Grad's rounding the bend...she's racing down the straight-away...toward the finish line. One week to go to prove a budgeted life is workable. Except for the mortgage (which has always been an automatic draft) all bills were paid (or scheduled on-line) on the first day of the month-regardless their due date. That one small change in habit has done wonders for sleep. No longer do I sit straight up in bed, in the middle of the night, in a panic that I've forgotten to pay the electric bill and am facing disconnection. All my monthly expenditures, fixed and discretionary, are now on a spreadsheet. Every dollar has a name. Every one. I love my spreadsheet. I pull it up on the computer and look at it, tweak it, gaze at it lovingly. "Who's the most adorable spreadsheet in the world? Hm?? Whooo? (tickle-tickle) That's wight. Widdle YOU." Well, maybe it hasn't come to that extreme, yet. But I ask myself, how did I manage all these decades without such an unflinching taskmaster? The answer is, not very well. The fixed stuff was easy, of course. But the discretionary spending has been the real challenge. It is much too difficult to say "no" to myself in a bookstore, so I spend a lot more time in the library.
I am staying far away from the kitchen-ware store. I've promised myself that for every gadget that comes to live in my kitchen, another must be banished. Since I can't abide waste, a replacement is allowed only upon something else's demise. That has been difficult. And sad...so sad. No more All-Clad cookware - not even the roaster I desperately desired. No more Lock 'n Lock storage containers, which already fill up an entire cabinet, even if they do make the pantry so neat. No cute rooster towel holders, no microfiber dish towels. No!
The third danger zone I face is the grocery store. I hate grocery shopping, and my modus operandi has always been to dash in, fill the cart up as quickly as I can with whatever looks good, and get out. This strategy does not work on a budget. I now take a more studied approach. Although I like to cook, I don't usually follow recipes. The paradox here: I own more cookbooks than any other type of book. I am shocked at the realization. Apparently, I horde them as well. What other explanation could there be for owning four copies of Joy? Actually, they are different editions, so that must be the answer. I have six books by Julia Child and only recently did I realize that two of them are identical (they only have different covers). I own every cookbook written by Ina Garten and Nigella Lawson, and several by Lidia Bastianich. But - with the exception of Julia, Joy and Ina - I seldom, if ever, cooked from them.
A written budget is a challenge. A test. Like trying to survive in the forest with nothing but a Boy Scout knife. It is a thing foreign to me. I am not saying I have heretofore been able to spend freely. Quite the opposite. I just never quite got around to putting it down - in figures I can look at. I simply came off the month with an incredulous look on my face. "Where had it gone?" But staring down the cold, hard reality of a spreadsheet brings it all into focus. So things have changed. As a result, faced with self-restriction of the most tangible sort, I now take out the aforementioned cookbooks and actually decide what I will prepare for lunches and dinners that week. I check what I already have in the pantry or freezer or fridge, and what needs to be used up.
Although I love nothing better than a rare bit of roast beef, or a Cornish game hen with wild rice stuffing, I am eating more vegetarian meals now. I found a lovely (and sometimes fearsome) recipe that combines bulgur and green lentils, and which embraces the odd, left-over bits of fresh broccoli rolling around in the vegetable bin, or a wayward spring onion, the tomato that didn't make the cut in yesterday's salad, the juice from the part of the lime left over from my gin and tonic (I am still debating whether alcohol should be included in the food budget, or is more the domain of the "miscellaneous" column of the spreadsheet.) It accepts all comers, that bulgur-lentil thing-y. Which is why it is lovely, of course. The fearsome part? Although bulgur and lentils together produce a complete protein, they also produce...how to put this delicately...flatulence. I suggest that if one embarks down the bulgur-lentil road, one does so gradually or one works Beano into one's food budget. (Forgive me for broaching the subject, but I wish someone had warned me.)
I have also discovered that I am willing to make concessions on some things - the store brand frozen veggies are just as good as the "Ho-Ho-Ho" brand with the picture of the green dude wearing a pea-pod suit for instance - but not on others. I'll pay the extra two bucks for the organic milk and cage-free, vegetarian-fed chicken eggs, as well as the organic limes and lemons if I'm using the zest. Oh, that reminds me...I always use the zest, it freezes wonderfully.
For years I only bought artisan breads...those hearty, hefty loaves with crusty crusts and dense yet yielding insides. I also love baking my own loaves and find the long process enormously gratifying when I have lots of time. But bread-baking isn't very practical as a daily office. I have a bread machine. A bread machine is one of those contraptions that I bought and then stuffed into the pantry after a try or two. I didn't like the texture of the bread baked in it. But I have since discovered that I can throw all the ingredients into the machine and simply run it through the dough cycle. All the real work having been done for me, once it has risen, I simply take it out of the machine, knead it a few seconds (more for my benefit that for its) and let it rise without any further help from me while the oven heats up. Bang it into the oven, and pull out a perfectly-textured artisan loaf - for less than half the price at the bakery.
I suppose I shouldn't get too puffed up yet. I still have a week to go - I could blow it with an ill-timed visit to Barnes and Noble, or a sojourn in the shoe department of Macys. And, although this whole thing has been a revelation to me, I wouldn't be a bit surprised to learn that I am the last person on the planet who hasn't followed a strict, written-down budget all along. I should have been the first. Certainly, no one has ever accused me of being financially solvent.
With luck, and some self-control, I just might be able to retire and, like Sherlock Holmes, keep bees - or something. Of course, there's always the possibility of Prince Charming coming to the rescue. In which case, it's caviar my dears!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Voices In My Head
Not all audio books are created equal. I've been listening to Wharton's House of Mirth, and am not loving it solely because I cannot abide the narrator's voice. When simply reading without embellishment her voice is pleasant enough - a little Kathy Turner-ish maybe. But unless adept at it (let's say a Robin Williams or a Meryl Streep) I wish narrators would not attempt a collection of voices to represent the characters. In the version I have, the deep-throated and hackneyed interpretation of Lawrence Seldon's voice was at first amusing, and then became downright annoying, as it makes him sound like "wolfie" dressed in Granny's clothing emoting, "Oh so better to see you with..." or a thinly moustached, slick-haired debaucher of young women urging, "Have some Madeira, m'dear," while twirling his waxed handlebars. It is escrutiating to the point I dreaded any conversation involving poor Mr. Seldon, and so I will have to brace myself for more to come. A shame really, since I am enjoying the story itself. The narration is such a...I guess the word is "distraction." And, of course, Wharton's language is so richly beautiful, I regret not being able to linger over a passage that strikes me. Audio books travel at their own pace. I suppose I could fiddle with the buttons and replay the portions I particularly like, but that's not so easy when eyes are on the road. However, since it is the only way I will be able to get it read within the next few months, I am resigned to hang in there. This is the first audio book where I have run across this particular problem. Naturally, I wouldn't want the text read as though being done by an automaton, but I think it's possible to find a happy medium. Mine is, of course, purely subjective criticism and I imagine others have found this particular audio edition delightful.
