With all the political wrangling in Washington over the budget crisis, it's easy to focus on how tough things are (and they have been better, no question). But people who read history usually take the long view and can often point to events that put the current situation (whatever it is) into perspective. Entirely by accident, I've recently read two novels dealing with 19th-century life on the American frontier, and both made me glad to be living in the 21st century.
Jane Smiley's The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton tells the story of a young Illinois woman who follows her new husband to the Kansas Territory just as pro-slavery and abolitionist forces are clashing for control of it. Her husband Thomas, though mild-mannered and kind, enters K.T. with smuggled arms to aid fellow abolitionists who have already settled in and around Lawrence. Lidie, a tomboy self-described as "useless," has married the attractive but enigmatic Thomas largely to escape a circumscribed life. Like many others, she has fallen under the spell of advertising that encourages settlement by promoting Kansas as a new paradise.
What seems like a big adventure turns serious once Lidie and Thomas arrive in K.T. and see for themselves the open hostility that frequently results in violence. Aside from that, Kansas is no Eden, and life for homesteaders is difficult, even for the young and strong. Despite the harsh conditions, the Newtons make the best of their new life and friends until the escalating brutality results in tragedy, and Lidie is forced to decide on a course of action.
When I learned about the Missouri Compromise and the Kansas-Nebraska Act in history class, it was in broad terms. This novel really opened my eyes to what America must have been like in the 1850s and how much blood was shed over the issue of slavery even before the Civil War. It was a vicious time, marked by tragedy and ill will. The novel is remarkable, and Lidie is a wonderful protagonist, but the book describes an unforgettably dark episode in the push for westward expansion.
Tracy Chevalier's The Last Runaway, set in 1850, gives a view of similar events through the eyes of a young Quaker woman, Honor Bright, who comes to America for a new start after a broken engagement. Her adventure starts off badly when her sister dies soon after the pair's arrival from England, leaving Honor alone at the edge of the Ohio frontier.
Honor finds conditions in America daunting due to the loneliness, the coarseness of daily life, and the hardships imposed by both nature and an unsettled society. The area around Oberlin is part of the Underground Railroad, but the consequences of helping escaped slaves have become more severe since passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. Even within Honor's Quaker community, questions of right and wrong are balanced against questions of livelihood, pragmatism, and safety. Honor learns that adhering to principles can lead to ostracism, even among Quakers.
Miss Chevalier's book paints a vivid portrait of an America still half wild, where a wagon journey through the forest between one town and the next presents innumerable hazards, and social divisions simmer ominously, sometimes boiling over. An episode in which Honor accompanies a runaway slave during her own bid for freedom has a parallel in Miss Smiley's book, although the consequences are different. Both books reminded me of Toni Morrison's Beloved, which tells the story of an escaped slave in Ohio still entangled in the tragedy of her past. Beloved has been likened to Dante's Inferno; it certainly contains many scenes of both personal and societal hell, as do Miss Smiley's and Miss Chevalier's novels.
With so much contention in our history, it's not surprising that we still find ourselves at odds with each other. Maybe there is some good news in the current climate after all: at least now the divisions are over budgetary issues, health care, and the debt ceiling and not over slavery and territorial expansion. Current matters are serious, but at least we're not engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Perhaps we've learned enough from the past to proceed peacefully even when stakes are high and disagreements are sharp. Maybe our tumultuous past has at least given us that legacy.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
My Day of Hardly, Strictly
It's Hardly Strictly Bluegrass weekend out in San Francisco. I've only been to the festival once, about ten years ago -- my, how time flies! -- but I was reminiscing tonight about my one and only experience of this event. It's a big happening out there, but when you're from Kentucky, it's a little like carrying coals to Newcastle to attend an event like this. That's the reaction I got from someone I worked with, who had a good laugh about the idea of me flying to the Bay Area to hear bluegrass music. I guess it was pretty funny, at that.
True to its name, though, HSB is a very ecumenical event, meaning, as far as I can tell, that almost anyone is likely to show up. Their mainstay may be venerable old-time musicians like Hazel Dickens, Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson, and Del McCoury, but Hammer has played there, too.
At any event, I found myself heading out for coffee with my SF friends on a cold and foggy Saturday morning, having arrived the night before with insufficient layers. I had to borrow a heavy, slouchy jacket and was told it made me look more like a native -- I'm not sure how, exactly, but it was gratifying to know. When we started heading in the direction of Golden Gate Park, the gray skies were still lowering, and it was quite chilly. Nonetheless, we took the scenic route, since my pocket guide suggested a walking tour of some of the hipper sights of the Haight, which I had never seen.
We walked up and down a couple of streets, finding houses once occupied by Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead. We took pictures of ourselves at the corner of Haight-Ashbury (though the big chain fashion store at that location was a surprise) and climbed to the top of Buena Vista Park before stopping for another coffee break. By the time we got to Golden Gate Park, it was late morning, still chilly, and still gray. We entered a large meadow fringed by trees and settled down on a blanket to hear Gillian Welch.
