Saturday, February 27

Ernestine Hatpin and the Prairie Dogs

Act Your Age

It’s hard to review a cd sung and produced by one of your favourite people. In fact, Sheila Gibbs figures prominently every time I take the Dalai Lama’s pig/cow/sheep/tiger/horse sea/cat/coffee/dog/rat/colours test, which is nothing to sneeze at. Achoo!

As for Ernestine Hatpin and her ‘friend’ Tim Gibbs (mooooo…!), their songs are funny, sweet, tender, melodic, funny, clear (as in “they sang and played with clarity”), harmonic, lively, funny, emotionally honest and never patronizing, instrumentally rich, memorable, funny, unexpectedly (because this is a kids’ cd, after all) diverse, and suitable for all ages.

I thought I might regret the absence of Picnic Time for Teddy Bears, but Act Your Age is an original work, and I would have been happy if each track had been “I Like Farm Trucks” (big, red, rolling down the dirt road, which, I am partly ashamed to admit, I have sung loudly even under the influence of a little Cuveé).

That said, the entire cd, start to finish, is a delight, and I am thrilled to tell all of you music lovers out there to check out the site, listen to the tunes, and pony up! I have already corralled a few happy listeners – Felix, Samantha, Adam, Zoe, Eve, Lainey and Blue – who will be more than eager to offer up testimonials as soon as they learn how to print.

As for Sheila and Tim, they are probably the only people on Facebook who can actually call all those people friends.

Act Your Age

Mastered at Wolf Mastering, Nashville TN

www.hatpinmusic.com

And for a really great sample –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IRG7Q99Ng50&feature=youtube_gdata

Friday, February 26

Letting Bygones Be Bygones

The winds are blowing the snow sideways across the front of the window, reminding me of Dorothy flying about in her house (well, she wasn’t flying about exactly, the house was) in The Wizard of Oz. I am often captivated by blowing, slanting snow, although if there are patches of tarmac in the picture, not so much, as this reminds me of difficult childhood days and visiting my mother in hospital. Still, I will look no matter which way the wind is blowing, whether the pavement is bare or otherwise. Funny, too, how weather can conjure up all sorts of images. In fact, the sky is my best reminder of times gone past.

Actually, I become emotionally tired and more than a little annoyed when people start harping on people who harp on the past. Don’t these complainers understand that without a past a person has no future? Don’t they get that without looking backward we can’t make our best assessments about moving forward? What is it they’re afraid of? The Boogeyman? Pain? Truth?

If it’s a deeper, darker past you’re wanting to escape, the most efficient way to do that is to look over your shoulder and introduce yourself to your ghosts. “How do you do? My name is Jennifer Coffey, and I would like to say that you look ravishing in white. A little pale, you say? Perhaps I am – but surely not as pale as you.”

Earlier this week, Craig Ferguson interviewed Jeannette Walls, the author of The Glass Castle [ISBN-10: 074324754X ISBN-13: 9780743247542] – a  memoir detailing Ms. Walls’ childhood/familial dysfunction, eccentricity, and homelessness. Ferguson, of course, shares his autobiographical experience in American on Purpose  [ISBN 13: 9780061719547 ISBN 10: 0061719544]. The two authors commented how readers sometimes associate memoir-writing with a poor-me-pity-me attitude, when nothing could be further from the truth. And I, speaking from the experience of what some might call (albeit occasional) confessional writing, agree with them entirely.

Looking at those difficult times and events is a way of learning, expanding, helping others, and of celebrating the past. What’s the difference between saying, “I grew up in a household where we used coloured markers on our skin to camouflage the holes in our pants” and “I grew up in Liberia where, as children, we were handed guns in order to protect ourselves.” Why is one person’s story more valid than another’s – more palatable, more acceptable, embraced? Why is one kind of looking back commendable and another relegated to self-pitying? I will never understand that. I will never be comfortable in a world where individuals are afraid to be honest about what has been hard for them. I will never figure out how it is that vulnerability somehow becomes equated with weakness when, in fact, the opposite is true.

I wonder, too, if looking into the past weren’t such a useful exercise, why is our children’s literature, and our adult fiction, filled with backward longing? Why did Dorothy, after melting the Wicked Witch of the West and making friends with all of those wonderful creatures, so desperately want to return to the places, and to the memories, that she knew? You might tell me that sepia remembrances of bucolic farms and windy porches are nothing to sneeze at and cannot be compared with family dysfunction and abuse, but I say to you – it’s all the same thing. We all come from somewhere and someone. We all need to go home, at least in our heads, at least sometimes. We all have to root through the attic and unbury the dead.

The Hospital Window by James Dickey

I have just come down from my father.

Higher and higher he lies

Above me in a blue light

Shed by a tinted window.

I drop through six white floors

And then step out onto pavement.

 

Still feeling my father ascend

I start to cross the firm street,

My shoulder blades shining with all

The glass the huge building can raise.

Now I must turn around and face it,

And know his one pane from the others.

 

Each window possesses the sun

As though it burned there on a wick.

I wave, like a man catching fire.

All the deep-dyed windowpanes flash,

And, behind them, all the white rooms

They turn to the color of Heaven.

 

Ceremoniously, gravely, and weakly,

Dozens of pale hands are waving

Back, from inside their flames.

Yet one pure pane among these

Is the bright, erased blankness of nothing.

I know that my father is there,

 

In the shape of his death still living

The traffic increases around me

Like a madness called down on my head.

The horns blast at me like shotguns,

And drivers lean out, driven crazy --

But now my propped-up father

 

Lifts his arm out of stillness at last.

The light from the window strikes me

And I turn as blue as a soul,

As the moment when I was born.

I am not afraid for my father --

Look! He is grinning: he is not

 

Afraid for my life, either,

As the wild engines stand at my knees

Shredding their gears and roaring,

And I hold each car in its place

For miles, inciting its horn

To blow down the walls of the world

 

That the dying may float without fear

In the bold blue gaze of my father.

Slowly I move to the sidewalk

With my pin-tingling hand half dead

At the end of my bloodless arm.

I carry it off in amazement.

 

High, still higher, still waving,

My recognized face fully mortal,

Yet not; not at all, in the pale,

Drained, otherworldly, stricken,

Created hue of stained glass.

I have just come down from my father.

 

1962

Hints from J. Louise

Okay, so they’re not my hints exactly, but considering they’re all about coffey – okay, have it your way – coffee – and because I think they’re useful tips, I am reprinting the following for anyone who might agree and want to use them. I bought a book from Avon, too – Reader’s Digest’s extraordinary uses for ordinary things – and it’s wonderful.

Meanwhile, let’s drink to coffee filters!

1. Cover bowls or dishes when cooking in the  microwave. Coffee filters make excellent covers.
2. Clean windows, mirrors, and chrome... Coffee filters are lint-free so they'll leave windows sparkling.
3.  Protect China by separating your good dishes with a coffee filter between each dish.
4.  Filter broken cork from wine. If you break the cork when opening a wine  bottle, filter the wine through a coffee filter.
5.  Protect a cast-iron skillet. Place a coffee filter in the skillet to absorb moisture and prevent rust.
6.  Apply shoe polish. Ball up a lint-free coffee filter.
7.  Recycle frying oil. After frying, strain oil through a sieve  lined with a coffee filter.
8.  Weigh chopped foods. Place chopped ingredients in a coffee filter on a  kitchen scale.
9.  Hold tacos. Coffee filters make convenient wrappers for messy foods.
10.  Stop the soil from leaking out of a plant pot. Line a plant  pot with a coffee filter to prevent the soil from going through  the drainage holes.
11.  Prevent a Popsicle from dripping. Poke one or two holes as  needed in a coffee filter.
12.  Do you think we used expensive strips to wax eyebrows? Use  strips of coffee filters..
13.  Put a few in a plate and put your fried bacon, French fries, chicken  fingers, etc on them. It soaks up all the grease.
14.  Keep in the bathroom. They make great "razor nick  fixers."
15.   As a sewing backing. Use a filter as an easy-to-tear backing for embroidering or appliqueing soft fabrics.
16.  Put baking soda into a coffee filter and insert into shoes or a closet to absorb or prevent odours.
17.  Use them to strain soup stock and to tie fresh herbs in to put in soups and stews.
18.  Use a coffee filter to prevent spilling when you add fluids to your car.
19.  Use them as a spoon rest while cooking and to clean up small counter spills.
20.  Hold dry ingredients when baking or when cutting a piece of fruit or veggies. Saves on having extra bowls to wash.
21.  Use them to wrap Christmas ornaments for storage.
22.  Use them to remove fingernail polish when out of cotton balls.
23.  Use them to sprout seeds. Simply dampen the coffee filter, place seeds inside, fold it and place it into a plastic baggie until they sprout.
24. Use coffee filters as blotting paper for pressed flowers. Place the flowers between two coffee filters and put the coffee filters in  phone book.
25.  Use as a disposable snack bowl for popcorn, chips, etc.