On the opposite end of the enjoyment spectrum, The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon, written by David Grann and narrated by Mark Deakins was spellbinding. The background story surrounds British explorer and member of the Royal Geographic Society, Percy Fawcett's unrelenting quest to find an Eldorado-like lost city deep in the uncharted Amazon that he named simply: "Z". In 1925, Fawcett (after already trying and failing multiple times), his 22 year-old son Jack, and Jack's friend Raleigh Rimell disappeared during an expedition into the Amazon jungle. What happened to them remains mere conjecture. All that is known for certain is that they were never heard from again. There were many subsequent attempts to "rescue" the lost men, which resulted in the deaths of hundreds of others bent on solving the Fawcett mystery, and thereby garnering a sort of immortality. Numerous theories have been offered to explain Fawcett's fate. But none of those theories have been supported by any tangible proof. The truth is impossibly illusive. Grann, a writer for The New Yorker magazine and an admitted "couch potato," set out on a mission of his own to retrace the steps of the Fawcett group. Luckily, he survived to tell this wonderful tale. The Lost City of Z is part personal memoir, part biography and a totally mesmerizing adventure tale filled with Indians who could sling poison arrows with the precision of surgeons, maggots that crawl into human flesh and fester there, maddening insects, and fish and animals (not to mention cannibals) that would love nothing more than to make a meal of a hapless adventurer. It was so gripping it was almost dangerous to listen to while driving; one should be concentrating on the road. "How did I get on my driveway? I was just on the Upper Xingu badly in need of bug spray and a bath." Interspersed with listening to the book, I would Google Earth the Amazon coordinates where the Fawcett group was last seen, and then "fly" overhead, northward. That was close enough for me, and scary enough for me since my idea of roughing it is a hotel room without room service.
I understand a movie based on the book and starring Brad Pitt is due out in 2012. Although I think Pitt is too pretty for the role, not gritty enough, I will be in the audience with the largest tub of popcorn they sell.
On the opposite end of the enjoyment spectrum, The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon, written by David Grann and narrated by Mark Deakins was spellbinding. The background story surrounds British explorer and member of the Royal Geographic Society, Percy Fawcett's unrelenting quest to find an Eldorado-like lost city deep in the uncharted Amazon that he named simply: "Z". In 1925, Fawcett (after already trying and failing multiple times), his 22 year-old son Jack, and Jack's friend Raleigh Rimell disappeared during an expedition into the Amazon jungle. What happened to them remains mere conjecture. All that is known for certain is that they were never heard from again. There were many subsequent attempts to "rescue" the lost men, which resulted in the deaths of hundreds of others bent on solving the Fawcett mystery, and thereby garnering a sort of immortality. Numerous theories have been offered to explain Fawcett's fate. But none of those theories have been supported by any tangible proof. The truth is impossibly illusive. Grann, a writer for The New Yorker magazine and an admitted "couch potato," set out on a mission of his own to retrace the steps of the Fawcett group. Luckily, he survived to tell this wonderful tale. The Lost City of Z is part personal memoir, part biography and a totally mesmerizing adventure tale filled with Indians who could sling poison arrows with the precision of surgeons, maggots that crawl into human flesh and fester there, maddening insects, and fish and animals (not to mention cannibals) that would love nothing more than to make a meal of a hapless adventurer. It was so gripping it was almost dangerous to listen to while driving; one should be concentrating on the road. "How did I get on my driveway? I was just on the Upper Xingu badly in need of bug spray and a bath." Interspersed with listening to the book, I would Google Earth the Amazon coordinates where the Fawcett group was last seen, and then "fly" overhead, northward. That was close enough for me, and scary enough for me since my idea of roughing it is a hotel room without room service.
I understand a movie based on the book and starring Brad Pitt is due out in 2012. Although I think Pitt is too pretty for the role, not gritty enough, I will be in the audience with the largest tub of popcorn they sell.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Awake and Arise
I have been caught in a Rip Van Winkle-ish maelstrom. I leaned too far over the edge and was sucked into its vortex and am only now flogging my way out. So...okay...probably too dramatic a description, but that's how it seems. Blink and weeks have flown by. I don't know if it's because I've just been very busy in my personal and professional life, or crazed about reading my way through that lousy 1001 books to read before you keel over list, or spend half of my leisure hours in a stupor of wonder at just how much needs to be accomplished on that house of mine.
At any rate, The Curious Reader has been neglected, and yet, ever faithful, it sits and waits. Perhaps I have just had nothing of particular interest to say. Boring oneself with one's own thoughts does not trigger any creative drive. In such an atmosphere it is better to remain silent. Not that any of my gems are all that gem-y. And, come to think of it, one simply does not HAVE to have an opinion about all things. So (blink-blink) I awaken and stretch and yawn and plop back down into the comfort of my little blog. The dripping sink will continue to drip, the bookmark will stay in its place, and I am "out of the office" for just a moment while I recount "some kinds of crazy."
First and foremost, Katharine moved away. She's off to find her fame and fortune in the big Windy City. Although she was born there, she's a totally southern chick - True Grits (Girls Raised In The South). Fully realizing she's all grown up, all I saw was a little girl with skinned knees packing up her car with her clothes and (most importantly her shoes), and some sandwiches I made for her. As I watched her car drive away, I wondered where the years had gone. "The last thing I remember," I said to myself, "I was forty and she hadn't started school yet." The intervening one and twenty are nothing but a blur. But, as Shorty said (in one of those awesome and brilliant moments when she is once again, briefly, herself), "You raised her to fly on her own. You have to open your hands and let her take flight." And then she added, "You know, like when we let Sparky go." Uh-oh. Moment gone. "Mom, we didn't let Sparky go. It was Tommy, and we didn't let him go either. He flew out of the bathroom window and although we hunted all over the neighborhood, we couldn't find him." "Really?" "Yes, and while we were looking, a neighbor said he'd just found a parakeet. But it wasn't Tommy. This parakeet was yellow. So we took her home instead and called her Peaches....remember?" "Of course I do. Don't be silly." Katharine didn't have to leave by an open bathroom window, but I still find myself scouring the neighborhood looking for her. Is she out on the patio, or crossing the lawn? Do I hear her foot on the stair, or her keys turning in the lock? Some mornings I walk down the hall to awaken her...but stop before I reach her door. Old habits die hard.
Then, there is the book list. I am really not at all concerned about reading all the books listed on that confounded list. However, reading the list made me realize that there is so much out there that I have not, and will never, experience. It has become an obsession with me lately to use all my free time to read as much as I can. In that regard, I've taken to reading books on tape rather than listening to the radio in the car, and while doing the dishes and cooking rather than having the television on, and turning off the television by 9:00 p.m. and reading until it's time to turn out the lights. There is a danger there for someone such as I. Reading is such a solitary pursuit, and not being a very socializing type to begin with, I realize I'll have to make a special effort to spend time with friends and family. Otherwise, it's totally feasible that someone could drop by one day and find a big pile of dust, and discover it is I. Of course, by then they may have missed me at work when they come to the realization that an eerie quietude has descended upon my office and no snoring emanates from within.
