Fish Art

I've promised myself to spend some time at the beach this summer. I am debating whether it should be a requirement for anyone who has an e-reader and lives near the shore. In fact, after some sober thought, not spending time there with my Kindle in hand feels somehow...wrong. In my mind's eye I see a chaise lounge, and a floppy hat, and roaring waves. In my head I hear that cute Kindle jingle and I have the urge to follow it as I would the siren's sound. Unfortunately, there are things that should be against the law at the beach. It should, for instance, be a criminal act to manufacture string bikini's in anything larger than size "small". In my beachdom, Speedos would likewise be banned. But I digress.

I found a nice shady place to park the car and located a bench swing, where I planted myself for blissful reading and gull watching. (I snapped the view from my little perch and share it with you here). The Kindle performed splendidly. I had just finished The House of the Whispering Pines by Anna Katharine Green and was well into The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart - both very engrossing Who-Dunnits. The idea that I was carrying 78 books on my person made me giddy! I'll finish "Staircase" well before next Friday when my four-day weekend begins. Who will sit beside me on the sand? Sheridan Le Fanu? Rafael Sabatini (Captain Blood might provide just the right swash buckle to fit the bill)? H.G. Wells? R. L. Stevenson? Such heady problems almost make me swoon.

While out at Tybee Island, I came across the most funky looking little shop advertising "Fish Art," which conjured mental images of flounders dressed in smocks with little berets on their fish heads...holding palettes of the most beachy colors. Fish Art sounded like something I should not miss. I've made a mental note to wander around the studio next weekend to delve more deeply into Fish Art (or Poisson's d'art?) What's that, you say?? Poison dart? Could there be a hidden meaning in the name of this curious little shop? Or could it be that I've been reading too many mysteries after all? Come Friday, I shall investigate further and report my findings. Fish Art? An innocent and unintended play on words? Or something more sinister?

I had almost forgotten what fun summer can be. I feel like a kid again...when every summer day is an adventure waiting to unfold.

Do You Kindle?

I love books...the smell of books, the feel of books. I love holding a book in my hands, especially a new one with a pristine cover. I love fanning the pages of a new book and inhaling. There's nothing quite like the excitement of getting a new book and the anticipation of sitting down to read it. And we won't even talk about opening a box containing more than one new book and the delicious agony of trying to decide which one to start first...or the quiet thrill of walking into a bookstore. Not everyone shares this love affair, but those of you who are kindred souls...you know exactly what I mean.

Because I love the physical book so much, I wasn't convinced an e-reader would ever be a good fit for me. But I recently received a Kindle from my eldest child as a gift. The first book I downloaded was Bram Stoker's Dracula. It was free and, as I had never read it, I figured it was as good a place as any to take the Kindle out for a test drive. I'm not an electronic gadget type of person, but it was easy to set up and easy to use...even for me. There are a lot of features I haven't used yet, but I expect learning will be fun.

Because the font size can be changed, a simple adjustment enabled me to read without as much eye strain, and even without reading glasses. I don't know why, but I think I was able to read faster. Perhaps it only seemed faster because I was able to read for a more sustained period of time. Once accustomed to the feel of the Kindle in my hands, and getting lost in the story, I forgot I wasn't reading a glue and paper book. The sensation of being transported was every bit the same.

On the second day, I sat outside on the patio, and found it very easy to read in bright sunlight. Like a paper book, however, care must be taken. Outside the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, there was a breeze. Suddenly the dog jumped the fence and ran down the street. I put the Kindle on the deck chair and ran after him. I forgot about it; it rained. Early the next morning, I let the dog back out on the patio and to my horror I saw my Kindle still on the chair, covered with drops of rain from the night before. I was lucky. I figure that since its designers knew the device would be read outside, at places like the beach, they tried to make it somewhat impervious to weather. I am grateful to them for that, but it was a wake-up call. Instead of losing one book to the elements, it could have been a very expensive mistake. (Especially since I would never have admitted the blunder to my son; he'd have been so disappointed. I would have been forced to buy another Kindle to take its place rather than "come clean" and my secret would have been carried on my guilty conscience to my grave.)