There were simultaneous acts on other stages and enormous crowds everyplace you looked. It was a real ocean of humanity, but in general, people behaved decorously and seemed really to be there for the music. There were attendees of all ages, and kids and dogs everywhere. When we got up to move to another stage, the fog was lifting, and it was showing signs of becoming a fine afternoon. It was one of those days you often see in San Francisco that seem to roll at least three seasons into one, starting out cold and turning summery before cooling down again. Indeed, I had to peel off two layers and apply sunscreen before the day was over.
The most unequivocal bluegrass act we heard that day was Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder. I have seen Mr. Skaggs at a folk life festival in Kentucky, where I passed him on the sidewalk. At HSB, he was on a big stage some distance away from us but performed a spirited set in fine style. It was great fun to sit in that crowd of people of all ages, races, and persuasions and feel them respond to the down-to-earth energy of bluegrass. The single image that sticks in my mind is of a young man awash in a complicated outfit seemingly made entirely of filmy pink and purple scarves, dancing joyously and uninhibitedly to the rapid-fire rhythms of Ricky Skaggs' band. That was something you'd likely not see in Kentucky and was probably worth the trip.
We left the park around four o'clock and caught a bus somewhere out on Fulton to head back toward the inner city. A group of teenage girls got on sometime after we did (they had not, I take it, spent the afternoon at HSB), talking animatedly amongst themselves. Just before we got off the bus, I heard one of them say disparagingly, of a popular song they were discussing, "It's so old. It's probably two years old."
That tickled me. For awhile, it had seemed that everyone and his brother was in Golden Gate Park, sipping wine, listening to old-time music, cross-referencing articles in No Depression, and nodding when the names Doc Watson and Ralph Stanley were mentioned . . . so this was a wake-up call. It's true, not everyone in San Francisco is a bluegrass aficionado (and the same is true in Kentucky). I came away with a sense of worlds colliding. HSB is a place where many fans with extremely sophisticated and complex tastes will sit on the grass to hear music of very humble origins played with consummate musicianship. Just beyond its borders, teenagers listen unconcernedly to the newest sounds and have never heard of Earl Scruggs. But someday, one of their current favorites will probably take the stage on another foggy morning.
The fun continued on my journey home, when I happened to sit next to Jimmie Dale Gilmore on the plane. I might not have suspected it was him except that I knew he'd performed at the festival. Unfortunately, something had possessed me to seek out an exotic lunch to take with me on the plane, something to extend the multicultural experience. It's not every day you eat a pungent falafel sandwich while sitting next to a legendary Texas country blues performer on a plane, but that happened to be my day for it. That's San Francisco for you. Hopefully, he's forgotten it by now.
True to its name, though, HSB is a very ecumenical event, meaning, as far as I can tell, that almost anyone is likely to show up. Their mainstay may be venerable old-time musicians like Hazel Dickens, Emmylou Harris, Willie Nelson, and Del McCoury, but Hammer has played there, too.
At any event, I found myself heading out for coffee with my SF friends on a cold and foggy Saturday morning, having arrived the night before with insufficient layers. I had to borrow a heavy, slouchy jacket and was told it made me look more like a native -- I'm not sure how, exactly, but it was gratifying to know. When we started heading in the direction of Golden Gate Park, the gray skies were still lowering, and it was quite chilly. Nonetheless, we took the scenic route, since my pocket guide suggested a walking tour of some of the hipper sights of the Haight, which I had never seen.
We walked up and down a couple of streets, finding houses once occupied by Janis Joplin and the Grateful Dead. We took pictures of ourselves at the corner of Haight-Ashbury (though the big chain fashion store at that location was a surprise) and climbed to the top of Buena Vista Park before stopping for another coffee break. By the time we got to Golden Gate Park, it was late morning, still chilly, and still gray. We entered a large meadow fringed by trees and settled down on a blanket to hear Gillian Welch.
There were simultaneous acts on other stages and enormous crowds everyplace you looked. It was a real ocean of humanity, but in general, people behaved decorously and seemed really to be there for the music. There were attendees of all ages, and kids and dogs everywhere. When we got up to move to another stage, the fog was lifting, and it was showing signs of becoming a fine afternoon. It was one of those days you often see in San Francisco that seem to roll at least three seasons into one, starting out cold and turning summery before cooling down again. Indeed, I had to peel off two layers and apply sunscreen before the day was over.
The most unequivocal bluegrass act we heard that day was Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder. I have seen Mr. Skaggs at a folk life festival in Kentucky, where I passed him on the sidewalk. At HSB, he was on a big stage some distance away from us but performed a spirited set in fine style. It was great fun to sit in that crowd of people of all ages, races, and persuasions and feel them respond to the down-to-earth energy of bluegrass. The single image that sticks in my mind is of a young man awash in a complicated outfit seemingly made entirely of filmy pink and purple scarves, dancing joyously and uninhibitedly to the rapid-fire rhythms of Ricky Skaggs' band. That was something you'd likely not see in Kentucky and was probably worth the trip.
