My post about this topic is being featured on BlogHer today ... come on over and visit, and join the conversation about strategies for overcoming your inner critic!
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2016
I Don't Post On My Blog Because I'm My Own Worst Critic.
Are you your own worst critic? Does it affect your writing?
My post about this topic is being featured on BlogHer today ... come on over and visit, and join the conversation about strategies for overcoming your inner critic!
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My post about this topic is being featured on BlogHer today ... come on over and visit, and join the conversation about strategies for overcoming your inner critic!
Wednesday, April 6, 2016
Legacies (with Soda Bread)
My first apartment in New Jersey, after I returned from the West Coast, was at the back end of a long, two story half-empty building, where the only other tenants on my floor (or so it seemed to me) were an older woman named Marcia and an older man named Harry.
Harry lived next door to me, and he hadn't been well past mid-life, I would have said he was having a midlife crisis. He drove a red sportscar and had a bleach-blonde older girlfriend. I didn't see much of him, beyond his comings and goings. I may or may not have heard him (and his girlfriend) at night.
Marcia lived across the hall from me, in an apartment that always seemed to be full of steam. Our building was perpetually cold (because our landlord was a miserly SOB, earning tax credits for his empty apartments, despite our super's best efforts to make the place liveable), and so Marcia would boil great pots of water on her stove, heating her cramped space as best she could, covering herself with hand-crocheted blankets in the most raucous of colors. When I knocked at her door, I knew that I'd be in for an hour long conversation, and that she would implore me (in a way that was impossible to refuse: "Zhus-tin," she would call) to come, to sit, and to eat: small hard blueberry muffins, or dry crumbly cookies, or something that her son had brought, which was "too much" for her to eat alone.
Marcia was a Holocaust survivor. Her sister, who lived in Brazil, was her only other surviving relative; sometimes when I went to visit, as I often did on the weekends or after work, I would find her laboring over her letters, or talking a million miles an hour in Hebrew, long distance. She never told me her story, though she alluded to it; she didn't want to talk about it, she said, because it was too sad for me. (She eventually published a memoir, here, which I discovered just this week.) I never understood what she meant by that, but I told her it was OK, and that I loved her, and that I was glad I lived there with her, grateful for her friendship. On rare occasions, wiping away her tears, she would confide to me she thought she was spared for Ora, her granddaughter, to leave her legacy with her. Selfishly, sometimes, though I would never tell her so, I thought she was spared for me, too.
I dated my husband when I lived there, and when we got engaged, she was one of the first people we told. I remember her blessing us, and trembling with joy, and telling me how sad she was that I would be leaving, but what a happy life we would have together. One day she called us in, presenting us with a wedding present: a silver serving plate, embossed in great detail with grapes and leaves and vines. She told us that it was symbolic; that in Jewish weddings the secret to happiness is in the blessings over the wine.
We visited her occasionally those first few years; she left our complex not long after I did, when her son, finally taking issue with the lack of heat and other creature comforts, decided to buy a condominium for her with a scenic view of the park that boundaried the nearby river. I loved seeing her in her new place, with the same crocheted blankets flung over the backs of furniture. She still fed us cookies and fruit and tea. But after my son was born, we slowly lost touch.
We don't have much in the way of fancy serving ware, but every once in a while, we use Marcia's plate for a special occasion, usually to serve bread, wrapped in a cloth napkin; every time, I remember her blessings.
I took Marcia's plate out of the cabinet last week, thinking that I'd put it in the bin to bring over to the new house, and decided to polish it up a bit first. I hadn't realized that it had so tarnished over the years that the spaces between the details were outlined in black; S. and I both thought it had been that way always. I scrubbed and scrubbed with polish and paper towel; we tried a soft-bristled toothbrush to get the polish in between the cracks; S. tried submerging it with aluminum foil in a baking soda solution. I've spent hours on the project, and though in some spots it now gleams, still, the more I polish it, the more I see the tarnish left where I have more work to do. Marcia, reminding us not to put her away for too long this time, to do the hard work of memory that keeps legacies visible.
Legacies are complicated things. We never know what kind of impressions we've made. But I hope that I'll leave behind pieces of myself that are as stubborn and beautiful as Marcia's are, even now.
Soda Bread
A friend shared this recipe, and refers to it as "Mother Hudak's" Soda Bread. I don't know who Mother Hudak is, but I'm glad that she's left me this piece of herself, whoever she is. Though it's from a very different tradition, it's actually not all that different from something we might have been served at Marcia's over tea.
2 c flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
½ c sugar
1 c raisins
1 egg
1 c sour cream
¼ c milk
Preheat oven to 350, and prepare a baking pan by greasing it or lining it with parchment.
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl with a whisk. Add raisins to mixture.
Beat egg and make a hole in center of mixture – add beaten egg, and mix well with a fork.
Cream together and add to bread mixture the sour cream and milk. Fold dough together gently using a spatula.
Dump the dough from the bowl onto the pan and shape into a loaf; bake for 35 minutes to an hour depending on how crusty you like it. When crust looks brown and done, it’s likely not baked thoroughly inside. You'll likely want to cover the bread with aluminum foil on top and continue baking for ~ 15 more minutes.
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Harry lived next door to me, and he hadn't been well past mid-life, I would have said he was having a midlife crisis. He drove a red sportscar and had a bleach-blonde older girlfriend. I didn't see much of him, beyond his comings and goings. I may or may not have heard him (and his girlfriend) at night.
Marcia lived across the hall from me, in an apartment that always seemed to be full of steam. Our building was perpetually cold (because our landlord was a miserly SOB, earning tax credits for his empty apartments, despite our super's best efforts to make the place liveable), and so Marcia would boil great pots of water on her stove, heating her cramped space as best she could, covering herself with hand-crocheted blankets in the most raucous of colors. When I knocked at her door, I knew that I'd be in for an hour long conversation, and that she would implore me (in a way that was impossible to refuse: "Zhus-tin," she would call) to come, to sit, and to eat: small hard blueberry muffins, or dry crumbly cookies, or something that her son had brought, which was "too much" for her to eat alone.
Marcia was a Holocaust survivor. Her sister, who lived in Brazil, was her only other surviving relative; sometimes when I went to visit, as I often did on the weekends or after work, I would find her laboring over her letters, or talking a million miles an hour in Hebrew, long distance. She never told me her story, though she alluded to it; she didn't want to talk about it, she said, because it was too sad for me. (She eventually published a memoir, here, which I discovered just this week.) I never understood what she meant by that, but I told her it was OK, and that I loved her, and that I was glad I lived there with her, grateful for her friendship. On rare occasions, wiping away her tears, she would confide to me she thought she was spared for Ora, her granddaughter, to leave her legacy with her. Selfishly, sometimes, though I would never tell her so, I thought she was spared for me, too.
I dated my husband when I lived there, and when we got engaged, she was one of the first people we told. I remember her blessing us, and trembling with joy, and telling me how sad she was that I would be leaving, but what a happy life we would have together. One day she called us in, presenting us with a wedding present: a silver serving plate, embossed in great detail with grapes and leaves and vines. She told us that it was symbolic; that in Jewish weddings the secret to happiness is in the blessings over the wine.
We visited her occasionally those first few years; she left our complex not long after I did, when her son, finally taking issue with the lack of heat and other creature comforts, decided to buy a condominium for her with a scenic view of the park that boundaried the nearby river. I loved seeing her in her new place, with the same crocheted blankets flung over the backs of furniture. She still fed us cookies and fruit and tea. But after my son was born, we slowly lost touch.
We don't have much in the way of fancy serving ware, but every once in a while, we use Marcia's plate for a special occasion, usually to serve bread, wrapped in a cloth napkin; every time, I remember her blessings.
I took Marcia's plate out of the cabinet last week, thinking that I'd put it in the bin to bring over to the new house, and decided to polish it up a bit first. I hadn't realized that it had so tarnished over the years that the spaces between the details were outlined in black; S. and I both thought it had been that way always. I scrubbed and scrubbed with polish and paper towel; we tried a soft-bristled toothbrush to get the polish in between the cracks; S. tried submerging it with aluminum foil in a baking soda solution. I've spent hours on the project, and though in some spots it now gleams, still, the more I polish it, the more I see the tarnish left where I have more work to do. Marcia, reminding us not to put her away for too long this time, to do the hard work of memory that keeps legacies visible.
Legacies are complicated things. We never know what kind of impressions we've made. But I hope that I'll leave behind pieces of myself that are as stubborn and beautiful as Marcia's are, even now.
Soda Bread
A friend shared this recipe, and refers to it as "Mother Hudak's" Soda Bread. I don't know who Mother Hudak is, but I'm glad that she's left me this piece of herself, whoever she is. Though it's from a very different tradition, it's actually not all that different from something we might have been served at Marcia's over tea.
1 ½ tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
½ c sugar
1 c raisins
1 egg
1 c sour cream
¼ c milk
Preheat oven to 350, and prepare a baking pan by greasing it or lining it with parchment.
Sift dry ingredients together in a large bowl with a whisk. Add raisins to mixture.
Beat egg and make a hole in center of mixture – add beaten egg, and mix well with a fork.
Cream together and add to bread mixture the sour cream and milk. Fold dough together gently using a spatula.
Dump the dough from the bowl onto the pan and shape into a loaf; bake for 35 minutes to an hour depending on how crusty you like it. When crust looks brown and done, it’s likely not baked thoroughly inside. You'll likely want to cover the bread with aluminum foil on top and continue baking for ~ 15 more minutes.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
The Original Post
For Lease, reads the sign in the window, in bold sans serif font above the large white phone number of some commercial real estate company.
But when the second post office down the street from where I work closed, too, making me wonder whether they'd preserve the mural I'd studied so often, standing in line, I felt a pang of anxiety. What did it mean, the closing of the post office?
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But who would lease the post office, I wonder?
It was enough of a surprise when our post office downtown decided that it was going to subdivide, keeping only half of its current building, closing the other half and selling it. They installed a door where a large pane window used to be on the front of the building, poured a concrete walkway that zigzagged unnecessarily across the lawn, and tacked up a laminated reminder on the old door that "patrons should please use the front entrance." As if there were now any other.
But when the second post office down the street from where I work closed, too, making me wonder whether they'd preserve the mural I'd studied so often, standing in line, I felt a pang of anxiety. What did it mean, the closing of the post office?
Turns out that post office is going to become a brewpub. Though at least they're preserving the mural.
When I was much younger, I used to write letters. I had (still have) a wax seal with my first initial, and wax that I'd melt letting the whole stick catch fire momentarily as it dropped across the seal. I sent small packages with bracelets, coupons, all sorts of things. I wrote away for free stuff, enclosing self-addressed stamped envelopes that would come back to be with pamphlets and maps and plastic. I loved, and still love, the inky, papery smell of the post office. It's the same no matter where I go, no matter which town I'm in.
I guess Twitter and Snapchat and Instagram have replaced the post office. I hope the brewpub gathers friends just as paper letters once connected us. Maybe Jeff Bezos' drones will fulfill my need for mystery packages. Somehow, though, I feel like I'm being robbed of something magical.
When I was much younger, I used to write letters. I had (still have) a wax seal with my first initial, and wax that I'd melt letting the whole stick catch fire momentarily as it dropped across the seal. I sent small packages with bracelets, coupons, all sorts of things. I wrote away for free stuff, enclosing self-addressed stamped envelopes that would come back to be with pamphlets and maps and plastic. I loved, and still love, the inky, papery smell of the post office. It's the same no matter where I go, no matter which town I'm in.
I guess Twitter and Snapchat and Instagram have replaced the post office. I hope the brewpub gathers friends just as paper letters once connected us. Maybe Jeff Bezos' drones will fulfill my need for mystery packages. Somehow, though, I feel like I'm being robbed of something magical.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Thaw. (with Slow Cooker Lentil Soup)
The snow had left powdered-sugar dust on the grass, on the daffodils. A thin crust of crystal, dazzling in the sunlight, invitingly crunchy, like water ice.I wanted to stop and take pictures on the way, here, and here, and here: the alpacas, clustered together, moving slowly across the frozen field; the branches, bending, touching, bridging across the road; all of the world captured, for a moment, in thaw. I can't seem to capture any of it well with an iPhone5, though, which is all I use for photography any more, simply because I have it with me, and because the big beautiful camera doesn't behave for me. The phone camera thinks it's smarter than I am.
It has been a strange winter here in the Northeast: first nonexistent, then relentless, then February (which is like relentless but worse, for so many reasons), then a weekend of spring, then snow again. But finally, now, when I sit in the sun, it feels less ephemeral, more determined, stronger, like maybe it will stick around for a while.
A blogger friend says she misses my voice. I miss my voice, too. Part of me wonders if I have lost it entirely. But also why I should bother looking for it, and whether I might want to find it here, out in public. Why not just write for an audience of one, where I worry less about judgment by the people I know in real life. The answer, of course, is like the phenomenon of thaw: without the warmth and sunlight that can only come from the world, the plants are perfectly happy to stay hibernating.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
Welcome spring.
This is what's in our kitchen: a hodgepodge of winter beans and root vegetables, with spring greens and new garlic. Sort of like thaw in a bowl.
3 medium carrots, chopped (or 4 small or 2 large)
2 celery stalks, chopped
1 large yellow onion, chopped
3 cloves garlic, chopped
1 large clove shallot, chopped
2 cups dry green lentils (rinsed)
8 cups Vegetable stock
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 bag of baby spinach
1 1/2 teaspoons balsalmic vinegar
2 teaspoons Kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
1 teaspoon ground cumin
Chop carrots, celery, onion, garlic, and shallots in the food processor. Place chopped vegetables into crockpot along with lentils, stock, canned tomatoes, bay leaf and dried thyme. Cover with lid and set cooking time (4 Hours on high or 8 Hours on low). When cooking time is up, add spinach, vinegar, salt, black pepper, and ground cumin. Place lid back on and let sit covered for fifteen additional minutes before serving.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
The Power of a Story
Today, my daughter turns five.
In her Montessori classroom, there are no cupcakes, no balloons, no party favors. Instead, they will tell the story of her life.
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In her Montessori classroom, there are no cupcakes, no balloons, no party favors. Instead, they will tell the story of her life.
