One of the more interesting 2013 media events I'm aware of is the release of the interactive Bob Dylan video for "Like a Rolling Stone." When I first came across it on author Neil Gaiman's Facebook page, I hadn't heard any of the pre-release buzz and had no preconceived ideas. The first time I watched, I didn't even realize there were 16 videos. By happenstance, the video from the Moviez channel was the one I caught, and it floored me.
All of the videos are alike in that each one features characters (in some cases, actual TV personalities) lip-synching to "Like a Rolling Stone." The Moviez video shows a couple coming out of their brownstone on a city street, engaged in a somewhat passive-aggressive dialogue consisting of the lyrics to the song. The peaceful morning street contrasts sharply with the malice in their expressions; the woman starts to walk away but comes back; the man smiles knowingly. I was reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit, in which hell is in the interaction between characters, and also of Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Ingmar Bergman's Scenes From a Marriage also comes to mind.
We see the couple walk through a park, enter a diner, and order food, while continuing to bicker via the song. At the end of the video, the couple are seated at the counter and have just begun to eat breakfast. She leans toward him and smiles in what might seem a friendly way if not for the vindictiveness of their previous interaction, which consisted entirely of mutual recriminations.
This plays out like an unpleasant (but humorous) send-up of romantic comedies and certainly works on that level. I might have left it at that, except for one thing. The waitress in the scene reminded me inexplicably of a friend who told me a story about the time she cooked dinner for a now-famous political couple. That reminded me that the video could be read as more than just a satire on marriage. You don't have to look far to see why bickering, accusations, and politics might come to mind in such a context.
In the other 15 videos, I was frequently reminded of events large and small that I've seen or heard about. Mythologists caution people about reading stories too literally, and I support that caution. Nevertheless, I was continually struck by resemblances to actual events. One of the videos, depicting a sports network's coverage of a tennis match, features two opponents, one a handsome, Kennedy-esque figure, and the other quite reminiscent of Lee Harvey Oswald. It's hard to escape the feeling that the video references an assassination, especially when you notice the names of the players: Diovesky and Plotnivich. Certainly, thoughts about JFK's assassination have been floating in the culture this year, with even John Kerry weighing in, so it isn't surprising that they emerge here as a theme.
A seemingly ordinary episode of The Price Is Right, until you notice the body language of the participants and audience members . . . an episode of Bachelor's Roses with several women interested in one desirable man . . . a cooking program with a remarkably dead-pan chef . . . the irrepressible Property Brothers and their clients, one of whom has a very red face . . . a radio personality dominating a less than amicable interview with a man in a striped shirt . . . rapper Danny Brown on the Music 1 Bass channel, innocent and childlike, at play on the neighborhood swings . . . a Pawn Stars exchange in which an owner seems to be of two minds about a valuable item . . . a notably witchy fashion reporter (on Broome Street!) who doesn't seem to notice the effect she has on her interviewees . . . three wizened professors on the History Network (and who are those people in the upstairs window?) . . . a news anchor on a business desk who can't stop blinking . . . Mr. Dylan himself, in concert footage.
Bob Dylan has long had the stature of a prophet and soothsayer, albeit one who occasionally trades personas. I think this video, directed by Vania Heymann, has a lot of him in it. This is the first official video for "Like a Rolling Stone," one of Dylan's signature songs. The video reinterprets the song for our time, something that's bound to happen when a theme is archetypal to begin with. I doubt whether anyone has captured all the nuances of meaning in the video, but "Like a Rolling Stone" - Interactive, while parodying the channel-flipping experience, gives you a chance to "see through" what appears on the surface.
This collection of videos weaving in and out of a single theme or themes is very postmodern. I admit to having a mixed reaction to it; like the media experience it satirizes, it can produce vertigo and a feeling of the ground shifting under your feet. Ultimately, though, I think the video challenges us to both notice and question. Truth can emerge in surprising ways; often, it appears in popular culture, in movies, TV, and songs, before you see it anywhere else. It's not uncommon.
To me, the ultimate criteria for evaluating truth or falsehood, no matter who tells you something, are in your own mind and heart. Does what I'm seeing and hearing ring true? Does it fit in with the facts? Is it consistent with the rest of my experience of the world? Knowing that my knowledge is limited, can I imagine it being true?
I'm sure the video is even now being analyzed and hotly debated among music, video, and technology lovers everywhere. All of this makes me hope we can turn that same careful eye toward all the media we're exposed to. It takes close attention sometimes to sift through the gossip, sound bites, and misinformation of the day to discover what's true, even though the truth is always there. Sometimes we just don't see it.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
A Dwarf, Not a Hobbit
Is any story a myth, or is a myth a special kind of story? I tend to think a story becomes more mythic as it becomes more universal, relying on themes everyone can relate to, but almost any story has mythic elements. We don't always see a contemporary story as mythic (or a mythic story as contemporary), especially if we think of myths as tales from the past. Once you look closely, you're often surprised to find mythic characters and plots hiding inside ordinary protagonists and story lines. Even current events can be read mythically.
Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug is easy to identify as myth because it's epic fantasy, a familiar form of myth. The director has been criticized for stretching Tolkien's book into three movies and adding material, but almost any myth with staying power has variations that diverge. There have been other versions of The Hobbit, and more undoubtedly will follow. Jackson has tied his Hobbit movies very closely to The Lord of the Rings, turning Tolkien's almost playful treasure hunt into a prelude to the War of the Rings that explains much of what happens there.
I wrote last year about how I had come over time to see people I knew in Tolkien's characters. I identified most with Bilbo in last year's movie but was surprised this time to see myself most clearly in one or two of the dwarves. I don't think of myself as dwarf-like as Tolkien portrays them, but Jackson's handling of characters and interpersonal dynamics opened up unexpected vistas. This story really belongs to the dwarves, and the more I looked, the more human their problems became.
Likewise, the film shows a different side of the elves, who were heroic and otherworldly in LOTR. In Smaug (as in Tolkien's original), they're actually rather scary and, selfishly intent on their own concerns, are not above manipulation and deceit. Legolas and his father, the woodland king Thranduil, are lordly and arrogant, not people you'd really want to fall in with if you could help it. (One surmises that Legolas's character was later improved by his association with others not of his kind, the Fellowship, etc.)
The exception to elvish hostility in Smaug is Tauriel, a character Jackson and Company added to create a strong female presence. Some have criticized the surprising love triangle between her, Legolas, and Kili; I thought it brought a new piquancy to the story, which is now about more than just power, birthright, heroism, and treasure. Attraction and jealousy have been added to the mix, complicating things in an edgy but not inconceivable way.
It's very Hillmanian (as in James Hillman) to see yourself inhabiting multiple roles and stories, and I think the shifting perspectives between not only LOTR and The Hobbit but also between the first and second Hobbit movies make it easy for viewers to imagine themselves as more than one character. This is an idea I believe Jackson would approve, since he has appeared in cameo roles in all of his Tolkien films, here a Corsair, there a dwarf, there a man eating a carrot. Even some of the characters within the movie seem to play more than one role; Beorn is a potential protector and at the same time a fearsome predator; Gandalf is both wise and foolish, powerful and powerless; Bard is a leader in the making disguised as a rough and cunning bargeman.
It will be interesting to see if perspectives shift again as the Hobbit trilogy draws to a close in the next film. The current movie does a good job of showing the effects of power on those who wield it: from Bilbo, who finds in Mirkwood that the ring is already driving his actions in ways he doesn't want; to the Master of Laketown, who seems to enjoy the trappings of power more than the actual exercise of leadership; to Thorin, whose quest for his birthright as King under the Mountain is fraught with questions of moral ambiguity and divided responsibilities. Then there's Smaug himself, a living emblem of "might makes right," shown at one point gilded in molten gold, which he shakes off like a dog shedding water before flying off to attack Laketown. More than just the continuation of a hero's journey, Jackson's second Hobbit film is rather acute in looking at the shadow side of the quest.
You can respond to Smaug on many levels. The kids in the audience seemed to enjoy it as an adventure story, which it is. Tolkien fans are kept busy with comparisons between the book and the film (personally, I think most of Jackson's choices fall in with the spirit of Tolkien, if not the letter). Lovers of special effects and spectacle have a great deal to chew on, and the mythologists among us (and I hope we're all mythologists to some extent) are invited to find themselves and the world around them in the quest of 13 dwarves and a hobbit for treasure. On none of these levels is the filmgoer likely to come up empty. One of the characteristics of myth is its multilayered capacity to say several things at once.
Peter Jackson's The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug is easy to identify as myth because it's epic fantasy, a familiar form of myth. The director has been criticized for stretching Tolkien's book into three movies and adding material, but almost any myth with staying power has variations that diverge. There have been other versions of The Hobbit, and more undoubtedly will follow. Jackson has tied his Hobbit movies very closely to The Lord of the Rings, turning Tolkien's almost playful treasure hunt into a prelude to the War of the Rings that explains much of what happens there.
I wrote last year about how I had come over time to see people I knew in Tolkien's characters. I identified most with Bilbo in last year's movie but was surprised this time to see myself most clearly in one or two of the dwarves. I don't think of myself as dwarf-like as Tolkien portrays them, but Jackson's handling of characters and interpersonal dynamics opened up unexpected vistas. This story really belongs to the dwarves, and the more I looked, the more human their problems became.