We left the park around four o'clock and caught a bus somewhere out on Fulton to head back toward the inner city. A group of teenage girls got on sometime after we did (they had not, I take it, spent the afternoon at HSB), talking animatedly amongst themselves. Just before we got off the bus, I heard one of them say disparagingly, of a popular song they were discussing, "It's so old. It's probably two years old."
That tickled me. For awhile, it had seemed that everyone and his brother was in Golden Gate Park, sipping wine, listening to old-time music, cross-referencing articles in No Depression, and nodding when the names Doc Watson and Ralph Stanley were mentioned . . . so this was a wake-up call. It's true, not everyone in San Francisco is a bluegrass aficionado (and the same is true in Kentucky). I came away with a sense of worlds colliding. HSB is a place where many fans with extremely sophisticated and complex tastes will sit on the grass to hear music of very humble origins played with consummate musicianship. Just beyond its borders, teenagers listen unconcernedly to the newest sounds and have never heard of Earl Scruggs. But someday, one of their current favorites will probably take the stage on another foggy morning.
The fun continued on my journey home, when I happened to sit next to Jimmie Dale Gilmore on the plane. I might not have suspected it was him except that I knew he'd performed at the festival. Unfortunately, something had possessed me to seek out an exotic lunch to take with me on the plane, something to extend the multicultural experience. It's not every day you eat a pungent falafel sandwich while sitting next to a legendary Texas country blues performer on a plane, but that happened to be my day for it. That's San Francisco for you. Hopefully, he's forgotten it by now.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Pictures Never Seen Before
At the local Gallery Hop last Friday night, I covered a lot of ground, enjoying both the art on the walls and the street life. The Gallery Hop is an event in which a group of artistic venues sets out their punch bowls, crudites, and fancy cookies and welcomes visitors for a special viewing of their exhibits. The event has become a downtown tradition, and you never know who (or what) you might see.
Most of the galleries are well-known and long-established regulars in the local arts scene: those at the local universities, the public library, the Downtown Arts Center, the Living Arts and Science Center. It's especially exciting when there turns out to be a quirky artists' collective behind a nondescript door you've passed thousands of times or when a place you always associated with one purpose suddenly reveals a secret identity: a historic church with a modest corridor that doubles as a gallery for a former basketball star (now a talented folk artist) working with wood, or a restaurant that unexpectedly serves a pop-up exhibit. Finding art in unexpected places always enhances the sense of adventure.
Does looking with intention transform your vision? Would I have noticed how beautifully the tall old-fashioned window in ArtsPlace frames the steeple of the church across the way if I had been casually passing through? It stopped me in my tracks, but would I have seen it if I'd been there on business, with my mind on something else? This question reminds me of the time I went to see Orson Welles' Touch of Evil downtown on a humid summer night. I walked to my car afterwards thinking how noirish and mysterious everything looked, as if the movie's frame of reference had widened to include our familiar rain-soaked streets. I doubt if I'd have had the same thought if I'd just been running to the store for a gallon of milk. The film gave me a new lens for viewing and helped me see what I didn't see before.
Another time I noticed this in a big way was my first visit to The Getty Center in Los Angeles. The building itself is a work of art, and you could wander around quite happily just taking in the hidden courtyards, the changing light on the walls, the views across the garden, and the shadows created by a staircase. I had been doing just that when I suddenly found myself outside, on a patio that looked east and north. The museum has a commanding hilltop view of a wide swath of West Los Angeles, but from that perspective the most arresting element in the landscape is the freeway, with its sinuous, ever-moving lines of traffic, gliding like living things through a dramatic gap in the mountains, rushing onwards with something between a hiss and a roar far below you.
I'm sure framing the landscape as living art was a conscious intention of the architect, and I have to say he succeeded. The view is breathtaking. I gazed down at the scene for quite a while, mesmerized by the scope and grandeur. Years later, when I was in Los Angeles on a regular basis, frequently traveling to and from school on that very highway, I could never pass The Getty Center without remembering that first view. What always struck me was how my role had shifted from onlooker to participant. Instead of just observing the scene, I was now in it, part of that river of purposeful, fast-moving, ever-changing traffic.
Driving on the 405 requires skill and attention. Without that first revealing look from the side of a mountain high above, would I ever have realized the wonder and beauty of what, at ground-level, can be a frustrating, exhausting, and very mundane experience? Maybe not. For that I have to thank the visionary who looked at the scene with an artist's eye and framed it so that the rest of us could see it. Art doesn't imitate life; it provides an opening into it.
Most of the galleries are well-known and long-established regulars in the local arts scene: those at the local universities, the public library, the Downtown Arts Center, the Living Arts and Science Center. It's especially exciting when there turns out to be a quirky artists' collective behind a nondescript door you've passed thousands of times or when a place you always associated with one purpose suddenly reveals a secret identity: a historic church with a modest corridor that doubles as a gallery for a former basketball star (now a talented folk artist) working with wood, or a restaurant that unexpectedly serves a pop-up exhibit. Finding art in unexpected places always enhances the sense of adventure.