Oh yes…they’re great to use in your coffee makers, too.

Thank you, Harold.

Thursday, February 25

English Language Conundrums

We'll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes;
But the plural of ox should be oxen not oxes.
One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,
Yet the plural of moose should never be meese.
You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice,
But the plural of house is houses, not hice.
If the plural of man is always called men,
Why shouldn't the plural of pan be called pen?
If I spoke of my foot and showed you my feet,
When I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?
If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,
Why shouldn't the plural of booth be called beeth?
If the singular is this, and the plural is these,
Why shouldn't the plural of kiss be kese?
Then one may be that, and three would be those,
Yet the plural of hat would never be hose.
We speak of a brother and also of brethren,
But though we say mother, we never say methren.
So plurals in English, I think you'll agree,
Are indeed very tricky--singularly.

The English Lesson (version two)

Now if mouse in the plural should be, and is, mice,
Then house in the plural, of course, should be hice,
And grouse should be grice and spouse should be spice
And by the same token should blouse become blice.
And consider the goose with its plural of geese;
Then a double caboose should be called a cabeese,
And noose should be neese and moose should be meese
And if mama's papoose should be twins, it's papeese.
Then if one thing is that, while some more is called those,
Then more than one hat, I assume, would be hose,
And gnat would be gnose and pat would be pose,
And likewise the plural of rat would be rose.

All of the above was taken from an email sent to me by my friend, Diana, and from

http://grammar.about.com/od/basicsentencegrammar/a/Engpluralspoem.htm

Also from the email, the author of which neither of us can find

Let's face it - English is a crazy language.
There is no egg in eggplant or ham in hamburger;
Neither apple nor pine in pineapple.
English muffins weren't invented in England.
We take English for granted, but if we explore its paradoxes,
We find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square,
And a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don't fing,
Grocers don't groce and hammers don't ham?
Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend?
If you have a bunch of odds and ends
And get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn't preachers praught?
If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?
Sometimes I think all the folks who grew up speaking English
Should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane.
In what other language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?
We ship by truck but send cargo by ship.
We have noses that run and feet that smell.
We park in a driveway and drive in a parkway.
And how can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same,
While a wise man and a wise guy are opposites?
You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language
In which your house can burn up as it burns down,
In which you fill in a form by filling it out,
And in which an alarm goes off by going on.
And, in closing, if Father is Pop, how come Mother's not Mop?

Tuesday, February 23

Fran Frazer

I knew her first as Professor Fran Frazer, later as Fran Frazer, and finally as Fran Baker, wife of Ron Baker, both of whom taught me at the University of Prince Edward Island when I attended in the late 1980s. I also knew their son, Ted, with whom I spent many happy hours discussing poets and poetry, sitting on the wide, carpeted steps of the university cafeteria.

I took two classes from Fran (three from Ron), both in Modern Drama. I sat captivated and terrified, enthralled by her fierceness, her precision, her excellence and wit. I felt as if I were sitting in the Algonquin Hotel studying at the feet of a master, trying to take in all that brilliant editing and rare expertise had to teach.

I walked out of more than one of her classes, too, infuriated by the strike-through pencil marks that pierced every line of my essay, momentarily ignoring the A+ (I am  not boasting; I am speaking of her fairness) at the top of the page. But by the time I got home, I was babbling out her classroom commentary to Don, the words I had rehearsed and hoped to memorize so that I could learn to become half the person that she was.

I could write reams about my classroom experience with her, and about the jealousy she engendered in a discipline dominated by men. In fact, she was the only female member teaching in the department when I was a student, where she also took on the responsibility of Dean and Chair. To say that I was fully engaged in her lectures is true, but it was Fran I was even more entranced with. She was laugh-out-loud funny, shockingly penetrating and more courageous than any woman I have known on the island. And she was the first person, apart from Don, who encouraged me to pursue a degree.

Driven to express her opinions on what she felt were right and wrong, Fran did not hesitate to say that she did not wholly approve of my writing a novel as thesis. We did not have a creative writing program at UPEI, and I think she felt that setting this kind of precedent was preclusive. Nevertheless, I was granted permission, and not once did she ever make me feel as if she regretted her decision, despite all that was wrong with my work (let me count the ways), and despite her out-spoken opinions on Shaw, Shepard, Ibsen, Brecht, Strindberg, Stoppard, Synge, Pirandello, Hellman, O’Neill, Williams, Fugard and Miller—and how many others I had never read before I met her.

One of my happiest memories is watching and listening to her—stylish, red-lipsticked (her devoted husband at the keyboard)—sitting sideways on the piano bench, high-heeled shoes kicked off, belting out, “Hard hearted Hannah, the vamp of Savannah GA!” And the most important memory I keep is of the day I graduated, Don flying in late, delayed by a business trip, my young children in the audience, my multiple parents long-dead or vanished, Fran and Ron doffing and donning their caps, beaming toward me as I walked across the stage—the great girth of me—as I scooped up my diploma.

Over the years we exchanged Christmas letters and cards, and she was one of the cherished people who wrote to me after Don died. But whenever I took up my pen to dash off a postcard or a holiday missive, I was overtaken with a fear of poor grammar; subject/verb disagreement; weak vocabulary; punctuation errors—all those things Fran knew better than Fowler. Even now as I type this, I am halted by what I fear is poor phraseology, cloying sentiment, shaky syntax.

I also find I am writing logorrheically because I don’t want to let go of her; relegate her to the dead.

The last words she spoke to me were from her hospital bed (where illness had robbed her of breath), delivered through her kind husband, who relayed them this Christmas—words I read through streaming tears, wishing I had had an excuse to have kept more fluid contact: “Tell her to finish that novel.”

I knew her first as Professor Fran Frazer. I will think of her forever as my cherished friend. I love and respect and admire her more than people who have claimed me as family, and oh, how I will miss her.

An evening spent with Hannah sitting on your knees
Is like traveling through Alaska in your BVD's,
She's hard-hearted Hannah
The Vamp of Savannah, GA

Jack Yellen, Bob Bigelow, Charles Bates

Monday, February 22

Brother and Sisters Ice Dance at the Olympics

When Mary told me there were four sibling pairs in the ice dance at the Olympics, one thought consumed me.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

After I saw their performances (most especially one pair, who laid across one another’s crotches at the closing of their number, and who gazed lovingly at one another throughout), one word came to my lips.

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

Sunday, February 21

Moving Pictures

I can’t believe how long it is taking these few sets of photos to leave my computer, especially given that I am sending them one set at a time. I thought Windows 7 was supposed to be super fast, but these pictures would have left my computer half and hour ago on Windows 2000.

Truthfully, though, I don’t know enough about these things, and I am probably sending them in 400 megabytes (if that’s even how you say it) per shot. I think a re-enactment would have been faster.

I guess it’s like snail mail in the way that I don’t have to sit here all night and watch them go. Still, if they don’t leave my email box soon, I’ll worry and wonder if I have jammed something up irreparably.

On the other hand, this can’t be much of an interesting entry for anyone but me, and even I am beginning to yawn.

While I wait, I could say instead that I watched The Hurt Locker this evening, and as much as no one can argue that it certainly captures, in documentary style, the heart and heartlessness of the war in Iraq, I felt gratuitously manipulated. The film, which should have left me stock-still for a week and a half, stayed with me all of two minutes – the time it took me to switch from it to Project Runway.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re saying. Anyone who could be more riveted by Project Runway than by a war in the Middle East (or anywhere) doesn’t have the depth of character to appreciate The Hurt Locker.