I have since downloaded many more free titles by the likes of G.K. Chesterton, Louisa May Alcott, Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, P.G. Wodehouse, and E.L. Voynich. Within seconds, I can increase my classics library ten-fold without spending a dime. And since the Kindle is so light and easy to carry, I always have it with me and always have something really good to read, just in case...like a literary diabetic who has to keep blood sugar levels stable. But, as much as I have found a new thing to love, I have also come to the firm belief that the physical book will remain alive and well.

Electronic readers have their own limitations. For instance, I miss the dust jackets. Let's be honest. I will be making a trip to Barnes & Noble to purchase Medium Raw in hardback, not the least reason being the delicious picture of Anthony Bourdain on the cover, which I will invariably clutch to my bosom repeatedly. There are many joys in reading. Drooling over a "hot" author is one of them. There is also a satisfaction that comes with shelves groaning under the weight of books. It is the same satisfaction one has in opening the door to a well-stocked pantry: jeweled jars of jams, and pickles, and home-canned tomatoes, and covered bins of pastas and bottles of sauces...lovely vistas of largesse...the comfort that comes with the knowledge that there will be sustenance.

I just purchased my first non-free Kindle book: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. At $9.99 it was hardly a splurge, although it felt like one. It's easy to get used to "free."

I could be wrong, but I do not see the end of the physical book on the horizon. Nevertheless, the Kindle's Welcome Page says, "We hope you'll quickly forget you're reading on an advanced wireless device and instead be transported into that mental realm readers love, where the outside world dissolves, leaving only the auhtor's stories, words, and ideas." That much, it does.

Creating A Monster And Other Pursuits

[Tap...tap...tap....Pssst.] This is The Curious Reader speaking to you in hushed and muffled tones from the confines of a little dialog box buried somewhere inside blogspot[dot]com. Grad is off doing goodness knows what while I languish. No one to speak to, nothing to snack on, and no vodka with which to make Cosmopolitans. Oh, sure...create me and send me out into the worldwide web, give me a taste of all the goings on in the blogosphere, let me see the bright lights and hear the lively conversation, and then suddenly and without any warning walk away and jolly it up without me. What is it, Grad? Was I sucking up all the attention? Was I having just a little too much fun for your liking?

Ladies and gents, please ignore that little blog-beast behind the curtain. Truth be told, TCR, as much as I love her, is a voracious attention fiend, always tugging at my elbow and demanding to be heard. Discipline isn't her strong suit and neither is sitting quietly in meditation (something she needs to learn and which might do her some little bit of good). With her it's always talk, talk, talk - and I quite frankly get weary just thinking about what she might spout off about next.

I am always promising myself some time off...off to explore different horizons and drink from a different cup. But I haven't had a chance to do any of those things. TCR won't appreciate it (since the only thing she need worry about is unloading what is on her semi-clever mind), but I do have a job that has kept me very busy of late - a fact that my banker, bartender and bookie appreciate. Actually, I don't have a bartender or a bookie but I think it makes me sound more intriguing to suggest I do, don't you?

However, lest you think I am just one note, I've been up to something else. I don't want to say anything more, since I believe in jinxes, but it involves stringing words together. I've been a little busy with that. Oh, but there's more.

Did you know that there was such a thing as Home Farming Day? Neither did I. As background, sadly I had to have three large trees removed from my property: two lovely magnolias and one eucalyptus. Along with the trees went a very large holly bush that stood about 8 feet tall. They were crowding the house and their lovely branches were rubbing against my brand new roof. The eucalyptus tree was dripping its fragrant sap all over it. They had to go. Nevertheless, when the arborist came with his crew, I had to leave. I just couldn't bear watching them kill my trees. As I drove away, my throat felt as though it was stuffed with a hot mitten. But when I returned to the scene, a chink of light filtered into my dark mood and I started dreaming dreams. There was suddenly sunlight for a vegetable garden! One small drawback. The sunny area was in the front of the house, not in the back, and we have restrictions in the neighborhood that involve curb appeal. I threw caution to the wind and decided that I'd plant my farm smack dab in the front of the house and let the complaints fall where they may.

