N came out to the kitchen, which I was cleaning, (though for truth-in-narrative's sake, at that very moment, I making bread crumbs out of three day old bread that we'd left out over the weekend), and wrapped his arms around me. He stood there behind me while I held the top of the food processor down.
"What's up?" I asked, between pulses, hoping for, perhaps, random professions of love.
"I'm cold," he said. "I need to warm up."
"Really? You could turn the heat up, you know."
"Yeah, but you're free."
Monday, 17 December 2007
Alphas
What happens at the beginning? How do you start?
Maybe you meet someone on the street: a stranger, perhaps, or someone you knew long ago. Someone who knows you from when. A when you don’t want to be reminded of: that’s why you moved to Paris. (As in The Dud Avocado.)
Or you’re baking cookies. Entering a yearly ritual. Going through the lists, checking the cupboards for ingredients, running out to the store, coming home, setting out the butter to soften, turning on the oven, measuring out the sugar. What thing goes wrong, on the first page, that makes this a story instead of a journal entry?
The problem standing between me and beginnings (me and any part of a book, really) is that every thing feels derivative: something somebody else wrote. As in, wait—how did Madeleine L’Engle do it? What was so good about Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, anyway? What was the plot, the mysteriously entrancing plot, of Possession? How can I make my words do what those words do? And how did Tamara Pierce create that sexual tension between George and Alanna? I remember the scene—they met in the castle library before she went off to war, he disguised as a monk, and he stole a kiss—not the words (In the Hand of the Goddess). The words were rather ordinary, not that special.
But for many years, that was one of my favorite scenes in any book.
It’s the fact that the words aren’t special that continually surprises me. When I write, or think about writing, there’s this pressure to be poetic—to write richly and memorably—but many memorable, lovely things aren’t memorable or lovely because of the words. Or not because of any one individual word. Most books that stick, they stick in the mind because of their emotional eloquence. The words can be ordinary—they just need to stay out of the way.
Sometimes the words are amazing, special, eloquent, and powerful, and then you have a perfect book. Housekeeping, say. But that’s rare. And not even usually necessary.
But how do you get over that pressure? The compulsion to be “poetic” prevents one from seeing and transcribing something rich, unusual, and emotionally eloquent. Because “poetic” often means vaguely pretty, rather than words that tell the meaning of, say, a cup of sugar, listing on the kitchen counter, its contents unsettled so that some has spilled into a little pile beside the cup, after a woman has just run from the room.
Maybe you meet someone on the street: a stranger, perhaps, or someone you knew long ago. Someone who knows you from when. A when you don’t want to be reminded of: that’s why you moved to Paris. (As in The Dud Avocado.)
Or you’re baking cookies. Entering a yearly ritual. Going through the lists, checking the cupboards for ingredients, running out to the store, coming home, setting out the butter to soften, turning on the oven, measuring out the sugar. What thing goes wrong, on the first page, that makes this a story instead of a journal entry?
The problem standing between me and beginnings (me and any part of a book, really) is that every thing feels derivative: something somebody else wrote. As in, wait—how did Madeleine L’Engle do it? What was so good about Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, anyway? What was the plot, the mysteriously entrancing plot, of Possession? How can I make my words do what those words do? And how did Tamara Pierce create that sexual tension between George and Alanna? I remember the scene—they met in the castle library before she went off to war, he disguised as a monk, and he stole a kiss—not the words (In the Hand of the Goddess). The words were rather ordinary, not that special.
But for many years, that was one of my favorite scenes in any book.
It’s the fact that the words aren’t special that continually surprises me. When I write, or think about writing, there’s this pressure to be poetic—to write richly and memorably—but many memorable, lovely things aren’t memorable or lovely because of the words. Or not because of any one individual word. Most books that stick, they stick in the mind because of their emotional eloquence. The words can be ordinary—they just need to stay out of the way.
