The African Cookbook

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African CookbookSandler, Bea. The African Cookbook: Menus and Recipes From Eleven African Countries and the Island of Zanzibar. New York: Citadel Press Book, 1993.

This is a gorgeous cookbook. Not just for the recipes and menus, but also for the art. The illustrations by Diane and Leo Dillon are amazing. My personal favorite introduces the recipes of Tanzania (p. 57).
In the first half of the cookbook the recipes cover all the regions of African cooking. In addition each chapter has a section on the culture of the region, how meals are served (traditionally) and how you, the American cook, can pull off your own Tanzanian, South African or Liberian meal. The second half of the cookbook covers additional recipes. Chapters are gouped by product – fish, poultry, beef, starch, etc.
Something else I find interesting is the nontraditional layout of each recipe. You won’t find a list of ingredients and then preparation instructions. Instead, each ingredient is presented as needed in the preparation instructions. Something I am never good at is reading through the entire recipe before starting and with The African Cookbook that step would be imperative.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Africa: A Reader’s Itinerary” (p4).

Majesty

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I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.

Dot3 Dash3 Dot3

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I had been connected, plugged in, and glued to the Live Earth concert pretty much all day. Somehow, we managed to go out for breakfast (gotta love it when the waitress remembers the vinegar the first time requested), write up menus and grocery lists for the island trip (we’ve decided on pizza the first night – go figure), exchange the xBox360 so my kisa doesn’t go insane, pick up ankle weights and two running books so tigrelily doesn’t go insane, walk five miles and still had time to witness some of the best bands from the day. I am sorry I missed out on Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend, though.
Shakira, Snoop Dog, Missy Higgins, Genesis, David Gray, Metallica, KT Tunstall, Yusef, Chris Cornell, Joss Stone, James Blunt, Xuxa, Foo Fighters, Beastie Boys, even Nunatak, the Antartica band of scientists. I was really excited to see them since I have such an affinity for the Antartic. Dave Matthews Band (just knew they would perform Too Much and Don’t Drink the Water), Alicia Keyes, Madonna, and of course Bubblicious. I loved his decision to call it “We’re NOT Waiting on the world to change”….
I am anxious to go home. My carbon footprint on the island is much smaller than the one here, in this life. At home I am a 0.9 as opposed to a 12.7. Here, I am big foot. Giant foot. Embarrassing foot. It feels wasteful, awful. Today we bought eco-friendly lightbulbs and talked about the Prius, maybe my next car.
Answer the call. I suppose I should think of that literally because my phone is ringing.

Edited to add: TiVo loves me. It recorded all the artists I missed (and wanted to see): Jack Johnson, Corinne and John and even one I didn’t know I wanted to see – DRUMMERS! Yay!

Battlefront of Id and Ego

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Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.

Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.

All-Bright Court

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All-Bright CourtPorter, Connie. All-Bright Court. New York: HarperPerennial, 1992.

I adore debut novels. There is something about that leap of faith that a writer must take before anything else can happen. Every writer is a closet published writer. They walk around with the words in their head, barely daring to dreaming of the day those words will be sold in a big bookstore. Opened up for all the world to see.
That’s exactly how I picture Connie Porter, walking around with the words to All-Bright Court in her head, dreaming of the day they’ll be on paper. I can picture the personalities of  the All-Bright Court residents starting to take shape. It’s the story of two decades of african american families trying to make their way in a steel mill town near Buffalo, New York. All-Bright Court is the housing project that ties them all together.

“She found herself saving things to say to her, storing them away in her mind, folding them as neatly as sheets.” (p 82).
“These people lived inches away from one another, and much of what was done did not have to be told. They did not look away because they did not want to know. They looked away because they did know, and looking away was the only way to grant the woman dignity, to go on believing, to let her go on believing she was a woman” (p 85).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust  and the chapter “African American: She Say” (p 12).

How Are You?

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When I was a kid I would start every letter with “Dear so and so. How are you? I am fine.” My dad would joke “what are you? A doctor? Do you have to ask everyone how they are?” Seriously, dad, it was just something to say. Dear Aunt Jo, How are you. I am fine. Thank you for the purple knit sweater. I love the lime green buttons and yellow peter pan collar. The dog head on the back is cool, too. It’s two sizes too small but with a nice blouse I don’t think anyone will notice…
I could have gone on to ask why Jo can’t remember I’m 14 instead of four or point out that purple isn’t exactly my color, especially when it’s paired with lime green and yellow. Never mind that I’m a cat person and practically run from dogs if they even so much as drool my way. I could have spoken my mind when being polite leaves nothing else to say. Nothing but How are you? I am fine.
I’ve always been this way – asking unnecessary questions to fill the silence of not knowing what else to say. Small talk. I’m just not good at it. I talk the lazy way out of conversations. I’m full of How are you? I’m fines.
But, I’m getting better. Last weekend I went to a party and held my own while my husband was being guitar hero II. We talked sexy shoes, sweet swings and superb sightseeing. No small talk, just really good conversation. Tonight we are getting together with my German friend. Kisa by my side to hold my hand and hold back the nerves. I haven’t seen Mr. Germany in years so I have admit I’m afraid of the useless How Are You that might make an appearance. I don’t want to be that way. I shouldn’t be that way. This is someone who has always been so sweet to me. There is no reason to clam up now. I will be fine.

