Posts
Just when you think you are "over it" - meat loaf strikes. It wasn't really the meat loaf. It was weighing the ground turkey and ground beef. I'd never owned a kitchen scale in my life except once a very long, ill fated time ago when I was on weight watchers. It sat in my cupboard unused and eventually ended up on a table in a yard sale. Tonight, I weighed the meat on the scale that Gillian had bought and I might add, left behind. She probably doesn't realize it yet. (Honey, if you are reading this, it would cost me more to send it to New York than for you to go to Target to buy a new one.)
Tare. Never had heard of it. Had no idea what it meant. No clue. But tonight, I sat the plate on the scale, hit "tare" and watched as the weight of the plate turned to zero so that I could determine 12 ounces of ground meat. Just as I was taught by Gillian. Where she learned it, I don't know.
After assembling the meat loaf, I decided I'd better clean out the fridge to get ready for the week ahead. The cream line yogurt container sat waiting for me on the shelf. I had planned on finishing the yogurt off with Gillian's raspberry jam and granola after she'd left for New York, but I didn't.
So, I washed out the moldy container and decided to hold on to it. It could be a handy way for me to carry soup to school, I thought.
Then I remembered the night of the big pronouncement.
She had been digging in the lower corner cabinet with the built-in lazy susan, when she announced in utter frustration that we were "in a tupperware crisis."
Lids didn't match bottoms and vice-versa. I had taken to buying the zip-lock and glad style disposable containers. Some clever marketing executive had made sure that the lids were just slightly off in size so not to allow interchangeable brands.
On the night that the crisis hit, it seemed we had lots of glad lids and no matching bottoms.
I usually resorted to putting foil or plastic wrap over the top of the lidless containers. It never occurred to me to toss the useless, bottomless lids.
My mother never threw out any of the trays from her constant diet of frozen food. Stacks and stacks of little black, plastic trays sat in her lower cabinet.
I used to be frustrated with this idiosyncracy of my mother's.
Gillian was frustrated with mine.
I guess we really do become our mothers.
Gillian also preferred to put cheese into separate tupperware containers in the refrigerator. Bleu, camembert, brie, and goat cheese all got their very own little container. Drove me nuts. I, on the other hand, would scoop up the left over cheese wedges from our fattening appetizer habit and put them all together in a ziplock bag. Gillian found this to be unacceptable since the aroma from the different cheeses would then mix together.
I thought about all of this as I washed out the cream line yogurt tub and tucked it away on to the lazy susan in the lower corner cabinet.
There were all those bottomless lids laying there on the shelf.
Hmm....do they still have such a thing as tupperware parties?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Praise Song for a Sweater
My newspaper reading habit now includes a new ritual. Checking the weather in New York City. I know there are easier, more efficient ways of doing this. I could, for instance, check my weather app on my iphone. But instead, I dig through the LA Times to the back of the California section and glance down the list of US cities past New Orleans, occasionally passing Oklahoma City until my finger finds New York City. I've become accustomed to the little abbreviated codes. Su, sunny. Pc, partly cloudy. R, rain. Sn, snow. This morning, as the bright sun poured into my bedroom, I remarked to Steve, "It's warm in New York. 47 degrees."
I mentally go through Gillian's wardrobe. I hope her coat will be warm enough.
I know she lived in Seattle for four years and is used to cold, wet weather. In fact, the year that Brendan spent away at college in Philly, the weather was colder in Seattle. All my worries about my California surfer boy adjusting to an east coast winter were for naught. It was Gillian who had to bail out of a stranded bus and walk across a bridge in a snow storm. It gets darned cold in Seattle.
So, New York should be a piece of cake for her.
My obsession with weather goes back to my mother, who insisted in the middle of August that I take a sweater because "it always cools down in California at night." Since I was born and raised in California, I never understood this comment until I took a trip back to Cincinnati in the summer. It doesn't cool down in Ohio at night in August.
To this day, I never leave the house without my "sweater" - be it a microfiber jacket, pashmina, or a cashmere coat. "It doesn't cost you anything to carry it," Mother would say.