Sometimes the words are amazing, special, eloquent, and powerful, and then you have a perfect book. Housekeeping, say. But that’s rare. And not even usually necessary.
But how do you get over that pressure? The compulsion to be “poetic” prevents one from seeing and transcribing something rich, unusual, and emotionally eloquent. Because “poetic” often means vaguely pretty, rather than words that tell the meaning of, say, a cup of sugar, listing on the kitchen counter, its contents unsettled so that some has spilled into a little pile beside the cup, after a woman has just run from the room.
Saturday, 15 December 2007
The Strangest Thing That Happened Last Year
I almost wrote "one of" but then thought, no, really, The.
I stood on the roof of my friends' apartment, near Mango Street in Amman. It was mid-morning; we were going to make pancakes, but needed baking soda. We were waiting for the snow to stop before we headed out to the corner store.
Snow?
Snow.
The snow fell in Amman. In March. N took pictures, just to prove it. Apparently, it's not terribly uncommon for snow to fall in Jordan, in the hills north of Amman. But in Amman? Once every few years, maybe. My friends, teachers, had been given a snow day. Thus, the pancakes.
But that's not even the strangest thing. The strangest thing was standing on the roof, listening to the call to prayer sounding through the white falling snow. From loudspeakers all around us, came the long, brassy, minor-key calls. I think it would have seemed strange to me even if it weren't snowing: that public, un-ignorable stopping of the day for prayer. But it was even stranger, standing in the snow, hearing the calls from hidden minarets.
(So, to reflect on this experience--I felt like I was trapped, even as it was happening, in a parody of orientalism. So I'm trying not to exoticize. Yet--it was strange, eerie, unforgettable, like I imagine the exotic is supposed to be.)
I stood on the roof of my friends' apartment, near Mango Street in Amman. It was mid-morning; we were going to make pancakes, but needed baking soda. We were waiting for the snow to stop before we headed out to the corner store.
Snow?
Snow.
The snow fell in Amman. In March. N took pictures, just to prove it. Apparently, it's not terribly uncommon for snow to fall in Jordan, in the hills north of Amman. But in Amman? Once every few years, maybe. My friends, teachers, had been given a snow day. Thus, the pancakes.
But that's not even the strangest thing. The strangest thing was standing on the roof, listening to the call to prayer sounding through the white falling snow. From loudspeakers all around us, came the long, brassy, minor-key calls. I think it would have seemed strange to me even if it weren't snowing: that public, un-ignorable stopping of the day for prayer. But it was even stranger, standing in the snow, hearing the calls from hidden minarets.
(So, to reflect on this experience--I felt like I was trapped, even as it was happening, in a parody of orientalism. So I'm trying not to exoticize. Yet--it was strange, eerie, unforgettable, like I imagine the exotic is supposed to be.)
Wednesday, 12 December 2007
In the Meantime
Fat Ass Squirrel:
Me, looking out the window: Dude, that's a fat squirrel. Why the hell do the squirrels get so fat?
N, sitting on the couch: It's winter, they gotta fatten up.
Me: Yeah, duh. Still, come look at this squirrel. I don't even know how he gets around without falling off the tree. Ohp! There he goes! Jeez, how does he do that? [Squirrel is hanging head down, vertically, on a branch]
N, coming over to the window: Huh. That's a totally fat ass squirrel.
Me: Seriously.
Indeed.
(Sorry the image is a little funky colored--it was taken through the living room window, on a late, not so sunny afternoon.)
Me, looking out the window: Dude, that's a fat squirrel. Why the hell do the squirrels get so fat?
N, sitting on the couch: It's winter, they gotta fatten up.
Me: Yeah, duh. Still, come look at this squirrel. I don't even know how he gets around without falling off the tree. Ohp! There he goes! Jeez, how does he do that? [Squirrel is hanging head down, vertically, on a branch]
N, coming over to the window: Huh. That's a totally fat ass squirrel.
Me: Seriously.
Indeed.