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...Her classmates will gather in a circle around a candle "which represents the sun," and she will walk in a circle around it, holding a globe, once for each year of her life, while her classmates sing.
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...
Around and around and around and around ...After each turn around the sun, one of us will show the class a photo of her at that age, and remember something about her: how she took such good care of her first doll, how she loved her first tutu and was dancing from ealy on, how much fun she had playing with hula hoops at her first friend party, how she discovered her love of reading. The story will begin with her birth, and continue until she reaches her current year.
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...
A long time ago, Mommy and Daddy were very happy together (or: because they had [sibling]) ...
But they knew that someone very special was missing from their lives ...I love this ceremony, because it honors the power of our stories, the importance of giving children narrative roots that empower them to find their place in the world, to determine their futures. Even her classmates who were adopted as older children (there are some in my daughter's school) tell their stories, with as much information as they have.
(child says: "me!")
The Earth goes around the sun, tra-la-la ...It requires children to listen to one another, to learn about one another, to appreciate each other as unique individuals. It helps them to see people as people: multidimensional, growth-minded, incomplete.
Around and around and around and around ...I wish that we were all so fortunate, that we took time to tell each other our life stories once each year, to look both backward and forward, to know each other in more than just three dimensions. Perhaps it just takes too long now to circle the sun. Or perhaps we are too afraid of the power we might discover in the retelling?
Monday, January 18, 2016
People, on MLK Day
I used to believe I was colorblind. What that meant, to me, was that I thought I could judge people, in the words of Dr. King, not on the basis of the "color of their skin but on the content of their character[s]." And maybe I was (though I know better now, I have my own biases that I work to overcome); but maybe--more likely--I was just blind, not so much to injustice (easy to point fingers), but to my own role in perpetuating it by imagining that standards created by a dominant group could be race-neutral.
Now, I think we need to see the difference that we have been taught to (or become accustomed to) un-see, to acknowledge the difference that difference has made, and decide to throw away the glasses that cloud our vision, whitewashing everything. We need to question what we think we know, about the world and about ourselves. My eloquent friend Noah (who can riff in words as well as he can in music) wrote something along these lines last year, when he challenged us to be more self-reflective, to ask ourselves, every day, in the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, "are you sure?"
A few years ago, my son was gifted a hand-me-down book entitled, simply, People. It's a beautifully written and illustrated book, originally published in the 1980s (in many ways a product of its time) that describes the astonishing diversity of humanity on all four continents, and touches on issues like poverty and racism and body image (even body modification) in a way that isn't moralizing, but that opens the door for questions and conversation. Who are human beings? What are they like? Where do they live, how do they communicate, what games do they play? How are people different, and how are they the same? What can we learn from each other? Why should we respect -- and celebrate -- difference?
And while there are sections of the book that feel like a dated "salad"-style multicultural curriculum, or some pages that replicate cultural stereotypes, there are others that talk about the ways in which we create artificial power structures that don't, in the end, protect us from all experiencing the same fate: death.
My daughter chose this book as her bedtime story last night, and as I read, admiring the artwork and the book's matter-of-factness, I found myself wondering how her reading of People might be different with her own children. Whether she would look at the pages about diversity of employment and think about the white man in the grocery store, complaining that black people get and keep jobs just because they're black (with whom she'd gently disagreed, pointing out the roots of urban poverty in slavery and industrialization, asking him why he thinks people in power shouldn't do something about the mistakes that we've made as a nation). Whether she would look at the pages about poverty and remind herself that all of the people in the poorly maintained apartment complexes at the other end of town are nonwhite. Whether she would read the pages about diversity of religion and think about a world that turns away migrant women and children from war-torn countries.
Or whether she would be reading that book to a child in a country that continues to ask itself "are you sure?" ... that faces its unsavory past, has been brave enough to tell more complicated stories, recognized institutional biases, overcome fears of each other, and found a way to move forward, to promote peace and justice.
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Now, I think we need to see the difference that we have been taught to (or become accustomed to) un-see, to acknowledge the difference that difference has made, and decide to throw away the glasses that cloud our vision, whitewashing everything. We need to question what we think we know, about the world and about ourselves. My eloquent friend Noah (who can riff in words as well as he can in music) wrote something along these lines last year, when he challenged us to be more self-reflective, to ask ourselves, every day, in the words of Thich Nhat Hanh, "are you sure?"
A few years ago, my son was gifted a hand-me-down book entitled, simply, People. It's a beautifully written and illustrated book, originally published in the 1980s (in many ways a product of its time) that describes the astonishing diversity of humanity on all four continents, and touches on issues like poverty and racism and body image (even body modification) in a way that isn't moralizing, but that opens the door for questions and conversation. Who are human beings? What are they like? Where do they live, how do they communicate, what games do they play? How are people different, and how are they the same? What can we learn from each other? Why should we respect -- and celebrate -- difference?
And while there are sections of the book that feel like a dated "salad"-style multicultural curriculum, or some pages that replicate cultural stereotypes, there are others that talk about the ways in which we create artificial power structures that don't, in the end, protect us from all experiencing the same fate: death.
My daughter chose this book as her bedtime story last night, and as I read, admiring the artwork and the book's matter-of-factness, I found myself wondering how her reading of People might be different with her own children. Whether she would look at the pages about diversity of employment and think about the white man in the grocery store, complaining that black people get and keep jobs just because they're black (with whom she'd gently disagreed, pointing out the roots of urban poverty in slavery and industrialization, asking him why he thinks people in power shouldn't do something about the mistakes that we've made as a nation). Whether she would look at the pages about poverty and remind herself that all of the people in the poorly maintained apartment complexes at the other end of town are nonwhite. Whether she would read the pages about diversity of religion and think about a world that turns away migrant women and children from war-torn countries.
Or whether she would be reading that book to a child in a country that continues to ask itself "are you sure?" ... that faces its unsavory past, has been brave enough to tell more complicated stories, recognized institutional biases, overcome fears of each other, and found a way to move forward, to promote peace and justice.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Trading Cards
It was part of the ritual of December. Every year, the large box of Christmas cards, covered in a thin layer of dust, would come down from the shelf in the back room (referred to as the "cold room" even in the summer, when it wasn't) over the garage. On top of the assortment of cards sat, in my mother's neat typewriter print, the list of people who got sent a card last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, an accounting of greetings sent and received in tidy columns.
As an adult, I developed my own December rituals, sending holiday cards (not Christmas cards, because I have enough non-Christian friends I like to include) to people I hardly see, and people I see every day. I used to send hand-written letters, but as the list has grown longer and time has grown shorter, I've gotten lazy in my old age, and now we print photo cards with a single picture of the four of us (not just pictures of my kids, on the theory that my friends might want to see me too--as an aside, I'm always happy to get picture cards from my childless/child-free friends, and wish this was something more people did), on which I scribble a brief cheerful personalized greeting in fat black or silver Sharpie. I excuse this shortcut by telling myself that I'm in touch with most of these people anyway, that the "Christmas letter" isn't necessary because they read my posts on Facebook, or they read my blog, or they see me around town.
Somewhere in the middle of the card-writing frenzy, my college roommate sends an email to everyone in our friend group, an effort to confirm addresses before she sends out her own cards. Inevitably, someone has moved, or someone has something silly or snide to say to someone else. A flurry of reply-all email ensues, a little more longform than Facebook, a little more personalized than the Christmas letter. And we realize that while we're technically all in touch, we're really not in touch at all. The email flurry is almost like having us all in the same room again, even though I know it's short-lived, ending in everyone having what my roommate refers to as "trading cards."
I welcome the "trading card" email. It acknowledges the weird adult phenomenon that is the photo card, agreeing that it's not enough while also supporting our perpetuation of the tradition. And it also reminds us of the people who aren't on the email chain, the people I then Google-stalk. This year, it poked me to get in touch with a college roommate I haven't spoken to in over ten years, who has a new job, a new husband, a son of her own and two more that came with her new relationship.
I used to ask my mother why she'd send cards at all, why she'd bother with a stamp for people around the corner, and why she'd bother with a card for people she only touched based with once a year (it seemed disingenuous to pretend she cared, because that's how it seemed to me: pretending). But now I think I understand, both the deceptive nature of constant communication (which she couldn't have foreseen in the way that's it's become manifest), and the possibility of promise in rekindling the relationships that might have fallen away, even if you only start the fire once a year. My ledger lives in Google Sheets, but maybe the annual accounting--perhaps to myself, to hold on to people, knowing that life is too short--isn't so different, after all.
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As an adult, I developed my own December rituals, sending holiday cards (not Christmas cards, because I have enough non-Christian friends I like to include) to people I hardly see, and people I see every day. I used to send hand-written letters, but as the list has grown longer and time has grown shorter, I've gotten lazy in my old age, and now we print photo cards with a single picture of the four of us (not just pictures of my kids, on the theory that my friends might want to see me too--as an aside, I'm always happy to get picture cards from my childless/child-free friends, and wish this was something more people did), on which I scribble a brief cheerful personalized greeting in fat black or silver Sharpie. I excuse this shortcut by telling myself that I'm in touch with most of these people anyway, that the "Christmas letter" isn't necessary because they read my posts on Facebook, or they read my blog, or they see me around town.
Somewhere in the middle of the card-writing frenzy, my college roommate sends an email to everyone in our friend group, an effort to confirm addresses before she sends out her own cards. Inevitably, someone has moved, or someone has something silly or snide to say to someone else. A flurry of reply-all email ensues, a little more longform than Facebook, a little more personalized than the Christmas letter. And we realize that while we're technically all in touch, we're really not in touch at all. The email flurry is almost like having us all in the same room again, even though I know it's short-lived, ending in everyone having what my roommate refers to as "trading cards."I welcome the "trading card" email. It acknowledges the weird adult phenomenon that is the photo card, agreeing that it's not enough while also supporting our perpetuation of the tradition. And it also reminds us of the people who aren't on the email chain, the people I then Google-stalk. This year, it poked me to get in touch with a college roommate I haven't spoken to in over ten years, who has a new job, a new husband, a son of her own and two more that came with her new relationship.
I used to ask my mother why she'd send cards at all, why she'd bother with a stamp for people around the corner, and why she'd bother with a card for people she only touched based with once a year (it seemed disingenuous to pretend she cared, because that's how it seemed to me: pretending). But now I think I understand, both the deceptive nature of constant communication (which she couldn't have foreseen in the way that's it's become manifest), and the possibility of promise in rekindling the relationships that might have fallen away, even if you only start the fire once a year. My ledger lives in Google Sheets, but maybe the annual accounting--perhaps to myself, to hold on to people, knowing that life is too short--isn't so different, after all.
Friday, October 10, 2014
What Do You Do?
What do you do when you're having a bad day she texted. I took a nap but I don't feel much better.
I thought about it, knowing that she needed an answer, needed to know that I was out there. I wanted to offer her something useful. I wasn't sure if I had anything useful. It wasn't so long ago that I would have asked that question, if I'd even been brave enough to ask that question. Which I wasn't.
I take a walk, I suggested. I take a deep breath. I eat something I like. Do something for someone else that makes them happy, which makes *me* happy. Take pictures of things I find beautiful. Write to a friend. Write down what I feel, and either publish it on the internet or crumple it up and throw it away. I listen to music that makes me feel better. I listen to music that makes me feel worse, and then better.
I paused. And then: What do *you* do?
Text you, she responded. Maybe I'll try writing.
Later, I added: Maybe drink a cup of hot tea. Something about inhaling the warm steam makes me feel better, too.
I'd always thought that I wasn't very good at mindfulness, but in that moment, looking at that list, I realized that I've gotten very good at it after all.
She'd asked me, the other day, what I like to do, too. "Yoga, dance, baking, cooking, writing ..." It sounded like a very housewife-like answer.
"What do you write?"
"Well, I used to write poetry ... I'm not very good at fiction. Now I write ... life essays, I guess." I didn't want to tell her I blog. It's too easy to find me. If she wanted to, she would.
"Life essays." A curious half-smile.
"It's sort of like ... it's like what you like about science research. You like to look at small things under a microscope, and figure out how life works. I take small things, make them larger with language, and try to figure out how they work."
I'd never thought about it that way before, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true.
Later, I pulled up at the farm to pick up my share. When I got out, I took a deep breath, and felt my whole body relax into the dusk. I took out my phone, almost sent her a picture. And this, I would say. I do this.
But even if I wanted her to feel the weight drop away, as I just had, it wouldn't have been useful advice. This wasn't something she could do. I couldn't send her the crisp air, or the sweet smell of hay, or the chill dusk that crept over the fields.
Instead, I'm sending it to you. Through my mindful magnifying glass.
What do you do when you're having a bad day?
Pin It
I thought about it, knowing that she needed an answer, needed to know that I was out there. I wanted to offer her something useful. I wasn't sure if I had anything useful. It wasn't so long ago that I would have asked that question, if I'd even been brave enough to ask that question. Which I wasn't.
I take a walk, I suggested. I take a deep breath. I eat something I like. Do something for someone else that makes them happy, which makes *me* happy. Take pictures of things I find beautiful. Write to a friend. Write down what I feel, and either publish it on the internet or crumple it up and throw it away. I listen to music that makes me feel better. I listen to music that makes me feel worse, and then better.
I paused. And then: What do *you* do?
Text you, she responded. Maybe I'll try writing.
Later, I added: Maybe drink a cup of hot tea. Something about inhaling the warm steam makes me feel better, too.
I'd always thought that I wasn't very good at mindfulness, but in that moment, looking at that list, I realized that I've gotten very good at it after all.
***
She'd asked me, the other day, what I like to do, too. "Yoga, dance, baking, cooking, writing ..." It sounded like a very housewife-like answer.
"What do you write?"
"Well, I used to write poetry ... I'm not very good at fiction. Now I write ... life essays, I guess." I didn't want to tell her I blog. It's too easy to find me. If she wanted to, she would.
"Life essays." A curious half-smile.
"It's sort of like ... it's like what you like about science research. You like to look at small things under a microscope, and figure out how life works. I take small things, make them larger with language, and try to figure out how they work."
I'd never thought about it that way before, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true.
***
Later, I pulled up at the farm to pick up my share. When I got out, I took a deep breath, and felt my whole body relax into the dusk. I took out my phone, almost sent her a picture. And this, I would say. I do this.