You Cooking Fool

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It was two nights before the wedding and the lobsters were in the pot. This guy was cooking our meals. Judging by the back pocket he either flipped them or forked them to death. With polka dotted oven mitt in hand, it’s hard to say. As the sun set over the ocean, wine flowed like a red tide, stories were getting taller, while laughter was getting louder. We passed more than the bread to sop up buttery plates. We all partied our way through the final nights of solitary. What once was you…or I…would become we and us in a matter of days, mere hours. Nerves hadn’t set in as long as the sound of the crashing surf was there to calm us.

He was the Las Vegas Lobster Cooking King. Straight out of the gambling desert. He stood guard over our bright red critters and growled his endless love for family. After the ceremony he chased after us with an oversized umbrella, shielding us from the hurricane’s rain. Us, as newlyweds who wouldn’t notice the cold for hours. He left his arid desert for the rain soaked eastern seaboard to celebrate love…and to cook lobsters.

I haven’t seen him since.

Transmit This!

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You know when something is so good you want to shout it from a mountain? I don’t know why…just to share perhaps? Just to be a moron, maybe? Well, I feel like shouting today. I’m on the road again. Finger on the trigger, lemme saddle up.
Transmit this from your mountain top: today I hit golf balls. 1/2 a bucket for the first time in nearly eight years. Okay, so I’ve lost the sweet spot. So my swing feels alittle stupid, but, but, but I hit enough good ones to know my clubs haven’t forgotten me. I had to laugh at him. Here’s what I said somewhere else: Fukc him and his idea that I’ll never be any good. Fukc him and his high fairway only horse. I like swinging the club and that’s all that matters.
Transmit this: I’m back in the game.

Waiting…

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Butterflies. That’s the only way to describe the feeling of being this excited about something. How can I explain this without selling out? It started with an idea shared with a friend. Originally, I wanted it to be our idea – something to share. When she handed it back to me I thought I would harbor a disappointment for longer. Instead, I resurfaced inspired by the secret. I vowed to keep it private, sharing it only with myself and moi. They, in their weird way, will help me through this construction area. I only hope blonds have more fun.

Art & Water – I said I was stalking you. I lied when I didn’t say why. I know why. I do. I feel the box closing in on me when I am so close to breaking free. So close to being normal. My heart has been shredded, chewed up and puked up when it comes to guilt. I can fall on a thousand swords and never forgive myself. Dramatic? Hell yes. When it comes to history I don’t know myself like you do.  

Second Sex – Failed

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Second sexde Beauvoir, Simone. The Second Sex. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1971.

Okay, I admit it. I got two paragraphs into the translator’s preface then skipped to the author’s introduction. There, I got as far as page v . Mind you, the introduction starts on page v. Then, I skipped to chapter one, got as far as paragraph three where I promptly fell asleep. I couldn’t get a single page entirely read. Not a one. Here and now I’m evoking the BookLust 50 page rule and admiting defeat with The Second Sex (see Book Lust Rules). Women everywhere hate me now for what I’m about to say.

I am not a diehard feminist. I have strong beliefs in what a woman can and can’t do. I’ve said before that women are more cerebral than men. They frequently change their minds, then change them back again. This makes them flighty, indecisive. Not exactly the type of person I would want in combat. The ability to drive a car? Please, don’t even get me started! I could go on, but I don’t think I can take the hate mail.
My second reason for not wanting to finish (or even properly start) Second Sex is the fact that it was written in 1952 (from a treatise written three years earlier, in 1949). Much has changed for women since that time. We’re more accepted in the corporate world, the political realm & even the far reaches of outer space. It’s becoming more acceptable for women to be the bread winners while their husbands stay at home with the kids. One might argue that reading Second Sex would be good from a historical standpoint. True, but I’m just not that interested in standing in that light.
My third reason for not reading Second Sex is purely a selfish one. The book is long – over 750 pages! I just don’t see myself devoting my entire summer vacation to something that reads like a textbook.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter, “I Am Woman – Hear Me Roar” (p 120). Pearl calls de Beauvoir a pioneer  of the women’s movement. I’ll take her word for it.

