young woman. I wiped tears away several times; we were all so pleased for and proud of her.
After the Torah portion and the procession and the dressing/undressing of the scroll, and the bit with the bread and wine which was shockingly like Holy Communion, the service wound to its close and we all adjourned to the club for the reception – which I must say, rivaled most wedding receptions I have attended.
We were greeted at the door with servers bearing trays of drinks. There was a lavish spread of grilled vegetables, cheese, fruit, and crackers. Circulating servers offered scallion-wrapped scallops, coconut shrimp, smoked salmon on black bread, mini avocado-mango-corn tarts, and other nibblies. (It did not occur to me until later to wonder about the presence of so much shellfish; at the time I was merely grateful to eat as much of it as I could hold. There’s nothing like chewing a salty, tender scallop while looking out over the ocean.)
The meal was wonderful – fresh field greens topped with a round of toast and goat cheese; a choice between broiled salmon or beef tenderloin; carrot cake with light, creamy frosting; a tray of delicate, buttery cookies; lots of hot, strong coffee; and an open bar.
We shared our table with two couples, the male halves of which had worked with A in a previous job, which we didn’t really speak of, as he left the company shortly after two of its directors were killed in the September 11 attacks. (A was meant to be at the early-morning meeting as well, but for some reason wasn't. H and A have been friends since college, and A was best man at our wedding; the thought of any of our lives without his strength, intelligence, and levelheadedness is well nigh unbearable.)
Instead we spoke of children (one of the women had given birth a mere two weeks ago); music, politics, travel (one of the men was from Ireland, and one of the women from Russia); books, vacations, food – we had a wonderful, wonderful time, and H even danced with me, and complimented my dress. Will wonders never cease? (Turns out he was hammered. Does that matter?)
There was a terrific slideshow of E growing up, with three or four slides of her with our boys. (H and I cheered and clapped and overall acted like ancient people, which I suppose technically we were.)
There was a DJ, and some crazy dancing, especially to a song about not liking someone’s girlfriend? I am so glad I have boys. A couple of these thirteen-year-olds had moves that made me blush.
The centerpieces were bowls with fresh flowers – and look, fish! The favors were little bags of gelt, which were embossed with E’s name and the date. (I brought gelt home to my two older boys, my littlest and my nephew got maracas which the DJ was handing out.)
After the party wrapped up and we helped E’s parents gather up presents and leftover cookies and stuff, we all went back to their gorgeous, comfortable home in a little wooded cul-de-sac and sat on the screen porch and talked. Finally H and I drove home at 930, listening to the Stanley Cup finals on the way.
I cannot remember the last time I had such a perfect, beautiful day.
Three years from now, E’s little brother N will become a bar mitzvah! We are already looking forward to the trip. Although, since we were dubbed honorary Jews by E’s dad during the Hakafah, does that mean that next time I can’t eat my weight in scallops?
We made excellent time to NJ, even stopping in Carlisle at the Country Club Diner where my boys inhaled their weight in food and charmed the pants off the waitresses, who plied them with ice cream topped by whipped cream and sprinkles.
NJ was just as hot as PA, but for some reason, it didn’t bother me nearly as much. Perhaps because they only have the one child, their house is not sticky all over like mine, and so that helps.
We took the boys to the playground and taught them how to play Home Run Derby; ordered out burritos, and pizza; drank a whole lot of Amish ale and wine. Chess games were played, and hockey games watched, late into the night.
I lay around a lot in the hammock – look at my view. Ahhhhhh. Lazybones. I also read a lot - mostly I Know This Much is True but also bits of my brother's copy of Slaughterhouse Five.
Terzo enjoyed the swing. And Uncle C obligingly pushed him for almost an hour. God bless the patience of uncles.
My brothers taught the boys to play Texas Hold’Em.
(When H asked Primo to go get him another beer, I worried that the neighbors would call CYS.)
There was a jam session, with frenetic dancing and little children masquerading as whirling dervishes. (We introduced my nephew to the pleasures of both Ralph's World AND Wilco.)
********************
Saturday H and I got up at the crack of dawn and drove to Connecticut.
We hit Route 1 early enough to enjoy a leisurely breakfast in a little teeny tiny diner, where we drank pots of coffee and discussed opening a teeny tiny diner of our own in our neighborhood, one of the few things it lacks. I grew up in the Land of Diners, I miss being able to stop in night or day for a fresh cup of coffee, killer breakfasts any time, and consistently excellent pie.
The bat mitzvah service itself was beautiful – very moving and solemn.
E was nervous but still lovely, poised, and practically perfect. I have known her since she was a baby, and she has grown up to be a sweet, smart, gentle, funny, and delightful young woman. I wiped tears away several times; we were all so pleased for and proud of her.
After the Torah portion and the procession and the dressing/undressing of the scroll, and the bit with the bread and wine which was shockingly like Holy Communion, the service wound to its close and we all adjourned to the club for the reception – which I must say, rivaled most wedding receptions I have attended.
We were greeted at the door with servers bearing trays of drinks. There was a lavish spread of grilled vegetables, cheese, fruit, and crackers. Circulating servers offered scallion-wrapped scallops, coconut shrimp, smoked salmon on black bread, mini avocado-mango-corn tarts, and other nibblies. (It did not occur to me until later to wonder about the presence of so much shellfish; at the time I was merely grateful to eat as much of it as I could hold. There’s nothing like chewing a salty, tender scallop while looking out over the ocean.)
The meal was wonderful – fresh field greens topped with a round of toast and goat cheese; a choice between broiled salmon or beef tenderloin; carrot cake with light, creamy frosting; a tray of delicate, buttery cookies; lots of hot, strong coffee; and an open bar.
We shared our table with two couples, the male halves of which had worked with A in a previous job, which we didn’t really speak of, as he left the company shortly after two of its directors were killed in the September 11 attacks. (A was meant to be at the early-morning meeting as well, but for some reason wasn't. H and A have been friends since college, and A was best man at our wedding; the thought of any of our lives without his strength, intelligence, and levelheadedness is well nigh unbearable.)
Instead we spoke of children (one of the women had given birth a mere two weeks ago); music, politics, travel (one of the men was from Ireland, and one of the women from Russia); books, vacations, food – we had a wonderful, wonderful time, and H even danced with me, and complimented my dress. Will wonders never cease? (Turns out he was hammered. Does that matter?)
There was a terrific slideshow of E growing up, with three or four slides of her with our boys. (H and I cheered and clapped and overall acted like ancient people, which I suppose technically we were.)
There was a DJ, and some crazy dancing, especially to a song about not liking someone’s girlfriend? I am so glad I have boys. A couple of these thirteen-year-olds had moves that made me blush.
The centerpieces were bowls with fresh flowers – and look, fish! The favors were little bags of gelt, which were embossed with E’s name and the date. (I brought gelt home to my two older boys, my littlest and my nephew got maracas which the DJ was handing out.)
After the party wrapped up and we helped E’s parents gather up presents and leftover cookies and stuff, we all went back to their gorgeous, comfortable home in a little wooded cul-de-sac and sat on the screen porch and talked. Finally H and I drove home at 930, listening to the Stanley Cup finals on the way.
I cannot remember the last time I had such a perfect, beautiful day.
Three years from now, E’s little brother N will become a bar mitzvah! We are already looking forward to the trip. Although, since we were dubbed honorary Jews by E’s dad during the Hakafah, does that mean that next time I can’t eat my weight in scallops?
