Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

Almost Breathing

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Three days to go. Three more days and I can breathe again. Back to school will be my back to good test. This time tomorrow I will be gearing up for Gehring. Like Ray says, three more days.
Sometimes I think it was a mistake to get married in September. The thought is fleeting but, it is my hated month after all. My nemesis in more ways than one. I shut people out and refuse to shout it out, work it out. My angry month. Sad, but true. I like it that way. I dream of Gin. I think of Integrity.
Three more days and I can unleash the pumpkins, bats, cats, witches and all things scary. I love October and all it brings. Pumpkin everything. This year I’ll search the faces of orange orbs and find my True Jack for the 31st. High Hopes boasts a syrup season too good to miss. Caleb’s Scary House waits for wusses like me.

**I don’t know what I did to deserve your gifts. You hardly know the tragedy of the ninth month. But, I thank you for sending smiles when I needed them most.**

Elaborate Mind Break

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dscn0378.JPGI admitted I was losing my desire to cook. That utterance alone was enough to scare me into therapy. Since when did cracking open a cookbook not motivate me, move me, make me happy? Recently. When I started The Affair and felt awful. That’s when.

I’m happy to say the spell has been broken. I’ve ended my rendezvous with Mr. V. There’s even a rumor that Mr. V. will be going away permanently and I couldn’t be more pleased. In the meantime, I’ve become reacquainted with my cookwear again.
Last week it was Greek turkey burgers complete with feta, oregano, red onion, spinach, roasted red peppers, garlic, Kalamatas, pepperoncini, cucumbers, lemon and yogurt. Last night it was inspiration from Tyler and Emeril: pork chops in autumn, noodles and cauliflower. “Pork chops in Autumn” just means the chops were served over a saute of Granny Smiths, Vidalias, Savoy, Calvados, butter, bay, thyme and marjoram. For some reason I didn’t want to serve just egg noodles so I dressed them with butter, s&p, and lemon zest. The cauliflower was roasted with evoo, garlic, s&p, and lemon juice. Aside from turning off a burner and not noticing for 20 minutes…and then roasting a plate at 500 degrees (!), the meal went really well. One for the books, as they say, mistakes and all.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tonight. Kisa is under the weather and I am beyond frazzled. I am heart weary and dead tired. I owe phone calls and thanks to people so fantastic I am left speechless. I will get to you, I promise! In my heart, you are my lovely.
The only thing left to say is it’s amazing what a 500 degree oven will do to a plate. Go figure.

Another Book Break

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So, I had just finished Map of the World and I was trying to decide between All the King’s Men, Moo, Things They Carried and Road From Coorain. I admit, I started each of them at one time or another this week. None of them grabbed me right away. I absolutely hate that – when a book doesn’t hook me within the first five pages. I don’t know what it is about the number five but I’d like to be drawn into the plot at least by page five.  I know, I know! That doesn’t give the author much time to bedazzle me but that’s that I’m looking for.

Yesterday the reading dilemma (if you can call it that) was resolved. As some of you know, I’m a LibraryThing Early Reviewer. From time to time I review not-yet-published books and tell ’em what I think. I’m not your standard reviewer. I don’t pour over the books looking for errors, I don’t critique style or continuity within an inch of its literary life, I don’t look for the proverbial gun to go off by the second act. In short, I have no clue why LT asked me to be an early reviewer in the first place. At any rate, there have been three chances to review and I have been selected all three times. Instead of trying to find the next BookLust book I’ll be reading Red Zone Blues: A Snapshot of Baghdad During the Surge by Pepe Escobar. I’m nervous. I won’t lie. I’m really nervous. I guess it’s the subject matter that has me so apprehensive. War vs Anti-war. I’ve never been able to take a stand. I could say it’s a “necessary evil” but I don’t believe in killing like that. But, then again…let’s just say I am sitting on the fence and I am, for lack of a better phrase, firmly stuck on the fence.
Take for example, So You Think You Can Dance. I was stuck watching it because some chick was dancing to “Waiting on the World to Change.” What I didn’t tell you is that all the contestants were required to dance to the same song, wearing the same white, peace signed outfit. I watched eight different people dance to the same song only because I wanted to hear that song different eight times. What can I say, I love my BubbleGum. By then I was hooked on the contest itself and all hope was lost in regards to changing the channel. But, back to the song. The dancers were instructed to dance as choreographed but they could add their own spin to spins. They were all supposed to end with their hands in the air, showing the peace sign. Some dancers ended with anger in their eyes, some had smiles of hope, others tears of sadness. Different opinions about the song translated into different opinions about war. The War. The executive producer was forced to issue a public apology at the beginning of the next episode. Since when does a song about peace immediately become synonymous with anti-war? Since when does dance become a political demonstration and art become a threat? See what I mean? Reading about the Middle East is going to be a tough gig for me.