Likewise, the film shows a different side of the elves, who were heroic and otherworldly in LOTR. In Smaug (as in Tolkien's original), they're actually rather scary and, selfishly intent on their own concerns, are not above manipulation and deceit. Legolas and his father, the woodland king Thranduil, are lordly and arrogant, not people you'd really want to fall in with if you could help it. (One surmises that Legolas's character was later improved by his association with others not of his kind, the Fellowship, etc.)
The exception to elvish hostility in Smaug is Tauriel, a character Jackson and Company added to create a strong female presence. Some have criticized the surprising love triangle between her, Legolas, and Kili; I thought it brought a new piquancy to the story, which is now about more than just power, birthright, heroism, and treasure. Attraction and jealousy have been added to the mix, complicating things in an edgy but not inconceivable way.
It's very Hillmanian (as in James Hillman) to see yourself inhabiting multiple roles and stories, and I think the shifting perspectives between not only LOTR and The Hobbit but also between the first and second Hobbit movies make it easy for viewers to imagine themselves as more than one character. This is an idea I believe Jackson would approve, since he has appeared in cameo roles in all of his Tolkien films, here a Corsair, there a dwarf, there a man eating a carrot. Even some of the characters within the movie seem to play more than one role; Beorn is a potential protector and at the same time a fearsome predator; Gandalf is both wise and foolish, powerful and powerless; Bard is a leader in the making disguised as a rough and cunning bargeman.
It will be interesting to see if perspectives shift again as the Hobbit trilogy draws to a close in the next film. The current movie does a good job of showing the effects of power on those who wield it: from Bilbo, who finds in Mirkwood that the ring is already driving his actions in ways he doesn't want; to the Master of Laketown, who seems to enjoy the trappings of power more than the actual exercise of leadership; to Thorin, whose quest for his birthright as King under the Mountain is fraught with questions of moral ambiguity and divided responsibilities. Then there's Smaug himself, a living emblem of "might makes right," shown at one point gilded in molten gold, which he shakes off like a dog shedding water before flying off to attack Laketown. More than just the continuation of a hero's journey, Jackson's second Hobbit film is rather acute in looking at the shadow side of the quest.
You can respond to Smaug on many levels. The kids in the audience seemed to enjoy it as an adventure story, which it is. Tolkien fans are kept busy with comparisons between the book and the film (personally, I think most of Jackson's choices fall in with the spirit of Tolkien, if not the letter). Lovers of special effects and spectacle have a great deal to chew on, and the mythologists among us (and I hope we're all mythologists to some extent) are invited to find themselves and the world around them in the quest of 13 dwarves and a hobbit for treasure. On none of these levels is the filmgoer likely to come up empty. One of the characteristics of myth is its multilayered capacity to say several things at once.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Greetings of the Season
Wordplay - Writing & Life wishes you a very merry Christmas/holiday season and a bright and happy New Year. I'll be in the kitchen, but more later. Maybe a movie review?
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Nights of Wonder and Magic
The clear skies on these sharp winter nights are spectacular. A couple of nights ago, I was out walking before sunset, and the sun, instead of being mired in haze, was distinctly visible as an orange ball, fiery and tremendous. Last night, I noticed a very bright and beautiful planet high in the sky after sundown, which must have been Venus, and on the way home from the coffeehouse, I was lucky to witness the rising of the Full Snow Moon, or Long Night Moon, or Oak Moon, whichever you prefer to call it.
I hadn't heard the December moon referred to as the "Oak Moon" until the other night. I was reading about this and about the Druids marking this moon by performing some of their special magic; the oak tree, of course, was sacred to them. Nights in early winter, according to this lore, are fraught with magic and mysterious events. Stack that on top of December's association with Saturnalia, and you really have the makings of a wild winter carnival.
Hecate, let the games begin. Your cell phone disappears. Your walls are suddenly alive with snapping noises in the predawn hours. Heavy footsteps overhead awaken you at 3:15 a.m. A mysterious current tinkles your wind chime in an enclosed room. People begin speaking loudly, as if they're confident they're making sense, while you're wondering what in the world they could possibly be smoking.
It seems to fit. I've known Decembers as peaceful as "Silent Night" and as surreal as anything by Hieronymus Bosch. It's partly the short days and long nights that set the spirits loose. Apollo, the god of reason and science, who's associated with the sun, is less prominent at this time of year, opening the door for other deities to have a go. I read an evocative description one time about what life was like before the days of gas and electrical lighting, when night was really night, dark and impenetrable, and the imagination gave birth to not only goblins but also fairies and sprites. The long nights of winter, with their bitter cold, howling wolves, and long shadows, still alive as an ancestral memory (unless we're from the tropics), were especially conducive to a free reign of fancy. Some of the dangers were real, and some were imagined, but which was which?
