The weather* (don’t ask me to describe it, because I am running out of synonyms for abysmal) has given me a burning hot case of Spring fever. Are you similarly afflicted with the urge to strip down to your pallid flesh and leap, starkers, into a body of water? Well, thankfully, it was time for my annual jaunt with my girlfriend, Lori. This year, it was back to Oregon, but no urban restaurant hopping this time. We were headed into the woods, to Breitenbush Hot Springs, or, as my husband calls it: naked camp.
It’s so good to get away, I thought, as we wound our way into the snowy Williamette National Forest. What?…Wait a minute – snow? Where’s Spring? I had pictured myself skipping along the hiking trails, observing the budding new foliage while birds landed on my finger like in Cinderella. But Persephone can’t be rushed, apparently. The goddess of Springtime was still huddled up in water-repellent gore-tex.
So instead, I found myself watching a deer, her bored companion beside her, standing chest deep in the snow, masticating heaven knows what flora, for a quarter of an hour without taking another bite of anything. I became transfixed, and also sympathetic to her girlfriend, who reminded me of my friends/husband who have had to sit by patiently while I consume fibrous, labor-intensive salads. What was this dogged ungulate working over, pine cones? Pebbles? How, you may wonder, given my negligible attention span, was I able to observe this little tableau with the attentiveness of a Chinese filmmaker? Well, without the distraction of cell and internet service, a person can become obsessively attuned to nature. I was actually in Qi Gong class at the time, starring out the window while beaming emerald green light to my liver with an invisible ball of energy. Don’t knock it, my liver has never felt better. I figured if I was going to be at an unapologetically – and rather touchingly, I admit – hippie enclave, then I better start my morning with Qi Gong. Why do it if you aren’t going to do it?
I gave in, a bit, to the lingering winter, and had a moment in the pool at the edge of the woods, with snow falling softly on my face, that I thought maybe this is what it’s like to be in Japan. I was finally, blissfully unclad, and no one was around. I am a devoted nudist, (partly because I find it difficult to coordinate outfits) but I am also an introvert, so I don’t need company while I am bare. It was all so lovely. Then, the next day I awoke to seven fresh inches of snowfall and a car that looked like an enormous snow cone. I was, as my companion will grimly concur, a little grumpy.
But allow me to rhapsodize about the food at Breitenbush. It’s vegetarian, organic, plentiful, and fully deserving of its sumptuous reputation. Thrice daily I waited, practically panting, for the sound of the bell. At one point, I was in yoga, breathing through my heels, when it gonged. I was about to jump through a window and land on the deer, when the teacher said in a soothing-to-crazy-people voice, “I forgot to mention we go a few minutes over time in this class. We can eat any time, but we can’t all come together like this any time can we?” Is she really asking me that? Eat anytime? Who’s the crazy one here? When we did our final release of energy – or something – she said, “Here we are, relaxed, refreshed and -” “Hungry,” I interjected, pathetically. You should have seen me hightail it to the dining hall for breakfast where I found dates to put on on my oatmeal along with a two-cheese frittata! HOW DID THEY KNOW??
One of the breakfast cooks, Jamel, said, “I put a lot of love into the food, so it’s so great when people notice.” Then she hugged me. She definitely put love into that frittata, because if two cheddars doesn’t equal love then I don’t know love. Food made with love will get me out of bed in the morning and yes, I will walk through the snow for it, and even do pre-breakfast yoga. This is what drives me on. Martin Luther said nothing is accomplished in this world without hope (the hope of breakfast, for instance, or Spring). But nothing – NOTHING – worthwhile is accomplished in the kitchen, without love.
*This was the coldest winter since 1985, the wettest February on record, and rainfall from November to mid-March exceeded that normally received in an entire year.
Let’s face it, the only advantage to being sick is the grousing you get to do. That, and the free pass to binge-watch This is Us (or as I call it: This is Handsome – are the men on that show for real?). My youngest and I had the flu at the same time and spent three codependent days in a loop of starring at the ceiling, brushing her dolls’ hair, and dozing off. I really don’t know if she has gone to school at all in the last month. She isn’t here now, so I think she went back. I had every possible symptom and suffered immeasurably and – wait! There is another benefit to being sick: boring people to anguished tears by describing your experience!