But even if I wanted her to feel the weight drop away, as I just had, it wouldn't have been useful advice. This wasn't something she could do. I couldn't send her the crisp air, or the sweet smell of hay, or the chill dusk that crept over the fields.
Instead, I'm sending it to you. Through my mindful magnifying glass.
What do you do when you're having a bad day?
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
The Weight of Being Interesting, and Pumpkin Spice Cookies
I work at one of the most prestigious institutions of higher education in the world.
The students, while they do come from all over the map, both geographically and academically, are, by and large, freakishly amazing people. They bring a wealth of experience and leadership to the table; they have collected more AP scores than anyone ought to collect; they ask intelligent, probing questions; they throw themselves into work weeks whose intensity level is far beyond what I experienced until I started studying for my quals in graduate school.
And yet, they worry about not being (interesting, smart, talented, whatever) enough. The other day, I sat at another awards dinner, this one for juniors who had been awarded a fellowship to spend the summer after sophomore year doing something that contributed to their personal growth and exploration: one followed Che Guevara's Motorcyle Diaries travels; another apprenticed to a jewelry designer in India; another studied traditional fiddle music; another traveled in the footsteps of her grandmother who was a Holocaust survivor, and plans to collaborate on an intergenerational book; another interviewed siblings of special needs children and adults; another--a countertenor--studied Baroque music both domestically and abroad. (And while the projects and students were not quite as polished as those at my previous dinner this month, they did make me wonder what I would do with carte blanche and $4000.)
When all of the students had delivered their versions of "what I did with my summer vacation," the two graduate recipients of a parallel award, who spent a year on a project, stood up to give their speeches. The first worked on women's health and health education in India, addressing everything from breastfeeding education to cancer screenings and shifting the cultural view of sick women as burdensome. The second stood up to introduce his novel, and after some tripping over his words (affected or not, we weren't sure), and making some self-denigrating comments, said: "I forgot what being at [X] is like. It's like ..." he gestured around the room " ... like this."
It's not the first time I've heard something along these lines. All summer long, as I talked with students applying for fellowships, I heard from them: I'm not good enough. So-and-so is brilliant. I'm not really sure if my project is compelling. I don't have grades like my roommate does. Etc., etc., etc.
The awkward thing about being at a place where everyone is freakishly amazing is that it's hard to take a risk to do something as a mediocre novice, even--ironically enough--in the context of a fellowship that rewards your exploration of something as a mediocre novice. And I get it: when I walk through the Common Room of our college, there is often someone at the grand piano, playing the equivalent of Rachmaninoff; it's no wonder that no one wants to venture a few bars of "Heart and Soul," and even when the room is empty, I resist the urge to sit down and work on my rusty rendition of Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu (I would never confess to these people that I played in Carnegie Hall, for fear that they might expect me to produce something impressive).
It can, if we let it, work the same way in blogging and writing. If you read enough freakishly amazing writers, you start to think that there's nothing much you can contribute to the conversation. Best to leave the work of writing and thinking to those who are more talented than you, you think, those who have something important and compelling to say, and who say it in innovative and impressive ways. Perhaps you stop writing entirely, and become a passive consumer of language, pining away, somewhere deep within you, for your lost voice.
It can even work this way in the kitchen: if you read enough recipes, you can start to wonder why you should bother coming up with something new, since it's bound not to be much good the first time around anyway, and there are probably already fifteen better versions of what you're making already out there, under contract for a cookbook.
On the other hand, you could look at it this way: if you're surrounded by enough interesting people, or if you are friends with enough fabulously talented bloggers, or if you immerse yourself in enough cookbooks, you can't help but swim in those waters eventually yourself. While my Chopin still isn't very good, it's better than it was at the beginning of the summer, when I didn't practice it, because I wasn't inspired to do so by the freakishly amazing Rachmaninoff-players.
The pressure to be interesting can feel like a two ton boa. But it could also be liberating, given a safe and judgment-free place to take risks. Part of me keeps thinking I should create a "Mediocrity Hour" at my place of employment, during which everyone can try or practice at something they're not very good at. Because we are our harshest critics, and naming a forgiving space would take some of the pressure off, allowing for the "interesting" to happen organically. Sort of like it did in my kitchen the other night, when I was desperately craving pumpkin spice cookies, but didn't feel like starting to play with butter at 10 p.m, and didn't want to commit to anything more elaborate equipment than a bowl and a whisk. Sure, there about a billion versions of pumpkin spice cookies out there. But these were mine. And I won't tell you how many of them I've eaten since they came out of the oven.
Pumpkin Spice Cookies
2 eggs (or flax egg to make it vegan)
1 c. sugar
1/2 c. canola or corn oil
1 c. canned pumpkin
1 t. vanilla
3 T. natural apple butter (no sugar added)
2 c. flour (any kind will do)
1 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 t. ground cinnamon
1 t. ground ginger
1/4 t. nutmeg
1/8 t. cloves
chopped toasted walnuts, optional, or anything else you think they might need
Preheat oven to 350F.
In a large bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients (from eggs through apple butter). Sift in the dry ingredients into a small bowl and then gently fold them into the wet ingredients. Or if you're feeling extremely lazy like I was, dump the spices into your wet ingredients, stir to mix completely dump in the flour, baking powder and soda, and salt, and mix to stir again. Add in some nuts if you're feeling like you might want some. Or something else: white chocolate chips, toffee bits, raisins. Decide if you want more spice, and add it. No one will think less of you if they are not perfect, and you can always play with the rest of the batter if the first batch isn't exactly right.
Drop by generously rounded tablespoonfuls onto parchment covered baking sheets, leaving about two inches between cookies. Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until puffy and dry. Cool, and store in an airtight container for just a few days, if they last that long.
Pin It
The students, while they do come from all over the map, both geographically and academically, are, by and large, freakishly amazing people. They bring a wealth of experience and leadership to the table; they have collected more AP scores than anyone ought to collect; they ask intelligent, probing questions; they throw themselves into work weeks whose intensity level is far beyond what I experienced until I started studying for my quals in graduate school.
And yet, they worry about not being (interesting, smart, talented, whatever) enough. The other day, I sat at another awards dinner, this one for juniors who had been awarded a fellowship to spend the summer after sophomore year doing something that contributed to their personal growth and exploration: one followed Che Guevara's Motorcyle Diaries travels; another apprenticed to a jewelry designer in India; another studied traditional fiddle music; another traveled in the footsteps of her grandmother who was a Holocaust survivor, and plans to collaborate on an intergenerational book; another interviewed siblings of special needs children and adults; another--a countertenor--studied Baroque music both domestically and abroad. (And while the projects and students were not quite as polished as those at my previous dinner this month, they did make me wonder what I would do with carte blanche and $4000.)
When all of the students had delivered their versions of "what I did with my summer vacation," the two graduate recipients of a parallel award, who spent a year on a project, stood up to give their speeches. The first worked on women's health and health education in India, addressing everything from breastfeeding education to cancer screenings and shifting the cultural view of sick women as burdensome. The second stood up to introduce his novel, and after some tripping over his words (affected or not, we weren't sure), and making some self-denigrating comments, said: "I forgot what being at [X] is like. It's like ..." he gestured around the room " ... like this."
It's not the first time I've heard something along these lines. All summer long, as I talked with students applying for fellowships, I heard from them: I'm not good enough. So-and-so is brilliant. I'm not really sure if my project is compelling. I don't have grades like my roommate does. Etc., etc., etc.
The awkward thing about being at a place where everyone is freakishly amazing is that it's hard to take a risk to do something as a mediocre novice, even--ironically enough--in the context of a fellowship that rewards your exploration of something as a mediocre novice. And I get it: when I walk through the Common Room of our college, there is often someone at the grand piano, playing the equivalent of Rachmaninoff; it's no wonder that no one wants to venture a few bars of "Heart and Soul," and even when the room is empty, I resist the urge to sit down and work on my rusty rendition of Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu (I would never confess to these people that I played in Carnegie Hall, for fear that they might expect me to produce something impressive).
It can, if we let it, work the same way in blogging and writing. If you read enough freakishly amazing writers, you start to think that there's nothing much you can contribute to the conversation. Best to leave the work of writing and thinking to those who are more talented than you, you think, those who have something important and compelling to say, and who say it in innovative and impressive ways. Perhaps you stop writing entirely, and become a passive consumer of language, pining away, somewhere deep within you, for your lost voice.
It can even work this way in the kitchen: if you read enough recipes, you can start to wonder why you should bother coming up with something new, since it's bound not to be much good the first time around anyway, and there are probably already fifteen better versions of what you're making already out there, under contract for a cookbook.
On the other hand, you could look at it this way: if you're surrounded by enough interesting people, or if you are friends with enough fabulously talented bloggers, or if you immerse yourself in enough cookbooks, you can't help but swim in those waters eventually yourself. While my Chopin still isn't very good, it's better than it was at the beginning of the summer, when I didn't practice it, because I wasn't inspired to do so by the freakishly amazing Rachmaninoff-players.
The pressure to be interesting can feel like a two ton boa. But it could also be liberating, given a safe and judgment-free place to take risks. Part of me keeps thinking I should create a "Mediocrity Hour" at my place of employment, during which everyone can try or practice at something they're not very good at. Because we are our harshest critics, and naming a forgiving space would take some of the pressure off, allowing for the "interesting" to happen organically. Sort of like it did in my kitchen the other night, when I was desperately craving pumpkin spice cookies, but didn't feel like starting to play with butter at 10 p.m, and didn't want to commit to anything more elaborate equipment than a bowl and a whisk. Sure, there about a billion versions of pumpkin spice cookies out there. But these were mine. And I won't tell you how many of them I've eaten since they came out of the oven.
2 eggs (or flax egg to make it vegan)
1 c. sugar
1/2 c. canola or corn oil
1 c. canned pumpkin
1 t. vanilla
3 T. natural apple butter (no sugar added)
2 c. flour (any kind will do)
1 t. baking powder
1 t. baking soda
1/2 t. salt
1 t. ground cinnamon
1 t. ground ginger
1/4 t. nutmeg
1/8 t. cloves
chopped toasted walnuts, optional, or anything else you think they might need
Preheat oven to 350F.
In a large bowl, whisk together the wet ingredients (from eggs through apple butter). Sift in the dry ingredients into a small bowl and then gently fold them into the wet ingredients. Or if you're feeling extremely lazy like I was, dump the spices into your wet ingredients, stir to mix completely dump in the flour, baking powder and soda, and salt, and mix to stir again. Add in some nuts if you're feeling like you might want some. Or something else: white chocolate chips, toffee bits, raisins. Decide if you want more spice, and add it. No one will think less of you if they are not perfect, and you can always play with the rest of the batter if the first batch isn't exactly right.
Drop by generously rounded tablespoonfuls onto parchment covered baking sheets, leaving about two inches between cookies. Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until puffy and dry. Cool, and store in an airtight container for just a few days, if they last that long.
Monday, August 26, 2013
On (Not) Reading Carefully, and Cauliflower Soup
Long ago, I learned to tune out the talk about the demise of the humanities. As a former English major, I couldn't help but feel like that rhetoric was a personal attack on the thing I loved best. And while I could take the jokes from Prairie Home Companion, it was too hard to watch departments close because someone deemed them irrelevant.
And that was pretty much how it went, until the other day, when I found myself reading Jjiraffe's post about internet hoaxes, which also cited Mel's post over at BlogHer about the behavior of readers in the face of suspicious information, or moving on after a hoax has gone viral. Both posts pose important questions about our responsibilities as writers, and even about our responsibility to behave well as readers in an online community. But they got me thinking about what happens even before then, how we learn to read, and about the act of reading itself, about what we expect from the printed word now, whether on paper or on the screen.
Though I had a solid high school education, it wasn't until I got to college that I was systematically asked to be skeptical about information. As far as I knew, even in high school, history was still history: sure, there were some people who were left out, but that didn't make the details any less true. In college, though, I started to appreciate, more deeply, exactly what it meant to read critically. I remember feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.
Now, well-indoctrinated in the process of peer review, I'm a more expert judge of information quality. While I google as well as the next person, and I don't always use google Scholar, I tend to have excellent querying techniques that get me reliable results. I know how to quickly identify the relevant information, and separate the wheat from the chaff.
I remember the first time I had to tell a student that not everything he found on the internet was true. He blinked, eyes wide, deer in the headlights, in disbelief. Really? He had to sift through this information? And go on ... gut feeling?
Not really, I assured him then; there are standards. But in the blogging world, the standards are pretty unstandard.
And blogs are just about ground zero for the humanities now. Because the humanities are the study of our humanity in the making, aren't they? How we decide to tell the stories of ourselves, our communities, our histories? How do we process and document the human experience? If you think about sheer numbers, it seems to me that there are more people creating these kinds of texts about lived human experience--publicly, at any rate--now than at any moment in history.
Which is exactly why we need the humanities in the first place.
The humanities teach us to read. They teach us to read first in the literal way: the words on the page become stories, and the stories become books, and the books become chapter books, and then they become academic treatises. But they also teach us to read other people. To ask questions about narrators, and writing intention. To put ourselves in the shoes of other characters, and also to put ourselves in the shoes of authors and figure out what that means. To know that memoir and history are lenses through which we come up with our truths. To play with the tools of language, and recognize someone else at play. To be analytical and critical, but also to develop deep empathy and understanding.
Yes, it's reprehensible that people--bloggers--prey upon less careful readers. Yes, it's terrible that people are exploited so that someone else can make a quick buck, or a quick reputation (which, these days, might as well be a buck anyway). Yes, we ought to know when to click away. But in order to make that click, we--ALL of us--engineers, historians, doctors, teachers, lawyers, economists, parents, consumers--need to know how to be careful readers. Of everything, and everyone. Because you can't do much science--or anything else, for that matter--if you can't really read. And if that's not worth my education tax dollars, I don't know what is.
Cauliflower Soup
Adapted slightly from Super Natural Every Day
Even cookbooks need reading. Like anything else, the thoughtful, critical reading of a recipe, and its re-interpretation in your own kitchen, makes it partly yours, too. Thanks, Heidi, for an eminently readable text.