Does looking with intention transform your vision? Would I have noticed how beautifully the tall old-fashioned window in ArtsPlace frames the steeple of the church across the way if I had been casually passing through? It stopped me in my tracks, but would I have seen it if I'd been there on business, with my mind on something else? This question reminds me of the time I went to see Orson Welles' Touch of Evil downtown on a humid summer night. I walked to my car afterwards thinking how noirish and mysterious everything looked, as if the movie's frame of reference had widened to include our familiar rain-soaked streets. I doubt if I'd have had the same thought if I'd just been running to the store for a gallon of milk. The film gave me a new lens for viewing and helped me see what I didn't see before.
Another time I noticed this in a big way was my first visit to The Getty Center in Los Angeles. The building itself is a work of art, and you could wander around quite happily just taking in the hidden courtyards, the changing light on the walls, the views across the garden, and the shadows created by a staircase. I had been doing just that when I suddenly found myself outside, on a patio that looked east and north. The museum has a commanding hilltop view of a wide swath of West Los Angeles, but from that perspective the most arresting element in the landscape is the freeway, with its sinuous, ever-moving lines of traffic, gliding like living things through a dramatic gap in the mountains, rushing onwards with something between a hiss and a roar far below you.
I'm sure framing the landscape as living art was a conscious intention of the architect, and I have to say he succeeded. The view is breathtaking. I gazed down at the scene for quite a while, mesmerized by the scope and grandeur. Years later, when I was in Los Angeles on a regular basis, frequently traveling to and from school on that very highway, I could never pass The Getty Center without remembering that first view. What always struck me was how my role had shifted from onlooker to participant. Instead of just observing the scene, I was now in it, part of that river of purposeful, fast-moving, ever-changing traffic.
Driving on the 405 requires skill and attention. Without that first revealing look from the side of a mountain high above, would I ever have realized the wonder and beauty of what, at ground-level, can be a frustrating, exhausting, and very mundane experience? Maybe not. For that I have to thank the visionary who looked at the scene with an artist's eye and framed it so that the rest of us could see it. Art doesn't imitate life; it provides an opening into it.
Friday, September 20, 2013
Sky by Maxfield Parrish
The shorter days are nothing to get excited about, but still . . . these September evenings are beautiful. I think the last of the fireflies are gone, and the sound of the crickets is fading day by day. It's sad to see the summer go, but the feeling of change in the air is invigorating. The cool air in the evenings is pleasant, and there's always some drama playing out in the sky.
The other night, it was the nearly full moon, rising ghostlike in the still bright sky of early evening, while the fiery sun went down in the opposite direction. The moon kept getting caught in wisps of clouds as it rose, which only accentuated its beauty. I didn't see the harvest moon last night, and when I went out for my walk this evening I was too early for it. I caught a glimpse of the moon a while ago from my window, and it's already high overhead, framed by the branches of a tree. If I stepped outside, I could see Orion, too.
I've noticed a flock of geese flying about restlessly, as if they're unsure whether to go south or not. When I saw them tonight, they were not flying south but seemed to be heading for the Arboretum on some unknown errand. They can seem a little ungainly on the ground, but in the air, they're very graceful. No doubt they'll be on their way soon to what I hope is a warm wintering spot.
The sunsets have been lovely, especially with the evening star shining so clearly in the quiet part of the sky above the glowing color. More than once this week, I've looked at the western sky at sunset and thought that it looked like a painting by Maxfield Parrish. You know, all those towering, billowing clouds and saturated hues of orange and purple. There is something mythic about these dramatic skies ushering autumn in. You almost expect to see goddesses descending.
A low-flying cloud is gray and cold if you pass through it, and we know the surface of the moon is a silent, cold place (when the sunlight doesn't hit it). A goose waddles while walking, and even Venus would appear very different if we were closer to her. Yet throw all of these onto the backdrop of the sky, like a canvas, and they take on grace and mystery. The perspective is everything.
The other night, it was the nearly full moon, rising ghostlike in the still bright sky of early evening, while the fiery sun went down in the opposite direction. The moon kept getting caught in wisps of clouds as it rose, which only accentuated its beauty. I didn't see the harvest moon last night, and when I went out for my walk this evening I was too early for it. I caught a glimpse of the moon a while ago from my window, and it's already high overhead, framed by the branches of a tree. If I stepped outside, I could see Orion, too.
I've noticed a flock of geese flying about restlessly, as if they're unsure whether to go south or not. When I saw them tonight, they were not flying south but seemed to be heading for the Arboretum on some unknown errand. They can seem a little ungainly on the ground, but in the air, they're very graceful. No doubt they'll be on their way soon to what I hope is a warm wintering spot.
The sunsets have been lovely, especially with the evening star shining so clearly in the quiet part of the sky above the glowing color. More than once this week, I've looked at the western sky at sunset and thought that it looked like a painting by Maxfield Parrish. You know, all those towering, billowing clouds and saturated hues of orange and purple. There is something mythic about these dramatic skies ushering autumn in. You almost expect to see goddesses descending.