“If we had the power to bring our neighbors home from war they would have never missed a Christmas. No more ribbons on the door. ~ John Mayer, Waiting on the World to Change.”  Has any soldier missed a holiday? Can someone tell me they haven’t? If we had the power to bring them home maybe they would miss Christmas for some other reason.

…climbing down from the soapbox.

Another World

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I’ve always thought I would like living under the sea, or in an aquarium…at the very least. The watery depths have always appealed to me. Maybe it’s because there is silence, pure silence. Inhabitants glide by, float by, dance by effortlessly, carelessly, and silently. Maybe because there is speckled sunlight near the surface but, for the most part, mostly there is only darkness. Murky and mysterious. It’s misleading but the ocean’s depths seem calm, quiet, even patient. What a contrast to the world above.
Me, I had contrasting worlds on Sunday. Sometime during the day I lost my energy. I put it down somewhere and promptly misplaced it. I spent most of the late afternoon in a self-induced stupor. Sleeping in fits, staring at the tv in a wide-eyed trance, eating things straight from containers. I watched nearly an entire season of “So You Think You Can Dance?” I got drawn in by the contestants while shoveling large spoonfuls of cottage cheese into my mouth; I put myself on the panel of judges and instantly became judgemental and sour. Surely she can’t win. He looks too goofy. Who am I to judge? One girl looked like she could bench press me with one arm and I was calling her a losing contestant?
Everyday has to have one redeeming quality, just one. Here it is: Earlier in the afternoon I ran over five miles after working out. Yes. What a contrast to the couch I just confessed to. I actually put hand to weight and lifted. And then, and then got on the treadmill for an hour! Imagine that! I know a certain someone will scoff at my paltry five miles. I can hear him now, “Five miles? An hour? Is that it? I’m just getting warmed up!” But, I’m proud of my five. Wait. Over five. I think it was more like 5.36 or something. Anyway. I’m proud of this run because it’s the first one that felt like me in a long time. The music between my ears matched the desire in my heart and fueled my feet to run. Then. I hit the couch. Go figure!
The contrast between treadmill and tv time is tremendous. One world colliding with another. Yet, both worlds are mine.