Jumbled in with gearing up for Katharine's move and my reading surge and home maintenance issues, is the Total Gym. I am using it, but am slowly realizing that I will never look like Christy Brinkley, no matter how much time I spend on it. (Just, please God, do not let me start looking like Chuck Norris.)
My current book life is as follows: During the last month or two I've re-read The Maltese Falcon, and finished Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett, Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (on tape). I'm doing something I've never liked doing, which is reading more than one book at a time. The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse is thin and fits in my purse (one never knows when one will be stuck in a line someplace with nothing to read but one's checkbook register) and is being read in tandem with The Glass Palace by Amitov Ghosh. (my current "at home" read). I just picked up House of Mirth by Edith Wharton and The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon by David Grann - both on audio CD. After the Ghosh, I'll begin An Academic Question by Barbara Pym and then Uncle Silas by Sheridan Le Fanu. The latter I got with a gift card from Barnes & Noble. Like all book lovers I agonized over what to get with my precious card. These things must be handled with deep care and only after careful consideration - lest a mistake be made and the card is wasted on something that will disappoint. I am not certain, but the cover looks mighty familiar. I hope it is only because it is fairly creepy, and not that I have already read it. I am 17th in line on the library wait list for Wolf Hall. Seventeenth? Groan! Probably all followers of Doctordi, and I lay the blame for my long wait on her conscience.
Finally, I've been working on my budget and take satisfaction in saying I have been faithful to it. I had been spending like Congress of late (and not at all like a drunken sailor who spends only his own money) and got fed up enough to rein it in. There is a perverse pleasure in seeing how well one can live on how little. And there is a euphoria in paying off debt. Wouldn't it be just as lovely and peaceful to bank away posts as it is dollars? I'll have to work on that one.
Next time around, I might get to talk to you about one of the books I've finished...provide you with an erudite and insightful synopsis of character and plot...OR...perhaps we'll simply discuss how to make soup!
At any rate, The Curious Reader has been neglected, and yet, ever faithful, it sits and waits. Perhaps I have just had nothing of particular interest to say. Boring oneself with one's own thoughts does not trigger any creative drive. In such an atmosphere it is better to remain silent. Not that any of my gems are all that gem-y. And, come to think of it, one simply does not HAVE to have an opinion about all things. So (blink-blink) I awaken and stretch and yawn and plop back down into the comfort of my little blog. The dripping sink will continue to drip, the bookmark will stay in its place, and I am "out of the office" for just a moment while I recount "some kinds of crazy."
First and foremost, Katharine moved away. She's off to find her fame and fortune in the big Windy City. Although she was born there, she's a totally southern chick - True Grits (Girls Raised In The South). Fully realizing she's all grown up, all I saw was a little girl with skinned knees packing up her car with her clothes and (most importantly her shoes), and some sandwiches I made for her. As I watched her car drive away, I wondered where the years had gone. "The last thing I remember," I said to myself, "I was forty and she hadn't started school yet." The intervening one and twenty are nothing but a blur. But, as Shorty said (in one of those awesome and brilliant moments when she is once again, briefly, herself), "You raised her to fly on her own. You have to open your hands and let her take flight." And then she added, "You know, like when we let Sparky go." Uh-oh. Moment gone. "Mom, we didn't let Sparky go. It was Tommy, and we didn't let him go either. He flew out of the bathroom window and although we hunted all over the neighborhood, we couldn't find him." "Really?" "Yes, and while we were looking, a neighbor said he'd just found a parakeet. But it wasn't Tommy. This parakeet was yellow. So we took her home instead and called her Peaches....remember?" "Of course I do. Don't be silly." Katharine didn't have to leave by an open bathroom window, but I still find myself scouring the neighborhood looking for her. Is she out on the patio, or crossing the lawn? Do I hear her foot on the stair, or her keys turning in the lock? Some mornings I walk down the hall to awaken her...but stop before I reach her door. Old habits die hard.
Then, there is the book list. I am really not at all concerned about reading all the books listed on that confounded list. However, reading the list made me realize that there is so much out there that I have not, and will never, experience. It has become an obsession with me lately to use all my free time to read as much as I can. In that regard, I've taken to reading books on tape rather than listening to the radio in the car, and while doing the dishes and cooking rather than having the television on, and turning off the television by 9:00 p.m. and reading until it's time to turn out the lights. There is a danger there for someone such as I. Reading is such a solitary pursuit, and not being a very socializing type to begin with, I realize I'll have to make a special effort to spend time with friends and family. Otherwise, it's totally feasible that someone could drop by one day and find a big pile of dust, and discover it is I. Of course, by then they may have missed me at work when they come to the realization that an eerie quietude has descended upon my office and no snoring emanates from within.
Jumbled in with gearing up for Katharine's move and my reading surge and home maintenance issues, is the Total Gym. I am using it, but am slowly realizing that I will never look like Christy Brinkley, no matter how much time I spend on it. (Just, please God, do not let me start looking like Chuck Norris.)
My current book life is as follows: During the last month or two I've re-read The Maltese Falcon, and finished Red Harvest by Dashiell Hammett, Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (on tape). I'm doing something I've never liked doing, which is reading more than one book at a time. The Code of the Woosters by P.G. Wodehouse is thin and fits in my purse (one never knows when one will be stuck in a line someplace with nothing to read but one's checkbook register) and is being read in tandem with The Glass Palace by Amitov Ghosh. (my current "at home" read). I just picked up House of Mirth by Edith Wharton and The Lost City of Z: A Tale Of Deadly Obsession In The Amazon by David Grann - both on audio CD. After the Ghosh, I'll begin An Academic Question by Barbara Pym and then Uncle Silas by Sheridan Le Fanu. The latter I got with a gift card from Barnes & Noble. Like all book lovers I agonized over what to get with my precious card. These things must be handled with deep care and only after careful consideration - lest a mistake be made and the card is wasted on something that will disappoint. I am not certain, but the cover looks mighty familiar. I hope it is only because it is fairly creepy, and not that I have already read it. I am 17th in line on the library wait list for Wolf Hall. Seventeenth? Groan! Probably all followers of Doctordi, and I lay the blame for my long wait on her conscience.
Finally, I've been working on my budget and take satisfaction in saying I have been faithful to it. I had been spending like Congress of late (and not at all like a drunken sailor who spends only his own money) and got fed up enough to rein it in. There is a perverse pleasure in seeing how well one can live on how little. And there is a euphoria in paying off debt. Wouldn't it be just as lovely and peaceful to bank away posts as it is dollars? I'll have to work on that one.