I got the virus, my husband got it, my friends got it, my mom and sister got it, and then, once the plague cycled through, everyone got a secondary ailment. I landed a lingering case of the blues (right before a second – but shorter – round of the virus).
I get horribly morose when I’m ill. On one of my low days, I went on a quest for some kombucha. (I transitioned directly from ridiculing kombucha drinkers to being a kombucha drinker. Life is funny). I walked into Ralph’s Thriftway when, for the first time in my life, an automatic door shut, firmly, on me. I was pressed for a moment between the squeezing panels until they registered my feeble resistance and retracted. It was as I had feared: I had ceased to be. Illness had leeched away my essence and even the automatic doors no longer recognized my personhood. This is how I get when I am sick. It’s why marriage vows used to include “in sickness and in health,” before everyone realized the “in sickness” portion was too tall an order.
My mom and sister both drop about 7 pounds apiece when they are sick. They emerge, weakened but winnowed, looking like Marlene Dietrich. They complain to me about it, and I listen, feigning sympathy over the phone while I munch, munch, munch on my third bowl of honey coconut oil popcorn. Loss of appetite? Maybe someday when I am ready to kiss this cruel world goodbye, but for now, illness doesn’t dampen my desire for meals. Although it may prevent me from being energetic enough to cook them.
I recently discovered the subdued charms of miso soup. My phone autocorrects this to “misogynist soup,” but I am trying to ignore that and assume it isn’t part of the larger cultural zietgeist. I don’t feel justified in offering a recipe for this, since any carton of miso will tell you exactly what to do (mix with warm chicken broth and bonito flakes, add scallions, tofu, etc) but I do want to recommend it, in case you are one of the remaining ill in Olympia.
I made it a couple times recently and at my daughter’s urging, added rice noodles. It’s convenient to have a container of the paste in the fridge so you can make a quick cup up anytime you are feeling sick/morose. And if you use Better than Bouillon, which comes in several varieties, then you don’t have to open a whole carton of broth.
Drink a cup, and contemplate just how horribly I suffered during this gruesome cold and flu season. And if you want to call, I will be happy to tell you all about it.
After receiving multiple requests for a copy of the Scholastic Gold Key award-winning story by blooming young author Phoebe C., I have decided to post it here. I have made a poor showing on my blog lately so someone has to write something.
Just a word: I like to refer to myself as Mother of the Poet, or Mother of the Writer, as the occasion (and they are coming thick and fast) requires. Surely this beats being Mother of the Bride? No ugly dress! No questionable groom! No bill! It’s grand, I tell you.
I sound like I am bragging, but I do so love being the mother of a creative person and I want to promote her. I even cheered her on when she started making cupcakes, got better at it than me, and carved out my potential market share in Olympia. I am hoping that as her intellectual and creative powers increase, mine will not continue to dwindle, but we’ll see. Over and above accomplishments, it’s her kindness and glowing optimism I want to cherish and celebrate. May she ever remain so touchingly uncynical.
I am sorry to say her short story is not about food, however, I have something to say on the matter. The reception for the recipients of the scholastic awards was held sans snacks. Yes Eaters, you gasp, but there’s more. It took place from 5 to 7 in the evening when we are all at our most frightfully peckish. Do you find this as odd as I do? Even cruel? Before being let into the gallery to view the arts and letters, someone in charge of this foodless debacle said that everyone should get ready for “a spread.” She spoke these words. Was she teasing? When you hear “spread” don’t you see an enormous spread of…well, spreads, for one thing, and implements with which to spread them, and crispy crackers and crunchy, brilliantly-hued vegetables to spread them on. Ah well, some people can live on art, I guess. She also said, “Think of this as an enormous cocktail party.” Huh. Without cocktails or nibbles? No one has that good of an imagination, especially the weary, wine-deprived parent of a young writer.
At the very least they should have handed out a voucher for the Whole Foods across the street, where my husband and daughter ended up enjoying some scrumptious, overpriced pizza and salad. And who was at the next table? Two Pulitzer prize winners and a national book award finalist wolfing down quinoa pilaf! Apparently, they had the same caterers at their soiree. And now, the story:
Sweep by Phoebe C.
My daddy and I went to the doctor’s office today. I hate it there- it smells like antibacterial soap ‘n sickness, an’ the chairs look comfortable but actually scratch you n’ make you squirm. Just like everything else, they try to lure you in with fake smiles and good looks, but end up bein’ backstabbers. Truly- the chair had a stick poking out of the cushion.