Never was I so glad to have a cashmere coat than a year ago, on January 20th, 2009 in Washington, DC. It was 11 degrees with wind chill the morning I herded forty girls from California onto the mall in front of the US Captitol for Barack Obama's inauguration. I wished more than once that the mothers of those girls had taken weather as seriously as my mother always had. Bear midriffs, unlined rubber boots, and acrylic knit hats and gloves that might have been appropriate attire for the coldest California night failed to provide adequate warmth for the eight hour wait to hear that botched inaugural oath.
My cashmere coat had come from Bloomies in New York. Steve had tenaciously searched the outer-wear department for a coat that met my specifications. After hours of searching, he found one and toted it back to California for my trip to Washington, DC.
Little did we know that I would use that coat to wrap deliriously cold and miserable girls in, as I tried everything in my power to keep them warm - from having them dog pile - to jumping up and down - to begging a girl to share the foot and hand warmers her mother had wisely sent with her with girls who didn't have any ( equivalent to asking someone to give up their last sip of water on a desert island). Or that a girl would go into a full fledged asthma attack from the cold and would have to be sent to the Red Cross station with a friend because she had forgotten to bring her inhaler.
Looking back on my freezing odyssey that included being deserted by my fellow chaperone who panicked in the crowd after losing a few students en route to the porta-potties (the students found their way back to us but she did not), dazedly watching the jumbotron as Aretha sang in her now famous hat and holding on to a little freshman girl in a near state of collapse as I said, "Some day you will be glad you did this," I wondered. Would she? Would I?
The moment Obama's speech had finished, those girls were ready to go. As the only adult with a group of now utterly frozen and exhausted California teenagers, I had no choice but to begin the "pardon us, excuse us" through the throngs on the mall as I strove to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite the inaugural poem, "Praise Song for the Day." Those kids could have cared less about listening to a poem.
Had I known, as we began our exit from the mall, that we would be another four hours attempting to make our way to the metro, first over a fence that had been pushed down and then an hour to get past a horse trailer against which we had been pressed to climb over the hitch, all while I held a red and gold pom pom over head, resulting in several trips to the chiropractor, I might have waited until the poem was finished to leave.
It never warmed up - in fact, it just got colder and grayer. As we abandoned our efforts to get to the metro because of the numerous road blocks and barriers, I led the group back to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to get warm. By that point, I was on the verge of desperation and a near emotional breakdown from the stress of the responsibility of getting those girls safely back to our hotel. I will never forget getting into an unimaginably long line in the Smithsonian for a Boston Market chicken meal, ordering two because I was starving, and numbly sitting next to some strangers who were also semi-comatose, asking them, "So - how was it for you?" It was like we were survivors in a refugee camp. I think I was actually in a mild state of shock.
When we headed back out, a barrier was being moved by a security guard, blocking once again our path to the metro, a primal- survival instinct came over me and I yelled "RUN!" and we all ran like mad to make it past the barrier before we were trapped again. As we finally reached the metro, our cell phones once again were operational. They had been scrambled for the hours up to and during the inauguration for security reasons. I had a text message. It was from Brendan who said, "So exciting. Can't wait to hear all about it." He told me later that my texted response was unintelligible.
By the time we exited the metro station back in Arlington, we had been gone for thirteen hours. The excitement of our departure at 4:00 a.m. that morning, seemed a lifetime ago. The victory of having made it through the metro to the Federal Station without getting separated, the strangely silent masses slowly inching their way along Independence Avenue to a small opening in the fence to get on to the mall, the feeling of having "made it" after having lost half the group for forty-five minutes as we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue and frantically waited to be reunited as we stood on a wall in the pitch dark yelling the names of the lost students - seemed like a surreal dream.
I remember I got back to my empty hotel room, closed the door and curled up in a fetal position on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Even as I write this account, my stomach churns with the memory. It had been an endurance test.
We all survived to tell the story.
And my guess is, those California girls, will never forget to "bring a sweater."
I mentally go through Gillian's wardrobe. I hope her coat will be warm enough.
I know she lived in Seattle for four years and is used to cold, wet weather. In fact, the year that Brendan spent away at college in Philly, the weather was colder in Seattle. All my worries about my California surfer boy adjusting to an east coast winter were for naught. It was Gillian who had to bail out of a stranded bus and walk across a bridge in a snow storm. It gets darned cold in Seattle.