A low-flying cloud is gray and cold if you pass through it, and we know the surface of the moon is a silent, cold place (when the sunlight doesn't hit it). A goose waddles while walking, and even Venus would appear very different if we were closer to her. Yet throw all of these onto the backdrop of the sky, like a canvas, and they take on grace and mystery. The perspective is everything.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
Baker's Alchemy
I used to be a so-so baker, but I've gotten better. Not having to rush really makes a difference, as does changing your techniques a little. I used to be intimidated at the thought of making bread, and my results were edible but not admirable. The texture would be uneven, or some of the dough wasn't quite cooked through. Biscuits were another challenge: mine never rose like I wanted them to. Brownies and cakes were OK, and so were my pies, but the crusts were never really flaky and always a little disappointing considering the effort they took.
I guess I've just gotten the hang of it (except for pie crusts, which I have yet to master). Baking really is a ritual, in the true sense of the word, because it's transformative and in a way "magical." I still get the same thrill I got as a little girl with my Easy-Bake oven, which allowed you to turn out miniature versions of cakes, pies, and biscuits cooked under a light bulb. I'll never forget how proud I was of my first endeavor, a small apple pie that I insisted on bringing to the dinner table for dessert, even though it was only big enough for a single serving. The feeling of creating something that turned out well was gratifying, and I repeat it every time I pull out a pan of biscuits or a batch of gingerbread cookies.
When you have time to enjoy it, working with dough is very soulful. When you spend a lot of time working with your mind, working with your hands is very relaxing. Assembling and measuring the ingredients is the preliminary to the really fun part: kneading and shaping the dough. I always thought kneading the bread was probably the secret to having it turn out well -- and it was the part I had the most trouble with. Recipes only take you so far, and I learned that you have to become fearless in the face of the unknown. Followed the measurements exactly, but your dough is too sticky? The hell with it. Just add more flour and keep kneading until it becomes manageable. It seems like a problem, but it isn't.
And how about those biscuits of mine, which used to be so paltry? I'm using the same recipe, but now I double it, and the biscuits turn out much better. I also use a different kind of flour, which makes them rise more creditably, and if I add more salt than the recipe specifies, it improves the flavor. They may not taste exactly like my grandmother's, but they remind me of hers, and that's moving in the right direction.
It's gratifying to work with the dough and feel it taking shape in your hands, but my very favorite part is getting the dough (or the batter) into the pan. I love cutting out biscuits, which I do with a floured glass. I'm happiest when they're all of a uniform size, but I admit that rarely happens. I usually have one mongo biscuit that results from taking the last bits and pieces of dough and rolling them together into one; it may be twice the size of the others and a little misshapen, but it tastes the same as the rest. I also like rolling up bread dough, sealing the ends, and tucking them under before I slide the loaf into the pan. Looking at a pan of dough ready to go into the oven always makes me feel like I've been making good use of my time.
There's also the unparalleled moment of unmolding a cake or a loaf from a pan. I was taking a Morning Glory cake out of Bundt pan the other day, admiring the way it came out so beautifully shaped, when it suddenly took me back to another childhood memory: that of making mud pies. I used to love to take the tea cups from my little tea sets, fill them with dirt, and unmold them onto saucers. I'd take a moment to admire the perfect shape of my dirt puddings before picking them up and throwing them at the side of the house. That was always the grand finale. Of course, I've outgrown throwing things since I've started working with edible materials.
Yes, it's a little bit of alchemy and maybe a little bit of your own soul that goes into baking. You transform a few piles of dry stuff and a little bit of Crisco or butter into something delicious that didn't exist before. Your kitchen smells great, you've preoccupied yourself for half an hour or so with working to make something turn out well, and afterwards you get to eat. There's really nothing bad you can say about a round of baking, as long as you don't eat everything up in one sitting after you're done.
I guess I've just gotten the hang of it (except for pie crusts, which I have yet to master). Baking really is a ritual, in the true sense of the word, because it's transformative and in a way "magical." I still get the same thrill I got as a little girl with my Easy-Bake oven, which allowed you to turn out miniature versions of cakes, pies, and biscuits cooked under a light bulb. I'll never forget how proud I was of my first endeavor, a small apple pie that I insisted on bringing to the dinner table for dessert, even though it was only big enough for a single serving. The feeling of creating something that turned out well was gratifying, and I repeat it every time I pull out a pan of biscuits or a batch of gingerbread cookies.
When you have time to enjoy it, working with dough is very soulful. When you spend a lot of time working with your mind, working with your hands is very relaxing. Assembling and measuring the ingredients is the preliminary to the really fun part: kneading and shaping the dough. I always thought kneading the bread was probably the secret to having it turn out well -- and it was the part I had the most trouble with. Recipes only take you so far, and I learned that you have to become fearless in the face of the unknown. Followed the measurements exactly, but your dough is too sticky? The hell with it. Just add more flour and keep kneading until it becomes manageable. It seems like a problem, but it isn't.