I Don’t Deserve

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I had felt like crying all day. Heartache would lurch forward, stuttering, sudden and unexpected. A surprise for my composure. Choking back unwanted emotion, it was all I could do to swallow down sorrow. Mantras: Turn away from the hurt. Keep my eyes averted from the loss of composure. Keep my hands on the wheel of self control. Flare ups of faltering just sent me failing.
It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different. A peanut shell is just a shell until this time September. My mother says she remembers every second. 15 years later.
I’m jumpy, jittery. Suspicious as all hell. When a well known, troubled patron came into my office I eyed his shaking hands, his twitchy eyes and untucked shirt with paranoia. Harmless, he swayed from foot to foot as he explained he wanted to read something to me. I nodded, unable to voice my reluctant consent. I should be used to this by now. When he finished he folded his paper and started for the door. Harmless. To my surprise he didn’t walk out the door, instead he abruptly closed it. Shocked, panic nearly broke through paranoia and I started to protest. Harmless or not I was alarmed. He had locked the rest of the world out. No one could get in. Caged out. Before I could utter a single sound this nervous, twitching, skittish, peculiar patron produced a pitch pipe and started to sing. His voice waivered and trembled but never missed a note. His face took on a look of complete calm as he kept his voice quiet. His song was haunting and sad, beautiful and sweet. Short, too. Just as abruptly he finished, gave me a quick bow and was gone. Leaving the door to my once thought of cage open.
I do not deserve the kindness of you when all I do is dread and doubt. Jumping to conclusions, jumping out of my skin. I’m angry because I can’t sit still and accept your gifts graciously. I’m sad because I’ve let the words and advice of others taint my judgement of you (restraining order?). There is no reason to be jumpy or judgemental, yet I am.

A Map of the World

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map of the worldHamilton, Jane. A Map of the World. New York: Anchor Books, 1995.

National bestseller. Oprah book. A movie. All that should tell you something. Normally, I don’t try to read reviews before I myself have read the very last page. This one was a little different. Praise for A Map of the World was on the inside cover and I couldn’t resist. One line really said it all for me, “the story of how a single mistake can forever change the lives of everyone involved.” If you read my blogs you know I am fascinated by the what could have been, fate and serendipity. The path less taken, the path not known to take at all. This is the story of a mistake, an err in judgment, and the time and effort it takes to get back to good.

Told in first person from both Alice & Howard, husband and wife. Alice begins and ends the tale with Howard interjecting in the middle. Details that overlap her story and his tie the couple and their voices together. It’s their marriage talking. Yet, their views on life are very different. There is a moment when Howard is driving by the library and he thinks of the librarian, a man with a hook for one hand. Howard remembers that his wife thinks of the librarian as Captain Hook, not only because of the hook, but because the librarian was supposedly “cranky and unhelpful” to her. Howard recalls learning from the librarian and how he “never even noticed his hand.” Walking down the road of life Alice and Howard see the scenery differently, despite being hand in hand.

Favorite lines:
“I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error, or else an unfortunate accident” (p 3).
“She was all nerve, so energized by rage she had a hard time sorting out what she most hated” (p 291).
“It is one thing to be in a car with someone who is quiet, and another to be with someone who is silent” (p 364).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Big Ten Country: The Literary Midwest (Wisconsin)” (p 25). I started reading A Map of the Worldbefore I double-checked what Pearl had to say about it. I had just finished the part about a major tragedy. I have to say it was a shock to read there was another one in store for me. I almost wished I hadn’t known that.

Sending You

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Dear Dad,
I’m in this huge office with tiny courage. You should see me. Little ole me, Head Mucky Muck, behind a gigantic desk. It’s 72″ wide. 11″ more than I am tall when I don’t slouch. How I sleep curled up I could slumber on it with room to spare. People smile when they see me here. Like I’m playing professional or something. Big desk, little girl. I’ve painted blue and green, green and blue. I seem to be drawn to ocean colors according to crayons. They don’t know the sea as well as you.
I’ve taken to talking to myself lately. Especially in early mornings when the light of day is still hours away. I pretend you are on the other end of a disconnected phone line, or only a stamp away. I still hear you in my sleep. I haven’t lost your voice but I’m starting to forget where your life left off and ours kept going.
D took this picture of this picture of us. You and Me. Me and You. Do you even know D? They have been a couple for so long I’m forgetting start and end dates. When they started being thought of as together and when you, well, when you ended. I know you don’t know my other half. I’m betting you wouldn’t have liked him at the start. I didn’t. In the end you would. He grows on you until you can’t imagine a single second without his Being being beside you. Just being. He saves my sanity. Really. He puts it away for when I need it again. Stores it up in cases of collapse and utter emergency. There have been some. You would love him once you see how wonderful I am with him. I’m behind this big, huge, honking desk because of him. Head Mucky Muck.
It’s stupid to say I miss you. Because that’s pointing out the obvious. Today, today your advice in the shape of a shell went to work with me. Pale purple and white and worn smooth from my thumb. Your words will sit in this office. Stupid stuff like, “lay off the Turbo.” Sage stuff like, “love what you do, do what you love.”