Next time around, I might get to talk to you about one of the books I've finished...provide you with an erudite and insightful synopsis of character and plot...OR...perhaps we'll simply discuss how to make soup!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
"To Date"
It may be just a sign of age...but I've been spending a lot of time worrying about all the books I will never read. I've gone so far as to calculate the number of books I could read in a month - using moderately reasonable expectations - to arrive at a yearly presumption of books I can finish. Then, using a life expectancy test, I calculated the number of years I have left to live (barring unforeseen events) and arrived at the grand total of 1,536 - books not years.
This latest obsession was triggered by my printing off a copy of Listology's "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die"(reprinted from the book of the same name by Peter Boxall). With yellow highlighter in hand, I was equipped to cross off the ones I'd read. Plentitude! "What a cinch," I told myself. I have been an avid reader all my life. And being a woman of a certain age, a rather long life. My eyes scanned down the first page. I drew a blank. "Well, no bother. I've certainly read a lot from the second page." My palms began to sweat. "None? Not one?" I was a woman on the desert with a parched throat..."Water...," cried a small, squeaky voice. I turned the page over to see if some of the titles ran around to the other side in a game of hide-and-seek. "Don't play tricks on me."
Ever so carefully, I slowly turned down one corner of page 2 to sneak a peek at the top half of page 3. "Enough is enough! Do you hear me?" More resolutely (and by this time seething with outrage) I grabbed my yellow marker poised to pounce on...something. "Stupid list." "You.. stupid...shitty...list!" I was now at the top of page four. I spoke out loud, "173. Wise Children - Angela Carter". "What the..." Not only did I not read it, I had never heard of it.
I turned page four over and slapped in down on the table, thinking to myself, "I should have read Bonfire of the Vanities. I had it in my hand, for God sake." I tried to wonder what I picked up instead. Whatever it was, it was not on page four of the list, nor, as it turned out, was it on page five. To my credit, some of the titles were on my To Be Read List. I mused that the kind of stress I was now placing upon myself was counter-productive to living to 93 (which, by the way, is the number I have to reach to read 1,536 books.) I hoped that my mind would hold out that long. What, after all, was the use of a list if I forgot what it was for? Another fearful thought crossed my now feverish brain - there would always be more books. New books. Great books. In a never-ending stream, like "The Sorcerers Apprentice"...on...and...on...and...I roused myself from my stupor and resumed the task at hand. "The task at hand, Grad," I said out loud, "is to see how many of these titles you have read...to date." I have always loved the term "to date." It resounds with hope. It reminds me of Shorty. Whenever I said, "I can't," she would tell me, "I'll let you say, 'I can't' as long as you add one more word." "What's that?" "The word 'yet'." "Okay, so 'to date'...that's better. Keep that in mind. To date."
Page six. "Maybe it's time to cheat. Just a bit." Ragtime was on page 6, and I tried to read Ragtime. It was my recollection that I hated every minute of reading Ragtime. I stopped reading it after a couple of chapters. But...does it count? "No, Grad, it doesn't count. And neither does The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch just because you checked it out of the library once." Damn and double damn.
Resignedly, I flipped to page seven. "No one will know unless you tell them" I reasoned. But I cursed my inadequate education. Where did all that tuition go? Were all my literature professors asleep at the switch? Did they never anticipate their students being confronted with such a list? Did it ever occur to them they had the power to spare those young, eager minds the humiliation of not reading a single one of the first 365 books on the 1001 books list? To feel - in a word - stoooopid? "A pox upon them", I shouted.
And then...there it was. Like a shiny coin. Like a drop of water in the desert. Like a sudden sweet note in an otherwise discordant cacophony. Right near the top of page seven. Number 367. Isn't that a lovely number? 367. Kind of rounded and angular at the same time. If I played the lottery, I might play 367. I was saved from the shame of illiteracy. And for the first time, I proudly swished my marker through I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. "My, what a lovely yellow." Victory! No longer feeling constipated, I proceeded.
My spirits and self-esteem were restored as I got farther down the list. I was brutally honest with myself (otherwise, what was the point?) Although I knew I must have read some of the titles in school - Catcher In The Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, Stranger In A Strange Land, Lord Jim - I didn't count a book unless I actually remembered reading it. I gave myself a pass on remembering what the book was about, however. Things were bleak enough without having to recall the plot. Likewise, if I was confused over whether I'd read it or simply saw a film version of it (Breakfast At Tiffany's, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, The Third Man) it wasn't counted. In every instance, I tried to err on the side of not having read the book.
I came up with only 60 read! SIXTY! So there's good news and bad news. The bad news is that I've read only sixty. The good news is that if I don't get hit by a bus and eat all my veggies, I'll probably have time to get to all 1001.
The question is, do I really want to? There were several on the list that I really did try to read but since I didn't finish them, I didn't count them (Herzog, Ragtime, The Magus). I attempted to read Herzog and The Magus when they came out as book club editions when I was in my late teens. I might not have been mature enough to appreciate them, but I'll give myself a few bonus points for actually selecting books at that tender age which would one day make it to "the list". The only time they have been off the shelf since then has been to either move my place of residence, or to dust.
So with drooping spirits I sat with my pitiful "list of the unread." My "list of shame!" My list of the "great unwashed brain." I began to wonder what I've been doing all my reading life. Where had I been? I stared at the bookshelves. Unnerved and disappointed, I wandered over to them. I ran my hand along the spines of books gathered during the course of decades. Some of them almost 50 years old. The shelves were filled to capacity. Certainly not all the books have been read; but I would say most of them have. A good number of the titles are non-fiction - mostly history. A bit heartened, I remembered "the list" was of novels only, so that accounted for some of my "reading gap." Looking more closely at my collection and the list, I realized the list had some swiss cheese-like holes in it. There was no Wizard Of Oz, no Red Badge Of Courage, no L. Frank Baum or Stephen Crane period. There was nothing by Washington Irving. Amitov Ghosh wasn't there, neither was Nectar In A Sieve by Karmala Markandaya. No Barbara Pym. And, although John Steinbeck was there The Pearl was not. It dawned on me that there was no way to compile a list of all the books that "must" be read, and, in any event, to read blindly from a list did not make one a well-rounded reader. It brightened my spirits to realize that any list such as this is simply a tool. Like a road map (or to be a bit more current a GPS), it says "go this way, take that turn, stay on this path."
Nevertheless, the best surprises are in the side trips...up and down the hilly road which is not on the map, and which is covered with golden autumn leaves that go whoosh when you drive past and then rise up and swirl around like a cloud of stardust... and which make a picture in the rear-view mirror that you will never forget.
This latest obsession was triggered by my printing off a copy of Listology's "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die"(reprinted from the book of the same name by Peter Boxall). With yellow highlighter in hand, I was equipped to cross off the ones I'd read. Plentitude! "What a cinch," I told myself. I have been an avid reader all my life. And being a woman of a certain age, a rather long life. My eyes scanned down the first page. I drew a blank. "Well, no bother. I've certainly read a lot from the second page." My palms began to sweat. "None? Not one?" I was a woman on the desert with a parched throat..."Water...," cried a small, squeaky voice. I turned the page over to see if some of the titles ran around to the other side in a game of hide-and-seek. "Don't play tricks on me."