Note: This makes the seventh book I have given up on since starting the Book Lust Challenge.

Anne Frank

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Anne FrankFrank, Anne. Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. New York: Doubleday, 1995.

I was prompted to reread Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl after reading the New York Times article about her cousin, Bernhard “Buddy” Elias, donating 25,000 letters, photos and other documents to the Anne Frank House. What an amazing thing to do. I’m sure Hans Westra, director of the Anne Frank House, is…well…psyched. Imagine the historical value of such a gift! It’s a gift for all humanity and truthfully, it’s worth is immeasurable. Anne Frank died when she was 16 years old. Her “dates” are 1929 – 1945 and that alone devastates me. My heart was caught in my throat when I opened my copy of Diary of a Young Girl and saw her handwriting staring back at me. Everyone knows Anne’s story so I won’t bother with a “review” per se, except to say I simply cannot believe there are people out there who feel her diary is a fraud!

Probably the hardest thing about reading Diary of a Young Girl was the fact I was painfully aware of dates. I knew she was arrested and taken from the Annex on August 4th, 1944. As soon as her diary entries had the “1944” date I started to despair. It was like counting down to death row. It was different when I read this as a child. Anne Frank was a character to me. I couldn’t put reality to her words, flesh and blood to her black and white photo. This time it was different, tragically so. I found myself wiping away tears whenever she mentioned “the end being near.”

What fascinates me about Anne Frank first and foremost is her dedication to telling her truth. She started her diary for herself but, after hearing first hand accounts of life under German occupation were needed, she decided to edit her diary for publication. After her death her father combined both versions and created what we all have read, The Diary of a Young Girl. I never knew there were versions A, B & C.

Two of my favorite quotes, about writing, appear on the same page, “I have an even greater need to get all kinds of things off my chest” and “paper has more patience than people” (p. 6). I couldn’t agree more. 
“Memories mean more to me than dresses” (p 20) and “Will the reader please take into consideration that this story was written before the writer’s fury had cooled?” (p 120) indicate I would have gotten along with Miss Frank “swimmingly”. Seriously.

BookLust Twist: I would have thought Pearl would have a chapter on the Holocaust and this would be included in it. However, I’m relieved it’s in the chapter “100 Reads, Decade by Decade” (p. 177) from Book Lust.

Before The Accident

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John Mayer TrioA friend reminded me that I haven’t put up a BubbleGum post in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Kisa loaded me up with secret shows (gotta love new music), John posted a halarious video on his site about illegal dogfights off stage (the part about Brutus getting loose is the best part), there’s a buzz about The Breakup  (he was too smart for her, IMHO), and then there’s that haircut. (Now, he completely reminds me of a certain artist – don’t hate me SB, but in some pictures the resemblance is uncanny, um…creepy even. Sorry!)

What I can talk about is something a little more profound, something a little more BryanAdams straight from the heart. I forget what show it was but BubbleGum was chatting with the crowd as he often does. He started off with something funny but then launched into about only having one life to live. Go ahead and groan. You’ve heard this from me before. It’s the only life you’ve got so live it to the fullest, blah, blah, blah. But, here’s a different take on it. This is life as you know it, as Bubble says “before the accident.” Okay, so it may not be an accident per se, so fill in your own blank. Life before ______. Here’s an example: Some people blame their current beliefs, actions, downfalls, whatever, on September 11th and they preface defensively with “before 9/11 I didn’t…” So, now you know what I mean. Tomorrow you could be hit by a car and paralyzed from the waist down. Your days become separated into “before the accident” and “after the accident.” I know all about this. I hear a date, say 1995, and I immediately think, “three years after dad died.” I’m constantly doing the math. There are other dates that trigger that response, too. I think everyone has a timeline that resonates a “before” and “after.” But, But. Here is my question. How are you going to live your life before the next accident?

BubbleGum said many tomorrows from now your topics of conversation will circle around how many medications you have to take and how you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before. You might need diapers, a walker, or hearing aid. Many tomorrows from now you will be saying, “before I got old…” It’s a different kind of accident, an unavoidable one at that, but one to consider.