We went into da room that looks like it was just sterilized within an inch o’ its life. Doctor sits us down, asks me and Daddy some questions about me an’ my habits, and then he asks me would I please wait outside while he chatted with my father for a moment. Typical grownup- thinkin’ I won’t know ‘zacktly what he’s talkin’ about to my dad.
When I go back into the room, he tells me that I got a condition called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. Thanks, Doc. I knew that already- I’ve read some books. He says it like it’s a good thing- guess what? It isn’t.
When Daddy and I get home, I curl up next ta him on the couch and think. Lotta kids in my school have OCD- Jimmy, now he’s much worsan me. He washes his hands ’bout every twenty minutes or so. Good thing we have a sink in our classroom, else he’d miss most of the day ’cause of bein’ in the restroom. Marta’s got somethin’, too. Sometimes I come back to da classroom cause I forget my lunch or my books, and she’s still there, checkin’ the windows, two, three, four times to make sure they’re locked up good and tight.
Me? I’m not a handwasher. I’m not a wacko whose always checkin’ their doors or windows nor nothin’ like that. Nah- I’m a sweeper.
My time at school isn’t so good. I don’t got a lotta friends, just the class guinea pigs, Fluffy and Raisin. I don’t get much good grades, either. I know lots about the world, though. I may not talk good, but I read lotsa books and I notice people and what they do when I go out. That man, walkin’ down the sidewalk just now? He was smilin’ at his little daughters next to him, but his fist was clenched at his side- he’s in pain.
I hate seein’ people feelin’ bad or sad or scared, but the thin’ is, those people exist, and they pass us by every damn day. That’s why I sweep.
Each day, after school, I book it on home. When I git there, breathless from running, I fling my books and lunch to the side, and grab my broom. I stand in the same spot, a special place by the fireplace an’ squishy armchair, and sweep. Twen’y minutes, thirty, minutes- one time I swept fur a whole hour.
Thin’ is, when I sweep, I feel better. Sweepin’ the floor feels ta me like sweepin’ away all my bad an’ sad thoughts. Like there’s a li’l shag carpet in my brain, and I can sweep my thoughts up under it. My daddy gits it- he was lots like me when he was my age, he says. He was a nervous li’l thing. Always makin’ sure all his brothers n’ sisters washed their hands good ‘fore every meal. Ma, though, she wasn’t that type. But that’s my ma, all around perfect. Always givin’ me extra hugs, an’ lettin’ me pick a cookie at the store. She mayn’t know what my mind is like, but she’s OK with my sweepin’, she says, so long as I don’t feel its hurtin’ me.
The day after goin’ to the doctor’s with Daddy, I git to school and there’s a girl I never seen before, standin’ at the front with the teacher, Ms. Calvin. I find myself studyin’ her a bit; I never seen anyone quite like her.
She’s smilin’ brightly, as though she’d just ‘membered somethin’ funny. Her hair is a brownish blond color, and it waves to the middle o’ her back. Her shirt is brown, an’ it has a sunflower on it. Her eyes are the color o’ the ocean. Her flip-flops got sand on them- I bet she lives on da beach.
Ms. Calvin clears her throat, tells us that this is Summer Journey, and that she just transferred to our school, and we all should be d’lighted to have her, an’ so on. After dat, I sorter zone out a bit, lookin’ out da’ window at the sunny skies, when Ms. Calvin says, “And Summer will need a welcome buddy. Let’s see…who hasn’t been one this year…” She checks her list. “Ah, Aspen! How about you?”
I freeze. I can’t be nobody’s welcome buddy. I barely ‘member how to find da restrooms in this place.
Ms. Calvin guides Summer to da empty desk next to mine. She says, “Aspen, at lunch, why don’t you show Summer where to go, where the bathrooms are, the gym, et cetera!” She says dis like it’s a huge treat- well, it ain’t.
First lesson o’ da day is Math. I hunch over ma notebook and worksheet as Calvin starts droning ’bout Order o’ Operations. I doodle in da margins, and den sneak a glance up at Summer. She be staring dreamily out da window, looking at the school garden. I scowl, an’ try ta start workin’ on ma math.