And how about those biscuits of mine, which used to be so paltry? I'm using the same recipe, but now I double it, and the biscuits turn out much better. I also use a different kind of flour, which makes them rise more creditably, and if I add more salt than the recipe specifies, it improves the flavor. They may not taste exactly like my grandmother's, but they remind me of hers, and that's moving in the right direction.
It's gratifying to work with the dough and feel it taking shape in your hands, but my very favorite part is getting the dough (or the batter) into the pan. I love cutting out biscuits, which I do with a floured glass. I'm happiest when they're all of a uniform size, but I admit that rarely happens. I usually have one mongo biscuit that results from taking the last bits and pieces of dough and rolling them together into one; it may be twice the size of the others and a little misshapen, but it tastes the same as the rest. I also like rolling up bread dough, sealing the ends, and tucking them under before I slide the loaf into the pan. Looking at a pan of dough ready to go into the oven always makes me feel like I've been making good use of my time.
There's also the unparalleled moment of unmolding a cake or a loaf from a pan. I was taking a Morning Glory cake out of Bundt pan the other day, admiring the way it came out so beautifully shaped, when it suddenly took me back to another childhood memory: that of making mud pies. I used to love to take the tea cups from my little tea sets, fill them with dirt, and unmold them onto saucers. I'd take a moment to admire the perfect shape of my dirt puddings before picking them up and throwing them at the side of the house. That was always the grand finale. Of course, I've outgrown throwing things since I've started working with edible materials.
Yes, it's a little bit of alchemy and maybe a little bit of your own soul that goes into baking. You transform a few piles of dry stuff and a little bit of Crisco or butter into something delicious that didn't exist before. Your kitchen smells great, you've preoccupied yourself for half an hour or so with working to make something turn out well, and afterwards you get to eat. There's really nothing bad you can say about a round of baking, as long as you don't eat everything up in one sitting after you're done.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Losing Paradise, Gaining the World
Depth psychologists talk about the story of Adam and Eve and the expulsion from paradise as an allegory for the birth of consciousness. There's more than one point in a person's life when she experiences a breakthrough like this, and I would say the transition out of childhood is one of them. I was thinking about this after reading Anton DiSclafani's The Yonahlossee Riding Camp for Girls.
The novel tells the story of a 15-year-old girl who has lived a free and happy life with her parents and twin brother on an isolated Florida homestead until a family tragedy abruptly changes everything. At the beginning of the story, Thea is being taken by her father to a camp for girls in the North Carolina mountains and is desperately hoping for a reprieve. She feels she's being exiled and that things will never be the same now that she's leaving home. She's right. It's obvious that something major has created this turn of affairs, but the narrator doesn't reveal it until much later.
Thea describes her home, her family, and her early life in loving detail as the story unfolds. With a wealthy family and a beautiful home, there's not much to trouble her, even with the Great Depression in the background. She rides her pony, roams the family's land with her brother and cousin, and grows up with a sense of security about herself and her world. Ironically, amid all the wild flora and fauna of central Florida, the most dangerous snake in the garden turns out to be: adolescence. A growing physical attraction to her cousin is the catalyst in a series of events that brings Thea's childhood crashing down.
At the camp, Thea experiences her loss of security and happiness deeply and mourns for what's been lost while coming to realize that she can never put things back together the way they were. What seemed immutable -- her parents, her freedom, even her beloved twin brother -- have been revealed as anything but. The gates of childhood innocence have been shut behind her, and Thea has to get by in a new environment, immersed for the first time in a world of strangers.
This novel is really about growing up, the shift in consciousness that is the gift of adolescence (although it doesn't necessarily feel like a gift). It's painful to realize that all things change and that even a paradisaical home must eventually be left behind. Thea comes to see her parents in a newer, more critical light, makes decisions good and bad, and eventually embraces her independence. Refusing to define herself in terms of the guilt that partly belongs to others, she develops an affection for her new life and the people in it and learns to stand outside the judgment of her family.
Thea isn't always likable, but she's courageous and independent. The process of growing up that many people experience more gradually falls on her suddenly, but she adapts. Another theme that this story shares in common with the biblical Fall is the issue of sexual awakening and the burden of guilt that's shifted onto the female. Thea refuses to accept this burden. One of the novel's grace notes is the depiction of Thea's sexual awakening as natural and beautiful in its own way.
While depicting the enormity of the loss Thea feels at having to leave the past behind, the novel also reveals the upside. While the rest of her family seems diminished and almost paralyzed by what's happened, Thea learns by leaving home that there is a wider world beyond and that somewhere out there is a place for her.
I left Florida (at a much younger age than Thea) when my family moved, and I have experienced a sense of loss for that earlier period something like what she feels. I, too, missed the light and the heat and had to adjust to changes that were cultural and familial as well as climatic. Myths are always moving through our lives, taking on the shape of varying circumstances while retaining something constant underneath. Everyone has their own version of this story.