Ever so carefully, I slowly turned down one corner of page 2 to sneak a peek at the top half of page 3. "Enough is enough! Do you hear me?" More resolutely (and by this time seething with outrage) I grabbed my yellow marker poised to pounce on...something. "Stupid list." "You.. stupid...shitty...list!" I was now at the top of page four. I spoke out loud, "173. Wise Children - Angela Carter". "What the..." Not only did I not read it, I had never heard of it.
I turned page four over and slapped in down on the table, thinking to myself, "I should have read Bonfire of the Vanities. I had it in my hand, for God sake." I tried to wonder what I picked up instead. Whatever it was, it was not on page four of the list, nor, as it turned out, was it on page five. To my credit, some of the titles were on my To Be Read List. I mused that the kind of stress I was now placing upon myself was counter-productive to living to 93 (which, by the way, is the number I have to reach to read 1,536 books.) I hoped that my mind would hold out that long. What, after all, was the use of a list if I forgot what it was for? Another fearful thought crossed my now feverish brain - there would always be more books. New books. Great books. In a never-ending stream, like "The Sorcerers Apprentice"...on...and...on...and...I roused myself from my stupor and resumed the task at hand. "The task at hand, Grad," I said out loud, "is to see how many of these titles you have read...to date." I have always loved the term "to date." It resounds with hope. It reminds me of Shorty. Whenever I said, "I can't," she would tell me, "I'll let you say, 'I can't' as long as you add one more word." "What's that?" "The word 'yet'." "Okay, so 'to date'...that's better. Keep that in mind. To date."
Page six. "Maybe it's time to cheat. Just a bit." Ragtime was on page 6, and I tried to read Ragtime. It was my recollection that I hated every minute of reading Ragtime. I stopped reading it after a couple of chapters. But...does it count? "No, Grad, it doesn't count. And neither does The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch just because you checked it out of the library once." Damn and double damn.
Resignedly, I flipped to page seven. "No one will know unless you tell them" I reasoned. But I cursed my inadequate education. Where did all that tuition go? Were all my literature professors asleep at the switch? Did they never anticipate their students being confronted with such a list? Did it ever occur to them they had the power to spare those young, eager minds the humiliation of not reading a single one of the first 365 books on the 1001 books list? To feel - in a word - stoooopid? "A pox upon them", I shouted.
And then...there it was. Like a shiny coin. Like a drop of water in the desert. Like a sudden sweet note in an otherwise discordant cacophony. Right near the top of page seven. Number 367. Isn't that a lovely number? 367. Kind of rounded and angular at the same time. If I played the lottery, I might play 367. I was saved from the shame of illiteracy. And for the first time, I proudly swished my marker through I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou. "My, what a lovely yellow." Victory! No longer feeling constipated, I proceeded.
My spirits and self-esteem were restored as I got farther down the list. I was brutally honest with myself (otherwise, what was the point?) Although I knew I must have read some of the titles in school - Catcher In The Rye, The Grapes of Wrath, Stranger In A Strange Land, Lord Jim - I didn't count a book unless I actually remembered reading it. I gave myself a pass on remembering what the book was about, however. Things were bleak enough without having to recall the plot. Likewise, if I was confused over whether I'd read it or simply saw a film version of it (Breakfast At Tiffany's, One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, The Third Man) it wasn't counted. In every instance, I tried to err on the side of not having read the book.
I came up with only 60 read! SIXTY! So there's good news and bad news. The bad news is that I've read only sixty. The good news is that if I don't get hit by a bus and eat all my veggies, I'll probably have time to get to all 1001.
The question is, do I really want to? There were several on the list that I really did try to read but since I didn't finish them, I didn't count them (Herzog, Ragtime, The Magus). I attempted to read Herzog and The Magus when they came out as book club editions when I was in my late teens. I might not have been mature enough to appreciate them, but I'll give myself a few bonus points for actually selecting books at that tender age which would one day make it to "the list". The only time they have been off the shelf since then has been to either move my place of residence, or to dust.
So with drooping spirits I sat with my pitiful "list of the unread." My "list of shame!" My list of the "great unwashed brain." I began to wonder what I've been doing all my reading life. Where had I been? I stared at the bookshelves. Unnerved and disappointed, I wandered over to them. I ran my hand along the spines of books gathered during the course of decades. Some of them almost 50 years old. The shelves were filled to capacity. Certainly not all the books have been read; but I would say most of them have. A good number of the titles are non-fiction - mostly history. A bit heartened, I remembered "the list" was of novels only, so that accounted for some of my "reading gap." Looking more closely at my collection and the list, I realized the list had some swiss cheese-like holes in it. There was no Wizard Of Oz, no Red Badge Of Courage, no L. Frank Baum or Stephen Crane period. There was nothing by Washington Irving. Amitov Ghosh wasn't there, neither was Nectar In A Sieve by Karmala Markandaya. No Barbara Pym. And, although John Steinbeck was there The Pearl was not. It dawned on me that there was no way to compile a list of all the books that "must" be read, and, in any event, to read blindly from a list did not make one a well-rounded reader. It brightened my spirits to realize that any list such as this is simply a tool. Like a road map (or to be a bit more current a GPS), it says "go this way, take that turn, stay on this path."
Nevertheless, the best surprises are in the side trips...up and down the hilly road which is not on the map, and which is covered with golden autumn leaves that go whoosh when you drive past and then rise up and swirl around like a cloud of stardust... and which make a picture in the rear-view mirror that you will never forget.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Armadale
What a labyrinth you have built for us, Wilkie Collins; and, how deftly you grab the imagination and lead us through it. When we finally reach the end, we are a little rattled by where we've been and blink at how bright the sun is. Armadale is an experience.
For a Wilkie Collins book Armadale is hefty. His longest novel, it is also one of the most intricately woven and complex. For all that, it was not well received when first published. Most critics hated it, and it was not enthusiastically accepted by the reading public. Certainly, it shocked the morality of the day dabbling as it did in murder, revenge, drug addiction, lust (for both love and money), and wives who tend to poison their husbands. But old taboos give way, and what was once considered mere melodrama - at its worse - is now viewed with a more favorable eye.
The book begins in Switzerland, where a dying Allan Armadale lays in a hotel room desiring to bare his soul. The only other person in the small town who speaks English is another guest in the hotel...a stranger who agrees to pen the confession. After extracting a promise that the document would be sealed and put in the hands of his lawyer, who would in turn reveal the contents only to Armadale's son when he became of age, he anxiously began to reveal his terrible secret.
How can I explain the background of this novel? First, you must understand there are really four Allan Armadales. Their history, and keeping it straight, was one of the pitfalls I encountered in the early part of the novel, and is why I had to keep going back to re-read sections of the book. Well, hang on...here goes.