Da rest o’ da mornin’ goes on like dis, as we plow through English an’ History an’ a hundred other subjects dat I’m not too swell at. I frequently peek at Summer, and by lunch I am shocked- she had never stopped smilin’. Even while she was workin’ or raisin’ her hand or talkin’, the grin never left her face. I rarely smile – only when I’m with da hamsters or Ma or Daddy or doin’ art. She smiles all the time.
When da rest of da class gets in line fer lunch, Ms. Calvin calls to me, “Oh, Aspen! Don’t forget to show Summer the Art Room- I know you like it in there!”
I feel ma cheeks go red- I don’t like people talkin’ ’bout me or what I like ta do. But Summer smiles even brighter, which I didn’t think was possible, an’ sez, “You like art? Me too! Can we go there first?”
I mumble dat is fine by me, and off we go, Summer still smilin’. As we walk, she says, “So your name’s Aspen? That’s a beautiful name!”
I sorta blush an’ look at ma shoes. I don’t receive lotsa compliments from kids.
“Thanks,” I sez.
“So, what else do you like to do? Besides art, I mean,” Summer sez. I like the way she talks- like she’s about ta start laughin’.
“Um…I dunno,” I reply uneasily. “Whatta you like ta do?”
“I like lots of things!” By dis time we is in the Art Room, an’ Summer is lookin’ around at all the paintings an’ crafts an’ stuff. “I really like animals, and the beach, and other things outside.”
I smile, shyly. “Me, too. I can show you da cafeteria now, if ya want.”
Summer nods happily, an’ den, to my complete shock, grabs ma hand and starts skippin’ out o’ da classroom! I don’t know what ta do. No one has never held ma hand before, ‘cept for Ma or Daddy. I sorter run beside her, an’ she laughs.
“Come on! Skip with me!” She says this so happily, and she looks so care-free and like, well, summery, that all da amazement an’ shock an’ everythin’ I’ve been feelin’ builds up inside o’ me, and it comes spillin’ out in laughter. Suddenly, I’m laughin’ so hard dat ma stomach hurts and den Summer starts laughin’, too, and I can tell that she’s da kinda person who laughs every day, and I can imagine if a janitor or somethin’ walked around da corner just now, he’d see two girls in the middle of da hallway, laughin’ their heads off with nothin’ interesting happenin’ nor no funny pictures on da wall. He’d just think that these girls are crazy, and he’d go ’bout his business as doe nothin’ had happened.
But something has happened.
I love this girl. I love this girl who looks like the summer skies.
When I get home that day, I reach for the broom like I always do, and then change my mind-
You know how a mother bird returns to her nest with a worm and is met by an angry mob of competing open beaks, straining, chirping, jostling for feathery position to get at the worm, and then all but shoving the mother from the nest so she can go do it again? So that’s morning at my house.
It’s true, I only have two children, and my husband never actually asks for anything. But he is there, all the same, a silent, food-wanting presence. Over it all, the cat yowls with what can only be utter anguish of body and mind. Oh no! Was he lacerated by a vicious raccoon? No, he just wants me to fill his food dish. I realize that I am breaking one of two rules I set out for my blog, (never mention pets, never mention feet) but the over-arching principle of all blogs is this: never miss an opportunity to complain about your life.
Everybody knows I live for morning baked goods. The kitchen is the center of my world, but why is it always so crowded? My youngest is not a morning glory; daybreak is, in fact, an affront to her. She would be happiest with breakfast brought to her on a tray, so she could moodily stir honey into her tea and extend her repose, possibly falling back asleep. I do some crazy stuff, but catering to this might set the bar a bit high for her future college roommates. As she said to me once, “I can rise, but I can’t shine.”
I am not comparing, because I have read parenting manuals, (okay, just one) but I have to commend my oldest (to be fair, her natural rhythm makes her a morning person). She used to sit by in weepy victimhood as she sunk into a hypoglycemic state, despite a bounty of food – a veritable Dutch master’s still life’s worth – within arm’s reach. She is now adept at recognizing the signs of hunger and impending sassmouth, and fixes much of her own food, or at least the pre-breakfast that precedes the warm baked goods. This morning she was packing her lunch, and I reminded her to take a snack for play practice. “Um, mom, this isn’t my first rodeo.” Self-sufficiency and a quick retort? Clearly, my work here is done!