Friday, June 01, 2007
"Most of New Jersey doesn't even have refineries." - Richie Sambora
I am in New Jersey for a bit, visiting my little brother and his wonderful wife and my positively adorable, chewable little nephew. The boys - all three, plus H - are with me. Posting may be scarce for a bit. We have baseball games to play, and bat mitzvahs to attend, and nephews to fawn over. There are cousins - "Cousins!" - to play with.
The drive wasn't really all that bad, once we got out of the dead space of mid-PA and found a diner in which to eat eggs and pie. We escaped the Roy Rogers/old-people-in-tour-buses experience by the skin of our teeth, but our trauma was such that a hefty cup of diner coffee was enough to erase it from memory.
And inquiring minds want to know - is a compass a standard piece of equipment in cars these days?
Musr run - "Play with cousins!" is up next.
The drive wasn't really all that bad, once we got out of the dead space of mid-PA and found a diner in which to eat eggs and pie. We escaped the Roy Rogers/old-people-in-tour-buses experience by the skin of our teeth, but our trauma was such that a hefty cup of diner coffee was enough to erase it from memory.
And inquiring minds want to know - is a compass a standard piece of equipment in cars these days?
Musr run - "Play with cousins!" is up next.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
"When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad..."
I started reading Slaughterhouse Five online on Saturday, because it was insanely dead at work but there were people about so I didn’t want to risk reading an actual BOOK at the desk. How is it that I have never read this before? It’s funny and sweet and sad, and Billy Pilgrim is a strange sort of Everyman. I am reading it in PDF form, and am about at page 70 of 118. It’s wonderful.
************
I finished The $64 Tomato. I felt like the author never really finished the book, or rather, that it just ENDED. It was mildly entertaining, and did indeed, as one commenter pointed out, teach me to not start too big. My little 4x8 plot (tomatoes, sweet banana peppers, watermelon, basil, and parsley) and a couple of terracotta trenches (lettuces) and pots (mint) are well within my capabilities, I believe.
*************
I ditched Final Exam by Pauline Chen. Another author who never seemed to get to her point. There’s a reason she’s a surgeon and not a writer.
*************
I have a feeling I am going to enjoy Clare Clark’s The Great Stink but now is not the time. Same with Lord Byron’s Novel.
*************
For some reason, Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much is True called to me, and I started it last night. I continued it on my lunch hour today. I needed a big, fat book that would pull me in, and I think this will do the trick. I remember being thoroughly engrossed in She’s Come Undone so, despite the fact that it is an Oprah book (I know, I am a snob), I am really liking it.
**************
I had a crappy day today. I actually had a crappy weekend, carried into today, and I am not really anticipating a much more pleasant next-weekend. We are driving to see my little brother and his lovely wife and my dear little nephew who will turn two next month, which should be great, but from there we have a bat mitzvah in Greenwich CT to attend, all day Saturday, and I am not looking forward to any type of formal event with H (yes, I bought a new dress although I am sure I look like a heifer anyway), or any of the driving.
I came back from lunch at three-ish, and claimed a headache, and left at four. Atypically I was not scheduled on the desk at all today, so I didn’t leave anyone in the lurch; I just needed to BE HOME.
Is this what panic attacks are like? I’ve never had one, that I know of. It would sort of suck to start now.
Would it be wise to take the big bottle of Rescue Remedy with me?
************
These are a few of my favorite things:
Right now, right after I post this, I am crawling into (1) my bed, with its nice, crisp, clean sheets, and (2) my book, and (3) a pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream.
I anticipate a chance to (4) run tomorrow since H is on vacation this week.
I discovered (5) a fabulous nursery near my house, which carries all sorts of plants (including heirloom, although no Brandywine tomatoes which I am anxious to try), and seeds (organic and regular) and plenty of other cool garden stuff; my (6) no-dig raised bed is all built (thank you for the pointers, Nutmeg!) and I will put the rest of the plants in tomorrow; and I have three estimates on the fence project so we can proceed with serious brush-clearing and yard work now. I put into the front flower bed some pretty purple and lavender and white (7) alyssum which smells just like honey, and (8) I scored a gigantic, intact terra cotta pot out of the neighbor’s trash last night.
(9) My chives came up.
And (10) The Baby’s newest word is “weedwhacker.”
************
I finished The $64 Tomato. I felt like the author never really finished the book, or rather, that it just ENDED. It was mildly entertaining, and did indeed, as one commenter pointed out, teach me to not start too big. My little 4x8 plot (tomatoes, sweet banana peppers, watermelon, basil, and parsley) and a couple of terracotta trenches (lettuces) and pots (mint) are well within my capabilities, I believe.
*************
I ditched Final Exam by Pauline Chen. Another author who never seemed to get to her point. There’s a reason she’s a surgeon and not a writer.
*************
I have a feeling I am going to enjoy Clare Clark’s The Great Stink but now is not the time. Same with Lord Byron’s Novel.
*************
For some reason, Wally Lamb’s I Know This Much is True called to me, and I started it last night. I continued it on my lunch hour today. I needed a big, fat book that would pull me in, and I think this will do the trick. I remember being thoroughly engrossed in She’s Come Undone so, despite the fact that it is an Oprah book (I know, I am a snob), I am really liking it.
**************
I had a crappy day today. I actually had a crappy weekend, carried into today, and I am not really anticipating a much more pleasant next-weekend. We are driving to see my little brother and his lovely wife and my dear little nephew who will turn two next month, which should be great, but from there we have a bat mitzvah in Greenwich CT to attend, all day Saturday, and I am not looking forward to any type of formal event with H (yes, I bought a new dress although I am sure I look like a heifer anyway), or any of the driving.
I came back from lunch at three-ish, and claimed a headache, and left at four. Atypically I was not scheduled on the desk at all today, so I didn’t leave anyone in the lurch; I just needed to BE HOME.
Is this what panic attacks are like? I’ve never had one, that I know of. It would sort of suck to start now.
Would it be wise to take the big bottle of Rescue Remedy with me?
************
These are a few of my favorite things:
Right now, right after I post this, I am crawling into (1) my bed, with its nice, crisp, clean sheets, and (2) my book, and (3) a pint of Chubby Hubby ice cream.
I anticipate a chance to (4) run tomorrow since H is on vacation this week.
I discovered (5) a fabulous nursery near my house, which carries all sorts of plants (including heirloom, although no Brandywine tomatoes which I am anxious to try), and seeds (organic and regular) and plenty of other cool garden stuff; my (6) no-dig raised bed is all built (thank you for the pointers, Nutmeg!) and I will put the rest of the plants in tomorrow; and I have three estimates on the fence project so we can proceed with serious brush-clearing and yard work now. I put into the front flower bed some pretty purple and lavender and white (7) alyssum which smells just like honey, and (8) I scored a gigantic, intact terra cotta pot out of the neighbor’s trash last night.
(9) My chives came up.
And (10) The Baby’s newest word is “weedwhacker.”
Monday, May 28, 2007
"...that's the most extraordinary stuff I've ever tasted! It's shattering!" - "Big X" Bartlett, in "The Great Escape"
Gina and I tried our hands at cheesemaking this past Saturday night. (Yeah, we live la vida loca over here.) I was hungry on the way over to Gina's, having skipped dinner, so stopped for some fries - this juxtaposition amused me. (I am sorry, I HAVE read Fast Food Nation, and I understand McDonald's is an evil, corporate giant, but I owe them some gratitude for getting me through all three pregnancies alive.)