Of course we have the holidays, with all their glitter and cheer, songs, lights, and merriment, to chase away the shadows, or at least to remind us that in the midst of the darkest hours, life still thrives. At the Northern Hemisphere's darkest hour, the sun is actually making its turn (or we are, more precisely), and from that point on, the days grow gradually longer again.
In times past, people celebrated the holidays and survived winter by sitting around the hearth together. Many people still do, and I think they've got the right idea. One problem with modern life is a tendency for people to go their own way a little too much. We vaunt our independence, but at heart we're social creatures, and if we remember holidays from the past with a misty eye, it's because we remember the warmth and good feeling that come from being with family and friends. Companionship and good cheer completely transform cold December nights from a time of darkness to a time of celebration. It's what Scrooge found out the hard way, but, fortunately, not too late.
December is a time of battle between forces of light and darkness. Easy to give way to the doldrums, or to sadness, or to let the goblins in. But tweak your attitude a little, extend your hand to a loved one, light a candle, wrap a gift, or turn the shadows of a winter night toward a narrative that celebrates darkness and light (and gives both their due), and the spirit of the whole enterprise changes. I like Chris Van Allsburg's story The Polar Express for just that reason, because it honors both light and dark and sees the magic in their interplay.
For years I tried to write my own version of a solstice story that involved a forest, a snowy night, animals gathering, and festivities overturning the usual order of things -- sort of a Midwinter Night's Dream -- but I could never get it quite right. I had the atmosphere and the setting, but it seemed more of a tone poem than an actual plot. As I think about it now, I usually experience the magic of the season in just that way, as moments here and there, a fireplace, a favorite ornament, a perfect, unexpected gift, a midnight Mass, the taste of eggnog, the sound of a children's choir in the mall, or the face of a loved one, either near at hand or long absent and suddenly returning. It's only when you put them all together that you realize there's a story in them after all.
I'm trying to celebrate this season by looking for those kinds of moments as well as the little light that's always burning, even during (and perhaps especially during) the long nights of December. I hope you can find your own way to do the same, but remember . . . go easy on the eggnog.
I hadn't heard the December moon referred to as the "Oak Moon" until the other night. I was reading about this and about the Druids marking this moon by performing some of their special magic; the oak tree, of course, was sacred to them. Nights in early winter, according to this lore, are fraught with magic and mysterious events. Stack that on top of December's association with Saturnalia, and you really have the makings of a wild winter carnival.
Hecate, let the games begin. Your cell phone disappears. Your walls are suddenly alive with snapping noises in the predawn hours. Heavy footsteps overhead awaken you at 3:15 a.m. A mysterious current tinkles your wind chime in an enclosed room. People begin speaking loudly, as if they're confident they're making sense, while you're wondering what in the world they could possibly be smoking.
It seems to fit. I've known Decembers as peaceful as "Silent Night" and as surreal as anything by Hieronymus Bosch. It's partly the short days and long nights that set the spirits loose. Apollo, the god of reason and science, who's associated with the sun, is less prominent at this time of year, opening the door for other deities to have a go. I read an evocative description one time about what life was like before the days of gas and electrical lighting, when night was really night, dark and impenetrable, and the imagination gave birth to not only goblins but also fairies and sprites. The long nights of winter, with their bitter cold, howling wolves, and long shadows, still alive as an ancestral memory (unless we're from the tropics), were especially conducive to a free reign of fancy. Some of the dangers were real, and some were imagined, but which was which?
Of course we have the holidays, with all their glitter and cheer, songs, lights, and merriment, to chase away the shadows, or at least to remind us that in the midst of the darkest hours, life still thrives. At the Northern Hemisphere's darkest hour, the sun is actually making its turn (or we are, more precisely), and from that point on, the days grow gradually longer again.
In times past, people celebrated the holidays and survived winter by sitting around the hearth together. Many people still do, and I think they've got the right idea. One problem with modern life is a tendency for people to go their own way a little too much. We vaunt our independence, but at heart we're social creatures, and if we remember holidays from the past with a misty eye, it's because we remember the warmth and good feeling that come from being with family and friends. Companionship and good cheer completely transform cold December nights from a time of darkness to a time of celebration. It's what Scrooge found out the hard way, but, fortunately, not too late.