So, New York should be a piece of cake for her.
My obsession with weather goes back to my mother, who insisted in the middle of August that I take a sweater because "it always cools down in California at night." Since I was born and raised in California, I never understood this comment until I took a trip back to Cincinnati in the summer. It doesn't cool down in Ohio at night in August.
To this day, I never leave the house without my "sweater" - be it a microfiber jacket, pashmina, or a cashmere coat. "It doesn't cost you anything to carry it," Mother would say.
Never was I so glad to have a cashmere coat than a year ago, on January 20th, 2009 in Washington, DC. It was 11 degrees with wind chill the morning I herded forty girls from California onto the mall in front of the US Captitol for Barack Obama's inauguration. I wished more than once that the mothers of those girls had taken weather as seriously as my mother always had. Bear midriffs, unlined rubber boots, and acrylic knit hats and gloves that might have been appropriate attire for the coldest California night failed to provide adequate warmth for the eight hour wait to hear that botched inaugural oath.
My cashmere coat had come from Bloomies in New York. Steve had tenaciously searched the outer-wear department for a coat that met my specifications. After hours of searching, he found one and toted it back to California for my trip to Washington, DC.
Little did we know that I would use that coat to wrap deliriously cold and miserable girls in, as I tried everything in my power to keep them warm - from having them dog pile - to jumping up and down - to begging a girl to share the foot and hand warmers her mother had wisely sent with her with girls who didn't have any ( equivalent to asking someone to give up their last sip of water on a desert island). Or that a girl would go into a full fledged asthma attack from the cold and would have to be sent to the Red Cross station with a friend because she had forgotten to bring her inhaler.
Looking back on my freezing odyssey that included being deserted by my fellow chaperone who panicked in the crowd after losing a few students en route to the porta-potties (the students found their way back to us but she did not), dazedly watching the jumbotron as Aretha sang in her now famous hat and holding on to a little freshman girl in a near state of collapse as I said, "Some day you will be glad you did this," I wondered. Would she? Would I?
The moment Obama's speech had finished, those girls were ready to go. As the only adult with a group of now utterly frozen and exhausted California teenagers, I had no choice but to begin the "pardon us, excuse us" through the throngs on the mall as I strove to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite the inaugural poem, "Praise Song for the Day." Those kids could have cared less about listening to a poem.
Had I known, as we began our exit from the mall, that we would be another four hours attempting to make our way to the metro, first over a fence that had been pushed down and then an hour to get past a horse trailer against which we had been pressed to climb over the hitch, all while I held a red and gold pom pom over head, resulting in several trips to the chiropractor, I might have waited until the poem was finished to leave.
It never warmed up - in fact, it just got colder and grayer. As we abandoned our efforts to get to the metro because of the numerous road blocks and barriers, I led the group back to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum to get warm. By that point, I was on the verge of desperation and a near emotional breakdown from the stress of the responsibility of getting those girls safely back to our hotel. I will never forget getting into an unimaginably long line in the Smithsonian for a Boston Market chicken meal, ordering two because I was starving, and numbly sitting next to some strangers who were also semi-comatose, asking them, "So - how was it for you?" It was like we were survivors in a refugee camp. I think I was actually in a mild state of shock.
When we headed back out, a barrier was being moved by a security guard, blocking once again our path to the metro, a primal- survival instinct came over me and I yelled "RUN!" and we all ran like mad to make it past the barrier before we were trapped again. As we finally reached the metro, our cell phones once again were operational. They had been scrambled for the hours up to and during the inauguration for security reasons. I had a text message. It was from Brendan who said, "So exciting. Can't wait to hear all about it." He told me later that my texted response was unintelligible.
By the time we exited the metro station back in Arlington, we had been gone for thirteen hours. The excitement of our departure at 4:00 a.m. that morning, seemed a lifetime ago. The victory of having made it through the metro to the Federal Station without getting separated, the strangely silent masses slowly inching their way along Independence Avenue to a small opening in the fence to get on to the mall, the feeling of having "made it" after having lost half the group for forty-five minutes as we turned the corner onto Independence Avenue and frantically waited to be reunited as we stood on a wall in the pitch dark yelling the names of the lost students - seemed like a surreal dream.