What I Don’t Have

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chignonWhat I don’t have is hair sense. I’m the girl who has two styles, ponytail up or just plain down. What I don’t have is the ability to go chignon fancy. What I do have is a friend with classic style and grace.
What I don’t have is matching accessories. I’m the girl with the $5 fish that circles my thumb. What I don’t have is where to start with the silk scarf. What I do have is a friend with maturity and wisdom.
What I don’t have is a cool demeanor. I’m the girl who can rant about razor burn for an hour. What I don’t have is class. What I do have is a friend who is sweet and funny.
What I don’t have is the ability to make small talk with you. I’m the girl who circles her friends and asks their advice. What I don’t have is patience. What I do have is a friend who walks the walk, talks the talk. Straight up.
What I don’t have is strut. I’m the girl who can’t find sexy shoes that fit (but I’m working on it, Ruby). What I don’t have is a stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks swagger. What I have is a friend who is confident and beautiful enough for the both of us.

So, I’m not fancy. I don’t have that kind of personality. I don’t have fukc me pumps so I’ll settle for cute maryjanes. But. But, what I DO have is an amazing group of people in my life who are stylish, graceful, mature, wise, sweet, smart, straight forward, confident and beautiful with a little bogger thrown in for fun. When I asked, they rallied. When I asked, they answered. That’s all that matters.

Thank you.

Cooking It Up

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I have been a cooking fiend. Last night was scallops and spaghetti sprinkled with chili peppers, cilantro, garlic and olive oil. Skewers of toasted sourdough and mozzarella cubes drizzled with garlic, lemon juice and butter. I’m addicted to gratins and fresh herbs lately. Fish poached in coconut cream and sesame seeds. It’s time to break out the smoker. Hickory chips are waiting to burn. Baked beans with smoky chipotles and bacon simmer with sweet brown sugar. It’s summertime, after all. Aint it funny how I’ve become so consumed by food?
I have a friend who can only be described as my food friend for we only meet for meals. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t talk on the phone. We don’t see movies. We place all of our conversations in the company of food. Something new to talk about only goes with something good to taste. He wants me to try a deep fried hamburger. He’s the same one who wanted me to try goat testicles
Food circles my life and winds in and out of my days.
To celebrate the Closer I have wine (Merlot, of course) followed by one perfect RingDing. Kisa gets the other one. We lick chocolate off our fingers and smack our lips for a treat too small.
Before Rebecca shows it’s gourmet pizza and maybe now a rootbeer float after. I just need to find a better beer.
Then there are roadtrips. They require bottled water and smoky, salty beef jerky.
Monhegan means crab apples straight from the tree, blackberries from the bush, mocha whoopie pies and lobster by sunset’s dying glow.
If I lived in New Jersey I would want a Creations salad, a spicy italian sub or better yet, a shopping spree at Delicious Orchards. Picking perfect plums, soft gouda cheese and crusty sourdough bread. A picnic by the sea.
If I lived in Colorado it would be a Chipotles burrito chased by Fat Tire – bar none.
My most intimate moments are prefaced by food. Sharing spoonfuls of something good leading to something better. Leaning in over linguini to confess something deep.
Food has always hidden my denying ways. Picking walnuts out of a waldorf while breaking up; bringing the rest home to my sister. Holding an oversized mug of coffee with both hands, steam hiding my face as I hear about the cancer that is killing you. You can’t see my tears. Flinging tomatoes to swooping, squawking seagulls, pretending not to hear, yet I listen.

Feed me.

Beloved

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BelovedMorrison, Toni. Beloved. New York: Penguin, 1987.

It’s been 21 years since I first read Beloved. The one and only thing I remember is my reaction to it. I remember crying and crying, not understanding why the words moved me so. Every sentence was so beautiful in its heartbreak.
After rereading Beloved I realize why I had such a hard time remembering people and plot. Beloved is the story of running. At the center is Sethe, a former slave who cannot escape her past. Everyday she lives in fear of being brought back to someone’s possession. Her history chases her everywhere. Denver is her surviving daughter who runs from loneliness, constantly trying to catch up to her mother’s attention. Paul D is another former slave who shares Sethe’s past. He, too, is in a devastating cycle of running away from his past, never believing he is capable of staying in one place freely. Beloved is Sethe’s murdered daughter, back from the dead to reclaim her life with Sethe.
After rereading Beloved I remembered English class and how we went round and round about the symbolism. What did the number 124 on the house meant? Why was color such a prominant description for things? What about Baby Suggs? In the end we decided one of the most powerful images of Beloved is Denver’s birth. Denver wouldn’t have made it into the world had it not been for the help of a white woman when Sethe was in labor. It’s almost a commentary on how society should be thinking today – we can’t make it in this world if we do not work together.

“The sky above them was another country. Winter stars, close enough to lick, had come out before sunset” (p 175) is my favorite line.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust and the chapter called, “African American Fiction: She Say” (p. 12).