(Sorry the image is a little funky colored--it was taken through the living room window, on a late, not so sunny afternoon.)
Friday, 7 December 2007
God is the House
Caught a performance of the Tallis Scholars tonight.
listening to them is like:
my soul climbing a rope, hand over hand, ascending to the heavens*, but effortlessly and without tiring
or, their voices are like:
the aural version of gothic architecture.
(someone must have thought that before.)
then again, listening to them feels like:
the way it feels to read Susannah Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.
the kind of beautiful you can't talk about, because then it wouldn't belong to you any more.
*not skies! Heavens, like the psalmist says.
listening to them is like:
my soul climbing a rope, hand over hand, ascending to the heavens*, but effortlessly and without tiring
or, their voices are like:
the aural version of gothic architecture.
(someone must have thought that before.)
then again, listening to them feels like:
the way it feels to read Susannah Clarke, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.
the kind of beautiful you can't talk about, because then it wouldn't belong to you any more.
*not skies! Heavens, like the psalmist says.
Amish Turkeys
This one comes in a little bit late, but still. It was quite the experience.
On the morning before Thanksgiving, N and I drove with N's sister and kids to where the Amish live. This is in southeastern Iowa, near Iowa City: rolling hills, brown fields where the corn was harvested, and greeny-gray along the margins, the lines between the fields. It was snowing already. We pulled off the high way, and onto a two lane road. Each subsequent turn brought us down narrower and narrower roads, through a town that was just an intersection, and finally, down a dirt road that led to the farm. As we drove up, I saw a pen of turkeys. White and tall with red heads, the turkeys struck the eye brightly against the browns and greys and muted greens of the land and buildings.
We pulled up to the barn, and a young women with a pale kerchief tied around her head came to meet us. Her blue rubber apron was spattered with traces of turkey blood and downy white feathers. No turkeys in sight anymore--were they out back? In the shadows of the barn was a buggy. No horses, though. Just the buggy--alone in the barn, in the dark, it seemed more like a relic, like probably the Amish didn't even use it. But N tells me that he saw a horse and buggy team driving down the street on our way back (I should have paid more attention).
In german accented english, the the turkey-spattered woman (girl?) asked us how big a turkey we wanted, and we discussed it for a while. N's sister said later that the amish speak a german dialect you wouldn't be able to understand if you spoke German from Germany. In front of the woman was a collapsible table holding two bagged 26 pound turkeys. Behind the woman was a water-filled chest freezer in which the turkeys (carcasses) bobbed. These, she said, gesturing to the turkeys on the table, are cold--killed yesterday. Gesturing behind her to the bobbing turkeys, she explained that these were a little warmer.
Right.
We opted for a warmer (and smaller!) turkey. (Still, with a nineteen pound turkey, we had three days of sandwiches and a turkey tetrazinni for dinner.) She pulled one out by the neck and went inside a low white building tacked onto the barn, to weigh it and bag it. While N and his sister paid, I went around the side of the barn, to find the live turkeys. There they were, in their pen, as I'd seen when we drove up. What I hadn't seen was that the pen was built right around the back door of the addition to the barn. Well, given what happened next, I guess we'll call that building the killing house.
And then, the moment: While I watched, a man came out from the killing house. The turkeys scattered from him, crowding to the end of the pen, but he took one, grabbed it by one leg and then the other, wrestling with it till he had it secure. carrying the turkey, he looked up at me, nodded, an expression on his face that, though not a smile, seemed an acknowledgement that we both knew what was going on.
Killing turkeys.
This, to me, was fantastic. But I am rather bloody-minded.
I try not to sentimentalize direct encounters with food production, but it's hard. You have to remind yourself that this is the way getting a turkey is supposed to be, and it's not really something special, or twittish. Because it's so faddish right now, knowing where your food comes from, and taking care with it, that sometimes you feel pretty stupid about it.