But that’s not true. I have watched The Deer Hunter until my eyes practically fell out of my head, and I know by heart all of the songs in Coming Home – a staggering war movie – and The Thin Red Line is still with me, years after my first viewing, and I can’t even talk about The Killing Fields without crying.

What I don’t need to see, as one of the movie’s dozen examples, is a bomb squad unit member eviscerating a child’s stomach and pulling out a package of explosives. I believe that this kind of monstrous behaviour must happen in Iraq, otherwise why would the director be hammering these scenes down our throats from start to finish? You will tell me that she does this because this is the reality; this is the Iraq we have not seen; these are the tales of a new war that we do not know.

All I have to do is watch the news and pick up a well-written article to know what is happening in Iraq. I have seen the looks on the faces of hundreds of soldiers, and Iraqis, since the 1980s, and I know enough about war (my late husband was a war historian, after all) to understand its brutality, senselessness and immorality. I think a person would have to be living in a cave to not get that; to not care.

The relentlessness of this story, The Hurt Locker, and the necessary craziness of the characters, however, drives home its point in a jack hammer way, and leaves me with nothing but a feeling of depletion – not even a little room for reflection. In fact, the most effective parts of the film took place during the last ten minutes, listening to the conversation between the two soldiers, watching their eyes, and following the brief scenes back on American soil. I don’t think a grocery cereal aisle has ever been as poignant.

Still, despite the film’s solid performances, I found much of it too easy. Without nuance and silence and absence, we have nothing to imagine, fill in, or bring to the story. Mostly, we are just horrified, and I don’t need a film to just horrify me. I have imagination enough of my own to know what goes on in Iraq without a screenplay. I want more, in fact: more complexity, more range, more of what I have been taught to call back story. And I don’t always or even often want a two-hour movie to be obvious (and brutal) for two hours. I could have told you within seconds, for example, how long Ralph Fiennes would be on the screen – and why – all of which makes me wonder how hard people are willing to think, and feel, about what is put before them.

Anyway, I am one woman having a late night opinion about a film that Rotten Tomatoes rates at 97%. What do I know? Besides, the photos are finally gone, and I can go to bed.

Found on the Internet, and far more meaningful to me…

Shadows of War

I walk in the gardens,

on the run from the news.

The orange waste-sacks,

bellied with swept leaves,

crouch between the limes

all along the bare avenue -

prisoners of Guantanamo.

I walk in the orchards,

abandoned to autumn.

A dog leaps playful

out of its owner's control,

runs with the leash trailing

among the shit-coils in the dirt -

barking an echo of Abu Ghraib.

I walk in the break-time,

see poems on a classroom wall,

Owen, Sassoon, Sorley,

the texts of this year's syllabus:

words wailing like shells,

beyond the limits of our hearing -

mourning the corpses of Fallujah.

Derek Sellen

November 2004

Friday, February 19

Help Wanted

I forgot to brush some of the melted butter onto the sides of the springform pan before folding the cheesecake batter, and now I have something that resembles the Mohave Desert (Dessert?), cracks and rivulets cutting into and through and along the top of the cheesecake, the crevices in some places a 1/4 inch deep. Thank goodness for blueberry coulis, which not only covers the damage but will help oxygenate my gasping lungs. (How long can a flu go on, I ask myself.)

Which takes me back to my first attempt at lasagna. My boyfriend, Homer (he was smart, patient and had the most hypnotizing Jamaican accent) (I was sixteen and shallow)….well…guess who was coming to dinner? I decided that I would attempt a dish I knew nothing about, in my landlady’s quiet kitchen. I wore a black-and-white a-line dress and stood without shoes, thinking myself romantic. Anyway, I suppose the recipe-maker assumed I knew that I was to drain the hamburger fat before adding the mix to the pan, but alas! she would have been wrong. What a mess of floating fat, and I have no idea how long it took me to clean the oven. The fire fighters weren’t too happy either, all those wonderful smells and nothing to offer up but half-day-old coffee. Talk about bitter.

Then there were the oatmeal cookies, for the children, of course, and for Don who I had just begun dating that week. The Joy of Cooking could not fail me, and I was so tired of making and forcing into the kids barley casserole (we were poor), and I thought everyone needed a treat. Besides, I wanted to show off my culinary skills to the man who, the night before, had whipped up red cabbage and beef tongue in the time it takes to say, “Oh my God what is that – and do we have to eat it?” The thing is, I mixed up two adjacent recipes, and instead of adding whatever a typical oatmeal recipe calls for in butter, I added two cups. I distinctly remember trying to flatten the butter in the large measuring cup, never once wondering what kind of cookie recipe would call for this much fat. This time I did not need the firefighters, but the cookies did burn in record time. They came out of the oven looking like deflated black flowers (pansies, perhaps), the kind that float in those small oil lamps, and I got grease all over my lovely second-hand blue floral dress and slipped in my bare feet on the dripping fat. I thought Don would never stop laughing.

All of which reminds me of two things. As much as I scoffed in a sour grape kind of way over the clever young woman who decided to write a blog about Julia Child and her recipes, I admire anyone who can get through a cookbook in a year and still come out looking pretty. At the rate I do things in the kitchen, it would take me a year to make my way through the section on Fat and Its Uses (if there even is such a thing -- although there ought to be). As it is, and this is the second thing, I have traded the bare feet for pink crocks (I know, I know), and the dresses for elephantine t-shirts and over-sized pajama pants -- which I fill, speaking of fat. I guess there are some things we aren’t meant to do well, although I can tell you that I have no worries about the blueberry coulis -- especially if I get somebody else to make it. Mary! Yoo hoo! Mary -- where are you?

You give the impression of being all noble and moral and helpful in the kitchen… Bridget Jones

Thursday, February 18

Cheesecake: New York Style

from Jeff Smith’s The Frugal Gourmet: On Our Immigrant Ancestors

ISBN 0-380-71708-5

Since the 1990s, I have served this cheesecake to Don, Sarah, John, Jon, David M, Maureen, Susan R, Noam, Lise, Deb, Kathy, Jeff, Mary, Ralph, Gloria, Eva, David R, Rosaleen, Don C, Maryanne, Don M, Brenda, Joey, Linda, Chris, Isaac, Joan, Pablo, Mike H…and who knows the names I have forgotten (or no longer know)? But I can say with assurance that of these individuals, at least 95% have said it is the best cheesecake they have ever eaten. Now that’s a recipe!

Today, I am about to bake and (tomorrow) serve this cheesecake to Diana K, Sarah C, Mary T, Juanita S, and Marg B, so please bow to the east and pray that this lovely dessert, and the chef, prove 100% reliable.

Here is the recipe:

Serves 8-12 [depending on your gall bladder in/tolerance]

  • 1 cup graham cracker crumbs
  • 3/4 cup sugar
  • 1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons melted butter
  • 1 1/2 cups sour cream
  • 2 eggs
  • 2 teaspoons vanilla
  • 1 pound cream cheese, broken into small pieces

Blend the cracker crumbs, 1/4 cup of the sugar, and the 1/4 cup of melted butter, and line the bottom of an 8- or 9-inch ungreased springform pan.

Blend the sour cream, 1/2 cup of sugar, the eggs, and vanilla in a food blender for 1 minute. Add the cream cheese. [I do this in small chunks.] Blend until smooth.

Pour the remaining 2 tablespoons of melted butter through the top of the machine. Pour into the springform pan.

Bake in the lower third of a 325 degree oven for 45 minutes,

When the baking is finished, remove the cake from the oven, and turn the oven on to broil. Broil the cheesecake just until the top begins to show attractive spots of brown.

[Cool in pan for 10 minutes. Loosen the cake from the edge of the pan by running the tip of a knife or narrow spatula dipped in warm water and then dried. Use an up and down sawing motion positioning the knife in between the edge of the cake and the side of the pan. Remove molded siding 12-24 hours later, after refrigeration, but do not refrigerate until cake is completely cool.] http://www.baking911.com/cakes/cheesecake101.htm

Refrigerate for 4 hours, or preferably overnight, before cutting and serving.

This is not a low-calorie version. Cut into small pieces—it is very rich.

Note: While I appreciate all of the cheesecake tips offered on the website named above, I confess that I have quite simply followed the recipe.