The first Armadale we meet, i.e. the dying Armadale, had a godfather who possessed a vast fortune. Godfather Armadale had a son named Allan, who he disinherited for being a veritible lout. When godfather Armadale died, he left his considerable fortune to his godson, with the stipulation that he change his name to Allan Armadale. The disinherited Allan Armadale disappears, godson changes his name, and confusion beings.
After taking possession of his inheritance, Allan Armadale falls in love with the portrait of Jane Blancard, the daughter of family friends living in Madeira, and is determined to marry her. They exchange letters and promises. However, just before he is to board a ship to Madeira, Allan becomes mysteriously and deathly ill, having had been poisoned by his clerk, known to Allan as Fergus Ingleby. Ingleby takes Armadale's place on board the ship bound for Madeira. Of course, I am certain you can figure out who Fergus Ingleby really is, and you are right. He is none other than the disinherited Allan Armadale, who was determined to seek revenge for the loss of his inheritance.
Once the wealthy Allan Armadale is well enough to travel, he wastes no time sailing for Madeira to collect his bride, only to find upon his arrival that Jane had married Ingleby, under his true name of Allan Armadale, and was fleeing on a timber ship called - a bit ironically - Le Grace de Dieu. Ingleby has informed Jane of his true identity, but she is in love, so it doesn't matter. However, knowing her father would disinherit her if he learned the true identity of Ingleby-Armadale, Jane seeks the assistance of her young maid, Lydia Gwilt, to forge a letter in the handwriting of the wealthy Armadale, thereby keeping her father ignorant of the facts.
Learning the young couple was preparing to set sail from Madeira, wealthy Armadale signs on for the journey disguised as a crew member. He goes unnoticed by Jane and her husband. He has every intention of doing harm to the impostor who robbed him of his bride. And so, he plots. Fate intervenes (as it does continually throughout the novel) and a hurricane scuttles the ship. Allan saves Jane, but follows Ingleby-Armadale below deck. And as Le Grace de Dieu takes on water, Armadale confronts his rival and locks the door of the cabin where Ingleby is standing, leaving him to drown in panic.
Although she cannot prove Allan is responsible for her husband's death, her heart is lost to him forever in any event. Allan travels to Trinidad, guilt his all-consuming and constant companion. There he marries a half-cast woman, who endeavors (unsuccessfully) to provide him with love, and does (successfully) provide him with a son, which she named Allan Armadale. But Armadale lives with a haunted conscience that depletes his life of any happiness.
Flash forward to Allan Armadale now dying in Switzerland. He had only recently discovered that Jane Blanchard was pregnant when her husband drowned, and had given birth to a son who was one year older than his own son, and who she named, obviously, Allan Armadale. (By the way, that Allan Armadale inherits a vast fortune from the Blancard side of his family tree, whereas the dying Armadale's son will grow up poor and orphaned). Superstitious, and afraid that the inevitable conclusion to his crime was evil stalking his son, he dictates his shocking confession and includes the proviso that the young man never cross paths with anyone involved with the events disclosed in the document. The novel is unrelenting in its fatalistic approach, so it is inevitable that the young Armadale will cross paths with everyone involved.
So far, my narrative has covered only the background story which populates the first one-fourth of the novel. If you can believe it, the plot only thickens.
Fatally intertwined with all four Allan Armadales stands Lydia Gwilt - a beautiful femme-fatale with long, flame-colored hair and porcelain complexion. Gwilt is a forger, an addict, a bigamist and has a bad habit of poisoning her husbands. Despite these flaws in her moral compass - or more likely because of them - she is the most complex and intriguing of all the characters in the book. One contemporary critic called Gwilt "one of the most hardened villains whose devices and desires have ever blackened fiction." Well, perhaps that was true in 1866. Female villains have come a long way since then. She remains, nevertheless, a female character who is the antithesis of a heroine. Her plotting, scheming, murderously cold-heart makes her all the more interesting. Certainly more interesting than the sweet, gentle, almost simple-minded Ms. Milroy who vies with Gwilt for the love and affection of Jane Blanchard's son, Allan Armadale. In fact, there were moments when I felt a sympathetic affection for the unrepentant gold digger. She possessed a lovely wickedness which was the product of a hard life. But if Collins was trying to craft a completely debased and utterly unlikeable personage in Lydia, I think he overplayed his hand. A little too much grief, suffered at too young an age, files down her rough edges just enough to make her redeemable.
And then, of course, there's the other young Allan Armadale...the son of the Allan Armadale who died in Switzerland. Disavowing his real name, he calls himself Ozias Midwinter. If I tell you he and Allan Armadale not only meet but become as close as brothers, or that he also falls in love with Lydia Gwilt, would you be at all surprised?
There are a number of fascinating supporting characters which Collins has drawn with a very fine brush: Gwilt's conniving accomplice in crime Mrs. Oldershaw; the old and pitifully love-starved Mr. Bashwood; the smarmy abortionist-turned-sanatorium director Dr. Downward; the precise and stringently ethical lawyer Mr. Pedgrift. They add depth and flavor to a well-boiled pot.
Armadale was not an easy read...at least not the first 250 pages. The intricate plot requires the reader to stay fully engaged, or be resigned to go back and re-read sections. But, just as going up an incline takes more muscle than going down the other side, the last third of Armadale picks up pace enormously and the reader has to hold on to his (or her) hat as it spirals to a suspense-filled conclusion.
I admit, the plot in Armadale relies on frank melodrama and unbelievable coincidence. It requires the reader to place some faith in a supernatural engine that drives the train of the story. But the ride is splendid, the passengers are fascinating, and the journey, though a bit long, is never tedious.
For a Wilkie Collins book Armadale is hefty. His longest novel, it is also one of the most intricately woven and complex. For all that, it was not well received when first published. Most critics hated it, and it was not enthusiastically accepted by the reading public. Certainly, it shocked the morality of the day dabbling as it did in murder, revenge, drug addiction, lust (for both love and money), and wives who tend to poison their husbands. But old taboos give way, and what was once considered mere melodrama - at its worse - is now viewed with a more favorable eye.
The book begins in Switzerland, where a dying Allan Armadale lays in a hotel room desiring to bare his soul. The only other person in the small town who speaks English is another guest in the hotel...a stranger who agrees to pen the confession. After extracting a promise that the document would be sealed and put in the hands of his lawyer, who would in turn reveal the contents only to Armadale's son when he became of age, he anxiously began to reveal his terrible secret.
How can I explain the background of this novel? First, you must understand there are really four Allan Armadales. Their history, and keeping it straight, was one of the pitfalls I encountered in the early part of the novel, and is why I had to keep going back to re-read sections of the book. Well, hang on...here goes.
The first Armadale we meet, i.e. the dying Armadale, had a godfather who possessed a vast fortune. Godfather Armadale had a son named Allan, who he disinherited for being a veritible lout. When godfather Armadale died, he left his considerable fortune to his godson, with the stipulation that he change his name to Allan Armadale. The disinherited Allan Armadale disappears, godson changes his name, and confusion beings.