And yet, turkeys! The only bright thing for miles against the snow-muted greens and grays and browns. Beautiful and delicious.
On the morning before Thanksgiving, N and I drove with N's sister and kids to where the Amish live. This is in southeastern Iowa, near Iowa City: rolling hills, brown fields where the corn was harvested, and greeny-gray along the margins, the lines between the fields. It was snowing already. We pulled off the high way, and onto a two lane road. Each subsequent turn brought us down narrower and narrower roads, through a town that was just an intersection, and finally, down a dirt road that led to the farm. As we drove up, I saw a pen of turkeys. White and tall with red heads, the turkeys struck the eye brightly against the browns and greys and muted greens of the land and buildings.
We pulled up to the barn, and a young women with a pale kerchief tied around her head came to meet us. Her blue rubber apron was spattered with traces of turkey blood and downy white feathers. No turkeys in sight anymore--were they out back? In the shadows of the barn was a buggy. No horses, though. Just the buggy--alone in the barn, in the dark, it seemed more like a relic, like probably the Amish didn't even use it. But N tells me that he saw a horse and buggy team driving down the street on our way back (I should have paid more attention).
In german accented english, the the turkey-spattered woman (girl?) asked us how big a turkey we wanted, and we discussed it for a while. N's sister said later that the amish speak a german dialect you wouldn't be able to understand if you spoke German from Germany. In front of the woman was a collapsible table holding two bagged 26 pound turkeys. Behind the woman was a water-filled chest freezer in which the turkeys (carcasses) bobbed. These, she said, gesturing to the turkeys on the table, are cold--killed yesterday. Gesturing behind her to the bobbing turkeys, she explained that these were a little warmer.
Right.
We opted for a warmer (and smaller!) turkey. (Still, with a nineteen pound turkey, we had three days of sandwiches and a turkey tetrazinni for dinner.) She pulled one out by the neck and went inside a low white building tacked onto the barn, to weigh it and bag it. While N and his sister paid, I went around the side of the barn, to find the live turkeys. There they were, in their pen, as I'd seen when we drove up. What I hadn't seen was that the pen was built right around the back door of the addition to the barn. Well, given what happened next, I guess we'll call that building the killing house.
And then, the moment: While I watched, a man came out from the killing house. The turkeys scattered from him, crowding to the end of the pen, but he took one, grabbed it by one leg and then the other, wrestling with it till he had it secure. carrying the turkey, he looked up at me, nodded, an expression on his face that, though not a smile, seemed an acknowledgement that we both knew what was going on.
Killing turkeys.
This, to me, was fantastic. But I am rather bloody-minded.
I try not to sentimentalize direct encounters with food production, but it's hard. You have to remind yourself that this is the way getting a turkey is supposed to be, and it's not really something special, or twittish. Because it's so faddish right now, knowing where your food comes from, and taking care with it, that sometimes you feel pretty stupid about it.
And yet, turkeys! The only bright thing for miles against the snow-muted greens and grays and browns. Beautiful and delicious.
Chocolate Yogurt Bundt Cake
Baking this cake in a bundt pan, using whole milk yogurt, and baking at a slightly lower temperature than usual seem to produce a magically moist, richly flavored chocolate cake. If you top with peppermint glaze and crushed candy canes, it's the perfect Christmas party cake!
Chocolate Yogurt Bundt Cake
2 sticks butter, softened
1 1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar, not packed
2 eggs
1 egg yolk
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
6 T cocoa
1 cup whole milk yogurt
Pre-heat oven to 325
Butter and flour bundt pan. Whisk together dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar. Mix eggs and egg yolk into creamed butter and sugar in one at a time. Mix in dry ingredients and yogurt alternately.
Bake 45-60 minutes. Check for done-ness by inserting a toothpick. Cake is done whan a few moist crumbs stick to the toothpick.