We followed the recipe for Thirty-Minute Mozzarella in Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal Vegetable Miracle (I am starting to feel like a shill...), but you can also find the recipe online at the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company website. The milk was organic, pasteurized whole milk I bought at the East End Food Co-op, which is also where I found the rennet. Gina drove down to South Hills Brewing for the citric acid. The thermometer was an old candy thermometer I had lying around. It was mildly inconvenient that the temps we needed to observe were under the milk, but we figured it out. We started with the gallon of cold milk; at 55 degrees F, we stirred in the 1/4 tsp of rennet dissolved in a quarter-cup of bottled water.
We stirred languidly, the pot over a medium-ish flame.
Just as we were saying, "It's not DOING anything," the milk began to curdle, just the teeniest bit, at about 88 degrees F, as promised.
From there on, we exhibited a leetle bit more faith, added the (1/4 tsp dissolved in water) citric acid, and the curds, they came. Right about at 100 degrees F, again as promised. The whey became sort of clear but yellowish. Very attractive. (Like the juvenile I am, I observed that it sort of looked like vomit. Well, it DID.)
We scooped the biggest curds out, but resorted to a colander/strainer type thingey for the rest of the draining. If you were going to use the whey to reheat the cheese, you would want to drain into something, but we - wasteful people and not having any handy piggies - poured it down the drain. (Gina observed, more than likely correctly, that this was probably the first time whey had ever been poured down that drain.)
"Wringing out the cheese, wringing out the cheese! We shall come rejoicing, wringing out the cheese!"
We dutifully heated (35-40 seconds in the microwave)and kneaded and stretched it, heated and kneaded and stretched again, heated and kneaded and stretched again. We actually had to reheat a fourth time as the first two times we had not heated nearly enough. You want the cheese to be almost liquidy, and yes, it gets HOT. We were all, "Wow, wussies!" kneading the first two times, "La la la, this isn't too bad!" but when we'd finally heated it ENOUGH, I danced around and did my Ouchy-ouchy-ouch dance while stretching the cheese. (It was very attractive, let me tell you.) We put on and kneaded in about a teaspoon, maybe two, of kosher salt when directed to 'salt to taste.'
Finally, we had something resembling cheese. (On top of tupperware, as all of Gina's plates are white, and the cheese wasn't shown off to full advantage on them.) It smelled good, and it looked ok, rather...cheese-like, even if I do say so myself. I can't wait to try mine on homemade pizza tonight.
See how CUTE? I am SO giving people homemade mozzarella cheese for Christmas this year, wrapped in foil over the wax paper and tied with ribbons at either end. So festive, cheese bon-bons. You know, nothing quite says "Season's greetings!" like a ball o' cheese.
We followed the recipe for Thirty-Minute Mozzarella in Barbara Kingsolver's book Animal Vegetable Miracle (I am starting to feel like a shill...), but you can also find the recipe online at the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company website. The milk was organic, pasteurized whole milk I bought at the East End Food Co-op, which is also where I found the rennet. Gina drove down to South Hills Brewing for the citric acid. The thermometer was an old candy thermometer I had lying around. It was mildly inconvenient that the temps we needed to observe were under the milk, but we figured it out. We started with the gallon of cold milk; at 55 degrees F, we stirred in the 1/4 tsp of rennet dissolved in a quarter-cup of bottled water.
We stirred languidly, the pot over a medium-ish flame.
Just as we were saying, "It's not DOING anything," the milk began to curdle, just the teeniest bit, at about 88 degrees F, as promised.
From there on, we exhibited a leetle bit more faith, added the (1/4 tsp dissolved in water) citric acid, and the curds, they came. Right about at 100 degrees F, again as promised. The whey became sort of clear but yellowish. Very attractive. (Like the juvenile I am, I observed that it sort of looked like vomit. Well, it DID.)
We scooped the biggest curds out, but resorted to a colander/strainer type thingey for the rest of the draining. If you were going to use the whey to reheat the cheese, you would want to drain into something, but we - wasteful people and not having any handy piggies - poured it down the drain. (Gina observed, more than likely correctly, that this was probably the first time whey had ever been poured down that drain.)
"Wringing out the cheese, wringing out the cheese! We shall come rejoicing, wringing out the cheese!"
We dutifully heated (35-40 seconds in the microwave)and kneaded and stretched it, heated and kneaded and stretched again, heated and kneaded and stretched again. We actually had to reheat a fourth time as the first two times we had not heated nearly enough. You want the cheese to be almost liquidy, and yes, it gets HOT. We were all, "Wow, wussies!" kneading the first two times, "La la la, this isn't too bad!" but when we'd finally heated it ENOUGH, I danced around and did my Ouchy-ouchy-ouch dance while stretching the cheese. (It was very attractive, let me tell you.) We put on and kneaded in about a teaspoon, maybe two, of kosher salt when directed to 'salt to taste.'
Finally, we had something resembling cheese. (On top of tupperware, as all of Gina's plates are white, and the cheese wasn't shown off to full advantage on them.) It smelled good, and it looked ok, rather...cheese-like, even if I do say so myself. I can't wait to try mine on homemade pizza tonight.
See how CUTE? I am SO giving people homemade mozzarella cheese for Christmas this year, wrapped in foil over the wax paper and tied with ribbons at either end. So festive, cheese bon-bons. You know, nothing quite says "Season's greetings!" like a ball o' cheese.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
"But no one digs like the mighty worm..." - Ralph's World, in "The Mighty Worm"
After I dealt with the overdue fines on the children’s books (they charge fines for books from another district library, but not your home library); returned the books I could find; got a list of the ones we can’t (down to four, now); and resolved the $35-replacement-fee for a $12-book (I am personally ordering a replacement copy for $12 + $3 shipping, and they will accept that as long as it is EXACTLY THE SAME – um, ever heard of this crazy little thing known as an ISBN?), I made Primo lurk in the stacks while I speed-perused the organic gardening books. (He entertained himself by teaching himself about the LC call numbers, with a little instruction from me. I was so proud.)
I emerged from the library with the following books:
The $64 Tomato: How One Man Nearly Lost His Sanity, Spent a Fortune, and Endured an Existential Crisis in the Quest for the Perfect Garden - William Alexander. I fear I am coming on with the fervor of the newly-converted zealot. This book might just put me back in my place.
Portrait of a Burger as a Young Calf: The Story of One Man, Two Cows, and the Feeding of a Nation - Peter Lovenheim. I read Fast Food Nation; it scared the bejesus out of me. I read Ruth Ozeki’s My Year of Meats; also terrifying. So why not go for three? Besides, how do you resist the title?
The Urban/Suburban Composter - Mark Cullen & Lorraine Johnson. I am happy enough contributing to my neighbor’s compost bin; but there’s still stuff I don’t know what to do with. I am hoping this book will provide some answers. (And I have been doing research into the dog waste issue. This concerns me even more than the disposable diapers, as at some point Terzo WILL be potty-trained, but I don’t anticipate Punto ever figuring it out.)
*************
Chicken of the post: Australorp.
Great layer (avg 5/wk); docile, and pretty, too!
Cluck cluck cluck, cheep, cheep...
*************
In other, non-gardening, non-chicken-related news, I decided against running this and registered for this, instead. I need longer than a few months to get ready for a half, and my crotchety knees have already begun protesting.
But on the upside, I managed to run two-and-a-half miles this morning without stopping. Well, I PLOD, but I didn’t STOP plodding, is the point.
My brain loves its endorphin bath.
I emerged from the library with the following books:
The $64 Tomato: How One Man Nearly Lost His Sanity, Spent a Fortune, and Endured an Existential Crisis in the Quest for the Perfect Garden - William Alexander. I fear I am coming on with the fervor of the newly-converted zealot. This book might just put me back in my place.