I remember I got back to my empty hotel room, closed the door and curled up in a fetal position on the bed and sobbed uncontrollably. Even as I write this account, my stomach churns with the memory. It had been an endurance test.
We all survived to tell the story.
And my guess is, those California girls, will never forget to "bring a sweater."
Saturday, January 23, 2010
In Defense of the Memoir
In the January 25th edition of the New Yorker Magazine, Daniel Mendelsohn tackles the subject of memoir and its rise in importance within the popular culture in his essay, entitled But Enough About Me. From the internet blogosphere, (of which I am guilty of partaking), to the public's fascination with reality t.v. (of which I am not), Mendelsohn examines the fine line between fiction and memoir and the power that the promise of a "true" story has on a reader. His deft criticism has caused me once again to examine my own fascination and attraction to the genre.
As a late baby boomer, I have had the privilege of being mid-wife to the birthing of memoirs, to witnessing the transformation that comes from the labor of facing the sometimes painful and often times revelatory stories of a generation who did not grow up with a constant diet of therapy and Oprah.
While my bias for self-expression through the personal narrative is obvious, just last week in my memoir workshop with participants between the ages of sixty- something and eighty- something, I was struck by how the need for the high touch experience of sitting in a literal circle reading to one another one's life stories is a phenomenon that will likely die out with that generation of story-tellers.
While I understand the criticism that is heaped upon the genre of personal memoir, I hold to my firm belief that the process of story-telling can be healing. I also understand that the "true" story lends an inherent drama that can be inspiring. Listening to how a family survived the Great Depression, sacrificed during World War II, carried on after the death of their child or built their lives and fortunes from scratch, not only provides perspective for future generations, but allows the story-teller to understand his or her own journey and to derive meaning from their experiences. Some call this self-reflection therapeutic. Some may call it narcissistic.
The fact that the public seems to have an insatiable curiosity and need for such stories I think says something about the post-baby boom culture. The generation of storytellers with whom I work experienced true hardship but they experienced it within the structure of family, church, community, and neighborhood. I realize that much has been written about shifting values, lack of community, and sense of entitlement that permeates the culture today. But, the more I work with "elders", the more I believe that the erosion of the community has contributed to a vast feeling of isolation in our society. This, coupled with the illusion of connectivity through technology, cable television, and reality shows, has distorted and confused the collective psyche. The cheap confessional is a way to make the reader, audience, viewer feel "not so alone." It is a distant replacement for the authentic connection experienced by the pre-boomer generation.
At the same time, the stories that emerge from my circle of writers are every bit as stunning as the stuff of cable television - heroic tales of heartache, intrigue, abuse, deceit, and romance. The fact that these stories are being shared for the first time is liberating and transforming for the writer. While today's generation reveals all - all the time - the writers in my workshop are experiencing the thrill of something fresh and new.
The last of a breed, the generation of storytellers in my workshops may be the last for whom the process of writing one's personal narrative is true "discovery."
I also believe their stories are a history and legacy of heartier souls.
I have born witness not only to a unique period in self-revelation resulting from the boom of autobiography, but because of it, I have also born witness to the stories and the collective wisdom that has shaped their generation.
Because of this, I do not despair for the future. I draw courage because I know through their stories, that even the hardest things are survivable. Especially if you stick together.
I don't need to get lost on some fictional t.v. island to discover that truth.
And I don't apologize for believing that memoir, as a genre, is important and valuable for both the reader and the writer.
As a late baby boomer, I have had the privilege of being mid-wife to the birthing of memoirs, to witnessing the transformation that comes from the labor of facing the sometimes painful and often times revelatory stories of a generation who did not grow up with a constant diet of therapy and Oprah.
While my bias for self-expression through the personal narrative is obvious, just last week in my memoir workshop with participants between the ages of sixty- something and eighty- something, I was struck by how the need for the high touch experience of sitting in a literal circle reading to one another one's life stories is a phenomenon that will likely die out with that generation of story-tellers.
While I understand the criticism that is heaped upon the genre of personal memoir, I hold to my firm belief that the process of story-telling can be healing. I also understand that the "true" story lends an inherent drama that can be inspiring. Listening to how a family survived the Great Depression, sacrificed during World War II, carried on after the death of their child or built their lives and fortunes from scratch, not only provides perspective for future generations, but allows the story-teller to understand his or her own journey and to derive meaning from their experiences. Some call this self-reflection therapeutic. Some may call it narcissistic.