A trip to the hardware store (which, by the way, had just expanded it's garden center) was in order. And now, instead of boxwood shrubs along the front walkway, like everyone else, I have broccoli, tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, poblano peppers, cucumbers, cayenne peppers, basil, Thai basil, and bell peppers. I checked my darlings this morning and found two very tiny baby tomatoes and one small, still green cayenne pepper. The zucchini plants have blossoms as do the eggplant and the poblanos. The broccoli is growing tall but as yet no sign of buds. I am a little concerned about the cukes, however. They're looking a little puny. There are also no signs of neighborhood unrest over Farmer Grad's little experiment. If it stays that way...and I have a bumper crop...I am not adverse to sharing.

So, you see, with work and farming and "something else" I haven't paid very much attention to TCR, and it is simply driving..her...mad. I hate to even brush by in thought the possibility of...should I speak it...retaliation. No, no...how ridiculous. Even so...do you think I should unplug my computer before turning out the light at night? Sleep with one eye open? Hmmm. Oh, tut tut. Silly, silly Grad. TCR is my creation, after all. Merely my alter ego. I mean, it isn't like that "Hal" computer or that horrid "Chuckie" doll, right? Right. Not to worry. Well, I must run. Time to mulch.

Heh, heh. You think so, do you Grad? Sleep well, my friend. Sleep well.

Why I Was Gone

The funny thing about getting sick...for those of us who have very little practice at it...is knowing when "sick" is "sick enough" to stop and take it easy. I don't and therefore I didn't. I tried to remember the last time I went to a doctor for any reason. Eight years ago? Ten? Perhaps even longer than that. I think it was the time I tried to feed a feral cat which mistook my finger for a nice piece of liverwurst. Had it been a raccoon, I would have had to go through the series of rabies shots, but there weren't any reports of rabid cats going around so the doctor figured I was safe in that respect. Since a cat's saliva is pretty toxic stuff, however, I did need an antibiotic regimen. The bite hurt like the dickens, and continued to hurt long after it healed. I still have a scar on that finger. I think that was my last visit to a doctor.

We were never coddled much as children when we were sick. We were expected to rise above such trifling matters as colds and sniffles and broken arms. When Pestilence came knocking, we simply refused to answer the door. It is amazing how well that philopshy works. Toughing it out is a dominating trait on both the maternal and paternal branches of my family tree. Strength was as much admired as being able to play the piano or perform complex math problems. My Dad and his family spent a lot of time talking about being strong. Tough, even. As if to prove that particular point, my Uncle Joe showed up for Thanksgiving dinner one year when I was around 7. My mother had set the table with her best dishes, and she wore her prettiest dimity apron as she proudly carried the turkey, brown and glistening, to the head of the table, where my Dad sat with carving knife in one hand and sharpening steel in the other. Before us were bowls and platters of potatoes, dressing, gravy, creamed onions, spinach souffle...you name it...the delicious smells wafting across the lace table cloth. Nevertheless, Uncle Joe asked only for horseradish... which he ate directly from the jar...with a spoon. "It makes you strong like bull," he announced to the three small children who starred saucer-eyed at him. It was the most memorable Thanksgiving of my entire life.

So, together with the stress of a very large trial, and some significant maintenance on the house that needed completion, and my in-bred ability to ignore anything short of the major malfunction of a vital organ, I ignored the signs that I was getting sick, had gotten sick, and would continue to be sick unless I broke from family tradition and actually sought medical treatment. It's a good thing I did, I guess, since willing myself well didn't seem to be working. The two weeks I dragged myself into work because I was far too "busy" not to tackle my desk were a false economy; I eventually had to stay home to recuperate at least that long, so I got behind anyway. Where is the justice in that, I ask? A respiratory infection (but short of pneumonia) which started out as a simple allergic reaction to pine pollen was the final diagnosis. I am afraid Uncle Joe is spinning in his grave. I can almost hear the incredulity, "Pollen got you, you say? P-o-l-l-e-n!?"

Time for redemption, it seems. Pass the horseradish, please.

Why I Don't Volunteer

Several months ago I attended an event sponsored by the Savannah Book Festival, my first. I went because I wanted to hear James Swanson, whose book Manhunt I found positively riveting, speak about his new book. I got there early and sat up front, in the second row, and never paid much attention to the crowd gathering behind me. It was held in a church (very typical in Savannah) located on one of the squares. It was a nice cozy setting, although I would rather it had been held in a church with padded pews (Methodists!). It wasn't until afterward, when those in attendance filed into a small room to buy Swanson's books and/or have them signed, that I noticed there were a lot of middle-aged gentlemen in the group. The glimmer of a thought began to grow.