I add the following information preemptively, although it’s hard to follow why a boy who sent nude photos of his girlfriend via the Internet is on a 25-year sex offenders list, while Jeff Smith was merely taken off the air…leading one to wonder whether his sexual escapades were consensual or if it’s true that money talks:

From Wikipedia: His [Jeff Smith’s] public career came to an end when two of his male assistant chefs brought charges of sexual harassment against him. Shortly thereafter, in 1998, seven men alleged that he had sexually assaulted them in the 1970s, when they worked for him.[3] Smith denied the accusations. He was taken off the air shortly afterward. Though he was never charged with a crime, his insurance company settled with the plaintiffs out of court, and Smith never returned to the airwaves.[4] 

Smith’s personal life aside, the cookbook pays recipe tribute to Armenian, Basque, Cambodian, Cuban, Ethiopian, Filipino, German, Hawaiian, Hungarian, Indian, Irish, Jamaican, Japanese, Jewish, Korean, Latvian, Lebanese, Lithuanian, Mexican, Moroccan, Norwegian, Persian, Polish, Portuguese, Puerto Rican, Romanian, Russian, Saudi Arabian, Scottish, Spanish, Swedish, Thai, Vietnamese, Welsh and Yugoslavian immigrants.

“Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater.” Narrenbeschwörung by Thomas Murner

Wednesday, February 17

ADHD

Whether it’s the February greys, the Olympics, the cheesecake, or this book I have to have read by tomorrow, my mind is whirling.

Rather than get down to business, I have a thousand competing thoughts, all of them crashing and banging so hard my head hurts.

Here is a sample:

Toronto is going to be so proud electing their first gay-married mayor, whose strategically-timed baby (cam’ on!) is going to arrive just when the voters are hitting the polls. Who cares that he’s a bully, can’t speak past a grade seven level, or was involved in a scandal that has somehow escaped the attention of Torontonians?

http://informedvote.ca/2009/11/10/george-smitherman-avoids-further-backlash-for-ehealth-scandal-by-running-for-toronto-mayor/

Why is Edith perpetually hiding behind her plasticized rock cave? I only see her when she comes out to eat, which might be a good sign given that all she used to do was yap for oxygen at the lip of her tank. But what is she doing back there? Playing canasta? Reading tarot cards? Dialing for dollars? Come out, come out, wherever you are! Eeeeeeeedith! Yoo hoo –- EDITH!  http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/f/fish.asp

Should I make a physiotherapy appointment for next week, or will this cold be gone by then? I can’t go back until I have completed a few day’s worth of exercises, but I can’t do the exercises when I feel like this and, besides, he won’t believe me. They never do. And what with all the chocolate I ate…yeesh. And so much for the fibre-filling slow cooker. I gained two and a half pounds! Vegetarian chili my ass! http://allrecipes.com/Recipes/Everyday-Cooking/Vegetarian/Slow-Cooker/Main.aspx

RRSPs, RRSPs, RRSPs

Pardon me boys, is that the Transylvania choo choo?

How can I go anywhere with these bitten-down nails? I could glue on those fake ones from Wal-Mart, but I hate giving any money to that ugly corporation, and besides, I am worried I will have a toxic reaction to the glue.

http://www.enotes.com/health/group/discuss/allergy-sufferers-unite-9265

I thought the judges (apparently, the 2010 Winter Olympics, officially the XXI Olympic Winter Games or the 21st Winter Olympics, is a major international multi-sport event held on February 12–28, 2010, in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada) underscored at least three (Johnny Weir, Takahiko Kozuka, Stephane Lambiel) of the skaters last night, and what’s with the puss on Plushenko? Is he truly sick, as he claims to be? Is he arrogant? Having us on? No matter, I was so thrilled by every performance that I hardly missed watching Idol. And as much as I know almost nothing about winter (or summer) sports, I giggled right along with Maelle Ricker, who won a gold medal in the snowboard cross final. She’s a delight!

The clock is now heading for one, Hickory, and I have yet to shower. I must not forget to floss and use my gum brush and the rubber band made for those two back teeth. I was so ashamed last week, not having kept up with my flossing, picking and cleaning, and I see now why Lainey got the plastic dolphin (it’s really a shark, but don’t tell her) and not me.

Ah yes, Lainey -- who yesterday peered into her new two-acre back yard and said to her mother, “Mummy, can we go play in that park?”

And oh, the baby’s hands and feet! Just like his grandpapa’s…wow. And that line straight across his palm…also like grandpapa…how strange. “All the better to smack you with, my child.” (Oh, get over it!) Actually his hands remind me of his grammie and his grandpa, but don’t tell the kids. As Mateusz says, “It’s always the mother, isn’t it Missus?” Yes indeed, Mateusz. Yes indeed. Thank God for daughters, I always say. Okay, thank God for sons, too –- but for entirely different reasons. (Name two.) (Apparently, a scapegoat is a person unfairly blamed for some misfortune, or an actual goat used in a Jewish ritual.)

I’m so funny!

ADHD, it seems, comes with exclamation marks. oh oh

How many men from afar are hunting down naked women? The hits to my blog yesterday, most of them looking for “naked girls” … sigh. What did they do back in my time? Sears catalogues, I suppose. I remember eyeing the men in the underwear section myself, clad in their white panelled briefs and suede tool belts. I thought they looked silly. You can see more action in the speed skating outfits, if that’s what turns you on. As for me… http://queergnosis.com/2009/08/06/sexual-fluidity-the-lisa-diamond-interview/

RRSPs, RRSPs, RRSPs [see: Edward Jones (statistician) (1856–1920) co-founder of Dow Jones & Company]

Not sure if I’m up for the gleefulness of it all. I like cheery people (just not perpetually), but sometimes there’s a kind of forced gushiness that carries with it Christian undertones…all of which couldn’t be further from me. Reminds me now of that dreadful TLC family, and that ridiculous mother: “TLC?” I asked. (I was ten.) “It stands for tender loving care,” she replied. “That’s what we practice in our family.” Well, good luck to you with that.

(Apparently, in literal, non-slang use, bitch is a term for female canines, particularly amongst dog breeders. It is also a common English profanity for a woman that typically carries denigrating or misogynistic overtones—such as resemblance to a dog. It is also used to characterize someone who is belligerent and unreasonable, or displays rudely intrusive or aggressive behavior)

Professor Smith kept my essay not to put in the library, as he said, but to STEAL it! I know this is true, not only in my guts, but because Joanne found her essay reproduced in a magazine -- in HIS name.

The aloe vera plant (apparently, also known as the medicinal aloe, is a species of succulent plant that probably originated in Northern Africa, the Canary islands and Cape Verde) has 26 extensions, which is 24 more than when I moved it up here in the light. Let there be light!

I misspelled extensions (extentions). http://www.thefreedictionary.com/

There goes a squirrel. Hi, squirrel! Mary ran one over on Monday. Well, she didn’t squish it, to be fair, but she could have. I ought to have said, “Mary ran over a squirrel on Monday.” Two seconds later, she almost hit a chipmunk, which was five minutes before she missed the curb at the gas station. Way to go, Mary! How you doing on the double Axels? (Apparently, named after the Norwegian skater Axel Paulsen.) How many token animals can one woman have?

Anyway, I had best get off to the shower and get rid of some of these toxic thoughts. Anyone seen my medication? How about the cheesecake recipe?

Note: All apparently adjuncts come from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

Mother Goose

Tuesday, February 16

Sexting

What’s wrong with this world? What kind of planet are we living on that young girls and boys are sending nude pictures of themselves across the universe and, perhaps even worse, to their friends and friends of friends’ friends?

What kind of double message are we, as parents, sending when we tell them this is wrong, but hand out cameras and cell phones, and back down and away from any notion of punishment or an idea of accountability? (Mind you, I remember how hard this was even in the 80s and 90s, trying to maintain a loving and disciplined home when so many of our children’s friends had no rules to mind whatsoever.)

I can’t turn on the television without being reminded to tweet Ellen DeGeneres, David Letterman, Craig Ferguson (who at least seems to have the good sense to resent being told what to do), the women at The View…and so on.

Why would I want to add my name to the millions of followers –- of TV hosts and actors, no less -- hanging onto 140 inane character thoughts per message?