The fact that the public seems to have an insatiable curiosity and need for such stories I think says something about the post-baby boom culture. The generation of storytellers with whom I work experienced true hardship but they experienced it within the structure of family, church, community, and neighborhood. I realize that much has been written about shifting values, lack of community, and sense of entitlement that permeates the culture today. But, the more I work with "elders", the more I believe that the erosion of the community has contributed to a vast feeling of isolation in our society. This, coupled with the illusion of connectivity through technology, cable television, and reality shows, has distorted and confused the collective psyche. The cheap confessional is a way to make the reader, audience, viewer feel "not so alone." It is a distant replacement for the authentic connection experienced by the pre-boomer generation.
At the same time, the stories that emerge from my circle of writers are every bit as stunning as the stuff of cable television - heroic tales of heartache, intrigue, abuse, deceit, and romance. The fact that these stories are being shared for the first time is liberating and transforming for the writer. While today's generation reveals all - all the time - the writers in my workshop are experiencing the thrill of something fresh and new.
The last of a breed, the generation of storytellers in my workshops may be the last for whom the process of writing one's personal narrative is true "discovery."
I also believe their stories are a history and legacy of heartier souls.
I have born witness not only to a unique period in self-revelation resulting from the boom of autobiography, but because of it, I have also born witness to the stories and the collective wisdom that has shaped their generation.
Because of this, I do not despair for the future. I draw courage because I know through their stories, that even the hardest things are survivable. Especially if you stick together.
I don't need to get lost on some fictional t.v. island to discover that truth.
And I don't apologize for believing that memoir, as a genre, is important and valuable for both the reader and the writer.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Of Mice and Gillian
The squeal on the other end of the phone abruptly ended my long awaited update from Brooklyn.
"A mouse. A mouse. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. It just ran into my closet. I've gotta go."
Click.
While I've been lamenting my empty nest, it would seem that Gillian's is not so empty.
While things around here can only be described as "quiet" - it most definitely has not been so for Gillian in NYC.
From learning the subway system, to apartment hunting, to wrestling with internet connectivity issues for her job, to adapting to the cold weather - it would seem that I've had the easier adjustment.
Heck, at least I have a bed to sleep in with Steve for a roommate.
Gillian is on a mattress with a mouse for hers.
I told her she should have taken our cat Lido with her.
I guess this gives new meaning to "creature comforts."
The next box I ship to New York will include a mousetrap.
"A mouse. A mouse. Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh. It just ran into my closet. I've gotta go."
Click.
While I've been lamenting my empty nest, it would seem that Gillian's is not so empty.
While things around here can only be described as "quiet" - it most definitely has not been so for Gillian in NYC.
From learning the subway system, to apartment hunting, to wrestling with internet connectivity issues for her job, to adapting to the cold weather - it would seem that I've had the easier adjustment.
Heck, at least I have a bed to sleep in with Steve for a roommate.
Gillian is on a mattress with a mouse for hers.
I told her she should have taken our cat Lido with her.
I guess this gives new meaning to "creature comforts."
The next box I ship to New York will include a mousetrap.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Theatre On Purpose - Homelessness
My latest Theatre on Purpose Directorial Project in the OC Register. http://tinyurl.com/yb9k3vj
Monday, January 18, 2010
Philosophy, Film, and Fifty
It has taken nearly three years, but the movie My Dinner with Andre finally made its way to the top of our netflix cue. One time, about four years ago, Gillian and I tried to rent it from a video store in Seattle and were told we'd have to leave a $300 deposit so we left the DVD on the counter and I was left trying to explain to my then twenty -one year old daughter what the movie was "about." I gave up, simply saying, it's two theatre artists, Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory talking about art and the meaning of life over dinner in a restaurant in New York with a craggy- faced French waiter occasionally ease dropping as he serves them.
Hmmm....a $300 deposit for that, huh?
This weekend, as Steve and I eased our way into our first full weekend on our own, we nestled down in our den with a fire burning in the fireplace and demitasse cups of espresso with a twist of lemon to watch the long sought film.