Try with peppermint glaze: mix half and half, sifted powdered sugar, 1 or 1 1/2 tsp peppermint extract (depending on your enthusiasm for peppermint). Whisk to pourable consistency. Spoon glaze over cake. Sprinkle with crushed candy canes!
Chocolate Yogurt Bundt Cake
2 sticks butter, softened
1 1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar, not packed
2 eggs
1 egg yolk
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
6 T cocoa
1 cup whole milk yogurt
Pre-heat oven to 325
Butter and flour bundt pan. Whisk together dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar. Mix eggs and egg yolk into creamed butter and sugar in one at a time. Mix in dry ingredients and yogurt alternately.
Bake 45-60 minutes. Check for done-ness by inserting a toothpick. Cake is done whan a few moist crumbs stick to the toothpick.
Try with peppermint glaze: mix half and half, sifted powdered sugar, 1 or 1 1/2 tsp peppermint extract (depending on your enthusiasm for peppermint). Whisk to pourable consistency. Spoon glaze over cake. Sprinkle with crushed candy canes!
Tuesday, 27 February 2007
Fay Weldon: Sparky
Yes, that's the adjective. Though I'm not entirely sure Ms. Weldon would approve.
I just finished Weldon's THE PRESIDENT's CHILD. Which was quite good, though towards the latter half I found myself just skipping along for the plot. Once you got the tone of the book in the first half, you pretty much got the whole point. But there was a lot to admire. Number one on the list was how swift and deft her characterizations are: Weldon pulls both Isabel and her mother together in the first chapter by telling the story of the mother's favorite horse kicking Isabel in the mouth (twice), thus deforming Isabel's face for life. The fact that Isabel's otherwise beautiful face is crumpled around the chin turns up again and again, refinining and defining her relationships with others (especially men) and her sense of herself.
Why sparky? Because of the tone: I've never read anything so quick and light and deft, jumping from event to event, conversation to conversation, without wasting a word. And at first you think it's funny, because it's so light and skippy. But no, not exactly: it turns out that what you're actually reading is a tragedy about relationships between men and women, and how even though we pretend men and women are equal, and even enact equality in our own lives by sharing housekeeping and child-rearing, our best efforts are doomed. Our longings and needs; our desires for home, power, love, and sex; these things cannot be made equal, Weldon seems to be saying, and some imbalance drives toward death and dissolution when we fail to recognize that. I haven't read Weldon's new novel, SHE MAY NOT LEAVE, but I think it returns to that same theme.
I just finished Weldon's THE PRESIDENT's CHILD. Which was quite good, though towards the latter half I found myself just skipping along for the plot. Once you got the tone of the book in the first half, you pretty much got the whole point. But there was a lot to admire. Number one on the list was how swift and deft her characterizations are: Weldon pulls both Isabel and her mother together in the first chapter by telling the story of the mother's favorite horse kicking Isabel in the mouth (twice), thus deforming Isabel's face for life. The fact that Isabel's otherwise beautiful face is crumpled around the chin turns up again and again, refinining and defining her relationships with others (especially men) and her sense of herself.
Why sparky? Because of the tone: I've never read anything so quick and light and deft, jumping from event to event, conversation to conversation, without wasting a word. And at first you think it's funny, because it's so light and skippy. But no, not exactly: it turns out that what you're actually reading is a tragedy about relationships between men and women, and how even though we pretend men and women are equal, and even enact equality in our own lives by sharing housekeeping and child-rearing, our best efforts are doomed. Our longings and needs; our desires for home, power, love, and sex; these things cannot be made equal, Weldon seems to be saying, and some imbalance drives toward death and dissolution when we fail to recognize that. I haven't read Weldon's new novel, SHE MAY NOT LEAVE, but I think it returns to that same theme.