A person wouldn’t care as much were this only about mild fun and minor games.  But when you read about young adults who are dropping dead from playing on-line video games; listen to teenaged girls and their families talk about being harassed for years because vindictive boyfriends have sent topless photos of these young girls throughout the school, and eye pre-teen children who wouldn’t know what “no” meant if you set them on fire…

I heard a young man (who was accompanied by his lawyer) this morning trying to defend his position after having sent nude photos of his girlfriend to her friends, and then finding himself charged as a sex offender (who will be on record as an offender for twenty-five years –- until he is 43). I had some trouble empathizing, frankly, especially when I heard what had happened to another girl whose family did not have their daughter’s tormentor charged: four years of screaming abuse, girls standing on tables (where are the school staff!?) shouting “whore” and “slut” at her; the family home vandalized, her eight-year-old brother opening his email to repeated views of his bare-breasted sister.

It’s no wonder adult children of my generation think they were hard done by. My children had to share a bicycle, and if they were given electronic toys it was because someone in the family had won a lottery. They had part-time jobs, too (we discouraged them from working as teenagers, but they wanted to do what their parents had done), and they gave up free time to be volunteers, school crossing guards, and high school mentors.

I am sure they sit back now in this age of random entitlement and wonder why we were so hard on them. I am sure the majority of adult children on this continent feel the same way.

If they did not, why then are they raising this mess of offspring who have no regard for their parents, for hard work, for earning their toys, for helping people in need, for saying please and thank you, or for caring about what happens to anyone besides themselves? I can’t imagine talking to my parents the way I hear young people talk to theirs, and while I am not aligned with the “seen but not heard” ethos, I do think we have to try and bear in mind that respect ought to be offered up at least until it is proven unwarranted.

I feel this way about children, too. I think they deserve our respect until we can see that they haven’t an idea of what respect means. And by respect I include consistent discipline; punishments and rewards; our presence in their lives (and not just in the room); constancy; affection; accountability and discussion. I wish I had been more consistent myself, given all that I know and have learned as a parent.

Still, I can tell you one thing: it would have been a frosty day in hell before I handed out a cell phone or a camera without putting strong ground rules in play beforehand (if I handed these items out at all). It’s one thing to pull down your pants for a quarter (no, it wasn’t me) and be punished for that; another entirely sending out naked photos of your darling baby self to a boyfriend who promises he will come back into your life if you do.

Wednesday, February 10

Lainey’s Guest Blog

Remember when you were three years old and only half as smart as I am? Remember when you didn’t have computers and knew what back arrows and triangles were or how to say, “This is too hard, grammie” or “May I please have a smoothie”…? Remember when, instead of using a mouse or creating complex pictures on-line, you spent your days pulling fuzz out of your navel and gazing at the stars, wondering, “What’s a star?”

Grammie says that I am emotionally smart, that I am gifted, blessed, anointed with empathy, that I came into the world this way….that I will go out with the same perspective.

But I’m not sure if it’s empathy or that I just can’t stand to see anyone unhappy. I spend a lot of my time waiting to kiss a prince or looking for new meaning in the faces I pass by – but does it matter, will I truly care when I discover that my prince is just a Pez dispenser bought for me by my imaginative, tender-for-me mother?

Grammie says that, in the end, the fact of my caring – my sentimental longing, my quivering memory of a parent whose imagination, on my behalf, was enraptured by a 99 cent toy – is what will sustain me, set me apart, force me to be brave.

I love the world I live in. I feel lucky, although I cannot quite name it. I am smart, and this could save me – because grammie also says that smart is about how I feel and not about what I know.

What I feel is love, indignance, happiness, safety, excitement, compassion and gratitude. I am going to go to school in the fall and I will wait, and I will watch, for my mommy and daddy, my grammie and gramps, to stand at the corner by the red house and wave good-bye.

I will carry them with me all of my life wherever I go – I am a smart and tender-hearted girl – and the world will give right back to me every wonderful thing I see reflected in its light.

Sunday, February 7

Deborah Tannen: You Just Don't Understand

I have been interested in Deborah Tannen since I heard her talking about the differences between men from New York and men from Detroit. I haven't anything close to an eidetic memory, but I was so impressed that I think I have a reliable gist of what she was expressing as the inherent differences between cultural backgrounds that lead to differences in social styles. I laughed out loud as she imitated the intense, fast-talking New Yorker overwhelming the more inward, cautious (thought-processing) businessman from Michigan. She paints a vivid portrait of the essential differences and resultant problems.

A few years later, I was watching I don't know what when there she was again, being interviewed about her latest book, You Just Don't Understand: Women and Men in Conversation. (See Amazon review and link to her book below.) It occurs to me that I could stand to read this book, judging that I still seem to have more than an occasional problem when trying to discuss personal issues, and their causes, with men (who don't seem to want to discuss them at all) against the women I know, who will talk endlessly, and not always but generally far less defensively, about what upsets and fascinates them, including their own shortcomings and idiocies -- which we will laugh about no end until a man comes along and tells us that we should be quiet and stop dwelling in the past or on minutiae.

In fact, so sure am I of this, that women reading this are probably laughing out loud, or at least nodding agreement, while men are clucking their tongues, yawning, and in almost every instance shutting me down.

Ironically, my innate prejudice has always been that the world would work the other way around: that men, raised in this culture of an almost visceral power, would have the (what I am likely wrongly defining as) confidence to open up on any conversational subject (Tannen's view on status and men is fascinating), and that women, relegated to the world of emotional pleasing, would cower at the first hint of dissension. And yet it does not work this way at all.

In most cases, when I want to work something through with a man, he will simply shut down, which he does not necessarily or consciously mean as punitive, but which, by its very nature, can seem nothing but -- especially to women who are used to talking through their problems and not merely looking for a one-line or especially succinct resolution. All I have to do is spend half an hour with my female friends to know how true this is.

I offer, as example, excerpts from Deborah Tannen's book:

A married couple was in a car when the wife turned to her husband and asked, "Would you like to stop for a coffee?"

"No, thanks," he answered truthfully. So they didn't stop.

The result? The wife, who had indeed wanted to stop, became annoyed because she felt her preference had not been considered. The husband, seeing his wife was angry, became frustrated. Why didn't she just say what she wanted?

Unfortunately, he failed to see that his wife was asking the question not to get an instant decision, but to begin a negotiation. And the woman didn't realize that when her husband said no, he was just expressing his preference, not making a ruling. When a man and woman interpret the same interchange in such conflicting ways, it's no wonder they can find themselves levelling angry charges of selfishness and obstinacy at each other.

As a specialist in linguistics, I have studied how the conversational styles of men and women differ. We cannot lump all men or all women into fixed categories. But the seemingly senseless misunderstandings that haunt our relationships can in part be explained by the different conversational rules by which men and women play.

Learning about the different though equally valid conversational frequencies men and women are tuned to can help banish the blame and help us truly talk to one another. Here are some of the most common areas of conflict:

Status vs. Support.

Men grow up in a world in which a conversation is often a contest, either to achieve the upper hand or to prevent other people from pushing them around. For women, however, talking is often a way to exchange confirmation and support.

I saw this when my husband and I had jobs in different cities. People frequently made comments like, "That must be rough," and "How do you stand it?" I accepted their sympathy and sometimes even reinforced it, saying, "The worst part is having to pack and unpack all the time."

But my husband often reacted with irritation. Our situation had advantages, he would explain. As academics, we had four-day weekends together, as well as long vacations throughout the year and four months in the summer.

Everything he said was true, but I didn't understand why he chose to say it. He told me that some of the comments implied: "Yours is not a real marriage. I am superior to you because my wife and I have avoided your misfortune." Until then it had not occurred to me there might be an element of one-upmanship.

I now see that my husband was simply approaching the world as many men do: as a place where people try to achieve and maintain status. I, on the other hand, was approaching the world as many women do: as a network of connections seeking support and consensus.

Information vs. Feelings.

A cartoon shows a husband opening a newspaper and asking his wife, "Is there anything you'd like to say to me before I start reading the paper?" We know there isn't - but that as soon as the man begins reading, his wife will think of something.

The cartoon is funny because people recognize their own experience in it. What's not funny is that many women are hurt when men don't talk to them at home, and many men are frustrated when they disappoint their partners without knowing why.