My children never really asked me for advice in matters of the heart; however, that never stopped me from offering it up on a regular basis. "Go to a bar to meet someone, and you will end up with someone who spends his (her) time in a bar. Now think. Is that really what you want?" Go to a sports bar and you will get a double whammy: The cacophony of ten or twelve massive, blaring, television screens with various games being played at once...every spray of spit and drop of sweat amplified larger than life, and in High Definition to boot, so real you can almost smell the stinky, grungy socks of the players. (Does it seem hot in here to you? Is anyone else getting dizzy? Hold on while I crack open a window and reach for my smelling salts.) Better. A sports bar is my idea of what Hell must be like; I don't want to go there.

I mention this because standing in line waiting to get my books signed by Swanson, it dawned on me that I am totally out of practice when it comes to looking for Mr. Right. In introducing the guest speaker, a fellow who was on the committee for the event mentioned that the Book Festival would be held during President's Day Weekend in February 2011 and they were seeking volunteers. That's when I had my light-bulb moment.

It made sense that I would find Mr. Right at the Book Festival! After all, there was some certainty we would at least have one thing in common, i.e. reading. Which would mean he would be, at the very least, literate. And there would be no trouble picking Mr. Right out of the crowd because I have a pretty good idea what he looks like. He's a handsome middle-aged gentleman with a strong jaw, graying at the temples, with beautifully maintained teeth (preferably his own), and he's financially secure. Just picture Mitt Romney. Well...Mitt Romney's older brother...much older brother. Okay, hold that picture in your mind. Now, allowing for the fact that I am in Savannah and not Hollywood, I do have to do a little tweaking of Mr. Right's image because, let's face it, no one here looks as good as Mitt Romney. Much as one does with opera glasses, I twiddle with the lenses until he comes into focus. Ahh. There he is: Mitt Romney's near-sighted, slightly overweight, balding, toothy-grinned much older brother. With a fabulously renovated home in the historic district. That includes a gourmet kitchen, Viking appliances, hand-turned moldings and original, refinished oak or heart-of-pine floors. On Jones Street! Isn't he a dream boat?

In excited anticipation of wonderful things on the horizon, I logged on to the Festival's website and headed for the volunteer page. But, just as I was about to hit the "send" button, a small voice whispered in my ear, "Hold on there, Pardner. Not too fast on the trigger." (The voice spoke with a Texas Cowgirl accent for reasons I can't explain.) I thought about the Festival being held on a three-day weekend. Those don't come along every week. I stared out the window, chin in my hand, fingers tapping my cheek. My desk was a vast, dry wasteland of papers and files with a phone that was always blinking - and beeping - and buzzing. But out there - stretched far into the distance - was a three-day weekend, an oasis glistening in shades of tranquil blue-green. It even had a palm tree. Did I really want to give up my entire three-day weekend to volunteer for the Festival?

I backed up a few pages on the website. It promised over three dozen "celebrity authors." Lisa Genova is the keynote speaker and I was planning on going to hear her speak anyway. (I found it difficult to put "Still Alice" down.) Karl Rove will be there. Love him or hate him, he's got to be pretty interesting. So far, so good. Volunteers were to be provided with colorful Savannah Book Festival T-Shirts. Already, I wasn't liking this. I tried to imagine walking up to Mr. Right in my chosen-by-someone-else T-Shirt rather than in an outfit that I picked because of the wonderful things the color did for my eyes. And the lure of complimentary coffee and pastries didn't seem like compensation enough for giving up a Saturday.

But the real clincher was the apprehension I would be given the task of "Author Host" which, according to the site, required "a significant time commitment." Uh-oh. Touted to be "an extremely important position, since you will be the author’s first and most intimate impression of the Festival. Requires punctuality, tact, enthusiasm and an ability to anticipate the needs of others without being intrusive." My palms began to sweat and my teeth began to itch. What if I had to drive someone around town whose work had about as much relevancy for me as, say, The Memoirs of Justin Beiber? According to the information provided, some authors needed more "hand holding" than others. It would be just my luck that I'd be holding hands with some fleshy-fingered, cigar smoker...instead of with Mr. Right. This wasn't sounding too good at all.