But you don’t choose your children and the unique biological rhythms that make them heaven, hell or purgatory in the morning. And it’s a good thing, too. I could never have dreamt up the particular mixtures of sweetness and quirkiness that are my daughters. My husband, I did get to choose, and besides the new upholstery fabric on the sofa I inherited from my parents, he’s the best choice I’ve made (like the fabric, he’s proved surprisingly durable).
So, since I have to see them every morning – I mean since I get to see them every morning – sometimes, I make them cake. This one comes from a pretty little book, D.I.Y. Delicious. I met the author, Vanessa Barrington, at a San Francisco farmer’s market where she was selling her book, along with some of her homemade preserves. She features her recipe for Plum Verbena Jam in her book. Have I told you I adore plums? I was particularly excited to make her stone fruit yogurt cake, since my freezer is bursting with plums. But I made it with blackberries and coconut because – get this – they don’t like plums in cake.
Because I love to court danger, I made it with all the wheat flour replaced with almond flour. It was crumbly, which I like, and quite good. The next time I made it with the walnuts and used blueberries and cranberries. I preferred the blackberry one, (and would have preferred plum, as I mentioned) because the cranberries were too sour for my impromptu sugar reduction. But my oldest daughter pronounced it the best rendition, and she would know: this isn’t her first rodeo.
Stone Fruit Yogurt Cake with Cornmeal and Walnut Streusel
1 1/2 cups flour (I like whole wheat pastry or almond flour)
1/2 cup yellow cornmeal (finer grinds are better here to avoid that pebbly sensation
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon soda
8 Tablespoon unsalted butter
1/2 cup lightly packed granulated sugar (I reduced this by 40%)
1/2 cup lightly packed brown sugar (I reduced this by 40%)
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2/3 cup plain whole-milk yogurt
3 cups sliced fresh or thawed frozen plums or other fruit
1 cup pecan or walnut halves, lightly toasted and roughly chopped
Is it just me or does this recipe have a lot of ingredients? It’s good though.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.
Lightly butter and flour a 9 inch round cake pan. You can use a springform pan if you want to unmold it and serve it on a platter.
In a small bowl, sift together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt and baking soda.
In a large bowl, using a handheld mixer, beat together the butter, granulated sugar and half the brown sugar until creamy. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix to combine.
Add the dry ingredients and the yogurt to the sugar mixture in two additions, starting with the dries and ending with the yogurt. Fold in the fruit.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan. Mix together the nuts and the remaining brown sugar and sprinkle over the top of the cake.
Bake on the middle shelf of the oven, until the cake rises in the center and browns, and a toothpick comes out clean, about 45 minutes.
Allow to cool completely before cutting and serving, says Vanessa Barrington. But I say, who can wait? Not these gals.
I originally published this essay (in slightly different form) on February 25, 2013 in The Booklist Reader. I decided to revisit it here to mark the passing of Carrie Fisher.
From what I can see of the people like me, we get better, but we never get well. – Paul Simon
But the lady tries.
Star Wars was the first movie I saw in a theater. I was six years old, and I didn’t understand much of it, except that Princess Leia had the best hair in the galaxy. I longed to strut around the death star in snowy white, dirt-repelling robes, looking like I had two danishes stuck to my head. The force was definitely with that hair.
Light years passed, and now, in my 40s, I am loving the sadder, wiser princess in Carrie Fisher’s Wishful Drinking, a memoir based on her one-woman show. The trio of original Star Wars films made an indelible impression on Fisher and an entire culture, inspiring the brass-bikini fueled fantasies of a generation of men. But Aldaron’s premier royal didn’t really have much nuance to her character. In her memoir, Fisher pans her Star Wars performance and subsequent “Leia-laden life,” replete with the dolls, PEZ shooters and shampoo bottles it spawned.
Fisher was born into wealth and stardom; her parents are the glamorous and charmingly eccentric Debbie Reynolds and the less charming Eddie Fisher. Though she is often associated with George Lucas’ films and her on-again-off-again role as Paul Simon’s muse, she has experienced much success as a novelist, and on stage.
This is a quick read, and a wildly funny one. Fisher has a foul mouth, so proceed with caution. Whenever a book or film is referred to as a “romp” I am instantly wary, since this seems to be the new code word for depressing. But I pronounce this little book “a romp.” I listened to the audio version as well, performed by Fisher; if you listen to the audio, do pick up the book for the photographs.