Rebecca, who is happily married, told me this is a source of dissatisfaction with her husband, Stuart. When she tells him what she is thinking, he listens silently. When she asks him what is on his mind, he says, "Nothing."

All Rebecca's life she has had practice in verbalizing her feelings with friends and relatives. But Stuart has had practice in keeping his innermost thoughts to himself. To him, like most men, talk is information. He doesn't feel that talk is required at home.

Yet many such men hold center stage in a social setting, telling jokes and stories. They use conversation to claim attention and to entertain. Women can wind up hurt that their husbands [fathers, sons, friends] tell relative strangers things they have not told them.

Orders vs. Proposals.

Diana often begins statements with "Let's." She might say "Let's park over there" or "Let's clean up now, before lunch."

This makes Nathan angry. He has deciphered Diana's "Let's" as a command. Like most men, he resists being told what to do. But to Diana, she is making suggestions, not demands. Like most women, she formulates her requests as proposals rather than orders. Her style of talking is a way of getting others to do what she wants - but by winning agreement first.

With certain men, like Nathan, this tactic backfires. If they perceive someone is trying to get them to do something indirectly, they feel manipulated and respond more resentfully than they would to a straightforward request.

(The reason I highlighted bits from above is because it is the essential that is...essential. The broad examples can be as far-reaching or as diverse as the people in the situations, and to relegate everything to the more conventional example is dangerous.)

Tannen says that the most common complaint she hears from men about women "...is that women complain all the time and don't want to do anything about it...Men misunderstand the ritual nature of women's complaining." Men, says Tannen, are problem solvers, while women want to talk (and talk) through these concerns, which often serves to merely anger the man.

"Women want men to do what we want. We want them to want to do what we want, because that's what we do. If a woman perceives that something she's doing is really hurting a man, she wants to stop doing it. If she perceives that he really wants her to do something, she wants to do it. She thinks that that's love and he should feel the same way about her. But men have a gut-level resistance to doing what they're told, to doing what someone expects them to do. It's the opposite response of what women have." She reminds readers that, of course, there are men who are very helpful toward their women. "But if a man is going to be touchy, it's more likely to go in that direction. Whereas if a woman is insecure, she's more likely to go in the other direction, [and] be super- accommodating."

 

In my experience, if you call a man (even a reasonable man) on his responses or lack of them, he is as apt to run (fast and hard and far away) as he is to want to sit down and talk about it. The opposite is true for most reasonable women. They are far more likely to want to discuss the problem, look at the causes, and work through to a solution. Women accuse men of being unfeeling, dismissive and unforgiving. Men accuse women of being histrionic and logorrheic and wallowing.

I love this comprehensive explanation from Laura Bryannan cited here at http://www.homestar.org/bryannan/tannen.html

In sharp contrast to the communication style of men, which seeks to establish and maintain status and dominance, women's communicating is more egalitarian, or rule-by-consensus. When women get together they seek the input of the other women present and make decisions based on the wishes of all. Tannen notes that this type of communication style is becoming more important, and is in alignment with the Japanese style of management. Men doing business with Japanese companies often have to radically change their style of communicating to accommodate the more personal and intimate approach of the Japanese businessman.

One may get the impression from this discussion that women's style of communicating is superior to men's. Indeed, since the dawning of the women's movement there have been many declaring that men just don't know how to communicate (because they don't communicate like women). Sensitivity courses galore have been offered in hopes of teaching men to communicate more like women. However, Tannen states that there is nothing pathological about men's style of communication, and that women's communicating also has it's down-sides.

One fact I found particularly fascinating follows from women's communication style of consensus-building. With women, consensus means thinking alike, being in agreement, being the SAME! When one woman in a group decides to go her own way in some matter, there is often trouble: "If a girl does something the other girls don't like, she'll be criticized, or even ostracized...What do girls put other girls down for? For standing out, for seeming better than the others...I mean, really--no wonder people talk about women's fear of success!" In shock, Peggy Taylor, asked, "So you're saying the female mode prevents excellence?" And Tannen replied, "It prevents displaying it."

Of course, anything offered up in part is dangerous and can lead to a simplistic rendering and to misinformation, but I hope there is enough here, for anyone who wishes to foster a better communication style between the sexes, to take up the torch and read their way on through the darkness that so obviously exists between and among many men and women. And while we all have to account for the danger inherent in even book-length generalizations, there would be no speech, and no growth at all, if we did not begin somewhere.

Review

Ever been baffled by his behavior, perplexed by his posturing, unnerved by his missed understanding? You're not alone. As a sociolinguist, Deborah Tannen's focus is not just on language, but on how communication styles either facilitate or hinder personal interactions. According to Deborah, men and women are essentially products of different cultures, possessing different, but equally valid, communication styles. While women generally seek to "connect" with other people in intimate, parallel relationships, men approach conversation as a "one-up or one-down situation." As a result, women often feel silenced by men, although that is not necessarily men's intention. Presented as a tool for understanding and change, this book offers clear analyses of example conversational exchanges between the sexes; excerpts from the works of linguists, sociologists and others; and samples from various media, including TV and novels. By illustrating the cause and effects of these different conversational styles, Deborah takes the blame-self-recrimination out of communication snafus so that we may begin to build bridges in understanding. -- From The WomanSource Catalog & Review: Tools for Connecting the Community for Women; review by PH

[taken from http://www.amazon.com/You-Just-Dont-Understand-Conversation/dp/0345372050]

Friday, February 5

Cell Phone Fever

The first time I ever saw someone use a cell phone, I was driving with my children through a Charlottetown suburb and some man was pacing his tarmac driveway because he seemed to want passers-by to see, and hear, that he had a cell phone. Pathetic, I said to myself, which is what I still say every time I see someone desperately trying to show a nameless world that s/he has someone to talk to.

That said, I just watched a useful one-hour documentary on the advance and advantages of cell phone use around the world. (Come to think of it, the word cell phone has likely slipped over into the compound word category by now, although spell check wants to say otherwise.)

I was intrigued to learn, for example, that 100 million cell phones are on the go in Japan, where space is limited and the computer has been all but forgotten by this new technology. In Japan, cell phones read bar codes, decipher advertising, work as GPS [Global Positioning Systems], suffice as bank cards -– all of which is especially and intimately useful in a country where work binds the individual to a more formal, upright standard.

Known as “the Swiss Army knife of the modern world,” 1000 cell phones per minute are connecting to one another in any given area in the United States, and land lines are vanishing at a rapid rate, many people opting for two or more cell phones, rather than a mix.

Cell phone records, too, give vital clues. I watched tensely as one man tried to locate his missing wife, calling her 200 times until her cell phone died. Eventually, eight days into the ordeal and four days after they were requested, her phone records were released, and by tracing her last call police were able to locate her. Her car had gone into a gulley, and she was trapped upside down, hanging from her seatbelt. She survived, still undergoing multiple surgeries, with what the medics said were only hours to spare.

In 1997, Philippe Kahn, “jury-rigged” a cell phone to a digital camera and birthed, on the same day, the cell phone camera and his daughter (with his wife’s help, of course), Sophie –- so eager was he to find a way, without Internet, to send photos of his about-to-be-born child to friends and family around the world. A picture speaks a thousand words indeed…and about 300 million dollars.

On the downside (or the up, depending on your point of view and position in the world), cell phones give a person no place to hide. (That sentence reads like a contradiction.) In fact, those hidden little cameras have, as the show’s narrator said, “destroyed reputations and careers” and provided the world more than a glimpse into some mighty terrible moments: American prison abuse (the photos taken by the guards themselves, and posted on youtube); the execution of Saddam Hussein; Prince Harry sporting a swastika; Kate Moss snorting cocaine; a New York subway rider exposing himself; Buddhist monks marching under oppressive regimes. Despite the Orwellian implications, which I will probably resent until I die, I cannot miss the significance of unearthing and unravelling regimes.

In rural India, the cell phone is being used in schools as a power tool. Two hours per day children are learning English, which is giving hope to these impoverished students, whose dreams of becoming doctors and engineers and whatever they want to become can be more fully realized. The chief aim is to “lift [the children] out of poverty” and help eradicate early teen marriages and pubescent pregnancies. A guiding person, we are told, is better than a machine, but if the manpower isn’t there then the machines can do the work. (The cell phones, by the way, remain at school.)