I envisioned myself driving around town with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding hands with a perfect stranger pointing out the sites. "Over there you'll see the monument where Tomochichi is buried." Then, of course, I would have to go into a long-winded explanation of who Tomochichi was. "And this building was used by General William Tecumseh Sherman as Union headquarters after the North invaded Savannah." "That's the house where the antiques dealer shot his young boyfriend, and then that fellow wrote that dopey book about the murder, which was turned into an even dopier movie." At some point, old fleshy-fingers would declare he wanted to be driven to that famous restaurant and have a chat with that famous FoodNetwork personage, and order up some of those really famous batter-dipped, deep-fried candy bars. At that point, I know I would slam on my brakes and come to a screeching halt. "Out! Get Out Now!" So much for tact; however, I think I could maintain some enthusiasm at that juncture.

By the time I drove myself back to the Festival and found a place to park, difficult on non-Festival days, I would arrive just in time to see Mr. Right schmoozing a middle-aged strumpet with big, blond hair, bangle bracelets half-way up to her elbow, and full theatrical make-up. Look at her batting her spidery eyelashes at my Mr. Right! And see how she's nudging him with her acrylic nails painted Hells Bells Red! Oh, dear. There they go, strolling arm-in-arm like an old married couple. I see myself standing dejected in my puce T-shirt; tears welling and dropping with a plink-plunk onto my plastic "Hello, I'm Grad" volunteer badge. Damn Book Festival! But then I notice something...something someone who was less observant may have missed...and I know my years spent in the company of Sherlock and Hercule were not wasted. I smile a Mona Lisa smile of mystery.

The blond strumpet made one fatal error that morning. And I noticed it. She should never have pulled those stretch pants out of the closet. Of course, Mr. Right, while walking side-by-side with her, all cozy, could not have noticed. Not yet. But, they were headed for that cafe on the opposite side of the square. And he, being my ideal, was undoubtedly a gentleman. As they approached the door of the coffee shop he, as I knew he would, stood back a bit and pulled the door open with his right hand, his left hand gently resting on her back to guide her in. In a moment she would be directly in front of him.

I, of course, anticipated what would happen next and I was sorely tempted to watch the drama unfold. But I looked away. I just couldn't bear to see my Mr. Right's semi-handsome face fall as his hopes and dreams of a love-match shattered into tiny pieces. Quite simply, what he would see as Big-Haired Blondie edged her way through the door would inevitably remind him of ten pounds of sausage stuffed into a five pound sack. Further, the image would ruin his appetite. He would ask for his coffee in a "to go" cup. He would be out the door in five minutes...ten at the most. Poor darling Mr. Right. But there would be someone close by...quietly observing...who would be waiting to pick up the fractured bits. Who you might ask? Why, She of course. She of the age-appropriate wardrobe and sensible shoes. She who certainly will not volunteer next year, either.

Finding Treasure

There are times when I think...no, truly believe...I can compose a decent sentence or spin a clever yarn; but then I inevitably run head-on into an example of true mastery - mastery not just of words but mastery in the unfolding of a story. In short, I experience the brilliance of a gifted writer, and self-confidence in my own ability deflates like a sad balloon. As disconcerting as those moments are for the writer in me, they are pure Heaven to the reader in me.

First, a little background information might be useful to explain what I mean. Very recently I took another long road trip, this time to Virginia, the home of Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and more importantly, my son and grandson. Although the weather collapsed a few days after I left to return home, paving the streets with sheets of ice that made them treacherous, it was crisp and clear and sunny during my stay with just the right bite of winter in the air. The town where this part of my little family lives is nestled at the foot of the Appalachian mountain range. Why do mountaintops lure us to them? Is it because we feel tall and mighty upon reaching their summits, or because they remind us how truly fragile we are? The visits themselves are always enjoyable and filled with family things to do. However, the solitary travel there and back can be gnawingly monotonous without a good book to keep one company.