Portrait of a Burger as a Young Calf: The Story of One Man, Two Cows, and the Feeding of a Nation - Peter Lovenheim. I read Fast Food Nation; it scared the bejesus out of me. I read Ruth Ozeki’s My Year of Meats; also terrifying. So why not go for three? Besides, how do you resist the title?
The Urban/Suburban Composter - Mark Cullen & Lorraine Johnson. I am happy enough contributing to my neighbor’s compost bin; but there’s still stuff I don’t know what to do with. I am hoping this book will provide some answers. (And I have been doing research into the dog waste issue. This concerns me even more than the disposable diapers, as at some point Terzo WILL be potty-trained, but I don’t anticipate Punto ever figuring it out.)
*************
Chicken of the post: Australorp.
Great layer (avg 5/wk); docile, and pretty, too!
Cluck cluck cluck, cheep, cheep...
*************
In other, non-gardening, non-chicken-related news, I decided against running this and registered for this, instead. I need longer than a few months to get ready for a half, and my crotchety knees have already begun protesting.
But on the upside, I managed to run two-and-a-half miles this morning without stopping. Well, I PLOD, but I didn’t STOP plodding, is the point.
My brain loves its endorphin bath.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. - Barbara Kingsolver
All righty, I am digging this eat-local thang. Let me on the bandwagon! I’ve always been sort of conscious of the vibe, but now I am realizing exactly how much good even just a little effort can do. And I have the zeal of the convert, only not so much converted as convinced. Maybe more on the do-good-to-your-fellow-man and a little less on the hellfire and brimstone, but you know, otherwise...just like a convert.
Barbara Kingsolver has inspired me with her wonderful Animal Vegetable Miracle; Suse and I have been planning our commune’s farming venture (Suse, can we name some of the chooks (that’s Aussie for chicken, my little Internet schweeties) Burp and Slurp? I’ll explain later...), and I have been reading about chickens and chicken coops and chicken feed and chicken breeds pretty much nonstop.
Gina and I have a date on Saturday night to MAKE OUR OWN MOZZARELLA.
My CSA starts next week (and we are going to be gone for a bit, meaning my first haul of strawberries and asparagus are going to be eaten by other people! Wah!)
I have found a source to recycle plastics 6 and 7 (the city only takes up to 5); once a pile accumulates, I can drop them off on my way to work (which means I have to drive rather than take the bus...hmmm...everything’s a trade-off, I see). I have found a place that accepts paperboard and boxes for recycling, so all our cereal boxes and cartons go in a box to be hauled off once a month there, along with any corrugated cardboard we have amassed. I am contributing kitchen scraps to my neighbor’s compost bin. I faithfully dump several pounds a month of junk mail and scrap paper into one of those fundraising recycling dumpsters. And the grocery store recycles plastic bags of any kind. Our family’s garbage output has decreased from emptying the trash once or sometimes even twice a day, to emptying about once every two days.
Alas, we still have all the dog poop and cat litter to cope with (it’s the only type of “manure” you CANNOT compost – why is that?) - and I am still using disposable diapers. I also am still drinking my share of “Colombian blood” in its 10% post-recycled sleeves and paper cups. But we are working on it. I am in the market for a nice, hefty, refillable travel mug type of dealio...
(But I continue to drag the empty soda cans and bottles out of the desk trashcan at work and throw them in the recycling bins – is it so hard to walk the ten steps to the bins? Really?)
I just requested Joan Dye Gussow’s This Organic Life: Confessions of a Suburban Homesteader from the university EZBorrow program. I also want to read Plenty: One Man, One Woman, and a Raucous Year of Eating Locally, by Alisa Smith, but my public library account is currently blocked because I owe them for a lost book (Primo’s, not mine). And I am trying to track down a copy of Jackie French’s Backyard Self-sufficiency but it is apparently unavailable in the States for less than a mortgage payment or two.
I am also interested in reading It’s a Long Road to a Tomato, by Keith Stewart; Second Nature by the inestimable Michael Pollan, which is sitting on my living room bookshelves; Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Food - Gary Paul Nabhan; and Deborah Madison’s Local Flavors: Cooking and eating from America’s Farmer’s Markets. (As is my wont, I will track down and read voraciously every single book I can find about a topic that has piqued my interest. It’s Droutism, but for books.)
Today – today I built the raised part of a raised bed. It’s only a little bit raised, to account for the slope of the side yard. See why I am terrified my children will roll down the hill and over the wall into the brick alley below?
Thank God I have my Matrix. But the little truck, it is missed.
The walls of the bed are contructed of 2x4s which, at a buck-fifty for an eight-foot-length, seemed about the right price. My nailing skills leave a lot to be desired so I just screwed the damn thing together with scabs and 3/8" drywall screws and my weenie little drill, and hope it won’t be moved for a long while. Next comes the fun part (ha!): removing the grass and digging in the peat moss and topsoil.
See my collection of studly tools? I DO own a real (Makita) drill, but it’s dead, so I am forced to use my mother’s itty-bitty Black and Decker.
And I love my Sawzall. I have no idea how we lived before we bought a Sawzall.
I have been bringing home stray plants for several weeks, and they will be greatly relieved to be in the ground...currently they live on my front steps.
Except my tomato plants. They’re my favorite (shhh, don’t tell the others). They went in right up against the house, where H is terrified I will flood the basement while watering them. (Yeah, I know, hard to believe he’s an engineer.) (Also, I am well aware that my rosemary is looking peaked.)
My lettuce trenches come in a close second; I just planted them a few days ago so no sproutage yet but I look forward their tidy little rows marching down the planters.
My Shasta daisies seeds have sprouted! I like masses of the things, but started plants are too expensive. So just as at the old house, I dumped several seed packets into some peat pots and voila! We have daisiage.
The chives, however, refuse to poke their pointy little heads aboveground.
While waiting for the weeniedrill to recharge, I cleared weeds and removed dead-leaf mulch and yanked out maple volunteers from around the rosebushes. We have about a dozen lining the alley wall. We also, turns out, have wasp nests all over the place. Which I discovered after raking out the roots of some dead grass under the rosebush. They were little teeny wasps, and were fortunately even less interested in me than I was in them.
The cat, whose secret hiding-from-Punto place I discovered, was even less interested in me. Go figure.
The raised bed is four feet by approximately eight feet. A prefab chicken coop with a covered run would have a footprint only about two feet longer, and if I built my own, I could tinker with the dimensions/layout.
The other sideyard is crying for chickens.
Cluck, cluck, cluck!
Barbara Kingsolver has inspired me with her wonderful Animal Vegetable Miracle; Suse and I have been planning our commune’s farming venture (Suse, can we name some of the chooks (that’s Aussie for chicken, my little Internet schweeties) Burp and Slurp? I’ll explain later...), and I have been reading about chickens and chicken coops and chicken feed and chicken breeds pretty much nonstop.
Gina and I have a date on Saturday night to MAKE OUR OWN MOZZARELLA.
My CSA starts next week (and we are going to be gone for a bit, meaning my first haul of strawberries and asparagus are going to be eaten by other people! Wah!)
I have found a source to recycle plastics 6 and 7 (the city only takes up to 5); once a pile accumulates, I can drop them off on my way to work (which means I have to drive rather than take the bus...hmmm...everything’s a trade-off, I see). I have found a place that accepts paperboard and boxes for recycling, so all our cereal boxes and cartons go in a box to be hauled off once a month there, along with any corrugated cardboard we have amassed. I am contributing kitchen scraps to my neighbor’s compost bin. I faithfully dump several pounds a month of junk mail and scrap paper into one of those fundraising recycling dumpsters. And the grocery store recycles plastic bags of any kind. Our family’s garbage output has decreased from emptying the trash once or sometimes even twice a day, to emptying about once every two days.