Thursday, 22 February 2007
The Light Hand of God
One of the things I love about Neil Gaiman’s Stardust (there are more things than just the one, but this’ll do for now) is the lightness and ease with which he introduces his characters’ magical powers. Especially Tristram’s. When Tristram crosses over into Faerie, he gradually realizes that he has a complete mental map of the entire realm. He never knew he had this power; it manifests itself in his ability to give directions whenever someone asks him for help. Gaiman develops this skill without any explanation; without any weight; as readers, he allows us to marvel and laugh at Tristram’s ability. We aren’t ever exposited at.
Tristram just does it—he just opens his mouth and out come directions. Gaiman’s the same way: he just does it. He just writes it, and trusts that we’ll get it. But we forget how hard that is. It’s so much easier to tell too much; to not cut out the unnecessary words; to underestimate the intelligence of the reader, either deliberately or, much more likely, unawares.
Tristram just does it—he just opens his mouth and out come directions. Gaiman’s the same way: he just does it. He just writes it, and trusts that we’ll get it. But we forget how hard that is. It’s so much easier to tell too much; to not cut out the unnecessary words; to underestimate the intelligence of the reader, either deliberately or, much more likely, unawares.
Tuesday, 20 February 2007
Telling yourself stories
When I was in high school (and into college, I think), I used to tell myself a story. In my head, in my journal, whatever. It was called "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" and it was kind of based on THE HERO AND THE CROWN by Robin McKinley (which you should read). Betsy was always going to meet the dragon, but she never got there. She walked down a barren valley, a valley of fear or a valley of death--anyway, it was barren--and it was the way to get to the dragon. She had to fight the dragon, but first she had to get through the valley. And I told myself this story because it was a way to translate difficult, stupid things in life (um, SATs? I was so naive about what was difficult) into something that meant something. cause if you're going to fight a dragon, what you're doing is meaningful. SATs on their own? Not so meaningful.
I do sometimes wonder why I never let myself get to the dragon.
Did anyone else do this? George Orwell did, apparently. His version was a little different, though: "...for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years." (George Orwell, "Why I Write," 1946. There's a nifty new Penguin edition.)
(Secretly, I still do it, though I don't tell the "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" story anymore, and it's more like I compare what's going on in my life to a favorite scene or character in a book, straight up.)
I do sometimes wonder why I never let myself get to the dragon.
Did anyone else do this? George Orwell did, apparently. His version was a little different, though: "...for fifteen years or more, I was carrying out a literary exercise of a quite different kind: this was the making up of a continuous ‘story’ about myself, a sort of diary existing only in the mind. I believe this is a common habit of children and adolescents. As a very small child I used to imagine that I was, say, Robin Hood, and picture myself as the hero of thrilling adventures, but quite soon my ‘story’ ceased to be narcissistic in a crude way and became more and more a mere description of what I was doing and the things I saw. For minutes at a time this kind of thing would be running through my head: ‘He pushed the door open and entered the room. A yellow beam of sunlight, filtering through the muslin curtains, slanted on to the table, where a match-box, half-open, lay beside the inkpot. With his right hand in his pocket he moved across to the window. Down in the street a tortoiseshell cat was chasing a dead leaf’, etc. etc. This habit continued until I was about twenty-five, right through my non-literary years." (George Orwell, "Why I Write," 1946. There's a nifty new Penguin edition.)
(Secretly, I still do it, though I don't tell the "Betsy goes to meet the dragon" story anymore, and it's more like I compare what's going on in my life to a favorite scene or character in a book, straight up.)
Fat Tuesday Pancakes
Yup, you guessed it: another recipe. Tonight's invention, in honor of Shrove Tuesday, was pancakes with warm ginger-pear compote. This one's pretty simple:
The Compote:
Two pears
2 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup water (though if you have some pear or apple brandy, use that instead).
1 Tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped.
Cut the pears into 1/2 inch chunks. Mix together butter, sugar, water and ginger in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and you get a syrupy mixture. Toss in the pears. Cook over medium heat until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and the pears are soft, but not so soft they mush out all over the place.
The Pancakes:
Make some pancakes.