Fisher was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1985 and utilized electroconvulsive therapy. She is a recovering drug addict and alcoholic; more recently, weathered the passing of a close friend who died in her home. But the girl comes out swinging her formidable talent and humor like a light saber. I take my hat off to anyone who names her two moods “Roy” and “Pam.” That is spinning straw into gold. Here, one of many lines that lingered with me: “…I heard someone once say that we’re only as sick as our secrets. If that’s true, then this book will go a long way to rendering me amazingly well.”
Happy reading, and may you also be well.
P.S. If you enjoy this book, her novels may also fit the bill: Surrender the Pink, Delusions of Grandma, The Best Awful and Postcards from the Edge. And hang on to your braided buns, because she has another memoir! Shockaholic was published in 2011 and may be even more hilarious than Wishful Drinking, but also more crude and (in the details of the passing of Eddie Fisher) more sad.
O hush the noise, ye men of strife, and hear the angels sing – Edmund Sears
Hey! Unto you a child is born! He’s in the barn! Go! Go! – Gladys Herdman, in The Best Christmas Pageant Ever
I tried to put it off, but the calendar answers to no one; and so, it’s Christmas (and now, Christmukkah) again. It’s been a season of ricocheting between joy and pain, (remember, I have two daughters) with pauses for cookies. I always find the yuletide somewhat surreal, given that the relentless advertising and decorating begins around July 4th. But I give in all over again when I see how much my children love it. Oh to feel their elfin, greedy joy. “Mom! Do you know what day it is? It’s Christmas Eve EVE Morning.” (For the daughterless: that’s the morning of the day before Christmas Eve.)
Thankfully, they are pretty self-sufficient. We went to the tree farm, and as the girls capered around their chosen tree, (a bushy monster of which I heartily disapproved) squealing, my friend’s husband said, “Aren’t you even going to put up a fight?” No, no fight. They decorate it, make the fudge, and attend to the advent calendar. There are currently 84 (census verified by my husband!) hand-cut snowflakes gracing my living room. As I told my husband, the place looks like Christmas threw up. Next year I am teaching them to use Shutterfly so we can send out Christmas cards again. My husband’s relatives flood us with cards sporting pictures of their lovely families cavorting on beaches. “Do you ever feel guilty when we get these?” my husband says, rifling through the pile. No, just tired. I love my husband’s cousins, but why are they so…productive?
I prefer to spend the time walking in the woods, doing a bit of baking, and starring at candles with my family (silently, please) around me. I see it as a season of contemplation: Jesus lived on earth among us avaricious, myopic, sh**heads – why did he bother? I want to ponder the mystery, maybe see if it makes me nicer. Can we please sleep in heavenly peace? Please?
The girls insist on Christmas music, so any car trip finds me pinned to Warm 106.9. I have only just been introduced to Michael Buble’s “The Christmas Song” (the one I have always referred to as “The Chestnut Song”). Wow, that velvet-voiced devil can sure sing. I found my eyelids had succumbed to half-mast and I was feeling around for a jade green, lace-trimmed negligee to slip into when my eyes popped open and I remembered I was in my minivan, cruising down the interstate on my way to leave a broken chair at the dump. What just happened? I can only say, in my defense, he made me feel like a girl of 45 again.
Yes, that’s right, it’s December, so another birthday has come and gone. Again, mixed feelings, again melancholy mingled with gratitude mingled with incredulity at my age. My birthday went more smoothly this year, though last year’s car breakdown and sick husband offered me more colorful blogging fodder. What can I say? I am lucky to be alive, and, for all my failings, I still make a startlingly good chocolate cake (my birthday cake was a chocolate bundt with coffee glaze – a little bit of brandy in the cake really tips it over). Plus my oldest made me a key lime coconut cake – reminding me, again, why we reproduce: doubles the kitchen staff.
We had the pleasure of seeing Olympia Family Theater’s production of The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, a story that surprised me by bringing tears to my eyes with its reminder to be always attuned to the sacred as it walks among us, offering us the chance to experience wonder. I used to be a crier, but gave it up in my late 30’s after what my best friend describes as two decades of weeping. But it’s a hobby I have recently revived, post-election. We saw OFT perform this play seven years ago and were so grateful they revisited it. If you have not seen it, or read Barbara Robinson’s novella, I recommend it. We are going to read it together every Christmas Eve from now on, while we crank out our annual noodles.