Alas, we still have all the dog poop and cat litter to cope with (it’s the only type of “manure” you CANNOT compost – why is that?) - and I am still using disposable diapers. I also am still drinking my share of “Colombian blood” in its 10% post-recycled sleeves and paper cups. But we are working on it. I am in the market for a nice, hefty, refillable travel mug type of dealio...
(But I continue to drag the empty soda cans and bottles out of the desk trashcan at work and throw them in the recycling bins – is it so hard to walk the ten steps to the bins? Really?)
I just requested Joan Dye Gussow’s This Organic Life: Confessions of a Suburban Homesteader from the university EZBorrow program. I also want to read Plenty: One Man, One Woman, and a Raucous Year of Eating Locally, by Alisa Smith, but my public library account is currently blocked because I owe them for a lost book (Primo’s, not mine). And I am trying to track down a copy of Jackie French’s Backyard Self-sufficiency but it is apparently unavailable in the States for less than a mortgage payment or two.
I am also interested in reading It’s a Long Road to a Tomato, by Keith Stewart; Second Nature by the inestimable Michael Pollan, which is sitting on my living room bookshelves; Coming Home to Eat: The Pleasures and Politics of Local Food - Gary Paul Nabhan; and Deborah Madison’s Local Flavors: Cooking and eating from America’s Farmer’s Markets. (As is my wont, I will track down and read voraciously every single book I can find about a topic that has piqued my interest. It’s Droutism, but for books.)
Today – today I built the raised part of a raised bed. It’s only a little bit raised, to account for the slope of the side yard. See why I am terrified my children will roll down the hill and over the wall into the brick alley below?
Thank God I have my Matrix. But the little truck, it is missed.
The walls of the bed are contructed of 2x4s which, at a buck-fifty for an eight-foot-length, seemed about the right price. My nailing skills leave a lot to be desired so I just screwed the damn thing together with scabs and 3/8" drywall screws and my weenie little drill, and hope it won’t be moved for a long while. Next comes the fun part (ha!): removing the grass and digging in the peat moss and topsoil.
See my collection of studly tools? I DO own a real (Makita) drill, but it’s dead, so I am forced to use my mother’s itty-bitty Black and Decker.
And I love my Sawzall. I have no idea how we lived before we bought a Sawzall.
I have been bringing home stray plants for several weeks, and they will be greatly relieved to be in the ground...currently they live on my front steps.
Except my tomato plants. They’re my favorite (shhh, don’t tell the others). They went in right up against the house, where H is terrified I will flood the basement while watering them. (Yeah, I know, hard to believe he’s an engineer.) (Also, I am well aware that my rosemary is looking peaked.)
My lettuce trenches come in a close second; I just planted them a few days ago so no sproutage yet but I look forward their tidy little rows marching down the planters.
My Shasta daisies seeds have sprouted! I like masses of the things, but started plants are too expensive. So just as at the old house, I dumped several seed packets into some peat pots and voila! We have daisiage.
The chives, however, refuse to poke their pointy little heads aboveground.
While waiting for the weeniedrill to recharge, I cleared weeds and removed dead-leaf mulch and yanked out maple volunteers from around the rosebushes. We have about a dozen lining the alley wall. We also, turns out, have wasp nests all over the place. Which I discovered after raking out the roots of some dead grass under the rosebush. They were little teeny wasps, and were fortunately even less interested in me than I was in them.
The cat, whose secret hiding-from-Punto place I discovered, was even less interested in me. Go figure.
The raised bed is four feet by approximately eight feet. A prefab chicken coop with a covered run would have a footprint only about two feet longer, and if I built my own, I could tinker with the dimensions/layout.
The other sideyard is crying for chickens.
Cluck, cluck, cluck!
Monday, May 21, 2007
"I will myself go find some herbs for you That will be good for health and pecker too." - "The Nun's Priest's Tale" - Chaucer
How cute is this little chickie?It’s a Chantecler (Yes, I am a dork, I like the literary reference), and they lay 4 eggs a week. That’s pretty good laying, especially if you had two or three. They are not broody, meaning they are not physiologically disposed to sit on eggs or hatch chicks. They’re relatively rare, but you can get them from a couple different hatcheries. They are expensive, at four bucks a chick.
This is a Buff Brahma bantam (bantams might be preferable for city chickens, as they tend to be smaller). They will indeed sit on eggs to hatch chicks, and they lay about three eggs a week. I love their color, and I like that they’re not crested. Crests sort of squick me out a bit. They run about 3-4 dollars a chick.
The Wyandottes are really pretty and plump too, don’t you think? This is a silver-laced Wyandotte (they come in gold- and blue-laced also). This breed lays about four eggs a week; they are apparently pretty darn laid-back, too. The hens run about $2.20 a chick.
I really adore the Rhode Island Reds and Whites (this one is a hen; the males are almost black). I don't even mind the crests. They will lay a whopping five eggs per week, and are very rigorous and sturdy. The New Hampshire Reds, equally attractive, are derived from this breed, but they only average three eggs a week. The Rhode Islands are about 2 dollars a chick; the New Hampshires are about the same.******************
You can pick out the breed that would best fit your lifestyle and backyard, right here:
Chicken Breed Selector.
Did you know that it is legal to keep chickens within the city of Pittsburgh limits?
I just dare anyone to complain about chicken noise (there’d be no roosters, so no crowing) when cars routinely drive down this street with radios so loud as to make my windows rattle.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
"For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?" - The Book of Revelations 6:17
I finished Cormac McCarthy’s The Road while sitting at the reference desk yesterday afternoon – distinctly against rules, to read at the desk, but it was quiet, and I HAD to keep going.
Is it very professional to have to help patrons with my eyes red and still streaming? No. No, it isn’t, but he seemed to cope.
[An aside: He’s one of my new favorite patrons, a nursing prof from Canada here doing some research work with his then-advisor/now-colleague, on nursing methods and phenomenology. His pet topic, the becoming-human theories of Rosemary Parse, are interestingly similar to many deconstructionist literary theories, all of which I find, frankly, just this much hooey but also find fascinating to discuss.
His favorite question: “How IS THAT for you? How is that, the experience of [insert research topic here]?” Now, turns out, I am more scientifically minded than I ever thought possible, as the LAST thing I would ask, say, a terminal cancer patient is, “How IS THAT for you?” I would be much more inclined to explain palliative measures, and talk about the practical matters like pain management, family and support situations, and hospice possibilities. But he is far more interested in the lived-experience. Hooey! Hooey, I say, but some fiery discussions ensue.
Some days, I do love my job.
Besides which, he has the loveliest lilting accent, which he informs me is Acadian. (This fact set me to singing “Farewell to Nova Scotia” for several days.)]
So. On The Road again.
Would I tell you to read this book?
Unequivocally, YES.
Would I tell you I LIKED it?
No. No, saying I liked it would be insane.
It is exquisitely, sparsely written.
It is lovely in the way that winter-stricken tree branches black against the pewter sky are lovely.
Or maybe in the way that the delicate bones of a skeleton are lovely.
It is, perhaps, beautiful in the way that the inevitability of death is beautiful.
I have watched someone die, and I have three children who are my heart, and this book tore me up. I read it with a sense of urgency, and a stone feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I could have read it all in one sitting, but I had to stop often and breathe and put it aside for a day or two. I had to read it when I would be uninterrupted. I didn’t especially WANT to read it, but I had to read it.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Is it very professional to have to help patrons with my eyes red and still streaming? No. No, it isn’t, but he seemed to cope.