In Africa, cell phone use is “skyrocketing at the rate of 50% per year.” In one village, where residents walk up to five miles to use the public telephone, an entrepreneurial woman rents out cell phone time to her friends and neighbours, saving them innumerable hours and worries. I can’t even imagine how thrilling it must feel for people living in third world countries, now able to see the potential of moving so far beyond the confines of their culture.

Beyond this, cell phones also affect politics and play. At rock concerts, the handy gadgets are used as beacons (takes me back to Leonard Cohen/Bic Lighter days), Bono cleverly asking audience members to text message in support of his anti-poverty campaign. Obama, of course, used the cell phone as part of his highly calculated election strategy, offering free wallpaper and sample ringtones to the younger generation whose votes he desperately needed, and providing tickets for interested parties to come see him on Oprah. (These are a few of the reasons, actually, why I do not admire him, despite his ingeniousness.)

As for literacy, the Japanese serial soap opera cell phone novel is worth half (half) of all of that country’s book sales. If this means young people will read and write and become more generally engaged, enthusiastic, then who’s to criticize?

By 2010, which is now, the world will have 90% cell phone coverage. Soon, we will have phones that contain mobiles sensors that will be used as diagnostic tools for measuring blood sugar, heart rate, body fat, calories -– why, it will even check your breath and tell you if it’s time for some freshening. Beyond that, technologists are looking at ways to use cell phones as robot commanders (which takes me right back to the Jetsons and my longing for one of those cars). Indeed, cell phone use seems to be limitless, which means I likely ought to have memorized my own number by now. 647…647…

Meanwhile, the next time I am in the grocery store and some beefy guy in flip flops is standing next to me, obliterating my view of the cabbages with his waving cell phone elbow, I am going to try and remember what I learned today on the documentary channel, and keep in mind that some day all of those darling children from Indian can come to Canada and appropriate his job.

http://www.cbc.ca/documentarychannel/

Wednesday, February 3

Sports

Slippers flung her arms around me a few minutes ago when I was trying to do my exercises, moaning, “I have a flea in my ear! I have a flea in my ear! Look! It keeps jumping around.

So I peered into her ear carefully, disheartening her with, “Nope, it’s just a nervous tic.”

Can you believe I laughed out loud when this thought occurred to me? I wonder what it must be like to be a comic. Do you think they laugh out loud at all of their jokes? Even the ones that aren’t funny?

Last night, I put an enormous ball of scotch tape (long story) on my ring finger, and  began imitating the newly engaged. Oh, I batted my eyes and shifted my shoulders and did everything I could to be funny. And I am pretty sure I laughed out loud then, too.

Maybe I’m on a roll. You know. Like Roland Coffey.

Okay, so I’m not that funny (and in case you’re worried about coming over, Slippers doesn’t have fleas, either.) But there’s something to be said for energizing endorphins. In fact, had I known that, I would have done this about thirty years sooner (when I was seven).

The other great thing about having to follow a regime is that I am forced –- FORCED -- to watch TV.

Tonight, I spent some time with American Idol –- is it me, or does Victoria Beckham need to put on some weight? – and right now I am watching a Jane Fonda/Jeff Bridges' movie, The Morning After, that I just watched this morning at 2 AM. I am not sure all of the elements that make this story compelling, but in case you might like to dial it up, here are a few: thriller/Jeff Bridges/Jane Fonda/Raul Julia. Two of the drawbacks include 80s movie saxophone-playing and big hair, and yet I remember feeling somewhat haunted by this film when I saw it twenty some years ago, and I was so happy to find it on late last night I am watching it again.

Mind you, I have to say that I am always compelled by these three actors: Jeff Bridges because he has that endearing upper lisp, because he can act, and because he comes from such a close-knit family and has survived a long-term marriage. And oh, the way he and his wife look at one another. Nice. Jane Fonda because her story breaks my heart; because I think she tries hard and has been misunderstood…castigated for her heart-on-the sleeve honesty. Raul Julia because he always made me laugh and I hated, for him, that he died of cancer, at 54, too young and so bravely. If memory serves, his grandfather was responsible for introducing pizza to Puerto Rico, which just seems about right for Raul Julia.

Actually, I could stop now and give a lecture on the run-on sentence, but if I do that I am going to miss the part where the body comes toppling out of the closet (is that a metaphor?), and I would be defeating my purpose (of the run-on sentence). Truth be told, however, comma splices are one of my biggest pet peeves (along with dirty front windows and peanut butter mixed with chocolate).

I must be off now to continue my exercises. I haven’t even gotten to the fun part where I wrap a tea towel around my inner thigh and pull my leg up to the ceiling. High carumba!

And none too soon. Here comes the body. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Food For Thought

According to my daughter and a website, the Top Terrific Foods for Kids are

mango: I have an allergy to mango, or at least I think I do. Sometimes I can’t separate the real allergies from the intuited ones (which is a kinder way of saying the nutbar ones…although I am allergic to nutbars, too, especially walnuts and, more recently, peanuts).

salmon: I have only learned to love salmon in the past four years. Prior to this I ate canned salmon occasionally, along with Don’s salmon loaf, which, I have to confess, wasn’t among my (or perhaps even his) top five. My Aunt Rachael (back to the nutbar thing) used to make salmon croquettes, but mostly when my mother visited. They were delicious. I don’t remember eating them my whole fourth year (the year I lived with my aunt), but thankfully, I don’t remember much about that period in my life.

turkey: If I had a dollar for everyone I know who is either allergic to or sensitive to L-tryptophan, I could open up a deli. I remember more than one Christmas dinner with several people round the table nodding off into their desserts, and I can never forget the time Don fell head first into his mashed potatoes after eating an enormous helping of Mr Bird. Some would argue that the Jameson was to blame, but that’s what you get when you hire an under-aged bartender.

pumpkin seeds The first person I ever knew to eat pumpkin seeds as a staple was my friend Joanne. She is one of those remarkably sensible people who has spent her life pursuing healthy habits, people, and pleasures. My experience with pumpkin seeds has been mostly relegated to thirty-five years of gutting Halloween pumpkins and saying, “Ewwwwwww!”

buckwheat Well, you can’t shoot me for this one, because people much younger than I are going to have the same reaction. Otay?

yoghurt: We (we being the self-satisfied groovers of the ‘70s) used to use plain yoghurt for yeast infections. Yes, that’s what I said. But you have to make sure it’s plain, because I don’t think stuffing strawberries up your vachina is going to make you feel good, especially when the yoghurt starts sliding back out and ruins your new giant-sized cotton underwear from Additionelle. Besides, I think strawberries would be even itchier than yeast, and the seeds wouldn’t be comfortable either.

blueberries: I love the taste and feel of blueberries, especially since I discovered Richard Fisher Pottery and his berry bowls. (Now I know what those holes are for.) I don’t think it has as much to do with the blueberries as with the way Richard Fisher’s face lights up when he talks about his daughter; how he describes her in real, loving ways, his eyes flooding up and his voice shaky.

broccoli: Chopping broccoli, chopping broc-co-lie-ie, chopping broccoli Who can forget Dana Carvey, a man I find killingly funny, upon whom fate has cast an irremediable heart/cholesterol condition, all the more ironic because is there anyone who looks as much a young boy as Dana Carvey? I love broccoli, too, especially the way it looks like miniature trees, a sentiment shared by millions even before that commercial came out (which is likely why that commercial came out).

sweet potatoes: Speaking of allergies, the worst case I read about was of the woman who knew she had an allergy to sweet potatoes and, on the suggestion of re-introduction, died. And speaking of suggestion, because a person must always consider this possibility, I also learned in this same book about the cat-allergic patient who sneezed and sneezed when her doctor presented her with a ceramic cat. Oh, Horatio!

dark chocolate I am bound to repeat this story too often (the one about how when I first saw a black man from my stroller position…I was three and we lived in Fredericton), I not only thought he was made of chocolate, I called out to him -- fervently, longingly, hopefully -- “Chocolate!” Of course, there are several dangerous offshoots, but for the sake of decorum I will try and be minimalistic. I can’t resist reminding myself, however, of the Freudian implication in that my first boyfriend was also made of chocolate. Jamaican chocolate. Mmm mmm good. I ought to have known, however, that somewhere in my future lay a Cocoa Chanel.