The Assembly:
Put the pears on top of the pancakes. A dollop of whipped cream or creme fraiche is also a very nice addition at this point.
Yay pancakes!
The Compote:
Two pears
2 Tbsp butter
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup water (though if you have some pear or apple brandy, use that instead).
1 Tbsp fresh ginger, finely chopped.
Cut the pears into 1/2 inch chunks. Mix together butter, sugar, water and ginger in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until the sugar dissolves and you get a syrupy mixture. Toss in the pears. Cook over medium heat until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a wooden spoon and the pears are soft, but not so soft they mush out all over the place.
The Pancakes:
Make some pancakes.
The Assembly:
Put the pears on top of the pancakes. A dollop of whipped cream or creme fraiche is also a very nice addition at this point.
Yay pancakes!
Sunday, 4 February 2007
I like...Cookies.
Okay, so like Betsy Willard, I am married to a man named Willard. Unlike Betsy Willard, I actually like to cook. And bake. Preferably with a gin and tonic by my side. (I know: girl+books+baking=homey cliches. Whatever. I like cookies.)
And speaking of--here's a recipe for these ones, invented to stave off boredom and tea-time hunger:
1/2 cup butter, room temperature
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder (dutch process, if you can)
Cream butter and sugar. Stir in the egg. Toss in all the dry ingredients. Stir some more. Form cookies by the spoonful (your choice, tea or table). Roll in more sugar (i like the brown demerara sugar with the big crystals). Flatten with the bottom of a glass. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.
Note that all measurements are rather approximate--we have not the measuring cups and spoons in our nifty pre-fab, pre-furnished short term apartment. Never believe those baking types when they tell you the measurements have to be absolutely precise...
And speaking of--here's a recipe for these ones, invented to stave off boredom and tea-time hunger:
1/2 cup butter, room temperature
1 cup dark brown sugar
1 egg
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1 cup flour
1/2 cup cocoa powder (dutch process, if you can)
Cream butter and sugar. Stir in the egg. Toss in all the dry ingredients. Stir some more. Form cookies by the spoonful (your choice, tea or table). Roll in more sugar (i like the brown demerara sugar with the big crystals). Flatten with the bottom of a glass. Bake in a 350 degree oven for 8-10 minutes.
Note that all measurements are rather approximate--we have not the measuring cups and spoons in our nifty pre-fab, pre-furnished short term apartment. Never believe those baking types when they tell you the measurements have to be absolutely precise...
The Beginning
Okay. Here's the deal. I'm not particularly funny. I'm not particularly profound. At least not when I try too hard. But I do like to read. A lot of books. And I want to find people who want to talk about them.
Up this week: Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen/Isak Dinesen. Her prose is lovely, full of light.
Like this: "I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gradeculness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a fmaily of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing."
Or this: "All the deerhounds were great hunters and had more nose than the greyhounds, but they hunted by sight and it was a highly wonderful thing to see two of them working together. I took them with me when I was out riding in the Game Reserve, which I was not allowed to do, and there they would spread the herds of zebra and wildebeest over the plain, as if it were all the stars of heaven running wild over the sky."
And I think we will not fulfill the rule of three today.
But what do you think? Is it possible to enjoy language like this without embroiling oneself in a white man's colonialist nightmare?
Up this week: Out of Africa, by Karen Blixen/Isak Dinesen. Her prose is lovely, full of light.
Like this: "I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gradeculness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a fmaily of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing."
Or this: "All the deerhounds were great hunters and had more nose than the greyhounds, but they hunted by sight and it was a highly wonderful thing to see two of them working together. I took them with me when I was out riding in the Game Reserve, which I was not allowed to do, and there they would spread the herds of zebra and wildebeest over the plain, as if it were all the stars of heaven running wild over the sky."
And I think we will not fulfill the rule of three today.
But what do you think? Is it possible to enjoy language like this without embroiling oneself in a white man's colonialist nightmare?
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