December is a time of battle between forces of light and darkness. Easy to give way to the doldrums, or to sadness, or to let the goblins in. But tweak your attitude a little, extend your hand to a loved one, light a candle, wrap a gift, or turn the shadows of a winter night toward a narrative that celebrates darkness and light (and gives both their due), and the spirit of the whole enterprise changes. I like Chris Van Allsburg's story The Polar Express for just that reason, because it honors both light and dark and sees the magic in their interplay.
For years I tried to write my own version of a solstice story that involved a forest, a snowy night, animals gathering, and festivities overturning the usual order of things -- sort of a Midwinter Night's Dream -- but I could never get it quite right. I had the atmosphere and the setting, but it seemed more of a tone poem than an actual plot. As I think about it now, I usually experience the magic of the season in just that way, as moments here and there, a fireplace, a favorite ornament, a perfect, unexpected gift, a midnight Mass, the taste of eggnog, the sound of a children's choir in the mall, or the face of a loved one, either near at hand or long absent and suddenly returning. It's only when you put them all together that you realize there's a story in them after all.
I'm trying to celebrate this season by looking for those kinds of moments as well as the little light that's always burning, even during (and perhaps especially during) the long nights of December. I hope you can find your own way to do the same, but remember . . . go easy on the eggnog.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
The Kitchen Ballet
This year I wanted to shake Thanksgiving dinner up a bit, so I combined old standbys with a few new recipes. The hardest part for me is to having everything ready at the same time, so I made dessert the night before and planned ahead more than usual. This would have been the first time in history that my schedule was perfectly coordinated, if it had been perfectly coordinated, which it wasn't. But it came close. And I do have to say I enjoyed myself more than usual. The novelty of new dishes added extra spice to things.
I like pumpkin but have too many memories of trying to finish off most of a pie by myself. I didn't want anything too rich, so I tried a recipe for pumpkin doughnuts that converted easily to cake. I have a metal pan with an autumn design stamped in so that when you turn the cake out, it has raised leaves and vines on top. The effect was muted by the lemon-yogurt icing I drizzled over it, but the result was just what I was looking for: not-too-fancy, not-too-heavy, but just special enough.
On Thanksgiving Day, the biggest hassle was the turkey. Even though I had moved it from the freezer to the refrigerator the day before, it hadn't thawed, so I had to cook it longer. I cooked it in a clay pot, which added an antique touch, but I'm not really sure it tasted any better than if I had used an ordinary pan. Once it was in the oven, I started on the cranberry relish. I had never fixed it at home and didn't think I liked it that much, but I found out what a difference cooking it yourself makes. I didn't know how simple it is: just three ingredients and a little bit of stirring, and the flavor just pops.
I had found myself thinking about saucepans the night before -- how many I had and which ones I should use for what. So there they were, all lined up on the burners. So far, so good, and I started to think I might even be able to manage some gravy, which I usually skip due to lack of stovetop real estate. Things only got tricky when I got to the mashed potato stage. The potatoes were done a little early, so I had to move them to a different burner and keep them warm until I was ready to mash them. Shuffling of pans ensued. Dressing is easy, so I put those ingredients to one side and started the winter spinach with raisins and nuts. Once you start this it goes really fast, I found. The only mishap was a partially melted tip on a plastic spoon, but it was a small price to pay for something delicious. The oil and garlic and the sweetness of the raisins cut the bitterness of the spinach, and it was a nice change from green bean casserole.
The action was fast and furious after the spinach was done. I had to take the turkey out and get it on a plate, make the dressing, mash the potatoes, and set the table (which I would have done earlier if I hadn't forgotten, due to the general atmosphere of gourmet excitement). And oh, yes, the gravy -- I used my smallest saucepan for that, and it only boiled over once. I mashed the potatoes with butter and milk, having decided that this was the place to spend calories. Plain potatoes go totally against the spirit of Thanksgiving, I feel.
It occurred to me while pivoting around from the counter to the refrigerator to the table to the stove that I felt like a dancer. It started out like a country dance, sort of slow and measured, and heated up into something more like hot jazz. I was working all four burners and hadn't scorched a single pan, and nothing had fallen on the floor yet either.
Well, finally, the potatoes were mashed, the relish had cooled, the turkey was ready to carve, and I started spooning things out on the plate, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I wish you could have seen it. I think the mistake I made in the past was going too much toward the casserole end of things. Having a couple of lighter items brightened up the menu, since I knew I wouldn't be in carbohydrate overload afterwards. I looked at that plate, with its sliced turkey resting delicately under a silky gravy, cranberry relish a beautiful shade of red, the old familiar dressing and potatoes, and winter spinach a deep green that totally (I must say) complemented the red, and thought two things: 1. It's a shame I'm not showing this off to someone else and 2. I forgot to put ice in the glass for my tea.