I’m working on it, dad.
Love,
me

Navigationally Lost

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I have made the decision to go home. I wasn’t going to – make the decision or go home. Neither was in my best interest until my life got beyond interesting. Let’s face it. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is to go home in the waning days of summer’s warmth. When the mornings are cool enough for a sweatshirt and the afternoon, shorts. When coffee steams hot at daybreak and ice cream cools the midday sunshine.
I need to go home become my astrocompass has lost its true anything. I need direction. I need my mother to teach me how to make MeltInYourMouth rocky road fudge complete with pockets of sticky sweet marshmallow and crunchy walnuts. In this week I’ve lost my love for the kitchen and that scares me. I sigh and slouch on the couch and say “let’s order out.” Subway for dinner should be a sin.
My magnet is more than one morning in Maine. I’m drawn to the ocean if only to drown the feeling of being directionally duped. The pull of the island is too strong to put aside. I will go. Navigate me so I can TumbleHome.

Remember When

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I find it funny that after three years I’m still laughing and losing it. Marriage hasn’t changed you. Marriage hasn’t changed me. Yet, marriage has changed us. Us as who we are together. I find that funny.
I spent 74 minutes on the phone remembering September 18th, 2004. The tent, the guests, the chef, the weather (oh, the weather!) The island had a wedding exactly like ours almost on the same day. Same tent, same weather, same chef, some same guests. We made comparisons back and forth, forth and back again. Ping ponging “remember whens” at each other. “But, her sunset wasn’t as nice” my mother sniffed. She’s just giving My sunset preferential treatment because I’m her daughter, so in a weird way it was her sunset, too. I’m sure it was just as beautiful for the newly pronounced Mr. & Mrs. of September 2007, too. Everything would be remembered as utterly gorgeous on that day. Even if it wasn’t.

Divine Secrets of The Ya-Ya Sisterhood

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Wells, Rebecca. The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. New York: Penguin, 1996.Divine Secrets

This is Rebecca Well’s second novel, a follow up to Little Alters Everywhere. Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood continues the story of Vivi Abbott Walker and her friends (known as the Ya-yas), this time through the eyes of her adult, engaged-to-be-married, daughter, Siddalee Walker. Siddalee is a flourishing theater director who falls victim to the ever-famous, word-twisting interview. A reporter from the New York Times gets Siddalee to open up her childhood box of memories and reveal dark secrets about her upbringing. Ultimately, her mother’s alcoholism and abuse are exposed and Siddalee must spend the rest of the book apologizing to her mother for the scandal. When Siddalee calls off her engagement the Ya-Yas brazenly step in. In an effort to make her daughter understand who she is, Vivi mails her daughter a scrapbook and we are taken into the wonderous, playful yet dark world of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
Ultimately, I identified with this story. It’s the classic yet complex struggle between mother and daughter. Secrets revealed, hearts broken, lives changed. In the end, happiness and love prevail. I know you’ve seen the movie.

BookLust Twist: Divine Secrets comes up a couple of times in Book Lust. First, on page 83 in the chapter “Family Trouble” then in the chapter called “Women’s Friendships” (p 248).

Amsterdam

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AmsterdamMcEwan, Ian. Amsterdam. New York: Anchor Books, 1999.

Another book that starts with a funeral. Of course, I’m thinking of Charming Billy. But, the comparisons stop there. How to describe Amsterdam? It is a short (193 page) novel that takes place in London, England. Two men share a bond of friendship as well as a romantic past with the same woman. Vernon is an editor of a newspaper and Clive is a modern composer. While they are friends they are not above rivalies and each, through his friendship tests the bounds of morality.