As I usually do, I visited the library on the island for audio books before cruising out of Savannah. Golden Age mysteries are usually what I select for on-the-road reading, largely because they entertain without mesmerizing me to the point that I forget where I am or what I'm doing and drive off a cliff or into a cow pasture. This trip was no different. I started with Gambit by Rex Stout starring the detective Nero Wolfe. I had never read anything by Stout; however, he came highly recommended. I was able to name the murderer myself (always a disappointment) but not until the last disc. Not quite Dashiell Hammett, but readable.

The next book in the queue was Crocodile On The Sandbank, by Elizabeth Peters. Peters, whose real name is Barbara Mertz, has a PhD from the University of Chicago in Egyptology and her Amelia Peabody mystery series recounts the adventures of Amelia and her husband, archaeologist Radcliffe Emerson, as they dig up ancient tombs, retrieve artifacts, and solve mysteries while fending off fiends and villains. Years ago I picked up The Hippopotamus Pool and enjoyed it very much. On my own library shelves it sits next to The Ape Who Guards The Balance, Falcon At The Portal, He Shall Thunder In The Sky, and Lord Of The Silent. I've never read any of these others, although I am forever meaning to do. By happy accident, it turned out Crocodile is the first of the series; it was nice to have the background. I liked it enough to give me incentive to press on with its neglected progeny one day.

On the heels of the Peters book came, A Place Of Hiding by Elizabeth George. One summer I was given Deception On His Mind and read it at the beach. Although I only remember small bits, I must have liked it well enough because I also have A Traitor To Memory, In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner and...well, one other I can't recall right at this moment, none of which I've read. A Place of Hiding was somewhere between a warm bottle of beer and flat champagne. I'll still drink it, but I could be having a lot more fun.

As I neared home, I had a choice between Through A Glass Darkly by Kareen Koen and Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (author of The Remains Of The Day). I had no idea what possessed me to pick either of them up at the library. First, I didn't think they were mysteries, my favorite genre for audio. The cover on the latter didn't appeal to me at all, and the title sounded like a romance novel. Not my style. I tried to reach for Through A Glass Darkly (I liked the title much better than the other); but, it had slid out of reach on the passenger seat, and I couldn't pull over on the highway. By default, its geography determined that Never Let Me Go was next on the menu.

From the wet pavement I could tell it had rained earlier in the day; but, the clouds had moved on and the late afternoon shadows were long and deep, each second drawing me closer to home. It was a Monday and I very nearly had the road to myself as I slipped quietly through tall pines. I slid the first of the eight discs into the player and waited a moment. The lovely, soothing voice of Rosalyn Landor filled the silence, "Chapter One. My name is Kathy H. I'm thirty-one years old, and I've been a carer now for over eleven years..." What I heard after that was calming and chilling and beautiful and sinister all at once.

I arrived home with only part of disc one completed, and anticipated resuming it on my way to work the next morning. My commute is only 20 minutes, which equates to approximately 15 pages covered each way. Not enough time for this book...not by a long shot. I've never simultaneously listened to an audio book while also reading it in its physical form. As I might have mentioned before, the island library is very small. I seldom find a particular book I'm wanting by walking in and searching the shelves. I usually have to order it from the system and then wait a few days before it's available. This book was special; I couldn't stop. Short of sitting in my car for hours on end with the motor idling, there was only one thing to be done. And so it was, I would at least give it a try and check the library stacks on my way home. I headed for the proper aisle and ran my hand over the spines...G...H...I. At first I was deflated. I could see there were only a handful of books in the "I" portion of the shelf. So when my hand stopped on Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go, I exclaimed (shouted, really), "I can't believe my luck!!" This outburst caused the librarian to look up from her keyboard. She didn't frown or tell me to "Shuush." She peered above her glasses and smiled at me. She smiled the smile of a confederate book fiend; the "I know...I know" smile. We were in alliance; I was on friendly turf.

It is working quite well, this listening in part and then picking up the thread of the story and reading in part. Today is Friday. I can stay up all night to finish it if I chose. Since starting it, I've heard that it is best to approach Never Let Me Go without knowing anything about the story line. I quite agree, so I will say nothing about it. And as well, I will leave the reviews to those who are adept at such things...the academics and others with scholarly or literary attainments. I am simply a reader who - on particularly good days - fancies herself to be a writer as well. Besides, I can't even pretend I could ever do this book justice.