[An aside: He’s one of my new favorite patrons, a nursing prof from Canada here doing some research work with his then-advisor/now-colleague, on nursing methods and phenomenology. His pet topic, the becoming-human theories of Rosemary Parse, are interestingly similar to many deconstructionist literary theories, all of which I find, frankly, just this much hooey but also find fascinating to discuss.
His favorite question: “How IS THAT for you? How is that, the experience of [insert research topic here]?” Now, turns out, I am more scientifically minded than I ever thought possible, as the LAST thing I would ask, say, a terminal cancer patient is, “How IS THAT for you?” I would be much more inclined to explain palliative measures, and talk about the practical matters like pain management, family and support situations, and hospice possibilities. But he is far more interested in the lived-experience. Hooey! Hooey, I say, but some fiery discussions ensue.
Some days, I do love my job.
Besides which, he has the loveliest lilting accent, which he informs me is Acadian. (This fact set me to singing “Farewell to Nova Scotia” for several days.)]
So. On The Road again.
Would I tell you to read this book?
Unequivocally, YES.
Would I tell you I LIKED it?
No. No, saying I liked it would be insane.
It is exquisitely, sparsely written.
It is lovely in the way that winter-stricken tree branches black against the pewter sky are lovely.
Or maybe in the way that the delicate bones of a skeleton are lovely.
It is, perhaps, beautiful in the way that the inevitability of death is beautiful.
I have watched someone die, and I have three children who are my heart, and this book tore me up. I read it with a sense of urgency, and a stone feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I could have read it all in one sitting, but I had to stop often and breathe and put it aside for a day or two. I had to read it when I would be uninterrupted. I didn’t especially WANT to read it, but I had to read it.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Friday, May 18, 2007
"Then why did I have the bowl Bart? Why did I have the bowl?" - Milhouse, in "The Simpsons"
My children are driving me up a wall. Remind me again why I am jonesing for a fourth?
*******************
Terzo has learned to say Mama, although I am not sure he knows what it means: he wanders the house chanting it: “Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama…”
He is becoming increasingly verbal and the two older hooligans delight in making him say potty words:
“Terzo, say Poop!”
“Poop!”
“Say Pee!”
“Pee!”
“Say Fart!”
“Fart!”
“Say Mama’s going to kill herself if you don’t cut her a break really soon!”
And he is into EVERYTHING. Because of the way our kitchen cabinets are built, I use rubber bands and/or wooden spoons to hold the doors shut. Ditto the cabinet in the bathroom and the video cabinet. He has managed to unwrap ponytail holders from every one of these places, regardless of how tightly I wrap them. And while I understand that not everyone grasps the importance of alphabetizing your videos, it would be nice to not have the boys crunch over a layer of them when they walk through the living room.
He likes to go into the bathroom and flush the toilet and turn on the faucets and pull all the tissues out of their boxes. He also unrolls the toilet paper and wanders away with anyone’s toothbrush he can reach, leaving them in weird, unsanitary places like under the kitchen radiator or in the dog bowl.
Speaking of, he likes to splash around in the dog’s water bowl like it’s his own personal wading pool, and if he can open the door to get down onto the landing (I have caught him several times trying to wedge his solid little body through the cat door), he methodically places each and every bit of kibble in the cats’ bowl into their water bowl.
He especially enjoys navigating the living room without touching the floor: from the piano bench to the armchair, along the back to the arm of the couch, along the couch to the ottoman to the coffee table from whence he flings himself triumphantly onto the second armchair.
He routinely tries to ride Punto as if the dog was a horse, and failing that, he steers him by his tail. The one cat knows enough to hide from him but the other, less bright one has also suffered to be straddled and ridden.
**************
Meanwhile, Segundo has turned into a very...volatile...four-year-old.
EVERYTHING is a TRAGEDY! Of the highest order!
Resulting in floods, FLOODS, I tell you, of tears!
Because life is terrible and IT’S! NOT! FAIR! Accompanied by stomping feet and jumping up and down for good measure, in case I didn’t grasp that IT’S! NOT! FAIR! WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s not fair that he has to eat cereal for breakfast! Wait, no, it’s waffles that’s not fair! And it’s not fair! That his clean underwear is folded in his drawer! And it’s certainly not fair! That we require him to eat dinner before he has a treat! NOT! FAIR!
I expect him to brush his teeth?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to put his dirty clothes in the laundry basket?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to not push down his younger brother and take away his toy?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to stop yelling and go to sleep sometime before midnight?
NOT FAIR!
No one loves him, he’s going to hate me FOREVER, and by the way? It’s NOT FAIR!
*********************
By comparison, dealing with my motormouth Primo is a cakewalk. It only took threatening to not let him go to a t-ball game, and making him apologize to his teacher, to get him to stop chattering so much in class and listen.
I do wish he came with a volume knob, as I do not want to listen to anyone (well, except maybe Colin Firth) recite the Pirates’ batting statistics, game schedules, shoe sizes, and a gamut of other fascinating facts, before breakfast, or for that matter, EVER.
I freely admit it: I DON'T CARE what the starting defensive line of the Ottawa Senators is, what high school Chris Duffy attended, or Ben Roethlisberger is left- or right-handed.
I even don’t care who Primo would vote for, were he old enough to vote.
And yet? He continues to regale me ceaselessly with all this information, and more.
Just so you know:
He’d have voted for Rick Swartz, and not Dan Onorato, for county controller.
He’d have written in Bill Peduto for mayor, too.
He doesn’t get why I voted for Cathleen Bubash, but fully concurs with my choices of McVay, McCarthy, and Williams, for judge of Allegheny Court of Common Pleas.
He thinks Len Bodack is not a nice man, and that he should concede to Patrick Dowd before the county verifies the race results. After all, he is convinced that Patrick won.
And he’s very glad Heather Arnet will take Patrick’s seat on the school board, because it’s really important who’s on the school board since he goes to the public schools and they run the public schools.
And shouldn’t we take our yard signs down now that the primaries are over?
Why don’t people take down their Bodack signs now that he lost?
He just doesn’t GET IT.
*****************
I am beginning to prefer the company of my goldfish, who may be boring but at least he stays in one place, and he’s quiet.
Except lately, even he’s been making these weird “bloop, bloop, bloop” bubbly sounds...
*******************
Terzo has learned to say Mama, although I am not sure he knows what it means: he wanders the house chanting it: “Mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama mama…”
He is becoming increasingly verbal and the two older hooligans delight in making him say potty words:
“Terzo, say Poop!”
“Poop!”
“Say Pee!”
“Pee!”
“Say Fart!”
“Fart!”
“Say Mama’s going to kill herself if you don’t cut her a break really soon!”
And he is into EVERYTHING. Because of the way our kitchen cabinets are built, I use rubber bands and/or wooden spoons to hold the doors shut. Ditto the cabinet in the bathroom and the video cabinet. He has managed to unwrap ponytail holders from every one of these places, regardless of how tightly I wrap them. And while I understand that not everyone grasps the importance of alphabetizing your videos, it would be nice to not have the boys crunch over a layer of them when they walk through the living room.
He likes to go into the bathroom and flush the toilet and turn on the faucets and pull all the tissues out of their boxes. He also unrolls the toilet paper and wanders away with anyone’s toothbrush he can reach, leaving them in weird, unsanitary places like under the kitchen radiator or in the dog bowl.