I see this story as a movie. There is one particular scene where Vernon feels dead. He is about to hit himself upside the head in order to feel pain when his secretary interrupts him, “He had raised the ruler several inches above his right ear when there was a knock on his open door and Jean, his secretary, entered and he was obliged to convert the blow into pensive scratching” (p 34). Can’t you just see it?

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust. Ian McEwan has his own chapter called, “Ian McEwan: Too Good To Miss” (p 149).

Reading Lolita in Tehran

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Reading lolitaNafisi, Azar. Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books. New York: Random House, 2004.

The first thing I think as I am 13 chapters into Reading Lolita in Tehran is maybe, just maybe I should have read Lolita first. Yet, it is not just about Lolita. It’s also about Gatsby, Daisy Miller and Pride & Prejudice. Those, I have read. But, these four books are not the only ones Nafisi recommends. There is a whole list of them. I am tempted to start another challenge and add them to my “must read” list.

But, back to Reading Lolita in Tehran. Where do I start? Blanketing the entire story (nonfiction) is the outrage I felt. Professor Azar Nafisi must secretly meet with seven students to study Western classics, books that are forbidden in the Islamic Republic of Iran. I don’t know how they dared. Morality squads roamed the streets, raiding homes and shops whenever they wanted, fundamentalists took over the university where Nafisi formally taught, women are arrested for not wearing the veil, being seen in public with men other than their husbands, brothers or fathers, for wearing makeup…It just reminds me I am a spoiled Westerner who can paint my eyes black as night, show the curve of my neck, and most importantly, read any book I want.
Think of a braid. One strand is politics, another literature, the last society. This is Reading Lolita in Tehran. Woven over and under and throughout is Azar Nafisi’s life. Her personal views on relationships, society and of course, the books she loves. Because it’s her point of view and hers alone we have to trust that she is telling us the truth. Her truth. Here are my favorite quotes – some with my commentary after.

“Reality has become so intolerable, she said, so bleak, that all can paint now are the colors of my dreams” (p 11).
“I think I somehow felt that as long as I was conscious, nothing bad could happen, that bad things would come in the middle of my dreams” (p 45).
“Some people take up alcohol during periods of stress. I took up Jeff” (106).
“In the midst of gunshots and chants we hugged and chatted about the almost two decades since we had last seen each other” (p 148).
“The administration wanted us to stop working and at the same time pretend that nothing has changed” (p 151). ** I’m reminded of a relationship I once had when the entrapment was the same. **
If I turned towards books, it was because they were the only sanctuary I knew, one I needed in order to survive, to protect some aspect of myself that was now in constant retreat” (p 170).
I became more anxious. Until then I had worried for the safety of my parents, husband, brother and friends, but my anxiety for my children overshadowed all” (170). ** I thought of my sister when I read this line. I think she would agree. **

Random comments~ I want someone to explain these things to me. How someone can be pompous and meek at the same time; how someone can speak precisely and leisurely; and how someone can murmur a defiant no. Just odd descriptors in my opinion.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter called “Me, Me, Me: Autobiographies and Memoirs” (p 162). I would say Nafisi’s story is a chapter of a memoir; a partial snapshot of a life.

Kitchen Healing

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wine.jpg

Yesterday was all about me. Girly and giggly, I indulged in fun and food and friends. I needed this. Needed to sip away sorrows of an anniversary long ago; needed to drown myself until I was back here, back to now, back to loving my life. Kisa took the wheel while I took to the wine. Together we sampled dips and chips, sauces and soups. Simply Tasteful something-er-rather. Someone asked me about kids, then asked my age. I don’t know why I was suprised over their shock. I see myself everyday so I should know. Later. Home. BubbleGum and Gravity, letting my favorite drummer find my heart. Find my favor.