When I sat down to give thanks, I became thoughtful. I realized that it was probably not the time for philosophy but for staying in the moment. My main thought was that I was thankful for being able to put that beautiful meal on the table, a gift I gave to myself compounded of a little artistry and the many gifts life gives us. OK, I guess that was a little philosophical, but I started eating before it could drift into the mind/body problem or something else.
Oh yes, dessert! I can't forget about that! The cake was very good, and here's a hint if you ever want to try it yourself: yogurt works just as well as sour cream for the icing. But it's that little hit of lemon that really sets things off.
I like pumpkin but have too many memories of trying to finish off most of a pie by myself. I didn't want anything too rich, so I tried a recipe for pumpkin doughnuts that converted easily to cake. I have a metal pan with an autumn design stamped in so that when you turn the cake out, it has raised leaves and vines on top. The effect was muted by the lemon-yogurt icing I drizzled over it, but the result was just what I was looking for: not-too-fancy, not-too-heavy, but just special enough.
On Thanksgiving Day, the biggest hassle was the turkey. Even though I had moved it from the freezer to the refrigerator the day before, it hadn't thawed, so I had to cook it longer. I cooked it in a clay pot, which added an antique touch, but I'm not really sure it tasted any better than if I had used an ordinary pan. Once it was in the oven, I started on the cranberry relish. I had never fixed it at home and didn't think I liked it that much, but I found out what a difference cooking it yourself makes. I didn't know how simple it is: just three ingredients and a little bit of stirring, and the flavor just pops.
I had found myself thinking about saucepans the night before -- how many I had and which ones I should use for what. So there they were, all lined up on the burners. So far, so good, and I started to think I might even be able to manage some gravy, which I usually skip due to lack of stovetop real estate. Things only got tricky when I got to the mashed potato stage. The potatoes were done a little early, so I had to move them to a different burner and keep them warm until I was ready to mash them. Shuffling of pans ensued. Dressing is easy, so I put those ingredients to one side and started the winter spinach with raisins and nuts. Once you start this it goes really fast, I found. The only mishap was a partially melted tip on a plastic spoon, but it was a small price to pay for something delicious. The oil and garlic and the sweetness of the raisins cut the bitterness of the spinach, and it was a nice change from green bean casserole.
The action was fast and furious after the spinach was done. I had to take the turkey out and get it on a plate, make the dressing, mash the potatoes, and set the table (which I would have done earlier if I hadn't forgotten, due to the general atmosphere of gourmet excitement). And oh, yes, the gravy -- I used my smallest saucepan for that, and it only boiled over once. I mashed the potatoes with butter and milk, having decided that this was the place to spend calories. Plain potatoes go totally against the spirit of Thanksgiving, I feel.
It occurred to me while pivoting around from the counter to the refrigerator to the table to the stove that I felt like a dancer. It started out like a country dance, sort of slow and measured, and heated up into something more like hot jazz. I was working all four burners and hadn't scorched a single pan, and nothing had fallen on the floor yet either.
Well, finally, the potatoes were mashed, the relish had cooled, the turkey was ready to carve, and I started spooning things out on the plate, a little bit of this and a little bit of that. I wish you could have seen it. I think the mistake I made in the past was going too much toward the casserole end of things. Having a couple of lighter items brightened up the menu, since I knew I wouldn't be in carbohydrate overload afterwards. I looked at that plate, with its sliced turkey resting delicately under a silky gravy, cranberry relish a beautiful shade of red, the old familiar dressing and potatoes, and winter spinach a deep green that totally (I must say) complemented the red, and thought two things: 1. It's a shame I'm not showing this off to someone else and 2. I forgot to put ice in the glass for my tea.
When I sat down to give thanks, I became thoughtful. I realized that it was probably not the time for philosophy but for staying in the moment. My main thought was that I was thankful for being able to put that beautiful meal on the table, a gift I gave to myself compounded of a little artistry and the many gifts life gives us. OK, I guess that was a little philosophical, but I started eating before it could drift into the mind/body problem or something else.
Oh yes, dessert! I can't forget about that! The cake was very good, and here's a hint if you ever want to try it yourself: yogurt works just as well as sour cream for the icing. But it's that little hit of lemon that really sets things off.
Monday, November 25, 2013
The Lord of Misrule
People complain about the holiday frenzy starting earlier every year. It's a cliché, but it may actually be true. Last Friday afternoon, I saw people changing lanes repeatedly (more than usual, it seemed) in heavy traffic near the mall. An overeager van driver jumped in front of me with hardly any room to spare, causing me to miss a green light. He/she probably considered it adroit maneuvering, but I considered it rude.