After taking possession of his inheritance, Allan Armadale falls in love with the portrait of Jane Blancard, the daughter of family friends living in Madeira, and is determined to marry her. They exchange letters and promises. However, just before he is to board a ship to Madeira, Allan becomes mysteriously and deathly ill, having had been poisoned by his clerk, known to Allan as Fergus Ingleby. Ingleby takes Armadale's place on board the ship bound for Madeira. Of course, I am certain you can figure out who Fergus Ingleby really is, and you are right. He is none other than the disinherited Allan Armadale, who was determined to seek revenge for the loss of his inheritance.
Once the wealthy Allan Armadale is well enough to travel, he wastes no time sailing for Madeira to collect his bride, only to find upon his arrival that Jane had married Ingleby, under his true name of Allan Armadale, and was fleeing on a timber ship called - a bit ironically - Le Grace de Dieu. Ingleby has informed Jane of his true identity, but she is in love, so it doesn't matter. However, knowing her father would disinherit her if he learned the true identity of Ingleby-Armadale, Jane seeks the assistance of her young maid, Lydia Gwilt, to forge a letter in the handwriting of the wealthy Armadale, thereby keeping her father ignorant of the facts.
Learning the young couple was preparing to set sail from Madeira, wealthy Armadale signs on for the journey disguised as a crew member. He goes unnoticed by Jane and her husband. He has every intention of doing harm to the impostor who robbed him of his bride. And so, he plots. Fate intervenes (as it does continually throughout the novel) and a hurricane scuttles the ship. Allan saves Jane, but follows Ingleby-Armadale below deck. And as Le Grace de Dieu takes on water, Armadale confronts his rival and locks the door of the cabin where Ingleby is standing, leaving him to drown in panic.
Although she cannot prove Allan is responsible for her husband's death, her heart is lost to him forever in any event. Allan travels to Trinidad, guilt his all-consuming and constant companion. There he marries a half-cast woman, who endeavors (unsuccessfully) to provide him with love, and does (successfully) provide him with a son, which she named Allan Armadale. But Armadale lives with a haunted conscience that depletes his life of any happiness.
Flash forward to Allan Armadale now dying in Switzerland. He had only recently discovered that Jane Blanchard was pregnant when her husband drowned, and had given birth to a son who was one year older than his own son, and who she named, obviously, Allan Armadale. (By the way, that Allan Armadale inherits a vast fortune from the Blancard side of his family tree, whereas the dying Armadale's son will grow up poor and orphaned). Superstitious, and afraid that the inevitable conclusion to his crime was evil stalking his son, he dictates his shocking confession and includes the proviso that the young man never cross paths with anyone involved with the events disclosed in the document. The novel is unrelenting in its fatalistic approach, so it is inevitable that the young Armadale will cross paths with everyone involved.
So far, my narrative has covered only the background story which populates the first one-fourth of the novel. If you can believe it, the plot only thickens.
Fatally intertwined with all four Allan Armadales stands Lydia Gwilt - a beautiful femme-fatale with long, flame-colored hair and porcelain complexion. Gwilt is a forger, an addict, a bigamist and has a bad habit of poisoning her husbands. Despite these flaws in her moral compass - or more likely because of them - she is the most complex and intriguing of all the characters in the book. One contemporary critic called Gwilt "one of the most hardened villains whose devices and desires have ever blackened fiction." Well, perhaps that was true in 1866. Female villains have come a long way since then. She remains, nevertheless, a female character who is the antithesis of a heroine. Her plotting, scheming, murderously cold-heart makes her all the more interesting. Certainly more interesting than the sweet, gentle, almost simple-minded Ms. Milroy who vies with Gwilt for the love and affection of Jane Blanchard's son, Allan Armadale. In fact, there were moments when I felt a sympathetic affection for the unrepentant gold digger. She possessed a lovely wickedness which was the product of a hard life. But if Collins was trying to craft a completely debased and utterly unlikeable personage in Lydia, I think he overplayed his hand. A little too much grief, suffered at too young an age, files down her rough edges just enough to make her redeemable.
And then, of course, there's the other young Allan Armadale...the son of the Allan Armadale who died in Switzerland. Disavowing his real name, he calls himself Ozias Midwinter. If I tell you he and Allan Armadale not only meet but become as close as brothers, or that he also falls in love with Lydia Gwilt, would you be at all surprised?
There are a number of fascinating supporting characters which Collins has drawn with a very fine brush: Gwilt's conniving accomplice in crime Mrs. Oldershaw; the old and pitifully love-starved Mr. Bashwood; the smarmy abortionist-turned-sanatorium director Dr. Downward; the precise and stringently ethical lawyer Mr. Pedgrift. They add depth and flavor to a well-boiled pot.
Armadale was not an easy read...at least not the first 250 pages. The intricate plot requires the reader to stay fully engaged, or be resigned to go back and re-read sections. But, just as going up an incline takes more muscle than going down the other side, the last third of Armadale picks up pace enormously and the reader has to hold on to his (or her) hat as it spirals to a suspense-filled conclusion.
I admit, the plot in Armadale relies on frank melodrama and unbelievable coincidence. It requires the reader to place some faith in a supernatural engine that drives the train of the story. But the ride is splendid, the passengers are fascinating, and the journey, though a bit long, is never tedious.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The Land Of Good Intentions
It is the New Year (after all). Perhaps you don't make resolutions - which is a very prudent way to live. I seldom do. But years ago, in one of those New Year's resolutions moments, I bought a Total Gym. I purchased it from a TV presentation on (should I be ashamed to admit)...QVC? No. Actually I am not ashamed, although I should also make a confession that I have an addiction to Lock-And-Lock storage containers, which are a big seller, I understand.
For years the Total Gym sat in a room I almost never stepped foot in, gathering dust and cobwebs. The room is called a "bonus room" which, for those who do not know, is a room that is crafted over a built-in garage. When I had the house constructed, I made certain that the bonus room was accessible from the upstairs, so it could function as a fifth bedroom, rather than just a room over the garage. It is a big room. Probably 21' x 21'. It was also a way to keep an eye on the children, since, when they were young, it functioned as an upstairs "family room" which housed the kids' books and toys and games and TV and everything else that shrieked "play time". The bonus room was their domain. They could be kids there, and play, and paint, and maintain a general state of disrepair - as most children are wont to do. When the children were no longer children, and moved away, the bonus room became a catch all of things I no longer needed or wanted - i.e. things in limbo. Is it any wonder that the Total Gym would be relegated to this vast wasteland of geography? A veritable Land Of Good Intentions left unexplored,.