I Planned To Procrastinate But I Decided To Wait

I wish I could say I've neglected The Curious Reader because I was breathlessly engaged in composing a searing entry for the short story competition. You know...single-mindedly clacking away at the keyboard...a pencil stuck in my chignon...perhaps two fingers of Scotch in a squat glass at my elbow (NB: imagine here a female version of F. Scott Fitzgerald minus the cigarette smoke blooming from a crystal ashtray). But I cannot.

First, of course, there was Christmas and all the hubub that holiday brings with it. It isn't Christmas Eve and Christmas Day that wear me out. I can handle those. No. The stress of Christmas comes from our seeming inability to resist tinkering with it. Wasn't the first Christmas wonderful enough just as it was? Must we make a "season" out of it? Must we be forced to endure the never-ending commercials showing people giving each other shiny, new cars? White was the favorite color being pushed on us this year. There must be an overrun of white ones in the showrooms. One of these hawksters even managed to suggest we could actually get the automobile into the house (which, by the way, appeared to be an ultra modern mountain lodge with postcard perfect views of snowy vistas just outside its wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling windows) and then stuff it into a super-sized red Santa stocking. It is enough to put one off fruitcake forever. In any event, Christmas is a busy time.

Further consuming my time was the re-organizing of the kitchen cabinets, drawers and pantry. On that note, I will publish a warning to you - if you do not absolutely need to embark down that road, don't. What began innocently at the utensil drawer spread slowly and insidiously (like the Blob from the 1950s movie of the same name) from shelf to shelf and cupboard to cupboard. It oozed itself toward the pantry and then to the etagere where the pots and pans hang out. I was faced with dilemmas I wasn't equipped to handle in my already delicate holiday-wrought condition. For instance, what does one do with 5 cans of cinnamon? All opened? I vaguely remembered a recipe for Christmas ornaments using obscene amounts of cinnamon mixed with applesauce. I made a heart that hung from a red silk ribbon from that recipe one year and figured I must still have it written down and tucked somewhere. Naturally, this spurned a new mission to find it in the books, and tins, and binders and magazine racks full of recipes and other "things kept" that I (ever hopeful) think might be useful in the future.

The effort of organizing, and arranging, and re-uniting a thing with its parts (cookie press dyes with the cookie press; pasta machine with its crank and the bolt that holds it to the counter top; meat grinder with the little spinning thing that you insert into the round tube that you finally attach to the hub of the KitchenAid, for instance) and then finding homes for everything on fresh shelf liners was exhausting enough. But compounding the enterprise is the angst that comes with admitting, for instance, that the piece that held the blades to the mandolin was lost and would never be found, no matter how long the other pieces sat around, like squatters taking up real estate. Without the lynch pin, the thing was no longer a mandolin. It was junk.

But, oooh, there is always that haunting fear that the lynch pin might...just might...be found somewhere - too late. I recalled holding on to a 14k gold earring for years. Every time I opened my top desk drawer at the office there it was in all its glinty glory. Finally, in a spurt of bravery and blinded by a sudden desire for organization I threw it away. A year later we were moving from our office to new digs, and in cleaning out a "bank box" of papers which was tucked under my desk I found the earring's match. Not only was it a slap the forehead moment, I also felt guilty that I had thrown away something that actually had some intrinsic value (albeit it very little). Nevertheless, clutter is clutter and in my kitchen I whittled it down. Even if I were flying over the Pacific, or sitting on a train bound for Budapest, with the precision of a surgeon I could direct someone to the trussing string sitting in the right rear corner of the second-to-the-right-drawer next to the oven. See? How easy was that! Garlic press? Lemon reamer? Fluted pasta wheel? Go ahead...test me.

It took three days to get all the chaos straightened out. There are still a few bits sitting on the table awaiting final disposition. Among them a small cast iron skillet that is not only a ridiculous size to be of any practical use, but requires the attention befitting a diva. Quite frankly, I want to pitch the rusty little wench. But I'm waffling.

With the holidays behind me, the decorations put away, the kitchen in order, I can't conceive of a reason why I can't throw myself into the short story competition. No excuses come immediately to mind; but, with a little luck I'm sure I can think of something.