Same thing at the coffeehouse: I don't know what people are drinking to make them so excitable, but it's not the same thing I'm getting. I usually take a book to read, but even if I were talking with someone, I could probably do it without sharing my conversation with the whole room or blundering into other people's tables. What's with all the attention-seeking behavior: loudness, lack of regard for personal space, and odd mannerisms? I was only that overstimulated once in my life, the time I took Midol for cramps and suddenly found I was bouncing off the walls. Maybe some people just shouldn't drink coffee in the afternoon?
Everybody knows that feeling you sometimes get during the holiday season when you've been overtaxed by addressing cards, shopping for gifts, and planning dinner, and you've navigated the over-bright and over-crowded aisles of the department stores one too many times. I remember walking through the grocery store a few days before Christmas one year feeling worn out, and the main action hadn't even started yet. Generally, that frazzled feeling can be expected in mid to late December, but yesterday it seemed to have hit people about a month too soon. I never saw so many pedestrians nearly run over, and that was before I even got inside. The store was extra crowded with people shopping for Thanksgiving, and things only settled down once the people thinned out.
I usually like to take things in small doses, including holiday cheer, but of course that runs counter to the spirit of Saturnalia, the ancient holiday that celebrated excess and the overturning of social order every December. Having read about some of the customs of Saturnalia, I'm inclined to think most of our modern celebrations are an improvement. Shopping and eating do sound better than an actual descent into lawlessness.
If my reading of the current situation is correct, the spirit of Saturnalia may be making more of an appearance than usual this season. If so, we should be prepared for a bit of a bumpy ride. It's probably best to give yourself plenty of time to get places, to focus on doing the things that truly give you happiness, and to handle any tendency to excess with an extra helping of turkey, a well-planned shopping excursion at off-hours, or some enthusiastic caroling. Resist any temptation to run naked in the streets or steal your neighbor's nativity display. Likewise, be prepared for defensive action. If anyone dashes up to you with a spring of mistletoe and a wild look, your shopping cart makes an excellent barrier.
Same thing at the coffeehouse: I don't know what people are drinking to make them so excitable, but it's not the same thing I'm getting. I usually take a book to read, but even if I were talking with someone, I could probably do it without sharing my conversation with the whole room or blundering into other people's tables. What's with all the attention-seeking behavior: loudness, lack of regard for personal space, and odd mannerisms? I was only that overstimulated once in my life, the time I took Midol for cramps and suddenly found I was bouncing off the walls. Maybe some people just shouldn't drink coffee in the afternoon?
Everybody knows that feeling you sometimes get during the holiday season when you've been overtaxed by addressing cards, shopping for gifts, and planning dinner, and you've navigated the over-bright and over-crowded aisles of the department stores one too many times. I remember walking through the grocery store a few days before Christmas one year feeling worn out, and the main action hadn't even started yet. Generally, that frazzled feeling can be expected in mid to late December, but yesterday it seemed to have hit people about a month too soon. I never saw so many pedestrians nearly run over, and that was before I even got inside. The store was extra crowded with people shopping for Thanksgiving, and things only settled down once the people thinned out.
I usually like to take things in small doses, including holiday cheer, but of course that runs counter to the spirit of Saturnalia, the ancient holiday that celebrated excess and the overturning of social order every December. Having read about some of the customs of Saturnalia, I'm inclined to think most of our modern celebrations are an improvement. Shopping and eating do sound better than an actual descent into lawlessness.
If my reading of the current situation is correct, the spirit of Saturnalia may be making more of an appearance than usual this season. If so, we should be prepared for a bit of a bumpy ride. It's probably best to give yourself plenty of time to get places, to focus on doing the things that truly give you happiness, and to handle any tendency to excess with an extra helping of turkey, a well-planned shopping excursion at off-hours, or some enthusiastic caroling. Resist any temptation to run naked in the streets or steal your neighbor's nativity display. Likewise, be prepared for defensive action. If anyone dashes up to you with a spring of mistletoe and a wild look, your shopping cart makes an excellent barrier.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Moonlighting as Gods
We're under a weather advisory right now, but so far, we've only had rain. That's probably a good thing, since there have been very severe storms in the Midwest today. I heard the storm warning alarm go off a while ago, but whatever the hazard was, it must have passed us by. Here, it's just a rainy Sunday.
I've always lived in places where tornadoes are a possibility. In Florida, hurricanes sometimes spawn them, and in Kentucky, we get tornadoes with severe thunderstorms. In high school, I spent one especially wild night listening to the radio by candlelight as a supercell storm raged outside. This storm was so immense that it affected multiple states throughout the Eastern U.S., dropping numerous tornadoes, one of which damaged our school. We had turned in English papers that week that were lost, our words literally carried away by the wind (now I always make a backup copy).