Oh,but no longer, my friends! No! This very evening I have moved the Total Gym into my very own room - into the walk-in closet. After re-installation, I even spent 15 minutes working out on it according to the video that came with the machine. Yeah. Only...15...minutes. I am here to state...I feel rather...um...wonderfully out of breath and...um...I think...this...(puff...puff)...is..the..start of a..ah...beautiful..gasp...friendship...and...ah...I...will certainly be in...gasp...much better shape...any...time...real...soon...(oh lord)...so eat...your hearts out. Tomorrow, I advance to 18 minutes! There's no stopping me now. (She said before...kerplunk)...and as I'm laying here, trying to catch my breath, please note I posted two postings today...which....(try to breathe, Grad)...wasn't easy.
For years the Total Gym sat in a room I almost never stepped foot in, gathering dust and cobwebs. The room is called a "bonus room" which, for those who do not know, is a room that is crafted over a built-in garage. When I had the house constructed, I made certain that the bonus room was accessible from the upstairs, so it could function as a fifth bedroom, rather than just a room over the garage. It is a big room. Probably 21' x 21'. It was also a way to keep an eye on the children, since, when they were young, it functioned as an upstairs "family room" which housed the kids' books and toys and games and TV and everything else that shrieked "play time". The bonus room was their domain. They could be kids there, and play, and paint, and maintain a general state of disrepair - as most children are wont to do. When the children were no longer children, and moved away, the bonus room became a catch all of things I no longer needed or wanted - i.e. things in limbo. Is it any wonder that the Total Gym would be relegated to this vast wasteland of geography? A veritable Land Of Good Intentions left unexplored,.
Oh,but no longer, my friends! No! This very evening I have moved the Total Gym into my very own room - into the walk-in closet. After re-installation, I even spent 15 minutes working out on it according to the video that came with the machine. Yeah. Only...15...minutes. I am here to state...I feel rather...um...wonderfully out of breath and...um...I think...this...(puff...puff)...is..the..start of a..ah...beautiful..gasp...friendship...and...ah...I...will certainly be in...gasp...much better shape...any...time...real...soon...(oh lord)...so eat...your hearts out. Tomorrow, I advance to 18 minutes! There's no stopping me now. (She said before...kerplunk)...and as I'm laying here, trying to catch my breath, please note I posted two postings today...which....(try to breathe, Grad)...wasn't easy.
Rerun
Folks, I have bitten off way more than I should have. Although I think staying busy and engaged is what keeps us healthy and alive, we can all overdo. I really want to tell you about my new automobile. I don't get excited about cars, but this is LOVE. But no time now. So, I am going to cheat and reprise a post I made on The Curious Reader Cooks (which I just started and which will have a very short life-span). And if I can get through my work schedule, I'll be back to tell you what I'm reading now and about Armadale (Burp) and my lovely new friend, "Rex the Wonder Car."
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Why oh why do I start things? Like midnight grouting, and wallpaper stripping, and making Glace de Viande from scratch (redundant since it is the ONLY way to make it , i.e. from scratch) on the same day company is coming to dinner...and starting another blog. I mean, really, I hardly have time to keep The Curious Reader going, and now TCR is cooking and blogging about it as well. I will go, or perhaps already have gone, completely mad.
So, the Hannukah dinner went well. I used a cookbook snatched at the Big Book Sale for guidance, not being Jewish myself. But Joan Nathan is, and in her lovely book, The Jewish Holiday Table, she gives instructions on how to do a brisket. It was not so much a recipe as a method. With her at my elbow, I placed the brisket in one of those lovely enamel cast iron cooking vessels (not the French-made one, but a perfectly fine American substitute), and shoved it into the oven at 200 degrees for 9 hours. Yes! You heard me correctly. What could be easier? The latke recipe I borrowed from my friend Tinky (you can visit her at In Our Grandmother's Kitchen via the link at The Curious Reader) as well as the Harvest Salad. Tink told me that anything with oil in it was appropriate. Celebrating a holiday or festival not mine own has become yet another interest of late. In preparing for Hannukah, I re-read the story of Judith and Holofernes. Now there was a fellow who lost his head over a pretty girl if ever there was one.
For Winter Solstice (in honor of Stefanie and Bookman of So Many Books - also linked at TCR) I made a fabulous vegan dish I found on the internet. A Red Lentil Curry Soup with Sweet Potatoes and Greens, accompanied with freshly made bruschetta topped with tomatoes, olive oil and basil (an odd ingredient for winter, but delish nevertheless), followed by a dessert of figs. I had always known that at winter solstice is the shortest day of the year. But I did not realize that birth, death, and re-birth are also associated with the holiday, and that the slow lengthening of the days following the solstice gave ancient people hope that the sun was returning to warm the earth. That thought is very comforting to me.
Next up? Why, Robert Burns birthday, of course! The icon of Scotland will celebrate another birthday on January 25; I will be drinking a little Scotch. There will be no Haggis, but perhaps Chicken with Apples and Whisky sauce, accompanied with homemade Oatmeal Bread? Any twirling tartans who happen to be in the neighborhood are welcome.
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Why oh why do I start things? Like midnight grouting, and wallpaper stripping, and making Glace de Viande from scratch (redundant since it is the ONLY way to make it , i.e. from scratch) on the same day company is coming to dinner...and starting another blog. I mean, really, I hardly have time to keep The Curious Reader going, and now TCR is cooking and blogging about it as well. I will go, or perhaps already have gone, completely mad.
So, the Hannukah dinner went well. I used a cookbook snatched at the Big Book Sale for guidance, not being Jewish myself. But Joan Nathan is, and in her lovely book, The Jewish Holiday Table, she gives instructions on how to do a brisket. It was not so much a recipe as a method. With her at my elbow, I placed the brisket in one of those lovely enamel cast iron cooking vessels (not the French-made one, but a perfectly fine American substitute), and shoved it into the oven at 200 degrees for 9 hours. Yes! You heard me correctly. What could be easier? The latke recipe I borrowed from my friend Tinky (you can visit her at In Our Grandmother's Kitchen via the link at The Curious Reader) as well as the Harvest Salad. Tink told me that anything with oil in it was appropriate. Celebrating a holiday or festival not mine own has become yet another interest of late. In preparing for Hannukah, I re-read the story of Judith and Holofernes. Now there was a fellow who lost his head over a pretty girl if ever there was one.
For Winter Solstice (in honor of Stefanie and Bookman of So Many Books - also linked at TCR) I made a fabulous vegan dish I found on the internet. A Red Lentil Curry Soup with Sweet Potatoes and Greens, accompanied with freshly made bruschetta topped with tomatoes, olive oil and basil (an odd ingredient for winter, but delish nevertheless), followed by a dessert of figs. I had always known that at winter solstice is the shortest day of the year. But I did not realize that birth, death, and re-birth are also associated with the holiday, and that the slow lengthening of the days following the solstice gave ancient people hope that the sun was returning to warm the earth. That thought is very comforting to me.
Next up? Why, Robert Burns birthday, of course! The icon of Scotland will celebrate another birthday on January 25; I will be drinking a little Scotch. There will be no Haggis, but perhaps Chicken with Apples and Whisky sauce, accompanied with homemade Oatmeal Bread? Any twirling tartans who happen to be in the neighborhood are welcome.
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