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1/2 t. salt
1 large potato, peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 1/2 cups vegetable broth
14 ounces cauliflower, cut into small florets
1/4 c. white cheddar cheese, preferably sharp, grated
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1/4 c. almonds, chopped and toasted
Heat the oil in a large soup pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the onion and salt. Saute until the onions soften and are starting to turn translucent, about 4 minutes.
Stir in the potato, cover, and cook for about another 4 minutes, or until potato begins to soften. Stir in the garlic, and after about 30 seconds or when it becomes fragrant, add in the broth. Bring to a boil, while allowing the potatoes to become tender, a few more minutes.
Once they are tender, add the cauliflower and continue to simmer, covered, for an additional 4 or 5 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. Remove the pot from heat and puree the soup. If you have one of those fancy immersion blenders, this would be the time to use it. Return the soup to the saucepan and stir in about half the cheese, and the two teaspoons mustard. Add more broth if you want to thin the soup at all. Serve, sprinkling each bowl with a handful of toasted almonds.
Pin It
And that was pretty much how it went, until the other day, when I found myself reading Jjiraffe's post about internet hoaxes, which also cited Mel's post over at BlogHer about the behavior of readers in the face of suspicious information, or moving on after a hoax has gone viral. Both posts pose important questions about our responsibilities as writers, and even about our responsibility to behave well as readers in an online community. But they got me thinking about what happens even before then, how we learn to read, and about the act of reading itself, about what we expect from the printed word now, whether on paper or on the screen.
Though I had a solid high school education, it wasn't until I got to college that I was systematically asked to be skeptical about information. As far as I knew, even in high school, history was still history: sure, there were some people who were left out, but that didn't make the details any less true. In college, though, I started to appreciate, more deeply, exactly what it meant to read critically. I remember feeling a little overwhelmed by the responsibility.
Now, well-indoctrinated in the process of peer review, I'm a more expert judge of information quality. While I google as well as the next person, and I don't always use google Scholar, I tend to have excellent querying techniques that get me reliable results. I know how to quickly identify the relevant information, and separate the wheat from the chaff.
I remember the first time I had to tell a student that not everything he found on the internet was true. He blinked, eyes wide, deer in the headlights, in disbelief. Really? He had to sift through this information? And go on ... gut feeling?
Not really, I assured him then; there are standards. But in the blogging world, the standards are pretty unstandard.
And blogs are just about ground zero for the humanities now. Because the humanities are the study of our humanity in the making, aren't they? How we decide to tell the stories of ourselves, our communities, our histories? How do we process and document the human experience? If you think about sheer numbers, it seems to me that there are more people creating these kinds of texts about lived human experience--publicly, at any rate--now than at any moment in history.
Which is exactly why we need the humanities in the first place.
The humanities teach us to read. They teach us to read first in the literal way: the words on the page become stories, and the stories become books, and the books become chapter books, and then they become academic treatises. But they also teach us to read other people. To ask questions about narrators, and writing intention. To put ourselves in the shoes of other characters, and also to put ourselves in the shoes of authors and figure out what that means. To know that memoir and history are lenses through which we come up with our truths. To play with the tools of language, and recognize someone else at play. To be analytical and critical, but also to develop deep empathy and understanding.
Yes, it's reprehensible that people--bloggers--prey upon less careful readers. Yes, it's terrible that people are exploited so that someone else can make a quick buck, or a quick reputation (which, these days, might as well be a buck anyway). Yes, we ought to know when to click away. But in order to make that click, we--ALL of us--engineers, historians, doctors, teachers, lawyers, economists, parents, consumers--need to know how to be careful readers. Of everything, and everyone. Because you can't do much science--or anything else, for that matter--if you can't really read. And if that's not worth my education tax dollars, I don't know what is.
Adapted slightly from Super Natural Every Day
Even cookbooks need reading. Like anything else, the thoughtful, critical reading of a recipe, and its re-interpretation in your own kitchen, makes it partly yours, too. Thanks, Heidi, for an eminently readable text.
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
1/2 t. salt
1 large potato, peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
3 1/2 cups vegetable broth
14 ounces cauliflower, cut into small florets
1/4 c. white cheddar cheese, preferably sharp, grated
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
1/4 c. almonds, chopped and toasted
Heat the oil in a large soup pot over medium-high heat. Stir in the onion and salt. Saute until the onions soften and are starting to turn translucent, about 4 minutes.
Stir in the potato, cover, and cook for about another 4 minutes, or until potato begins to soften. Stir in the garlic, and after about 30 seconds or when it becomes fragrant, add in the broth. Bring to a boil, while allowing the potatoes to become tender, a few more minutes.
Once they are tender, add the cauliflower and continue to simmer, covered, for an additional 4 or 5 minutes, until the cauliflower is tender. Remove the pot from heat and puree the soup. If you have one of those fancy immersion blenders, this would be the time to use it. Return the soup to the saucepan and stir in about half the cheese, and the two teaspoons mustard. Add more broth if you want to thin the soup at all. Serve, sprinkling each bowl with a handful of toasted almonds.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Thoughts On Free Stuff (and Potato Cakes)
On the way home last night, I found myself listening to an NPR story about foraging.
I'm no stranger to the concept; I know that NPR has done reporting
on it before, and I've read about it in magazines and online. Last
year, our town had a "free market" that offered goods and services, gratis, and included a small food table with delicacies made from foraged ingredients.
Foraging is sort of a contested practice. Foragers argue that they don't eat anything that anyone else would want. They find edible weeds in the grass, they pluck mushrooms, they pick fruit that goes unpicked by fruit tree owners who have no time to care for trees, they make pesto from stinging nettles, and they even (sometimes, though I find this utterly repulsive) eat squirrels. The people who are trying to end the foraging movement say that foragers are vandals, thieves, and worse.
Talking with some experts, the NPR correspondent discussed the ways in which foragers in parks have actually become caretakers of their environment, and how foraging seems to make people more appreciative of what we often pass by without a second glance. The story suggested that there might even be ways for foragers to work in the service of parks, educating people about the natural world.
I haven't ever gone hunting for my supper, and I'm unlikely to do so any time soon, much as I prefer to make my food from scratch rather than purchase it in packages or from take-out. But the story about foraging resonated with me today because of a discussion I've been having with some other bloggers about the things that are free.
This past weekend, I attended BlogHer. While there have been lots of great follow-up posts about networking and conference learning, there has also been a lot of controversy this year about the parties that happen on the periphery of the event, a phenomenon that's referred to as "outboarding." Several conference attendees got their conference passes revoked for hosting these parties.
I attended one of these parties this year. I confess, I was curious; I remembered watching people walk out of the hotel with bags full of swag--the likes of which I hadn't seen at the Expo, where my biggest score was a water bottle--and felt a little left out, like people had gone to a birthday party where everyone got presents, and not invited me. Some of these bloggers were obviously going to these parties to connect with brands in a meaningful way as an extension of their conference experience, but many of them, it seemed, were going to collect free stuff. I remember feeling astonished that people could go to BlogHer and never see the inside of a single conference breakout session. It smacked of middle school, and I hated middle school. Still, when I was offered a ticket by a generous blogging friend who wasn't going to be able to get to Chicago, I jumped at the chance to hang with the "cool kids."
Except I also felt a little awkward about it from the beginning. Now I was one of the people who was the "insider," the one who had access to the cool free stuff that other people would covet. I knew one person who was going to go to the party, and many other people who weren't. I was participating in the anti-BlogHer, the exclusive un-conference. And--in case you couldn't tell from the lack of advertisements here--I don't care much about brands. It so happens that the party I attended didn't conflict directly with any of the official conference sessions, but that made it even more awkward, in some ways. When I ran into people who asked me if I had plans for that night, I said, vaguely, "oh, I'm going to a thing."
A thing?
Most people I'd seen online flaunted their invitations, dropping party names like celebrities. Why wasn't I doing that, too?
And I began to think more about what "free" really meant in that context. I wasn't going to the party for the swag, but I was going to do something that didn't jive exactly with my values, the ones that Jory and Elisa and Lisa hold dear, too: the values of inclusivity. Why couldn't those vendors and brands be part of the Expo? Was the price of attendance compromising my values a little?
What do we give up in order to attend these parties? Are we just lured by the swag? Or do we really want to have conversations with these people? During her keynote, Ree Drummond talked a little bit about her decisions to choose her affiliations carefully, and to maintain the integrity of her brand. Do we give up our integrity when we promise (implicitly, even) to go proselytize on behalf of these companies in return for the stuff? Which then, of course, isn't free at all?
I subscribe to our local Freecycle listserv, where I often post things, probably more often, even, than I pick them up. The great thing about Freecycle is that stuff really is free. No strings attached. In fact, that's part of the TOS that you agree to when you become a member. No reselling, no picking and choosing. You offer something, and someone picks it up. You give things away because you don't need them, and you pick them up because you do. It's like foraging, in a way, except more community-sanctioned and organized. And that's the way free stuff should work. No strings attached, no guilt, no hard sell.
I don't actually want to villify the outboarders. I'm glad that I went this year, to see what that scene was like. I think that it's great for bloggers to connect with brands if that's their thing. (It's not mine.) But I don't like the feeling of exclusivity (my experience has always been that sometimes the people I don't already know turn out to be the best resources and advocates for my brand, or program, or whatever), and I don't like the feeling I get from these parties that bloggers can be so easily bought, by toys and food and alcohol. Our opinions mean a lot, and we should be choosy about whom we represent, and how. We are a powerful group of women who should support each other instead of excluding each other, and we should not be for sale.
I hope that there is a way to resolve some of these issues for next year, to integrate the brands that want representation, and give them equal access to everyone, and everyone equal access to them. They might be surprised to find some diamonds in the rough--or maybe just some plain old diamonds. As for me, I likely won't be at BlogHer, because I'll likely be at the professional association conference for my new job, where, I will add, there are no parties, and no swag. I'll miss the networking, and the sessions that rejuvinate me as a writer. If you go, I hope you'll do so with your eyes wide open, have an hors d'oeuvre, and think of me.
Potato Cakes
Here's a recipe that you can make from foraged ingredients, either from your cupboards, or ... somewhere else entirely. They can be made small, as hors d'oeuvres or larger for dinner. Why, you ask, would she take a perfectly good potato, mash it, and fry it? Well, I counter, why would you take a perfectly good potato, boil it, chill it, and smother it in mayonnaise?
3/4 lb. Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled, cut into 1" cubes
1 egg
2 T. scallions, minced
1/2 lb. ham, torn (or roasted corn or anything else you like)
salt and pepper
oil to coat the pan
2 T. flour or cornmeal
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add potatoes, boil until soft, about 10 minutes. Drain.
Mash potatoes well, and let cool just a bit. Add eggs and mash some more. Add scallions and mash some more. Add salt and pepper to taste. Roll the potato mixture into golf ball sized cakes, and flatten a bit.
When you are ready to cook, heat oil in a pan on medium heat. Place the flour or cornmeal in a shallow bowl and roll the ham cakes in it so that they are lightly dusted.
Fry the potato cakes for about 3 or four minutes on each side, until just golden.
Pin It
Foraging is sort of a contested practice. Foragers argue that they don't eat anything that anyone else would want. They find edible weeds in the grass, they pluck mushrooms, they pick fruit that goes unpicked by fruit tree owners who have no time to care for trees, they make pesto from stinging nettles, and they even (sometimes, though I find this utterly repulsive) eat squirrels. The people who are trying to end the foraging movement say that foragers are vandals, thieves, and worse.
Talking with some experts, the NPR correspondent discussed the ways in which foragers in parks have actually become caretakers of their environment, and how foraging seems to make people more appreciative of what we often pass by without a second glance. The story suggested that there might even be ways for foragers to work in the service of parks, educating people about the natural world.
I haven't ever gone hunting for my supper, and I'm unlikely to do so any time soon, much as I prefer to make my food from scratch rather than purchase it in packages or from take-out. But the story about foraging resonated with me today because of a discussion I've been having with some other bloggers about the things that are free.
This past weekend, I attended BlogHer. While there have been lots of great follow-up posts about networking and conference learning, there has also been a lot of controversy this year about the parties that happen on the periphery of the event, a phenomenon that's referred to as "outboarding." Several conference attendees got their conference passes revoked for hosting these parties.
I attended one of these parties this year. I confess, I was curious; I remembered watching people walk out of the hotel with bags full of swag--the likes of which I hadn't seen at the Expo, where my biggest score was a water bottle--and felt a little left out, like people had gone to a birthday party where everyone got presents, and not invited me. Some of these bloggers were obviously going to these parties to connect with brands in a meaningful way as an extension of their conference experience, but many of them, it seemed, were going to collect free stuff. I remember feeling astonished that people could go to BlogHer and never see the inside of a single conference breakout session. It smacked of middle school, and I hated middle school. Still, when I was offered a ticket by a generous blogging friend who wasn't going to be able to get to Chicago, I jumped at the chance to hang with the "cool kids."
Except I also felt a little awkward about it from the beginning. Now I was one of the people who was the "insider," the one who had access to the cool free stuff that other people would covet. I knew one person who was going to go to the party, and many other people who weren't. I was participating in the anti-BlogHer, the exclusive un-conference. And--in case you couldn't tell from the lack of advertisements here--I don't care much about brands. It so happens that the party I attended didn't conflict directly with any of the official conference sessions, but that made it even more awkward, in some ways. When I ran into people who asked me if I had plans for that night, I said, vaguely, "oh, I'm going to a thing."
A thing?
Most people I'd seen online flaunted their invitations, dropping party names like celebrities. Why wasn't I doing that, too?
And I began to think more about what "free" really meant in that context. I wasn't going to the party for the swag, but I was going to do something that didn't jive exactly with my values, the ones that Jory and Elisa and Lisa hold dear, too: the values of inclusivity. Why couldn't those vendors and brands be part of the Expo? Was the price of attendance compromising my values a little?
What do we give up in order to attend these parties? Are we just lured by the swag? Or do we really want to have conversations with these people? During her keynote, Ree Drummond talked a little bit about her decisions to choose her affiliations carefully, and to maintain the integrity of her brand. Do we give up our integrity when we promise (implicitly, even) to go proselytize on behalf of these companies in return for the stuff? Which then, of course, isn't free at all?
