The Big Middle

When I use the title big middle, I wasn't so much thinking of my expanding waistline as the middle ground of life that offers so much opportunity with so little structure to priveleged persons after 30 and before 65, that chasm of space known as not young, not old (check out the Republican Young Guns who are 45-60 if you think I gest). What are we to do if we are mindful and hoping to add our mite to a chaotic space?

So many of my colleagues lead lives so hectic, so barren of an extra moment, that this question barely bounces off a distracted surface point. The concept of choice has been squeezed right out of daily habitude. I long not to be part of this cadre. I fear appearing at the finish line, a pin ball virtual citizen who's scuffed surface no longer reflects anything other than 300,000 miles and looking every minute of the trip. Or my opposite number who is chic and soignee, but mummified for lack of fresh air, but with perfect toes.

My usual saw, "show some discipline" is probably shiny at first view, but asking too much except for those already accustomed to that protocol. What I'm seeking is incremental change that can lead my lost self out of the dark forest of "can't make a decision" to "jeepers I wound up here by accident, but I think I like it."

A friend and I revisited concepts of stuckness today. He introduced me to this term (which made a debut in this blog quite some time ago). Now I find that Jonathan Franzen is using the term on his current new bookbuzzfrenzy. Franzen is a thoughtful writer I admire, I am intrigued to find he has thoughts on the topic. And he stirred my genuine admiration recently for saying that he (only recently) feels his own age (my words) and that this is a good thing.

Is it enough to be mindful but often inept and to accept our position in the continuum that is our own tiny dot of time on the planet? I suspect it's at least a place for me to begin if I am to improve.

Another Cooking Faraddidle

I have given more thought to what made me cook; like to cook, feel connected as I cooked, compelled to cook, feel comforted by cooking, understand the science of cooking and so many other emotions (plus how often can you employ a semi-colon in a food thought?). Cooking has always been a safe haven and a joy in giving to others. For me it has roots in nourishing, providing an 'experience' especially when poor and travel is confined to walking someplace not too far away. It is armchair travel with recipes read and experiments tried, drag out those clothes that mimic the cuisine.

In addition to the early work with my mother and gran, another vivid memory of cooking is rooted in my first real apartment with roomates in college. I shared a large apartment with two chaps both of whom loved to cook but knew less of ingredients, prep or presentation than I (though they both took professional jobs and went on to be successful chefs). They were both very game to host parties and try new dishes. It helped that we lived in a wild part of Minneapolis and had neighbors who were all older and more experienced in life than we, they brought every sort of good drink and story to help us out.

One (now) funny consequence of our joy in the kitchen was a lack of serious oversight. I plunged a filet knife into my finger resulting in buckets 'o' blood. I found myself telephoning my mother, 500 hundred inconvenient miles away, for consultation (go to the emergency room of course, she is rooted in practicality). The boys were likely more horrified and confused at the blood-fest than I. My collapse into shock and duh was rather less the issue, it was a disgusting mess, let's not make more. We just hadn't planned on a serious wound and had no supplies on hand. I am now the proud owner of a scar, no loss of finger motion and I keep my knives sharp and lots of bandage material on hand.

When I think of several phone calls at strange hours in those days, they always involved, "can you tell me how to make X" which included chocolate mousse for 200, what to do with 50 pounds of leftover Y, "I have buttermilk, kale and some sort of Indian spice that tastes vaguely like licorice, any thoughts?." Alas, today all I have is a mobile phone and I turn it off at night. Think of what I am missing.

Ode to my mother - Mother's Day 2010

When I was 8 after incessant begging, my mother made a weekday evening our 'cooking night'. This quest on my part to learn to cook and present a perfect meal most likely stemmed from a wish to take credit for this worthy pursuit. My father's mother was the consummate baker and presented cookies and cakse for very occasion. I apprenticed on her kitchen floor with my own eggwhites beaten to a pulp at the tender age of four or five to keep me from being underfoot. Julia Child was igniting America's interest in French cooking at the same time as macrobiotic and other sorts of health food were entering the mainstream. Our next door neighbor had the first 'health food store' nearby and she was raking in the bucks.

The weekly ritual would start with a proper shopping list of ingredients ensuring a successful evening's prep. We would walk or bicycle to Mr. G's, our local food emporium or perhaps the Co-Op if items exotic were required; exotic in those days including such basics as fresh garlic or ground lamb. Everything seemed to involve butter or cream or bacon to deliver that perfect thing known now as mouth feel.

In later years I paid my way with catering, working in cafes and for an exciting if terrifying 6 months a true position as line chef at a fancy French hotel (the chef threw his favorite knife when angered, though never at staff to be fair). I still find the act of prepping food, getting the proper mise en place, my most relaxing and indulge in that craft even when cooking just for myself (all those little containers to wash are nothing). I find I am most popular with friends for quietly stepping into that task, they think I do it for them.

This year was most fulfilling as my mom and I tried multiple versions of french toast. Who knew that croissants with all their lovely butter make dandy specimens. They crunch, they turn an adorable golden color, they go beautifully with maple syrup or with just picked strawberries tossed with powdered sugar. Don't forget to dip something in chocolate.

Uncle Vanya in Russian

It turns out that performances in the original language actually do have advantages to offer that range well beyond the meaning of the words without benefit of translation. Having just seen Theatre Maly's gorgeous production of Uncle Vanya, in Russian with an audience that seemed largely Russian speaking and Russian heart-feeling I am a convert, even though my Russian is non-existent.

I wish I could offer a richness of 'what I had in mind' but sadly not. Any thoughts?

Life in the new lane

After a grand creative burst, I have fallen and need to reappear. It seems appropriate to share a few learnings and remember why the 'artistic vacation' was in fact a good idea. And then on to the new terrain.

I am still powered by the experience of having a 'character' take over the page. If you can give them space for their voices, they will launch forth and typing is all that's required for the first round. But the editorial position gets dicey. How do we listen and yet apply light rules, help with good structure? I have tried to rewrite what appeared on the vacation pages, but realize that I didn't yield enough content. But sharing more raw content---no, no. So good to know that some privacy is good for all the parties.

On to the new experience...I believe play scenes will present good stuff. Nothing finished, rather like making a new soup that gets 5-10 renditions until the flavor is so good that the recipe is loaded into the archive. This will be a playground for dialog without the requirement for too much context.

Have patience with me. This is where commentary will provide the most value.