The novel tells the story of a 15-year-old girl who has lived a free and happy life with her parents and twin brother on an isolated Florida homestead until a family tragedy abruptly changes everything. At the beginning of the story, Thea is being taken by her father to a camp for girls in the North Carolina mountains and is desperately hoping for a reprieve. She feels she's being exiled and that things will never be the same now that she's leaving home. She's right. It's obvious that something major has created this turn of affairs, but the narrator doesn't reveal it until much later.
Thea describes her home, her family, and her early life in loving detail as the story unfolds. With a wealthy family and a beautiful home, there's not much to trouble her, even with the Great Depression in the background. She rides her pony, roams the family's land with her brother and cousin, and grows up with a sense of security about herself and her world. Ironically, amid all the wild flora and fauna of central Florida, the most dangerous snake in the garden turns out to be: adolescence. A growing physical attraction to her cousin is the catalyst in a series of events that brings Thea's childhood crashing down.
At the camp, Thea experiences her loss of security and happiness deeply and mourns for what's been lost while coming to realize that she can never put things back together the way they were. What seemed immutable -- her parents, her freedom, even her beloved twin brother -- have been revealed as anything but. The gates of childhood innocence have been shut behind her, and Thea has to get by in a new environment, immersed for the first time in a world of strangers.
This novel is really about growing up, the shift in consciousness that is the gift of adolescence (although it doesn't necessarily feel like a gift). It's painful to realize that all things change and that even a paradisaical home must eventually be left behind. Thea comes to see her parents in a newer, more critical light, makes decisions good and bad, and eventually embraces her independence. Refusing to define herself in terms of the guilt that partly belongs to others, she develops an affection for her new life and the people in it and learns to stand outside the judgment of her family.
Thea isn't always likable, but she's courageous and independent. The process of growing up that many people experience more gradually falls on her suddenly, but she adapts. Another theme that this story shares in common with the biblical Fall is the issue of sexual awakening and the burden of guilt that's shifted onto the female. Thea refuses to accept this burden. One of the novel's grace notes is the depiction of Thea's sexual awakening as natural and beautiful in its own way.
While depicting the enormity of the loss Thea feels at having to leave the past behind, the novel also reveals the upside. While the rest of her family seems diminished and almost paralyzed by what's happened, Thea learns by leaving home that there is a wider world beyond and that somewhere out there is a place for her.
I left Florida (at a much younger age than Thea) when my family moved, and I have experienced a sense of loss for that earlier period something like what she feels. I, too, missed the light and the heat and had to adjust to changes that were cultural and familial as well as climatic. Myths are always moving through our lives, taking on the shape of varying circumstances while retaining something constant underneath. Everyone has their own version of this story.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Hestia Meets Zen: The Housecleaning Blues
Housecleaning is one of those things that goes better with music. I used to have a habit of cleaning on Sunday mornings, and I always picked something lively that would add some pep to the proceedings. It was almost fun, too, floating a mop easily over the floors, with a dance step here and there. I still clean to music, and it's even more necessary these days because I have more furniture now, which makes cleaning harder.
We're not talking about a lot more furniture, but it's amazing how it's made dusting and mopping disproportionately difficult. The pieces I've accumulated were sensible: a desk and chair to assist with the dissertation process, a book carousel to organize all the additional books and keep them close by, an end table with a bin for magazines, a floor lamp to shed some additional light. Besides those, I also have a few things that didn't used to be there tucked away in odd places: a boot box in a corner, a shoe organizer under the bed.
I remember when it used to take only half an hour to dust and mop all the rooms. A while back, I was wondering why it now takes so much longer, when it dawned on me that I have more things to dust around. My living room, which seemed so spacious when I first moved in (almost like a small ballroom when empty) now has much less open space, and most of the furniture that needs dusting has books or other objects on it that have to be moved and replaced. Mopping is like running an obstacle course. It's harder to get to the corners; I have to mop around desk and chair legs, move things out and put them back, and in general be more painstaking.
I think of those Sunday morning cleaning sprees with regret. I like my furniture but can see how it's complicated something that used to be easy. When I bought my desk, I remember being surprised at how much space it took up in the living room; it seemed much smaller on the showroom floor. (The delivery man told me this is a common phenomenon.) Still, the solidity of it seemed suitable to the task, and I have to say it has served its purpose as an organizing platform for writing. It's just that I liked my living room better when it had more open space.
I remember joking with friends about buying my first couch. I took it as a sign that I was solidly in the adult middle class and hoped it wouldn't lead to buying a mess of other material goods. One friend said he had a goal of not accumulating more than he could fit into the back of a pickup truck, which I thought was a worthy aim. I wasn't too far off the mark with my own belongings, which I was then able to fit into a 10 x 10 storage unit. It would take something a little bigger than that now, although I realize what I own isn't much compared to what many other people have.