It did not disappoint.
I found myself grinning from ear to ear through most of it, listening to Gregory's self-absorbed account of his journey toward spiritual and artistic awakening as he explored avant garde theatrical exercises in Grotowski's Polish forest, revelations in Scotland's Findhorn Community and ate sand with a Buddhist monk in Antoine de Saint Exupery's Sahara. Wallace Shawn's flat, expressionless face and internal monologue bordering on vocal hysteria with his high pitched laugh and eventual confession to not knowing what Gregory was talking about had me laughing out loud.
Gregory's oh so serious search, his various epiphanies along the way and his artistic struggle as a director seemed to me, at fifty, to capture the earnest narcissum that consumes the theatre artist. The genius of My Dinner with Andre is how it weaves a monologue and conversational threads for nearly two hours eventually leading to a subtle collision of world views on the question of reality and meaning, coincidence and serendipity, privilege and survival. While the conversation does not lead to any great climactic turning point, the dynamic exchange leaves Wallace Shawn seeing and appreciating his life in his native New York through the window of a taxi cab and the viewer all the richer for having been a guest at the table.
Not to be outdone, the next night, we watched the When Nietsche Wept. It was an interesting juxtaposition to My Dinner with Andre. While this film derives its story from the relationship between the great philosopher and the father of the "talking cure", Freud's mentor Josef Breurer, the underlying theme was not so different from Andre Gregory's search for a meaningful life.
Two lines from the film struck me.
"Isolation lives only in isolation. Once shared, it disappears." I couldn't help but think how I have seen this very truth unfold as writers share the stories of their lives, unburdening themselves and bringing to light that which has been buried deep within their psyche. The unexpressed often holds us a prisoner in our own isolation.
The other line that hit me was, "If you don't take possession of your goals, you live your life as an accident." While there may be at the center of this belief the question of controlling one's destiny, the overriding truth in this statement is a strong argument for seizing one's life and setting a compass.
Finally this morning, I opened the LA Times to read that the venerable metaphysical bookstore, The Bodhi Tree, is up for sale. A sign that we have moved past the new-age hype of the 1980's into a different time. The bookstore's owners acknowledged that through the search they don't feel they have found the secret to anything other than the most important thing in life is family and relationships.
At fifty, I've had my share of spiritual epiphanies and have a bookcase full of self-help and metaphysical books, some of which came from The Bodhi Tree. I am grateful for having the perspective that whatever form the search takes - the journey often leads back to the simple truth that it's all about relationship. Andre Gregory realizes that his marriage to his wife is all that matters. Wallace Shawn goes home to his girlfriend, Debbie. Josef Breuer embraces his home and family after a hypnotic journey and confrontation with obsession. And Bodhi Tree owner, Phil Thompson says, "I have an ordinary life and feel good about it most of the time."
Me too. It was a good weekend at home. Just the two of us.
Hmmm....a $300 deposit for that, huh?
This weekend, as Steve and I eased our way into our first full weekend on our own, we nestled down in our den with a fire burning in the fireplace and demitasse cups of espresso with a twist of lemon to watch the long sought film.
It did not disappoint.
I found myself grinning from ear to ear through most of it, listening to Gregory's self-absorbed account of his journey toward spiritual and artistic awakening as he explored avant garde theatrical exercises in Grotowski's Polish forest, revelations in Scotland's Findhorn Community and ate sand with a Buddhist monk in Antoine de Saint Exupery's Sahara. Wallace Shawn's flat, expressionless face and internal monologue bordering on vocal hysteria with his high pitched laugh and eventual confession to not knowing what Gregory was talking about had me laughing out loud.
Gregory's oh so serious search, his various epiphanies along the way and his artistic struggle as a director seemed to me, at fifty, to capture the earnest narcissum that consumes the theatre artist. The genius of My Dinner with Andre is how it weaves a monologue and conversational threads for nearly two hours eventually leading to a subtle collision of world views on the question of reality and meaning, coincidence and serendipity, privilege and survival. While the conversation does not lead to any great climactic turning point, the dynamic exchange leaves Wallace Shawn seeing and appreciating his life in his native New York through the window of a taxi cab and the viewer all the richer for having been a guest at the table.