I subscribe to our local Freecycle listserv, where I often post things, probably more often, even, than I pick them up. The great thing about Freecycle is that stuff really is free. No strings attached. In fact, that's part of the TOS that you agree to when you become a member. No reselling, no picking and choosing. You offer something, and someone picks it up. You give things away because you don't need them, and you pick them up because you do. It's like foraging, in a way, except more community-sanctioned and organized. And that's the way free stuff should work. No strings attached, no guilt, no hard sell.
I don't actually want to villify the outboarders. I'm glad that I went this year, to see what that scene was like. I think that it's great for bloggers to connect with brands if that's their thing. (It's not mine.) But I don't like the feeling of exclusivity (my experience has always been that sometimes the people I don't already know turn out to be the best resources and advocates for my brand, or program, or whatever), and I don't like the feeling I get from these parties that bloggers can be so easily bought, by toys and food and alcohol. Our opinions mean a lot, and we should be choosy about whom we represent, and how. We are a powerful group of women who should support each other instead of excluding each other, and we should not be for sale.
I hope that there is a way to resolve some of these issues for next year, to integrate the brands that want representation, and give them equal access to everyone, and everyone equal access to them. They might be surprised to find some diamonds in the rough--or maybe just some plain old diamonds. As for me, I likely won't be at BlogHer, because I'll likely be at the professional association conference for my new job, where, I will add, there are no parties, and no swag. I'll miss the networking, and the sessions that rejuvinate me as a writer. If you go, I hope you'll do so with your eyes wide open, have an hors d'oeuvre, and think of me.
Here's a recipe that you can make from foraged ingredients, either from your cupboards, or ... somewhere else entirely. They can be made small, as hors d'oeuvres or larger for dinner. Why, you ask, would she take a perfectly good potato, mash it, and fry it? Well, I counter, why would you take a perfectly good potato, boil it, chill it, and smother it in mayonnaise?
3/4 lb. Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled, cut into 1" cubes
1 egg
2 T. scallions, minced
1/2 lb. ham, torn (or roasted corn or anything else you like)
salt and pepper
oil to coat the pan
2 T. flour or cornmeal
Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add potatoes, boil until soft, about 10 minutes. Drain.
Mash potatoes well, and let cool just a bit. Add eggs and mash some more. Add scallions and mash some more. Add salt and pepper to taste. Roll the potato mixture into golf ball sized cakes, and flatten a bit.
When you are ready to cook, heat oil in a pan on medium heat. Place the flour or cornmeal in a shallow bowl and roll the ham cakes in it so that they are lightly dusted.
Fry the potato cakes for about 3 or four minutes on each side, until just golden.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
A Tale of Two Cell Phones
I touched down at O'Hare with two phones in my purse.
That's how I roll these days: my spiffy work iPhone and my old scuffed andriod with no data plan, jostling each other, jockeying for space in a purse that was never meant to carry more than a slim credit card sleeve. It's only been three weeks, but I've accustomed myself to this life, to trying to remember to charge not one but two devices, to the different beeps and tweets and hiccups and burps, like two children.
On the train towards downtown, I texted from my android with Kathy from Bereaved and Blessed, who managed to pick up my BlogHer conference pass and bag by showing them my texts in real time. Then I swapped phones, replying to a few more work email messages that had come in since I'd landed, swaying, becoming more accurate with my pointer-finger aim.
By Thursday night I conceded: it would be easier to manage the conference by downloading Facebook and Twitter to my work phone. And I would eventually use them for work anyway, wouldn't I? The conference app was easier to manage from my iPhone, too. But I could delete that later. Besides, that was how I'd gotten here, two and a half weeks into a new job: my supervisor generously reassured me that I would be learning things that would apply to work. And so began the blurring of boundaries, personal and professional, work responsibilities, and responsibilities to myself.
On Thursday before bed I pored over the conference program, trying to balance participation in sessions I imagined I should attend "for work," versus the sessions I really wanted to attend. They were definitely different things: I found myself circling the writing track, but thought that for work, the marketing and technology tracks would probably be more important. (Part of my job entails helping students with their writing, but I conveniently decided that was not applicable. This becomes important later.) I bookmarked several sessions in each breakout, figuring that maybe I could session-hop a little, and satisfy all of the responsibilities I thought I had.
On Friday, I juggled the two phones and my laptop, trying to keep up with the conference tweet stream (which, by then, was trending nationally), respond to student email and do work things, and touch base with my blogging friends so we could find each other for meals. By late afternoon, as I rode down the escalator, watching some of my favorite bloggers go to the sessions that I'd sort of wanted to attend, too, I became acutely aware of trying to do two things at the same time, and doing neither of them particularly well.
Working parents in the audience ... sound familiar?
I session-hopped, trying to get as much as I could of everything. Or maybe more of the social media and marketing skills than the essay and memoir writing.
And finally, on that last day, before the lights dimmed for the introduction of Gale Anne Hurd, I broke.
Maybe it was the leave-taking, saying good bye to the bloggers who continue to seek out my work and encourage me to write, even when I don't post anything consistently for weeks. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, even though I didn't go to a single late-night party. Or maybe it really was the realization that I am first and foremost a writer, and the fear that I'd been given an opportunity to interact with some of the most talented writers I know, and I'd squandered it. Depending on the path my life takes, I may not be able to go to BlogHer again for a long, long time.
I felt ridiculous, because I'd tried to imagine what my supervisor would want, knowing that she didn't actually have any expectations of me, that she trusted me to go learn something useful. I tried to shove aside the thoughts that I'd done myself a disservice, that somehow I'd cheated myself, for no reason at all.
Don't get me wrong. BlogHer '13 was wonderful, just at BlogHer '12 was wonderful. I spent some intense connection time with bloggers I love and admire, people whom I count among my dearest friends. I got to attend some inspiring writing sessions. I got to sit right there with Sheryl Sandberg and Guy Kawasaki and Ree Drummond and Randi Zuckerberg. I brought home some cool swag for my kids, who love pens and flashlights and stickers (anything else is icing on the cake). But most of all, I was reminded that I am a writer, and that I need to be true to my heart; whether that means really not worrying about marketing and monetizing my blog, or quantifying my success by the number of followers I have, or by being gentle enough with myself to allow myself to write the crap that needs to come first before I produce something really good.
As I boarded the plane on Saturday, I powered down. Just me, and my pen, and a pad of paper. Because sometimes, two cell phones is two too many.
Pin It
That's how I roll these days: my spiffy work iPhone and my old scuffed andriod with no data plan, jostling each other, jockeying for space in a purse that was never meant to carry more than a slim credit card sleeve. It's only been three weeks, but I've accustomed myself to this life, to trying to remember to charge not one but two devices, to the different beeps and tweets and hiccups and burps, like two children.
On the train towards downtown, I texted from my android with Kathy from Bereaved and Blessed, who managed to pick up my BlogHer conference pass and bag by showing them my texts in real time. Then I swapped phones, replying to a few more work email messages that had come in since I'd landed, swaying, becoming more accurate with my pointer-finger aim.
By Thursday night I conceded: it would be easier to manage the conference by downloading Facebook and Twitter to my work phone. And I would eventually use them for work anyway, wouldn't I? The conference app was easier to manage from my iPhone, too. But I could delete that later. Besides, that was how I'd gotten here, two and a half weeks into a new job: my supervisor generously reassured me that I would be learning things that would apply to work. And so began the blurring of boundaries, personal and professional, work responsibilities, and responsibilities to myself.
On Thursday before bed I pored over the conference program, trying to balance participation in sessions I imagined I should attend "for work," versus the sessions I really wanted to attend. They were definitely different things: I found myself circling the writing track, but thought that for work, the marketing and technology tracks would probably be more important. (Part of my job entails helping students with their writing, but I conveniently decided that was not applicable. This becomes important later.) I bookmarked several sessions in each breakout, figuring that maybe I could session-hop a little, and satisfy all of the responsibilities I thought I had.
On Friday, I juggled the two phones and my laptop, trying to keep up with the conference tweet stream (which, by then, was trending nationally), respond to student email and do work things, and touch base with my blogging friends so we could find each other for meals. By late afternoon, as I rode down the escalator, watching some of my favorite bloggers go to the sessions that I'd sort of wanted to attend, too, I became acutely aware of trying to do two things at the same time, and doing neither of them particularly well.
Working parents in the audience ... sound familiar?
I session-hopped, trying to get as much as I could of everything. Or maybe more of the social media and marketing skills than the essay and memoir writing.
And finally, on that last day, before the lights dimmed for the introduction of Gale Anne Hurd, I broke.
Maybe it was the leave-taking, saying good bye to the bloggers who continue to seek out my work and encourage me to write, even when I don't post anything consistently for weeks. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, even though I didn't go to a single late-night party. Or maybe it really was the realization that I am first and foremost a writer, and the fear that I'd been given an opportunity to interact with some of the most talented writers I know, and I'd squandered it. Depending on the path my life takes, I may not be able to go to BlogHer again for a long, long time.
I felt ridiculous, because I'd tried to imagine what my supervisor would want, knowing that she didn't actually have any expectations of me, that she trusted me to go learn something useful. I tried to shove aside the thoughts that I'd done myself a disservice, that somehow I'd cheated myself, for no reason at all.
Don't get me wrong. BlogHer '13 was wonderful, just at BlogHer '12 was wonderful. I spent some intense connection time with bloggers I love and admire, people whom I count among my dearest friends. I got to attend some inspiring writing sessions. I got to sit right there with Sheryl Sandberg and Guy Kawasaki and Ree Drummond and Randi Zuckerberg. I brought home some cool swag for my kids, who love pens and flashlights and stickers (anything else is icing on the cake). But most of all, I was reminded that I am a writer, and that I need to be true to my heart; whether that means really not worrying about marketing and monetizing my blog, or quantifying my success by the number of followers I have, or by being gentle enough with myself to allow myself to write the crap that needs to come first before I produce something really good.
As I boarded the plane on Saturday, I powered down. Just me, and my pen, and a pad of paper. Because sometimes, two cell phones is two too many.
Friday, June 28, 2013
NaBloPoMo: The Stories that Make Us, and the Stories We Make
With gratitude to my book group, who provided the inspiration for today's post.
This month, my book group read Unbroken, the memoir of Louis Zamperini, Olympian track star who became a POW in WWII after surviving 43 days at sea on an open raft, following the disastrous crash of his bomber. I won't go into too much detail about the book, in case you want to read it, but one of the things we discussed tonight was how -- if at all -- the early stories people choose to tell us about ourselves shape the people we become.
According to the book, Zamperini was quite the uncontainable little hellraiser. When he was two, and stricken with pneumonia, he climbed out his window and ran down the street. When he was not much older than two, he jumped from a moving train that the family had boarded to move to California. At five, he was smoking, picking up discarded butts on the way to kindergarten. He severed his toe as a child, impaled himself on a bamboo beam, and stole anything he could find that was edible. Zamperini manages to pull himself out of juvenile delinquency, but those stories about him establish the character he becomes later on in the book.
As I drove home, I tried to think about the stories that people told me about my own childhood, about the time before I could remember. My mother was always particularly fond of the story about my first time in an airplane, on the way to Spain to visit my relatives: as soon as they secured the cabin doors, I shouted, "OUT! OUT!" (I was 18 months old.) There was my tendency to bite people, mostly out of anger, but also sometimes just because I could ... and one day, apparently, my babysitter bit me back. There was the time, in a streak of indignant self-righteousness, that I told the same babysitter I was going to throw her and her cigarettes in the garbage truck. I was apparently famous for the exuberant phrase "Galicious!" which I used after good meals, and especially my grandma's pumpkin pie. I helped my father with the raking and gardening. And it's true: I am a woman who does not like to be contained, who is perhaps a little too self-righteous sometimes, and who appreciates a good dessert.
Still, I wonder: how much of that character development, as I grew older, was driven by the very stories that it claimed to reflect?
How about you? What are the stories people have chosen to describe your youth, especially before you could do your own transcribing? Do they describe you now? Are you proud of those stories? What influence have they had on you?
Pin It
This month, my book group read Unbroken, the memoir of Louis Zamperini, Olympian track star who became a POW in WWII after surviving 43 days at sea on an open raft, following the disastrous crash of his bomber. I won't go into too much detail about the book, in case you want to read it, but one of the things we discussed tonight was how -- if at all -- the early stories people choose to tell us about ourselves shape the people we become.
According to the book, Zamperini was quite the uncontainable little hellraiser. When he was two, and stricken with pneumonia, he climbed out his window and ran down the street. When he was not much older than two, he jumped from a moving train that the family had boarded to move to California. At five, he was smoking, picking up discarded butts on the way to kindergarten. He severed his toe as a child, impaled himself on a bamboo beam, and stole anything he could find that was edible. Zamperini manages to pull himself out of juvenile delinquency, but those stories about him establish the character he becomes later on in the book.
As I drove home, I tried to think about the stories that people told me about my own childhood, about the time before I could remember. My mother was always particularly fond of the story about my first time in an airplane, on the way to Spain to visit my relatives: as soon as they secured the cabin doors, I shouted, "OUT! OUT!" (I was 18 months old.) There was my tendency to bite people, mostly out of anger, but also sometimes just because I could ... and one day, apparently, my babysitter bit me back. There was the time, in a streak of indignant self-righteousness, that I told the same babysitter I was going to throw her and her cigarettes in the garbage truck. I was apparently famous for the exuberant phrase "Galicious!" which I used after good meals, and especially my grandma's pumpkin pie. I helped my father with the raking and gardening. And it's true: I am a woman who does not like to be contained, who is perhaps a little too self-righteous sometimes, and who appreciates a good dessert.
Still, I wonder: how much of that character development, as I grew older, was driven by the very stories that it claimed to reflect?
How about you? What are the stories people have chosen to describe your youth, especially before you could do your own transcribing? Do they describe you now? Are you proud of those stories? What influence have they had on you?
Sunday, June 23, 2013
NaBloPoMo: The Listserve, and Truths
Back in the spring of 2012, I signed up for The Listserve. The idea of the project was to create a email list that would allow one subscriber, each day the chance to send an email to the other subscribers. No parameters, no guidelines. It sounded like an interesting experiment, so I decided to become one of the first 10,000 subscribers who got the first email.