Speaking of, he likes to splash around in the dog’s water bowl like it’s his own personal wading pool, and if he can open the door to get down onto the landing (I have caught him several times trying to wedge his solid little body through the cat door), he methodically places each and every bit of kibble in the cats’ bowl into their water bowl.
He especially enjoys navigating the living room without touching the floor: from the piano bench to the armchair, along the back to the arm of the couch, along the couch to the ottoman to the coffee table from whence he flings himself triumphantly onto the second armchair.
He routinely tries to ride Punto as if the dog was a horse, and failing that, he steers him by his tail. The one cat knows enough to hide from him but the other, less bright one has also suffered to be straddled and ridden.
**************
Meanwhile, Segundo has turned into a very...volatile...four-year-old.
EVERYTHING is a TRAGEDY! Of the highest order!
Resulting in floods, FLOODS, I tell you, of tears!
Because life is terrible and IT’S! NOT! FAIR! Accompanied by stomping feet and jumping up and down for good measure, in case I didn’t grasp that IT’S! NOT! FAIR! WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It’s not fair that he has to eat cereal for breakfast! Wait, no, it’s waffles that’s not fair! And it’s not fair! That his clean underwear is folded in his drawer! And it’s certainly not fair! That we require him to eat dinner before he has a treat! NOT! FAIR!
I expect him to brush his teeth?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to put his dirty clothes in the laundry basket?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to not push down his younger brother and take away his toy?
NOT FAIR!
I expect him to stop yelling and go to sleep sometime before midnight?
NOT FAIR!
No one loves him, he’s going to hate me FOREVER, and by the way? It’s NOT FAIR!
*********************
By comparison, dealing with my motormouth Primo is a cakewalk. It only took threatening to not let him go to a t-ball game, and making him apologize to his teacher, to get him to stop chattering so much in class and listen.
I do wish he came with a volume knob, as I do not want to listen to anyone (well, except maybe Colin Firth) recite the Pirates’ batting statistics, game schedules, shoe sizes, and a gamut of other fascinating facts, before breakfast, or for that matter, EVER.
I freely admit it: I DON'T CARE what the starting defensive line of the Ottawa Senators is, what high school Chris Duffy attended, or Ben Roethlisberger is left- or right-handed.
I even don’t care who Primo would vote for, were he old enough to vote.
And yet? He continues to regale me ceaselessly with all this information, and more.
Just so you know:
He’d have voted for Rick Swartz, and not Dan Onorato, for county controller.
He’d have written in Bill Peduto for mayor, too.
He doesn’t get why I voted for Cathleen Bubash, but fully concurs with my choices of McVay, McCarthy, and Williams, for judge of Allegheny Court of Common Pleas.
He thinks Len Bodack is not a nice man, and that he should concede to Patrick Dowd before the county verifies the race results. After all, he is convinced that Patrick won.
And he’s very glad Heather Arnet will take Patrick’s seat on the school board, because it’s really important who’s on the school board since he goes to the public schools and they run the public schools.
And shouldn’t we take our yard signs down now that the primaries are over?
Why don’t people take down their Bodack signs now that he lost?
He just doesn’t GET IT.
*****************
I am beginning to prefer the company of my goldfish, who may be boring but at least he stays in one place, and he’s quiet.
Except lately, even he’s been making these weird “bloop, bloop, bloop” bubbly sounds...
Thursday, May 17, 2007
"No, it's not my house." - Kathy Niccolo, in "House of Sand and Fog"
I would argue vehemently that books made into movies are most often unsuccessful. I almost never see a movie of a book I loved; made that mistake once and will NEVER do it again ("Possession").
In some cases, a movie absolutely destroys a perfectly lovely, intricately layered, wonderful book (Again: "Possession," anyone? UGH. Also, "The Prince of Tides." WTF were they thinking casting Nick Nolte in the Tom Wingo role?!?!)
I CAN think of books which were made into movies that I enjoyed almost as much as I did the book: The World According to Garp, Angels and Insects, mayyyyyyyyyyyyyybe Cider House Rules.
But seldom is the movie better than the book. Seldom, but not never:
House of Sand and Fog - Andre Dubus III. I still HATED the Kathy Niccolo character, but I really liked Ron Eldard as Lester, and Ben Kingsley made Colonel Behrani much more sympathetic and complex than he was in the book.
My friend E, her husband, and I watched it last Friday night. By the end, poor J was sitting between a pair of sobbing, hiccuping women; I am sure he didn't know which way to turn - he just kept eating the popcorn.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (HP2) - JK Rowling. Oh my dear God, will this book n.e.v.e.r e.n.d???? But the movie was terrific – much faster-paced. Much more sure of itself. Plus, as always, a perfect excuse to ogle Alan Rickman as Snape.
Bridget Jones’ Diary - Helen Fielding. Renee Zellweger totally rocked in this movie, (and Colin Firth didn’t hurt it, either). Once I’d seen the movie, I enjoyed the book much more. The movie allowed Bridget to be fussy and flaky but also funny and cute and charming; none of that came across for me the first time I read the book.
You could probably convince me to include Peter Benchley’s Jaws and Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the Gene Wilder one, NOT the remake with Johnny Depp), if you tried a little bit.
Check out this blog for further thoughts…
In some cases, a movie absolutely destroys a perfectly lovely, intricately layered, wonderful book (Again: "Possession," anyone? UGH. Also, "The Prince of Tides." WTF were they thinking casting Nick Nolte in the Tom Wingo role?!?!)
I CAN think of books which were made into movies that I enjoyed almost as much as I did the book: The World According to Garp, Angels and Insects, mayyyyyyyyyyyyyybe Cider House Rules.
But seldom is the movie better than the book. Seldom, but not never:
House of Sand and Fog - Andre Dubus III. I still HATED the Kathy Niccolo character, but I really liked Ron Eldard as Lester, and Ben Kingsley made Colonel Behrani much more sympathetic and complex than he was in the book.
My friend E, her husband, and I watched it last Friday night. By the end, poor J was sitting between a pair of sobbing, hiccuping women; I am sure he didn't know which way to turn - he just kept eating the popcorn.
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (HP2) - JK Rowling. Oh my dear God, will this book n.e.v.e.r e.n.d???? But the movie was terrific – much faster-paced. Much more sure of itself. Plus, as always, a perfect excuse to ogle Alan Rickman as Snape.
Bridget Jones’ Diary - Helen Fielding. Renee Zellweger totally rocked in this movie, (and Colin Firth didn’t hurt it, either). Once I’d seen the movie, I enjoyed the book much more. The movie allowed Bridget to be fussy and flaky but also funny and cute and charming; none of that came across for me the first time I read the book.
You could probably convince me to include Peter Benchley’s Jaws and Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the Gene Wilder one, NOT the remake with Johnny Depp), if you tried a little bit.
Check out this blog for further thoughts…
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Wars and elections are both too big and too small to matter in the long run. The daily work - that goes on, it adds up. - Barbara Kingsolver
I swiped this from Naked without Books, who swiped it from Bookfool, and she told two friends, and so on,and so on...
*******************
A book that made you cry: Bridge to Terabithia – Katherine Paterson; The Book Thief – Markus Zuzak; A Thread of Grace - Mary Doria Russell
A book that scared you: Salem’s Lot - Stephen King. I slept with a crucifix next to my bed for months, and to this day I hate to look out the bathroom window at night.