Not to be outdone, the next night, we watched the When Nietsche Wept. It was an interesting juxtaposition to My Dinner with Andre. While this film derives its story from the relationship between the great philosopher and the father of the "talking cure", Freud's mentor Josef Breurer, the underlying theme was not so different from Andre Gregory's search for a meaningful life.
Two lines from the film struck me.
"Isolation lives only in isolation. Once shared, it disappears." I couldn't help but think how I have seen this very truth unfold as writers share the stories of their lives, unburdening themselves and bringing to light that which has been buried deep within their psyche. The unexpressed often holds us a prisoner in our own isolation.
The other line that hit me was, "If you don't take possession of your goals, you live your life as an accident." While there may be at the center of this belief the question of controlling one's destiny, the overriding truth in this statement is a strong argument for seizing one's life and setting a compass.
Finally this morning, I opened the LA Times to read that the venerable metaphysical bookstore, The Bodhi Tree, is up for sale. A sign that we have moved past the new-age hype of the 1980's into a different time. The bookstore's owners acknowledged that through the search they don't feel they have found the secret to anything other than the most important thing in life is family and relationships.
At fifty, I've had my share of spiritual epiphanies and have a bookcase full of self-help and metaphysical books, some of which came from The Bodhi Tree. I am grateful for having the perspective that whatever form the search takes - the journey often leads back to the simple truth that it's all about relationship. Andre Gregory realizes that his marriage to his wife is all that matters. Wallace Shawn goes home to his girlfriend, Debbie. Josef Breuer embraces his home and family after a hypnotic journey and confrontation with obsession. And Bodhi Tree owner, Phil Thompson says, "I have an ordinary life and feel good about it most of the time."
Me too. It was a good weekend at home. Just the two of us.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen
The Coq au Vin was delicious. I served it for dinner after a kayak and trip to the grocery store, all of which I negotiated without incident - no exchanges with produce clerks. No uncontrolled bouts of emotion. Well, I'll admit to a pang at Trader Joe's when I picked out my pre-packaged lunch salads as I realized I would no longer have to jockey for shelf space in the refrigerator - but minor, really, by comparison to my earlier trips.
Progress.
Now the dish towels are another story. We have difference of opinion. I tend toward the aesthetic. I like color coordinated, themed towels - you know, red and green for Christmas, hearts for Valentine's day, Shamrocks for St. Patrick's day. I have a penchant for buying t-towels when I travel. They fit easily into a suitcase and bring back happy memories when I pull them out of the drawer. On any given day, it is an artistic decision which will hang from my oven door.
GIllian on the other hand is all about function and absorption. I'm a dishwasher kind of gal. She, a hand -wash and stack on the sink on top of a white flour sack towel to air -dry type.
Many nights, she would shoo me out of the kitchen to prevent me from loading the knives and pans into the dish washer. This conflict has haunted me for years - going back to the days when my mother would take over my kitchen on Pine Street to whip it into shape. She didn't like how I loaded a dishwasher either. I'll admit to laziness when it comes to washing up the pots and pans. If you are going to hand wash everything, why have a dishwasher? The dullness of the blades is apparently the issue. I do, however, insist on hand washing my china and crystal, something my mother poo poo'd. Hence, the cloudy haze on her Murano Italian cut crystal. I do put the silver into the basket of the dishwasher and am careful not to place it near the stainless. We all have our priorities.
I thought about this as I pulled out my gold colored dish towel - a souvenir from Tuscany. I draped it over the handle of the oven. It looks pretty.
Dividing up the kitchen utensils was something like a friendly divorce. The dispute arose over the tongs. As she pulled them from the red pitcher that serves as a utensil holder on the counter, I gasped. "Wait a minute. What are you doing with those?" She reminded me that she had bought them at Prep with her own money and she just knew this was going to be an issue when the time came. She tossed them into her box as she packed up the Cuisinart. I didn't care about that. I frankly don't like food processors. Too hard to clean. I prefer my little hand held mixer.
Speaking of mixers, the one I got for our first Christmas twenty-seven years ago drove her nuts as she whipped up her berry cobbler batter.