Initially, I was concerned about how the tool would be used. What would people say when given the opportunity to say anything to 10,000 (or more ... now over 20,000) people? A lot of good could come from this list, I though. New ideas. Community. Global goodwill. Rallying around social justice projects. It could help to overcome the silo-experience of social media, where we find ourselves talking to friend lists and reading blogs and following pinterest boards full of people who are just like us. Then again, the users could send self-promoting advertisements, or worse (though I read an article saying they vet email for things like porn or viruses).
I dismissed my concerns by convincing myself that I could just delete the things that didn't matter to me, and ignore the things that were offensive. (Though Mel posted recently in BlogHer about the complicated nature of internet bystanding, referencing Stupid Stork's post and the lively discussion happening in the comments section--if you haven't read both posts, they are worth your time.)
It turns out, though, that we're a lot less interesting than we hoped we were. Most people seem to be posting platitudes, advice about being kind and good to yourself and making the most of life and not worrying about time and doing what you love and ... well, you get the idea. Once in a while there's a post about a project, a new business or an experiment. One person posted that she was going to send something, via snail mail, to everyone who replied to her; she later updated everyone, letting us know that it would probably take years. Some have posted about nonprofits to support. Some people just introduce themselves. A surprising number of people seem to be untethered (in the sense that they are currently traveling, or haven't yet settled down, or are in-between places), which could be attributable to the mean age of the subscriber pool, or to the type of people who would self-select to be part of this distribution list, or to something else entirely. Overall, though, there isn't much, if anything, that's provocative.
People tend not to use the platform to talk about their experience of being a subscriber, either, or what it's like to be the recipient of these daily messages. I don't get much of a sense of ongoing conversation. Which isn't terribly surprising, given the format.
But the other day, a post caught my eye. It was from Brazil, after the protests erupted. The author, "Stela," described a situation in which people were arrested before the manifestation for possession of vinegar, used to minimize the effects of tear gas. She went on to talk about the protests' real meaning, that people were protesting their lack of right to protest, and added that these demonstrations were more commonplace than the reader might think, that the "police military forces are a leftover organization from the dictatorial far right military government that took over [the] country from 1964 to 1985. For 21 years, we were stripped of all individual rights, silently tortured and killed, and forced to live in fear. And considering public manifestations of citizens as terrorism was one of their excuses for it."
She ended her message encouraging readers to seek out more information; to make sure that people achieve their right to protest, that their anger and oppression is not covered up by people who are spinning it differently; to make the nation honest through the fear of exposure of its own flaws.
I don't live in Brazil. I can't speak with any authority about what is happening there. All I get are the headlines. I could seek out other bloggers, but the chances of my doing so, without being specifically encouraged to do so, are pretty slim.
"Stela" makes an excellent point: the one thing that governments tend to fear is looking bad in front of international investors and entrepreneurs. And the claim that civil rights are being violated just so that a country can "look good" for potential investors is entirely believeable, if disturbing. And her use of The Listserve to plant that seed was, in my view, brave. While it's unlikely that anyone is going to boycott the World Cup as a result of her message, they might be a bit more likely to read between the lines.
Which brings me to my point. I think what I've always appreciated most about social media was its potential to bring the world to my doorstep in a larger, more immediate way. To take a risk (which, in some countries, is admittedly to much risk), and say, "here's what it's really like for me. Right now. Uncensored." It's the same power I always appreciated in the (analog?) humanities: to give me access to voices that I might not otherwise have heard, both so I can identify my own experience in them (i.e. the "support group" phenomenon) and so that I can expand the limitations of my own perspective. As I think about what blogging has become, just a month before I head off to BlogHer, and read the tweet streams and Facebook posts about branding and parties and platforms, I worry that we've lost sight of this second piece of the potential, that we use our blogs, like the Listserve, for platitudes and introductions, or maybe for creating business and starting projects, and not for the exposure of naked and sometimes large, frightening truths to people who might not otherwise read them. Much as I'm looking forward to meeting all kinds of bloggers, and I learned a lot from the conference last year, I hope that I get to meet a few more "Stela"s this year, bloggers who are willing to use the platform to take risks, to tell (their) truths, and to make people a little uncomfortable with their way of seeing the world.
What do you think of Stela's message? Do the bloggers you read tend to write about things that surprise you, or question your ideas, or do you tend to read bloggers who produce content that makes you feel more comfortable?
Pin It
Initially, I was concerned about how the tool would be used. What would people say when given the opportunity to say anything to 10,000 (or more ... now over 20,000) people? A lot of good could come from this list, I though. New ideas. Community. Global goodwill. Rallying around social justice projects. It could help to overcome the silo-experience of social media, where we find ourselves talking to friend lists and reading blogs and following pinterest boards full of people who are just like us. Then again, the users could send self-promoting advertisements, or worse (though I read an article saying they vet email for things like porn or viruses).
I dismissed my concerns by convincing myself that I could just delete the things that didn't matter to me, and ignore the things that were offensive. (Though Mel posted recently in BlogHer about the complicated nature of internet bystanding, referencing Stupid Stork's post and the lively discussion happening in the comments section--if you haven't read both posts, they are worth your time.)
It turns out, though, that we're a lot less interesting than we hoped we were. Most people seem to be posting platitudes, advice about being kind and good to yourself and making the most of life and not worrying about time and doing what you love and ... well, you get the idea. Once in a while there's a post about a project, a new business or an experiment. One person posted that she was going to send something, via snail mail, to everyone who replied to her; she later updated everyone, letting us know that it would probably take years. Some have posted about nonprofits to support. Some people just introduce themselves. A surprising number of people seem to be untethered (in the sense that they are currently traveling, or haven't yet settled down, or are in-between places), which could be attributable to the mean age of the subscriber pool, or to the type of people who would self-select to be part of this distribution list, or to something else entirely. Overall, though, there isn't much, if anything, that's provocative.
People tend not to use the platform to talk about their experience of being a subscriber, either, or what it's like to be the recipient of these daily messages. I don't get much of a sense of ongoing conversation. Which isn't terribly surprising, given the format.
But the other day, a post caught my eye. It was from Brazil, after the protests erupted. The author, "Stela," described a situation in which people were arrested before the manifestation for possession of vinegar, used to minimize the effects of tear gas. She went on to talk about the protests' real meaning, that people were protesting their lack of right to protest, and added that these demonstrations were more commonplace than the reader might think, that the "police military forces are a leftover organization from the dictatorial far right military government that took over [the] country from 1964 to 1985. For 21 years, we were stripped of all individual rights, silently tortured and killed, and forced to live in fear. And considering public manifestations of citizens as terrorism was one of their excuses for it."
She ended her message encouraging readers to seek out more information; to make sure that people achieve their right to protest, that their anger and oppression is not covered up by people who are spinning it differently; to make the nation honest through the fear of exposure of its own flaws.
I don't live in Brazil. I can't speak with any authority about what is happening there. All I get are the headlines. I could seek out other bloggers, but the chances of my doing so, without being specifically encouraged to do so, are pretty slim.
"Stela" makes an excellent point: the one thing that governments tend to fear is looking bad in front of international investors and entrepreneurs. And the claim that civil rights are being violated just so that a country can "look good" for potential investors is entirely believeable, if disturbing. And her use of The Listserve to plant that seed was, in my view, brave. While it's unlikely that anyone is going to boycott the World Cup as a result of her message, they might be a bit more likely to read between the lines.
Which brings me to my point. I think what I've always appreciated most about social media was its potential to bring the world to my doorstep in a larger, more immediate way. To take a risk (which, in some countries, is admittedly to much risk), and say, "here's what it's really like for me. Right now. Uncensored." It's the same power I always appreciated in the (analog?) humanities: to give me access to voices that I might not otherwise have heard, both so I can identify my own experience in them (i.e. the "support group" phenomenon) and so that I can expand the limitations of my own perspective. As I think about what blogging has become, just a month before I head off to BlogHer, and read the tweet streams and Facebook posts about branding and parties and platforms, I worry that we've lost sight of this second piece of the potential, that we use our blogs, like the Listserve, for platitudes and introductions, or maybe for creating business and starting projects, and not for the exposure of naked and sometimes large, frightening truths to people who might not otherwise read them. Much as I'm looking forward to meeting all kinds of bloggers, and I learned a lot from the conference last year, I hope that I get to meet a few more "Stela"s this year, bloggers who are willing to use the platform to take risks, to tell (their) truths, and to make people a little uncomfortable with their way of seeing the world.
What do you think of Stela's message? Do the bloggers you read tend to write about things that surprise you, or question your ideas, or do you tend to read bloggers who produce content that makes you feel more comfortable?
Sunday, June 2, 2013
NaBloPoMo: Bloom Where You're Planted
My friend K., who brought the peonies from my last post, told me that her mother had a sign she took from house to house as she moved throughout her life; it said, simply "Bloom where you are planted."
In some ways, that's a very Buddhist way to look at things, isn't it? Be where you are. Love the life you have. Feel gifted.
And of course, easier said than done.
Eleven years ago today, I married my husband at a farm in the mountains of Massachusetts. It was a mid-point between NJ, where my family was, and his, in NH and VT, a location we'd settled on after lots of heated conversations with my parents. (We wanted simplicity; my father wanted chandeliers.)
The day dawned stormy, and a huge thunderstorm threatened to move our outdoor ceremony inside, but in the end the sun came out, and there was a flurry of activity as chairs were wiped down, equipment was moved, and people picked their way through the wet grass.
In my quest for simplicity, while still abiding by my father's wishes to do this the "traditional" way, I asked the florist to make bouquets with early summer wildflowers, the kind that come in purple and yellow. The florist probably thought we were a little crazy to be paying him for wildflowers, but they were just right.
S. used to pick me bouquets of wildflowers while we were hiking. One of the things I love about them is that they bloom where they're planted: sometimes in the most unlikely places, under the most harsh conditions. They are often more vibrant in color than the cultivated varieties we get from greenhouses.
This month is NaBloPoMo. I decided to commit this time not because I want more readers (though of course I'd love more readers; who wouldn't?), but because I need to remember to bloom where I'm planted. To reclaim this space that is mine, to own it, like wildflowers. Not to yearn for something different, but to love and nurture this thing, this soil, that I have.
Which takes discipline, and practice, and commitment, and the willingness to be open to whatever might happen.
Sort of like marriage, too.
Happy anniversary, S. Here's to many, many more wildflower bouquets.
Pin It
In some ways, that's a very Buddhist way to look at things, isn't it? Be where you are. Love the life you have. Feel gifted.
And of course, easier said than done.
Eleven years ago today, I married my husband at a farm in the mountains of Massachusetts. It was a mid-point between NJ, where my family was, and his, in NH and VT, a location we'd settled on after lots of heated conversations with my parents. (We wanted simplicity; my father wanted chandeliers.)
The day dawned stormy, and a huge thunderstorm threatened to move our outdoor ceremony inside, but in the end the sun came out, and there was a flurry of activity as chairs were wiped down, equipment was moved, and people picked their way through the wet grass.In my quest for simplicity, while still abiding by my father's wishes to do this the "traditional" way, I asked the florist to make bouquets with early summer wildflowers, the kind that come in purple and yellow. The florist probably thought we were a little crazy to be paying him for wildflowers, but they were just right.
S. used to pick me bouquets of wildflowers while we were hiking. One of the things I love about them is that they bloom where they're planted: sometimes in the most unlikely places, under the most harsh conditions. They are often more vibrant in color than the cultivated varieties we get from greenhouses.
This month is NaBloPoMo. I decided to commit this time not because I want more readers (though of course I'd love more readers; who wouldn't?), but because I need to remember to bloom where I'm planted. To reclaim this space that is mine, to own it, like wildflowers. Not to yearn for something different, but to love and nurture this thing, this soil, that I have.
Which takes discipline, and practice, and commitment, and the willingness to be open to whatever might happen.
Sort of like marriage, too.
Happy anniversary, S. Here's to many, many more wildflower bouquets.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Memory, and the Peonies
(I'm about to embark on NaBloPoMo again, and this month's theme is "Roots"; oddly enough, the post I had brewing for today was about things that grow. Perhaps it was destiny after all.)
It's funny how one little thing can trigger the smallest details of memory. For me, this week, it was the peonies.
They are everywhere. Big, fluffy, pink and white, raucous and extravagant. They remind me of the barbecue we had here at our house, back before my world split open.
It was a hazy day in July. We had told people to bring lawn chairs; we'd planned to sit in the back yard and grill. Except that the temperature was in the nineties, and the humidity near one hundred percent. The simple act of walking outside left you drenched in sweat.
K. arrived with her dog L., her husband, and the pink peonies. She probably brought a bottle of wine, too, but the flowers are what I remember: full, bold, beautiful, risk-takers, like she was. Like she is. She presented them to me with her broad, winning smile; they were prizes from her garden. She was wearing a hat that I associated with civilized people in the English countryside out for a day at the races and a picnic lunch. She and her husband and a former boss sat in the back room, on a piano bench and on the floor and on the bed, cuddling with L. and discussing philosophy.
My husband braved the heat to stand over the grill and manhandle jerk chicken. My former boss's husband kept him company. I fussed over the food, sure there wasn't going to be enough, worried that it wasn't impressive enough, but everyone made do, and enjoyed themselves despite the fact that we were all stuck inside a house that was too small for the party, cocooning ourselves in this small oasis of cool.
M. and H. came, and sat on the floor in my living room, played with my then three?-year-old son. Legos, maybe? Or something less advanced? I remember thinking that they would make such fabulous parents some day. And now they are.
B. had come with tarts, which he informed us, with pride, were made the right way, with lard. Cherry, I think. The tarts, not the lard, of course. And homemade sorbet, perhaps? Yes, raspberry and lime sorbet. He was technically the reason we had found each other, the one who had gathered us together, assembled his team. His philosophy, he'd always said, was to surround himself with smart people, and let them do what they do best.
That sweltering day in July, I felt like we were pioneers, a small group of people who were going to change the world, who could really transform higher education together from our little lifeboat.
It seems hardly believable now that we'd ever had that party, that those people were ever in my house together, that we were so naive and optimistic. And yet, there were the peonies. Something concrete, fragrant. They lasted for days, delicate though they were.
What are some of the triggers of your most detailed memories? The ones that don't seem possible otherwise?