In the end, it’s a season of contradictions; I am overwhelmed by glitter and wastefulness but always deeply moved by certain Christmas songs (I am not talking about Michael B. right now). As I have said before, if you don’t see my eyes get at least faintly moist during, for instance, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, then I am officially tired of life, so mercifully shoe me out into the cold, cold night, stark naked, to perish quietly under the stars. Edmund Sears, a Unitarian minister, wrote these ebulliently lovely lines in 1849:
And ye, beneath life’s crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!
For lo the days are hastening on,
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold When peace shall over all the earth It’s ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.
Go ahead, fling those ancient splendors. May we ever be eager for peace. Search it out. Make it, if you have to.
Allow me to lay bare my shame: I watched, in rapid succession, all four episodes of the Gilmore Girls; a year in the life. I won’t say it didn’t have its moments, (like the too-brief appearance of Jason Ritter, any appearance of whom is too brief) but all told, it was some of the worst television I have ever watched (and I have seen Mistresses [the British version, not the American remake, because what would be left for me to disdain?]). It’s a chunk of my life that I can’t get back, and what’s more, I gave it willingly.
Ten years have gone by since I bid a tearful farewell to the girls (actually, it’s been one year since I binged watched all the episodes, but the show stopped airing a decade ago). Little has changed; Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel still play too women who subsist on sugar, burgers and coffee, don’t believe in exercise or vegetables, and wear the tiniest jeans, on the tiniest bodies. At one point, Graham’s character thinks she will hike the Pacific Crest Trail, (good luck!) and she starts out in (guess what?) tiny jeans. Who hikes in fitted denim? Okay, I did once, but it was only to prove to women everywhere that American Eagle’s 360 denim is a technological marvel (it stretches in every direction, ladies!). But never mind that, back to other people and their shortcomings, namely, television characters.
Precious little irritates me more than seeing skinny actresses eat carbohydrates on film. They never, ever touch that stuff off screen. And between takes, they spit it out. These women starve themselves to within an inch of their sanity to get parts. Anyone eating the way these sugar/grease/chemical-inhaling characters do (Costco portions of candy! Donuts by the bale! Horse troughs of ice cream!) would be dead or diabetic by 30. If not, they would at least be overweight enough to exclude them from acting and possibly, from society. Don’t show me an actress pigging out, it’s twice as disgusting because it’s a lie.
I know I sound unhinged, but that’s what watching bony women gulping down Oscar Meyer does to me. I remember watching The Good Wife, with the gym-cut Juliana Margulies, who never, ever touched anything but wine. This felt equally offensive to me, but more believable. And if you think I am taking this too seriously, check out the Amanda Rodriguez piece on the Gilmore diet. See? I told you so. I am not actress-thin, (or actress-tall) but I am regular-person-fit enough to walk down the street without fear of being screamed at by fat-phobes (except in LA, where I was asked to leave). I am a reasonable weight, partly because I seldom touch junk food (like Graham, I am no longer young, and can’t afford to). How then does an actress maintain her ridiculous body? By never touching any food,ever.
In a More magazine interview featuring one of the best dresses I have ever seen, Graham said, “I have been on a diet for 35 years.” Thank you, I thought so. I think the GG revival would have been 6% better if mother and daughter had experienced tandem health scares with resulting wisdom and weight gain. They find themselves wheezing like asthmatic oxen when they attempt to traverse couch to fridge for chilled ho-hos, or they realize they no longer possess the muscle tone required to lift a straightening iron, or due to atherosclerosis, they are unable to engage in rapid fire repartee without suffering minor strokes. Now that would scare you to the salad bar.
All my yammering making you hungry? Reach for this salad. Binge on bad telly if you must, but never on bad food.
Not Your Mother’s Salad
Mixed salad greenery (romaine, baby leaves, green or red leaf lettuces)
A golden beet, cut into matchsticks
Shavings of parmesan, or other strong cheese
An avocado, cubed or in hunks
A sliced apple OR a ripe tomato (not both)
A handful of toasted walnuts
Dressing for this is a simple vinaigrette: one part rice vinegar to four parts olive oil, pepper and salt. A little lemon or orange juice in place of some of the vinegar is good, especially if you use the apple. A half teaspoon of Dijon mustard goes well in this dressing, as could a little garlic.