island of sanity

I took advantage of the long weekend to make some little progress on the massive sorting-purging-tidying process that is a constant in my life just now. I have achieved a small island of sanity in the necessary chaos:I had been using a table with no drawers as a desk for way too long. So I came to my senses and re-established the desk as a desk, as opposed to "a handy surface upon which to pile stuff whilst trying to decide what to do with and about everything." These drawer things are amazing -- have you heard about these? -- I can stuff a lot of my stuff in the drawers, close them, and then mirable dictu! all the stuff is still at hand but the top of the desk is relatively clear and open and suitable for use as a napping spot for Beau.

This is Beau:
Beau showed up in the yard one day, hunkered and screaming. The screaming misled me into thinking "This is one mean junkyard dog of a cat." But Beau was mostly terrified and, when translated, the screaming went something like Pleaeaeaeaeaeaeaeaeassssssssssssssssse Hellllllllllllllllllllllp Mmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Now Beau is a house cat. In this photo from the transition, you may be able to tell from his expression that he was still a little uncertain of What Just Happened. But he swiftly got into the swing of being inside and has become an indispensable member of the household.

Beau helped me revise my syllabus:
pitches in with the vacuuming
[aka hoovering, for my overseas friends]
is an enthusiastic mouser
adventurous
and a perceptive critic although his attention span is not all it might be
And now I have some serious work to do, so I will turn my back on the rest of the room -- which, quite obviously, is still in transition and have at it.
Being a virtuous sort, I did throw out that bag of shredded paper featured in the foreground. The Queen of Industry, that's me. . .

Excelsior, mes amis. Ever and always, excelsior.

...but no thanks

In the previous post, I mentioned tagging. That was a dumb thing to have done. I thought the addendum "I'm not complaining" would have been sufficient to indicate that I was happy in my relative anonymity. Apparently not. I have now been tagged. Twice. In rapid succession.

I considered listing the 7 worst things that have happened in my life -- fully half of which involve A felonies -- but decided that would be too hostile even for me. So let me say that, while I appreciate the enthusiasm, I'm not a willing participant. Also, the few (fewer than 7) people that I might, under very exceptional circumstances, consider tagging in turn, have all already been tagged at least twice. A third time would be, I think, too much of an imposition.

So thank you for considering me; I mean that sincerely, thank you. But no thanks.

Boil and bubble. A note of appreciation

I haven't been tagged -- and I'm not complaining about that -- but I thought I'd share a not-so secret thing about me. I love soup.

I love soup so much that I have considered starting a take-out soup business. But I also know from experience that I am not as entrepreneurial as a business needs its founder to be, so instead I play with the idea of the thing, and have a good old vicarious time of it.

I credit Sally Nirenberg with launching this wholesome preoccupation. In 1990, Ms Nirenberg published Recipes from the Night Kitchen: A Practical Guide to Spectacular Soups, Stews, and Chilies which just may be the best book of recipes of any kind ever. (The Night Kitchen was the name of the wholesale soup business that she founded and ran in Massachusetts.) She makes having a soup business sound achievable and idyllic; and her recipes for the home cook are, in fact, Practical and Spectacular -- this is not hyperbolic press puffery. I've never met her, but I am profoundly grateful to her. I've never had a bad meal from her book, or a sour moment while pretending that maybe I could have a business like that too. Ongoing food for the body and the imagination is a good return from a $10 investment amortized over 18 years. The book is still available -- new and used -- so go get one.

Meanwhile as winter taps ever more vigorously at the panes, I thought that, from time to time, I might share some of the treasures from my travels in the realms of broths and report on the many goodly stocks and consommes seen. (apologies to Keats) To wit, my variation on Ms Nirenberg's Carrot-Fennel soup (she calls for fennel seeds; I thought "why not an actual fennel?").
1 tablespoon olive or canola oil
1 Spanish onion, coarsely chopped
1.5 to 2 lbs carrots, peeled and sliced
8 cups chicken or vegetable stock
(I use half stock, half water; all stock is too chickeny for me)
1 small fennel bulb. with or without the feathery bits, coarsely chopped
(or 1 teaspoon dried fennel seed, for all you originalists)

I don't use the oil. I just toss everything into a crock pot and let it cook on low for 6 (or so) hours, then run it through the food processor. I used to use a blender but the processor doesn't completely liquefy everything the way the blender does, so the soup has a nice, very slightly rough texture.