Pin It
It's funny how one little thing can trigger the smallest details of memory. For me, this week, it was the peonies.
They are everywhere. Big, fluffy, pink and white, raucous and extravagant. They remind me of the barbecue we had here at our house, back before my world split open.
It was a hazy day in July. We had told people to bring lawn chairs; we'd planned to sit in the back yard and grill. Except that the temperature was in the nineties, and the humidity near one hundred percent. The simple act of walking outside left you drenched in sweat.
 | |||
| Photo courtesy of flickr user ballookey under creative commons license |
My husband braved the heat to stand over the grill and manhandle jerk chicken. My former boss's husband kept him company. I fussed over the food, sure there wasn't going to be enough, worried that it wasn't impressive enough, but everyone made do, and enjoyed themselves despite the fact that we were all stuck inside a house that was too small for the party, cocooning ourselves in this small oasis of cool.
M. and H. came, and sat on the floor in my living room, played with my then three?-year-old son. Legos, maybe? Or something less advanced? I remember thinking that they would make such fabulous parents some day. And now they are.
B. had come with tarts, which he informed us, with pride, were made the right way, with lard. Cherry, I think. The tarts, not the lard, of course. And homemade sorbet, perhaps? Yes, raspberry and lime sorbet. He was technically the reason we had found each other, the one who had gathered us together, assembled his team. His philosophy, he'd always said, was to surround himself with smart people, and let them do what they do best.
That sweltering day in July, I felt like we were pioneers, a small group of people who were going to change the world, who could really transform higher education together from our little lifeboat.
It seems hardly believable now that we'd ever had that party, that those people were ever in my house together, that we were so naive and optimistic. And yet, there were the peonies. Something concrete, fragrant. They lasted for days, delicate though they were.
What are some of the triggers of your most detailed memories? The ones that don't seem possible otherwise?
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
On Vulnerability, and Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars
The visiting minister who gave the sermon at our church this past Sunday said that every minister has one sermon that they keep preaching over and over again, with different scaffolding, different illustrations, different stories to drive the point home. I think that the same thing goes for many writers: that is, that we're trying to exorcise our demons, to write our way out of a problem that we, too, are stuck inside, in one way or another.
This minister's one sermon, she said, was about the spirituality of imperfection: the profound connection that can result in willingness to be vulnerable with others, and with ourselves, about who we really are, instead of who we think we ought to be. We've heard this before from people like Brené Brown, whose Ted talks and books and appearances on Oprah have catapulted her into the public eye.
One of the things that came up in the discussion after the sermon (because for those of you who aren't UU, that's how we roll: we talk back after the minister talks, even if we do let said minister have the last word) was when it was useful to be vulnerable, given the tendency to overshare in social media. Though the question was really more about Facebook, the question applies equally to bloggers, and about whether the kind of vulnerability Brown describes is really what we're doing here.
When Brown talks about being vulnerable, with sharing our stories of shame, she says that we can't just be vulnerable with everyone. In fact, there are several kinds of people we want to actively avoid:
Basically, Brown says, we need to honor our struggle by sharing it with someone who has earned the right to hear it.
In real life, I can attest to the fact that Brown's assessment feels pretty accurate. Even as an adult, even in the past year, I've had my share of being vulnerable with the wrong people--not people who tore me down, but people who didn't value the gift of my vulnerability. People who came back with "oh, yeah, that happened to me" ... except it didn't, because I'm not you, I thought. I walked away from those conversations feeling hurt, strangely violated, strangely tossed aside, wishing that they'd told me instead, from the very beginning, that they didn't really want to hear my story. But of course, that's for me to judge, not them.
Of course, we don't all share everything online. There's a lot I don't tell you, or that I tell you only in veiled ways. I am not my blog. But our blogs are the places where some of us do feel we can be vulnerable. Why is that, given what Brown says about the privilege of being empathetic? And does it matter to us whether our audience has earned the right to hear our story, if that story is difficult or painful in any way? It certainly matters to us when people tear us down; so how do we walk the line between productive (for ourselves and for our readers) vulnerability, and self-preservation?
Then there are others of us who blog (and, for that matter, live) like we have our shit together. These are the people whose DIY projects and food dominate Pinterest and Foodgawker. They're the people who win all blogging awards, who have gazillions of followers. They're the people whose statuses you hate to read on Facebook.
Mel wrote this week about the tricky business of admitting that we don't have our shit together, and I think this has a lot to do with vulnerability. She talks about the fact that we are drawn to confidence, to people who seem to know things. Smart doctors. Well-recommended dentists. Bakers (oh, yes, for me this hits home ... I rarely eat a mediocre cupcake on purpose). And she suggests that perhaps we look to others who "have it all figured out" because we don't.
I don't know. I think I actually feel better about people who openly don't have their shit together. Do I like to read a well-written novel? Hell, yes. For as much as Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel has its flaws, I found myself practically weeping over the beauty and cleverness of her prose, telling myself I could never be that good. But on the other hand, as a writer, I like reading other writers that struggle, that help me to do it better. If I'm seeing a doctor, I like to know that she has gotten good medical training, and that she's had some success with patients. But I also know that I'm not every other patient, and I appreciate when a doctor is honest with me about a course of treatment. Maybe we'll try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll try that. A chocolatier recently opened a little shop in a town not far from me, and I've already made friends with him. He was making truffles a few weeks ago, and posted to Facebook something along the lines of "I have these truffles that are not very good yet; come taste them and help me figure out how to make them better." So I did, of course. I had a great conversation with him about taste and texture and mouth feel of a truffle. I learned a lot. And I was glad he was willing to stumble out there in public. And yet, you don't do that with everyone, do you?
Recently, I joined what our church calls a covenant group. These are basically once-a-month small group meetings outside of the regular church service where the members choose a topic, or series of topics, to discuss over a period of several months. The members of the group covenant with each other to show up, to be respectful and supportive, to listen, to contribute, to value the contributions of others. It's a lot like a vow of empathy, the way Brown might describe it. And because of that covenant, the group becomes a safe place to be vulnerable. I will admit, I have not become completely vulnerable with my covenant group. But I do feel like I can trust more of them with my authentic self now, and I'm grateful for that. I am drawn to those relationships. I need them. I need them even more than I need beautiful DIY crafts and perfect pictures and stunning prose. I need to feel like it's OK to be imperfect.
I intended to make these bars from Flourishing Foodie for my covenant group when I hosted last week, but I got a little sidetracked, because I couldn't find fresh apricots in the store, then (after I'd bought the canned ones) realized I didn't have enough apricots. It's also the wrong season for fresh lavender, and we didn't have any Grand Marnier. And the powdered sugar went everywhere when I turned on the mixer because someone who lives in this house and who is under three feet tall likes to turn things on and walk away, so I had to add more powdered sugar after the fact. And when I cooked the mango, there were little fibers in the bars that looked like hair, which was sort of embarrassing. I disclosed all of this information before I let anyone eat one. But everyone thought they were good anyway. And maybe sometimes good enough is exactly what we need.
Where do you feel like you can be vulnerable? If you blog, do you feel like you can be vulnerable on your blog? Or do you feel like you need to have your shit together? Are you drawn to people who are imperfect, or who make living look easy?
Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Bars
makes 16 squares
adapted from Flourishing Foodie, who adapted it from Baked Explorations
by Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito
12 T. unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into 1" cubes
1/2 c. powdered sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
3/4 t. finely chopped dried lavender
1 3/4 c. flour
1 c. canned apricots, chopped
1 c. fresh mango, chopped
1 c. fresh blueberries
1 c. white wine
1/2 c. of water
1/3 c. sugar
2 T. honey
1 T. Triple Sec
1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. chopped almonds
3 T. unsalted butter, chilled, cubed
2 T. oats
Leaving a 1" overhang, line a 9 inch square baking pan with parchment paper. You can also coat it with cooking spray if that makes you feel better, but it's not necessary.
While the dough is chilling, prepare the filling. In a medium saucepan simmer the apricots, blueberries, mango, wine, water, sugar, honey, and Triple Sec on low to medium heat. Stir occasionally, and cook until the liquid has absorbed (45 - 60 minutes). You may have to vary the heat as liquid begins to evaporate. Set aside to cool.
Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Place the crust into the oven and bake for 30 minutes until golden brown. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature.
In a bowl, using your fingers, rub together, the flour, brown sugar, and butter. You want the mixture to lightly clump together. Add chopped almonds and oats. Set aside. Once the shortbread has cooled, spread the filling over it, and top with the crumble. Bake for 25 minutes or until the top has just lightly browned.
Let the bars completely cool on a wire rack, in the pan, before serving. Once they have cooled, pull them out with the parchment paper and slice into bars.
Pin It
This minister's one sermon, she said, was about the spirituality of imperfection: the profound connection that can result in willingness to be vulnerable with others, and with ourselves, about who we really are, instead of who we think we ought to be. We've heard this before from people like Brené Brown, whose Ted talks and books and appearances on Oprah have catapulted her into the public eye.
One of the things that came up in the discussion after the sermon (because for those of you who aren't UU, that's how we roll: we talk back after the minister talks, even if we do let said minister have the last word) was when it was useful to be vulnerable, given the tendency to overshare in social media. Though the question was really more about Facebook, the question applies equally to bloggers, and about whether the kind of vulnerability Brown describes is really what we're doing here.
When Brown talks about being vulnerable, with sharing our stories of shame, she says that we can't just be vulnerable with everyone. In fact, there are several kinds of people we want to actively avoid:
"1. The friend who hears the story and actually feels shame for you. She gasps and confirms how horrified you should be. Then there is awkward silence. Then you have to make her feel better.
2. The friend who responds with sympathy ("I feel so sorry for you") rather than empathy ("I get it, I feel with you, and I've been there"). If you want to see a shame cyclone turn deadly, throw one of these at it: "Oh, you poor thing." Or, the incredibly passive-aggressive Southern version of sympathy, "Bless your heart."
3. The friend who needs you to be the pillar of worthiness and authenticity. She can't help because she's too disappointed in your imperfections. You've let her down.
4. The friend who is so uncomfortable with vulnerability that she scolds you: "How did you let this happen? What were you thinking?" Or she looks for someone to blame: "Who was that guy? We'll kick his ass."
5. The friend who is all about making it better and, out of her own discomfort, refuses to acknowledge that you can actually be crazy and make terrible choices: "You're exaggerating. It wasn't that bad. You rock. You're perfect. Everyone loves you."
6. The friend who confuses connection with the opportunity to one-up you: 'That's nothing. Listen to what happened to me one time!' "
Basically, Brown says, we need to honor our struggle by sharing it with someone who has earned the right to hear it.
In real life, I can attest to the fact that Brown's assessment feels pretty accurate. Even as an adult, even in the past year, I've had my share of being vulnerable with the wrong people--not people who tore me down, but people who didn't value the gift of my vulnerability. People who came back with "oh, yeah, that happened to me" ... except it didn't, because I'm not you, I thought. I walked away from those conversations feeling hurt, strangely violated, strangely tossed aside, wishing that they'd told me instead, from the very beginning, that they didn't really want to hear my story. But of course, that's for me to judge, not them.
Of course, we don't all share everything online. There's a lot I don't tell you, or that I tell you only in veiled ways. I am not my blog. But our blogs are the places where some of us do feel we can be vulnerable. Why is that, given what Brown says about the privilege of being empathetic? And does it matter to us whether our audience has earned the right to hear our story, if that story is difficult or painful in any way? It certainly matters to us when people tear us down; so how do we walk the line between productive (for ourselves and for our readers) vulnerability, and self-preservation?
***
Then there are others of us who blog (and, for that matter, live) like we have our shit together. These are the people whose DIY projects and food dominate Pinterest and Foodgawker. They're the people who win all blogging awards, who have gazillions of followers. They're the people whose statuses you hate to read on Facebook.
Mel wrote this week about the tricky business of admitting that we don't have our shit together, and I think this has a lot to do with vulnerability. She talks about the fact that we are drawn to confidence, to people who seem to know things. Smart doctors. Well-recommended dentists. Bakers (oh, yes, for me this hits home ... I rarely eat a mediocre cupcake on purpose). And she suggests that perhaps we look to others who "have it all figured out" because we don't.
I don't know. I think I actually feel better about people who openly don't have their shit together. Do I like to read a well-written novel? Hell, yes. For as much as Barbara Kingsolver's most recent novel has its flaws, I found myself practically weeping over the beauty and cleverness of her prose, telling myself I could never be that good. But on the other hand, as a writer, I like reading other writers that struggle, that help me to do it better. If I'm seeing a doctor, I like to know that she has gotten good medical training, and that she's had some success with patients. But I also know that I'm not every other patient, and I appreciate when a doctor is honest with me about a course of treatment. Maybe we'll try this, and if it doesn't work, we'll try that. A chocolatier recently opened a little shop in a town not far from me, and I've already made friends with him. He was making truffles a few weeks ago, and posted to Facebook something along the lines of "I have these truffles that are not very good yet; come taste them and help me figure out how to make them better." So I did, of course. I had a great conversation with him about taste and texture and mouth feel of a truffle. I learned a lot. And I was glad he was willing to stumble out there in public. And yet, you don't do that with everyone, do you?
***
Recently, I joined what our church calls a covenant group. These are basically once-a-month small group meetings outside of the regular church service where the members choose a topic, or series of topics, to discuss over a period of several months. The members of the group covenant with each other to show up, to be respectful and supportive, to listen, to contribute, to value the contributions of others. It's a lot like a vow of empathy, the way Brown might describe it. And because of that covenant, the group becomes a safe place to be vulnerable. I will admit, I have not become completely vulnerable with my covenant group. But I do feel like I can trust more of them with my authentic self now, and I'm grateful for that. I am drawn to those relationships. I need them. I need them even more than I need beautiful DIY crafts and perfect pictures and stunning prose. I need to feel like it's OK to be imperfect.
I intended to make these bars from Flourishing Foodie for my covenant group when I hosted last week, but I got a little sidetracked, because I couldn't find fresh apricots in the store, then (after I'd bought the canned ones) realized I didn't have enough apricots. It's also the wrong season for fresh lavender, and we didn't have any Grand Marnier. And the powdered sugar went everywhere when I turned on the mixer because someone who lives in this house and who is under three feet tall likes to turn things on and walk away, so I had to add more powdered sugar after the fact. And when I cooked the mango, there were little fibers in the bars that looked like hair, which was sort of embarrassing. I disclosed all of this information before I let anyone eat one. But everyone thought they were good anyway. And maybe sometimes good enough is exactly what we need.