Today, I took to the kitchen for Kisa. Breakfast was apple pancakes from scratch. Granny Smiths grated in the thick, multigrain batter, cooked slow. A topping of apple slices sauteed in small amounts of butter, brown sugar and maple syrup. Hot coffee to wash it all down. A meal to last all morning. Only blueberries could make it better.
Lunch was indulgent enough to be called dinner. Inspired by season-ready tomatillos I created a Mexican buffet:
Enchiladas – chicken, sour cream, onion (finely minced), cream cheese, Monterey cheese, tabasco, chili powder, cumin, and smoked paprika stuffed in multigrain tortillas. Baked with sauce – garlic, chipotles & tomatillos roasted and pureed. So simple, so yummy (thanks, Rick!). This has got to be one of my favorite meals.
Red beans and Rice – lime juice, red beans and brown rice (kept simple to mix up with the other dishes).
Tacos – beef, chili powder, cumin, Tabasco, cayenne pepper, onion, tomatoes, black olives, jalapenos, lettuce, cheese, salsa, avocado….
I left the kitchen looking like a tornado-torn town. My kind of cooking.

Dessert was something I picked up from Reading Lolita in Tehran: Coffee ice cream, cold coffee and pecans. Simple and sweet.

So, September is slipping away. Halfway gone. Pretty soon it will be crockpot cooking, slipper & sweater wearing, shut-the-windows weather. Something to look forward to: Tuesday!

Sex Stories

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She came home at five years old and said with a smile “I touched a penis.” This was like lighting a match and there were only two options. The flame dies out, the incident is forgotten on a whisp of smoke, or. Or. The match flares to a flame. Becomes an inferno of hell to come.
TruthDareConsequencesPromiseOrRepeat. I chose Dare. I just like taking dares with Yes. Sent her to her room without explanation. Where did I go wrong? My Fault for years to come. Come on baby, light my fire.

She had her first older man at eight. Fire on the Mountain. Couldn’t understand why he didn’t treat her differently. Wasn’t she special (so special, he would whisper) because of the things she let him do. Let him do to her? “IWLLBGNTLE” spelled out in Scrabble pieces. No wonder she won’t play the game. She wondered if anyone of importance would ever noticed. She was certainly teased enough about it by those who mattered less. Who would say anything? Definitely not her. Where did she go wrong. Her fault for years to come.

Virginity lost at 13. I pretended to be asleep. What’s the sense of interupting when she wants it that way? Expects it that way? A walking, talking, breathing, lying (down) slut. Talk is cheap but actions are rich – they rule the game played out. She walked away. I turned my face away from his pain. Where did he go wrong? His fault to fall in love. His fault for years to come.

They caught up to her in September. Payback’s a bitch and she felt she earned it, deserved it even. Larry, Curly & Moe. Where did you go? The taste of gin, sour on your lips. The lead of Led, heavy in your ears. She’s not here. But I am.

Her fault for years to come.

Eyeliner

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eyelinerI had a dream of you. Eye of You. It’s been one of many without explanation. Can’t explain you. My sister was losing a hand, her right. An unavoidable operation. You, both of you, were wearing eyeliner and could duplicate. I was angry because I didn’t care about the hand. Not as much as the eyeliner. Or the duplicity of two of you and your blackened eyes. I knew She made you wear it and all I could mutter was, “fukcing foolish” like I knew better. Like I was supposed to care. We met for dinner but ordered lunch. My sister’s babies multiplied from two to three and it seemed all so normal. Even the hand losing part. I remembered the restaurant, been there before, but not the menu. Foreign language in a dead man’s house for it was someone’s home. I hated myself for wanting to keep you when I didn’t want you just as much. Equal parts love and hate. Ate the bread. The eyeliner still bothered me and I bitched back about it. A Clockwork Orange stupidness that couldn’t be washed off or forgotten. Since when? Silly stupidness. I woke confused, not knowing where I was.

On the drive to work I heard a song that make me think of you. If I said the one word song you would know, you is You. Everyone would know it was you and I can’t expose you like that. With or without eyeliner.