If you don't have a crock pot -- YOU DON'T HAVE A CROCK POT? HOW CAN YOU LIVE? -- then put the oil in a 3-quart pot and heat it gently. Add the onions and carrots (and chopped fennel, if using it) and cook, covered, over low heat until the vegetables are tender.
Add the stock and the fennel seeds (if using those -- one or the other, vegetable or seeds, not both) and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer, covered, for about 20 minutes. Then run it all through a food processor or blender.

This yields about 2.5 to 3 quarts. It's also good cold in the summer. Which is one of the few good things about summer. In addition to my birthday, which is the only official holiday in August.

the power of art

What a grace to have lived in the same world as this woman. Soar high, malaika, land gently.

Behold, dragon-puss

Sometimes simple things are best.

I was completely stuck for an idea for one of the books in the book exchange and, earlier in the week, decided phooey. Not one of my more high-toned decisions, but it's been that kind of a week. So, phooey, just Do Something already, for pity's sake. So I splashed some acrylic paint, folded the page over, brayered it to a fare-thee-well, and opened it up again. Not bad, thought I, but it needs something. Uncharacteristically, I let it sit overnight until the paint was completely dry, then splashed in some orange, repeated the folding/brayering, and . . . am sufficiently tickled with the result to feel comfortable passing it along. (Heads up, Katie Jane.)

Maybe I won't learn to paint with all those scary fiddly little brush thingies. Maybe I'll just splash and roll.

tribute

15. The Tradition of Patriotism

“A nation, our parents believed, should be judged in much the same way as an individual: by deeds, not words. Politicians and the government show their regard for our society, our community, and our fellow human beings by what they do – by their efforts to stop trouble before it starts, and to restore order or repair damage when it’s over. Mother and Dad were aware that songs, symbols, and pledges, however sincerely meant, were often used as shortcuts, as substitutes for the hard work of democracy, the sweat it takes to pursue justice. And they would not be intimidated from pointing this evasion out again and again, in part because they knew that inaction plays into the hands of the barons of power and money. They intuited what Marcus Cicero said over two thousand years ago in ancient Rome: “Freedom is participation in power.”

from: The Seventeen Traditions by Ralph Nader

And that's about all I have to say about the election.

Now back to arting around.

early and often

pack a thermos,

set the alarm,

and

GET OUT AND VOTE TOMORROW.

If you don't vote, you can't complain,

and I expect

to be doing a whole heap o' complaining

no matter who gets in,

so look out.

ch- ch- ch- ch- changes

I've been away from this longer than I realized. A lot of mental and emotional energy has been caught up in trying to decide a direction for the next bit of time -- years, maybe. I've been an adjunct professor of writing at the Gallatin School for Individualized Study at NYU since September 10, 2001. I fell into teaching and was shocked to find that I love it. I was such a reluctant student, I never would have chosen teaching. An odd confluence of things brought me to it, on the day before 9/11, and despite frequent bouts of doubt, I've stayed ever since. The students are exhilarating -- talented, eager, daring -- but it's a part time job that can never be anything but a part time job, and that's not enough anymore. In the
7 1/2 years that I've been there, Gallatin has not hired a single full time writing teacher (not that
I would qualify, being without a PhD, a Pulitzer, or both) and the commute gets more frustrating and exhausting each year. I recently picked up a part time day job that's four miles from the house and that will go full time in January. I thought, I'd hoped, that I'd be able to keep on at Gallatin with a night schedule but I keep forgetting that I'm not 18 any more and I seriously overestimated my stamina. I was getting a lot of "tell us what you need for the spring term" email and decided the most honorable thing to do was to resign. So I have resigned. It is wrenching, and necessary. The students pay full-time prices and deserve more than flagging part-time attention.

So I've been preoccupied with that and not attending to blogposts and Moby Dick panels and such like. There is some peace in having made the decision but it was a tough road to get here. I hope there may come a time when I can go back, and I expressed that hope, and it was encouraged, so that's something. So now, I'll see what I see. And keep you posted.