Where do you feel like you can be vulnerable? If you blog, do you feel like you can be vulnerable on your blog? Or do you feel like you need to have your shit together? Are you drawn to people who are imperfect, or who make living look easy?
Blueberry-Mango Lavender Shortbread Barsmakes 16 squares
adapted from Flourishing Foodie, who adapted it from Baked Explorations
by Matt Lewis and Renato Poliafito12 T. unsalted butter, room temperature, cut into 1" cubes
1/2 c. powdered sugar
1 t. vanilla extract
3/4 t. finely chopped dried lavender
1 3/4 c. flour
1 c. canned apricots, chopped
1 c. fresh mango, chopped
1 c. fresh blueberries
1 c. white wine
1/2 c. of water
1/3 c. sugar
2 T. honey
1 T. Triple Sec
1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1/2 c. brown sugar
1/4 c. chopped almonds
3 T. unsalted butter, chilled, cubed
2 T. oats
Leaving a 1" overhang, line a 9 inch square baking pan with parchment paper. You can also coat it with cooking spray if that makes you feel better, but it's not necessary.
Place the powdered sugar in your electric mixing bowl, and drop the butter in. Stir gently a few times to coat the butter so that the sugar won't fly everywhere when you turn the mixer on. Using an electric mixer, starting on a very low speed and pulsing gently, gradually working up to a full-on high mixing level, cream the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the vanilla and chopped lavender. Beat again until combined. Add the flour and mix on low speed, until everything is combined. Place the dough into the pan and press flat. Chill in the refrigerator for 30
minutes.
While the dough is chilling, prepare the filling. In a medium saucepan simmer the apricots, blueberries, mango, wine, water, sugar, honey, and Triple Sec on low to medium heat. Stir occasionally, and cook until the liquid has absorbed (45 - 60 minutes). You may have to vary the heat as liquid begins to evaporate. Set aside to cool.
Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Place the crust into the oven and bake for 30 minutes until golden brown. Remove from the oven and let cool to room temperature.
In a bowl, using your fingers, rub together, the flour, brown sugar, and butter. You want the mixture to lightly clump together. Add chopped almonds and oats. Set aside. Once the shortbread has cooled, spread the filling over it, and top with the crumble. Bake for 25 minutes or until the top has just lightly browned.
Let the bars completely cool on a wire rack, in the pan, before serving. Once they have cooled, pull them out with the parchment paper and slice into bars.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Thinning the Canes
It was obvious, when I walked out to the garden today, that it needed to be done.
The wintered-over raspberry canes were already bending and leaning, tangling into the dead grasses and new weeds, providing a good host for Creeping Charlie and poison ivy. I have a mortal dread of poison ivy, and I don't like experiencing mortal dread when all I want is berries to make pie. Besides, the dead canes are like unnecessary dragons to fight when I'm trying to get to the branches that bear fruit.
I both love and hate thinning the canes. On the one hand, it's a task that makes me feel like I've accomplished something significant. It's productive. At the end, I've got something very concrete to show for my time. On the other hand, it's a painful activity. Some of the canes have visible, obvious thorns, especially towards the roots. You can be careful with those. But some of them look deceptively innocent, and it's only later, long after you've gone in and washed up and had your glass of cold water that you realize your fingers are full of tiny needle-like prickers that bury themselves deeper and deeper, poking at you when you're typing, or washing dishes, or doing other things that shouldn't hurt.
I know what you're thinking. I could do it with gloves, but I don't have good gardening gloves right now anyway, and I kind of like doing it with my bare hands. It helps me to be more sensitive to the possibility of life inside the canes. I'm more gentle with my bare hands than I'd be with a pair of gloves.
It's a tricky business to know which canes are still alive, and which are the standing dead. Our raspberry bushes have a two year cycle, kind of like Monarch butterflies: some bloom in the spring, and bear fruit in June along the entire branch. These dry out over the winter, die, become hollow, and are less fierce by the following spring. Others only sprout in the spring, sending up long stalks into the stratosphere seemingly overnight; if we're lucky, they bloom and bear smaller, less voluptuous, but still sweet fruit in August and September, winter over, and become the early bloomers and bigger producers the next year. Though sometimes the older canes appear lighter in color and more brittle to the touch, you can only really tell which canes are alive in late spring, after the leaves start to unfold, and even then it's not always a given that the barren canes are dead. Sometimes, you tug at the ones that seem dead, and they tug back from the root, green, unwilling to give up their earth.
I am arm-deep in the tangle of branches, the sun is warm above me, not quite beating down yet like it will just a month from now, and my daughter orbits me in the grass, singing, picking dandelions, and sometimes screaming "aaaaah! beeee! BEEEEE! gnaaaaaaaaat!! AAAA! GNAAAAT!" which I am ignoring probably more than I should. I toss the canes into a neat pile, stacking them in parallel so that they're easier to transfer to the garbage bin later: another opportunity for them to scratch me and lodge their prickers in my skin one last time before they go to the curb. Minutes--an hour--pass without my notice. I am absorbed in this work, this important work that will give me better fruit, and better access to the fruit, when it comes in just a month.
Have I told you? Lately, I've been thinning my own canes, too. The ones that I can't touch. The stalks of my past lives. It's long overdue, this thinning. And it's a more long-term project, not something I can finish in a day, not something I can stack neatly in a pile and put out at the curb. It's probably something I'll have to do at the start of every growing season, or maybe to start my own growing season.
Like the raspberry branches, some of my canes are thorny. I can see the thorns as I approach those memories, those feelings, and I'm gentle in the pulling; even though I know they're dead, I also know that they can still hurt me. There are some, too, that are surprisingly thorny--those are the ones that leave barely perceptible prickers. And some are still alive; I tug at them, and they don't give. Despite their wintering over, they need time, still, to bear fruit, bitter and seedy as that fruit may be, before they die.
Unfortunately, there are no gloves for this kind of work. You just have to do it: take a deep breath, don your courage, and dive in.
The afternoon shadows lengthen, and I decide to pack it in for the day. I survey my work: I can see the earth again, and there's no poison ivy, or at least not yet. The dead canes and weeds fill a garbage can. My hands and fingernails are dirty, and my arms scratched and scarred. I am already finding small prickers buried in my fingertips, bits too small to tweeze out. But I'm also pleased to see just how many live canes I've found, to see the silver buds opening into silky green leaves, and am already thinking about the colanders full of ripe, red berries, and fresh raspberry pie.
Pin It
The wintered-over raspberry canes were already bending and leaning, tangling into the dead grasses and new weeds, providing a good host for Creeping Charlie and poison ivy. I have a mortal dread of poison ivy, and I don't like experiencing mortal dread when all I want is berries to make pie. Besides, the dead canes are like unnecessary dragons to fight when I'm trying to get to the branches that bear fruit.
I both love and hate thinning the canes. On the one hand, it's a task that makes me feel like I've accomplished something significant. It's productive. At the end, I've got something very concrete to show for my time. On the other hand, it's a painful activity. Some of the canes have visible, obvious thorns, especially towards the roots. You can be careful with those. But some of them look deceptively innocent, and it's only later, long after you've gone in and washed up and had your glass of cold water that you realize your fingers are full of tiny needle-like prickers that bury themselves deeper and deeper, poking at you when you're typing, or washing dishes, or doing other things that shouldn't hurt.
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| Mike Pennington [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons |
It's a tricky business to know which canes are still alive, and which are the standing dead. Our raspberry bushes have a two year cycle, kind of like Monarch butterflies: some bloom in the spring, and bear fruit in June along the entire branch. These dry out over the winter, die, become hollow, and are less fierce by the following spring. Others only sprout in the spring, sending up long stalks into the stratosphere seemingly overnight; if we're lucky, they bloom and bear smaller, less voluptuous, but still sweet fruit in August and September, winter over, and become the early bloomers and bigger producers the next year. Though sometimes the older canes appear lighter in color and more brittle to the touch, you can only really tell which canes are alive in late spring, after the leaves start to unfold, and even then it's not always a given that the barren canes are dead. Sometimes, you tug at the ones that seem dead, and they tug back from the root, green, unwilling to give up their earth.
I am arm-deep in the tangle of branches, the sun is warm above me, not quite beating down yet like it will just a month from now, and my daughter orbits me in the grass, singing, picking dandelions, and sometimes screaming "aaaaah! beeee! BEEEEE! gnaaaaaaaaat!! AAAA! GNAAAAT!" which I am ignoring probably more than I should. I toss the canes into a neat pile, stacking them in parallel so that they're easier to transfer to the garbage bin later: another opportunity for them to scratch me and lodge their prickers in my skin one last time before they go to the curb. Minutes--an hour--pass without my notice. I am absorbed in this work, this important work that will give me better fruit, and better access to the fruit, when it comes in just a month.
Have I told you? Lately, I've been thinning my own canes, too. The ones that I can't touch. The stalks of my past lives. It's long overdue, this thinning. And it's a more long-term project, not something I can finish in a day, not something I can stack neatly in a pile and put out at the curb. It's probably something I'll have to do at the start of every growing season, or maybe to start my own growing season.
Like the raspberry branches, some of my canes are thorny. I can see the thorns as I approach those memories, those feelings, and I'm gentle in the pulling; even though I know they're dead, I also know that they can still hurt me. There are some, too, that are surprisingly thorny--those are the ones that leave barely perceptible prickers. And some are still alive; I tug at them, and they don't give. Despite their wintering over, they need time, still, to bear fruit, bitter and seedy as that fruit may be, before they die.
Unfortunately, there are no gloves for this kind of work. You just have to do it: take a deep breath, don your courage, and dive in.
The afternoon shadows lengthen, and I decide to pack it in for the day. I survey my work: I can see the earth again, and there's no poison ivy, or at least not yet. The dead canes and weeds fill a garbage can. My hands and fingernails are dirty, and my arms scratched and scarred. I am already finding small prickers buried in my fingertips, bits too small to tweeze out. But I'm also pleased to see just how many live canes I've found, to see the silver buds opening into silky green leaves, and am already thinking about the colanders full of ripe, red berries, and fresh raspberry pie.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Syndicated at BlogHer!
I am honored and proud to be syndicated over at BlogHer.com today for the post that was originally entitled "You Are Here," a post about journaling and blogging, and about the way we think about our past and future audiences, and our future selves. Please click over and join the conversation there!
Monday, March 4, 2013
On the Hand-written Letter, and Roasted Cauliflower and Sweet Potato Soup
My husband bought a Kindle not long ago. He loves it, and reads most of his books that way now. I, on the other hand, use it only when necessary and expedient.
I'm a book person. You know -- the kind of person who flips slowly through the paper, drinking in the heady smell of the freshly turned page. I love the feel and the weight of a book: I appreciate a smooth matte jacket, and I appreciate knowing both how far I've come and how far I have to go, just by eyeballing the location of my bookmark. But honestly, much as I work diligently not to contribute to massive deforestation, I'm probably just a paper person in general. At meetings for local civic groups, I find myself printing out e-packets just so I can write in the margins and spread them out all over the table. The leaves take up space and overlap and rustle in a satisfying way that electronic media simply can't. I love the three dimensionality of it, the completeness of the sensory experience. And there's less and less of that in my life these days.
In addition to keeping a paper journal, I also used to write letters. They were long, lovely, thoughtful affairs, written with the epistolary novel in mind, I think; I even had--and still have--a fountain pen and a wax seal to complete the romantic authenticity. I had several friends with whom I corresponded in this way, and I've saved many of their letters from those years, imagining some day a relative would find them and be able to mine my past from the perspective of another person. (I don't know why, but I felt more comfortable about this possibility than I feel about having my email read somewhere in the future. Why is that, I wonder?)
The other day, after I'd responded to a of hers comment on my blog post, a friend of mine promised a letter. She is an excellent letter writer (an excellent writer in general, but it is its own genre), and every once in a while, when she feels frustrated by the internet, or when it seems like it's simply not enough, she writes to me. I usually write back, and sometimes there are three or four letters before we lapse back into electronic communication.
It's been a while since we'd done this, and I when I got her letter, I went to respond, only to discover that I no longer had a single sheet of stationery in my house. It was depressing. Good letters are more than words; they are works of art, unique because of the paper you've chosen to write them on, the vulnerability of the author's handwriting. They're an important genre, a little window onto the soul that I'm not sure is the same in a published blog post.
I carefully tore a few pages out of one of my journals, and while my vegetables roasted for soup, penned a response, which may even have smelled just a little bit like garam masala and cauliflower and sweet potato. And I determined to go stationery shopping in the not-too-distant future. Because some art forms are too important to lose.
Did you ever write letters, and do you still do so? If you received letters, have you saved them over the years? How would you feel about having your email read some day, and archived in the same way that some writers preserved their letters? Do you feel like reading someone's handwritten correspondence is the same as reading their email correspondence?
Roasted Sweet Potato and Cauliflower Soupadapted from Isn't That Sew
3 large sweet potatoes, 1" cubes
1 head cauliflower, cut into small florets
4 large carrots, cut into 1" rounds
2 T. olive oil
2 t. garam masala
1 medium onion, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
olive oil
4 cups vegetable stock
5 cups water
pepitas
Preheat the oven to 400. Toss sweet potatoes, cauliflower and carrots in a large bowl with garam masala and olive oil. Place on a cookie sheet lined with aluminum foil or parchment.
Roast vegetables for 30 minutes or until just beginning to brown checking every ten minutes or so to stir, loosening the vegetables from the bottom of the sheet and avoid burning. Remove from the oven and set aside to cool.
In a large stock pot, saute onions and olive oil until just translucent, about 3-5 minutes. Add garlic and saute one minute. Add broth, water, and roatsed vegetables, and simmer for 15 minutes, or until the vegetables are very tender. Using an immersion blender, blend the remaining ingredients until smooth. (Add more water at this point if you like your soup less thick.)
Serve topped with toasted pepitas, or if you prefer, a swirl of heavy cream.
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