Anyway, I can see why this list is for children. Those of us older than thirty-six have too many stories, stories which are entirely prohibitive and preemptive. But it’s probably why I stick to the basics: potato chips, Pepsi, and plain mashed potatoes: appetizer, main course, and chaser, with not a worry of allergic reaction, medical intervention, or racist implication; nothing to shove, squeal over or sneeze at.

Salmon Croquettes

Makes about 12 croquettes

Please read About Croquettes, page 218

Mix:

2 cups flaked cooked or canned salmon

2 cups mashed potatoes

1 1/2 teaspoon salt or anchovy paste

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1 beaten egg

1 tablespoon minced parsley

1 teaspoon lemon juice or Worcestershire sauce

Shape, bread, dry and fry the croquettes as directed. Drain on absorbent paper before serving.

Joy of Cooking [Revised and Enlarged] by Irma S. Rombauer and Marion Rombauer Becker. p220

 

Tuesday, February 2

The Die Is Cast

Before I even began this entry, I looked up the phrase the die is cast, which I miswrote as the dye is cast, possibly because I find this second version much more poetic. Nevertheless, despite the convincing and succinct #2 definition offered below, the die is cast is clearly the winner.

And speaking of winners…

What I intended to write about is the fact of the announcement of the 82nd year of the Oscars, and that having read the list through, I see I have my work cut out for me. Considering only the first five nominations, I have seen 3/5, 0/5, 1/5, 1/5, 1/5.

I therefore have few distinct impressions, but those I have include…

A Single Man ought to have been nominated for Best Picture (and what about the haunting look of the film, supporting actress, adapted screenplay and music? No room for a fashion aficionado making his foray into the film world?)

Jeff Bridges, who was fabulous in Crazy Heart, might not have had quite the same nuance struggle or achievement as Colin Firth, but frankly, I don’t think Colin Firth stands a chance…what a shame.

Yolande Moreau gave the strongest female lead performance of 2009 in Seraphine. Colin Firth gave the best male lead performance.

I haven’t seen it, but I suspect Gabourey Sidibe from Precious has thus far been and will continue to be overlooked, despite the various nominations. The same has been and will be true for A Single Man.

Up in the Air is over-rated. For starters, Sam Elliot looked and sounded like Captain Highliner. “Ever been ta sea, Billy?” While the performances were good, I don’t understand all of the hype when their acting is judged against, for example, Colin Firth in A Single Man.

I’m happy to see Matt Damon (Invictus) and Carey Mulligan (An Education…everyone was fantastic…) on the list, and I think that Maggie Gyllenhall (whose husband Peter Sarsgaard was wonderful in An Education, but not selected) worked for her nomination. And oh, if they could only give a prize to that darling Jack Nation, who played her son. But if you asked me to choose between Mulligan and Gyllenhall, I would give it to Mulligan hands down…but oh, wait. She’s not American, is she? And neither is Colin Firth. (You think that doesn’t make a difference to the voters? Cam’ on! This is the United States of American, lalies and ginnulmens!)

Other than that, my opinions are few, which tells me how film-starved I am in light of the epics.

All of this might have something to do with my recent medical regime (speaking of dying and casts), which takes up an hour in the morning, an hour in the evening, an hour at bedtime…ain’t we got fun? -- which does not include the special morning concoction, which tastes rather yummy, much to my surprise. Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m working from home where…

I am waiting, fingers crossed, hoping some of these movies will make it to pay TV before March 7. I can sit in abject luxury and throw popcorn (okay, pretzels) and blended health drinks at the screen.

May the best actor win!

May the best actor be Colin Firth.

~

1) The translation of the Latin phrase, "Iacta alea est" refers to a die, the singular of dice.  The original meaning of this phrase has nothing to do with dice. It refers to the time when Julius Caesar took his army into Rome. Once he crossed the Rubicon with his forces there was no turning back as it was forbidden to enter Rome with ones Legion, and he was now classed as an invader under Roman Law.

2) Caesar said Jacta Alea Est literally meaning Let the dye be cast. The phrase refers adding dye or ink to water. Once mixed you cannot get it back out.

#) Main Entry: jac·ta alea est

Pronunciation: \ˈyäk-ˌtä-ˌä-lē-ˌä-ˈest\

Function: foreign term

Etymology: Latin

: the die is cast

Merriam-Webster Online

4) The die is cast…does NOT mean "The metal template has been molded." It's what Julius Caesar said on crossing the river Rubicon to invade Italy in 49 B.C. The "die" is a gambling die, and "cast" means thrown. The phrase means "An irrevocable decision has been made." (The Latin words, "Jacta alea est", are given in Suetonius' Divus Julius, XXXII. Alea denotes the *game* of dice, rather than the physical die: the dice game is in its thrown state. "The die is cast" and "the dice are cast" would be equally good translations. Compare "Les jeux sont faits", heard at Monte Carlo.) Plutarch wrote two accounts in Greek of Caesar's crossing the Rubicon. Both times, he gives the words as Anerriphtho: kubos = "Let the die be cast." In one of the accounts (Life of Pompey), he says that Caesar actually uttered the words in Greek; in the other (Life of Caesar), he suggests that the words were already a proverb before Caesar uttered them.

Source: [Mark Israel, 'Phrase Origins: "The die is cast."', The alt.usage.english FAQ file,(line 4659), (29 Sept 1997)]

Monday, February 1

Word of the Day

coach (kōch)

n.

1.

a. A motorbus.

b. A railroad passenger car.

c. A closed automobile, usually with two doors.

d. A large, closed, four-wheeled carriage with an elevated exterior seat for the driver; a stagecoach.

2. An economical class of passenger accommodations on a commercial airplane or a train.

3. Sports A person who trains or directs athletes or athletic teams.

4.

a. A person who gives instruction, as in singing or acting.

b. A private tutor employed to prepare a student for an examination.

tr. & intr.v. coached, coach·ing, coach·es

1. To train or tutor or to act as a trainer or tutor.

2. To transport by or ride in a coach.


[French coche, from obsolete German Kotsche, from Hungarian kocsi, after Kocs, a town of northwest Hungary (where such carriages were first made).]


coacha·ble adj.

coacher n.

The Free Dictionary

And apparently, according to my calendar, several European languages took in the first element but left off the second.

Anyway, the word especially interests me today because, on Friday, Lainey is taking her first trip by train, coach class, with her Mum. Coach class nowadays, on VIA Rail at least, means that you have to pay for your egg salad sandwich. Such wasn’t always the case, of course, although now the staff come around with little cans of potato chips and Coke in a can. (I prefer Pepsi, frankly, and it irked me to a stupid degree that The Invention of Lying compares Pepsi unfavourably to Coke. But that’s another story –- and one which didn’t impress me half as much as I had hoped it would…with all kinds of inconsistencies and a dull cynicism moving into a kind of happiness that left me with a bit of a hole…I’m not completely sure why.)

Anyway, I think we can all remember our first train trip -- those things that remained memorable for years to follow (or come, depending on your glass).

The feature most outstanding for me was (were?) the chairs, high-back red velvet (so my lying memory says), cushy and cosy and plush. I was on the way to Toronto from London with my father and his wife (FREEDOM!), and just getting out of the house felt like a miracle. I was ten, and the weather was mild and sunny, and at some point during the Toronto trip (which had been arranged so we could go visit one of her many psychiatrists) (and you wonder why I’m crazy. Pshaw!), we went to a fancy downtown restaurant where I was fed a kiddie cocktail, which I spilt…oh my jagged baby nerves…all over the (also) red table cloth. I remember a floor show, and a big basket of bread and an equally nervous waiter. (My father could do that to people, and, to be fair, partly because of his larger-than-life Hoss Cartwright appearance.)

Anyway, I am not sure how Lainey will view her first train trip experience. She is a highly observational girl (Day of Research) with a wonderful sense of humour. I expect that she will sit with her hands in her lap, at least for the first forty miles, then roll with the hills and the punches. She will also probably wait a few days, as is also her way, to discuss her voyage in any great detail, but after she has had time to digest it I know Lainey will want to come up here and write another guest blog. I can hardly wait! (And yes, I mean that.) And I promise that I will in no way cajole her or coach her along. (Cheap shot at a pun…sorry.)