A book that made you laugh: Virgins – Caryl Rivers (possibly the funniest book I have ever read); The Egg and I – Betty MacDonald; Bright Lights, Big Ass – Jen Lancaster; The Gashlycrumb Tinies - Edward Gorey
A book that disgusted you: Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted; I can deal with violence if it’s well-written and relevant, but I was NOT impressed by this book or its gratuitous yet lovingly detailed violence.
A book you loved in elementary school: Understood Betsy; Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; Trumpet of the Swan; The Little Princess; the list could go on and on.
A book you loved in junior high: The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger. Very funny, painfully honest, what a terrific book for a shy, awkward teenager to find, read, and empathize with. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but God bless ‘em.
I also read every Trixie Belden - stil have 'em, too.
A book you loved in high school: I don’t really remember anything I read in high school; I spent a lot of time plowing through my mom’s random mysteries. That’s when I read all the Brother Cadfael books, so I would have to pick those. Although I remember reading Thomas Costain’s Silver Chalice, and Frances Parkinson Keyes’ Came a Cavalier, and liking both very much (and not that I can remember a damn thing about either, now).
A book you hated in high school: The House of Seven Fucking Gables. Which I read again, later, in college, and thought was just fine. I resented that we were not permitted to read Scarlet Letter, I think.
A book you loved in college: Pride and Prejudice, which I read for the first time when I was sick with the flu in my junior year, on the night of one of the biggest parties of the year, and my boyfriend, instead of coming to spend a very little bit of time with me, stayed at the fraternity house and partied, hanging out with several women by whom I felt very threatened.
A book that challenged your identity: Book of Common Prayer (Anglican Church)
A series that you love: Laurie R King’s Mary Russell series
Comfort books: Hens Dancing; any of Laurie Colwin’s novels; Shell Seekers.
Your favorite horror book: I don’t read horror; my sole attempt (successful) was HP Lovecraft’s In the Mountains of Madness.
Your favorite science fiction book: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell
Your favorite fantasy book: Madeleine L’Engle’s books for teenagers – An Acceptable Time, Young Unicorns, Arm of the Starfish. Or apparently, Time Traveler’s Wife counts...
Your favorite mystery book: Brat Farrar, but honestly, anything by Josephine Tey
Your favorite graphic novel: Easy! The Sandman series, probably Brief Lives if I had to pick, but otherwise, the whole kit and caboodle.
Your favorite biography: Laurie Colwin’s food books, Ruth Reichl, MFK Fisher. Hmmm, another theme...I did enjoy very much Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Love Pray.
Your favorite “coming-of-age” book: Roller Skates – Ruth Sawyer
Your favorite classic: Gone with the Wind, which is totally a soap opera and I find it hilarious that it’s considered this big, intimidating classic.
Your favorite romance book: Jane Eyre, although I admit to a weird fondness for this fluffy little novel called Just Desserts, by Patti Massman ; or Judith Krantz’s Mistral’s Daughter.
Favorite kids’ book: I am partial to The Big Orange Splot; but I also like I Love You, Stinky Face and Yellow Submarine, which is just FUN to read out loud. “I’m a born lever-puller, me.”
Favorite cookbook: To use – Real Simple Real Food; How to Be a Domestic Goddess – Nigella Lawson (these can change depending on mood, what’s in season, what’s new, etc.); for reading: John Thorne or Laurie Colwin. For both: Consuming Passions - Michael Lee West
Your favorite book not on this list: Satanic Verses – Salman Rushdie; Possession – AS Byatt; Stones from the River – Ursula Hegi.
*******************
A book that made you cry: Bridge to Terabithia – Katherine Paterson; The Book Thief – Markus Zuzak; A Thread of Grace - Mary Doria Russell
A book that scared you: Salem’s Lot - Stephen King. I slept with a crucifix next to my bed for months, and to this day I hate to look out the bathroom window at night.
A book that made you laugh: Virgins – Caryl Rivers (possibly the funniest book I have ever read); The Egg and I – Betty MacDonald; Bright Lights, Big Ass – Jen Lancaster; The Gashlycrumb Tinies - Edward Gorey
A book that disgusted you: Chuck Palahniuk’s Haunted; I can deal with violence if it’s well-written and relevant, but I was NOT impressed by this book or its gratuitous yet lovingly detailed violence.
A book you loved in elementary school: Understood Betsy; Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; Trumpet of the Swan; The Little Princess; the list could go on and on.
A book you loved in junior high: The Cat Ate My Gymsuit by Paula Danziger. Very funny, painfully honest, what a terrific book for a shy, awkward teenager to find, read, and empathize with. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but God bless ‘em.
I also read every Trixie Belden - stil have 'em, too.
A book you loved in high school: I don’t really remember anything I read in high school; I spent a lot of time plowing through my mom’s random mysteries. That’s when I read all the Brother Cadfael books, so I would have to pick those. Although I remember reading Thomas Costain’s Silver Chalice, and Frances Parkinson Keyes’ Came a Cavalier, and liking both very much (and not that I can remember a damn thing about either, now).
A book you hated in high school: The House of Seven Fucking Gables. Which I read again, later, in college, and thought was just fine. I resented that we were not permitted to read Scarlet Letter, I think.
A book you loved in college: Pride and Prejudice, which I read for the first time when I was sick with the flu in my junior year, on the night of one of the biggest parties of the year, and my boyfriend, instead of coming to spend a very little bit of time with me, stayed at the fraternity house and partied, hanging out with several women by whom I felt very threatened.
A book that challenged your identity: Book of Common Prayer (Anglican Church)
A series that you love: Laurie R King’s Mary Russell series
Comfort books: Hens Dancing; any of Laurie Colwin’s novels; Shell Seekers.
Your favorite horror book: I don’t read horror; my sole attempt (successful) was HP Lovecraft’s In the Mountains of Madness.
Your favorite science fiction book: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell
Your favorite fantasy book: Madeleine L’Engle’s books for teenagers – An Acceptable Time, Young Unicorns, Arm of the Starfish. Or apparently, Time Traveler’s Wife counts...
Your favorite mystery book: Brat Farrar, but honestly, anything by Josephine Tey
Your favorite graphic novel: Easy! The Sandman series, probably Brief Lives if I had to pick, but otherwise, the whole kit and caboodle.
Your favorite biography: Laurie Colwin’s food books, Ruth Reichl, MFK Fisher. Hmmm, another theme...I did enjoy very much Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Love Pray.
Your favorite “coming-of-age” book: Roller Skates – Ruth Sawyer
Your favorite classic: Gone with the Wind, which is totally a soap opera and I find it hilarious that it’s considered this big, intimidating classic.
Your favorite romance book: Jane Eyre, although I admit to a weird fondness for this fluffy little novel called Just Desserts, by Patti Massman ; or Judith Krantz’s Mistral’s Daughter.
Favorite kids’ book: I am partial to The Big Orange Splot; but I also like I Love You, Stinky Face and Yellow Submarine, which is just FUN to read out loud. “I’m a born lever-puller, me.”
Favorite cookbook: To use – Real Simple Real Food; How to Be a Domestic Goddess – Nigella Lawson (these can change depending on mood, what’s in season, what’s new, etc.); for reading: John Thorne or Laurie Colwin. For both: Consuming Passions - Michael Lee West
Your favorite book not on this list: Satanic Verses – Salman Rushdie; Possession – AS Byatt; Stones from the River – Ursula Hegi.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
“Bad politicians are sent to Washington by good people who don't vote.” - William E. Simon
Go.
VOTE.
I'll wait right here (arms crossed, foot tapping...)
GO ON.
What are you waiting for?
GO.
VOTE.
I'll wait right here (arms crossed, foot tapping...)
GO ON.
What are you waiting for?
GO.
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