I enjoy looking at modern architecture and interior design in magazines like Dwell, where the aesthetic emphasizes making the most intelligent use of space, especially when it's limited. I like the way designers approach it not as a problem but as a spur to creativity, as if they're constructing a haiku with space instead of words. I was fascinated by a story about a tiny Paris apartment, that, though multi-level, had less square footage than mine. The occupants (who, as I remember, worked in a restaurant) did not have enough room in their minuscule kitchen to entertain, and the bedroom barely contained a bed, but what space there was had been cleverly utilized to the max. A New York apartment, while not nearly as small, was still tight; it nevertheless managed to squeeze a tiny library into a bedroom and a full kitchen partly under the stairs.
Most of these modern dwellings are uncluttered and sometimes even spare in their furnishings. I like looking at shining hardwood floors, tidy kitchens, and streamlined bathrooms, and it makes me realize that having a lot of things is not what makes a home appealing. My preference falls somewhere in between the spare and the full; pictures, books, and objects collected over time reveal personality and make a place yours, but there is a point where they spill over and start weighing you down.
My friend with the pickup truck rule described the living room I had in another apartment as being very Zen-like. At that time, I felt I had very little and thought of it as a nice way of saying that I still had the living room of a college student. He wouldn't describe my current living room in those terms, which is good in one way. It looks more like the kind of place I imagined for myself than what I had then. But I also realize that in some ways simpler is better. I was right the first time about not wanting to get saddled with too much stuff.
If I do someday have a home like the ones I enjoy dreaming over in magazines, experience has given me a handy rule for furnishing it: the "does it make dusting harder" principle. If I can experience the ease of dancing and singing, ballroom-style, while gliding the dust mop across open floors, I'll know I've done well.
We're not talking about a lot more furniture, but it's amazing how it's made dusting and mopping disproportionately difficult. The pieces I've accumulated were sensible: a desk and chair to assist with the dissertation process, a book carousel to organize all the additional books and keep them close by, an end table with a bin for magazines, a floor lamp to shed some additional light. Besides those, I also have a few things that didn't used to be there tucked away in odd places: a boot box in a corner, a shoe organizer under the bed.
I remember when it used to take only half an hour to dust and mop all the rooms. A while back, I was wondering why it now takes so much longer, when it dawned on me that I have more things to dust around. My living room, which seemed so spacious when I first moved in (almost like a small ballroom when empty) now has much less open space, and most of the furniture that needs dusting has books or other objects on it that have to be moved and replaced. Mopping is like running an obstacle course. It's harder to get to the corners; I have to mop around desk and chair legs, move things out and put them back, and in general be more painstaking.
I think of those Sunday morning cleaning sprees with regret. I like my furniture but can see how it's complicated something that used to be easy. When I bought my desk, I remember being surprised at how much space it took up in the living room; it seemed much smaller on the showroom floor. (The delivery man told me this is a common phenomenon.) Still, the solidity of it seemed suitable to the task, and I have to say it has served its purpose as an organizing platform for writing. It's just that I liked my living room better when it had more open space.
I remember joking with friends about buying my first couch. I took it as a sign that I was solidly in the adult middle class and hoped it wouldn't lead to buying a mess of other material goods. One friend said he had a goal of not accumulating more than he could fit into the back of a pickup truck, which I thought was a worthy aim. I wasn't too far off the mark with my own belongings, which I was then able to fit into a 10 x 10 storage unit. It would take something a little bigger than that now, although I realize what I own isn't much compared to what many other people have.
I enjoy looking at modern architecture and interior design in magazines like Dwell, where the aesthetic emphasizes making the most intelligent use of space, especially when it's limited. I like the way designers approach it not as a problem but as a spur to creativity, as if they're constructing a haiku with space instead of words. I was fascinated by a story about a tiny Paris apartment, that, though multi-level, had less square footage than mine. The occupants (who, as I remember, worked in a restaurant) did not have enough room in their minuscule kitchen to entertain, and the bedroom barely contained a bed, but what space there was had been cleverly utilized to the max. A New York apartment, while not nearly as small, was still tight; it nevertheless managed to squeeze a tiny library into a bedroom and a full kitchen partly under the stairs.
Most of these modern dwellings are uncluttered and sometimes even spare in their furnishings. I like looking at shining hardwood floors, tidy kitchens, and streamlined bathrooms, and it makes me realize that having a lot of things is not what makes a home appealing. My preference falls somewhere in between the spare and the full; pictures, books, and objects collected over time reveal personality and make a place yours, but there is a point where they spill over and start weighing you down.
My friend with the pickup truck rule described the living room I had in another apartment as being very Zen-like. At that time, I felt I had very little and thought of it as a nice way of saying that I still had the living room of a college student. He wouldn't describe my current living room in those terms, which is good in one way. It looks more like the kind of place I imagined for myself than what I had then. But I also realize that in some ways simpler is better. I was right the first time about not wanting to get saddled with too much stuff.
If I do someday have a home like the ones I enjoy dreaming over in magazines, experience has given me a handy rule for furnishing it: the "does it make dusting harder" principle. If I can experience the ease of dancing and singing, ballroom-style, while gliding the dust mop across open floors, I'll know I've done well.
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