No wonder there were so many sky gods in the ancient religions; no wonder Thor's emblem is a hammer. I remember as a child seeing a commercial that featured an image of a cloud-wreathed god striking an anvil with a huge hammer. That was the image I carried in my mind of Thor or Vulcan, of how he created thunder and lightning every time he struck with his brawny arm. I could almost see him up there any time the clouds were especially black.
I suppose any time the origin of a force is invisible, the imagination is stirred like that. Right now, for instance, there's no thunder or wind, but there's plenty of noise above my head. For the last several years, I've had a succession of exceptionally noisy upstairs neighbors. If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I might have wondered if Thor or Vulcan had actually moved in above me! Sounds of heavy objects falling (Crack! Thud!), sounds of hammering and scraping, a commotion as of sizable objects being shoved or pushed -- it's all in a day's work around here.
It gives me sympathy for those poor denizens of the mythical realms who must have lived beneath the workshops of those sky gods (not having had any recourse to NIMBY petitioning, under the circumstances). I can imagine their dismay at all the thundering and yammering and unexplained but ominous bumps in the night originating from up top the mountain. They must have wondered what epic storm the gods were stirring up now every time they heard those low-pitched rumbles and ear-splitting cracks. I have wondered several times if someone was about to come through my ceiling and make an unwelcome deus ex machina appearance in my own living room. (You just really don't want a visit from Zeus; he's usually nothing but trouble.)
So if it is Hephaistos' workshop up there, what could they be building? Furniture? Ships? Trojan horses? All seem like odd hobbies for graduate students. When I was in graduate school, I barely had time to cook dinner, much less moonlight as a cabinetmaker. Maybe I have the wrong mythology, and it's really a latter-day Noah up there now, building an ark for a rainy day. The neighborhood is subject to drainage issues, after all.
The only problem I can see with that is he'll never get it out the window. He can't be a god, or he would have thought of that. I suspect it must be some human foolishness, which makes sense. I can't picture Thor using a dishwasher anyway.
Our storm watch has ended while I've been writing, and so, for now, has the noise upstairs.
I've always lived in places where tornadoes are a possibility. In Florida, hurricanes sometimes spawn them, and in Kentucky, we get tornadoes with severe thunderstorms. In high school, I spent one especially wild night listening to the radio by candlelight as a supercell storm raged outside. This storm was so immense that it affected multiple states throughout the Eastern U.S., dropping numerous tornadoes, one of which damaged our school. We had turned in English papers that week that were lost, our words literally carried away by the wind (now I always make a backup copy).
No wonder there were so many sky gods in the ancient religions; no wonder Thor's emblem is a hammer. I remember as a child seeing a commercial that featured an image of a cloud-wreathed god striking an anvil with a huge hammer. That was the image I carried in my mind of Thor or Vulcan, of how he created thunder and lightning every time he struck with his brawny arm. I could almost see him up there any time the clouds were especially black.
I suppose any time the origin of a force is invisible, the imagination is stirred like that. Right now, for instance, there's no thunder or wind, but there's plenty of noise above my head. For the last several years, I've had a succession of exceptionally noisy upstairs neighbors. If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I might have wondered if Thor or Vulcan had actually moved in above me! Sounds of heavy objects falling (Crack! Thud!), sounds of hammering and scraping, a commotion as of sizable objects being shoved or pushed -- it's all in a day's work around here.
It gives me sympathy for those poor denizens of the mythical realms who must have lived beneath the workshops of those sky gods (not having had any recourse to NIMBY petitioning, under the circumstances). I can imagine their dismay at all the thundering and yammering and unexplained but ominous bumps in the night originating from up top the mountain. They must have wondered what epic storm the gods were stirring up now every time they heard those low-pitched rumbles and ear-splitting cracks. I have wondered several times if someone was about to come through my ceiling and make an unwelcome deus ex machina appearance in my own living room. (You just really don't want a visit from Zeus; he's usually nothing but trouble.)
So if it is Hephaistos' workshop up there, what could they be building? Furniture? Ships? Trojan horses? All seem like odd hobbies for graduate students. When I was in graduate school, I barely had time to cook dinner, much less moonlight as a cabinetmaker. Maybe I have the wrong mythology, and it's really a latter-day Noah up there now, building an ark for a rainy day. The neighborhood is subject to drainage issues, after all.
The only problem I can see with that is he'll never get it out the window. He can't be a god, or he would have thought of that. I suspect it must be some human foolishness, which makes sense. I can't picture Thor using a dishwasher anyway.
Our storm watch has ended while I've been writing, and so, for now, has the noise upstairs.
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