I thought of this as I began to reclaim my kitchen - putting things back where I wanted them regardless of the logic or function. I moved the egg beater inserts from the drawer under the stove where they didn't fit to the lower drawer under the oven where I'd put them when we originally moved in.
She left the white rubber spatula with the wooden handle. I put it into the pitcher and moved the long handled zester from the pitcher into the drawer. I was sure I'd paid for that and she hadn't disputed it. The zester is a necessity these days. I use it surprisingly frequently. But I had never had one prior to GIllian moving back home.
How is it that my daughter taught me to cook? My mother didn't. And I didn't teach Gillian. I thought of the movies, Like Water for Chocolate and Babette's Feast and Chocolat and some of those other soulful stories of the passing on of the culinary traditions and family recipes from mother to daughter and thought how funny it was that our story was generationally backwards.
During my cooking apprenticeship at Chez Savona under the tutelage of my daughter, I'd learned to cook with kosher salt, sea salt, shallots, fennel, leeks, and ginger. My library now contains three of Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa cookbooks and atop my butter dish rests only unsalted butter.
Tonight, I'll use my stock pot, another item I only acquired in the last two years.
I do miss those tongs, though.
Progress.
Now the dish towels are another story. We have difference of opinion. I tend toward the aesthetic. I like color coordinated, themed towels - you know, red and green for Christmas, hearts for Valentine's day, Shamrocks for St. Patrick's day. I have a penchant for buying t-towels when I travel. They fit easily into a suitcase and bring back happy memories when I pull them out of the drawer. On any given day, it is an artistic decision which will hang from my oven door.
GIllian on the other hand is all about function and absorption. I'm a dishwasher kind of gal. She, a hand -wash and stack on the sink on top of a white flour sack towel to air -dry type.
Many nights, she would shoo me out of the kitchen to prevent me from loading the knives and pans into the dish washer. This conflict has haunted me for years - going back to the days when my mother would take over my kitchen on Pine Street to whip it into shape. She didn't like how I loaded a dishwasher either. I'll admit to laziness when it comes to washing up the pots and pans. If you are going to hand wash everything, why have a dishwasher? The dullness of the blades is apparently the issue. I do, however, insist on hand washing my china and crystal, something my mother poo poo'd. Hence, the cloudy haze on her Murano Italian cut crystal. I do put the silver into the basket of the dishwasher and am careful not to place it near the stainless. We all have our priorities.
I thought about this as I pulled out my gold colored dish towel - a souvenir from Tuscany. I draped it over the handle of the oven. It looks pretty.
Dividing up the kitchen utensils was something like a friendly divorce. The dispute arose over the tongs. As she pulled them from the red pitcher that serves as a utensil holder on the counter, I gasped. "Wait a minute. What are you doing with those?" She reminded me that she had bought them at Prep with her own money and she just knew this was going to be an issue when the time came. She tossed them into her box as she packed up the Cuisinart. I didn't care about that. I frankly don't like food processors. Too hard to clean. I prefer my little hand held mixer.
Speaking of mixers, the one I got for our first Christmas twenty-seven years ago drove her nuts as she whipped up her berry cobbler batter.
I thought of this as I began to reclaim my kitchen - putting things back where I wanted them regardless of the logic or function. I moved the egg beater inserts from the drawer under the stove where they didn't fit to the lower drawer under the oven where I'd put them when we originally moved in.
She left the white rubber spatula with the wooden handle. I put it into the pitcher and moved the long handled zester from the pitcher into the drawer. I was sure I'd paid for that and she hadn't disputed it. The zester is a necessity these days. I use it surprisingly frequently. But I had never had one prior to GIllian moving back home.
How is it that my daughter taught me to cook? My mother didn't. And I didn't teach Gillian. I thought of the movies, Like Water for Chocolate and Babette's Feast and Chocolat and some of those other soulful stories of the passing on of the culinary traditions and family recipes from mother to daughter and thought how funny it was that our story was generationally backwards.
During my cooking apprenticeship at Chez Savona under the tutelage of my daughter, I'd learned to cook with kosher salt, sea salt, shallots, fennel, leeks, and ginger. My library now contains three of Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa cookbooks and atop my butter dish rests only unsalted butter.
Tonight, I'll use my stock pot, another item I only acquired in the last two years.
I do miss those tongs, though.
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